Just one more entry, one last episode -
and then my chronicle will be complete;
the task assigned by God to this poor sinner
will be discharged. No, not in vain did God
appoint me witness of these many years
and grant me knowledge in the art of writing;
one day some studious monk will come across
this conscientious, unnamed work of mine;
like me, he'll light his icon-lamp, then shake
the centuries-old dust from off the parchments
and copy out my faithful chronicles -
so Christian Russia's future generations
shall learn the story of their native land
and call to mind the great tsars of the past
for their hard work, their glory and their goodness;
but for their misdeeds, for their darker doings -
for these they'll humbly supplicate our Saviour.
In my old age I live my life anew,
the expired years pass before me in procession -
was it so Long ago that they swept by,
full of events, tempestuous like the ocean?
Now they are calm and silent; just a few
of the main actors live on in my mind,
just a few words of theirs I still recall,
all else has perished irretrievably ............
But day is near, the lamp is burning low -
just one more entry, one last episode. (writes)

GRIGORY (awaking)

Always the same dream! Can it be? ? third time!
Infernal dream!...... And the old man's still sitting
by the icon-candle, writing - then he can't
have closed his eyes in sleep the whole night long.
How much I love that peaceful look of his,
when, heart and soul immersed deep in the past,
he's working on his chronicle; and often .
I've tried to guess the events he's writing of -
the dark ages of Tartar domination?
or Tsar Ivân's bloodthirsty executions?
the factious parliaments of Novgorod?
the glory of our homeland? But - no use.
Neith'r on his high forehead nor in his eyes
can one make out the old man's hidden thoughts:
always that same aloof, yet humble look.
Just like a clerk, greyhaired with years in court,
he views good men and bad without emotion,
listening impassively to right and wrong,
immune alike to pity and to anger.