No More Learning

On the dull steppe, in a poor mud hut, thou--
Thou wilt requite me for the kingly crown;
Thy love--

MARINA. For shame! Forget not, prince, thy high
And sacred destiny; thy dignity
Should be to thee more dear than all the joys
Of life and its allurements. It thou canst not
With anything compare. Not to a boy,
Insanely boiling, captured by my beauty--
But to the heir of Moscow's throne give I
My hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevich
Rescued by destiny.

PRETENDER. Torture me not,
Charming Marina; say not that 'twas my rank
And not myself that thou didst choose. Marina!
Thou knowest not how sorely thou dost wound
My heart thereby. What if--O fearful doubt! --
Say, if blind destiny had not assigned me
A kingly birth; if I were not indeed
Son of Ivan, were not this boy, so long
Forgotten by the world--say, then wouldst thou
Have loved me?

MARINA. Thou art Dimitry, and aught else
Thou canst not be; it is not possible
For me to love another.

PRETENDER. Nay!
Enough--
I have no wish to share with a dead body
A mistress who belongs to him; I have done
With counterfeiting, and will tell the truth.
Know, then, that thy Dimitry long ago
Perished, was buried--and will not rise again;
And dost thou wish to know what man I am?
Well, I will tell thee. I am--a poor monk.
Grown weary of monastic servitude,
I pondered 'neath the cowl my bold design,
Made ready for the world a miracle--
And from my cell at last fled to the Cossacks,
To their wild hovels; there I learned to handle
Both steeds and swords; I showed myself to you.
I called myself Dimitry, and deceived
The brainless Poles. What say'st thou, proud Marina?
Art thou content with my confession? Why
Dost thou keep silence?

MARINA. O shame! O woe is me!

(Silence. )

PRETENDER. (Sotto voce. ) O whither hath a fit of anger led me?