Boris Godunov. Александр Пушкин

      THE PALACE OF THE KREMLIN

BORIS, PATRIARCH, Boyars

         BORIS. Thou, father Patriarch, all ye boyars!

         My soul lies bare before you; ye have seen

         With what humility and fear I took

         This mighty power upon me. Ah! How heavy

         My weight of obligation! I succeed

         The great Ivans; succeed the angel tsar!—

         O Righteous Father, King Of kings, look down

         From Heaven upon the tears of Thy true servants,

         And send on him whom Thou hast loved, whom Thou

         Exalted hast on earth so wondrously,

         Thy holy blessing. May I rule my people

         In glory, and like Thee be good and righteous!

         To you, boyars, I look for help. Serve me

         As ye served him, what time I shared your labours,

         Ere I was chosen by the people's will.

         BOYARS. We will not from our plighted oath depart.

         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