BORIS. Now let us go to kneel before the tombs
Of Russia’s great departed rulers. Then
Bid summon all our people to a feast,
All, from the noble to the poor blind beggar.
To all free entrance, all most welcome guests.
(Exit, the Boyars following.)
PRINCE VOROTINSKY. (Stopping Shuisky.)
You rightly guessed.
SHUISKY. Guessed what?
VOROTINSKY. Why, you remember —
The other day, here on this very spot.
SHUISKY. No, I remember nothing.
VOROTINSKY. When the people
Flocked to the Virgin’s Field, thou said’st —
SHUISKY. ‘Tis not
The time for recollection. There are times
When I should counsel you not to remember,
But even to forget. And for the rest,
I sought but by feigned calumny to prove thee,
The truelier to discern thy secret thoughts.
But see! The people hail the tsar — my absence
May be remarked. I’ll join them.
VOROTINSKY. Wily courtier!
NIGHT
Cell in the Monastery of Chudov (A.D. 1603)
FATHER PIMEN, GREGORY (sleeping)
PIMEN (Writing in front of a sacred lamp.)
One more, the final record, and my annals
Are ended, and fulfilled the duty laid
By God on me a sinner. Not in vain
Hath God appointed me for many years
A witness, teaching me the art of letters;
A day will come when some laborious monk
Will bring to light my zealous, nameless toil,
Kindle, as I, his lamp, and from the parchment
Shaking the dust of ages will transcribe
My true narrations, that posterity
The bygone fortunes of the orthodox
Of their own land may learn, will mention make
Of their great tsars, their labours, glory, goodness —
And humbly for their sins, their evil deeds,
Implore the Saviour’s mercy. — In old age
I live anew; the past unrolls before me. —
Did it in years long vanished sweep along,
Full of events, and troubled like the deep?
Now it is hushed and tranquil. Few the faces
Which memory hath saved for me, and few
The words which have come down to me; — the rest
Have perished, never to return. — But day
Draws near, the lamp burns low, one record more,
The last. (He writes.)
GREGORY. (Waking.) Ever the selfsame dream! Is ‘t possible?
For the third time! Accursed dream! And ever
Before the lamp sits the old man and writes —
And not all night, ‘twould seem, from drowsiness,
Hath closed his eyes. I love the peaceful sight,
When, with his soul deep in the past immersed,
He keeps his chronicle. Oft have I longed
To guess what ‘tis he writes of. Is ‘t perchance
The dark dominion of the Tartars? Is it
Ivan’s grim punishments, the stormy Council
of Novgorod? Is it about the glory
Of our dear fatherland? — I ask in vain!
Not on his lofty brow, nor in his looks
May one peruse his secret thoughts; always
The same aspect; lowly at once, and lofty —
Like some state Minister grown grey in office,
Calmly alike he contemplates the just
And guilty, with indifference he hears
Evil and good, and knows not wrath nor pity.
PIMEN. Wakest thou, brother?
GREGORY. Honoured father, give me
Thy blessing.
PIMEN. May God bless thee on this day,
Tomorrow, and for ever.
GREGORY. All night long
Thou hast been writing and abstained from sleep,
While demon visions have disturbed my peace,
The fiend molested me. I dreamed I scaled
By winding stairs a turret, from whose height
Moscow appeared an anthill, where the people
Seethed in the squares below and pointed at me
With laughter. Shame and terror came upon me —
And falling headlong, I awoke. Three times
I dreamed the selfsame dream. Is it not strange?
PIMEN. ‘Tis the young blood at play; humble thyself
By prayer and fasting, and thy slumber’s visions
Will all be filled with lightness. Hitherto
If I, unwillingly by drowsiness
Weakened, make not at night long orisons,
My old-man’s sleep is neither calm nor sinless;
Now riotous feasts appear, now camps of war,
Scuffles of battle, fatuous diversions
Of youthful years.
GREGORY. How joyfully didst thou
Live out thy youth! The fortress of Kazan
Thou fought’st beneath, with Shuisky didst repulse
The army of Litva. Thou hast seen the court,
And splendour of Ivan. Ah! Happy thou!
Whilst I, from boyhood up, a wretched monk,
Wander from cell to cell! Why unto me
Was it not given to play the game of war,
To revel at the table of a tsar?
Then, like to thee, would I in my old age
Have gladly from the noisy world withdrawn,
To vow myself a dedicated monk,
And in the quiet cloister end my days.
PIMEN. Complain not, brother, that the sinful world
Thou early didst forsake, that few temptations
The All-Highest sent to thee. Believe my words;
The glory of the world, its luxury,
Woman’s seductive love, seen from afar,
Enslave our souls. Long have I lived, have taken
Delight in many things, but never knew
True bliss until that season when the Lord
Guided me to the cloister. Think, my son,
On the great tsars; who loftier than they?
God only. Who dares thwart them? None. What then?
Often the golden crown became to them
A burden; for a cowl they bartered it.
The tsar Ivan sought in monastic toil
Tranquility; his palace, filled erewhile
With haughty minions, grew to all appearance
A monastery; the very rakehells seemed
Obedient monks, the terrible tsar appeared
A pious abbot. Here, in this very cell
(At that time Cyril, the much suffering,
A righteous man, dwelt in it; even me
God then made comprehend the nothingness
Of worldly vanities), here I beheld,
Weary of angry thoughts and executions,
The tsar; among us, meditative, quiet
Here sat the Terrible; we motionless
Stood in his presence, while he talked with us
In tranquil tones. Thus spake he to the abbot
And all the brothers: “My fathers, soon will come
The longed-for day; here shall I stand before you,
Hungering for salvation; Nicodemus,
Thou Sergius, Cyril thou, will all accept
My spiritual vow; to you I soon shall come
Accurst in sin, here the clean habit take,
Prostrate, most holy father, at thy feet.”
So spake the sovereign lord, and from his lips
Sweetly the accents flowed. He wept; and we
With tears prayed God to send His love and peace
Upon his suffering and stormy soul. —
What of his son Feodor? On the throne
He sighed to lead the life of calm devotion.
The royal chambers to a cell of prayer
He
turned, wherein the heavy cares of state
Vexed not his holy soul. God grew to love
The tsar’s humility; in his good days
Russia was blest with glory undisturbed,
And in the hour of his decease was wrought
A miracle unheard of; at his bedside,
Seen by the tsar alone, appeared a being
Exceeding bright, with whom Feodor ‘gan
To commune, calling him great Patriarch; —
And all around him were possessed with fear,
Musing upon the vision sent from Heaven,
Since at that time the Patriarch was not present
In church before the tsar. And when he died
The palace was with holy fragrance filled.
And like the sun his countenance outshone.
Never again shall we see such a tsar. —
O, horrible, appalling woe! We have sinned,
We have angered God; we have chosen for our ruler
A tsar’s assassin.
GREGORY. Honoured father, long
Have I desired to ask thee of the death
Of young Dimitry, the tsarevich; thou,
‘Tis said, wast then at Uglich.
PIMEN. Ay, my son,
I well remember. God it was who led me
To witness that ill deed, that bloody sin.
I at that time was sent to distant Uglich
Upon some mission. I arrived at night.
Next morning, at the hour of holy mass,
I heard upon a sudden a bell toll;
‘Twas the alarm bell. Then a cry, an uproar;
Men rushing to the court of the tsaritsa.
Thither I haste, and there had flocked already
All Uglich. There I see the young tsarevich
Lie slaughtered: the queen mother in a swoon
Bowed over him, his nurse in her despair
Wailing; and then the maddened people drag
The godless, treacherous nurse away. Appears
Suddenly in their midst, wild, pale with rage,
Judas Bityagovsky. “There, there’s the villain!”
Shout on all sides the crowd, and in a trice
He was no more. Straightway the people rushed
On the three fleeing murderers; they seized
The hiding miscreants and led them up
To the child’s corpse yet warm; when lo! A marvel —
The dead child all at once began to tremble!
“Confess!” the people thundered; and in terror
Beneath the axe the villains did confess —
And named Boris.
GREGORY. How many summers lived
The murdered boy?
PIMEN. Seven summers; he would now
(Since then have passed ten years — nay, more — twelve years)
He would have been of equal age to thee,
And would have reigned; but God deemed otherwise.
This is the lamentable tale wherewith
My chronicle doth end; since then I little
Have dipped in worldly business. Brother Gregory,
Thou hast illumed thy mind by earnest study;
To thee I hand my task. In hours exempt
From the soul’s exercise, do thou record,
Not subtly reasoning, all things whereto
Thou shalt in life be witness; war and peace,
The sway of kings, the holy miracles
Of saints, all prophecies and heavenly signs; —
For me ‘tis time to rest and quench my lamp. —
But hark! The matin bell. Bless, Lord, Thy servants!
Give me my crutch.
(Exit.)
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?
ABBOT. Of the family of the Otrepievs, of the lower nobility
of Galicia; in his youth he took the tonsure, no one
knows where, lived at Suzdal, in the Ephimievsky
monastery, departed from there, wandered to various
convents, finally arrived at my Chudov fraternity;
but I, seeing that he was still young and inexperienced,
entrusted him at the outset to Father Pimen, an old man,
kind and humble. And he was very learned, read our
chronicle, composed canons for the holy brethren; but,
to be sure, instruction was not given to him from the
Lord God —
PATRIARCH. Ah, those learned fellows! What a thing to
say, “I shall be tsar in Moscow.” Ah, he is a vessel of
the devil! However, it is no use even to report to the
tsar about this; why disquiet our father sovereign?
It will be enough to give information about his flight to
the Secretary Smirnov or the Secretary Ephimiev.
What a heresy: “I shall be tsar in Moscow!”...
Catch, catch the fawning villain, and send him to
Solovetsky to perpetual penance. But this — is it not
heresy, Father Abbot?
ABBOT. Heresy, holy Patriarch; downright heresy.
PALACE OF THE TSAR
Two Attendants
1ST ATTENDANT. Where is the sovereign?
2ND ATTENDANT. In his bed-chamber,
Where he is closeted with some magician.
1ST ATTENDANT. Ay; that’s the kind of intercourse he loves;
Sorcerers, fortune-tellers, necromancers.
Ever he seeks to dip into the future,
Just like some pretty girl. Fain would I know
What ‘tis he would foretell.
2ND ATTENDANT. Well, here he comes.
Will it please you question him?
1ST ATTENDANT. How grim he looks!
(Exeunt.)
TSAR. (Enters.) I have attained the highest power. Six years
Already have I reigned in peace; but joy
Dwells not within my soul. Even so in youth
We greedily desire the joys of love,
But only quell the hunger of the heart
With momentary possession. We grow cold,
Grow weary and oppressed! In vain the wizards
Promise me length of days, days of dominion
Immune from treachery — not power, not life
Gladden me; I forebode the wrath of Heaven
And woe. For me no happiness. I thought
To satisfy my people in contentment,
In glory, gain their love by generous gifts,
But I have put away that empty hope;
The power that lives is hateful to the mob, —
Only the dead they love. We are but fools
When our heart vibrates to the people’s groans
And passionate wailing. Lately on our land
God sent a famine; perishing in torments
The people uttered moan. The granaries
I made them free of, scattered gold among them,
Found labour for them; furious for my pains
They cursed me! Next, a fire consumed their homes;
I built for them new dwellings; then forsooth
They blamed me for the fire! Such is the mob,
Such is its judgment! Seek its love, indeed!
I thought within my family to find
Solace; I thought to make my daughter happy
By wedlock. Like a tempest Death took off
Her bridegroom — and at once a stealthy rumour
Pronounced me guilty of my daughter’s grief —
Me, me, the hapless father! Whoso dies,
I am the secret murderer of all;
I hastened Feodor’s end, ‘twas I that poisoned
My sister-queen, the lowly nun — all I!
Ah! Now I feel it; naught can give us peace
Works of Alexander Pushkin Page 83
