Original subtitles

First Creative Union

Filmov� Studio Barrandov Allianz Filmproduktion Zepoli Filmove

Alexander Pushkin

Boris Godunov

Written and directed by Sergei Bondarchuk

Cinematography by Vadim Yusov

Production Design by Vladimir Aronin

Costume Design by Lidiya Novi

Original Music by Vyacheslav Ovchinnikov

Director: Igor Petrov

Sound by Aleksandr Pogosyan

Make-up: Tamara Gaidukova Director: Roman Tsurtsumiya

Production Director: Valery Malkov

Cast: Vyacheslav Butenko, Yelena Bondarchuk, Gennady Mitrofanov

Valeriy Storozhik, Yuri Lazarev, Vladimir Sedov

Georgi Burkov, Vadim Aleksandrov, Irina Skobtseva

Kira Golovko, Lyudmila Korshakova, Fyodor Bondarchuk

Khenek Makhalitsa, Olgerd Lukashevich, Marian Dziedziel

Vladimir Novikov, Viktor Yakovlev, Oleg Mikhajlov

Boris Khimichev, Aleksandr Titorenko, Norbert Kuchinke

Viktor Smirnov, Yuriy Sherstnyov, Vladimir Ferapontov

Yura Matyukhin, Valeri Sheptekita, Galina Dyomina

Ivan Lapikov, Nikolai Yerofeyev, Aleksandr Sajko

Wladyslaw Komar, Volodya Latnik

One last tale...

and my chronicle is finished

My duty to God is now fulfilled.

February 20, 1598

To keep the city's peace, that is the task entrusted to us twain

but you forsooth have little need to watch; Moscow is empty

What if our ruler be sick in very deed of cares of state

And hath no strength to mount the throne? What say'st thou?

I say that in that case the blood in vain Flowed of the young tsarevich,

that Dimitry might just as well be living.

Fearful crime!

Is it beyond all doubt Boris contrived The young boy's murder?

Who besides? Who else bribed Chepchugov in vain?

Who sent in secret The brothers Bityagovsky with Kachalov?

Monstrous misdeed!

Listen; I warrant you Remorse already gnaws the murderer;

Be sure the blood of that same innocent child Will hinder him from mounting to the throne.

That will not baulk him; Boris is not so timid!

What honour for ourselves, ay, for all Russia!

A slave of yesterday, a Tartar, son By marriage of Maliuta, of a hangman,

Himself in soul a hangman, he to wear The crown and robe of Monomakh!

You are right; he is of lowly birth; we twain can boast a nobler lineage.

Indeed we may!

Let us remember, Shuisky, Vorotinsky Are, let me say, born princes.

Yea, born princes, And of the blood of Rurik.

Listen, prince; Then we, 'twould seem, should have the right to mount Feodor's throne.

- Rather than Godunov. - In very truth 'twould seem so.

And what then? If still Boris pursue his crafty ways,

Let us contrive by skilful means to rouse The people. Let them turn from Godunov;

Princes they have in plenty of their own; Let them from out their number choose a tsar.

He is inexorable! He thrust from him Prelates, boyars, and Patriarch;

in vain prostrate they fall; the splendour of the throne affrights him.

- O, my God, who is to rule us? - O, woe to us!

See! The Chief Minister is coming out to tell us what the Council has now resolved.

Silence! Silence! He speaks, The Minister of State. Hush, hush! Give ear!

The Council have resolved for the last time To put to proof the power of supplication

Upon our ruler's mournful soul.

We all will go to pray once more the queen to pity fatherless Moscow,

and to consecrate Boris unto the crown.

Pray; and to Heaven shall rise The heart's petition of the orthodox.

To plead with the tsaritsa in her cell Now are they gone.

Thither have gone Boris, The Patriarch, and a host of boyars.

- What news? - Still is he obdurate; yet there is hope.

Drat you! Stop crying, or else the bogie-man will carry you off.

Can't we slip through behind the fence?

Impossible! No chance at all! Not only is the nunnery crowded;

What is that noise?

Listen! What noise is that?

The people groaned; They fall like waves, row upon row... again... again...

Now, brother, 'tis our turn; Be quick, down on your knees!

- Why are they wailing? - How can we know?

The boyars know well enough. It's not our business.

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!

That's right, that's right!

As everyone is crying, We also, brother, will begin to cry.

- Brother, I try my best, but can't. - Nor I.

Have you not got an onion?

No; I'll wet my eyes with spittle.

What's up there now?

The crown for him! He is tsar! He has yielded!

Boris! Our tsar! Long live Boris!

...Belovered son, our sovereign, tsar and great prince

Boris Feodorovich, potentate of all Russia by our Lord's will and providence

Our Lord, protect him within your sacred creation

Uphold his empire in Your favor

May his reign shine with truth and much peace

This globus cruciger is the sign of your sovereignty

May your hands hold tight onto this orb

Crowned by God, esteemed by God, chosen by God, and loved by God

accept from God this sceptre

and the khorugv banners of the great Russian tsardom

Preserve and protect it

Great is thine force, tsar

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.

We will not from our plighted oath depart.

We will not from our plighted oath depart.

Now let us go to kneel before the tombs

Of Russia's great departed rulers.

- You rightly guessed. - Guessed what?

- Why, you remember, the other day, here on this very spot. - No, I remember nothing. - When the people flocked to the Virgin's Field, thou said'st...

'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.

Wily courtier!

Ever the selfsame dream! Is 't possible?

For the third time! Accursed dream!

Wakest thou, brother?

Honoured father, give me thy blessing.

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

Year 1603

All night long thou hast been writing and abstained from sleep,

While demon visions have disturbed my peace, the fiend molested me.

Honoured father, long Have I desired to ask thee

of the death of young Dimitry, the tsarevich;

thou, 'tis said, wast then at Uglich.

Ay, my son, I well remember.

God it was who led me To witness that ill deed,

that bloody sin.

Oh horrible, unrivaled tragedy! How we have angered God by our sin!

The murderer of tsar - we made our sovereign

- How many summers lived the murdered boy? - 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.

For me 'tis time to rest and quench my lamp.

But hark! The matin bell.

Bless, Lord, Thy servants!

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.

And he has run away, Father Abbot?

He has run away, holy sovereign, now three days ago.

Accursed rascal! What is his origin?

Of the family of the Otrepievs, of the lower nobility of Galicia;

in his youth he took the tonsure, no one knows where, finally arrived at my Chudov fraternity

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

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?

Heresy, holy Patriarch; downright heresy

Where is the sovereign?

In his bed-chamber, Where he is closeted with some magician.

Fain would I know What 'tis he would foretell.

I have attained the highest power.

Six years Already have I reigned in peace;

but joy dwells not within my soul.

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!

With what shall I regale you, my reverend honoured guests?

With what God sends, little hostess. Have you no wine?

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

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!

- Well said! - There you are, my fathers. Drink to your health.

Thanks, my good friend. God bless thee.

Why don't you join in the song?

- I don't wish to - Everyone to his liking - But a tipsy man's in Heaven, Father Missail!

We will drink a glass to our hostess.

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

Drink, and keep your thoughts to yourself, Father Varlaam!

You see, I too sometimes know how to make puns.

- But why should I keep my thoughts to myself? - Let him alone, Father 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.

- Whither leads this road? - To Lithuania, my dear, to the Luyov mountains

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.

Well said, Father Varlaam.

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

Good health to you, mine hostess!

You are kindly welcome, dear guests.

Ha, there's drinking going on here; we shall get something here.

Who are you?

We are two old clerics, humble monks

we are going from village to village, and collecting Christian alms for the monastery

- And thou? - Our comrade.

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.

Hostess, bring some more wine,

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

Well, my fathers, how are you getting on?

Badly, my sons, badly!

The Christians have now turned stingy

they love their money; they hide their money.

They have all devoted themselves to commerce, to earthly cares

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

All earthly beings have befallen to great sin

God pardon and save you!

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

Ah, it is bad! It seems our last days have come...

Why do you look at me so fixedly?

This is why:

from Moscow there has fled a certain wicked heretic, Grishka Otrepiev.

Have you heard this?

- I have not heard it. - Not heard it? Very good.

And the tsar has ordered to arrest and hang the fugitive heretic.

Do you know this?

I do not know it.

It seems to me that this fugitive heretic, thief, swindler, is thou.

I? Good gracious! What are you talking about?

More wine!

Now, my dear guests. The final draught!

Read the prayer, boy.

For our monarch we pray, 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

Long live our mighty sovereign!

Farewell, dear guests. I thank you that ye scorned not my bread and salt. Farewell

good-night

Hardly could they tear themselves away

indeed, prince Vassily Ivanovitch, I began to think that we should not succeed in getting any private talk

You there, why do you stand gaping? Always eavesdropping on gentlemen!

Clear the table, and then be off.

- What is it, Athanasius Mikailovitch? - Such a wondrous thing!

A message was sent here to me today From Cracow by my nephew Gabriel Pushkin.

'Tis strange news my nephew writes. The son of the Terrible... But stay...

- The royal boy, who murdered was by order of Boris - But these are no new tidings. - Wait a little

Dimitry lives.

So that's it! News indeed! Dimitry living!...

Really marvelous! And is that all?

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.

And what say men of this bold fellow?

'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.

All this is such a medley That my head whirls.

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

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,

And then in some deaf nook a starving death, or else the halter.

And are the people The better off? Ask them.

Let the pretender but promise them the old free right of transfer, then there'll be sport.

Thou'rt right Pushkin

but be advised; Of this, of all things,

for a time we'll speak no word.

Assuredly, keep thine own counsel. Thou art a person of discretion; always I am glad to commune with thee;

and if aught at any time disturbs me, I endure not to keep it from thee

and, truth to tell, thy mead and velvet ale today have so untied my tongue...

Farewell then, prince.

Brother, farewell.

Farewell

My dear bridegroom, comely son of a king,

not to me wast thou given, not to thy affianced bride, but to a dark sepulchre in a strange land

never shall I take comfort, ever shall I weep for thee.

Eh, tsarevna! A maiden weeps as the dew falls; the sun will rise, will dry the dew.

Thou wilt have another bridegroom, and handsome and affable.

My charming child, thou wilt learn to love him, thou wilt forget Ivan the king's son.

Nay, nurse, I will be true to him even in death.

What, Ksenia? What, my sweet one?

In thy girlhood Already a woe-stricken widow,

ever bewailing thy dead bridegroom!

Fate forbade me To be the author of thy bliss.

Perchance I angered Heaven

it was not mine to compass thy happiness

Innocent one, for what art thou a sufferer?

Forgive me, my friend, may God give you comfort

And thou, my son, With what art thou employed? What's this?

A chart of all the land of Muscovy; our tsardom from end to end.

Here you see; there is Moscow, there Novgorod,

there Astrakhan. Here lies the sea,

here the dense forest tract of Perm, and here Siberia.

And what is this Which makes a winding pattern here?

- That is The Volga. - Very good!

Here's the sweet fruit of learning.

One can view as from the clouds Our whole dominion at a glance

its frontiers, its towns, its rivers.

Learn, my son

'tis science which gives to us an abstract of the events of our swift-flowing life

Some day, perchance soon,

all the lands which thou so cunningly today hast drawn on paper,

all will come under thy hand.

Learn, therefore,

and more smoothly, more clearly wilt thou take, my son, upon thee the cares of state.

What news hast thou for me, Semyon Nikitich?

Today at dawn the butler of Prince Shuisky And Pushkin's servant brought me information.

- Well? - In the first place Pushkin's man deposed

that yestermorn came to his house from Cracow a courier,

who within an hour was sent without a letter back.

- Arrest the courier. - Some are already sent to overtake him.

And what of Shuisky?

Last night he entertained his friends; the Buturlins, both Miloslavskys,

and Saltikov, with Pushkin and some others. They parted late.

Pushkin alone remained closeted with his host

and talked with him a long time more.

For Shuisky send forthwith.

- Sire, he is here already. - Call him hither.

Dealings with Lithuania? What means this?

I like not the seditious race of Pushkins,

Nor must I trust in Shuisky, obsequious, But bold and wily...

Prince, I must speak with thee.

But thou thyself, it seems, hast business with me, and I would listen first to thee

Yea, sire. It is my duty to convey to thee grave news.

- I listen. - But, sire...

The tsarevich may learn whate'er Prince Shuisky knoweth.

Speak.

My liege, from Lithuania there have come tidings to us...

Are they not those same tidings Which yestereve a courier bore to Pushkin?

Nothing is hidden from him!... Sire, I thought thou knew'st not yet this secret

Let not that trouble thee, prince

I fain would scrutinise thy information, else we shall not learn the actual truth

I know this only, Sire In Cracow a pretender hath appeared

The king and nobles back him.

What say they? And who is this pretender?

- I know not. - But wherein is he dangerous?

Verily thy state, my liege, is firm;

by graciousness, zeal, bounty, thou hast won the filial love of all thy slaves

but thou thyself dost know

The mob is thoughtless, changeable, rebellious, credulous,

lightly given to vain hope, Obedient to each momentary impulse,

To truth deaf and indifferent

it feedeth on fables; shameless boldness pleaseth it.

So, if this unknown vagabond should cross the Lithuanian border,

Dimitry's name raised from the grave will gain him a whole crowd of fools.

Dimitry's? What? That child's? Dimitry's? Withdraw, tsarevich.

He flushed; there'll be a storm!

- Suffer me, Sire... - Impossible, my son; Go, go!

- Dimitry's name! - Then he knew nothing.

Listen: take steps this very hour that Russia be fenced by barriers from Lithuania

That not a single soul pass o'er the border, That not a hare run o'er to us from Poland,

Nor crow fly here from Cracow. Away!

- I go. - Stay!

Is it not a fact that this report Is artfully concocted?

Hast ever heard that dead men have arisen from their graves to question tsars,

legitimate tsars, appointed, chosen by the voice of all the people,

crowned by the great Patriarch? Is't not laughable?

Eh? What? Why laugh'st thou not thereat?

I, Sire?

Hark, Prince Vassily

when first I learned this child had been

this child had somehow lost its life, 'twas thou I sent to search the matter out.

Now by the Cross and God I do adjure thee, Declare to me the truth upon thy conscience

Didst recognise the slaughtered boy; was't not a substitute? Reply.

I swear to thee

Nay, Shuisky, swear not, but reply

- was it Indeed Dimitry? - He.

Consider, prince. I promise clemency

I will not punish With vain disgrace a lie that's past.

But if thou now beguile me,

then by my son's head I swear: an evil fate shall overtake thee,

Requital such that Tsar Ivan Vasilievich Shall shudder in his grave with horror of it

In punishment no terror lies, the terror doth lie in thy disfavour

in thy presence dare I use cunning?

Could I deceive myself So blindly as not recognise Dimitry?

Three days in the cathedral did I visit His corpse, escorted thither by all Uglich.

Around him thirteen bodies lay of those Slain by the people,

and on them corruption already had set in perceptibly.

But lo! The childish face of the tsarevich Was bright and fresh and quiet as if asleep

The deep gash had congealed not, nor the lines of his face even altered.

No, my liege, there is no doubt; Dimitry sleeps in the grave.

Enough, withdraw.

I choke!... let me get my breath!

So that is why for thirteen years together I have dreamed ever about the murdered child

Yes, yes... 'Tis that!... now I perceive.

But who is he, my terrible antagonist? Who is it opposeth me?

An empty name, a shadow. Can it be a shade shall tear from me the purple,

A sound deprive my children of succession?

Fool that I was! Of what was I afraid? Blow on this phantom--and it is no more.

So, I am fast resolved; I'll show no sign of fear,

but nothing must be held in scorn.

Ah!

Heavy art thou, crown of Monomakh!

I, Dimitry, son of Ivan Vasilievich and Rurikovich

believe in all which is prescribed by the saint Roman Catholic church

especially the primacy of the Pope of Rome

prince of apostles, St-Peter's heir, vicegerent of Christ on Earth

- So help you God - So help me God

and His holy scriptures

upon which I place my hand

May Saint Ignatius aid thee When other times shall come.

Meanwhile, tsarevich, hide in thy soul the seed of heavenly blessing

Religious duty bids us oft dissemble Before the blabbing world;

the people judge thy words, thy deeds; God only sees thy motives.

Amen.

They have come to beg for sword And service with your Grace.

Welcome, my lads.

But tell me, Pushkin, who Is this fine fellow?

Prince Kurbsky.

A famous name!

Art kinsman to the hero of Kazan?

- His son. - Liveth he still?

Nay, he is dead.

My father led the remnant of his life On lands bestowed upon him by Batory

Hapless chieftain! How brightly shone the dawn of his resounding and stormy life!

Glad am I, noble knight, that now his blood is reconciled in thee to his fatherland.

The faults of fathers must not Be called to mind.

Peace to their grave.

Approach Kurbsky

Give me thy hand!

Is it not strange? The son of Kurbsky to the throne is leading - whom?

Whom but Ivan's own son?

All favours me; People and fate alike...

- Say, who art thou? - Sobansky, a free noble.

Praise and honour Attend thee, child of liberty.

Give him a third of his full pay beforehand.

Who are these?

On them I recognise the dress Of my own country. These are ours.

- Who art thou? - A Cossack

from the Don I am sent to thee, from the free troops, from the brave hetmen

From upper and lower regions of the Cossacks,

To look upon thy bright and royal eyes, And tender thee their homage.

Well I knew the men of Don

I doubted not to see The Cossack hetmen in my ranks.

We thank our army of the Don.

These are ours.

Yea, Sire, our father; we are thralls of thine, devoted and persecuted

we have fled from Moscow, disgraced, to thee our tsar,

and for thy sake are ready to lay down our lives

our corpses shall be for thee steps to the royal throne.

Take heart, innocent sufferers. Only let me reach Moscow,

and, once there, Boris shall settle some scores with me and you.

Forward! Long live Dimitry!

Forward, forward! Long live Dimitry, the great prince of Moscow!

Now then, is it ready?

Cannot you make haste?

I pray you first to make the difficult choice

Will you the necklace wear of pearls, or else the emerald half-moon?

My diamond crown.

Splendid!

Do you remember that you wore it When to the palace you were pleased to go?

They say that at the ball your gracious highness shone like the sun

men sighed, fair ladies whispered...

'Twas then that for the first time young Khotkevich beheld you,

he who after shot himself.

And whosoever looked on you, they say That instant fell in love.

Can't you be quicker?

that business looks dreadfully like marriage.

Now confess, didst ever think my daughter would be a queen?

'Tis wonderful...

And, Mnishek, didst thou think my servant would ascend the throne of Moscow?

And what a girl, look you, is my Marina.

I merely hinted to her: "Now, be careful! Let not Dimitry slip" -- and lo!

Already he is completely tangled in her toils.

What can Dimitry see in her?

How say you? She is a beauty.

Yes, a marble nymph; Eyes, lips, devoid of life, without a smile.

He is not handsome, but his eyes are pleasing,

And one can see he is of royal birth.

When will the army march?

When the tsarevich orders it, we are ready

but 'tis clear the lady Mnishek and Dimitry mean to keep us prisoners here

A pleasant durance.

End of Part One

Part Two

Tsarevich!

'Tis she.

Dimitry! Is it thou?

Is it thou, at last? Is it thou I see,

alone with me, beneath the roof of quiet night?

O, if it be only for one short hour, Forget the cares and troubles of my fate!

O, listen to the prayers of love! Grant me to utter all wherewith my heart is full

Prince, this is not the time; Thou loiterest,

and meanwhile the devotion of thine adherents cooleth.

already dubious rumours are current, novelty already takes the place of novelty

- and Godunov adopts his measures. - What is Godunov?

Is thy sweet love, my only blessedness, Swayed by Boris?

Nay, nay. Indifferently I now regard his throne, his kingly power

Thy love, without it what to me is life, And glory's glitter, and the state of Russia?

On the dull steppe, in a poor mud hut, Thou wilt requite me for the kingly crown

- Thy love... - For shame!

Forget not, prince, thy high And sacred destiny

thy dignity should be to thee more dear than all the joys of life and its allurements

It thou canst not with anything compare

Not to a boy, insanely boiling, captured by my beauty but to the heir

of Moscow's throne give I my hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevich rescued by destiny

Say...

if blind destiny had not assigned me a kingly birth

if I were not indeed son of Ivan,

were not this boy, so long forgotten by the world... say,

then wouldst thou have loved me?

Thou art Dimitry, and aught else thou canst not be

it is not possible for me to love another

Nay! I have done with counterfeiting,

and will tell the truth. Know, then,

thy Dimitry long ago perished,

was buried - and will not rise again

And dost thou wish to know what man I am?

Well, I will tell thee.

I am - a poor monk.

Grown weary of monastic servitude, I pondered 'neath the cowl my bold design,

Made ready for the world a miracle... And from my cell at last fled

I showed myself to you. I called myself Dimitry,

What say'st thou, proud Marina?

Art thou content with my confession? Why dost thou keep silence?

O shame!

O woe is me!

O whither hath a fit of anger led me?

Idiot, what have I done?

I see, I see

thou art ashamed of love not princely; so pronounce on me the fatal word

my fate is in thy hands.

Decide

I wait.

Rise, poor pretender!

prone at my feet I've seen knights and counts nobly born

but not for this did I reject their prayers, that a poor monk...

Scorn not the young pretender

noble virtues may lie perchance in him, virtues well worthy of Moscow's throne,

even of thy priceless hand...

Say of a shameful noose, insolent wretch!

I swear to thee that thou alone wast able to extort my heart's confession

I swear to thee that never, nowhere,

shall my tongue give away these weighty secrets.

Thou swearest! Then I must believe.

Believe, of course!

But may I learn by what thou swearest?

Is it not by the name of God, as suits the Jesuits' devout adopted son?

Or by thy honour as a high-born knight?

Or, maybe, by thy royal word alone As a king's son? Is it not so? Declare.

The phantom of the Terrible hath made me his son

from out the sepulchre hath named me Dimitry,

hath stirred up the people round me,

And hath consigned Boris to be my victim

I am tsarevich. Enough!

'Twere shame for me to stoop before a haughty Polish dame.

Farewell for ever

the game of bloody war,

The wide cares of my destiny,

will smother, I hope, the pangs of love

Now I leave thee

ruin, or else a crown, awaits my head in Russia

Whether I meet with death as fits a soldier in honourable fight,

or as a miscreant upon the public scaffold

thou shalt not be my companion,

nor shalt share with me my fate

But what if I expose beforehand thy bold fraud to all men?

Dost thou think I fear thee?

Think'st thou They will believe a Polish maiden more

Than Russia's own tsarevich?

Know, proud lady, That neither king, nor pope, nor nobles

trouble whether my words be true,

whether I be Dimitry

or another.

What care they?

But I provide a pretext for revolt and war

and this is all they need

and thee, rebellious one, believe me, they will force to hold thy peace

Farewell.

Tsarevich, stay!

At last I hear the speech not of a boy, but of a man.

It reconciles me to thee.

Prince, I forget thy senseless outburst, see again Dimitry.

Listen...

now is the time!

Hasten, delay no more,

lead on thy troops quickly to Moscow,

purge the Kremlin, take thy seat upon the throne of Moscow

then send me the nuptial envoy

but, God hears me, until thy foot be planted on its steps,

Until by thee Boris be overthrown,

I am not one to listen to love-speeches.

Ah, serpent! Serpent!

'Twas not for nothing that I trembled. She well-nigh ruined me

but I'm resolved

At daybreak I will put my troops in motion

There, there it is

there is the Russian frontier!

Fatherland! Holy Russia! I am thine!

With scorn from off my clothing now I shake the foreign dust,

and greedily I drink new air; it is my native air.

O father, thy soul hath now been solaced

in the grave thy bones, disgraced, thrill with a sudden joy!

Brave knight, I envy thee!

The son of Kurbsky, nurtured in exile, Forgetting all the wrongs borne by thy father,

Redeeming his transgression in the grave,

Ready art thou for the son of great Ivan To shed thy blood,

to give the fatherland its lawful tsar.

Righteous art thou; thy soul should flame with joy.

And dost not thou likewise rejoice in spirit?

There lies our Russia; she is thine, tsarevich!

There thy people's hearts Are waiting for thee,

there thy Moscow waits, thy Kremlin, thy dominion.

Russian blood, o Kurbsky, first must flow!

Thou for the tsar Hast drawn the sword, thou art stainless

but I lead you against your brothers; I am summoning Lithuania against Russia

I am showing to foes the longed-for way to beauteous Moscow!

But let my sin fall not on me, but thee, Boris, the regicide! Forward! Set on!

Advance! And woe to Godunov.

Is it possible? An unfrocked monk against us leads rascal troops,

a truant friar dares write threats to us!

Then 'tis time to tame the madman!

Three months shall not pass,

Sire, ere even rumour's tongue Shall cease to speak of the pretender

aged in iron, like a wild beast from oversea, we'll hale him into Moscow,

I swear by God.

Shchelkalov! In every district to the governors send edicts,

that they mount their steeds, and send the people as of old on service

The heretic Grishka Otrepiev, unfrocked monk

former young monk, a cleric of the Russian land

defiled the image of a monk

be damned

anathema

To our great sovereign

Boris Feodorovich

whole Russia's autocrat

many years of life

seditious whispers to and fro Pass in the market-places

minds are seething

We needs must cool them

gladly would I refrain from executions,

but by what means and how? That we will now determine.

Holy father, Thou first declare thy thought.

The means thereto God hath Himself supplied.

Know, sire, six years Since then have fled

'twas in that very year when to the seat of sovereignty the Lord anointed thee

there came to me one evening a simple shepherd, a venerable old man,

Who told me a strange secret.

"In my young days," He said, "I lost my sight,

and thenceforth knew not Nor day, nor night, till my old age

in vain I plied myself with herbs and secret spells

Bathed my dark eyes in vain with healing water from out the holy wells

The Lord vouchsafed not Healing to me.

Once in deep sleep I hear a childish voice; it speaks to me:

`Arise, grandfather, go to Uglich town, To the Cathedral of Transfiguration

There pray over my grave. The Lord is gracious - And I shall pardon thee.'

`But who art thou?' I asked the childish voice.

`I am the tsarevich Dimitry,

whom the Heavenly Tsar hath taken into His angel band,

and I am now a mighty wonder-worker.

Go, old man.'

I woke, and pondered.

What is this? Maybe God will in very deed vouchsafe to me belated healing.

I will go. I bent My footsteps to the distant road.

I reached Uglich, repair unto the holy minster, hear mass,

And when the people began to leave,

to my grandson I said: `Lead me, Ivan, to the grave of the tsarevich Dimitry .'

The boy led me...

and I scarce had shaped before the grave a silent prayer,

When sight illumed my eyeballs

I beheld the light of God, my grandson, and the tomb."

That is the tale, Sire, which the old man told.

This is my counsel: to the Kremlin send the sacred relics,

place them in the Cathedral of the Archangel

clearly will the people see then the godless villain's fraud

the might of the fiends will vanish as a cloud of dust.

What mortal, holy father, knoweth the ways

of the All-Highest? 'Tis not for me to judge Him.

This is no time to vex the people's minds With aught so unexpected, grave, and strange.

I myself see 'tis needful to demolish the rumour spread abroad by the unfrocked monk

But for this end other and simpler means Will serve.

Therefore, when it shall please thee, Sire,

I will myself appear in public places, I will persuade, exhort away this madness,

And will expose the vagabond's vile fraud.

So be it!

My lord Patriarch, I pray thee Go with us to the palace,

where today I must converse with thee.

Woe, woe!

The Tsarevich! The Poles! There they are! There they are!

Whither, whither? Allons! Go back!

You go back, if you like, cursed infidel.

Quoi, quoi?

Kva! kva! You like, you frog from over the sea, to croak at the Russian tsarevich

but we - we are orthodox.

Qu'est-ce a dire "orthodox"?

Sacres gueux, maudite canaille! Mordieu, mein Herr, j'enrage

on dirait que ca n'a pas de bras pour frapper,

ca n'a que des jambes pour foutre le camp.

Es ist Schande.

Tudieu, il y fait chaud!

Ce diable de "Pretender," comme ils l'appellent,

est un bougre, qui a du poil au cul?

- Qu'en pensez-vous, mein Herr? - Oh ja.

Voyez donc, voyez donc!

Ha! Voici nos allemands.

Messieurs!

Mein Herr, dites-leur donc de se raillier et, sacrebleu, chargeons!

Sehr gut.

Halt!

Marsch!

Hilf Gott!

Cease fighting. We have conquered. Enough!

Spare Russian blood. Cease fighting.

The heretic Grishka Otrepiev, unfrocked monk

former young monk, a cleric of the Russian land

defiled the image of a monk

be damned

Will the tsar soon come out of the cathedral?

The mass is ended; now the Te Deum is going on.

What! Have they already cursed him?

Let him curse to his heart's content

the tsarevich has nothing to do with the Otrepiev.

But they are now singing mass for the repose of the soul of the tsarevich.

What? A mass for the dead sung for a living man?

They'll suffer for it, the godless wretches!

Hist! A sound. Is it not the tsar?

No, it is the idiot.

Nick, Nick, iron nightcap!

Let him be, you young devils.

Innocent one, pray thou for me a sinner.

Give, give, give a penny.

There is a penny for thee; remember me in thy prayers.

The moon sails on,

The kitten cries,

Nick, arise,

Pray to God.

How do you do, Nick?

How it rings!

But I have got a penny.

That's not true; now, show it.

They have taken my penny,

they are hurting Nick.

The tsar, the tsar is coming!

Boris, Boris!

The boys are hurting Nick.

Give him alms!

What is he crying for?

The boys are hurting me...

Give orders to slay them, as thou slewest the little tsarevich.

Go away, fool! Seize the fool!

Leave him alone.

Pray thou for me, Nick.

No, no!

It is impossible to pray for tsar Herod

the Mother of God forbids it.

- Where is the prisoner? - Here.

Call him before me.

Who art thou?

Rozhnov, a nobleman of Moscow.

- Hast long been in the service? - About a month.

Art not ashamed, Rozhnov, that thou hast drawn the sword against me?

What else could I do? 'Twas not our fault.

Didst fight beneath the walls of Seversk?

'Twas two weeks after the battle I came from Moscow.

What of Godunov?

The battle's loss, Mstislavsky's wound, hath caused him much apprehension

Shuisky he hath sent to take command.

Well, how go things in Moscow?

All is quiet, thank God.

Say, do they look for me?

God knows. They dare not talk too much there now.

Of some the tongues have been cut off, of others even the heads.

Each day an execution. All the prisons are crammed.

Well! Of me what say they in your camp?

Your graciousness they speak of; say that thou,

Sire, (be not wrath), Art a thief, but a fine fellow.

Even so I'll prove myself to them in deed.

My friends, we will not wait for Shuisky

I wish you joy; Tomorrow, battle.

Long life to Dimitry!

Again doth flash our old ancestral sword,

This glorious sword - the dread of dark Kazan!

This good sword - servant of the tsars of Moscow!

Now will it revel in its feast of slaughter,

Serving the master of its hopes.

Come to me!

A horse for me!

My poor horse!

he is dying.

what to do?

Take off the bridle, and loose the girth

Let him at least die free.

Good day to you, gentlemen!

How is't I see not Kurbsky among you?

He fell on the field of battle.

Honour to the brave, And peace be on his soul!

And where shall we now spend the night?

Why, here, in the forest.

Why not this for our night quarters?

At daybreak we'll take the road, and dine in Rilsk. Good night.

A pleasant sleep, tsarevich!

Smashed to bits, Rescued by flight alone,

he is as careless as a simple child

'tis clear that Providence protects him,

and we, my friends, will not lose heart.

He is vanquished, but what profit lies in that?

We are crowned with a vain conquest

he has mustered again his scattered forces,

and anew threatens us from the ramparts of Putivl.

Meanwhile what are our heroes doing?

They stand at Krom,

where from its rotten battlements a band of Cossacks braves them.

There is glory! No, I am ill content with them

thyself I shall despatch to take command of them

I give authority not to birth, but brains

Their pride of precedence, let it be wounded!

The time has come for me to hold in scorn The murmur of distinguished nobodies,

And quash pernicious custom.

Ay, my lord Blessed a hundredfold will be that day

When fire consumes the lists of noblemen With their dissensions, their ancestral pride

That day is not far off

let me but first subdue the insurrection of the people.

Why trouble about that? The people always Are prone to secret treason

even so the swift steed champs the bit; so doth a lad chafe at his father's ruling

But what then?

The rider quietly controls the steed, The father sways the son.

Sometimes the horse Doth throw the rider,

nor is the son at all times quite 'neath the father's will

we can restrain the people only by unsleeping sternness

So thought Ivan, sagacious autocrat And storm-subduer

so his fierce grandson thought.

No, no, kindness is lost upon the people

Act well - it thanks you not at all

extort and execute - 'twill be no worse for you.

What now?

The foreign guests are come.

I go to welcome them.

Basmanov, wait, stay here

I still have need to speak... a word with thee.

A great thought within his mind has taken birth; it must not be suffered to grow cold

What a career for me when the ancestral horn he breaks of the nobility

I have no rivals in war. I shall stand closest to the throne

And it may chance...

- Fetch a physician! - Quickly to the Patriarch!

A confessor!

The tsar is ill, the tsar is dying.

Tsarevich, fetch the tsarevich!

Let all depart - alone leave the tsarevich with me.

I am dying

Let us embrace.

Farewell, my son

this hour thou wilt begin to reign.

O God, my God! This hour I shall appear before Thy presence

And have no time to purge my soul with shrift.

But yet, my son, I feel thou art dearer to me than is my soul's salvation, be it so

A subject was I born; it seemed ordained That I should die a subject in obscurity

Yet I attained to sovereignty; but how? Ask not.

Enough that thou art innocent.

In justice now thou'lt reign

and I alone am answerable for all to God

Give ear...

Firstly, select a steadfast counsellor, Of cool, ripe years,

loved of the people, honoured mid the boyars for birth and fame, even Shuisky.

The army craves today a skilful leader

Basmanov send, and firmly bear the murmurs of the boyars.

change not procedure. Custom is the soul of states.

Of late I have been forced to reinstate Bans, executions--these thou canst rescind

At the same time, little by little, tighten anew the reins of government

now slacken; But let them not slip from thy hands.

Be taciturn

The royal voice must never lose itself Upon the air in emptiness,

but like a sacred bell must sound but to announce

some great disaster or great festival.

Dear son,

thou art approaching to those years when woman's beauty agitates our blood.

Preserve, preserve the sacred purity Of innocence and proud shamefacedness

Of thy household be always head

show honour to thy mother, But rule thy house thyself

thou art a man and tsar to boot.

Be loving to thy sister

Thou wilt be left of her the sole protector.

No, no; live on, my father, and reign long

Without thee both the folk and we will perish

All is at end for me, mine eyes grow dark,

I feel the coldness of the grave

Who's there?

'tis the vestment! The holy tonsure

The hour has struck. The tsar becomes a monk,

And the dark sepulchre will be my cell.

Wait yet a little, my lord Patriarch,

I still am tsar. Listen to me, boyars:

To this my son I now commit the tsardom Do homage to Feodor.

Basmanov, thou, and ye, my friends, on the grave's brink I pray you

to serve my son with zeal and rectitude!

As yet he is both young and uncorrupted. Swear ye?

We swear.

We swear.

I am content.

Forgive me Both my temptations and my sins,

my wilful and secret injuries.

Now, holy father, Approach thou; I am ready for the rite.

Here enter, and speak freely. So to me he sent thee.

He doth offer thee his friendship and the next place to his in the realm of Moscow.

But even thus highly by Feodor am I already raised

The army I command; For me he scorned nobility of rank and the wrath of the boyars

I have sworn to him allegiance.

To the throne's lawful successor Allegiance thou hast sworn

but what if one more lawful still be living?

Listen, Pushkin: enough of that; tell me no idle tales! I know the man.

Russia and Lithuania Have long acknowledged him to be Dimitry

But, for the rest, I do not vouch for it.

Perchance he is indeed the real Dimitry Perchance but a pretender

only this I know, that soon or late the son of Boris will yield Moscow to him.

So long as I stand by the youthful tsar, so long he will not forsake the throne.

We have enough of troops, thank God! With victory I will inspire them.

with you I'll not dissemble, but, Basmanov, dost thou know wherein our strength lies?

Not in the army, no. Nor Polish aid, but in opinion

yes, in popular opinion.

Nay Basmanov, it is too late to blow on the cold embers of this dispute

with all thy wits and firmness thou'lt not withstand him.

Were't not better for thee To furnish to our chief a wise example,

Proclaim Dimitry tsar, and by that act Bind him your friend for ever?

How thinkest thou?

- Tomorrow thou shalt know. - Resolve. - Farewell.

Ponder it well, Basmanov.

He is right. He is right.

Everywhere treason ripens; what shall I do?

Wait, that the rebels may deliver me In bonds to the Otrepiev?

Had I not better forestall the stormy onset of the flood, myself

But to forswear mine oath! Dishonour to deserve from age to age!

The trust of my young sovereign to requite with horrible betrayal!

'Tis a light thing for a disgraced exile to meditate sedition and conspiracy, but I?

Is it for me, the favourite of my lord?

But death... but power... the people's miseries...

The tsarevich a boyar hath sent to us.

Let's hear what the boyar will tell us.

Hither! Hither!

Townsmen of Moscow!

The tsarevich bids me convey his greetings to you.

Ye know how Divine Providence saved the tsarevich from out the murderer's hands

he went to punish his murderer, but God's judgment hath already struck down Boris

All Russia hath submitted unto Dimitry

with heartfelt repentance Basmanov hath himself led forth

his troops to swear allegiance to him

In love, in peace Dimitry comes to you

Would ye, to please the house of Godunov, uplift a hand

Against the lawful tsar, against the grandson of Monomakh?

Not we.

Townsmen of Moscow!

The world well knows how much ye have endured under the rule of the cruel stranger

ban, dishonour, executions, taxes, hardships, hunger...

all these ye have experienced.

Dimitry is disposed to show you favour

But he himself is coming to his ancestral throne with dreadful escort.

Provoke not ye the tsar to wrath, fear God And swear allegiance to the lawful ruler

What is to be said? The boyar spake truth. Long live Dimitry, our father!

People! To the Kremlin! To the Royal palace!

The whelp of Boris go bind!

Perish the race of Godunov!

Bind, drown him! Hail Dimitry!

Give alms, for Christ's sake Give alms, for Christ's sake

Go away; it is forbidden to speak to the prisoners.

Go, old man, I am poorer than thou; thou art at liberty.

- Brother and sister - Poor children, like birds in a cage.

Are you going to pity them? Accursed family!

The father was a villain, but the children are innocent.

The apple does not fall far from the apple-tree.

Dear brother!

Dear brother! I think the boyars are coming to us.

That is Golitsin, Mosalsky. I do not know the others.

Ah! Dear brother, my heart sinks.

Make way, make way; the boyars come.

- What have they come for?

- Most like to make Feodor Godunov take the oath. - Very like.

We will go up!

The doors are fastened

People! Maria Godunov and her son Feodor have poisoned themselves.

We have seen their dead bodies.

Why are ye silent?

Cry, Long live the tsar Dimitry Ivanovich!

Actors appearing in mass folk scenes

Episodic appearances

The Orchestra of the Bolshoi Theatre Conductor Vyacheslav Ovchinnikov

Crew

The End Copyright (C) Mosfilm Studio, 1986