Night: A cell in the Chúdov monastery
FATHER PÍMEN, GRIGÓRI (sleeping).
Pímen (writing before a lamp). Once more, one final anecdote, and then
My manuscript will be complete, the task
On me, a sinner, laid by God, fulfilled.
’T is not for naught that during all these years
The Lord hath made me witness many things,
And taught me all the art of writing books.
When in the future some industrious monk
Shall find my hard-accomplished, nameless work,
He will, like me, illume his little lamp,
And, brushing off the dust of centuries,
Will copy down my truthful chronicle.
Then will the children of believers true
Read all the story of their native land,
Recall the labours of their mighty Tsars,
Performed for them, for glory and for right,
And humbly offer prayers that God will blot
The crimes, though dark, of him who wrought for them.
Thus, bent for many years I live anew.
The past before me rose its hurrying flood.
Is’t long ago that like the angry sea
Time’s fateful surges broke in great events?
And now it rests in motionless repose!
Not many men my memory preserves,
Not many words are in my mind engrossed,
And all the rest for ever now are gone.
But day is nigh, my little lamp burns dim,
One more, one final story of the past! (Writes.)
Grigóri (wakes). That dream again? How strange! That cursèd dream!
Thrice have I dreamed it! But the aged man
Still sits before his little lamp and writes.
He hath not closed his eyes the livelong night
In slumber: how I love his peaceful mien,
As, deeply buried in the past, his soul
Broods o’er the secret of his manuscript.
How gladly would I scan his precious line.
What writeth he: the Tatars’ bloody reign,—
The cruel deeds of John the Terrible?
The stormy council of old Nóvgorod?
The glories of the fatherland? In vain!
Nor in his glance nor in his lofty brow
Can one discern the secrets of his mind:
His mien is calm and full of majesty,
As well becomes an aged priest who looks
With cloudless eye on good and evil men
Impartially, detecting right and wrong
Or hatred or compassion knowing not.
Pímen. Art thou awake?
Grigóri. Thy blessing, honoured sire.
Pímen. The Lord His blessing grant thee, oh, my son,
To-day, hereafter, and for evermore!
Grigóri. Long has thy pen been busy, nor has sleep
Once brought thee sweet oblivion this night;
But some strange, diabolic vision hath disturbed
My rest: my enemy hath tormented me.
I dreamed that up the winding narrow stairs
I mounted to the windy tower alone;
Before me from the top all Moscow lay
Diminished like an ant-hill. Far below
The people swarmed and babbled in the square
And jeered at me with senseless ridicule.
Shame mastered me and terror overwhelmed,
And, falling headlong on my face, I waked.
’T is thrice that I have dreamed the selfsame dream.
Is’t not a marvel?
Pímen.’T is thy youthful blood
Makes sport of thee: by prayer and strenuous fast
Thy dreams will be with peaceful visions filled.
’T is e’en not otherwise with me when I,
Dazed with involuntary drowsiness,
E’er fail my soul with earnest prayer to guard—
My aged dreams are then disturbed with sin:
While scenes of banqueting torment me oft,
Now warlike camps or surging battles rude,
Now senseless dissipations of wild youth.
Grigóri. How gaily must have passed thy youthful days!
Thou wast in battle ’neath Kazán’s high walls;
Hast shared the wars in Lithuania’s plains;
Hast seen the wanton court of John the Great.
How fortunate! But I from earliest years
Have been immured in cells a needy monk!
Why should not I have had delight in war
And feasted at the table of the Tsar?
Then, when I reached like thee the term of life,
I might have turned me gladly from the world
And all its vanities, and shut myself
Within the calm retirement of a cell
To meditate upon my holy vows.
Pímen. Lament not, brother, that thou hast so soon
The world abandoned, that a loving God
Hath little of temptation sent to thee.
Take thou my word, a fascination strong
Is exercised upon us from afar,
By glory, luxury, and woman’s wiles.
Long have I lived and much have I enjoyed;
But only true enjoyment have I known
Since to the cloister God hath led my steps.
Recall the mightiest Tsars that have ever lived.
Who stands above them? God alone! And who
Would venture to oppose them? None! What then?
On them so sorely weighs the golden crown
They would exchange it gladly for the cowl.
E’en John the Tsar sought comfort and relief
Within the semblance of monastic rule.
His court, where swarmed his haughty favourites,
The novel aspect of a cloister took;
His body-guard, in sackcloth and in stole,
Appeared like docile monks, the while the Tsar,
Himself, the cruel Tsar, an abbot mild.
Myself have seen, here in this very cell—
(’T was then the abode of that most just of men,
Kiríll, who suffered much, and even then
I also had been led by God to see
The folly of the world)—myself have seen,
Here in this very cell, the mighty Tsar,
Grown weary of his mad designs and wrath,
Repenting, sit amongst us, meek and mild.
We stood before him silent, motionless,
And quietly he would converse with us,
Would hold the abbot and the brotherhood:
“Ye fathers, soon the wished-for hour will come,
When I ’ll appear with hunger to be saved;
Thou Nikodím, thou Sérgi, thou Kiríll,
And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow!
I’ll come to you a sinner in despair;
I’ll take upon myself the monk’s harsh garb,
I’ll fall, O holy father, at thy feet!”
Thus spoke the mighty ruler of the realm;
And gentle words flowed from his cruel lips,
And tears bedewed his cheeks; and we in tears
Would pray our Lord his sinful, suffering soul
To fill with everlasting love and peace.
But his son Feódor? Upon the throne
Vowed to perpetual silence, like a monk;
He sighed to lead a life of easy peace.
He straightway changed the royal palace-halls
To cloistered cells, the heavy cares of state
Did not at all disturb his saintly soul.
God mercifully gave the Tsar his peace;
And while he lived, our Russia, undisturbed
In taintless glory, owned his gentle sway.
But when he died, a miracle was wrought,
Unheard of: at his couch appeared a man
With face of flame, seen by the Tsar alone.
Feódor talked with him, and called him “Sire,”—
“Great Patriarch.” All around were filled with fear
To see the heavenly apparition there,
Because the holy father was not then
Within the chamber where the Tsar was laid.
When he appeared sweet fragrance filled the halls,
And like the sun his holy visage shone.
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