LITMIR.BIZ

         GREGORY.         Boris, Boris, before thee

         All tremble; none dares even to remind thee

         Of what befell the hapless child; meanwhile

         Here in dark cell a hermit doth indite

         Thy stern denunciation. Thou wilt not

         Escape the judgment even of this world,

         As thou wilt not escape the doom of God.

         GREGORY and a Wicked Monk

         GREGORY. O, what a weariness is our poor life,

         What misery! Day comes, day goes, and ever

         Is seen, is heard one thing alone; one sees

         Only black cassocks, only hears the bell.

         Yawning by day you wander, wander, nothing

         To do; you doze; the whole night long till daylight

         The poor monk lies awake; and when in sleep

         You lose yourself, black dreams disturb the soul;

         Glad that they sound the bell, that with a crutch

         They rouse you. No, I will not suffer it!

         I cannot! Through this fence I'll flee! The world

         Is great; my path is on the highways never

         Thou'lt hear of me again.

         MONK.                   Truly your life

         Is but a sorry one, ye dissolute,

         Wicked young monks!

         GREGORY.          Would that the Khan again

         Would come upon us, or Lithuania rise

         Once more in insurrection. Good! I would then

         Cross swords with them! Or what if the tsarevich

         Should suddenly arise from out the grave,

         Should cry, "Where are ye, children, faithful servants?

         Help me against Boris, against my murderer!

         Seize my foe, lead him to me!"

         MONK.                       Enough, my friend,

         Of empty babble. We cannot raise the dead.

         No, clearly it was fated otherwise

         For the tsarevich—But hearken; if you wish

         To do a thing, then do it.

         GREGORY.                 What to do?

         MONK. If I were young as thou, if these grey hairs

         Had not already streaked my beard—Dost take me?

         GREGORY. Not I.

         MONK.        Hearken; our folk are dull of brain,

         Easy of faith, and glad to be amazed

         By miracles and novelties. The boyars

         Remember Godunov as erst he was,

         Peer to themselves; and even now the race

         Of the old Varyags is loved by all. Thy years

         Match those of the tsarevich. If thou hast

         Cunning and hardihood—Dost take me now?

         GREGORY. I take thee.

         MONK.               Well, what say'st thou?

         GREGORY.                                 'Tis resolved.

         I am Dimitry, I tsarevich!

         MONK.                    Give me

         Thy hand, my bold young friend. Thou shalt be tsar!

         PATRIARCH. And he has run away, Father Abbot?

         ABBOT. He has run away, holy sovereign, now three days ago.

         PATRIARCH. Accursed rascal! What is his origin?

         ABBOT. Of the family of the Otrepievs, of the lower nobility

         of Galicia; in his youth he took the tonsure, no one

         knows where, lived at Suzdal, in the Ephimievsky

         monastery, departed from there, wandered to various

         convents, finally arrived at my Chudov fraternity;

         but I, seeing that he was still young and inexperienced,

         entrusted him at the outset to Father Pimen, an old man,

         kind and humble. And he was very learned, read our

         chronicle, composed canons for the holy brethren; but,

         to be sure, instruction was not given to him from the

         Lord God—

         PATRIARCH. Ah, those learned fellows! What a thing to

         say, "I shall be tsar in Moscow." Ah, he is a vessel of

         the devil! However, it is no use even to report to the

         tsar about this; why disquiet our father sovereign?

         It will be enough to give information about his flight to

         the Secretary Smirnov or the Secretary Ephimiev.

         What a heresy: "I shall be tsar in Moscow!"…

         Catch, catch the fawning villain, and send him to

         Solovetsky to perpetual penance. But this—is it not

         heresy, Father Abbot?

         ABBOT. Heresy, holy Patriarch; downright heresy.