Boris Godounoff - Scene the Twelfth
SCENE THE TWELFTH
Kracoff. Visnevetsky's House.
THE PRETENDER. FATHER TCHERNIKOFFSKY. POUSHKIN. KOURBSKY. CHOUSTCHOFF. AND OTHERS .
THE PRETENDER .
Nay, father mine, count not our task so hard;
Full well I know my-people's spirit true;
In their religion free from rude excess,
With them the Tsar is sole exemplar guide.
Indifference is mark of tolerance.
I warrant, ere two years have passed away,
My people and the Eastern Church will own
The rule supreme of Peter's holy chair.
FATHER TCHERNIKOFFSKY .
May Saint Ignatius be thy surest aid,
When these new days shall happily arrive.
Meanwhile, these seeds that have by heaven's grace
Been sown, within thy heart, Tsarevitch, hide.
At times, our soul's high interests demand
That we should feign, and cheat the Gentile world:
Thy words and acts the world can rightly judge;
Thy thoughts and aim alone can God behold.
THE PRETENDER .
Amen!... Who knocks?... We will receive them straight.
To-morrow morn, my friends, we think to quit
This town. Three days I hope to spend, Mniszeck,
With thee as guest. Thy castle at Sambore,
Where welcome warm, I know, awaits thy Tsar,
For knightly pomp is famed throughout our land,
But chiefly famed for its young mistress fair,
Marina, whom I long to meet once more
And you, my friends of Russia and brave Poles,
Who have, in closest brotherhood conjoined,
Your friendly banners raised on high against
The common foe, my enemy accursed;
You sons of Slavs, I soon shall lead your troops,
That long have yearned to strike the final blow...
Methinks, new faces here I do discern.
POUSHKIN .
They come to win thy gracious favour, sire,
And serve thee with their swords.
THE PRETENDER .
Right welcome, friends!
But tell me, Poushkin, who that warrior
May be?
POUSHKIN .
'Tis Prince Kourbsky.
THE PRETENDER .
A far-famed name!
The hero of Kazan thy kinsman was?
KOURBSKY
I am his son.
THE PRETENDER .
He lives?
KOURBSKY .
Nay, he is dead.
THE PRETENDER .
He was alike in war and council great:
But since the famous day when he appeared
Before the ancient walls of Olga's city,
To take revenge on his despoilers proud,
Has naught been heard of him.
KOURBSKY .
My father, sire,
His latter years in Volhynia spent,
On lands the King of Poland granted him.
And there, from noise of life's turmoil removed,
His solace sought in learning and in books;
But peaceful studies brought nor joy nor peace,
He ne'er forgot the country of his youth,
But for the land that gave him birth he pined.
THE PRETENDER .
Alas, in what a flood of glory rose
The early morn of his tempestuous life!
But I am pleased to know, most noble knight,
His sons will with their King this day make peace.
'Tis well the sins of their sire to forget:
Peace to his grave! Approach, good friend... thy hand!
But strange it is, a Kourbsky's son should place
Upon his throne the son of Tsar Ivan!
But all works well for me, both men and fate
And thou?
A POLE
A noble free, Sobansky named.
THE PRETENDER .
Be thine all praise and honour, freedom's child!
At once one third give of his monthly pay...
What men are these? I see they wear the dress
Of our dear native land. They should be ours.
CHROUSICHOFF .
Our services accept, most sov'reign sire,
We are thy zealous slaves, who in disgrace
Have fled from Moscow, and are hither come
To greet our Tsar, and for thee are ready
Our lives to sacrifice, our bodies make
Sure steps whereby thou mayst ascend thy throne.
THE PRETENDER .
You have long suffered blameless, but take heart!
Let me but make my way to Moscow's walls,
Boris shall well redeem your cruel wrongs...
And who art thou?
CARELA
A Cossack from the Don.
The troopers free, their Hetmans bold and brave,
Both of the higher and the lower lands,
Have eyes to see and know their lawful Tsar,
And with their greetings loyal bid thee hail.
THE PRETENDER .
I know the people of the Don, and see
Their standards floating high with ours.
We thank our faithful soldiers of the Don:
Too well we know they have been robbed of all
Their dearest rights, oppressed, in bondage held.
Should God restore us to our father's throne,
We will bring back the ancient laws, and guard
The rights of our brave troopers of the Don.
POEI .
Dread Prince of Sov'reigns most Sererie and High!
THE PRETENDER
What is thy prayer?
POET .
That thou wouldst deign receive
This fruit unworthy of my loyal zeal.
THE PRETENDER .
And what is this I see? Choice Latin verse!
The tie is blest that binds the sword and lyre,
The consecrating laurel crowns them both
Though I was born beneath a Northern sky,
I am no stranger to the Latin Muse,
And flowers love that on Parnassus grow,
And ne'er have lost my faith in poet's voice
'Tis not in vain his fervent heart doth glow
With fire prophetic; his the gift supreme,
To bless and to foretell the hero's fame.
Come nearer, friend, and in remembrance take
This gift.
And when my fate has been fulfilled,
And I once more my crown ancestral wear,
Again I hope to hear thy dulcet voice,
And listen to thy lofty hymn inspired.
Musa gloriam coronat, gloriaque musam...
Farewell, my friends, to-morrow morn we meet.
ALL .
To arms, to arms! All hail, our Tsar, Dmitry!
All hail, our Tsar and Prince of Moscow dread!
Kracoff. Visnevetsky's House.
THE PRETENDER. FATHER TCHERNIKOFFSKY. POUSHKIN. KOURBSKY. CHOUSTCHOFF. AND OTHERS .
THE PRETENDER .
Nay, father mine, count not our task so hard;
Full well I know my-people's spirit true;
In their religion free from rude excess,
With them the Tsar is sole exemplar guide.
Indifference is mark of tolerance.
I warrant, ere two years have passed away,
My people and the Eastern Church will own
The rule supreme of Peter's holy chair.
FATHER TCHERNIKOFFSKY .
May Saint Ignatius be thy surest aid,
When these new days shall happily arrive.
Meanwhile, these seeds that have by heaven's grace
Been sown, within thy heart, Tsarevitch, hide.
At times, our soul's high interests demand
That we should feign, and cheat the Gentile world:
Thy words and acts the world can rightly judge;
Thy thoughts and aim alone can God behold.
THE PRETENDER .
Amen!... Who knocks?... We will receive them straight.
To-morrow morn, my friends, we think to quit
This town. Three days I hope to spend, Mniszeck,
With thee as guest. Thy castle at Sambore,
Where welcome warm, I know, awaits thy Tsar,
For knightly pomp is famed throughout our land,
But chiefly famed for its young mistress fair,
Marina, whom I long to meet once more
And you, my friends of Russia and brave Poles,
Who have, in closest brotherhood conjoined,
Your friendly banners raised on high against
The common foe, my enemy accursed;
You sons of Slavs, I soon shall lead your troops,
That long have yearned to strike the final blow...
Methinks, new faces here I do discern.
POUSHKIN .
They come to win thy gracious favour, sire,
And serve thee with their swords.
THE PRETENDER .
Right welcome, friends!
But tell me, Poushkin, who that warrior
May be?
POUSHKIN .
'Tis Prince Kourbsky.
THE PRETENDER .
A far-famed name!
The hero of Kazan thy kinsman was?
KOURBSKY
I am his son.
THE PRETENDER .
He lives?
KOURBSKY .
Nay, he is dead.
THE PRETENDER .
He was alike in war and council great:
But since the famous day when he appeared
Before the ancient walls of Olga's city,
To take revenge on his despoilers proud,
Has naught been heard of him.
KOURBSKY .
My father, sire,
His latter years in Volhynia spent,
On lands the King of Poland granted him.
And there, from noise of life's turmoil removed,
His solace sought in learning and in books;
But peaceful studies brought nor joy nor peace,
He ne'er forgot the country of his youth,
But for the land that gave him birth he pined.
THE PRETENDER .
Alas, in what a flood of glory rose
The early morn of his tempestuous life!
But I am pleased to know, most noble knight,
His sons will with their King this day make peace.
'Tis well the sins of their sire to forget:
Peace to his grave! Approach, good friend... thy hand!
But strange it is, a Kourbsky's son should place
Upon his throne the son of Tsar Ivan!
But all works well for me, both men and fate
And thou?
A POLE
A noble free, Sobansky named.
THE PRETENDER .
Be thine all praise and honour, freedom's child!
At once one third give of his monthly pay...
What men are these? I see they wear the dress
Of our dear native land. They should be ours.
CHROUSICHOFF .
Our services accept, most sov'reign sire,
We are thy zealous slaves, who in disgrace
Have fled from Moscow, and are hither come
To greet our Tsar, and for thee are ready
Our lives to sacrifice, our bodies make
Sure steps whereby thou mayst ascend thy throne.
THE PRETENDER .
You have long suffered blameless, but take heart!
Let me but make my way to Moscow's walls,
Boris shall well redeem your cruel wrongs...
And who art thou?
CARELA
A Cossack from the Don.
The troopers free, their Hetmans bold and brave,
Both of the higher and the lower lands,
Have eyes to see and know their lawful Tsar,
And with their greetings loyal bid thee hail.
THE PRETENDER .
I know the people of the Don, and see
Their standards floating high with ours.
We thank our faithful soldiers of the Don:
Too well we know they have been robbed of all
Their dearest rights, oppressed, in bondage held.
Should God restore us to our father's throne,
We will bring back the ancient laws, and guard
The rights of our brave troopers of the Don.
POEI .
Dread Prince of Sov'reigns most Sererie and High!
THE PRETENDER
What is thy prayer?
POET .
That thou wouldst deign receive
This fruit unworthy of my loyal zeal.
THE PRETENDER .
And what is this I see? Choice Latin verse!
The tie is blest that binds the sword and lyre,
The consecrating laurel crowns them both
Though I was born beneath a Northern sky,
I am no stranger to the Latin Muse,
And flowers love that on Parnassus grow,
And ne'er have lost my faith in poet's voice
'Tis not in vain his fervent heart doth glow
With fire prophetic; his the gift supreme,
To bless and to foretell the hero's fame.
Come nearer, friend, and in remembrance take
This gift.
And when my fate has been fulfilled,
And I once more my crown ancestral wear,
Again I hope to hear thy dulcet voice,
And listen to thy lofty hymn inspired.
Musa gloriam coronat, gloriaque musam...
Farewell, my friends, to-morrow morn we meet.
ALL .
To arms, to arms! All hail, our Tsar, Dmitry!
All hail, our Tsar and Prince of Moscow dread!
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