Classic Poem

SCENE THE FIFTH.

Night. A Cell in Tchudoff Monastery

FATHER PEAMEN GRIGORY

PEAMEN .

And now but one last record still remains,
And then my chronicle is ended quite,
The task fulfilled that God imposed on me,
A sinner. Not in vain have I been called
The deeds of many years to celebrate,
And make the lore of books my chief delight.
In future days, some student brother-monk
Shall find this scroll, the earnest of my life,
And lighting up, as I am wont, his lamp,
Shake from its covers worn the gathered dust,
And copy fair my annals true and just,
That teach the faithful, who come after us,
The changeful story of their country's past,
Recall to them their Tsars, illustrious
In labours, glory, and the good they did.
And lead them pray the Christ to pardon grant
For their ill deeds and for their darker crimes.
In my old age I seem to live once more,
As days gone by again before me pass
Is it, in truth, so long since they flowed by,
Full-surging, like an ocean-sea, with storms?
To me they now are still and voiceless all:
Few heroes past yet live within my mind,
Of their great words but few are fresh preserved;
The rest, a shadow, leaves no trace behind!
But dawn is near; the lamp begins burn pale;
And now but one last record still remains!

GRIGORY .

Once more that dream! 'Tis very strange! Three times
The same accursed dream!... And all the while,
Before his lamp the good old man doth sit
And write, nor once in sleep his eyelids close.
I love to gaze upon his tranquil face,
As, buried mind and soul in days gone by,
His chronicle he pens; and oft I fain
Would from his looks discern of what he writes:
Or of the gloomy Tartar stifling yoke,
Or of Ivan's dark reign of tortures harsh,
Or of the streets of Novgorod blood-stained,
Or of our native country's fame. In vain:
Nor on his forehead high, nor in his glance,
Can I e'er read his secret, hidden thoughts;
He ever wears that calm, majestic mien,
Like some official clerk in service old,
Who looks unmoved on innocence and guilt,
And good or ill indifferent regards,
Nor sign of pity or of anger shows.

PEAMEN

Thou hast awaked, good brother mine?

GRIGORY

Bless me,
Holy father.

PEAMEN

The Lord abide with thee,
And bless thee day and night throughout thy life!

GRIGORY

Whilst thou, all night a stranger to repose,
Didst write, my rest an evil dream, the false
Creation of our common foe, has troubled
Methought, that up a steep ascent I climbed,
And reached a tower from whose lofty height
No larger Moscow seemed than anthill's mound;
Below, the people thronged the city-square,
And, upward gazing, laughed and jeered at me:
With shame possessed, and losing self-command,
I fell headlong, and with the shock awoke.
I thrice have dreamed the same accursed dream.
Is it not strange?

PEAMEN

The play of youthful blood,
Which can alone by prayer and fast be tamed,
So that thy sleep be blessed with lighter dreams.
In my old age, if I, against my will
Subdued by toil of long-continued work,
Neglect to pray God's blessing on the night,
My sleep with sinful visions is disturbed;
And I once more am guest at royster's feast,
Again take part in wild exploit of war,
Or share in maddest freak of youthful years.

GRIGORY .

In gay and active life thy youth was passed.
Before Kazan's strong towers hast thou fought,
And under Shouisky the foe repulsed,
Hast known the court and pomp of great Ivan:
In all hast been kind fortune's favourite!
Whilst I, a monk from boyish years, have known
Till now no other change save change of cell
I ne'er have known the rush and noise of war,
At table of the Tsar have ne'er been called
To feast. I, too, like thee, when old age came,
Would have renounced the world, its pleasures vain,
Have ta'en the vow, and lived in monkish cell.

PEAMEN .

Do not repine that in thy early years
Thou didst renounce this sinful world, or that
The Highest spared thee trials too severe.
Believe my words: From early years we are
By fame, by pomp, by woman's love enslaved.
Too long I lived, gay pleasures at my beck,
But truest happiness have only felt
Since hither I was called to serve the Lord.
Dost thou, my son, of Tsars with envy think?
No rule, save God's alone, can top their sway,
And none oppose their will. Yet what are they?
The golden crown weighs heavy on their brow,
And gladly would they change it for the cowl
The Tsar Ivan long sought full peace of soul
In monkish work and holy convent toil.
The palace, filled of yore with fawning slaves,
Now seemed the calm retreat of prayerful men:
And courtiers proud gave place to humble folk;
The Tsar himself assumed the Prior's dress.
I saw him once, e'en here, in this same cell,
Wherein then lived the holy martyr Cyril,
The saintliest of men; it was the time
When God revealed to me the nothingness
And vain deceit of worldly things. I saw the Tsar,
Worn out with schemes of cruel punishments;
Deep lost in thought the dread Tsar sat with us,
As silent we before him trembling stood,
And then began converse in quiet tone,
As thus the monks and Prior he bespake:
" My fathers, soon the wished-for day will dawn,
When hither I, salvation thirsting, come;
Thou, Nicodeme, thou, Serge, and Cyril, thou,
And all of you shall then receive my vow:
For I shall come, a sinner in despair,
And kneeling, holy father, at thy feet,
Shall don the robe of true religion's peace "
Thus, weeping, spake the dread and mighty Tsar,
From forth his lips the words flowed soft and sweet;
With his our tears we mingled, as we prayed
The God of Heaven with calm and love to fill
His suff'ring, tortured soul, by passion tossed.
Or shall I tell of Theodore, his son?
Upon his throne he oft would dream the life
Of tranquil monk were his The chamber royal
He changed into a room of prayer, where cares
Of troubled state were weak his soul to vex;
And God was pleased, and blessed the Angel-Tsar,
And gave his kingdom peace, and kept it safe
His hour of death was also strangely marked
By sign of wonder sent from heaven direct:
Beside his bed, though seen by none save him,
Appeared a form that bright in glory shone,
With whom the youthful Tsar began commune,
And called him by the name of Patriarch.
And we who stood around were seized with fear;
The Patriarch, we knew, was distant far,
Nor near the spot where lay the dying Tsar.
And as he breathed his last, the room was filled
With sweetest fragrance, and his face a-glow...
We ne'er shall look upon his like again!
O woe untold, and crown of horrors dread!
We banished God from out our hearts, and sinned:
We chose the slayer foul of our young Tsar
To sit upon his throne.

GRIGORY

I oft have wished
To question thee, my father, of the death
Of Dmitry the Tsarevitch. Wert thou not
At Uglitch then?

PEAMEN .

Too well I know the tale!
God willed that I should see the evil deed,
The monstrous crime. I had received command
To go to Uglitch, where I came the night.
Next morn, at service hour, I hear the clang
Of bells that ring the tocsin of alarm;
Throughout the city all is noise and cries,
The palace is besieged with eager crowds
I thither run, and, looking round, I see
Before me stretched young Dmitry's lifeless form,
With throat deep cut, and o'er her murdered child,
In deadly swoon, the pale Tsaritza falls,
Beside the corpse the foster-mother kneels.
Meanwhile, the people, mad with fury, hale
From place to place the nurse who traitress played.
And now appears before us, pale with fear,
Bietargovsky, the Judas butcher foul:
" See, see, the assassin! " shriek the maddened mob:
A minute more, and he has ceased to live.
The people rush to seek the murd'rers three,
In haste they seize the shrinking criminals,
And bring them close beside the child's cold corpse;
When, wonder-working heaven! the blood flows forth.
" Confess! " with one loud shout the people yell:
And, fearing death, the three confessed their crime,
And gave their hirer's name,.. the name, Boris.

GRIGORY .

How old was then Dmitry the Tsarevitch?

PEAMEN .

His seventh year just passed: he now would be...
For this took place ten years ago... nay, more,
Twelve years at least.. in age the same as thou,
Had he but lived to reign. God's will be done!
It is with this sad story I conclude
The chronicle I write, for from that time
I mix but little with the outer world
Grigory, listen, thou hast studied well,
Canst read and write, this charge bequeath I thee:
In hours free from work religious, write
With pen impartial all that thou mayst see;
Both wars and peace, the rule of sov'reign Tsars,
The mighty wonders wrought by God's elect,
The prophets and the signs from heaven sent
The hour is late, I feel I need must rest,
And lamp I will extinguish now... But hark,
The matin-bell.. The Lord have mercy on
Us, his slaves! Give here my staff, Grigory!

GRIGORY .

Boris! Boris! all quake before thee now!
Nor is there one who dares thy guilt denounce,
The bloody fate of thy young, stainless prey.
Meanwhile, the monk-recluse within his cell
Records in flaming words the horrid crime;
And, as God's judgment shall not ever sleep,
E'en so thou canst not hush man's sentence just.