Night

PIMEN (Writing in front of a sacred lamp.)One more, the final record, and my annalsAre ended, and fulfilled the duty laidBy God on me a sinner. Not in vainHath God appointed me for many yearsA witness, teaching me the art of letters;A day will come when some laborious monkWill bring to light my zealous, nameless toil,Kindle, as I, his lamp, and from the parchmentShaking the dust of ages will transcribeMy true narrations, that posterityThe bygone fortunes of the orthodoxOf their own land may learn, will mention makeOf their great tsars, their labours, glory, goodness--And humbly for their sins, their evil deeds,Implore the Saviour's mercy.--In old ageI 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 facesWhich memory hath saved for me, and fewThe words which have come down to me;--the restHave perished, never to return.--But dayDraws 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 everBefore 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 longedTo guess what 'tis he writes of. Is 't perchanceThe dark dominion of the Tartars? Is itIvan's grim punishments, the stormy Councilof Novgorod? Is it about the gloryOf our dear fatherland?--I ask in vain!Not on his lofty brow, nor in his looksMay one peruse his secret thoughts; alwaysThe same aspect; lowly at once, and lofty--Like some state Minister grown grey in office,Calmly alike he contemplates the justAnd guilty, with indifference he hearsEvil and good, and knows not wrath nor pity.

PIMEN. Wakest thou, brother?

GREGORY. Honoured father, give meThy blessing.

PIMEN. May God bless thee on this day,Tomorrow, and for ever.

GREGORY. All night longThou hast been writing and abstained from sleep,While demon visions have disturbed my peace,The fiend molested me. I dreamed I scaledBy winding stairs a turret, from whose heightMoscow appeared an anthill, where the peopleSeethed in the squares below and pointed at meWith laughter. Shame and terror came upon me--And falling headlong, I awoke. Three timesI dreamed the selfsame dream. Is it not strange?

PIMEN. 'Tis the young blood at play; humble thyselfBy prayer and fasting, and thy slumber's visionsWill all be filled with lightness. HithertoIf I, unwillingly by drowsinessWeakened, 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 diversionsOf youthful years.

GREGORY. How joyfully didst thouLive out thy youth! The fortress of KazanThou fought'st beneath, with Shuisky didst repulseThe 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 meWas 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 ageHave 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 worldThou early didst forsake, that few temptationsThe 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 takenDelight in many things, but never knewTrue bliss until that season when the LordGuided 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 themA burden; for a cowl they bartered it.The tsar Ivan sought in monastic toilTranquility; his palace, filled erewhileWith haughty minions, grew to all appearanceA monastery; the very rakehells seemedObedient monks, the terrible tsar appearedA pious abbot. Here, in this very cell(At that time Cyril, the much suffering,A righteous man, dwelt in it; even meGod then made comprehend the nothingnessOf worldly vanities), here I beheld,Weary of angry thoughts and executions,The tsar; among us, meditative, quietHere sat the Terrible; we motionlessStood in his presence, while he talked with usIn tranquil tones. Thus spake he to the abbotAnd all the brothers: "My fathers, soon will comeThe longed-for day; here shall I stand before you,Hungering for salvation; Nicodemus,Thou Sergius, Cyril thou, will all acceptMy spiritual vow; to you I soon shall comeAccurst in sin, here the clean habit take,Prostrate, most holy father, at thy feet."So spake the sovereign lord, and from his lipsSweetly the accents flowed. He wept; and weWith tears prayed God to send His love and peaceUpon his suffering and stormy soul.--What of his son Feodor? On the throneHe sighed to lead the life of calm devotion.The royal chambers to a cell of prayerHe turned, wherein the heavy cares of stateVexed not his holy soul. God grew to loveThe tsar's humility; in his good daysRussia was blest with glory undisturbed,And in the hour of his decease was wroughtA miracle unheard of; at his bedside,Seen by the tsar alone, appeared a beingExceeding bright, with whom Feodor 'ganTo 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 presentIn church before the tsar. And when he diedThe 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 rulerA tsar's assassin.

GREGORY. Honoured father, longHave I desired to ask thee of the deathOf young Dimitry, the tsarevich; thou,'Tis said, wast then at Uglich.

PIMEN. Ay, my son,I well remember. God it was who led meTo witness that ill deed, that bloody sin.I at that time was sent to distant UglichUpon 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 alreadyAll Uglich. There I see the young tsarevichLie slaughtered: the queen mother in a swoonBowed over him, his nurse in her despairWailing; and then the maddened people dragThe godless, treacherous nurse away. AppearsSuddenly in their midst, wild, pale with rage,Judas Bityagovsky. "There, there's the villain!"Shout on all sides the crowd, and in a triceHe was no more. Straightway the people rushedOn the three fleeing murderers; they seizedThe hiding miscreants and led them upTo 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 terrorBeneath the axe the villains did confess--And named Boris.

GREGORY. How many summers livedThe 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 wherewithMy chronicle doth end; since then I littleHave dipped in worldly business. Brother Gregory,Thou hast illumed thy mind by earnest study;To thee I hand my task. In hours exemptFrom the soul's exercise, do thou record,Not subtly reasoning, all things wheretoThou shalt in life be witness; war and peace,The sway of kings, the holy miraclesOf 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.

GREGORY. Boris, Boris, before theeAll tremble; none dares even to remind theeOf what befell the hapless child; meanwhileHere in dark cell a hermit doth inditeThy stern denunciation. Thou wilt notEscape the judgment even of this world,As thou wilt not escape the doom of God.