The Pretender and a Catholic Priest

PRETENDER. Nay, father, there will be no trouble. I knowThe spirit of my people; pietyDoes not run wild in them, their tsar's exampleTo them is sacred. Furthermore, the peopleAre always tolerant. I warrant you,Before two years my people all, and allThe Eastern Church, will recognise the powerOf Peter's Vicar.

PRIEST. May Saint Ignatius aid theeWhen other times shall come. Meanwhile, tsarevich,Hide in thy soul the seed of heavenly blessing;Religious duty bids us oft dissembleBefore the blabbing world; the people judgeThy words, thy deeds; God only sees thy motives.PRETENDER. Amen. Who's there?

Comrades! Tomorrow we depart from Cracow.Mnishek, with thee for three days in SamborI'll stay. I know thy hospitable castleBoth shines in splendid stateliness, and gloriesIn its young mistress; There I hope to seeCharming Marina. And ye, my friends, ye, RussiaAnd Lithuania, ye who have upraisedFraternal banners against a common foe,Against mine enemy, yon crafty villain.Ye sons of Slavs, speedily will I leadYour dread battalions to the longed-for conflict.But soft! Methinks among you I descryNew faces.

GABRIEL P. They have come to beg for swordAnd service with your Grace.

PRETENDER. Welcome, my lads.You are friends to me. But tell me, Pushkin, whoIs this fine fellow?

PRETENDER. (To KURBSKY.) A famous name!Art kinsman to the hero of Kazan?

PRETENDER. Liveth he still?

KURBSKY. Nay, he is dead.

PRETENDER. A noble soul! A man of war and counsel.But from the time when he appeared beneathThe ancient town Olgin with the Lithuanians,Hardy avenger of his injuries,Rumour hath held her tongue concerning him.

KURBSKY. My father led the remnant of his lifeOn lands bestowed upon him by Batory;There, in Volhynia, solitary and quiet,Sought consolation for himself in studies;But peaceful labour did not comfort him;He ne'er forgot the home of his young days,And to the end pined for it.

PRETENDER. Hapless chieftain!How brightly shone the dawn of his resoundingAnd stormy life! Glad am I, noble knight,That now his blood is reconciled in theeTo his fatherland. The faults of fathers must notBe called to mind. Peace to their grave. Approach;Give me thy hand! Is it not strange?--the sonOf Kurbsky to the throne is leading--whom?Whom but Ivan's own son?--All favours me;People and fate alike.--Say, who art thou?

PRETENDER. Praise and honourAttend thee, child of liberty. Give himA third of his full pay beforehand.--WhoAre these? On them I recognise the dressOf my own country. These are ours.

KRUSHCHOV. (Bows low.) Yea, Sire,Our father; we are thralls of thine, devotedAnd persecuted; we have fled from Moscow,Disgraced, to thee our tsar, and for thy sakeAre ready to lay down our lives; our corpsesShall be for thee steps to the royal throne.

PRETENDER. Take heart, innocent sufferers. Only let meReach Moscow, and, once there, Boris shall settleSome scores with me and you. What news of Moscow?

KRUSHCHOV. As yet all there is quiet. But alreadyThe folk have got to know that the tsarevichWas saved; already everywhere is readThy proclamation. All are waiting for thee.Not long ago Boris sent two boyarsTo execution merely because in secretThey drank thy health.

PRETENDER. O hapless, good boyars!But blood for blood! And woe to Godunov!What do they say of him?

KRUSHCHOV. He has withdrawnInto his gloomy palace. He is grimAnd sombre. Executions loom ahead.But sickness gnaws him. Hardly hath he strengthTo drag himself along, and--it is thought--His last hour is already not far off.

PRETENDER. A speedy death I wish him, as becomesA great-souled foe to wish. If not, then woeTo the miscreant!--And whom doth he intendTo name as his successor?

KRUSHCHOV. He shows notHis purposes, but it would seem he destinesFeodor, his young son, to be our tsar.

PRETENDER. His reckonings, maybe, will yet prove wrong.Who art thou?

KARELA. A Cossack; from the Don I am sentTo thee, from the free troops, from the brave hetmenFrom upper and lower regions of the Cossacks,To look upon thy bright and royal eyes,And tender thee their homage.

PRETENDER. Well I knewThe men of Don; I doubted not to seeThe Cossack hetmen in my ranks. We thankOur army of the Don. Today, we know,The Cossacks are unjustly persecuted,Oppressed; but if God grant us to ascendThe throne of our forefathers, then as of yoreWe'll gratify the free and faithful Don.

POET. (Approaches, bowing low, and taking Gregory by thehem of his caftan.)Great prince, illustrious offspring of a king!PRETENDER. What wouldst thou?

POET. Condescendingly acceptThis poor fruit of my earnest toil.

PRETENDER. What see I?Verses in Latin! Blest a hundredfoldThe tie of sword and lyre; the selfsame laurelBinds them in friendship. I was born beneathA northern sky, but yet the Latin museTo me is a familiar voice; I loveThe blossoms of Parnassus, I believeThe prophecies of singers. Not in vainThe ecstasy boils in their flaming breast;Action is hallowed, being glorifiedBeforehand by the poets! Approach, my friend.In memory of me accept this gift.

When fate fulfils for me her covenant,When I assume the crown of my forefathers,I hope again to hear the measured tonesOf thy sweet voice, and thy inspired lay.Musa gloriam Coronat, gloriaque musam.And so, friends, till tomorrow, au revoir.

ALL. Forward! Long live Dimitry! Forward, forward!Long live Dimitry, the great prince of Moscow!