ONE OF THE PEOPLE. Will the tsar soon come out of the
Cathedral?
ANOTHER. The mass is ended; now the Te Deum is going on.
THE FIRST. What! Have they already cursed him?
THE SECOND. I stood in the porch and heard how the deacon
cried out:—Grishka Otrepiev is anathema!
THE FIRST. Let him curse to his heart's content; the
tsarevich has nothing to do with the Otrepiev.
THE SECOND. But they are now singing mass for the repose
of the soul of the tsarevich.
THE FIRST. What? A mass for the dead sung for a living
Man? They'll suffer for it, the godless wretches!
A THIRD. Hist! A sound. Is it not the tsar?
A FOURTH. No, it is the idiot.
(An idiot enters, in an iron cap, hung round with
chains, surrounded by boys.)
THE BOYS. Nick, Nick, iron nightcap! T-r-r-r-r—
OLD WOMAN. Let him be, you young devils. Innocent one,
pray thou for me a sinner.
IDIOT. Give, give, give a penny.
OLD WOMAN. There is a penny for thee; remember me in
thy prayers.
IDIOT. (Seats himself on the ground and sings:)
The moon sails on,
The kitten cries,
Nick, arise,
Pray to God.
(The boys surround him again.)
ONE OF THEM. How do you do, Nick? Why don't you
take off your cap?
(Raps him on the iron cap.)
How it rings!
IDIOT. But I have got a penny.
BOYS. That's not true; now, show it.
(They snatch the penny and run away.)
IDIOT. (Weeps.) They have taken my penny, they are
hurting Nick.
THE PEOPLE. The tsar, the tsar is coming!
(The TSAR comes out from the Cathedral; a boyar in
front of him scatters alms among the poor. Boyars.)
IDIOT. Boris, Boris! The boys are hurting Nick.
TSAR. Give him alms! What is he crying for?
IDIOT. The boys are hurting me...Give orders to slay
them, as thou slewest the little tsarevich.
BOYARS. Go away, fool! Seize the fool!
TSAR. Leave him alone. Pray thou for me, Nick.
(Exit.)
IDIOT. (To himself.) No, no! It is impossible to pray for
tsar Herod; the Mother of God forbids it.
SYEVSK
The PRETENDER, surrounded by his supporters
PRETENDER. Where is the prisoner?
A POLE. Here.
PRETENDER. Call him before me.
(A Russian prisoner enters.)
Who art thou?
PRISONER. Rozhnov, a nobleman of Moscow.
PRETENDER. Hast long been in the service?
PRISONER. About a month.
PRETENDER. Art not ashamed, Rozhnov, that thou hast drawn
The sword against me?
PRISONER. What else could I do?
'Twas not our fault.
PRETENDER. Didst fight beneath the walls
Of Seversk?
PRISONER. 'Twas two weeks after the battle
I came from Moscow.
PRETENDER. What of Godunov?
PRISONER. The battle's loss, Mstislavsky's wound, hath caused him
Much apprehension; Shuisky he hath sent
To take command.
PRETENDER. But why hath he recalled
Basmanov unto Moscow?
PRISONER. The tsar rewarded
His services with honour and with gold.
Basmanov in the council of the tsar
Now sits.
PRETENDER. The army had more need of him.
Well, how go things in Moscow?
PRISONER. All is quiet,
Thank God.
PRETENDER. Say, do they look for me?
PRISONER. God knows;
They dare not talk too much there now. Of some
The tongues have been cut off, of others even
The heads. It is a fearsome state of things—
Each day an execution. All the prisons
Are crammed. Wherever two or three forgather
In public places, instantly a spy
Worms himself in; the tsar himself examines
At leisure the denouncers. It is just
Sheer misery; so silence is the best.
PRETENDER. An enviable life for the tsar's people!
Well, how about the army?
PRISONER. What of them?
Clothed and full-fed they are content with all.
PRETENDER. But is there much of it?
PRISONER. God knows.
PRETENDER. All told
Will there be thirty thousand?
PRISONER. Yes; 'twill run
Even to fifty thousand.
(The Pretender reflects; those around him glance at
one another.)
PRETENDER. Well! Of me
What say they in your camp?
PRISONER. Your graciousness
They speak of; say that thou, Sire, (be not wrath),
Art a thief, but a fine fellow.
PRETENDER. (Laughing.) Even so
I'll prove myself to them in deed. My friends,
We will not wait for Shuisky; I wish you joy;
Tomorrow, battle.
(Exit.)
ALL. Long life to Dimitry!
A POLE. Tomorrow, battle! They are fifty thousand,
And we scarce fifteen thousand. He is mad!
ANOTHER. That's nothing, friend. A single Pole can challenge
Five hundred Muscovites.
PRISONER. Yes, thou mayst challenge!
But when it comes to fighting, then, thou braggart,
Thou'lt run away.
POLE. If thou hadst had a sword,
Insolent prisoner, then (pointing to his sword) with this I'd soon
Have vanquished thee.
PRISONER. A Russian can make shift
Without a sword; how like you this (shows his fist), you fool?
(The Pole looks at him haughtily and departs in
silence. All laugh.)
A FOREST
PRETENDER and PUSHKIN
(In the background lies a dying horse)
PRETENDER. Ah, my poor horse! How gallantly he charged
Today in the last battle, and when wounded,
How swiftly bore me. My poor horse!
PUSHKIN. (To himself.) Well, here's
A great ado about a horse, when all
Our army's smashed to bits.
PRETENDER. Listen! Perhaps
He'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.
(He unbridles and unsaddles the horse. Some Poles
enter.)
Good day to you, gentlemen! How is't I see not
Kurbsky among you? I did note today
How to the thick of the fight he clove his path;
Around the hero's sword, like swaying ears
Of corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of them
His blade was brandished, and his terrible cry
Drowned all cries else. Where is my knight?
POLE. He fell
On the field of battle.
PRETENDER. Honour to the brave,
And peace be on his soul! How few unscathed
Are left us from the fight! Accursed Cossacks,
Traitors and miscreants, you, you it is
Have ruined us! Not even for three minutes
To keep the foe at bay! I'll teach the villains!
Every tenth man I'll hang. Brigands!
PUSHKIN. Whoe'er
Be guilty, all the same we were clean worsted,
Routed!
PRETENDER. But yet we nearly conquered. Just
When I had dealt with their front rank, the Germans
Repulsed us utterly. But they're fine fellows!
By God! Fine fellows! I love them for it. From them
I'll form an honourable troop.
PUSHKIN. And where
Shall we now spend the night?
PRETENDER. Why, here, in the forest.
Why not this for our night quarters? At daybreak
We'll take the road, and dine in Rilsk. Good night.
(He lies down, puts a saddle under his head, and falls
asleep.)
PUSHKIN. A pleasant sleep, tsarevich! Smashed to bits,
Rescued by flight alone, he is as careless
As a simple child; 'tis clear that Providence
Protects him, and we, my friends, will not lose heart.