Boris Godunov A Drama in Verse Page 5

  A BATTLE

  SOLDIERS. (Run in disorder.) Woe, woe! The Tsarevich! The Poles! There they are! There they are!

  (Captains enter: MARZHERET and WALTHER ROZEN.)

  MARZHERET. Whither, whither? Allons! Go back!

  ONE OF THE FUGITIVES. You go back, if you like, cursed infidel.

  MARZHERET. Quoi, quoi?

  ANOTHER. Kva! kva! You like, you frog from over the sea, to croak at the Russian tsarevich; but we—we are orthodox.

  MARZHERET. Qu’est-ce a dire “orthodox”? Sacres gueux, maudite canaille! Mordieu, mein Herr, j’enrage; on dirait que ca n’a pas de bras pour frapper, ca n’a que des jambes pour fuir.

  ROZEN. Es ist Schande.

  MARZHERET. Ventre-saint gris! Je ne bouge plus d’un pas; puisque le vin est tire, il faut le boire. Qu’en dites-vous, mein Herr?

  ROZEN. Sie haben Recht.

  MARZHERET. Tudieu, il y fait chaud! Ce diable de “Pretender,” comme ils l’appellent, est un bougre, qui a du poil au col?—Qu’en pensez-vous, mein Herr?

  ROZEN. Ja.

  MARZHERET. He! Voyez donc, voyez donc! L’action s’engage sur les derrieres de l’ennemi. Ce doit etre le brave Basmanov, qui aurait fait une sortie.

  ROZEN. Ich glaube das.

  (Enter Germans.)

  MARZHERET. Ha, ha! Voici nos allemands. Messieurs! Mein Herr, dites-leur donc de se raillier et, sacrebleu, chargeons!

  ROZEN. Sehr gut. Halt! (The Germans halt.) Marsch!

  THE GERMANS. (They march.) Hilf Gott!

  (Fight. The Russians flee again.)

  POLES. Victory! Victory! Glory to the tsar Dimitry!

  DIMITRY. (On horseback.) Cease fighting. We have conquered. Enough! Spare Russian blood. Cease fighting.

  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’ld 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; A
round 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.

  (The rite of the tonsure begins. The women are carried out swooning.)

  A TENT

  BASMANOV leads in PUSHKIN

  BASMANOV. Here enter, and speak freely. So to me He sent thee.

  PUSHKIN. He doth offer thee his friendship And the next place to his in the realm of Moscow.

  BASMANOV. But even thus highly by Feodor am I Already raised; the army I command; For me he scorned nobility of rank And the wrath of the boyars. I have sworn to him Allegiance.

  PUSHKIN. To the throne’s lawful successor Allegiance thou hast sworn; but what if one More lawful still be living?

  BASMANOV. Listen, Pushkin: Enough of that; tell me no idle tales! I know the man.

  PUSHKIN. Ru
ssia and Lithuania Have long acknowledged him to be Dimitry; But, for the rest, I do not vouch for it. Perchance he is indeed the real Dimitry; Perchance but a pretender; only this I know, that soon or late the son of Boris Will yield Moscow to him.

  BASMANOV. So long as I Stand by the youthful tsar, so long he will not Forsake the throne. We have enough of troops, Thank God! With victory I will inspire them. And whom will you against me send, the Cossack Karel or Mnishek? Are your numbers many? In all, eight thousand.

  PUSHKIN. You mistake; they will not Amount even to that. I say myself Our army is mere trash, the Cossacks only Rob villages, the Poles but brag and drink; The Russians—what shall I say?—with you I’ll not Dissemble; but, Basmanov, dost thou know Wherein our strength lies? Not in the army, no. Nor Polish aid, but in opinion—yes, In popular opinion. Dost remember The triumph of Dimitry, dost remember His peaceful conquests, when, without a blow The docile towns surrendered, and the mob Bound the recalcitrant leaders? Thou thyself Saw’st it; was it of their free-will our troops Fought with him? And when did they so? Boris Was then supreme. But would they now?—Nay, nay, It is too late to blow on the cold embers Of this dispute; with all thy wits and firmness Thou’lt not withstand him. Were’t not better for thee To furnish to our chief a wise example, Proclaim Dimitry tsar, and by that act Bind him your friend for ever? How thinkest thou?

  BASMANOV. Tomorrow thou shalt know.

  PUSHKIN. Resolve.

  BASMANOV. Farewell.

  PUSHKIN. Ponder it well, Basmanov.

  (Exit.)

  BASMANOV. He is right. Everywhere treason ripens; what shall I do? Wait, that the rebels may deliver me In bonds to the Otrepiev? Had I not better Forestall the stormy onset of the flood, Myself to—ah! But to forswear mine oath! Dishonour to deserve from age to age! The trust of my young sovereign to requite With horrible betrayal! ‘Tis a light thing For a disgraced exile to meditate Sedition and conspiracy; but I? Is it for me, the favourite of my lord?— But death—but power—the people’s miseries…

  (He ponders.)

  Here! Who is there? (Whistles.) A horse here! Sound the muster!

  PUBLIC SQUARE IN MOSCOW

  PUSHKIN enters, surrounded by the people

  THE PEOPLE. The tsarevich a boyar hath sent to us. Let’s hear what the boyar will tell us. Hither! Hither!

  PUSHKIN. (On a platform.) Townsmen of Moscow! The tsarevich Bids me convey his greetings to you. (He bows.) Ye know How Divine Providence saved the tsarevich From out the murderer’s hands; he went to punish His murderer, but God’s judgment hath already Struck down Boris. All Russia hath submitted Unto Dimitry; with heartfelt repentance Basmanov hath himself led forth his troops To swear allegiance to him. In love, in peace Dimitry comes to you. Would ye, to please The house of Godunov, uplift a hand Against the lawful tsar, against the grandson Of Monomakh?