THE DREAM

Each man’s fate is special to him, And his own broad highway; One man builds, another ruins, Or with eye unsated Looks a third beyond th’ horizon Seeking to discover What to seize and carry with him To his grave as booty. This man counts as lawful victims Kinsmen in his cabin; This one, crouching in the corner, Aims to kill his brother; While another, mild and sober, With a pious feeling, Stealthily as any kitten, Sees when a misfortune Strikes you and he slyly buries Deadly knife within you. Ask no mercy! He will hearken To no wife or children. And another, rich and gen’rous, Builds the churches richly And he loves so well his country That he sorrows for it, And he therefore most sincerely Sheds its blood like water, And the company all silent With their eyes wide open Like the lambs—say, “Let him do it! It perhaps is needed!” It is needed! For there is not Any Lord in heaven! You beneath the yoke are falling, And you’re still believing There is paradise above you? No, there’s not! There’s not! Vain’s your effort! Just think sanely, All upon this planet,— Be they tsars or be they beggars— All are Adam’s children. He ... and he ... what do I matter? Not a bit, good people; For I feast and have a banquet Sundays and on work days. Are you bored? Are you complaining? Heavens, I don’t hear it. Do not shout!—My blood I’m drinking, Not the blood of others! One time returning home unsteady From a rich banquet late at night, I thought upon this all my journey Until I came unto my cabin. At me the children do not shout, A wife’s never scolding,— ’Tis calm as in heaven. On all is the blessing of God— In heart as in cabin. So I could sleep calmly; But when a drunken man once sleeps, E’en though the guns roared loudly, He would not stir a hair. A dream, a dream unprecedented Disturbed my slumbers. A sober man would gladly tipple, A miser Jew would give a penny To have a glimpse of what I saw. Yes, devils two. I see as if it were an owl A-flying over fields and banks and thickets, And o’er deeply cut ravines, And across the steppes unbounded, And the forests. And I fly after her unceasing. I fly and bid the earth farewell. “World, farewell! Farewell, O earth, Cruel and unkind land! All my bitter torments cruel I’ll hide in the cloud. Greetings, my dear Ukraina, Poor and helpless widow! I will fly to you and meet you, From the cloud will speak, In a quietly sad meeting Seek advice from you. I will fall on you at midnight Like the dew of morning. Let us talk and let us counsel Till the sun arises, Till your poor and little children Stand upon the threshold. Then farewell, my darling mother, Poor and helpless widow! Help your children, truth is living At the throne of God!” I fly and look. The dawn is breaking And the sky grows brighter; Nightingales in the dark forest Greet the rising sun; Softly blow the morning breezes, Steppes and fields are clearer; ’Mid ravines above the waters Willows seem far greener; Flowers bend beneath the dewdrops; Poplars just as sentinels Stand apart and separated, Talking with the meadows. Everything upon the landscape Is all wreathed in beauty, Growing green, and being freshened By the morning dewdrops; Nature all is being freshened And the sun is greeting ... Nowhere is there a beginning, And there is no ending. No one can perfect its beauty, No one can it ruin, ... It is full and fair.... My spirit! What do you know of it? Oh my poor and wretched spirit, Why do you weep vainly? Why do you complain? For the ills you don’t notice? When you cannot hear how the people do weep? Then look and look well! For I now shall be flying Above, far above the swift-moving blue clouds. No rulers are there, nor are punishments known. The people’s loud cries and their laughs are not heard. But see, in that paradise which you are leaving, They strip the patched clothing from off of the beggars, They strip with the hides—for the poor must find shoes For youthful young princes. They pummel the widow To pay her poll taxes; they fetter her son, Her son, her one son, the one child which she has, Her hope—and they send him away to the army! ’Tis but for a while—but in mud and in filth The boy soon is bloated,—from hunger he dies, His mother is reaping the wheat at forced labor. Do you see him? Eyes, my poor eyes! Why do you have vision? Why did you not dry to blindness, Washed out by your weeping? Here a ruined maiden wanders, Wanders with her bastard. Both her parents cast her off, Strangers will not take her!... All the elders flee her presence, The young lord rejects her, With the twentieth libation Drinks away their souls. Does God from behind the clouds See our tears and sorrow? He may see it but he helps us Like the giant mountains Of past ages which were flowing With the blood of humans. Oh my sad and troubled spirit, You are sad and wretched. Let us drink the bitter poison, Lie down on the ice, Let us send our thoughts to God, Tell them to inquire How much longer it is fated Hangmen rule this world! Fly across the world, my thought, my bitter sorrow! Gather all the sorrows and the evils too As your ancient comrades!—You were reared to know them, You have loved them truly; and their heavy arms Wrapped themselves around you. Pick them up and fly And then scatter them throughout th’ entire sky. Let them turn it black or red, Let them fan the flames, Let again the serpent’s venom Fill the earth with corpses. And without you I shall somehow Bury all my heart And shall seek that selfsame moment Paradise apart. Again I fly above the earth, Again I say farewell to it. It is hard to leave the mother In her roofless cabin, But it is still worse to notice Both her tears and rags. I fly, I fly, the wind is howling; Before me is the snowbank white; Around me are the woods and marshes, The fog, the fog, a boundless waste. No human sound, there is no trace Of any human footstep here.... Ye foes, and ye who are not foes, Farewell! I shall not come as guest! Go on feasting, have your banquets, I shall yet not notice— All alone for evermore I’ll rest in the snowbank— But until you know for certain That there is a country Not bedrenched with tears and blood, I will rest here gladly ... I shall rest.... But yet I’m hearing Sounds of fetters clanking ’Neath the earth.... And I will notice. Oh, the wretched people! Where are you? What are you doing? What are you now seeking ’Neath the earth? No, no, perhaps, I cannot be hidden In the heavens! Why this torture? Why these woes I feel? Who has suffered ill from me? Whose harsh arms have fettered My poor soul within my body, Have inflamed my heart And my birdlike strength— Have disturbed my thoughts? For what,—I know not, but I suffer, Bitterly I suffer. And when I repent my evil? When will be the end? I don’t see, don’t know. The wilderness has roused itself, As from its last and narrow dwelling For that dread final judgement day When all the dead for truth arise. These are not the dead, the murdered, And not asking judgement,— They are people, living people, Stricken down in chains, From deep holes the gold they’re fetching To pour down the lusty throats Of the greedy. They are convicts. Why? Almighty God alone Can reply.... Perhaps He also Has not noticed this! Here the branded convict stumbles With his heavy fetters; He, a tortured ugly bandit, Grits his teeth in anger— Tries to kill his lucky fellow Who has suffered less! And among them in their torture, Wrapped in fetters heavy, Is th’ almighty tsar of freedom Branded with the selfsame mark! In the prison torture quiet, Weeping not or groaning; Once your heart is warmed with blessing— It will never cool. But where are your thoughts, O ye flowers of roses? Admired and bold, well beloved little children? To whom did you give them, my friend, to whose hands? Or are they forever sunk deep in your heart? O brother, don’t hide them! No, spread them abroad! They’ll gather and grow and go out in the world! What is this trial, what will it be? It is coming, for it’s chilly,— Frost the mind awakens. Again I fly. The earth grows darker. My mind’s asleep. My heart is aching. I look—the houses o’er the roadways, The cities with their hundred churches And in the cities like the cranes. The Moskals formed in solid lines; Well fed, in splendid boots arrayed, And laden down with heavy chains, They are drawn up; again I look; Down in the valley like a pit, The city glows as in a fire; Above it hangs a heavy fog Black as a cloud—To it I fly ... A city without end. But is it Turkish? Or is it German? Or yet it may belong to Moscow ... Palaces and churches And pot-bellied lords, But not a single peasant cabin. It has grown dark.... The fire’s blazing And spreading all around,— I was afraid.... “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”—they all did shout. “Well, well, you fools! Where is your mind? Why are you glad at this? What are you burning?”—“Hey, khokhol! He does not know parades. We are parading! For He deigns Himself to sport to-day!” “But what is this amazing toy?” “You see the palace there ...” I push my way; a turncoat there, (I thank you, he confessed!) With all his gaudy uniform; “Where did you come from, man?” —“From Ukraina!”—“So that you Do not know how to speak Like people here?”—“Oh, yes,”—I say,— “I do know how to speak, I do not wish to.”—“What a crank! I know the entrance here; I serve within, and if you wish, I’ll try to take you in Into the palace. Only, see, We are enlightened, friend,— Don’t spare your cash for what you’ll get.” “Be gone, you fool accursed!” Once more I made a sudden change And was invisible, And so I boldly walked within. My God, my only God! It was a heaven! Parasites Were there, all wreathed in gold! And then He, tall and angry too Strode out among the crowd. Beside him came the empress too, On whom his love did rest. She seemed just like a dry mushroom, So thin and long of leg, And constantly she nods her head To bring both good and woe. “Is that a goddess, there, I see? The devil take you now! And I, a fool, who had not seen This game a single time, Believed your stupid, ignorant Verse hucksters as they are. O what a fool! And what a price! I dared to trust as pledge A Moskal’s word! Go on and read, And see the faith they have!” Like gods, the nobles are around, In silver and in gold, Like well-matured and aged boars With muzzles and with fat. Like them they shove, like them they push To be the nearest ones Unto the Persons; They may give Or deign to offer fruit. It may be small but yet it’s fine, E’en though but half a pear, If They distribute it. They stood arranged in solid rows, All quiet,—not a word— A bell.—The Tsar then stammers out, Likewise Her gracious self, Just like a heron midst the birds, She hops and struts about. Long time the two walked back and forth As pompous as two owls And they conversed in muttered voice (Afar I could not hear) About their country, so it seems, About the newest ropes, About the very last parades. And then the empress took Her seat upon a little stool. I look; the Tsar goes up Unto the oldest man and then He hits him in the face. He slapped him and a younger man Upon the belly struck. Oh, what a shout! The victim struck His junior on the back. He chose another lesser man And he some one below. And so it went, till each in turn Beyond the palace gate Upon the streets kept up the game Until they pummeled well The still unbeaten Orthodox And they began to yell And cry; and how they all did roar. “Our father revels, that is sure! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” I had to laugh, it was so good. They even gave to me The selfsame blessing. Ere the dawn They all were sound asleep. But here and there the Orthodox Upon the corners groaned And groaned and groaned and thanked the Lord For all their father gave. ’Mid tears and laughter I set out To look around the place. Night was like day. And so I looked. So many palaces Above the quiet river stood. Its bank was edged with stones Throughout and so I stood and looked Like a benighted fool. The job was done with thoroughness Amid the mud and slime. It was a marvel. So much blood Was shed of human kind— Without a knife! And on that side A fortress and a tower Just like a needle overlong,— ’Twas wonderful to see, And clocks were striking everywhere. Then as I turn away— A horse flies up and with its hoofs It pounds a mighty rock. He sits upon the unsaddled horse In cloak of strange design, Without a hat—his head is wreathed As with a sort of leaf. The horse rears up—and towards the stream As if it would leap o’er And he extends his lordly hand As if he wished to seize The whole wide world. Who is this man? I read myself the words That are engraven on the crag. “The Second to the First.” At first it seemed a title strange But now I know the truth. It is the first who crucified Our own Ukraina; The second stabbed with savage blow The widow spent and poor. Oh hangmen! Foes of human kind! You both have had your fill, You’ve stolen much! What did you take Unto that world with you? It was so hard, so very hard For me when I did read Ukraina’s sad history! I stand and sink in heart.... And still it softly, softly sings And yet so sadly too That these were very monstrous deeds. “From the ancient town of Glukhov Have the troops departed With their shovels in due order And they sent me with them As appointed hetman. O our God of love and mercy! O the tsar of evil! Cursed tsar, and wicked ruler, Viper never sated! What have you done with the Kozaks? You have filled the marshes With their skeletons so noble! You have built a city On their dead and buried bodies! And in loathesome prison Me, a free man and a hetman, You have killed with hunger In my chains!... O tsar, O tsar! God will never sever You and me. It’s hard and painful To hang o’er the Neva. Ukraina is not near me But it may have perished. I would fly and look upon it But God does not will it. Mayhap Moscow’s burned the region And has turned our Dnipro To the blue sea! Has it opened Lofty tombs, our glory? It may be, but, Lord of mercy, Pity us, dear Lord!” All was still. I saw while looking How a white cloud covers The gray sky, and in those clouds Like a beast that’s roaring. It’s no cloud, a white bird settled As a cloud descending O’er the tsar, the cruel and evil, And began to speak: “We are fettered firmly with you, Murderer and viper! At the last great day of judgement We will shelter God From your always greedy eyes. Us from Ukraina You have driven, naked, hungry, To the foreign snowbanks. You have slain us and have taken Our skins for your mantle. You have sewed it with our sinews And have clad your city In new robes. Look and admire! Palaces and churches. Revel on, O savage hangman, Cursed, ever cursed!” So we flew and so we wandered. Then the sun was risen, And I stood and looked with horror At the scenes occurring, For the poor were now in motion, Hurrying to labor, And the Moskals at the crossroads Were drawn up in order. On the streets the girls were running Homeward, not to labor. They were sleepy, for their mothers Sent them out to labor All night long without a respite And to earn a living. And I stood, depressed and troubled, Thinking and remarking, How severe a task for mortals Just to earn their living. And the brotherhood decided To join in the senate, Sign its papers and to plunder Father, yes, and brother. And among them all the turncoats Seek the way of fortune. So they murder like the Moskals, Laughing and tirading At their fathers who neglected To teach them as children To speak German,⁠[1] and at present They exploit their sorrows. Peacocks, peacocks! Mayhap father Sold his last poor cow To the Jews, before you knew well The new Moscow language. Ukraina! Ukraina! These too are your children, These are your fresh youthful flowers, Spotted now with ink. Deafened by the Moscow bleatings In the German gardens. Weep, O weep, my poor Ukraina, As a childless widow! Merely go and look at leisure At the tsars, the palace. What is done there! I am going. The pot-bellied elders Stand in rows; they sigh, they’re snoring, And they all are pompous Like a turkey, and they’re glancing At the door askance. Sunk in slumber, they are waiting. Then the bear approaches From his lair. He barely, barely Totters on his way. And he’s swollen, till he’s bluish, For his cursed orgy Bothers him. And how he bellows At the fatted fellows. All the bellies—no exception— Fall to earth before him. He has taken off his bandage And all now are trembling, That are left. Just as a mad man, He strikes at his lessers,— They fall down; the smaller people— And they quickly perish. He turns to the mass of servants. They are lost and ruined. To the Moskals—little Moskals, There is only groaning. To the earth they fall! A marvel Is come to this planet. Then I look to see what follows, What my little bearcub Will do now. Why, he is standing With his head dejected Like an orphan. Is he showing Aught of bear’s true nature? He’s a kitten—it is wondrous, And I laughed about it. Then he heard and how he thundered, And I too was frightened. I awoke, and then I noticed It was a strange dream. It was strange. For only mystics And the race of drunkards Have such dreams. So do not marvel, Dearest brothers, ever, That I told you not my story But what I had dreamed.