Demetrius, Friedrich Schiller [classic books for 11 year olds .TXT] 📗

My darling son a second time. Alas!
My peace of mind is gone, - my dream of peace
I cannot trust these tidings, - yet, alas,
I can no longer dash them from my soul!
Woe's me, I never lost my son till now.
Oh, now I can no longer tell if I
Shall seek him 'mongst the living or the dead,
Tossed on the rock of never-ending doubt.

OLGA [A bell sounds, - the sister PORTERESS enters.
Why has the bell been sounded, sister, say?

PORTERESS.
The lord archbishop waits without; he brings
A message from the Czar, and craves an audience.

OLGA.
Does the archbishop stand within our gates?
What strange occurrence can have brought him here?

XENIA.
Come all, and give him greeting as befits.

[They advance towards the gate as the ARCHBISHOP enters;
they all kneel before him, and he makes the sign of the
Greek cross over them.

ARCHBISHOP.
The kiss of peace I bring you in the name
Of Father, Son, and of the Holy Ghost,
Proceeding from the Father!

OLGA.
Sir, we kiss
In humblest reverence thy paternal hand!
Command thy daughters!

ARCHBISHOP.
My mission is addressed to Sister Marfa.

OLGA.
See, here she stands, and waits to know thy will.

[All the NUNS withdraw.

ARCHBISHOP.
It is the mighty prince who sends me here;
Upon his distant throne he thinks of thee;
For as the sun, with his great eye of flame,
Sheds light and plenty all abroad the world,
So sweeps the sovereign's eye on every side;
Even to the farthest limits of his realm
His care is wakeful and his glance is keen.

MARFA.
How far his arm can strike I know too well.

ARCHBISHOP.
He knows the lofty spirit fills thy soul,
And therefore feels indignantly the wrong
A bold-faced villain dares to offer thee.
Learn, then, in Poland, an audacious churl,
A renegade, who broke his monkish vows,
Laid down his habit, and renounced his God,
Doth use the name and title of thy son,
Whom death snatched from thee in his infancy.
The shameless varlet boasts him of thy blood,
And doth affect to be Czar Ivan's son;
A Waywode breaks the peace; from Poland leads
This spurious monarch, whom himself created,
Across our frontiers, with an armed power:
So he beguiles the Russians' faithful hearts,
And lures them on to treason and revolt.
The Czar,
With pure, paternal feeling, sends me to thee.
Thou hold'st the manes of thy son in honor;
Nor wilt permit a bold adventurer
To steal his name and title from the tomb,
And with audacious hand usurp his rights.
Thou wilt proclaim aloud to all the world
That thou dost own him for no son of thine.
Thou wilt not nurse a bastard's alien blood
Upon thy heart, that beats so nobly; never!
Thou wilt - and this the Czar expects from thee -
Give the vile counterfeit the lie, with all
The righteous indignation it deserves.

MARFA (who has during the last speech subdued the most violent emotion).
What do I hear, archbishop? Can it be?
Oh, tell me, by what signs and marks of proof
This bold-faced trickster doth uphold himself
As Ivan's son, whom we bewailed as dead?

ARCHBISHOP.
By some faint, shadowy likeness to the Czar,
By documents which chance threw in his way,
And by a precious trinket, which he shows,
He cheats the credulous and wondering mob.

MARFA.
What is the trinket? Oh, pray, tell me what?

ARCHBISHOP.
A golden cross, gemmed with nine emeralds,
Which Ivan Westislowsky, so he says,
Hung round his neck at the baptismal font.

MARFA.
What do you say? He shows this trinket, this?

[With forced composure.

And how does he allege he came by it?

ARCHBISHOP.
A faithful servant and Diak, he says,
Preserved him from the assassins and the flames,
And bore him to Smolenskow privily.

MARFA.
But where was he brought up? Where, gives he forth,
Was he concealed and fostered until now?

ARCHBISHOP.
In Tschudow's monastery he was reared,
Unknowing who he was; from thence he fled
To Lithuania and Poland, where
He served the Prince of Sendomir, until
An accident revealed his origin.

MARFA.
With such a tale as this can he find friends
To peril life and fortune in his cause?

ARCHBISHOP.
Oh, madam, false, false-hearted is the Pole,
And enviously he eyes our country's wealth.
He welcomes every pretext that may serve
To light the flames of war within our bounds!

MARFA.
And were there credulous spirits, even in Moscow,
Could by this juggle be so lightly stirred?

ARCHBISHOP.
Oh, fickle, princess, is the people's heart!
They dote on alteration, and expect
To reap advantage from a change of rulers.
The bold assurance of the falsehood charms;
The marvellous finds favor and belief.
Therefore the Czar is anxious thou shouldst quell
This mad delusion, as thou only canst.
A word from thee annihilates the traitor
That falsely claims the title of thy son.
It joys me thus to see thee moved. I see
The audacious juggle rouses all thy pride,
And, with a noble anger paints thy cheek.

MARFA.
And where, where, tell me, does he tarry now,
Who dares usurp the title of my son?

ARCHBISHOP.
E'en now he's moving on to Tscherinsko;
His camp at Kioff has broke up, 'tis rumored;
And with a force of mounted Polish troops
And Don Cossacks, he comes to push his claims.

MARFA.
Oh, God Almighty, thanks, thanks, thanks, that thou
Hast sent me rescue and revenge at last!

ARCHBISHOP.
How, Marfa, how am I to construe this?

MARFA.
Ob, heavenly powers, conduct him safely here!
Hover, oh all ye angels, round his banners!

ARCHBISHOP.
Can it be so? The traitor, canst thou trust - -

MARFA.
He is my son. Yes! by these signs alone
I recognize him. By thy Czar's alarm
I recognize him. Yes! He lives! He comes!
Down, tyrant, from thy throne, and shake with fear!
There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem;
The genuine Czar - the rightful heir draws nigh,
He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.

ARCHBISHOP.
Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!

MARFA.
At length - at length has dawned the day of vengeance,
Of restoration. Innocence is dragged
To light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom.
The haughty Godunow, my deadly foe,
Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet;
Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!

ARCHBISHOP.
Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?

MARFA.
Can terror blind your monarch so, that he
Should hope deliverance from me - from me -
Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong?
I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heaven
Restores me by a miracle from the grave,
And to please him, the butcher of my house,
Who piled upon me woes unspeakable?
Yes, thrust from me the succor God has sent
In the sad evening of my heavy anguish?
No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me,
I have thee fast, I will not let thee free.
Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last!
At last launch forth against mine enemy
The long-pent anger of my inmost soul!
Who was it, who,
That shut me up within this living tomb,
In all the strength and freshness of my youth,
With all its feelings glowing in my breast?
Who from my bosom rent my darling son,
And chartered ruffian hands to take his life?
Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered,
When, with a yearning that would not be still,
I watched throughout the long, long starry nights,
And noted with my tears the hours elapse!
The day of succor comes, and of revenge;
I see the mighty glorying in his might.

ARCHBISHOP.
You think the Czar will dread you -