Читать книгу Boris Godunov - Александр Сергеевич Пушкин, Александр Пушкин, Pushkin Aleksandr - Страница 8

   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!