Part 351 (1/2)

There I can gather tidings at their source.

There on the frontier of both kingdoms----

MEISCHEK.

Thy spirit's over-bold. Restrain it, child!

MARINA.

Yes, thou dost yield,--thou'lt take me with thee, then?

MEISCHEK.

Thou rulest me. Must I not do thy will?

MARINA.

My own dear father, when I am Moscow's queen Kioff, you know, must be our boundary.

Kioff must then be mine, and thou shalt rule it.

MEISCHEK.

Thou dreamest, girl! Already the great Moscow Is for thy soul too narrow; thou, to grasp Domains, wilt strip them from thy native land.

MARINA.

Kioff belonged not to our native land; There the Varegers ruled in days of yore.

I have the ancient chronicles by heart; 'Twas from the Russian empire wrenched by force.

I will restore it to its former crown.

MEISCHEK.

Hush, hus.h.!.+ The Waywode must not hear such talk.

[Trumpet without. They're breaking up.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Greek convent in a bleak district near the sea Belozero.

A train of nuns, in black robes and veils, pa.s.ses over the back of the stage. MARFA, in a white veil, stands apart from the others, leaning on a tombstone. OLGA steps out from the train, remains gazing at her for a time, and then advances to her.

OLGA.

And does thy heart not urge thee forth with us To taste reviving nature's opening sweets?

The glad sun comes, the long, long night retires, The ice melts in the streams, and soon the sledge Will to the boat give place and summer swallow.

The world awakes once more, and the new joy Woos all to leave their narrow cloister cells For the bright air and freshening breath of spring.

And wilt thou only, sunk in lasting grief, Refuse to share the general exultation?

MARFA.

On with the rest, and leave me to myself!

Let those rejoice who still have power to hope.

The time that puts fresh youth in all the world Brings naught to me; to me the past is all, My hopes, my joys are with the things that were.

OLGA.

Dost thou still mourn thy son--still, still lament The sovereignty which thou has lost? Does time, Which pours a balm on every wounded heart, Lose all its potency with thee alone?

Thou wert the empress of this mighty realm, The mother of a blooming son. He was s.n.a.t.c.hed from thee by a dreadful destiny; Into this dreary convent wert thou thrust, Here on the verge of habitable earth.