Boris Godunov | Page 3

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,