Boris Godounoff - Scene the Eighth
SCENE THE EIGHTH.
A Room in the Imperial Palace.
BORIS. TWO MEAT-BEARERS .
FIRST MEAT-BEARER .
Where is the Tsar?
SECOND MEAT-BEARER .
In his sleeping-chamber,
Shut up with some warlock, the doors close-locked.
FIRST MEAT-BEARER .
Just so: such folk alone he now receives,
Sly fortune-tellers, charmers, or warlocks.
Like pretty bride, the future he divines:
I fain would know the future he foresees.
SECOND MEAT-BEARER .
Wouldst know? Look, here he comes. Thou now canst ask.
FIRST MEAT-BEARER .
His face is dark with gloom.
BORIS .
I now have reached
My highest point, and have these six years ruled
In peace; but power has brought my soul no bliss.
As in our youth we love, and, thirsting, seek
The joys of love, but, once the minute's thirst
Is quenched, the heart grows cold, and love begins
To cloy, and soon we weary of its charms.
In vain the warlock flatters me with hope
Of years prolonged and power undisturbed;
Nor power nor life can longer give me joy:
Beforehand, here, I feel God's light'ning glance.
No happiness can visit me. I thought
To bring my people glory and content,
By lavish gifts to win their loyal love;
But I have long abandoned that vain hope.
The mob a living power will ever hate,
And for the dead alone reserve their hearts.
We are but fools to heed the people's praise,
Or take to heart their wail of discontent.
The curse of hunger fell upon our land;
The people groaned, and wept, and wrung their hands:
Bread-granaries I founded, among the poor
I showered gold as gifts, and gave them work:
And they returned my good with curses wild!
A raging fire their homes and courts destroyed;
Fresh dwellings, new and strong, I built for them,
And they declared their houses I had burned!
Such is the mob, and yet men seek their love!
In my own home I sought to find my joy,
The future of my daughter to secure;
The storm-god, death, her youthful lord laid low,
And busy rumour's evil tongue denounced
Me, me, the sorrowing, heart-broken sire,
As guilty of my daughter's widowhood.
I am the primal cause of all men's woe:
I Theodore did hurry to his end;
'Twas I did plot the Nun-Tsaritza's death;
And on my burdened shoulders lies the fault.
I feel too late that nothing can bring peace,
Amidst the cares and sorrows of the world,
Naught save the conscience pure and free of crime.
And this, if pure, will overcome the bad,
Victorious it proves o'er ill report;
Whilst if but one black spot its surface stain,
E'en though it be the fruit of chance contact,
Then all is ill: the soul with feverish pest
Is all consumed, the heart with poison filled,
Reproaches, loud as hammer's knock, confound
The ears, and all is sick, the head is dizzy,
The eyes bloodshot and dull; and one would fain
Escape: alas! there is nowhere to flee.
Yea, woe to him whose conscience is unclean!
A Room in the Imperial Palace.
BORIS. TWO MEAT-BEARERS .
FIRST MEAT-BEARER .
Where is the Tsar?
SECOND MEAT-BEARER .
In his sleeping-chamber,
Shut up with some warlock, the doors close-locked.
FIRST MEAT-BEARER .
Just so: such folk alone he now receives,
Sly fortune-tellers, charmers, or warlocks.
Like pretty bride, the future he divines:
I fain would know the future he foresees.
SECOND MEAT-BEARER .
Wouldst know? Look, here he comes. Thou now canst ask.
FIRST MEAT-BEARER .
His face is dark with gloom.
BORIS .
I now have reached
My highest point, and have these six years ruled
In peace; but power has brought my soul no bliss.
As in our youth we love, and, thirsting, seek
The joys of love, but, once the minute's thirst
Is quenched, the heart grows cold, and love begins
To cloy, and soon we weary of its charms.
In vain the warlock flatters me with hope
Of years prolonged and power undisturbed;
Nor power nor life can longer give me joy:
Beforehand, here, I feel God's light'ning glance.
No happiness can visit me. I thought
To bring my people glory and content,
By lavish gifts to win their loyal love;
But I have long abandoned that vain hope.
The mob a living power will ever hate,
And for the dead alone reserve their hearts.
We are but fools to heed the people's praise,
Or take to heart their wail of discontent.
The curse of hunger fell upon our land;
The people groaned, and wept, and wrung their hands:
Bread-granaries I founded, among the poor
I showered gold as gifts, and gave them work:
And they returned my good with curses wild!
A raging fire their homes and courts destroyed;
Fresh dwellings, new and strong, I built for them,
And they declared their houses I had burned!
Such is the mob, and yet men seek their love!
In my own home I sought to find my joy,
The future of my daughter to secure;
The storm-god, death, her youthful lord laid low,
And busy rumour's evil tongue denounced
Me, me, the sorrowing, heart-broken sire,
As guilty of my daughter's widowhood.
I am the primal cause of all men's woe:
I Theodore did hurry to his end;
'Twas I did plot the Nun-Tsaritza's death;
And on my burdened shoulders lies the fault.
I feel too late that nothing can bring peace,
Amidst the cares and sorrows of the world,
Naught save the conscience pure and free of crime.
And this, if pure, will overcome the bad,
Victorious it proves o'er ill report;
Whilst if but one black spot its surface stain,
E'en though it be the fruit of chance contact,
Then all is ill: the soul with feverish pest
Is all consumed, the heart with poison filled,
Reproaches, loud as hammer's knock, confound
The ears, and all is sick, the head is dizzy,
The eyes bloodshot and dull; and one would fain
Escape: alas! there is nowhere to flee.
Yea, woe to him whose conscience is unclean!
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