Chapter VIII

Now Mark comes on with the caravan
Singing blithely as he can.
To the inns he makes no speed,
Quietly lets the oxen feed.
Mark brings home for Katherine
Precious cloth of substance rich;
For father dear, a girdle sewn
Of silk so red.
For Servant Anne
a gold cloth bonnet
To deck her head,
And kerchief, too
with white lace on it.
For the children are shoes
with figs and grapes.
There’s gifts for all,
there’s none escapes.
For all he brings
red wine, so fine,
From great old city
of Constantine.
There’s buckets three
in each barrel put on.
And caviar
from the river Don.
Such gifts he has
in his wagon there,
Nor knows the sorrow
his loved ones bear.
On comes Mark,
knows not of worry;
But he’s come
Give God the glory!
The gate he opens,
Praising God.

“Hear’st thou, Katherine?
Run to meet him!
Already he’s come,
Haste to greet him!
Quickly bring him in to me.
Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,
All the strength has come from Thee.”

And she “Our Father” softly said
Just as if in dream she read.
The old man the team unyokes,
Lays away the carven yokes.
Kate at her husband strangely looks.

“Where’s Anna, Katherine?
I’ve been careless!
She’s not dead?”

“No, not dead,
But very sick and calls for thee.”

On the threshold Mark appears,
Standing there as torn by fears.
But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,
Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.

Go forth, Katherine,
though I love you well,
I’ve something to ask him,
something to tell.”

From the place
fair Katherine went;
While Mark his head
o’er the Servant bent.
“Mark, look at me,
Look at me well!
A secret now I have to tell.
On this faded form
set no longer store,
No servant, I, nor Anna more,
I am——”
Came silence dumb,
Nor yet guessed Mark
What was to come.

Yet once again her eyelids raised
Into his eyes she deeply gazed
’Mid gathering tears.

“I from thee forgiveness pray;
I’ve penance offered day by day
All my life to serve another.
Forgive me, son, of me,
For I—am thy mother.”

She ceased to speak.
A sudden faintness
Mark did take:
It seemed the earth
itself did shake.
He roused—
and to his mother crept,
But the mother
forever slept.

A FATHER’S LEGACY

When Gregory Shevchenko—for this was the father’s name—was on his deathbed, he called his family around him and gave his parting bequests. A serf might not, indeed, sell any of his household goods without permission of his landlord, but he could give them to his relatives who, of course, were the property of the same landlord. So Gregory Shevchenko distributed his pitiful treasures to the children and to his wife,—saying finally—

“To my son, Taras, I give nothing. He will be no common man. Either he will be something very good or else a great rascal. For him the patrimony will either mean nothing, or will not help any.”

CAUCASUS

To Jacques de Balmont—French friend of the Ukrainians who perished in the Circassian war.

The Czars used the Ukrainians as tools in their ambitious projects. A hundred thousand of them perished in the marshes, digging the foundations of Petrograd. As many more died in the attempt to subdue the Circassians—tribes inhabiting the Caucasus mountains—to the imperial will of the Russian autocrat.

The memory of these sufferings was the inspiration of this bitter poem.

The text is taken from the prophecy of Jeremiah, Chapter 9, verse 1.

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

Beyond the hills are mightier hills,
Cloud mountains o’er them rise,
Red, red have flowed their streams and rills,
They’re sown with human woes and sighs.

There long ago in days of old
Olympus’ Czar, the angry Jove,
His wrath did pour on a hero bold,
On brave Prometheus, he who strove
The fire of heaven to seize for men.

On mountain side, in vulture’s den
He suffered what no mortal pen
May well indite. The savage beak
Of his hearts’ blood doth daily reek.
Yet the torn heart again revives,
To triumph o’er its tortures strives.

Our souls yield not to grievous ills,
To freedom march our stubborn wills.
Though waves of trouble o’er us roll
The waves move not the steadfast soul.
Our living spirit is not in chains,
The word of God in glory reigns.

’Tis not for us to challenge Thee,
Though life rolls on in toil and tears;
Though we Thy purpose cannot see
We cling to hope ’mid doubts and fears.
Our cause lies sunk in drunken sleep
When will it awaken, Lord?
Oppressors gloat and patriots weep,
When wilt strength to us afford?

So weary, then art Thou, Oh God,
Can’st life to us no longer give?
Thy Truth we trust beneath the rod,
Believing in Thy strength we live.
Our cause shall rise,
Our freedom rise
Though tyrants rage:
To Thee alone,
All nations bow
Through age on age
And yet meantime
the streams do flow
And ever tinged with blood
they go.

Beyond the hills are mightier hills,
Cloud mountains o’er them rise.
Red, red have flowed their streams and rills,
They’re sown with human woes and sighs.

Look at us in tender heartedness,
All in hunger dire and nakedness,
Forging freedom in unhappiness,
Toiling ever without blessedness.

The bones of soldiers bleaching lie,
In blood and tears must many die.

In faith, there’s widows’ tears, I think,
To all the Czars to give to drink.
Then there’s tears of many a maiden
Falling so soft in the lonely night.
Hot tears of mothers, sorrow-laden,
Dry tears of fathers, in grievous plight.
Not rivers, but a sea has flowed,
A burning sea.
To all the Czars who in triumph rode,
With their hounds and gamekeepers,
Their dogs and their beaters,
May glory be!

To you be glory, hills of blue,
All clad in monstrous chains of frost.
Glory to you, ye heroes true,
With God your labors are not lost.
Fear not to fight, you’ll win at length,
For you, God’s ruth,
For you is freedom, for you is strength,
And Holy Truth.

TO THE CIRCASSIANS

“Our bread and home,” in your own tongue,
In Tartar words you dare to say.
Nobody gave it you, your world is young,
So far no one has ta’en it away.
Nobody yet has led you in fetters,
But we have wisdom in such matters.

In God’s good word we daily read,
But from dungeons where the pris’ners moan,
To Caesar’s high-exalted throne
’Tis gilt without, while the soul’s in need.

To us for wisdom should you come,
We’ll teach you all the tricks of trade.
Good Christians we, with church and Ikon;
All goods, even God, our own we’ve made.

But that house of yours
Still hurts our eyes;
If we didn’t give it,
Why should you have it?
These ways of yours
cause much surprise.
We never granted
The corn you planted.
The sunlight, you
Should pay for, too.
Oh, quite uneducated you!

Good Christians we, no pagans needy,
Sound in the faith, not a bit greedy.
If you in peace from us would learn
Store of wisdom you would earn.

With us what great illumination,
A cont’nent ’neath our domination;
Siberia great, for illustration.
There’s jails and folks ’yond computation.

From Moldavia to Finlandia
Many tongues but nothing said,
Except for blessings on your head.

A holy monk here reads the Bible,
Tells the story, ’tis no libel,
Of king who stole his neighbour’s wife,
And then the neighbour he robbed of life.
The king now dwells in paradise.
Such folks ’mong us to heaven rise.

Oh, you creatures unenlightened,
Be ye not of our dogmas frightened!
Our gentle art of “grab” we’ll teach;
A coin to the church and heaven you’ll reach.
Whatever is there we can’t do?
The stars we count and crops we sow;
The foreigner curse,
Then fill our purse,
The people selling,
’Tis truth I’m telling.

No niggers we sell, I’m not making jokes,
Just common ord’nary Christian folks.
No Spaniards we, may God forbid!
Nor Jews that stolen goods have hid.
So don’t you think you’d like to be
Such law-abiding folks as we?

TO THE RICH AND GREAT

Is it by the apostle’s law
That ye your brother love?
Hypocrites and chatterers,
Ye’re cursed of God above.

Not for your brother’s soul you care.
It’s only for his skin.
The skin from off his back you’d tear,
Some trifling prize to win.

There’s furs for your daughter,
Slippers for your wife,
And things that you don’t utter
About your private life.

TO THE MASTER

Oh, wherefore wert Thou crucified,
Thou Christ, the Son of God?
That the word of Truth be glorified?
Or that we good folks should ’scape the rod
Of avenging wrath, by faith confest?
Meanwhile of Thee we make a jest,
Mocking Thy love in our conduct’s test.

Cathedrals and chapels with Icons grand!
’Mid smoke of incense lavers stand.
There before Thy pictured Presence
Crowds unwearied make obeisance;
For spoil, for war, for slaughter seek
Their brother’s blood to shed they pray,
And then before Thy form so meek
The loot of burning towns they lay.

AGAIN ADDRESSING THE CIRCASSIANS

The sun on us has shone so bright,
We wish to you to give the light.
That sun of truth we seek to show
To children blind, all in a row.
Wonders all to see we’ll let you
If in our hands we only get you.
Of building jails we’ll show the trick,
How pris’ners ’gainst their fetters kick.
There’s knotted whips for stubborn backs,
For saucy nations painful racks.
In change for your mountains grand and old,
With this instruction we you greet.
These are the last things, already we hold
The plains and seas beneath our feet.

TO JACQUES DE BALMONT

So they drove thee along, my dearest friend,
For Ukraina did’st thou shed
That good heart’s blood of thine so red.
Our country’s hangman, shame to think,
Muscovite poison gave thee to drink.
Oh, friend of mine, unforgotten friend,
Ukraine to thee doth welcome send.
Let thy spirit fly with Cossacks bold.
Along the shores of Dnieper old.
O’er ancient tombs hold watch and guard
And weep with us in labors hard.

Till I return to meet thee,
My songs I send to greet thee.
Such songs they are of bitter woe.
Yet ever, always, these I sow.

Thoughts and songs forever sowing,
To the care of winds bestowing.
Gentle winds of Ukraine
Shall bear them like the dew
To that dear land of mine
To greet my friends so true.

THE MEANING OF SERFDOM

Three or four days of every week the serfs—men and women alike—must labor in their master’s fields for nought. What was left of the week, they were granted to earn subsistence for themselves and their families.

But that was not the worst. More bitter than labor was the fact that they were not their own, were chattels of their lord, who could sell them at his pleasure or gamble them away at cards.

He could beat them too, or kill them if he wished, without fear, for what advocate would take up the case of a penniless serf against the all-powerful aristocracy.

Hideous, too, was the glaring fact that young daughters of the serfs were regarded as the legitimate prey of the landlord and, his sons.

In these later days the sins of the fathers have been visited in awful fashion on the descendants of these landlords. But can we wonder that in the writings of a poet whose childhood was poisoned by knowledge of such injustice, we find evidence of the growing avenging fury that later was to bring about such awe-inspiring convulsions in human society.

Through all of Shevchenko’s verse there sounds the great theme of that contrast between the beauty of God’s world, and the horrors of human cruelty.

“An earthly heaven we had from Thee; Turned it into hell have we.”

TO THE DEAD

And the Living, and the Unborn, Countrymen
of mine, in Ukraine, or out of it,
My Epistle of Friendship.

This is the national poem of the Ukrainians, recited at all their gatherings. I have given the thought and something of the feeling. The music of the original I could not give. It begins like a Highland dirge with wailing amphibrachs, and there are other measures in it not used in our language. Perhaps some future student may be moved to put this poem in such English form as will give the true impression of the original.

The motive of the poem is, in part, to awaken the conscience of the young educated Ukrainians who, for the sake of gain were allowing themselves to be used as tools by foreign oppressors.

’Twas dawn, ’tis evening light,
So passes Day divine.
Again the weary folk
And all things earthly
Take their rest.
I alone, remorseful
For my country’s woes,
Weep day and night,
By the thronged cross-roads,
Unheeded by all.
They see not, they know not;
Deaf ears, they hear not.
They trade old fetters for new
And barter righteousness,
Make nothing of their God.
They harness the people
With heavy yokes.
Evil they plough,
With evil they sow.
What crops will spring?
What harvest will you see?

Arouse ye, unnatural ones.
Children of Herod!
Look on this calm Eden,
Your own Ukraine,
Bestow on her tender love,
Mighty in her ruins.
Break your fetters,
Join in brotherhood,
Seek not in foreign lands
Things that are not.
Nor yet in Heaven,
Nor in stranger’s fields,
But in your own house
Lies your righteousness,
Your strength and your liberty.

In the world is but one Ukraine,
Dnieper—there is only one.
But you must off to foreign lands
To look for something grand and good.
Wealth of goodness and liberty,
Fraternity and so forth, you found.
And back you brought to Ukraine
From places far away
A wondrous force
of lofty sounding words,
And nothing more.
Shout aloud
That God created you for this,
To bow the knee to lies,
To bend and bend again
Your spineless backs
And skin again
Your brothers—
These ignorant buckwheat farmers.

Try again
to ripen crops of truth and light
In Germany
or some other foreign place.
If one should add
all our present misery
To the wealth
Our fathers stole
Orphaned, indeed, would Dnieper be
with all his holy hills.
Faugh! if it should happen
that you would never come back,
Or get snuffed out
just where you were spawned
No children would weep
nor mothers lament,
Nor in God’s house be heard
the story of your shame.
The sun would not shine
on the stench of your filth
O’er the clean, broad, free land,
Nor would the people know
what eagles you were
Nor turn their heads to gaze.

Arouse ye, be men!
For evil days come.
Quickly a people enchained
Shall tear off their fetters;
Judgment will come,
Dnieper and the hills will speak.
A hundred rivers
flow to the sea
with your children’s blood,
Nor will there be any to help.
Smoke clouds hide the sun
Through the ages
Your sons shall curse you.

Wash yourselves—
The divine likeness in you
defile not with slime.
Befool not your children
that they were born to the world
to be lordlings.
The eyes of men untaught
see deep, deep
into your soul.
Poor things they may he,
yet they know the ass
in the lion’s skin.
And they will judge you,
the foolish will pronounce the doom
of the wise.