The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

  Have pity on us,

  Our father! O, rule over us! O, be

  Father to us, and tsar!

  1ST PERSON. (Sotto voce.) Why are they wailing?

  2ND PERSON. How can we know? The boyars know well enough.

  It’s not our business.

  PEASANT WOMAN. (With child.)

  Now, what’s this? Just when

  It ought to cry, the child stops crying. I’ll show you!

  Here comes the bogie-man! Cry, cry, you spoilt one!

  (Throws it on the ground; the child screams.)

  That’s right, that’s right!

  1ST PERSON. As everyone is crying,

  We also, brother, will begin to cry.

  2ND PERSON. Brother, I try my best, but can’t.

  1ST PERSON. Nor I.

  Have you not got an onion?

  2ND PERSON. No; I’ll wet

  My eyes with spittle. What’s up there now?

  1ST PERSON. Who knows

  What’s going on?

  THE PEOPLE. The crown for him! He is tsar!

  He has yielded! — Boris! — Our tsar! — Long live Boris!

  THE PALACE OF THE KREMLIN

  BORIS, PATRIARCH, Boyars

  BORIS. Thou, father Patriarch, all ye boyars!

  My soul lies bare before you; ye have seen

  With what humility and fear I took

  This mighty power upon me. Ah! How heavy

  My weight of obligation! I succeed

  The great Ivans; succeed the angel tsar! —

  O Righteous Father, King Of kings, look down

  From Heaven upon the tears of Thy true servants,

  And send on him whom Thou hast loved, whom Thou

  Exalted hast on earth so wondrously,

  Thy holy blessing. May I rule my people

  In glory, and like Thee be good and righteous!

  To you, boyars, I look for help. Serve me

  As ye served him, what time I shared your labours,

  Ere I was chosen by the people’s will.

  BOYARS. We will not from our plighted oath depart.

  BORIS. Now let us go to kneel before the tombs

  Of Russia’s great departed rulers. Then

  Bid summon all our people to a feast,

  All, from the noble to the poor blind beggar.

  To all free entrance, all most welcome guests.

  (Exit, the Boyars following.)

  PRINCE VOROTINSKY. (Stopping Shuisky.)

  You rightly guessed.

  SHUISKY. Guessed what?

  VOROTINSKY. Why, you remember —

  The other day, here on this very spot.

  SHUISKY. No, I remember nothing.

  VOROTINSKY. When the people

  Flocked to the Virgin’s Field, thou said’st —

  SHUISKY. ‘Tis not

  The time for recollection. There are times

  When I should counsel you not to remember,

  But even to forget. And for the rest,

  I sought but by feigned calumny to prove thee,

  The truelier to discern thy secret thoughts.

  But see! The people hail the tsar — my absence

  May be remarked. I’ll join them.

  VOROTINSKY. Wily courtier!

  NIGHT

  Cell in the Monastery of Chudov (A.D. 1603)

  FATHER PIMEN, GREGORY (sleeping)

  PIMEN (Writing in front of a sacred lamp.)

  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.

  (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 MONASTERY*

  *This scene was omitted by Pushkin from the published

  version of the play.

  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 streake
d 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, ABBOT of the Chudov Monastery

  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 —

  PATRIARCH. Ah, those learned fellows! What a thing to

  say, “I shall be tsar in Moscow.” Ah, he is a vessel of

  the devil! However, it is no use even to report to the

  tsar about this; why disquiet our father sovereign?

  It will be enough to give information about his flight to

  the Secretary Smirnov or the Secretary Ephimiev.

  What a heresy: “I shall be tsar in Moscow!”...

  Catch, catch the fawning villain, and send him to

  Solovetsky to perpetual penance. But this — is it not

  heresy, Father Abbot?

  ABBOT. Heresy, holy Patriarch; downright heresy.

  PALACE OF THE TSAR

  Two Attendants

  1ST ATTENDANT. Where is the sovereign?

  2ND ATTENDANT. In his bed-chamber,

  Where he is closeted with some magician.

  1ST ATTENDANT. Ay; that’s the kind of intercourse he loves;

  Sorcerers, fortune-tellers, necromancers.

  Ever he seeks to dip into the future,

  Just like some pretty girl. Fain would I know

  What ‘tis he would foretell.