THE HAYDAMAKI
Clarence Augustus Manning translation
The Haydamaki is the longest of all the poems of Shevchenko and the most striking historical epic in Ukrainian literature. It describes the bloody revolt of the Koliishchina which broke out under the leadership of Maksim Zaliznyak and Gonta in 1768 and culminated in the massacre of the Poles at Uman. It was the last and one of the most terrible convulsions that shook Ukraine in its relations with Poland.
Shevchenko lays great stress upon the murder of the sexton which actually took place in 1766 and throughout the poem there are similar cases where he has changed the historical course of events for a better artistic effect but this is common to all epic poems.
The story is briefly this: a group of Polish szlachta attack a Jew and to save himself he tells them stories of the wealth of the Orthodox sexton in Vilshany. They go there and torture him and he dies under their ministrations. In the meanwhile his daughter Oksana, who loves the poor orphan Yarema, comes to the aid of her father and is carried off. Yarema, knowing nothing of the fate of his beloved, goes to seek his fortune at the Sich. He joins the forces of Zaliznyak and his fury is redoubled when he learns of the fate of his beloved. The Haydamaki with the aid of the Zaporozhians rise in revolt. For his desperate and ferocious bravery, Yarema receives the name Halayda, “the homeless one.” He succeeds in rescuing his beloved from a tower where the Haydamaki are besieging her captors and finally takes to a convent and returns to marry her. The Haydamaki continue their course and capture Uman, and savagely destroy their foes.
The poem is a true expression of the wild and merciless character of these peasant revolts against the hardships and oppressions inflicted upon them by brutal and careless masters. Shevchenko could feel this popular frenzy and describe it but he was not himself primarily a soldier and the finest parts of the poem are the lyrical descriptions of Ukrainian nature and the pictures of Ukrainian peasant life, even under the utmost hardships. He was too humane and cultured to enter fully into the wild emotions of the revolting people and to revel in the details of the battles. We could not imagine him enjoying the society of the atamans and hetmans of the past whom he consistently tried to applaud.
Rather he was deeply moved by their successes and failures. His heart was in the glorious past and the terrible present but it is of the latter that he sings the most sweetly, as he pleads also for the development of a new and better Ukraine. Yet this does not make him any the less rebellious that his people have been overthrown and are now in poverty and misery. It does not make him any milder to their oppressors. The Haydamaki is his last great outburst of hatred against the Poles and really it completes the cycle of the Kobzar which aims to picture Ukraine in the past and present through the Romantic tradition.
We include here the poet’s preliminary description of himself and of Ukraine.
The Haydamaki—Prelude
All things ever come, ever pass, without ending ... Oh! whence are they coming? And whither they go? The fool and the wise man know naught of the future. Each lives and each dies.... One plant bursts into bloom, Another has faded, has faded forever ... The winds spread abroad all the yellowing leaves, The sun still arises, as in the past ages, The stars are as bright as they were in the past, And so will they be.... Come thou, moon, with thy white face, Come out to make merry across the blue sky, Come out to admire the stream and the fountain, The infinite sea; thou still dost shine on As o’er ancient Babylon and its fair gardens, So over the fate that will call to our sons. Eternal and endless!... I love to hold converse With thee just as if thou wert brother or sister, And sing to thee tales thou hast whispered to me. Oh! teach me once more how to deal with my burden! I am not alone, and no orphan am I; For I have my children, what fate will they suffer? To bury them with me? My soul is alive! Perhaps it will find that life there is less bitter, If some one repeats all those bitter sweet words Which it has so generously poured out with weeping And which it so humbly has sobbed o’er their cradles. No, I will not hide them, my soul is alive! As heaven is blue and it has no fixed limit, The soul also has no beginning or ending. And what will it be? Not mere words of deceit. Oh! let some one cite them again in this world,— The unknown dread always to pass to the future. So speak up, my maidens, for you need to speak! It loved you, my maidens, the world’s pretty flowers, And it loved without ceasing to sing of your fate. Until it is sunrise, feast on, all my children, And I shall think how I can find you a host. Sons of mine, O haydamaki, Broad’s the world, and freedom, Sons of mine, go out to revel And to try your fate! Sons of mine, who still are youthful, Children still untutored! Who in all the world will greet you, If you have no mother? Sons of mine! My little eaglets! Fly to Ukraina! Though the evil spreads around you, Still you’re not ’mid strangers. There a soul sincere will meet you, ’Twill not let you perish. There, O there ... ’tis hard, my children! When they let you in a cabin, They will meet you, ridicule you,— Those, you know, are people; They are learned, reading, cultured, And the sun they censure, “For it rises where it shouldn’t, Shineth incorrectly. It should change its stupid doings.” What can you do with them? You must listen; perhaps truly The sun never rises As in books the learned read it ... Surely they are clever. But what will they say then of you? Yes, I know your glory. They know how to scoff and mock you, Hurl you ’neath the benches. —“Let them stay there,”—they will answer, “Till the father rises And will tell us in our language Of his famous hetmans, Or the fool will sing unto us In dead words that bore us And present some old Yarema In his sandals. Fool! They beat him But they taught him nothing. Of the Kozaks, of the hetmans, Lofty tombs are with us— Nothing else remains among us, And these too they ruin. And he wishes us to hearken To the elders chanting. Vain the labor, O sir brother! If you wish for money, You will sing what they desire! Sing about Matyosha Or Parasha, who’s our pleasure, Sultan, spurs, and parquet. There is glory! But he’s singing ‘The blue sea is playing.’ And he’s weeping, and your hearers In their peasant costumes Weep with you.” ’Tis true, O wise man! Thank you for the counsel! Warm’s the furcoat, but I’m sorry That it doesn’t fit me. And your wise words are embroidered With a lie accursed. Pardon me—shout for your pleasure, I will still not hearken, Will not call you to my circle; You are wise, good people, I’m a fool and unattended In my little cabin I will sing and sob unceasing Like a child unhappy. I will sing; the blue sea’s playing, And the wind is blowing, Black’s the steppe and with the breezes Speaks the tomb forsaken. I will sing—and then there opens Wide that tomb so spacious. To the sea the Zaporozhtsy The broad steppes all cover. Atamans on swift black horses With their banners waving Dash ahead; the thundering rapids ’Mid the reeds all hidden Howl and groan and rage in fury And their roar strikes terror. Yes, I hearken and I worry And I ask the elders: “Why are you so sad, my fathers?” “Son, it is not cheerful, For the Dniper’s angry at us; Ukraina’s weeping.” I weep too. That selfsame hour In their shining squadrons Atamans set out a-marching, Captains with their nobles, And the hetmans, gold-attired; To my humble cabin They have come, they sit around me And of Ukraina They will speak and tell me stories, How the Sich was founded, How the Kozaks boldly traversed Rapids, rafting downwards, How they revelled on the blue sea, Dashed into Skutari, How they lit their pipes beloved At the Polish fires; Then came back to Ukraina, How they nobly feasted ... “Play, kobzar! Pour out, O tapster!— Let the feast continue! Minstrel, sing!” and all the Kozaks— As Hortitsa’s bending— Leap erect and never stopping Start their joyous dances. Pitchers come and pass around them, Till they all are empty. “Revel, sir, throw off your zhupan, Revel, wind, a-blowing! Play, kobzar! Pour out, O tapster, Till our fortune cometh!” Young and old, the Kozak heroes Dance the native dances. “Fine, O children; good, O children! We will be the masters!” Atamans at the rich banquet Act as in the council. They are walking, are conversing, But the noble heroes Feel the spell and join the others Though their legs are aging. And I marvel, I am looking, Smiling, while I’m weeping,— I marvel, I’m smiling, I’m wiping my eyelids— I’m not all alone, for I live with those men! In my little cabin as on the steppes boundless, The Kozaks are sporting and singing their pride; In my little cabin, the blue sea is playing, The tomb sadly sobs, while the poplar is rustling, The maiden is singing, Hritsa, very softly, I’m not all alone! I can live with those men! These are all my blessings, money, These are all my glory, And for counsel I will thank you, For the counsel evil! Stay with me, while I am living, O dead words that bore you, To pour out my tears and sorrow. Comrades, now farewell! I must go and speed my children On a distant journey. Let them go—they may be meeting Some revered old Kozak, Who will greet my little children With his aged weeping. That suffices. I will tell you, Lord of lords it makes me. So I’m sitting at the table, Singing, meditating; Whom to ask? Who is the leader? Outdoors it grows lighter. Fades the moon, the sun is blazing, And the boys are rising, They have prayed, have donned their clothing, They now stand around me. Sadly, sadly, just as orphans, They have bowed in silence; “Bless us, father,”—so they beg me, “While we have the power, Bless us that we find our future In the wide expanses.” —Keep on waiting. Life’s no cabin, You are little children, Foolish too. For who will lead you As his gallant comrades? Who will lead you? And I suffer, Suffer with you near me! I have fed you, have caressed you, You have grown a little. Now be people; there you’ll notice All is clearly written. Pardon me that I learned nothing, For you beat me roundly, Beat me well and much you’ve taught me Of a certain order. Tma and mna I know, but oksiyu I cannot explain it. What will men remark? My children, We will go and ask them. I have now an aged father (Kin I have none living) He will give me counsel with you, For he in his wisdom Knows how hard it is to wander As a homeless orphan; And he is a noble spirit, Kozak through and through. He is not ashamed to utter Words his mother taught him, When she reared him in his cradle, Trained him as a youngster; He is not ashamed to utter Tales of Ukraina Which the blind old bards repeated, Singing in the evening. And he loves the old true legends, Sings the Kozak glory, Loves them. Come, my little children, To his kindly counsel. Had he years ago not met me In the worst of seasons, Long ago would I be buried In a foreign country, Buried and all men would scorn me. “He was good for nothing.” Hard it is to fight and conquer, If you have no motive. Times have changed, till dreams are useless. Let us go, my children! If he did not let me perish In a foreign country, So he will accept and greet you Just as his own children, And from him, with pious praying, Start for Ukraina! Greetings, father, in the cabin! On your ancient threshold Give a blessing to my children For a distant journey.