THE EPISTLE
Clarence Augustus Manning translation
The Epistle is really Shevchenko’s political and social testament. It summarizes all that he had seen and read and thought as to the fate of his country and it emphasizes the great gap which he saw between Russia in all its forms and Ukraine.
From the days of Peter the Great, there had come a steady flow of Western European (especially German) influence into Russia. Old Moscow had given way to the modern St. Petersburg and the scholars, including the historian Karamzin, had developed the theory of Russian history that the Ukrainians and especially the Kozaks were a mixture of Tatar tribes who had been more or less Russianized. The ambitious youths, the socially aspiring nobles, all were eager to go to the capital and to acquire there that advanced civilization which they could not find at home.
Shevchenko, bewailing in St. Petersburg the fate of his people and then returning to Ukraine to live, wrote this poem as an appeal to his fellow countrymen to avoid this cheap adulteration of their ancient culture. He urged them to be themselves, to strive for a new and human and Christian order at home. Nobles and peasants alike have to repent of their evils, the old order of serfdom needs to be abolished, and men need to realize that they must live as brothers. The poem aims to unite all classes in the country for the good of mother Ukraine who has lost so many of her children and for the mutual good. Those who refuse to obey will be overwhelmed in the judgement of the coming revolution which will be directed against traitors as well as against the foreign foe.
Shevchenko attacks all of those who seek a closer union between Ukraine and Russia than between Ukraine and the other Slavs. As he expressed later in the preface to the edition of the Kobzar prepared in 1847, the Ukrainians have the same rights as the Russians, Czechs, Poles, etc. They equally deserve consideration as a part of the Slavonic world.
In the past they fought for every one but themselves. They ruined Poland but her fall destroyed the Kozaks and Ukraine. They aided Russia and were enslaved. To Shevchenko it is sacrilege to boast of such a history, when there is so much good available for the future, if they will only awake and see it and use it.
The poem is a statesmanlike and wise summary of Ukrainian history and the Ukrainian character. There is little of the extreme in it and it can well serve as a masterpiece of advice to a people. As such it ranks with the great specimens of its kind in world literature.
To my Dead and Living and Unborn Countrymen in Ukraine and not in Ukraine
My Friendly Epistle.
If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar.
—I John 4, 20
Dusk descends, the light returneth, And God’s day is passing, Once again the wearied people And all things are resting. Only I, as one accursed, Day and night am weeping At the always crowded crossways But no one e’er sees it, No one sees it, no one knows it, They are deaf and hear not, They exchange their heavy fetters, O’er the truth they haggle And the Lord neglect they always, While they harness people Into heavy yokes. For evil They are ploughing, sowing. The results? Just watch and notice What the harvest will be! Pay attention, O hyenas, Crazy little children! Look upon the quiet heavens, At your own dear country; Love with a sincere, true heart Such a mighty ruin! Break your chains and live as brothers! In a foreign country Do not seek and do not search for What is non-existent E’en in heaven and not only In a foreign country ... In your home, you’ll find your justice And your strength and freedom! The world has only one Ukraina, Dnipro cannot be found elsewhere. But you dash to a foreign country To find another and a better, More sacred good! And freedom too! A closer brotherhood! You sought, You found and brought from countries foreign And carried into our Ukraine The mighty power of great slogans, And nothing more.... So now you shout That God has made us not for that, That you should bow unto injustice! You bow your heads, as formerly, And once again you strip the hides From brothers, blind unseeing peasants And to discern the sun of truth, To German lands you call not foreign, You rush again.... If you should take With you the misery around you And all the goods the masters stole, Dnipro would stay a lonely orphan With all of its most holy mounts! Oh, if it should happen you never returned, That you should rest there, where you truly were reared, No children would weep, no mother would sorrow, No one of God’s friends would e’er notice your murmurs; The sun would not warm, would not rot the manure Upon the pure, broad, and the truly free land; No person would know what brave eagles you are And they would not nod with their heads a poor greeting. Mark my words! Come! Act like humans, For you will meet evil; Swiftly will release be given To the fettered people; Judgment nears. Dnipro, the mountains Will appear against you. And the blood of your poor children Will flow down in torrents To the blue sea.... There’ll be no one Who will ever help you; Brother will deny his brother, Mother will her children. Smoke like clouds will cover over The bright sun before you, And you will be met with curses By your children ever. Change your minds! And do not sully God’s bright face with foulness! Do not try to fool your children That they are sent hither Only that they may rule others ... For an eye unlearned Looks into their very spirits Deeply, Oh so deeply! For the children will soon notice What a hide you’re wearing; They will judge you and the stupid Will deceive the wiser. If you had studied what is needful, This wisdom would be yours by now; But you thus climb the road to heaven: “We are not we, and I’m not I. I have seen all and well I know it, There is no heaven, there’s no hell, There is no God, there’s only I. The little German self-possessed, And nothing more!”—“It’s fine, my brother, What are you then?” “The German’s willing To tell you, for we do not know!” So you’re set to go and study In a foreign country. There they’ll tell you: “You are Mongols, Mongols, Mongols, Mongols! Tamurlane’s the golden leader, You’re his naked children!” They will tell you, “Slavs we count you. Slavs, yes, Slavs, we count you! Of your great and famous sires, You are worthless children!” You continue to read Kollár With unceasing ardor, Šafařík and Hanka also And you strive to follow All the Slavophiles. The language Of the Slavic peoples— You know everything, neglecting What you’re heir to!—“When we Talk as we are duly practiced, If the German shows us, And will tell to us, moreover, Our own past in lessons, Then we can begin our answer!” You have started nobly, When the German gave the order. You besides are speaking So he cannot understand you, He’s a splendid teacher, And not like the common people, Then the shouting! Shrieking! There is harmony and power, Music, all is splendid! History? It is the poem Of a freeborn people! Oh, you poor and wretched Romans! Damn it—you’re no Brutus! But our Brutus and our Cocles Are well-known forever! Freedom grew and flourished with us, In Dnipro was washed, Sent her rays upon our mountains, In our steppes was hidden! In our blood she oft was bathed, Slept together with us On piled corpses of free Kozaks, Corpses which they’ve plundered.... To admire their old virtues, Read again the story Of that glory, read it over, Word by word reread it; Do not miss a single chapter, Or a little comma— Learn it well and you will answer For yourselves. Who are we? Whose sons are we? Of what fathers? What is there that charmed you? Read it and you soon will notice Who’s your famous Brutus? Yes, slaves, the “footstools,” filth of Moscow, The noble lords of Warsaw’s garbage, Hetmans so noble and revered, Do you pride now yourselves on that? Content as sons of free Ukraina To walk contented ’neath the yoke, And do it better than your fathers? Boast not; from you they’ll strip the belts. From them they tried out all the fat. You are boasting that the brothers Well the faith defended? That they baked bread in Sinop, Or in Trapezont? True, ’tis true, they ate their fill And you fade away, On the Sich the clever German Plants potatoes now; You are glad to buy their crop Eat it for your health, And the Zaporozhia praise. Whose blood in past ages Made that land so very fertile That potatoes grow? You care not, so long as you Raise a goodly crop. You can boast that once we could Beat the Poles in fight! You are right, for Poland fell But that ruined us. And so your fathers poured their blood For Moscow and for Warsaw too, And handed over to their sons Their fetters and their fame! Ukraina struggled bravely To her utmost limit. Now her children crucify her Worse than Poles e’er dreamed of; For instead of beer—they draw out Blood from every body; But they claim they wish to give light To a mother’s vision With the fires of the present, Guide the poor blind singer In his ignorance and darkness For the age and Germans. Fine it is! Go on and lead him! Let the aged mother Learn the method of beholding These her modern children! Show your nature! ’Tis for knowledge— Worry not; for Mother Will pay well for all these lessons. Eyesores vanish quickly On the eyes of your base grabbers! You will see the glory, Living glory of your sires And your evil fathers ... Do not fool yourselves, however! Go to learn and study And the foreign knowledge master, But don’t spurn your own. God will punish every mortal Who forgets his mother. And his children will avoid him, Keep him from their cabin; Strangers too will drive him onward, And the evil have not In the whole wide world a refuge Cheerful welcome giving. I am sobbing, when I’m thinking Of the heroic exploits Of our sires; they were mighty! Yes, but to forget them, I would give up half the pleasure I shall ever have here ... Of such nature is our glory And of Ukraina!... So go on and read the story Till awake you’re dreaming Of the ills, and the mounds open And reveal their secrets Right before your eyes, and then Ask the martyrs frankly, How and why and for what purpose They have been so punished? Oh, embrace, my dearest brothers, E’en your poorest brother— Let your mother smile with pleasure, She has long been weeping ... Let her bless her faithful children With a fervent blessing! Let her kiss her little children With lips now unfettered. Then the shame will be forgotten, All the recent epochs, And new glory will be rising, Ukraina’s glory! Then the sun will shine eternal, Quietly and sweetly ... O, embrace, my darling brothers, That is what I beg you!