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
