Boris Godunov

Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin

Boris Godunov: a drama in verse

Rendered into English verse by Alfred Hayes

DRAMATIS PERSONAE1

BORIS GODUNOV, afterwards Tsar.

PRINCE SHUISKY, Russian noble.

PRINCE VOROTINSKY, Russian noble.

SHCHELKALOV, Russian Minister of State.

FATHER PIMEN, an old monk and chronicler.

GREGORY OTREPIEV, a young monk, afterwards the Pretender to the throne of Russia.

THE PATRIARCH, Abbot of the Chudov Monastery.

MISSAIL, wandering friar.

VARLAAM, wandering friar.

ATHANASIUS MIKAILOVICH PUSHKIN, friend of Prince Shuisky.

FEODOR, young son of Boris Godunov.

SEMYON NIKITICH GODUNOV, secret agent of Boris Godunov.

GABRIEL PUSHKIN, nephew of A. M. Pushkin.

PRINCE KURBSKY, disgraced Russian noble.

KHRUSHCHOV, disgraced Russian noble.

KARELA, a Cossack.

PRINCE VISHNEVETSKY.

MNISHEK, Governor of Sambor.

BASMANOV, a Russian officer.

MARZHERET, officer of the Pretender.

ROZEN, officer of the Pretender.

DIMITRY, the Pretender, formerly Gregory Otrepiev.

MOSALSKY, a Boyar.

KSENIA, daughter of Boris Godunov.

NURSE of Ksenia.

MARINA, daughter of Mnishek.

ROUZYA, tire-woman of Ksenia.

HOSTESS of tavern.

Boyars, The People, Inspectors, Officers, Attendants, Guests, a Boy in attendance on Prince Shuisky, a Catholic Priest, a Polish Noble, a Poet, an Idiot, a Beggar, Gentlemen, Peasants, Guards, Russian, Polish, and German Soldiers, a Russian Prisoner of War, Boys, an old Woman, Ladies, Serving-women.

PALACE OF THE KREMLIN

(FEBRUARY 20th, A.D. 1598)

PRINCE SHUISKY and VOROTINSKY

   VOROTINSKY. To keep the city's peace, that is the task   Entrusted to us twain, but you forsooth   Have little need to watch; Moscow is empty;   The people to the Monastery have flocked   After the patriarch. What thinkest thou?   How will this trouble end?   SHUISKY.                 How will it end?   That is not hard to tell. A little more   The multitude will groan and wail, Boris   Pucker awhile his forehead, like a toper   Eyeing a glass of wine, and in the end   Will humbly of his graciousness consent   To take the crown; and then—and then will rule us   Just as before.   VOROTINSKY.   A month has flown already   Since, cloistered with his sister, he forsook   The world's affairs. None hitherto hath shaken   His purpose, not the patriarch, not the boyars   His counselors; their tears, their prayers he heeds not;   Deaf is he to the wail of Moscow, deaf   To the Great Council's voice; vainly they urged   The sorrowful nun-queen to consecrate   Boris to sovereignty; firm was his sister,   Inexorable as he; methinks Boris   Inspired her with this spirit. What if our ruler   Be sick in very deed of cares of state   And hath no strength to mount the throne? What   Say'st thou?   SHUISKY. I say that in that case the blood in vain   Flowed of the young tsarevich, that Dimitry   Might just as well be living.   VOROTINSKY.                 Fearful crime!   Is it beyond all doubt Boris contrived   The young boy's murder?   SHUISKY.              Who besides? Who else   Bribed Chepchugov in vain? Who sent in secret   The brothers Bityagovsky with Kachalov?   Myself was sent to Uglich, there to probe   This matter on the spot; fresh traces there   I found; the whole town bore witness to the crime;   With one accord the burghers all affirmed it;   And with a single word, when I returned,   I could have proved the secret villain's guilt.   VOROTINSKY. Why didst thou then not crush him?   SHUISKY.                        At the time,   I do confess, his unexpected calmness,   His shamelessness, dismayed me. Honestly   He looked me in the eyes; he questioned me   Closely, and I repeated to his face   The foolish tale himself had whispered to me.   VOROTINSKY. An ugly business, prince.   SHUISKY.                    What could I do?   Declare all to Feodor? But the tsar   Saw all things with the eyes of Godunov.   Heard all things with the ears of Godunov;   Grant even that I might have fully proved it,   Boris would have denied it there and then,   And I should have been haled away to prison,   And in good time—like mine own uncle—strangled   Within the silence of some deaf-walled dungeon.   I boast not when I say that, given occasion,   No penalty affrights me. I am no coward,   But also am no fool, and do not choose   Of my free will to walk into a halter.   VOROTINSKY. Monstrous misdeed! Listen; I warrant you   Remorse already gnaws the murderer;   Be sure the blood of that same innocent child   Will hinder him from mounting to the throne.   SHUISKY. That will not baulk him; Boris is not so timid!   What honour for ourselves, ay, for all Russia!   A slave of yesterday, a Tartar, son   By marriage of Maliuta, of a hangman,   Himself in soul a hangman, he to wear   The crown and robe of Monomakh!—   VOROTINSKY.                   You are right;   He is of lowly birth; we twain can boast   A nobler lineage.   SHUISKY.        Indeed we may!   VOROTINSKY. Let us remember, Shuisky, Vorotinsky   Are, let me say, born princes.   SHUISKY.                     Yea, born princes,   And of the blood of Rurik.   VOROTINSKY.              Listen, prince;   Then we, 'twould seem, should have the right to mount   Feodor's throne.   SHUISKY.       Rather than Godunov.   VOROTINSKY. In very truth 'twould seem so.   SHUISKY.                      And what then?   If still Boris pursue his crafty ways,   Let us contrive by skilful means to rouse   The people. Let them turn from Godunov;   Princes they have in plenty of their own;   Let them from out their number choose a tsar.   VOROTINSKY. Of us, Varyags in blood, there are full many,   But 'tis no easy thing for us to vie   With Godunov; the people are not wont   To recognise in us an ancient branch   Of their old warlike masters; long already   Have we our appanages forfeited,   Long served but as lieutenants of the tsars,   And he hath known, by fear, and love, and glory,   How to bewitch the people.   SHUISKY. (Looking through a window.) He has dared,   That's all—while we—Enough of this. Thou seest   Dispersedly the people are returning.   We'll go forthwith and learn what is resolved.

THE RED SQUARE

THE PEOPLE   1ST PERSON. He is inexorable! He thrust from him   Prelates, boyars, and Patriarch; in vain   Prostrate they fall; the splendour of the throne   Affrights him.   2ND PERSON.  O, my God, who is to rule us?   O, woe to us!   3RD PERSON. See! The Chief Minister   Is coming out to tell us what the Council   Has now resolved.   THE PEOPLE.     Silence! Silence! He speaks,   The Minister of State. Hush, hush! Give ear!   SHCHELKALOV. (From the Red Balcony.)   The Council have resolved for the last time   To put to proof the power of supplication   Upon our ruler's mournful soul. At dawn,   After a solemn service in the Kremlin,   The blessed Patriarch will go, preceded   By sacred banners, with the holy ikons   Of Donsky and Vladimir; with him go   The Council, courtiers, delegates, boyars,   And all the orthodox folk of Moscow; all   Will go to pray once more the queen to pity   Fatherless Moscow, and to consecrate   Boris unto the crown. Now to your homes   Go ye in peace: pray; and to Heaven shall rise   The heart's petition of the orthodox.

   (The PEOPLE disperse.)

THE VIRGIN'S FIELD

THE NEW NUNNERY. The People   1ST PERSON. To plead with the tsaritsa in her cell   Now are they gone. Thither have gone Boris,   The Patriarch, and a host of boyars.   2ND PERSON.                        What news?   3RD PERSON. Still is he obdurate; yet there is hope.   PEASANT WOMAN. (With a child.)   Drat you! Stop crying, or else the bogie-man   Will carry you off. Drat you, drat you! Stop crying!   1ST PERSON. Can't we slip through behind the fence?   2ND PERSON.                         Impossible!   No chance at all! Not only is the nunnery   Crowded; the precincts too are crammed with people.   Look what a sight! All Moscow has thronged here.   See! Fences, roofs, and every single storey   Of the Cathedral bell tower, the church-domes,   The very crosses are studded thick with people.   1ST PERSON. A goodly sight indeed!   2ND PERSON.                     What is that noise?   3RD PERSON. Listen! What noise is that?—The people groaned;   See there! They fall like waves, row upon row—   Again—again—Now, brother, 'tis our turn;   Be quick, down on your knees!   THE PEOPLE. (On their knees, groaning and wailing.)                                     Have pity on us,   Our father! O, rule over us! O, be   Father to us, and tsar!   1ST PERSON. (Sotto voce.) Why are they wailing?   2ND PERSON. How can we know? The boyars know well enough.   It's not our business.   PEASANT WOMAN. (With child.)                        Now, what's this? Just when   It ought to cry, the child stops crying. I'll show you!   Here comes the bogie-man! Cry, cry, you spoilt one!

   (Throws it on the ground; the child screams.)

   That's right, that's right!   1ST PERSON.               As everyone is crying,   We also, brother, will begin to cry.   2ND PERSON. Brother, I try my best, but can't.   1ST PERSON.                             Nor I.   Have you not got an onion?   2ND PERSON.              No; I'll wet   My eyes with spittle. What's up there now?   1ST PERSON.                      Who knows   What's going on?   THE PEOPLE.    The crown for him! He is tsar!   He has yielded!—Boris!—Our tsar!—Long live Boris!

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 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 MONASTERY2

   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

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