He was no more. Straightway the people rushedOn 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.
(Exit.)
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.
FENCE OF THE MONASTERY2
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!
PALACE OF THE PATRIARCH
PATRIARCH. And he has run away, Father Abbot?
ABBOT. He has run away, holy sovereign, now three days ago.
PATRIARCH. Accursed rascal! What is his origin?
ABBOT. Of the family of the Otrepievs, of the lower nobility
of Galicia; in his youth he took the tonsure, no one
knows where, lived at Suzdal, in the Ephimievsky
monastery, departed from there, wandered to various
convents, finally arrived at my Chudov fraternity;
but I, seeing that he was still young and inexperienced,
entrusted him at the outset to Father Pimen, an old man,
kind and humble. And he was very learned, read our
chronicle, composed canons for the holy brethren; but,
to be sure, instruction was not given to him from the
Lord God—
This scene was omitted by Pushkin from the published version of the play.
