The Garden. The Fountain

PRETENDER. (Enters.) Here is the fountain; hither will she come.I was not born a coward; I have seenDeath near at hand, and face to face with deathMy spirit hath not blenched. A life-long dungeonHath threatened me, I have been close pursued,And yet my spirit quailed not, and by boldnessI have escaped captivity. But whatIs this which now constricts my breath? What meansThis overpowering tremor, or this quiveringOf tense desire? No, this is fear. All dayI have waited for this secret meeting, ponderedOn all that I should say to her, how bestI might enmesh Marina's haughty mind,Calling her queen of Moscow. But the hourHas come--and I remember naught, I cannotRecall the speeches I have learned by rote;Love puts imagination to confusion--But something there gleamed suddenly--a rustling;Hush--no, it was the moon's deceitful light,It was the rustling of the breeze.

MARINA. (Enters.) Tsarevich!

PRETENDER. 'Tis she. Now all the blood in me stands still.

MARINA. Dimitry! Is it thou?

PRETENDER. Bewitching voice!

Is it thou, at last? Is it thou I see, aloneWith me, beneath the roof of quiet night?How slowly passed the tedious day! How slowlyThe glow of evening died away! How longI have waited in the gloom of night!

MARINA. The hoursAre flitting fast, and time is precious to me.I did not grant a meeting here to theeTo listen to a lover's tender speeches.No need of words. I well believe thou lovest;But listen; with thy stormy, doubtful fateI have resolved to join my own; but one thing,Dimitry, I require; I claim that thouDisclose to me thy secret hopes, thy plans,Even thy fears, that hand in hand with theeI may confront life boldly--not in blindnessOf childlike ignorance, not as the slaveAnd plaything of my husband's light desires,Thy speechless concubine, but as thy spouse,And worthy helpmate of the tsar of Moscow.

PRETENDER. O, if it be only for one short hour,Forget the cares and troubles of my fate!Forget 'tis the tsarevich whom thou seestBefore thee. O, behold in me, Marina,A lover, by thee chosen, happy onlyIn thy regard. O, listen to the prayersOf love! Grant me to utter all wherewithMy heart is full.

MARINA. Prince, this is not the time;Thou loiterest, and meanwhile the devotionOf thine adherents cooleth. Hour by hourDanger becomes more dangerous, difficultiesMore difficult; already dubious rumoursAre current, novelty already takesThe place of novelty; and GodunovAdopts his measures.

PRETENDER. What is Godunov?Is thy sweet love, my only blessedness,Swayed by Boris? Nay, nay. IndifferentlyI now regard his throne, his kingly power.Thy love--without it what to me is life,And glory's glitter, and the state of Russia?On the dull steppe, in a poor mud hut, thou--Thou wilt requite me for the kingly crown;Thy love--

MARINA. For shame! Forget not, prince, thy highAnd sacred destiny; thy dignityShould be to thee more dear than all the joysOf life and its allurements. It thou canst notWith anything compare. Not to a boy,Insanely boiling, captured by my beauty--But to the heir of Moscow's throne give IMy hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevichRescued by destiny.

PRETENDER. Torture me not,Charming Marina; say not that 'twas my rankAnd not myself that thou didst choose. Marina!Thou knowest not how sorely thou dost woundMy heart thereby. What if--O fearful doubt!--Say, if blind destiny had not assigned meA kingly birth; if I were not indeedSon of Ivan, were not this boy, so longForgotten by the world--say, then wouldst thouHave loved me?

MARINA. Thou art Dimitry, and aught elseThou canst not be; it is not possibleFor me to love another.

PRETENDER. Nay! Enough--I have no wish to share with a dead bodyA mistress who belongs to him; I have doneWith counterfeiting, and will tell the truth.Know, then, that thy Dimitry long agoPerished, was buried--and will not rise again;And dost thou wish to know what man I am?Well, I will tell thee. I am--a poor monk.Grown weary of monastic servitude,I pondered 'neath the cowl my bold design,Made ready for the world a miracle--And from my cell at last fled to the Cossacks,To their wild hovels; there I learned to handleBoth steeds and swords; I showed myself to you.I called myself Dimitry, and deceivedThe brainless Poles. What say'st thou, proud Marina?Art thou content with my confession? WhyDost thou keep silence?MARINA. O shame! O woe is me!

PRETENDER. (Sotto voce.) O whither hath a fit of anger led me?The happiness devised with so much labourI have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot,What have I done? (Aloud.) I see thou art ashamedOf love not princely; so pronounce on meThe fatal word; my fate is in thy hands.Decide; I wait.

MARINA. Rise, poor pretender! Think'st thouTo please with genuflex on my vain heart,As if I were a weak, confiding girl?You err, my friend; prone at my feet I've seenKnights and counts nobly born; but not for thisDid I reject their prayers, that a poor monk--

PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; noble virtuesMay lie perchance in him, virtues well worthyOf Moscow's throne, even of thy priceless hand--

MARINA. Say of a shameful noose, insolent wretch!

PRETENDER. I am to blame; carried away by prideI have deceived God and the kings--have liedTo the world; but it is not for thee, Marina,To judge me; I am guiltless before thee.No, I could not deceive thee. Thou to meWast the one sacred being, before theeI dared not to dissemble; love alone,Love, jealous, blind, constrained me to tell all.

MARINA. What's that to boast of, idiot? Who demandedConfession of thee? If thou, a nameless vagrantCouldst wonderfully blind two nations, thenAt least thou shouldst have merited success,And thy bold fraud secured, by constant, deep,And lasting secrecy. Say, can I yieldMyself to thee, can I, forgetting rankAnd maiden modesty, unite my fateWith thine, when thou thyself impetuouslyDost thus with such simplicity revealThy shame? It was from Love he blabbed to me!I marvel wherefore thou hast not from friendshipDisclosed thyself ere now before my father,Or else before our king from joy, or elseBefore Prince Vishnevetsky from the zealOf a devoted servant.

PRETENDER. I swear to theeThat thou alone wast able to extortMy heart's confession; I swear to thee that never,Nowhere, not in the feast, not in the cupOf folly, not in friendly confidence,Not 'neath the knife nor tortures of the rack,Shall my tongue give away these weighty secrets.

MARINA. Thou swearest! Then I must believe. Believe,Of course! But may I learn by what thou swearest?Is it not by the name of God, as suitsThe Jesuits' devout adopted son?Or by thy honour as a high-born knight?Or, maybe, by thy royal word aloneAs a king's son? Is it not so? Declare.

PRETENDER. (Proudly.) The phantom of the Terrible hath made meHis son; from out the sepulchre hath named meDimitry, hath stirred up the people round me,And hath consigned Boris to be my victim.I am tsarevich. Enough! 'Twere shame for meTo stoop before a haughty Polish dame.Farewell for ever; the game of bloody war,The wide cares of my destiny, will smother,I hope, the pangs Of love. O, when the heatOf shameful passion is o'erspent, how thenShall I detest thee! Now I leave thee--ruin,Or else a crown, awaits my head in Russia;Whether I meet with death as fits a soldierIn honourable fight, or as a miscreantUpon the public scaffold, thou shalt notBe my companion, nor shalt share with meMy fate; but it may be thou shalt regretThe destiny thou hast refused.

MARINA. But whatIf I expose beforehand thy bold fraudTo all men?

PRETENDER. Dost thou think I fear thee? Think'st thouThey will believe a Polish maiden moreThan Russia's own tsarevich? Know, proud lady,That neither king, nor pope, nor nobles troubleWhether my words be true, whether I beDimitry or another. What care they?But I provide a pretext for revoltAnd war; and this is all they need; and thee,Rebellious one, believe me, they will forceTo hold thy peace. Farewell.

MARINA. Tsarevich, stay!At last I hear the speech not of a boy,But of a man. It reconciles me to thee.Prince, I forget thy senseless outburst, seeAgain Dimitry. Listen; now is the time!Hasten; delay no more, lead on thy troopsQuickly to Moscow, purge the Kremlin, takeThy seat upon the throne of Moscow; thenSend me the nuptial envoy; but, God hears me,Until thy foot be planted on its steps,Until by thee Boris be overthrown,I am not one to listen to love-speeches.

PRETENDER. No--easier far to strive with Godunov.Or play false with the Jesuits of the Court,Than with a woman. Deuce take them; they're beyondMy power. She twists, and coils, and crawls, slips outOf hand, she hisses, threatens, bites. Ah, serpent!Serpent! 'Twas not for nothing that I trembled.She well-nigh ruined me; but I'm resolved;At daybreak I will put my troops in motion.