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How could I be here in time if the Lord.... The Mother of God... is wroth, and has sent such a snowstorm? Kindly look for yourself.... Even a first-rate horse could not do it, while mine you can see for yourself is not a horse but a disgrace. And Pavel Ivanitch will frown and shout: 'We know you! You always find some excuse! Especially you, Grishka; I know you of old!
The false Demetrius was none other than his own nephew, Grishka Otrepiev, who had once been a monk, but, unfrocked, had embraced the Roman heresy, and had abandoned himself to licentious ways. You realize now why Smirnoy had been chosen by Basmanov for this particular mission. The news heartened Boris. At last he could denounce the impostor in proper terms, and denounce him he did.
They're on the look-out. D'ye hear, Grishka?" "What then?" queried Chelkash, cooly measuring him with his eyes. "How 'what then? They're on the look-out, I say. That's all." "Did they ask for me to help them look?" And with an acrid smile Chelkash looked toward the storehouse of the Volunteer Fleet. "You go to the devil!" His companion turned away. "Ha, wait a bit!
His name is Grishka Otrepiev; it is the name by which he always has been known, and he is an unfrocked monk, all as I said, and the son of my brother's wife." "Then... then..." Boris was bewildered. Suddenly he understood. "And his father?" "Was Stephen Bathory, King of Poland. Grishka Otrepiev is King Stephen's natural son." Boris seemed to fight for breath for a moment.
He sent an envoy to Sigismund III. to proclaim the fellow's true identity, and to demand his expulsion from the Kingdom of Poland; and his denunciation was supported by a solemn excommunication pronounced by the Patriarch of Moscow against the unfrocked monk, Grishka Otrepiev, who now falsely called himself Demetrius Ivanovitch.
He was rushing away; but she at once flew to overtake him, limping and hopping, and though Lebyadkin, panic-stricken, held her back with all his might, she succeeded in shouting after him into the darkness, shrieking and laughing: "A curse on you, Grishka Otrepyev!" "A knife, a knife," he repeated with uncontrollable anger, striding along through the mud and puddles, without picking his way.
"I have sent for you to question you again," he said, "touching this lewd nephew of yours, this Grishka Otrepiev, this unfrocked monk, who claims to be Tsar of Muscovy. Are you sure, man, that you have made no mistake are you sure?" Otrepiev was shaken by the Tsar's manner, by the ferocity of his mien. But he made answer: "Alas, Highness! I could not be mistaken. I am sure."
When the dock laborers, knocking off work, had scattered about the dock in noisy groups, buying various edibles from the women hawking food, and were settling themselves to dinner in shady corners on the pavement, there walked into their midst Grishka Chelkash, an old hunted wolf, well known to all the dock population as a hardened drunkard and a bold and dexterous thief.
The Tsar leapt from a balcony thirty feet to the ground, broke his leg, and lay there helpless, to be dispatched by his enemies, who presently discovered him. He died firmly and fearlessly protesting that he was Demetrius Ivanovitch. Nevertheless, he was Grishka Otrepiev, the unfrocked monk.
He was followed by retorts in the same vein. "I say, Grishka, what good care they do take of you! Made your inspection, eh?" shouted one out of a group of dockers, who had finished dinner and were lying on the ground, resting. "I'm barefoot, so here's Semyonitch watching that I shouldn't graze my foot on anything," answered Chelkash. They reached the gates.
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