The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection)

  2ND ATTENDANT. Well, here he comes.

  Will it please you question him?

  1ST ATTENDANT. How grim he looks!

  (Exeunt.)

  TSAR. (Enters.) I have attained the highest power. Six years

  Already have I reigned in peace; but joy

  Dwells not within my soul. Even so in youth

  We greedily desire the joys of love,

  But only quell the hunger of the heart

  With momentary possession. We grow cold,

  Grow weary and oppressed! In vain the wizards

  Promise me length of days, days of dominion

  Immune from treachery — not power, not life

  Gladden me; I forebode the wrath of Heaven

  And woe. For me no happiness. I thought

  To satisfy my people in contentment,

  In glory, gain their love by generous gifts,

  But I have put away that empty hope;

  The power that lives is hateful to the mob, —

  Only the dead they love. We are but fools

  When our heart vibrates to the people’s groans

  And passionate wailing. Lately on our land

  God sent a famine; perishing in torments

  The people uttered moan. The granaries

  I made them free of, scattered gold among them,

  Found labour for them; furious for my pains

  They cursed me! Next, a fire consumed their homes;

  I built for them new dwellings; then forsooth

  They blamed me for the fire! Such is the mob,

  Such is its judgment! Seek its love, indeed!

  I thought within my family to find

  Solace; I thought to make my daughter happy

  By wedlock. Like a tempest Death took off

  Her bridegroom — and at once a stealthy rumour

  Pronounced me guilty of my daughter’s grief —

  Me, me, the hapless father! Whoso dies,

  I am the secret murderer of all;

  I hastened Feodor’s end, ‘twas I that poisoned

  My sister-queen, the lowly nun — all I!

  Ah! Now I feel it; naught can give us peace

  Mid worldly cares, nothing save only conscience!

  Healthy she triumphs over wickedness,

  Over dark slander; but if in her be found

  A single casual stain, then misery.

  With what a deadly sore my soul doth smart;

  My heart, with venom filled, doth like a hammer

  Beat in mine ears reproach; all things revolt me,

  And my head whirls, and in my eyes are children

  Dripping with blood; and gladly would I flee,

  But nowhere can find refuge — horrible!

  Pitiful he whose conscience is unclean!

  TAVERN ON THE LITHUANIAN FRONTIER

  MISSAIL and VARLAAM, wandering friars; GREGORY in secular attire; HOSTESS

  HOSTESS. With what shall I regale you, my reverend

  honoured guests?

  VARLAAM. With what God sends, little hostess. Have you

  no wine?

  HOSTESS. As if I had not, my fathers! I will bring it at

  once. (Exit.)

  MISSAIL. Why so glum, comrade? Here is that very

  Lithuanian frontier which you so wished to reach.

  GREGORY. Until I shall be in Lithuania, till then I shall not

  Be content.

  VARLAAM. What is it that makes you so fond of Lithuania!

  Here are we, Father Missail and I, a sinner, when we fled

  from the monastery, then we cared for nothing. Was it

  Lithuania, was it Russia, was it fiddle, was it dulcimer?

  All the same for us, if only there was wine. That’s the

  main thing!

  MISSAIL. Well said, Father Varlaam.

  HOSTESS. (Enters.)

  There you are, my fathers. Drink to your health.

  MISSAIL. Thanks, my good friend. God bless thee. (The

  monks drink. Varlaam trolls a ditty: “Thou passest

  by, my dear,” etc.) (To GREGORY) Why don’t you join

  in the song? Not even join in the song?

  GREGORY. I don’t wish to.

  MISSAIL. Everyone to his liking —

  VARLAAM. But a tipsy man’s in Heaven.* Father Missail!

  We will drink a glass to our hostess. (Sings: “Where

  the brave lad in durance,” etc.) Still, Father Missail,

  when I am drinking, then I don’t like sober men; tipsiness

  is one thing — but pride quite another. If you want

  to live as we do, you are welcome. No? — then take

  yourself off, away with you; a mountebank is no

  companion for a priest.

  [*The Russian text has here a play on the words which cannot

  be satisfactorily rendered into English.]

  GREGORY. Drink, and keep your thoughts to yourself,*

  Father Varlaam! You see, I too sometimes know how

  to make puns.

  [*The Russian text has here a play on the words which cannot

  be satisfactorily rendered into English.]

  VARLAAM. But why should I keep my thoughts to myself?

  MISSAIL. Let him alone, Father Varlaam.

  VARLAAM. But what sort of a fasting man is he? Of his

  own accord he attached himself as a companion to us;

  no one knows who he is, no one knows whence he comes —

  and yet he gives himself grand airs; perhaps he has a

  close acquaintance with the pillory. (Drinks and sings:

  “A young monk took the tonsure,” etc.)

  GREGORY. (To HOSTESS.) Whither leads this road?

  HOSTESS. To Lithuania, my dear, to the Luyov mountains.

  GREGORY. And is it far to the Luyov mountains?

  HOSTESS. Not far; you might get there by evening, but for

  the tsar’s frontier barriers, and the captains of the

  guard.

  GREGORY. What say you? Barriers! What means this?

  HOSTESS. Someone has escaped from Moscow, and orders

  have been given to detain and search everyone.

  GREGORY. (Aside.) Here’s a pretty mess!

  VARLAAM. Hallo, comrade! You’ve been making up to

  mine hostess. To be sure you don’t want vodka, but

  you want a young woman. All right, brother, all right!

  Everyone has his own ways, and Father Missail and I

  have only one thing which we care for — we drink to the

  bottom, we drink; turn it upside down, and knock at

  the bottom.

  MISSAIL. Well said, Father Varlaam.

  GREGORY. (To Hostess.) Whom do they want? Who

  escaped from Moscow?

  HOSTESS. God knows; a thief perhaps, a robber. But here

  even good folk are worried now. And what will come of

  it? Nothing. They will not catch the old devil; as if

  there were no other road into Lithuania than the highway!

  Just turn to the left from here, then by the pinewood

  or by the footpath as far as the chapel on the

  Chekansky brook, and then straight across the marsh to

  Khlopin, and thence to Zakhariev, and then any child

  will guide you to the Luyov mountains. The only good

  of these inspectors is to worry passers-by and rob us poor

  folk. (A noise is heard.) What’s that? Ah, there

  they are, curse them! They are going their rounds.

  GREGORY. Hostess! Is there another room in the cottage?

  HOSTESS. No, my dear; I should be glad myself to hide.

  But they are only pretending to go their rounds; but

  give them wine and bread, and Heaven knows what —

  May perdition take them, the accursed ones! May —

  (Enter OFFICERS.)

  OFFICERS. Good health to you, mine hostess
!

  HOSTESS. You are kindly welcome, dear guests.

  AN OFFICER. (To another.) Ha, there’s drinking going on

  here; we shall get something here. (To the Monks.)

  Who are you?

  VARLAAM. We — are two old clerics, humble monks; we are

  going from village to village, and collecting Christian

  alms for the monastery.

  OFFICER. (To GREGORY.) And thou?

  MISSAIL. Our comrade.

  GREGORY. A layman from the suburb; I have conducted the

  old men as far as the frontier; from here I am going to

  my own home.

  MISSAIL. So you have changed your mind?

  GREGORY. (Sotto voce.) Be silent.

  OFFICER. Hostess, bring some more wine, and we will

  drink here a little and talk a little with these old men.

  2ND OFFICER. (Sotto voce.) Yon lad, it appears, is poor;

  there’s nothing to be got out of him; on the other hand

  the old men —

  1ST OFFICER. Be silent; we shall come to them presently.

  — Well, my fathers, how are you getting on?

  VARLAAM. Badly, my sons, badly! The Christians have

  now turned stingy; they love their money; they hide

  their money. They give little to God. The people of

  the world have become great sinners. They have all

  devoted themselves to commerce, to earthly cares; they

  think of worldly wealth, not of the salvation of the soul.

  You walk and walk; you beg and beg; sometimes in

  three days begging will not bring you three half-pence.

  What a sin! A week goes by; another week; you look

  into your bag, and there is so little in it that you are

  ashamed to show yourself at the monastery. What are

  you to do? From very sorrow you drink away what is

  left; a real calamity! Ah, it is bad! It seems our last

  days have come —

  HOSTESS. (Weeps.) God pardon and save you!

  (During the course of VARLAAM’S speech the 1st

  OFFICER watches MISSAIL significantly.)

  1ST OFFICER. Alexis! Have you the tsar’s edict with you?

  2ND OFFICER. I have it.

  1ST OFFICER. Give it here.

  MISSAIL. Why do you look at me so fixedly?

  1ST OFFICER. This is why; from Moscow there has fled a

  certain wicked heretic — Grishka Otrepiev. Have you

  heard this?

  MISSAIL. I have not heard it.

  OFFICER. Not heard it? Very good. And the tsar has

  ordered to arrest and hang the fugitive heretic. Do you

  know this?

  MISSAIL. I do not know it.

  OFFICER. (To VARLAAM.) Do you know how to read?

  VARLAAM. In my youth I knew how, but I have forgotten.

  OFFICER. (To MISSAIL.) And thou?

  MISSAIL. God has not made me wise.

  OFFICER. So then here’s the tsar’s edict.

  MISSAIL. What do I want it for?

  OFFICER. It seems to me that this fugitive heretic, thief,

  swindler, is — thou.

  MISSAIL. I? Good gracious! What are you talking about?

  OFFICER. Stay! Hold the doors. Then we shall soon get

  at the truth.

  HOSTESS. O the cursed tormentors! Not to leave even the

  old man in peace!

  OFFICER. Which of you here is a scholar?

  GREGORY. (Comes forward.) I am a scholar!

  OFFICER. Oh, indeed! And from whom did you learn?

  GREGORY. From our sacristan.

  OFFICER (Gives him the edict.) Read it aloud.

  GREGORY. (Reads.) “An unworthy monk of the Monastery

  Of Chudov, Gregory, of the family of Otrepiev, has fallen

  into heresy, taught by the devil, and has dared to vex

  the holy brotherhood by all kinds of iniquities and acts

  of lawlessness. And, according to information, it has

  been shown that he, the accursed Grishka, has fled to the

  Lithuanian frontier.”

  OFFICER. (To MISSAIL.) How can it be anyone but you?

  GREGORY. “And the tsar has commanded to arrest him — ”

  OFFICER. And to hang!

  GREGORY. It does not say here “to hang.”

  OFFICER. Thou liest. What is meant is not always put into

  writing. Read: to arrest and to hang.

  GREGORY. “And to hang. And the age of the thief

  Grishka” (looking at VARLAAM) “about fifty, and his

  height medium; he has a bald head, grey beard, fat

  belly.”

  (All glance at VARLAAM.)

  1ST OFFICER, My lads! Here is Grishka! Hold him!

  Bind him! I never thought to catch him so quickly.

  VARLAAM. (Snatching the paper.) Hands off, my lads!

  What sort of a Grishka am I? What! Fifty years old,

  grey beard, fat belly! No, brother. You’re too young

  to play off tricks on me. I have not read for a long time

  and I make it out badly, but I shall manage to make it

  out, as it’s a hanging matter. (Spells it out.) “And his

  age twenty.” Why, brother, where does it say fifty? —

  Do you see — twenty?

  2ND OFFICER. Yes, I remember, twenty; even so it was

  told us.

  1ST OFFICER. (To GREGORY.) Then, evidently, you like a

  joke, brother.

  (During the reading GREGORY stands with downcast

  head, and his hand in his breast.)

  VARLAAM. (Continues.) “And in stature he is small, chest

  broad, one arm shorter than the other, blue eyes, red

  hair, a wart on his cheek, another on his forehead.”

  Then is it not you, my friend?

  (GREGORY suddenly draws a dagger; all give way

  before him; he dashes through the window.)

  OFFICERS. Hold him! Hold him!

  (All run out in disorder.)

  MOSCOW. SHUISKY’S HOUSE

  SHUISKY. A number of Guests. Supper

  SHUISKY. More wine! Now, my dear guests.

  (He rises; all rise after him.)

  The final draught!

  Read the prayer, boy.

  Boy. Lord of the heavens, Who art

  Eternally and everywhere, accept

  The prayer of us Thy servants. For our monarch,

  By Thee appointed, for our pious tsar,

  Of all good Christians autocrat, we pray.

  Preserve him in the palace, on the field

  Of battle, on his nightly couch; grant to him

  Victory o’er his foes; from sea to sea

  May he be glorified; may all his house

  Blossom with health, and may its precious branches

  O’ershadow all the earth; to us, his slaves,

  May he, as heretofore, be generous.

  Gracious, long-suffering, and may the founts

  Of his unfailing wisdom flow upon us;

  Raising the royal cup, Lord of the heavens,

  For this we pray.

  SHUISKY. (Drinks.) Long live our mighty sovereign!

  Farewell, dear guests. I thank you that ye scorned not

  My bread and salt. Farewell; good-night.

  (Exeunt Guests: he conducts them to the door.)

  PUSHKIN. Hardly could they tear themselves away; indeed,

  Prince Vassily Ivanovitch, I began to think that we

  should not succeed in getting any private talk.

  SHUISKY. (To the Servants.) You there, why do you stand

  Gaping? Always eavesdropping on gentlemen! Clear

  the table, and then be off.

  (Exeunt Servants.)

  What is it, Athanasius

  Mikailovitch?

  PUSHKIN. Such a wondrous th
ing!

  A message was sent here to me today

  From Cracow by my nephew Gabriel Pushkin.

  SHUISKY. Well?

  PUSHKIN. ‘Tis strange news my nephew writes. The son

  Of the Terrible — But stay —

  (Goes to the door and examines it.)

  The royal boy,

  Who murdered was by order of Boris —

  SHUISKY. But these are no new tidings.

  PUSHKIN. Wait a little;

  Dimitry lives.

  SHUISKY. So that’s it! News indeed!

  Dimitry living! — Really marvelous!

  And is that all?

  PUSHKIN. Pray listen to the end;

  Whoe’er he be, whether he be Dimitry

  Rescued, or else some spirit in his shape,

  Some daring rogue, some insolent pretender,

  In any case Dimitry has appeared.

  SHUISKY. It cannot be.

  PUSHKIN. Pushkin himself beheld him

  When first he reached the court, and through the ranks

  Of Lithuanian gentlemen went straight

  Into the secret chamber of the king.

  SHUISKY. What kind of man? Whence comes he?

  PUSHKIN. No one knows.

  ‘Tis known that he was Vishnevetsky’s servant;

  That to a ghostly father on a bed

  Of sickness he disclosed himself; possessed

  Of this strange secret, his proud master nursed him,

  From his sick bed upraised him, and straightway

  Took him to Sigismund.

  SHUISKY. And what say men

  Of this bold fellow?

  PUSHKIN. ‘Tis said that he is wise,

  Affable, cunning, popular with all men.

  He has bewitched the fugitives from Moscow,

  The Catholic priests see eye to eye with him.

  The King caresses him, and, it is said,

  Has promised help.

  SHUISKY. All this is such a medley

  That my head whirls. Brother, beyond all doubt

  This man is a pretender, but the danger

  Is, I confess, not slight. This is grave news!

  And if it reach the people, then there’ll be

  A mighty tempest.

  PUSHKIN. Such a storm that hardly

  Will Tsar Boris contrive to keep the crown

  Upon his clever head; and losing it

  Will get but his deserts! He governs us

  As did the tsar Ivan of evil memory.

  What profits it that public executions

  Have ceased, that we no longer sing in public

  Hymns to Christ Jesus on the field of blood;

  That we no more are burnt in public places,

  Or that the tsar no longer with his sceptre

  Rakes in the ashes? Is there any safety

  In our poor life? Each day disgrace awaits us;

  The dungeon or Siberia, cowl or fetters,