Pretender and Pushkin

PRETENDER. Ah, my poor horse! How gallantly he chargedToday in the last battle, and when wounded,How swiftly bore me. My poor horse!

PUSHKIN. (To himself.) Well, here'sA great ado about a horse, when allOur army's smashed to bits.

PRETENDER. Listen! PerhapsHe's but exhausted by the loss of blood,And will recover.

PUSHKIN. Nay, nay; he is dying.

PRETENDER. (Goes to his horse.)My poor horse!--what to do? Take off the bridle,And loose the girth. Let him at least die free.

Good day to you, gentlemen! How is't I see notKurbsky among you? I did note todayHow to the thick of the fight he clove his path;Around the hero's sword, like swaying earsOf corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of themHis blade was brandished, and his terrible cryDrowned all cries else. Where is my knight?

POLE. He fellOn the field of battle.

PRETENDER. Honour to the brave,And peace be on his soul! How few unscathedAre left us from the fight! Accursed Cossacks,Traitors and miscreants, you, you it isHave ruined us! Not even for three minutesTo keep the foe at bay! I'll teach the villains!Every tenth man I'll hang. Brigands!

PUSHKIN. Whoe'erBe guilty, all the same we were clean worsted,Routed!

PRETENDER. But yet we nearly conquered. JustWhen I had dealt with their front rank, the GermansRepulsed us utterly. But they're fine fellows!By God! Fine fellows! I love them for it. From themI'll form an honourable troop.

PUSHKIN. And whereShall we now spend the night?

PRETENDER. Why, here, in the forest.Why not this for our night quarters? At daybreakWe'll take the road, and dine in Rilsk. Good night.

PUSHKIN. A pleasant sleep, tsarevich! Smashed to bits,Rescued by flight alone, he is as carelessAs a simple child; 'tis clear that ProvidenceProtects him, and we, my friends, will not lose heart.

TSAR. He is vanquished, but what profit lies in that?We are crowned with a vain conquest; he has musteredAgain his scattered forces, and anewThreatens us from the ramparts of Putivl.Meanwhile what are our heroes doing? They standAt Krom, where from its rotten battlementsA band of Cossacks braves them. There is glory!No, I am ill content with them; thyselfI shall despatch to take command of them;I give authority not to birth, but brains.Their pride of precedence, let it be wounded!The time has come for me to hold in scornThe murmur of distinguished nobodies,And quash pernicious custom.

BASMANOV. Ay, my lordBlessed a hundredfold will be that dayWhen fire consumes the lists of noblemenWith their dissensions, their ancestral pride.

TSAR. That day is not far off; let me but firstSubdue the insurrection of the people.

BASMANOV. Why trouble about that? The people alwaysAre prone to secret treason; even soThe swift steed champs the bit; so doth a ladChafe at his father's ruling. But what then?The rider quietly controls the steed,The father sways the son.

TSAR. Sometimes the horseDoth throw the rider, nor is the son at all timesQuite 'neath the father's will; we can restrainThe people only by unsleeping sternness.So thought Ivan, sagacious autocratAnd storm-subduer; so his fierce grandson thought.No, no, kindness is lost upon the people;Act well--it thanks you not at all; extortAnd execute--'twill be no worse for you.BOYAR. The foreign guests are come.

TSAR. I goTo welcome them. Basmanov, wait, stay here;I still have need to speak: a word with thee.

BASMANOV. High sovereign spirit! God grant he may subdueThe accurst Otrepiev; and much, still muchOf good he'll do for Russia. A great thoughtWithin his mind has taken birth; it must notBe suffered to grow cold. What a careerFor me when the ancestral horn he breaksOf the nobility. I have no rivalsIn war. I shall stand closest to the throne--And it may chance--But what is that strange sound?

ONE. Fetch a physician!

BASMANOV. What has happened?

A FIFTH AND SIXTH. The tsar is ill,The tsar is dying.

A FIFTH. Upon the throneHe sat, and suddenly he fell; blood gushedFrom his mouth and ears.

TSAR. Let all depart--aloneLeave the tsarevich with me. (All withdraw.) I am dying;Let us embrace. Farewell, my son; this hourThou wilt begin to reign.--O God, my God!This hour I shall appear before Thy presence--And have no time to purge my soul with shrift.But yet, my son, I feel thou art dearer to meThan is my soul's salvation--be it so!A subject was I born; it seemed ordainedThat I should die a subject in obscurity.Yet I attained to sovereignty; but how?Ask not. Enough that thou art innocent.In justice now thou'lt reign; and I aloneAm answerable for all to God. Dear son,Cherish no false delusion, of thy free willBlind not thyself. Stormy the days whereinThou dost assume the crown. He is dangerous,This strange pretender; with a fearful nameHe is armed. For many a year experiencedIn rule, I could restrain revolt and treason;They quaked with fear before me; treacheryDared not to raise its voice; but thou, a boy,An inexperienced ruler, how wilt thouGovern amid the tempests, quench revolt,Shackle sedition? But God is great! He givesWisdom to youth, to weakness strength.--Give ear;Firstly, select a steadfast counsellor,Of cool, ripe years, loved of the people, honouredMid the boyars for birth and fame--even Shuisky.The army craves today a skilful leader;Basmanov send, and firmly bear the murmursOf the boyars. Thou from thy early yearsDidst sit with me in council, thou dost knowThe formal course of government; change notProcedure. Custom is the soul of states.Of late I have been forced to reinstateBans, executions--these thou canst rescind;And they will bless thee, as they blessed thy uncleWhen he obtained the throne of the Terrible.At the same time, little by little, tightenAnew the reins of government; now slacken;But let them not slip from thy hands. Be gracious,Accessible to foreigners, acceptTheir service trustfully. Preserve with strictnessThe Church's discipline. Be taciturn;The royal voice must never lose itselfUpon the air in emptiness, but likeA sacred bell must sound but to announceSome great disaster or great festival.Dear son, thou art approaching to those yearsWhen woman's beauty agitates our blood.Preserve, preserve the sacred purityOf innocence and proud shamefacedness;He, who through passion has been wont to wallowIn vicious pleasures in his youthful days,Becomes in manhood bloodthirsty and surly;His mind untimely darkens. Of thy householdBe always head; show honour to thy mother,But rule thy house thyself; thou art a manAnd tsar to boot. Be loving to thy sister--Thou wilt be left of her the sole protector.

FEODOR. (On his knees.) No, no; live on, my father, and reign long;Without thee both the folk and we will perish.

TSAR. All is at end for me--mine eyes grow dark,I feel the coldness of the grave--

(Enter the PATRIARCH and prelates; behind them allthe boyars lead the TSARITSA by the hand; theTSAREVNA is sobbing.)

Who's there?Ah, 'tis the vestment--so! The holy tonsure--The hour has struck. The tsar becomes a monk,And the dark sepulchre will be my cell.Wait yet a little, my lord Patriarch,I still am tsar. Listen to me, boyars:To this my son I now commit the tsardom;Do homage to Feodor. Basmanov, thou,And ye, my friends, on the grave's brink I pray youTo serve my son with zeal and rectitude!As yet he is both young and uncorrupted.Swear ye?

TSAR. I am content. Forgive meBoth my temptations and my sins, my wilfulAnd secret injuries.--Now, holy father,Approach thou; I am ready for the rite.