Boris Godunov A Drama in Verse

by Alexander Pushkin

  (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 Mid worldly cares, nothing save only conscience! Healthy she triumphs over wickedness, Over dark slander; but if in her be found A single casual stain, then misery. With what a deadly sore my soul doth smart; My heart, with venom filled, doth like a hammer Beat in mine ears reproach; all things revolt me, And my head whirls, and in my eyes are children Dripping with blood; and gladly would I flee, But nowhere can find refuge—horrible! Pitiful he whose conscience is unclean!

  TAVERN ON THE LITHUANIAN FRONTIER

  MISSAIL and VARLAAM, wandering friars; GREGORY in secular attire; HOSTESS

  HOSTESS. With what shall I regale you, my reverend honoured guests?

  VARLAAM. With what God sends, little hostess. Have you no wine?

  HOSTESS. As if I had not, my fathers! I will bring it at once. (Exit.)

  MISSAIL. Why so glum, comrade? Here is that very Lithuanian frontier which you so wished to reach.

  GREGORY. Until I shall be in Lithuania, till then I shall not Be content.

  VARLAAM. What is it that makes you so fond of Lithuania! Here are we, Father Missail and I, a sinner, when we fled from the monastery, then we cared for nothing. Was it Lithuania, was it Russia, was it fiddle, was it dulcimer? All the same for us, if only there was wine. That’s the main thing!

  MISSAIL. Well said, Father Varlaam.

  HOSTESS. (Enters.) There you are, my fathers. Drink to your health.

  MISSAIL. Thanks, my good friend. God bless thee. (The monks drink. Varlaam trolls a ditty: “Thou passest by, my dear,” etc.) (To GREGORY) Why don’t you join in the song? Not even join in the song?

  GREGORY. I don’t wish to.

  MISSAIL. Everyone to his liking—

  VARLAAM. But a tipsy man’s in Heaven.* Father Missail! We will drink a glass to our hostess. (Sings: “Where the brave lad in durance,” etc.) Still, Father Missail, when I am drinking, then I don’t like sober men; tipsiness is one thing—but pride quite another. If you want to live as we do, you are welcome. No?—then take yourself off, away with you; a mountebank is no companion for a priest.

  [*The Russian text has here a play on the words which cannot be satisfactorily rendered into English.]

  GREGORY. Drink, and keep your thoughts to yourself,* Father Varlaam! You see, I too sometimes know how to make puns.

  [*The Russian text has here a play on the words which cannot be satisfactorily rendered into English.]

  VARLAAM. But why should I keep my thoughts to mysel
f?

  MISSAIL. Let him alone, Father Varlaam.

  VARLAAM. But what sort of a fasting man is he? Of his own accord he attached himself as a companion to us; no one knows who he is, no one knows whence he comes— and yet he gives himself grand airs; perhaps he has a close acquaintance with the pillory. (Drinks and sings: “A young monk took the tonsure,” etc.)

  GREGORY. (To HOSTESS.) Whither leads this road?

  HOSTESS. To Lithuania, my dear, to the Luyov mountains.

  GREGORY. And is it far to the Luyov mountains?

  HOSTESS. Not far; you might get there by evening, but for the tsar’s frontier barriers, and the captains of the guard.

  GREGORY. What say you? Barriers! What means this?

  HOSTESS. Someone has escaped from Moscow, and orders have been given to detain and search everyone.

  GREGORY. (Aside.) Here’s a pretty mess!

  VARLAAM. Hallo, comrade! You’ve been making up to mine hostess. To be sure you don’t want vodka, but you want a young woman. All right, brother, all right! Everyone has his own ways, and Father Missail and I have only one thing which we care for—we drink to the bottom, we drink; turn it upside down, and knock at the bottom.

  MISSAIL. Well said, Father Varlaam.

  GREGORY. (To Hostess.) Whom do they want? Who escaped from Moscow?

  HOSTESS. God knows; a thief perhaps, a robber. But here even good folk are worried now. And what will come of it? Nothing. They will not catch the old devil; as if there were no other road into Lithuania than the highway! Just turn to the left from here, then by the pinewood or by the footpath as far as the chapel on the Chekansky brook, and then straight across the marsh to Khlopin, and thence to Zakhariev, and then any child will guide you to the Luyov mountains. The only good of these inspectors is to worry passers-by and rob us poor folk. (A noise is heard.) What’s that? Ah, there they are, curse them! They are going their rounds.

  GREGORY. Hostess! Is there another room in the cottage?

  HOSTESS. No, my dear; I should be glad myself to hide. But they are only pretending to go their rounds; but give them wine and bread, and Heaven knows what— May perdition take them, the accursed ones! May—

  (Enter OFFICERS.)

  OFFICERS. Good health to you, mine hostess!

  HOSTESS. You are kindly welcome, dear guests.

  AN OFFICER. (To another.) Ha, there’s drinking going on here; we shall get something here. (To the Monks.) Who are you?

  VARLAAM. We—are two old clerics, humble monks; we are going from village to village, and collecting Christian alms for the monastery.

  OFFICER. (To GREGORY.) And thou?

  MISSAIL. Our comrade.

  GREGORY. A layman from the suburb; I have conducted the old men as far as the frontier; from here I am going to my own home.

  MISSAIL. So you have changed your mind?

  GREGORY. (Sotto voce.) Be silent.

  OFFICER. Hostess, bring some more wine, and we will drink here a little and talk a little with these old men.

  2ND OFFICER. (Sotto voce.) Yon lad, it appears, is poor; there’s nothing to be got out of him; on the other hand the old men—

  1ST OFFICER. Be silent; we shall come to them presently. —Well, my fathers, how are you getting on?

  VARLAAM. Badly, my sons, badly! The Christians have now turned stingy; they love their money; they hide their money. They give little to God. The people of the world have become great sinners. They have all devoted themselves to commerce, to earthly cares; they think of worldly wealth, not of the salvation of the soul. You walk and walk; you beg and beg; sometimes in three days begging will not bring you three half-pence. What a sin! A week goes by; another week; you look into your bag, and there is so little in it that you are ashamed to show yourself at the monastery. What are you to do? From very sorrow you drink away what is left; a real calamity! Ah, it is bad! It seems our last days have come—

  HOSTESS. (Weeps.) God pardon and save you! (During the course of VARLAAM’S speech the 1st OFFICER watches MISSAIL significantly.)

  1ST OFFICER. Alexis! Have you the tsar’s edict with you?

  2ND OFFICER. I have it.

  1ST OFFICER. Give it here.

  MISSAIL. Why do you look at me so fixedly?

  1ST OFFICER. This is why; from Moscow there has fled a certain wicked heretic—Grishka Otrepiev. Have you heard this?

  MISSAIL. I have not heard it.

  OFFICER. Not heard it? Very good. And the tsar has ordered to arrest and hang the fugitive heretic. Do you know this?

  MISSAIL. I do not know it.

  OFFICER. (To VARLAAM.) Do you know how to read?

  VARLAAM. In my youth I knew how, but I have forgotten.

  OFFICER. (To MISSAIL.) And thou?

  MISSAIL. God has not made me wise.

  OFFICER. So then here’s the tsar’s edict.

  MISSAIL. What do I want it for?

  OFFICER. It seems to me that this fugitive heretic, thief, swindler, is—thou.

  MISSAIL. I? Good gracious! What are you talking about?

  OFFICER. Stay! Hold the doors. Then we shall soon get at the truth.

  HOSTESS. O the cursed tormentors! Not to leave even the old man in peace!

  OFFICER. Which of you here is a scholar?

  GREGORY. (Comes forward.) I am a scholar!

  OFFICER. Oh, indeed! And from whom did you learn?

  GREGORY. From our sacristan.

  OFFICER (Gives him the edict.) Read it aloud.

  GREGORY. (Reads.) “An unworthy monk of the Monastery Of Chudov, Gregory, of the family of Otrepiev, has fallen into heresy, taught by the devil, and has dared to vex the holy brotherhood by all kinds of iniquities and acts of lawlessness. And, according to information, it has been shown that he, the accursed Grishka, has fled to the Lithuanian frontier.”

  OFFICER. (To MISSAIL.) How can it be anyone but you?

  GREGORY. “And the tsar has commanded to arrest him—”

  OFFICER. And to hang!

  GREGORY. It does not say here “to hang.”

  OFFICER. Thou liest. What is meant is not always put into writing. Read: to arrest and to hang.

  GREGORY. “And to hang. And the age of the thief Grishka” (looking at VARLAAM) “about fifty, and his height medium; he has a bald head, grey beard, fat belly.”

  (All glance at VARLAAM.)

  1ST OFFICER, My lads! Here is Grishka! Hold him! Bind him! I never thought to catch him so quickly.

  VARLAAM. (Snatching the paper.) Hands off, my lads! What sort of a Grishka am I? What! Fifty years old, grey beard, fat belly! No, brother. You’re too young to play off tricks on me. I have not read for a long time and I make it out badly, but I shall manage to make it out, as it’s a hanging matter. (Spells it out.) “And his age twenty.” Why, brother, where does it say fifty?— Do you see—twenty?

  2ND OFFICER. Yes, I remember, twenty; even so it was told us.

  1ST OFFICER. (To GREGORY.) Then, evidently, you like a joke, brother.

  (During the reading GREGORY stands with downcast head, and his hand in his breast.)

  VARLAAM. (Continues.) “And in stature he is small, chest broad, one arm shorter than the other, blue eyes, red hair, a wart on his cheek, another on his forehead.” Then is it not you, my friend?

  (GREGORY suddenly draws a dagger; all give way before him; he dashes through the window.)

  OFFICERS. Hold him! Hold him!

  (All run out in disorder.)

  MOSCOW. SHUISKY’S HOUSE

  SHUISKY. A number of Guests. Supper

  SHUISKY. More wine! Now, my dear guests.

  (He rises; all rise after him.)

  The final draught! Read the prayer, boy.

  Boy. Lord of the heavens, Who art Eternally and everywhere, accept The prayer of us Thy servants. For our monarch, By Thee appointed, for our pious tsar, Of all good Christians autocrat, we pray. Preserve him in the palace, on the field Of battle, on his nightly couch; grant to him Victory o’er his foes; from sea to sea
May he be glorified; may all his house Blossom with health, and may its precious branches O’ershadow all the earth; to us, his slaves, May he, as heretofore, be generous. Gracious, long-suffering, and may the founts Of his unfailing wisdom flow upon us; Raising the royal cup, Lord of the heavens, For this we pray.

  SHUISKY. (Drinks.) Long live our mighty sovereign! Farewell, dear guests. I thank you that ye scorned not My bread and salt. Farewell; good-night.

  (Exeunt Guests: he conducts them to the door.)

  PUSHKIN. Hardly could they tear themselves away; indeed, Prince Vassily Ivanovitch, I began to think that we should not succeed in getting any private talk.

  SHUISKY. (To the Servants.) You there, why do you stand Gaping? Always eavesdropping on gentlemen! Clear the table, and then be off.

  (Exeunt Servants.)

  What is it, Athanasius Mikailovitch?

  PUSHKIN. Such a wondrous thing! A message was sent here to me today From Cracow by my nephew Gabriel Pushkin.

  SHUISKY. Well?

  PUSHKIN. ‘Tis strange news my nephew writes. The son Of the Terrible— But stay—

  (Goes to the door and examines it.)

  The royal boy, Who murdered was by order of Boris—

  SHUISKY. But these are no new tidings.

  PUSHKIN. Wait a little; Dimitry lives.

  SHUISKY. So that’s it! News indeed! Dimitry living!—Really marvelous! And is that all?

  PUSHKIN. Pray listen to the end; Whoe’er he be, whether he be Dimitry Rescued, or else some spirit in his shape, Some daring rogue, some insolent pretender, In any case Dimitry has appeared.

  SHUISKY. It cannot be.

  PUSHKIN. Pushkin himself beheld him When first he reached the court, and through the ranks Of Lithuanian gentlemen went straight Into the secret chamber of the king.

  SHUISKY. What kind of man? Whence comes he?

  PUSHKIN. No one knows. ‘Tis known that he was Vishnevetsky’s servant; That to a ghostly father on a bed Of sickness he disclosed himself; possessed Of this strange secret, his proud master nursed him, >