Art thou content with my
confession?
Pushkin - Boris Gudonov
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?
The happiness devised with so much labour
I have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot,
What have I done? (Aloud. ) I see thou art ashamed
Of love not princely; so pronounce on me
The fatal word; my fate is in thy hands.
Decide; I wait.
(Falls on his knees. )
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?
The happiness devised with so much labour
I have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot,
What have I done? (Aloud. ) I see thou art ashamed
Of love not princely; so pronounce on me
The fatal word; my fate is in thy hands.
Decide; I wait.
(Falls on his knees. )
MARINA.
