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 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?

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