Boris Godunov. Александр Пушкин

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         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         Have gladly from the noisy world withdrawn,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 СКАЧАТЬ