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", "separatist", "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 consequences 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. I n 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 outside 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 LieutenantGeneral 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 humiliations 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 LifeGuards, 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 stopover of several months in Vilna, Taras, probably, received some lessons from Jan Rustemas, a wellknown 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 regardless 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 childhood, 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 professional 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 discovered 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 nobility 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 spiritual 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 claiming 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 (17691838) 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 bookish, 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 standard-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 183031, the tsarist government was determined to "Russify the Southwestern 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 t e r m 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 (17901865), 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, directed against the local gentry. Younger again was Yevhen Hrebinka (18121848). 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 literature. 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 (17781843) 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 h u m o r o u s and "sensitive." His good knowledge of traditional life, understanding of the U k r a i n i a n t e m p e r a m e n t 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 Austrianruled western Ukraine. Although Ukrainian Romanticism before Shevchenko did not manifest itself with same spiritual force as did European Romanticism (from Byron to Mickiewicz), nevertheless it considerably extended the range of Ukrainian literature. It turned, albeit in a "fragmented" 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 himself 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 p r o f o u n d 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 p o e m s 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 survive, the Ukrainian word is revealed in such a high artistic level which had never been achieved by his predecessors and c o n t e m p o r a r i e s the poets of the R o m a n t i c 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 commentaries 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, from 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 considered 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 appearance 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 i 6 p a H H a 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 second 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, finally 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 attempt 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 professional 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 idealized 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 disenchantment 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 castigation of the Ukrainian landowners found a special place in his poems of his manuscript collection 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 everywhere 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 unsuccessful) to bring the empire to trial at the bar of the intellect. The Dream a satirical phantasmagoria, grotesque pictures of symbols of Russian despotism and serfdom and the person of the emperor, Nicholas I bears witness to the final crystallization 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 December), 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 fantastic 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 remarkably 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 circumstances. 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 profundity. 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 vivifying 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 questions "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 consciousness 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 concise aphorismic form expresses the quintessence of his feelings for Ukraine and his fellow-countrymen, 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 sickness of our c o m m o n h u m a n 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 c o m m a n d s 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 18451846, 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 Cyril-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 unheardof 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 forbidden 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 c o m m o n 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-trouble, 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 "heroic" 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, distinct 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 Shevchenko'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 m a n , 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 antiserfdom 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 afternoon of 8 M a r c h 1847, Shevchenko set out from Nizhniy Novgorod 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 Aksa1

JIHCTH 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 Aksakov'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 gathered 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 different 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 (18601862) 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 understanding 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 settling 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 magnanimity 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, Shevchenko'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 p o e m 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 religious 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 previously 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*
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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 candle, 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 memory 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 2
3

Cnorami npo Tapaca lileBHeHKa. K.: Hi-iinpo, 1982. C'. 379. Ta\i ca\io. C. 372.
T a \ i caMO. C . 386.

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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 congregation. 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 another 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 18 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 condemnation of hypocrisy and false piety as out-and-out atheism. This reshaping of Shevchenko to the communist cause was, so to speak, symbolized by a painting which in Soviet times

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h u n g in the Shevchenko m u s e u m in Kyiv showing Lenin and his wife purportedly attending 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. N o r 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," Shevc h e n k o ' s works were read a n d discussed almost exclusively for their political c o n t e n t , a n d little attention was paid to t h e m 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

BEWITCHED R o a r i n g a n d g r o a n i n g rolls t h e D n i p r o , A n angry wind howls t h r o u g h t h e night, Bowing a n d b e n d i n g the high willows, A n d raising waves t o m o u n t a i n heights. A n d , at this t i m e , t h e m o o n ' s pale b e a m s P e e p e d here a n d t h e r e b e t w e e n the clouds, Like a small boat o n the blue sea. N o w rising up, n o w sinking d o w n . Still t h e third c o c k - c r o w was n o t crowed, A n d n o t a c r e a t u r e c h a n c e d t o speak, O n l y owls h o o t i n g in the grove. A n d n o w a n d t h e n t h e a s h - t r e e creaked. S u c h a night, b e n e a t h t h e m o u n t a i n , T h e r e , beside t h e s p i n n e y W h i c h shows b l a c k above t h e water, S o m e t h i n g white is g l i m m e r i n g . M a y b e a russalka-baby. W a n d e r i n g by stealth, Seeks her m o t h e r or a lad To tickle him to d e a t h . It is n o russalka r o a m i n g . But a young girl w a n d e r i n g , A n d she does not know, herself, S p e l l - b o u n d , w h a t she's doing. T h u s t h e old wise w o m a n m a d e it, So to ease her grieving, T h a t , by w a n d e r i n g at night, D o you see, while sleeping, She could seek the C o s s a c k w h o Left h e r last year h e p r o m i s e d

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T h a t he would return t o her, But p e r c h a n c e he perished! N o t with a red kerchief have T h e Cossack's eyes b e e n swathed, N o t b y her caressing tears Were his fair cheeks b a t h e d : O n a foreign field, an eagle Plucked his eyes away, A n d t h e wolves devoured his flesh S u c h m u s t be his fate! In vain the y o u n g girl waits for h i m , Every night, in vain; T h e d a r k - b r o w e d y o u t h will not return N o r greet her o n c e again. H e will not have h e r long plait l o o s e n e d , N o r h e r kerchief tied; N o t in a bed, but in her c o f f i n Shall the o r p h a n lie! Such is h e r f o r t u n e . . . O G o d of all mercy, W h y dost T h o u p u n i s h a m a i d e n so young? Because t h e p o o r child c a m e t o love so sincerely T h e Cossack's dark eyes? A h , forgive h e r this wrong! W h o m t h e n should she love? W i t h o u t f a t h e r or m o t h e r , A l o n e , like a bird o n a far distant shore. She is so y o u n g O send h e r g o o d f o r t u n e , O r strangers will m o c k her a n d laugh h e r to scorn. Is t h e dove t o be b l a m e d that she loves h e r heart's darling? Is he t o be b l a m e d t h a t the h a w k c o m e s t o slay? Grieving a n d c o o i n g a n d weary of living. She flies all a r o u n d , seeks h i m lost f r o m the way. F o r t u n a t e bird, she c a n soar high above, C a n wing u p to G o d a n d i m p l o r e for her dear. But w h o m , t h e n , O w h o m , can t h e o r p h a n a p p r o a c h , A n d w h o is t o tell her, w h o k n o w s w h e r e her love Is passing t h e night? Is he in a dark grove?

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D o e s he water his horse in t h e D a n u b e ' s swift s t r e a m ? O r p e r h a p s there's a n o t h e r , a n o t h e r he loves, A n d she, the d a r k - b r o w e d , is a past, f a d e d d r e a m ? If she were but given the wings of an eagle, She would find h e r beloved b e y o n d the blue waves, I n life she would love h i m a n d strangle h e r rival, A n d if he were d e a d , she would share t h e s a m e grave. N o t so t h e heart loves as t o share with a n o t h e r , N o r is it c o n t e n t with w h a t G o d has to give, It has n o wish to live, n o wish t o m o u r n ever; " M o u r n , " says t h o u g h t , o v e r w h e l m i n g with grief. S u c h is T h y will, t h e n , O G o d , good a n d great, S u c h is her f o r t u n e , s u c h is h e r fate. So still she walks, she speaks no s o u n d , T h e D n i p r o flows o n silently, T h e wind h a s scattered t h e black clouds, A n d lain to rest beside t h e sea. A n d f r o m t h e sky, the m o o n is p o u r i n g Its light u p o n t h e grove a n d water, A n d all is resting quietly. . . . But see! F r o m out the D n i p r o ' s tide, J u m p little c h i l d r e n , laughing there. " C o m e , let us sun ourselves!" they cry, " O u r sun is up!" ( N o c l o t h e s they wear, But braids of sedge, f o r t h e y are girls).

"Are you all here?" t h e m o t h e r calls. " C o m e , let us look for supper. Let us play a n d sport together! Sing a little song together!" "Whisht! Whisht! Will o' t h e wisp! M o t h e r gave m e life o n c e b o r n , U n b a p t i z e d , she laid me d o w n .

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M o o n above. Dearest dove, C o m e a n d sup with us t o n i g h t : I n t h e reeds a C o s s a c k lies, I n the reeds a n d sedge, a silver Ring is shining o n his finger; Young he is, with fine d a r k eyebrows, We f o u n d h i m yesterday in the oak-grove. Shine u p o n t h e o p e n field So t h a t we m a y sport at will, While the w i t c h e s are still flying, Till the m o r n i n g cocks are crying, Shine for us. . . L o o k , s o m e t h i n g goes Moving there b e n e a t h t h e oak! Whisht! Whisht! Will o' t h e wisp! M o t h e r gave m e life o n c e b o r n , U n b a p t i z e d , she laid me d o w n . " T h e u n b a p t i z e d babes shrieked with laughter, T h e grove replied; wild shrieks a b o u n d , Like t h e fierce H o r d e h e l l - b e n t o n slaughter. R u s h to the oak. . . a n d n o t a sound. . . T h e u n b a p t i z e d stop in t h e i r tracks, T h e y look: t h e r e s o m e t h i n g glimmers, S o m e creature climbing in the tree To t h e t o p m o s t limit. See, it is that s e l f - s a m e girl W i o , in her sleep, would w a n d e r ; S u c h is the bewitching spell T h a t the witch laid o n her! O n a slender t o p m o s t b r a n c h She stood. . . h e r heart was dwining. She looked r o u n d , s e a r c h i n g o n all sides. . . T h e n d o w n she started climbing. R o u n d the oak, russalka-babies

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Waiting, held their b r e a t h , Seized h e r as she c a m e , p o o r soul. A n d tickled her t o d e a t h . Wondering at her beauty, t h e y gazed At h e r long, so long. . . T h e third c o c k crowed; t h e y splashed into T h e water, a n d were gone! T h e skylark trilled its m e l o d y Soaring ever up, T h e c u c k o o called its plaintive call Sitting in the oak. T h e nightingale burst into song, It e c h o e d t h r o u g h the spinney, B e h i n d the hills a rosy blush, T h e p l o u g h m a n starts his singing. T h e grove is black above t h e water W h e r e the Poles crossed of old. Above the D n i p r o , the high g r a v e m o u n d s N o w l o o m bluely bold. A rustle passes t h r o u g h t h e grove, Sets dense osiers sighing; By t h e p a t h , b e n e a t h t h e o a k - t r e e , T h e r e t h e girl is lying, S o u n d asleep, quite deaf, it seems, To the c u c k o o calling, D o e s n o t c o u n t h o w long she'll live. . . . S o u n d asleep she's fallen. In the m e a n w h i l e , f r o m t h e oak-grove C o m e s a Cossack riding, U n d e r h i m , the raven horse C a n hardly move with tiredness. "You are weary, m y old f r i e n d , But we shall rest today: T h e r e ' s a cottage w h e r e a girl

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Will o p e n us t h e gate. Or, p e r h a p s , it is, already, O p e n e d to another. . . . G o o d horse faster; g o o d horse faster! Hurry, hurry homewards!" But t h e raven horse is weary. O n he walks, half-falling, N e a r t h e Cossack's h e a r t , it s e e m s T h e r e ' s an a d d e r crawling. "Look, it is o u r leafy o a k - t r e e . . . . T h e r e she is! G o d above! See, she fell asleep while waiting, All, m y grey-winged dove!" H e left t h e horse a n d r u s h e d towards her: "O m y G o d , m y God!" H e calls her n a m e a n d kisses her. . . But it does n o g o o d . "Why, t h e n have they p a r t e d us, M e f r o m you?" H e b r o k e I n t o frenzied laughs, a n d dashed His h e a d against t h e oak! T h e girls go out t o reap t h e rye, A n d , as girls d o , t h e y start t h e i r songs, H o w m o t h e r s bid their sons "good-bye," H o w Tatars fought the w h o l e night long. T h e y go. . . b e n e a t h a verdant oak, A tired horse is standing by, A n d n e a r the h o r s e , a h a n d s o m e young Cossack a n d a m a i d e n lie. C u r i o u s (it must be t o l d ) . T h e y c r e e p up t o give t h e m a fright, But w h e n they saw that h e was killed, I n fear they fled with all t h e i r m i g h t . All h e r young f r i e n d s g a t h e r e d r o u n d . I n girlish t e a r d r o p s b a t h e d ,

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All his c o m r a d e s gathered r o u n d , A n d started digging graves. T h e priests c a m e with t h e holy b a n n e r s , All t h e bells were tolling, T h e village paid their last respects By c u s t o m old a n d holy. T h e r e beside t h e r o a d , t h e y raised Twin m o u n d s a m o n g t h e rye. T h e r e was n o o n e there t o ask H o w t h e y c a m e to die. A m a p l e a n d a fir t h e y p l a n t e d Over t h e y o u n g lad, A n d a bright-flowered g u e l d e r - r o s e At t h e m a i d e n ' s h e a d . H e r e t h e c u c k o o o f t e n flies To call above t h e m still; H e r e t h e nightingale will fly, E a c h night, t o sing his fill, Sings t o his heart's c o n t e n t , a n d carols Till the m o o n has risen, Till, again, russalka-babies Steal out f r o m the river.
[1837, St Petersburg]

BALLAD Water flows to t h e d a r k - b l u e sea, Flows d o w n to it forever; A Cossack goes t o seek his f o r t u n e , F o r t u n e m e e t s h i m never. T h e Cossack j o u r n e y e d far away; T h e d a r k - b l u e sea is playing. T h e Cossack's heart is playing also, U n t i l a t h o u g h t speaks, saying: "Where d o you journey, w i t h o u t asking.

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To w h o s e m e r c i e s leaving F a t h e r a n d your darling m o t h e r A n d a y o u n g m a i d , grieving? In foreign parts t h e folk are strange, A m o n g t h e m life is bleak: N o o n e with w h o m t o w e e p awhile, N o o n e with w h o m to s p e a k . " O n t h e far shore t h e C o s s a c k sits, T h e d a r k - b l u e sea is playing, H e d r e a m e d that he w o u l d m e e t g o o d f o r t u n e , O n l y grief waylaid h i m . A n d n o w t h e c r a n e s in t h e i r long skeins Wing h o m e w a r d - b o u n d o n c e m o r e . T h e Cossack weeps t h e b e a t e n pathways Are overgrown with t h o r n s .
[1838, St Petersburg]

BALLAD Wild wind blowing, wild w i n d blowing! With t h e sea you're speaking, R o u s e t h e d a r k - b l u e sea, play with it, Ask the news I'm seeking. It knows w h e r e m y darling is, F o r it b o r e a n d t o o k h i m . It c a n say, the d a r k - b l u e sea, I n what place it put h i m . If the d a r k - b l u e sea has d r o w n e d M y darling, as its plunder, I'll go seek m y darling love, D r o w n all m y woes d e e p under. I shall d r o w n m y hapless fate, As a russalka bide t h e r e , I'll seek h i m in t h e black waves,

O n t h e sea-bed hide there. I shall find h i m , clasp h i m t o m e , O n his heart swoon softly, T h e n , wave, b e a r m e with m y darling W h e r e t h e wind may waft us. If m y darling's in a far l a n d , D e a r w i n d , you k n o w truly, W h e r e he goes a n d w h a t he does, T h e r e you can talk t o h i m . If he weeps, t h e n I would w e e p , If n o t , I'll sing gladly, If m y d a r k - b r o w e d d e a r h a s perished, I t o o shall perish sadly. T h e n , w i n d , b e a r m y soul away, W h e r e m y d e a r is sleeping, A n d I'll be a g u e l d e r - r o s e tree, Watch o'er his grave keeping. Easier for a n o r p h a n w h o I n foreign field is lying, If above h i m his beloved As a flower stands sighing, As flower grows, as g u e l d e r - r o s e , I'll blossom high above h i m , So foreign sun won't s c o r c h , n o r people T r a m p l e m y beloved. I n the eventide I'll grieve t h e r e , At the d a w n stand weeping, W h e n t h e sun sets I'll shed tears A n d n o o n e will see t h e m . Wild w i n d blowing, wild wind blowing! With the sea you're speaking, Rouse the d a r k - b l u e sea, play with it, Ask t h e news I ' m seeking.
[1838, St Petersburg]

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BALLAD Weary-dreary lags a n d drags Life for t h e kinless o r p h a n . N o w h e r e f r o m hills to t h e w a t e r Is there w e l c o m e f o r h i m . To have d r o w n e d in y o u t h were better, T h a n drag t h r o u g h this world's t e d i u m . To have d r o w n e d , for life is d r e a r y A n d n o w h e r e to flee to. O n e m a n ' s f o r t u n e gathers f o r h i m A g o o d harvest yonder. But m i n e , s o m e w h e r e b e y o n d t h e seas Like a sluggard w a n d e r s . Life is pleasant f o r t h e rich m a n , To k n o w h i m all h a s t e n . But w h e n people m e e t with m e T h e y find it distasteful. A girl shows a t h i c k - l i p p e d rich m a n H o n o u r a n d respect. But m e , an o r p h a n she will o n l y M o c k at a n d reject. D o n ' t you t h e n find m e g o o d - l o o k i n g , D o n ' t you find m e pleasing, D o I not love you sincerely. D i d 1 m o c k or tease you? Love', t h e n , as you will, d e a r h e a r t , Love the o n e you c h o o s e to, But w h e n you r e m e m b e r m e , D o n ' t m o c k or abuse m e . I shall w e n d t o the world's e n d . . . In a foreign c o u n t r y I'll find b e t t e r fate or else die Like leaf in t h e sun there.

T h e Cossack, grieving, went away. Leaving n o n e b e h i n d h i m , Sought f o r t u n e ' s weal in f o r e i g n field But only c a m e to die t h e r e . A n d in dying looked his last O n daylight bright a n d sunny. Weary-dreary 'tis t o die I n a foreign country.
Gatchina. November 2, 1838

BALLAD W h a t g o o d are m y dark brows t o m e , H a z e l eyes w h a t g o o d ? W h a t g o o d are m y years of y o u t h , Of h a p p y m a i d e n h o o d ? M y y o u n g years will go for n o t h i n g , Pass away all vainly, M y eyes weep, and m y dark b r o w s I n t h e w i n d fade wanly. T h e heart withers, a n d it sings As bird sings w h e n not free, W h a t g o o d is m y b e a u t y if T h e r e ' s n o good fate for me?. . . Life u p o n this earth f o r m e , A n o r p h a n , is so bleak, M y o w n p e o p l e are like strangers. N o n e with w h o m to speak. T h e r e is n o o n e w h o will ask m e W h y m y eyes are weeping, T h e r e is n o o n e w h o c a n tell m e W h a t m y heart is seeking. F o r what m y h e a r t , like turtledove N i g h t a n d day is m o a n i n g ,

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N o o n e is there w h o will ask it, N o o n e sees or knows it. Stranger people will n o t ask it, W h y s h o u l d it c o n c e r n t h e m ? Let her w e e p h e r fill, p o o r o r p h a n , Waste h e r years in yearning. Weep, t h e n , heart, weep eyes until You close in s l u m b e r weary. L o u d e r weep, m o r e bitterly, So the w i n d will h e a r you. So that across t h e d a r k - b l u e sea Wild breezes bear it for m e . To the h a n d s o m e lad w h o left m e , So t o grieve h i m sorely.
[1838, St Petersburg]

T H E N I G H T O F TARAS At the crossroads sits a k o b z a r Playing o n his kobza; Lads a n d girls all clustered r o u n d h i m , boys a n d girls Blossoming like poppies. T h e k o b z a r plays, he sings his lays, C h a n t i n g out t h e words, H o w t h e Cossacks fought t h e Poles, T h e Muscovites, t h e H o r d e . H o w t h e w h o l e assembly g a t h e r e d Early o n a Sunday; H o w t h e y buried a y o u n g C o s s a c k In a verdant gully. T h e kobzar plays, a n d sings t o it, A n d m a k e s m i s f o r t u n e smile: O n c e t h e r e was t h e H e t m a n a t e It passed b e y o n d recall!

A c l o u d rises b e y o n d t h e L y m a n , A cloud f r o m t h e plain soaring U k r a i n a , m o u r n i n g , grieving, S u c h is h e r ill-fortune! Like a small child she grieves a n d weeps But n o o n e c o m e s t o cherish A n d rescue her . . . T h e C o s s a c k host Is fallen n o w a n d perished. Glory and their homeland perished, A n d n o haven, n o w h e r e A n d the scions of bold Cossacks U n b a p t i s e d m u s t grow now. Love in sin, unblessed by m a r r i a g e , Priestless are interred, A n d t h e i r faith is sold t o Jews, A n d they d e b a r r e d f r o m c h u r c h . While Poles a n d U n i a t e s , like j a c k d a w s Covering t h e plain, S w o o p d o w n , to give h e r g o o d advice N o o n e still remains. Nalyvaiko did c o m e forth H e a n d his forces vanished! Cossack Pavliuha did c o m e f o r t h A n d followed in like m a n n e r ! Taras Triassylo t h e n c a m e f o r t h , With bitter tears, he said: " M y poor Ukraina trampled, U n d e r Polish tread! Ukraina, Ukraina! M o t h e r , m o t h e r dearest! W h e n I but recall your fate M y heart at o n c e is weeping! W h e r e is the C o s s a c k host, a n d w h e r e Are t h e red jerkins scattered? W h e r e the f r e e d o m - d e s t i n y ? The H e t m a n s and their banners?

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W h e r e is it vanished? B u r n e d t o ashes? O r has t h e d a r k - b l u e sea covered Your lofty m o u n t a i n s , d r o w n i n g d e e p Your high g r a v e m o u n d s forever? M o u n t a i n s hold t h e i r p e a c e , t h e sea play, G r a v e m o u n d s sadly b r o o d now, O'er the scions of bold Cossacks It is Poles w h o rule now. Play, t h e n , sea! K e e p silent, m o u n t a i n s ! Wild w i n d , r o a m t h e plain! Weep, you scions of bold Cossacks! S u c h is y o u r ill-fate!" Taras Triassylo t h e n c a m e f o r t h , To save t h e faith f r o m woe. T h e m i g h t y eagle t h e n c a m e f o r t h , G a v e t h e Poles cause to know! N o b l e Triassylo t h e n c a m e f o r t h : "We have grieved long e n o u g h ! But let us go, m y f r i e n d s a n d brothers, To fight the Polish foe!" T h r o u g h o u t three days, t h r o u g h o u t three nights, Triassylo fought a n d m o r e , F r o m L y m a n to Trubailo t h e plain Was strewn with corpses o'er. T h e noble Cossack's strength was failing, Heavy his heart was a c h i n g ; A n d wicked K o n i e c p o l s k i f o u n d G r e a t cause for m e r r y - m a k i n g , All t h e nobility he g a t h e r e d , Set t h e m all a-feasting, Taras his Cossacks bold t h e n g a t h e r e d , C o u n s e l he was seeking: ' O t a m a n s a n d c o m r a d e s daring, Brothers m i n e , m y sons,

Give m e , pray, your g o o d advice. What should now be d o n e . O u r Polish foes are b a n q u e t i n g , T h e y celebrate o u r rain!' 'Let t h e m b a n q u e t as they will! M u c h good may it d o t h e m ! Let the a c c u r s e d foe b a n q u e t o n U n t i l sunset is over, But m o t h e r - n i g h t will counsel us. T h e Poles we shall discover.' T h e sun lay d o w n b e h i n d t h e m o u n t a i n , A n d t h e stars c a m e o u t , Like a c l o u d , the Cossack f o r c e Ringed the Poles a b o u t . T h e m o o n stood high a m i d t h e sky T h e c a n n o n roared a n d t h u n d e r e d ; S u d d e n the Polish lordlings w o k e N o w h e r e t o take cover! S u d d e n the Polish lordlings w o k e But n e v e r m o r e did rise T h e sun c a m e up, a n d o n e a n d all T h e y lay there side-by-side. Flowing like serpent, c r i m s o n - r e d , T h e Alta brings t h e tidings, So ravens f r o m t h e plain might fly To eat t h e Polish lordlings. Flying the black ravens c a m e To rouse t h o s e h i g h - a n d - m i g h t i e s , While the Cossack host assembled To t h a n k G o d Almighty. T h e black ravens cawed a n d c r o a k e d , D u g the eyes o u t , tearing, While bold Cossacks sang t h e song Of that night of daring,

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Of that night of b l o o d w h i c h b r o u g h t Glory to the endeavour Of Taras a n d his Cossack host A n d m a d e Poles sleep forever. O n the plain a g r a v e m o u n d s t a n d s Black above the s t r e a m ; W h e r e the Cossack blood o n c e flowed N o w the grass grows green. A raven sits u p o n t h e m o u n d , F r o m h u n g e r it is cawing, A Cossack recalls t h e H e t m a n a t e , Recalls it, a n d is m o u r n i n g . . . O n c e , it was, we ruled ourselves, But we shall rule n o m o r e . . . Yet we never shall forget T h e C o s s a c k f a m e of yore! . ." Grieving, t h e kobzar ceased, s o m e h o w His h a n d s refused t o play, A n d , gathered r o u n d h i m , boys a n d girls Wiped t h e i r tears away. T h e k o b z a r went along the r o a d , Suddenly, what a lay H e starts t o play, f r o m grief! T h e lads D a n c e r o u n d , he sings a n d plays: "Let this be the way it goes! Sit t h e r e , c h i l d r e n , b e h i n d t h e stove, I, being sad, will t o the i n n , T h e r e I shall find m y wife w i t h i n , Shall find m y wife, a n d stand a r o u n d , A n d laugh, o u r e n e m i e s t o c o n f o u n d ! "
[November 6, 1838, St Petersburg]

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TO T H E ETERNAL M E M O R Y O F KOTLIAREVSKYI Sunlight glowing, breezes blowing, F r o m field t o t h e valley, O'er stream's billows, w i t h t h e willows, G u e l d e r - r o s e leans sadly, O n t h e g u e l d e r - r o s e a little N e s t is swaying, lonely But what befell the nightingale? D o not ask! W h o knows it? Recall evil but what m a t t e r . . . It is g o n e a n d past now; Recall good t h e heart will languish: W h y did things n o t last so? So I look, so I recall: Of old, in the twilight, Twittering filled the g u e l d e r - r o s e ; N o n e c o u l d pass it by t h e n , N o t t h e rich m a n , w h o m g o o d f o r t u n e Cossets like a m o t h e r Tending, w a t c h i n g over h i m . He c a n n o t pass it ever. A n d the o r p h a n w h o , ere dawnlight M u s t rise for toil dreary, Pauses, listens, a n d , it s e e m s As if t h e y speak sincerely Father a n d m o t h e r ; o n c e again T h e heart beats lightly, p a i n - f r e e A n d t h e world s e e m s E a s t e r - b r i g h t , A n d h u m a n s act h u m a n e l y ! O r t h e girl w h o e a c h day b e h o l d s T h e o n e she loves so deeply, W h o like an o r p h a n d r o o p s a n d withers, K n o w s n o t w h e r e to flee t o

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fM
She c o m e s d o w n the p a t h t o weep, A m o n g the willows crying, T h e nightingale begins t o sing Straightway h e r tears are drying. She listens, a n d she smiles again, Wonders in the dark spinney, As if she talked with h e r beloved . . . A n d t h e bird is singing. . . So smoothly, so couthly, as if t o G o d h y m n i n g Till the m u r d e r e r c o m e s o n t h e pathway t o lurk With a knife in his b o o t - t o p e c h o e s r u n t h r o u g h t h e spinney, R e s o u n d a n d grow silent: w h y sing for his work? Song c a n n o t c h e c k his base soul, n o r a m e n d it, W h y waste the voice? Teaching h i m is n o use! Let h i m rage till he c o m e s t o his life's ending, A n d over his corpse ravens c a w out the news. T h e valley sleeps, o n t h e g u e l d e r - r o s e the N i g h t i n g a l e is slumbering, T h e wind t h r o u g h t h e valley blows now, E c h o e s t h r o u g h the oak-grove ring, E c h o e s play, 'tis G o d ' s word s p o k e n , Poor folk rise for daily toil, C o w s are w a n d e r i n g t h r o u g h t h e oak-grove. Girls c o m e with their water-pails, T h e sun p e e p s out it is s h e e r heaven, Willow smiles feast-day all r o u n d , T h e m u r d e r e r t o tears is given. . . So it was o n c e b e h o l d it n o w : Sunlight glowing, breezes blowing, F r o m field t o t h e valley, O'er stream's billows, w i t h t h e willows, G u e l d e r - r o s e leans sadly, O n t h e g u e l d e r - r o s e a little N e s t is swaying, lonely. But w h a t befell t h e nightingale? D o not ask! W h o knows it?
-

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N o t long past, n o t long past in o u r U k r a i n a , Old Kotliarevskyi sang forth in this way, His voice has ceased; we as o r p h a n s r e m a i n now, Like t h e hills a n d t h e seas, w h e r e his path first did stray, W h e r e t h e F a r - r o a m e r o n c e led, His warrior b a n d b e h i n d h i m , All a b a n d o n e d , all is grieving, Like Troy's ruins p i n n i n g , All is grieving only glory S h i n e s like sun unfailing. T h e K o b z a r does not die, forever, Folk will praise a n d hail h i m . So long as p e o p l e will live, Father, You will rule forever, So long as sun shall shine in heaven. M e n will forget t h e e never! 0 righteous soul! Pray a c c e p t m y words s p o k e n , A c c e p t t h e m a n d greet t h e m , unwise but sincere, D o n o t leave t h e m o r p h a n e d , as you left t h e oak-grove, P o u r f o r t h t o m e at least o n e word as t o k e n . Sing t o m e of U k r a i n a so dear. M a y m y soul smile, in this f o r e i g n land lonely, Smile at least o n c e , seeing h o w you did b e a r All the glory of C o s s a c k d o m , in o n e word only. I n t o a n o r p h a n ' s p o o r frugal h o m e there. P o u r it, grey eagle, for I a m a l o n e here, O r p h a n e d in this world, in a foreign land faring; L o o k at t h e sea, so d e e p , so widely flowing, A n d b a c k t o the f u r t h e r shore n o boat will b e a r me! 1 recall n o w A e n e a s , recall k i n d r e d d e a r now, Recall a n d at o n c e , like child, shed bitter tears n o w : A n d the waves t o t h e f u r t h e r shore h a s t e n a n d roar. A n d , maybe, for I'm dark h e r e , a n d n o t h i n g c a n see now, M a y b e o n that f u r t h e r shore evil fate weeps n o w ? Everywhere people laugh at t h e o r p h a n in scorn. So, let t h e m laugh, but the sea t h e r e is playing,

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T h e r e sun, there t h e m o o n give m o r e brilliant light, T h e g r a v e m o u n d still speaks with the wind in the plain t h e r e , A n d there with the m o u n d n o m o r e lonely m y plight! O righteous soul! Pray a c c e p t m y words s p o k e n , Accept t h e m a n d greet t h e m , u n w i s e , but sincere, D o not leave t h e o r p h a n as t h o u left the oak-grove, P o u r forth to m e at least o n e w o r d as t o k e n , Sing t o m e of U k r a i n a so dear.
[November December 1838, St Petersburg]

PEREBENDIA P e r e b e n d i a , old a n d sightless, (Surely you all k n o w h i m ) Playing o n his kobza ever, Far a n d wide he's r o a m i n g . People all k n o w w h o 'tis plays so, A n d t h a n k h i m sincerely; H e drives their grief away, a l t h o u g h F o r h i m t h e world is dreary. F r i e z e - c l a d w r e t c h , b e n e a t h t h e fence D a y a n d night he tarries; T h e r e ' s n o h o m e for h i m o n earth; A n d m i s f o r t u n e harries Jesting over his old head, Yet he e n d u r e s t h e b u r d e n ; T h e r e h e sits a n d sings his song: "Meadow, d o n o t m u r m u r ! " H e sings his song, recalls that he L o n e in t h e world m u s t live now. So he sits b e n e a t h the f e n c e Sorrowing a n d grieving. S u c h , i n d e e d , is P e r e b e n d i a , With ever c h a n g i n g m o o d s ,

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N o w he sings t h e song of Chalyi, Horlytsia n o w he'll c h o o s e , With t h e girls out in the pasture, Hryts or Springtime ditty, With t h e lads d o w n at the inn, Serbyn or Barmaid pretty, With y o u n g h u s b a n d s at a feast ( W h e n in-law trouble's l o o m i n g ) The poplar-tree adversity A n d t h e n In woodlands gloomy. Sings Lazar in t h e bazaar, A n d , so folk k n o w the story, Sings, weary-dreary, h o w the Sich Was r u i n e d , robbed of glory. S u c h , i n d e e d is P e r e b e n d i a , old With e v e r - c h a n g i n g m o o d s , Sings his song a n d smiles his smile, A n d t h e n in tears he broods. T h e w i n d is blowing, softly blowing. T h r o u g h the field roams, straying, O n t h e g r a v e m o u n d sits the kobzar, O n his kobza playing, R o u n d h i m , like a sea, t h e s t e p p e - l a n d Spreads a n d bluely s h i m m e r s , Gravemound beyond gravemound and Yonder, a hazy glimmer. G r e y m o u s t a c h e a n d aged scalp-lock T h e wind stirs, wildly fringing. As it draws close, as it listens To t h e kobzar's singing. H o w t h e h e a r t smiles, h o w the blind eyes are weeping, It listens, blows softly. . . T h e old m a n is hid I n t h e steppe, o n a g r a v e m o u n d , t h a t n o o n e may see h i m , So t h e w i n d t h r o u g h the field bring t h e message it bids,

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So folk should not hear, for divine words it carries, A n d the heart t h e n c a n freely converse with the L o r d , A n d t h e heart t h e n can sing, like a bird, of G o d ' s glory, A n d t h o u g h t in t h e c l o u d s to t h e world's e n d m a y soar i n the clouds, Like mighty eagle will fly, winging higher, U n t i l with its b r o a d wings it beats o n the blue, It rests o n t h e sun, a n d asking, e n q u i r e s W h e r e it slumbers at n i g h t - t i m e , h o w it w a k e n s a n e w ; It h e a r k e n s a n d listens to words t h e sea whispers, O r asks the b l a c k m o u n t a i n , "Why, t h e n , are you d u m b ? " T h e n r e t u r n s to the sky, f o r o n e a r t h sorrow lingers, F o r in all its expanse, there's n o c o r n e r as h o m e F o r o n e w h o k n o w s all things, hears all things arightly, W h a t the sea whispers, w h e r e sleeps t h e sun nightly, Yet in this world n o o n e will w e l c o m e h i m n o n e . Like t h e h i g h sun, dwelling lone a m o n g people, T h e y k n o w h i m , for still t h e e a r t h bears h i m , i n d e e d ; But if t h e y should hear how, his lonely w a t c h keeping, H e sings o n t h e g r a v e m o u n d , he speaks with t h e sea, T h e n t h e y would m o c k t h e divine word h e carries, Would n a m e it as foolish, would n o t let h i m tarry, "Let h i m r o a m , " t h e y would say, "far over the sea!" Wise t h o u art, i n d e e d , m y kobzar, Wisely act a n d sagely, Father, t h a t t o sing a n d talk, y o u C o m e out t o the g r a v e m o u n d ; C o m e , m y f r i e n d , sing to t h e e n d , U n t i l in rest eternal T h e heart sleeps, but truly sing W h e r e folk h e a r n o t , t o s p u r n y o u . A n d , lest t h e y indeed should m o c k you, H u m o u r all their fancies, T h o s e w h o pay we m u s t obey W h e n t h e y call the dances!

T h a t is Perebendia, old With e v e r - c h a n g i n g m o o d s , Merrily he sings his song, A n d t h e n in grief he broods.

[1839, St Petersburg]

THE POPLAR T h r o u g h the oak-grove the wind whines, T h r o u g h t h e field r o a m s , playing, Sets t h e p o p l a r by t h e roadside B e n d i n g , deeply swaying. S l e n d e r stature, b r o a d leaves verdure Vainly their green g l i m m e r s While the plain, like t h e b r o a d m a i n Bluely shines and s h i m m e r s . T h e c h u m a k o n his j o u r n e y sees it, Bows his h e a d b e f o r e it; T h e s h e p h e r d with his r e e d - p i p e sits O n t h e g r a v e m o u n d in the m o r n i n g . Sees it a n d his heart is a c h i n g , N o t o n e grass-blade nigh it. All a l o n e , like a p o o r o r p h a n A m o n g strangers dying. W h o ' d t e n d , t o die in the steppe, A tree so slender, lissom? Wait, I shall reveal it all. Girls, pay heed and listen. O n c e a d a r k - b r o w e d m a i d e n loved A Cossack, dearly cherished. Fell in love, but could n o t k e e p h i m ; H e went away a n d perished. . . H a d she k n o w n he'd go away,

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She'd have refrained f r o m loving, H a d she k n o w n that he would perish, She'd have stopped h i m leaving; H a d she k n o w n she'd not have gone So late to f e t c h t h e water, N o r stood with her love 'neath t h e willow To m i d n i g h t a n d after. . . H a d she k n o w n ! . . . But it is not g o o d To k n o w what's waiting for us In t h e world, b e f o r e it h a p p e n s ! D o n ' t try, girls, I i m p l o r e you! D o n o t ask to k n o w y o u r fate. W h o m to love a n d cherish T h e heart alone knows. Let it wither, Before it is buried, Because, d e a r d a r k - b r o w e d girls, not long Shine t h o s e eyes of hazel, A n d the fair c o m p l e x i o n blushes, N o t long, m y d e a r m a i d e n s . Before n o o n it all will wither, D a r k brows lose t h e i r lustre, So t h e n , fall in love a n d love As the heart instructs you. In the meadow, nightingale Trills o n t h e g u e l d e r - r o s e - t r e e , T h e C o s s a c k lad bursts into song As t h r o u g h t h e vale goes he, Sings until t h e d a r k - b r o w e d girl C o m e s f r o m h e r h o m e to m e e t h i m ; A n d t h e n he'll ask, straightaway. D i d h e r m o t h e r beat her? T h e r e t h e two will s t a n d , e m b r a c i n g , Nightingale sings sweetly; T h e y listen a n d t h e n separate,

Both j o y f u l f r o m t h e i r m e e t i n g . T h e r e is n o o n e that will see it, N o o n e will ask, seeking: "Where were you, w h a t did you do?" She only k n o w s the secret . . . She has loved, fallen in love. H e r p o o r heart was reeling. H e r t e n d e r heart did not k n o w h o w To warn h e r 'gainst h e r feelings. It did n o t w a r n her she r e m a i n e d , D a y a n d night c o o e d drearly, Like a she-dove w i t h o u t h e - d o v e , With n o o n e to h e a r her. In the meadow, nightingale Trills n o t o'er t h e stream's billows, T h e d a r k - b r o w e d girl n o l o n g e r sings S t a n d i n g b e n e a t h t h e willow, She d o e s n o t sing, f o r o r p h a n - l i k e She finds t h e w h o l e world d r e a r y Without h e r darling father, m o t h e r Seem like strangers merely, W i t h o u t h e r darling t h e s u n shines But s e e m s a foe jeering! Without h e r darling, life's a grave A n d yet h e r heart is beating. A year went by, a n o t h e r year, N o C o s s a c k c o m e s , however. Like a f a d e d flower she withers; M o t h e r asks her never: "Daughter, w h y d o you t h u s languish?" D o e s not ask. In secret With a m a n grey-haired a n d wealthy She r e a c h e d an a g r e e m e n t . "Wed h i m , daughter!" says h e r m o t h e r , " D o n ' t live aye a m a i d e n .

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H e is rich a n d all a l o n e . You'll be a fine lady!" "1 don't w a n t to be a lady, Won't accept his offer. Use t h e b e t r o t h a l towels I've m a d e To lower m y coffin. Let the priests sing dirges f o r m e , Let m y f r i e n d s w e e p o'er m e . R a t h e r t h a n m e e t h i m , to lie In d e a t h is lighter for me!" T h e old m o t h e r did n o t h e e d her. D i d w h a t she k n e w ever. A n d t h e d a r k - b r o w e d girl looked o n , H e l d her p e a c e a n d w i t h e r e d . O n e night to t h e witch she w e n t , To have h e r cast her f u t u r e , H o w long she m u s t live o n e a r t h , H e r loneliness e n d u r i n g . "Dearest G r a n n y , darling dove, D e a r heart, darling m o t h e r , Tell m e , please, sincerely, truly, W h e r e is m y beloved? Live a n d well? D o e s he still love m e ? O r did he forsake m e ? Tell m e , t h e n , w h e r e is m y dear. To the world's e n d I'll take me! Dearest G r a n n y , darling dove. Tell m e , you k n o w surely! F o r m y m o t h e r ' s f o u n d an old m a n , As a b r i d e g r o o m for me! To love such a m a n , d e a r G r a n n y , M y heart will not t e a c h me! I would d r o w n myself a n d yet To lose one's soul is grievous. . . . If m y d a r k - b r o w e d lad's not living,

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Work it. G r a n n y dearest, T h a t I return h o m e n e v e r m o r e . Life is weary, weary. T h e old m a n ' s t h e r e with m a t c h m a k e r s , Tell m y f o r t u n e plainly!" "Right, m y daughter! Rest a little, T h e n you m u s t obey m e . I t o o was o n c e young, I felt T h e s e l f - s a m e sorrow deeply! T h a t is past now. I have l e a r n e d well: N o w I c a n help people. A n d your f o r t u n e , m y d e a r daughter, Two years b a c k I k n e w it, Two years b a c k I p l u c k e d t h e herbs, N e e d e d f o r m y brewing." T h e old w i t c h went, t o o k d o w n what s e e m e d A n i n k - p o t f r o m t h e shelf: "This will work t h e spell to aid you! G o d o w n t o the well Before t h e crowing of the c o c k s , Wash t h e r e in t h e water, D r i n k a little of this p o t i o n , 'Twill cure your sorrow, daughter! You must drink, t h e n r u n y o u r fastest, So n o noise is c o m i n g , D o n ' t look r o u n d , until you're standing W h e r e you p a r t e d f r o m h i m . You will rest t h e r e , till the m o o n stands H i g h a m i d the heavens, D r i n k again a n d if he c o m e s n o t , D r i n k a third t i m e , even. T h e first d r a u g h t you'll o n c e m o r e be As you were last year, dearie! N e x t draught h o r s e - h o o v e s in the steppe Will r e - e c h o clearly, If y o u r darling C o s s a c k lives.

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Straightway he'll stand b e f o r e you! But the third draught daughter, d o not Ask w h a t will befall you. But h e e d this d o not cross yourself, O r all will go t o waste, dear. G o you t h e n , a n d see o n c e m o r e Your last-year's lovely face, dear." She t o o k hold of t h e p o t i o n , bowed: "Dearest G r a n n y , t h a n k you!" She left t h e house: t o go or n o t ? "No! I'll n o t draw b a c k now!" She went. . . She washed herself, she d r a n k ; She s e e m e d herself n o longer, A s e c o n d t i m e , a third a n d as if Sleeping, sang h e r song t h e r e . She s e e m e d to fly as if b o r n e high O n wings, in the steppe l a n d e d . L a n d e d , standing, weeping sadly, She sang: " S w i m , d e a r swan, O swim across T h e d a r k - b l u e sea swift gliding, Grow, d e a r poplar-sapling, grow, Ever higher, higher, G r o w you lissomly a n d tall, To the c l o u d s of h e a v e n , Ask G o d : shall I find m y b r i d e g r o o m . O r not find h i m ever? Grow, grow tall, look out across T h e d a r k - b l u e sea to find h i m ; O n t h e far shore is m y f o r t u n e , O n this shore b u t pining. S o m e w h e r e there m y d a r k - b r o w e d darling, Sings a n d revels gladly, While I l a m e n t , y o u t h vainly spent

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W a t c h i n g for h i m sadly. Say to h i m , m y dearest h e a r t . T h a t people deride m e ; Say to h i m that I shall perish W i t h o u t h i m beside m e . N o w even m y o w n m o t h e r w a n t s I n earth t o lay m e deeply T h o u g h w h o will t h e n r e m a i n t o w a t c h A n d t e n d h e r old h e a d meetly? W h o will w a t c h o'er her, ask h e r needs, C a r e f o r h e r in age rightly? O m y m o t h e r ! O m y fate! G o d , D e a r G o d Almighty! L o o k for h i m , poplar! If he is n o t Living, t h e n weep deeply, Before sunrise, very early, W h e n n o o n e will see it. Grow, d e a r h e a r t , d e a r p o p l a r grow, Ever higher, higher, Swim, d e a r swan, O swim across T h e d a r k - b l u e sea swift gliding." So the d a r k - b r o w e d m a i d e n w e p t , Sang a m i d her sobbing, A n d a w o n d e r in the plain She t u r n e d into a poplar. T h r o u g h t h e oak-grove t h e w i n d whines, T h r o u g h t h e field r o a m s , playing. Sets the p o p l a r by the roadside Bending, deeply swaying.
[1839, St Petersburg]

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TO OSNOVYANENKO T h e rapids p o u n d , the m o o n is rising, As it rose in all f o r e t i m e , G o n e is t h e Sich, a n d vanished he W h o in past days ruled o'er it. G o n e is t h e Sich! T h e rushes ask T h e D n i p r o , sadly saying: "Where, now, have o u r children g o n e ? W h e r e , now, are they playing?" Flying r o u n d , the lapwing wails As if f o r h e r babes weeping. Sunlight glows, t h e wild wind blows, O'er Cossack s t e p p e - l a n d sweeping. O n all sides in that steppe, high g r a v e m o u n d s , Rise u p , m o u r n i n g , asking T h e wild wind: "Where are o u r lads, W h e r e n o w are they masters? W h e r e n o w d o t h e y hold t h e i r b a n q u e t s , W h e r e d o you still linger? C o m e b a c k h o m e to us! F o r see, Ears of rye d r o o p limply W h e r e of old you grazed your steeds, W h e r e rustled the esparto, WTiere in c r i m s o n sea flowed T h e blood of Pole a n d Tatar. C o m e ye h o m e to us!" "They'll c o m e not," T h e d a r k - b l u e sea spoke, roaring, " T h e y will c o m e n o t h o m e again, F o r ever t h e y have fallen!" True i n d e e d , true, d a r k - b l u e sea, Such the fortune deemed them, N e v e r shall c o m e b a c k t h o s e h o p e d for, Never come back freedom, N e v e r c o m e back C o s s a c k d o m , N o r H e t m a n s rise u p ever,

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N e v e r m o r e shall U k r a i n a With red jerkins be covered. All in tatters, like an o r p h a n , O n D n i p r o ' s b a n k s she weeps now; Weary-dreary o r p h a n h o o d , A n d t h e r e is n o n e to see it. . . Save t h e f o e m a n , a n d he smiles. . . Smile f o e m a n in y o u r s h a m e , then! But n o t for long, f o r all will perish. Yet glory knows n o waning, K n o w s n o waning, still p r o c l a i m i n g H o w t h e world o n c e w e n d e d , W h o s e cause was right, a n d w h o s e u n j u s t , F r o m w h o m are we d e s c e n d e d . This o u r t h o u g h t a n d this o u r song Shall never die n o r perish. . . This, g o o d p e o p l e , is o u r glory, U k r a i n e ' s glory cherished! W i t h o u t gold, n o r precious stones, N o r shrewd words t o express it, But r e s o u n d i n g , glory true, Like G o d ' s own gospel blessed. Well t h e n , f a t h e r - o t a m a n . D o I sing aright? Or, if not. . . But that's e n o u g h ! I a m far f r o m bright. M o r e o v e r this is Muscovy, Foreigners all r o u n d me. "What's t h e m a t t e r ? " you might say, "Why should that c o n f o u n d m e ? " H e r e t h e y laugh to h e a r the p s a l m W h i c h with tears flows over, Here they laugh! 'Tis h a r d , d e a r father, To live a m o n g f o e m e n ! I t o o would have f o u g h t , m a y b e , H a d strength to m e b e e n g r a n t e d ,

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Would have sung, h a d s o m e small voice, But it has quite d e p a r t e d . I n d e e d , m y father, m y dear f r i e n d , This is an evil b u r d e n . Lost in t h e snows, I t o myself Sing "Meadow, d o not m u r m u r ! " A n d that is all. But you, d e a r father. As you k n o w full truly, You have a g o o d voice, a n d p e o p l e Pay you h o n o u r duly. So sing t o t h e m , m y d e a r f r i e n d , Of Sich a n d g r a v e m o u n d s serried, W h e n it was they piled e a c h high, A n d w h o m within t h e y buried; Sing of olden days, t h a t wonder, All that was, long e n d e d , To it go t h a t , willy-nilly. T h e w h o l e world will a t t e n d t h e n , A n d learn w h a t passed in U k r a i n a , A n d for w h a t she perished, A n d for w h a t the Cossack glory T h r o u g h t h e whole world flourished. To it, mighty eagle, father! Let m e w e e p a n d m o u r n t h e n . A n d my own dear Ukraina Let m e see o n c e m o r e t h e n ; Let m e h e a r o n c e m o r e the sea Playing in its billows, H e a r h o w a y o u n g girl sings S t a n d i n g ' n e a t h t h e willow. Hryts,

Let m y p o o r heart smile o n c e m o r e T h o u g h f r o m its o w n land severed. Ere in strange earth, in a strange c o f f i n , It lies at rest forever.
[October December 1839, St Petersburg]

IVAN P I D K O V A I O n c e , of old, in U k r a i n a C a n n o n roared a n d t h u n d e r e d , O n c e , of old, the Z a p o r o z h i a n s K n e w h o w to rule, u n h i n d e r e d . A n d they ruled, a n d w o n themselves F r e e d o m a n d great glory. T h a t has passed a n d only g r a v e m o u n d s Are left f r o m t h e i r story. Lofty, high those g r a v e m o u n d s loom. W h e r e o n c e to rest t h e y laid T h e fair b o d y of a C o s s a c k W r a p p e d in red kerchief. H i g h those g r a v e m o u n d s are, they l o o m Blackly, high as hills, In t h e plain, with the w i n d s they're fain To talk of f r e e d o m still. Witness to the old grandsires' glory With the wind now speaking, A n d in t h e dew, t h e g r a n d s o n t o o Sings with t h e m at his reaping. Of old, o n c e , in U k r a i n a , Evil t o o d a n c e d madly, A n d in t h e tavern sorrow with Its ladle stirred the m e a d . O n c e of old in U k r a i n a , Life was g o o d a n d pleasing. . . Well, let us r e m e m b e r ! M a y b e T h e heart will find s o m e ease t h e n .

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II
A black cloud f r o m b e y o n d L y m a n T h e sky a n d sun is veiling, T h e d a r k - b l u e sea like a wild beast N o w g r o a n i n g a n d n o w wailing. All a r o u n d , waves rise like hills, N o r e a r t h , n o r sky is seen. D n i p r o ' s m o u t h is all in flood " C o m e on lads, all t o g e t h e r To t h e boats! T h e sea is playing Let us go a n d revel." T h e Z a p o r o z h i a n s all p o u r f o r t h Boats hide L y m a n f r o m view: "Play, t h e n , sea," they start t h e i r song! T h e waves are c a p p e d with s p u m e . T h e heart's reeling. But t o C o s s a c k s T h i s is h o w things m u s t be. O n t h e y sail a n d sing t h e i r songs, T h e fisher-bird flies over. . . A n d at the h e a d the o t a m a n Leads t h e m , h e knows whither. H e paces u p a n d d o w n t h e b o a t , Pipe in his m o u t h stops b u r n i n g , H e looks hither, he looks thither, To w h a t task to t u r n n o w H e twirls at his black m o u s t a c h e s , Gives his s c a l p - l o c k a flourish. H e lifts his cap. T h e b o a t s are halted. "Let the f o e m e n perish! But, o t a m a n s , m y noble lads, N o t o n Sinope's shore! But to Tsarhrad, to t h e Sultan, We'll go as guests for sure!" "Aye aye! F a t h e r - O t a m a n ! " All r o u n d t h e i r cry is roiling.

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II
A black c l o u d f r o m b e y o n d L y m a n T h e sky a n d sun is veiling, T h e d a r k - b l u e sea like a wild beast N o w g r o a n i n g a n d n o w wailing. All a r o u n d , waves rise like hills, N o r earth, n o r sky is seen. D n i p r o ' s m o u t h is all in flood " C o m e o n lads, all t o g e t h e r To t h e boats! T h e sea is playing Let us go a n d revel." T h e Z a p o r o z h i a n s all p o u r forth Boats hide L y m a n f r o m view: "Play, t h e n , sea," t h e y start t h e i r song! T h e waves are c a p p e d with s p u m e . T h e heart's reeling. But to C o s s a c k s T h i s is h o w things m u s t be. O n they sail a n d sing t h e i r songs, T h e fisher-bird flies over. . . A n d at t h e h e a d t h e o t a m a n Leads t h e m , he k n o w s whither. H e paces u p a n d d o w n the b o a t , Pipe in his m o u t h stops b u r n i n g , H e looks hither, he looks thither. To w h a t task t o t u r n n o w H e twirls at his black m o u s t a c h e s , Gives his s c a l p - l o c k a flourish. H e lifts his cap. T h e b o a t s are halted. "Let the f o e m e n perish! But, o t a m a n s , m y noble lads, N o t o n Sinope's shore! But t o Tsarhrad, to t h e Sultan, We'll go as guests for sure!" "Aye aye! F a t h e r - O t a m a n ! " All r o u n d t h e i r cry is roiling.

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" T h a n k you, lads." H e d o n s his cap. O n c e m o r e t h e sea is boiling, T h e d a r k - b l u e sea. A n d he o n c e m o r e A l o n g the d e c k is pacing, A n d at t h e waves t h e O t a m a n Silently is gazing.
[1839, St Petersburg]

0 m y t h o u g h t s , m y heartfelt t h o u g h t s 1 a m t r o u b l e d for y o u . W h y have you ranged yourselves o n p a p e r In your r a n k s of sorrow? W h y did t h e wind not scatter you Like d u s t m o t e s in the steppe? W h y did ill-fate not overlie You, h e r babes, while she slept? F o r ill-fate bore you but to m o c k a n d b e c l o w n you; You were watered by tears w h y did t h e y not d r o w n you? Sweep you d o w n t o t h e sea? Wash you i n t o t h e plain? . . . N o o n e would ask t h e n w h a t p a i n s m e w i t h i n , N o o n e would ask t h e n why I curse m y fate. W h y I find life so dreary? N o r say, with a grin "There is n a u g h t to be done!" C h i l d r e n m i n e , O m y flowers! F o r w h a t have I loved you a n d w a t c h e d over you? Is t h e r e o n e heart in t h e world t o weep w i t h you. As I have wept? M a y b e my guess will c o m e true! P e r h a p s t h e r e will be f o u n d a girl's H e a r t , hazel eyes to p o u r Tears for these, m y heartfelt t h o u g h t s , I ask n o t h i n g m o r e . . . O n e t e a r f r o m hazel eyes a n d I A m lord of lords in glory!

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0 m y t h o u g h t s , m y heartfelt t h o u g h t s , 1 a m t r o u b l e d for you. F o r those lovely hazel eyes, F o r dark brows so pretty, T h e heart was rent a n d smiled again, Pouring forth its ditties; Poured t h e m forth as it k n e w how, F o r t h e dark of n i g h t - t i m e , F o r the verdant c h e r r y - o r c h a r d . F o r a y o u n g girl's kindness, F o r U k r a i n a with h e r steppes A n d her lofty g r a v e m o u n d s , H e a r t was reeling, was unwilling To sing a m o n g strangers, Was unwilling, in this forest, I n this snow t o g a t h e r T h e Cossack host t o c o u n c i l h e r e With t h e i r staves a n d b a n n e r s . . . Let the souls of Cossacks hover, T h e r e in U k r a i n a , F r o m e n d to e n d t h e r e it is b r o a d A n d joyful, like the f r e e d o m W h i c h has long since passed away. . . D n i p r o , like broad sea. lies t h e r e , Steppe b e y o n d steppe, t h e 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. T h e r e was b o r n t h e Cossack f r e e d o m , T h e r e she galloped r o u n d . With Tatars a n d with Polish lords She strewed the plain a b o u t . Till it could take n o m o r e ; w i t h corpses All the plain she strewed. F r e e d o m lay d o w n to take her rest; M e a n w h i l e the g r a v e m o u n d grew, A n d high above it, as a warder,

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Hovers the Black Eagle, A n d kobzars c o m e a n d sing a b o u t T h e g r a v e m o u n d to t h e people. T h e y sing of all that c a m e to pass, Blind w r e t c h e s f o r s h a r p - w i t t e d T h e y are. . . But I, I only k n o w H o w t o weep for pity. O n l y tears for U k r a i n a , Words I n o w have n o n e . . . As for ill-fate. . . Well, let it be! . . . To w h o m is it u n k n o w n ? A n d , moreover, he w h o gazes I n his soul o n p e o p l e . H e has hell here, in this world, A n d t h e next. . . But by grieving I'll n o t c o n j u r e myself such fate U n t i l I m u s t abide it. Let miseries t h r o n g for three days long D e e p l y I shall hide t h e m , T h e fierce serpent I shall hide R o u n d m y very h e a r t , So e n e m i e s may never see H o w ill-fate m o c k s a n d laughs. . . T h e n let t h o u g h t , like t o a crow. Fly a r o u n d , aye cawing. But let the h e a r t , like nightingale Warble songs, weeping sorely In secret; p e o p l e will not see, Will n o t , t h e n , m o c k m e so. . . D o not wipe m y tears away, Let t h e m freely flow. Let t h e m soak this foreign field, Water it day a n d night, U n t i l , until. . . with foreign sand At last t h e y close m y eyes. . .

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T h u s it is! But what to do? N o aid will grief afford. W h o envies the p o o r o r p h a n t h e n P u n i s h h i m , d e a r Lord! 0 m y t h o u g h t s , m y heartfelt t h o u g h t s , C h i l d r e n m i n e , m y flowers! 1 have reared, w a t c h e d over y o u , W h e r e to send you n o w ? G o to U k r a i n a c h i l d r e n , O u r U k r a i n a dear, Like p o o r o r p h a n s trudge your way, While I shall perish h e r e . T h e r e a t r u e heart you will f i n d , A word of kindness for you, T h e r e sincerity and t r u t h . . . A n d even, maybe, glory. Bid t h e m w e l c o m e , m y d e a r m o t h e r , U k r a i n a ; smile O n these thy c h i l d r e n still unwise, As o n thy o w n true child.
[January early March 1839, St Petersburg]

TO N. M A R K E W C H Bandurist, y o u r m i g h t y eagle. M a y you prosper, brother. You have wings, you have t h e strength. A n d place to fly whither. N o w you fly forth to U k r a i n a , T h e y ' r e w a t c h i n g out to m e e t you. I would fly there a f t e r you, But w h o is there t o greet m e ? I ' m a stranger here, a l o n e ,

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A n d there in U k r a i n a , I'm a n o r p h a n t o o , d e a r f r i e n d , As if in foreign region. W h y is the heart beating, straining? I a m lone there, surely, All alone. . . But U k r a i n a ! T h e steppe spreading broadly! T h e r e t h e boisterous breeze will blow, Like a b r o t h e r speaking. In t h e b r o a d plain w h e r e f r e e d o m reigns; A n d the d a r k - b l u e sea there Plays a n d sparkles, praising G o d , G r i e f a n d care dispersing, G r a v e m o u n d s rise t h e r e in t h e steppe With t h e wild w i n d conversing. T h e y converse t h e r e , sadly grieving, A n d t h e i r speech is ever: " O n c e , of old it passed away. A n d will r e t u r n here never!" I would fly t h e r e , I would listen, Join t h e m in t h e i r weeping. . . But. m e w e d a m o n g stranger-folk Fate h o l d s 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 t o see you'll find t h e r e . You will see, grieve bitterly F r i e n d , keep m e in m i n d there!
[ M a y - J u n e 1840. St Petersburg]

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T h e wind blows, speaking with the grove, It whispers in t h e reeds, D o w n the D a n u b e glides t h e b o a t , Lonely o n the stream. On it glides, s w a m p e d by t h e tide, N o o n e checks its course For w h o is there? T h e f i s h e r - l a d Lives in this world n o m o r e . It glided to the d a r k - b l u e sea, W h i c h tossed it unrestrainedly. T h e m o u n t a i n - w a v e s had sport with it. Left not a chip r e m a i n i n g . It's n o long p a t h as w h e n a boat Drifts t o t h e d a r k - b l u e sea An o r p h a n takes t o foreign parts, A n d t h e n to misery. T h e r e g o o d folk have sport with h i m . Like the chilly waves; Afterwards they gaze their fill H o w t h e o r p h a n ' s weeping. A f t e r w a r d s ask "Where's t h e o r p h a n ? " "I've not h e a r d n o r seen h i m . "
[1841, St Petersburg!

HAMALIYA "All, t h e r e c o m e s , there c o m e s n o r w i n d n o r a wave F r o m o u r Ukraina! W h e t h e r they are in c o u n c i l , how t o face the Turk We h e a r not in this far region! A h , blow, wind, blow, far over t h e sea, F r o m the G r e a t M e a d o w c o m i n g , C o m e , dry o u r tears, d r o w n the c l a n k i n g of chains, A n d scatter o u r longing.

A h , d a n c e , t h e n , d a n c e t h e n , you d a r k - b l u e sea, U n d e r b o a t s w h e r e are sailing T h e Cossacks (only their caps to be seen), To this shore to save us. A h G o d , o u r G o d ! Even if n o t for us, From Ukraine do T h o u bear them: We shall h e a r t h e i r glory, the C o s s a c k glory, Shall h e a r it a n d perish." T h u s in Scutari t h e Cossacks were singing. T h e y sang, the p o o r souls, a n d fast t h e i r tears flowed. T h e Cossack tears flowed, a n d spoke of their yearning, Till B o s p h o r u s t r e m b l e d , f o r he, since his birth, H a d never yet h e a r d the weeping of Cossacks; Like a grey bull he quivered t h r o u g h o u t his wide girth, S e n d i n g the waves rolling far, far away, Over his ribs a n d t o the blue sea. A n d roaring the words of t h e B o s p h o r u s , the sea drove His message to L y m a n , a n d L y m a n t o D n i p r o Over its waves passed the sorrowing speech. O u r m i g h t y grandsire r o a r e d w i t h laughter, Till his m o u s t a c h e s flowed with s p u m e . "Asleep? O r 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 a n d Isle: "I hear, I hear!" Boats s w a r m e d t h e D n i p r o in a t h r o n g . T h e Cossacks sang a rousing song: "The Turkish Lady y o n d e r has A house with fine wood floor. Hey! Hey! Sea, d a n c e a n d play! Roar! Tear t h e cliffs away! We'll go as guests, for sure!

T h e Turkish Lady in her p o c k e t s T h a l e r s has a n d ducats. N o t to pick h e r pockets, n o , But to knife a n d b u r n we go, A n d t o free o u r brothers! T h e Lady janissaries has, A pasha on a couch. H o ! Ho! At t h e foe! Q u a l m or quaver we d o n ' t k n o w : G l o r y a n d f r e e d o m ' s ours!" T h u s t h e y sang while sailing o n ; T h e sea t h e wild w i n d hears, H a m a l i y a in the prow Directs t h e m h o w t o steer. "Hamaliya! T h e heart's reeling! T h e sea has g r o w n enraged!" "It shall n o t scare us!" A n d they hid Beyond t h e m o u n t a i n waves. In t h e h a r e m , in paradise, slumbers B y z a n t i u m , Scutari is s l u m b e r i n g : B o s p h o r u s seethes, G r o a n i n g a n d howling as it were a m a d thing, Wishing t o rouse B y z a n t i u m f r o m d r e a m s . "Rouse t h e m n o t , Bosphorus, else you'll be m o u r n i n g ! All y o u r white ribs I shall c h o k e u p w i t h sand, I shall b u r y in mud!" the blue sea is roaring. " D o you not k n o w w h a t guests to the l a n d Of t h e Sultan I'm carrying?" T h u s the sea g r u m b l e d , ( T h e bold l o n g - m u s t a c h e d Slavs it loved dearly i n d e e d ) . B o s p h o r u s t o o k heed. T h e Lady still s l u m b e r e d , In t h e h a r e m , t h e laggardly Sultan still d r e a m e d . In Scutari alone, in the p r i s o n , are awake T h e p o o r Cossack lads. W h a t are t h e y w a t c h i n g for? F r o m t h e i r fetters t h e y pray in words simple and straight,

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i t h e roaring waves roll t o t h e far, f u r t h e r shore "O G o d A l l - m e r c i f u l of Ukraine! I n foreign land a n d in u n f r e e d o m Let n o t free Cossacks perish, f o r 'Twere s h a m e b o t h n o w a n d e v e r m o r e To rise f r o m foreign c o f f i n m e a n l y C o m e to T h y J u d g m e n t , just a n d right, With h a n d s in irons, a n d in the sight Of all t o stand in c h a i n s a n d fetters Is s h a m e for Cossacks! . . ." "Slash a n d smite! Strike the faithless unbeliever!" Beyond the wall. W h o s e is that cry? "Hamaliya! T h e heart's reeling! Scutari is enraged." "Slash a n d smite!" F r o m the fort H e shouts in answer straight. With c a n n o n all Scutari's roaring, T h e f o e m e n wildly roar a n d rage, Reckless the Cossack host charge forward, A n d janissaries t u m b l e slain. H a m a l i y a revels wildly T h r o u g h Scutari's hell, Tears t h e d u n g e o n o p e n wide, R e n d s the c h a i n s himself. "Fly forth, grey hawks, to t h e bazaar, To take y o u r share of wealth!" T h e f a l c o n chicks all started, f o r So long it was they m i g h t N o t h e a r this Christian language spoken . A n d old m o t h e r night Started t o o , she h a d n o t seen T h e Cossacks pay t h e score. D o not fear but look u p o n T h e Cossack feast! T h o u g h all Is m u r k y like a c o m m o n night

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Yet this is n o small feast. N o t robbers these, w h o silently With H a m a l i y a eat Fat w i t h o u t m u t t o n . " L e t us have S o m e light, boys!" A n d t h e f l a m e s M o u n t c l o u d - h i g h , with h i g h - m a s t e d ships Scutari is ablaze. N o w B y z a n t i u m blinked h e r eyes. Roused herself f r o m sleep, Quickly sailed to bring t h e m aid, Sailed a n d g n a s h e d her t e e t h . B y z a n t i u m roars a n d rages wildly, A n d with her h a n d s she grasps t h e shore, G r a s p s , yells a n d rises a n d o n c e m o r e I n blood u p o n the knives grows silent. Scutari's like all hell ablaze, T h r o u g h the bazaars spilt b l o o d is snaking, To swell broad Bosphorus's waves Like dark birds in the w o o d this day, T h e Cossacks fly f r o m place t o place, N o t a soul w h o can escape t h e m . T h e f i r e - h a r d ones, n o f l a m e c a n scathe t h e m . T h e y tear the walls d o w n ; in t h e i r caps T h e Cossacks bear off silver, gold, C a r r y it off a n d fill the boats. Scutari b u r n s , the work dies d o w n , T h e lads assemble, g a t h e r e d r o u n d , Light their pipes t h e r e at t h e blaze; To t h e boats! A n d t h e y set o u t . Shearing t h e red m o u n t a i n - w a v e s . T h e y sail, as if t h e y c a m e f r o m h o m e , As if they sailed for pleasure, A n d as they sail, as is t h e i r way, T h e Cossacks sing t o g e t h e r :

"Our good captain, Hamaliya, Bold a n d brave is h e , G a t h e r e d u p his lads, d e p a r t e d Off across t h e sea; Off across the sea, F a m o u s he would be, A n d f r o m Turkish slavery, his Brethren he would free. H a m a l i y a t o Scutari Sailed across the water, Brother Cossacks sat in prison. Waiting Turkish t o r t u r e . 'Brothers,' H a m a l i y a s h o u t e d , 'We shall live this day, We shall live, drink wine, a n d we Shall janissaries slay, O n o u r barracks, carpets, velvet, For a roof we'll lay!' Z a p o r o z h i a n s went a - r e a p i n g . Flew into the meadow, R e a p e d t h e rye a n d stacked the stooks, A n d t h e y sang t o g e t h e r : ' G l o r y t o you, H a m a l i y a , All the wide world over, All the wide world over, All t h r o u g h U k r a i n a , For you'd not let y o u r c o m r a d e s perish I n a foreign region!'" T h e y sail on singing, H a m a l i y a T h e r e b e h i n d t h e m , bold, h e sails, As an eagle guards his eaglets; T h e wind blows f r o m the D a r d a n e l l e s , But B y z a n t i u m ' s not pursuing: She fears the M o n k might b e r e t u r n i n g To light G a l a t a ' s fires o n c e m o r e ,

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O r H e t m a n Ivan Pidkova call T h e m out to sea again to skirmish. T h e y sail on. . . F r o m b e h i n d the waves, Sun p a i n t s the waves w i t h red; Before t h e m stretches t h e kind sea, It m u r m u r s a n d resounds. "Hamaliya! Winds b l o w freely! S o o n o u r o w n sea again!" A n d they were h i d d e n in the waves. Behind the rosy m o u n t a i n s .
[October first half of November 1842]

THE PLUNDERED GRAVEMOUND Peaceful land, beloved country, U k r a i n a cherished! M o t h e r , w h y have you b e e n p l u n d e r e d ? W h y d o you t h u s perish? Before the sun rose in t h e m o r n i n g Did you fail to pray? D i d you to your u n s u r e b a b e s N e g l e c t t o t e a c h t h e way? "I prayed, I worried, sleeping n o t , N e i t h e r night n o r day, I w a t c h e d over m y small c h i l d r e n , Teaching t h e m t h e way. A n d my flowers throve a n d grew. M y c h i l d r e n true a n d g o o d . A n d t h e r e was a t i m e , i n d e e d . W h e n in this world 1 ruled. Yes, i n d e e d , 1 ruled. . . O B o h d a n , M y son so unwise! On your mother, Ukraina. L o o k now, t u r n y o u r eyes.

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O n c e , as she r o c k e d you, she would sing Of her u n h a p p y f o r t u n e , A n d singing, wept a m o t h e r ' s tears, Looking out for f r e e d o m ! . . . B o h d a n , O my little B o h d a n ! H a d I k n o w n , in the cradle I'd have c h o k e d you, in m y sleep I'd have overlain you. N o w m y steppes have all b e e n sold. In Jews' a n d G e r m a n s ' h a n d s ; A n d m y sons at foreign toil, Far in foreign lands; My brother, D n i p r o , now r u n s dry A n d is deserting m e ; A n d m y d e a r g r a v e m o u n d s t h e Muscovites Are p l u n d e r i n g utterly. Let t h e m dig a n d excavate, T h e y d o not seek their o w n . . . A n d m e a n w h i l e , let t h e renegades Wax in strength a n d grow. Let t h e m help the M u s c o v i t e Be lord a n d m a s t e r t h e r e , A n d f r o m their m o t h e r her old s m o c k . Patched a n d worn, t o tear! H e l p t h e m t o t o r m e n t , you brutes. Your m o t h e r d o not spare!" Q u a r t e r e d , dug, a n d excavated, Gravemound torn and plundered. . . What have they been seeking t h e r e . W h a t was buried u n d e r It by t h e old fathers? I f . . . If they h a d but f o u n d w h a t lay h i d d e n there b e n e a t h it, T h e n the children would not w e e p , 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 e a r t h , a n d now t h y holy glory Is b o r n e like a m o t e U p o n the cold blast of t h e winds, Lost in t h e c l o u d s o n high. Year after year flies o'er t h e earth, D n i p r o itself r u n s dry, T h e g r a v e m o u n d s c r u m b l e into dust, T h e lofty m o u n d s , t h y erstwhile G l o r y ; a n d of t h e e , thyself, T h o u d o t a r d , old a n d feeble, N o o n e will even say a word, N o o n e will point the place W h e r e t h o u o n c e didst s t a n d , n o r why. . . N o t even in jest would say! W h y with the Poles did we o n c e fight? Engage the H o r d e s with slashing knives? W h y did we h a r r o w with o u r pikes Muscovite ribs? T h e r e o n c e we sowed, A n d well we watered with red b l o o d , With sabres harrowed w h a t was sown. But in that field w h a t c r o p has g r o w n ? R u e , rue has g r o w n , And choked our freedom down. A n d I, o n thy ruins, d e m e n t e d , stand weeping M y tears are all vain. U k r a i n a is sleeping, N o w wild weeds cover her, m o u l d has grown over, She has rotted her heart in a pool in the marshes, I n t o cold hollow tree let a snake pass in. To h e r children a h o p e in t h e steppe she b e q u e a t h e d . But that h o p e . . .

T h e w i n d scattered over t h e plain, T h e waves swept it over t h e seas. T h e n let t h e wind b e a r all away In its u n t r a m m e l l e d flight. A n d let t h e heart t h e n weep a n d pray: O n this earth holy right! Chyhyryn. O Chyhyryn, M y o n e f r i e n d , in sleeping T h o u hast slept away t h y forests. Steppes all U k r a i n a . Sleep o n t h e n , by Jewry swathed, till O n c e m o r e t h e sun will rise, A n d to m a n h o o d grow these H e t m a n s , T h e s e lads so unwise. Having said m y prayers, I'd sleep too, But cursed t h o u g h t s u n e n d i n g Strive to set m y soul afire. M y heart ever rending. D o n o t rend, t h o u g h t s , d o not burn! 1 shall bring back, maybe, M y t a i t h , all fortuneless, m y words S p o k e n quietly; Perhaps, i n d e e d , I yet may forge A new blade f r o m it, m a k e a K e e n new share for t h e old p l o u g h , A n d , sweating out the acres, M a y b e I'll plough that fallow l a n d . A n d on t h e fallow cleared t h e r e I shall scatter all m y tears, Sow my heartfelt tears there. Maybe t h e y will shoot a n d grow I n t o t w o - e d g e d blades T h a t will cleave the evil, rotten Sickly heart, will drain F r o m it all the p o i s o n e d b l o o d ,

A n d in its place will p o u r I n t o it living Cossack b l o o d . Holy, clean a n d pure! . . . Maybe, maybe. . . a n d t h e r e between, Between the knives will grow T h e periwinkle a n d t h e rue, A n d words, f o r g o t t e n now, M y o w n words, gentle-voiced a n d sad. Quiet a n d G o d - f e a r i n g , Will be r e m e m b e r e d , a n d a girl's heart. T r e m u l o u s a n d timid, Will quiver like a little fish, A n d she will r e m e m b e r M e t o o , t h e n . . . O m y words, m y tears. O t h o u that art m y heaven! Sleep, C h y h y r y n w h e r e t h e r e are f o e m e n Let the children perish! Sleep o n , O H e t m a n , till t h e r e rise I n this world truth a n d justice.
February 19, 1844. Moscow.

THE DREAM
(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, b r o a d a n d w i d e , O n e m a n builds a n d o n e tears d o w n . One man, greedy-eyed.

L o o k s far out, past the h o r i z o n . Whether, in the offing, T h e r e ' s s o m e c o u n t r y he c a n seize A n d b e a r off in his coffin. O n e m a n robs his k i n s m a n by C a r d - p l a y in his h o m e . O n e , c r o u c h i n g in t h e corner, w h e t s His knife against his o w n Brother, a n d o n e , quiet a n d sober, Pious a n d G o d - f e a r i n g , Will sneak up o n you like a c a t . Wait until you're bearing S o m e trouble a n d t h e n drive his claws, D e e p into your liver. Useless to implore; not wife N o r babes will move him ever. One, generous and opulent, Builds c h u r c h e s everywhere, A n d so m u c h loves t h e " F a t h e r l a n d , " So deeply for it cares, A n d with such skill h e draws away T h e p o o r thing's blood like water! A n d the b r e t h r e n looking o n , T h e i r eyes wide w i t h w o n d e r , Say, mild as lambs, "Let it be so. Perhaps it should be thus!" It should be thus! For t h e r e is n o Lord in heaven above! A n d you fall b e n e a t h the yoke, Wishing still for s o m e Paradise in the hereafter. . . T h e r e is n o n e , is n o n e ! Useless labour! S t o p a n d t h i n k : All o n this earth n o m a t t e r Be t h e y tsars' or beggars' c h i l d r e n Are the sons of A d a m !

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Yes, that o n e t o o . . . a n d t h a t . . . A n d I, T h i s is w h a t I m u s t be, G o o d p e o p l e ; Sundays a n d weekdays I A m u s e myself a n d feast: A n d you are bored a n d envy m e . . . I swear I d o not h e a r you! You d o not have t o shout! I d r i n k M y b l o o d , not o t h e r people's. So. late o n e night, c l u t c h i n g t h e f e n c e . D r u n k f r o m a b a n q u e t I went h o m e , T h u s t h i n k i n g as I went along, Till t o t h e house I dragged m y steps. At h o m e t h e children d o not cry. N o wife is nagging, It's quiet as heaven. A n d all a r o u n d G o d ' s blessings lie, In h o m e a n d in heart. I lay d o w n a n d o n c e fast Asleep, a d r u n k m a n , I declare, Even if g u n s rolled past. Would not twitch a hair. And then a dream, a dream amazing C a m e into my slumbers: T h e sob'rest m a n would be a d r u n k a r d , A Jewish miser'd not m i n d paying, To see s u c h marvels with his eyes. N o t o n your life! I look: t h e r e an owl flies, It seems, above the m e a d o w s , river-banks a n d thickets, A n d d e e p ravines a n d valleys A n d s t e p p e - l a n d ' s b r o a d expanses, A n d gulleys; A n d after, after it I fly, A n d bid t h e e a r t h a last g o o d b y e . "Farewell, world! A n d farewell, earth,

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Farewell land unkind! All m y grief a n d t o r m e n t 1 In the cloud shall hide. As for you, d e a r U k r a i n a , Widow all m i s f o r t u n e d , 1 shall fly t o you, to speak With you f r o m the clouds a n d Seek your counsel, speaking sadly, Quietly with you, I shall fall o n you at m i d n i g h t With the a b u n d a n t dew. T h e n t o g e t h e r we'll take c o u n s e l Grieving f o r o u r woe, Till the sun rise, till y o u r babes Rise u p against the foe. Farewell, t h e n , m y dearest m o t h e r , Widow p o o r and grieving! Tend your c h i l d r e n . With t h e Lord Above, t r u t h yet is living!" We fly. . . I look. . . the d a w n has c o m e , T h e w h o l e skyline's blazing, In a dark grove a nightingale G r e e t s the sun with praises. A gentle breeze blows quietly. T h e steppes, the grainfields glimmer, A m o n g ravines, by lakes t h e r e g l e a m s T h e willows' verdant s h i m m e r . O r c h a r d s b o w d o w n , richly l a d e n , Poplars standing straight Like sentinels in the o p e n land Are speaking with the plain. A n d all a r o u n d m e , t h e w h o l e c o u n t r y M a n t l e d r o u n d with b e a u t y S h i m m e r s green a n d b a t h e s herself Fresh in t h e small dewdrops.

F r o m all f o r e t i m e she has b a t h e d thus, So to greet the sun, T h e r e is n o w h e r e a b e g i n n i n g , E n d i n g there is n o n e . N o o n e has power to a d d t o it. N o o n e may destroy it, A n d all a r o u n d . . . M y soul! M y soul! W h y are you n o t j o y f u l ? Why, my p o o r soul, are you sad? W h y so vainly weeping? W h a t is it pains you? But d o you not see it? D o you not hear how people are weeping? Look t h e n , a n d see! But 1 shall fly, speeding H i g h , high above t h e d a r k - b l u e clouds of heaven, W h e r e there are n o rulers, n o penalties vengeful, N o s o u n d of h u m a n laughter o r tears. See there in that paradise that you are quitting T h e y t e a r of the p a t c h e d ragged coat of a cripple, Tear it off with t h e skin, f o r t h e y lack, it appears, Shoes f o r y o u n g princelings. A n d there a p o o r w i d o w For poll-tax is crucified a n d her o n e d e a r Son, h e r o n e child, her o n e h o p e must be seized, H a n d c u f f e d , a n d put in t h e a r m y u n b i d d e n . H e stood up, you see! . . . A n d over t h e r e , u n d e r T h e f e n c e , while its s e r f - m o t h e r reaps for her master, A child, swollen-bellied, is dying of hunger. A n d y o n d e r d o you see? Eyes, eyes, W h a t are you g o o d for? W h y Have you not shrivelled u p in y o u t h . All y o u r tears r u n dry? H e r e by the f e n c e a r u i n e d girl L i m p s footsore with h e r bastard. F a t h e r a n d m o t h e r t h r e w her out, To strangers she's a n outcast! Old beggars s h u n her. T h e young lord (Still u n d e r age) knows n o t h i n g .

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But with his twentieth f a n c y s q u a n d e r s All his serfs o n toping!" D o e s G o d see f r o m b e h i n d His c l o u d , All o u r tears a n d anguish? Well, i n d e e d , maybe H e sees it But t h e help He h a n d s us Is like a n c i e n t m o u n t a i n s , watered With the blood of m e n ! . . . O m y p o o r u n h a p p y soul, H o w you cause me pain! Let us drink p o i s o n , o n t h e ice, Lay us d o w n for sleeping, Let us send o u r t h o u g h t s t o G o d , Answer f r o m H i m seeking: H o w long will h a n g m e n rule this world. T h e i r d o m i n i o n keeping? Fly t h e n , m y t h o u g h t , m y suffering p r o f o u n d e s t ! Carry off with you all evils, all woes, T h e y are your c o m p a n y ! With t h e m you grew, You loved e a c h other! T h e i r heavy h a n d s w o u n d o n c e Your swaddling-clothes. G o , g a t h e r t h e m , fly! T h e n scatter the h o r d e t h r o u g h o u t the w h o l e sky! M a y it grow black, may it glow red, May it blow with flames. M a y serpents o n c e m o r e be belched f o r t h , T h e earth be strewn with slain. . . A n d w i t h o u t you, s o m e w h e r e I Shall hide m y heart a n d t h e n . I'll seek s o m e realm of paradise, Far at the world's e n d . O n c e m o r e above the earth I fly. O n c e m o r e to h e r I bid g o o d b y e . 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 H e r tears a n d tattered rags. I fly. 1 fly; the wind is blowing, Before me gleams the w h i t e of snowdrifts; R o u n d m e p i n e w o o d s a n d s w a m p l a n d s stretch. Mist, mist and e m p t i n e s s . N o s o u n d of people. N e i t h e r is there Trace that dread h u m a n foot has printed. . . "So foes a n d friends alike, I bid you Farewell! I shall n o t c o m e . To be y o u r guest. Feast! Drink your fill! I'll h e a r n o m o r e , A l o n e F o r endless ages I shall sleep T h e long night in the snow. A n d until you have discovered T h e r e ' s a c o u n t r y left Still u n d r e n c h e d by b l o o d and tears, I shall take m y rest. . . Take m y rest. . . Yet, hark, I h e a r Fetters clank a n d rattle B e n e a t h t h e earth. I'll take a look there. . . O h , you wicked people! W h e r e have you s p r u n g f r o m ? What's this toil F o r w h a t are you seeking B e n e a t h t h e earth? N o , m a y b e I'll n o t H i d e m y s e l f not even In heaven! . . . W h y s u c h p u n i s h m e n t , Why am I tormented. What h a r m have I d o n e a n y o n e ? W h o s e harsh h a n d s have fettered My soul into my b o d y a n d Set on fire m y heart, A n d like a flock of daws, Scattered m y t h o u g h t s afar?

I'm p u n i s h e d , but I k n o w not why, P u n i s h e d bitterly! H o w long m u s t I d o p e n a n c e thus? W h e n will t h e e n d be? 1 n e i t h e r k n o w n o r see. T h e desert wilderness is stirring. . . As f r o m a close coffin e m e r g i n g O n t h e Last J u d g e m e n t Day of d o o m . T h e d e a d are rising f o r the t r u t h . But these are not t h e d e a d , the slain, C o m i n g to seek J u d g e m e n t Day; T h e s e are p e o p l e , living p e o p l e Put in irons, drawing G o l d up out of pits, t h e n d o w n T h e G l u t t o n ' s throat t h e y p o u r it, D o w n the Imperial G u l l e t . Convicts! W h a t c r i m e ? W h o k n o w s w h y for? T h e All-Ruler. . . Or, m a y b e , He's still not learned either! Yonder t h e r e a b r a n d e d thief D r a g s along his fetters, T h e r e a t o r t u r e d robber grinds His t e e t h within he's fretting To knife the r e m n a n t s of t h e gang C o n v i c t e d here together! A n d here t o o , likewise in fetters, With old lags a r o u n d h i m , T h e King of t h e world, King of F r e e d o m . King with b r a n d t o c r o w n him! In t o r m e n t , in hard l a b o u r he Pleads not, weeps not n o r g r o a n s . . . O n c e the heart is w a r m e d by goodness, Cold it will never grow. A n d w h e r e are y o u r t h o u g h t s t h e n , your blossoms so rosy. Well-tended, so brave, t h o s e d e a r children of yours n o w ?

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To w h o m , f r i e n d , t o w h o m did you give t h e m away? Or d e e p in your heart did you hide t h e m for ay? D o not hide t h e m , m y b r o t h e r ! But scatter a n d sow t h e m ! T h e y will g e r m i n a t e , grow. . . a n d t o people will go then! D o still m o r e purgatories r e m a i n ? I n d e e d , indeed for it is cold. A n d frost wakes up t h e brain. I fly o n c e m o r e . D a r k n e s s c o m e s stealing. Brain drowses, a n d the heart is reeling. I see: by t h e roads n o w h o u s e s c o m i n g , Towns with c h u r c h e s by t h e h u n d r e d , In the towns, like storks clustered t h e r e , M u s c o v i t e soldiers m u s t e r e d there. Well fed, in leather Boots a n d fetters, M u s t e r i n g there. I look a bit F u r t h e r : t h e r e , as in a pit T h e city d r e a m s in m a r s h e s gloomy. Above it a black cloud is l o o m i n g , A heavy mist I fly t h e r e quickly. . . It is an endless city. . . Turkish? I wonder. G e r m a n ? 1 ponder, O r m a y b e . Muscovy it's u n d e r ? Palaces a n d c h u r c h e s , Pot-bellied worthies? N o w h e r e a simple h o u s e emerges. It was growing dark. . . fires leapt u p Fiery all a r o u n d m e . I felt quite scared. " H o u r r a ! H o u r r a ! Hourra!" their cries r e s o u n d e d ! " H u s h , you fools, c o m e t o y o u r senses! W h y are you so jolly?

W h a t ' s all this blaze?" "The oaf kens not What's a parade! Such folly! 'Tis a p a r a d e . For H e H i m s e l f Deigns this day forth to wander!" "But w h e r e is that great personage?" "Behold t h e palace yonder!" I p u s h e d o n in, till, t h a n k the Lord A fellow-countryman, T i n - b u t t o n e d , recognized a n d spoke To me: " W h e n c e have you c o m e ? " " F r o m U k r a i n e . " " H o w t h u s it is T h o u knowest n o t t o converse I n city parlance!" " N o t at all, I c a n speak!" I observe, "But I don't want to". "A strange wight! H e e d : I k n o w the ways in Everywhere, being in t h e service; I c a n take you within T h e palace at y o u r will but know, H e r e we are all enlightened! So d o not grudge a m o d e s t tip. . ." "Be off with you, b e n i g h t e d I n k p o t , " a n d 1 m a d e myself Invisible o n c e m o r e , A n d p u s h e d m y way into the palace. O Almighty Lord! What a paradise! For here Even t h e very spongers D r i p with gold. A n d n o w H e , himself. Tall a n d grimly sullen C o m e s striding out, a n d at his side, T h e Tsarina c o m e s , p o o r ninny, Withered u p like a dried m u s h r o o m . Lanky-legged a n d skinny, A n d , moreover, t h e p o o r c r e a t u r e Suffers f r o m the twitch!

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So this is w h a t a goddess looks like! Pitiable wretch! A n d I, p o o r fool, not having seen You even o n c e , you marvel, Was even ready t o believe Your poetasters' drivel. What a fool! A d u n d e r h e a d ! P r e p a r e d t o put trust even In Muscovites! G o , read it t h e n ! A n d see if you believe it! Behind t h e gods c o m e nobles, nobles, All in gold a n d silver, Like f a t t e n e d boars t h e y are, f a t - m u g g e d , Pot-bellied. T h e y e n d e a v o u r To push a n d shove till t h e y grow sweaty, So that they can gain A n e a r e r place to Them: Maybe They'll hit t h e m , or else deign To c o c k a s n o o k even a small o n e , Even a h a l f - s n o o k , just providing It's a i m e d at their own m u g They've got themselves into a row, A n d , as if t h e y lack tongues, N o t a m u r m u r ! T h e Tsar jabbers, A n d that Tsarina-wonder, Like h e r o n in a flock of birds H o p s r o u n d , works u p her c o u r a g e . For quite a while, like p u f f e d - u p owls, T h e pair walked b a c k a n d f o r t h Discussing s o m e t h i n g in low voices ( O n e could not hear, far off) A b o u t "the Fatherland" it s e e m e d , A b o u t t h e new gorgets, A n d the even newer drill rules, A n d t h e n , in silent order. Tsarina sat d o w n o n a stool,

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I watch: t h e Tsar c o m e s up, To t h e most senior in rank, A n d swipes him r o u n d the m u g With all his might! T h e p o o r c h a p licked His lips, t h e n p u n c h e d the belly, Of his s u b o r d i n a t e till it e c h o e d . . . T h e latter at o n c e fell on A smaller ace a n d t h u m p e d h i m o n T h e back, he swiped o n e lower, A n d he o n e less, w h o socked t h e petty ( O u t d o o r s n o w ) , a n d going Off full tilt t h r o u g h t h e streets t h e petty Set themselves to clouting, All t h e o t h e r O r t h o d o x W h o at o n c e started s h o u t i n g . Bellowing, s c r e a m i n g a n d roaring: " O u r dearest Father, O u r d e a r Tsar! Revels! Hourra! H o u r r a ! Hourra!" I roared with laughter! Why, w h a t else? T h o u g h I t o o , with t h e rest C a u g h t quite a lot! Before t h e d a w n T h e y all went off t o rest. O n l y in t h e c o r n e r s g r o a n e d T h e p i o u s here a n d t h e r e . A n d , groaning, for t h e d e a r F a t h e r Sought the Lord in prayer. L a u g h t e r a n d tears! Well, t h e n t o see T h e city I set o u t . F o r night is there like day. 1 look: Palaces all a b o u t , Palaces over the quiet river, A n d t h e b a n k is faced All with stone. A n d like a half-wit I stand there a m a z e d . H o w did it all c o m e t o pass T h a t such a s w a m p was built u p

I n t o this w o n d e r ? A n d what f l o o d s Of h u m a n blood were spilt here, W i t h o u t a knife. O n the far b a n k Fortress a n d belfry rise ( T h e latter like a w h e t t e d awl) A w o n d e r t o the eyes. A n d the clocks n o w start to jingle I t u r n r o u n d a n d lo! A charging horse t h e r e with its hooves It breaks t h e rock below, O n it a figure rides b a r e b a c k , In coat, yet n o true c o a t , Without a hat s o m e kind of foliage Binds his head about. T h e horse is rearing! Wait, just wait! It will j u m p the river! H e stretches out his h a n d as if H e wants t o grab forever T h e entire world. W h o can this be? A n d so I go a n d read W h a t has b e e n forged on to t h e rock: This miracle, i n d e e d , "The Second to the First"erected. A n d at o n c e I see H e is that First w h o crucified Our poor Ukraina, A n d the Second slew t h e w i d o w D e s o l a t e a n d keening. Executioners, cannibals, T h e y ate t h e i r fill, that pair, Stole to t h e i r hearts c o n t e n t ! But what F r o m this world did they bear? Heavy, heavy weighed my heart As if 1 were perusing T h e history of U k r a i n a . I stood there, u n m o v i n g .

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A n d m e a n w h i l e , softly, very softly A n d so sadly grieving, S o m e t h i n g invisible was singing: " F r o m t h e city, out f r o m H l u k h i v Went t h e regiments, With their spades to m a n t h e earthworks. A n d I t o o was sent To the capital as proxy H e t m a n to c o m m a n d T h e C o s s a c k troops. O G o d of mercy! 0 t h o u evil Tsar, Wicked a n d accursed Tsar. Asp insatiate, what Have you d o n e , t h e n , with t h e Cossacks? You have filled t h e s w a m p s With t h e i r noble bones! A n d t h e n Built a capital O n their t o r t u r e d corpses, a n d In a dark d u n g e o n cell You slew m e t o o , a free H e t m a n , In chains, by h u n g e r m a r t y r e d . Tsar, O Tsar! N o t even G o d H i m s e l f can ever part us. M e f r o m you; with strongest fetters You are c h a i n e d forever To me. But t o w a n d e r above N e v a ah 'tis heavy! U k r a i n a , far away, M a y b e ceased to exist. 1 would fly t h e r e , gaze on her But G o d does not permit! Maybe M o s c o w b u r n e d her d o w n . D r a i n e d away D n i p r o ' s waters Into the d a r k - b l u e sea, dug u p T h e lofty g r a v e m o u n d s p o r t e n t s

Of o u r glory. G o d of mercy! Pity us, G o d of mercy." A n d it grew silent. T h e n I look: A white cloud is veiling T h e grey heavens. In this c l o u d Like wild beast in woods wailing N o , not a cloud, it was white birds In a cloud that d e s c e n d e d D o w n u p o n that b r a z e n Tsar And mournfully lamented: "And we t o o are c h a i n e d to y o u . Dragon, cannibal. A n d o n t h e Last J u d g e m e n t Day 'Tis we that shall c o n c e a l G o d f r o m your insatiate eyes. F r o m U k r a i n a you Drove us n a k e d , starving into Wastes of foreign snow. C u t o u r t h r o a t s a n d f r o m o u r skins Sewed yourself a p u r p l e Robe, with t h r e a d s of t o u g h e n e d sinews Clad in this n e w m a n t l e F o u n d e d y o u r capital! Behold! Palaces a n d churches! Rejoice, cruel executioner! A c c u r s e d . O accursed!" T h e birds flew away a n d scattered, T h e bright sun was rising. A n d I stood there in a m a z e m e n t . Till I grew quite f r i g h t e n e d . T h e p o o r already were astir, H a s t e n i n g t o their toil, At the cross-roads, M o s c o w ' s t r o o p s Were m u s t e r e d for t h e i r drill. O n t h e p a v e m e n t s , drowsy girls

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H a s t e n e d , t h e y did not c o m e F r o m h o m e they were r e t u r n i n g ; M o t h e r Sent t h e m out f r o m h o m e To labour t h r o u g h t h e live-long night A n d so to earn their bread. A n d as I s t a n d there p o n d e r i n g T h e t h o u g h t c o m e s to m y h e a d : " H o w hard the m e a n s that folk m u s t take To earn t h e i r daily bread!" T h e r e t h e Civil Service swarms To the Ministries To sign a n d scribble d o c u m e n t s A n d at the same t i m e fleece Father a n d brother. M y c o m p a t r i o t s Too may be observed H e r e a n d t h e r e ; t h e y carry o n I n Russian, laugh a n d curse T h e i r p a r e n t s w h o ' d not h a d t h e m taught To jabber, while still c h i l d r e n , T h e G e r m a n language, so that n o w T h e y would not be ink-pickled. Leeches, leeches! For, maybe, Your f a t h e r h a d to sell His last c o w t o the Jews, so you C o u l d be t a u g h t Russian well! Ukraina, Ukraina, T h e s e are thy c h i l d r e n , think! T h e s e are t h i n e o w n fair y o u n g flowers Watered well by ink, A n d by Muscovite h e n b a n e , I n G e r m a n h o t h o u s e stifled! . . . Weep t h e n , widowed U k r a i n a , Weep, for t h o u art childless! Maybe I should go to t h e Tsar's Palaces a n d see t h e r e

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What's h a p p e n i n g ? A whole line Is standing t h e r e , of w h e e z i n g S n o r t i n g p o t - b e l l i e d officials. Puffing out their c h e e k s Like turkeys, a n d t o w a r d s t h e d o o r s Furtively t h e y peek O u t of the c o r n e r s of their eyes. D o o r s o p e n e d . A n d it s e e m e d as if F r o m his d e n c a m e a s h a m b l i n g Bear, t h o u g h he could hardly m a k e His legs work w i t h o u t stumbling. All p u f f e d up a n d even blue, With a cursed hangover T o r m e n t i n g him. . . S u d d e n l y he shouts At the very r o t u n d Pot-bellied o n e s a n d o n e a n d all Potbellies d i s a p p e a r I n t o the earth he m a k e s his eyes Pop out they shake with fear. All w h o r e m a i n . Like o n e possessed H e rages at t h e lesser A n d they t o o sink into the e a r t h , H e rages at the petty T h e y likewise vanish. H e a p p r o a c h e s T h e m e n i a l s t h e y are g o n e . H e nears the soldiers. T h e p o o r soldiers G a v e a heavy groan A n d sink i n t o the earth. G r e a t w o n d e r s C a m e to pass! I stare W o n d e r i n g w h a t will h a p p e n next, W h a t m y little bear Will do? But he with d r o o p i n g h e a d C a n only stand a n d languish, p o o r creature. But t h e n w h e r e has all his bearish n a t u r e v a n i s h e d ? Like a kitten now, so comic! I laughed, as well I might!

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H e h e a r d m e , a n d at t o p blast he bellowed I t o o k fright at that. . . A n d I awoke. . . A n d such Was my d r e a m of wonder! Strange indeed. For only a M a d m a n or a d r u n k a r d D r e a m s such a d r e a m . But, m y d e a r friends, Be not a s t o n i s h e d , for I have not told m y own tale, b u t W h a t in my d r e a m I saw.
July 8, 1844. St Petersburg

W h y weighs life so heavy? W h y drags life so dreary? W h y is the heart weeping a n d sobbing a n d wailing As a child cries f r o m h u n g e r ? M y heart so weary, W h a t d o you long for? W h y are you ailing? Are you longing for f o o d or f o r drink or repose? Slumber, m y heart, for eternity sleeping, U n c o v e r e d a n d shattered. . . . Let hateful people Rage o n u n c h e c k e d . . . . H e a r t , now let y o u r eyes close!
November 13, 1844 St Petersburg

TO G O G O L T h o u g h t after t h o u g h t flies in swarm n e v e r - e n d i n g , O n e b u r d e n s the h e a r t , a s e c o n d o n e rends it, A third o n e 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 m y speaking, n o r will f a t h o m A word great a n d mighty. T h e y have all g r o w n deaf, bowed d o w n In fetters. . . well, n o matter. . .

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Your are laughing, m y great f r i e n d . A n d I a m weeping at it. . . . A n d what is b o r n of t h a t weeping, O n l y h e m l o c k , brother. . . N o m o r e will free c a n n o n t h r o u g h o u t Ukraina thunder. N o f a t h e r will slay his s o n . His o w n child, a deed for H o n o u r , glory, b r o t h e r h o o d , And Ukraina's freedom. He'll not slay but n u r t u r e him, A n d to M o s c o w sell h i m , To the shambles. This is just T h e widow's mite, I tell y o u , For the t h r o n e , t h e "Fatherland" As pay for keeping d u m b . So be it, b r o t h e r . . . Yet we two Shall still laugh o n . w e e p o n .
December 30. 1844 St Petersburg

Have n o envy f o r the rich m a n , For he never knows N a u g h t of f r i e n d s h i p n o r o f l o v e He m u s t hire all those. Have n o envy f o r the mighty, He can but c o m p e l ; Have n o envy for the f a m o u s For he knows full well T h a t it is not h i m m e n love But the heavy f a m e W h i c h to please t h e m he p o u r e d out With tears of heavy pain. A n d the young folk w h e n they meet, All is quiet a n d bliss

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As in paradise but see: S o m e t h i n g stirs amiss. Have n o envy for a n y o n e ; L o o k r o u n d a n d you'll never F i n d paradise u p o n this e a r t h , N o r , i n d e e d , in heaven.
October 4, 1845. Myrhorod

THE HERETIC
TO SAFARIK (Excerpt)

Evil n e i g h b o u r s c a m e A n d fired t h e n e w Well-built house of their neighbour. B u r n e d it, a n d t h e n all lay d o w n To sleep after t h e i r labour, A n d forgot that the h o t ashes T h r o u g h the field went blowing, T h e ash lay there at t h e cross-roads, A n d in the ash still glowing T h e spark of a m i g h t y fire S m o u l d e r e d on a n d lingered Like m o t h , for the c o n f l a g r a t i o n . U n t i l t i m e should bring t h e Evil hour. T h e spark lay waiting T h e r e at the broad cross-roads, lay A n d slowly b e g a n fading. T h u s in a m i g h t y c o n f l a g r a t i o n , Fritz b u r n e d the great h o u s e a n d the kin, T h e Slav kindred he s e p a r a t e d , A n d quietly insinuated T h e evil snake of strife within.

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Blood p o u r e d forth in rivers t h e n . And quenched the conflagration, A n d t h e b u r n e d site a n d o r p h a n s t o o , Fritzlings shared as their p o r t i o n . And t h e scions of the Slavs In fetters grew t o m a n h o o d , A n d as slaves forgot that o n c e I n t h e world t h e y had standing. But u p o n the b u r n e d - o u t site, still B r o t h e r h o o d ' s spark s m o u l d e r e d . S m o u l d e r e d u n a b a t e d , waited For a r m s stronger, bolder. Waited out its t i m e . . . T h y bold Eye, t h e eye of an eagle, D i d perceive d e e p in t h o s e ashes G o o d fire, saw it clearly. A n d , w i s d o m lover, t h o u didst light A t o r c h of t r u t h a n d f r e e d o m ; A n d the great Slav k i n d r e d , lost In darkness a n d u n f r e e d o m . T h o u didst tally t o the last o n e ( C o r p s e s t h o u wast c o u n t i n g N o t Slavs but t h e n u p o n those huge Piles, t h o u boldly m o u n t e d At the c r o s s - r o a d s of c r e a t i o n Like Ezechiel. A n d miracle the c o r p s e s rose. A n d t h e i r eyes were o p e n e d . Brother t h e n e m b r a c e d his brother, A n d quiet words were s p o k e n Of a tranquil love that lasts F o r ever a n d ever. A n d into a single sea Flowed the Slavonic rivers. G l o r y t o t h e e , wisdom-lover.

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C z e c h a n d Slav, w h o c h e r i s h e d O u r t r u t h , would n o t let it in G e r m a n abysses perish A n d drown! This sea of t h i n e Is a new sea, Slavonic, A n d soon its waters will be high. A n d a ship will sail o n it, With h e r canvas spreading wide, G o o d tiller, t o o , t o guide her, She will sail on t h e free seas. Over the b r o a d waves gliding. Glory, Safarik to t h e e . F o r ever a n d ever. T h a t t h o u didst call into o n e sea. All t h e Slavonic rivers. Pray accept this tribute t o T h i n e h o n o u r , m y gift lowly, This m y unwise ballad, telling Of that C z e c h so holy, Of that m i g h t y noble martyr, Of H u s f a m e d o n story. A c c e p t it. father! A n d I'll pray Quietly to G o d , imploring T h a t all Slav p e o p l e may b e c o m e G o o d b r o t h e r s to each other, As sons of t h e sun of t r u t h , A n d heretics, moreover. Like that great heretic w h o there In C o n s t a n c e t o w n was m a r t y r e d T h e y will give p e a c e to t h e 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 1314

THREE SOULS Like snow, t h r e e little birds c a m e flying T h r o u g h Subotiv, a n d alighting O n an old c h u r c h ' s leaning cross T h e y settled: " G o d will p a r d o n us! N o t h u m a n , now, we souls are birds. . . F r o m here we'll easier observe H o w they will excavate t h e Vault. T h e s o o n e r it is dug a n d b r o k e n , T h e s o o n e r heaven will be o p e n e d . F o r t h u s to Peter spake t h e Lord: ' T h o u wilt a d m i t t h e m i n t o heaven, W h e n all by Muscovites is stolen. A n d they have o p e n e d t h e G r e a t Vault."' I W h e n I was of h u m a n - k i n d , Prissia was my n a m e ; A n d this village was m y b i r t h p l a c e , H e r e I grew, I c a m e

215

H e r e to play, in this s a m e c h u r c h y a r d J o i n e d t h e children's f u n . Playing b l i n d - m a n ' s - b u f f with Yurus, With the H e t m a n ' s son. A n d the H e t m a n ' s wife would c o m e ; A n d t o t h e house she'd call us, W h e r e that barn is now, a n d give m e Figs a n d raisins luscious, A n d all good things, a n d in her a r m s She'd carry m e a n d pet m e , And w h e n , s o m e t i m e s , f r o m C h y h y r y n G u e s t s c a m e with t h e H e t m a n , T h e n they'd send for m e , a n d dress m e In fine clothes a n d slippers, A n d t h e H e t m a n ' d carry m e In his a r m s a n d kiss m e . A n d so, here, in Subotiv, I grew u p a n d b l o s s o m e d , Like a flower, a n d everyone M a d e m e loved a n d w e l c o m e d . A n d t o n o o n e did I ever Say a n evil word. A n d a pretty girl 1 was, I n d e e d , I had dark brows! All the lads c a m e c o u r t i n g m e , Of marriage t h e y were speaking, A n d , of course, betrothal towels I h a d started weaving. I was just a b o u t to give t h e m W h e n evil struck u n s e e n . Early o n that S u n d a y m o r n i n g , O n St. Philip's E ' e n , I r a n out to fetch s o m e w a t e r ( L o n g years back, that well G r e w all silted a n d ran dry, But I fly o n still),

J looked: the H e t m a n a n d his elders. . . I drew t h e w a t e r t h e r e , A n d w i t h full pails I crossed their p a t h ; But I was u n a w a r e H e was going to Pereyaslav To swear M o s c o w fealty. A n d I could only carry h o m e With great difficulty T h a t s a m e water. . . A n d t h e pails, W h y did I n o t destroy t h e m ? Father, m o t h e r , self a n d b r o t h e r A n d t h e dogs I p o i s o n e d With that ever-cursed water! A n d f o r that I ' m stricken, F o r t h a t , sisters, t h e y will n o t Permit m e into heaven. II As for m e , my dearest sisters, I a m still d e b a r r e d , F o r I watered o n c e the h o r s e Of the M o s c o w tsar I n B a t u r y n ; 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 t h e night, A n d C h e c h e l by h e r slain. A n d b o t h old a n d y o u n g she t o o k A n d d r o w n e d t h e m in t h e Seym. . . A n d I fell, right in t h e very Palace of M a z e p p a , Lay a m o n g t h e corpses. N e a r , M y sister a n d m y m o t h e r , M u r d e r e d in e a c h other's a r m s .

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Lying there beside me. Only with t h e greatest effort C o u l d t h e m e n divide m e F r o m m y lifeless m o t h e r . But However m u c h I prayed T h e c a p t a i n of t h e Muscovites To kill m e t o o . . . Still t h e y Would n o t kill m e , but released m e For t h e m e n ' s a m u s e m e n t . . . S o m e h o w I got away a n d hid In the b u r n e d - o u t ruins. . . In Baturyn, just o n e h o u s e A l o n e , u n h a r m e d , survived, A n d in this h o u s e they m a d e t h e tsar A billet for the night, O n his j o u r n e y f r o m Poltava. Bringing water, I Went u p to t h e h o u s e , a n d h e B e c k o n e d m e , a n d signed T h a t I should w a t e r h i m his horse, A n d I watered it: I did not know, t h e n , that so gravely, Gravely I h a d sinned. . . I could hardly reach the h o u s e , A n d at the d o o r fell d e a d . T h e next day, w h e n the tsar h a d g o n e , I was laid to rest By a n old w o m a n w h o ' d stayed back In t h e b u r n e d - o u t w r e c k a g e , She it was w h o ' d w e l c o m e d m e To the roofless cottage. N e x t day, she died t o o , a n d lay In the house u n b u r i e d , For t h e r e was n o n e to b u r y h e r Left n o w in Baturyn. . . Long years b a c k , they pulled the house d o w n .

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A n d t h e carved k i n g - b e a m T h e y b u r n e d t o c h a r c o a l . . . Yet, till now Over t h e ravines, Over the steppes of the Cossacks, O n a n d on I've flown; A n d for what t h e y p u n i s h m e , Myself 1 d o not know! M a y b e for this that everyone I would serve a n d h o n o u r , A n d t o the tsar of Muscovy's H o r s e I o n c e gave water. Ill A n d in Kaniv I was b o r n ; To speak I'd still not l e a r n e d , Swaddled, in her a r m s , m y m o t h e r Carried m e a r o u n d , W h e n C a t h e r i n e the tsarina c a m e To Kaniv o n t h e D n i p r o , A n d 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 k n o w W h e t h e r I was hungry, O r w h e t h e r (1 was very y o u n g ) Just t h e n s o m e t h i n g hurt m e . M o t h e r was a m u s i n g m e , She looked u p o n t h e river, A n d she p o i n t e d out to m e T h e royal barge, all gilded Like a splendid m a n s i o n , t h e r e Princes, lords a n d governors I n the barge, a n d the tsarina Sat in state a m o n g t h e m . A n d I l o o k e d o n her a n d smiled A n d m y soul h a d fled.

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A n d m y m o t h e r died. . . a n d in a single G r a v e we b o t h were laid. This is why, m y dearest sisters, I a m being p u n i s h e d , F o r so long f r o m P u r g a t o r y Even I've been banished! H o w should I, a swaddled baby, K n o w that this tsarina Was a h u n g r y she-wolf, t h e fierce Foe of U k r a i n a ? Sisters, please tell t h e m e a n i n g ! " D u s k is falling, let us fly To pass t h e night in C h u t a , So t h a t , should s o m e t h i n g c o m e to pass We still may h e a r it, yonder." T h e little white birds started up, A n d t o t h e wood t o o k flight, T h e r e , o n a s i d e - b r a n c h of an oak, T h e y p e r c h e d t o pass the night.
T H R E E CROWS

1 Kr-rr, Kr-rr, Kr-rr! B o h d a n cribbed crocks A n d carted t o Kyiv, A n d sold t o crooks T h e crocks he cribbed. 2 I have been in Paris. T h e r e I d r a n k away three zloty With Radziwill a n d Potocki.

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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! C a w i n g thus, t h r e e crows c a m e flying F r o m three directions, a n d alighting On a beacon on a m o u n d I n t h e w o o d , they settled d o w n , All p u f f e d , as if in frosty weather, T h e y sat and looked, o n e t o t h e other. Like three old sisters, w i t h e r e d c r o n e s Who've spent their s p i n s t e r h o o d together, Until with moss they're overgrown. 1 T h i s for you, a n d this f o r you! I have just been flying To Siberia, w h e r e f r o m o n e D e c e m b r i s t I have stolen A scrap of gall. See, here it is, A bite t o break your fast! Well, in your Muscovy, is there aught To feed oneself at last? Or, n o t a single d a m ' t h i n g still? [3] Sister, ve 'ave many. T r e e Ukases I 'ave cawed, F o r a single roadvay.

1
W h i c h road was it? F o r t h e iron o n e Well, you've worked in style! 3 Yes, six t ' o u s a n d souls I stifled I n a single mile. 1 D o n ' t lie, for t h e r e were only five, With Von K o r f helping too! A n d she boasts a n d swanks about W h a t outsiders do! O you s m o k e - d r i e d cabbage-eater! A n d you, gracious m a d a m . You've b e e n feasting, t h e n , in Paris? You accursed h e a t h e n s ! You've spilled blood in a m e r e river A n d you only drove Your nobles to Siberia Yet h o w puffed up you've grown! See, w h a t a majestic p e a c o c k ! 2 and 3 A n d what have you d o n e ? 1 What right is it of yours t o ask me! You were still u n b o r n W h e n I played i n n - k e e p e r h e r e , D r a w i n g b l o o d b y quarts.

Look at t h e m ! Yes, t h e y have read K a r a m z i n , of course! A n d t h e y think: 'how fine we are!' Nitwits hold your tongue! C r i p p l e d a n d u n f e a t h e r e d birds. You are still half grown! 2 W h a t a t o u c h - m e - n o t she is! S o m e o n e ' s n o t u p early, W h o ' s still d r u n k at d a w n , b u t o n e W h o ' s slept it off already! 1 C o u l d you have got d r u n k w i t h o u t m e , With your Latin prelates? You've got n o d a m ' skill I b u r n e d d o w n Poland with her m o n a r c h s . A n d for all you did you gossip! She would yet be standing! As for t h e free Cossacks well, T h e y h a d 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 h o w unkillable t h e y are, D a m n e d things! I t h o u g h t , with B o h d a n I h a d almost buried t h e m . . . N o , u p t h e y rose fate d a m n t h e m With t h e Swedish v a g a b o n d , A n d w h a t events o c c u r r e d t h e n I grow still fiercer to recall! . . . Then I burned Baturyn; N e a r R o m n y 1 d a m m e d t h e Sula With officers alone

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F r o m the Cossack f o r c e , with simple Cossacks I have sown F i n l a n d over, piled t h e m up By t h e Oril in m o u n d s , A n d to Ladoga have driven T h e m in countless crowds. O n the tsar's behalf, the s w a m p s A n d m a r s h y land I stopped u p A n d I strangled in t h e d u n g e o n F a r - f a m e d Polubotok. W h a t a festival that was! Hell itself t o o k fright. A n d the Irzhavets M a d o n n a Wept salt tears that night! 3 I t o o 'ave lived it good! Vit' Tatars I stirred m u d ! Vit' Torturer gobbled up! Vit' Peterkin got d r u n k A n d to G e r m a n s sold t'e lot! 1 A n d this you couldn't have d o n e better! So neatly i n t o G e r m a n fetters You've b o u n d t h e Russkies, that o n e may Lie d o w n a n d sleep the t i m e away! A n d only t h e fiend k n o w s f o r sure W h a t m y lot are waiting for! Already I've f o r c e d s e r f d o m o n t h e m , A frightful lot of petty gentry I've reared in u n i f o r m s aplenty, As n u m e r o u s as lice I've bred, All o f ' e m m'lords, t h e bastards,

A n d with Jews n o w that ghastly Sich is overgrown a n d spread. T h e Muscovite, t o o , n o beginner! H e knows just h o w to w a r m his fingers. I m a y be fierce but all t h e same I c a n n o t bring to pass that W h i c h in U k r a i n e the Muscovites Are doing to the Cossacks. N o w look! They'll print a Ukase soon: "By G o d ' s a b o u n d i n g Mercy, Both you are O u r s and all is Ours, B o t h worthy a n d unworthy." Already they are bustling r o u n d . Seeking in the graves Antiquities, for in t h e h o u s e s N a u g h t is left to take, They've m a d e a lovely j o b of p l u n d e r i n g Everything, but t h e devil K n o w s w h y t h e y are m a k i n g such Haste about this evil Vault. H a d they waited just a while T h e c h u r c h would fall d o w n t o o , T h e n in Pchela t h e y c o u l d describe B o t h in the s a m e review. 2 and 3 Why, t h e n , have you s u m m o n e d us? U p o n t h e Vault to gaze? 1 T h e Vault as well! Moreover, two Marvels will c o m e to pass: This night in U k r a i n a twin Boys are t o be b o r n .

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O n e will t o r t u r e the t o r t u r e r s . As G o n t a did of yore, T h e other, t h o u g h , will bring t h e m aid (And he is ours f o r sure)! Already in the w o m b he bites, A n d I have read it all, How, w h e n t h a t G o n t a will grow u p . All that is ours will fall. H e will p l u n d e r all that's g o o d . N o r will he spare his brother, With truth a n d f r e e d o m U k r a i n a H e will scatter over. A n d so, d e a r sisters, you will see W h a t here they're m a k i n g ready, F o r torturers a n d all g o o d things T h e y are p r e p a r i n g fetters. 2

I vit' m e l t e d gold u p o n 'Is eyes vill p o u r it t'ick. 1 He'll have n o desire for gold. T h e cursed lunatic! 3 Vit' Imperial a p p o i n t m e n t s I vill 'andcuff 'im. 2 All evils a n d all tortures I F r o m the w h o l e world will bring.

N o , n o , d e a r sisters, that is n o t T h e way it should be d o n e , While m e n are blind, he m u s t be buried, Else ill-fate will c o m e . Look, t h e r e h i g h over Kyiv t o w n A c o m e t ' s tail is spreading, A n d n e a r the D n i p r o a n d Tiasmyn T h e earth has q u a k e d , all t r e m b l i n g . D o you hear? T h e m o u n t a i n g r o a n e d Over C h y h y r y n . . . All U k r a i n a ' s laughing, weeping! A n d this p o r t e n d s the twins Have n o w been b o r n into t h e world; A n d the d e m e n t e d m o t h e r S c r e a m s that she'll n a m e t h e m b o t h "Ivan" A n d shrieks w i t h crazy laughter. C o m e , let us fly. . . T h e y flew away, A n d as t h e y flew t h e y sang: 1 D o w n t h e D n i p r o , o u r Ivan Will sail to t h e L y m a n , With his aunt! 2 O u r wild dog will m i g r a t e To feed u p o n snakes In my path!

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Ven I seize a n d svoop, I To 'Ades vill fly Like a dart! T H R E E LYRE-MINSTRELS O n e was blind, a n o t h e r lame, O n e a h u n c h b a c k e d cripple, To Subotiv they c a m e t o sing Of B o h d a n t o the people. 1 Well, as folk say, those crows were quick To find a cosy roost! As t h o u g h t h e Muscovites put u p T h a t p e r c h just for t h e i r use. 2 A n d w h o else for, t h e n ? Surely n o w A m a n will n o t be put To c o u n t t h e stars t h e r e ? 1 You don't say! O r maybe t h e r e 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 s o m e pickings even there.

3 What n o n s e n s e are you j a b b e r i n g ? What kind of crows, n o w is it? What Muscovites? W h a t roost d'you m e a n ? T h e Lord above forbid it! Perhaps they'll want to f o r c e t h e m to H a t c h Muscovites f r o m eggs? For the tsar wants to c a p t u r e all T h e world, so r u m o u r says. 2 Maybe you're right, but w h y t h e devil Build t h e m on the m o u n t a i n s ? A n d such high ones, too, that you C a n reach t h e very clouds w h e n You c l i m b up t h e r e ? 3 This is why: There'll be a flood for sure. A n d t h e n the lords will c l i m b up high. And they will w a t c h f r o m t h e r e H o w all the peasant folk are d r o w n e d . 1 You folk may have a store Of w i s d o m but you still k n o w nothing! Here's t h e reason why T h e y set up these ' m o n u m e n t s ' : So that folk won't try To steal water f r o m t h e river O r plough secretly T h e sands that stretch a r o u n d the Tiasmyn.

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What the devil now? You've no talent so don't lie! Why d o n ' t we sit d o w n U n d e r this elm here for a while A n d rest? A n d in m y p a c k I've still a bit of bread or two, So we c a n have a snack. Let's eat now, while we have t h e c h a n c e , T h e sun will be u p soon. ( T h e y sat d o w n . ) A n d w h o , b r o t h e r s , a b o u t B o h d a n sings a t u n e ? 3 I c a n sing right well of Jassy A n d Z h o v t i Vody t o o , A n d Berestechko's little t o w n . 2 G r e a t service they will d o F o r us today m o s t certainly: F o r by the Vault there's plenty Of folk, a p r o p e r m a r k e t - d a y ! A n d quite a lot of gentry! T h a t ' s w h e r e the takings are f o r us! Well, let us sing t o g e t h e r F p r npjctVCeL. 1 G e t along with you! Let's lie down! Far better To get s o m e sleep! T h e day is long, There'll still be t i m e t o sing.

3 A n d so say I. Let's say o u r prayers, T h e n sleep yes, sleep's the t h i n g . T h e y fell asleep b e n e a t h the e l m - t r e e . T h e sun sleeps o n , t h e birds are still, But n e a r t h e Vault they're u p a n d busy. Already digging with a will. Already they've dug o n e day, two, A n d now t h e third at last A f t e r great effort there's the wall. T h e y take a little rest, A n d station sentries all a r o u n d . T h e Sergeant prays a n d begs N o t to let a n y b o d y near. Officially he sends Report to C h y h y r y n . T h e boss Arrived with bloated face; H e looked r o u n d : "Arches m u s t be broken." H e observed, "For case Vill so be settled." T h e y b r o k e in. A n d they were terrified: Skeletons lay there in the Vault, It s e e m e d as if t h e y smiled To look u p o n t h e shining sun. T h e r e B o h d a n ' s treasure lay: A p o t s h e r d a n d a rotten t r o u g h , A n d skeletons in chains! H a d they b e e n regulation o n e s . T h e y might be useful yet! T h e y laughed. . . T h e Sergeant in his rage Nearly went off his head: N o t h i n g to take a n d after he H a d worked so h a r d , a n d set Himself a - d i t h e r day a n d night

A n d n o w he only looked A fool! If only he could get His h a n d s o n h i m , he'd p u t T h a t B o h d a n straight into t h e a r m y ; T h e n he'd k n o w how, t h e pest, To fool t h e G o v e r n m e n t ! H e s h o u t s A n d r u n s like o n e possessed; H e sloshes Yaremenko's* face, A n d in t h e 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 c a n Sing a ballad, Sir, of Bohdan!" "I'll give you Bogdan! Rogues a n d vagabonds, a n d you M a d e o n an accursed Pvt/gut, just Vite ^ o u r s t t o t s , a sovig'." "Please you, Sir, we learned it!" "I vill learn you! Give it em!" T h e y seized a n d gave n o m e r c y ! A n d they s t e a m e d t h e m in t h e Muscovites' Own bathhouse-cooler! T h u s the ballads a b o u t B o h d a n Served t h e singers truly! T h u s in Subotiv M o s c o w dug T h e small vault as her prize; Still she has not yet discovered W h e r e t h e G r e a t Vault lies. T h e r e stands in Subotiv village, O n a hill so lofty, T h e coffin of U k r a i n a D e e p a n d wide that c o f f i n
* Cossack Yaremenko's barn is on the site where Bohdan's palace used to stand. (Shevchenko's note).

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T h i s is the c h u r c h of B o h d a n w h e r e O n c e a prayer he offered T h a t Muscovite a n d Cossack would Share good a n d ill together. Peace be to thy soul, B o h d a n , N o t so did it befall! T h e Muscovites were envious, Desiring t o take all! They've p l u n d e r e d all t h e g r a v e m o u n d s In their search for pelf, T h e y are digging u p t h y vaults. A n d b l a m e thee thyself W h e n their efforts are in vain. T h u s it is, now, B o h d a n ! T h o u hast ruined U k r a i n a , Left her w i d o w e d , o r p h a n e d . S u c h t h a n k s m u s t be paid to t h e e . A n d n o o n e will c o m e here, n o w To repair t h a t c o f f i n c h u r c h . I n this U k r a i n a , I n that s a m e land t h a t , with y o u , T h e Poles c r u s h e d a n d t r a m p l e d ! A n d C a t h e r i n e ' s bastards here Have like locusts settled. A n d t h u s it is now, Zinoviy, Aleksei's g o o d c o m r a d e , You gave the w h o l e lot t o your f r i e n d s But t h e y t h i n k n o t h i n g of it. T h e y say, your see, that it was theirs Back in f o r m e r days, a n d T h e y h a d only leased it to T h e Tatars f o r grazing, A n d to t h e Poles. Maybe they're right, Let's say that it had b e e n so! A n d let t h e n e i g h b o u r peoples all

M o c k at U k r a i n a ! D o not m o c k , you foreign people! T h e c h u r c h - c o f f i n will be Torn d o w n , a n d U k r a i n a will Rise up f r o m b e n e a t h . Truth's light will pierce u n f r e e d o m ' s g l o o m , A n d will shine f o r t h , g l e a m i n g , A n d the children of the u n f r e e Will pray t h e n in f r e e d o m
October 21, 1845, Maryinskove

THE SERVANT-GIRL
PROLOGUE

Early m o r n i n g , o n a Sunday, All the plain with mist was f l o o d e d , O n a g r a v e m o u n d there s t o o d , leaning, I n the mist like p o p l a r s e e m i n g , A y o u n g w o m a n stood. She pressed S o m e t h i n g close against h e r breast, She was talking with the mist. "O mist, I i m p l o r e you, M y p a t c h e d , shabby f o r t u n e ! Hide, cover o ' e r m e H e r e in the cornfield. C h o k e m e a n d stifle m e , U n d e r the earth drive m e . S n a t c h m e f r o m evil fate, S h o r t e n m y life for me. N o t that! but hide m e , mist, Here in the plain, T h a t n o n e see or k n o w My m i s f o r t u n e , my s h a m e !

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I a m not a l o n e , I have Father and mother . . . A n d I have t o o d e a r mist, Mist, dearest b r o t h e r . . . M y child! M y small son! U n b a p t i z e d still! I shall not christen you, Boding you ill; Strangers will christen you, I'll not know w h i c h N a m e they call you. . . . M y child! 1 was o n c e rich . . . Curse m e not! 1 shall pray Heaven itself. Weep d o w n a n d send to you F o r t u n e a n d health!" Sobbing, she went across t h e field. Hiding in the mist. A n d t h r o u g h h e r tears she quietly sang T h e song of that distressed Widow, w h o in the D a n u b e ' s flood Laid her sons to rest: " G r a v e m o u n d stands in t h e plain, H e r e o n c e a widow c a m e , C a m e and wandered about, For a p o i s o n - h e r b s o u g h t . P o i s o n - h e r b she f o u n d n o n e , But gave birth to two sons. In a silk kerchief tied, Brought t h e m to t h e D a n u b e ' s side. " ' G e n t l e D a n u b e , I pray, With m y babes gently play! S a n d , yellow a n d g o o d , D o t h o u give m y babes f o o d .

Tend t h e m a n d b a t h e t h e m . A n d w i t h thyself swathe t h e m ! ' " I T h e r e lived a n old c o u p l e . Long year a f t e r year, in their little holding, At the p o n d s i d e , by a w o o d . Like two children the pair were Always together. T h e y ' d p a s t u r e d sheep t o g e t h e r in c h i l d h o o d , Later m a r r i e d a n d settled, T h e y p u r c h a s e d s o m e cattle, Bought their holding, a mill with a p o n d . M a d e a n o r c h a r d in t h e w o o d With m a n y hives of bees, T h e y h a d all for their n e e d s . But n o children c a m e ; a n d n o w D e a t h D r e w close to t h e m with s h o u l d e r e d scythe. W h o would be a child to t h e m ? W h o b r i g h t e n a n d console T h e i r old age? M o u r n a n d bury t h e m ? A n d w h o pray for their souls? W h o ' d m a n a g e all t h e i r property, As is fit a n d right, R e m e m b e r i n g t h e m gratefully. As would their own child? H a r d it is to rear your children A m o n g roofless walls, But it is worse, far worse, to grow Old in splendid halls, To grow old a n d die a l o n e , Leave all o n e has gained For strangers a n d their children t o S q u a n d e r it all away!

II
A n d t h e n it h a p p e n e d t h e old c o u p l e Were sitting o n t h e b e n c h o n e Sunday, F i n e a n d smart in shirts of white; High above, the sun s h o n e bright, N o t the smallest cloud all quiet A n d tranquil as in heaven, Like a beast in a dark w o o d . G r i e f in their hearts was h i d d e n . In such a heaven, w h a t is it M a k e s t h e old couple m o u r n ? Has s o m e long-ago m i s f o r t u n e Woken in t h e i r h o m e ? Is it a grief, crushed yesterday, T h a t o n c e again is stirring? O r just this m o m e n t t a k e n r o o t , A n d set this heaven b u r n i n g ? 1 d o not k n o w why the old pair Were sorrowing so. Perhaps, already. To go t o G o d t h e y would p r e p a r e , A n d for that long road, w h o ' d be there To h a r n e s s u p their horses for t h e m ? "Who'll bury us, N a s t i a , w h e n we go O u t of this world?" "Well, I d o n ' t know! 1 have t h o u g h t it over well, Till it m a d e m e grieve; We have grown old all alone . . . A n d w h o is t h e r e t o leave O u r goods to?" " H u s h a m o m e n t ! There! D'you hear? T h e r e ' s s o m e t h i n g weeping,

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Like a child, outside t h e gate! Quickly! C a n you see it? I've felt t h a t something's going t o happen!" Together, u p they j u m p , Off to the gate! T h e y reach it a n d S t o p short, struck quite d u m b : Just outside the very stile A swaddled baby lay, W e l l - w r a p p e d - r o u n d , but n o t t o o tightly, With a n e w m a n t l e swathed; F o r its m o t h e r swaddled it, W r a p p e d it (it was s u m m e r ) , In her last r e m a i n i n g mantle! T h e y stand t h e r e , o u r old c o u p l e , T h e y look, they pray. T h e n , p o o r mite, As if it would i m p l o r e t h e m . T h e baby raised its little h a n d s . Stretching out towards t h e m Its tiny fingers. . . . It grew q u i e t , As if it would not weep, Only w h i m p e r e d softly "Well, N a s t i a ? I said so! See! It is fortune! It is fate! We'll be alone n o m o r e ! Well, pick h i m u p a n d swaddle him! . . . Look at h i m ! Bless his soul! Take h i m indoors. To H o r o d y s c h e I shall ride. We n e e d G o d - p a r e n t s for him." Strange t h e way T h i n g s c h a n c e with us, i n d e e d . O n e m a n curses his o w n son, Drives h i m f r o m t h e h o u s e ; A n o t h e r earns a c a n d l e with

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T h e sweat of weary brows, Sets it u p before the icons, Sobs a n d h u m b l y pleads: H e has n o children. . . . Strange the way T h i n g s c h a n c e with us, i n d e e d . Ill F r o m j o y t h e y asked n o less t h a n six G o d - p a r e n t s for t h e baby, T h e y christened h i m that evening; M a r k o Was the n a m e they gave h i m . M a r k o grew. And o u r old c o u p l e C o u l d n ' t find a thing G o o d e n o u g h , forever fussing, Coddling, pampering him. A year went by. O u r M a r k o grew. A n d for his sake the m i l c h - c o w Was steeped in luxury. A n d t h e n T h e r e arrived a d a r k - b r o w e d Young w o m a n at t h e h o u s e o n e day, She was y o u n g a n d pretty, A n d t o that blessed h o m e she c a m e To seek a m a i d ' s position. "Well, t h e n , " he says, "Let's have her, Nastia!" "Yes. T r o k h y m , let's take her, For we are old a n d ailing, t o o , A n d t h e n there is the baby, He's g r o w n a lot already, t r u e , But all the same, he needs Quite a lot of looking after." "Yes, he does, indeed! For I've already lived, t h a n k G o d , M y span of years away, I ' m n o l o n g e r young. N o w lass, W h a t are you asking, say?

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Yearly, or how?" "Whatever you give. . . . " "No! You have to know, M y lass, you have to c o u n t t h e cash, T h e cash you've e a r n e d ; for so It's said: W h o doesn't c o u n t his money. Doesn't o w n m u c h , either. Let's put it this way, lass: we d o n ' t K n o w y o u , n o r you us, neither; You'll live in with us, see what sort Of work it is, while we See h o w you m a n a g e . T h e n we'll talk Of wages. H o w ' d that be F o r you, m y girl?" "That suits m e , Sir!" " T h e n let's go in, a n d see!" T h e y settled o n a wage for her. T h e girl s e e m e d bright a n d merry, As if she'd p u r c h a s e d b r o a d estates O r s o m e great lord did marry. I n the house a n d in t h e f a r m y a r d , By the cattle-byre, D a w n a n d evening she was busy; A n d as for that d e a r child, She would t e n d h i m like a m o t h e r ! C o m m o n - d a y s alike A n d Sundays, washed his curly hair, A n d dressed h i m u p in white Blouses every single day; Played with h i m , sang h i m r h y m e s , M a d e h i m little carts, a n d feast-days N u r s e d h i m all the t i m e . T h e old c o u p l e were a s t o n i s h e d , T h a n k i n g G o d , they prayed. But every single night, p o o r lass,

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The watchful servant-maid Cursed her fate a n d shed salt tears Weeping bitterly; A n d there was n o n e t o h e a r h e r weep. N o n e t o k n o w o r see, Only little M a r k o sees it, A n d he c a n n o t k n o w W h y t h e servant-girl w i t h bitter T e a r - d r o p s bathes h i m so. M a r k o d o e s not k n o w why she Kisses h i m so dearly, H a r d l y stops to eat or drink O n l y cares t o feed h i m . M a r k o knows not h o w at night, O f t e n , in his cradle H e rouses, stirs t h e slightest bit At o n c e she's up a n d wakeful, Tucks h i m in a n d blesses h i m , R o c k s h i m gently, sweetly. F o r f r o m t h e o t h e r r o o m she hears H o w t h e child is b r e a t h i n g . I n the m o r n i n g , M a r k o holds His little a r m s t o w a r d s H a n n a , Hails the w a t c h f u l servant-girl W t h the n a m e of " M a m a , " M a r k o does not k n o w ; he grows, G r o w i n g towards m a n h o o d . IV M a n y seasons passed away. W i t h m a n y waters rolling. A n d to the h o m e s t e a d sorrow c a m e , A n d m a n y tears were falling. T h e y laid old Nastia t o her rest, A n d hardly could revive again

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Old T r o k h y m . Sorrow passed, a n d went Away again, a n d o n c e m o r e slept. Back t o t h e h o m e s t e a d , h a p p i n e s s Out f r o m b e h i n d t h e dark grove crept, At h o m e with the old m a n to rest. M a r k o was a c h u m a k now, A n d in t h e a u t u m n evenings, t o o . He at h o m e would never tarry, It was t i m e for h i m to marry. "But w h o is there?" the old m a n t h o u g h t , A n d he asked advice Of t h e servant. To an e m p e r o r ' s D a u g h t e r ' d be her c h o i c e To send m a t c h m a k e r s : "You m u s t get M a r k o himself, a n d ask h i m . " "Right, m y girl! We'll ask t h e boy, T h e n have t h e wedding-party." T h e y asked h i m , talked t h e m a t t e r over, M a r k o at o n c e went out For m a t c h m a k e r s . T h e y s o o n r e t u r n e d Bearing b e t r o t h a l towels, Blessed bread e x c h a n g e d . A n d she was a Young lady, fine arrayed in Furs, a n d t h e n so pretty, t o o , This bride, t h a t such a m a i d e n Would be a fit m a t c h for a H e t m a n . Yes, they'd f o u n d a treasure! " T h a n k you, friends," the old m a n said. "Now, we have to settle Everything, so that you can know, W h e n a n d w h e r e shall we Have the wedding a n d the feast. A n d t h e n again, who'll be M o t h e r for us? M y N a s t i a did not

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Live t o see this day! . . . " His tears welled up. But in t h e doorway Stood the s e r v a n t - m a i d , She c l e n c h e d h e r h a n d s against the j a m b , And swooned. And not another S o u n d was heard only t h e servant Whispered: "Mother. . . . Mother!" V A week went by, a n d the y o u n g w o m e n K n e a d the bridal loaf At the h o m e s t e a d . T h e old father, S u m m o n i n g his strength, D a n c e s , t o o , with t h e y o u n g w o m e n , Sweeps the courtyard clean, A n d all w h o pass or j o u r n e y by H e invites within. Offering t h e m h o n e y - b r a n d y , Invites t h e m for t h e wedding, Scurrying a r o u n d , although His legs will hardly b e a r h i m . In the house and o u t , is noise, Laughter all a b o u t , F r o m the store, last b a r r e l - l o a d s Of flour they're dragging out. All a r o u n d is bustle baking, Washing, cleaning, boiling . . . All d o n e by strangers. Where's t h e maid? As a pilgrim toiling To Kyiv gone! T h e old m a n p l e a d e d , M a r k o was weeping quite, Begging her to act as m o t h e r . " N o , M a r k o ! It's not right F o r m e t o take y o u r m o t h e r ' s place: You are wealthy folk,

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A n d I'm a servant-girl; t h a t way You'd be a laughing stock. M a y G o d bless a n d help you b o t h ! I shall go to pray To all the holy saints in Kyiv, T h e n I'll r e t u r n again To your h o m e , if you'll have m e back. As long as I have strength I shall work f o r you." Sincerely, F r o m her h e a r t , she blessed H e r M a r k o , a n d , all b a t h e d in tears, Went b e y o n d t h e stile. T h e wedding celebrations started. T h e r e was work, m e a n w h i l e , F o r m u s i c i a n s a n d f o r shoes. Tables a n d b e n c h e s ran With brandy. But the servant t r u d g e d , To Kyiv h u r r i e d o n . To Kyiv c a m e , but did not rest. F o u n d a place t o stay, H i r e d herself out t o carry water, F o r n o cash r e m a i n e d To have St Barbara's Litany sung. She carried b a c k a n d f o r t h . E a r n e d s o m e eight f i f t y - c o p e c k pieces, A n d for M a r k o b o u g h t A blessed c a p in the c a t a c o m b s Of the great St J o h n , T h a t M a r k o ever should be free F r o m headache, henceforth on. A n d t h e n a St Barbara ring F o r the bride she e a r n e d , Paid her respects to all t h e saints, T h e n h o m e w a r d she r e t u r n e d .

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She r e t u r n e d h o m e . K a t e r y n a A n d M a r k o ran a n d m e t her Outside t h e gate, led h e r within A n d at t h e table set her; Spread before her f o o d a n d d r i n k , Asked h e r countless q u e s t i o n s Of Kyiv, while Kateryna spread A b e d for h e r to rest o n . "Why so dearly d o t h e y love m e ? W h y respect m e so? G o d of g o o d n e s s a n d of mercy, D o they, m a y b e , k n o w ? Have t h e y guessed t h e secret, m a y b e ? N o , t h e y have not guessed. It's because they're g o o d . . . ." A n d bitter Tears the servant shed. VI T h r i c e the w i n t e r ice was f r o z e n , T h r i c e it t h a w e d again, T h r i c e Katria went t o see the servant Off u p o n h e r way To Kyiv, as she would h e r m o t h e r . A n d for the f o u r t h t i m e walked With her right to the field, t h e m o u n d , Praying to t h e Lord T h a t she'd c o m e quickly h o m e again, F o r w i t h o u t her, t h e h o m e Was s o m e h o w sad, as t h o u g h t h e m o t h e r Were away f r o m h o m e . A f t e r O u r Lady's feast, o n e Sunday, A f t e r the A s s u m p t i o n Day, old T r o k h y m

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Was sitting in a fine white shirt A n d straw hat, o n t h e b e n c h . Before h i m With the dog his g r a n d s o n played, A n d his g r a n d d a u g h t e r , all dressed u p In m o t h e r ' s b o d i c e , played she'd c o m e To visit g r a n d p a . T h e old m a n gave A laugh, t h e n solemnly he greeted His g r a n d c h i l d , like a g r o w n - u p lady. "But what's b e c o m e , say, of y o u r pasty? They've robbed you in the w o o d s , maybe? O r did you just forget t o take it? Or, maybe, you've n o t yet baked it? W h a t a fine m o t h e r ! S h a m e , indeed!" But look! I n t o the courtyard c a m e T h e m a i d . T h e old m a n ran t o m e e t His H a n n a , a n d the children too. "Is M a r k o o n the road?" H a n n a asked the old m a n . "Yes, still out o n t h e road." "And I could hardly hobble back, C o m e b a c k to y o u r 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, s o m e h o w . . ." A n d for the g r a n d c h i l d r e n , she drew Out presents f r o m her b u n d l e : Little crosses a n d m e d a l l i o n s , A n d f o r Yarynochka A string of corals, a n d red foil M a d e into a holy picture; F o r K a r p o , she'd a nightingale, A n d a pair of horses; And for Kateryna, now Already for the f o u r t h t i m e , A St Barbara ring; a n d t h r e e

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Tapers of hallowed wax F o r old g r a n d p a ; but for M a r k o A n d herself, she lacked A present: she could not b u y m o r e . T h e r e was n o m o n e y left, She h a d grown t o o ill to e a r n . "But look! I've still got left H a i f a bagel!" A n d to the children G a v e a bite to each.

VII She went within. A n d K a t e r y n a Washed a n d b a t h e d h e r feet, Sat h e r d o w n t o take a meal. She could n o t drink or eat, P o o r old H a n n a . "Kateryna, W h e n will S u n d a y be?" "The day a f t e r tomorrow." " T h e n we M u s t have t h e m sing St N i c h o l a s ' s Litany, A n d m a k e an offering, For M a r k o ' s s o m e h o w been delayed, Maybe out on the road H e was taken ill, may G o d Protect him!" A n d tears flowed F r o m her old a n d weary eyes. Hardly could she stand, Rise f r o m table. "Kateryna, I n o longer a m W h a t I was, t o o weak t o s t a n d ,

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Useless I have grown. Katria, it's hard to die w i t h i n A stranger's cosy home!" T h e p o o r old soul grew weak a n d ill, Already t h e y have sent To bring C o m m u n i o n t o her a n d T h e Last S a c r a m e n t , It did not help! Old T r o k h y m r o a m s T h e yard with d e a t h - l i k e face; Kateryna f r o m p o o r H a n n a C a n n o t shift her gaze, K a t e r y n a at h e r side Days a n d nights would s p e n d , While in t h e night, owls o n t h e b a r n Boded n o g o o d e n d . Every day a n d every h o u r T h e invalid entreats her, With her voice the merest whisper, "Daughter Kateryna, Hasn't M a r k o c o m e b a c k yet? All, if I k n e w for sure T h a t I c o u l d last until I see h i m , T h e n I could endure!" VIII M a r k o j o u r n e y s with the c h u m a k s , Singing as he's walking, D o e s not h u r r y t o the h o m e s t e a d , Stops t o graze his oxen. M a r k o brings for K a t e r y n a Fabrics, costly, rich; F o r his father, there's a girdle Woven f r o m red silk; For the servant, gold b r o c a d e

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To m a k e herself a b o n n e t , A n d a kerchief of good c r i m s o n With white fringe u p o n it; A n d for t h e c h i l d r e n , little shoes, Figs a n d grapes; a n d t h e n F r o m C o n s t a n t i n o p l e , red Wine for all of t h e m , T h r e e good caskfuls in the barrel, Caviar f r o m t h e D o n , H e brings it all, but d o e s not k n o w W h a t ' s h a p p e n i n g at h o m e . M a r k o j o u r n e y s , does not worry, H e arrives, t h a n k G o d ! P u s h e s t h e gate o p e n wide, Says a prayer to G o d . " D o you h e a r h i m . K a t e r y n a ? R u n and welcome him! H e is here at last! R u n quicker, Quickly bring h i m in! T h a n k s be t o T h e e , H o l y Saviour! H e is here at last!" A n d softly she repeats "Our Father," As if f r o m a t r a n c e . T h e old m a n unyokes t h e o x e n , Stows the brightly t r i m m e d Yoke-stays, a n d Katrussia t u r n s To M a r k o , w a t c h i n g h i m . "But w h e r e is H a n n a , K a t e r y n a ? I've not cared a bit! She's not d e a d , surely?" "No, not dead. But she's very sick. Let's go into the smaller r o o m , F a t h e r will u n h a r n e s s

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T h e oxen; M a r k o , it's for you She's waiting, always asking." Marko But o n F o r he "Glory went to t h e smaller r o o m . the t h r e s h o l d s t o p p e d . . . was frightened. H a n n a whispered: be to G o d !

C o m e over here, d o n ' t be afraid! . . . Katria, please go away! T h e r e ' s s o m e t h i n g that I have t o ask h i m . S o m e t h i n g I must say." K a t e r y n a left the r o o m , M a r k o by t h e h e a d Of the old s e r v a n t - m a i d b e n t d o w n . " M a r k o , 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 n o t H a n n a , n o r a servant, I. . ." A n d she grew d u m b . M a r k o wept a n d w o n d e r e d deeply. O n c e m o r e her eyes were o p e n , She gazed at h i m with all h e r strength, A n d tears started flowing. "Forgive m e . All my life here in A stranger's h o m e I've suffered . . . Forgive m e , t h e n , m y little son! I . . . I a m y o u r mother!" A n d she grew silent. . . . Marko swooned. T h e g r o u n d s h o o k with a t r e m o r . His sense r e t u r n e d . . . he looked at her His m o t h e r slept forever.
November 13, 1845 at Pereyaslav

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THE CAUCASUS
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 m o u n t a i n s , crags in s t o r m c l o u d s c l o a k e d , Wild heights sown w i t h sorrow, soil that b l o o d has soaked. F r o m t h e d a w n of t i m e , P r o m e t h e u s H a n g s , the eagle's victim; All G o d ' s days, it pecks his ribs, Tears the heart within h i m . Tears, but c a n n o t drink away T h e blood that t h r o b s w i t h life, Still it lives a n d lives again, A n d still o n c e m o r e he smiles. F o r o u r soul shall never perish, F r e e d o m k n o w s n o dying, A n d t h e G l u t t o n c a n n o t harvest Fields w h e r e seas are lying; C a n n o t bind t h e living spirit, N o r the living word, C a n n o t s m i r c h the sacred glory Of almighty G o d . N o t for us t o stand against T h e e , N o t for us t o judge T h y deed: F o r us t h e r e is but weeping, weeping, F o r us o u r daily bread to k n e a d Well-mixed with b l o o d a n d sweat a n d tears; T h e h a n g m a n tortures, m o c k s a n d jeers, O u r d r u n k e n t r u t h sleeps o n as dead! W h e n will she wake o n c e m o r e f r o m s l u m b e r ? W h e n , w o r n out with strife. Lord, wilt T h o u lie d o w n t o rest

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A n d grant us people life? Truly in T h y m i g h t , T h y living Spirit we believe; Liberty a n d right shall t r i u m p h , A n d , O Lord, to T h e e Every t o n g u e o n earth shall pray T h r o u g h the length of days. M e a n w h i l e , rivers rise in f l o o d , Swollen streams of b l o o d . M o u n t a i n s b e y o n d m o u n t a i n s , crags in s t o r m c l o u d s cloaked, Wild heights s o w n with sorrow, soil t h a t blood has soaked. A n d t h e r e . O u r M a j e s t y surprised ( N a k e d a n d starving t h o u g h it b e ) , A poor, but natural liberty. T h e h u n t is on! . . . Since t h e n , t h e g r o u n d Is strewn w i t h conscripts' scattered bones. A n d tears? A n d b l o o d ? E n o u g h t o d r o w n All e m p e r o r s with all their sons A n d g r a n d s o n s eager for the t h r o n e I n widows' tears. . . . A n d m a i d e n s ' tears Shed secretly the w h o l e night long? What of the fiery tears of m o t h e r s ? T h e b l o o d - s t a i n e d tears of aged fathers? N o t rivers n o w a sea, f u l l - f l o o d , A sea of fire. . . . Glory! Glory! G l o r y t o w o l f - h o u n d s , trappers, h u n t e r s , A n d to the tsars, o u r "little fathers," Glory! A n d glory t o you, d a r k - b l u e m o u n t a i n s , Frost a n d s n o w protect you; A n d to you, g r e a t - h e a r t e d heroes, G o d does n o t forget you. Battle o n a n d win y o u r battle! G o d H i m s e l f will aid you;

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At y o u r side fight t r u t h a n d glory, Right a n d holy f r e e d o m . B a n n o c k a n d croft are all y o u r o w n ; T h e y were not alms, were n o t a gift, N o o n e will seize t h e m for his o w n . C l a p you in c h a i n s a n d drag you off. I n o u r d o m a i n . . . We're civilized, We read the words of Holy Writ, A n d f r o m the d u n g e o n ' s lowest pit U p to t h e glory of the t h r o n e , We're all in gold a n d n a k e d too. We'll show you culture! You'll be t a u g h t T h e price of b r e a d , t h e price of s a l t . . . We're Christians. We have shrines a n d learning. A n d all that's g o o d . G o d likes us too! Your croft alone still spoils o u r view; W h y d o e s it stand u p o n your land Without o u r leave? W h y can we n o t T h r o w you your b a n n o c k s as t o dogs? W h y d o n ' t you, w h e n all's said a n d d o n e , Pay excise duty o n the sun? T h a t ' s all we ask! F o r we're not h e a t h e n s , We're g e n u i n e , professing Christians. We're satisfied with little, so If only you'd be friendly t o o , T h e r e ' d be so m u c h to show to you. A g o o d slice of the world is ours; Siberia, think! t o o vast t o cross! Jails? People? C o u n t i n g takes t o o long! F r o m the M o l d a v i a n to t h e F i n n Silence is held in every t o n g u e . . . All quite c o n t e n t . . . In o u r d o m a i n T h e Bible is m a d e plain t o us. T h e holy m o n k s explain it thus: A king, w h o used to pasture swine. M u r d e r e d a f r i e n d , a n d stole his wife,

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 A n d t h u s he w o n eternal life! Just see who's in our Paradise! You're u n e n l i g h t e n e d , you don't k n o w T h e t r u t h s the H o l y Cross can show! So learn o u r rule! Fleece, fleece a n d give; A n d w h e n you've given Straight off to heaven, A n d take the family if you like! A n d as for us! W h a t don't we k n o w ? There's stars t o c o u n t a n d c o r n t o sow, We curse t h e F r e n c h ! A n d we can sell ( T h e y m a k e fine stakes at cards as well), People not negroes, o u r o w n k i n d , Just simple Christians, we don't m i n d , F o r we're not Dagoes! G o d forbid T h a t we should deal in stolen g o o d s As J e w - b o y s do. We live 'by law'! . . . By t h e apostolic law? T h e n you love your b r e t h r e n ? Hypocrites, w i t h vipers' t o n g u e s , R o g u e s accursed by heaven! Yes, you love y o u r b r o t h e r ' s skin, N e v e r m i n d his soul! F l e e c e h i m 'by law' w h e n you need m o n e y ; A daughter's fine f u r stole, O r a dowry for your bastard, Slippers for your wife. A n d expenses you d o n ' t m e n t i o n I n your family life! Why, t h e n wast T h o u crucified, Christ, T h o u Son of G o d ? Was it just f o r us good people? F o r t h e word of t r u t h ? So that we would m o c k T h e e , m a y b e ? T h a t ' s the way it was!

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-r

Shrines a n d chapels, c a n d e l a b r a , Icons, clouds of incense, D e e p prostrations, never tiring, H o n o u r i n g T h i n e Image; G r a n t t h e m t h e f t a n d war a n d murder, So that they may kill a brother, Behold, they offer gifts to T h e e ! Loot f r o m a fire, fine tapestry! . . . We are t h e enlightened! N o w We bring the radiant sun, Reveal t h e blessed light of t r u t h To sightless little ones. C o m e to us, a n d all you o u g h t To k n o w will be m a d e plain: Prison building will be t a u g h t , H o w t o forge y o u r c h a i n s . H o w t o wear t h e m , h o w t h e k n o u t Is plaited we'll explain All o u r science. Only yield Your d a r k - b l u e m o u n t a i n s , please T h e y alone d e f y us now. We hold the plains a n d seas! A n d they drove you there, Yakov, to die as a stranger, My friend, m y o n e friend! N o t f o r o u r U k r a i n a , But for her h a n g m a n they m a d e you shed b l o o d , N o t black b l o o d , b u t g o o d ; a n d you d r a n k your reward F r o m a Muscovite chalice of Muscovite poison. M y f r i e n d , m y d e a r friend, in m y t h o u g h t s u n f o r g o t t e n ! C o m e , living soul, c o m e to U k r a i n a again; Fly across b a n k s with t h e Cossacks, stand guard Beside h e r o e s ' robbed g r a v e m o u n d s , a n d wait in t h e plain, Sharing t h e tears t h a t the Cossacks are weeping, U n t i l I escape f r o m this slavery a n d pain. M e a n w h i l e , I have seeds t o scatter, All m y a c h i n g grief,

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All m y t h o u g h t s ; G o d grant t h e y b l o s s o m , Speaking in t h e w i n d . Peaceful winds f r o m U k r a i n a , Bearing dew, will carry All my t h o u g h t s t o you, d e a r brother, G r e e t i n g t h e m with sorrow, You will read t h e m to t h e e n d , Recalling quietly, T h e heroes' graves, the plains, the hills, T h e land you loved a n d m e .
November 18, 1845 at Pereyaslav

TO MY FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN, IN UKRAINE A N D NOT IN UKRAINE, L I V I N G , D E A D A N D AS Y E T U N B O R N MY FRIENDLY EPISTLE

If a man say, / love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar. I John, Chapter 4, Verse 20

D u s k is falling, d a w n is breaking, A n d G o d ' s day is e n d i n g , O n c e again a weary people A n d all things are resting. O n l y I, like o n e a c c u r s e d , N i g h t a n d day stand weeping At the m a n y - p e o p l e d c r o s s - r o a d s , A n d yet n o o n e sees me. N o o n e sees m e , n o o n e knows, Deaf, t h e y d o not h e a r k e n , T h e y are trading with t h e i r fetters, Using t r u t h t o bargain, A n d t h e y all neglect the L o r d , In heavy yokes they h a r n e s s

People; t h u s t h e y plough disaster, A n d they sow disaster . . . But w h a t shoots spring u p ? You'll see W h a t the harvest yields t h e m ! Shake your wits awake, you brutes, You d e m e n t e d children! Look u p o n y o u r native country, O n this p e a c e f u l E d e n ; Love with overflowing heart This expanse of ruin! Break y o u r chains, a n d live as brothers! D o not try to seek. D o not ask in foreign lands F o r w h a t can never be Even in heaven, let alone In a foreign region . . . I n one's own h o u s e , o n e ' s o w n truth, One's o w n might a n d f r e e d o m . T h e r e is n o o t h e r U k r a i n a , N o s e c o n d D n i p r o in t h e world, Yet you strike out f o r foreign regions, To seek, i n d e e d , the blessed g o o d . T h e holy g o o d , a n d f r e e d o m , f r e e d o m , F r a t e r n a l b r o t h e r h o o d . . . . You f o u n d A n d carried f r o m that foreign region, To U k r a i n a , h o m e w a r d - b o u n d , T h e m i g h t y p o w e r of m i g h t y words, A n d n o t h i n g m o r e t h a n t h a t . . . . You s c r e a m , t o o , T h a t G o d , creating you, did n o t m e a n you To worship u n t r u t h , t h e n , o n c e m o r e , You b o w d o w n as you bowed b e f o r e , A n d o n c e again the very skin you Tear f r o m y o u r sightless p e a s a n t brothers, T h e n , t o regard t h e sun of t r u t h I n places n o t u n k n o w n , you shove off

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To G e r m a n lands. If only you'd Take all your miserable possessions, T h e g o o d s your a n c e s t o r s have stolen, T h e n w i t h its holy heights, t h e D n i p r o Would r e m a i n bereft, an o r p h a n . A h , if it c o u l d be that you would not r e t u r n . T h a t you'd give u p t h e ghost in t h e place you were reared, T h e c h i l d r e n would weep n o t , n o r m o t h e r ' s tears b u r n , A n d G o d would not h e a r your b l a s p h e m i n g a n d sneers, T h e sun would not p o u r w a r m t h u p o n a foul dunghill, Set o n a land that is free, broad a n d true, T h e n folk would not realize w h a t kind of eagles You are, a n d would n o t shake t h e i r h e a d s over you. F i n d y o u r wits! Be h u m a n beings, F o r evil is i m p e n d i n g , Very s o o n t h e shackled p e o p l e Will their c h a i n s be r e n d i n g ; J u d g m e n t will c o m e , a n d t h e n shall speak T h e m o u n t a i n s a n d the D n i p r o , A n d in a h u n d r e d rivers, b l o o d Will flow to the blue sea, Your children's b l o o d . . . a n d t h e r e will be N o o n e to help you . . . B r o t h e r Will by his b r o t h e r be r e n o u n c e d . T h e child by its o w n m o t h e r . A n d like a cloud, d a r k s m o k e will cover T h e bright sun b e f o r e you, F o r endless ages y o u r own sons Will curse you a n d a b h o r you. Wash y o u r faces! G o d ' s fair image D o not foul w i t h filth! D o n o t deceive y o u r children that T h e y live u p o n this earth Simply that they should rule as lords F o r an u n l e a r n e d eye

Will deeply search their very souls. Deeply, t h o r o u g h l y . . . For w h o s e skin you're wearing, helpless Mites will realize, T h e y will j u d g e you, a n d the u n l e a r n e d Will deceive t h e wise. H a d you but learned t h e way you ought, T h e n w i s d o m also would be yours; But thus to heaven you would climb: "We are n o t we, 1 a m not I! I have seen all, all things I k n o w : T h e r e is n o hell, there is n o h e a v e n , N o t even G o d , but only I a n d T h e stocky G e r m a n , clever-clever, A n d n o o n e else beside. . . ." " G o o d , brother! But w h o , t h e n , are you? " "We don't know Let the G e r m a n speak!" A h yes, in your foreign land You learn in just this way! T h e G e r m a n will say: "You are M o n g o l s . " " M o n g o l s , that is plain!" Yes, t h e n a k e d g r a n d c h i l d r e n Of g o l d e n T a m e r l a n e ! T h e G e r m a n will say: "You are Slavs." "Slavs, yes, Slavs indeed!" Of great a n d glorious a n c e s t o r s T h e u n w o r t h y seed! A n d so you read Kollar, t o o , With all your m i g h t a n d m a i n ,
v
v

Safarik as well, a n d H a n k a , Full-tilt you push away Into t h e Slavophils, all t o n g u e s Of the Slavonic race You k n o w full well, but of y o u r o w n

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N o t h i n g ! "There'll c o m e a day W h e n we can parley in o u r o w n When the G e r m a n teaches, A n d , w h a t is m o r e , o u r history Explains t o us a n d p r e a c h e s , T h e n we will set a b o u t it all!" You've m a d e a g o o d b e g i n n i n g . Following the G e r m a n p r e c e p t s You have started speaking So that t h e G e r m a n c a n n o t grasp T h e sense, the mighty teacher, N o t t o m e n t i o n simple p e o p l e . A n d uproar! A n d t h e screeching: " H a r m o n y a n d power t o o , N o t h i n g less t h a n m u s i c As for history! Of a free N a t i o n 'tis the epic . . . C a n ' t c o m p a r e with those p o o r Romans! T h e i r Bruti g o o d - f o r - n o t h i n g s ! But o h , o u r Cocleses a n d Bruti Glorious, unforgotten! F r e e d o m herself grew u p with us, A n d in the D n i p r o b a t h e d , She h a d m o u n t a i n s for h e r pillow, A n d f o r h e r quilt t h e plains!" It was in blood she b a t h e d herself, She t o o k h e r sleep o n piles Of the corpses of free Cossacks, C o r p s e s all despoiled. Only look well, only read T h a t glory t h r o u g h o n c e m o r e , F r o m t h e first word t o the last, Read; d o n o t ignore Even t h e least a p o s t r o p h e , N o t o n e c o m m a even, Search o u t the m e a n i n g of it all,

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T h e n ask yourself t h e q u e s t i o n : "Who are we? W h o s e sons? Of what sires? By w h o m and why e n c h a i n e d ? " A n d t h e n , i n d e e d , you'll see f o r w h a t Are y o u r Bruti f a m e d : Toadies, slaves, the filth of Moscow, Warsaw's garbage are your lords, Illustrious h e t m a n s ! W h y so p r o u d A n d swaggering, t h e n d o you b o a s t , you Sons of U k r a i n a ' s m i s f o r t u n e ? T h a t well you k n o w t o wear the yoke, M o r e t h a n y o u r fathers did of yore? T h e y are flaying you, cease y o u r boasts F r o m t h e m , at times, the fat they'd t h a w You boast, p e r h a p s , t h e B r o t h e r h o o d D e f e n d e d the faith of old? Because they boiled their d u m p l i n g s in Sinope, Trebizond? It is t r u e , they ate their fill, But n o w your s t o m a c h ' s dainty, A n d in t h e Sich, the clever G e r m a n Plants his beds o f ' t a t i e s ; A n d you buy, a n d with g o o d relish Eat w h a t he has grown, A n d you praise t h e Z a p o r o z h i a . But w h o s e blood was it flowed Into t h a t soil a n d soaked it t h r o u g h So t h a t p o t a t o e s flourish? While it's good f o r k i t c h e n - g a r d e n s You're t h e last to worry! A n d you boast b e c a u s e we o n c e Brought Poland t o d e s t r u c t i o n . . . It is t r u e , yes, P o l a n d fell. But in h e r fall she c r u s h e d you. T h u s , t h e n , your fathers spilled their blood F o r M o s c o w a n d for Warsaw,

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A n d t o you, their sons, t h e y have B e q u e a t h e d t h e i r chains, their glory. U k r a i n a struggled o n , Fighting t o t h e limit: She is crucified by t h o s e W o r s e - t h a n - P o l e s , h e r children. In place of beer, t h e y d r a w the righteous Blood f r o m o u t h e r sides. Wishing, so they say, t o enlighten T h e m a t e r n a l eyes With c o n t e m p o r a r y lights, To lead h e r as the t i m e s 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! L e a d , explain! Let t h e p o o r old m o t h e r L e a r n h o w children s u c h as these N e w o n e s she m u s t succour. S h o w her, t h e n , a n d d o not haggle Your instruction's price. A m o t h e r ' s good reward will c o m e : F r o m y o u r greedy eyes T h e scales will fall away, a n d you Will t h e n b e h o l d t h e glory, T h e living glory of y o u r grandsires, A n d fathers skilled in knavery. D o n o t fool yourselves, my brothers, Study, read a n d learn T h o r o u g h l y the foreign things But d o n o t s h u n y o u r o w n : For he w h o forgets his m o t h e r . By G o d ' s w r a t h is s m i t t e n , His children shun h i m , t o their h o m e s T h e y will not a d m i t h i m . Strangers drive h i m f r o m their doors;

F o r this evil o n e N o w h e r e in the b o u n d l e s s earth Is a j o y f u l h o m e . I weep salt tears w h e n I recall Those unforgotten actions Of o u r forefathers, t h o s e grave deeds! If I could but forget t h e m , Half m y course of j o y f u l years I'd s u r r e n d e r for it! S u c h i n d e e d , t h e n , is o u r glory, U k r a i n a ' s glory! . . . T h u s t o o , you s h o u l d r e a d it t h r o u g h T h a t you'd d o m o r e t h a n d r e a m . While slumbering, of injustices, So that you would see High g r a v e m o u n d s o p e n u p before Your eyes, t h a t t h e n you might Ask t h e m a r t y r s w h e n a n d w h y A n d w h o was crucified. C o m e , m y brothers, and embrace E a c h your h u m b l e s t brother, M a k e o u r m o t h e r smile again, O u r poor, t e a r - s t a i n e d m o t h e r ! With h a n d s that are firm and strong She will bless her c h i l d r e n , E m b r a c e h e r helpless little ones, A n d with free lips, she'll kiss t h e m . T h o s e b y g o n e t i m e s will be forgotten With their s h a m e f u l story, A n d that glory will revive, U k r a i n a ' s glory, A n d a clear light, not a twilight, Will shine forth to greet you . . . Brothers, t h e n , e m b r a c e each other, I pray a n d e n t r e a t you!
December 14, 1845 Vyunyscha

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T H E C O L D RAVINE To every m a n his o w n m i s f o r t u n e , N o r am I without one, T h o u g h it is not m i n e , but b o r r o w e d , Still it is m i s f o r t u n e . Why, o n e would say, recall events T h a t h a p p e n e d so long past, R o u s e t h e m f r o m G o d k n o w s how far b a c k ? G o o d that they sleep at last! . . . Take, for e x a m p l e , that Ravine! Already t h e r e r e m a i n s N o t even a n a r r o w track t o it, As t h o u g h t h e r e never c a m e M a n ' s foot t h e r e yet, if you but t h i n k , A g o o d road ran between T h e sacred M o t r y n m o n a s t e r y And that dread Rapine. Of old t h e H a i d a m a k y t h e r e I n that Ravine pitched c a m p , T h e y p r i m e d t h e i r m u s k e t s f o r t h e fight A n d m a d e their lances s h a r p . In that Ravine assembled t h e n (With suffering w o r n a n d tried) F a t h e r with son, b r o t h e r with brother, I n order, side by side, To face t h e evil enemy, T h e accursed Pole. W h e r e art t h o u , t h e n , p a t h t o the d e e p Ravine o n c e t r o d d e n well? Hast g r o w n thyself with a dark grove? O r have n e w h a n g m e n c o m e To plant t h e e over, so that n o w People c a n n o t c o m e F o r t h y advice: w h a t shall t h e y d o With masters just a n d g o o d ,

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With wicked, evil c a n n i b a l s , With n e w Poles? N o , i n d e e d , You c a n n o t hide it! Z a l i z n i a k Above t h e Ravine still hovers, G l a n c e s over t o w a r d s U m a n L o o k i n g out for G o n t a . D o n o t hide it, d o not t r a m p l e O n the Holy Gospel, D o not hail f e r o c i o u s N e r o : "Righteous Apostle!" D o not try to find y o u r glory In the tsar's "crusade," F o r you yourselves d o n o t k n o w w h a t T h e s e tsarlings p e r p e t r a t e , But shout that "for the F a t h e r l a n d " You m a k e this great oblation Of soul a n d skin! F o r s o o t h yours is I n d e e d a sheeplike nature! T h e fool offers his n e c k , n o t knowing W h a t f o r it is w a n t e d , A n d , w h a t is m o r e , the idle loafer Scorns a n d sneers at G o n t a ! "The H a i d a m a k y were n o warriors, Thieves they were, a n d robbers, A blot u p o n o u r history!" T h o u liest, people-starver: N o r o b b e r rises t o d e f e n d Truth a n d f r e e d o m h o l y N o r set free a p e o p l e w h o In darkness a n d brought lowly, Are b o u n d into y o u r c h a i n s , does not Slay with his o w n h a n d A n evil son, n o r break his living Heart for his native land! It is you that are t h e robbers, You, t h e insatiate!

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H u n g r y crows! A n d by w h a t righteous H o l y law d'you trade I n land, t h e equal gift t o all, A n d traffic in m i s f o r t u n e d H u m a n beings! T h e n beware, F o r evil will befall you, G r a v e evil. F o o l your c h i l d r e n , fool Your b r o t h e r blind a n d sightless, Fool yourselves, fool strangers, t o o But fool not G o d Almighty! For, in t h e day of j u b i l a t i o n , Vengeance u n f o r s e e n Will fall o n you; n e w fires will blow F r o m out t h e Cold Ravine.
Vyunyscha, December 17, 1845

TO LITTLE MARYANA G r o w u p , grow up, m y little bird, M y p o p p y flower, o p e n , A n d blossom forth in loveliness Before your heart is b r o k e n , Before people have c o m e t o k n o w Of t h e quiet valley. Sport a while, Parch it, and leave it arid. T h e r e ' l l be n o d e f e n c e f o r you t h e n N e i t h e r your y o u n g years R o b e d in beauty, n o r y o u r hazel Eyes, all b a t h e d in tears, N o r a maiden's tranquil heart, To evil ways unwise T h e y c a n n o t d e f e n d , n o r blindfold T h e insatiate eyes. Evil o n e s will find you, r o b you,

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A n d , p o o r child, they'll t h r o w you D o w n to Hell. . . . A n d you will curse G o d I n y o u r t o r m e n t s woeful. D o not blossom t h e n , m y new flower. Flower still u n o p e n e d ! Wilt a n d wither quietly Before your heart is b r o k e n !
December 20, 1845 Vyunyscha

Days are passing, nights are passing, S u m m e r passes, yellowed leaves Rustle, sight dims, a n d t h o u g h t , grown drowsy, Is slumbering, heart falls asleep; All is asleep, I d o not k n o w W h e t h e r I live, or fade, o r go T'-.'if??^ ffe rJTfc1w?n' rii 'Wh'umjfty '(jififfs, F o r n o w I n e i t h e r weep n o r laugh. . . Fate, w h e r e are you? Fate, w h e r e are you? T h e r e is n o n e , is n o n e ! G o d , if a g o o d fate T h o u grudgest, G r a n t a n evil one! Let me not fall asleep while walking. I n m y heart to die, D o not p e r m i t m e , like a rotten Log o n this earth t o lie, Let m e live, live in m y heart, Love m y fellow m e n , O r if not let m e set t h e world Alight with curses t h e n . Terrible t o fall into c h a i n s , D i e in captivity, But worse, far worse, t o sleep, to sleep. To sleep in liberty, Fall asleep for e v e r m o r e .

So that t h e r e r e m a i n s N o t a trace: H e lived, o r perished? It is all t h e same. . . Fate, w h e r e are you? Fate, w h e r e are you? T h e r e is n o n e , is n o n e ! G o d , if a g o o d fate T h o u grudgest, G r a n t a n evil one!
December 21, 1845. Vyunvscha

W h e n I die, t h e n m a k e m y grave High on an ancient m o u n d , I n m y o w n beloved U k r a i n e , In steppeland without bound: W h e n c e o n e m a y see wide-skirted w h e a t l a n d , D n i p r o ' s steep-cliffed shore, T h e r e w h e n c e o n e m a y h e a r the blustering River wildly roar. Till f r o m U k r a i n e t o t h e blue sea It bears in fierce e n d e a v o u r T h e blood of f o e m e n t h e n I'll leave W h e a t l a n d a n d hills forever: Leave all b e h i n d , soar u p until Before the t h r o n e of G o d I'll m a k e m y prayer. F o r till t h a t h o u r I shall k n o w n a u g h t of G o d . M a k e m y grave there a n d arise, S u n d e r i n g y o u r chains, Bless your f r e e d o m with the b l o o d Of f o e m e n ' s evil veins! T h e n in t h a t great family, A family n e w a n d free. D o not forget, w i t h g o o d intent Speak quietly of m e .
December 25, 1845 at Pereyaslav.

But w h y d o we love B o h d a n , say? Because the M u s c o v i t e s forgot h i m . A n d in a d u m b n e s s stupid, clottish, T h e great wise H e t m a n t h e y have swathed.
[1845-1846]

THE RUSSALKA " S o it was m y m o t h e r bore m e , In palace grandly soaring, But in the night t o o k m e Bathed m e in its t o r r e n t , As she b a t h e d m e , she spoke to m e . H e r o w n baby daughter, ' S w i m t h e n , swim, my little darling D o w n the D n i p r o water! S w i m away as a russalka, T o m o r r o w in the n i g h t - t i m e I'll c o m e out t o r o a m with h i m , You'll tickle h i m , sprightly! Tickle h i m , m y little sweetheart, So he n o m o r e will Laugh at m e , y o u n g a n d forlorn. Let h i m drink his fill N o t of m y tears, mixed with blood, But of d a r k - b l u e water Of the D n i p r o . So, just let h i m Play with his own daughter. Swim away, m y only darling! Waves, waves, I beseech y o u . Welcome this russalka-baby. . .' A n d she started weeping, A n d she fled away. A n d I Swam off t h r o u g h the w a t e r Till m y sisters m e t m e a n d To t h e i r h o m e t h e y b r o u g h t me.

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A week has passed now, I have grown. With m y sisters r o a m i n g E a c h night. A n d I've c o m e t o look U p o n m y father's h o m e now. Maybe o n c e m o r e with t h e lord in his Palace she's u n i t e d , Maybe again m y sinful m o t h e r In luxury delights n o w ? " A n d t h e russalka-babe grew silent. P l u n g e d into t h e river Like a little r o a c h . A n d softly Osier b r a n c h e s quivered. H e r m o t h e r t h e n c a m e out t o r o a m . T h e palace held n o sleep, L o r d J a n , t h e Pole, was n o t at h o m e , N o n e with w h o m t o speak. But w h e n she c a m e there to the b a n k , She called to m i n d her daughter, Called t o m i n d h o w she h a d b a t h e d her. H o w she m u r m u r e d o'er her. . . N o matter. . . To sleep in t h e palace She set off o n c e m o r e . But never c a m e there. In D n i p r o she Would rest for e v e r m o r e , She did not h e a r h o w t h e girls G a v e h e r to D n i p r o ' s water. But t h e y clustered all a r o u n d her, H a p p y that they'd caught her. T h e y played with h e r so merrily, A n d tickled her t h e r e a f t e r U n t i l she fell i n t o the f i s h t r a p . A n d t h e y rocked with laughter, All but o n e russalka-baby A n d she had n o laughter.
August 9, 1846. Kyiv

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IN THE FORTRESS
Dedicated to my fellow-prisoners

R e m e m b e r , t h e n , m y b r o t h e r s true. . . I d o n o t want t h o s e evil days back, W h e n you so "nicely," a n d I t o o Only t h r o u g h p r i s o n - b a r s c o u l d gaze out. A n d , you t o o must have t h o u g h t , for sure W h e n we took c o u n c i l , quietly speaking, W h e n we would k n o w a n o t h e r m e e t i n g In o u r own country, grown so p o o r ? Never, m y b r o t h e r s , n e v e r m o r e F r o m D n i p r o shall we d r i n k together, We have been parted, b o r n e forever By ill-fate into steppe a n d forest, We still a small belief will cherish In f r e e d o m , t h e n start, e n d e a v o u r To live like people a m o n g o t h e r People, but, my b r o t h e r s , U n t i l t h e n , still love e a c h o t h e r Love U k r a i n e , a d o r e her, A n d for her, p o o r hapless country, Beseech t h e Lord for her. A n d , friends, forget h i m , the traitor, Curse h i m n o t forever, A n d m e , in m y harsh u n f r e e d o m Sometimes, too, remember.
[November 1, 1849 - April 23, 1850, Orenburg]

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I All a l o n e , all a l o n e , Like a stem sere, u n w a n t e d ; T h e Lord gave m e n o luck, N o r good fortune 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 r o t h e r have I, N o r d e a r sister h a d ever, A m o n g strangers I grew, I grew, k n o w i n g love never. Where's a bridegroom to court me? K i n d folk w h e r e d'you tarry? T h e r e are n o n e all a l o n e . . . N o n e will seek m e to marry!
[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

II Wooded gullies all r o u n d , G r a v e m o u n d in t h e steppe l o o m i n g ; Rising u p f r o m the m o u n d , A grey Cossack, b e n t , g l o o m y ; Rising nightly, he r o a m s In the steppe, as he goes Sings, h e sings, sadly m o u r n i n g : "Earth t h e y h e a p e d u p ; of yore, T h e n went h o m e w a r d o n c e m o r e , N o o n e n o w is recalling, Cossacks t h e n , fifteen score,

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Splintered fell, rose n o m o r e , But the earth will not pall t h e m . For t h e false H e t m a n gave Christian folk as yoked slaves, Sent us forth as t h e i r drovers: T h e n this land, this o u r o w n , Was with native blood strown, Brother m u r d e r e d a b r o t h e r ; D r a n k the blood of a d e a r Brother, h e n c e lie we here, In this cursed g r a v e m o u n d ever!" H e grew silent, a n d grieved, Heavy o n his pike l e a n e d . Standing high o n the g r a v e m o u n d ; O n t h e D n i p r o he stared, Weeping, b u r d e n e d with c a r e , L o u d l a m e n t e d the waves' s o u n d . F r o m beyond D n i p r o ' s flood E c h o e s rang t h r o u g h the w o o d , L o u d t h e third cocks were crowing, G o n e the Cossack f r o m view. Gully s h o o k t h r o u g h a n d t h r o u g h , A n d the g r a v e m o u n d q u a k e d , groaning.
[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

III It d o e s not t o u c h m e , n o t a whit, If I live in U k r a i n e or no, If m e n recall m e or forget, Lost as I a m , in foreign snow, T o u c h e s m e not t h e slightest whit. Captive, to m a n h o o d I have grown.

In strangers' h o m e s , a n d by m y o w n U n m o u r n e d , a weeping captive still, I'll die; all t h a t is m i n e , I will Bear off, let n o t a trace r e m a i n In o u r o w n glorious U k r a i n e , O u r o w n land yet a stranger's rather. A n d speaking with his son, n o f a t h e r Will recall, n o r bid h i m : Pray, Pray, son! Of old, for o u r U k r a i n e , T h e y t o r t u r e d all his life away. It d o e s not t o u c h m e , not a whit, W h e t h e r that s o n will pray, or no. . . But it does t o u c h m e d e e p if knaves, Evil rogues lull o u r U k r a i n e Asleep, a n d only in the f l a m e s Let her, all p l u n d e r e d , wake again. . . T h a t t o u c h e s m e with deepest pain.
[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

IV " D o n ' t leave your m o t h e r ! " T h e y all w a r n e d But you went off, left h e r b e h i n d . Your m o t h e r sought you did n o t find, U n t i l she ceased her seeking m o u r n f u l ; Grieving, she died. L o n g since, there w a n e d All s o u n d t h e r e , w h e r e you o n c e were playing, Your dog went r o a m i n g s o m e w h e r e , straying, A n d in y o u r h o u s e are b r o k e n panes. N o w lambs, the s h a d o w e d o r c h a r d h a u n t i n g G r a z e there by day, while in the night Owls sadly h o o t there in t h e i r flight, Little repose t o n e i g h b o u r s granting.

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H e n b a n e c h o k e d periwinkle planted F o r y o u r b r i d e - w r e a t h , now, hid f r o m sight, It waits you vainly. I n t h e s p i n n e y T h e fresh clear pool, w h e r e you went s w i m m i n g . G o e s dry, w h e r e you b a t h e d long ago. T h e spinney's grieving, d r o o p i n g low, N o birds are h e a r d now in t h e spinney, You t o o k t h e m w i t h you w h e n you went. I n the ravine, the well sags, tilted, T h e willow w i t h e r e d , d r o o p i n g wilted, A n d with t h o r n s a n d briars is quilted T h e p a t h w h e r e o n c e y o u r way you went. W h e r e 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 W h o s e heart d o you delight? To w h o m , D o you cling, lovingly, y o u r h a n d s ? M y heart tells m e that in a palace You live in luxury; n o regret For y o u r old h o m e plagues you with malice. I pray G o d that n o grief beset You, n o r disturb your s l u m b e r s ever, N o r find you w i t h i n palace walls, So that you b l a m e the L o r d 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 t h e g r a v e m o u n d r o a m you always?" T h e m o t h e r asks her child, imploring: "Why are you weeping at e a c h step? W h y night o n night have you not slept,

M y grey-winged dove, m y dearest daughter?" "Yes, yes; m a m m a ! " A n d off, straight after, A n d M o t h e r , as she waited, wept. N o t t h e d r e a m - g r a s s o n the g r a v e m o u n d Nightly blossoms granting, But a m a i d e n , y o u n g , b e t r o t h e d . A g u e l d e r - r o s e is planting. A n d she waters it with tears, T h e Lord above e n t r e a t i n g T h a t H e will send t h e rain at night A n d dewdrops falling sweetly. So that the g u e l d e r - r o s e take root, Spread b r a n c h e s wide a n d shady, " T h e n , bird-like, f r o m t h e o t h e r world. My darling will fly, maybe; A n d to h i m I'll build a nest, 1 t o o shall go flitting, A n d in the g u e l d e r - r o s e m y love A n d I shall softly twitter; H y m n s of praise shall sing to G o d , To quiet converse given; Together, in the m o r n i n g , we Shall fly away to heaven." A n d the g u e l d e r - r o s e t o o k root, Spread b r a n c h e s wide a n d shady, A n d for three years t o t h e g r a v e m o u n d Roamed the betrothed maiden. But the f o u r t h year. . . N o t the d r e a m - g r a s s Nightly blossoms granting, A m a i d e n with t h e g u e l d e r - r o s e - t r e e Weeping a n d l a m e n t i n g : "Guelder-rose, guelder-rose, Tall a n d so b r o a d . N o t cool water before sunrise

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O n you was poured! Bitter tears in wide rivers Have flowed u p o n t h e e , F r o m these tears, people spread evil R u m o u r s of m e . T h e y o u n g girls t u r n o n m e , T h e i r f r i e n d in past t i m e , A n d they t u r n on this fair g u e l d e r Rose-tree of m i n e . W r a p t h o u this p o o r head of m i n e , Bathe it with d e w With t h y broad b r a n c h e s hide m e F r o m t h e sun's view! I n the m o r n i n g , folk shall find m e , M o c k m e a n d jeer; A n d thy broad b r a n c h e s , c h i l d r e n F r o m m e shall tear! . ." E a r l y - m o r n , a songbird twitters In the guelder-rose-tree; ' N e a t h the guelder-rose, a m a i d e n Slumbers, never rouses: I n her y o u t h she has g r o w n weary, E v e r m o r e she d r o w s e s . . . B e h i n d t h e m o u n d the sun was rising, People rejoiced, f r o m sleep they leapt; Still M o t h e r lay not d o w n to slumber. For h e r child she waited supper. A n d waiting, bitterly she wept.
[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

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VI O n c e three pathways, b r o a d a n d wide, M e t u p o n the plain; Into foreign parts, three b r o t h e r s Set out f r o m U k r a i n e . A n d t h e y left an aged m o t h e r , O n e a wife beside, O n e a sister, a n d the youngest Left his c h o s e n bride. T h e old m o t h e r planted t h r e e A s h - t r e e s in the meadow. A n d h e r son's wife p l a n t e d t h e r e A p o p l a r tall a n d slender. A n d t h e sister by t h e valley Set t h r e e m a p l e s shady, A n d a g u e l d e r - r o s e was p l a n t e d By t h e b e t r o t h e d m a i d e n . But the a s h - t r e e s did not r o o t . A n d the p o p l a r w i t h e r e d . T h e three m a p l e s withered u p , T h e guelder-rose has wilted. T h e three b r o t h e r s d o not c o m e , T h e i r m o t h e r weeps t h e m still, A n d t h e wife weeps with h e r children In a house grown chill. T h e sister weeps, she goes t o seek H e r b r o t h e r s a m o n g strangers. . . A n d the young bride? In h e r coffin Quietly t h e y laid her . . . T h e three b r o t h e r s d o not c o m e , T h e y r o a m the world, f o r l o r n . A n d three pathways, b r o a d a n d wide, Are overgrown with t h o r n s .
[April 17 - May 19, 1847, St Petersburg]

[VII]
TO N. KOSTOMAROV

T h e joyful sun its face h a s h i d d e n A m o n g the joyful clouds of spring; A n d to their "guests," shut tight within, A drink of p o o r weak tea they've given, To c h a n g e the guard the order's b i d d e n . G u a r d s u n i f o r m e d in dark blue trim. N o w t o the door, by keys c l o s e - b a t t e n e d . A n d t o the bars across t h e p a n e I've g r o w n a c c u s t o m e d ; to m e c a m e N o grief for m y l o n g - s i n c e b e g o t t e n . L o n g - s i n c e d e e p buried, l o n g - f o r g o t t e n Bitter b l o o d s t a i n e d tears of yore, So m a n y of m y tears were p o u r e d On the vain field. If rue h a d sprouted At least. . . but n o t h i n g grew at all! A n d t h e n m y village I recalled: W h o m did I o n c e leave in past days t h e r e ? F a t h e r a n d m o t h e r in the grave there. . . A n d m y heart b u r n s with sorrow's gall, For n o o n e will recall me ever. . . 1 see: t h y m o t h e r , t h i n e m y brother. T h a n the black earth blacker far. Walk, w o r n a n d tried by sufferings heavy. . . I pray to T h e e , Lord G o d , I pray! To sing T h y praises I'll cease never, T h a t w i t h her I share n o t t o d a y T h i s m y prison, these my fetters.
1847, May 19 [St Petersburg]

343

VIII Beside t h e h o u s e , t h e cherry's f l o w e r i n g , Above t h e t r e e s t h e M a y b u g s h u m . The ploughmen from the furrows come. T h e girls all w a n d e r h o m e w a r d ; singing, A n d m o t h e r s wait t h e m e a l f o r t h e m . Beside t h e h o u s e a f a m i l y supper, Above, t h e e v e n i n g star a p p e a r s , T h e d a u g h t e r serves t h e d i s h e s here; It's useless t o advise her, m o t h e r , T h e n i g h t i n g a l e won't let h e r hear. Beside t h e h o u s e , t h e m o t h e r lulls T h e little c h i l d r e n f o r t h e n i g h t , T h e n she, t o o , settles at t h e i r side. A n d all is still. . . O n l y t h e girls A n d n i g h t i n g a l e s d i s t u r b 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 d a w n i n g , R e c r u i t s f r o m t h e village s t r o d e , In t h e lad's w a k e f o l l o w e d sadly A girl, l o n e , a l o n g t h e r o a d . H e r old m o t h e r h o b b l e d after. In t h e field t o overtake her, C a u g h t her u p , led h e r away; S h e b e r a t e d , s c o l d e d ever, Till in t h e e a r t h t h e d a u g h t e r lay, T h e n she, a beggar, w e n t away.

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Years went by, a n d in t h e village N a u g h t of c h a n g e n o r n e w n e s s . But an e m p t y house was slowly Tumbling, leaning skewly; N e a r the e m p t y h o u s e , a soldier C o m e s , o n c r u t c h e s creeping. G a z i n g o n the little o r c h a r d , In t h e house looks, peeping. . . Vainly, friend! N o d a r k - b r o w e d girl Will look out f r o m the c o t t a g e , M o t h e r will not call you in To s u p p e r in the cottage. Long ago, long long ago, Betrothal towels were woven, And the kerchief finely figured. S i l k - e m b r o i d e r e d over; H e t h o u g h t to live, to find his love, To sing t o G o d his praises; It h a p p e n e d that for h i m n o o n e O n e a r t h is still r e m a i n i n g . He sits beside the e m p t y h o u s e , O u t d o o r s , the dusk is c r e e p i n g . A n d in t h e window, like a c r o n e , T h e white owl is peeping.
[May 1 9 - 3 0 , 1847, St Petersburg]

X H a r d in captivity. . . t h o u g h truly F r e e d o m was never ours t o k n o w ; A n d yet life went o n somehow, t h o u g h T h e r e was a field, t h o u g h strangers ruled it. But n o w to waiting life h a s s c h o o l e d m e ,

347

As for the Lord, for fate of woe. I wait for it, a n d , c o n t e m p l a t i n g , I curse my foolish wits, b e r a t e t h e m T h a t fools c o u l d fool t h e m a n d d e f r a u d A n d d r o w n that f r e e d o m in the m u d . My heart grows chill in meditating: N o t in U k r a i n e the grave awaits m e , N o t in U k r a i n e shall I live, awed With love f o r people a n d t h e Lord.
| May 1 9 - 3 0 . 1847, St Petersburg]

XI
T H E REAPER

T h r o u g h the b r o a d field he goes, But no swathes lays he low, N o swathes lays he low, b u t m o u n t a i n s ; G r o a n s f r o m earth a n d sea are m o u n t i n G r o a n s a n d cries of woe. By night the owls greet T h e old m a n as he reaps. R e a p e r cuts, a n d takes n o resting, H e e d s not a n y m a n ' s requesting. Useless t o entreat. D o not beg, n o r e n t r e a t : N o new edge the scythe needs; W h e t h e r t o w n s h i p or a t o w n l e t , As with razor, he shaves d o w n there Everything he meets.

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Peasant, i n n k e e p e r go, Kobzar wandering alone; T h e old m a n h u m s at his reaping, Piles the swathes in m o u n t a i n s steeply, Takes tsar o n his t h r o n e . N o r f r o m m e will h e t u r n , A m o n g strangers cut d o w n , B e h i n d p r i s o n - b a r s he'll c h o k e m e . N o n e will raise a cross as t o k e n . N o n e f o r m e will m o u r n .
[May 1 9 - 3 0 , 1847, St Petersburg)

XII Shall we yet k n o w a n o t h e r m e e t i n g . O r did we now forever p a r t ? With love's word, truth's word b o r n e , retreating Out into the desert's heart. So be it! She was not o u r m o t h e r , Yet we had to pay her h o n o u r ! S u c h is G o d ' s will. . . Obey it surely, Be h u m b l e , seek the L o r d in prayer. M i n d f u l l y of o n e a n o t h e r ; Love your d e a r U k r a i n e , a d o r e her, Love her . . . in fierce t i m e of evil, I n the last dread h o u r of struggle, Fervently beseech G o d f o r her.
[May 1 9 - 3 0 , 1847, St Petersburg!

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N . N. T h e sun sets, a n d dark the m o u n t a i n s b e c o m e , T h e little bird hushes, t h e plain has grown d u m b , T h e people rejoice that s l u m b e r is nearing, A n d I look: a n d I fly with m y heart in m y d r e a m i n g To a dark o r c h a r d in far U k r a i n a ; I fly t h e r e , 1 fly t h e r e , p o n d e r i n g deeply, A n d it seems that my heart is at rest, has g r o w n tranquil. Dark s h a d o w s spread over plain, m o u n t a i n a n d grove, A star twinkles out in the blue, high above: Star, O Star! a n d the bitter tears rain A n d hast t h o u , t h e n , risen t o o , over U k r a i n e ? D o the dark eyes search f o r t h e e yet I n t h e blue heavens? Or did t h e y forget? M a y t h e y s l u m b e r forever if t h e y have f o r g o t t e n , N e v e r t o h e a r of m y pitiful f o r t u n e .
[Late June December 1847, Fonress of Orsk]

M y t h i r t e e n t h year was wearing o n G r a z i n g the lambs, o n e day 1 was Beyond t h e village. T h e sun s h o n e Perhaps? or was it w i t h o u t cause? Such joy, such joy, as at the t h r o n e Of G o d I f e l t . . . They'd called already for o u r f o o d . But I, a m o n g t h e weeds, r e m a i n e d Alone, a n d prayed t o G o d . I n d e e d , Why I, a small boy, wished t o pray So eagerly, I d o not know,

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N o r h o w m y happiness was caused. A r o u n d , the village a n d t h e Lord's Sky, the lambs, it s e e m e d , rejoiced, T h e sun shone w a r m yet did not scorch N o t long t h e sun s h o n e fair and w a r m N o t long my prayers I m u r m u r e d , T h e sun blazed fiery red above A n d set this heaven b u r n i n g . As if aroused f r o m sleep, 1 looked: T h e village had g r o w n d a r k . Even G o d ' s azure sky above T h a t t o o was cheerless, stark. 1 t u r n e d m y eyes t o w a r d s t h e lambs T h e s e lambs were not m i n e ; 1 looked y o n d e r to t h e h o u s e s N o h o m e there I'd find. G o d did not give me anything! A n d tears started flowing . . . Bitter tears. . . . But a y o u n g girl, Over by the roadside, O n l y a few steps away, Was plucking h e m p , a n d she H e a r d m y sobs, c a m e t o m y side A n d spoke kind words t o m e , G e n t l y wiped away m y tears. A n d kissed m e tenderly. It s e e m e d o n c e m o r e the sun s h o n e bright As if the whole wide world were m i n e : T h e fields, the spinneys, a n d the o r c h a r d s A n d laughing, we b e g a n t o drive T h o s e lambs, that were not ours, to water. Idle d r e a m s , indeed! But even Now, w h e n I recall, m y heart Aches, weeps: w h y G o d let m e not pass M y little span in that d e a r heaven? Ploughing the field I would have died.

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Ignorant of it all, would not Have lived on e a r t h an outcast's life, Would not have cursed b o t h m e n a n d [ G o d ]
[Late June December 1847, Fortress of Orsk]

IRZHAVETS O n c e the Swedes m a d e f o r themselves A mighty fame resounding, F r o m Poltava with M a z e p p a To B e n d e r y a b s c o n d i n g . After t h e m , too, H o r d i y e n k o . . . S h e ' d counselled h i m , his m o t h e r , H o w to reap his harvest w h e a t , H o w t o gain Poltava. They'd have reaped it h a d t h e y gone there In a single t e t h e r A n d brought the H e t m a n a n d the C o l o n e l Of Fastiv together. O u r spears would not be lost t o us, In t h e roof of Tsar Peter, N o r would those f a m o u s w r e t c h e s run. Fleeing f r o m Khortytsia, N o r would the evil colonel have In Pryluky restrained t h e m , N o r in C r i m e a would G o d ' s M o t h e r Shed tears for U k r a i n e , t h e n . W h e n they w a n d e r e d day and night, T h o s e Cossacks, n e v e r m o r e r e t u r n i n g To M o t h e r Sich a n d M e a d o w bright. T h e y t o o k G o d ' s M o t h e r on t h e i r journey. A n d with t h e m they t o o k n o t h i n g m o r e ,

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A n d to C r i m e a ' s K h a n of yore. To a new grief t h e Cossacks t u r n e d t h e n . N o w t h e cloud of black grows strong. T h e c l o u d of white is w a n i n g . A n d over the Z a p o r o z h i a n s A h e a t h e n Tatar's reigning; A l t h o u g h the K h a n p e r m i t s t h e m pitch N e w c a m p in lowland field there. H e will not grant t o the Cossacks Leave a c h u r c h to build t h e r e . T h e p i c t u r e of O u r Blessed Lady With a tent they covered. A n d in secret prayed, imploring. . . G o d be with you ever, M y c o u n t r y so lovely, luxuriant, wealthy. W h o has not destroyed you? A n d were o n e to tell A b o u t a n y o n e of these m a g n a t e s so mighty. T h e history, the t r u t h , why t h e n , even Hell Would t r e m b l e in terror! A n d old D a n t e , likewise Would w o n d e r o u r p o o r d e m i - l o r d l i n g s to meet. T h e y say all such sorrow c o m e s f r o m the Almighty! Does G o d find the m u r d e r of people so sweet? A n d m y U k r a i n a , beloved a n d c h e r i s h e d ? What did she do, p o o r c o u n t r y ? F o r what must she perish? A n d her c h i l d r e n keep silent, with fetters beset? Kobzars told t h e i r tales to us Of feuds and expeditions. Of the heavy years of w o e . Of the harsh afflictions T h a t the Poles i m p o s e d o n us, H o w t h e y crucified us, What h a p p e n e d since t h e Swedes' t i m e Would have terrified, t h o u g h .

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Even the Poles, they'd have grown d u m b F r o m fear, p o o r d r u n k e n creatures, Well, t h e n , all t h o s e governors. T h o s e dogs of Tsar Peter, R o a r e d a n d gnawed. . . A n d f r o m afar T h e Cossacks heard, f a r - s u n d e r e d . H o w the bells in Hlukhiv rang, With t h e c a n n o n s ' t h u n d e r , H o w t h e y drove t h e m to t h e m a r s h e s To build the tsar a city, H o w the old m o t h e r wept f o r her C h i l d r e n , in grief a n d pity. H o w those c h i l d r e n , o n the Oril, A strong line excavated. A n d how, afar, in Finland's snows To perish t h e y went fated. T h e Z a p o r o z h i a n s h e a r d , t h e y heard, I n far C r i m e a lying T h a t the H e t m a n a t e had perished. I n n o c e n t l y dying. T h e y heard, they heard it, t h e p o o r wretches, Silently they h e a r d it, For the mirzas laid o n these Exiles a mighty b u r d e n ; P o o r wretches, they were t o r t u r e d thus, T h e y wept, a n d with t h e m ever. She t o o shed her holy tears, G o d ' s o w n Blessed M o t h e r , She, the M e r c i f u l , wept t h e n . As if for a son keening, A n d G o d looked u p o n t h o s e tears, Of the Holy M a i d e n . H e s m o t e Peter, s m o t e t h e H a n g m a n , Unforeseenly, s u d d e n . T h e Cossacks r e t u r n e d h o m e o n c e m o r e . Bearing o n their j o u r n e y

To t h e H e t m a n a t e the w o n d r o u s Picture of the Virgin; In Irzhavets, in stone-built c h u r c h T h e y placed it in safe keeping. And to this day she r e m a i n s t h e r e , For the Cossacks weeping.
[Late June December 1847, Fortress of Orsk]

We ask each other, aye enquiring, Why did o u r m o t h e r s b e a r us so? Was it for g o o d ? Was it f o r woe? W h y d o we live? For what desiring? A n d w i t h o u t answer we're expiring, Yet leave o u r d e e d s b e h i n d t o show. A n d how, d e a r G o d , will they appraise A n d j u d g e my deeds c o n d e m n i n g l y ? If such babes died in infancy, T h e n , H o l y G o d , they'd not enrage T h e e , T h a t being b o r n to slavery. T h e y n o w put all the b l a m e o n T h e e .
[Late June December 1847, Fortress of Orsk]

I'll gaze again on steppe a n d plain. O n c e m o r e I shall behold t h e m , If G o d in m e r c y grants m e f r e e d o m T h o u g h I may be old t h e n , T h e n I'd go back to U k r a i n a , G o back, h o m e w a r d w e n d i n g ,

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A n d they'd receive the old m a n there With w e l c o m e glad a n d friendly; And I would, having said m y prayers, Rest for a while at last t h e r e , A n d I would. . . but such t h o u g h t s are vain, It will not c o m e to pass so. But h o w can o n e live w i t h o u t h o p e , Being deprived of f r e e d o m ? Teach m e h o w it's d o n e , g o o d people, O r I'll lose m y reason. . .
[January early May 1848, Fortress of Orsk]

Lord, d o not give t o any o t h e r W h a t in old age I n o w m u s t suffer, Lost in captivity to vanish, My years cut short in senseless anguish. I want to walk in the s t e p p e - m e a d o w . For m y sad yearning I c o u l d shed so. " D o n ' t leave the building!" I a m c h i d d e n " G o i n g outside is quite forbidden!"
[January early May 1848, Fortress of Orsk]

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THE PROPHET As if t o c h i l d r e n righteous, g o o d , Loving his people, the Lord G o d Sent o n earth a p r o p h e t holy, T h e g o o d news of His love to p r e a c h , T h e holy truth a n d right to t e a c h . A n d , like the D n i p r o broadly rolling, T h e p r o p h e t ' s words flowed out and p o u r e d . A n d into the heart deeply going With fire invisible it t h a w e d T h e f r o z e n soul. A n d with love glowing T h o s e w h o m he'd taught followed h i m , going Everywhere, a n d their tears were flowing. But wicked people! Alt, t h e y tore and R e n t apart the holy glory Of t h e Lord. Sacrificed to Strange gods. S h u n n e d t h e t r u t h , disowned it, A n d the holy m a n woe u n t o you, In t h e m a r k e t - p l a c e t h e y s t o n e d h i m , T h e r e f o r e did the Lord Almighty, As if fierce wild beasts did rightly D e c r e e they should be f e t t e r e d , c h a i n e d A n d in a d u n g e o n d e e p restrained. A n d you. O people fierce a n d s t u b b o r n . Instead of p r o p h e t mild above you. H e has decreed a tsar should reign.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

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A little cloud glides t o t h e sun With c r i m s o n skirts spreading a n d trailing, A n d b e c k o n s t o t h e sun to sleep In t h e d a r k - b l u e sea; a n d with a veiling Of rose swathes it a n d w r a p s it r o u n d As m o t h e r does a baby, Sweet to the eyes. A n d f o r a n hour. For a short h o u r maybe, It s e e m s t h e heart will find some rest, With the Lord G o d speaking. . . But mist like an e n e m y Over t h e sea creeping, H i d e s it a n d the rosy c l o u d , A n d trailing dark b e h i n d it, T h e g r e y - h a i r e d mist spreads it afar, A n d s h r o u d s your soul a n d winds it With darkness d u m b , so you c a n n o t Tell o n e path f r o m a n o t h e r , A n d you long f o r it, t h e d a w n light, Like children f o r their m o t h e r .
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

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Drowsy waves, sky u n w a s h e d a n d dirty, A n d on t h e b a n k there out b e y o n d T h e rushes sway w i t h o u t a w i n d As they were d r u n k e n . . . . G o d of mercy! Is it still long 1 must e n d u r e , H e r e , in this prison that holds sure T h o u g h lockless, by this worthless sea, This weary life? It does not speak, T h e yellowed grass, but silent, sways As if alive, across t h e plain. To speak the t r u t h is not its task . . . A n d there is n o o n e else to ask.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

0 my t h o u g h t s , my heartfelt t h o u g h t s , All I have, m i n e only! In this evil h o u r of trouble D o n o t leave m e lonely! Fly t o m e , now, you g r e y - p l u m a g e d Birds, m y dearest dovelings, F r o m b e y o n d wide D n i p r o ' s waters, In the steppe go roving Here with the p o o r Kvrgyz folk! T h e y are p o o r a n d needy, T h e y are naked, but yet m a k e t h e i r Prayers to G o d in f r e e d o m . Fly t h e n h i t h e r t o m e , d e a r o n e s , A n d so quietly speaking 1 shall w e l c o m e you like c h i l d r e n , A n d with you sit weeping.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

N o t for people a n d t h e i r glory, Verses b r i g h t - e m b r o i d e r e d , curly, A m 1 writing f o r n o o t h e r s T h a n myself, I sing, m y brothers! It is easier in u n f r e e d o m F o r m e , w h e n I write t h e m : As f r o m beyond t h e distant D n i p r o Words c o m e winging, flying. Taking u p their stand o n paper, Weeping there a n d smiling Like c h i l d r e n , g l a d d e n i n g t h e soul. C h e e r i n g a n d beguiling T h e soul, so p o o r a n d l o n e l y Happy, I a m h a p p y with t h e m . Like a rich a n d p r o s p e r o u s f a t h e r With his little children. I a m glad a n d joyful t h e n , E n t r e a t the Lord of heaven T h a t in this distant land m y babes Fall not asleep forever, Let m y aery children fly To that d e a r land, their h o m e , Let t h e m tell h o w hard it was I n the world for t h e m ! A n d in that j o y f u l family They'll w e l c o m e quietly M y c h i l d r e n , with grey h e a d the f a t h e r Will n o d s o l e m n l y "Better if children s u c h as these Were never born!" t h e m o t h e r Will say but t h e y o u n g girl will think: "I have grown to love them!"
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

By the grove, in the o p e n field. O n the g r a v e m o u n d g l e a m i n g . Two tall poplars grow t h e r e , e a c h o n e To the o t h e r leaning. Even w h e n n o wind is blowing, T h e y sway, ever twisting, As if fighting for those poplars Were enchantresses-sisters. Both of t h e m o n c e fell in love. For t h e s a m e Ivan sighing, A n d Ivan, a simple C o s s a c k , He did not d e n y t h e m , But falsely flirted first with o n e T h e n with the o t h e r dallied. Till o n e eve. 'neath a green o a k - t r e e , In the ravine-valley. T h e three c h a n c e d to c o m e together. "You wretch! You h a n g m a n wicked! To treat two p o o r sisters so!" A n d they went off seeking A poison herb, so they c o u l d poison Ivan next d a y t h o s e two. . . T h e y f o u n d t h e herb, they dug it up. T h e i r p o t i o n they did brew. T h e y wept, they cried, t h e y sadly sighed. But n a u g h t else could they do. T h e y had t o brew it. A n d t h e y brewed it. Poisoned their false lover, Buried h i m in the g r a v e m o u n d , in the Plain, beside the grove there. A n d t h u s it e n d e d ? Far f r o m m e n d e d ! F o r still t h e sisters roved t h e r e , Early m o r n i n g , every day, Over Ivan weeping,

Till t h e y t o o t o o k the p o i s o n - b r e w To pass into death's keeping. But G o d to t e a c h a lesson p l a n t e d T h e m there in the plain O n the g r a v e m o u n d , t u r n e d to poplars. A n d above the slain Ivan, there u p o n t h e g r a v e m o u n d . T h o s e same p o p l a r s grow, Swaying w h e n there is n o w i n d , A n d w h e n the w i n d s blow.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

So it was my m o t h e r b o r e m e , In a palace grandly soaring, In silk swaddled m e . A m o n g gold a n d velvet living, Like a h i d d e n floweret thriving, I grew secretly. G r e w t o loveliness a m a z i n g , With dark brows a n d eyes of hazel, Face fair as c o u l d be. Loved a lad t o o poor, disparaged; M o t h e r f o r b a d e m e this marriage. I was left to be In a palace grandly soaring, With but s p i n s t e r h o o d b e f o r e m e , Sad m y d e s t i n y Like a grass-blade in the hollow.

In m y single, lonely sorrow Age n o w c o m e s o n me. Ne'er beholding God's creation, N o o n e for me to e m b r a c e now. . . My old mother, I. . . So forgive m e t h e n , m y m o t h e r ! Because I shall curse you ever Till the day I die.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

T h e w i n d howls along the r o a d , Sweeps t h e snow b e f o r e it. Along t h e road, close by t h e f e n c e A widow's limping sorely, B e n e a t h the belfry, t h e p o o r soul To the rich folk is holding Out her h a n d t o those s a m e folk W h o t o o k to be a soldier H e r o w n d e a r son, s o m e two years back. . She'd t h o u g h t she would be living I n old age with h e r son's wife T h a t s o m e ease she'd be given. It did not h a p p e n . A m e r e k o p e k H a s her begging w o n her. . . But for h e r son she lights a c a n d l e To the H o l y Mother.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

A h , I sit outside t h e h o u s e . All the road I ' m s c a n n i n g , But w h a t use are all these m a i d e n s , Without my own H a n n a , Without m y d e a r H a n n u s s e n k a " H a n d s across" they're playing, A n d they play unmerrily, N o gladness in t h o s e m a i d e n s ' Singing now, a n d m y d e a r dove Is n o t here. . . S o m e w h e r e , surely, I n h e r in-laws' h o m e she's c o o i n g . Watching ever for m e .
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

Plaintively t h e c u c k o o called I n a verdant grove; Bitterly a girl was weeping She h a d n o n e t o love. A n d t h e girl's y o u n g j o y f u l years, Like fair flowers fallen O n t h e water, float away, F r o m this world are b o r n e . " H a d I father, h a d I m o t h e r , H a d t h e y wealth t o give m e , S o m e o n e there would be t o claim m e . S o m e o n e w h o would love m e . T h e r e is n o o n e ; as an o r p h a n I shall die u n w e d , S o m e w h e r e die in loneliness, ' N e a t h t h e roadside fence."
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

381

Beer a n d m e a d have not b e e n d r u n k here, Water likewise so, For out in the s t e p p e l a n d , t h e young C h u m a k met with woe. A n d his head with anguish pained h i m . S t o m a c h t o o was pain, H e fell t h e r e , beside his w a g g o n , Fell, rose not again. F r o m Odessa f a m e d in glory, Plague t h e y h i t h e r bore. His c o m p a n i o n s have all left h i m A h , his fate is sore! His d r a u g h t - o x e n by the waggon Stand t h e r e , w r a p p e d in g l o o m . A n d f r o m out the s t e p p e l a n d t o him Flying t h e rooks c o m e . "Ah, you rooks, you must n o t p e c k This p o o r c h u m a k ' s flesh; For if o n c e you peck it, you will Surely share m y d e a t h . R a t h e r tly forth f r o m m e , rooks, You g r e y - p l u m a g e d birds n o w To m y f a t h e r dear, a n d tell h i m T h e y m u s t sing a service, A n d f o r m y sinful soul t h e y m u s t Read the Psalter surely, A n d bid a certain pretty lass Wait n o longer f o r m e ! "
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

383

Kateryna h a d a house, With a fine w o o d e n floor; A n d guests c a m e t o her f r o m the Sich, T h a t stronghold f a m e d of yore: O n e was S e m e n Bossyi O n e was Ivan Holyi, Ivan Yaroshenko o n e , Bold a n d brave, a widow's son. "Poland we have traversed, A n d all U k r a i n a , N e v e r have beheld a m a i d e n Like t o Kateryna!" O n e said: "Brother, see! Were wealth t o c o m e to m e , T h e n that K a t e r y n a I With all my gold would dower. To s p e n d with h e r o n e hour!" A n d o n e : " F r i e n d , hear m e right! Were I a m a n of m i g h t , For that Kateryna I Would lay d o w n all my power. To spend with her o n e hour!" T h e third: "Lads, hear m y thought! In this world there is n a u g h t For that K a t e r y n a 1 Would not do, I vow, To spend with her o n e hour!" K a t e r y n a p o n d e r e d long, To the third spoke she: "I've a n only b r o t h e r p i n i n g In captivity, In C r i m e a lost afar. Whoever may betide To find h i m , t h e n to h i m , O Cossacks,

385

I will be a bride!" Straight their steeds t h e y m o u n t e d . J o u r n e y e d forth together, R o d e they three for t o set free Kateryna's brother. O n e perished in the waves, Was d r o w n e d in D n i p r o ' s tide, O n e t h e h e a t h e n foe i m p a l e d . In Kozlov far he died; Yaroshenko j o u r n e y e d o n , Bold a n d brave, t h e widow's son, F r o m cruel captivity In Bakhchyssarai he Set her b r o t h e r free. T h e d o o r creaked loudly in the d a w n , T h e Cossacks raised a s h o u t : "Rise u p , K a t e r y n a , rise, T h y b r o t h e r s t a n d s without!" Kateryna looked, l a m e n t e d . A n d these words cried she: " N o t m y brother, but m y lover, I have lied to thee." " T h o u hast liedl" A n d Katria's pretty H e a d rolled instantly To the g r o u n d . " C o m e , brother, let us Quit this evil place!" T h e Cossacks rode into the steppe, With the wind to chase. Katria in the field they laid To sleep for e v e r m o r e , A n d o a t h s of b r o t h e r h o o d t h e Cossacks I n t h e s t e p p e l a n d swore.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

A
Beyond the grove t h e sun c o m e s up, Beyond the grove is setting. In the evening vale, a C o s s a c k Paces, sadly fretting. H e paces for an hour, H e paces for a n o t h e r , But n o d a r k - b r o w e d girl draws near, T h e darkling m e a d o w over. T h e faithless m a i d e n d o e s n o t c o m e . But f r o m the woods that hide t h e m With his dogs a n d his d o g - h a n d l e r s , A knavish lord c o m e s riding. T h e y set the dogs u p o n t h e Cossack, Twist his a r m s b e h i n d h i m , T o r m e n t s d r e a d a n d deadly they Inflict o n h i m malignedly. T h e lord locks t h e y o u n g m a n away In his vaults t h e r e yonder, A n d sends the ruined girl away T h e w h o l e wide world t o wander.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

T h e r e are n o such e n e m i e s So dire as g o o d people, T h e y will rob you, mournfully. A n d c o n d e m n you, weeping, They'll invite you t o their h o m e , Welcome you profusely. Ask you all a b o u t yourself, To m o c k a n d abuse you.

Later, m o c k at you a n d jeer. To grab you for sure. . . Without e n e m i e s o n earth S o m e h o w o n e can e n d u r e . But t h o s e good p e o p l e yet will Everywhere beset y o u , Even in the o t h e r world T h e y will n o t forget you.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

Say, why have you grown so black, Field o n c e greenly v e r d a n t ? I have grown so black with blood For free f r e e d o m m u r d e r e d . R o u n d Berestechko's little t o w n . F o u r miles spreading over, T h e f a r - f a m e d Z a p o r o z h i a n s laid T h e i r corpses as m y cover; T h e n on m e f r o m t h e midnight n o r t h C a m e birds of prey d e s c e n d i n g , Tearing out the Cossack eyes, T h e flesh not worth t h e rending. . . I, t h e green o n e , have grown black. For your f r e e d o m , duly; 1 shall yet grow green again, But you will never, truly, O n c e again return to f r e e d o m You will plough a f u r r o w Quietly t h r o u g h m e , a n d , ploughing, Curse your bitter sorrow.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

This is not a lofty p o p l a r T h a t the wind is swaying, But a girl w h o , y o u n g a n d lonely, Curses f o r t u n e , saying: "May the d e e p sea d r o w n you, f o r t u n e . U n d e r n e a t h its waves, Since you grant n o t , even now, S o m e o n e I can love! H o w the girls all kiss t h e i r sweethearts, H o w they hold t h e m close, E m b r a c i n g , a n d the love t h e y feel, Still I do not k n o w . . . A n d I shall never k n o w O m o t h e r . Hard it is to live A m a i d e n , all one's life a m a i d e n , Never fall in love."
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

B o t h the valley stretching wide A n d t h e g r a v e m o u n d soaring high, Both the h o u r of eventide A n d w h a t was d r e a m e d in days g o n e by I shall not forget. But w h a t of t h a t ? We did not marry. Like strangers p a r t e d , did not tarry A n d in the m e a n t i m e all the wealth Of t h o s e p r e c i o u s years of youth Sped away in vain. N o w t h e two of us have withered, I a captive, you a widow,

We walk yet we live n o m o r e , We but recall t h o s e days of yore W h e n , i n d e e d , we lived.

[Late September December 1848, Kosaral]

O n c e m o r e the post has b r o u g h t to m e N o t h i n g , n o t h i n g f r o m Ukraine! For sinful deeds, it s e e m s t o be, I suffer in this desert plain. P u n i s h e d by w r a t h f u l G o d . To know T h e reason why is not for m e , I d o not even wish to know! . . . But m y heart weeps bitterly W h e n I recall w h a t used to b e . T h o s e days, those h a p p e n i n g s that o n c e rolled. A l t h o u g h not j o y f u l , over m e , In m y o w n U k r a i n e of old. Of old, great o a t h s they swore, a n d vowed To be m y b r o t h e r s a n d sisters dear, Until we parted like a c l o u d , Without t h e holy d e w of tears. So in m y old age, I go Blaming again a n d cu . . . N o , N o ! F r o m cholera they m u s t have died O r else a scrap at least they'd try To send, of p a p e r A h , f r o m anxiety a n d grief, T h a t I might not watch t h e m read T h e i r letters, t h e r e , beside the sea, I'll take a walk along t h e seashore, T h a t I might distract m y sorrow, Might recall m y d e a r U k r a i n e , Sing a well-loved song again.

395

M e n would tell t h e m , m e n betray r Song has g o o d advice to say m e , Will advise, distract m y grief, A n d speak t o m e the blessed truth.
[Late September December 1848, Kosaral |

T h o r n s have overgrown t h e p a t h s Leading t o that land now, Maybe I've left her for all t i m e , For all t i m e a b a n d o n e d ! Maybe there's n o way b a c k f o r m e , H o m e once more returning; Maybe, it is m y d o o m t o read In solitude these yearning T h o u g h t s of mine! O G o d of mercy, H a r d my life t o b e a r now; I've a heart, wide a n d expansive N o n e with w h o m t o share it. T h o u didst give n o f o r t u n e t o m e , N o y o u n g f o r t u n e ever, Never hast T h o u given it, Never hast T h o u , never! Gavest m e n o y o u t h f u l heart T h a t could be u n i t e d With a m a i d e n ' s heart. All passed, All m y days a n d nights now, All are g o n e w i t h o u t y o u n g joy! T h a t is h o w t i m e passes I n foreign lands. A n d n o n e With w h o m m y heart to share now. A n d there is not even o n e 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

T h e s e my t h o u g h t s , with n o n e to share t h e m , N o o n e I c a n t u r n to A n d speak with a holy word, N o r bring happiness here To a p o o r soul, n o r may I yet Reprove the transgressor A n d so t o die. . . G r a n t m e , d e a r Lord At least o n e glance to see t h e m O n c e m o r e , that nation b e a t e n , crushed A n d that U k r a i n a .
[January April 1849, Raini]

O n Easter Sunday, on t h e straw, I n t h e sunlight glowing T h e children played with c o l o u r e d eggs, A n d t h e n they started boasting Of t h e i r new clothes. A fine festal Shirt o n e had been given, O n e had s o m e embroidery, O n e was b o u g h t a ribbon. S o m e o n e had a lambskin c a p , O n e with new b o o t s fitted, O n e a jacket. . . But alone Without n e w clothes a little O r p h a n , with her h a n d s inside H e r sleeves was sitting sadly. . . "Just see what m y m o t h e r bought!" "Look what c a m e f r o m Daddy!" "This is what m y g o d m o t h e r Sewed especially for me!" "But I h a d lunch with the priest," Said the little o r p h a n .
[January April 1849, Raim]

399

Together we grew up of old, A n d in child's f a s h i o n , loved e a c h other, A n d as t h e y w a t c h e d us t h e n , o u r m o t h e r s Would say t h a t , w h e n t h e years h a d rolled, T h e y ' d m a t c h us up . . . T h e y were m i s t a k e n . T h e old folk died, u n t i m e l y t a k e n , A n d young, we parted, u n c o n s o l e d , N e v e r m o r e to c o m e together. F o r willy-nilly, I was ever B o r n e off far a n d wide; but t h e n I n n e a r - o l d - a g e back h o m e life t o o k m e . T h e village that h a d b e e n b r i g h t e r t h e n S o m e h o w n o w I was older, struck m e As having grown b o t h dark a n d d u m b , A n d old, like m e , it h a d b e c o m e . A n d it s e e m e d in that village lowly (It s e e m e d to m e ) that all was wholly U n c h a n g e d , n o n e h a d b e e n b o r n or died, All was as in a f o r m e r tide, Ravine a n d field, the p o p l a r trees, A n d t h e r e beside t h e well, a weeping Willow, like o n e sad vigil keeping, I n distant lone captivity; T h e p o n d , the d a m , a n d t h e r e the mill. Beyond the w o o d flaps its wings as ever. T h e g r e e n oak, like a C o s s a c k , still S e e m s t o c o m e f r o m the w o o d , to revel Below t h e hill; o n t h e hill rises. A n o r c h a r d dark, a n d t h e r e , inside it. In the sweet coolness t h e r e , together. My old folk rest, as if in h e a v e n .

T h e i r o a k e n crosses lean today, T h e rain has washed the words away Yet not with rain does S a t u r n d o His a l i n i n g work, n o r u p o n wording! . . . So grant my old folk rest e t e r n a l . With the saints . . . " I s she living, t o o . Little Oksana?" I ask, t u r n i n g Quietly to m y b r o t h e r . . . "Who?" "That little girl, with curly hair, W h o played with us in days g o n e by? Brother, you look so sadly. Why?" "I a m n o t sad . . . She went away, did T h a t O k s a n a , o n the track Of the soldiers she went straying. True, a year later she c a m e b a c k . But, then! She b r o u g h t a bastard h o m e , S h o r n - h e a d e d . S o m e t i m e s , in the night She'd sit b e n e a t h t h e f e n c e a n d m o a n Like a c u c k o o , or she'd cry, O r sing to herself softly grieving, O r move her h a n d s as if u n w e a v i n g H e r plaits. . . t h e n o n c e m o r e went away; N o o n e knows what h a p p e n e d after, Died maybe, or just w a n d e r e d daftly, But w h a t a girl she o n c e was, hey? W h a t a beauty! N o t poor, neither, But G o d gave h e r n o luck, you see." He gave, but s o m e o n e stole it, maybe, A n d m a d e a fool of G o d almighty.
[January April 1849, Raim]

U n f r e e I c o u n t the days a n d nights A n d t h e n forget h o w m a n y O Lord! H o w wearily they drag T h o s e days that pass so heavy! A n d the years flow away w i t h t h e m . Quietly they flow ever. A n d they b e a r away with t h e m Evil a n d good together. Bear away, a n d bring back n o t h i n g , N e v e r m o r e returning, D o not t h e n c o m p l a i n t h a t prayer F r o m G o d no help c a n earn you! A n d n o w the f o u r t h year is passing, Quietly, u n s p e e d i n g , A n d n o w the f o u r t h n o t e b o o k I Begin in this u n f r e e d o m To embroider. I'll e m b r o i d e r With m y blood a n d weeping All m y grief in foreign lands. For grief will not speak in Words to a n y o n e at all, N e v e r will it. Never, N o w h e r e o n earth. T h e r e are n o words In far u n f r e e d o m ever. N o words are here, n o r w e e p i n g tears, N o t h i n g n e s s a b o u n d s here, T h e r e is n o t even G o d A l m i g h t y In this void a r o u n d you. N o t h i n g is there to look u p o n N o o n e to speak with, even.

Life is u t t e r weariness, But you m u s t go on living! I m u s t , 1 must, but to w h a t e n d ? So that soul 'scape d a m n a t i o n ? It is not worth so m u c h anguish! For w h a t c o n s u m m a t i o n Must I live on e a r t h , a n d drag M y fetters in u n f r e e d o m : Maybe yet o n c e m o r e I shall Behold m y U k r a i n a . . . Maybe o n c e again I'll share All my words of weeping With the oakgroves, verdant green, With m e a d o w s , darkly g l e a m i n g , For in all U k r a i n a n o Kin of m i n e r e m a i n now, But p e o p l e there at least are not As here a m o n g strangers! I would walk o n D n i p r o ' s b a n k s , T h r o u g h carefree h a m l e t s faring. I would sing t h e r e all m y t h o u g h t s , Quietly a n d careworn. Let m e live a n d gaze o n c e m o r e , Dear G o d , grant this for me! To look o n c e m o r e on fields of green A n d on g r a v e m o u n d s soaring! But if T h o u grantst it not, t h e n bear To m y d e a r c o u n t r y c h e r i s h e d All m y tears, for I. d e a r G o d , Here a m d o o m e d to perish! Maybe I shall lie m o r e easy In this foreign country, If in U k r a i n a p e o p l e Will recall me someday! T h i t h e r carry t h e m , d e a r G o d , So that h o p e may c o m e yet

Into my p o o r soul! For n a u g h t now. Naught can I accomplish, With this poor, p o o r h e a d of m i n e . A n d my heart feels t e r r o r For the t h o u g h t c o m e s to m e that Maybe t h e y will b u r y Me here in this foreign land, And my thoughts together With m e , a n d in U k r a i n a N o n e will recall m e ever! But maybe, quietly, with years flowing T h e s e lines e m b r o i d e r e d with tears, going F r o m m e will wing their distant flight To U k r a i n a , a n d t h e r e , light As u p o n the earth t h e d e w falls, They'll in a heart young a n d t r u e , fall A n d in tears quietly alight! A n d a h e a d will be bowed surely A n d will weep a n d sorrow f o r me. A n d , d e a r Lord, in prayer m a y b e , S o m e o n e will r e m e m b e r m e . Well let it be as it must be, To swim or trudge! W h a t e ' e r m y plight, Even t h o u g h I be crucified, Yet I'll e m b r o i d e r quietly, Quietly, these pages white.
[January April 1850, Orenburg]

Blaze of lights a n d music calling. Music weeping, rising, falling! Like rare a n d p r e c i o u s d i a m o n d , Youthful eyes are g l e a m i n g fair, Joy a n d h o p e are shining t h e r e In laughing eyes. All bliss is sent To eyes so y o u n g a n d i n n o c e n t ! O n all sides, people laugh a n d smile, All are d a n c i n g , only I Like o n e b e w i t c h e d , look o n m e a n w h i l e A n d weep in secret, weep a n d sigh . . . Why d o I weep? Perhaps that ever All eventless, like grey weather, All m y y o u t h has passed m e by.
[January April 1850, Orenburg]

THE NEOPHYTES 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, G r a c e s , I quietly weep as I await you, A n d m y t h o u g h t , so sorrowful, I n o w send u n t o your soul. With your kind heart give w e l c o m e t h e n To m y hapless o r p h a n , You w h o are m y only f r i e n d , O u r great w o n d e r - w o r k e r ! You will greet t h e w r e t c h e d o r p h a n . She, t h e n , at y o u r side Will sail across t h e Lethe's waters, A n d with tears of fire Will fall, s o m e day, u p o n the e a r t h , A parable b e c o m e F o r crucifiers of the n a t i o n s , Tyrants yet to c o m e . Long in captivity I've dwelt, Like a p o o r thief in a d u n g e o n , I see no m o r e t h a n path a n d field, A n d a cross w h e r e sits a raven In the graveyard n o t h i n g m o r e To see f r o m prison. T h a n k the Lord T h a t I see even this m u c h . Still Christians live, a n d pray their fill

To G o d , a n d die. T h e cross s t a n d s high In the graveyard, to o n e side, All gilded. S o m e o n e t h e r e , m a y b e N o t a p o o r w r e t c h , lies p e a c e f u l l y ? . . . A n d pictured t h e r e , the Son of G o d , C a l c i f i e d for us o n t h e Cross. T h a n k s t o those wealthy o r p h a n s w h o Set up this holy cross. A n d I S u c h is my hapless fate abide, Sit a l o n e , a n d ever gaze O n the high cross f r o m the prison . . . I gaze, I gaze on it, 1 pray, A n d my sorrow, bitter sorrow, Like a child replete with f o o d , G r o w s quieter, it s e e m s the prison G r o w s less narrow, t h e heart is singing A n d weeps, a n d o n c e again is living, A n d asks T h e e , G o d , a n d asks T h y blessed A n d the righteous ones, the sinless, W h a t h a d H e d o n e to t h e m , t h e Blessed Christ, the N a z a r e n e , the only Son of G o d ' s c h o s e n , H o l y M a r y ? W h a t had He d o n e t o t h e m ? A n d why Did t h e y torture H i m , t h e Blessed? Why in fetters b o u n d ? For what cause is His Holy H e a d With t h o r n s and b r a m b l e s c r o w n e d ? Why lead H i m out to G o l g o t h a With robbers, a n d between T h e m , h a n g H i m t h e r e u p o n t h e Cross? For what cause? T h e r e speaks N e i t h e r the grey-beard Almighty, N o r t h e holy t h r o n g Of His warriors, a n d c h a m p i o n s E u n u c h s , speechless, d u m b !

T h o u w h o art blessed a m o n g w o m e n , O H o l y M o t h e r , full of grace, M o t h e r of that holy Son O n earth! Let me not dwine a slave, A n d waste t h e fleeting years in vain. O j o y of t h e afflicted o n e s , Send m e that holy word, the n e w Voice, O send, of holy t r u t h . A n d that word with holy w i s d o m D o t h o u revivify, enlighten! A n d I'll relate the woes, t h e flood Like rivers, seas tears stained with blood T h a t m o t h e r p o u r e d out sorrowing As o n c e t h o u didst, received within H e r living soul the viewless r e a l m Of h i m , t h e C r u c i f i e d , thy Son. M o t h e r of G o d - m a d e - m a n , to t h e e n d A m o t h e r ' s weeping t h o u hast spent To the last tear. I weep, l a m e n t , A n d pray t o t h e e , l a m e n t i n g : S e n d , G r a n t strength to t h e p o o r soul, inspire T h a t it might speak forth living fire, So that the word, as f l a m e a p p a r e n t , Will melt t h e heart of h u m a n k i n d , T h r o u g h o u t U k r a i n e the word be carried, T h e r e in U k r a i n e the word be hallowed, T h e word, t h e f r a n k i n c e n s e divine, T h e f r a n k i n c e n s e of t r u t h . A m e n . I N o t in o u r country, d e a r t o G o d , In h e t m a n s ' era, or in tsars', But in idolatrous R o m a n land This t y r a n n o u s deed o n c e c a m e t o pass. It seems, w h e n D e c i u s was Caesar,

417

 O r was it u n d e r mighty N e r o ? I c a n n o t say with certitude. Well, N e r o , then! As yet there stood O n earth n o Russia a n y w h e r e , W h e n there grew in Italia A little m a i d e n , a n d she b l o o m e d With beauty, holy, lovely, pure, Like a lily blossomed there. T h e m o t h e r , w a t c h i n g her, o n c e m o r e G r e w young, a n d f o r t h e m a i d e n sought People, duly sought a n d f o u n d . T h e n in h e r j o y f u l h o m e she said A prayer to H y m e n straightway led H e r to t h e stranger's joyful h o m e . T i m e was passing; this good m a i d A h a p p y m o t h e r soon b e c a m e ; k 1 ff u ft: l'? i I fu, d SOT I, s'i I c 'UUTfc. To her Penates duly prayed. A n d n o small offerings she b r o u g h t To the Capitol. She g a i n e d , e n t r e a t i n g T h e C a p i t o l i n e c o u n c i l , that h e r F i r s t b o r n son be duly greeted By the blest images. T h e r e b u r n s Blest fire day a n d night before t h e Penates. G r e a t l y she rejoices: To a n Alcides her son grows, G r o w s u p . . . . H e t a e r a e ogle h i m a n d Light a l a m p before the image Of Venus. II T h a t Star already was b e g i n n i n g To rise over B e t h l e h e m , high above, T h e word of holy t r u t h a n d love,

T h e Star of the Universe has risen, Peace a n d joy has b r o u g h t a n d given To m e n o n earth. T h e Pharisees a n d All despicable J u d a e a Stirred itself a n d roared f o r t h grimly, Like an a d d e r in the m u d , A n d in m a n ' s flesh, the Son of G o d O n G o l g o t h a d o o m e d to crucifixion Between two thieves. A n d , being d r u n k With blood, T h y b l o o d , to sleep they lay, T h e executioners. F r o m the grave T h o u didst rise, t h e Word arose, A n d T h y blest Apostles bore T h e word of t r u t h a n d right t h r o u g h all T h a t land so cruelly enslaved. Ill T h e n it was that h e r Alcides With a goat-legged old t o p e r c a m e , With the lovely y o u n g h e t a e r a e , In a grove on the A p p i a n Way, Eagerly removed t h e i r dress. D r a n k d e e p with greater eagerness. To P r i a p u s t h e i r h o m a g e paid. But look Saint Peter o n his way Bringing t h e G o s p e l , b o u n d f o r R o m e , Seeking rest a n d water c a m e To t h e grove. "Blessings be u p o n you!" T h e Apostle, weighed by weariness, So spoke his blessing to the orgy. A n d with a word soft, g o o d a n d kindly, A n n o u n c e d to t h e m the new G o o d Tidings, Love, right a n d good to t h e m did speak, T h e greatest good in this world's b o u r n e s , Love of one's b r e t h r e n . A n d t h e F a u n ,

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D r u n k e n , n a k e d a n d replete, Your son Alcides, the h e t a e r a e , T h e y all, they all of t h e m knelt d o w n . Fell before Peter, to the g r o u n d . T h e n led t h e Apostle to the T h e r m a e To sup with t h e m . . . . IV A n d in the T h e r m a e , t o o , reigns orgy. With gold a n d purple, noble halls Are blazing, a m p h o r a e s m o k i n g , girls All but n a k e d stand before the Cyprian's image, a n d in c h o r u s Sing the h y m n . T h e guests lie d o w n O n c o u c h e s . T h e r e a m e r r y feast Is spread. Loud laughter, noise resounds! I n the hetaerae b r o u g h t the guest, T h e greybeard. Straight the word flowed forth F r o m the blest Apostle's m o u t h , Flowing like precious oil. T h e orgy Q u i e t e n e d d o w n , the Cyprian's priestess, She w h o was the orgy's e m p r e s s , Bowed h e r h e a d , a convert j o y f u l , Before t h e Apostle, t h e n she rose, A n d after her they all arose, Into the c a t a c o m b s t h e y followed T h e Apostle. Your only son Alcides, t o o , went after t h e m . Following t h e blest apostle, A f t e r the holy t e a c h e r followed. A n d , j o y f u l , you c a m e out f r o m h o m e , To w a t c h t h e road b a c k f r o m t h e grove F o r your Alcides. H e d o e s not c o m e , A n d will c o m e n e v e r m o r e . A l o n e , You will pray to your Penates,

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A n d sit alone at h o m e f o r supper, N o n o t for supper, but to sob, To sob a n d curse y o u r luckless lot. A n d grow grey cursing. A n d O woe, You will perish there a l o n e , Like a leper. V O n t h e Cross, H e a d d o w n w a r d s , t h e n , they crucified H o l y Peter, the apostle, A n d carried off to Syracuse T h e n e o p h y t e s in fetters. H e , your son Alcides, your o w n child, H e w h o is y o u r only kin, Your o n l y love, lies rotting in Slavery a n d a captive's fetters. You, m o t h e r of sorrows, do n o t k n o w W h e r e he suffers, dies you g o To seek h i m in Siberia, O r rather, Scythia. A n d you . . . A n d is it only you? O M o t h e r Of G o d , p r o t e c t , save all of you. T h e r e is n o h o m e , t h e r e is n o brother, Sister, n o r family beloved, W h o are not w a n d e r i n g , lost in weeping, W h o are n o t t o r t u r e d in the d u n g e o n . Or, exiled far in distant regions, I n British or in Gallic legions Are n o t at martial drill. O N e r o , Fierce N e r o ! In t h e m i d d l e way, J u d g m e n t divine a n d just will c o m e S u d d e n u p o n you. T h e y will sail, Fly f r o m all c o r n e r s of t h e world.

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T h e holy martyrs, they, t h e b r o o d Of holy f r e e d o m . R o u n d your c o u c h . R o u n d y o u r d e a t h b e d t h e y will stand In chains. A n d t h e y . . . they will forgive you. T h e y are brothers, t h e y are Christians, A n d you a cur, a c a n n i b a l , A rabid despot!

VI

N o w it seethes With captives there in Syracuse, In cells a n d d u n g e o n s . A n d M e d u s a I n t h e tavern, d r u n k e n , sleeps A m o n g the beggars. S o o n she'll wake, A n d , despots, your sweat, y o u r b l o o d she'll take For m o r n i n g - a f t e r rites. The mother Sought her son everywhere. She failed . . . At last t o Syracuse she sailed, A n d there, p o o r lady, she discovered H i m , c h a i n e d already, in t h e prison. To see h i m t h e y would not permit her, So she was c o m p e l l e d t o sit t h e r e , N e a r t h e d u n g e o n . Wait a n d wait, To watch as f o r a god c o m e straight F r o m heaven, for her son, until T h e y would drive h i m out in c h a i n s To sweep the square. I n R o m e they're keeping A feast, great feast. A c r u s h of p e o p l e , F r o m all t h e E m p i r e governors, Praetorians, senators a b o u n d , F l a m e n s a n d lictors stand a r o u n d T h e Capitol. In c h o r u s they

Sing h y m n s , f r o m censers a n d a m p h o r a e Burn incense, C a e s a r with his train Himself c o m e s f o r t h , a n d t h e r e b e f o r e h i m T h e y bear a statue cast f r o m b r o n z e , C a r r y forth the Caesar's image. VII A strange feast they've devised, i n d e e d . T h e patrician aristocracy, A n d Caesar's learned senate. They, You u n d e r s t a n d , have praised t h e C a e s a r I n every way, till t h e y grew sickened To sing this fool t h e i r laud a n d praise, So now, t o bring it to t h e limit, In council t h e y agreed that t h e y H e n c e f o r t h would call t h e C a e s a r simply "Jupiter," a n d finish with it. To the G o v e r n o r s they've w r i t t e n T h r o u g h o u t the E m p i r e : so a n d so, C a e s a r is god, divine a n d m o r e . A n d t o a sculptor gave the order, F r o m b r o n z e a C a e s a r he s h o u l d forge. A n d , n o t a b e n e , also a d d e d T h a t this b r o n z e C a e s a r had t h e power Of amnesty. A n d people now, P o o r souls, like birds migrating, straggled R o m e w a r d s , o n pilgrimage. T h i s p o o r lady, She t o o f r o m Syracuse c a m e sailing, To C a e s a r - g o d intent o n praying. Is she a l o n e ? G o d ! T h e r e d r e w n e a r T h o u s a n d s of t h e m , b a t h e d in tears. F r o m afar. Woe u n t o you! W h o m have you c o m e , t h e n , t o e n t r e a t ? To w h o m have you brought y o u r tears to plead?

A n d with y o u r tears, t o w h o m have you Brought your h o p e ? Woe u n t o y o u . You blind, unseeing slaves! With w h o m , With w h o m are you e n t r e a t i n g , hapless C r e a t u r e s , sightless slaves a n d captives? T h e e x e c u t i o n e r save f r o m d o o m ? Pray to G o d alone, y o u r father. Pray to t r u t h a n d right o n e a r t h , A n d bow d o w n b e f o r e n o o t h e r O n earth. All else is false a n d lies: Priests a n d e m p e r o r s . . . .

VIII

There before N e r o , t h e n e w Jupiter, T h e senators yesterday have prayed, A n d all t h e patricians; yesterday T h e divine favour forth did flow. To o n e a post or m o n e y granting, To o n e gives Palestine f o r t a x - f a r m i n g , S o m e t h i n g for the brats. To o n e H e Himself deigned t o b e s t o w His c o n c u b i n e , t o be a spouse T h o u g h s o m e w h a t faded. But that's n o t h i n g , If she's f r o m Caesar. A n d f r o m o t h e r s H e deigned t o take t o his h a r e m A sister. T h i s is n o t h i n g o d d , F o r he's divine, a n d f o r a god We ought to offer self, i n d e e d , N o t only sisters. T h e n c a m e the prayer of t h e praetorians, A n d to t h e m he gave a n o r d e r T h a t what they wished, so t h e y could do, A n d a f t e r We would p a r d o n you.

A n d you, plebeian b u m p k i n s , t o o , M a d e your prayer, but n o o n e g r a n t s You p a r d o n . For they c a n n o t even Give p r o p e r a m n e s t y to you. IX On the third day it was p e r m i t t e d T h a t for t h e Christians they m i g h t pray, A n d you c a m e t o o , a n d m a d e petition. T h e idol, great in mercy, gave O r d e r that t h e y convey t h e C h r i s t i a n s F r o m Syracuse to R o m e in chains. You are joyful, filled with gladness, A n d o n c e m o r e you prayed To t h e idol. But the idol, Jupiter, n e w - m a d e O n l y see the kind of feast T h a t in the C o l i s e u m H e is p l a n n i n g . A n d m e a n w h i l e G o you out to m e e t h i m , Your son. But be not overjoyed, Rejoice n o t m u c h , p o o r lady, For as yet you d o not k n o w This god, n e w - m a d e a n d kindly. M e a n w h i l e the m o t h e r of Alcides H a s t e n e d out to m e e t h i m , With the m o t h e r s went to give T h e holy o n e s t h e i r greeting O n t h e very shore. You went, C o u l d hardly keep f r o m singing, A n d to C a e s a r - J u p i t e r Your praise was ever ringing. "Jupiter, a Jupiter! O n e does not grudge to call h i m Jupiter, i n d e e d a n d I,

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Poor fool, went off, i m p l o r i n g T h e A t h e n i a n Jupiter. A fool, a n d n o t h i n g more!" A n d quietly to the divine C a e s a r she m a d e her prayer. O n she walked beside the swamps, O n t h e Tiber gazing. A n d up t h e Tiber, f r o m b e y o n d T h e trees, a barge c a m e sailing. O r a galley. O n t h e galley T h e y bring the n e o p h y t e s In c h a i n s a n d in the midst, y o u r son. A n d he, y o u r o w n d e a r child, Is fettered t o t h e very mast. N o new neophyte Is he, but an apostle of T h e mighty word of Christ. Such he is! D o you hear, F r o m his c h a i n s he sings, Your martyr. "A new psalm u n t o t h e Lord, N e w praise let us p r o c l a i m , In righteous c h o r u s with a heart Free f r o m guile a n d b l a m e . O n t y m p a n u m a n d psaltery Let us sing forth His praises; H o w G o d smiteth t h e u n r i g h t e o u s , A n d the righteous aideth. T h e blessed o n e s in glory o n Quiet c o u c h e s speak t h e f a m e A n d praise of G o d , for aye rejoicing, Laud His H o l y n a m e . In their h a n d s g o o d swords t h e y hold, Whetted and two-edged, For instruction to the people,

A n d t o the G e n t i l e s , vengeance. Insatiate e m p e r o r s they'll c h a i n I n fetters of strong iron, A n d t h e wrists of t h e f a r - f a m e d With heavy c h a i n s they'll b i n d . A n d with righteous j u d g m e n t will T h e unjust be c o n d e m n e d , A n d glory will arise forever, G l o r y to the blessed." X A n d you stood there like a dark rock O n t h e b a n k above the water, Did not listen, did not sob, But e c h o e d "Alleluia" a f t e r T h e m o t h e r s of t h e C h r i s t i a n s there. T h e clank of c h a i n s rang t h r o u g h the air Like bells. Your child, y o u r o n l y son, T h e n e w apostle, having m a d e T h e Sign of Christ's blest Cross, i n t o n e d "Pray for h i m , O pray, my b r e t h r e n , F o r t h e fierce executioner, In prayer I bid you to r e m e m b e r H i m . D o not bow d o w n b e f o r e His overweening pride, m y b r o t h e r s . Prayer is for G o d alone! But he Let h i m rage u p o n this e a r t h , Let him t h e p r o p h e t smite a n d crush, Let him crucify all of us. G r a n d s o n s , already in the w o m b C o n c e i v e d , will grow t o m a n h o o d soon N o t as avengers they will strike, As holy warriors of Christ. A n d w i t h o u t fire, w i t h o u t sword T h e c a p t a i n s of t h e Lord will rise,

T h e h e a t h e n t h o u s a n d f o l d will fly, T e n - t h o u s a n d f o l d will flee before T h e saints. Pray, b r e t h r e n . " T h e y prayed. Before the Cross they m a d e their prayer. Fettered in chains, t h e n e o p h y t e s Prayed joyfully To you all hail, All praise to you, souls y o u n g and bright, All praise t o y o u . O holy knights! To you for e v e r m o r e , all hail! XI A n d into R o m e t h e galley sailed. A week goes by. T h e d r u n k e n Caesar, Having a c c e p t e d Zeus's t o n s u r e , Arranges Zeus's jubilee. R o m e t h r o b s with joy. T h e y b e a r before T h e idol f r a n k i n c e n s e a n d m y r r h By cartloads, a n d herd droves of Christians To t h e C o l i s e u m . As it were A slaughterhouse, blood flows. A n d R o m e T h r o b s with joy. Gladiator, patrician, Both are d r u n k , with blood a n d s m o k e Stupefied. R o m e drinks away T h e fall of glory, celebrates T h e exequies of t h e Scipian era. Rage, rage, base dotard! Take your pleasure In your h a r e m s . A holy star Is rising b e y o n d the sea afar. N o t with holy righteous t h u n d e r Will they slay you, but with b l u n t e d Knife will slash, a n d with an axebutt Slay you like a cur.

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XII A s e c o n d day T h e a r e n a roars. In the a r e n a T h e g o l d e n sand of Lydia Was covered with red purple, k n e a d e d Into a m u d d y s w a m p of b l o o d . In t h e a r e n a N a z a r e n e s F r o m Syracuse were not yet seen. But t h e third day t h e y t o o were brought I n chains, by g u a r d s with n a k e d swords, To the slaughterhouse together. T h e a r e n a like roaring beasts r e - e c h o e d . Proudly into the a r e n a , Singing a psalm, y o u r son s t e p p e d forth. Like o n e possessed, t h e d r u n k e n C a e s a r R o a r e d with laughter. F r o m t h e vault A leopard sprang u p o n t h e stage, S t e p p e d forward, glanced . . . t h e holy blood G u s h e d f o r t h . Across the C o l i s e u m A s t o r m was b o r n e with roaring thunder, O n c e m o r e grew c a l m . W h e r e were you t h e n ? W h e r e h a d you h i d d e n ? W h y n o t fall O n h i m , your Caesar, h i m y o u r AllHoly! N o , there stood to k e e p G u a r d over h i m , in ranks t h r e e deep, Lictors a r o u n d y o u r Z e u s , a n d t h e r e , Behind y o u r holy Jupiter, T h e gate of iron is shut a n d barred A n d you were left t h e r e all a l o n e , T h e r e at t h e gate, all, all a l o n e . W h a t could you do? "O sorrow, sorrow! O m y bitter fate of sorrow! W h a t shall I do? Of h i m b e r e f t W h a t shall I do? A n d w h o is left

To lean on?" A n d t h e p o o r soul gazed All r o u n d a n d t h e n against the wall, Against the wall she struck her h e a d . A n d swooning fell as she were dead. Before t h e very gate. XIII F r o m the spectacle, w h e n the evening C a m e , t h e holy C a e s a r Hid in t h e T h e r m a e with his lictors. T h e r e the C o l i s e u m S t o o d w i t h o u t Caesar, w i t h o u t R o m a n s , A n d , it s e e m e d , was weeping. Lone, like a m o u n t a i n in t h e plain, T h e r e in the midst of R o m e , T h e C o l i s e u m l o o m i n g black. Quiet, quiet blows T h e w i n d f r o m beyond t h e Tiber, f r o m A l b a n u m , over R o m e . High over the black C o l i s e u m Sails t h e r o u n d - f a c e d m o o n , As f r o m b e h i n d dark s m o k e . T h e earth, F i r s t - b o r n of c r e a t i o n , Rested o n the night's c a l m b o s o m . O n l y we, O A d a m , Your p r o g e n y of ill-intent, Lie not d o w n t o rest. Till in the coffin, in that E d e n Lost by o u r neglect. Like curs a f t e r a stinking b o n e , We tear and rend e a c h other. A n d hurl our insults at y o u , even. Lazy-bones fore-father!

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XIV She rested t h e r e awhile, The mother, beaten near to death. T h e strength of night revived T h e force of life in h e r again. She rose a n d w a n d e r e d r o u n d N e a r t h e gateway, closed a n d barred, Whispering about S o m e t h i n g . M u r m u r e d curses o n Blest Caesar? Yes, m a y b e . Curses t o o . . . . She stole t o w a r d s T h e gateway silently. Stood t h e r e listening a n d smiled. M u r m u r e d quietly S o m e t h i n g to herself, s o m e words, A n d , h i d d e n t h e r e beside T h e gate, sat quietly sorrowing. T h e gate s o o n o p e n e d wide, A n d o n chariots a n d carts f r o m T h e slaughterhouse, the C o l i s e u m , T h e y b r o u g h t the bodies of t h e saints D o w n t o t h e Tiber. For it is T h e i r wont to fatten Tiber's fish O n m u r d e r e d saints, to swell t h e m for T h e imperial table. A n d t h e m o t h e r Rose, looked r o u n d u p o n all sides, A n d , clasping her bruised h e a d , b e h i n d T h e waggons, silently she m a d e H e r way, like a black ghostly s h a d e , Tiberwards, a n d the grey-eyed Scythians, Waggon-drivers, slaves of slaves, T h o u g h t t h a t this was M o r o k ' s sister C o m e f r o m Hell, t o see t h e R o m a n s Well o n t h e way to Hell. T h e y hurled

T h e slain into t h e s t r e a m , t h e n h o m e w a r d s T h e Scythians with their carts r e t u r n e d . A n d you alone r e m a i n e d t h e r e grieving. O n the b a n k , a n d w a t c h e d t h e ripples G r o w in ever w i d e n i n g circles, Spreading, spreading t h e r e above h i m . T h e r e above y o u r righteous son! You w a t c h e d , till there at last r e m a i n e d N o living trace u p o n the water, A n d t h e n you smiled a n d straightway a f t e r Sobbed tears of bitter, a n g u i s h e d pain. T h e n to the C r u c i f i e d you prayed For the first t i m e , for us. H e saved You, Mary's Son, t h e C r u c i f i e d . A n d you received the living word T h a t in your living soul H e p o u r e d . A n d you to m a r k e t - p l a c e a n d palace T h e word of right, the word of G o d , T h e Living Lord a n d True you bore.
1857. December 8, Nizhniy Novgorod

FATE You never acted as a trickster To me; you were f r i e n d , brother, sister F o r m e , an o r p h a n ; a n d w h e n I Was a small b o y t o o k m y h a n d , leading M e to a p e a s a n t s c h o o l to try To learn f r o m d r u n k e n sexton's t e a c h i n g . "Study, m y dear, o n e day you'll be A m a n a m o n g us," you said sweetly. I h e e d e d you. L e a r n e d tirelessly,

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A n d learned it all. But you deceived me! A m a n a m o n g us? All in vain! We never acted as the tricksters, We simply walked. N o grain Of u n t r u t h left w h e n we went thither. So, now, d e a r fate, walk at m y side. M y p o o r d e a r friend, w h o is n o trickster, F u r t h e r we'll go. T h e r e glory glistens! A n d glory ever is m y guide.
[Febuary 9] 1858. Nizhniy Novgorod

THE MUSE A n d you, m a i d e n m o s t p u r e a n d holy, Young sister of P h o e b u s , most surely Took m e i n t o your m a n t l e , t h e n Carried m e out into t h e plain, A n d in the plain, u p o n a g r a v e m o u n d , Like f r e e d o m in broad space, you swathed m e , Swaddled m e in mist grey a n d fine, A n d rocked m e a n d sang your songs to m e , A n d w o n d e r s wrought there. . . A n d I. . . O dearest w o n d e r - w o r k e r mine! Everywhere you have helped m e truly Everywhere you w a t c h e d o'er m e duly. In the steppe, the u n p e o p l e d steppe. I n my far u n f r e e d o m , You s h o n e there in all your p r i d e , Like flower in the plain b l o o m i n g . F r o m t h e filth of prison-cell, Pure a n d holy ever Like a small bird you flew out

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A n d above m e hovered, Soaring on your golden p l u m a g e , Singing your songs to m e . A n d as if with living water M y p o o r soul bedewing! A n d 1 live, a n d you above me With your divine gifts so lovely S h i n e on still, bright star of m i n e , You, a c o u n s e l l o r true for m e , You w h o are my y o u t h f u l f o r t u n e , D o not leave me! In t h e night A n d the day, at d a w n a n d evening, Walk with m e , t e a c h m e aright, Teach m e with lips u n d e c e i v i n g To speak the truth. O aid my plight. T h a t to t h e e n d m y prayers I'll offer, A n d w h e n I die, t h e n in my c o f f i n Lay m e , y o u r son, t h e r e to lie, H o l y o n e , my dearest m o t h e r ! A n d let at least o n e t e a r - d r o p over M e fall f r o m your i m m o r t a l eyes.
[Febuary 9] 1858. Nizhniy Novgorod

U n f r e e I c o u n t the days a n d nights A n d t h e n forget h o w many, O Lord! H o w wearily t h e y drag T h o s e days that pass so heavy! A n d t h e years flow away with t h e m . Quietly they flow ever, A n d t h e y bear away with t h e m Evil a n d good t o g e t h e r

451

Bear away, a n d bring back n o t h i n g . N e v e r m o r e returning, D o not t h e n c o m p l a i n that prayer F r o m G o d no help can earn you! Lost a m o n g the m u r k y m a r s h e s , A m o n g wild weeds, there have passed now T h r e e years, sadly, day by day; A n d so m u c h they bore away F r o m m y granary's dark h o l l o w A n d in t h e sea cast it for ay; A n d all quietly the sea swallowed M y wealth, not silver n o r of gold, But m y years a n d all m y g o o d , A n d m y suffering, my anguish, T h o s e f o r e v e r - u n s e e n tablets Writ with p e n unseen it took. So a m o n g the putrid m a r s h e s A n d wild weeds, let t h e m flow, pass n o w T h o s e u n f r e e years! But as f o r me! This m y rule of life shall be! I'll sit a while, t h e n walk a little, U p o n the steppe a n d sea I'll look. R e m e m b e r s o m e t h i n g , sing a ditty. A n d the tiniest n e w - c o m e b o o k O n c e m o r e embroider. For I ' m flitting.
[1858, St Petersburg]

THE DREAM To Marko Vovchok She reaped the w h e a t in s e r f d o m ' s labour; W o r n - o u t ; for rest she did not c o m e To t h e sheaf she m a d e her way there To feed Ivan, her little son. T h e swaddled child lay wailing, b e d d e d In t h e cool shade, below t h e sheaf; She loosed t h e s w a d d l i n g - b a n d s a n d fed h i m . C u d d l e d h i m , a n d , as if asleep. Beside her son drowsed, h e a v y - h e a d e d . She saw, in d r e a m s , her son Ivan, G r o w n up, of h a n d s o m e , m a n l y carriage, Wealthy, b e t r o t h e d , a n d now his marriage To a free bride he a free m a n , N o m o r e t h e lord's, they lived in f r e e d o m ; In their o w n smiling field out reaping T h e two were cutting t h e i r own w h e a t , While children b r o u g h t t h e m l u n c h to eat. . . T h e n quietly she smiled, p o o r m o t h e r . . . She started u p . . . all g o n e forever! She looked at little Ivan, t h e n Picked h i m u p , swaddled h i m again, A n d , ere it reached the overseer's ken, Went off, t h r e e score m o r e sheaves t o gather. T h e last t i m e , maybe; w i t h G o d aiding Your d r e a m t o o could prove true t h e n . . .
[July 12] 1858. St Petersburg

I a m not ill, t o u c h w o o d , not I But s o m e t h i n g strikes m y inward eye. A n d the heart h o p e s f o r s o m e t h i n g . . . Weeps, A c h i n g , a c h i n g , never sleeps. Like a child that cries for food. A t i m e w h e r e grim disasters b r o o d , Perhaps, you h o p e for? Give n o h e e d i n g To h o p e s of l o n g - e x p e c t e d f r e e d o m She slumbers on: tsar N i c h o l a s Put h e r t o sleep, a n d n o w to call T h e weakly f r e e d o m t o awake, We m u s t together, o n e a n d all. H a r d e n t h e a x e - s h a f t , whet t h e b l a d e , A n d start to rouse her, start to call. Else the p o o r d e a r will sleep away T h e years, sleep on till J u d g m e n t Day. T h e n o b l e m e n will lull her still, Shrines a n d palaces they'll build, Love their d r u n k e n tsar, a d o r e Byzantism with all their will. A n d n o t h i n g , it seems, n o t h i n g m o r e !
1858. November 22

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PARAPHRASE O F T H E E L E V E N T H PSALM Merciful God! How they do wane now T h y saints, h o w few o n earth r e m a i n now! N o w o n e m a n forgeth 'gainst a n o t h e r C h a i n s in his heart. A n d in t h e i r speech, With lips exuding h o n e y sweet, T h e y kiss, the h o u r awaiting, w h e t h e r S o o n f r o m feast to grave they m i g h t In his coffin b e a r a b r o t h e r ? T h o u , only Lord of t r u t h a n d right, Wilt lock t h o s e lips deceiving, seal T h a t wagging t o n g u e that utters f o r t h , Proclaims: "We are not vanity! A n d we shall wondrously exalt Both o u r reason a n d o u r t o n g u e . . . A n d where's t h e Lord t o bid us 'Nay!' T h a t t h u s o u r t h o u g h t , o u r speech should run?" "I shall arise!" that Lord will say, "This day I shall arise again! For these m y people, b o u n d in c h a i n s , Poor wretches! I shall glorify T h e s e small d u m b slaves! A n d as a guard Protecting, I shall set m y word A r o u n d t h e m . T h e n shall fade a n d die, Like grasses t r a m p l e d u n d e r f o o t , Both your speaking a n d your t h o u g h t . " A n d like t o silver, forged a n d b e a t e n . By fire in t h e f u r n a c e h e a t e d , Smelted sevenfold, O Lord, So are these mighty words of T h i n e ! Scatter t h e m . Lord, t h o s e words divine, T h r o u g h o u t t h e earth! In all t h e world T h y marvels t h r o u g h t h e length of days T h y p o o r small babes shall k n o w a n d praise.
1859. February 15 [St Petersburg]

TO MARKO VOVCHOK In memory of January 24, 1859 Lately, beyond t h e U r a l s straying, I w a n d e r e d , a n d f r o m G o d besought T h a t o u r t r u t h should not pass away so, T h a t o u r word should not die. I prayed so, A n d it was granted for the L o r d Sent you to us, a p r o p h e t kindly, O n e to reprove with sternest c h i d i n g C r u e l , insatiate m e n . My light. You are my holy star in t r u t h , You are t o m e the strength of y o u t h . Shine u p o n m e , blazing bright, A n d give new life to m y p o o r h e a r t , T h a t all exposed to every smart Still h u n g e r s here. Alive again, Free t h o u g h t to f r e e d o m I'll o n c e m o r e Call f r o m the coffin forth again. A n d that free t h o u g h t , t h e n . . . y o u , my f o r t u n e , O u r p r o p h e t , you m y dearest daughter, T h a t t h o u g h t I shall call by y o u r n a m e .
1859. February 17. St Petersburg

N. N. O n c e a lily like you, growing O n J o r d a n ' s b a n k s in days of yore, A n d bestowed h u m a n flesh a n d b o r e H e r e u p o n earth that Word all-holy. If you, m y D n i s t e r flower could but. . . N o ! N o ! D e a r G o d ! T h e y crucify, A n d , fettered t o Siberia drive. You, m y defenceless flower. . . I'll not

Say it. . . A j o y o u s paradise. Send to her, Lord, in earthly guise. G r a n t her o n earth a h a p p y lot. A n d n o t h i n g else to her devise. But d o not in her springtime take her To T h i n e own paradise o n high. But clad in T h i n e own b e a u t y m a k e her O n earth a w o n d e r to o u r eyes.
April 19, 1859 [St Petersburg]

D e a r G o d , evil o n c e m o r e r u n s r i o t ! . . . A n d things were pleasant, things were quiet; We were b e g i n n i n g to unforge T h e fetters o n o u r u n f r e e people. T h e n , bang! A n d peasant blood o n c e m o r e Was flowing. A n d c r o w n e d h a n g m e n , seeking Like h u n g r y dogs a b o n e to gnaw, Squabble anew.
[April - May 1859, St Petersburg]

A h , I have eyes, have two eyes to m e given, But, m o t h e r dear, have no o n e t o see with t h e m , N o o n e , p o o r soul, d o I have t o see with t h e m ! All, I have a r m s , have two a r m s t o m e given, But, m o t h e r dear, have n o o n e t o hold with t h e m , N o o n e , p o o r soul, d o I have t o hold with t h e m ! All, 1 have feet, have two feet to m e given, But n o n e with w h o m , m o t h e r dear, to d a n c e with t h e m , But n o n e , p o o r soul, with w h o m t o d a n c e with t h e m .
June 10 [1859]. Pyriatyn

HOSEA, C H A P T E R XIV Paraphrase A n d t h o u shalt perish, U k r a i n a , Vanish, leave n o trace o n this earth. Yet o n c e t h o u wert so p r o u d , w i t h wealth Of goods a n d splendour! U k r a i n a ! Beloved land, i n n o c e n t , sinless! W h y does t h e Lord so c h a s t e n t h e e ? Because of B o h d a n a n d m a d - d o g Peter H e chastiseth certainly, A n d f o r those evil lords he s m i t e t h To u t t e r ruin c h a s t e n s t h e e , A n d slays u n s e e n . A n d H e d o e s justly! For long H e did e n d u r e , long-suffering Beholding, silent, f r o m o n high T h y sinful w o m b . T h e n , p a t i e n c e e n d e d , H e spake in wrath: "I shall require Of t h e e thy b e a u t y a n d t h y splendour, A n d thyself crucified shall rent be, For thee thy vicious sons shall slay, A n d others, ill-conceived, d i s p a t c h e d I n t h e w o m b , shall die away Like chicks that never shall be h a t c h e d . With tears, a m o t h e r ' s tears that fall, I shall fill fields a n d cities so, T h a t t h e w h o l e earth m a y c o m e t o k n o w T h a t I a m L o r d , a n d I see all. Arise, O m o t h e r , a n d r e t u r n n o w Back to your h o m e , a n d there take rest. F o r t o o long t h o u hast b o r n e this b u r d e n By the sins of thy sons oppressed. Take rest, sad m o t h e r , t h e n begin,

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A n d p r o p h e s y to thy wicked offspring T h a t they shall perish in t h e i r sin, T h a t all their t r e a s o n a n d d i s h o n o u r A n d c r o o k e d soul T h e fire shall smite, T h a t d o o m cries out b e y o n d escaping, A n d their kind tsar 110 aid c a n bring, T h e i r gentle, d r u n k e n , mighty king! N o drink he'll give, n o f o o d he'll give t h e m , N o horse f o r you to seek deliverance I n b a r e - b a c k flight. You c a n n o t flee, You c a n n o t hide yourselves. Avenging Truth will find you, a n d intently People will watch for you, a n d seeing, Will c a t c h you. To n o trial they'll bring you, But straightway into fetters fling you, D r a g you t o t o w n a n d m o c k you there, Without a tsar or h a n g m a n nigh you, U p o n t h e cross they'll crucify you. C u t you t o pieces, rend a n d tear, A n d your b l o o d , curs, will be given To curs t o drink. . . G o , give to t h e m . T h i s word o n c e m o r e go give to t h e m , Free of all parables: "Ye m a d e this." Say plainly t o t h e m : "Ye have m a d e this With your o w n u n c l e a n h a n d s created H o p e f o r yourself a n d t h e n p r o c l a i m O u r tsar is G o d , o u r h o p e abiding, F o r widows, o r p h a n s aye providing Both f o o d a n d w a r m t h . " N o t so, n o t so! Say thus: "Lies only t h e gods tell ye, T h o s e idols in their foreign dwellings," Tell t h e m t r u t h will rise f r o m its grave. And a word n o t o u t w o r n , o u t d a t e d , C o r r u p t e d , a word n e w - c r e a t e d

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A m o n g the p e o p l e it will raise t h e n , A n d will the p l u n d e r e d people save F r o m the Tsar's favour. . .
December 25. 1859 [St Petersburg]

I A pretty m a i d e n with dark brows Brought beer u p f r o m the cellar. A n d I b e h e l d a n d gazed at her Till d r o o p i n g 1 n e a r fell there. For w h o m , t h o u g h , did she bring t h e beer, Why b a r e f o o t m u s t she go. O G o d of Might! For m i g h t T h o u hast Yet T h o u dost spoil it so!
[January 15. 1860. St Petersburg]

II Oak-grove, d a r k l y - s h a d o w e d spinney, T h r i c e in the year's course A n e w robe you wear. A rich Father must be yours! Firstly in a cloak of green H e a d o r n s you richly. A n d himself is all a m a z e d To look u p o n his spinney. Looks his fill u p o n his darling, Well-beloved a n d young, Takes her t h e n a n d robes h e r newly In a g o l d e n g o w n ;

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Wraps her in a costly m a n t l e Of the purest white, T h e n , all weary f r o m his labours, Lies d o w n for t h e night.
January 15, 1860. St Petersburg

T h e years of youth have long ceased flowing, G u s t s of a chilly wind are blowing F r o m y o u r h o p e s . This is w i n t e r c o m e ! Sit in y o u r cold house, lone, b e n i g h t e d , N o o n e with w h o m to gossip quietly, N o n e t o take council with. N o one! N o o n e at all, alas! N o one! So sit a l o n e , while h o p e abiding Will fool you, fool, m o c k you, deriding Will seal your eyes with frosty cover. A n d will u n f o l d t h o u g h t s prideful Like snowflakes over steppeland blown! Sit in the c o r n e r t h e n , a l o n e . Wait not f o r spring, f o r blest fate yearning, F o r you n o spring will be r e t u r n i n g To m a k e y o u r o r c h a r d green o n c e m o r e , Your old h o p e to renew, restore! N o r to set free a free t h o u g h t b u r n i n g Will she return again. . . So, sit A n d wait for not the smallest whit.
October 18, [1860. St Petersburg]

D a y c o m e s a n d goes, night c o m e s a n d goes Sinking y o u r h e a d in h a n d s clasped tight, You w o n d e r why there still c o m e s n o Apostle of w i s d o m , truth a n d right.
November 5 [1860. St Petersburg]

471

Water flows f r o m b e n e a t h t h e m a p l e , T h r o u g h ravine to t h e lowland. A n d splendidly above t h e water, A g u e l d e r - r o s e is growing. Splendidly grows t h e g u e l d e r - r o s e , M a p l e with youth is g l e a m i n g . And round about them, osier-beds With osiers growing greenly. Water flows f r o m beyond the grove, And beneath the mountain Little ducklings are splashing t h e r e , With osiers all a r o u n d t h e m . A n d the d u c k c o m e s gliding o u t , ( T h e drake follows his lady). She c a t c h e s w a t e r - w e e d , converses Quietly with her babies. Water flow beside the kailyard, To a p o n d extending. A girl c o m e s out to draw water, A n d sings, h o m e w a r d wending. A n d f r o m their h o m e , the p a r e n t s c o m e To stroll out in the o r c h a r d , A n d t h e y take c o u n s e l w h o to n a m e As h u s b a n d f o r their daughter.
November 7 [1860. St Petersburg]

O n c e I was walking in t h e night Beside the N e v a , a n d m y wits Were p o n d e r i n g deeply as 1 walked: "If it h a d b e e n , " I t h o u g h t , "if it H a d b e e n t h e slaves would not s u b m i t , T h e r e would not stand o n Neva's b a n k s

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T h e s e palaces as a living s h a m e , A brother, a sister would r e m a i n ; But n o w . . . n o , there is n o t h i n g now, N o t even G o d , n o r d e m i - g o d : A n d , with their brats, d o g - t r a i n e r s reign, A n d we the clever k e n n e l - m e n Weep o n , a n d breed their h o u n d s f o r t h e m ! So, walking at night, 1 c h a n c e d t o be Beside t h e N e v a , a n d m y wits F o r m e d s u c h fine t h o u g h t s ; 1 h a d n o t seen T h a t over on t h e o t h e r b a n k A kitten, as if in a pit, Blinked b o t h his eyes: for there were lit N e a r the Apostle's G a t e twin lamps. Startled f r o m m y d r e a m s , I crossed Myself, a n d spat three t i m e s for sure, T h e n o n c e again in t h o u g h t was lost. The same deep thoughts I had before.
November 13 [1860. St Petersburg]

Should we not t h e n cease, m y f r i e n d , M y p o o r d e a r neighbour, m a k e a n e n d Of versifying useless r h y m e s ? P r e p a r e o u r waggons for t h e t i m e W h e n we that longest road m u s t w e n d ? I n t o the o t h e r world, m y friend, To G o d we'll hasten t o o u r rest . . . We have g r o w n weary, u t t e r - t i r e d , A little w i s d o m we've a c q u i r e d , It should suffice! To sleep is best. Let us n o w go h o m e to r e s t . . . A h o m e of gladness, you m a y know!

475

N o , let us not d e p a r t , n o r go, It is early still, We shall yet take walks together, Sit, a n d gaze o u r fill, G a z e u p o n the world, m y f o r t u n e , See h o w wide it spreads, Wide a n d joyful, it is both Bright, a n d of great depth! We shall yet take walks, m y star, O n a hill climb high, A n d take o u r rest together. . . . A n d Your sister-stars, m e a n w h i l e , T h e ageless ones, will start t o shine, T h r o u g h the heavens glide . . . Let us linger t h e n , m y sister, T h o u , m y holy b r i d e . A n d with lips unsullied we shall M a k e o u r prayer to G o d , A n d t h e n set out quietly On that longest r o a d , Over Lethe's plumbless d e p t h s , Waters dark a n d swarthy, G r a n t m e t h e n thy blessing, f r i e n d , With t h y holy glory. While this a n d that a n d all such wear o n . Straight let us go, as t h e crow flies, To Aesculapius with a present, For h i m to outwit old C h a r o n A n d spinning Fate. . . . A n d t h e n , as long as T h e old sage would c h a n g e his p u r p o s e , We would create, reclining there, A n epic, soaring everywhere Above the e a r t h , h e x a m e t e r s We'd twine, a n d up the attic stairs Take t h e m for m i c e t o gnaw. T h e n we

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Would sing prose, yet with h a r m o n y A n d not h a p h a z a r d . . . Holy f r i e n d , C o m p a n i o n to my j o u r n e y ' s e n d , Before the fire has ceased to glow, Let us t o C h a r o n , rather, go! Over Lethe's plumbless d e p t h s , Waters dark a n d swarthy, Let us sail, let us b e a r With us holy glory, Ageless, y o u n g for e v e r m o r e . . . Or, f r i e n d , let it be! I will d o w i t h o u t the glory, If they grant it m e , T h e r e o n t h e b a n k s of P h l e g e t h o n , O r beside t h e Styx, in heaven, As if by the b r o a d D n i p r o , t h e r e In a grove, a grove primaeval, A little h o u s e I'll build, a n d m a k e An o r c h a r d all a r o u n d it growing, A n d you'll fly to m e in the shades, T h e r e , like a beauty, I'll e n t h r o n e you; D n i p r o a n d U k r a i n a we Shall recall, merry s e t t l e m e n t s A m o n g groves, g r a v e m o u n d s in the steppes, A n d we shall sing right merrily.
February 15 [1861. St Petersburg]

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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 magnates, 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 ceremony. 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 guelderrose 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-historical, 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 Hetman. 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 (71597): 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 (17691838), 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 Kotliarevskyi's travesty, Aeneas (whom Shevchenko here calls the "FarRoamer") 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 mid19th 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 disappearance 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 (17781843): 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 (71578): a renowned Cossack Otaman in the latter half of the 16th century. In 15771578 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, Constantinople, and Istanbul. To N. Markevych Mykola Markevych (18041860): 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 (18181845) was a fellow-student of Shevchenko'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 Shternberg when the latter was about to leave for Italy to continue his studies there. Hamaliya Hamaliya: N o 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 traditions. 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 Bosphorus; 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 situated 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 (715701622), 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.

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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 government-appointed archaeological commissions for the purpose of seeking 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 (15931657) for signing the treaty of Pereyaslav in 1654, by the terms of which Ukraine, instead of becoming 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 residence and the capital of Ukraine (16481676). 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 18251855) is meant. The rest of this section, particularly the next 18 lines, in which Shevchenko 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 (17221724) 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 (18091852), 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 (13691415), the Czech religious reformer who at the end of the 14th and beginning of the 15th centuries criticized what he perceived as papal abuses of power and spiritual authority. 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 (17951861). 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 Shevchenko'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 Subotiv 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 November 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 success 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 16691708 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 18301831. Where from one Decembrist I have stolen: Decembrist movement 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 18431851. 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 (17661826): 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 16601724): 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 14521715. 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 Muscovite tsar in 1547-1584. Vit' Peterkin got drunk: Peterkin Peter I, Russian tsar. Then in Pchela they could describe: Severnaya pchela (The Northern 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 Haidamaky 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 situated. 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 century. 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 lyreminstrels 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 battle in 1651, where Bohdan Khmelnytskyi's forces were greatly outnumbered 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 16341676), 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 souvenirs, which, it was believed, had the power to protect against headaches, 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 nativity 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 Nicholas the Wonderworker," is patron of, among other groups, traders and travellers. The Caucasus Yakov de Balmen (Jacques de Balmaine, 18131845): a Ukrainian of French descent, was an army officer, amateur artist, and friend of Shevchenko. In 1844, he and the Russian artist Mikhail Bashilov prepared 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-tonorth 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 wisdom, 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 (13361405): 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 (17931852): a prominent Slovak-born Czech poet and scholar. Hanka, Vaclav (17911861): 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 3768): the fifth emperor of Rome (ruled AD 5468), 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 historian, A. Skalkovskiy ( N a y e z d y 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") (18171885): 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. Kostomarov 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 Kostomarova (17981875). 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 imprisoned son. Irzhavets Irzhavets: a village in the region of Poltava in whose Cossack church the miraculous image of the Virgin Mary was located.

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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 Tighina). Hordiyenko, Kost (71733): one of the few Cossack leaders who remained loyal to Mazeppa. The Colonel Of Fastiv: Semen Paliy (real surname Hurko; 1640s1710) 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 (12651321): 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 narrative of the poet's imaginary journey through hell, purgatory, and heaven. Shevchenko must have been acquainted with Russian translations 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 childhood. 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 (17881863) 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 December 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 Roman Emperor (AD 200251) 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 provide 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 clovenhooved, 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 Apostles, and the "rock" on which Christ founded his Church, has presumably 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 magistrate's power to flog or execute. Jupiter: or Jove, the supreme god in the Roman pantheon, corresponding 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

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close by in Via Sacra. It was built, as its official name implies, under the Flavian emperors Vespasian (reigned AD 6979) 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 Shevchenko'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, 18331907), a Ukrainian and Russian author, was an event in the Ukrainian literature. 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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MaieMaTHKa, (j)aKyjibTaTHBHO yKpamcbKa MOBa) yHiBepcHTeTax. Yneprne 6yjia B YKpaim 1991 p., Ha IIIeBHeHKOBift 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 1 9 9 8 p. - 3acHOBHHK i BHuaBeub >KypHajiy "Manifold" ("Po3MaiTTfl"), npncBAHeHoro noe3ii. Y 19691989 pp. KopecnoHneHTKa (3 panflHCbKHx i cxluHoeBponeHCbKHx nnraHb) HayKOBoro THXHeBHKa "Nature" ("npHpona"), B 19931999 pp. 3aciynHHK penaKTopa KBapTajibHHKa "The Ukrainian Review" ("YKpamcbKHH oniflii"). nin BFLTHBOM npaub >K. A. MenBeneBa (flKi nepeKjiaaajia aHDiiHcbKoio MOBOK)) 3axonHjiacn 6opoTb6oio 3a npaBa JHOUHHH, 30KpeMa B KpaiHax TOTajiiTapHoro pexHMy. Flin pi3HHMH nceBaoHLMaMH nncaia npo HHCHneHTCbKHH pyx, nepeztyciM y Flojibuii H YropmHHi. YMacHHK BcecBiTHboi KOH(J)epeHnii npo npaBa JIIO(19581961, HHHH, NPHCBOTEHO'i A . ZL. CaxapoBy, B MOCKBI (TpaBeHb 1991 p . ) .

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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 (19581961, 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 memory 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 translations (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 19391957 academic edition following the line numbering of the original. The most successful of these translations

604

H33B0K) "Like water, like fire" ("HK BOM, H BoroHb") y 1971 p. K aHTOJiorw BMimae TBopH copoxa noeriB. y B u B H T i "Panio Ha H H B "CBo6ojia" (2004) onvSjiiKOBaHO GLnopycbKO-aHrjimcbKy 6ijiiHTBV "Bipmi npo BOJHO". y Hin nepeioianH BipmiB 122 cyHacHHX 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. KoTJwpeBcbKoro, I. OpaHKa, B. Cociopy, JI. Dii6oBa. nin BIIJIHBOM cepnHeBHX 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 MyjibraMeiiiHHoro niHCTBa "yKpama: BW Ma3enn no MannaHy" CTHCJioi icTOpii 6araTOBiKOBOi 6opoTb6n yKpamcbKoro Hapony 3a BOJHO, H II npencTaBjieHO B yxpaiHCbidH noe3i'I. K

H M HyMepaixii PIMITIB opHrmajiy. HawajieKBaTHimi cepen nepeA icianiB "HK0Cb-T0 nay yHo^i...", "Heo(j)iTH", TaMajiw", "KaBKa3M. Y nepeKJianax e nyace Bnajii 3HaxinKH: nepeBHpa^KeHHi5 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 UleBneHKiaHH, 0ny6jiiK0BaH0'i y Be;iHKo6pHTaHii, Ta rojioBHHX aHDIOMOBHHX BHJiaHb TBOpiB T. IHeBHCHKa n03a BeJIHK06pHTaHieio, B TOMV HHcui i B CPCP. /Io6ipKy nonoBHioioTb ineBHeHK03HaBHi 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 ypHBOK 3 noeMH "KABKA3" y nepeKJiani B. P h . FlepeKJiajia neidjibKa 6mbniHX 3a o6cnroM TBopiB Jleci yKpa'iHKH npaManram noeMH "KaccaHUpa", "Oprm" Ta "BaBHjioHCbKHH 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 nepeKJianiB, 30KpeMa noeMy 'TaHnaMaKH" T. IlJeBHeHKa, jiipHKy I. OpaHKa. HOTenep He 0ny6jiiK0BaH0. 3a iHiuiaTHBOK) K3HECK0 yKnajia aHTOJioriio 6mopycbKoi' noe3ii Ta nepeicnajia li aHTJimcbKoio MOBOIO (nepniHH nepeKJiaa 6yju>-5iKOK) 3axmHoeBponeHCbKoio MOBOIO). Ony6jiiKOBaHa nin

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 variants, 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 Englishlanguage 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 Ukrainka 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, Oleksandr 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 language). 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 contemporary 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 19891991 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.

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CONTENTS

I. Dziuba. TARAS S H E V C H E N K O 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 MEMORY O F KOTLIAREVSKY1 105 PEREBENDIA Ill T H E POPLAR 117 T O OSNOVYANENKO 131 IVAN PIDKOVA 137 TO N. MARKEVYCH 147 ASAMEMENTOTOSHTERNBERG 149 T h e wind blows, speaking with the grove 151 HAMALIYA 151 THE PLUNDERED GRAVEMOUND 163 Chyhyryn. O Chyhyryn! 167 THE DREAM 171 Why weighs life so heavy? Why drags life so dreary? 205 TOGOGOL 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 G R E A T VAULT 215 THE SERVANT-GIRL 253 THE CAUCASUS 287 TO MY F E L L O W - C O U N T R Y M E N 297 T H E C O L D RAVINE 313 TO LITTLE MARYANA 317 Days are passing, nights are passing 319 When I die, then make my grave 321 THERUSSALKA 323 IN T H E F O R T R E S S 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 THE 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 THE NEOPHYTES 413 FATE 447 THE MUSE 449 Unfree I count the days and nights (second version) .. 451 T H E D R E A M (She reaped the wheat in serfdom's labour...) 455 1 am not ill. touch wood, not 1 457 PARAPHRASE O F T H E E L E V E N T H PSALM 459 TO M A R K O VOVCHOK 461 N . N. (Once a lily like you...) 461 Dear G o d , evil once more runs riot! .,.463 Ah. I have eyes, have two eyes to me given 463 HOSEA, C H A P T E R 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 S H E V C H E N K O ' S WORKS O F A R T 490 NOTES 597 Vera Rich. Biographical information 604

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