Boris Godunov and Other Dramatic Works Read Online

THE CROWD

Be quiet! Let the Scribe be heard… he’s speaking,

Let’s hear him! Hush!

SHCHELKÁLOV (from the Red Porch)*

The Council has decided,

One final time, to see if our entreaties

10

Can sway our mournful ruler’s stricken soul.

The Patriarch, tomorrow in the dawn,

Will hold a solemn service in the Kremlin.

Proceeding then with banners of the saints,

With icons of Vladímir and the Don,

15

In company with noble lords and boyars,

With delegates from Moscow’s pious folk,

He’ll once again approach the royal widow,

Imploring her to pity orphaned Russia

And consecrate the crown upon Borís.

20

So go you now, with God, to all your homes;

Give prayer, and may it rise to Heaven’s ears,

The solemn supplication of our faith.

(The crowd disperses.)

FIRST MAN

They’ve gone to the Tsarina in her cell;

Borís is there as well, with noble lords,

And with the Patriarch.

SECOND MAN                      What news?

THIRD MAN                                              None yet,

He still refuses, but they say there’s hope.

A PEASANT WOMAN (with a child)

Oh stop your crying! Or the bogeyman

5

Will cart you off! Stop crying now and hush!

FIRST MAN

Why don’t we find a way inside the walls?

SECOND MAN

Not likely, friend… the grounds out here are packed,

And there inside as well. You think it’s easy?

All Moscow’s come… just look: the fences, roofs,

10

The belfry of the church on every floor,

The dome of the Cathedral, every cross—

All tightly jammed with people.

THIRD MAN                                        Quite a sight!

ANOTHER MAN

What noise was that?

ANOTHER MAN                  Look sharp! What noise was that?

The crowd is wailing, falling to the ground,

15

And swelling like a wave in its approach…

It’s our turn, brother… quick… get on your knees!

THE PEOPLE (on their knees, moaning and weeping)

Have mercy, father! Take the crown and rule!

Become our Tsar and father!

FIRST MAN (in a soft voice)         What’s that wailing?

ANOTHER MAN

Who knows? We’ll let the boyars sort it out,

20

It’s not for us.

THE WOMAN WITH THE CHILD

                      What’s this? It’s time to cry,

And now he’s mute! Here comes the bogeyman,

So cry, you naughty brat!

(She throws the baby to the ground.
The infant screams.)

                                           That’s it, just howl.

FIRST MAN

Since everyone is crying, friend, I think

We’d better cry as well.

SECOND MAN                      I’m trying, brother,

25

The tears won’t come.

FIRST MAN                          Me, too… Have you an onion

To rub our eyes?

SECOND MAN            No luck… I’ll spread some spit

To wet my cheeks… but what was that?

FIRST MAN                                                     Who knows?

THE PEOPLE

The crown is his! He’s taken it at last!

Borís, our rightful Tsar! Long live Borís!

30

BORÍS

My holy Patriarch and boyars all,

Before you I have bared my very soul:

You’ve seen how I assumed the highest power

With humble heart, and with a sense of dread.

How heavy is the burden I must bear!

5

I follow great Iván upon the throne,

I follow our lamented Angel-Tsar!…

O Righteous One! O my almighty Father!

Look down from Heaven on Your servants’ tears,

And grant the one to whom You gave Your love,

10

The one whom You have raised so high on earth,

Your sacred benediction on his reign.

May I in truth and glory rule my people,

May I be just and bountiful, like You…

I look to you, my boyars, for assistance;

15

Those days when I as well did share your labours,

Before the people’s will had made me Tsar.

BOYARS

We will not contravene our solemn oath.

BORÍS

Come with me now—to kneel before the tombs

20

Where Russia’s great deceasèd rulers rest.*

And then… we’ll call our people to a feast;

And all shall be received as welcome guests,

From mighty lords to blind and wretched beggars.

(He leaves; the BOYARS follow.)

VOROTÝNSKY (detaining SHÚISKY)

Your guess was right.

SHÚISKY                           What guess was that?

VOROTÝNSKY                                                  Why here,

25

The other day… remember?

SHÚISKY                                Not at all.

VOROTÝNSKY

When all the people went to Maidens’ Field,

You said…

SHÚISKY          It’s not a day for recollection, prince;

Occasions sometimes prompt us to forget.

And, by the way, those slanders that I spoke

30

Were only feigned—to put you to the test,

The better to uncloak your secret thoughts.

Take heed—the people cheer their new-found Tsar.

My absence may be seen and taken ill;

I’ll join the rest.

35

VOROTÝNSKY          A courtier of cunning!

PÍMEN (writing before a lamp)

One final tale, one story more to tell,

And then my chronicle will be concluded,

My task fulfilled, this duty sent to me,

A sinner, by our Lord. And not in vain

Has God so many years made me a witness,

5

And granted me the art of writing words.

The day will come when some hard-working monk

Will find this nameless harvest of my labours,

And he, like I, will light his icon lamp,

And, shaking from my words the dust of time,

10

He’ll make a copy of these truthful tales—

That future men of Christian faith may learn

The bygone fortunes of their native land;

That they recall their mighty Tsars of old,

For all their works, their glory, and their goodness—

15

And for their sins, their dark and evil deeds,

They’ll humbly ask the Lord to grant them mercy.

As I decline in age I live anew,

And ancient days pass once again before me.

Was it so long ago that they unfolded,

20

So full of great events, as violent as the sea?

But now that world is silent and serene;

My mem’ry has preserved but few who lived,

And little of their words do I recall.

All else has vanished in the mist of time…

25

But day draws near, my lamp is burning low—

One final tale, one story more to tell.

(He writes.)

GRIGÓRY (waking up)

The same odd dream! Three times I’ve had it now!

Accursèd dream! And there the old man sits,

Still writing by his lamp. He can’t have slept

30

Or even closed his eyes the whole night long.

How much I love that peaceful look he wears,

When, lost in soul amid those ancient times,

He pens his chronicle. I’ve often wondered

Just what he writes with such unflagging zeal:

35

Of dismal days when Tatar hordes held sway?*

Of Tsar Iván and bloody executions?

Of stormy Nóvgorod and its Assembly?*

The glory of our land? But all in vain,

His lofty brow and solemn gaze are mute

40

And give no inkling of his hidden thoughts.

He’s always so—majestic and yet meek;

Just like a scribe gone grey with all his cares,

He looks serenely at both right and wrong,

Sees good and evil with indifferent eyes,

45

Expressing neither pity nor his wrath.

PÍMEN

You’ve woken, brother?

GRIGÓRY                              Give me, reverend father,

Your blessing, please.

PÍMEN                               God grant to you his grace

This day and all the days to come, forever.

GRIGÍRY

You’ve been awake and writing all night long,

50

While I, asleep, have had my rest disturbed

By hellish dreams, where Satan plagued my soul.

I dreamt that by a steep and winding stair

I climbed some tower, from the top of which

All Moscow seemed an antheap to my eyes;

55

Below me, on the square, the people seethed,

All pointing up at me with mocking laughter;

And I became ashamed and full of dread,

And, falling in a headlong plunge… I woke…

Three times I’ve had this self-same troubling dream.

60

How strange it seemed.

PÍMEN                                 It’s youthful blood at play;

Submit yourself to fasting and to prayer,

And soon your nightly dreaming will be filled

With harmless visions. Even now, my son,

When overcome unwillingly by sleep,

65

If I omit to say my prayers in full,

My old man’s rest is neither calm nor sinless;

For often I will dream of rowdy feasts,

Of army camps, or skirmishes at war,

Of all the mad amusements of my youth!

70

GRIGÓRY

What joyfulness you knew when you were young!

You fought beneath the towers of Kazán,*

You served in Shúisky’s ranks against the Poles,

You saw the lavish court of dread Iván!

You lucky man! But I, since boyhood days,

75

Have roamed from cell to cell, a wretched monk!

Why shouldn’t I enjoy the fun of battle,

Or revel at the banquet of a Tsar?

And then, in ripe old age, I’d be like you:

I’d shun the world and all its vain pursuits,

80

To utter once again monastic vows

And in some quiet cloister lock my soul.

PÍMEN

Do not lament, my son, that you renounced

This sinful world so soon, that few temptations

Were sent you by the Lord. So heed my words:

85

The luxuries and glories of this life,

Like women’s love, seduce us from afar.

I’ve lived long years and had my fill of pleasures,

But never knew true bliss until the Lord

Had led me to the cloister and its peace.

90

Consider, son, the mighty of this earth:

Who’s greater than the Tsars? The Lord alone.

Who dares resist them? None. Yet what of them?

The golden crown grows heavy on their brows,

And often they’ve exchanged it for a cowl.

95

Iván the Dread sought peace and consolation

By living like a monk inside his court.

His palace, full of vain and haughty men,

Took on the aspect of a monastery;

His fearsome guards, in skullcaps and in hair-shirts,

100

By their appearance seemed but docile monks,

And he, the awesome Tsar, their humble abbot.

I saw them all—within this very cell

(Monk Cyril lived here then, a righteous man

Who suffered much. And I as well by then

105

Had learned, by the Lord’s grace, the nothingness

Of worldly cares). And here I saw the Tsar,

Wearied by fits of rage, and executions—

Right here—the brooding, silent, dread Iván.

We stood before him, frozen to the ground;

110

He looked at us and quietly he spoke:

‘My father monks, the longed-for day will come,

And I shall stand here, thirsting for salvation.

You, Nikodím, and you, Sergéi and Cyril,

You all shall then receive my solemn vow;

115

I’ll come to you, condemned for all my sins,

And I shall take the cleansing way of God

And fall before you, fathers, at your feet.’

Thus spoke our mighty sovereign, Tsar Iván,

And all his words flowed sweetly from his lips,

120

And he did weep. And we, in tears as well,

Prayed God that He might send His peace and love

To calm the stormy torments of his soul…

And contemplate his son, Tsar Fyódor, too,

Who sat upon the throne and yearned in vain

125

To lead a silent hermit’s humble life.

He made his private rooms a cell for prayer,

Where all the grievous burdens of his power

Would not disturb his shy and saintly soul.

God came to love the meekness of this Tsar,

130

And under Fyodór’s reign our Russia thrived

In uncontested glory… At his deathbed,

A strange and wondrous miracle occurred:

Beside his couch, seen only by the Tsar,

Appeared a figure of exceeding brightness,

135

And with this apparition Fyódor spoke,

Addressing him as ‘Holy Patriarch’;

And those all round were seized by sudden fear,

Aware that he had seen a sacred vision;

For at the time, the high and mighty prelate

140

Was absent from the chamber of the Tsar;

Then, when the Tsar had passed away, the palace

Was permeated with a holy fragrance

And his own face was shining like the sun.

We shall not look upon his like again.

145

O terrible, unprecedented woe!

We’ve angered God for we indeed have sinned:

We’ve called a bloody monster to the throne,

A regicide.

GRIGÓRY        I’ve wanted for some time

To ask you, reverend father, of the death

150

Of the Tsarévich. You were there, they say,

In Úglich at the time.

PĺMEN                              Ah, yes, I was!

God made me witness to an evil deed,

A bloody crime. To distant Úglich then

They’d sent me on a mission of some sort.

155

I came at night. Next morning, during mass,

The bells rang out; they’d sounded the alarm.

Commotion, shrieks… men rushing to the palace

Where our Tsarina lived. I run as well

And find the populace already there.

160

I look about: there lies the slaughtered Prince,

His royal mother fainted at his side;

A nursemaid sobbing with a desperate grief.

The people, filled with rage, are dragging off

The Godless wet-nurse who’d betrayed the Prince…

165

Then, suddenly, that Judas Bityagóvsky

Appeared among them, pale and fierce with malice.

‘Look! there’s the villain!’ cried the mob as one,

And instantly they felled him. Then the people

Pursued three others who had fled the scene;

170

They seized the bloody killers where they hid

And dragged them to the child’s corpse, still warm.

Then came a miracle—the body stirred.

‘Repent! Confess!’ the people screamed at them,

And in their terror of the axe, they did,

175

They made confession… and they named Borís.

GRIGÓRY

How old was Prince Dimítry when he died?

PÍMEN

Some seven years. By now he would have been…

(Ten years have passed since then… no, somewhat more,

Twelve years it is)—He’d be your age, Grigóry…

180

And he’d be Tsar. But God willed otherwise.

And with this woeful story I’ll conclude

My chronicle. I’ve little use these days

For matters of this world. And now, my son,

You’ve learned to read and write, and so to you

185

I pass along my work; and in those hours

When you are free of prayerful obligations,

Write down, avoiding crafty sophistries,

All things that you shall witness in this life:

Both war and peace, the edicts of our Tsars,

190

The holy miracles of saintly men,

All prophecies and blessèd revelations…

But now my time has come, my time to rest,

To put the candle out… I hear the bells

That summon us to matins… Bless, O Lord,

195

Your servants’ lives… my crutch, Grigóry, please.

(He leaves.)

GRIGÓRY

Borís, Borís! Before you Russia trembles,

And no one dares to mention or remind you

Of that poor child and his wretched fate.

But here in this dark cell, a hermit monk

200

Condemns you for a hideous transgression;

And you shall not escape the court of man,

No more than you’ll escape the court of God!

PATRIARCH He escaped, Father Abbot?

ABBOT Yes, Your Holiness, three days ago.

PATRIARCH The damned scoundrel! Who is he by birth?

ABBOT From the Otrépev clan, descendants of Galician

boyars. He took his vows when he was a youth, I don’t know

5

where, and lived for a time in Suzdal, at the Efímev Monastery.

On leaving there, he roamed from one cloister to

another, until he ended up among my Chudov brethren. Seeing

that he was still young and foolish, I assigned him to the

care of Father Pímen, a meek and gentle elder. He was literate:

10

read our annals, composed prayers to the saints—but,

clearly, his gift for letters didn’t come from God.

PATRIARCH These blasted literates! What a thing to say! I’ll be

the Tsar of Moscow! The devil’s spawn, that’s what he is! No

need, however, to tell the Tsar of this; why trouble our Sovereign

15

Father? It will be enough if we inform the councillors

Efímev and Smirnóv of his escape. What heresy! I’ll be the

Tsar of Moscow!… Catch him, catch him—this devil

worshipper—and send him off to Solovétsky,* to banishment and

eternal penance. Why, this is heresy, Father Abbot.

20

ABBOT Heresy, Your Holiness, the rankest heresy.

FIRST ATTENDANT

Where is His Majesty?

SECOND ATTENDANT     He’s shut himself

Inside his chambers with a sorcerer.

FIRST ATTENDANT

They seem his favourite confidants these days,

These sorcerers, magicians and the like.

He’s always seeking omens, like a bride.

5

I wonder what he’s trying to uncover?

SECOND ATTENDANT

Well, here he comes. Perhaps you’d like to ask?

FIRST ATTENDANT

How grim he looks!

(They leave.)

BORĺS (entering)      I’ve reached the highest power;

Six years already have I reigned in peace,

Yet know no happiness within my soul.

10

Just so, in youth, we fall in love and thirst

To drink love’s joys; but having quenched this hunger

With nothing but a moment’s satisfaction,

We soon grow bored and cold, oppressed once more…

It’s fruitless that these sorcerers predict

15

Long life and years of uncontested rule—

I find no joy in power, or in life;

I sense the Heavens’ wrath and looming woe.

I know no happiness. At first I sought

To give my people glory and contentment,

20

To win their loyal love with lavish gifts—

But now I’ve put away that idle hope;

The rabble hate the power of the living,

The dead alone can garner their affection.

We’re mad to heed the people’s howls or cheers,

25

To let their fickle fancies stir our soul!

When God sent famine all across our land,

And, perishing in torments, people wailed,

I gave them access to the granaries,

I showered them with gold and found them work—

30

But they, enraged, called curses down on me!

When conflagration’s flames consumed their houses,

I built them new and better habitations;

And they blamed me for all the devastation!

Such is the rabble: seek their love in vain.

35

Within my family then did I seek solace;

I sought my daughter’s happiness in marriage,*

But like a tempest, death swept off the groom…

And now a scabrous rumour makes the rounds,

And says the culprit of her widowhood

40

Was me, yes me, her own unhappy father!

Let someone die… and I’m their secret killer:

I hastened Fyodor to his sorry death,

I poisoned my own sister, the Tsarina,

A gentle nun… I’m guilty of all deaths!

45

I realize now: there’s nothing we can trust

To give us peace amid our worldly cares;

There’s nothing save our conscience in the end;

A healthy conscience triumphs over all,

It overcomes all wickedness and slander.

50

But if it bears one solitary blemish,

One single stain to make it less than chaste,

Then—woe! As if infected by the plague,

The soul will writhe, the heart will fill with poison,

And, hammer-like, reproach assault the ears;

55

The head will spin, foul nausea take hold,

And visions come of bloody boys… aah, no!…

You long to flee, but nowhere can you go!

Oh, pity him whose conscience is unclean.

HOSTESS What can I offer you, reverend fathers?

VARLÁM Whatever God provides, good lady. You wouldn’t

have some wine?

HOSTESS How could I not have wine! I’ll bring it at once,

fathers.

5

(She leaves.)

MISAÍL Why so glum, friend? We’re finally here—the Polish

border you’ve had such a hankering for.

GRIGÓRY I won’t rest easy until I’m in Poland.

VARLÁM What’s this love of yours for Poland? Just look at

Father Misaíl and me, sinner that I am… ever since we

10

skipped the monastery, it’s all the same to us: Poland or

Russia, a lute or a flute; just give us some wine, and life’ll be fine. And here it comes!

MISAÍL Deftly put, Father Varlám.

HOSTESS (entering) Here you are, fathers.