yesterday, a Tartar, sonBy marriage of Maliuta, of a hangman,
Himself in soul a hangman, he to wear
The crown and robe of Monomakh!—
VOROTINSKY. You are right;
He is of lowly birth; we twain can boast
A nobler lineage.
SHUISKY. Indeed we may!
VOROTINSKY. Let us remember, Shuisky, Vorotinsky
Are, let me say, born princes.
SHUISKY. Yea, born princes,
And of the blood of Rurik.
VOROTINSKY. Listen, prince;
Then we, 'twould seem, should have the right to mount
Feodor's throne.
SHUISKY. Rather than Godunov.
VOROTINSKY. In very truth 'twould seem so.
SHUISKY. And what then?
If still Boris pursue his crafty ways,
Let us contrive by skilful means to rouse
The people. Let them turn from Godunov;
Princes they have in plenty of their own;
Let them from out their number choose a tsar.
VOROTINSKY. Of us, Varyags in blood, there are full many,
But 'tis no easy thing for us to vie
With Godunov; the people are not wont
To recognise in us an ancient branch
Of their old warlike masters; long already
Have we our appanages forfeited,
Long served but as lieutenants of the tsars,
And he hath known, by fear, and love, and glory,
How to bewitch the people.
SHUISKY. (Looking through a window.) He has dared,
That's all—while we—Enough of this. Thou seest
Dispersedly the people are returning.
We'll go forthwith and learn what is resolved.
THE RED SQUARE
1ST PERSON. He is inexorable! He thrust from him
Prelates, boyars, and Patriarch; in vain
Prostrate they fall; the splendour of the throne
Affrights him.
2ND PERSON. O, my God, who is to rule us?
O, woe to us!
3RD PERSON. See! The Chief Minister
Is coming out to tell us what the Council
Has now resolved.
THE PEOPLE. Silence! Silence! He speaks,
The Minister of State. Hush, hush! Give ear!
SHCHELKALOV. (From the Red Balcony.)
The Council have resolved for the last time
To put to proof the power of supplication
Upon our ruler's mournful soul. At dawn,
After a solemn service in the Kremlin,
The blessed Patriarch will go, preceded
By sacred banners, with the holy ikons
Of Donsky and Vladimir; with him go
The Council, courtiers, delegates, boyars,
And all the orthodox folk of Moscow; all
Will go to pray once more the queen to pity
Fatherless Moscow, and to consecrate
Boris unto the crown. Now to your homes
Go ye in peace: pray; and to Heaven shall rise
The heart's petition of the orthodox.
(The PEOPLE disperse.)
THE VIRGIN'S FIELD
1ST PERSON. To plead with the tsaritsa in her cell
Now are they gone. Thither have gone Boris,
The Patriarch, and a host of boyars.
2ND PERSON. What news?
3RD PERSON. Still is he obdurate; yet there is hope.
PEASANT WOMAN. (With a child.)
Drat you! Stop crying, or else the bogie-man
Will carry you off. Drat you, drat you! Stop crying!
1ST PERSON. Can't we slip through behind the fence?
2ND PERSON. Impossible!
No chance at all! Not only is the nunnery
Crowded; the precincts too are crammed with people.
Look what a sight! All Moscow has thronged here.
See! Fences, roofs, and every single storey
Of the Cathedral bell tower, the church-domes,
The very crosses are studded thick with people.
1ST PERSON. A goodly sight indeed!
2ND PERSON. What is that noise?
3RD PERSON. Listen! What noise is that?—The people groaned;
See there! They fall like waves, row upon row—
Again—again—Now, brother, 'tis our turn;
Be quick, down on your knees!
THE PEOPLE. (On their knees, groaning and wailing.)
Have pity on us,
Our father! O, rule over us! O, be
Father to us, and tsar!
1ST PERSON. (Sotto voce.) Why are they wailing?
2ND PERSON. How can we know? The boyars know well enough.
It's not our business.
PEASANT WOMAN. (With child.)
Now, what's this? Just when
It ought to cry, the child stops crying. I'll show you!
Here comes the bogie-man! Cry, cry, you spoilt one!
(Throws it on the ground;
