Александр Пушкин
Boris Godunov

Полная версия

OPEN SPACE IN FRONT OF THE CATHEDRAL IN MOSCOW

THE PEOPLE

   ONE OF THE PEOPLE. Will the tsar soon come out of the
   Cathedral?

   ANOTHER. The mass is ended; now the Te Deum is going on.

   THE FIRST. What! Have they already cursed him?

   THE SECOND. I stood in the porch and heard how the deacon
   cried out:—Grishka Otrepiev is anathema!

   THE FIRST. Let him curse to his heart's content; the
   tsarevich has nothing to do with the Otrepiev.

   THE SECOND. But they are now singing mass for the repose
   of the soul of the tsarevich.

   THE FIRST. What? A mass for the dead sung for a living
   Man? They'll suffer for it, the godless wretches!
   A THIRD. Hist! A sound. Is it not the tsar?

   A FOURTH. No, it is the idiot.

(An idiot enters, in an iron cap, hung round with chains, surrounded by boys.)

   THE BOYS. Nick, Nick, iron nightcap! T-r-r-r-r—

   OLD WOMAN. Let him be, you young devils. Innocent one,
   pray thou for me a sinner.

   IDIOT. Give, give, give a penny.

   OLD WOMAN. There is a penny for thee; remember me in
   thy prayers.

   IDIOT. (Seats himself on the ground and sings:)
                  The moon sails on,
                   The kitten cries,
                   Nick, arise,
                  Pray to God.

(The boys surround him again.)

ONE OF THEM. How do you do, Nick? Why don't you
take off your cap?

(Raps him on the iron cap.)

   How it rings!

   IDIOT. But I have got a penny.

   BOYS. That's not true; now, show it.

(They snatch the penny and run away.)

   IDIOT. (Weeps.) They have taken my penny, they are
   hurting Nick.

   THE PEOPLE. The tsar, the tsar is coming!

(The TSAR comes out from the Cathedral; a boyar in front of him scatters alms among the poor. Boyars.)

   IDIOT. Boris, Boris! The boys are hurting Nick.

   TSAR. Give him alms! What is he crying for?

   IDIOT. The boys are hurting me…Give orders to slay
   them, as thou slewest the little tsarevich.

   BOYARS. Go away, fool! Seize the fool!

   TSAR. Leave him alone. Pray thou for me, Nick.

(Exit.)

IDIOT. (To himself.) No, no! It is impossible to pray for
tsar Herod; the Mother of God forbids it.

SYEVSK

The PRETENDER, surrounded by his supporters

   PRETENDER. Where is the prisoner?

   A POLE.                         Here.

   PRETENDER. Call him before me.

(A Russian prisoner enters.)

   Who art thou?

   PRISONER.   Rozhnov, a nobleman of Moscow.

   PRETENDER. Hast long been in the service?

   PRISONER.                               About a month.

   PRETENDER. Art not ashamed, Rozhnov, that thou hast drawn
   The sword against me?

   PRISONER.           What else could I do?
   'Twas not our fault.

   PRETENDER.         Didst fight beneath the walls
   Of Seversk?

   PRISONER. 'Twas two weeks after the battle
   I came from Moscow.

   PRETENDER.        What of Godunov?

   PRISONER. The battle's loss, Mstislavsky's wound, hath caused him
   Much apprehension; Shuisky he hath sent
   To take command.

   PRETENDER.     But why hath he recalled
   Basmanov unto Moscow?

   PRISONER.           The tsar rewarded
   His services with honour and with gold.
   Basmanov in the council of the tsar
   Now sits.

   PRETENDER. The army had more need of him.
   Well, how go things in Moscow?

   PRISONER.                    All is quiet,
   Thank God.

   PRETENDER. Say, do they look for me?

   PRISONER.                          God knows;
   They dare not talk too much there now. Of some
   The tongues have been cut off, of others even
   The heads. It is a fearsome state of things—
   Each day an execution. All the prisons
   Are crammed. Wherever two or three forgather
   In public places, instantly a spy
   Worms himself in; the tsar himself examines
   At leisure the denouncers. It is just
   Sheer misery; so silence is the best.

   PRETENDER. An enviable life for the tsar's people!
   Well, how about the army?

   PRISONER.               What of them?
   Clothed and full-fed they are content with all.

   PRETENDER. But is there much of it?

   PRISONER.                         God knows.

   PRETENDER.                          All told
   Will there be thirty thousand?

   PRISONER.                    Yes; 'twill run
   Even to fifty thousand.

(The Pretender reflects; those around him glance at one another.)

   PRETENDER.            Well! Of me
   What say they in your camp?

   PRISONER.                 Your graciousness
   They speak of; say that thou, Sire, (be not wrath),
   Art a thief, but a fine fellow.

   PRETENDER. (Laughing.)        Even so
   I'll prove myself to them in deed. My friends,
   We will not wait for Shuisky; I wish you joy;
   Tomorrow, battle.

(Exit.)

   ALL.            Long life to Dimitry!

   A POLE. Tomorrow, battle! They are fifty thousand,
   And we scarce fifteen thousand. He is mad!

   ANOTHER. That's nothing, friend. A single Pole can challenge
   Five hundred Muscovites.

   PRISONER.              Yes, thou mayst challenge!
   But when it comes to fighting, then, thou braggart,
   Thou'lt run away.

   POLE.           If thou hadst had a sword,
   Insolent prisoner, then (pointing to his sword) with this I'd soon
   Have vanquished thee.

   PRISONER.           A Russian can make shift
   Without a sword; how like you this (shows his fist), you fool?

(The Pole looks at him haughtily and departs in silence. All laugh.)

A FOREST

PRETENDER and PUSHKIN

(In the background lies a dying horse)

   PRETENDER. Ah, my poor horse! How gallantly he charged
   Today in the last battle, and when wounded,
   How swiftly bore me. My poor horse!

   PUSHKIN. (To himself.)            Well, here's
   A great ado about a horse, when all
   Our army's smashed to bits.

   PRETENDER.                Listen! Perhaps
   He's but exhausted by the loss of blood,
   And will recover.

   PUSHKIN.        Nay, nay; he is dying.

   PRETENDER. (Goes to his horse.)
   My poor horse!—what to do? Take off the bridle,
   And loose the girth. Let him at least die free.

(He unbridles and unsaddles the horse. Some Poles enter.)

   Good day to you, gentlemen! How is't I see not
   Kurbsky among you? I did note today
   How to the thick of the fight he clove his path;
   Around the hero's sword, like swaying ears
   Of corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of them
   His blade was brandished, and his terrible cry
   Drowned all cries else. Where is my knight?

   POLE.                                     He fell
   On the field of battle.

   PRETENDER.            Honour to the brave,
   And peace be on his soul! How few unscathed
   Are left us from the fight! Accursed Cossacks,
   Traitors and miscreants, you, you it is
   Have ruined us! Not even for three minutes
   To keep the foe at bay! I'll teach the villains!
   Every tenth man I'll hang. Brigands!

   PUSHKIN.                           Whoe'er
   Be guilty, all the same we were clean worsted,
   Routed!

   PRETENDER. But yet we nearly conquered. Just
   When I had dealt with their front rank, the Germans
   Repulsed us utterly. But they're fine fellows!
   By God! Fine fellows! I love them for it. From them
   I'll form an honourable troop.

   PUSHKIN.                     And where
   Shall we now spend the night?

   PRETENDER.                  Why, here, in the forest.
   Why not this for our night quarters? At daybreak
   We'll take the road, and dine in Rilsk. Good night.

(He lies down, puts a saddle under his head, and falls asleep.)

   PUSHKIN. A pleasant sleep, tsarevich! Smashed to bits,
   Rescued by flight alone, he is as careless
   As a simple child; 'tis clear that Providence
   Protects him, and we, my friends, will not lose heart.

MOSCOW. PALACE OF THE TSAR

BORIS. BASMANOV

   TSAR. He is vanquished, but what profit lies in that?
   We are crowned with a vain conquest; he has mustered
   Again his scattered forces, and anew
   Threatens us from the ramparts of Putivl.
   Meanwhile what are our heroes doing? They stand
   At Krom, where from its rotten battlements
   A band of Cossacks braves them. There is glory!
   No, I am ill content with them; thyself
   I shall despatch to take command of them;
   I give authority not to birth, but brains.
   Their pride of precedence, let it be wounded!
   The time has come for me to hold in scorn
   The murmur of distinguished nobodies,
   And quash pernicious custom.

   BASMANOV.                  Ay, my lord
   Blessed a hundredfold will be that day
   When fire consumes the lists of noblemen
   With their dissensions, their ancestral pride.

   TSAR. That day is not far off; let me but first
   Subdue the insurrection of the people.

   BASMANOV. Why trouble about that? The people always
   Are prone to secret treason; even so
   The swift steed champs the bit; so doth a lad
   Chafe at his father's ruling. But what then?
   The rider quietly controls the steed,
   The father sways the son.

   TSAR.                   Sometimes the horse
   Doth throw the rider, nor is the son at all times
   Quite 'neath the father's will; we can restrain
   The people only by unsleeping sternness.
   So thought Ivan, sagacious autocrat
   And storm-subduer; so his fierce grandson thought.
   No, no, kindness is lost upon the people;
   Act well—it thanks you not at all; extort
   And execute—'twill be no worse for you.

(Enter a boyar.)

   What now?

   BOYAR. The foreign guests are come.

   TSAR.                              I go
   To welcome them. Basmanov, wait, stay here;
   I still have need to speak: a word with thee.

(Exit.)

   BASMANOV. High sovereign spirit! God grant he may subdue
   The accurst Otrepiev; and much, still much
   Of good he'll do for Russia. A great thought
   Within his mind has taken birth; it must not
   Be suffered to grow cold. What a career
   For me when the ancestral horn he breaks
   Of the nobility. I have no rivals
   In war. I shall stand closest to the throne—
   And it may chance—But what is that strange sound?

(Alarum. Boyars and court-attendants run in disorder, meet each other and whisper.)

   ONE. Fetch a physician!

   ANOTHER.              Quickly to the Patriarch!

   A THIRD. He calls for the tsarevich, the tsarevich!

   A FOURTH. A confessor!

   BASMANOV.            What has happened?

   A FIFTH AND SIXTH.                    The tsar is ill,
   The tsar is dying.

   BASMANOV.        Good God!

   A FIFTH.                 Upon the throne
   He sat, and suddenly he fell; blood gushed
   From his mouth and ears.

(The TSAR is carried in on a chair. All the Tsar's household; all the boyars.)

   TSAR.                  Let all depart—alone
   Leave the tsarevich with me. (All withdraw.) I am dying;
   Let us embrace. Farewell, my son; this hour
   Thou wilt begin to reign.—O God, my God!
   This hour I shall appear before Thy presence—
   And have no time to purge my soul with shrift.
   But yet, my son, I feel thou art dearer to me
   Than is my soul's salvation—be it so!
   A subject was I born; it seemed ordained
   That I should die a subject in obscurity.
   Yet I attained to sovereignty; but how?
   Ask not. Enough that thou art innocent.
   In justice now thou'lt reign; and I alone
   Am answerable for all to God. Dear son,
   Cherish no false delusion, of thy free will
   Blind not thyself. Stormy the days wherein
   Thou dost assume the crown. He is dangerous,
   This strange pretender; with a fearful name
   He is armed. For many a year experienced
   In rule, I could restrain revolt and treason;
   They quaked with fear before me; treachery
   Dared not to raise its voice; but thou, a boy,
   An inexperienced ruler, how wilt thou
   Govern amid the tempests, quench revolt,
   Shackle sedition? But God is great! He gives
   Wisdom to youth, to weakness strength.—Give ear;
   Firstly, select a steadfast counsellor,
   Of cool, ripe years, loved of the people, honoured
   Mid the boyars for birth and fame—even Shuisky.
   The army craves today a skilful leader;
   Basmanov send, and firmly bear the murmurs
   Of the boyars. Thou from thy early years
   Didst sit with me in council, thou dost know
   The formal course of government; change not
   Procedure. Custom is the soul of states.
   Of late I have been forced to reinstate
   Bans, executions—these thou canst rescind;
   And they will bless thee, as they blessed thy uncle
   When he obtained the throne of the Terrible.
   At the same time, little by little, tighten
   Anew the reins of government; now slacken;
   But let them not slip from thy hands. Be gracious,
   Accessible to foreigners, accept
   Their service trustfully. Preserve with strictness
   The Church's discipline. Be taciturn;
   The royal voice must never lose itself
   Upon the air in emptiness, but like
   A sacred bell must sound but to announce
   Some great disaster or great festival.
   Dear son, thou art approaching to those years
   When woman's beauty agitates our blood.
   Preserve, preserve the sacred purity
   Of innocence and proud shamefacedness;
   He, who through passion has been wont to wallow
   In vicious pleasures in his youthful days,
   Becomes in manhood bloodthirsty and surly;
   His mind untimely darkens. Of thy household
   Be always head; show honour to thy mother,
   But rule thy house thyself; thou art a man
   And tsar to boot. Be loving to thy sister—
   Thou wilt be left of her the sole protector.

   FEODOR. (On his knees.) No, no; live on, my father, and reign long;
   Without thee both the folk and we will perish.

   TSAR. All is at end for me—mine eyes grow dark,
   I feel the coldness of the grave—

(Enter the PATRIARCH and prelates; behind them all the boyars lead the TSARITSA by the hand; the TSAREVNA is sobbing.)

                                    Who's there?
   Ah, 'tis the vestment—so! The holy tonsure—
   The hour has struck. The tsar becomes a monk,
   And the dark sepulchre will be my cell.
   Wait yet a little, my lord Patriarch,
   I still am tsar. Listen to me, boyars:
   To this my son I now commit the tsardom;
   Do homage to Feodor. Basmanov, thou,
   And ye, my friends, on the grave's brink I pray you
   To serve my son with zeal and rectitude!
   As yet he is both young and uncorrupted.
   Swear ye?

   BOYARS. We swear.

   TSAR.           I am content. Forgive me
   Both my temptations and my sins, my wilful
   And secret injuries.—Now, holy father,
   Approach thou; I am ready for the rite.