TARAS SHEVCHENKO

About Shevchenko, the poet and the man, several hundred books have been written in the languages of different nations of the world, several thousands of scholarly essays and popular articles published, and uncounted speeches and addresses delivered in his honour. The volume of these Shevchenkiana can be compared only to that of the most renowned of world poets and artists. However, many of these works present a picture of him that is somewhat stereotyped and distorted, often with a political or ideological subtext: he is presented variously as a "peasant poet", "bard of poverty", "poet of the proletariat", "bard of the Haidamaky uprising", "Ukrainophile", "Russophobe", "Russophile", "socialist", "rabid patriot", "chauvinist", "internationalist", "sepa-ratist", "revolutionary democrat", "atheist", and — candidate for canonization as "Ukraine's national saint." These attempts by authors of diverse ideologies to recruit Shevchenko to their cause ("our Shevchenko" is their favoured cliche) ignore the magnitude of his poetry, which cannot, in truth, be reduced to an ideological platform.

The year 1814. The nineteenth century has gone down in history as the "century of nations" (although it by no means smiled on every nation). In Europe, the feudal-dynastic principle was being replaced by the idea of nation-states, national self-determination. The whole structure of European life was breaking down, frontiers were being moved, geopolitical ideas were changing. The great masses of the people were becoming active, moved by an acute awareness of their social and national interests. The development of bourgeois economic relations, particularly in Britain and France, together with the powerful impact of the ideology of the Enlightenment had dealt a fatal blow to the old forms of social life and mores. From now on, it would not be the privileged strata nor the aristocracy but the people and the nation that would drive the historical processes. The spirit of the nations was in the air; some gave this a mystical interpretation, others a rationalist one.

The American Declaration of Independence (1776) was the first tectonic shock, and its author. Benjamin Franklin, became a symbol of aspirations for liberation from foreign oppression and for republicanism. The fall of the French Monarchy and the Revolution which this launched became the starting point and central event of the new history of Europe, although its conse-quences were both positive and negative, since the Terror led to a profound disenchantment with the ideas of the Enlightenment and intellectual rationalism. And this in its turn led to new spiritual searchings, to the rise of religious ideas and mystical hopes. Similarly, the rise of Napoleon at first evoked hopes of the fall of monarchies and triggered national movements. However, in the world which Napoleon created not as liberator, but as conqueror, the wave of national movements turned against him, which hastened his overthrow.

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1814, the year of Shevchenko's birth, was an unquiet year in the world at large. Norway was struggling for independence from Sweden. The Serbs rose against the Ottoman empire. On the eastern side of the Adriatic, the victors over Napoleon abolished the "Illyrian Province" he had established, returning it to the Austrian Empire, but nevertheless, "Illyrianism" was being born — the patriotic movement which would come to full flower in the 1830s. In the Middle East the latest Russian-Persian war had come to an end. The Mexicans had risen against the regime imposed by Napoleon and had proclaimed Mexican Independence. The Netherlands had declared their sovereignty. In Venezuela a rising had begun under Simon Bolivar, who became a national hero for the whole of Eatin America. In China a rising had begun against the Manchu Qing dynasty. In North America the "War of 1812" as it is called, was still in progress; British forces occupied Washington and burned the White House and the Capitol.

On 29 January 1814, the German philosopher Fichte died. His Addresses to the German Nation (1808), together with Herder's Ideas for the Philosophy of History of Humanity (1784— 1791) had raised the principle of the nation (Volk) in spiritual life, which was one of the stimuli of the powerful movement of political and literary Romanticism. In Britain, Coleridge, Wbrdsworth, Southey and William Blake were already widely acclaimed, Byron and Shelley were becoming famous, and such pre-eminent giants as Victor Hugo in France and Mickiewicz in Poland were just making an appearance. It is noteworthy, too, that in July 1814, the first verse of the young Pushkin, To a Poet Friend, was published.

In the Russian empire, the upheaval caused by Napoleon's invasion still had not subsided. Official Russian society was in a state of loyal and patriotic fervour. In Ukraine, incorporated into that empire, rumours were still circulating that Napoleon wanted to liberate the peasants from serfdom.

But for the majority of the serf population of Ukraine, life consisted of monotonous days of enforced toil for their masters. Only the old grandfathers remembered the Zaporozhian Sich and the rising of 1768. "Once it was".... But now... Individual serf rebellions were powerless to bring light to the mirk of hopelessness. People were born, toiled and died, cut off from events in the out-side world, as if those events had never happened... And yet, at this time, in one such village, Moryntsi, an entry was made in the church register under the heading "Births": "25 February [i.e. 9 March on the modern calendar]. To residents of Moryntsi village, Hryhoriy Shevchenko and his wife Yekateryna — a son, Taras."

Serfdom. The village of Moryntsi, where Shevchenko was born, the village of Kyrylivka, where he spent his childhood, and other neighbouring villages were the property of Lieutenant-General Vasiliy Engelhardt, who owned 18,000 male serfs (of whom almost 8,000 were in the Kyiv area). Taras's parents well knew all the "blessings" of serfdom. There were six children in the family, who were left as orphans by the premature deaths of their mother (1823) and then their father (1825); they

Like little mouslings scattered, crept Off among people

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as the poet later wrote. Little Taras knew the poverty of being an orphan but he was resolute in his wish to learn to read and write, and had an exceptional talent for drawing. This talent stood him in good stead when he was taken on as a personal servant by the young master Pavel Engelhardt, who by now had inherited Moryntsi. Taras experienced many injustices and humili-ations at his master's hands but he was able, to a small extent, to satisfy his yearning for art — in his master's rooms there were copies of famous paintings, and the lady of the house was a music-lover'and a good pianist.

The price of freedom. In the autumn of 1829. Pavel Engelhardt, a lieutenant in the Life-Guards, had to go to Warsaw, where his Ulhan regiment was stationed. He took with him a large train of possessions and servants, including the 15-year-old Taras Shevchenko. During a stop-over of several months in Vilna, Taras, probably, received some lessons from Jan Rustemas, a well-known Armenian artist, and, most important, witnessed the Polish uprising of 1830, which made a profound impression on him.

Meanwhile, Engelhardt had received a new posting and went to St Petersburg, sending his entourage, including Taras, there also. Here a major turning point came in his destiny. Having observed the lad's yearning to draw, his master decided to profit by it — it was fashionable among the aristocracy to have one's own "household artists." Taras was sent to study with Vasiliy Shiryayev, head of an artistic cooperative. His achievements there attracted attention, and the Ukrainian community of St Petersburg brought the talented young man to the notice of prominent literary and artistic people, including the renowned artist Karl Briullov. Engelhardt, however, was prepared to part with his serf only for a very large sum — 2500 roubles. To raise this, Briullov painted a portrait of the poet Vasiliy Zhukovskiy — who was tutor to the heir to the throne — and the portrait was raffled (even some members of the imperial family bought tickets). The manumission was signed on 22 April, and on 25 April Taras received it and thus was formally emancipated.

Paintbrush or pen? Taras enrolled in the St Petersburg Academy of Arts, where he soon became Briullov's favourite pupil. But in the meantime, he had also become captivated by the world of poetry. The temptation of the Word had come to Shevchenko during his last year as a serf. Using scraps of paper and cardboard, he began, amid his painting work, to "embroider" tentative lines of verse. For a long time he hid these fantasies, feeling uncertain in himself and fearing people would make fun of them. But an irresistible desire to pour out his soul in words had taken hold of him.

Many of his friends linked his future to painting; this was also a high art and — at that time — was a good means of earning a living. He could indulge himself with poetry, provided it did not get in the way of "business."

Shevchenko himself later, in his diary (written in 1857) reveals something of the dramatic and fateful nature of the choice between painting and poetry, or more precisely the dramatic and fateful nature of the intrusion of poetry into his life. "I knew quite well that painting was my future profession, my daily bread. Yet, instead of studying its profound mysteries, even when still under the guidance of a teacher like the immortal Briullov, I composed verses for which

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no one paid me any money and which, in the end, deprived me of my liberty and which regard-less of an all-powerful inhuman prohibition I nevertheless still scribble away on the quiet. And I even sometimes play with the idea of printing (under another name, of course) these snivelling, starveling children of mine. Strange, indeed, is this indefatigable vocation."

What was this vocation, and how did it come to him? First of all, perhaps, even from child-hood, he was endowed by nature with the seeds of great sentiments and with his perception of the world around him in all its fulness — colours, sounds, forms, movements — he could not fail to respond to the spoken and sung word of his native people. Taken from Ukraine while still a youth, he nevertheless was "ensured" a masteiy of his native language, its rich vocabulary, its flexible syntax and its unique rhythm and melody. He knew countless songs, he loved to sing and recite, enjoying the sweet wonders of the word. From childhood, too, when he acted as assistant to the sexton, reading the psalms and minor services of the church, he had absorbed a considerable amount of the liturgical language —- Old Church Slavonic.

All this remained alive in the soul of young Shevchenko, stranded in a foreign land and racked with nostalgia for his native country — so far away, yet close and dear in his memories, and so the magic of his native word revealed itself. He formed a conception of what the Word can do, and this was greatly nourished when he first became acquainted with high-quality profes-sional poetry. At first this was Russian poetry — first and foremost Pushkin and Zhukovskiy. But then, thanks to Yevhen Hrebinka, he became acquainted with Ukrainian poetry also — and dis-covered that the Ukrainian word could also exist in written and printed form. And so was born his feeling of vocation, his mission which Ukraine would perceive as the mission of an apostle and prophet.

At the same time, Shevchenko wanted to devote his talent, which was especially flourishing during his years of study at the Academy, to Ukraine. He never abandoned the paintbrush and one can only guess the heights he might have achieved in painting, had not the tsar's harsh verdict cut short his creativity.

Ukrainian literature before Shevchenko. Shevchenko's definitive role in the creation of the new Ukrainian literature, his exceptional genius have meant that there is a general impression in the consciousness of the Ukrainian public that Shevchenko worked if not in a total desert, at any rate on fallow land; apart from a few names: Ivan Kotliarevskyi, Hryhoriy Kvitka-Osnovyanenko, Yevhen Hrebinka, the picture of Ukrainian literary life at the beginning of the nineteenth century remains shrouded in darkness (although at the scholarly level it has been fairly well researched).

Yet who knows whether Shevchenko's poetry would have even been possible without these stimuli which reached the St Petersburg Ukrainian colony from Ukraine itself, where different forms of defence of identity (even if sometimes residual) were circulating, and from efforts directed at the literary development and emancipation of the speech of his nation.

This was a complicated and dramatic process. It was a particular response not only to the European national movements of the time, the Europe-wide wave of turning to national roots, but also to the fatal changes in Ukraine's political and cultural situation, brought about by the end of the Hetmanate (the independent Cossack state) and destruction of the Cossack strong-

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hold — the Zaporozhian Sich — the enserfment of the Ukrainian peasants, the colonization of southern Ukraine by foreigners and the Imperial policy ihat proclaimed these lands to be "New Russia," the decline of the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy (once the focus of higher learning in the East Slavonic lands) and the exhaustion of the energies of Ukrainian baroque culture, and last-but-not least the cultural brain-drain to the imperial centre. However, some memories of the past lingered on (expressed most strongly in folk poetry). There were still echoes of the defence of former freedoms — sometimes in ardent form, as in the anonymous History of the Rus Peoples written at the turn of the 18th/19th century and — for many years, circulated in manuscript form. But towards the end of the 18th century, a deep depression prevailed generally, the Ukrainian nobil-ity and gentiy envisaged "freedom" in the sense of becoming part of the Russian aristocracy, while the patriotism of those members of it who had not transferred their loyalty completely to the Muscovite monarchy took on a humiliated and timid character.

Nevertheless, the political and literary romanticism, which had captivated the whole of Europe, not least the Slavonic peoples, also found expression in Ukraine — firstly in the form of an interest in ethnic culture and a return to the Ukrainian language. Though this was in no way a reaction to external stimuli — it arose from the needs of the Ukrainian people itself, whose spir-itual and aesthetic creativity had not ceased.

It was particularly unfortunate that at this time people in effect ceased to be aware of the considerable legacy of Ukrainian baroque literature and the intellectual legacy of the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy — the bearers of these legacies had either been "recruited" for the creation of Russian imperial culture, or else gone over to it voluntarily seeking wider scope for their own activities.

The Russian Empire claimed to be the heir of the mediaeval state of Kyivan Rus — claim-ing not only the territories but also the cultural heritage of "Western Rus" and "Southern Rus." This state-instilled Russian imperial identity became a threat to Ukrainian identity. Under these conditions — the loss of the remnants of statehood and "high" culture — the main token of Ukrainian national identity was now the Ukrainian language. But since the upper echelons of Ukrainian society did not identify themselves with that language, the main representatives of Ukrainian identity became the speakers of that language — the peasantry. This is, of course, a generalization; the real picture was somewhat more complex, the loss of the language did not always go hand-in-hand with a loss of national identity; while for some the use of Russian did not always mean the loss of Ukrainian.

The firm foundation of the new Ukrainian literature — that is, literature in the language of the people, was laid in by Ivan Kotliarevskvi (1769—1838) with his Aeneid (a reworking of Virgil's epic into a Ukrainian-Cossack setting — published in 1798) — although this language had. in fact, appeared in print earlier — in scholarly treatises and in, particularly, burlesques, and even back in the 17th century in the ardent religious polemics of Ivan Vyshenskyi. However, Kotliarevskyi's decision, as a matter of principle, to switch to the language of the people gave literature a new democratic slant and allowed it to tap into the deep springs and great riches of folklore. But at the same time it severed the link with the earlier literature, with the language of the Old Ukrainian principality, the records of the Cossack Chancellery, and the educated people who were now actively "Ukrainizing" the Russian language.

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Nevertheless, a broad and deep cultural process had begun. In place of the almost lost book-ish, baroque and scholastic culture of the 16th--17th centuries, centred on Kyiv and other cities, there was a new culture, grounded in the popular culture and language, even though it was forced to adapt to the growing pressure of Russian. Kharkiv University was founded in 1805 to be stan-dard-bearer of Russian cultural expansion into Ukraine, but nevertheless became one of the foci of the Ukrainian cultural renaissance. Kyiv University was founded in 1833 — in the aftermath of the Polish uprising of 1830—31, the tsarist government was determined to "Russify the South-western Territory," in particular by making Russian the language of instruction in all educational establishments. But this university failed to become the intended anti-Polish and ant i-Ukrainian scholarly outpost. The atmosphere in it was restless; revolutionary groups were active there. Its first Rector (principal) was Mykhailo Maksymovych, a botanist by profession, but in reality a polymath who had a sound knowledge of Ukrainian history and folklore and an authority on philology, who was almost the only Ukrainian scholar of his time interested in Ukrainian baroque and Old Ukrainian literature.

In 1827, a book was published entitled Little-Russian Songs, Edited by Maksymovych. ["Little-Russia" was the tsarist politically correct term for Ukraine at this time; it carried the implication that these lands were simply one part of "great and indivisible" Russia], This made a huge impression on literary circles of the time. Pushkin and Gogol quoted it (Maksymovych was on friendly terms with both of them, as did the Ukrainian Romantic poets, some of whom also had collected specimens of folk literature. In 1834, Maksymovych brought out a second, enlarged, collection Ukrainian Folk Songs with well-researched notes and explanations. Later, Shevchenko would find his way to Maksymovych, and the love for Ukraine which they shared would make them fast friends.

A younger contemporary of Kotliarevskyi was Petro Hulak-Artemovskyi (1790—1865), for many years a Professor, and then a Rector of Kharkiv University. He began writing while still a student, initially in Old Slavonic, then in Russian, and finally transferred to Ukrainian — probably under the influence of Kotliarevskyi's Aeneid. But he took from it only the travesty form, and his own Horatian Odes were in essence burlesques on the themes of the Roman poety. The small number of translations he made also smacked somewhat of travesty. Of far greater aesthetic value were his fairy-tales with their humanist slant and elements of satire, sometimes acute, direct-ed against the local gentry.

Younger again was Yevhen Hrebinka (1812—1848). He also began with travesties; in the spirit of travesty (possibly due to a lack of cultural tradition) he produced a "translation" of Pushkin's Poltava. His most valuable contribution to Ukrainian literature was his fairy-tales, written, like those of Hulak-Artemovskyi, under the influence of an 18th-century Polish exponent of this genre, Ignacy Krasicki, but with an innate Ukrainian ethnic colouring. The relatively few lyrical poems of Hrebinka belong to the Romantic trend in Ukrainian poetry. He also wrote prose in Russian, although these works belong rather to the "Ukrainian schooi" of Russian liter-ature. Having settled in St Petersburg, Hrebinka played an active part in Russian literary life, he promoted the publication of the works of Ukrainian writers, and produced a collection Lastivka (The Swallow — 1840), which included poems by Shevchenko.

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Hryhoriv Kvitka-Osnovyanenko (1778—1843) wrote a number of works in Russian, but although these were very popular in their day, they left no permanent mark on Russian literature. However, his Ukrainian stories published under the title Little-Russian Tales 1834 (Vol. 1) and 1837 (Vol. 2) (some of which he later translated into Russian) enjoyed great success, and have ensured him his place as founder of Ukrainian prose. These works deal with Ukrainian rural life, and are both humorous and "sensitive." His good knowledge of traditional life, understanding of the Ukrainian temperament and appreciation of the moral superiority of the peasantry in comparison with the landowners, his own humanist outlook, and, throughout, idyllic mood and patriarchal moralizing, the rich demotic language and the wide use of folklore colouring (especially in his story Marussia) — all this was something of a novelty.

Thus in Ukrainian literature of the first decades of the 19th century there was a growing movement away from travesty and pseudoclassicism. A new and much broader poetic wave now sprang up, with a markedly Romantic character, both within the Russian empire and in Austrian-ruled western Ukraine. Although Ukrainian Romanticism before Shevchenko did not manifest itself with same spiritual force as did European Romanticism (from Byron to Mickiewicz), nev-ertheless it considerably extended the range of Ukrainian literature. It turned, albeit in a "frag-mented" manner, to Ukrainian history and its heroic figures.

These Ukrainian Romantics were sincere patriots of Ukraine and the Ukrainian language (though many of them, for understandable reasons, also wrote in Russian; all Ukrainian writers of this era were bilingual). But their patriotism was for the most part only local; "Little-Russian" patriotism within the "All-Russian" patriotism of the Empire. With a few exceptions (notably the historian and writer Mykola Kostomarov, and, naturally, the writers of Austrian-ruled western Ukraine) , these Romantics , including Kvitka-Osnovyanenko, shared the monarchist outlook of the average All-Russian citizen.

Shevchenko's advantage over his Romantic predecessors lay in his greater talent and greater subjectivity: in his broader social and aesthetic individuality. As a serf who had established him-self in the artistic world, he had a wider range of social experiences, a dramatic biography and a more complex spiritual world; as a talented and passionate painter, he had an additional source of artistic inspiration. This greater subjectivity gave a more profound dimension to his innate sense of ethnicity — the outlook which the Romantics wanted to cultivate (and in part achieved) was his by nature. Shevchenko's sense of ethnicity was not an aspiration or aim, but the very soil from which he grew, on which he stood, or which, one might say, he "tilled."

The Kobzar. Shevchenko began to write poetry even before his liberation from serfdom. Maybe not all his early poems have been preserved. The first work of which his acquaintances became aware was the ballad Bewitched. Even in this the first of Shevchenko's poetic works to sur-vive, the Ukrainian word is revealed in such a high artistic level which had never been achieved by his predecessors and contemporar ies — the poets of the Romant ic movement . Although, superficially, Shevchenko wrote this within the confines of the Romantic canon: marvels, Russalky (water-sprites), the deaths of young lovers — and employed standard Romantic and folksong cliches, he nevertheless deployed a whole range of emotions — both of the characters and of

himself in the role of narrator, using folk-poetry means to that end. Unlike the typical "Romantic" ballad, what is significant in this work is not so much the story-line as the rich accompaniment — the "interventions" of the author himself, the daring lyrical digressions, and the fervent com-mentaries which transcend the particular situation becoming a poetic meditation on the common fate of humanity Remarkable too is the dynamism of the poetic narrative, the "modulations" in tone and the unforced transitions between the broad brushstrokes of the pictures of nature to the author's own sentiments and meditations, f rom the somewhat restricted conventionality of the subject to the folklore bounty in the descriptions of the ritual "madness" of the Russalky. But first and foremost, Shevchenko's poetry breathes with a naturalness, harmony, rich melody and master}' of the word, surpassing anything his Romantic predecessors had achieved. Previously only folksong had reached such perfection. And it is no coincidence that from this of Shevchenko's works no less than three extracts acquired musical settings and became folksongs: Roaring and groaning rolls the Dnipro, Such is her fortune and The skylark trilled its melody.

The Kobzar [Shevchenko's first published work, which appeared in 1840], contained eight works: O my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts, Perebendia, The Poplar, Ballad ( What good are my dark brows to me), Ivan Pidkova, To Osnovyanenko, The Night of Taras, and a long narrative poem Kateryna (in the last three the censor made significant cuts).

But, as Ivan Franko [the leading Ukrainian poet of the late 19th — early 20th century] was to write: "this little book opened as it were a new world of poetry, bursting forth like a spring of clear, cold water, revealing a clarity, simplicity and grace of expression hitherto unknown in Ukrainian literature.

They seemed to be like folksongs, and yet, they constituted something completely different." Hence, Franko wrote, the appearance of Shevchenko's Kobzar in Petersburg in 1840 must be con-sidered as epoch-making date in the development of Ukrainian literature, second only to the publication of Kotliarevskyi's Aeneid.1

This was well-understood, too, by Shevchenko's contemporaries, on whom the Kobzar made a profound impression. Leading Ukrainian literary figures commented warmly on it. The appear-ance of the Kobzar changed the face of Ukrainian poetry, confirming its high value in the most convincing manner: the fact that there existed in it the works of an exceptionally talented poet.

The three poems in the 1840 Kobzar, To Osnovyanenko, Ivan Pidkova and The Night of Taras lie at the focus of thought of the whole collection. Here Shevchenko evokes with great force his understanding of the not-too-distant past (and also his views on the present), based on his reading, the tales and songs he had heard as a child in Ukraine, and, first and foremost, on his own poetic tradition. He idealizes the Cossack state as the heroic period of Ukrainian history, just as he idealizes the Ukrainian people — a natural reaction to the current reality of serfdom.

Pictures of this heroic past evoked great sadness in Shevchenko.

Never shall come back those hoped for, Never come back freedom, Never come back Cossackdom.

1 (Ppawio lean. 3 i6paHHa T B o p i B y 50 T O M a x . — K., 1984. — T. 41. — C. 276.

But he says this not to pay homage with his fellow-countrymen to a history that can never return but to present to them his own severe verdict, to evoke discontent with the current state of affairs, to evoke a spirit of opposition and the need for renewal. He sought in the past the examples of heroism needed as a reproach and stimulus for his contemporaries. This would become clearer in his subsequent works, but even in the first Kobzar it may be clearly sensed.

But apart from these cardinal questions of Ukrainian existence, in Shevchenko's lyrical Romantic and folklore-rooted ballads, the Ukrainian world appears as something separate and self-sufficient, the antithesis of "Little-Russianism" and "provincialism" which viewed Ukraine as an addendum to the imperial world.

Early on it was noted that the protagonists of many of Shevchenko's works, both in the first Kobzar and later, are female — girls, women, mothers; sometimes he speaks in their name, adopting a female persona. Indeed, of recent years, there have been bold assertions that Shevchenko was a "feminist." In truth, the "female" character of the poet's self-identification in individual works has a simple, profound and eternal reason; the female principle that is the principle of life itself. Mother-Earth. The Motherland. Mother-Ukraine: the mother of her children. And the fate of women in Shevchenko's poetry also comes from the tradition of folk poetry; it comes too from his own life, his memory of his mother and sisters, his unsatisfied craving for family warmth, his orphanhood which generated a special perception of motherhood and femininity. And first and foremost, the brutal treatment of women and girls under serfdom.

He gave a special emotional and social content both here and in his later work to the theme of the betrayed girl or the girl waiting in vain for her beloved. This is a typical Romantic theme. However, the narrative Kateryna which appeared in the 1840 Kobzar places the tragic fate of the heroine in a broader historical context. Hence generation after generation of readers has seen in the heroine, seduced and then abandoned by a Russian soldier, a symbol of Ukraine.

Emerging from the shadows. The establishment of the new Ukrainian literature took place in fact in the shadow of Russian (and in part Polish) literature, and revealed itself as a sequence of efforts to escape from that shadow. Whereas in the 17th and the beginning of the 18th centuries there have been a "Ukrainization" of the intellectual and cultural life of Muscovy, from the sec-ond half of the 18th century, and especially since the beginning of the 19th, Russian literature and art, with the participation of important figures of Ukrainian origin, had reached a high level of development and were taking on an explicitly national character. This reflected the growing self-perception of Russian society, stimulated in particular by the strengthening of imperial power, the military and diplomatic successes of Russia and its role in European affairs.The cultural and intellectual life of Russia became more and more intense. The teachers in the numerous lyceums and other privileged educational establishments for the youth of the nobility created a stratum of educated people from which a Russian intelligentsia began to be formed. Numerous literary and philosophical groups arose. Book publishing and journalism flourished; almanachs and journals were founded. There was a great stream of translations of the latest European literature, the works of eminent philosophers, etc, and a vigorous incorporation into European intellectual life, even if only in the form of one-way influences and borrowings. Russian culture in all its

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aspects "covered" the entire empire, aspiring to satisfy all the spiritual needs of the "upper echelons" of society over the whole vast territory. Under these conditions, attempts to create a Ukrainian literature distinct from Russian, in the people's language, distinct from Russian, seemed belated and hopeless and unnecessary.

Powerful factors seemed likely to nullify these efforts: the absence of an organized literary life, Ukrainian-language publishing and press, counter-actions (and later, repressions) by the authorities, the scepticism of society; finally, the constant drain into Russian culture of Ukrainian talents, who sought a wider space for their creativity.

The Haidamaky. The idea of this poem came to Shevchenko as early as 1839, not long after his emancipation. The section Halaida was published in Hrebinka's almanach Lastivka and towards the end of the year, the censor, a certain P. Korsakov, after making a number of cuts, final-ly allowed the rather mutilated text to be printed.

In his poem, Shevchenko returns to one of the most dramatic pages of Ukrainian history -the peasant uprising of 1768. known as the Koliyivschyna. Shevchenko did not at tempt to a comprehensive recreation of these historical events. He had a different aim. Here one may speak of the rare courage of the young poet — not only political courage (the whole poem breathes the spirit of the people's vengeance against the lords, the spirit of a national uprising) but also creative, aesthetic courage: in a "non-existent" language, a "peasant dialect," this young man who only recently had begun to write verse, created a poetic vision of a great historic drama, which not only related these events, but also tried to examine their greater philosophical significance.

In it, the Koliyivschyna is presented as an explosion of the people's vengeance for robbery and harsh treatment, for social, ethnic and religious oppression. Yet that vengeance is shown, however, in all its full horror, as a historical tragedy which evokes a far-from-simple response.

The academic troubles of a romantic. Meanwhile Shevchenko had not abandoned his profes-sional work, he participated in exhibitions and book illustration; his work attracted the attention of art critics.

However, in Shevchenko's paintings, although he had Briullov as his ideal, nevertheless, he gradually moved away from the academism which directed artists to timeless and nationless ide-alized images, to a limited range of subjects, mainly taken from mythology or ancient history, to a conventional style of modelling and theatricality of composition. O. Novytskyi, a subtle researcher into Shevchenko's artistic legacy, asserted that out of all European schools of painting, the closest to Shevchenko was the Dutch school with its democratism, focusing on images of the daily life of the population.

Maybe the fact that Shevchenko, as a completely original artist, fell outside the academic mould contributed to a certain neglect of his academic assignments during his final years of study, and to his losing his original reputation of being a brilliant student. Nevertheless, while not crippling himself to fit the academic mould, he successfully developed his undoubted talent for drawing, portraiture, painting, and engraving.

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First journey to Ukraine. Shevchenko yearned for Ukraine and lived in the hope of returning there after twenty years away. He was filled with conflicting hopes and expectations. He longed for Ukraine, but was afraid of disillusion.

The first few months of his stay in Ukraine taught Shevchenko to be cautious in relations with his new friends among the Ukrainian landowners. This was not simply a matter of disen-chantment with individuals. The Ukrainian landlords formed only a part, and not the main part at that, of the enormous structure of serfdom, which, first and foremost, was stifling the Ukrainian peasantry and. moreover, lay as an oppressive burden on all aspects of national life. All this Shevchenko saw and perceived in these few months of his first journey to Ukraine, — and if before this he had had any illusions, they certainly vanished now.

A very important change now occurred in Shevchenko's views and outlook, which would find expression in a change of motifs in his poetry. Thus was born his anti-tsarist, anti-colonist lyric poetry, which, together with the rich emotional spectrum of his expose of serfdom and cas-tigation of the Ukrainian landowners found a special place in his poems of his manuscript collec-tion Three Years.

Shevchenko tells his fellow-countrymen a terrible truth which they do not want to see, in his courage feeling himself alone, like someone "demented" or like a Biblical prophet:

And I, on thy ruins, demented, stand weeping — My tears are all vain. Ukraina is sleeping, Now wild weeds cover her, mould has grown over. She has rotted her heart in a pool in the marshes, Into cold hollow tree let a snake pass in...

For such an apocalyptic picture, it would seem, there is, it appears, no consolation. But the heart weeps and prays for "On this earth — holy right!" And the poet, for the first time with such force and prophetic courage, places upon the stage of history his own Word of truth:

Perhaps, indeed, I yet may forge A new blade from it, make a Keen new share for the old plough, And, sweating out the acres, Maybe I'll plough that fallow land, And on the fallow cleared there I shall scatter all my tears. Sow my heartfelt tears there. Maybe they will shoot and grow Into two-edged blades That will cleave the evil, rotten Sickly heart, will drain From it all the poisoned blood,

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And in its place will pour Into it living Cossack blood, Holy, clean and pure!...

And once again after such an elevated gradation of passion, the essentially Shevchenkian catharsis: a return to eternal humanity and to a girl's heart and its sincerity, as to the truest reward:

Maybe, maybe... and there between, Between the knives will grow The periwinkle and the rue, And words, forgotten now, My own words, gentle-voiced and sad, Quiet and God-fearing, Will be remembered, and a girl's heart, Tremulous and timid, Will quiver like a little fish, And she will remember Me too, then... 0 my words, my tears, 0 thou that art my heaven!

It was in this immense and tragically illuminated spiritual space between two poles — gentle tenderness and bitter anger — that Shevchenko's poetry was created. Hence, although the term "Shevchenko's political lyrics" has become widely-accepted, we should remember that this is a conventional term, for in him we find no narrow focus of political thought and passion, but rather that political experiences "detonate" in him the entire wholeness of the human soul.

The poet against the empire. The impressions from his stay in enslaved and enserfed Ukraine, imposed on his experience of life in bureaucracy-ridden St Petersburg with its social contrasts and ideological clashes, anguish for the humiliation of the human being which he saw every-where and understanding of the absurdity of the despotic mechanism of social life, all these poured into the "comedy" The Dream, which became the poet's call (powerful, but unsuccess-ful) to bring the empire to trial at the bar of the intellect.

The Dream — a satirical phantasmagoria, grotesque pictures of symbols of Russian des-potism and serfdom and the person of the emperor, Nicholas I — bears witness to the final crys-tallization of the anti-Imperial core of Shevchenko's vision of the world. The genre designation of it as a "comedy" should justify its free use of form of a dream and grotesque treatment, but it is not so much comic as a tragic grotesque.

In March 1845, Shevchenko finished his course of studies at the Academy of Arts. On 22 March he delivered to the Council of the Imperial Academy of Arts an application to be granted the formal title of "artist" and to be issued a ticket for a journey to Ukraine.

He went to the Cherkassy region to visit his family in Kyrylivka, and also went to Kyiv, where

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he probably met Mvkhailo Maksymovych, who a little later helped him to obtain work with the Kviv Archaeographic Commission (its official name was the Temporary Commission for the Collection of Ancient Acts).

This work gave Shevchenko the chance to satisfy his intellectual and creative interests, and helped enrich his perception of Ukrainian history and the kinship of the various territories of Ukraine; he made many valuable records of folklore and had a chance to exercise his profession in drawings and paintings. All this likewise provided great inspiration for his poetry.

He was also able to make a number of new acquaintances, both scholars and artists, and also serfs. It is well-known that he often preferred the company of simple peasants living on the big estates than that of their masters. And his impressions were by no means all pleasant. First and foremost there were the plain facts of serf existence. At every step he encountered the hypocrisy of his rich landowner "friends," often including those who boasted of being liberals, free-thinkers or patrons of the arts.

All this strengthened his sense of vocation to the Word which would arouse Ukraine. So arose the poems of the manuscript collection Three Years. Both the name and the philosophical and emotional key to the collection were set by the

eponymous poem.

Three years of no great importance Have flown past for naught. But so many evils they In my home have wrought. My poor heart that once was tranquil They have now brought low. They have quenched all that was good, Kindled evil, woe...

Such is the gloomy finale to his three-years-long immersion in the environment where he had hoped to find living forces of his contemporary' Ukraine. He no longer believes that a "merry word" will return, now he "treats his shattered heart with venom," and does not weep or sing but "owl-like...wails." This is, so to say, a general moral declaration; the concrete, predominantly socio-political content of his "accounting" for his contemporaries Shevchenko revealed in a string of poetic manifestos in the autumn of 1845.

This was the most fruitful period for Shevchenko as poet. In the three months October — December he wrote five long poems (The Heretic — the main text completed 10 October, The Blind Man — 16 October, The Great Vault — no definite date, The Servant-Girl — 13 November, The Caucasus — 18 November), My Friendly Epistle — 14 December, The Cold Ravine — 17 De-cember), a major cycle The Psalms of David — 19 December, Days are passing — 21 December, Three Years — 22 December and finally, on 25 December — Testament. Incredible intensity, a fan-tastic explosion of creativity!

And although the creative keynote of this God-given autumn was that of the political lyric,

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which here attained its apogee of poetic pathos, nevertheless Shevchenko still remains remark-ably multi-faceted and unconstricted, revealing many voices of his spontaneity. And in spite of his assertion to the contrary, he did not only "owl-like wail." but does indeed weep and smile and see around him not only "serpents." And so it was throughout his whole life, whatever the cir-cumstances.

In October 1845, while the guest of his acquaintance, P. Shershavytskyi, a clerk in the Chancellery of the District Marshal, Shevchenko completed his mystery play The Great Vault, in which his ideas about the past and future of his people are embodied in a complex dramatic composition, abounding in symbolism, poetic language and attain a great historiosophic profun-dity.

The French philosopher Montaigne once wrote "1 have no more made my book than my book has made me." That is how Shevchenko created his poetry too. It bore him from peak to peak. Poetic illumination raised his efforts to an ever-higher pitch. And the profound and vivify-ing emotion generated by his poetry drove him on to a mission that was truly apostolic.

In this exaltation was born his homiletic masterwork To my fellow-countrymen, in Ukraine and not in Ukraine, living, dead and as yet unborn, my Friendly Epistle. In this powerful work, in which virtually every line has become an aphorism, to be repeated million-fold by generation after generation of Ukrainians, he calls on his compatriots to ask themselves the inevitable ques-tions "how and why," and to seek the answers first and foremost in themselves.

Ukraina struggled on, Fighting to the limit. She is crucified by those Worse-than Poles, her children.

The pathetic trend of Shevchenko's 1845 reached its summit with the immortal When I die, then make my grave, which has entered not only the history of literature but also the con-sciousness of the Ukrainian people as Testament. It was written on 25 December, 1845, at Pereyaslav during a serious illness. In Testament, the poet bids a ritual farewell to his people, and, already feeling himself to be their prophet (at the level of poetic inspiration, that is) and in con-cise aphorismic form expresses the quintessence of his feelings for Ukraine and his fellow-coun-trymen,

In the autumn of 1845, he wrote his poem The Caucasus. In the history of world literature we can find only a few examples where the poetic work of a century and a half ago has not lost its political relevance and moral acuteness, sounding as if it were addressed to the people of today.

Shevchenko's Caucasus is not invective, not an ideological pamphlet, nor a political satire in verse. It is all of these things and more. Nor is it simply a call to arms from one point on this globe, from one nerve-centre of humanity. It is a metaphorical picture of the state of the world, the sick-ness of our common human nature. And so Shevchenko's Caucasus represents not simply the stance of an intellectual (or a citizen) regarding certain phenomena, but anger, suffering, and a blazing fire in the whole of his being. It twines together doubts, curses and hopes... above all

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hopes. Wishes and commands to the mountain peoples and to all "freedom-fighters." It is a desire for the triumph of good over evil, an assertion of freedom as the right of the individual and of humankind, it is the courage to stand up for the truth before God. And here it is of no small significance that Shevchenko appeals to the God of Christianity on behalf of the rights of non-Christian peoples. Shevchenko's God is the God of all who seek truth and justice.

Battle on, and win your battle! God Himself will aid you; At your side fight truth and glory, Right and holy freedom.

"The Brethren." The anti-serfdom, anti-monarchic and national-patriotic views of young Ukrainian intellectuals including lecturers and students of Kyiv and Kharkiv universities led to the formation, during the winter of 1845—1846, of a secret society which acquired the name of the "Cyril and Methodius Society" or "Brotherhood" (the original name was the "Slavonic Society of St Cyril and St Methodius." Shevchenko maintained friendly relations with the "Brethren" and participated in their meetings; although apparently never a formal member of the Society, he had a definitive influence on its revolutionary spirit.

The ideas of the Cyri l-and-Methodius brethren differed in principle from those of the Russian Slavophiles, although there were a few points of similarity. For in addition to thoughts close to those of the typical Slavophile slogans, they included ideas that were completely unheard-of to "classical" Slavophilism — ideas of democracy which were completely revolutionary for that time, ideas of social equality and political freedom, sharp condemnation of the autocracy and the serf-owning nobility, the exploitation and enserfment of Ukraine, and diatribes against Peter I and Catherine II for having enslaved Ukraine, and, indeed, against tsarism as a whole, and the idea of a federative Republic.

The Society was denounced to the authorities by an agent-provocateur, and brutally crushed. The investigators could not find any proof that Shevchenko was a member of the Brotherhood, but the aura of his poetry had illuminated both the activities of the Brethren and the very name of the Society, and this, in the eyes of the authorities made him especially dangerous. And so he received the most severe sentence: he was to be sent into the army to the Orenburg Special (i.e. Penal) Corps. To which the tsar personally added: "Under strictest supervision, and forbid-den to write and draw." Later Shevchenko was to say that even if the Devil himself had been the presiding judge, he could not have thought up a worse punishment.

In the Fortress. This unexpected disaster for the development of his creativity, and for his friends and their common cause, produced grim experiences but did not kill the poet in Shevchenko. In the oppressive conditions of prison, subjected to incessant interrogations and nerve-racking waiting, in the course of just under two months, he wrote twelve short poems which give a psychologically brilliant picture of his state of mind, which at the time surely gave him the chance to bury himself in his inner world, away from the routine brutality of prison life: "Hard in unfreedom... although truly Freedom was never ours to know."

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Afterwards, more than 10 years later, on his way back from exile, he transcribed these poems into a single cycle, to which he gave the title. In the Fortress, adding the dedicatory poem Remember; then, my brothers true..., written later in 1847, after he had arrived at his place of exile — Orsk, putting it first as the thematic and emotional key to the entire cycle.

These twelve short pieces are among the pearls of Shevchenko's lyrics and are evidence that even in the extreme situation of prison, he preserved the spontaneity and independence of his poetic talent.

The cycle In the Fortress ends with his farewell to his friends in prison, in which the acceptance of the fate forced upon him nevertheless turns into Shevchenko's eternal commandment:

Love your dear Ukraine, adore her, Love her... in fierce time of evil, In the last dread hour of struggle, Fervently beseech God for her.

In exile. Immediately the sentence was confirmed, Shevchenko was handed over to the jurisdiction of the Military Ministry. He was sent under strict guard to the Orenburg territory'. Military service with the frontier troops there was particularly arduous, not to mention the harsh environment and the sense of isolation from the world outside; hence political exiles, particularly Polish revolutionaries and persons of doubtful loyalty.

He was sent to Orsk where he was enrolled in the third company of the fifth battalion of the first brigade of the 23rd infantry division. He had to live in a stinking barracks among the lewd conversations and foul language of gamblers and drunkards. On top of the oppressive conditions of military life and his heavy psychological state, there came physical illness: eye-trou-ble, scurvy, rheumatism... Shevchenko wrote to all his influential friends and acquaintances, begging them to intercede for some relaxation of his situation, in particular, permission to draw. This, he thought, would give some kind of meaning to his life.

In the meantime, although he had no possibility to draw or paint, he still continued to write poems on odd scraps of paper. Later, he copied these clandestine poems into what have become known as "bootleg notebooks," since he, quite literally, hid them in the wide tops of his army boots.

In spring 1848, Shevchenko's situation changed. Two Russian researchers, Aleksei Maksheyev and Aleksei Butakov from St Petersburg were preparing a scientific expedition to the Aral Sea. They needed a professional artist, and remembered Shevchenko. Now he had work that he loved, and both officers became his good friends.

But the expedition came to an end, and once again he had to return to military service.

The poetry of exile. Shevchenko used every opportunity, however small, to write poetry. Poetry was his inner life, and the outer world of the barracks something tangential to it. Hence the poetry of his exile is not thematically or aesthetically divorced from his previous work, but is a natural continuation of it. Nevertheless, one may observe a change in his self-perception of the creative process. In his St Petersburg period, Shevchenko spoke of sending his thoughts

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to Ukraine, where he hoped they would be made welcome. During and immediately after his brief return to Ukraine, he had addressed his fellow-countrymen with the sense of an apostolic or prophetic mission. Now he, as it were, stood aside from that mission.

Not for people and their glory. Verses bright-embroidered, curly. Am I writing — for no others Than myself, I sing, my brothers!

Then comes his explanation:

It is easier in unfreedom For me, when I write them.

Now it is not thoughts that are "flowers" that he sends to Ukraine, but thoughts that are his children "come flying" to him from Ukraine, "as from beyond the distant Dnipro" and gladden "the soul so poor and lonely." This "reverse flow," perhaps, represents a change in his involvement with Ukraine; in place of his yearning for Ukraine (St Petersburg period) and the exaltation and bitterness that followed his first return (Three Years) came a sense of catastrophic loss and the need to come to terms with it.

But this was not a total change. In many of the exile poems, Shevchenko still speaks in "hero-ic" or "prophetic" voice, returning to the theme of Ukraine's historic struggles, as in for example Irzhavets. He himself put particular emphasis on his cycle Kings, which retells the stories of Biblical monarchs, focusing on their unjust deeds, with a subtext harshly critical of the empire of Nicholas I.

For where there is no holy freedom, Nothing good will ever be there, So why do people fool themselves ?

Russian prose. During his exile, in addition to his poetry, Shevchenko now began to write prose stories in Russian — although for him, as a natural-born poet, mastering the prose genre was fraught with difficulties.

He had in mind to try and publish them under the transparent pseudonym "Kobzar Darmohrai" (Minstrel Play-for-nothing) in Russian journals (no journals in Ukrainian existed). His aim was to bring his ideas to the Russian public and to give them an image of Ukraine, dis-tinct from that of Russia.

But the idea came to naught; friends and acquaintances seemed sympathetic — but nothing appeared in print. Shevchenko did not lose faith however, until he received a letter from the writer Sergei Aksakov, whom he greatly esteemed, and to whom had dedicated the first part of his story A pleasant stroll and not without a moral. "I do not recommend you to print this story. It is incomparably inferior to your enormous talent as a poet... I am telling you the unvarnished

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truth without any risk. I feel that with a talent like yours one dare tell it without risking the reproaches of human vanity."1

Aksakov's letter made a great impression on Shevchenko, who thanked him for his frankness, adding that he himself had had doubts about it. After this he ceased trying to publish his stories.

Nevertheless, this came as a great blow to Shevchenko. It was not simply that he had put a huge amount of work into the prose, and that being without any property or expectations in life, he had hoped to earn himself some money. It was rather the fact that had to say farewell to his hopes of using the Russian journals to propagate the ideas so dear to him.

It should be noted that many later scholars have taken a far more positive view of Shev-chenko's Russian prose works.

Return. The death of Nicholas I (2 March 1855) evoked hopes that under the new tsar, Alexander II, there would be some liberalization of the regime, and in particular an amnesty for political exiles. So Shevchenko's friends, including the vice-president of the Academy of Arts, Count F. Tolstoy and his wife, began campaigning for Shevchenko. This continued for almost two years. On 1 January 1857 the poet received news of his coming liberation in a letter from Countess Tolstaya. But it took another seven months for the official order to arrive!

This delay produced further psychological torments for Shevchenko. Even now, when he was technically a free man, he was still forced to carry out all the obligations of military life. During this time, he began to keep a diary, in which he recorded not so much external events as tried to envisage his place in what he hoped would be a free and creative future.

Even when his discharge from military service finally arrived, his troubles were not over. He was obliged to wait in Nizhniy Novgorod, since he had no permission to go to St Petersburg. This stay (which lasted almost half a year), was filled not only with personal experiences both pleasant (the arrival of his friend, the actor Mikhail Shchepkin) and unpleasant (an unhappy romance with the young actress Katerina Piunova), but also with intensive literary work. He edited a final version of A pleasant stroll and not without a moral and his narrative poem The Witch, strengthening its anti-serfdom motif. While here, too, he wrote his narrative poem The Neophytes, yet another protest against tyranny of every kind that is at the same time a paean to human dignity and devotion.

Moscow. On the af ternoon of 8 March 1847, Shevchenko set out from Nizhniy Nov-gorod — preceded by letters from the police, warning the appropriate authorities that a strict watch must be kept on him. He took a chill on the journey and arrived in Moscow quite ill. Shchepkin looked after him and got him some treatment. The next day Maksymovych came to visit him; in the evening a number of other scholars and literary figures. The stream of guests continued, and Shevchenko even complained about it a little; the portrait of Shchepkin he had "drawn was.. . not entirely true to life," he told guests.

22 March was for Shevchenko the "happiest of all happy days." He wrote: "Today I saw a man, whom I had not hoped to see during this time in Moscow. This man is Sergei Timofeyevich Aksa-

1 J I H C T H J O Tapaca LLicts'ieiiKa. — K,: HayKoisa ayvtKa, 1993. — C. 119.

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kov. What a handsome noble venerable appearance!" As we can see, the unpleasantness over Aksa-kov's severe but candid comment on the Stroll had left Shevchenko with no lasting rancour.

Another joy for Shevchenko was a visit from the Maksvmovyches — his old friend Mykhailo with his young wife Mariya. And there were other visits too, and meetings and conversations. Shevchenko summed up his impressions of his two-weeks stay in Moscow in his Diary: "What pleased me most of all in Moscow was that I encountered among the educated Muscovites the warmest cordiality for me personally and an unfeigned sympathy for my poetry. Especially in the Aksakov family."

Back in St Petersburg. On arrival back in St Petersburg, Shevchenko became caught up in a whirlwind of literary and community activity that was incomparably more tempestuous than in the 1840s. Everyone was waiting for him: the Ukrainians in the capital welcomed him as their own apostle, the liberal and democratic literary and artistic circles as a poet who had suffered grievously for the word of truth. Poles who had recently themselves been sent into exile saw him as a brother; while young people in Russian revolutionary-democratic groups hoped to find in him a colleague.

Ukrainian community and literary life in St Petersburg at the end of the 1850s was very animated. The tone was set by several former members of the Cyril and Methodius Society — including Kostomarov — and their former sympathizers and "neophytes" of Ukrainianism gath-ered round them. Shevchenko's return gave a new and powerful stimulus to Ukrainian life in St Petersburg, and maybe it was no coincidence that in the summer of 1858 a new Ukrainian community organization "Hromada" was founded there, aimed first and foremost at publishing and educational work. On its behalf, in 1858, the writer Panteleimon Kulish approached the Ministry of Education for permission to publish a journal Khata — "The House" (The full title was "The House" — a South-Russian [sic!] journal of literature, history, ethnography and the rural economy"). Although the journal would not have been political, the Ministry' took the matter to the Third Department (Secret Police), who told it to reject Kulish's application. The Hromada then tried to make up for the lack of a journal by quietly publishing a series of almanachs with dif-ferent names — though in the end only one of these appeared — Khata (1860). Later, the Hromada did manage to bring out a journal Osnova (First principle), which, in the three years (1860—1862) became the platform for Ukrainian cultural life and attracted attention also among the Russian intelligentsia. Shevchenko took an active part in preparing Khata and Osnova and in all the activities of the Hromada.

The Ukrainians in St Petersburg were not isolated from the life of the capital. The literary figures and artists among them were often prominent in the intellectual life of the capital, joining literary groups and participating in various cultural and community events. And Shevchenko was especially in demand for such activities. Shevchenko's work and his personal participation in the community life of St Petersburg helped the Russian revolutionary democrats to get a better under-standing of the national aspirations of the Ukrainians and to pay attention to them.

At the beginning of 1859, there appeared in Leipzig a book entitled (in Russian) New Poetry of Pushkin and Shevchenko. It included six of his poems: The Caucasus, The Cold Ravine,

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Testament, The Plundered Gravemound, Thought after thought flies... and the Friendly Epistle. This book was rapidly distributed, not only outside of Russia but also, through illegal channels, reached St Petersburg, Moscow, Kyiv, and other cities. It also made a great impression in (Austrian-ruled) Western Ukraine.

Last visit to Ukraine. In spite of his strong ties with literary; artistic and community life in St Petersburg, Shevchenko's deepest thoughts were always focused on Ukraine: the hope of set-tling there permanently never left him. Accordingly on 5 May 1859 he applied to the Board of the Academy of Arts for permission to visit Ukraine "for a term of five months to benefit my health and to draw studies from nature."

Shevchenko left St Petersburg on 25 May and by the beginning of June was in Ukraine — going to Sumy, Lebedyn and then Pyriatyn and Pereyaslav. On 27 June he was with his family in Kyrylivka. Nothing significant had changed in the life of his serf brothers and sisters and their children in the thirteen years since he had seen them, while he himself had changed so much that at first they did not recognize him.

The Neophytes and Mariya. During his "pause" in Nizhniy Novgorod, Shevchenko wrote in his diary (8 December, 1857): "In the course of the past four days I wrote a narrative poem, but have not yet thought about the title. It seems I shall call it The Neophytes, or the Early Christians.

In a certain sense, The Neophytes harks back to Kotliarevskyi's Aeneid, presenting Ukrainian life and realia in the guise of antiquity. But Shevchenko's work is not comic but tragic, and he does indeed write about the neophytes of early Christianity and ancient Rome, but writes about it in such a way that the poem also has a message for Ukraine. His attack on the despotism of the Roman emperors in The Neophytes is all too reminiscent of Russian reality, and the poet's voice rings out not with anti-tsarist tirades but as it were brings to a peak the spirits of all his political lyrics.

Yet equally powerful in this poem is the motif of Christian forgiveness, the Christian mag-nanimity of the neophytes, these "righteous ones" and "holy martyrs." The contradiction implied in the two motifs is not coincidental. Throughout Shevchenko's poetry there coexist (or at times conflict with each other), the vengeance and forgiveness — the former in the social aspect, the latter in the moral. It is not always easy to bring these two into concord either in the individual soul or in history. In his poetry Shevchenko is clearly torn between them — indeed, had this not been so, his work would have lost much of its universal significance. And in this poem, Shev-chenko's neophytes are not simply and not only the "new recruits" of Christianity in pagan Rome. They are everyone who resolved to cast off the fetters of untruth from the soul and

bore The word of truth and right through all That land so cruelly enslaved.

They are every apostle of freedom. Nevertheless, the central figure of the poem is not Alcides and his fellow-neophytes, but his

mother, whose suffering and sacrifice are far greater.

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Wr The archetypal figure of the suffering mother — Mary, the mother of Christ, is constantly

invoked in Shevchenko's poetry. In Neophytes, he addresses her in an opening prayer, and she, as it were is present throughout the poem as a silent witness. Soon after The Neophytes Shevchenko devoted an entire poem to her — Mariya.

Shevchenko actually wrote this poem in October — November 1859, after his return to St Petersburg from Ukraine. But he had had the idea of it for a long time. Although Shevchenko was well acquainted with the scriptures, his poem is far-removed in tone from the canonical reli-gious texts of the Orthodox church, but derives considerably from the legends of Ukrainian popular belief. He also introduces some significant innovations: Mary is initially presented to us not as Joseph's betrothed but as a "servant-girl" (Naimychka — the title of his 1845 narrative), and at the end, she dies, not surrounded by the sorrowing apostles as in the Orthodox hymnody, but starves to death in a ditch. Mary becomes, in effect, the last and greatest of his feminine symbols of suffering Ukraine.

Fame and loneliness (the final years). Back in St Petersburg, Shevchenko was once again swept up into the whirlwind of community and artistic life.

In 1860, after more than a year of bureaucratic delays, permission was finally granted for the publication of a new edition of the 1840 Kobzar, albeit with savage cuts by the censor. A few months later, a Russian translation of the Kobzar appeared, which included some previ-ously unpublished works — though not of course, any of his political poems. Shevchenko, it would seem, was at the peak of his success and fame.

Nevertheless, the trauma of his "lost" ten years in exile had left an indelible mark on him. The poetry of what would prove to be the last years and months of his life is often marked by a sense of loneliness and world-weariness — though at times he returns to the folklore motifs of his youth, and in his "paraphrase" of Hosea, Chapter XIV, written on 25 December 1859 was, as it were, his farewell apocalyptic message to his fellow-countrymen, concluding the warning begun in his Epistle of 1845:

And thou shaltperish, Ukraina, Vanish, leave no trace on this earth...

Yet even as he calls on Ukraine to

.. .prophesy to thy wicked offspring That they shall perish in their sin, That all their treason and dishonour And crooked soul the fire shall smite...

He still proclaims his faith that finally

truth will rise from its grave.

Qtif* 66

The final illness. In the autumn of 1860 began the illness which would prove fatal. The medicine of the day diagnosed it as dropsy. Friends surrounded Shevchenko with concern, good practitioners treated him, but the medical resources of the day could not halt the progress of the illness.

1861, the last year of Shevchenko's life, began with no great joy, but he had still not lost hope entirely, and he still had great plans for the future. A presentiment of death vied with hope. He was still far from being an old man. He told his friends that he did not want to die. We can see these complex feelings in his last poems: bitterness, sad jesting at the approach of the inevitable, and thoughts about eternity.

On 25 February, his 47th birthday, greeting telegrams arrived, and friends came to visit him, but stayed only a short while so as not to weary him. Severe pain in his chest made it impossible to lie down; he was obliged to sit up...

Late in the evening, at his own wish, everyone left and he was alone. Shevchenko lit a can-dle, then put it out. But to the people waiting downstairs he made no response.

At about five o'clock he asked the servant to make tea, and he drank a glass of it with cream. '"You tidy up here', Taras Hryhorovych said to the servant, 'I'm going downstairs.' He went down to the studio, gasped, fell down, and at around 5.30 our dear, beloved poet was no more."1

All Shevchenko's friends in St Petersburg were greatly moved by the sad news of his death, which, in the words of one of them (L. Zhemchuzhnikov) "ran through all of us like an electric spark, and an inexpressible grief seized our hearts."2 Soon the news reached Ukraine too. "That day in several towns of Little Russia and Halychyna [Austrian-ruled western Ukraine]. the mem-ory of the national poet was honoured in more or less solemn expressions of sympathy for the great loss suffered by the whole of Ukraine. From every corner of Russia there poured into the Osnova editorial office letters and verses, only a tiny fraction of which could appear on the pages of the journal."3

Shevchenko's funeral service was sung in the church of the Academy of Arts. Virtually every literary figure, journalist, artist and scholar in St Petersburg came to bid him farewell. Many accounts of Shevchenko's funeral have come down to us from those who were present. They all stress the extraordinary atmosphere of excitement that prevailed, especially among the young students who themselves carried the coffin all the way to the Smolenskoye cemetery.

The graveside eulogies were no ritual gesture. As those who delivered them all stressed, they were an act of public appreciation of himself as a person, and of his significance for the whole Slavonic community.

He was buried in a lead-lined coffin, for his friends had already decided that, eventually, his final resting place should be in Ukraine.

1 Cnorami npo Tapaca lileBHeHKa. — K.: Hi-iinpo, 1982. — C'. 379. 2 Ta\i ca\io. — C. 372. 3 T a \ i c a M O . — C . 3 8 6 .

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Back to Ukraine — forever. Immediately after the funeral, Shevchenko's friends began pressing for permission to return his remains to Ukraine. At the end of April permission was granted, and on the 26th of that month, the coffin was exhumed, placed in an outer, lead, casket, and taken by hearse to the railway station, and then by train to Moscow. There it was taken to the Church of St Tikhon on the Arbat for a memorial service which attracted a large congrega-tion. From Moscow, it was taken by a relay of horse-drawn hearses to Kyiv. All along the route, and especially in Ukraine, crowds turned out to say farewell to Shevchenko. Finally, it was interred on the hill outside Kaniv, now known as "Taras's hill."

The site immediately became a place of pilgrimage — and the authorities mounted yet anoth-er surveillance operation, observing and reporting on all who came. Eventually, the police files on this "case" would amount to 108 folios.

The pilgrims continued to come. Not only Ukrainian peasants but prominent people from all over the Russian empire and beyond. One such, the future Nobel laureate Ivan Bunin, wrote: "I have visited the graves of great people, but none of them made such a moving impression on me as the grave of the Ukrainian 'Kobzar'."

Meanwhile, Shevchenko's name began to spread beyond the frontiers of the Russian empire. In 1868, the first translation from Shevchenko's works appeared in English: a prose version of some extracts from The Caucasus, done by Agapius Floncharenko (the pseudonym of Fr Andriy Humnvtskyi, the first Orthodox priest in the USA) and published in the twice-monthly bilingual (Russian and English) newspaper The Alaska Herald. (The USA had purchased Alaska and northern California from Russia the previous year. In spite of its name, The Alaska Herald was actually produced in San Francisco). In 1876, the Paris Revue des deux mondes published an article by Emile Durand ("Le poete nationale de la Petite-Russie — Chevtchenko"). Describing the reverence paid to the poet by his fellow countrymen, Durand wrote: "One would search in vain elsewhere for a poet to whom the uneducated, almost illiterate, crowd likewise renders the homage ordinarily reserved for sanctuaries or saints." An abridged version was reprinted in the New York monthly The Galaxy.

The following year, in London, the weekly All the year round, published an article on Shevchenko; no author was named, but it seems likely to have been written by the editor of the journal, Charles Dickens junior, the son of the novelist.

In 1880, the first translation appeared in the UK: writing in the Westminster Review about the Kobzar (reprinted in Prague in 1876), W. R. Morfill included his translation of lines 1—8 of the Testament.

To date, more than 80 translators on both sides of the Atlantic have published versions of Shevchenko's works, with varying degrees of accuracy and artistry.

Shevchenko in the Soviet era. The end of tsarist rule and the establishment of the Soviet rule meant, inevitably, a reassessment of Shevchenko's works. The Soviet propagandists were swift to seize on his denunciations of tsarist oppression and injustices, and to present the poet's con-demnation of hypocrisy and false piety as out-and-out atheism. This reshaping of Shev-chenko to the communist cause was, so to speak, symbolized by a painting which in Soviet times

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hung in the Shevchenko museum in Kyiv showing Lenin and his wife purportedly at tending a Shevchenko centenary celebration in Krakow in 1914. Yet this approval was only partial; the USSR was, in effect, simply the Russian empire under a different name and different ideology; concessions to its non-Russian citizens, concessions to its non-Russian nations as regards culture, language etc were viewed by the ideologues as merely temporary, until such time as all ethnic groups were "alloyed" into a new, uniform "Soviet" identity Hence even as the Soviets praised Shevchenko, they still censored his works, and poems such as And why do we love Bohdan say?. There stands in Subotiv village are absent from Soviet editions.

At the same time, the world-wide Ukrainian political diaspora, not surprisingly, focused on Shevchenko as the prophet and inspiration of the hoped-for liberation and independence of their homeland. Nor were they alone in this; in 1964, to mark the sesquicentenary of the poet's birth, a statue of Shevchenko was erected in Washington D.C., honouring him as a "champion of liberty." This "politicization" of Shevchenko meant that on both sides of the "curtain," Shev-chenko 's works were read and discussed almost exclusively for their political content , and little a t tent ion was paid to them as works of imaginative literature. With the approach of the 150th anniversary of Shevchenko's death (2011) and 200th of his birth (2014) the time is surely ripe for scholars to focus on his work for the artistry and insight into the human spirit that will make it live long after the political and social pressures under which it was written are a faded page in the history books.

Ivan Dziuha, Academician,

National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine

V *

H M

B E W I T C H E D

Roar ing and groaning rolls the Dnipro , An angry wind howls th rough the night, Bowing and bending the high willows, And raising waves to m o u n t a i n heights. And , at this t ime, the moon ' s pale beams Peeped here and there between the clouds, Like a small boat o n the blue sea. N o w rising up, now sinking down. Still the third cock-c row was not crowed, A n d not a creature chanced to speak, Only owls hoot ing in the grove. A n d now and then the ash- t ree creaked.

Such a night, benea th the moun ta in , There , beside the spinney Which shows black above the water, Someth ing white is g l immering. Maybe a russalka-baby. Wander ing by stealth, Seeks her m o t h e r or a lad To tickle him to death . It is n o russalka roaming. But a young girl wander ing , A n d she does not know, herself, Spe l l -bound, what she's doing. T h u s the old wise w o m a n made it, So to ease her grieving, Tha t , by wander ing at night , D o you see, while sleeping, She could seek the Cossack w ho Left her last year — he promised

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That he would return to her, But pe rchance he perished! No t with a red kerchief have The Cossack's eyes been swathed, N o t by her caressing tears Were his fair cheeks ba thed : On a foreign field, an eagle Plucked his eyes away, And the wolves devoured his flesh — Such must be his fate! In vain the young girl waits for h im, Every night, in vain; The dark-browed youth will not re turn N o r greet her once again. H e will not have he r long plait loosened, N o r her kerchief t ied; N o t in a bed, but in her coff in Shall the o rphan lie!

Such is her for tune . . . O G o d of all mercy, Why dost T h o u punish a ma iden so young? Because the poor child c a m e to love so sincerely The Cossack's dark eyes? Ah , forgive her this wrong! W h o m then should she love? Without fa ther or mother , Alone, like a bird on a far distant shore. She is so young — O send he r good for tune , Or strangers will m o c k her and laugh her to scorn. Is the dove to be b lamed that she loves her heart 's darling? Is he to be b lamed that the hawk comes to slay? Grieving and cooing and weary of living. She flies all a round , seeks h i m lost f rom the way. For tuna te bird, she can soar high above, C a n wing up to G o d and implore for her dear. But w h o m , then , O w h o m , can the o rphan approach , And w h o is to tell her, w ho knows where her love Is passing the night? Is he in a dark grove?

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Does he water his horse in the Danube ' s swift s t ream? Or perhaps there 's another , ano the r he loves, A n d she, the dark-browed, is a past, faded d ream? If she were but given the wings of an eagle, She would find her beloved beyond the blue waves, In life she would love h im and strangle he r rival, And if he were dead, she would share the same grave. N o t so the heart loves as to share with another , N o r is it con ten t with what G o d has to give, It has no wish to live, no wish to m o u r n ever; "Mourn , " says thought , overwhelming with grief. Such is Thy will, t hen , O G o d , good and great, Such is her for tune , such is he r fate.

So still she walks, she speaks no sound, T h e Dn ip ro flows on silently, T h e wind has scat tered t he black clouds, And lain to rest beside the sea. And f rom the sky, the m o o n is pour ing Its light u p o n the grove and water, And all is resting quietly. . . . But see! F r o m out the Dnipro ' s t ide, J u m p little chi ldren, laughing there. "Come , let us sun ourselves!" they cry, "Our sun is up!" ( N o c lothes they wear, But braids of sedge, for they are girls).

"Are you all here?" the m o t h e r calls. "Come , let us look for supper.

Let us play and sport together! Sing a little song together!"

"Whisht! Whisht! Will o' the wisp!

M o t h e r gave me life — once born , Unbap t i zed , she laid me down.

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M o o n above. Dearest dove, C o m e and sup with us tonight : In the reeds a Cossack lies, In the reeds and sedge, a silver Ring is shining on his f inger; Young he is, with fine dark eyebrows, We found h i m yesterday in the oak-grove. Shine upon the open field So that we may sport at will, While the wi tches are still flying, Till the morn ing cocks are crying, Shine for us. . . Look, someth ing goes Moving there benea th the oak!

Whisht! Whisht! Will o' the wisp!

M o t h e r gave me life — once born , Unbapt ized , she laid me down."

The unbapt ized babes shrieked with laughter, The grove replied; wild shrieks abound , Like the fierce Horde hel l -bent o n slaughter. Rush to the oak. . . and not a sound. . . The unbapt ized stop in the i r tracks, They look: there someth ing gl immers, Some creature cl imbing in the tree To the topmost limit. See, it is that se l f -same girl W i o , in her sleep, would wander ; Such is the bewitching spell Tha t the witch laid on her! O n a slender topmos t b ranch She stood. . . he r heart was dwining. She looked round , searching on all sides. . . T h e n down she started cl imbing. R o u n d the oak, russalka-babies

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Waiting, held their brea th , Seized her as she came , poo r soul. And tickled her to death . Wondering at her beauty, they gazed At her long, so long. . . The third cock crowed; they splashed into The water, and were gone!

The skylark trilled its me lody Soaring ever up, The cuckoo called its plaintive call Sitting in the oak. The nightingale burst into song, It echoed th rough the spinney, Behind the hills — a rosy blush, The p l o u g h m a n starts his singing. The grove is black above the water Where the Poles crossed of old. Above the Dnipro , the high gravemounds N o w loom bluely bold. A rustle passes through the grove, Sets dense osiers sighing; By the path , beneath the oak- t ree , There the girl is lying, Sound asleep, quite deaf , it seems, To the cuckoo calling, Does not count how long she'll live. . . . Sound asleep she's fallen.

In the meanwhi le , f rom the oak-grove C o m e s a Cossack riding, U n d e r h im, the raven horse C a n hardly move with t iredness. "You are weary, m y old f r iend, But we shall rest today: There ' s a cot tage where a girl

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Will open us the gate. Or, perhaps , it is, already, Opened to another . . . . G o o d horse — faster; good horse — faster! Hurry, hurry homewards!" But the raven horse is weary. On he walks, half-fal l ing, N e a r the Cossack's hear t , it seems There 's an adder crawling. "Look, it is our leafy oak- t ree . . . . There she is! G o d above! See, she fell asleep while waiting, All, my grey-winged dove!" He left the horse and rushed towards her: "O m y G o d , my God!" H e calls her n a m e and kisses her. . . But it does n o good. "Why, then have they par ted us, M e f rom you?" He broke In to frenzied laughs, and dashed His head against the oak! The girls go out to reap the rye, And , as girls do, they start thei r songs, H o w mothers bid their sons "good-bye," H o w Tatars fought the whole night long. They go. . . benea th a verdant oak, A tired horse is s tanding by, And near the horse , a h a n d s o m e young Cossack and a maiden lie. Cur ious (it must be to ld) . They creep up to give t h e m a fright, But w h e n they saw that he was killed, I n fear they fled with all the i r might .

All her young f r iends gathered round . In girlish teardrops ba thed ,

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All his comrades gathered round , And started digging graves. The priests c a m e with the holy banners , All the bells were tolling, The village paid their last respects By cus tom old and holy. The re beside the road, they raised Twin m o u n d s a m o n g the rye. There was no one there to ask How they came to die. A maple and a fir they p lan ted Over the young lad, And a br ight-f lowered guelder- rose At the maiden ' s head. Here the cuckoo of ten flies To call above t h e m still; Here the nightingale will fly, Each night, to sing his fill, Sings to his heart 's con ten t , and carols Till the m o o n has risen, Till, again, russalka-babies Steal out f rom the river.

[1837, St Petersburg]

B A L L A D

Water flows to the dark-b lue sea, Flows down to it forever; A Cossack goes to seek his for tune , For tune meets h i m never. The Cossack journeyed far away; The dark-blue sea is playing. The Cossack's heart is playing also, Unt i l a thought speaks, saying: "Where do you journey, wi thout asking.

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To whose mercies leaving Father and your darl ing m o t h e r A n d a young maid , grieving? In foreign parts the folk are strange, A m o n g t h e m life is bleak: N o one with w h o m to weep awhile, N o one with w h o m to speak ."

On the far shore the Cossack sits, The dark-blue sea is playing, He d r eamed that he would meet good for tune , Only grief waylaid h im. And now the cranes in the i r long skeins Wing h o m e w a r d - b o u n d once more . The Cossack weeps — the bea ten pathways Are overgrown with thorns .

[1838, St Petersburg]

B A L L A D

Wild wind blowing, wild wind blowing! With the sea you're speaking, — Rouse the dark-blue sea, play with it, Ask the news I 'm seeking. It knows where m y darling is, For it bore and took h im. It can say, the dark-blue sea, In what place it put h im. If the dark-blue sea has d rowned M y darl ing, as its plunder, I'll go seek my darling love, D r o w n all my woes deep under. I shall d rown my hapless fate , As a russalka bide there , I'll seek h im in the black waves,

On the sea-bed hide there . I shall f ind h im, clasp h im to m e , On his heart swoon softly, Then , wave, bear m e with my darling Where the wind may waft us. If my darling's in a far land, Dea r wind, you know truly, Where he goes and what he does, There you can talk to h im. If he weeps, then I would weep, If not , I'll sing gladly, If my dark-browed dear has perished, I too shall perish sadly. Then , wind, bear my soul away, Where m y dear is sleeping, And I'll be a guelder-rose t ree, Watch o'er his grave keeping. Easier for an o rphan w h o In foreign field is lying, If above h im his beloved As a flower s tands sighing, As flower grows, as guelder- rose , I'll blossom high above h im, So foreign sun won't scorch, nor people Trample my beloved. In the eventide I'll grieve there , At the dawn stand weeping, W h e n the sun sets I'll shed tears — And no one will see t h e m . Wild wind blowing, wild wind blowing! With the sea you're speaking, — Rouse the dark-blue sea, play with it, Ask the news I 'm seeking.

[1838, St Petersburg]

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B A L L A D

Weary-dreary lags and drags Life for the kinless o rphan . N o w h e r e — f r o m hills to the water — Is there welcome for h im. To have drowned in youth were better, T h a n drag through this world's t ed ium. To have d rowned , for life is dreary — A n d nowhere to flee to. One man ' s for tune gathers for h i m A good harvest yonder. But mine , somewhere beyond the seas Like a sluggard wanders . Life is pleasant for the rich m a n , To know h im all has ten. But when people mee t with me — They f ind it distasteful. A girl shows a th ick- l ipped rich m a n H o n o u r a n d respect. But me, an o rphan she will only M o c k at and reject. Don ' t you then find me good- looking , Don ' t you f ind me pleasing, D o I not love you sincerely. Did 1 m o c k or tease you? Love', then , as you will, dear hear t , Love the one you choose to, But w h e n you r e m e m b e r me , Don ' t m o c k or abuse me . I shall wend to the world's end . . . In a foreign count ry I'll f ind bet ter fate or else die Like leaf in the sun there.

The Cossack, grieving, went away. Leaving n o n e beh ind h im, Sought for tune 's weal in foreign field But only came to die there . And in dying looked his last O n daylight bright and sunny. Weary-dreary 'tis to die I n a foreign country.

Gatchina. November 2, 1838

B A L L A D

What good are my dark brows to me, Hazel eyes — what good? What good are my years of youth , Of happy m a i d e n h o o d ? M y young years will go for no th ing , Pass away all vainly, M y eyes weep, and my dark brows In the wind fade wanly. The heart withers, and it sings As bird sings w h e n not free, Wha t good is my beauty if There ' s no good fate for me?. . . Life u p o n this earth for me , A n o rphan , is so bleak, M y own people are like strangers. N o n e with w h o m to speak. There is n o one w h o will ask m e Why m y eyes are weeping, There is no one who can tell m e What m y heart is seeking. For what my hear t , like turt ledove Night and day is moan ing ,

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N o one is there who will ask it, N o one sees or knows it. Stranger people will not ask it, Why should it conce rn t h e m ? Let her weep her fill, poo r o rphan , Waste he r years in yearning. Weep, t hen , heart , weep eyes until You close in s lumber weary. Louder weep, more bitterly, So the wind will hear you. So that across the dark-blue sea Wild breezes bear it for me . To the h a n d s o m e lad w h o left me , So to grieve h im sorely.

[1838, St Petersburg]

T H E N I G H T O F T A R A S

At the crossroads sits a kobzar Playing on his kobza; Lads and girls all clustered round h im, boys and girls Blossoming like poppies. The kobzar plays, he sings his lays, Chan t ing out the words, How the Cossacks fought the Poles, T h e Muscovites , the Horde . H o w the whole assembly ga thered Early o n a Sunday; How they buried a young Cossack In a verdant gully. The kobzar plays, and sings to it, A n d makes misfor tune smile:

Once there was the H e t m a n a t e — It passed beyond recall!

A cloud rises beyond the Lyman, A cloud f rom the plain soaring Ukra ina , mourn ing , grieving, — Such is her i l l -fortune! Like a small child she grieves a n d weeps But n o one comes to cherish And rescue her . . . T h e Cossack host Is fallen now and perished. Glory and their home land per ished, And n o haven, nowhere A n d the scions of bold Cossacks Unbapt i sed must grow now. Love in sin, unblessed by marr iage, Priestless are interred, And their fa i th is sold to Jews, A n d they debarred f rom church . While Poles and Unia tes , like jackdaws Covering the plain, Swoop down, — to give her good advice N o one still remains . Nalyvaiko did come for th — H e and his forces vanished! Cossack Pavliuha did c o m e for th — A n d followed in like manner ! Taras Triassylo then c a m e for th , With bit ter tears, he said: " M y poor Ukra ina t rampled , U n d e r Polish tread! Ukra ina , Ukra ina! Mother , m o t h e r dearest! W h e n I but recall your fate M y heart at once is weeping! Where is the Cossack host , and where Are the red jerkins scat tered? Where the f reedom-des t iny? The H e t m a n s and their banners?

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Where is it vanished? Burned to ashes? Or has the dark-blue sea covered Your lofty mounta ins , d rowning deep Your high gravemounds forever? M o u n t a i n s hold their peace, the sea play, G r a v e m o u n d s sadly brood now, O'er the scions of bold Cossacks It is Poles who rule now. Play, t hen , sea! Keep silent, mounta ins! Wild wind, r oam the plain! Weep, you scions of bold Cossacks! Such is your ill-fate!"

Taras Triassylo then c a m e for th , To save the faith f r o m woe. The mighty eagle t h e n came for th , Gave the Poles cause to know! Nob le Triassylo t hen c a m e for th: "We have grieved long enough! But let us go, my fr iends and brothers , To fight the Polish foe!"

Th roughou t three days, th roughou t three nights, Triassylo fought and more , F r o m Lyman to Trubailo the plain Was strewn with corpses o'er. T h e noble Cossack's strength was failing, Heavy his heart was aching; And wicked Koniecpolski f o u n d Grea t cause for mer ry -mak ing , All the nobili ty he ga thered , Set t h e m all a-feast ing, Taras his Cossacks bold t hen ga thered , Counse l he was seeking: 'O tamans and comrades daring, Brothers mine , my sons,

Give me , pray, your good advice. What should now be done . Our Polish foes are banque t ing , They celebrate our rain!' 'Let t h e m banquet as they will! M u c h good may it do them! Let the accursed foe banque t on Unt i l sunset is over, But mothe r -n igh t will counsel us. The Poles we shall discover. '

The sun lay down behind the m o u n t a i n , And the stars came out , Like a c loud, the Cossack force Ringed the Poles about . The m o o n stood high amid the sky — The c a n n o n roared and t hunde red ; Sudden the Polish lordlings woke — N o w h e r e to take cover! Sudden the Polish lordlings woke — But nevermore did rise The sun c a m e up, and one and all They lay there s ide-by-side.

Flowing like serpent , c r imson- red , The Alta brings the tidings, So ravens f rom the plain might fly To eat the Polish lordlings. Flying the black ravens c a m e To rouse those h igh-and-migh t ies , While the Cossack host assembled To thank G o d Almighty. The black ravens cawed and croaked, Dug the eyes out , tearing, While bold Cossacks sang the song Of that night of daring,

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Of that night of b lood which brought Glory to the endeavour Of Taras and his Cossack host — And m a d e Poles sleep forever.

On the plain a g ravemound s tands Black above the s t ream; Where the Cossack blood once flowed N o w the grass grows green. A raven sits upon the m o u n d , F r o m hunger it is cawing, A Cossack recalls the H e t m a n a t e , Recalls it, and is mourn ing . . . Once , it was, we ruled ourselves, But we shall rule no more . . . Yet we never shall forget The Cossack fame of yore! . ."

Grieving, the kobzar ceased, somehow His hands refused to play, And , gathered round h im, boys and girls Wiped their tears away. The kobzar went along the road , Suddenly, what a lay He starts to play, f rom grief! T h e lads Dance round , he sings and plays: "Let this be the way it goes! Sit there , chi ldren, behind the stove, I, being sad, will to the inn, There I shall f ind my wife wi thin , Shall f ind my wife, and stand a round, And laugh, our enemies to confound!"

[November 6, 1838, St Petersburg]

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T O T H E E T E R N A L M E M O R Y O F K O T L I A R E V S K Y I

Sunlight glowing, breezes blowing, F r o m field to the valley, O'er stream's billows, wi th the willows, Gue lder - rose leans sadly, On the guelder-rose a little Nest is swaying, lonely But what befell the nightingale? D o not ask! W h o knows it? Recall evil — but what ma t t e r . . . It is gone and past now; Recall good — the heart will languish: Why did things not last so? So I look, so I recall: Of old, in the twilight, Twittering filled the guelder- rose; N o n e could pass it by t h e n , N o t the rich m a n , w h o m good for tune Cossets like a m o t h e r Tending, watching over h im . He canno t pass it ever. And the o rphan who, ere dawnlight Must rise for toil dreary, Pauses, listens, and , it seems As if they speak sincerely Father and mother ; once again The heart beats lightly, pa in - f ree And the world seems Easter-br ight , And h u m a n s act humanely! Or the girl w h o each day beholds The one she loves so deeply, W h o like an o rphan droops and withers, Knows not where to flee to —

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fM She comes down the pa th to weep, A m o n g the willows crying, The nightingale begins to sing — Straightway her tears are drying. She listens, and she smiles again, Wonders in the dark spinney, As if she talked with her beloved . . . And the bird is singing. . .

So smoothly, so couthly, as if t o G o d hymning — Till the murde re r comes on the pathway to lurk With a knife in his b o o t - t o p — echoes run th rough the spinney, Resound — and grow silent: why sing for his work? Song canno t check his base soul, no r a m e n d it, Why waste the voice? Teaching h im is no use! Let h im rage till he comes to his life's ending, And over his corpse ravens caw out the news. The valley sleeps, o n the guelder- rose the Night ingale is s lumbering, The wind th rough the valley blows now, Echoes th rough the oak-grove ring, Echoes play, 'tis God ' s word spoken, Poor folk rise for daily toil, Cows are wander ing th rough the oak-grove. Girls c o m e with their water-pai ls , The sun peeps out — it is sheer heaven, Willow smiles — feast-day all round , The murde re r to tears is given. . . So it was once — behold it now:

Sunlight glowing, breezes blowing, F r o m field to the valley, O'er s tream's billows, wi th the willows, Gue lder - rose leans sadly, On the guelder- rose a little Nest is swaying, lonely. But what befell the nightingale? D o not ask! W h o knows it?

-

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N o t long past, no t long past in our Ukra ina , Old Kotliarevskyi sang for th in this way, His voice has ceased; we as o rphans r emain now, Like the hills and the seas, where his path first did stray,

Where the F a r - r o a m e r once led, His warrior band behind h im, All abandoned , all is grieving, Like Troy's ruins pinning, All is grieving — only glory Shines like sun unfailing. The Kobzar does not die, forever, Folk will praise and hail h im . So long as people will live, Father, You will rule forever, So long as sun shall shine in heaven. M e n will forget thee never!

0 r ighteous soul! Pray accept m y words spoken, Accept t h e m and greet t hem, unwise but s incere, D o not leave t h e m o r p h a n e d , as you left the oak-grove, Pour for th to me at least one word as token. Sing to me of Ukra ina so dear. May my soul smile, in this foreign land lonely, Smile at least once , seeing how you did bear All the glory of Cossackdom, in one word only. In to an orphan ' s p o o r frugal h o m e there. Pour it, grey eagle, for I a m a lone here, O r p h a n e d in this world, in a foreign land faring; Look at the sea, so deep, so widely flowing, And back to the fu r the r shore — no boat will bear me! 1 recall now Aeneas , recall k indred dear now, Recall and at once , like child, shed bitter tears now: And the waves to the fu r the r shore hasten and roar. And , maybe, for I 'm dark here , and noth ing can see now, Maybe o n that fu r the r shore evil fate weeps now? Everywhere people laugh at the o rphan in scorn. So, let t h e m laugh, but the sea there is playing,

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There sun, there the m o o n give more brilliant light, The gravemound still speaks with the wind in the plain there , And there with the m o u n d — n o more lonely my plight! O righteous soul! Pray accept my words spoken, Accept t h e m and greet t h e m , unwise, but sincere, D o not leave the o r p h a n as t h o u left the oak-grove, Pour forth to me at least one word as token, Sing to me of Ukra ina so dear.

[November — December 1838, St Petersburg]

P E R E B E N D I A

Perebendia , old and sightless, (Surely you all know h im) Playing on his kobza ever, Far and wide he's roaming. People all know w h o 'tis plays so, And thank h im sincerely; H e drives their grief away, a l though For h im the world is dreary. Fr ieze-clad wretch , benea th the fence Day and night he tarries; There 's n o home for h im on ear th; And misfor tune harries Jesting over his old head, Yet he endures the bu rden ; There he sits and sings his song: "Meadow, do not murmur!" H e sings his song, recalls that he Lone in the world must live now. So he sits benea th the fence Sorrowing and grieving.

Such, indeed, is Perebendia , With ever changing moods ,

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N o w he sings the song of Chalyi, Horlytsia now he'll choose , With the girls out in the pasture, Hryts or Springtime ditty, With the lads down at the inn, Serbyn or Barmaid pretty, With young husbands at a feast (When in-law trouble 's looming) The poplar-tree — adversity — And t h e n In woodlands gloomy. Sings Lazar in the bazaar, And , so folk know the story, Sings, weary-dreary, how the Sich Was ru ined , robbed of glory. Such, indeed is Perebendia , old With ever-changing moods , Sings his song and smiles his smile, And t h e n in tears he broods.

The wind is blowing, softly blowing. T h r o u g h the field roams, straying, On the g ravemound sits the kobzar, On his kobza playing, R o u n d h im, like a sea, the s teppe- land Spreads and bluely sh immers , G r a v e m o u n d beyond g ravemound — and Yonder, a hazy glimmer. Grey mous tache and aged scalp- lock The wind stirs, wildly fringing. As it draws close, as it listens To the kobzar 's singing.

H o w the hear t smiles, how the blind eyes are weeping, It listens, blows softly. . .

The old m a n is hid In the s teppe, o n a g ravemound , that no one may see h im, So the wind th rough the field bring the message it bids,

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So folk should not hear, for divine words it carries, And the heart then can freely converse with the Lord, A n d the heart t h e n can sing, like a bird, of God ' s glory, And thought in the c louds to the world's end may soar in the clouds, Like mighty eagle will fly, winging higher, Unt i l with its b road wings it beats o n the blue, It rests o n the sun, and asking, enquires Where it s lumbers at n igh t - t ime , h o w it wakens anew; It hearkens a n d listens to words the sea whispers, Or asks the black m o u n t a i n , "Why, then , are you dumb?" T h e n re turns to the sky, for on ea r th sorrow lingers, Fo r in all its expanse, there 's n o co rne r as h o m e For one who knows all things, hears all things arightly, Wha t the sea whispers, where sleeps the sun nightly, Yet in this world n o one will welcome h im — none . Like the high sun, dwelling lone a m o n g people, They know h im, for still the ear th bears h im, indeed; But if they should hear how, his lonely watch keeping, H e sings o n the g ravemound , he speaks with the sea,

T h e n they would m o c k the divine word he carries, Would n a m e it as foolish, would not let h im tarry, "Let h i m roam," they would say, "far over the sea!"

Wise thou art , indeed, my kobzar, Wisely act and sagely, Father, tha t to sing and talk, you C o m e out to the g ravemound; C o m e , my fr iend, sing to the end , Unt i l in rest eternal The heart sleeps, but truly sing Where folk hear not , to spurn you. And , lest they indeed should m o c k you, H u m o u r all their fancies, Those w h o pay we must obey W h e n they call the dances!

Tha t is Perebendia, old With ever-changing moods , Merri ly he sings his song, And then in grief he broods.

[1839, St Petersburg]

T H E P O P L A R

Through the oak-grove the wind whines, Th rough the field roams, playing, Sets the poplar by the roadside Bending, deeply swaying. Slender stature, broad leaves verdure — Vainly their green g l immers While the plain, like the broad ma in Bluely shines and sh immers . The c h u m a k on his j ou rney sees it, Bows his head before it; The shepherd with his reed-p ipe sits On the gravemound in the morn ing . Sees it and his heart is aching, N o t one grass-blade nigh it. All a lone, like a poor o rphan A m o n g strangers dying.

Who 'd t end , to die in the s teppe, A tree so slender, lissom? Wait, I shall reveal it all. Girls , pay heed and listen.

O n c e a dark-browed maiden loved A Cossack, dearly cher ished. Fell in love, — but could not keep h im; H e went away and perished. . . H a d she known he'd go away,

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She'd have refrained f rom loving, Had she known that he would perish, She'd have s topped h im leaving; Had she known — she'd not have gone So late to fe tch the water, N o r stood with her love 'neath the willow To midnight and after. . . H a d she k n o w n ! . . .

But it is not good To know what 's waiting for us In the world, before it happens! Don ' t try, girls, I implore you! D o not ask to know your fate. W h o m to love and cherish The heart alone knows. Let it wither, Before it is buried, Because, dear dark-browed girls, not long Shine those eyes of hazel , A n d the fair complexion blushes, N o t long, my dear maidens . Before n o o n it all will wither, Da rk brows lose thei r lustre, So then , fall in love and love As the heart instructs you.

In the meadow, nightingale Trills on the guelder - rose- t ree , The Cossack lad bursts into song As th rough the vale goes he, Sings until the dark-browed girl C o m e s f rom her h o m e to meet h i m ; A n d then he'll ask, straightaway. Did her m o t h e r beat her? There the two will s tand, embrac ing , Night ingale sings sweetly; They listen — and then separate ,

Both joyful f rom their meet ing. There is n o one that will see it, N o one will ask, seeking: "Where were you, what did you do?" She only knows the secret . . . She has loved, fallen in love. He r poor heart was reeling. He r t ende r heart did not know how To warn her 'gainst her feelings. It did not warn her — she r ema ined , Day and night cooed drearly, Like a she-dove wi thout he-dove , With no one to hear her. In the meadow, nightingale Trills not o 'er the stream's billows, The dark-browed girl no longer sings Standing benea th the willow, She does not sing, for o rphan- l ike She f inds the whole world dreary Without her darling — father, m o t h e r Seem like strangers merely, Without her darling the sun shines But seems a foe jeering! Without her darling, life's a grave — And yet her heart is beating.

A year went by, ano the r year, N o Cossack comes , however. Like a faded flower she withers; M o t h e r asks her never: "Daughter , why do you thus languish?" Does not ask. In secret With a m a n grey-haired and wealthy She reached an agreement . "Wed h im, daughter!" says he r mother , "Don ' t live aye a maiden .

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H e is rich and all a lone . You'll be a f ine lady!" "1 don' t want to be a lady, Won't accept his offer. Use the bet rothal towels I've made To lower m y coff in. Let the priests sing dirges for m e , Let my fr iends weep o'er me. Ra the r than meet h im, to lie In death is l ighter for me!"

The old m o t h e r did not heed her. Did what she knew ever. And the dark-browed girl looked on , Held her peace — a n d wi thered. O n e night to the witch she went , To have her cast her fu ture , H o w long she must live on ear th , H e r loneliness endur ing. "Dearest Granny, darling dove, D e a r heart , darling mother , Tell me, please, sincerely, truly, Where is my beloved? Live and well? Does he still love me? Or did he forsake me? Tell me , t hen , where is m y dear. To the world's end I'll take me! Dearest Granny, darl ing dove. Tell me, you know surely! For my mother ' s f ound an old m a n , As a br idegroom for me! To love such a m a n , dear Granny , M y heart will not t each me! I would d rown myself — and yet To lose one 's soul is grievous. . . . If my dark-browed lad's not living,

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Work it. G r a n n y dearest , Tha t I re turn h o m e nevermore . Life is weary, weary. T h e old man ' s there with ma tchmake r s , Tell my for tune plainly!" "Right, m y daughter! Rest a little, Then you must obey me . I t oo was once young, I felt The sel f -same sorrow deeply! Tha t is past now. I have learned well: N o w I can help people . And your for tune , my dear daughter , Two years back I knew it, Two years back I p lucked the herbs, N e e d e d for my brewing." The old wi tch went , took d o w n what seemed A n ink-pot f rom the shelf: "This will work the spell to aid you! G o down to the well Before the crowing of the cocks , Wash there in the water, Dr ink a little of this po t ion , 'Twill cure your sorrow, daughter! You must drink, then run your fastest, So no noise is coming , Don ' t look round , unt i l you're s tanding Where you par ted f rom h im. You will rest there , till the m o o n stands High amid the heavens, Dr ink again — and if he comes no t , Dr ink a third t ime, even. The first draught — you'll once more be As you were last year, dearie! Next draught — horse-hooves in the steppe Will r e - echo clearly, If your darl ing Cossack lives.

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Straightway he'll s tand before you! But the third draught — daughter , do not Ask what will befall you. But heed this — do not cross yourself, Or all will go to waste, dear. G o you then , and see once more Your last-year's lovely face, dear."

She took hold of the po t ion , bowed: "Dearest Granny, t h a n k you!" She left the house: to go or not? "No! I'll not draw back now!" She went. . . She washed herself, she drank; She seemed herself no longer, A second t ime, a third — and as if Sleeping, sang her song there . She seemed to fly as if borne high On wings, in the steppe landed. Landed , s tanding, weeping sadly, She sang:

"Swim, dear swan, O swim across The dark-blue sea swift gliding, Grow, dear poplar-sapl ing, grow, Ever higher, higher, G r o w you lissomly and tall, To the c louds of heaven, Ask G o d : shall I f ind m y br idegroom. Or not f ind h im ever? Grow, grow tall, look out across The dark-blue sea to find h im; O n the far shore is my for tune , O n this shore — but pining. Somewhere there m y dark-browed darling, Sings and revels gladly, While I l ament , youth vainly spent

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Watching for h im sadly. Say to h im, my dearest hear t . Tha t people deride me; Say to h i m that I shall perish Without h i m beside me. N o w even my own m o t h e r wants In earth to lay me deeply — T h o u g h w h o will then remain to watch And tend her old head meet ly? W h o will watch o'er her, ask her needs, Care for he r in age rightly? O my mother ! O my fate! G o d , Dear G o d Almighty! Look for h im, poplar! If he is not Living, then weep deeply, Before sunrise, very early, W h e n no one will see it. Grow, dear hear t , dear poplar grow, Ever higher, higher, Swim, dear swan, O swim across T h e dark-blue sea swift gliding."

So the dark-browed maiden wept , Sang amid her sobbing, And — a wonder — in the plain She turned into a poplar.

Th rough the oak-grove the wind whines, Th rough the field roams, playing. Sets the poplar by the roadside Bending, deeply swaying.

[1839, St Petersburg]

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T O O S N O V Y A N E N K O

T h e rapids p o u n d , the m o o n is rising, As it rose in all fore t ime, G o n e is the Sich, and vanished he Who in past days ruled o'er it. G o n e is the Sich! The rushes ask The Dnip ro , sadly saying: "Where, now, have our chi ldren gone? Where , now, are they playing?" Flying round , the lapwing wails As if for her babes weeping. Sunlight glows, the wild wind blows, O'er Cossack s teppe- land sweeping. O n all sides in that steppe, high gravemounds , Rise up, mourn ing , asking The wild wind: "Where are ou r lads, Where now are they masters? Where now do they hold their banquets , Where do you still linger? C o m e back h o m e to us! For see, Ears of rye d roop limply Where of old you grazed your steeds, Where rustled the esparto, WTiere in c r imson sea flowed T h e blood of Pole and Tatar. C o m e ye h o m e to us!" — "They'll come not ," T h e dark-blue sea spoke, roaring, "They will come not h o m e again, For ever they have fallen!" True indeed, t rue, dark-blue sea, Such the for tune d e e m e d t h e m , Never shall come back those hoped for, Never c o m e back f r eedom, Never c o m e back Cossackdom, N o r H e t m a n s rise up ever,

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Nevermore shall Ukra ina With red jerkins be covered. All in tat ters, like an o rphan , On Dnipro ' s banks she weeps now; Weary-dreary o r p h a n h o o d , And there is n o n e to see it. . . Save the f o e m a n , and he smiles. . . Smile f o e m a n in your shame , then! But not for long, for all will perish. Yet glory knows no waning, Knows n o waning, still procla iming How the world once wended , Whose cause was right, and whose unjus t , F r o m w h o m are we descended . This our thought and this ou r song Shall never die nor perish. . . This, good people , is our glory, Ukraine 's glory cherished! Without gold, no r precious s tones, N o r shrewd words to express it, But resounding, glory true, Like God ' s own gospel blessed. Well t hen , f a t h e r - o t a m a n . D o I sing aright? Or, if not . . . But that 's enough! I a m far f r o m bright. Moreover — this is Muscovy, Foreigners all round me. "What's the mat ter?" you might say, "Why should that c o n f o u n d me?" Here they laugh to hear the psa lm Which with tears flows over, Here they laugh! 'Tis hard , dear father, To live a m o n g foemen! I too would have fought , maybe , Had strength to me been gran ted ,

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Would have sung, had some small voice, But it has quite depar ted . Indeed , my father, my dear f r iend, This is an evil bu rden . Lost in the snows, I to myself Sing "Meadow, do not murmur!" A n d that is all. But you, dear father. As you know full truly, You have a good voice, and people Pay you h o n o u r duly. So sing to t h e m , m y dear f r iend, Of Sich and gravemounds serried, W h e n it was they piled each high, A n d w h o m within they buried; Sing of olden days, tha t wonder, All that was, long ended , To it go that , willy-nilly. T h e whole world will a t tend t hen , A n d learn what passed in Ukra ina , A n d for what she per ished, A n d for what the Cossack glory Through the whole world f lourished. To it, mighty eagle, father! Let m e weep and m o u r n t hen . A n d my own dear Ukra ina Let me see once more then ; Let me hear once more the sea Playing in its billows, H e a r how a young girl sings Hryts, Standing 'neath the willow. Let my poor heart smile once m o r e Though f rom its own land severed. Ere in strange earth, in a strange coff in , It lies at rest forever.

[October — December 1839, St Petersburg]

IVAN PIDKOVA

I

Once , of old, in Ukra ina C a n n o n roared and t h u n d e r e d , Once , of old, the Zapo rozh i ans K n e w how to rule, unh inde red . A n d they ruled, a n d won themselves F reedom and great glory. Tha t has passed — and only g ravemounds Are left f rom their story. Lofty, high those g ravemounds loom. Where once to rest they laid The fair body of a Cossack Wrapped in red kerchief. High those gravemounds are, they loom Blackly, high as hills, In the plain, with the winds they're fain To talk of f r eedom still. Witness to the old grandsires ' glory With the wind now speaking, And in the dew, the grandson too Sings with t h e m at his reaping.

Of old, once , in Ukra ina , Evil too danced madly, And in the tavern sorrow with Its ladle stirred the mead . Once of old in Ukra ina , Life was good and pleasing. . . Well, let us remember! Maybe The heart will f ind some ease then .

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II

A black cloud f rom beyond Lyman T h e sky and sun is veiling, The dark-blue sea like a wild beast N o w groaning and now wailing. All a round , waves rise like hills, N o r ear th , no r sky is seen. D n i p r o ' s m o u t h is all in flood "Come on lads, all toge ther To the boats! The sea is playing — Let us go and revel." The Zaporozh ians all pour for th — Boats hide Lyman f r o m view: "Play, then , sea," they start thei r song! T h e waves are capped with spume. The heart 's reeling. But to Cossacks This is how things must be. On they sail and sing their songs, T h e f isher-bird flies over. . . A n d at the head the o t a m a n Leads t h e m , he knows whither. H e paces up and down the boa t , Pipe in his m o u t h stops burning , H e looks hither, he looks thither, To what task to turn n o w H e twirls at his black mous taches , Gives his scalp- lock a flourish. He lifts his cap. The boats are hal ted. "Let the f o e m e n perish! But, o t amans , my noble lads, N o t on Sinope's shore! But to Tsarhrad, to the Sultan, We'll go as guests for sure!" "Aye aye! Fa ther -Otaman!" All round their cry is roiling.

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II

A black c loud f rom beyond Lyman T h e sky and sun is veiling, The dark-blue sea like a wild beast N o w groaning and now wailing. All a round , waves rise like hills, N o r earth, no r sky is seen. D n i p r o ' s m o u t h is all in f lood "Come on lads, all toge ther To the boats! The sea is playing — Let us go and revel." The Zaporozh ians all pour for th — Boats hide Lyman f rom view: "Play, t hen , sea," they start thei r song! T h e waves are capped with spume . The heart 's reeling. But to Cossacks This is how things must be. O n they sail and sing their songs, The f isher-bird flies over. . . And at the head the o t a m a n Leads t h e m , he knows whither. H e paces up and down the boat , Pipe in his m o u t h stops burning , He looks hither, he looks thi ther . To what task to tu rn n o w H e twirls at his black mous taches , Gives his scalp- lock a flourish. H e lifts his cap. The boats are hal ted. "Let the f o e m e n perish! But, o t amans , my noble lads, N o t on Sinope's shore! But to Tsarhrad, to the Sultan, We'll go as guests for sure!" "Aye aye! Fa the r -Otaman!" All round their cry is roiling.

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"Thank you, lads." He dons his cap.

Once more the sea is boiling, The dark-blue sea. And he once more Along the deck is pacing, A n d at the waves the O t a m a n Silently is gazing.

[1839, St Petersburg]

0 my thoughts , my heartfelt t hough t s 1 a m t roubled for you. Why have you ranged yourselves on paper In your ranks of sorrow? Why did the wind not scatter you Like dus tmotes in the steppe? Why did ill-fate not overlie You, her babes, while she slept?

For ill-fate bore you but to m o c k and bec lown you; You were watered by tears — why did they not d rown you? Sweep you down to the sea? Wash you in to the plain? . . . N o one would ask then what pains me wi th in , N o one would ask t h e n why I curse my fate . Why I find life so dreary? N o r say, with a grin "There is naught to be done!"

Chi ldren mine , O my flowers! For what have I loved you and watched over you? Is there one heart in the world to weep wi th you. As I have wept? Maybe my guess will c o m e true!

Perhaps there will be found a girl's Hear t , hazel eyes to p o u r Tears for these, my heartfelt thoughts , — I ask no th ing more . . . O n e tear f r o m hazel eyes — and I A m lord of lords in glory!

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0 my thoughts , m y heartfelt thoughts , 1 a m t roubled for you.

For those lovely hazel eyes, For dark brows so pretty, The heart was rent — and smiled again, Pouring for th its ditties; Poured t h e m forth as it knew how, For the dark of n igh t - t ime , For the verdant cher ry -orchard . For a young girl's kindness, For Ukra ina with her s teppes And her lofty gravemounds , Hear t was reeling, was unwilling To sing a m o n g strangers, Was unwilling, in this forest , In this snow to gather The Cossack host to counci l here With their staves and banners . . . Let the souls of Cossacks hover, There in Ukra ina , F r o m end to end there it is broad And joyful , like the f r eedom W h i c h has long since passed away. . . Dn ip ro , like broad sea. lies there , Steppe beyond steppe, the rapids roar, G r a v e m o u n d s like m o u n t a i n s rise there. There was bo rn the Cossack f r eedom, There she galloped round . With Tatars and with Polish lords She strewed the plain about . Till it could take no more ; wi th corpses All the plain she strewed. F r e e d o m lay down to take her rest; Meanwhi le the g ravemound grew, And high above it, as a warder,

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Hovers the Black Eagle, And kobzars come and sing about T h e g ravemound to the people . They sing of all that c a m e to pass, Blind wretches — for sharp-wi t ted They are. . . But I, I only know H o w to weep for pity. Only tears for Ukra ina , Words I now have none . . . As for ill-fate. . . Well, let it be! . . . To w h o m is it u n k n o w n ? And , moreover, he who gazes In his soul on people . He has hell here , in this world, And the next. . .

But by grieving I'll no t con ju re myself such fate Unt i l I must abide it. Let miseries th rong for three days long Deeply I shall hide t h e m , T h e fierce serpent I shall hide R o u n d my very hear t , So enemies may never see H o w ill-fate mocks and laughs. . . T h e n let thought , like to a crow. Fly a round , aye cawing. But let the hear t , like nightingale Warble songs, weeping sorely In secret; people will not see, Will not , then , m o c k me so. . . D o not wipe my tears away, Let t h e m freely flow. Let t h e m soak this foreign field, Water it day and night, Unt i l , until . . . with foreign sand At last they close my eyes. . .

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T h u s it is! But what to do? N o aid will grief afford. Who envies the poor o r p h a n then — Punish h im, dear Lord!

0 my thoughts , my heartfel t thoughts , Chi ldren mine , my flowers! 1 have reared, watched over you, — Where to send you now? G o to Ukra ina chi ldren, O u r Ukra ina dear, Like poo r o rphans t rudge your way, While I shall perish here . There a t rue heart you will f ind, A word of kindness for you, There sincerity and t ru th . . . A n d even, maybe, glory. Bid t h e m welcome, my dear mother , Ukra ina ; smile O n these thy chi ldren still unwise, As on thy own true child.

[January — early March 1839, St Petersburg]

T O N . M A R K E W C H

Banduris t , your mighty eagle. May you prosper, brother . You have wings, you have the s t rength. A n d place to fly whither. N o w you fly forth to Ukra ina , They ' re watching out to meet you. I would fly there af ter you, But who is there to greet me? I 'm a stranger here, a lone,

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And there in Ukra ina , I 'm an o rphan too , dear f r iend , As if in foreign region. Why is the heart beating, straining? I a m lone there, surely, All a lone. . . But Ukraina! The steppe spreading broadly! There the bois terous breeze will blow, Like a b ro ther speaking. In the broad plain where f r eedom reigns; And the dark-blue sea there Plays and sparkles, praising G o d , Grief and care dispersing, G r a v e m o u n d s rise there in the steppe With the wild wind conversing. They converse there , sadly grieving, And their speech is ever: "Once, of old — it passed away. And will re turn here never!" I would fly there , I would listen, Join t h e m in their weeping. . . But . mewed a m o n g s t ranger-folk Fate holds me in its keeping.

St Petersburg. May 9, 1840

AS A M E M E N T O T O S H T E R N B E R G

Far away you'll travel, M u c h to see you'll f ind there . You will see, grieve bit terly — Friend, keep me in m i n d there!

[ M a y - J u n e 1840. St Petersburg]

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The wind blows, speaking with the grove, It whispers in the reeds, Down the D a n u b e glides the boat , Lonely on the s t ream. On it glides, swamped by the tide, N o one checks its course — For who is there? The f isher- lad Lives in this world no more . It glided to the dark-blue sea, Which tossed it unrestrainedly. The mounta in -waves had sport with it. Left not a chip remaining.

It's no long pa th — as when a boat Drif ts to the dark-blue sea — An o rphan takes to foreign parts , And then to misery. There good folk have sport with h im. Like the chilly waves; Afterwards they gaze their fill H o w the orphan ' s weeping. Afterwards ask "Where's the o rphan?" "I've not heard no r seen him."

[1841, St Petersburg!

H A M A L I Y A

"All, there comes , there comes nor wind nor a wave F r o m our Ukraina!

Whe the r they are in counci l , how to face the Turk — We hear not in this far region!

Ah, blow, wind, blow, far over the sea, F rom the Grea t Meadow coming ,

C o m e , dry our tears, d rown the c lanking of chains , And scatter our longing.

Ah, dance , then , dance then , you dark-blue sea, U n d e r boats where are sailing

The Cossacks (only their caps to be seen), To this shore to save us.

Ah G o d , our G o d ! Even if not for us, — From Ukraine do T h o u bear t h e m :

We shall hear thei r glory, the Cossack glory, Shall hear it and perish."

Thus in Scutari the Cossacks were singing. They sang, the poo r souls, and fast the i r tears f lowed. The Cossack tears flowed, and spoke of their yearning, Till Bosphorus t rembled , for he, since his birth, Had never yet heard the weeping of Cossacks; Like a grey bull he quivered th roughou t his wide girth, Sending the waves rolling far, far away, Over his ribs and to the blue sea. A n d roaring the words of the Bosphorus , the sea drove His message to Lyman, and Lyman to D n i p r o Over its waves passed the sorrowing speech.

Our mighty grandsire roared wi th laughter, Till his mous taches flowed with spume. "Asleep? Or listening, B r o t h e r - M e a d o w ? Sister Khortytsia?"

Echoes b o o m e d F r o m M e a d o w and Isle: "I hear, I hear!" Boats swarmed the D n i p r o in a throng. The Cossacks sang a rousing song:

"The Turkish Lady yonder has A house with f ine wood floor.

Hey! Hey! Sea, dance and play! Roar! Tear the cliffs away!

We'll go as guests, for sure!

The Turkish Lady in her pockets Thalers has and ducats .

N o t to pick her pockets , no , — But to knife and burn we go,

And to free our brothers!

The Lady janissaries has, A pasha on a couch .

Ho! Ho! At the foe! Qua lm or quaver we don ' t know:

Glory and f reedom's ours!"

Thus they sang while sailing on ; The sea the wild wind hears, Hamaliya in the prow Directs t h e m how to steer. "Hamaliya! The heart 's reeling! The sea has grown enraged!" "It shall not scare us!" And they hid Beyond the m o u n t a i n waves.

In the ha rem, in paradise, s lumbers Byzant ium, Scutari is s lumbering: Bosphorus seethes, Groan ing and howling as it were a m a d thing, Wishing to rouse Byzant ium f rom dreams. "Rouse t h e m not , Bosphorus, else you'll be mourning! All your white ribs I shall choke up with sand, I shall bury in mud!" the blue sea is roaring. "Do you not know what guests to the land Of the Sultan I'm carrying?"

Thus the sea g rumbled , (The bold long-mus tached Slavs it loved dearly indeed) . Bosphorus took heed. The Lady still s lumbered, In the ha rem, the laggardly Sul tan still d reamed . In Scutari a lone, in the pr ison, are awake The poor Cossack lads. What are they watching for? F r o m their fetters they pray in words simple and straight,

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i the roaring waves roll to the far, fu r the r shore "O G o d All-merciful of Ukraine! In foreign land and in u n f r e e d o m Let not free Cossacks perish, for 'Twere shame bo th now and evermore To rise f r o m foreign coff in meanly C o m e to T h y Judgmen t , just and right, With hands in irons, and in the sight Of all to stand in chains and fet ters Is shame for Cossacks! . . ."

— "Slash and smite! Strike the faithless unbeliever!" Beyond the wall. Whose is that cry?

"Hamaliya! The heart 's reeling! Scutari is enraged." "Slash and smite!" F r o m the fort H e shouts in answer straight.

With c a n n o n all Scutari 's roaring, The f o e m e n wildly roar and rage, Reckless the Cossack host charge forward, And janissaries tumble slain.

Hamal iya revels wildly Through Scutari 's hell, Tears the d u n g e o n open wide, Rends the chains himself. "Fly forth, grey hawks, to the bazaar, To take your share of wealth!" The fa lcon chicks all s tarted, fo r So long it was they might N o t hear this Christ ian language spoken . And old m o t h e r night Started too , she had not seen The Cossacks pay the score. D o not fear — but look upon T h e Cossack feast! Though all Is murky like a c o m m o n night

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Yet this is no small feast. N o t robbers these, w ho silently With Hamal iya eat Fat wi thout mut ton ."Le t us have Some light, boys!" And the f lames M o u n t c loud-h igh , with h igh-mas ted ships Scutari is ablaze. N o w Byzant ium blinked her eyes. Roused herself f rom sleep, Quickly sailed to bring t h e m aid, Sailed and gnashed her tee th .

Byzant ium roars and rages wildly, And with her hands she grasps the shore, Grasps , yells and rises — and once more In blood u p o n the knives grows silent. Scutari 's like all hell ablaze, Th rough the bazaars spilt b lood is snaking, To swell broad Bosphorus 's waves Like dark birds in the wood this day, The Cossacks fly f r o m place to place, N o t a soul who can escape t h e m . T h e f i re-hard ones, no f lame can scathe them. They tear the walls down; in thei r caps The Cossacks bear off silver, gold, Carry it off and fill the boats. Scutari burns , the work dies down , T h e lads assemble, gathered round , Light their pipes there at the blaze; To the boats! And they set ou t . Shearing the red mounta in-waves .

They sail, as if they c a m e f rom h o m e , As if they sailed for pleasure, And as they sail, as is the i r way, The Cossacks sing together :

"Our good capta in , Hamaliya,— Bold and brave is he , Ga the red up his lads, depar ted Off across the sea; Off across the sea, Famous he would be, And f rom Turkish slavery, his Brethren he would free. Hamaliya to Scutari Sailed across the water, — Brother Cossacks sat in prison. Waiting Turkish tor ture . 'Brothers, ' Hamal iya shouted, 'We shall live this day, — We shall live, dr ink wine, and we Shall janissaries slay, On our barracks, carpets , velvet, For a roof we'll lay!' Zaporozh ians went a - reap ing . Flew into the meadow, Reaped the rye and stacked the stooks, And they sang together : 'Glory to you, Hamal iya , All the wide world over, All the wide world over, All th rough Ukra ina , For you'd not let your comrades perish In a foreign region!'"

They sail on singing, Hamal iya There behind t h e m , bold, he sails, As an eagle guards his eaglets; The wind blows f rom the Dardanel les , But Byzant ium's not pursuing: She fears the M o n k might be re turning To light Galata ' s fires once more ,

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Or H e t m a n Ivan Pidkova call T h e m out to sea again to skirmish. They sail on. . . F r o m beh ind the waves, Sun paints the waves wi th red; Before t h e m stretches the kind sea, It m u r m u r s and resounds.

"Hamaliya! Winds blow freely! Soon our own sea again!" And they were h idden in the waves. Behind the rosy mounta ins .

[October — first half of November 1842]

T H E P L U N D E R E D G R A V E M O U N D

Peaceful land, beloved country, Ukra ina cherished! Mother , why have you been p lundered? Why do you thus perish? Before the sun rose in the morn ing Did you fail to pray? Did you to your unsure babes Neglect to teach the way? "I prayed, I worried, sleeping not , Ne i the r night n o r day, I watched over my small chi ldren, Teaching them the way. And my flowers throve and grew. My chi ldren t rue and good . And there was a t ime, indeed . When in this world 1 ruled. Yes, indeed, 1 ruled. . . O Bohdan , M y son so unwise! On your mother , Ukra ina . Look now, turn your eyes.

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Once , as she rocked you, she would sing Of her u n h a p p y for tune , And singing, wept a mother ' s tears, Looking out for f reedom! . . . Bohdan , O my little Bohdan! Had I known, in the cradle I'd have choked you, in my sleep I'd have overlain you. N o w my steppes have all b e e n sold. In Jews' and G e r m a n s ' hands ; And my sons at foreign toil, Far in foreign lands; My brother , Dn ip ro , now runs dry And is deserting me; And my dear g ravemounds the Muscovites Are p lunder ing utterly. Let t h e m dig and excavate, They do not seek their own. . . And meanwhi le , let the renegades Wax in strength and grow. Let t h e m help the Muscovi te Be lord and master there , And f rom their m o t h e r her old smock. Patched and worn, to tear! Help t h e m to t o r m e n t , you brutes . Your m o t h e r — do not spare!"

Quar te red , dug, and excavated, G r a v e m o u n d torn and p lundered . . . What have they been seeking there . What was buried u n d e r It by the old fathers? I f . . .

If they had but found what lay h idden there benea th it, T h e n the chi ldren would not weep, the m o t h e r cease her grieving.

October 9, 1843, Berezan

Chyhyryn , O Chyhyryn! All things must c o m e to naught O n ear th , and now thy holy glory Is borne like a mote U p o n the cold blast of the winds, Lost in the c louds on high. Year af ter year flies o 'er the earth, Dn ip ro itself runs dry, T h e gravemounds c rumble into dust , T h e lofty m o u n d s , t hy erstwhile Glory; — and of thee, thyself, T h o u dotard , old and feeble, N o one will even say a word, N o one will point the place Where thou once didst s tand, nor why. . . Not even in jest would say!

Why with the Poles did we once fight? Engage the Hordes with slashing knives? Why did we harrow with our pikes Muscovite ribs? The re once we sowed,

And well we watered with red blood, With sabres harrowed what was sown. But in that field what c rop has grown?

Rue, rue has grown, And choked our f r eedom down.

And I, on thy ruins, d e m e n t e d , stand weeping — M y tears are all vain. Ukra ina is sleeping, N o w wild weeds cover her, mou ld has grown over, She has rotted her heart in a pool in the marshes, In to cold hollow tree let a snake pass in. To her chi ldren a hope in the s teppe she bequea thed .

But that hope. . .

The wind scattered over the plain, The waves swept it over the seas.

T h e n let the wind bear all away In its un t rammel led flight. And let the heart then weep and pray: O n this ear th — holy right! Chyhyryn . O Chyhyryn , M y one f r iend, in sleeping T h o u hast slept away thy forests. Steppes — all Ukraina . Sleep on then , by Jewry swathed, till Once more the sun will rise, And to m a n h o o d grow these H e t m a n s , These lads so unwise. Having said my prayers, I'd sleep too, But cursed thoughts unend ing Strive to set my soul afire. M y heart ever rending. D o not rend, thoughts , do not burn! 1 shall bring back, maybe, My t a i t h , all fortuneless, my words Spoken quietly; Perhaps, indeed, I yet may forge A new blade f rom it, make a Keen new share for the old p lough, A n d , sweating out the acres, Maybe I'll plough that fallow land . A n d on the fallow cleared there I shall scatter all my tears, Sow my heartfel t tears there. Maybe they will shoot and grow Into two-edged blades That will cleave the evil, rot ten Sickly heart , will drain F r o m it all the poisoned blood,

And in its place will pou r In to it living Cossack b lood . Holy, clean and pure! . . .

Maybe, maybe. . . and there between, Between the knives will grow T h e periwinkle and the rue, A n d words, forgot ten now, M y own words, gent le-voiced and sad. Quiet and God- fea r ing , Will be r e m e m b e r e d , and a girl's heart . Tremulous and t imid, Will quiver like a little fish, And she will r e m e m b e r M e too, then . . . O my words, my tears. O thou that art my heaven!

Sleep, Chyhyryn — where there are foemen Let the children perish! Sleep on , O H e t m a n , till there rise In this world t ruth and justice.

February 19, 1844. Moscow.

T H E D R E A M (A Comedy)

The spirit of truth; whom the world cannot receive, because it seeth him not, neither knoweth him. . . .

John. Chapter 14, Verse 17

To every m a n his destiny, His pathway, broad and wide, One m a n builds and one tears down. O n e m a n , greedy-eyed.

Looks far out , past the hor i zon . Whether , in the offing, There 's some coun t ry he can seize And bear off in his coff in. One m a n robs his k insman by Card-p lay in his home . One , c rouching in the corner , whets His knife against his own Brother, and one , quiet and sober, Pious and God- fea r ing , Will sneak up on you like a ca t . Wait until you're bearing Some trouble — and then drive his claws, Deep into your liver. Useless to implore; not wife N o r babes will move him ever. One , generous and opulen t , Builds churches everywhere, And so much loves the "Father land," So deeply for it cares, And with such skill he draws away The poor thing's blood like water! And the bre thren looking on , Thei r eyes wide wi th wonder , Say, mild as lambs, "Let it be so. Perhaps it should be thus!" It should be thus! For there is no Lord in heaven above! And you fall benea th the yoke, Wishing still for some Paradise in the hereafter. . . There is none , is none! Useless labour! Stop and th ink: All on this earth — no ma t t e r Be they tsars' or beggars' chi ldren — Are the sons of Adam!

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Yes, that one too. . . and tha t . . . And I, This is what I must be, G o o d people; Sundays and weekdays I Amuse myself and feast: And you are bored and envy me . . . I swear I do not hear you! You do not have to shout! I dr ink My blood, not o the r people's.

So. late one night, c lutching the fence . Drunk f rom a banquet I went h o m e , Thus th inking as I went along, Till to the house I dragged my steps. At h o m e the chi ldren do not cry.

N o wife is nagging, It's quiet as heaven.

And all a round God ' s blessings lie, In h o m e and in heart . I lay down — and once fast

Asleep, a d runk m a n , I declare, Even if guns rolled past.

Would not twitch a hair. And then a d ream, a d ream amaz ing

C a m e into my slumbers: The sob'rest m a n would be a d runkard , A Jewish miser 'd not m i n d paying, To see such marvels with his eyes.

No t on your life! I look: there an owl flies, It seems, above the meadows, r iver-banks and thickets,

And deep ravines and valleys And s teppe- land 's broad expanses,

And gulleys; And after, af ter it I fly, And bid the ear th a last goodbye. "Farewell, world! And farewell, ear th,

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Farewell land unkind! All my grief and t o rmen t 1 In the cloud shall hide. As for you, dear Ukra ina , Widow all mis for tuned , 1 shall fly to you, to speak With you f rom the clouds and Seek your counsel , speaking sadly, Quietly with you, I shall fall on you at midnight With the abundan t dew. T h e n together we'll take counsel Grieving for our woe, Till the sun rise, till your babes Rise up against the foe. Farewell, t hen , my dearest mother , Widow poor and grieving! Tend your chi ldren. With the Lord Above, t ru th yet is living!"

We fly. . . I look. . . the dawn has come , T h e whole skyline's blazing, In a dark grove a nightingale Gree t s the sun with praises. A gentle breeze blows quietly. The steppes, the grainfields gl immer, A m o n g ravines, by lakes there gleams The willows' verdant shimmer. Orchards bow down, richly laden , Poplars s tanding straight Like sentinels in the open land Are speaking with the plain. And all a round me , the whole coun t ry Mant led round with beauty Sh immers green and bathes herself Fresh in the small dewdrops.

From all fore t ime she has ba thed thus, So to greet the sun, There is nowhere a beginning, Ending there is none . N o one has power to add to it. N o one may destroy it, And all a round . . . My soul! My soul!

Why are you not joyfu l? Why, my poor soul, are you sad? Why so vainly weeping?

What is it pains you? But d o you not see it? D o you not hear how people are weeping? Look then , and see! But 1 shall fly, speeding High, high above the dark-b lue clouds of heaven, Where there are no rulers, n o penalties vengeful, N o sound of h u m a n laughter or tears. See there — in that paradise that you are quit t ing They tear of the pa tched ragged coat of a cripple, Tear it off with the skin, for they lack, it appears , Shoes for young princelings. And there a poor widow For pol l - tax is crucified and her one dear Son, her one child, her one hope must be seized, Handcuf fed , and put in the a rmy — unbidden . He stood up, you see! . . . And over there , unde r The fence , while its s e r f -mo the r reaps for her master, A child, swollen-bellied, is dying of hunger.

A n d yonder — do you see? Eyes, eyes, What are you good for? Why Have you not shrivelled up in youth . All your tears run dry? Here by the fence a ru ined girl Limps footsore with he r bastard. Father and mo the r threw her out , To strangers she's an outcast! Old beggars shun her. T h e young lord (Still under age) knows noth ing .

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But with his twentieth fancy squanders All his serfs on toping!"

Does G o d see f rom behind His c loud, All our tears and anguish? Well, indeed, maybe He sees it — But the help He hands us Is like ancient moun ta ins , watered With the blood of men! . . . O m y poor unhappy soul, H o w you cause me pain! Let us drink poison, on the ice, Lay us down for sleeping, Let us send our thoughts to G o d , Answer f rom H i m seeking: H o w long will h a n g m e n rule this world. The i r domin ion keeping?

Fly then , my thought , my suffering profoundest ! Carry off with you all evils, all woes, They are your company! With t h e m you grew, You loved each other! The i r heavy hands wound once Your swaddling-clothes. G o , ga ther t h e m , fly! T h e n scatter the horde th roughou t the whole sky!

May it grow black, may it glow red, May it blow with f lames. May serpents once more be belched for th , T h e earth be strewn with slain. . . And without you, somewhere I Shall hide my heart — and then. I'll seek some realm of paradise, Far at the world's end.

Once more above the earth I fly. Once more to her I bid goodbye.

It is hard to leave a m o t h e r In a roofless shack,

But it is worse to look u p o n Her tears and tat tered rags.

I fly. 1 fly; the wind is blowing, Before me gleams the whi te of snowdrifts; Round me pinewoods and swamplands s tretch. Mist, mist and emptiness . N o sound of people. Ne i the r is there Trace that dread h u m a n foot has printed. . . "So foes and fr iends alike, I bid you Farewell! I shall not come .

To be your guest. Feast! Drink your fill! I'll hear no more , — Alone For endless ages I shall sleep The long night in the snow. And unti l you have discovered There ' s a count ry left Still und renched by blood and tears, I shall take my rest. . . Take my rest. . . Yet, hark, I hear Fetters c lank and rattle Beneath the ear th . I'll take a look there. . . O h , you wicked people! Where have you sprung f rom? What 's this toil For what are you seeking Beneath the ear th? N o , maybe I'll not Hide myself not even In heaven! . . . Why such pun i shmen t , Why am I t o r m e n t e d . What ha rm have I d o n e anyone? Whose harsh hands have fettered My soul into my body and Set on fire m y heart , And like a flock of daws, Scattered m y thoughts afar?

I 'm punished , but I know not why, Punished bitterly! How long must I do penance thus? W h e n will the end be? 1 nei ther know nor see.

The desert wilderness is stirring. . . As f rom a close coff in emerging On the Last Judgemen t Day of d o o m . The dead are rising for the t ru th .

But these are not the dead , the slain, C o m i n g to seek Judgemen t Day; These are people , living people Put in irons, drawing Gold up out of pits, t hen down The Glu t ton ' s throat they pour it, D o w n the Imperial Gul le t . Convicts! What cr ime? W h o knows why for? The All-Ruler. . . Or, maybe, He's still not learned either!

Yonder there a b randed thief Drags along his fetters, There a tor tured robber grinds His teeth — within he's fret t ing To knife the r e m n a n t s of the gang Convic ted here together! And here too, likewise in fetters, With old lags a round h im, The King of the world, King of Freedom. King with brand to c rown him! In to rmen t , in hard labour he Pleads not , weeps not nor groans . . . Once the heart is warmed by goodness , Cold it will never grow.

And where are your thoughts then , your blossoms so rosy. Well- tended, so brave, those dear chi ldren of yours now?

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To w h o m , f r iend, to w h o m did you give t h e m away? Or deep in your heart did you hide them for ay? D o not hide t h e m , my brother! But scatter and sow them! They will germina te , grow. . . and to people will go then!

D o still more purgatories remain? Indeed , indeed — for it is cold. And frost wakes up the brain.

I fly once more . Darkness comes stealing. Brain drowses, and the heart is reeling. I see: by the roads now houses coming, Towns with churches by the hundred , In the towns, like storks clustered there , Muscovi te soldiers mustered there . Well fed, in leather Boots — and fetters, Muster ing there . I look a bit Fur ther : there , as in a pit The city d reams in marshes gloomy. Above it a black cloud is looming, A heavy mist — I fly there quickly. . . It is an endless city. . .

Turkish? I wonder. G e r m a n ? 1 ponder,

Or maybe. Muscovy it's u n d e r ? Palaces and churches , Pot-bellied worthies?

N o w h e r e a simple house emerges.

It was growing dark. . . fires leapt up Fiery all a round me. I felt quite scared. "Hourra! Hourra! Hourra!" their cries resounded! "Hush , you fools, come to your senses!

Why are you so jolly?

What 's all this blaze?" "The oaf kens not What 's a parade! Such folly! 'Tis a parade. For He Himself Deigns this day for th to wander!" "But where is that great personage?" "Behold the palace yonder!" I pushed on in, till, thank the Lord A fe l low-coun t ryman , T in -bu t toned , recognized and spoke To me: "Whence have you come?" "From Ukraine." "How thus it is T h o u knowest not to converse In city parlance!" "Not at all, I can speak!" I observe, "But I don' t want to". "A strange wight! Heed: I know the ways in Everywhere, being in the service; I can take you within The palace at your will — but know, Here we are all enl ightened! So do not grudge a modest tip. . ." "Be off with you, benighted Inkpot , " and 1 m a d e myself Invisible once more , And pushed my way into the palace. O Almighty Lord! What a paradise! For here Even the very spongers Dr ip with gold. And now He, himself . Tall and grimly sullen C o m e s striding out , and at his side, T h e Tsarina comes , poo r ninny, Withered u p like a dried m u s h r o o m . Lanky-legged and skinny, A n d , moreover, the poor crea ture Suffers f rom the twitch!

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So this is what a goddess looks like! Pitiable wretch! And I, poor fool, not having seen You even once , you marvel, Was even ready to believe Your poetasters ' drivel. What a fool! A dunderhead! Prepared to put trust even In Muscovites! G o , read it then! And see if you believe it! Behind the gods c o m e nobles, nobles, All in gold and silver, Like fa t tened boars they are, f a t -mugged , Pot-bell ied. They endeavour To push and shove till they grow sweaty, So that they can gain A nearer place to Them: Maybe They'll hit t h e m , or else deign To cock a snook — even a small one , Even a ha l f - snook , just providing It's a imed at their own mug — They've got themselves into a row, And , as if they lack tongues, N o t a m u r m u r ! The Tsar jabbers , And that Tsarina-wonder , Like heron in a flock of birds Hops round , works up her courage. For quite a while, like p u f f e d - u p owls, The pair walked back and for th Discussing someth ing in low voices (One could not hear, far off) About "the Fatherland" it seemed , About the new gorgets, And the even newer drill rules, And then , in silent order. Tsarina sat down on a stool,

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I watch: the Tsar comes up, To the most senior in rank, And swipes him round the mug With all his might! The poor chap licked His lips, then punched the belly, Of his subordinate till it echoed . . . The latter at once fell on A smaller ace and t h u m p e d h i m o n T h e back, he swiped one lower, And he one less, w h o socked the petty (Outdoors now), and going Off full tilt through the streets the petty Set themselves to clouting, All the o the r Or thodox W h o at once started shout ing. Bellowing, screaming and roaring: "Our dearest Father, O u r dear Tsar!

Revels! Hourra! Hourra! Hourra!" I roared with laughter! Why, what else? Though I too, with the rest Caught quite a lot! Before the dawn They all went off to rest. Only in the corners groaned The pious here and there . And , groaning, for the dear Father Sought the Lord in prayer. Laughter and tears! Well, then to see The city I set ou t . For night is there like day. 1 look: Palaces all about , Palaces over the quiet river, And the bank is faced All with stone. And like a half-wit I s tand there amazed . How did it all come to pass Tha t such a swamp was built up

In to this wonder? And what f loods Of h u m a n blood were spilt here , — Without a knife. O n the far bank Fortress and belfry rise (The latter like a whet ted awl) A wonder to the eyes. And the clocks now start to j ingle I turn round — and lo! A charging horse there — with its hooves It breaks the rock below, O n it a figure rides bareback, In coat , yet no true coat , Without a hat — some kind of foliage Binds his head about . The horse is rearing! Wait, just wait! It will j u m p the river! He stretches out his h a n d as if H e wants to grab forever The entire world. W h o can this be? And so I go and read What has been forged on to the rock: This miracle, indeed, "The Second to the First"erected. And at once I see He is that First who crucified Our poor Ukra ina , And the Second slew the widow Desola te and keening. Execut ioners , cannibals , They ate thei r fill, that pair, Stole to thei r hearts content ! But what F rom this world did they bear? Heavy, heavy weighed my heart As if 1 were perusing T h e history of Ukraina . I stood there, unmoving.

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And meanwhi le , softly, very softly And so sadly grieving, Someth ing invisible was singing:

"From the city, out f rom Hlukhiv Went the regiments , With their spades to man the earthworks. And I t oo was sent To the capital as proxy H e t m a n to c o m m a n d The Cossack troops. O G o d of mercy! 0 thou evil Tsar, Wicked and accursed Tsar. Asp insatiate, what Have you done , t hen , with the Cossacks? You have filled the swamps With their noble bones! And then Built a capital On their tor tured corpses, and In a dark dungeon cell You slew me too, a free H e t m a n , In chains, by hunger mar tyred . Tsar, O Tsar! No t even G o d Himself can ever part us. Me f rom you; with strongest fet ters You are cha ined forever To me. But to wander above Neva — ah 'tis heavy! Ukra ina , far away, Maybe ceased to exist. 1 would fly there , gaze on her — But G o d does not permit! Maybe M o s c o w burned her down . Dra ined away Dnipro ' s waters Into the dark-blue sea, dug up T h e lofty g ravemounds — por ten ts

Of our glory. G o d of mercy! Pity us, G o d of mercy." And it grew silent. T h e n I look: A white cloud is veiling The grey heavens. In this c loud Like wild beast in woods wailing — N o , not a c loud, it was white birds In a cloud that descended D o w n u p o n that b razen Tsar And mournfu l ly lamented: "And we too are cha ined to you. Dragon , cannibal . And on the Last Judgemen t Day 'Tis we that shall conceal G o d f rom your insatiate eyes. F r o m Ukra ina you Drove us naked , starving into Wastes of foreign snow. Cut our throats and f rom our skins Sewed yourself a purple Robe, with threads of toughened sinews Clad in this new mant le Founded your capital! Behold! Palaces and churches! Rejoice, cruel executioner! Accursed. O accursed!"

The birds flew away and scat tered, The bright sun was rising. And I s tood there in a m a z e m e n t . Till I grew quite f r ightened. The poor already were astir, Has ten ing to their toil, At the cross-roads, Moscow's t roops Were mustered for thei r drill. On the pavements , drowsy girls

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Hastened , they did not c o m e From h o m e — they were re turning; Mo the r Sent t h e m out f rom home To labour th rough the live-long night And so to earn their bread. And as I s tand there ponder ing T h e thought comes to my head: "How hard the means that folk must take To earn their daily bread!" There the Civil Service swarms To the Ministr ies To sign and scribble d o c u m e n t s And at the same t ime fleece Father and brother. My compat r io t s Too may be observed Here and there ; they carry on In Russian, laugh and curse The i r parents who 'd not had t h e m taught To jabber, while still chi ldren, The G e r m a n language, so that now They would not be ink-pickled. Leeches, leeches! For, maybe, Your fa ther had to sell His last cow to the Jews, so you Could be taught Russian well! Ukra ina , Ukra ina , These are thy chi ldren, think! These are th ine own fair young flowers Watered well by ink, And by Muscovite henbane , In G e r m a n ho thouse stifled! . . . Weep then , widowed Ukra ina , Weep, for t hou art childless!

Maybe I should go to the Tsar's Palaces and see there

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What 's happen ing? A whole line Is s tanding there , of wheezing Snort ing pot-bel l ied officials. Puff ing out their cheeks Like turkeys, and towards the doors Furtively they peek Out of the corners of their eyes. Doors opened . And it seemed as if F r o m his den came a shambl ing Bear, though he could hardly m a k e His legs work wi thout s tumbling. All puffed up and even blue, With a cursed hangover Torment ing him. . . Suddenly he shouts At the very ro tund Pot-bel l ied ones — and one and all Potbellies disappear In to the ear th — he makes his eyes Pop out — they shake with fear. All who remain . Like one possessed H e rages at the lesser — A n d they too sink into the ear th , He rages at the pet ty — They likewise vanish. He approaches The menia ls — they are gone. He nears the soldiers. The poo r soldiers Gave a heavy groan And sink in to the earth. Grea t wonders C a m e to pass! I stare Wonder ing what will happen next , What my little bear Will do? But he with drooping head C a n only stand and languish, p o o r creature. But t h e n where has all his bearish nature vanished? Like a kit ten now, so comic! I laughed, as well I might!

203

H e heard me , and at top blast he bellowed — I took fright at that . . . And I awoke. . . And such Was my d ream of wonder! Strange indeed. For only a M a d m a n or a d runkard D r e a m s such a d ream. But, my dear fr iends, Be not as tonished, for I have not told my own tale, but What in my dream I saw.

July 8, 1844. St Petersburg

Why weighs life so heavy? Why drags life so dreary? Why is the heart weeping and sobbing and wailing As a child cries f r o m hunger? M y heart so weary, What do you long for? Why are you ailing? Are you longing for food or for drink or repose? Slumber, my heart , for eterni ty sleeping, Uncovered and shat tered. . . . Let hateful people Rage on unchecked . . . . Hear t , now let your eyes close!

November 13, 1844 St Petersburg

T O G O G O L

Though t af ter thought flies in swarm never-ending, One burdens the hear t , a second one rends it, A third one is quietly, quietly weeping In the heart , maybe not even G o d sees it.

T h e n to w h o m can I reveal it, Who'll give greeting, rightly To my speaking, no r will f a thom A word great and mighty. They have all grown deaf, bowed down In fetters. . . well, no matter . . .

205

Your are laughing, my great f r iend. And I am weeping at it. . . . And what is bo rn of tha t weeping, Only hemlock , brother. . . N o more will free c a n n o n th roughout Ukra ina thunder . N o fa ther will slay his son . His own child, a deed for Honour , glory, b ro the rhood , And Ukra ina ' s f r eedom. He'll not slay — but nur tu re him, And to Moscow sell h im , To the shambles. This is just The widow's mite , I tell you, For the th rone , the "Father land" As pay for keeping d u m b . So be it, b ro ther . . . Yet we two Shall still laugh on . weep on.

December 30. 1844 St Petersburg

Have no envy for the rich man , For he never knows Naugh t of f r iendship no r o f love — He must hire all those. Have no envy for the mighty, He can but compel ; Have no envy for the f a m o u s For he knows full well Tha t it is not h im men love But the heavy fame Which to please t h e m he poured out With tears of heavy pain. And the young folk w h e n they meet , All is quiet and bliss

207

As in paradise — but see: Someth ing stirs amiss. Have no envy for anyone; Look round — and you'l l never F ind paradise u p o n this ear th , Nor , indeed, in heaven.

October 4, 1845. Myrhorod

T H E H E R E T I C TO SAFARIK

(Excerpt)

Evil neighbours came And fired the new Well-built house of their neighbour. Burned it, and then all lay down To sleep af ter thei r labour, And forgot that the hot ashes Through the field went blowing, The ash lay there at the cross-roads, And in the ash still glowing The spark of a mighty fire Smouldered on and l ingered Like m o t h , for the conf lagra t ion . Unt i l t ime should bring the Evil hour. The spark lay waiting There at the broad cross-roads, lay And slowly began fading.

Thus in a mighty conf lagra t ion, Fritz bu rned the great house a n d the kin, The Slav kindred he separated, And quietly insinuated The evil snake of strife within.

209

Blood poured for th in rivers then . And quenched the conf lagra t ion, And the burned site and o rphans too, Fritzlings shared as their por t ion . And the scions of the Slavs In fetters grew to m a n h o o d , And as slaves forgot that once In the world they had standing. But u p o n the b u r n e d - o u t site, still Brotherhood 's spark smouldered . Smouldered unaba ted , waited For a rms stronger, bolder. Waited out its t ime. . . T h y bold Eye, the eye of an eagle, Did perceive deep in those ashes G o o d fire, saw it clearly. And , wisdom lover, thou didst light A torch of t ru th and f r eedom; And the great Slav kindred, lost In darkness and u n f r e e d o m . T h o u didst tally to the last one (Corpses thou wast coun t ing N o t Slavs — but then upon those huge Piles, t hou boldly m o u n t e d At the cross-roads of crea t ion — Like Ezechiel .

And — miracle — the corpses rose. And their eyes were opened . Brother then embraced his brother, And quiet words were spoken Of a t ranquil love that lasts For ever and ever. And into a single sea

Flowed the Slavonic rivers. Glory to thee, wisdom-lover.

211

C z e c h and Slav, w h o cher ished Our t ru th , would not let it in G e r m a n abysses perish And drown! This sea of th ine Is a new sea, Slavonic, And soon its waters will be high. And a ship will sail on it, With her canvas spreading wide, G o o d tiller, too , to guide her, She will sail on the free seas. Over the broad waves gliding. Glory, Safarik to thee . For ever and ever. That t hou didst call into one sea. All the Slavonic rivers. Pray accept this tr ibute to Th ine honour , my gift lowly, This my unwise ballad, telling Of that Czech so holy, Of that mighty noble martyr , Of Hus famed o n story. Accept it. father! And I'll pray Quietly to G o d , imploring That all Slav people may b e c o m e G o o d brothers to each other, As sons of the sun of t ru th , And heretics, moreover. Like that great heretic w h o there In Cons tance town was mar tyred — They will give peace to the world. A n d glory everlasting.

November 22, 1845 at Pereyaslav

T H E G R E A T VAULT (A Mystery Play)

Thou makest us a reproach to our neighbours, a scorn and a derision to them that are round about us. Thou makest us a byword among the heathen, a shaking of the head among the people.

Psalm 44, Verses 13—14

T H R E E S O U L S

Like snow, three little birds came flying Through Subotiv, and alighting On an old church ' s leaning cross They settled: "God will pa rdon us! No t h u m a n , now, we souls are birds. . . F rom here we'll easier observe How they will excavate the Vault. The sooner it is dug and broken , The sooner heaven will be opened . For thus to Peter spake the Lord: 'Thou wilt admi t t h e m into heaven, When all by Muscovites is s tolen. And they have opened the Grea t Vault."'

I

When I was of h u m a n - k i n d , Prissia was my name ; And this village was my bir thplace, Here I grew, I c a m e

215

Here to play, in this same churchyard Jo ined the chi ldren 's f u n . Playing b l ind-man ' s -buf f with Yurus, With the He tman ' s son. And the He tman ' s wife would come; And to the house she'd call us, Where that barn is now, and give me Figs and raisins luscious, And all good things, and in her a rms She'd carry me and pet me , And when , somet imes , f rom Chyhyryn Gues t s came with the H e t m a n , T h e n they'd send for me , and dress m e In fine clothes and slippers, And the H e t m a n ' d carry me In his a rms and kiss me. And so, here, in Subotiv, I grew up and blossomed, Like a flower, and everyone Made me loved and welcomed. A n d to n o one did I ever Say an evil word. And a pretty girl 1 was, Indeed, I had dark brows! All the lads c a m e court ing me , Of marr iage they were speaking, And , of course, betrothal towels I had started weaving. I was just about to give t h e m W h e n evil struck unseen. Early on that Sunday morn ing , On St. Philip's E 'en , I ran out to fetch some water (Long years back, that well Grew all silted and ran dry, But I fly on still),

J looked: the H e t m a n and his elders. . . I drew the water there , And with full pails I crossed their pa th ; But I was unaware H e was going to Pereyaslav To swear Moscow fealty. And I could only carry h o m e With great difficulty Tha t same water. . . And the pails, Why did I not destroy t h e m ? Father, mother , self and b ro ther A n d the dogs I po isoned With that ever-cursed water! And for that I 'm str icken, For tha t , sisters, they will no t Permit me into heaven.

II

As for me, my dearest sisters, I am still debarred, For I watered once the horse Of the Moscow tsar In Baturyn; f r o m Poltava H o m e he was returning. . . I was still a thoughtless girl W h e n glorious Baturyn Was fired by M o s c o w in the night , A n d Cheche l by her slain. And both old and young she took And drowned t h e m in the Seym. . . A n d I fell, right in the very Palace of M a z e p p a , Lay a m o n g the corpses. Near , M y sister and m y mother , Murde red in each other 's a rms.

219

Lying there beside me. Only with the greatest effort Could the men divide me F r o m m y lifeless mother . But However much I prayed The capta in of the Muscovites To kill m e too. . . Still they Would not kill me, but released me For the men 's a m u s e m e n t . . . S o m e h o w I got away and hid In the bu rned -o u t ruins. . . In Baturyn, just one house Alone, u n h a r m e d , survived, And in this house they m a d e the tsar A billet for the night, On his j ou rney f rom Poltava. Bringing water, I Went up to the house, and he Beckoned me , and signed That I should water h im his horse, And I watered it: I did not know, then , that so gravely, Gravely I had s inned. . . I could hardly reach the house , And at the doo r fell dead. The next day, w h e n the tsar had gone , I was laid to rest By an old woman who 'd stayed back In the b u r n e d - o u t wreckage, She it was who 'd welcomed m e To the roofless cottage. Next day, she died too, a n d lay In the house unbur ied , For there was none to bury he r Left now in Baturyn. . . Long years back, they pul led the house down .

221

And the carved k ing-beam They bu rned to charcoal . . . Yet, till now Over the ravines, Over the steppes of the Cossacks, On and on I've f lown; And for what they pun i sh m e , Myself 1 do not know! Maybe for this — that everyone I would serve and honour , And to the tsar of Muscovy's Horse I once gave water.

I l l

And in Kaniv I was born; To speak I'd still not learned, Swaddled, in her arms, my mothe r Carr ied me a round , When Cather ine the tsarina came To Kaniv on the Dnipro , And o n a hill m y m o t h e r sat With m e , in an oak-grove. I was weeping; I don' t know Whe the r I was hungry, Or whe ther (1 was very young) Just then someth ing hurt me . M o t h e r was amus ing me , She looked u p o n the river, And she pointed out to me The royal barge, all gilded Like a splendid mans ion , there Princes, lords and governors In the barge, and the tsarina Sat in state a m o n g t h e m . And I looked on her — a n d smiled — And m y soul had fled.

223

A n d m y m o t h e r died. . . and in a single Grave we both were laid. This is why, m y dearest sisters, I a m being punished , For so long f rom Purgatory Even I've been banished! H o w should I, a swaddled baby, Know that this tsarina Was a hungry she-wolf , the fierce Foe of Ukra ina? Sisters, please tell the meaning!

"Dusk is falling, let us fly To pass the night in Chu ta , So that , should someth ing c o m e to pass We still may hear it, yonder." The little white birds started up, A n d to the wood took flight, There , o n a s ide-branch of an oak, They perched to pass the night .

T H R E E C R O W S

1

Kr-rr, Kr-rr, Kr-rr! Bohdan cribbed crocks

And carted to Kyiv, A n d sold to crooks

The crocks he cribbed.

2

I have been in Paris. There I d rank away three zloty With Radziwill and Potocki.

225

3 (speaking Russian throughout):

Over bridge devil goes, G o a t goes over vater:

C o m e s disaster! C o m e s disaster!

Cawing thus, three crows came flying F r o m three direct ions, and alighting On a beacon on a m o u n d I n the wood, they settled down, All puffed, as if in frosty weather, They sat and looked, one to the other. Like three old sisters, wi thered crones Who've spent their spins terhood together, Unti l with moss they're overgrown.

1

This for you, and this for you! I have just been flying To Siberia, where f r o m one Decembris t I have stolen A scrap of gall. See, here it is, A bite to break your fast! Well, in your Muscovy, is there aught To feed oneself at last? Or, not a single dam' th ing still?

[3]

Sister, ve 'ave many. T r e e Ukases I 'ave cawed, For a single roadvay.

1

Which road was it? For the iron one Well, you've worked in style!

3

Yes, six t 'ousand souls I stifled In a single mile.

1

Don ' t lie, for there were only five, With Von Korf helping too! And she boasts and swanks about What outsiders do! O you smoke-dr ied cabbage-eater! And you, gracious m a d a m . You've been feasting, t hen , in Paris? You accursed heathens! You've spilled blood in a mere river A n d you only drove Your nobles to Siberia Yet how puffed up you've grown! See, what a majest ic peacock!

2 and 3

And what have you done?

1

What right is it of yours to ask me! You were still u n b o r n When I played inn-keeper here , Drawing blood by quarts.

Look at them! Yes, they have read Karamzin , of course! And they think: 'how fine we are!' Nitwits — hold your tongue! Crippled and unfea thered birds. You are still half grown!

2

What a t o u c h - m e - n o t she is! Someone ' s not up early, Who's still d runk at dawn, but one Who 's slept it off already!

1

Could you have got d runk wi thout me, With your Latin prelates? You've got n o dam' skill — I bu rned down Poland with her monarchs . And for all you did — you gossip! — She would yet be standing! As for the free Cossacks — well, They had quite a thrashing! To w h o m have I not hired t h e m out? To w h o m have 1 not sold t h e m ? But how unkillable they are, D a m n e d things! I thought , with Bohdan I had almost buried t h e m . . . N o , u p they rose — fate d a m n t h e m — With the Swedish vagabond, And what events occurred t hen I grow still f iercer to recall! . . . T h e n I bu rned Baturyn; N e a r R o m n y 1 d a m m e d the Sula With officers a lone

231

From the Cossack force , with simple Cossacks I have sown Fin land over, piled t h e m up By the Oril in mounds , And to Ladoga have driven T h e m in count less crowds. O n the tsar's behalf , the swamps And marshy land I s topped up And I strangled in the dungeon Far - famed Polubotok. What a festival that was! Hell itself took fright . And the Irzhavets M a d o n n a Wept salt tears that night!

3

I too 'ave lived it good! Vit' Tatars I stirred mud! Vit' Torturer gobbled up! Vit' Peterkin got d runk And to G e r m a n s sold t'e lot!

1

And this you couldn ' t have d o n e better! So neatly in to G e r m a n fetters

You've b o u n d the Russkies, that one may Lie down and sleep the t ime away!

And only the fiend knows for sure What my lot are waiting for! Already I've forced ser fdom on t h e m , A frightful lot of pet ty gentry I've reared in un i forms aplenty, As n u m e r o u s as lice I've bred, All o f ' e m m'lords, the bastards,

And with Jews now that ghastly Sich is overgrown and spread. The Muscovite, too , no beginner! He knows just how to warm his fingers.

I may be fierce — but all the same I canno t bring to pass that Which in Ukra ine the Muscovites Are doing to the Cossacks. N o w look! They'll print a Ukase soon: "By God ' s abound ing Mercy, Both you are Ours and all is Ours, Both worthy and unworthy." Already they are bustl ing round . Seeking in the graves Antiquities, for in the houses Naugh t is left to take, — They've m a d e a lovely j ob of p lunder ing Everything, but the devil Knows why they are making such Haste about this evil Vault. Had they waited just a while The church would fall down too, T h e n in Pchela they could describe Both in the same review.

2 and 3

Why, then , have you s u m m o n e d us? U p o n the Vault to gaze?

1

The Vault as well! Moreover, two Marvels will come to pass: This night in Ukra ina twin Boys are to be born .

235

One will tor ture the tor turers . As G o n t a did of yore, The other, though , will bring t h e m aid (And he is ours for sure)! Already in the womb he bites, And I have read it all, How, when that G o n t a will grow up. All that is ours will fall. He will p lunder all that 's good . N o r will he spare his brother , With t ruth and f r eedom Ukra ina He will scatter over. And so, dear sisters, you will see What here they're making ready, For tor turers and all good things They are prepar ing fetters.

• 2

I vit' mel ted gold u p o n 'Is eyes vill pou r it t ' ick.

1

He'll have n o desire for gold. The cursed lunatic!

3

Vit' Imperial appo in tmen t s I vill ' andcuff 'im.

2

All evils and all tor tures I F r o m the whole world will bring.

N o , no, dear sisters, that is not The way it should be done , While m e n are bl ind, he mus t be buried, Else ill-fate will come . Look, there high over Kyiv town A comet ' s tail is spreading, And near the Dn ip ro and Tiasmyn The earth has quaked , all t rembling. D o you hear? The m o u n t a i n groaned Over Chyhyryn . . . All Ukra ina ' s laughing, weeping! A n d this por tends the twins Have now been born into the world; And the d e m e n t e d m o t h e r Screams that she'll n a m e t h e m both "Ivan" A n d shrieks wi th crazy laughter. C o m e , let us fly. . . They flew away, And as they flew they sang:

1

D o w n the Dnip ro , our Ivan Will sail to the Lyman,

With his aunt!

2

O u r wild dog will migrate To feed upon snakes

In my path!

239

Ven I seize and svoop, I To 'Ades vill fly

Like a dart!

THREE LYRE-MINSTRELS

One was blind, ano the r lame, O n e a hunchbacked cripple, To Subotiv they came to sing Of B o h d a n to the people.

1

Well, as folk say, those crows were quick To find a cosy roost! As though the Muscovites put u p Tha t perch just for thei r use.

2

And who else for, t hen? Surely now A m a n will not be put To count the stars there?

1

You don' t say! Or maybe there they'll put A little Muscovite or G e r m a n ;

G e r m a n s or Muscovites, I swear, Will find some pickings even there.

3

What nonsense are you jabber ing? What kind of crows, now is it? What Muscovites? What roost d'you m e a n ? The Lord above forbid it! Perhaps they'll want to force t h e m to Hatch Muscovites f rom eggs? For the tsar wants to capture all The world, so r u m o u r says.

2

Maybe you're right, but why the devil Build t h e m on the moun ta ins? And such high ones, too, that you Can reach the very clouds w h e n You cl imb up there?

3

This is why: There' l l be a f lood for sure. And then the lords will c l imb up high. And they will watch f rom there How all the peasant folk are drowned.

1

You folk may have a store Of wisdom — but you still know nothing! Here 's the reason why They set up these 'monumen t s ' : So that folk won't try To steal water f rom the river Or plough secretly The sands that stretch a round the Tiasmyn.

243 +

What the devil now? You've no talent — so don' t lie! Why don ' t we sit down U n d e r this elm here for a while A n d rest? And in my pack I've still a bit of bread or two, So we can have a snack. Let's eat now, while we have the chance , The sun will be up soon. (They sat down. ) A n d who, brothers , about Bohdan sings a tune?

3

I can sing right well of Jassy And Zhovt i Vody too , And Berestechko's little town.

2

Grea t service they will do For us today most certainly: For by the Vault there 's plenty Of folk, a p roper market -day! And quite a lot of gentry! That ' s where the takings are for us! Well, let us sing together Fpr npjctVCeL.

1

Ge t along with you! Let's lie down! Far bet ter To get some sleep! The day is long, There' l l still be t ime to sing.

3

And so say I. Let's say our prayers, T h e n sleep — yes, sleep's the th ing.

They fell asleep benea th the e lm- t ree . T h e sun sleeps on, the birds are still, But near the Vault they're up and busy. Already digging with a will. Already they've dug one day, two, And now the third — at last After great effort there 's the wall. They take a little rest, And station sentries all a round . The Sergeant prays and begs N o t to let anybody near. Officially he sends Report to Chyhyryn. The boss Arrived with bloated face; He looked round: "Arches must be broken." He observed, "For case Vill so be settled." They broke in. And they were terrified: Skeletons lay there in the Vault, It seemed as if they smiled To look upon the shining sun. There Bohdan 's t reasure lay: A potsherd and a rot ten t rough, And skeletons in chains! Had they been regulation ones . They might be useful yet! They laughed. . . The Sergeant in his rage Nearly went off his head: No th ing to take — and af ter he Had worked so hard , and set Himself a -d i the r day and night —

A n d now he only looked A fool! If only he could get His hands on h im, he 'd put Tha t Bohdan straight into the a rmy; T h e n he'd know how, the pest , To fool the Government ! He shouts And runs like one possessed; H e sloshes Yaremenko's* face, And in the choicest Russian H e curses everyone, swoops o n T h e lyre-minstrels in a passion. "Vat you vant 'ere, good for not ' ings?" "Well, please, Sir, we can Sing a bal lad, Sir, of Bohdan!" "I'll give you Bogdan! Rogues and vagabonds, and you M a d e o n an accursed Pvt/gut, just Vite ^ou r s t t o t s , a sovig'." "Please you, Sir, we learned it!" "I vill learn you! Give it em!" They seized and gave — no mercy! A n d they s teamed t h e m in the Muscovites ' O w n ba thhouse-cooler ! T h u s the ballads about B o h d a n Served the singers truly! T h u s in Subotiv Moscow dug T h e small vault as her prize; Still she has not yet discovered Where the Grea t Vault lies.

There stands in Subotiv village, O n a hill so lofty, The coff in of Ukra ina —

D e e p and wide that coff in

* Cossack Yaremenko's barn is on the site where Bohdan's palace used to stand. (Shevchenko's note).

249

This is the church of Bohdan where Once a prayer he offered That Muscovite and Cossack would Share good and ill together. Peace be to thy soul, Bohdan , N o t so did it befall! The Muscovites were envious, Desiring to take all! They've p lundered all the g ravemounds In their search for pelf, They are digging up thy vaults. And b lame thee thyself When their efforts are in vain. T h u s it is, now, Bohdan! T h o u hast ruined Ukra ina , Left her widowed, o rphaned . Such thanks must be paid to thee . And no one will c o m e here, now To repair that coff in church . In this Ukra ina , In that same land that , with you, The Poles crushed and t rampled! And Cather ine ' s bastards here Have like locusts settled.

And thus it is now, Zinoviy, Aleksei's good comrade , You gave the whole lot to your f r iends But they th ink no th ing of it. They say, your see, that it was theirs Back in fo rmer days, and They had only leased it to The Tatars for grazing, And to the Poles. Maybe they're right, Let's say that it had been so! And let the neighbour peoples all

M o c k at Ukraina! D o not mock , you foreign people! The church -co f f in will be Torn down, and Ukra ina will Rise up f rom benea th . Truth's light will pierce un f r eedom ' s g loom, And will shine for th , g leaming, And the chi ldren of the unf ree Will pray then in f r eedom

October 21, 1845, Maryinskove

T H E S E R V A N T - G I R L PROLOGUE

Early morn ing , on a Sunday, All the plain with mist was f looded, O n a g ravemound there s tood, leaning, In the mist like poplar seeming, A young woman stood. She pressed Someth ing close against he r breast , She was talking with the mist .

"O mist, I implore you, My pa tched , shabby for tune! Hide, cover o ' e r me Here in the cornfield. C h o k e me and stifle me , U n d e r the earth drive me . Sna tch me f r o m evil fate , Shor ten my life for me. N o t that! — but hide m e , mist, Here in the plain, Tha t none see or know My misfor tune , my shame!

253

I am not a lone, I have Father and m o t h e r . . . And I have too — dear mist , Mist, dearest b r o t h e r . . . My child! My small son! Unbapt ized still! I shall not chr is ten you, Boding you ill; Strangers will chris ten you, — I'll not know which N a m e they call you. . . . M y child! 1 was once rich . . . Curse me not! 1 shall pray Heaven itself. Weep down and send to you For tune and health!"

Sobbing, she went across the field. Hiding in the mist . And th rough her tears she quietly sang The song of that distressed Widow, who in the Danube ' s f lood Laid her sons to rest:

"Gravemound stands in the plain, Here once a widow came , C a m e and wandered about , For a po i son-he rb sought . Poison-herb she found n o n e , But gave birth to two sons. In a silk kerchief t ied, Brought t h e m to the Danube ' s side. " 'Gent le Danube , I pray, With my babes gently play! Sand, yellow and good, D o thou give my babes food .

Tend t h e m and bathe t h e m . And with thyself swathe t h e m ! ' "

I

There lived an old couple . Long year af ter year, in their little holding,

At the pondside , by a wood . Like two chi ldren the pair were Always together.

They 'd pastured sheep together in ch i ldhood, Later marr ied and sett led, They purchased some cat t le ,

Bought their holding, a mill with a pond . M a d e an orchard in the wood

With m a n y hives of bees, — They had all for their needs .

But no chi ldren came; and now Dea th Drew close to them with shouldered scythe.

W h o would be a child to t h e m ? Who br ighten and console The i r old age? M o u r n and bury t hem? And who pray for their souls? Who 'd manage all thei r property, As is fit and right, Remember ing t h e m gratefully. As would their own child? Hard it is to rear your chi ldren A m o n g roofless walls, But it is worse, far worse, to grow Old in splendid halls, To grow old and die a lone, Leave all one has gained For strangers and their chi ldren to Squander it all away!

II

And then it happened the old couple Were sitting on the bench one Sunday, Fine and smart in shirts of white; High above, the sun shone bright , No t the smallest c loud — all quiet And tranquil as in heaven, Like a beast in a dark wood. Grief in their hearts was h idden .

In such a heaven, what is it Makes the old couple m o u r n ? Has some long-ago misfor tune Woken in thei r home? Is it a grief, crushed yesterday, That once again is stirring? Or just this m o m e n t taken root , And set this heaven burning?

1 do not know why the old pair Were sorrowing so. Perhaps, already. To go to G o d they would prepare , And for that long road, who 'd be there To harness up their horses for t h e m ?

"Who'll bury us, Nast ia , when we go Out of this world?"

"Well, I don ' t know! 1 have thought it over well, Till it made m e grieve; We have grown old all alone . . . And who is there to leave Our goods to?"

"Hush a m o m e n t ! There! D'you hear? There 's someth ing weeping,

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Like a child, outside the gate! Quickly! C a n you see it? I've felt tha t something 's going to happen!" Together, up they j u m p , Off to the gate! They reach it and Stop short , struck quite dumb: Just outside the very stile A swaddled baby lay, Wel l -wrapped- round , but not t oo tightly, With a new mant le swathed; For its m o t h e r swaddled it, Wrapped it (it was summer ) , In her last remaining mant le! They stand there , our old couple , They look, they pray. T h e n , p o o r mite, As if it would implore t h e m . The baby raised its little hands . Stretching out towards t h e m Its t iny fingers. . . . It grew quiet , As if it would not weep, Only wh impered soft ly

"Well, Nast ia? I said so! See! It is for tune! It is fate! We'll be a lone no more! Well, pick h im up and swaddle him! . . . Look at h im! Bless his soul! Take h im indoors . To Horodysche I shall ride. We need G o d - p a r e n t s for him."

Strange the way Things chance with us, indeed. O n e man curses his own son, Drives h im f rom the house; Ano the r earns a candle with

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The sweat of weary brows, Sets it up before the icons, Sobs and humbly pleads: He has no chi ldren. . . . Strange the way Things chance with us, indeed.

I l l

F r o m joy they asked n o less t h a n six G o d - p a r e n t s for the baby, They chris tened h im that evening; Marko Was the n a m e they gave h im. Marko grew. And our old couple Couldn ' t f ind a thing G o o d enough , forever fussing, Coddl ing , pamper ing h im. A year went by. Our Marko grew. And for his sake the mi l ch -cow Was steeped in luxury. And then There arrived a dark-browed Young woman at the house one day, She was young and pretty, And to that blessed h o m e she c a m e To seek a maid 's posit ion. "Well, then ," he says, "Let's have her, Nastia!" "Yes. Trokhym, let's take her, For we are old and ailing, too , And then there is the baby, He's grown a lot already, t rue , But all the same, he needs Quite a lot of looking after." "Yes, he does, indeed! For I've already lived, t hank G o d , My span of years away, I 'm n o longer young. N o w lass, What are you asking, say?

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Yearly, or how?" "Whatever you give. . . . "

"No! You have to know, My lass, you have to count the cash, The cash you've earned; for so It's said: W h o doesn' t count his money. Doesn ' t own m u c h , either. Let 's put it this way, lass: we don ' t Know you, no r you us, nei ther; You'll live in with us, see what sort Of work it is, while we See how you manage . T h e n we'll talk Of wages. How'd that be For you, my girl?"

"That suits me, Sir!" "Then let's go in, and see!"

They settled on a wage for her. The girl seemed bright and merry, As if she'd purchased broad estates Or some great lord did marry. In the house and in the fa rmyard , By the cat t le-byre, Dawn and evening she was busy; And as for that dear child, She would t end h im like a mother ! C o m m o n - d a y s alike And Sundays, washed his curly hair, And dressed h im up in white Blouses every single day; Played with h im, sang h im rhymes , M a d e h i m little carts, and feast-days Nur sed h im all the t ime. The old couple were as tonished, Thank ing G o d , they prayed. But every single night, poor lass,

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The watchful servant-maid Cursed her fate and shed salt tears Weeping bitterly; And there was none to hear her weep. N o n e to know or see, Only little M a r k o sees it, And he canno t know Why the servant-girl wi th bi t ter Tear-drops bathes h im so. M a r k o does not know why she Kisses h im so dearly, Hardly stops to eat or dr ink — Only cares to feed h im. M a r k o knows not how at night , Of ten , in his cradle H e rouses, stirs the slightest bit — At once she's up and wakeful , Tucks h i m in and blesses h i m , Rocks h im gently, sweetly. For f rom the o ther room she hears H o w the child is breathing. In the morn ing , Marko holds His little a rms towards H a n n a , Hails the watchful servant-girl W t h the n a m e of " M a m a , " M a r k o does not know; he grows, Growing towards m a n h o o d .

IV

M a n y seasons passed away. With m a n y waters rolling. And to the homestead sorrow came , A n d m a n y tears were falling. They laid old Nast ia to her rest, And hardly could revive again

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Old Trokhym. Sorrow passed, and went Away again, and once more slept. Back to the homes tead , happiness Out f rom beh ind the dark grove crept , At h o m e with the old m a n to rest.

Marko was a c h u m a k now, And in the a u t u m n evenings, too . He at h o m e would never tarry, — It was t ime for h im to marry.

"But who is there?" the old man thought , And he asked advice Of the servant. To an emperor ' s Daughter 'd be her choice To send matchmakers : "You mus t get Marko himself , and ask him." "Right, m y girl! We'll ask the boy, T h e n have the wedding-party."

They asked h im, talked the ma t t e r over, Marko at once went out For ma tchmakers . They soon re turned Bearing betrothal towels, Blessed bread exchanged. And she was a Young lady, f ine arrayed in Furs, and then so pretty, too , This bride, tha t such a ma iden Would be a fit m a t c h for a H e t m a n . Yes, they'd found a treasure!

"Thank you, fr iends," the old m a n said. "Now, we have to settle Everything, so that you can know, When and where shall we Have the wedding and the feast. And then again, who'll be Mothe r for us? M y Nast ia did not

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Live to see this day! . . . " His tears welled up. But in the doorway Stood the servant -maid , She c lenched her hands against the j amb , And swooned. And not ano the r Sound was heard — only the servant Whispered: "Mother . . . . Mother!"

V

A week went by, and the young women Knead the bridal loaf At the homestead . The old father, S u m m o n i n g his s t rength, Dances , too , with the young women , Sweeps the courtyard clean, And all who pass or journey by H e invites within. Offer ing t h e m honey-brandy, Invites t h e m for the wedding, Scurrying a round , a l though His legs will hardly bear h im. In the house and out , is noise, Laughter all about , F r o m the store, last barre l - loads Of f lour they're dragging out . All a round is bustle — baking, Washing, cleaning, boiling . . . All done by strangers. Where 's the maid? As a pilgrim toiling To Kyiv gone! The old man pleaded, M a r k o was weeping quite, Begging her to act as mother . "No , Marko! It's not right For me to take your mother ' s place: You are wealthy folk,

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And I 'm a servant-girl; tha t way You'd be a laughing stock. May G o d bless and help you both! I shall go to pray To all the holy saints in Kyiv, T h e n I'll re turn again To your h o m e , if you'll have m e back. As long as I have s t rength I shall work for you."

Sincerely, F r o m her hear t , she blessed H e r Marko , and , all ba thed in tears, Went beyond the stile.

The wedding celebrat ions started. There was work, meanwhi le , For music ians and for shoes. Tables and benches ran With brandy. But the servant t rudged , To Kyiv hurr ied on. To Kyiv came , but did not rest. Found a place to stay, Hi red herself out to carry water, For no cash remained To have St Barbara's Litany sung. She carried back and for th . Earned some eight f i f ty-copeck pieces, And for M a r k o bought A blessed cap in the ca tacombs Of the great St John , Tha t Marko ever should be free F r o m headache , hencefor th on. And then a St Barbara ring For the bride she earned , Paid her respects to all the saints, T h e n homeward she re turned.

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She re turned home . Kateryna And M a r k o ran and met her Outside the gate, led her within And at the table set her ; Spread before her food and dr ink, Asked her count less quest ions Of Kyiv, while Kateryna spread A bed for he r to rest on.

"Why so dearly do they love m e ? Why respect me so? G o d of goodness and of mercy, D o they, maybe, know? Have they guessed the secret, maybe? N o , they have not guessed. It's because they're good. . . ."

And bit ter Tears the servant shed.

VI

Thr ice the winter ice was f rozen , Thr ice it thawed again, Thr ice Katr ia went to see the servant Off u p o n her way To Kyiv, as she would her mother . And for the four th t ime walked With her right to the field, the m o u n d , Praying to the Lord Tha t she'd come quickly h o m e again, For wi thout her, the h o m e Was somehow sad, as t hough the mothe r Were away f r o m home .

After Our Lady's feast, one Sunday, Af ter the Assumpt ion Day, old Trokhym

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Was sitting in a fine white shirt And straw hat , on the bench . Before h im With the dog his grandson played, And his granddaughter , all dressed up In mother ' s bodice, played she'd come To visit g randpa . The old m a n gave A laugh, then solemnly he greeted His grandchi ld , like a g r o w n - u p lady. "But what 's become , say, of your pasty? They've robbed you in the woods , maybe? Or did you just forget to take it? Or, maybe, you've not yet baked it? What a fine mother ! Shame , indeed!" But look! In to the courtyard c a m e T h e maid. The old man ran to meet

His H a n n a , and the chi ldren too. "Is M a r k o on the road?" H a n n a asked the old m a n . "Yes, still out o n the road." "And I could hardly hobble back, C o m e back to your h o m e , 1 did not wish in foreign parts To perish all alone! If I could only wait for M a r k o . . . I feel so weary, somehow . . ." And for the grandchi ldren , she drew Out presents f rom her bundle : Little crosses and medal l ions , And for Yarynochka A string of corals, and red foil Made into a holy picture; For Karpo, she'd a nightingale, And a pair of horses; And for Kateryna, now Already for the four th t ime , A St Barbara ring; and three

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Tapers of hallowed wax For old grandpa; but for Marko And herself, she lacked A present: she could not buy more . There was no m o n e y left, She had grown too ill to earn . "But look! I've still got left H a i f a bagel!" And to the chi ldren Gave a bite to each.

VII

She went within. And Kateryna Washed and bathed her feet , Sat her down to take a meal . She could not drink or eat , Poor old Hanna .

"Kateryna, When will Sunday be?" "The day af ter tomorrow."

"Then we Must have t h e m sing St Nicholas ' s Litany, And make an offering, For Marko ' s somehow been delayed, Maybe out on the road He was taken ill, may G o d Protect him!" And tears flowed F r o m her old and weary eyes. Hardly could she s tand, Rise f rom table.

"Kateryna, I n o longer am What I was, t oo weak to s tand,

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Useless I have grown. Katria, it's hard to die wi thin A stranger's cosy home!"

T h e poor old soul grew weak and ill, Already they have sent To bring C o m m u n i o n to her and The Last Sacrament , — It did not help! Old Trokhym roams T h e yard with death- l ike face; Kateryna f r o m poor H a n n a C a n n o t shift her gaze, — Kateryna at he r side Days and nights would spend, While in the night, owls on the barn Boded n o good end. Every day and every hou r The invalid entreats her, With her voice the merest whisper, "Daughter Kateryna , Hasn' t M a r k o come back yet? All, if I knew for sure Tha t I could last until I see h im, T h e n I could endure!"

VIII

M a r k o journeys with the chumaks , Singing as he's walking, Does not hurry to the homes tead , Stops to graze his oxen. M a r k o brings for Kateryna Fabrics, costly, rich; For his father, there 's a girdle Woven f r o m red silk; For the servant, gold brocade

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To make herself a bonne t , And a kerchief of good c r imson With white fringe upon it; And for the chi ldren, little shoes, Figs and grapes; and then From Cons tan t inop le , red Wine for all of t h e m , Three good caskfuls in the barrel , Caviar f r o m the D o n , — He brings it all, but does not know What ' s happening at home .

M a r k o journeys , does not worry, He arrives, t hank G o d ! Pushes the gate open wide, Says a prayer to G o d . "Do you hear h im. Kateryna? R u n and welcome him! H e is here at last! Run quicker, Quickly bring h im in! T h a n k s be to Thee , Holy Saviour! H e is here at last!" And softly she repeats "Our Father," As if f rom a t rance.

T h e old m a n unyokes the oxen, Stows the brightly t r i m m e d Yoke-stays, and Katrussia tu rns To Marko , watching h im. "But where is Hanna , Kateryna? I've not cared a bit! She's not dead , surely?"

"No, not dead. But she's very sick. Let's go into the smaller room, Father will unharness

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The oxen; Marko , it's for you She's waiting, always asking."

M a r k o went to the smaller r o o m . But o n the threshold s topped . . . For he was f r ightened. H a n n a whispered: "Glory be to God! C o m e over here, don ' t be afraid! . . . Katria, please go away! There 's someth ing that I have to ask h im . Someth ing I must say."

Kateryna left the room, M a r k o by the head Of the old servant-maid bent down. "Marko , look!" she said. "Look u p o n me! D o you see H o w wasted I've b e c o m e ? I 'm not H a n n a , no r a servant, I. . ."

And she grew dumb . M a r k o wept and wondered deeply. Once more her eyes were open , She gazed at h im with all her s trength, — And tears started flowing. "Forgive me. All my life here in A stranger 's h o m e I've suffered . . . Forgive m e , then , m y little son! I . . . I a m your mother!" And she grew silent. . . .

Marko swooned. T h e ground shook with a t remor . His sense re turned . . . he looked at her — His m o t h e r slept forever.

November 13, 1845

at Pereyaslav

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T H E C A U C A S U S

To my sincere Yakov de Balmen

Oh that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain . . .

Jeremiah, Chapter 9, Verse 1

M o u n t a i n s beyond moun ta ins , crags in s tormclouds c loaked, Wild heights sown with sorrow, soil that b lood has soaked.

F r o m the dawn of t ime, P rome theus Hangs , the eagle's vict im; All God ' s days, it pecks his ribs, Tears the heart within h im. Tears, but canno t drink away The blood that throbs wi th life, Still it lives and lives again, And still once more he smiles. For our soul shall never perish, F r eedom knows no dying, And the G l u t t o n canno t harvest Fields where seas are lying; C a n n o t bind the living spirit, N o r the living word, C a n n o t smirch the sacred glory Of almighty G o d .

N o t for us to stand against T h e e , N o t for us to judge T h y deed: For us there is but weeping, weeping, For us our daily bread to knead Well-mixed with b lood and sweat and tears; The h a n g m a n tortures, mocks and jeers, Our d runken t ru th sleeps on — as dead!

W h e n will she wake once m o r e f rom slumber? W h e n , worn out with strife. Lord, wilt T h o u lie down to rest

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And grant us people life? Truly in Thy might , Thy living Spirit we believe; Liberty and right shall t r i umph , And , O Lord, to Thee Every tongue on ear th shall pray T h r o u g h the length of days. Meanwhi le , rivers rise in f lood, Swollen s t reams of blood.

Moun ta ins beyond mounta ins , crags in s tormclouds cloaked, Wild heights sown with sorrow, soil tha t blood has soaked.

And there . Our Majes ty surprised (Naked and starving though it be) , A poor, but natural liberty. T h e hunt is on! . . . Since then , the ground Is strewn with conscripts ' scat tered bones. And tears? And blood? Enough to drown All emperors with all their sons And grandsons eager for the t h r o n e In widows' tears. . . . And maidens ' tears Shed secretly the whole night long? What of the fiery tears of mothers? The b lood-s ta ined tears of aged fathers? N o t rivers now — a sea, fu l l - f lood , A sea of fire. . . . Glory! Glory! Glory to wol f -hounds , t rappers , hunters , And to the tsars, our "little fathers ,"

Glory!

A n d glory to you, dark-blue moun ta ins , Frost and snow protect you; A n d to you, grea t -hear ted heroes, G o d does not forget you. Battle o n — and win your battle! G o d Himself will aid you;

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At your side fight t ru th a n d glory, Right and holy f reedom.

Bannock and croft are all your own; They were not alms, were not a gift , — N o one will seize t h e m for his own . Clap you in chains and drag you off. In our doma in . . . We're civilized, We read the words of Holy Writ, And f rom the dungeon ' s lowest pit U p to the glory of the th rone , We're all in gold — and naked too. We'll show you culture! You'll be taught The price of bread, the price of s a l t . . . We're Christ ians. We have shrines and learning. And all that 's good. G o d likes us too! Your croft a lone still spoils our view; Why does it s tand u p o n your land Without our leave? Why can we not T h r o w you your bannocks as to dogs? Why don ' t you, when all's said and done , Pay excise duty on the sun? That ' s all we ask! For we're not hea thens , We're genuine , professing Christ ians. We're satisfied with little, — so If only you'd be fr iendly too , There 'd be so m u c h to show to you. A good slice of the world is ours; Siberia, think! — too vast to cross! Jails? People? Coun t ing takes too long! F r o m the Moldavian to the F inn Silence is held in every tongue . . . All quite c o n t e n t . . . In our domain The Bible is m a d e plain to us. The holy m o n k s explain it thus: — A king, who used to pasture swine. Murde red a f r iend, and stole his wife,

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— And thus he won eternal life! Just see who's in our Paradise! You're unen l igh tened , you don' t know The t ru ths the Ho ly Cross can show! So learn our rule! Fleece, fleece and give;

And w h e n you've given — Straight off to heaven,

And take the family if you like! And as for us! What don' t we know? There 's stars to count and corn to sow, We curse the French! And we can sell (They make fine stakes at cards as well), People — not negroes, our own kind, Just simple Christ ians, we don' t m ind , For we're not Dagoes! G o d forbid That we should deal in stolen goods As Jew-boys do. We live 'by law'! . . .

By the apostolic law? T h e n you love your b re thren? Hypocri tes , wi th vipers' tongues , Rogues accursed by heaven! Yes, you love your brother ' s skin, Never mind his soul!

Fleece h im 'by law' when you need money ; A daughter 's fine fur stole, Or a dowry for your bastard, Slippers for your wife. And expenses you don ' t m e n t i o n In your family life!

Why, then wast T h o u crucif ied, Christ , T h o u Son of G o d ? Was it just for us good people? For the word of t ru th? So that we would m o c k Thee , maybe? That ' s the way it was!

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- r

Shrines and chapels , candelabra , Icons, c louds of incense, Deep prostrat ions, never tiring, Honour ing Thine Image; — Gran t t h e m thef t and war and murder, So that they may kill a brother, Behold, they offer gifts to Thee! Loot f rom a fire, fine tapestry! . . .

We are the enl ightened! N o w We bring the radiant sun, Reveal the blessed light of t ru th To sightless little ones. C o m e to us, and all you ought To know will be made plain: Prison building will be taught , H o w to forge your chains . H o w to wear t h e m , how the knout Is plaited — we'll explain All our science. Only yield Your dark-blue mounta ins , please — They alone defy us now. We hold the plains and seas!

A n d they drove you there, Yakov, to die as a stranger, My fr iend, m y one friend! N o t for our Ukraina , But for her h a n g m a n they m a d e you shed b lood, — No t black b lood, but good; and you drank your reward F r o m a Muscovite chalice of Muscovite poison. My fr iend, my dear f r iend, in my thoughts unforgot ten! C o m e , living soul, c o m e to Ukra ina again; Fly across banks with the Cossacks, stand guard Beside heroes ' robbed gravemounds , and wait in the plain, Sharing the tears that the Cossacks are weeping, Unt i l I escape f rom this slavery and pain.

Meanwhi le , I have seeds to scatter, All my aching grief,

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All my thoughts ; G o d grant they blossom, Speaking in the wind. Peaceful winds f rom Ukra ina , Bearing dew, will carry All my thoughts to you, dear brother, Gree t ing t h e m with sorrow, You will read t h e m to the end , Recalling quietly, The heroes ' graves, the plains, the hills, The land you loved — and me.

November 18, 1845 at Pereyaslav

T O M Y F E L L O W - C O U N T R Y M E N , I N U K R A I N E A N D N O T I N U K R A I N E ,

L I V I N G , D E A D A N D AS Y E T U N B O R N M Y F R I E N D L Y E P I S T L E

If a man say, / love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar.

I John, Chapter 4, Verse 20

Dusk is falling, dawn is breaking, And God ' s day is ending, Once again a weary people And all things are resting. Only I, like one accursed, Night and day stand weeping At the many-peop led cross-roads , And yet n o one sees me. N o one sees me , no one knows, Deaf , they do not hearken , They are t rading with thei r fetters, Using t ru th to bargain, And they all neglect the Lord, — In heavy yokes they harness

People; thus they plough disaster, And they sow disaster . . . But what shoots spring up? You'll see What the harvest yields t hem! Shake your wits awake, you brutes, You demen ted children! Look u p o n your native country, On this peaceful Eden; Love with overflowing heart This expanse of ruin! Break your chains , and live as brothers! D o not try to seek. D o not ask in foreign lands For what can never be Even in heaven, let a lone In a foreign region . . . In one 's own house, — one 's own t ruth, One's own might and f r eedom.

There is no o the r Ukra ina , N o second Dnipro in the world, Yet you strike out for foreign regions, To seek, indeed, the blessed good. The holy good, and f r e e d o m , f reedom, Fra ternal b ro the rhood . . . . You found And carried f rom that foreign region, To Ukra ina , h o m e w a r d - b o u n d , The mighty power of mighty words, And noth ing more t han tha t . . . . You scream, too, Tha t G o d , creat ing you, did not mean you To worship un t ru th , t hen , once more , You bow down as you bowed before , And once again the very skin you Tear f r o m your sightless peasant brothers , Then , to regard the sun of t ru th In places not unknown , you shove off

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To G e r m a n lands. If only you 'd Take all your miserable possessions, The goods your ancestors have stolen, T h e n wi th its holy heights, the Dn ip ro Would r emain bereft , an o rphan .

Ah, if it could be that you would not re turn . Tha t you'd give up the ghost in the place you were reared, T h e chi ldren would weep not , n o r mother ' s tears burn , And G o d would not hear your b laspheming and sneers, The sun would not pou r warmth upon a foul dunghil l , Set on a land that is free, broad and true, T h e n folk would not realize what kind of eagles You are, and would not shake the i r heads over you.

F ind your wits! Be h u m a n beings, For evil is impending , Very soon the shackled people Will their chains be rending; Judgmen t will come , and then shall speak The moun ta in s and the Dn ip ro , And in a hundred rivers, b lood Will f low to the blue sea, Your chi ldren 's b lood . . . and there will be N o one to help you . . . Brother Will by his b ro ther be r enounced . The child by its own mother . And like a c loud, dark smoke will cover The bright sun before you, For endless ages your own sons Will curse you and abhor you. Wash your faces! God ' s fair image D o not foul wi th filth! D o not deceive your chi ldren that They live u p o n this earth Simply that they should rule as lords — For an unlearned eye

Will deeply search their very souls. Deeply, thoroughly . . . For whose skin you're wearing, helpless Mites will realize, They will judge you, — and the un lea rned Will deceive the wise.

Had you but learned the way you ought , T h e n wisdom also would be yours; But thus to heaven you would climb: "We are not we, 1 am not I! I have seen all, all things I know: There is n o hell, there is no heaven, N o t even G o d , but only I and The stocky G e r m a n , clever-clever, And no one else beside. . . ." "Good , brother! But who, t hen , are you? "

"We don ' t know — Let the G e r m a n speak!" Ah yes, in your foreign land You learn in just this way! The G e r m a n will say: "You are Mongols ." "Mongols , that is plain!" Yes, the naked grandchi ld ren Of golden Tamerlane! The G e r m a n will say: "You are Slavs." "Slavs, yes, Slavs indeed!" Of great and glorious ances tors The unworthy seed! And so you read Kollar, too , With all your might and main , v v /

Safarik as well, and Hanka , Full-tilt you push away Into the Slavophils, all tongues Of the Slavonic race You know full well, but of your own

303

Nothing! "There'll c o m e a day When we can parley in our o w n When the G e r m a n teaches , And , what is more , our history Explains to us and preaches , T h e n we will set about it all!" You've m a d e a good beginning. Following the G e r m a n precepts You have started speaking So that the G e r m a n canno t grasp The sense, the mighty teacher , N o t to men t ion simple people . And uproar! And the screeching: " H a r m o n y and power too, No th ing less t han music As for history! Of a free N a t i o n 'tis the epic . . . Can ' t compare with those p o o r Romans! The i r Bruti — good- fo r -no th ings ! But oh , our Cocleses and Bruti — Glor ious , unforgot ten! F r e e d o m herself grew up with us, And in the D n i p r o ba thed , She had moun ta in s for her pillow, And for her quilt — the plains!" It was in blood she ba thed herself, She took her sleep on piles Of the corpses of free Cossacks, Corpses all despoiled. Only look well, only read That glory th rough once mor e , F r o m the first word to the last, Read; do not ignore Even the least apos t rophe , N o t one c o m m a even, Search out the mean ing of it all,

305

T h e n ask yourself the quest ion: "Who are we? Whose sons? Of what sires? By w h o m and why encha ined?" And then , indeed, you'll see for what Are your Bruti f amed:

Toadies, slaves, the filth of Moscow, Warsaw's garbage — are your lords, Illustrious he tmans! Why so p roud And swaggering, then do you boast , you Sons of Ukra ina ' s mis for tune? That well you know to wear the yoke, M o r e t h a n your fathers did of yore? They are flaying you, — cease your boasts — From t h e m , at t imes, the fat they'd t h a w

You boast , perhaps , the Bro therhood Defended the fai th of old? Because they boiled their dumpl ings in Sinope, Trebizond? It is t rue , they ate their fill, But now your s tomach 's dainty, And in the Sich, the clever G e r m a n Plants his beds o f ' t a t i es ; And you buy, and with good relish Eat what he has grown, And you praise the Zaporozh ia . But whose blood was it f lowed Into that soil and soaked it th rough So that pota toes flourish? While it's good for k i t chen-gardens You're the last to worry! And you boast because we once Brought Poland to des t ruc t ion . . . It is t rue , yes, Poland fell. But in her fall she crushed you. Thus , then , your fathers spilled their blood For Moscow and for Warsaw,

307

And to you, their sons, they have Bequeathed their chains , their glory.

Ukra ina struggled on , Fighting to the limit: She is crucif ied by those Worse- than-Poles , her chi ldren. In place of beer, they draw the r ighteous Blood f r o m out her sides. Wishing, so they say, t o enl ighten T h e materna l eyes With con tempora ry lights, To lead her as the t imes D e m a n d it, in the G e r m a n s ' wake (She crippled, speechless, blind). G o o d , so be it! Lead, explain! Let the poor old m o t h e r Learn how chi ldren such as these N e w ones she must succour. Show her, t hen , and do not haggle Your instruct ion 's pr ice. A mother ' s good reward will come: F r o m your greedy eyes T h e scales will fall away, and you Will then behold the glory, The living glory of your grandsires, A n d fathers skilled in knavery. D o not fool yourselves, my brothers , Study, read and learn Thorough ly the foreign things — But do not shun your own: For he w h o forgets his mother . By G o d ' s wra th is smi t ten , His chi ldren shun h im, to their homes They will not admi t h im. Strangers drive h im f r o m their doors;

For this evil one Nowhere in the boundless earth Is a joyful home . I weep salt tears when I recall Those unforgot ten act ions Of our forefathers , those grave deeds! If I could but forget t h e m , Half my course of joyfu l years I 'd sur render for it! Such indeed, then , is ou r glory, Ukraina 's glory! . . . T h u s too, you should read it th rough That you'd do more t h a n dream. While s lumbering, of injustices, So that you would see High gravemounds o p e n up before Your eyes, tha t then you might Ask the mar tyrs w h e n a n d why And who was crucif ied. C o m e , m y brothers , and embrace Each your humbles t brother , Make our m o t h e r smile again, O u r poor, tear-s ta ined mother! With hands that are f i rm and strong She will bless her chi ldren , Embrace her helpless little ones, A n d with free lips, she'll kiss t hem. Those bygone t imes will be forgot ten With their shamefu l story, And that glory will revive, Ukra ina ' s glory, And a clear light, not a twilight, Will shine forth to greet you . . . Brothers, t hen , embrace each other, I pray and entreat you!

December 14, 1845 Vyunyscha

311

T H E C O L D R A V I N E

To every man his own misfor tune , N o r am I wi thout one , T h o u g h it is not mine , but borrowed, Still it is — misfor tune . Why, one would say, recall events Tha t happened so long past, Rouse t h e m f rom G o d knows how far back? G o o d that they sleep at last! . . . Take, for example , that Ravine! Already there remains N o t even a narrow track to it, As though there never c a m e Man ' s foot there — yet, if you but th ink, A good road ran between The sacred Mot ry n monas te ry And tha t d read Rapine. Of old the H a i d a m a k y there In that Ravine pi tched c a m p , They pr imed their muskets for the fight And m a d e their lances sharp. In that Ravine assembled t h e n (With suffering worn and tr ied) Fa ther with son, bro ther with brother, In order, side by side, To face the evil enemy, The accursed Pole. Where art t hou , t hen , pa th to the deep Ravine once t rodden well? Hast grown thyself with a dark grove? Or have new h a n g m e n c o m e To plant thee over, so that n o w People canno t c o m e For thy advice: what shall they do With masters just and good,

313

With wicked, evil cannibals , With new Poles? N o , indeed, You cannot hide it! Zal izniak Above the Ravine still hovers, G lances over towards U m a n Looking out for G o n t a . D o not hide it, do not t r ample O n the Holy Gospe l , D o not hail ferocious N e r o : "Righteous Apostle!" D o not try to f ind your glory In the tsar's "crusade," For you yourselves do not know what These tsarlings perpet ra te , But shout that "for the Father land" You make this great oblat ion Of soul and skin! Forsooth yours is Indeed a sheeplike nature! The fool offers his neck, not knowing What for it is wanted , And , what is more , the idle loafer Scorns and sneers at Gon ta ! "The Ha idamaky were no warriors, Thieves they were, and robbers, A blot upon our history!" T h o u liest, people-starver: N o robber rises to defend Truth and f r eedom holy N o r set free a people w h o In darkness and brought lowly, Are b o u n d into your chains , does not Slay with his own hand An evil son, nor break his living Heart for his native land! It is you that are the robbers, You, the insatiate!

315

Hungry crows! And by what r ighteous Holy law d'you t rade In land, the equal gift to all, And traffic in mis for tuned H u m a n beings! T h e n beware, For evil will befall you, Grave evil. Fool your chi ldren, fool Your bro ther blind and sightless, Fool yourselves, fool strangers, too But fool not G o d Almighty! For, in the day of jubi la t ion, Vengeance unforseen Will fall o n you; new fires will blow F r o m out the Cold Ravine.

Vyunyscha, December 17, 1845

T O L I T T L E M A R Y A N A

G r o w up, grow up, m y little bird, My poppy flower, open , And blossom for th in loveliness Before your heart is b roken , Before people have c o m e to know Of the quiet valley. Sport a while, Parch it, and leave it arid. There ' l l be n o defence for you then — N e i t h e r your young years Robed in beauty, nor your hazel Eyes, all ba thed in tears, N o r a maiden ' s t ranqui l hear t , To evil ways unwise — They canno t defend , no r bl indfold The insatiate eyes. Evil ones will f ind you, rob you,

317

And, poo r child, they' l l t h row you D o w n to Hell. . . . And you will curse G o d In your to rmen t s woeful . D o not blossom then , my new flower. Flower still unopened! Wilt and wither quietly Before your heart is broken!

December 20, 1845 Vyunyscha

Days are passing, nights are passing, S u m m e r passes, yellowed leaves Rustle, sight dims, and thought , grown drowsy, Is s lumbering, heart falls asleep; All is asleep, — I do not know Whe the r I live, or fade, or go T'-.'if??^ »ffe rJT fc1 w?n' rii 'Wh'umjfty '(jififfs, For now I ne i ther weep no r laugh. . .

Fate , where are you? Fate, where are you? The re is n o n e , is none! G o d , if a good fate T h o u grudgest, G r a n t an evil one! Let me not fall asleep while walking. In my heart to die, D o not permit me, like a rot ten Log on this ear th to lie, Let me live, live in my heart , Love my fellow m e n , Or if not — let me set the world Alight with curses then . Terrible to fall into chains , Die in captivity, But worse, far worse, to sleep, to sleep. To sleep in liberty, Fall asleep for evermore .

So that there remains N o t a trace: H e lived, or perished? It is all the same. . . Fate, where are you? Fate, where are you? There is none , is none! G o d , if a good fate T h o u grudgest, G r a n t an evil one!

December 21, 1845. Vyunvscha

W h e n I die, then m a k e m y grave High on an ancient m o u n d , In m y own beloved Ukra ine , In s teppeland wi thout bound : W h e n c e one may see wide-skir ted whea t land , Dnipro ' s s teep-cl i f fed shore, There whence one may hear the blustering River wildly roar. Till f rom Ukra ine to the blue sea It bears in fierce endeavour The blood of f o e m e n — then I'll leave Whea t l and and hills forever: Leave all beh ind , soar up until Before the th rone of G o d I'll make m y prayer. For till tha t h o u r I shall know naught of G o d . M a k e my grave there — and arise, Sunder ing your chains , Bless your f r eedom with the b lood Of foemen ' s evil veins! T h e n in that great family, A family new and free. D o not forget, wi th good intent Speak quietly of me.

December 25, 1845 at Pereyaslav.

But why do we love Bohdan , say? Because the Muscovi tes forgot h im. And in a dumbness s tupid, clottish, The great wise H e t m a n they have swathed.

[1845-1846]

T H E R U S S A L K A

" S o it was m y m o t h e r bore me , In palace grandly soaring, But in the night took m e Bathed me in its to r ren t , As she ba thed me , she spoke to m e . Her own baby daughter, 'Swim then , swim, my little darling D o w n the Dnip ro water! Swim away as a russalka, Tomorrow in the n igh t - t ime I'll c o m e out to roam with h im, You'll tickle h im, sprightly! Tickle h im, my little sweetheart , So he n o more will Laugh at me, young and forlorn. Let h im drink his fill N o t of my tears, mixed with blood, But of dark-blue water Of the Dnipro . So, just let h im Play with his own daughter. Swim away, m y only darling! Waves, waves, I beseech you. Welcome this russalka-baby. . .' And she started weeping, And she fled away. And I Swam off through the water Till my sisters met me and To their home they brought me.

323

A week has passed now, I have grown. With m y sisters roaming Each night. And I've c o m e to look U p o n m y father 's home now. Maybe once more with the lord in his Palace she's uni ted, Maybe again m y sinful m o t h e r In luxury delights now?" And the russalka-babe grew silent. Plunged into the river Like a little roach. And softly Osier b ranches quivered.

H e r m o t h e r then c a m e out to roam. The palace held no sleep, Lord Jan , the Pole, was not at home, N o n e with w h o m to speak. But when she c a m e there to the bank, She called to mind her daughter , Called to mind how she had ba thed her. H o w she m u r m u r e d o'er her. . . N o matter. . . To sleep in the palace She set off once more . But never came there. In Dn ip ro she Would rest for evermore, She did not hear how the girls Gave her to Dnipro ' s water. But they clustered all a round her, Happy that they'd caught her. They played with her so merrily, And tickled her thereaf te r Unt i l she fell in to the f ishtrap. A n d they rocked with laughter, All but one russalka-baby — And she had no laughter.

August 9, 1846. Kyiv

325

I N T H E F O R T R E S S

Dedicated to my fellow-prisoners

Remember , then , my brothers true. . . I do not want those evil days back, W h e n you so "nicely," and I t oo Only through pr ison-bars could gaze out . And , you too must have thought , for sure When we took counci l , quietly speaking, When we would know a n o t h e r meet ing In our own country, grown so poor? Never, my brothers , nevermore F r o m D n i p r o shall we dr ink together, We have been parted, borne forever By ill-fate into steppe and forest, We still a small belief will cherish In f r eedom, then start, endeavour

To live like people a m o n g other People, — but, my brothers , Unt i l then , still love each o ther Love Ukra ine , adore her, A n d for her, poo r hapless country, Beseech the Lord for her. A n d , fr iends, forget h im, the traitor, Curse h im not forever, And me, in my harsh u n f r e e d o m Somet imes , too , remember .

[November 1, 1849 - April 23, 1850, Orenburg]

327

I

All a lone, all a lone, Like a stem sere, unwan ted ; The Lord gave m e no luck, N o r good for tune granted. For the Lord only gave, Beauty, hazel eyes shining; But I wept t h e m away In a girl's lonely pining. N o kind b ro ther have I, N o r dear sister had ever, A m o n g strangers I grew, I grew, knowing love never. Where 's a br idegroom to cour t me? Kind folk where d'you tarry? There are none — all a lone . . . N o n e will seek m e to marry!

[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

II

Wooded gullies all round , G r a v e m o u n d in the steppe looming; Rising up f rom the m o u n d , A grey Cossack, bent , g loomy; Rising nightly, he roams In the s teppe, as he goes Sings, he sings, sadly mourn ing : "Earth they heaped up; of yore, T h e n went homeward once mor e , N o one now is recalling, Cossacks then , f i f teen score,

329

Splintered fell, rose no mor e , But the earth will not pall t h e m . For the false H e t m a n gave Chris t ian folk as yoked slaves, Sent us forth as thei r drovers: Then this land, this our own, Was with native blood s t rown, Brother murdered a brother ; Drank the blood of a dear Brother, hence lie we here, In this cursed gravemound ever!" He grew silent, and grieved, Heavy on his pike leaned. Standing high on the g ravemound; On the Dnip ro he stared, Weeping, burdened with care , Loud lamented the waves' sound. F rom beyond Dnipro 's f lood Echoes rang th rough the wood , Loud the third cocks were crowing, G o n e the Cossack f r o m view. Gully shook through and th rough , And the gravemound quaked , groaning.

[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

III

It does not touch me, not a whit , If I live in Ukra ine or no, If men recall me or forget, Lost as I am, in foreign snow, — Touches me not the slightest whit . Captive, to m a n h o o d I have grown.

In strangers' homes , and by m y own U n m o u r n e d , a weeping captive still, I'll die; all tha t is mine , I will Bear off, let not a t race r ema in In our own glorious Ukra ine , O u r own land — yet a stranger 's rather. And speaking with his son, n o fa ther Will recall, no r bid h im: Pray, Pray, son! Of old, for ou r Ukra ine , They tor tured all his life away. It does not t ouch me , not a whit , Whe the r that son will pray, or no. . . But it does touch me deep if knaves, Evil rogues lull our Ukra ine Asleep, and only in the f l ames Let her, all p lundered , wake again. . . Tha t touches me with deepest pain.

[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

IV

"Don ' t leave your mother!" They all warned But you went off, left he r behind . Your m o t h e r sought you — did not find, Unt i l she ceased her seeking mourn fu l ; Grieving, she died. Long since, there waned All sound there , where you once were playing, Your dog went roaming somewhere , straying, And in your house are b roken panes. N o w lambs, the shadowed orchard haunt ing Graze there by day, while in the night Owls sadly hoot there in thei r flight, Little repose to ne ighbours granting.

333

H e n b a n e choked periwinkle planted For your br ide-wrea th , now, hid f rom sight, It waits you vainly. In the spinney The fresh clear pool, where you went swimming . Goes dry, where you bathed long ago. The spinney's grieving, d rooping low, N o birds are heard now in the spinney, You took t h e m with you w h e n you went. In the ravine, the well sags, t i l ted, The willow withered, d roop ing wilted, And with thorns and briars is quilted The pa th where once your way you went . Where did you journey, swiftly hieing, To w h o m did you migrate, far-flying? A m o n g strange folk in a strange land Whose heart do you delight? To w h o m , D o you cling, lovingly, your hands? My heart tells me that in a palace You live in luxury; no regret For your old h o m e plagues you with malice. I pray G o d that no grief beset You, nor disturb your s lumbers ever, N o r find you within palace walls, So that you b lame the Lord G o d never. N o r curses o n your m o t h e r call.

[April 1 7 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

V

"Why to the gravemound r o a m you always?" The m o t h e r asks her child, imploring: "Why are you weeping at each step? Why night on night have you not slept,

My grey-winged dove, my dearest daughter?" "Yes, yes; m a m m a ! " And off, straight after, And Mother , as she waited, wept.

No t the dream-grass on the g ravemound Night ly blossoms grant ing, — But a ma iden , young, be t ro thed . A guelder-rose is planting. And she waters it with tears, The Lord above entreat ing That He will send the rain at night And dewdrops falling sweetly. So that the guelder-rose take root , Spread b ranches wide and shady, "Then, bird-l ike, f r o m the o ther world. My darling will fly, maybe; And to h i m I'll build a nest , 1 t oo shall go flitting, And in the guelder-rose my love And I shall softly twitter; H y m n s of praise shall sing to G o d , To quiet converse given; Together, in the morn ing , we Shall fly away to heaven."

And the guelder-rose took root, Spread branches wide and shady, And for three years to the gravemound Roamed the be t ro thed ma iden . But the four th year. . . No t the dream-grass Night ly blossoms grant ing, — A maiden with the guelder- rose- t ree Weeping and lament ing: "Guelder - rose , guelder- rose , Tall and so broad . No t cool water before sunrise

337

On you was poured! Bitter tears in wide rivers Have flowed u p o n thee, From these tears, people spread evil R u m o u r s of me . The young girls turn on me , Thei r f r iend in past t ime, And they tu rn on this fair guelder-Rose-t ree of mine . Wrap thou this poo r head of mine , Bathe it with d e w With thy broad b ranches hide me F r o m the sun's view! In the morn ing , folk shall f ind me, Mock me and jeer; And thy broad branches , ch i ldren F r o m me shall tear! . ." Ea r ly -morn , a songbird twitters In the guelder- rose- t ree ; 'Nea th the guelder-rose, a maiden Slumbers, never rouses: In her youth she has grown weary, Evermore she d rowses . . .

Behind the m o u n d the sun was rising, People rejoiced, f rom sleep they leapt; Still M o t h e r lay not down to s lumber. For her child she waited supper. And waiting, bitterly she wept.

[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

339

VI

Once three pathways, b road and wide, Met u p o n the plain; Into foreign parts, three brothers Set out f rom Ukraine . And they left an aged mother , One a wife beside, One a sister, and the youngest Left his chosen bride. The old m o t h e r planted three Ash- t rees in the meadow. And her son's wife planted there A poplar tall and slender. And the sister by the valley Set three maples shady, And a guelder-rose was p lanted By the be t ro thed maiden . But the ash- t rees did not root . And the poplar wi thered. The three maples withered up, The guelder-rose has wilted. The three brothers do not c o m e , Thei r m o t h e r weeps t h e m still, And the wife weeps with her chi ldren In a house grown chill. The sister weeps, she goes to seek Her brothers a m o n g strangers. . . And the young bride? In her coff in Quietly they laid her . . . The three brothers do not c o m e , They roam the world, for lorn . And three pathways, broad and wide, Are overgrown with thorns .

[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

[VII]

TO N. KOSTOMAROV

The joyful sun its face has h idden A m o n g the joyful clouds of spring; And to their "guests," shut tight within, A drink of poor weak tea they've given, To change the guard the order 's b idden. Gua rds un i fo rmed in dark blue tr im. N o w to the door, by keys c lose-ba t tened . And to the bars across the pane I've grown accus tomed; to m e came N o grief for my long-s ince begot ten . Long-s ince deep buried, long-forgot ten Bitter b loodsta ined tears of yore, — So many of my tears were poured On the vain field. If rue had sprouted At least. . . but no th ing grew at all! And then my village I recalled: W h o m did I once leave in past days there? Fa ther and mo the r in the grave there. . . And my heart burns with sorrow's gall, For no one will recall me ever. . . 1 see: thy mother , th ine my brother . T h a n the black earth blacker far. Walk, worn and tried by sufferings heavy. . . I pray to Thee , Lord G o d , I pray! To sing Thy praises I'll cease never, Tha t wi th her I share not today This my prison, these my fet ters .

1847, May 19 [St Petersburg]

343

VIII

Beside t he house , t he cherry 's f lowering, Above the t rees t he M a y bugs h u m . T h e p l o u g h m e n f r o m the fu r rows c o m e . T h e girls all w a n d e r h o m e w a r d ; s inging, A n d m o t h e r s wait the m e a l for t h e m .

Beside the house a fami ly supper , Above, the evening star appears , T h e daugh t e r serves t he d ishes here; It's useless t o advise her, mothe r , T h e n ight ingale won' t let he r hear.

Beside t he house , t he m o t h e r lulls T h e little ch i ld ren for t he night , T h e n she, t oo , settles at the i r side. A n d all is still. . . On ly t he girls A n d night ingales d is turb t h e quiet .

[May 1 9 - 3 0 , 1847, St Petersburg]

IX

E a r l y - m o r n i n g , at first dawning , Recrui t s f r o m the village s t rode , In the lad's wake fol lowed sadly A girl, lone , a long the road . H e r old m o t h e r hobb led af ter . In the field t o overtake her , — C a u g h t her up , led her away; She be ra t ed , scolded ever, Till in the ea r th t he d a u g h t e r lay, T h e n she, a beggar, went away.

345

Years went by, and in the village Naugh t of change nor newness . But an empty house was slowly Tumbling, leaning skewly; N e a r the empty house , a soldier Comes , on cru tches creeping. Gaz ing on the little o rchard , In the house looks, peeping. . . Vainly, friend! N o dark-browed girl Will look out f rom the cot tage, M o t h e r will not call you in To supper in the cottage. Long ago, long long ago, Betrothal towels were woven, And the kerchief finely f igured. Si lk-embroidered over; H e thought to live, to find his love, To sing to G o d his praises; It happened that for h im no one On ear th is still remaining. He sits beside the empty house , Outdoors , the dusk is creeping. And in the window, like a c rone , The white owl is peeping.

[May 1 9 - 3 0 , 1847, St Petersburg]

X

Hard in captivity. . . t hough truly F r e e d o m was never ours to know; And yet life went on somehow, though — There was a field, though strangers ruled it. But now to waiting life has schooled me ,

347

As for the Lord, for fate of woe. I wait for it, and , con templa t ing , I curse my foolish wits, berate t h e m Tha t fools could fool t h e m and def raud A n d drown that f r eedom in the mud . My heart grows chill in meditat ing: No t in Ukra ine the grave awaits me, No t in Ukraine shall I live, awed With love for people and the Lord.

| May 1 9 - 3 0 . 1847, St Petersburg]

XI

THE REAPER

T h r o u g h the broad field he goes, But no swathes lays he low,

N o swathes lays he low, but mounta ins ; G r o a n s f rom earth a n d sea are m o u n t i n

G r o a n s and cries of woe.

By night the owls greet The old m a n as he reaps.

Reaper cuts, and takes no resting, Heeds not any man 's request ing.

Useless to entreat .

D o not beg, nor entreat : N o new edge the scythe needs;

Whe the r township or a townlet , As with razor, he shaves down there

Everything he meets .

349

Peasant, innkeeper go, Kobzar wander ing a lone;

The old m a n h u m s at his reaping, Piles the swathes in moun ta in s steeply,

Takes tsar on his t h rone .

N o r f rom me will he tu rn , A m o n g strangers cut down,

Behind pr ison-bars he'll choke me . N o n e will raise a cross as token .

N o n e for m e will m o u r n . [May 1 9 - 3 0 , 1847, St Petersburg)

XII

Shall we yet know a n o t h e r meet ing. Or did we now forever par t? With love's word, t ruth 's word borne , retreat ing Out into the desert 's hear t . So be it! She was not our mother , Yet we had to pay her honour ! Such is God ' s will. . . Obey it surely,

Be humble , seek the Lord in prayer. Mindfu l ly of one ano the r ; Love your dear Ukra ine , adore her, Love her . . . in fierce t ime of evil, In the last dread hour of struggle, Fervently beseech G o d for her.

[May 19 -30 , 1847, St Petersburg!

351

N . N.

The sun sets, and dark the moun ta in s become, The little bird hushes, the plain has grown d u m b , The people rejoice that s lumber is nearing, And I look: and I fly with my heart in my dreaming To a dark orchard in far Ukraina; I fly there , 1 fly there , ponder ing deeply, And it seems that my heart is at rest, has grown tranquil . Dark shadows spread over plain, m o u n t a i n and grove, A star twinkles out in the blue, high above: Star, O Star! — and the bit ter tears rain — And hast thou , then , risen too , over Ukraine? D o the dark eyes search for thee yet In the blue heavens? Or did they forget? May they s lumber forever if they have forgot ten, Never to hear of my pit iful for tune .

[Late June — December 1847, Fonress of Orsk]

My th i r teenth year was wearing on — Grazing the lambs, one day 1 was Beyond the village. The sun shone Perhaps? or was it wi thout cause? Such joy, such joy, as at the th rone Of G o d I f e l t . . . They 'd called already for our food . But I, a m o n g the weeds, r ema ined Alone, and prayed to G o d . Indeed , Why I, a small boy, wished to pray So eagerly, I do not know,

353

N o r how my happiness was caused. Around , the village and the Lord's Sky, the lambs, it seemed, re joiced, The sun shone warm — yet did not scorch

No t long the sun shone fair and warm No t long my prayers I m u r m u r e d , The sun blazed fiery red above And set this heaven burning . As if aroused f rom sleep, 1 looked: The village had grown dark. Even God ' s azure sky above — That t oo was cheerless, stark. 1 tu rned my eyes towards the lambs — These lambs were not mine ; 1 looked yonder to the houses — N o h o m e there I'd f ind. G o d did not give me anything! And tears started flowing . . . Bitter tears. . . . But a young girl, Over by the roadside, Only a few steps away, Was plucking h e m p , and she Heard my sobs, came to my side And spoke kind words to me , Gen t ly wiped away my tears . And kissed me tenderly.

It seemed once more the sun shone bright As if the whole wide world were mine: The fields, the spinneys, and the orchards And laughing, we began to drive Those lambs, that were not ours, to water.

Idle dreams, indeed! But even Now, when I recall, my heart Aches, weeps: why G o d let m e not pass My little span in that dear heaven? Ploughing the field I would have died.

355

Ignorant of it all, would not Have lived on ear th an outcast 's life, Would not have cursed both men and [God]

[Late June — December 1847, Fortress of Orsk]

I R Z H A V E T S

Once the Swedes m a d e for themselves A mighty fame resounding, From Poltava with Mazeppa To Bendery absconding. After t h e m , too, Hord iyenko . . . She 'd counsel led h im, his mother , How to reap his harvest whea t , How to gain Poltava. They'd have reaped it had they gone there In a single te ther And brought the H e t m a n and the Colonel Of Fastiv together. Our spears would not be lost to us, In the roof of Tsar Peter, N o r would those f a m o u s wre tches run. Fleeing f rom Khortytsia , N o r would the evil colonel have In Pryluky restrained t h e m , N o r in Cr imea would God ' s M o t h e r Shed tears for Ukra ine , then .

When they wandered day and night , Those Cossacks, nevermore re turning To Mothe r Sich and Meadow bright. They took God ' s Mo the r on the i r journey. And with t h e m they took no th ing more ,

357

And to Cr imea 's K h a n of yore. To a new grief the Cossacks tu rned then.

N o w the cloud of black grows strong. The c loud of white is waning. And over the Zaporozh ians A hea then Tatar's reigning; Al though the K h a n permi ts t h e m pitch N e w c a m p in lowland field there. He will not grant to the Cossacks Leave a church to build there . The picture of Our Blessed Lady With a tent they covered. And in secret prayed, imploring. . .

G o d be with you ever, My count ry so lovely, luxuriant , wealthy. Who has not destroyed you? And were one to tell About any one of these magna tes so mighty. The history, the t ru th , why t hen , even Hell Would t remble in terror! And old Dante , likewise Would wonder our poor demi- lordl ings to meet . They say all such sorrow comes f rom the Almighty! Does G o d find the murde r of people so sweet? And my Ukraina , beloved and cher ished? What did she do, poor count ry? For what must she perish? And her chi ldren keep silent, with fetters beset?

Kobzars told thei r tales to us Of feuds and expedit ions. Of the heavy years of woe. Of the harsh affl ict ions That the Poles imposed on us, How they crucified us, What happened since the Swedes' t ime Would have terrif ied, though .

359

Even the Poles, they'd have grown d u m b F r o m fear, poor d runken creatures, Well, then , all those governors. Those dogs of Tsar Peter, Roared and gnawed. . . A n d f rom afar The Cossacks heard, f a r - sundered . H o w the bells in Hlukhiv rang, With the cannons ' thunder , H o w they drove t h e m to the marshes To build the tsar a city, H o w the old m o t h e r wept for her Chi ldren , in grief and pity. How those chi ldren, on the Oril, A strong line excavated. And how, afar, in Finland 's snows To perish they went fated. The Zaporozh ians heard , they heard, In far Cr imea lying That the H e t m a n a t e had per ished. Innocen t ly dying. They heard, they heard it, the poor wretches, Silently they heard it, For the mirzas laid on these Exiles a mighty burden; Poor wretches, they were tor tured thus, They wept, and with t h e m ever. She too shed her holy tears, God ' s own Blessed Mother , She, the Merc i fu l , wept t hen . As if for a son keening, And G o d looked upon those tears, Of the Holy Maiden . He smote Peter, smote the H a n g m a n , Unforeseenly, sudden. The Cossacks re turned h o m e once more . Bearing on their journey

To the H e t m a n a t e the wondrous Picture of the Virgin; In Irzhavets, in s tone-bui l t church They placed it in safe keeping. And to this day she remains there , For the Cossacks weeping.

[Late June — December 1847, Fortress of Orsk]

We ask each other, aye enquir ing, Why did our mo the r s bear us so? Was it for good? Was it for woe? Why do we live? For what desiring? And wi thout answer we're expiring, Yet leave our deeds behind to show.

And how, dear G o d , will they appraise And judge my deeds condemning ly? If such babes died in infancy, Then , Holy G o d , they'd not enrage Thee , Tha t being born to slavery. They now put all the b lame on Thee .

[Late June — December 1847, Fortress of Orsk]

I'll gaze again on steppe and plain . Once more I shall behold t h e m , If G o d in mercy grants me f reedom T h o u g h I may be old then , T h e n I'd go back to Ukra ina , G o back, homeward wending,

363

And they'd receive the old m a n there With welcome glad and fr iendly; And I would, having said my prayers, Rest for a while at last there , And I would. . . but such thoughts are vain, It will not come to pass so. But how can one live wi thout hope , Being deprived of f r eedom? Teach me how it's done , good people, Or I'll lose my reason. . .

[January — early May 1848, Fortress of Orsk]

Lord, do not give to any o the r What in old age I now must suffer, Lost in captivity to vanish, My years cut short in senseless anguish.

I want to walk in the s teppe-meadow. For my sad yearning I could shed so. "Don ' t leave the building!" I am chidden "Going outside is quite forbidden!"

[January — early May 1848, Fortress of Orsk]

365

T H E P R O P H E T

As if to chi ldren r ighteous, good, Loving his people, the Lord G o d Sent o n earth a prophet holy, The good news of His love to preach, The holy t ruth and right to teach. And , like the D n i p r o broadly rolling, The prophet ' s words flowed out and poured . And into the heart deeply going With fire invisible it thawed The f rozen soul. And with love glowing Those w h o m he'd taught followed h im, going Everywhere, and their tears were flowing. But wicked people! Alt, they tore and Rent apart the holy glory Of the Lord. Sacrificed to Strange gods. Shunned the t ru th , disowned it, And the holy m a n — woe un to you, In the marke t -p lace they s toned h im, Therefore did the Lord Almighty, As if fierce wild beasts did rightly Decree they should be fe t tered, chained And in a dungeon deep restrained. And you. O people fierce and s tubborn. Instead of prophet mild — above you. He has decreed a tsar should reign.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

367

A little cloud glides to the sun With cr imson skirts spreading and trailing, And beckons to the sun to sleep In the dark-blue sea; and with a veiling

Of rose swathes it and wraps it round As m o t h e r does a baby, Sweet to the eyes. And for an hour. For a short h o u r maybe, It seems the heart will find some rest, With the Lord G o d speaking. . . But mist like an e n e m y Over the sea creeping, Hides it and the rosy c loud, And trailing dark beh ind it, The grey-haired mist spreads it afar, And shrouds your soul and winds it With darkness d u m b , so you canno t Tell one path f rom another , And you long for it, the dawn light, Like chi ldren for their mother .

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

369

Drowsy waves, sky unwashed and dirty, And on the bank there out beyond The rushes sway wi thout a wind As they were d runken . . . . G o d of mercy! Is it still long 1 must endure , Here , in this prison that holds sure Though lockless, by this worthless sea, This weary life? It does not speak, The yellowed grass, but silent, sways As if alive, across the plain. To speak the t ru th is not its task . . . And there is no one else to ask.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

0 my thoughts , my heartfelt thoughts , All I have, mine only! In this evil hour of t rouble D o not leave me lonely! Fly to me , now, you grey-p lumaged Birds, my dearest dovelings, From beyond wide Dnipro ' s waters, In the steppe go roving Here with the poor Kvrgyz folk! They are poor and needy, They are naked, but yet make their Prayers to G o d in f r eedom. Fly then hi ther to me, dear ones , And so quietly speaking 1 shall welcome you like chi ldren , And with you sit weeping.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

N o t for people and their glory, Verses b r igh t -embro idered , curly, A m 1 writing — for no o thers T h a n myself, I sing, my brothers!

It is easier in u n f r e e d o m For me , w h e n I write t h e m : As f r o m beyond the distant Dnipro Words come winging, flying. Taking up their s tand on paper, Weeping there and smiling Like chi ldren, g laddening the soul. Cheer ing and beguiling The soul, so poor and lone ly Happy, I a m happy with t h e m . Like a rich and prosperous fa ther With his little chi ldren. I am glad and joyful t hen , Entreat the Lord of heaven That in this distant land my babes Fall not asleep forever, Let my aery chi ldren fly To that dear land, their h o m e , Let t h e m tell how hard it was In the world for them! And in that joyful family They'l l welcome quietly My chi ldren, with grey head the fa ther Will nod so lemnly "Better if chi ldren such as these Were never born!" the m o t h e r Will say but the young girl will think: "I have grown to love them!"

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

By the grove, in the o p e n field. On the gravemound gleaming. Two tall poplars grow there , each one To the o ther leaning. Even when no wind is blowing, They sway, ever twisting, As if f ighting — for those poplars Were enchantresses-sisters .

Both of t hem once fell in love. For the same Ivan sighing, And Ivan, a simple Cossack, He did not deny them, But falsely flirted first with one Then with the o the r dall ied. Till one eve. 'neath a green oak- t ree , In the ravine-valley. The three chanced to come together. "You wretch! You hangman wicked! To treat two poor sisters so!" And they went off seeking A poison herb, so they could poison Ivan next day those two. . . They found the herb, they dug it up. The i r pot ion they did brew. They wept, they cried, they sadly sighed. But naught else could they do. They had to brew it. And they brewed it. Poisoned their false lover, Buried h im in the g ravemound , in the Plain, beside the grove there. And thus it ended? Far f rom mended! For still the sisters roved there , Early morn ing , every day, Over Ivan weeping,

Till they too took the po ison-brew To pass into death 's keeping. But G o d to teach a lesson planted T h e m there in the plain On the g ravemound , tu rned to poplars . And above the slain Ivan, there u p o n the g ravemound . Those same poplars grow, Swaying when there is no wind, And w h e n the winds blow.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

So it was my m o t h e r bore m e , In a palace grandly soaring,

In silk swaddled me.

A m o n g gold and velvet living, Like a h idden floweret thriving,

I grew secretly.

Grew to loveliness amazing , With dark brows and eyes of hazel,

Face fair as could be.

Loved a lad too poor, disparaged; M o t h e r forbade me this marriage.

I was left to be

In a palace grandly soaring, With but spins terhood before me,

Sad my dest iny Like a grass-blade in the hollow.

In my single, lonely sorrow Age now comes on me.

Ne ' e r beholding God ' s crea t ion, N o one for me to embrace now. . .

My old mother , I. . .

So forgive me then , my mother ! Because I shall curse you ever

Till the day I die. [Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

The wind howls along the road, Sweeps the snow before it. Along the road, close by the fence A widow's l imping sorely, Beneath the belfry, the poor soul To the rich folk is holding Out her hand — to those same folk W h o took to be a soldier He r own dear son, some two years back. . She'd thought she would be living In old age with her son's wife That some ease she'd be given. It did not happen . A mere kopek Has her begging won her. . . But for her son she lights a candle To the Holy Mother .

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

Ah, I sit outside the house . All the road I 'm scanning, But what use are all these maidens , Without my own H a n n a , Without my dear Hannussenka " H a n d s across" they're playing, And they play unmerrily, N o gladness in those maidens ' Singing now, and my dear dove Is not here . . . Somewhere , surely, In her in-laws' h o m e she's cooing. Watching ever for me .

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

Plaintively the cuckoo called In a verdant grove; Bitterly a girl was weeping — She had n o n e to love. And the girl's young joyful years, Like fair flowers fallen On the water, float away, F r o m this world are borne . "Had I father, had I mother , H a d they wealth to give m e , Someone there would be to claim me. Someone wh o would love me . There is no one; as an o r p h a n I shall die unwed, Somewhere die in loneliness, 'Nea th the roadside fence."

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

381

Beer and mead have not been drunk here, Water likewise so, For out in the s teppeland, the young C h u m a k met with woe. And his head with anguish pained h im. S tomach too was pain, H e fell there , beside his waggon, Fell, rose not again. F r o m Odessa f amed in glory, Plague they hi ther bore. His c o m p a n i o n s have all left h im — Ah, his fate is sore! His d raught -oxen by the waggon Stand there , wrapped in g loom. And f rom out the s teppeland to him Flying the rooks come. "Ah, you rooks, you must not peck This poo r c h u m a k ' s flesh; For if once you peck it, you will Surely share my death . Rather tly forth f rom me, rooks, You grey-p lumaged birds now To my father dear, and tell h im They must sing a service, And for my sinful soul they must Read the Psalter surely, And bid a certain pretty lass Wait no longer for me!"

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

383

Kateryna had a house, With a f ine wooden floor; And guests came to her f rom the Sich, Tha t s t ronghold f amed of yore: One was Semen Bossyi O n e was Ivan Holyi , Ivan Yaroshenko one , Bold and brave, a widow's son. "Poland we have traversed, And all Ukra ina , Never have beheld a m a i d e n Like to Kateryna!" One said: "Brother, see! Were wealth to c o m e to me , Then that Kateryna I With all my gold would dower. To spend with he r one hour!" And one: "Fr iend, hear me right! Were I a m a n of might , For that Kateryna I Would lay down all my power. To spend with her one hour!" The third: "Lads, hear my thought! In this world there is naught For that Kateryna 1 Would not do, I vow, To spend with her one hour!"

Kateryna pondered long, To the third spoke she: "I've an only b ro ther pining In captivity, In Cr imea lost afar. Whoever may betide To f ind h im, t hen to h im, O Cossacks,

385

I will be a bride!" Straight their steeds they m o u n t e d . Journeyed forth together, Rode they three for to set free Kateryna's brother. One perished in the waves, Was drowned in Dnipro ' s t ide, One the hea then foe impaled . In Kozlov far he died; Yaroshenko journeyed on , Bold and brave, the widow's son, F r o m cruel captivity In Bakhchyssarai he Set her b ro ther free.

The door creaked loudly in the dawn, The Cossacks raised a shout : "Rise up, Kateryna, rise, T h y bro ther s tands without!" Kateryna looked, l amen ted . And these words cried she: "Not my brother, but my lover, I have lied to thee." "Thou hast liedl" And Katria 's pretty Head rolled instantly To the ground . "Come, brother, let us Quit this evil place!" The Cossacks rode into the steppe, With the wind to chase. Katria in the field they laid To sleep for evermore, And oaths of b ro the rhood the Cossacks In the s teppeland swore.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

A Beyond the grove the sun comes up,

Beyond the grove is sett ing. In the evening vale, a Cossack Paces, sadly fret t ing. He paces for an hour, He paces for another , But no dark-browed girl draws near, The darkling meadow over. The faithless ma iden does not come . But f rom the woods that hide them With his dogs and his dog-handlers , A knavish lord comes riding. They set the dogs upon the Cossack, Twist his a rms behind h im, Torments dread and deadly they Inflict o n h im malignedly. The lord locks the young m a n away In his vaults there yonder, And sends the ruined girl away The whole wide world to wander.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

There are no such enemies So dire as good people, They will rob you, mournful ly . And c o n d e m n you, weeping, They'll invite you to their home , Welcome you profusely. Ask you all about yourself, To mock and abuse you.

Later, mock at you and jeer. To grab you for sure. . . Without enemies on ear th S o m e h o w one can endure .

But those good people yet will Everywhere beset you,

Even in the o ther world They will not forget you.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

Say, why have you grown so black, Field once greenly verdant? — I have grown so black with blood For free f reedom murdered . Round Berestechko's little town. Four miles spreading over, The fa r - f amed Zaporozh ians laid The i r corpses as my cover; T h e n on me f rom the midnight nor th C a m e birds of prey descending, Tearing out the Cossack eyes, — The flesh not worth the rending. . . I, the green one , have grown black. For your f r eedom, duly; 1 shall yet grow green again, But you will never, truly, Once again return to f r eedom — You will plough a fu r row Quietly through me, and , ploughing, Curse your bit ter sorrow.

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

This is not a lofty poplar Tha t the wind is swaying, But a girl who , young and lonely, Curses for tune , saying: "May the deep sea d rown you, for tune . Unde rnea th its waves, Since you grant not , even now, Someone I can love! H o w the girls all kiss thei r sweethearts, H o w they hold t h e m close, Embrac ing , and the love they feel, Still I do not know . . . And I shall never k n o w O mother . Hard it is to live A maiden , all one 's life a maiden , Never fall in love."

[Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

Both the valley s t retching wide And the gravemound soaring high, Both the h o u r of eventide And what was d reamed in days gone by

I shall not forget.

But what of that? We did not marry. Like strangers par ted, did not tarry And in the mean t ime all the wealth Of those precious years of youth

Sped away in vain.

N o w the two of us have withered, I — a captive, you — a widow,

We walk — yet we live n o more , We but recall those days of yore

When , indeed, we lived. [Late September — December 1848, Kosaral]

Once more the post has brought to me No th ing , noth ing f rom Ukraine! For sinful deeds, it seems to be, I suffer in this desert plain. Punished by wrathful G o d . To know The reason why is not for m e , I do not even wish to know! . . . But my heart weeps bitterly W h e n I recall what used to be . Those days, those happenings that once rolled. Al though not joyful , over m e , In my own Ukraine of old. Of old, great oa ths they swore, and vowed To be my brothers and sisters dear, Unti l we parted like a c loud, Without the holy dew of tears. So in my old age, I go Blaming again and cu — . . . N o , No! F r o m cholera they must have died — Or else a scrap at least they'd try To send, of paper

Ah, f rom anxiety and grief, Tha t I might not watch t h e m read The i r letters, there , beside the sea, I'll take a walk along the seashore, Tha t I might distract m y sorrow, Might recall my dear Ukra ine , Sing a well-loved song again.

395

M e n would tell t h e m , m e n betray r Song has good advice to say me, Will advise, distract my grief, And speak to me the blessed t ruth.

[Late September — December 1848,

Kosaral |

Thorns have overgrown the paths Leading to that land now, Maybe I've left her for all t ime , For all t ime abandoned! Maybe there 's no way back for me, H o m e once more re turning; Maybe, it is m y d o o m to read In soli tude these yearning Though t s of mine! O G o d of mercy, Hard my life to bear now; I've a heart , wide and expansive — N o n e with w h o m to share it. T h o u didst give no for tune to me, N o young for tune ever, Never hast T h o u given it, Never hast T h o u , never! Gavest me no youthful heart Tha t could be uni ted With a maiden ' s heart . All passed, All my days and nights now, All are gone wi thout young joy! Tha t is how t ime passes In foreign lands. And none With w h o m my heart to share now. And there is not even one With w h o m to speak I'd care now. Hard my life, O G o d of mercy, To bear, lonely yearning,

397

These my thoughts , with n o n e to share t h e m , N o one I can t u r n to And speak with a holy word, N o r bring happiness here To a poor soul, nor may I yet Reprove the transgressor And so to die. . . G r an t me, dear Lord At least one glance to see t h e m Once more , that nat ion bea ten , crushed And that Ukraina .

[January — April 1849, Raini]

O n Easter Sunday, on the straw, In the sunlight glowing The chi ldren played with coloured eggs, And then they started boast ing Of their new clothes. A fine festal Shirt one had been given, One had some embroidery, One was bought a r ibbon. Someone had a lambskin cap, One with new boots f i t ted, O n e a jacket . . . But a lone Without new clothes a little O r p h a n , with her hands inside Her sleeves was sitting sadly. . .

— "Just see what my mothe r bought!" — "Look what c a m e f rom Daddy!" — "This is what my g o d m o t h e r Sewed especially for me!" "But I had lunch with the priest," Said the little o rphan .

[January — April 1849, Raim]

399

Together we grew up of old, And in child's fashion, loved each other, And as they watched us t hen , our mothers Would say that , w h e n the years had rolled, They 'd m a t c h us up . . . They were mistaken. The old folk died, un t imely taken, And young, we parted, unconso led , Nevermore to come together. For willy-nilly, I was ever Borne off far and wide; but then In near -o ld-age back h o m e life took me. The village that had been br ighter then S o m e h o w now I was older, s truck me As having grown both dark and dumb, And old, like me, it had become . And it seemed in that village lowly (It seemed to me) that all was wholly Unchanged , n o n e had been born or died, All was as in a fo rmer t ide, Ravine and field, the poplar trees, And there beside the well, a weeping Willow, like one sad vigil keeping, In distant lone captivity; The p o n d , the d a m , and there the mill. Beyond the wood flaps its wings as ever. The green oak, like a Cossack, still Seems to come f rom the wood , to revel Below the hill; on the hill rises. An orchard dark, and there , inside it. In the sweet coolness there , together. My old folk rest, as if in heaven.

Their oaken crosses lean today, The rain has washed the words away Yet not with rain does Sa turn do His a l in ing work, nor upon wording! . . . So grant my old folk rest e ternal . With the saints . . . " Is she living, too . Little Oksana?" I ask, tu rn ing Quietly to my b r o t h e r . . . "Who?" "That little girl, with curly hair, Who played with us in days gone by? Brother, you look so sadly. Why?" "I a m not sad . . . She went away, did That Oksana, on the t rack Of the soldiers she went straying. True, a year later she c a m e back . But, then! She brought a bastard home, Shorn -headed . Somet imes , in the night She'd sit benea th the fence and moan Like a cuckoo, or she'd cry, Or sing to herself softly grieving, Or move her hands as if unweaving Her plaits. . . then once more went away; N o one knows what happened after, Died maybe, or just wandered daftly, But what a girl she once was, hey? What a beauty! N o t poor, neither, But G o d gave he r no luck, you see." He gave, but someone stole it, maybe, And made a fool of G o d almighty.

[January — April 1849,

Raim]

Unfree I count the days and nights And then forget how m a n y O Lord! How wearily they drag Those days that pass so heavy! And the years flow away with them. Quietly they flow ever. And they bear away with t h e m Evil and good together. Bear away, and bring back noth ing , Nevermore returning, D o not then compla in that prayer F r o m G o d no help can earn you!

And now the four th year is passing, Quietly, unspeeding , And now the four th no tebook I Begin in this u n f r e e d o m To embroider . I'll embro ide r With my blood and weeping All my grief in foreign lands. For grief will not speak in Words to anyone at all, Never will it. Never, N o w h e r e on ear th . There are no words In far u n f r e e d o m ever. N o words are here, nor weeping tears, Noth ingness abounds here , There is not even G o d Almighty In this void a round you. N o t h i n g is there to look upon N o one to speak with, even.

Life is u t ter weariness, But you must go on living! I must , 1 must , but to what end? So that soul 'scape d a m n a t i o n ? It is not worth so much anguish! For what c o n s u m m a t i o n Must I live on ear th , and drag My fetters in un f reedom: Maybe yet once more I shall Behold my Ukraina . . . Maybe once again I'll share All my words of weeping With the oakgroves, verdant green, With meadows, darkly gleaming, For in all Ukra ina no Kin of mine r emain now, But people there at least are not As here a m o n g strangers! I would walk on Dnipro ' s banks , Through carefree hamle ts faring. I would sing there all my thoughts , Quietly and careworn. Let me live and gaze once more , Dear G o d , grant this for me! To look once more on fields of green And on gravemounds soaring! But if T h o u grantst it not , t hen bear To m y dear count ry cher ished All my tears, for I. dear G o d , Here am d o o m e d to perish! Maybe I shall lie more easy In this foreign country, If in Ukraina people Will recall me someday! Th i the r carry t h e m , dear G o d , So that hope may come yet

Into my poor soul! For naught now. Naugh t can I accompl ish , With this poor, poo r head of mine . And my heart feels ter ror For the thought comes to me that Maybe they will bury Me here in this foreign land, And my thoughts together With me, and in Ukra ina N o n e will recall me ever!

But maybe, quietly, with years flowing These lines embroidered with tears, going From me will wing their distant flight To Ukra ina , and there , light As u p o n the ear th the dew falls, They'll in a heart young and t rue , fall And in tears quietly alight! And a head will be bowed surely And will weep and sorrow for me. And , dear Lord, in prayer maybe , Someone will r e m e m b e r me .

Well let it be as it must be, To swim or trudge! Whate 'er my plight, Even though I be crucif ied, Yet I'll embro ide r quietly, Quietly, these pages white.

[January — April 1850, Orenburg]

Blaze of lights and music calling. Music weeping, rising, falling! Like rare and precious d i a m o n d , Youthful eyes are gleaming fair, Joy and hope are shining there In laughing eyes. All bliss is sent To eyes so young and innocent ! On all sides, people laugh and smile, All are dancing, only I Like one bewitched, look on meanwhi le And weep in secret, weep a n d sigh . . . Why do I weep? Perhaps that ever All eventless, like grey weather, All my youth has passed me by.

[January — April 1850, Orenburg]

T H E N E O P H Y T E S A Poem

Thus saith the Lord, Keep ye judgment and do justice, for my salvation is near to come and my righteousness to be revealed.

Isaiah, Chapter 56, Verse 1.

To M. S. Shchepkin In Memory of December 24th, 1857.

Beloved of the Muses, Graces , I quietly weep as I await you, And my thought , so sorrowful , I now send u n t o your soul.

With your kind heart give welcome then To my hapless o rphan , You who are my only f r iend, Our great wonder-worker! You will greet the wre tched o r p h a n . She, t hen , at your side Will sail across the Lethe's waters, And with tears of fire Will fall, some day, upon the ear th , A parable become For crucifiers of the nat ions , Tyrants yet to come .

Long in captivity I've dwelt, Like a poor thief in a dungeon , I see no more than path and field, And a cross where sits a raven In the graveyard — nothing more To see f rom prison. T h a n k the Lord That I see even this much . Still Chris t ians live, and pray their fill

To G o d , and die. The cross s tands high

In the graveyard, to one side, All gilded. Someone there , maybe No t a poo r wretch, lies peaceful ly? . . . And pictured there , the Son of G o d , Ca lc i f ied for us on the Cross. Thanks to those wealthy o rphans who Set up this holy cross. And I — Such is my hapless fate — abide, Sit a lone, and ever gaze On the high cross f rom the prison . . . I gaze, I gaze on it, 1 pray, And my sorrow, bit ter sorrow, Like a child replete with food , Grows quieter, it seems the prison Grows less narrow, the heart is singing And weeps, and once again is living, And asks Thee , G o d , and asks T h y blessed And the righteous ones, the sinless, What had He done to t hem, the Blessed Christ , the Nazarene , the only Son of God ' s chosen, Holy Mary? What had He done to t hem? A n d why

Did they tor ture H i m , the Blessed? Why in fetters bound? For what cause is His Holy Head With thorns and brambles c rowned? Why lead Him out to Go lgo tha With robbers, and between T h e m , hang H i m there u p o n the Cross? For what cause? There speaks Ne i the r the grey-beard Almighty, N o r the holy th rong Of His warriors, and c h a m p i o n s — Eunuchs , speechless, dumb!

T h o u who art blessed a m o n g women , O Holy Mother , full of grace, M o t h e r of that holy Son On earth! Let me not dwine a slave, And waste the fleeting years in vain. O joy of the afflicted ones , Send me that holy word, the new Voice, O send, of holy t ru th . And that word with holy wisdom D o thou revivify, enlighten! And I'll relate the woes, the f lood Like rivers, seas — tears stained with blood Tha t m o t h e r poured out sorrowing As once thou didst, received within Her living soul the viewless realm Of h im, the Crucif ied , thy Son. M o t h e r of G o d - m a d e - m a n , to the end A mother ' s weeping t h o u hast spent To the last tear. I weep, l ament , And pray to thee, lament ing: Send , G r a n t strength to the poo r soul, inspire Tha t it might speak for th living fire, So that the word, as f lame apparen t , Will melt the heart of h u m a n k i n d , Throughou t Ukraine the word be carried, The re in Ukra ine the word be hallowed, The word, the f rankincense divine, The f rankincense of t ru th . A m e n .

I

N o t in our country, dear to G o d , In he tmans ' era, or in tsars', But in idolatrous R o m a n land This ty rannous deed once c a m e to pass. It seems, when Decius was Caesar,

417

— Or was it u n d e r mighty Ne ro? I canno t say with cert i tude. Well, N e r o , then!

As yet there s tood On ear th no Russia anywhere , W h e n there grew in Italia A little ma iden , and she b loomed With beauty, holy, lovely, pure, Like a lily blossomed there. The mother , watching her, once more G r e w young, and for the maiden sought People, — duly sought and found . T h e n in her joyful h o m e she said A prayer to H y m e n — straightway led Her to the stranger's joyful h o m e . Time was passing; this good maid A happy m o t h e r soon became; k 1 ff u ft: l'? i I fu, °d SOT I, s'i I c 'UUTfc. To her Penates duly prayed. And no small offerings she brought To the Capitol . She gained, ent reat ing T h e Capi to l ine counci l , that her Fi rs tborn son be duly greeted By the blest images. There burns Blest fire day and night before the Penates. Great ly she rejoices: To an Alcides her son grows, Grows up . . . . Hetaerae ogle h i m and Light a l amp before the image Of Venus.

II

Tha t Star already was beginning To rise over Be th lehem, high above, The word of holy t ru th and love,

The Star of the Universe has risen, Peace and joy has brought and given To m e n on earth. The Pharisees and All despicable Judaea Stirred itself and roared for th grimly, Like an adder in the m u d , And in man ' s flesh, the Son of G o d O n Golgo tha d o o m e d to crucif ixion Between two thieves. A n d , being d runk With blood, Thy blood, to sleep they lay, T h e executioners . From the grave T h o u didst rise, the Word arose, And Thy blest Apostles bore The word of t ru th and right th rough all Tha t land so cruelly enslaved.

I l l

T h e n it was that her Alcides With a goat-legged old toper c a m e , With the lovely young hetaerae , In a grove on the Appian Way, Eagerly removed their dress. Drank deep with greater eagerness. To Pr iapus their homage paid. But look — Saint Peter on his way Bringing the Gospe l , bound for Rome , Seeking rest and water c a m e To the grove. "Blessings be u p o n you!" The Apostle, weighed by weariness, So spoke his blessing to the orgy. And with a word soft, good and kindly, A n n o u n c e d to t h e m the new G o o d Tidings, Love, right and good to t h e m did speak, The greatest good in this world's bournes , Love of one 's bre thren . And the Faun,

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Drunken , naked and replete, Your son Alcides, the hetaerae , They all, they all of t h e m knelt down . Fell before Peter, to the g round . T h e n led the Apostle to the T h e r m a e To sup with them. . . .

IV

And in the T h e r m a e , too, reigns orgy. With gold and purple , noble halls Are blazing, a m p h o r a e smoking, girls All but naked stand before the Cyprian 's image, and in chorus Sing the h y m n . The guests lie d o w n O n couches . There a merry feast Is spread. Loud laughter, noise resounds! In the hetaerae brought the guest , The greybeard. Straight the word flowed forth From the blest Apostle 's m o u t h , Flowing like precious oil. The orgy Quie tened down, the Cyprian 's priestess, She who was the orgy's empress , Bowed her head, a convert joyful , Before the Apostle, t hen she rose, And after her they all arose, Into the ca tacombs they followed The Apostle. Your only son Alcides, too , went af ter t h e m . Following the blest apostle, After the holy teacher followed. And , joyful , you came out f rom h o m e , To watch the road back f rom the grove For your Alcides. H e does not c o m e , And will c o m e nevermore . Alone , You will pray to your Penates,

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And sit a lone at h o m e for supper, N o — not for supper, but to sob, To sob and curse your luckless lot. And grow grey cursing. And O woe, You will perish there a lone, Like a leper.

V

On the Cross, Head downwards , then , they crucif ied Holy Peter, the apostle, And carried off to Syracuse The neophytes in fetters. He, your son Alcides, your o w n child, He who is your only kin, Your only love, lies rott ing in Slavery and a captive's fetters. You, m o t h e r of sorrows, do not know Where he suffers, dies — you go To seek h im in Siberia, Or rather, Scythia. And you . . . And is it only you? O M o t h e r Of G o d , protect , save all of you. There is no h o m e , there is no brother , Sister, nor family beloved, Who are not wander ing, lost in weeping, W h o are not tor tured in the d u n g e o n . Or, exiled far in distant regions, In British or in Gall ic legions Are not at mart ia l drill. O N e r o , Fierce Nero! In the middle way, Judgmen t divine and just will c o m e Sudden u p o n you. They will sail, Fly f r o m all corners of the world.

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The holy martyrs, they, the b rood Of holy f reedom. R o u n d your c o u c h . Round your dea thbed they will s tand In chains. A n d they . . . they will forgive you. They are brothers , they are Chris t ians , And you — a cur, a cannibal , A rabid despot!

VI

N o w it seethes With captives there in Syracuse, In cells and dungeons . And Medusa In the tavern, d runken , sleeps A m o n g the beggars. Soon she'll wake, And , despots, your sweat, your b lood she'll take For morn ing-a f t e r rites.

The m o t h e r Sought her son everywhere. She failed . . . At last to Syracuse she sailed, And there, poo r lady, she discovered Him, cha ined already, in the prison. To see h im they would not permit her, So she was compel led to sit there , N e a r the dungeon . Wait and wait, To watch as for a god c o m e straight F r o m heaven, for her son, unti l They would drive h im out in cha ins To sweep the square.

In R o m e they're keeping A feast , great feast. A crush of people , F r o m all the Empi re governors, Praetor ians , senators abound , F lamens and lictors s tand a round The Capitol . In chorus they

Sing hymns , f rom censers and amphorae Burn incense, Caesar with his train Himself comes for th , and there before h im They bear a statue cast f rom bronze , Carry forth the Caesar 's image.

VII

A strange feast they've devised, indeed . The patr ician aristocracy, And Caesar 's learned senate. They, You unders tand , have praised the Caesar In every way, till they grew sickened To sing this fool thei r laud and praise, So now, to bring it to the l imit , In counci l they agreed that they Hence fo r th would call the Caesar simply "Jupiter," and finish with it. To the Governors they've wri t ten Throughou t the Empire : so and so, Caesar is god, divine and m o r e . And to a sculptor gave the order, F r o m bronze a Caesar he should forge. And , no ta bene, also added That this b ronze Caesar had the power Of amnesty. And people now, Poor souls, like birds migrat ing, straggled Romewards , on pilgrimage. This poor lady, She too f rom Syracuse c a m e sailing, To Caesar -god intent on praying. Is she a lone? God! The re drew near Thousands of t h e m , ba thed in tears. F r o m afar.

Woe un to you! W h o m have you come , then , to entreat? To w h o m have you brought your tears to plead?

And with your tears, to w h o m have you Brought your hope? Woe un to you. You blind, unseeing slaves! With w h o m , With w h o m are you entreat ing, hapless Creatures , sightless slaves and captives? The execut ioner save f rom d o o m ? Pray to G o d alone, your father. Pray to t ru th and right o n ear th , And bow down before no o the r On earth. All else is false and lies: Priests and emperors . . . .

VIII

The re before Nero , the new Jupiter, T h e senators yesterday have prayed, And all the patr icians; yesterday The divine favour for th did flow. To one a post or m o n e y grant ing, To one gives Palestine for t ax- fa rming , Someth ing for the brats. To one He Himself deigned to bestow His concub ine , to be a spouse — Though somewhat faded. But that 's nothing, If she's f rom Caesar. And f rom others He deigned to take to his ha rem A sister. This is noth ing odd, For he's divine, and for a god We ought to offer self, indeed , N o t only sisters.

Then came the prayer of the praetor ians, And to t h e m he gave an order Tha t what they wished, so they could do, And af ter — We would pa rdon you.

And you, plebeian bumpkins , too , M a d e your prayer, but no one grants You pardon . For they canno t even Give p roper amnes ty to you.

IX

On the third day it was pe rmi t t ed Tha t for the Chris t ians they might pray, And you c a m e too, and m a d e pet i t ion. The idol, great in mercy, gave Order that they convey the Chris t ians F r o m Syracuse to Rome in chains .

You are joyful , filled with gladness, And once more you prayed To the idol. But the idol, Jupiter, n e w - m a d e — Only see the kind of feast Tha t in the Col iseum He is p lanning. A n d meanwhi le G o you out to meet h im, Your son. But be not overjoyed, Rejoice not m u c h , poor lady, For as yet you do not know This god, n e w - m a d e and kindly. Meanwhi le the m o t h e r of Alcides Has tened out to meet h im, With the mothers went to give The holy ones thei r greeting O n the very shore. You went , Could hardly keep f rom singing, And to Caesar -Jupi te r Your praise was ever ringing. "Jupiter, a Jupiter! One does not grudge to call h im Jupiter, indeed — and I,

433

Poor fool, went off, implor ing The Athen ian Jupiter. A fool, and noth ing more!" And quietly to the divine Caesar she made her prayer. On she walked beside the swamps, O n the Tiber gazing. And up the Tiber, f rom beyond The trees, a barge c a m e sailing. Or a galley. On the galley They bring the neophytes In chains and in the midst, your son. And he, your own dear child, Is fet tered to the very mast . N o new neophyte Is he, but an apostle of The mighty word of Christ . Such he is! D o you hear, F rom his chains he sings, Your martyr.

"A new psalm un to the Lord, New praise let us procla im, In r ighteous chorus with a heart Free f r o m guile and blame. O n t y m p a n u m and psaltery Let us sing forth His praises; How G o d smiteth the unr ighteous, And the r ighteous aideth. The blessed ones in glory on Quiet couches speak the f ame And praise of G o d , for aye rejoicing, Laud His Holy n a m e . In their hands good swords they hold, Whet ted and two-edged, For instruct ion to the people,

And to the Gent i les , vengeance. Insatiate emperors they'll cha in In fetters of strong iron, And the wrists of the f a r - f amed With heavy chains they'll b ind. And with righteous j u d g m e n t will The unjust be c o n d e m n e d , And glory will arise forever, Glory to the blessed."

X

And you stood there like a dark rock On the bank above the water, Did not listen, did not sob, But echoed "Alleluia" af ter The mothe r s of the Chris t ians there. The clank of cha ins rang th rough the air Like bells. Your child, your only son, The new apostle, having m a d e The Sign of Christ 's blest Cross , in toned "Pray for h im, O pray, my bre th ren , For the fierce executioner, In prayer I bid you to r e m e m b e r Him. D o not bow down before His overweening pr ide, my brothers . Prayer is for G o d alone! But he — Let h i m rage upon this ear th , Let him the prophet smite and crush, Let him crucify all of us. Grandsons , already in the w o m b Conceived, will grow to m a n h o o d soon N o t as avengers they will strike, As holy warriors of Christ . And without fire, wi thout sword The capta ins of the Lord will rise,

The hea then thousandfo ld will fly, Ten- thousandfo ld will flee before The saints. Pray, bre thren."

They prayed. Before the Cross they made their prayer. Fettered in chains, the neophytes Prayed joyfully To you all hail , All praise to you, souls young and bright, All praise to you. O holy knights! To you for evermore, all hail!

XI

And into Rome the galley sailed. A week goes by. The d runken Caesar, Having accepted Zeus 's tonsure , Arranges Zeus's jubilee. Rome throbs with joy. They bear before The idol f rankincense and myr rh By cart loads, and herd droves of Chris t ians To the Col iseum. As it were A s laughterhouse, blood flows. And Rome Throbs with joy. Gladiator , patr ician, Both are drunk , with blood and smoke Stupefied. Rome drinks away The fall of glory, celebrates The exequies of the Scipian era. Rage, rage, base dotard! Take your pleasure In your harems. A holy star Is rising beyond the sea afar. No t with holy r ighteous t h u n d e r Will they slay you, but with blunted Knife will slash, and with an axebutt Slay you like a cur.

439

XII

A second day The arena roars. In the a rena The golden sand of Lydia Was covered with red purple , kneaded Into a m u d d y swamp of b lood. In the a rena Naza renes From Syracuse were not yet seen. But the third day they too were brought In chains , by guards with naked swords, To the s laughterhouse together. The arena like roaring beasts re -echoed . Proudly into the arena , Singing a psalm, your son s tepped forth. Like one possessed, the d r u n k e n Caesar Roared with laughter. F r o m the vault A leopard sprang upon the stage, Stepped forward, glanced . . . the holy blood G u s h e d for th . Across the Co l i seum A s torm was borne with roaring thunder , Once more grew ca lm. Where were you then? Where had you h idden? Why not fall On h im, your Caesar, h im your All-Holy! N o , there stood to keep G u a r d over h im, in ranks three deep, Lictors a round your Zeus , and there , Behind your holy Jupiter, The gate of iron is shut and barred — And you were left there all a lone , There at the gate, all, all a lone . What could you do? "O sorrow, sorrow! O my bit ter fate of sorrow! What shall I do? Of h im beref t What shall I do? And who is left

To lean on?" And the poor soul gazed All round — and then against the wall, Against the wall she struck her head . And swooning fell as she were dead. Before the very gate.

XII I

F r o m the spectacle, w h e n the evening C a m e , the holy Caesar Hid in the T h e r m a e with his lictors. There the Col i seum Stood without Caesar, wi thout Romans , And , it seemed, was weeping. Lone, like a moun ta in in the plain, There in the midst of R o m e , The Col iseum looming black. Quiet , quiet blows The wind f rom beyond the Tiber, f rom Albanum, over Rome. High over the black Co l i seum Sails the round- faced m o o n , As f rom behind dark smoke . The earth, Firs t -born of creat ion, Rested on the night 's ca lm bosom. Only we, O A d a m , Your progeny of i l l - intent , Lie not down to rest. Till in the coff in, in that Eden Lost by our neglect. Like curs af ter a stinking bone , We tear and rend each other. And hurl our insults at you, even. Lazy-bones fore-fa ther!

443

XIV

She rested there awhile, The mother , bea ten near to dea th . The strength of night revived The force of life in her again. She rose and wandered round N e a r the gateway, closed and barred, Whispering about Something . M u r m u r e d curses on Blest Caesar? Yes, maybe . Curses too. . . . She stole towards The gateway silently. Stood there listening — and smiled. M u r m u r e d quietly Someth ing to herself, some words, And , h idden there beside The gate, sat quietly sorrowing. The gate soon opened wide, And on char iots and carts f r o m The s laughterhouse, the Col i seum, They brought the bodies of the saints D o w n to the Tiber. For it is The i r wont to fa t ten Tiber's fish On murdered saints, to swell t h e m for The imperial table. And the m o t h e r Rose, looked round u p o n all sides, And, clasping her bruised head , behind The waggons, silently she m a d e Her way, like a black ghostly shade, Tiberwards, and the grey-eyed Scythians, Waggon-drivers, slaves of slaves, Though t that this was Morok 's sister C o m e f rom Hell, to see the R o m a n s Well o n the way to Hell . They hurled

The slain into the s t ream, t hen homewards The Scythians with their carts re turned. And you alone remained there grieving. On the bank, and watched the ripples G r o w in ever widening circles, Spreading, spreading there above h im. There above your r ighteous son! You watched , till there at last remained N o living trace upon the water, And then you smiled — and straightway af ter Sobbed tears of bitter, anguished pain. T h e n to the Crucif ied you prayed For the first t ime, for us. He saved You, Mary's Son, the Cruci f ied . And you received the living word That in your living soul He poured . And you to marke t -p lace and palace The word of right, the word of G o d , The Living Lord and True you bore.

1857. December 8, Nizhniy Novgorod

FATE

You never acted as a tr ickster To me; you were f r iend, brother , sister For me, an o rphan ; and when I Was a small boy took my hand , leading M e to a peasant school to try To learn f rom drunken sexton's teaching. "Study, my dear, one day you'll be A m a n a m o n g us," you said sweetly. I heeded you. Learned tirelessly,

447

And learned it all. But you deceived me! A man a m o n g us? All in vain! We never acted as the tricksters, We simply walked. N o grain Of unt ru th left when we went thither. So, now, dear fate, walk at my side. My poor dear f r iend, w h o is no trickster, Fur ther we'll go. There glory glistens! A n d glory ever is my guide.

[Febuary 9] 1858. Nizhniy Novgorod

T H E M U S E

And you, maiden most pure and holy, Young sister of Phoebus , most surely Took m e in to your mant le , then Carried me out into the plain, And in the plain, upon a g ravemound , Like f r eedom in broad space, you swathed me , Swaddled me in mist grey and f ine, And rocked me and sang your songs to me, And wonders wrought there. . . A n d I. . . O dearest wonder -worker mine! Everywhere you have helped me truly Everywhere you watched o'er me duly.

In the steppe, the unpeopled s teppe. In my far un f r eedom, You shone there in all your pr ide , Like flower in the plain b looming . From the filth of pr ison-cel l , Pure and holy ever Like a small bird you flew out

449

And above me hovered, Soaring on your golden p lumage, Singing your songs to me . And as if with living water My p o o r soul bedewing!

And 1 live, and you above me With your divine gifts so lovely Shine on still, bright star of mine , You, a counsel lor t rue for me, You who are my youthful fo r tune , D o not leave me! In the night And the day, at dawn and evening, Walk with me , teach me aright, Teach me with lips undeceiving To speak the t ruth. O aid my plight . Tha t to the end my prayers I'll offer, And w h e n I die, t hen in my coff in Lay me , your son, there to lie, Holy one , my dearest mother ! And let at least one t ea r -d rop over M e fall f rom your immor ta l eyes.

[Febuary 9] 1858. Nizhniy Novgorod

U n f r e e I coun t the days and nights And then forget how many, O Lord! How wearily they drag Those days that pass so heavy! And the years flow away with them. Quietly they flow ever, And they bear away with t h e m Evil and good together

451

Bear away, and bring back no th ing . Nevermore re turning, D o not t h e n compla in that prayer From G o d no help can earn you!

Lost a m o n g the murky marshes , A m o n g wild weeds, there have passed now Three years, sadly, day by day; A n d so m u c h they bore away F r o m my granary's dark hol low A n d in the sea cast it for ay; And all quietly the sea swallowed My wealth, not silver nor of gold, But m y years and all my good, And my suffering, my anguish, — Those forever-unseen tablets Writ with pen unseen it took.

So a m o n g the putrid marshes And wild weeds, let t h e m flow, pass now Those unf ree years! But as for me! This my rule of life shall be! I'll sit a while, t h e n walk a little, U p o n the steppe and sea I'll look. R e m e m b e r something, sing a ditty. And the tiniest n e w - c o m e book Once more embroider . For — I 'm flitting.

[1858, St Petersburg]

T H E D R E A M

To Marko Vovchok

She reaped the wheat in ser fdom's labour; Worn-out ; for rest she did not c o m e To the sheaf — she made her way there To feed Ivan, her little son. T h e swaddled child lay wailing, bedded In the cool shade, below the sheaf; She loosed the swaddl ing-bands and fed h im. Cuddled h im, and , as if asleep. Beside her son drowsed, heavy-headed . She saw, in dreams, her son Ivan, G r o w n up, of handsome , manly carriage, Wealthy, be t ro thed , and now his marriage To a free bride — he a free m a n , N o more the lord's, they lived in f r eedom; In their own smiling field out reaping The two were cut t ing the i r own whea t , While children brought t h e m lunch to eat. . . T h e n quietly she smiled, poor mother . . . She started up. . . all gone forever! She looked at little Ivan, then Picked h im up, swaddled h im again, And , ere it reached the overseer's ken, Went off, three score more sheaves to gather. The last t ime, maybe; wi th G o d aiding Your d ream too could prove true then . . .

[July 12] 1858. St Petersburg

I am not ill, touch wood, not I — But someth ing strikes my inward eye. And the heart hopes for someth ing . . . Weeps, Aching, aching, never sleeps. Like a child that cries for food. A t ime where grim disasters b rood , Perhaps, you hope for? Give no heeding To hopes of long-expected f r eedom — She slumbers on: tsar Nicholas Put her to sleep, and now to call The weakly f r eedom to awake, We must together, one and all. H a r d e n the axe-shaf t , whet the blade, And start to rouse her, start to call. Else the poor dear will sleep away The years, sleep on till J u d g m e n t Day. T h e nob lemen will lull her still, Shrines and palaces they'll build, Love their d runken tsar, adore Byzantism with all their will. And nothing, it seems, noth ing more!

1858. November 22

457

P A R A P H R A S E O F T H E E L E V E N T H PSALM

Merci fu l God! H o w they do wane now — Thy saints, how few on ear th r ema in now! N o w one m a n forgeth 'gainst a n o t h e r Cha ins in his heart . And in the i r speech, With lips exuding honey sweet, They kiss, the hour awaiting, whe the r Soon f rom feast to grave they might In his coffin bear a bro ther? T h o u , only Lord of t ru th and right, Wilt lock those lips deceiving, seal Tha t wagging tongue that utters for th , Proclaims: "We are not vanity! And we shall wondrously exalt Both our reason and our tongue. . . And where 's the Lord to bid us 'Nay!' Tha t thus our thought , our speech should run?" "I shall arise!" — that Lord will say, "This day I shall arise again! For these my people, bound in chains , Poor wretches! I shall glorify These small d u m b slaves! And as a guard Protect ing, I shall set my word Around them. T h e n shall fade and die, Like grasses t rampled under foo t , Both your speaking and your thought . " And like to silver, forged and bea ten . By fire in the furnace heated , Smelted sevenfold, O Lord, So are these mighty words of Thine! Scat ter t h e m . Lord, those words divine, Th roughou t the earth! In all the world Thy marvels th rough the length of days Thy poor small babes shall know and praise.

1859. February 15 [St Petersburg]

T O M A R K O VOVCHOK

In memory of January 24, 1859

Lately, beyond the Urals straying, I wandered , and f rom G o d besought Tha t our t ru th should not pass away so, Tha t our word should not die. I prayed so, And it was granted — for the Lord Sent you to us, a prophet kindly, O n e to reprove with sternest chiding Cruel , insatiate men . My light. You are my holy star in t ru th , You are to me the strength of youth . Shine u p o n m e , blazing bright , And give new life to my poor hear t , Tha t all exposed to every smart Still hungers here. Alive again, Free thought to f reedom I'll once more Call f rom the coffin for th again. And that free thought , t hen . . . you, my for tune , Our prophe t , you my dearest daughter , Tha t thought I shall call by your n a m e .

1859. February 17. St Petersburg

N . N.

Once a lily like you, growing On Jordan 's banks in days of yore, And bestowed h u m a n flesh and bore Here upon earth that Word all-holy. If you, my Dnis ter flower could but . . . No! No! Dear God! They crucify, And , fet tered to Siberia drive. You, my defenceless flower. . . I'll not

Say it. . . A joyous paradise .

Send to her, Lord, in earthly guise. G r a n t her on ear th a happy lot. And noth ing else to her devise. But do not in her springtime take her To Th ine own paradise on high. But clad in Th ine own beauty make her On earth a wonder to our eyes.

April 19, 1859 [St Petersburg]

Dear G o d , evil once more runs r io t ! . . . And things were pleasant , things were quiet; We were beginning to unforge The fetters on our un f ree people. T h e n , bang! And peasant blood once more Was flowing. And crowned h a n g m e n , seeking Like hungry dogs a b o n e to gnaw, Squabble anew.

[April - May 1859, St Petersburg]

Ah, I have eyes, have two eyes to me given, But, m o t h e r dear, have no one to see with t h e m , N o one , poo r soul, do I have to see with them!

All, I have arms, have two a rms to me given, But, m o t h e r dear, have no one to hold with t h e m , N o one , poo r soul, do I have to hold with them!

All, 1 have feet , have two feet to m e given, But none with w h o m , m o t h e r dear, to dance with t h e m , But none , poo r soul, with w h o m to dance with them.

June 10 [1859]. Pyriatyn

H O S E A , C H A P T E R XIV Paraphrase

And thou shalt perish, Ukra ina , Vanish, leave no trace on this ear th . Yet once thou wert so p roud , wi th wealth Of goods and splendour! Ukraina! Beloved land, innocent , sinless! Why does the Lord so chasten thee? Because of B o h d a n and m a d - d o g Peter He chastiseth certainly, And for those evil lords he smiteth To ut ter ruin — chastens thee , A n d slays unseen . And He does justly!

For long He did endure , long-suffer ing Beholding, silent, f rom on high Thy sinful womb. Then , pa t ience ended , H e spake in wrath: "I shall require Of thee thy beauty and thy splendour, And thyself crucified shall rent be, For thee thy vicious sons shall slay, And others, i l l-conceived, d ispatched In the womb, shall die away Like chicks that never shall be ha tched . With tears, a mother ' s tears that fall, I shall fill fields and cities so, Tha t the whole earth may come to know That I am Lord, and I see all. Arise, O mother , and re turn now Back to your h o m e , and there take rest. For too long thou hast bo rne this burden By the sins of thy sons oppressed. Take rest, sad mother , then begin,

465

And prophesy to thy wicked offspring That they shall perish in thei r sin, Tha t all their t reason and d i shonour And c rooked soul The fire shall smite, Tha t d o o m cries out beyond escaping, And their kind tsar 110 aid can bring, Thei r gentle , d runken , mighty king! N o dr ink he'll give, no food he'll give t h e m , N o horse for you to seek deliverance In bare -back flight. You canno t flee, You canno t hide yourselves. Avenging Truth will find you, and intent ly People will watch for you, and seeing, Will ca tch you. To no trial they'll bring you, But straightway into fetters fling you, Drag you to town and m o c k you there, Without a tsar or h a n g m a n nigh you, U p o n the cross they'll crucify you. Cut you to pieces, rend and tear, And your blood, curs, will be given To curs to drink. . .

G o , give to t h e m . This word once more go give to t h e m , Free of all parables: "Ye m a d e this ." Say plainly to them: "Ye have m a d e this — With your own unclean hands created H o p e for yourself — and then procla im O u r tsar is G o d , our hope abiding, For widows, o rphans aye providing Both food and warmth ." N o t so, not so! Say thus: "Lies only the gods tell ye, Those idols in their foreign dwellings," Tell t h e m t ru th will rise f rom its grave. And a word not outworn , ou tda ted , Cor rup ted , a word new-crea ted

467

A m o n g the people it will raise t hen , And will the p lundered people save From the Tsar's favour. . .

December 25. 1859 [St Petersburg]

I

A pret ty ma iden with dark brows Brought beer u p f rom the cellar. And I beheld and gazed at her Till d rooping 1 near fell there. For w h o m , though , did she bring the beer, Why barefoot must she go. O G o d of Might! For might T h o u hast — Yet T h o u dost spoil it so!

[January 15. 1860. St Petersburg]

II

Oak-grove, darkly-shadowed spinney, Thr ice in the year's course A new robe you wear. A rich Father must be yours! Firstly in a cloak of green H e adorns you richly. A n d himself is all amazed To look u p o n his spinney. Looks his fill upon his darling, Well-beloved and young, Takes her t hen and robes he r newly In a golden gown;

469

Wraps her in a costly mant le Of the purest white , T h e n , all weary f rom his labours, Lies down for the night.

January 15, 1860. St Petersburg

The years of youth have long ceased flowing, Gus t s of a chilly wind are blowing F r o m your hopes . This is winter come! Sit in your cold house, lone, benighted , N o one with w h o m to gossip quietly, N o n e to take council with. N o one! N o one at all, alas! N o one! So sit a lone, while hope abiding Will fool you, fool , m o c k you, der iding Will seal your eyes with frosty cover. A n d will unfold thoughts pr ideful Like snowflakes over s teppeland blown! Sit in the co rne r then , a lone. Wait not for spring, for blest fate yearning, For you no spring will be re turning To make your orchard green once more , Your old hope to renew, restore! N o r to set free a free thought burn ing Will she return again. . . So, sit And wait for not the smallest whit .

October 18, [1860. St Petersburg]

Day comes and goes, night comes and goes Sinking your head in hands clasped tight, You wonder why there still comes n o Apostle of wisdom, t ruth and right.

November 5 [1860. St Petersburg]

471

Water flows f rom benea th the maple , Th rough ravine to the lowland. And splendidly above the water, A guelder-rose is growing. Splendidly grows the guelder- rose , Maple with youth is g leaming. And round about t h e m , osier-beds With osiers growing greenly.

Water flows f rom beyond the grove, And benea th the moun ta in Little ducklings are splashing there , With osiers all a round t h e m . And the duck comes gliding out , (The drake follows his lady). She ca tches water-weed, converses Quietly with her babies.

Water flow beside the kailyard, To a p o n d extending. A girl comes out to draw water, And sings, homeward wending. And f rom their h o m e , the parents c o m e To stroll out in the orchard , And they take counsel w h o to n a m e As husband for their daughter.

November 7 [1860. St Petersburg]

Once I was walking in the night Beside the Neva , and my wits Were ponder ing deeply as 1 walked: "If it had been ," I thought , "if it Had been the slaves would not submit , There would not stand o n Neva 's banks

473

These palaces as a living shame , A brother, a sister would remain ; But now . . . no , there is noth ing now, — N o t even G o d , nor demi-god : A n d , with their brats, dog- t ra iners reign, And we — the clever k e n n e l - m e n — Weep on , and breed their h o u n d s for them!

So, walking at night, 1 chanced to be Beside the Neva , and my wits Fo rmed such fine thoughts ; 1 had not seen Tha t over on the o ther bank A kit ten, as if in a pit, Blinked both his eyes: for there were lit N e a r the Apostle 's Ga t e twin lamps. Startled f r o m m y dreams, I crossed Myself , and spat three t imes for sure, T h e n once again in thought was lost. The same deep thoughts I had before .

November 13 [1860. St Petersburg]

Should we not then cease, my f r iend, My poor dear neighbour, make an end Of versifying useless rhymes? Prepare our waggons for the t ime W h e n we that longest road mus t wend? In to the o ther world, my fr iend, To G o d we'll hasten to our rest . . . We have grown weary, u t ter- t i red, A little wisdom we've acquired, It should suffice! To sleep is best . Let us now go h o m e to r e s t . . . A h o m e of gladness, you may know!

475

N o , let us not depar t , nor go, — It is early still, We shall yet take walks together, Sit, and gaze our fill, Gaze u p o n the world, my fo r tune , See how wide it spreads, Wide and joyful , it is both Bright, and of great depth! We shall yet take walks, my star, On a hill c l imb high, And take our rest together. . . . And Your sister-stars, meanwhi le , The ageless ones, will start to shine, Through the heavens glide . . . Let us linger then , my sister, T h o u , my holy br ide . And with lips unsullied we shall Make our prayer to G o d , A n d then set out quietly On that longest road , Over Lethe 's plumbless depths , Waters dark and swarthy, G r a n t me then thy blessing, f r iend, With thy holy glory.

While this and that and all such wear on . Straight let us go, as the crow flies, To Aesculapius with a present , For h im to outwit old C h a r o n A n d spinning Fate. . . . And then , as long as The old sage would change his purpose , We would create, reclining there, An epic, soaring everywhere Above the ear th , hexameters We'd twine, and up the attic stairs Take t h e m for mice to gnaw. T h e n we

477

Would sing prose, yet with h a r m o n y And not haphazard . . . Holy f r iend , C o m p a n i o n to my journey 's end , Before the fire has ceased to glow,

Let us to C h a r o n , rather, go! Over Lethe's plumbless depths , Waters dark and swarthy, Let us sail, let us bear With us holy glory, Ageless, young for evermore . . . Or, f r iend, let it be! I will do wi thout the glory, If they grant it me , There o n the banks of Phlegethon, Or beside the Styx, in heaven, As if by the broad Dnip ro , there In a grove, a grove primaeval , A little house I'll bui ld , and m a k e An orchard all a round it growing, And you'll fly to m e in the shades, There , like a beauty, I'll e n t h r o n e you; D n i p r o and Ukra ina we Shall recall, merry se t t lements A m o n g groves, g ravemounds in the steppes, And we shall sing right merrily.

February 15 [1861. St Petersburg]

479

Bewitched Maybe a Russalka-baby: Russalka — a water-sprite in Ukrainian

demonology who has the appearance of a long-haired, pretty young girl and represents the soul of a drowned girl or an unbaptized dead child. According to folk belief, the russalky are naked, covered only by their long tresses, or dressed in a shift, or rarely in a full girl's costume. On their heads they wear wreaths of sedge. They lure anyone who draws near the river bank and playfully tickle him to death.

She could seek the Cossack: The word "Cossack" (Ukrainian: kozak) is derived from the Turkic kazak (free man), meaning a person unable or unwilling to fit into the confines of the society of the time, and went into the steppes, where he acknowledged no authority. The first appearance of the term is in a glossary of the Cuman language in the mid-13th century; it also occurs soon afterwards in Byzantine and Italian sources, with the meaning of armed men who protected trade caravans on the steppes. By the end of the 15th century the term had been extended to those Ukrainians who went into the steppe for trade and economic purposes: hunting, fishing, beekeeping, collecting salt and saltpetre. The history of the Ukrainian Cossacks has three distinct aspects: the struggle against Turks and Tatars in the steppe and on the Black Sea, participation in the struggle of the Ukrainian people against socio-economic and ethnic-religious oppression by the Polish mag-nates, and their role in building an independent Ukrainian state.

In Shevchenko's poetry, however, "Cossack" is frequently used to mean "a young man" or "a brave fellow," or simply "a Ukrainian."

He will not have her long plait loosened, Nor her kerchief tied: An unmarried girl traditionally wore her hair in a single long plait, which was ritually unbound by her friends in an eve-of-wedding cere-mony. A married woman covered her head with a kerchief.

Does he water his horse in the Danube's swift sti'eam?: Although the Danube does flow past historically Ukrainian territory and forms part of the state frontier of today's Ukrainian Republic, in Ukrainian folklore, the name has become a conventional term for any large river.

Burial mounds, gravemounds in many of which Cossacks were buried. In Shevchenko's time they were still quite numerous on the vast Ukrainian steppes.

And a bright-flowered guelder-rose: for Ukrainians, the guelder-rose is a symbol of the maidenhood and also of Ukraine.

There beside the road, they raised Twin mounds: The villagers

assume that the dead couple have committed suicide, and therefore cannot be buried in consecrated ground.

The Night of Taras At the crossroads sits a kobzar Playing on his kobza: Kobzars —

wandering folk bards who performed a large repertoire of epic-histori-cal, religious, and folk songs while playing a kobza or bandura. Kobzars first emerged in Kyivan Rus and were popular by the 15th century. They lived at the Zaporozhian Sich and were highly esteemed by the Cossacks, whom they frequently accompanied on various campaigns against the Turks, Tatars, and Poles. The epic songs they performed served to raise the morale of the Cossack army in times of war, and some were executed by the Poles for inciting popular revolts with their songs.

Kobzar is the title of Shevchenko's collection of poems published in 1840, and is nowadays frequently used to mean his entire poetic works.

Otaman: a Cossack chief or commander, subordinate to a Het-man.

Hetman (from the German Hauptmann: 'leader'): at the end of the 16th century the commander of the Cossacks. From 1648 the Hetman was the head of the Cossack state, the Hetmanate. In this capacity he had broad powers as the supreme commander of the Cossack army; the chief administrator and financial officer, presiding over the state's highest administrative body, the General Officer Staff; the top legislator; and from the end of the 17th century, the supreme judge as well.

A cloud rises beyond the Lyman: Lyman — the estuary of the Dnipro, Ukraine's largest river.

Uniates: Christianity came to the East Slavonic peoples from Constantinople, and hence, following the Great Schism of 1054, they tacitly became part of what would become known as the Orthodox Church. In 1596, part of the Orthodox community of the lands that today form Ukraine and Belarus agreed to accept the sovereignty of the Pope, while retaining all the traditions and forms of Orthodox worship. This agreement, concluded on 18 October 1596, became known (after the city where it was concluded) as the Unia (or Union) of Brest. The Unia triggered decades of confrontation between its adherents and those who rejected it; a huge body of polemic writing

was published on both sides, and occasionally there were physical conflicts and battles, since the Orthodox loyalists considered the Uniates had betrayed their native traditions and transferred their loyalty to the traditional enemy — Roman Catholic Poland.

Nalyvaiko, Severyn (7—1597): Cossack leader who led a popular rebellion against the Poles. Nalyvaiko was captured by the Poles during peace negotiations, taken to Warsaw, where he was cruelly tortured before being beheaded, quartered, and put on public display.

Pavliuha: Pavlo Mikhnovych But (?—1638), Zaporozhian Cossack leader. In 1635, he participated in the Cossack rebellion. In December 1637, his army was routed by the Polish army. Pavliuha was handed over to the Poles, who took him to Warsaw and had him executed.

Taras Fedorovych (aka Triassvlo): Hetman of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. In 1629 he led a campaign against the Crimean Tatars, and in spring 1630 a rebellion against the Poles. After three weeks fighting, the decisive battle was fought on 22 May near Pereyaslav on the River Alta (a tributary of the Trubizh, or Trubailo, which is itself a tributary of the Dnipro), where his forces routed the army of the Hetman of the Polish Crown Stanislaw Koniecpolski.

To the Eternal Memory of Kotliarevskyi This is one of the earliest poems of Taras Shevchenko and was

apparently written soon after he had learned of the death of Ivan Kotliarevskyi.

Ivan Kotliarevskyi (1769—1838), the poet considered to be the founder of modern Ukrainian literature. His travesty of the Aeneid (1798) was the first literary work to be written in the contemporary Ukrainian vernacular.

Troy: city in Asia Minor, the scene of the Trojan war. In Kotlia-revskyi's travesty, Aeneas (whom Shevchenko here calls the "Far-Roamer") and his Trojans are presented in the guise of Ukrainian Cossacks.

Perebendia Perebendia: a colloquial nickname for one who is garrulous, in

this case a poet-minstrel whose role is to entertain the people with songs fitted to the particular circumstances, and who helps his peasant audience briefly to forget their misery.

Now he sings a song of Chalyi: A historical song about the Cossack colonel Sava Chalyi who participated in the Haidamaky uprising. The songs mentioned are likewise all popular Ukrainian traditional songs.

The Poplar Chumak: The chumaks were traders who, from the 17th to mid-

19th century brought to Ukraine in their oxen-drawn wagons salt from Crimea, and salted and dried fish from the Black Sea, Sea of Azov and the River Don. They played-an important role in the development of Ukraine's economy by promoting internal and external trade until the mid-19th century, with the coming of the railways and disappear-ance of much steppe pasture.

Use the betrothal towels: embroidered ceremonial towels were an important feature of the Ukrainian betrothal ritual — and young girls approaching marriageable age would prepare their towels well in advance. Similar towels were also used in marriage and funeral ceremonies, and were often draped over icons to adorn them, particularly on feast-days.

To Osnovyanenko Hryhoriy Kvitka-Osnovyanenko (1778—1843): a noted Ukrainian

writer of novellas, dealing with the life, manners and customs of the common people.

The rapids pound: The Dnipro's rapids near its estuary.

Ivan Pidkova Ivan Pidkova (7—1578): a renowned Cossack Otaman in the

latter half of the 16th century. In 1577—1578 he was briefly ruler of Moldavia (the territory of which forms part of today's Romania and Moldova — he was himself of Moldavian origin) and there fought against Turks and Tatars. In 1578 he returned to Ukraine where he was captured and beheaded by the Poles who wanted to be on good terms with the Sultan. There is no historical evidence that Pidkova took part in any maritime expeditions of the type described in this poem.

Sinope (now Sinop in Turkey): the ancient port on the southern shore of the Black Sea, incorporated into the Ottoman empire in 1458. A major trading centre from earliest times, it was one of the markets where Slav prisoners of the Turks might be taken for sale as slaves.

Tsarhrad (City of the Emperors): an ancient Ukrainian name for the city known at various times in its history as Byzantium, Con-stantinople, and Istanbul.

To N. Markevych Mykola Markevych (1804—1860): a historian, ethnographer,

musician and poet. He collected Ukrainian folksongs and arranged piano settings for them, and wrote his own poems in Russian on Ukrainian themes (in particular, a poem The Bandurist — hence Shevchenko's application of this term to Markevych himself). He was also author of a five-volume History of Ukraine (Moscow, 1843).

As a Memento to Shternberg Vassyl Shternberg (1818—1845) was a fellow-student of Shev-

chenko's at the Academy of Arts, and for a time the two shared living quarters there. Shevchenko inscribed this verse in a copy of his newly published collection of poems Kobzar, which he presented to Shtern-berg when the latter was about to leave for Italy to continue his studies there.

Hamaliya Hamaliya: No Cossack leader of this name is known to history;

however, such Cossack raids on Turkish coastal towns did in fact take place, and Shevchenko's fiction is a faithful recreation of these tradi-tions.

Great Meadow (Velykyi Luh): the old name of lowlands by the left bank of the Dnipro, near its estuary, next to the Zaporozhian Sich.

Scutari: The city facing Istanbul on the Asiatic shore of the Bos-phorus; the Sultan's summer residence was there, and also the prisons and slaves' quarters.

Khortytsia Island: the largest island in the Dnipro River. It is sit-uated south of the Dnipro Hydroelectric Station and now a part of the city of Zaporizhia. It is 12 km long and 2.5 km wide, and covers an area of over 3,000 ha. The island was part of the territory held by the Zaporozhian Sich until its destruction in 1775 by Catherine II. The territory around it was settled by German immigrants whom she favoured.

The Turkish Lady: Turkey. Thaler (taler): a former German silver coin. Ducat: any of various coins of silver or gold formerly current in

Europe. Janissaries: Turkish paid army, loyal only to the sultan. The

system of impressing Christian youths was instituted: converted to Islam and given the finest training, they became the elite of the army. Devotion to very strict discipline made janissaries the scourge of Europe.

The Monk: Petro Konashevych-Sahaidachnyi (71570—1622), Cossack Hetman, who led several raids on Turkish fortresses that served as centres for the slave trade. According to some historians, shortlv before his death he took monastic vows.

598

Galata: The commercial quarter of Constantinople (Istanbul), separated from the main part of the city by the fresh-water estuary known as the Golden Horn.

The Plundered Gravemound Burial mounds were constantly being excavated by the govern-

ment-appointed archaeological commissions for the purpose of seek-ing historical antiquities. To Shevchenko, this excavation of mounds was symbolic of Russia's spoliation of Ukraine throughout the centuries.

0 Boh dan, My son so unwise!: Shevchenko could never forgive Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytskyi (1593—1657) for signing the treaty of Pereyaslav in 1654, by the terms of which Ukraine, instead of becom-ing Russia's ally, fell under her complete sway

My steppes have all been sold, In Jews' and Germans' hands: After the destruction of the Cossack Sich in 1775, the Russian Empress Catherine II settled German immigrant agriculturists in Ukraine. In the early 19th century, there was a significant influx of Jewish settlers (Jews were not allowed to live in Russia proper) and by Shevchenko's time, much of the land in Ukraine was leased to them.

Chyhyryn, O Chyhyryn Chyhyryn: a provincial town, southeast of Kyiv, the Hetman res-

idence and the capital of Ukraine (1648—1676). Rue, rue has grown: a strong-scented plant of the genus Ruta.

It has been a traditional symbol of grief, regret etc. Between the knives will grow The periwinkle: a grassy traditional

Ukrainian plant. Sleep on, 0 Hetman: Bohdan Khmelnytskyi is meant, buried

in the village of Subotiv near Chyhyryn.

The Dream (A Comedy)

The subtitle "A comedy" may have been suggested by Dante's The Divine Comedy (Inferno).

And there a poor widow for poll-tax is crucified: The poll-tax had to be paid on all male "souls" listed in the most recent census; hence a widow would be obliged to go on paying for her dead husband until the next census was taken.

The city dreams in marshes gloomy: St Petersburg is meant. For He Himself: Tsar Nicholas I (reigned 1825—1855) is meant.

The rest of this section, particularly the next 18 lines, in which Shev-chenko ridiculed tsarina's (Alexandra Fyodorovna's) appearance, contributed to the poet's harsh sentence when two years later he was exiled for political reasons.

Fortress and belfry rise: The fortress with the Church of Sts Peter and Paul, built on an island in the Neva River, opposite the Winter Palace.

A charging horse there: The famous equestrian statue of Peter I (reigned 1682-1725), erected by Catherine II (reigned 1762-1796) next to the Winter Palace to mark the centenary of his ascension, bears the inscription in Russian and Latin "To Peter the First, Catherine the Second. 1782." Peter is represented in a Roman toga and crowned with laurels.

Something invisible was singing: The voice of the Hetman Pavlo Polubotok (1722—1724) who attempted to restore to Ukraine the freedom which Peter I abolished. He was summoned to St Petersburg and there, when he did not recant, was imprisoned in the Fortress of Peter and Paul, where he starved to death.

Hlukhiv: Capital of Ukraine and residence of the Hetman (1708— 1764), 170 miles of Kyiv, near the border of Ukraine and Russia. The capital had been moved there by order of Peter I, who wanted to keep a close watch on what the Cossacks were doing. He also used Ukrainian Cossacks extensively in the first quarter of the 18th century for various earthworks.

You have filled the swamps with their noble bones: During the building of St Petersburg in the first quarter of the 18th century, Peter I made extensive use of Ukrainian Cossacks to drain swamps, dig canals, and erect earthworks and fortifications. The numbers so drafted were considerable. Almost all of them died of cold, privation and exhaustion.

It was white birds: the souls of Cossacks.

To Gogol Gogol, Nikolai (1809—1852), the most famous Russian writer

of Ukrainian origin, many of whose stories feature a Ukrainian locale, characters and customs. Shevchenko had a high opinion of his work.

The Heretic Shevchenko's narrative poem, The Heretic (not included in this

book) deals with Jan Hus (1369—1415), the Czech religious reformer who at the end of the 14th and beginning of the 15th centuries criti-cized what he perceived as papal abuses of power and spiritual authori-ty. He appealed to the Council of Constance (1414), but the Council condemned his views, and when he refused to recant condemned him to be burned as a heretic.

The Prologue to the poem is a dedication to the Slovak scholar and poet, Pavel Jozef Safarik (1795—1861). Safari'k, who wrote in both Slovak and Czech, worked to revive the national consciousness of Czechs and Slovaks through the study of folklore and ethnography. His influence in this field spread throughout all the Slavonic peoples. Among those with whom he maintained friendly contacts was Shev-chenko's friend, the poet Osip Bodianskyi.

The Great Vault (A Mystery Play)

The Great Vault: the name given by the people to Khmelnytskyi's vault in Subotiv where his many treasures were hidden.

Subotiv: The village of Subotiv, near Chyhyryn, had been the home of Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytskyi, and in Shevchenko's time, local people believed that the Hetman had possessed great treasures which he had buried in a Great Vault, the location of which was now lost. If the Russians were to discover the Great Vault, the legend ran, then Ukraine would be utterly destroyed. Shevchenko, however, gave the idea a new interpretation.

On an old church's leaning cross: The Church of St Elijah in Subo-tiv had been built by Khmelnytskyi in 1653. B. Khmelnytskyi and his son Tymish were buried in this church.

Yurus: Yuriy Khmelnytskyi, Bohdan's younger son, Hetman of Ukraine in 1659-1663 and 1677-1681.

St. Philip's E'en: religious fast before Christmas (from Novem-ber 27 on); pre-Christmas Lent.

And with full pails I crossed the path: To cross someone's path with full pails of water is, according to a popular superstition, a good omen for that person, and, if done deliberately, it means a wish of suc-cess and a good luck to him/her.

For I watered once the horse of the Moscow tsar: The watering of a man's horse by a girl was a sign that she was favourably disposed to him. The Tsar — Peter I.

Baturyn: a town in Bakhmach district, Chernihiv region. The earliest references to Baturyn date back to 1625. In 1648 it became a Cossack company centre, and in 1669—1708 it was the Left-Bank Hetman's capital. Russian troops, commanded by A. Menshikov, sacked and burned Baturyn at the beginning of November 1708, because it supported Hetman I. Mazeppa.

Poltava: A town 80 miles of Kharkiv; the scene of the battle of 27 June 1709, in which Peter I defeated the joint forces of Charles XII and Mazeppa.

Chechel Dmytro: one of Mazeppa's lieutenants who was left by the Hetman to defend Baturyn, his capital.

And both the old and young she took And drowned them in Seym: The slaughtered bodies of Baturyn's defenders and inhabitants were cast into the river Seym, a left tributary of the Desna.

When Catherine the tsarina came to Kaniv: Catherine II travelled in state down the Dnipro in 1787. Kaniv (a town, 65 miles of Kyiv on the Dnipro) provided the highlights of her journey on 25 April. Even an infant's smile at the autocratic empress, who destroyed the remnants of Ukrainian freedom, is considered by Shevchenko as the most grievous death-dealing transgressing.

Chuta: one of the largest forests near the Zaporozhian Sich. The three crows embody the evil genii of Ukraine, Poland and

Russia. All three are glad in what is happening and are vying with each other in boasting of how much evil they had done and plan to do. The first crow (Ukrainian) means that whatever B. Khmelnytskyi regained by force from Poland he gave away to Russia by signing the treaty of Pereyaslav. The second crow (Polish) refers to Polish landlords as they neglected their people and spent their time carousing in Paris. The third crow (Russian), speaking mysteriously, presaged evil times.

Bohdan: Hetman Bohdan Khmelnytskyi. Radziwills and Potockis: Polish noble families, one of the wealthiest

and most influential magnate families in the Polish Commonwealth. M. Radziwill and T. Potocki took part in the Polish uprising of 1830—1831.

Where from one Decembrist I have stolen: Decembrist move-ment — a secret revolutionary movement that evolved in the Russian Empire in the first quarter of the 19th century and culminated in an unsuccessful revolt in St Petersburg on 26 December 1825, from which the name 'Decembrist' is derived. Although the Decembrist movement in Ukraine was part of an all-Russian movement, it had its own peculiar features. Decembrist ideas and trends in Ukraine were rooted deeply in Ukrainian history. Its ideas of national liberation were nourished by several centuries of struggle against subjugation by Poland and Russia. For this reason the importance and influence of Ukrainians in the general Decembrist movement were very significant.

Tree Ukases I'ave cawed, for a single roadway: The Moscow — St Petersburg railway, the first in Russia, built in 1843—1851. Extreme privation and hard work claimed thousands of victims. Since the tsar wanted a straight road regardless of marshy grounds in many localities, much wastage of money, effort and human life resulted. The ukases (tsarist direct orders) caused the road to be built straight at all costs.

Baron Von Korf: the chief of police under Nicholas I. He was responsible for providing the labour force for the railway.

Karamzin Nikolai (1766—1826): a famous Russian writer and historian. He wrote a glorified and highly biased History of the Russian State in which he contended that all of Ukraine was an integral part of Russia.

The Swedish vagabond: Charles XII (1682-1718), King of Sweden from 1697. In the course of the war with Russia Charles entered into negotiations with Hetman I. Mazeppa, which were soon formalized in a Ukrainian-Swedish alliance. In the fall of 1708 Charles advanced into Ukraine, where in 1709 he suffered defeat by Russia in the decisive Battle of Poltava.

Near Romny I dammed the Sula with officers: Romny is a town on the Sula, a left tributary of the Dnipro. Here mass executions of Mazeppa's followers took place.

With simple Cossacks I have sown Finland over: Many thousands of Ukrainian Cossacks had to fight in Peter's wars against the Swedes, in particular on the territory of Finland, where they suffered great loses.

Piled them up By the Oril in mounds: Peter's various construction projects took life of thousands of Ukrainian Cossacks and serfs. The Oril is a left tributary of the Dnipro along which Peter I built border fortifications against the Tatars.

And to Ladoga had driven Them in countless crowds: The Ladoga canal was a place where the working conditions were particularly bad.

Polubotok, Pavlo (c 1660—1724): Cossack Hetman. In November 1723, Polubotok was imprisoned in St Petersburg's Peter and Paul Fortress, where he died a year later, and his properties were confiscated and redistributed. Polubotok had an abiding interest in Ukrainian history and wrote a chronicle describing the events of 1452—1715. His defence of Ukrainian rights and his tragic fate made him a hero in the eyes of his contemporaries and subsequent generations of Ukrainians.

And the Irzhavets Madonna Wept salt tears: The miraculous image of the Virgin Mary located in the Cossack church in the village of Irzhavets in the Poltava region.

Vit' Tatars I stirred mud: In some periods of their history, Russians depended very much upon the Tartars.

Vit' Torturer gobbled up: Torturer — Ivan the Terrible, the Musco-vite tsar in 1547-1584.

Vit' Peter kin got drunk: Peterkin — Peter I, Russian tsar. Then in Pchela they could describe: Severnaya pchela (The Nor-

thern Bee) — a reactionary pro-government Russian paper published (1825-1864) in St Petersburg.

As Gonta did of yore: Gonta Ivan (? — 1768), one of the leaders of the Koliyivshchyna rebellion. A captain in the Cossack household militia of F. Potocki, he was ordered to attack the approaching Hai-damaky forces led by M. Zalizniak. Instead, he and his militia joined the rebels. On 21 June 1768 Gonta was proclaimed colonel of Uman. Fearing that the rebellion would spread into their domain, the Russians sent a regiment of Don Cossacks to Uman to suppress it. Its colonel, Gurev, tricked the rebels into believing he sided with them. He invited them to a banquet, at which many of them were seized and handed over to the Polish crown hetman, K. Branicki. Before being executed, Gonta and others were tortured cruelly for several days. Parts of Gonta's body were nailed to gallows in 14 towns.

Tiasmyn: A tributary of the Dnipro, on which Chyhyryn is situ-ated.

The lyre-minstrels: Lyre-playing minstrels first appeared in Ukraine in the 15th century and had formed a guild by the end of the 17th cen-tury. Like the kobzars, they were frequently blind, and wandered from place to place. Their repertoire consisted mainly of religious songs, though humorous and satirical songs were also popular, and some lyre-minstrels specialized in historical ballads. It is perhaps significant that Shevchenko introduces them and not kobzars into his mystery play. For his kobzars are conscious of Ukraine's past and concerned to transmit their knowledge of it to future generations. The minstrels of The Great Vault, however, see Ukraine's past only as subjects for songs which they naively believe will earn them money from the Russians.

lean sing right well of Jassy, And Zhovti Vody too, And Berestechko's little town: Jassy — a city in Moldavia (now part of Romania) and a county centre. In November 1577, the Cossack otaman I. Pidkova occupied Jassy and proclaimed himself the hospodar of Moldavia. Zhovti Vody — the place where B. Khmelnytskyi inflicted a shattering defeat on the Poles in 1648. Zhovti Vody (Yellow Waters) is a tributary of the Inhulets. Berestechko — a town 60 miles of Lviv, the scene of a bat-tle in 1651, where Bohdan Khmelnytskyi's forces were greatly out-numbered by the Poles and suffered a heavy defeat.

There stands in Subotiv village Zinoviy: Second name of Bohdan Khmelnytskyi. Aleksei: Tsar Aleksei of Muscovy (b. 1629, reigned 1634—1676),

in whose reign Ukraine was annexed to the Muscovite state.

The Servant Girl To Horodyshche: a small town, 90 miles of Kyiv. A blessed cap in the catacombs Of the great St John: the famous

monastery of the caves (Pecherska Lavra) in Kyiv, i.e. the caves under

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the famous Kyiv Monastery of the Caves in which were preserved the remains of a 12th-century saint, John the Recluse. Caps — sacred sou-venirs, which, it was believed, had the power to protect against head-aches, were placed on the head of the saint before being sold to pilgrims.

A St Barbara ring: relics of St Barbara the Martyr were preserved in St Michael's Monastery of the Golden Tops in Kyiv, where rings, also believed to have spiritual powers, were on sale.

Katria, Katrussia: a diminutive of Kateryna. After Our Lady's feast: In the Orthodox calendar there are three

feasts of Mary in the late summer/early autumn, which are referred to colloquially as her "first, second and third" feasts. The "first" is her Dormition, corresponding to the feast of her Assumption into heaven in the Western Church tradition, and celebrated on the same day — 15 August. The second, also common to both traditions, is her nativi-ty — 8 September, and the third, which has no exact equivalent in the West, is the feast of her protection — 1 October, a feast particularly dear to the Cossacks.

St Nicholas's Litany: St Nicholas of Myra, often called "St Nich-olas the Wonderworker," is patron of, among other groups, traders and

travellers.

The Caucasus Yakov de Balmen (Jacques de Balmaine, 1813—1845): a Ukrainian

of French descent, was an army officer, amateur artist, and friend of Shevchenko. In 1844, he and the Russian artist Mikhail Bashilov pre-pared a manuscript volume of Shevchenko's poems, transliterated into Latin characters and illustrated with their drawings, with the intention of publishing it for West-Slavonic readers. In 1845, de Balmain was posted to the Caucasus, where Russia had been for several decades waging a war of conquest; he was killed there in battle in July 1845. Shevchenko's grief at the loss of his friend was intensified by the fact that he had fallen fighting for what Shevchenko could only consider the wrong side.

From the Moldavian to the Finn: i.e. across the entire south-to-north extent of the Russian empire.

A king who used to pasture swine: David, the second king of the United Kingdom of Israel, in his youth was the keeper of his father's sheep. While being king of Israel, David committed adultery with Bathsheba, a wife of Uriah. When David discovered her pregnancy he hurriedly sent Uriah into battle and ordered that he be placed at the front and that his fellow soldiers retreat from him.

And we can sell...People: Despite the fact that in December 1841 Russia signed an international treaty outlawing the trade of slaves, the serfs were often sold in Russia in the middle of the 19th century.

To My Fellow-Countrymen, in Ukraine and not in Ukraine, Living, Dead and as yet Unborn My Friendly Epistle

The title should possibly be interpreted metaphorically: the "dead" being those Ukrainians who have lost their national consciousness, the "living" — those who still retain it, and the "unborn" — those who may yet awaken to it.

You are Mongols: A reference to the views of German historians W. Schutz and I. Parrott who considered the Slavs to be of Mongol origin. This idea was refuted by Safarik (see Note to The Heretic) in his seminal work Slovanske starolitnosti (Slavonic antiquities, 1837), which Shevchenko could have read in the Russian translation that appeared almost immediately.

The German will say: "You are Mongols": With bitter sarcasm, Shevchenko accuses the Ukrainian intellectuals of lacking innate wis-dom, of depending on foreigners, particularly the Germans, to solve Ukrainian problems, and of believing blindly in everything, even what concern the history and origin of Ukraine.

Tamerlane (1336—1405): the Turcoman-Mongol conqueror, who established an empire extending from India to the Mediterranean. Notorious for his savagery in war, he was, nevertheless, a lover of scholarship and the arts. The dynasty he founded was noted for its patronage of Turkish and Persian literature.

Kollar, Jan (1793—1852): a prominent Slovak-born Czech poet and scholar.

Hanka, Vaclav (1791—1861): a Czech poet and scholar. Slavophiles: supporters of a philosophical, ideological, social, and

political movement in Russia from the 1840s onwards, which idealized all things Russian — as opposed to the "Westernizers" who urged the adoption of Western culture and practices.

But oh, our Cocleses and Bruti: heroes of ancient Rome; Horatius Codes in the 6th century BC defended with two comrades a vital bridge against an overwhelming force of the enemy; Lucius Junius Brutus, also in the same century, drove the last of the oppressive Tarquin kings from Rome; Marcus Brutus was Ibe rJtuef of ibe rxuispxataxs who assassinated the autocratic Julius Caesar in 44 BC.

Sinope, Trebisond: cities on the Black Sea coast of Turkey; the targets ot raids Dy the Zaporoznian Cossacks.

And in the Sich, the clever German Plants his beds: The foreigners settled the Cossacks' southern territories and turned them into potato plantations.

Poland fell, But in her fall she crushed you: Once Ukraine fell under Russian domination, Russia became much stronger and could topple Poland. Consequently, Russia could deal more summarily with Ukraine's freedom.

The Cold Ravine The Cold Ravine is in a forest surrounding the Motryn monastery

in the Chyhyryn region, which, in May 1768, began a rising against the oppressive Polish administration and nobility. The insurgents were known as Haidamaky; the rebellion itself is called the Koliyivschyna, a term probably derived from the kil (pike or lance) used by the insurgents. The rebels were led by Maksym Zalizniak; in Uman (120 miles of Kyiv) he was joined by Ivan Gonta.

Nero C. Claudius (AD 37—68): the fifth emperor of Rome (ruled AD 54—68), known for his persecution of Christians. His name is used to denote any relentless tyrant, or evil-doer of extraordinary cruelty. Here Nero implies Nicholas I.

The Haidamaky were no warriors, Thieves they were, and robbers: Shevchenko here quotes the view of a contemporary Russian histori-an, A. Skalkovskiy (Nayezdy gaidamak na Zapadnuyu Ukrainu, v XVIII stoletii, 1733-1768 - The raids of the Haidamaky in Western Ukraine in the 18th century, 1733-1768, Odessa, 1845, pp. 133, 141).

[VII] To N. Kostomarov (from the cycle In the Fortress)

Mykola Kostomarov (Shevchenko gives his initial according to the Russian form of his name "Nikolai") (1817—1885): historian, publicist, and writer. One of the founders, in 1846, of the Brotherhood of Sts Cyril and Methodius, he was arrested in spring 1845 and, like Shevchenko, imprisoned in the Fortress of Sts Peter and Paul. Kosto-marov wrote a number of fundamental works on the history of Ukraine in the 16th — 18th centuries.

I see: thy mother, thine, my brother: Mother — Tetiana Kosto-marova (1798—1875). Shevchenko had met her in Kyiv in 1846. This poem was written shortly after Shevchenko saw, through the grated window of his cell, Kostomarov's mother, arriving to visit her impris-oned son.

Irzhavets Irzhavets: a village in the region of Poltava in whose Cossack

church the miraculous image of the Virgin Mary was located.

* v

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Bendery: a town in Bessarabia, then under the Turkish rule. The Battle of Poltava was fought in 1709, shortly after Peter I ordered the Zaporozhian Sich to be destroyed. After the defeat at Poltava (1709), Charles XII and Mazeppa were obliged to withdraw into Bessarabia, then under Turkish rule, stopping at the town of Bendery (now Tig-hina).

Hordiyenko, Kost (7—1733): one of the few Cossack leaders who remained loyal to Mazeppa.

The Colonel Of Fastiv: Semen Paliy (real surname — Hurko; 1640s—1710) — a Cossack commander whose activity centred around the town of Fastiv: Although hostile to Russia, he did not join Mazeppa in the latter's campaign against Peter I. Had he done so, his large Cossack following might have turned the scales at Poltava.

Nor would the evil colonel: The "evil colonel" who tried to stop the Cossacks from fleeing after Mazeppa's defeat was Hnat Halahan, commander of Prvluky. However those who heeded him and stayed were viciously tortured and then executed by the Russians.

Dante Alighieri (1265—1321): the Italian poet and one of the supreme figures of world literature, who was admired for the depth of his spiritual vision and for range of his intellectual accomplishment. Dante's epic masterpiece, The Divine Comedy, is an allegorical narra-tive of the poet's imaginary journey through hell, purgatory, and heaven. Shevchenko must have been acquainted with Russian transla-tions of the masterpiece.

How the bells in Hlukhiv rang: The bells were ringing for the installation of a new Hetman — Ivan Skoropadskyi — as ordered by Peter I.

For in exile the mirzas: mirzas — high-ranking Tatar military officials.

Beer and mead have not been drunk here... From Odessa famed in glory, Plague they hither bore: In 1847—

1848 an epidemic of cholera raged in southern Ukraine, in particular around Odessa.

Kateryna had a house... Kozlov: The Tatar town of Hezlev, founded in the 15th century

during the Crimean Tatar Khanate; renamed Yevpatoriya in 1783, when Russia annexed Crimea.

Bakhchyssarai: Until 1736, the capital of the Crimean Tatar Khanate.

Together We Grew Up of Old... The old folk died, untimely taken: Shevchenko refers to himself

and to Oksana Kovalenko — the girl who befriended him in his child-hood. Taras's mother died in 1823 when he was nine years old and his father in 1825 when Taras was twelve years old. Oksana's father died in 1831 and her mother in 1832.

Saturn: in Roman mythology, was originally a god of agriculture. He was later identified with the Greek Cronos, and then, by confusion with "chronos" — time, came also to symbolize time and change

The Neophytes Shevchenko dedicated the poem to his friend, the famous Russian

actor M. S. Shchepkin (1788—1863) who was regarded by Shevchenko as a Ukrainian (as can be seen from their extant correspondence). The seventy-year-old Shchepkin came from Moscow to Nizhniy Novgorod to see Shevchenko short after the poet's release from exile on 24 De-cember 1857, and they spent the Christmas together.

The Lethe's waters: in Greek mythology, the river of forgetfiilness, one of the four rivers of the underworld, which the shades must drink from in order to forget their past lives. Here, and in his last poem Should we not then cease, my friend? Shevchenko appears to conflate it

with the Styx, the river which, in classical mythology, the dead had to cross to enter the underworld.

Long in captivity I've dwelt: an allusion to the restrictions still imposed upon Shevchenko after his release from exile; while in Nizhniy Novgorod, he was still under police surveillance and was not allowed to travel to St Petersburg and to Moscow.

The Nazarene: Jesus of Nazareth. When Decius was Caesar: Gaius Messius Quintus Decius — Ro-

man Emperor (AD 200—251) who also persecuted Christians. A prayer to Hymen: Hymeneus, in ancient mythology, the god

of marriage. To her Penates duly prayed: Penates — household gods whose duty

was to protect and ward off dangers of the individual Roman family. They protected the proper functioning of the household, in particular, guarding the food-store and kitchen. Their images stood in a special shrine in each house and offerings were made to them of wine, honey and cakes on special family occasions.

Capitol: the most sacred of the seven hills of Rome. It was the administrative, commercial and religious centre of ancient Rome. The chief temple of Jupiter was located there.

Alcides: the patronymic of Hercules. Historically, it would have been impossible for a Roman child to be registered under such a name, since Hercules was a demigod. Either Shevchenko wants to imply that his legal name was within the Roman tradition, but that his mother thought of him as her Hercules, and perhaps called him so as a private pet-name, or else once again Shevchenko is hinting that the reader should not take the Roman setting too literally.

Hetaera: in ancient Greece, a courtesan, trained not only to pro-vide sexual services, but also to entertain clients with music, poetry, conversation etc. There was, in fact, no equivalent class of women in Rome.

Venus: the Roman goddess of beauty and sensual love, identified with Aphrodite.

A goat-legged old toper: one of the revellers, who has put on the disguise of a satyr: half-man, half-goat, with horns, a tail, and cloven-hooved, often intoxicated.

The Appian Way: the "queen of long-distance roads" leading from Rome to Brindisi, on the east coast of Italy. In Roman times the main port for travel to Greece. This most famous Roman road was built by the censor Appius Claudius about 312 BC.

Priapus: in Roman mythology, a god of fertility and sexual prowess.

Thermae: the Baths — which in ancient Rome were luxurious and, apart from hot, cold and steam chambers offered many auxiliary services. They also were places for social gatherings.

But look — Saint Peter on his way: St Peter, chief of the 12 Apo-stles, and the "rock" on which Christ founded his Church, has pre-sumably landed at Brindisium and is approaching Rome along the Appian Way.

Scythia: situated roughly on the territory of the present-day Ukraine, Scythia was a place of banishment in the Roman Empire.

Praetorians: Caesar's personal bodyguards. Flamens: priests of the Roman gods. Lictors: the ceremonial guards of magistrates; their symbol of

office (fasces) was a bundle of rods and an axe, symbolizing the mag-istrate's power to flog or execute.

Jupiter: or Jove, the supreme god in the Roman pantheon, corre-sponding to the Greek Zeus. He was considered to determine the course of human affairs and to know the future through the signs in the heaven, was invoked in prayers as "the Greatest and best" of the Gods.

Coliseum (Colosseum): the great Flavian amphitheatre of ancient Rome, said to be named from the colossal statue of Nero that stood

602

close by in Via Sacra. It was built, as its official name implies, under the Flavian emperors Vespasian (reigned AD 69—79) and Titus (79— 81). Its mention here, under Nero, who died in AD 68, is therefore an anachronism, probably a deliberate one — to remind the reader that the poem is not meant to be history but is rather an allegory of the Roman Empire.

The Scipian era: The Scipios were one of the great patrician families of the Roman Republic, renowned for their civic service and personal integrity. Nero's great "celebration" is thus the funeral of Rome's past achievements and virtues.

Morok: Some manuscript copies of The Neophytes (not in Shev-chenko's own handwriting) and editions based on these copies have a footnote describing Morok as "the Scandinavian Pluto." In one copy, Scandinavian has been corrected to "Scythian."

The Dream (She reaped the wheat in serfdom's labour...)

The appearance of the Narodni opovidannia (Folk Stories) in 1858 by Marko Vovchok (nee Maria Vilinskaya, 1833—1907), a Ukrainian and Russian author, was an event in the Ukrainian litera-ture. Her stories of the hardships of serfdom, especially on the women, were very powerful. Shevchenko welcomed her literary advent most warmly, for he saw in her his most talented prose successor.

I am not ill, touch wood, not I... Love their drunken tsar: the Russian tsar, Alexander II (1855—

1881) is referred to. Adore Byzantism with all their will: Byzantine-styled Russian

Orthodox church is meant.

To Marko Vovchok The date refers to their first meeting — January 24, 1859.

N. N. (Once a lily like you..)

Once a lily like you, growing On Jordan's banks in days of yore: The Virgin Mary, the future mother of Jesus Christ, is meant.

Dear God, evil once more runs riot!... We were beginning to unforge The fetters on our unfree people: In

April 1859 Napoleon III started the Austrian-Italian-French war. The abolition of serfdom was being prepared at that time in Russia,

Once I was walking in the night... Near the Apostle's Gate: St Peter's gate, a triumphal arch leading

into the Fortress of Sts Peter and Paul on an island on the Neva in St Petersburg.

Should we not then cease, my friend... Shevchenko's last poem

For him to outwit old Charon: Charon — in Greek mythology, the aged boatman who ferried the souls of the shades of the dead across the river Styx to the gates of the underworld.

Spinning Fate: one of the three Parcae who spun men's lives; the one who snapped the threads of life.

There on the banks of Phlegethon: a river of liquid fire in Hades, flowing into the Acheron.

Or beside the Styx: the river of Hate that, according to classical mythology, flowed nine times round the infernal regions.

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Vera Rich. Biographical information

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Cni i iKH nHCbMeHHHKiB YKpaiHH ( 1 9 9 7 ) . 2 4 c e p n H f l 2 0 0 6 p .

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HHJia 11 FIOHeCHOK) BiH3HaKOK).

B. Pin HaBHajiacfl B 0KC(J)0pxtcbK0My (1955—1957, aaBHbo-aHrjiincbKa i naBHb0CKaHHHHaBCbKa MOBH) Ta JIoH OHCbKOMy ( 1 9 5 8 — 1 9 6 1 , MaieMaTHKa, (j)aKyjibTaTHBHO yKpamcbKa MOBa) yHiBepcHTeTax. Yneprne 6yjia B YKpaim 1991 p., Ha IIIeBHeHKO-Bift Monuii — 1998 p. ABTOP Tpbox 36ipoK opHriHajibHHX noe3in: "EcKi3H" (1960), "nepenBicHHKH H o6pa3H" (1963), "CnaninHHa Mpift" ( 1 9 6 4 ) . Y 1 9 6 2 - 1 9 6 9 pp. Ta 3 1998 p. - 3acHOBHHK i BHuaBeub >KypHajiy "Manifold" ("Po3MaiTTfl"), npncBAHeHoro noe3ii. Y 1969—1989 pp. — KopecnoHneHTKa (3 panflHCbKHx i cxluHoeBponeHCbKHx nnraHb) HayKOBoro THXHeBHKa "Nature" ("npHpona"), B 1993—1999 pp. — 3aciynHHK penaKTopa KBap-TajibHHKa "The Ukrainian Review" ("YKpamcbKHH oniflii"). n in BFLTHBOM npaub >K. A. MenBeneBa (flKi nepeKjiaaajia aHDiiH-cbKoio MOBOK)) 3axonHjiacn 6opoTb6oio 3a npaBa JHOUHHH, 30-KpeMa B KpaiHax TOTajiiTapHoro pexHMy. Flin pi3HHMH nceBao-HLMaMH nncaia npo HHCHneHTCbKHH pyx, nepeztyciM y Flojibuii H YropmHHi. YMacHHK BcecBiTHboi KOH(J)epeHnii npo npaBa JIIO-HHHH, NPHCBOTEHO'i A . ZL. CaxapoBy, B MOCKBI (TpaBeHb 1991 p . ) .

riepeKiiajia TBopn 47 y K p a m c b K H x nHCbMeHHHKiB. ITep-i i i h h nepeKJ iaa VKpai'HCbKoi n o e 3 i i — n p o j i o r y n o noeMH "MOH-ceH" I . O p a H K a — n a T y e T b c a 1956 p . ( 0 n y 6 j i i K 0 B a H 0 1 9 5 7 ) . r i e p n i H H n e p e K i a n n o e 3 i i T. UleBHeHKa — noeMH "KaBKa3M — ony^j i iKOBaHO 1959 p . pa30M 3 p03BinK0K) nepeKJ iananKH n p o m o noeMy. r i o j i i n m e H H i o HKOCTi n e p e i c i a n i B cnpHHJiH CBOIMH KOHCTpyKTHBHHMH n o p a n a M H IT. I. 3 a n n e B i B. J l . C B o 6 o n a . B 1961 p . onyGjiiKVBajia 38 nepeKJianiB ( c e p e n HHX — 9 n o e M ) y n o 6 i p u i 'TIicH5i i3 t c m p h b h " (JIOHHOH, 1961) , m o BHHnuia HK nepina HacTHHa nepmoro TOMy 3anjiaHOBaHOTO IlIeBHeHKiB-CbKHM lOBmeHHHM KOMiTeTOM y BeJTHK06pHTaHil TpHTOMHOTO BimaHHM TBOpiB T. IIIeBHeHKa a H r j i i n c b K o i o MOBOIO. Y BepecHi 1961 p . Ha 0CH0Bi 36ipKH nocTaBJieHO cueHWHy Bepci to B TeaTpi K p n n j i r e H T ( C r i p p l e g a t e ) y J l o H n o H i . 16 TBopiB, c e p e n HHX "XOJIOUHHH H p " , T l p H q H H H a " (KpiM " 3 a c n i B y " ) , " M n r p H H e , HHrpHHe...", "Heo4)iTH", nepeKJianeHo B n e p r n e . JTepeKjianH 3po6jieHQ 3 aKaiieMiHHoro BHnaHH5i 1939—1957 p p . 3i 36epe)KeH-

Vera Rich (24.04.1936, London) — British journalist, poet and translator, one of the most active popularizers of Shevchenko's poetry in the English-speaking world. A member of PEN (since 1961) and the Royal Institute of International Affairs ("Chatham House") since 1978. Winner of the Ivan Franko Prize of the Union of Writers of Ukraine (1997). On 24 August, 2006, by decree of the President of Ukraine, she was awarded the Order of Princess Olha (Third Class). In October 2007 the National Union of Writers of Ukraine awarded her its medal "FIoHecHa Bin3HaKa" (Insignia of Honour).

Vera Rich studied at Oxford University (1955-1957, Old English and Old Norse), and at London University (1958—1961, Mathematics with an optional course in Ukrainian Language). She first visited Ukraine in 1991 and Shevchenko's grave in 1998. She is the author of three collections of original poetry: Outlines (1960), Portents and Images (1963), Heritage of Dreams (1964), Founder and Editor (1962-1969 and again from 1998) of the poetry magazine Manifold. From 1969 till 1989, she was Soviet and East European Correspondent of the scientific weekly Nature, and from 1993 till 1999 Deputy Editor of The Ukrainian Review. Under the influence of the works by Zhores A. Medvedev (which she translated into English) she became an active campaigner for human rights, particularly in countries under totalitarian regimes. Under various pseudonyms, she contributed to dissident journals, mainly in Poland and Hungary. In May 1991, she took part in the International Conference on Human Rights in mem-ory of Andrei Sakharov in Moscow.

She has translated works of 47 Ukrainian writers. Her first translation from Ukrainian poetry — the prologue to Ivan Franko's narrative poem Moses dates from 1956 (published 1957). Her first translation of Shevchenko's The Caucasus was published in 1959, together with her essay on this poem. The high quality of her translations benefited from the constructive advice of P. I. Zaytsev and V. L. Swoboda. In 1961, she published 38 trans-lations (including 9 major poems) in the collection Song out of Darkness (London, 1961), which appeared as the first part of the first volume of what the Shevchenko jubilee committee in Great Britain planned as a three-volume publication of the works of Shevchenko in English. In September 1961, on the basis of this collection, a staged version was presented at the Cripplegate Theatre in London. Sixteen works, including The Cold Ravine, the whole of Bewitched (previous translators had rendered only the first twelve lines), Chyhyryn, O Chyhyryn, and The Neophytes were here translated for the first time. The translations were made from the 1939—1957 academic edition following the line num-bering of the original. The most successful of these translations

604

HAM HyMepaixii PIMITIB opHrmajiy. HawajieKBaTHimi cepen nepe-icianiB — "HK0Cb-T0 nay™ yHo^i...", "Heo(j)iTH", TaMajiw", "KaBKa3M. Y nepeKJianax e nyace Bnajii 3HaxinKH: nepeBHpa^KeH-Hi5 oHOMaTonei* opHrmajiy ("BejiHKHH Jibox", TIpHHHHHa'), BUTBOpeHHH IIIeBHeHKOBoro capKa3\iy ("I MepTBHM, i X H -BHM..."). mnioMOBHHX i niajieKTHHx yxpanjieHb, peajiift (noeMa "COH"). Y no6ipm nonaHO 6i6jiiorpa(J)iio aHDioMOBHoi UleB-neHKiaHH, 0ny6jiiK0BaH0'i y Be;iHKo6pHTaHii, Ta rojioBHHX aHDIOMOBHHX BHJiaHb TBOpiB T. IHeBHCHKa n03a BeJIHK06pH-TaHieio, B TOMV HHcui i B CPCP. /Io6ipKy nonoBHioioTb ineB-HeHK03HaBHi c i a u i B. K. MeTbi03a Ta B. JT. CBO6OHH. MHMajio nepeKJiaaiB nonaHo B nepiommi BejiHKo6pHTaHi'i, 30KpeMa B "The Ukrainian Review", NE 0ny6jiiK0BaH0 HHKJI "B KA3EMATI" (1965), noe3ii' "COH" ("Ha namuHHi...", 1964), "Ha BkHy iraM^Tb KouiHpeBCbKOMy" (1969, 1998), "Ho OcHOB HeHKa" (1993), "Jlwy B HeBOJii mi i Horn...", "rionpaxame 11 ncaiiMy", "fl He He3n>0KaK), HiBpoKy..." (1994). Ha naMHTHHKy T. UleBHeHKa y BaiHHHiroHi (BIHKPHTO 27 HepBHH 1964 p.) BHKap6yBaHO ypH-BOK 3 noeMH "KABKA3" y nepeKJiani B. P h .

FlepeKJiajia neidjibKa 6mbniHX 3a o6cnroM TBopiB Jleci yKpa'iHKH — npaManram noeMH "KaccaHUpa", "Oprm" Ta "BaBH-jioHCbKHH nojiOH", npaMH "KaMiHHHH rocnoaap" i "Bo^PHHH", apa\iy-(i)eepiK) "JlicoBa nicHfl", noeMy "Po6epT Bpioc, Kopojib mouiaHncbKHH" Ta OKpeMi JiipHHHi ine/ieBpH (0ny6jiiK0BaH0 OKpeMOK) KHIDKKOK) Ta y KBapTajibHHKy "The Ukrainian Review"); noe3i'i I. OpaHKa (noeMH "MoiiceH", 1973; "CMepTb Kai'Ha", 1998; JiipiiKy), Y. CKOBOPOJIH, JI. Dii6oBa, G. IIjiyxHHKa, II. OnjiHnoBHHa, OjieKcaHiipa Ojieca, 0 . Tejiirn, K). Jlnnn, B. Cryca, B. CHMOHeHKa, M. CeMeHKa Ta iH. HHMajio nepeKJia-niB, 30KpeMa noeMy 'TaHnaMaKH" T. IlJeBHeHKa, jiipHKy I. OpaH-Ka. HOTenep He 0ny6jiiK0BaH0.

3a iHiuiaTHBOK) K3HECK0 yKnajia aHTOJioriio 6mopycbKoi' noe3ii Ta nepeicnajia li aHTJimcbKoio MOBOIO (nepniHH nepeKJiaa 6yju>-5iKOK) 3axmHoeBponeHCbKoio MOBOIO). Ony6jiiKOBaHa nin H33B0K) "Like water, like fire" ("HK BOM, HK BoroHb") y 1971 p. aHTOJiorw BMimae TBopH copoxa noeriB. y BHuaBHHHTBi "Panio "CBo6ojia" (2004) onvSjiiKOBaHO GLnopycbKO-aHrjimcbKy 6i-jiiHTBV "Bipmi npo BOJHO". y Hin — nepeioianH BipmiB 122 cy-HacHHX 6uiopycbKHX noeriB, mo ix 3po6njia B. Pin. y 1984 p. onyojiiKOBaHO n M0H0rpa(J)iK) "06pa3 eBpen y nocTCTajiiHCbKiH panflHCbKiH SiiiopycbKiH JiiTepaTypi". BoHa nepexjiajia Taxox noe3iio M. EornaHOBHHa, 3MiTpoxa Ennyjii Ta Anecfl TapyHa (0ny6.IIK0BAH0 B JloHnom, 1982) i coHeTii #HKH KynajiH HJIA 6araT0M0BH0r0 mamm (MiHCbK, 2002).

B. P h nepeicj&aae nojibCbKy (II. HopBina), icnaHCbKy (K. IUepMaHa) naBHboiciiaHncbKy i naBHboaHrjiiHCbKy noe3i'i. ABTOpKa CTaTen npo T. IlIeBHeHKa, B. IUeKcnipa, I. KoTJwpeB-cbKoro, I. OpaHKa, B. Cociopy, JI. Dii6oBa. nin BIIJIHBOM cepn-HeBHX nonrn 1991 p. B. Pin Hanncajia Bipm "Prologue" ("Be swift, my friends, be swift") ["Ilpojior" ("He 6apiTbcn, npy3i MOI")]. "IloMapaHHeBa" peBo.nonin HaaHXHyjia it Ha CTBopeHHH Myjibra-MeiiiHHoro niHCTBa "yKpama: BW Ma3enn no MannaHy" — CTHCJioi icTOpii 6araTOBiKOBOi 6opoTb6n yKpamcbKoro Hapony 3a BOJHO, HK II npencTaBjieHO B yxpaiHCbidH noe3i'I.

are undoubtedly Once I was walking in the night..., The Neophytes, Hamaliya, and The Caucasus. The translations contain many successful features: reproduction of the onomatopoeia of the original (The Great Vault, Bewitched), rendering of Shevchenko's sarcasm (To my fellow countrymen...), foreign and dialectal vari-ants, realia (the narrative poem The Dream). The selection is accompanied by a bibliography of Shevchenkiana in English published in the United Kingdom and the principal English-language editions of Shevchenko's works published elsewhere, including the USSR. In addition, the book contains essays on Shevchenko by W. K. Matthews and V. L. Swoboda. A number of Vera Rich's translations from Shevchenko were published in periodicals in Britain, especially in The Ukrainian Review, including the cycle In the Fortress (1965), and the poems The Dream — She reaped the wheat in serfdom's labour... (1964), To the Eternal Memory of Kotliarevskyi (1969, 1998), To Osnovyanenko (1993), Unfree I count the days and nights..., Paraphrase of Psalm XI, I am not ill... (1994). An extract from her translation of The Caucasus appears on the monument to Shevchenko in Washington D. C. (unveiled 27 June, 1964).

She has also translated many major works of Lessia Ukrain-ka — the dramatic poems Cassandra, The Orgy, Babylonian Captivity, the plays The Stone Host and The Boyar's Wife, the fairy play Forest Song, the narrative poem Robert Bruce, King of Scotland, and individual lyrical works (published in book form and/or in The Ukrainian Review); poems by Ivan Franko (the narrative poems Moses, 1973; The Death of Cain, 1998); poems by Hryhoriy Skovoroda, Yevhen Pluzhnyk, Pavlo Fylypovych, Olek-sandr Oles, Yuriy Lypa, Mykhailo Semenko, Olena Teliha, Vassyl Stus, Vassyl Symonenko a. o. A number of her translations, including Shevchenko's epic The Haidamaky and Franko's lyrics remain unpublished.

Under the auspices of UNESCO, she translated an anthology of Belarusian poetry (the first to appear in any West European lan-guage). Published in 1971 under the title Like Water; Like Fire, the anthology contains the works of 40 poets. In 2004, the publishing house of "Radio Liberty" published her translations of 122 contempo-rary Belarusian poets in a bilingual parallel-text edition Poems on Liberty. She also wrote prefaces and notes to these works. In 1984, she published a monograph "The image of the Jew in post-Stalin Belarusian Literature." Her translations of selected lyrics of Maksim Bahdanovic, Zmitrok Biadula and Ales Harun appeared in a bilingual collection The Images Swarm Free (London, 1982), and those of the sonnets of Janka Kupala in a multilingual edition (Minsk, 2002).

She has also translated poems from Polish (especially Cyprian Norwid), Spanish (Carlos Sherman), and Old Icelandic and Old English poetry. She has published articles on Shevchenko and Shakespeare, Ivan Kotliarevskyi, Ivan Franko, Volodymyr Sossiura, and Leonid Hlibov. The events of 1989—1991 gave her the theme for her poem Prologue (Be swift, my friends, be swift), and the Orange Revolution inspired her to create the multimedia event "Ukraine — from Mazeppa to the Maidan" — a brief history of the centuries-long struggle of the Ukrainian people for freedom, told through the works of Ukrainian poets.

CL

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CONTENTS

I. Dziuba. TARAS SHEVCHENKO 46 SELECTED POEMS 71 BEWITCHED ..73 BALLAD (Water flows to the dark-blue sea...) 85 BALLAD (Wild wind blowing, wild wind blowing!) ..87 BALLAD (Weary-dreary lags and drags...) 91 BALLAD (What good are my dark brows to me...) ....93 T H E N I G H T O F TARAS 95 TO T H E ETERNAL M E M O R Y O F KOTLIAREVSKY1 105 P E R E B E N D I A I l l T H E POPLAR 117 TO OSNOVYANENKO 131 IVAN PIDKOVA 137 TO N. MARKEVYCH 147 A S A M E M E N T O T O S H T E R N B E R G 149 The wind blows, speaking with the grove 151 HAMALIYA 151 T H E P L U N D E R E D G R A V E M O U N D 163 Chyhyryn. O Chyhyryn! 167 T H E DREAM 171 Why weighs life so heavy? Why drags life so dreary? 205 T O G O G O L 205 Have no envy for the rich man 207 T H E H E R E T I C (An excerpt) 209 T H E GREAT VAULT 215 T H E SERVANT-GIRL 253 T H E CAUCASUS 287 TO MY F E L L O W - C O U N T R Y M E N 297 T H E COLD RAVINE 313 TO LITTLE MARYANA 317 Days are passing, nights are passing 319 When I die, then make my grave 321 T H E R U S S A L K A 323 IN T H E FORTRESS 327 N. N. (The sun sets, and dark the mountains become...) 353 N . N. (My thirteenth year was wearing on...) 353 IRZHAVETS 357 We ask each other, aye enquiring 363 I'll gaze again on steppe and plain 363 Lord, do not give to any other. 365 T H E PROPHET 367 A little cloud glides to the sun 369 Drowsy waves, sky unwashed and dirty. 371

0 my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts 371 Not for people and their glory. 373 By the grove, in the open field 375 So it was my mother bore me 377 The wind howls along the road 379 Ah, I sit outside the house 381 Plaintively the cuckoo called 381 Beer and mead have not been drunk here 381 Kateryna had a house 385 Beyond the grove the sun comes up 389 There are no such enemies 389 Say, why have you grown so black 391 This is not a lofty poplar. 393 Both the valley stretching wide 393 Once more the post has brought to me 395 Thorns have overgrown the paths 397 On Easter Sunday, on the straw. 399 Together we grew up of old 401 Unfree I count the days and nights (first version) 405 Blaze of lights and music calling 411 T H E NEOPHYTES 413 FATE 447 T H E MUSE 449 Unfree I count the days and nights (second version) .. 451 T H E DREAM (She reaped the wheat in serfdom's labour...) 455 1 am not ill. touch wood, not 1 457 PARAPHRASE O F T H E ELEVENTH PSALM 459 TO MARKO VOVCHOK 461 N. N. (Once a lily like you...) 461 Dear God, evil once more runs riot! .,.463 Ah. I have eyes, have two eyes to me given 463 HOSEA, CHAPTER XIV 465 A pretty maiden with dark brows 469 Oak-grove, darkly-shadowed spinney. 469 The years of youth have long ceased flowing 471 Day comes and goes, night comes and goes 471 Water flows from beneath the maple 473 Once I was walking in the night 473 Should we not then cease, my friend 475 PA INTINGS. GRA PHIC WORKS 481 T. Andruschenko. TARAS SHEVCHENKO'S WORKS O F ART 490 NOTES 597 Vera Rich. Biographical information 604

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