GREGORY. Boris, Boris, before thee All tremble; none dares even to remind thee Of what befell the hapless child; meanwhile Here in dark cell a hermit doth indite Thy stern denunciation. Thou wilt not Escape the judgment even of this world, As thou wilt not escape the doom of God. FENCE OF THE MONASTERY* *This scene was omitted by Pushkin from the published version of the play. GREGORY and a Wicked Monk GREGORY. O, what a weariness is our poor life, What misery! Day comes, day goes, and ever Is seen, is heard one thing alone; one sees Only black cassocks, only hears the bell. Yawning by day you wander, wander, nothing To do; you doze; the whole night long till daylight The poor monk lies awake; and when in sleep You lose yourself, black dreams disturb the soul; Glad that they sound the bell, that with a crutch They rouse you. No, I will not suffer it! I cannot! Through this fence I'll flee! The world Is great; my path is on the highways never Thou'lt hear of me again. MONK. Truly your life Is but a sorry one, ye dissolute, Wicked young monks! GREGORY. Would that the Khan again Would come upon us, or Lithuania rise Once more in insurrection. Good! I would then Cross swords with them! Or what if the tsarevich Should suddenly arise from out the grave, Should cry, "Where are ye, children, faithful servants? Help me against Boris, against my murderer! Seize my foe, lead him to me!" MONK. Enough, my friend, Of empty babble. We cannot raise the dead. No, clearly it was fated otherwise For the tsarevich--But hearken; if you wish To do a thing, then do it. GREGORY. What to do? MONK. If I were young as thou, if these grey hairs Had not already streaked my beard--Dost take me? GREGORY. Not I. MONK. Hearken; our folk are dull of brain, Easy of faith, and glad to be amazed By miracles and novelties. The boyars Remember Godunov as erst he was, Peer to themselves; and even now the race Of the old Varyags is loved by all. Thy years Match those of the tsarevich. If thou hast Cunning and hardihood--Dost take me now? GREGORY. I take thee. MONK. Well, what say'st thou? GREGORY. 'Tis resolved. I am Dimitry, I tsarevich! MONK. Give me Thy hand, my bold young friend. Thou shalt be tsar! PALACE OF THE PATRIARCH PATRIARCH, ABBOT of the Chudov Monastery PATRIARCH. And he has run away, Father Abbot? ABBOT. He has run away, holy sovereign, now three days ago. PATRIARCH. Accursed rascal! What is his origin?