What a career
For me when the ancestral horn he breaks
Of the nobility.
For me when the ancestral horn he breaks
Of the nobility.
Pushkin - Boris Gudonov
Sometimes the horse
Doth throw the rider, nor is the son at all times
Quite 'neath the father's will; we can restrain
The people only by unsleeping sternness.
So thought Ivan, sagacious autocrat
And storm-subduer; so his fierce grandson thought.
No, no, kindness is lost upon the people;
Act well--it thanks you not at all; extort
And execute--'twill be no worse for you.
(Enter a boyar. )
What now?
BOYAR. The foreign guests are come.
TSAR. I go
To welcome them. Basmanov, wait, stay here;
I still have need to speak: a word with thee.
(Exit. )
BASMANOV. High sovereign spirit! God grant he may subdue
The accurst Otrepiev; and much, still much
Of good he'll do for Russia. A great thought
Within his mind has taken birth; it must not
Be suffered to grow cold.
What a career
For me when the ancestral horn he breaks
Of the nobility. I have no rivals
In war. I shall stand closest to the throne--
And it may chance--But what is that strange sound?
(Alarum. Boyars and court-attendants run in
disorder, meet each other and whisper. )
ONE. Fetch a physician!
ANOTHER. Quickly to the Patriarch!
A THIRD. He calls for the tsarevich, the tsarevich!
A FOURTH. A confessor!
BASMANOV. What has happened?
A FIFTH AND SIXTH.
Doth throw the rider, nor is the son at all times
Quite 'neath the father's will; we can restrain
The people only by unsleeping sternness.
So thought Ivan, sagacious autocrat
And storm-subduer; so his fierce grandson thought.
No, no, kindness is lost upon the people;
Act well--it thanks you not at all; extort
And execute--'twill be no worse for you.
(Enter a boyar. )
What now?
BOYAR. The foreign guests are come.
TSAR. I go
To welcome them. Basmanov, wait, stay here;
I still have need to speak: a word with thee.
(Exit. )
BASMANOV. High sovereign spirit! God grant he may subdue
The accurst Otrepiev; and much, still much
Of good he'll do for Russia. A great thought
Within his mind has taken birth; it must not
Be suffered to grow cold.
What a career
For me when the ancestral horn he breaks
Of the nobility. I have no rivals
In war. I shall stand closest to the throne--
And it may chance--But what is that strange sound?
(Alarum. Boyars and court-attendants run in
disorder, meet each other and whisper. )
ONE. Fetch a physician!
ANOTHER. Quickly to the Patriarch!
A THIRD. He calls for the tsarevich, the tsarevich!
A FOURTH. A confessor!
BASMANOV. What has happened?
A FIFTH AND SIXTH.
