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. The tsar is ill,
The tsar is dying.
BASMANOV. Good God!
A FIFTH. Upon the throne
He sat, and suddenly he fell; blood gushed
From his mouth and ears.
(The TSAR is carried in on a chair. All the Tsar's
household; all the boyars.)
TSAR. Let all depart--alone
Leave the tsarevich with me. (All withdraw.) I am dying;
Let us embrace. Farewell, my son; this hour
Thou wilt begin to reign.--O God, my God!
This hour I shall appear before Thy presence--
And have no time to purge my soul with shrift.
But yet, my son, I feel thou art dearer to me
Than is my soul's salvation--be it so!
A subject was I born; it seemed ordained
That I should die a subject in obscurity.
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