Kitabı oku: «Demetrius», sayfa 4

ACT II

SCENE I

A Greek convent in a bleak district near the sea Belozero.

A train of nuns, in black robes and veils, passes over the back of the stage. MARFA, in a white veil, stands apart from the others, leaning on a tombstone. OLGA steps out from the train, remains gazing at her for a time, and then advances to her.

OLGA

 
   And does thy heart not urge thee forth with us
   To taste reviving nature's opening sweets?
   The glad sun comes, the long, long night retires,
   The ice melts in the streams, and soon the sledge
   Will to the boat give place and summer swallow.
   The world awakes once more, and the new joy
   Woos all to leave their narrow cloister cells
   For the bright air and freshening breath of spring.
   And wilt thou only, sunk in lasting grief,
   Refuse to share the general exultation?
 

MARFA

 
   On with the rest, and leave me to myself!
   Let those rejoice who still have power to hope.
   The time that puts fresh youth in all the world
   Brings naught to me; to me the past is all,
   My hopes, my joys are with the things that were.
 

OLGA

 
   Dost thou still mourn thy son – still, still lament
   The sovereignty which thou has lost? Does time,
   Which pours a balm on every wounded heart,
   Lose all its potency with thee alone?
   Thou wert the empress of this mighty realm,
   The mother of a blooming son. He was
   Snatched from thee by a dreadful destiny;
   Into this dreary convent wert thou thrust,
   Here on the verge of habitable earth.
   Full sixteen times since that disastrous day
   The face of nature hath renewed its youth;
   Still have I seen no change come over thine,
   That looked a grave amid a blooming world.
   Thou'rt like some moonless image, carved in stone
   By sculptor's chisel, that doth ever keep
   The selfsame fixed unalterable mien.
 

MARFA

 
   Yes, time, fell time, hath signed and set me up
   As a memorial of my dreadful fate.
   I will not be at peace, will not forget.
   That soul must be of poor and shallow stamp
   Which takes a cure from time – a recompense
   For what can never be compensated!
   Nothing shall buy my sorrow from me. No,
   As heaven's vault still goes with the wanderer,
   Girds and environs him with boundless grasp,
   Turn where he will, by sea or land, so goes
   My anguish with me, wheresoe'er I turn;
   It hems me round, like an unbounded sea;
   My ceaseless tears have failed to drain its depths.
 

OLGA

 
   Oh, see! what news can yonder boy have brought,
   The sisters round him throng so eagerly?
   He comes from distant shores, where homes abound,
   And brings us tidings from the land of men.
   The sea is clear, the highways free once more.
   Art thou not curious to learn his news?
   Though to the world we are as good as dead,
   Yet of its changes willingly we hear,
   And, safe upon the shore, with wonder mark
   The roar and ferment of the trampling waves.
 

[NUNS come down the stage with a FISHER BOY.

XENIA – HELENA

 
   Speak, speak, and tell us all the news you bring.
 

ALEXIA

 
   Relate what's passing in the world beyond.
 

FISHER BOY

 
   Good, pious ladies, give me time to speak!
 

XENIA

 
   Is't war – or peace?
 

ALEXIA

 
              Who's now upon the throne?
 

FISHER BOY

 
   A ship is to Archangel just come in
   From the north pole, where everything is ice.
 

OLGA

 
   How came a vessel into that wild sea?
 

FISHER BOY

 
   It is an English merchantman, and it
   Has found a new way out to get to us.
 

ALEXIA

 
   What will not man adventure for his gain?
 

XENIA

 
   And so the world is nowhere to be barred!
 

FISHER BOY

 
   But that's the very smallest of the news.
   'Tis something very different moves the world.
 

ALEXIA

 
   Oh, speak and tell us!
 

OLGA

 
               Say, what has occurred?
 

FISHER BOY

 
   We live to hear strange marvels nowadays:
   The dead rise up, and come to life again.
 

OLGA

 
   Explain yourself.
 

FISHER BOY

 
             Prince Dmitri, Ivan's son,
   Whom we have mourned for dead these sixteen years,
   Is now alive, and has appeared in Poland.
 

OLGA

 
   The prince alive?
   MARFA (starting).
             My son!
 

OLGA

 
                 Compose thyself!
   Calm down thy heart till we have learned the whole.
 

ALEXIA

 
   How can this possibly be so, when he
   Was killed, and perished in the flames at Uglitsch?
 

FISHER BOY

 
   He managed somehow to escape the fire,
   And found protection in a monastery.
   There he grew up in secrecy, until
   His time was come to publish who he was.
 

OLGA (to MARFA)

 
   You tremble, princess! You grow pale!
 

MARFA

 
                       I know
   That it must be delusion, yet so little
   Is my heart steeled 'gainst fear and hope e'en now,
   That in my breast it flutters like a bird.
 

OLGA

 
   Why should it be delusion? Mark his words!
   How could this rumor spread without good cause?
 

FISHER BOY

 
   Without good cause? The Lithuanians
   And Poles are all in arms upon his side.
   The Czar himself quakes in his capital.
 

[MARFA is compelled by her emotion to lean upon OLGA and ALEXIA.

XENIA

 
   Speak on, speak, tell us everything you know.
 

ALEXIA

 
   And tell us, too, of whom you stole the news.
 

FISHER BOY

 
   I stole the news? A letter has gone forth
   To every town and province from the Czar.
   This letter the Posadmik of our town
   Read to us all, in open market-place.
   It bore, that busy schemers were abroad,
   And that we should not lend their tales belief.
   But this made us believe them; for, had they
   Been false, the Czar would have despised the lie.
 

MARFA

 
   Is this the calm I thought I had achieved?
   And clings my heart so close to temporal things,
   That a mere word can shake my inward soul?
   For sixteen years have I bewailed my son,
   And yet at once believe that still he lives.
 

OLGA

 
   Sixteen long years thou'st mourned for him as dead,
   And yet his ashes thou hast never seen!
   Naught countervails the truth of the report.
   Nay, does not Providence watch o'er the fate
   Of kings and monarchies? Then welcome hope!
   More things befall than thou canst comprehend.
   Who can set limits to the Almighty's power?
 

MARFA

 
   Shall I turn back to look again on life,
   To which long since I spoke a sad farewell?
   It was not with the dead my hopes abode.
   Oh, say no more of this. Let not my heart
   Hang on this phantom hope! Let me not lose
   My darling son a second time. Alas!
   My peace of mind is gone, – my dream of peace
   I cannot trust these tidings, – yet, alas,
   I can no longer dash them from my soul!
   Woe's me, I never lost my son till now.
   Oh, now I can no longer tell if I
   Shall seek him 'mongst the living or the dead,
   Tossed on the rock of never-ending doubt.
   OLGA [A bell sounds, – the sister PORTERESS enters.
   Why has the bell been sounded, sister, say?
 

PORTERESS

 
   The lord archbishop waits without; he brings
   A message from the Czar, and craves an audience.
 

OLGA

 
   Does the archbishop stand within our gates?
   What strange occurrence can have brought him here?
 

XENIA

 
   Come all, and give him greeting as befits.
 

[They advance towards the gate as the ARCHBISHOP enters;

they all kneel before him, and he makes the sign of the Greek cross over them.

ARCHBISHOP

 
   The kiss of peace I bring you in the name
   Of Father, Son, and of the Holy Ghost,
   Proceeding from the Father!
 

OLGA

 
                  Sir, we kiss
   In humblest reverence thy paternal hand!
            Command thy daughters!
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   My mission is addressed to Sister Marfa.
 

OLGA

 
   See, here she stands, and waits to know thy will.
 

[All the NUNS withdraw.

ARCHBISHOP

 
   It is the mighty prince who sends me here;
   Upon his distant throne he thinks of thee;
   For as the sun, with his great eye of flame,
   Sheds light and plenty all abroad the world,
   So sweeps the sovereign's eye on every side;
   Even to the farthest limits of his realm
   His care is wakeful and his glance is keen.
 

MARFA

 
   How far his arm can strike I know too well.
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   He knows the lofty spirit fills thy soul,
   And therefore feels indignantly the wrong
   A bold-faced villain dares to offer thee.
   Learn, then, in Poland, an audacious churl,
   A renegade, who broke his monkish vows,
   Laid down his habit, and renounced his God,
   Doth use the name and title of thy son,
   Whom death snatched from thee in his infancy.
   The shameless varlet boasts him of thy blood,
   And doth affect to be Czar Ivan's son;
   A Waywode breaks the peace; from Poland leads
   This spurious monarch, whom himself created,
   Across our frontiers, with an armed power:
   So he beguiles the Russians' faithful hearts,
   And lures them on to treason and revolt.
                   The Czar,
   With pure, paternal feeling, sends me to thee.
   Thou hold'st the manes of thy son in honor;
   Nor wilt permit a bold adventurer
   To steal his name and title from the tomb,
   And with audacious hand usurp his rights.
   Thou wilt proclaim aloud to all the world
   That thou dost own him for no son of thine.
   Thou wilt not nurse a bastard's alien blood
   Upon thy heart, that beats so nobly; never!
   Thou wilt – and this the Czar expects from thee —
   Give the vile counterfeit the lie, with all
   The righteous indignation it deserves.
 

MARFA (who has during the last speech subdued the most violent emotion)

 
   What do I hear, archbishop? Can it be?
   Oh, tell me, by what signs and marks of proof
   This bold-faced trickster doth uphold himself
   As Ivan's son, whom we bewailed as dead?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   By some faint, shadowy likeness to the Czar,
   By documents which chance threw in his way,
   And by a precious trinket, which he shows,
   He cheats the credulous and wondering mob.
 

MARFA

 
   What is the trinket? Oh, pray, tell me what?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   A golden cross, gemmed with nine emeralds,
   Which Ivan Westislowsky, so he says,
   Hung round his neck at the baptismal font.
 

MARFA

 
   What do you say? He shows this trinket, this?
 

[With forced composure.

 
   And how does he allege he came by it?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   A faithful servant and Diak, he says,
   Preserved him from the assassins and the flames,
   And bore him to Smolenskow privily.
 

MARFA

 
   But where was he brought up? Where, gives he forth,
   Was he concealed and fostered until now?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   In Tschudow's monastery he was reared,
   Unknowing who he was; from thence he fled
   To Lithuania and Poland, where
   He served the Prince of Sendomir, until
   An accident revealed his origin.
 

MARFA

 
   With such a tale as this can he find friends
   To peril life and fortune in his cause?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   Oh, madam, false, false-hearted is the Pole,
   And enviously he eyes our country's wealth.
   He welcomes every pretext that may serve
   To light the flames of war within our bounds!
 

MARFA

 
   And were there credulous spirits, even in Moscow,
   Could by this juggle be so lightly stirred?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   Oh, fickle, princess, is the people's heart!
   They dote on alteration, and expect
   To reap advantage from a change of rulers.
   The bold assurance of the falsehood charms;
   The marvellous finds favor and belief.
   Therefore the Czar is anxious thou shouldst quell
   This mad delusion, as thou only canst.
   A word from thee annihilates the traitor
   That falsely claims the title of thy son.
   It joys me thus to see thee moved. I see
   The audacious juggle rouses all thy pride,
   And, with a noble anger paints thy cheek.
 

MARFA

 
   And where, where, tell me, does he tarry now,
   Who dares usurp the title of my son?
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   E'en now he's moving on to Tscherinsko;
   His camp at Kioff has broke up, 'tis rumored;
   And with a force of mounted Polish troops
   And Don Cossacks, he comes to push his claims.
 

MARFA

 
   Oh, God Almighty, thanks, thanks, thanks, that thou
   Hast sent me rescue and revenge at last!
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   How, Marfa, how am I to construe this?
 

MARFA

 
   Ob, heavenly powers, conduct him safely here!
   Hover, oh all ye angels, round his banners!
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   Can it be so? The traitor, canst thou trust —
 

MARFA

 
   He is my son. Yes! by these signs alone
   I recognize him. By thy Czar's alarm
   I recognize him. Yes! He lives! He comes!
   Down, tyrant, from thy throne, and shake with fear!
   There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem;
   The genuine Czar – the rightful heir draws nigh,
   He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!
 

MARFA

 
   At length – at length has dawned the day of vengeance,
   Of restoration. Innocence is dragged
   To light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom.
   The haughty Godunow, my deadly foe,
   Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet;
   Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?
 

MARFA

 
   Can terror blind your monarch so, that he
   Should hope deliverance from me – from me —
   Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong?
   I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heaven
   Restores me by a miracle from the grave,
   And to please him, the butcher of my house,
   Who piled upon me woes unspeakable?
   Yes, thrust from me the succor God has sent
   In the sad evening of my heavy anguish?
   No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me,
   I have thee fast, I will not let thee free.
   Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last!
   At last launch forth against mine enemy
   The long-pent anger of my inmost soul!
              Who was it, who,
   That shut me up within this living tomb,
   In all the strength and freshness of my youth,
   With all its feelings glowing in my breast?
   Who from my bosom rent my darling son,
   And chartered ruffian hands to take his life?
   Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered,
   When, with a yearning that would not be still,
   I watched throughout the long, long starry nights,
   And noted with my tears the hours elapse!
   The day of succor comes, and of revenge;
   I see the mighty glorying in his might.
 

ARCHBISHOP

 
   You think the Czar will dread you – you mistake.
 

MARFA

 
   He's in my power – one little word from me,
   One only, sets the seal upon his fate!
   It was for this thy master sent thee here!
   The eyes of Russia and of Poland now
   Are closely bent upon me. If I own
   The Czarowitsch as Ivan's son and mine,
   Then all will do him homage; his the throne.
   If I disown him, then he is undone;
   For who will credit that his rightful mother,
   A mother wronged, so foully wronged as I,
   Could from her heart repulse its darling child,
   To league with the despoilers of her house?