Boris Godounoff - Scene the Twenty First
SCENE THE TWENTY FIRST.
A Forest.
(In the distance a steed is lying on the ground, gasping.)
THE PRETENDER. POUSHKIN. A POLISH SOLDIER .
THE PRETENDER .
My bonnie steed! With what keen joy, this morn,
He proudly galloped forth to his last fight,
And, wounded, bore me from the field unscathed
My bonnie steed.
POUSHKIN .
His horse he weeps and grieves,
Whilst on the plain our troops lie huddled close,
And gnaw the dust.
THE PRETENDER .
But listen, friend, may be,
His wound makes him to lie thus stiff, till he
His strength regains.
POUSHKIN .
He is at his last gasp.
THE PRETENDER .
My bonnie steed! What shall we do? Unloose
The curb, and slack the girth, that at his ease
He may breathe out his life
Good morrow, sirs.
How comes it that I see not Kourbsky here?
I saw how he through deadly ranks his way
Did hew; a thousand swords flashed round the youth,
As thick as ears of corn, but raising high
His sword above the tallest of his foes,
His bold war-cry was heard above the battle's din.
Where is my knight?
A POLISH SOLDIER
Stretched on the field of death.
THE PRETENDER .
God grant the hero's soul eternal peace:
How few, alas, have 'scaped the fierce attack!
Those coward loons, the Cossacks of the Don,
May they be damned, betrayed and ruined us,
Nor could three minutes hold and keep their ground.
Let them take heed, for each tenth man I'll hang,
The traitors base!
POUSHKIN .
Whoe'er may be in fault,
One thing we know, we have been crushed, our troops
Mown down, like grass.
THE PRETENDER .
And all was in our hands!
Within an ace I had their first line trapped,
But quick those Germans sharply cut us off;
In truth, they are real fighters to the core,
I pardon them, that they manaeuvred us.
I'll make of them straightway my body-guard.
POUSHKIN .
But where, meanwhile, seek refuge for the night?
THE PRETENDER .
Why, here within the forest we will lodge,
And with the dawn we march, and dine at Rielsk.
Good night! Sweet dreams attend you!
POUSHKIN .
Sweet dreams!
Though all is lost, and we scarce saved our skins,
He throws off care, and sleeps like heedless babe:
Of course, just Providence will guard his days!
And so, my friends, we will not yet despair.
A Forest.
(In the distance a steed is lying on the ground, gasping.)
THE PRETENDER. POUSHKIN. A POLISH SOLDIER .
THE PRETENDER .
My bonnie steed! With what keen joy, this morn,
He proudly galloped forth to his last fight,
And, wounded, bore me from the field unscathed
My bonnie steed.
POUSHKIN .
His horse he weeps and grieves,
Whilst on the plain our troops lie huddled close,
And gnaw the dust.
THE PRETENDER .
But listen, friend, may be,
His wound makes him to lie thus stiff, till he
His strength regains.
POUSHKIN .
He is at his last gasp.
THE PRETENDER .
My bonnie steed! What shall we do? Unloose
The curb, and slack the girth, that at his ease
He may breathe out his life
Good morrow, sirs.
How comes it that I see not Kourbsky here?
I saw how he through deadly ranks his way
Did hew; a thousand swords flashed round the youth,
As thick as ears of corn, but raising high
His sword above the tallest of his foes,
His bold war-cry was heard above the battle's din.
Where is my knight?
A POLISH SOLDIER
Stretched on the field of death.
THE PRETENDER .
God grant the hero's soul eternal peace:
How few, alas, have 'scaped the fierce attack!
Those coward loons, the Cossacks of the Don,
May they be damned, betrayed and ruined us,
Nor could three minutes hold and keep their ground.
Let them take heed, for each tenth man I'll hang,
The traitors base!
POUSHKIN .
Whoe'er may be in fault,
One thing we know, we have been crushed, our troops
Mown down, like grass.
THE PRETENDER .
And all was in our hands!
Within an ace I had their first line trapped,
But quick those Germans sharply cut us off;
In truth, they are real fighters to the core,
I pardon them, that they manaeuvred us.
I'll make of them straightway my body-guard.
POUSHKIN .
But where, meanwhile, seek refuge for the night?
THE PRETENDER .
Why, here within the forest we will lodge,
And with the dawn we march, and dine at Rielsk.
Good night! Sweet dreams attend you!
POUSHKIN .
Sweet dreams!
Though all is lost, and we scarce saved our skins,
He throws off care, and sleeps like heedless babe:
Of course, just Providence will guard his days!
And so, my friends, we will not yet despair.
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