Читать книгу Boris Godunov - Александр Сергеевич Пушкин, Александр Пушкин, Pushkin Aleksandr - Страница 7

   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.

   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.