Boris Godunov A Drama in Verse

by Alexander Pushkin

  VISHNEVETSKY, MNISHEK

  MNISHEK. With none but my Marina doth he speak, With no one else consorteth—and that business Looks dreadfully like marriage. Now confess, Didst ever think my daughter would be a queen?

  VISHNEVETSKY. ‘Tis wonderful.—And, Mnishek, didst thou think My servant would ascend the throne of Moscow?

  MNISHEK. And what a girl, look you, is my Marina. I merely hinted to her: “Now, be careful! Let not Dimitry slip”—and lo! Already He is completely tangled in her toils.

  (The band plays a Polonaise. The PRETENDER and MARINA advance as the first couple.)

  MARINA. (Sotto voce to Dimitry.) Tomorrow evening at eleven, beside The fountain in the avenue of lime-trees.

  (They walk off. A second couple.)

  CAVALIER. What can Dimitry see in her?

  DAME. How say you? She is a beauty.

  CAVALIER. Yes, a marble nymph; Eyes, lips, devoid of life, without a smile.

  (A fresh couple.)

  DAME. He is not handsome, but his eyes are pleasing, And one can see he is of royal birth.

  (A fresh couple.)

  DAME. When will the army march?

  CAVALIER. When the tsarevich Orders it; we are ready; but ‘tis clear The lady Mnishek and Dimitry mean To keep us prisoners here.

  DAME. A pleasant durance.

  CAVALIER. Truly, if you…

  (They walk off; the rooms become empty.)

  MNISHEK. We old ones dance no longer; The sound of music lures us not; we press not Nor kiss the hands of charmers—ah! My friend, I’ve not forgotten the old pranks! Things now Are not what once they were, what once they were! Youth, I’ll be sworn, is not so bold, nor beauty So lively; everything—confess, my friend— Has somehow become dull. So let us leave them; My comrade, let us go and find a flask Of old Hungarian overgrown with mould; Let’s bid my butler open an old bottle, And in a quiet corner, tete-a-tete, Let’s drain a draught, a stream as thick as fat; And while we’re so engaged, let’s think things over. Let us go, brother.

  VISHNEVETSKY. Yes, my friend, let’s go.

  NIGHT

  THE GARDEN. THE FOUNTAIN

  PRETENDER. (Enters.) Here is the fountain; hither will she come. I was not born a coward; I have seen Death near at hand, and face to face with death My spirit hath not blenched. A life-long dungeon Hath threatened me, I have been close pursued, And yet my spirit quailed not, and by boldness I have escaped captivity. But what Is this which now constricts my breath? What means This overpowering tremor, or this quivering Of tense desire? No, this is fear. All day I have waited for this secret meeting, pondered On all that I should say to her, how best I might enmesh Marina’s haughty mind, Calling her queen of Moscow. But the hour Has come—and I remember naught, I cannot Recall the speeches I have learned by rote; Love puts imagination to confusion— But something there gleamed suddenly—a rustling; Hush—no, it was the moon’s deceitful light, It was the rustling of the breeze.

  MARINA. (Enters.) Tsarevich!

  PRETENDER. ‘Tis she. Now all the blood in me stands still.

  MARINA. Dimitry! Is it thou?

  PRETENDER. Bewitching voice!

  (Goes to her.)

  Is it thou, at last? Is it thou I see, alone With me, beneath the roof of quiet night? How slowly passed the tedious day! How slowly The glow of evening died away! How long I have waited in the gloom of night!

  MARINA. The hours Are flitting fast, and time is precious to me. I did not grant a meeting here to thee To listen to a lover’s tender speeches. No need of words. I well believe thou lovest; But listen; with thy stormy, doubtful fate I have resolved to join my own; but one thing, Dimitry, I require; I claim that thou Disclose to me thy secret hopes, thy plans, Even thy fears, that hand in hand with thee I may confront life boldly—not in blindness Of childlike ignorance, not as the slave And plaything of my husband’s light desires, Thy speechless concubine, but as thy spouse, And worthy helpmate of the tsar of Moscow.

  PRETENDER. O, if it be only for one short hour, Forget the cares and troubles of my fate! Forget ‘tis the tsarevich whom thou seest Before thee. O, behold in me, Marina, A lover, by thee chosen, happy only In thy regard. O, listen to the prayers Of love! Grant me to utter all wherewith My heart is full.

  MARINA. Prince, this is not the time; Thou loiterest, and meanwhile the devotion Of thine adherents cooleth. Hour by hour Danger becomes more dangerous, difficulties More difficult; already dubious rumours Are current, novelty already takes The place of novelty; and Godunov Adopts his measures.

  PRETENDER. What is Godunov? Is thy sweet love, my only blessedness, Swayed by Boris? Nay, nay. Indifferently I now regard his throne, his kingly power. Thy love—without it what to me is life, And glory’s glitter, and the state of Russia? On the dull steppe, in a poor mud hut, thou— Thou wilt requite me for the kingly crown; Thy love—

  MARINA. For shame! Forget not, prince, thy high And sacred destiny; thy dignity Should be to thee more dear than all the joys Of life and its allurements. It thou canst not With anything compare. Not to a boy, Insanely boiling, captured by my beauty— But to the heir of Moscow’s throne give I My hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevich Rescued by destiny.

  PRETENDER. Torture me not, Charming Marina; say not that ‘twas my rank And not myself that thou didst choose. Marina! Thou knowest not how sorely thou dost wound My heart thereby. What if—O fearful doubt!— Say, if blind destiny had not assigned me A kingly birth; if I were not indeed Son of Ivan, were not this boy, so long Forgotten by the world—say, then wouldst thou Have loved me?

  MARINA. Thou art Dimitry, and aught else Thou canst not be; it is not possible For me to love another.

  PRETENDER. Nay! Enough— I have no wish to share with a dead body A mistress who belongs to him; I have done With counterfeiting, and will tell the truth. Know, then, that thy Dimitry long ago Perished, was buried—and will not rise again; And dost thou wish to know what man I am? Well, I will tell thee. I am—a poor monk. Grown weary of monastic servitude, I pondered ‘neath the cowl my bold design, Made ready for the world a miracle— And from my cell at last fled to the Cossacks, To their wild hovels; there I learned to handle Both steeds and swords; I showed myself to you. I called myself Dimitry, and deceived The brainless Poles. What say’st thou, proud Marina? Art thou content with my confession? Why Dost thou keep silence?

  MARINA. O shame! O woe is me!

  (Silence.)

  PRETENDER. (Sotto voce.) O whither hath a fit of anger led me? The happiness devised with so much labour I have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot, What have I done? (Aloud.) I see thou art ashamed Of love not princely; so pronounce on me The fatal word; my fate is in thy hands. Decide; I wait.

  (Falls on his knees.)

  MARINA. Rise, poor pretender! Think’st thou To please with genuflex on my vain heart, As if I were a weak, confiding girl? You err, my friend; prone at my feet I’ve seen Knights and counts nobly born; but not for this Did I reject their prayers, that a poor monk—

  PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; noble virtues May lie perchance in him, virtues well worthy Of Moscow’s throne, even of thy priceless hand—

  MARINA. Say of a shameful noose, insolent wretch!

  PRETENDER. I am to blame; carried away by pride I have deceived God and the kings—have lied To the world; but it is not for thee, Marina, To judge me; I am guiltless before thee. No, I could not deceive thee. Thou to me Wast the one sacred being, before thee I dared not to dissemble; love alone, Love, jealous, blind, constrained me to tell all.

  MARINA. What’s that to boast of, idiot? Who demanded Confession of thee? If thou, a nameless vagrant Couldst wonderfully blind two nations, then At least thou shouldst have merited success, And thy bold fraud secured, by constant, deep, And lasting secrecy. Say, can I yield Myself to thee, can I, forgetting rank And maiden modesty, unite my fate With thine, when thou thyself impetuously Dost thus with such simplicity reveal Thy shame? It was from Love he blabbed to me! I marvel wheref
ore thou hast not from friendship Disclosed thyself ere now before my father, Or else before our king from joy, or else Before Prince Vishnevetsky from the zeal Of a devoted servant.

  PRETENDER. I swear to thee That thou alone wast able to extort My heart’s confession; I swear to thee that never, Nowhere, not in the feast, not in the cup Of folly, not in friendly confidence, Not ‘neath the knife nor tortures of the rack, Shall my tongue give away these weighty secrets.

  MARINA. Thou swearest! Then I must believe. Believe, Of course! But may I learn by what thou swearest? Is it not by the name of God, as suits The Jesuits’ devout adopted son? Or by thy honour as a high-born knight? Or, maybe, by thy royal word alone As a king’s son? Is it not so? Declare.

  PRETENDER. (Proudly.) The phantom of the Terrible hath made me His son; from out the sepulchre hath named me Dimitry, hath stirred up the people round me, And hath consigned Boris to be my victim. I am tsarevich. Enough! ‘Twere shame for me To stoop before a haughty Polish dame. Farewell for ever; the game of bloody war, The wide cares of my destiny, will smother, I hope, the pangs Of love. O, when the heat Of shameful passion is o’erspent, how then Shall I detest thee! Now I leave thee—ruin, Or else a crown, awaits my head in Russia; Whether I meet with death as fits a soldier In honourable fight, or as a miscreant Upon the public scaffold, thou shalt not Be my companion, nor shalt share with me My fate; but it may be thou shalt regret The destiny thou hast refused.

  MARINA. But what If I expose beforehand thy bold fraud To all men?

  PRETENDER. Dost thou think I fear thee? Think’st thou They will believe a Polish maiden more Than Russia’s own tsarevich? Know, proud lady, That neither king, nor pope, nor nobles trouble Whether my words be true, whether I be Dimitry or another. What care they? But I provide a pretext for revolt And war; and this is all they need; and thee, Rebellious one, believe me, they will force To hold thy peace. Farewell.

  MARINA. Tsarevich, stay! At last I hear the speech not of a boy, But of a man. It reconciles me to thee. Prince, I forget thy senseless outburst, see Again Dimitry. Listen; now is the time! Hasten; delay no more, lead on thy troops Quickly to Moscow, purge the Kremlin, take Thy seat upon the throne of Moscow; then Send me the nuptial envoy; but, God hears me, Until thy foot be planted on its steps, Until by thee Boris be overthrown, I am not one to listen to love-speeches.

  PRETENDER. No—easier far to strive with Godunov. Or play false with the Jesuits of the Court, Than with a woman. Deuce take them; they’re beyond My power. She twists, and coils, and crawls, slips out Of hand, she hisses, threatens, bites. Ah, serpent! Serpent! ‘Twas not for nothing that I trembled. She well-nigh ruined me; but I’m resolved; At daybreak I will put my troops in motion.

  THE LITHUANIAN FRONTIER

  (OCTOBER 16TH, 1604)

  PRINCE KURBSKY and PRETENDER, both on horseback. Troops approach the Frontier

  KURBSKY. (Galloping at their head.) There, there it is; there is the Russian frontier! Fatherland! Holy Russia! I am thine! With scorn from off my clothing now I shake The foreign dust, and greedily I drink New air; it is my native air. O father, Thy soul hath now been solaced; in the grave Thy bones, disgraced, thrill with a sudden joy! Again doth flash our old ancestral sword, This glorious sword—the dread of dark Kazan! This good sword—servant of the tsars of Moscow! Now will it revel in its feast of slaughter, Serving the master of its hopes.

  PRETENDER. (Moves quietly with bowed head.) How happy Is he, how flushed with gladness and with glory His stainless soul! Brave knight, I envy thee! The son of Kurbsky, nurtured in exile, Forgetting all the wrongs borne by thy father, Redeeming his transgression in the grave, Ready art thou for the son of great Ivan To shed thy blood, to give the fatherland Its lawful tsar. Righteous art thou; thy soul Should flame with joy.

  KURBSKY. And dost not thou likewise Rejoice in spirit? There lies our Russia; she Is thine, tsarevich! There thy people’s hearts Are waiting for thee, there thy Moscow waits, Thy Kremlin, thy dominion.

  PRETENDER. Russian blood, O Kurbsky, first must flow! Thou for the tsar Hast drawn the sword, thou art stainless; but I lead you Against your brothers; I am summoning Lithuania against Russia; I am showing To foes the longed-for way to beauteous Moscow! But let my sin fall not on me, but thee, Boris, the regicide! Forward! Set on!

  KURBSKY. Forward! Advance! And woe to Godunov.

  (They gallop. The troops cross the frontier.)

  THE COUNCIL OF THE TSAR

  The TSAR, the PATRIARCH and Boyars

  TSAR. Is it possible? An unfrocked monk against us Leads rascal troops, a truant friar dares write Threats to us! Then ‘tis time to tame the madman! Trubetskoy, set thou forth, and thou Basmanov; My zealous governors need help. Chernigov Already by the rebel is besieged; Rescue the city and citizens.

  BASMANOV. Three months Shall not pass, Sire, ere even rumour’s tongue Shall cease to speak of the pretender; caged In iron, like a wild beast from oversea, We’ll hale him into Moscow, I swear by God.

  (Exit with TRUBETSKOY.)

  TSAR. The Lord of Sweden hath by envoys tendered Alliance to me. But we have no need To lean on foreign aid; we have enough Of our own warlike people to repel Traitors and Poles. I have refused.—Shchelkalov! In every district to the governors Send edicts, that they mount their steeds, and send The people as of old on service; likewise Ride to the monasteries, and there enlist The servants of the churchmen. In days of old, When danger faced our country, hermits freely Went into battle; it is not now our wish To trouble them; no, let them pray for us; Such is the tsar’s decree, such the resolve Of his boyars. And now a weighty question We shall determine; ye know how everywhere The insolent pretender hath spread abroad His artful rumours; letters everywhere, By him distributed, have sowed alarm And doubt; seditious whispers to and fro Pass in the market-places; minds are seething. We needs must cool them; gladly would I refrain From executions, but by what means and how? That we will now determine. Holy father, Thou first declare thy thought.

  PATRIARCH. The Blessed One, The All-Highest, hath instilled into thy soul, Great lord, the spirit of kindness and meek patience; Thou wishest not perdition for the sinner, Thou wilt wait quietly, until delusion Shall pass away; for pass away it will, And truth’s eternal sun will dawn on all. Thy faithful bedesman, one in worldly matters No prudent judge, ventures today to offer His voice to thee. This offspring of the devil, This unfrocked monk, has known how to appear Dimitry to the people. Shamelessly He clothed himself with the name of the tsarevich As with a stolen vestment. It only needs To tear it off—and he’ll be put to shame By his own nakedness. The means thereto God hath Himself supplied. Know, sire, six years Since then have fled; ‘twas in that very year When to the seat of sovereignty the Lord Anointed thee—there came to me one evening A simple shepherd, a venerable old man, Who told me a strange secret. “In my young days,” He said, “I lost my sight, and thenceforth knew not Nor day, nor night, till my old age; in vain I plied myself with herbs and secret spells; In vain did I resort in adoration To the great wonder-workers in the cloister; Bathed my dark eyes in vain with healing water From out the holy wells. The Lord vouchsafed not Healing to me. Then lost I hope at last, And grew accustomed to my darkness. Even Slumber showed not to me things visible, Only of sounds I dreamed. Once in deep sleep I hear a childish voice; it speaks to me: `Arise, grandfather, go to Uglich town, To the Cathedral of Transfiguration; There pray over my grave. The Lord is gracious— And I shall pardon thee.’ `But who art thou?’ I asked the childish voice. `I am the tsarevich Dimitry, whom the Heavenly Tsar hath taken Into His angel band, and I am now A mighty wonder-worker. Go, old man.’ I woke, and pondered. What is this? Maybe God will in very deed vouchsafe to me Belated healing. I will go. I bent My footsteps to the distant road. I reached Uglich, repair unto the holy minster, Hear mass, and, glowing with zealous soul, I weep Sweetly, as if the blindness from mine eyes Were flowing out in tears. And when the people Began to leave, to my grandson I said: `Lead me, Ivan, to the grave of the tsarevic
h Dimitry .’ The boy led me—and I scarce Had shaped before the grave a silent prayer, When sight illumed my eyeballs; I beheld The light of God, my grandson, and the tomb.” That is the tale, Sire, which the old man told.

  (General agitation. In the course of this speech Boris several times wipes his face with his handkerchief.)

  To Uglich then I sent, where it was learned That many sufferers had found likewise Deliverance at the grave of the tsarevich. This is my counsel; to the Kremlin send The sacred relics, place them in the Cathedral Of the Archangel; clearly will the people See then the godless villain’s fraud; the might Of the fiends will vanish as a cloud of dust.

  (Silence.)

  PRINCE SHUISKY. What mortal, holy father, knoweth the ways Of the All-Highest? ‘Tis not for me to judge Him. Untainted sleep and power of wonder-working He may upon the child’s remains bestow; But vulgar rumour must dispassionately And diligently be tested; is it for us, In stormy times of insurrection, To weigh so great a matter? Will men not say That insolently we made of sacred things A worldly instrument? Even now the people Sway senselessly this way and that, even now There are enough already of loud rumours; This is no time to vex the people’s minds With aught so unexpected, grave, and strange. I myself see ‘tis needful to demolish The rumour spread abroad by the unfrocked monk; But for this end other and simpler means Will serve. Therefore, when it shall please thee, Sire, I will myself appear in public places, I will persuade, exhort away this madness, And will expose the vagabond’s vile fraud.

  TSAR. So be it! My lord Patriarch, I pray thee Go with us to the palace, where today I must converse with thee.

  (Exeunt; all the boyars follow them.)

  1ST BOYAR. (Sotto voce to another.) Didst mark how pale Our sovereign turned, how from his face there poured A mighty sweat?

  2ND BOYAR. I durst not, I confess, Uplift mine eyes, nor breathe, nor even stir.

  1ST BOYAR. Prince Shuisky has pulled it through. A splendid fellow!

  A PLAIN NEAR NOVGOROD SEVERSK

  (DECEMBER 21st, 1604)