On them I
recognise
the dress
Of my own country.
Of my own country.
Pushkin - Boris Gudonov
Glad am I, noble knight,
That now his blood is reconciled in thee
To his fatherland. The faults of fathers must not
Be called to mind. Peace to their grave. Approach;
Give me thy hand! Is it not strange? --the son
Of Kurbsky to the throne is leading--whom?
Whom but Ivan's own son? --All favours me;
People and fate alike. --Say, who art thou?
A POLE. Sobansky, a free noble.
PRETENDER. Praise and honour
Attend thee, child of liberty. Give him
A third of his full pay beforehand. --Who
Are these?
On them I recognise the dress
Of my own country. These are ours.
KRUSHCHOV. (Bows low. ) Yea, Sire,
Our father; we are thralls of thine, devoted
And persecuted; we have fled from Moscow,
Disgraced, to thee our tsar, and for thy sake
Are ready to lay down our lives; our corpses
Shall be for thee steps to the royal throne.
PRETENDER. Take heart, innocent sufferers. Only let me
Reach Moscow, and, once there, Boris shall settle
Some scores with me and you. What news of Moscow?
KRUSHCHOV. As yet all there is quiet. But already
The folk have got to know that the tsarevich
Was saved; already everywhere is read
Thy proclamation. All are waiting for thee.
Not long ago Boris sent two boyars
To execution merely because in secret
They drank thy health.
PRETENDER. O hapless, good boyars!
That now his blood is reconciled in thee
To his fatherland. The faults of fathers must not
Be called to mind. Peace to their grave. Approach;
Give me thy hand! Is it not strange? --the son
Of Kurbsky to the throne is leading--whom?
Whom but Ivan's own son? --All favours me;
People and fate alike. --Say, who art thou?
A POLE. Sobansky, a free noble.
PRETENDER. Praise and honour
Attend thee, child of liberty. Give him
A third of his full pay beforehand. --Who
Are these?
On them I recognise the dress
Of my own country. These are ours.
KRUSHCHOV. (Bows low. ) Yea, Sire,
Our father; we are thralls of thine, devoted
And persecuted; we have fled from Moscow,
Disgraced, to thee our tsar, and for thy sake
Are ready to lay down our lives; our corpses
Shall be for thee steps to the royal throne.
PRETENDER. Take heart, innocent sufferers. Only let me
Reach Moscow, and, once there, Boris shall settle
Some scores with me and you. What news of Moscow?
KRUSHCHOV. As yet all there is quiet. But already
The folk have got to know that the tsarevich
Was saved; already everywhere is read
Thy proclamation. All are waiting for thee.
Not long ago Boris sent two boyars
To execution merely because in secret
They drank thy health.
PRETENDER. O hapless, good boyars!
