THE KOBZAR

Songs of mine, O songs of mine, You’re a worry to me. Why do you stand out on paper In sad rows before me?... Why did not the wind remove you To the steppe as dust? Why did fate not overlay you Like a mortal child? For misfortune brought you to this world to mock you, Tears have flowed.... Why did they not drown you, Wash you to the sea, or lose you in the field? If so, people would not ask me of my pain, Would not ask me why I curse my evil fate, What I seek on earth?... “No, there is naught to do.” There would be no mocking.... Oh, my flowers, children, Why did I so love you, why did I caress you? Is there one heart weeping so throughout the whole, wide world, As I have wept for you?... Perhaps I should have felt it.... Mayhap somewhere is a maiden With a heart and coal black eyes, Who will weep above these songs— I can wish no more— Just one tear from those black eyes Lord of lords will make me. Songs of mine, O songs of mine! You’re a worry to me. For those loving coal black eyes, For the dear black brows, My poor heart has worked, has laughed, And has poured out verses, Poured them out the best it could, For the darksome nights, For the cherry orchard green, For a maiden’s love, For the spacious steppes and tombs That are in Ukraina,⁠[1] My poor heart was sad and would not Sing in foreign land, Would not ’mid the snow and forest Summon to a council All the forces of the Kozaks With their mace and banners! Let the spirits of the Kozaks Dwell in Ukraina. There it’s broad and there it’s cheerful Everywhere you wander. Like the freedom which has vanished Is the sea-like Dniper. The broad steppe, the roaring rapids, And the tombs like mountains; There was born and there was nurtured All the Kozak freedom. With the szlachta and the Tatars It sowed all the meadows, Sowed the meadows with the corpses, Till it wearied sowing. Then it lay to rest, and straightway Rose the lofty tomb, And above it a black Eagle Flies just as a sent’nel. And about it to good people Do the Kobzars sing, And they sing just how it happened, Beggars blind and poor, For they know the way but I, I Only know to weep. I have only tears for Ukraine, Since I lack for words, And all evil—be it far! Who has failed to know it! And the man who looks unfeeling At the souls of people, May he suffer here in this world And in that.... From sorrow I will never curse my fortune, Since I do not have it. Let the evil live for three days, I will keep them hidden, Keep the great ferocious serpent Right around my heart, That my foes may never notice How the evil smileth. Let the song fly as a raven, All around and call, And my heart, a nightingale, Warble on and weep Quietly; men will not notice And they will not mock it. Do not wipe away my tears— Let them flow in torrents And besprinkle day and night Foreign fields I know not Till—until my eyes they cover With a foreign dust. So it may be!—What will follow? Sorrow will not help me. He who envies a poor orphan, Punish him, O God! Songs of mine, O songs of mine, O my flowers, children, I have reared you, have caressed you, Whither shall I send you? Go to Ukraina, children, To our Ukraina, Quietly, as little orphans, Here—I’m doomed to perish. There you’ll find a loving heart And a pleasant greeting, There you’ll find a purer truth And perhaps some glory.... Welcome, O my darling mother, Oh, my Ukraina, Welcome my unthinking children As your own dear child.

Blind and aged Perebendya— Who has failed to know him? Everywhere he wanders slowly On his kobza⁠[1] playing. By his songs the people know him And sincerely thank him, For he drives away their sorrows Though he too is burdened. ’Neath the hedgerows as an orphan Days and nights he bideth; Nowhere does he have a cabin; Poverty ne’er stops her jesting O’er his helpless person. But he never pays attention. By himself he sits a-singing, “Do not rustle, meadow!” He sings on in simple measures That he is an orphan, That he’s grieving and he’s weeping, Sitting ’neath the hedgerows. Such a man is Perebendya, Aged, and so moody; Now of Chaly bold he’s singing,⁠[2] Turns unto Horlitsa; With the maidens in the pastures, Hritsya and Vesnyanka, With the fellows in the tavern, Serbin and Shinkarka; Feasting with the newly married (Where one mother’s bitter) Of the poplar and misfortune And then “In the forest.” On the square, he sings of Lazar,— But, that all may know it, Tells with dignity and feeling How the Sich was ruined. Such a man is Perebendya, Aged, and so moody, And he sings, but while he’s smiling, Brings tears to his hearers. Wings may blow and keep on blowing O’er the fields a-straying; On a tomb the bard is sitting, On his kobza playing. Round him spreads the steppes unbounded Like a deep blue ocean. Tombs and tombs in rows extending Far as eye can follow. See, the wind his hoary mustache And his hair is tossing, As it comes and softly listens How the bard is singing. With a smile in his heart, while his blind eyes are weeping. It listens, then blows on.... The old man is hidden ’Mid tombs on the steppe, where no eye may behold him, The wind can sweep off his sweet words as they fall, No ear to give heed,—’tis the message of God. His heart can converse with the Lord without fear As it warbles unceasing the glory of God. And his thoughts, rising up, wander free ’mid the clouds, Like a grey winged eagle, which soars ever higher, Until it is lost in the blue of the sky; It rests in the sun and it asks of the orb, Where it spends the night? How it wakes at the dawn? It harks to the sea and the words which it speaks, And it asks the black mountain why it is so mute, And again to the sky, for there’s sorrow on earth, And in all its expanse there is not e’en a corner For him who knows all and who hears every sound, Both what the sea says and where sleepeth the sun— No one on the earth has a place for that man, He is lonely among them, as is the great sun, The people know him, for the earth bears him ever, But if they should hear how, alone in his sorrow, He will sing to the tomb and will talk with the sea, They would all of them mock at the word of the Lord, They would call him a fool and would drive him away, And would say, “Let him wander above the wide sea.” Thou art noble, aged poet, Father, you act wisely, That to sing and to hold converse, You the tombs do visit. Wander on, my noble spirit, Till your heart grows silent And sing on your choicest songs Where men will not hear you. And that men may not avoid you, Fit their whims, my brother! Leap, just as the lord gives order; That is why he’s wealthy. Such a man is Perebendya, Aged, and so moody; Singing songs of joy and gladness And to sadness turning.

Through the oaks the wind is blowing, O’er the field it revels, Near the road it bends the poplar Till the ground it touches. Tall its form, its leaves are spreading, Why so green it’s growing? Round about the field is spreading Wide as sea of azure. Here the carter comes and marvels And his head bows downward. And the shepherd sits a-playing On the tomb so sadly, For he looks—his heart is grieving. There’s but grass around him, And it dies just like an orphan In a foreign country. Who has reared her slender, pliant, In the steppe to perish? Hearken to me, I will tell you. Listen to me, maidens! Once a happy black-haired maiden Loved a Kozak hero, Loved him—and she did not heed it; And he went and perished. Had she known that he would leave her, She would not have loved him; Had she known that he would perish, She would have detained him; Had she known, she had ne’er wandered Late at night for water, Had not stood until the midnight With him ’neath the willow; Had she known!... Oh, that’s the trouble— In advance to reckon What to us will later happen ... You know not, O maidens! Do not ask about your fortune! But your heart will tell you Whom to love. Let it now perish, While they it will bury! For not long, you black haired maidens, With black eyes a-sparkling, And your white face deeply blushing, ’Tis not long, O maidens! By the noonday it will wither And your brows grow paler ... Love and take your fill of loving, While your heart will bid it. Now the nightingale is warbling On the little bushes, And a Kozak young is singing In the little valley. He sings on, until a maiden Comes from out her cabin, Then he turns and asks the question— “Does your mother know it?” So they stand embracing closely, While the bird is singing; So they listen, then they’re parting,— Both are very happy ... No one notices the meeting, No one asks the question— “Where were you, what were you doing?” She knows what she wishes. She was happy, she was loving, And her heart was singing. For a little while she heard it, Could not make a murmur, Not a word—she stayed and waited. Day and night she’s cooing Like a dove without its darling, And no one doth notice. Now the nightingale sings never There above the water, Never sings the black haired maiden Underneath the willow; She sings not—but like an orphan, Shuns the burning daylight; He is gone—her father, mother Seem like unknown people; He is gone—and now the sunshine Seems like hateful leering; He is gone—the tomb surrounds her While her heart still’s beating! One year passed and then another— There is still no Kozak; She dries up as doth a flower. No one ever asks her. “Why are you thus pining, daughter?” Mother does not ask her, But unto an old, rich master Secretly she joined her. “So, my daughter”, says the mother, “Do not dally always; He is rich, and he is lonely, You will be a lady!” “I don’t want to be a lady, I won’t marry, mother! With the towels I have woven, Let me now be buried! Let the priest sing o’er my coffin, Let my friends bewail me; I would rather now be buried Than be living with him.” Mother paid her no attention, Carried out her project. But the black-haired maiden noticed, Pined away in silence. To a witch she went in darkness, To consult her fortune, Whether she could live here longer, Live without her lover. “Mistress, Oh, my trusted teacher, O my heart and guider! Tell me now the truth though bitter; Where is my beloved? Is he well? Does he still love me? Or has he forgotten? Tell me now where is my lover! I will fly unto him! Mistress, Oh my trusted teacher, Tell me, if you know it! For my mother soon will wed me To an aged husband. I would go, drown in the river ... Suicide is evil ... If my lover is not living, Grant to me, my angel, That I never reach my cabin, It is bitter to me— There’s the old man with his wooers,— Tell me all my fortune.” “Fine, my daughter! Rest a little, Do as I now bid you. If you have remained a virgin, I can know the trouble; It is past and I have learned it. I give help to people. Your whole fortune, O my daughter, Last year I have noticed. Last year all the herbs I gathered For this very purpose.” Then she went and brought a vessel Hidden ’neath her clothing. “This is made to tell your fortune! Go unto the fountain; And before the songs they’ve finished, Wash in the cool water, Drink a little of this potion. It will cure the evil. Drink and run and do not tarry; If you hear some shouting, Look not back until you’re standing Where from him you parted. Rest right there. And when there rises The bright moon in heaven, Drink again; if he’s still absent, Drink again the third time. At the first, you’ll be as handsome As you were before him; At the second, you will notice That his horse is stamping. If your Kozak still is living, He will dash to meet you ... At the third, my darling daughter, Ask not what will happen! Make no cross, remember surely— It will spoil the water. Go, my darling, and recover All your former beauty.” Then she took the herbs and answered, “Thank you, mistress teacher!” Left the cabin: “Come what happens, I shall never wed him!” So she went and washed and drank it, Seemed to change her person, Then a second and a third time, Sang as if a-sleeping: “Swim, O swim, my swan beloved, Here across the blue sea! Grow, O grow, O little poplar, Higher and yet higher! Grow so tall and yet so slender To the clouds of heaven, Ask of God, if I shall find him Or not wait this marriage! Grow and grow and look around you Far across the blue sea! On that side is my good fortune, On this, only sorrow. There my black-haired love is going O’er the meadow happy. And I weep, my years I’m wasting, And I seek to find him. Tell him, O my heart so loving, I am mocked by people; Tell him that I soon will perish, If he does not hurry! For my mother now is seeking In the earth to lay me ... Who then will her needs provide for, Guard and care, protect her? Who will care for her and cheer her, Help her, when she’s older? O my mother, O my fortune! God, O God most gracious! Rise and look, O little poplar! If he’s gone—weep sorely Till the sunrise in the morning, That no one may notice. Grow apace, O little poplar, Higher and yet higher! Swim, O swim, my swan beloved, Here across the blue sea!” Thus sang on the black-haired maiden On the steppe a-lying, Then the herb produced a marvel— She became a poplar. Through the oaks the wind is blowing, O’er the field it revels, Near the road it bends the poplar, Till the ground it touches.

What do my black hairs avail me, Or my black eyes, sparkling, What do youthful years avail me, Cheerful and a maiden’s? All my youthful years are passing, Passing to no purpose, And my eyes are weeping; meanwhile Winds turn pale my tresses. My heart sinks, it shuns the daylight, As imprisoned birdlet. What avails me all my beauty, If I’ve no good fortune? It is hard for me, an orphan, To live on hereafter; All my people are as strangers— I have none to talk with; I have no one to ask questions Why my eyes are weeping. I have no one to tell freely What my heart is wishing, Why my heart, just as a dovelet, Day and night is mourning. No one wishes to ask of it, Knows it not nor hears it. Strangers will not ask me of it— Why should it concern them? Let the orphan go on weeping, Let her waste her hours! Weep, my heart! My eyes, keep weeping, Till you close forever, Cry aloud, complain unceasing, For the winds to listen, And take all my lamentations Far across the blue sea, To the false and black-haired lover, To his bitter sorrow!

Rapids roar. The moon is setting, As in former ages. There’s no Sich, and he is perished, He, the famous leader. There’s no Sich. The rushes murmur By Dnipro’s swift waters: “What has happened to our children? Where do they now revel?” And the gull cries, flying over, Weeping for the children; Warm’s the sun, the wind is blowing Where the Kozaks wandered. On the steppe the tombs are scattered And they mourn in sadness, Asking of the stormy breezes, “Where are our men ruling? Where are they now ruling, feasting? Where have you been staying? Come on back! And look around you; All the grain is leveled, Where your horses used to pasture, Where the grasses rustled, Where the blood of Poles and Tatars Reddened all the water! Come on back!” “No, nevermore!”— The blue sea repeated. Then it added: “Nevermore! They are lost forever!” True it is, ’tis true, O blue sea; Such is their misfortune! Those you seek are gone forever, Gone the ancient freedom, Gone are all the Zaporozhtsy, Gone are all the hetmans. Their red tunics nevermore Will protect Ukraina,— Like a torn and ragged orphan, She weeps o’er the Dniper; It is bitter for the orphan And no one will notice, But the foe is smiling brightly. Smile, O foeman evil, Not for long, for all will perish— Glory will not perish, Will not perish but will tell men What the world has witnessed, Whose the right and whose the evil, And whose children we are.⁠[1] Without gold and without jewels, Without clever phrasing, But as clear and always truthful As the Lord’s own utterance. Is that so, my master, father? Am I singing truly? Yes, I am!... And I must say it, But I have no talent. And in Muscovy I’m staying, Strangers are around me. “Do not notice”—you may tell me, But what will come of it? They will laugh at the sad message, That I fashion, weeping. They will laugh. ’Tis hard, my father, To live with the foemen! Still perhaps I would be struggling, If I had the power, Would be singing, had I knowledge And the gift of verses. That is why it is so bitter, O my dearest father! For I wander in the snowdrifts; “Do not murmur, meadow!” I can do no more, but, father, Sing to them, my dearest master, Of the Sich, the barrows, How they heaped the earth upon them, How they buried heroes; Of past ages and the marvels That have been and ended ... You know, father! Let the wide world, Learn against its wishes, What was done in Ukraina, Why it now has perished, Why the former Kozak glory Through the world is famous. You know, father, noble eagle! Let me keep on weeping, Let my eyes again be gladdened By my Ukraina; Let me once again soon listen How the sea is playing, How the maiden ’neath the willows Sings of Hrits’s wooing. Let my heart once more be smiling In a foreign country, Till a foreign land receive it In the grave of strangers.

At one time in Ukraina Cannons roared like thunder; At one time the Zaporozhtsy Knew the path to power. So they ruled and they acquired Glory, yes, and freedom; That is past—they’ve left behind them Tombs upon the meadows. And those tombs are high and lofty, Where they laid to slumber The white body of a Kozak Wrapped in cloth of crimson. And those tombs are high and lofty, Black as gloomy mountains. In the field they speak of freedom Softly to the breezes. And they speak to passing breezes Of the past and serfdom. And the grandson reaps the harvest, Singing songs they fashioned. At one time in Ukraina There was evil dancing. Sorrow vanished with the drinking In the jolly circle. At one time in Ukraina Life was good and merry. Let us tell it! Our hearts, maybe, Can thus find some solace.

From Lyman a black cloud covers Both the sun and heavens; The blue sea, an angry monster, Groans and tosses wildly, And Dnipro’s great mouths are flooded. “Come now, boys, and revel! To the boats! The sea is playing— Let us go to revel!” So the Zaporozhtsy started, Filled Lyman with vessels. “Play, O sea!”—they started singing As the waves were foaming. Waves rose round about like mountains, Earth and sky were hidden. Hearts might waver, but the Kozaks Found it what they wanted. Now they’re sailing and they’re singing, Storm birds keep on flying ... And the ataman who’s leading Takes them where he wishes. Up and down his deck he strideth, His great pipe neglecting; And he looks in every quarter For a proper mission. His black mustache he is twisting, Pulls his black hair fiercely, Lifts his cap—The boats come closer. “Let the foeman perish! Atamans, not to Sinop, O my daring heroes, But to Tsargrad to the Sultan We will go for feasting.” “Fine, ’tis fine, O noble father!” Comes a roar resounding. “Thank you, sons!” Again he covers. The blue sea keeps foaming. Up and down his deck he strideth In unceasing motion, And the ataman in silence Gazes at the tempest.

At the cross roads sits the kobzar, Playing on his kobza; Round about are boys and maidens, Red as poppy flowers. Plays the kobzar and he’s singing, Telling in his stories How the Poles, the Horde, the Moskals Struggled ’gainst the Kozaks; How the brotherhood assembled Early on a Sunday; How they buried a young Kozak In a boat of green leaves; Plays the kobzar and he’s singing, But his smile is evil. “Formerly we had the Hetmans, That is gone forever; Formerly they knew to govern, Nevermore we’ll do it. Yet the former Kozak glory We are ne’er forgetting! Ukraina, Ukraina! My dear heart! My darling! When I tell of your misfortune, Then my heart starts weeping! What has happened to the Kozaks With their crimson tunics? Where are vanished our old freedom, Standards, and the Hetmans? What has happened? Are they ashes? Has the blue sea swallowed All your noble, holy mountains And your tombs so lofty? Mountains speak not, plays the blue sea. And the tombs are mournful, While above the Kozak children Heathen pagans triumph! Play, O sea! Speak up, O mountains! Blow, winds, o’er the meadows! Weep, O children of the Kozaks! Such is now your fortune! “From Lyman a cloud is rising, From the field, another; Ukraina’s plunged in sadness— Such is its misfortune! Plunged in sadness, drenched with weeping, Just as little children. There is no one who can save her And the Kozaks perish; Lost is glory and the country; Nowhere it is sheltered. So the little Kozak children Grow up unbaptized, They must love apart from marriage; Without priests, they’re buried; To the Jews the faith is traded; Churches are barred to them ... As the crows the meadows cover, So the Poles and Uniats Fly around—and there is no one Who can give good counsel. “Nalivayko gave the signal,— He is gone forever. Then Pavlyuha raised his banner— Quickly too he vanished. Then Taras Tryasilo challenged With his tears so bitter; ‘Oh my wretched Ukraina, Whom the Poles have trampled.’ ——————— ——————— ——————— ——————— Then Taras Tryasilo challenged That the faith he’d rescue. Gave the signal, the gray eagle, Let the Poles know of it. Pan Tryasilo gave the signal: ‘There’s enough of weeping! Let us go, my noble brothers, ’Gainst the Poles to struggle!’ “More than three days and three nights too Fought there Pan Tryasilo. From Lyman unto Trubaylo, Filled the field with corpses. The poor Kozak was exhausted, And was filled with sadness, While the cursed Koniecpolski Felt more happy daily, For he gathered all the szlachta, To produce a triumph! But Taras called to his Kozaks, Asked them for their counsel; ‘Otamani and my comrades, Brothers dear, and children! Give to me your wisest counsel, What can we accomplish? Now the Poles are celebrating, For we have no leaders. Let them banquet for their pleasure And for their successes! Let the cursed devils banquet, Till the sun is setting. Mother night will give good counsel; Kozaks Poles can locate!’ “The sun set behind the mountains, Then the stars appeared, Like the clouds, then came the Kozaks And the Poles surrounded. When the moon reached the high heavens, Thundered out a cannon. Then the little Polish masters Fled—but found no refuge! Then the little Polish masters Fled—to rise no more; But at sunrise, Polish masters Lay stretched out in masses. Like a winding serpent crimson, Alta bore the tidings, That the ravens were assembling To consume the masters; That black ravens came together To awake the nobles, While the Kozaks came together Unto God to pray. The black ravens cawed and cried out, Eating out the eyeballs; But the Kozaks kept on singing Of that wondrous battle, Of that night that was so bloody, That created glory For Taras and for the Kozaks Who the Poles had vanquished. “O’er the river in the meadow, Now a tomb looms blackish; Where the Kozak blood was flowing, Now green grass is growing; On the tomb a raven’s sitting And it shrieks in hunger. When a Kozak thinks of Hetmans, As he thinks, he’s weeping.” The sad kobzar ceased his music, For his hands betray him! Round him all the boys and maidens Strive to hide their weeping. Formerly the Kozaks cherished Freedom and great glory. Glory lives but bitter slavery Freedom has devoured. Formerly they knew to govern. Nevermore we’ll do it, But that former Kozak glory We remember always. Down the street the kobzar wanders With his sorrow playing! Round about the boys are dancing And he says on parting: “Let it be without a sequel! Sit upon the stove, my children. For the inn I’ll sadly enter And a burning drink I’ll ask for, Ask for, drink it to the bottom, And I’ll laugh at all those foemen.”

I Have your love, you black haired maidens, But avoid the Moskals, For the Moskals—they are strangers, And they treat you foully. Yes, the Moskal loves you lightly, Lightly he will drop you, Goes away unto his country, And the maiden’s ruined. Were that all, it would be nothing, But her aged mother Who into God’s world once brought her, She must perish with her. So her heart will pine a-singing, If she knows the reason; People will her heart not notice, And they’ll say: “She’s nothing.” Have your love, you black haired maidens, But not with the Moskals, For the Moskals—they are strangers, And they always mock you. Katerina did not listen To her father, mother, But she went and loved a Moskal, As her heart had urged her. So she loved the youthful stranger, Went into the garden, And she ruined there her fortune And herself, unthinking. Mother calls her to have supper, Daughter does not listen; Where she dallies with her Moskal, There the night she spendeth.... Not two nights she spent caressing His black eyes so charming, Till the gossip in the village Had condemned her roundly. Let the people talk about her, Say whate’er they’re thinking; She’s in love and will not notice That there’s evil brewing. Suddenly bad news is coming— He must go on service— Unto Turkey went the Moskal, It Katrusya startled. She cared not, as ’twere a trifle, That her head was covered, For her lover she would either Sing or grieve at random. He, the black haired lover, promised, If he did not perish, That he would come back unto her, And then Katerina Should become herself a Moskal And forget her sorrow; In the meanwhile let the people Say whate’er they’re wishing— Katerina does not worry! Wipes away her weeping, For the maidens who surround her Sing their songs without her, And she takes the pails at nightfall To go for the water, That her foes may never see her; To the spring she’s coming, Takes a place beneath the bushes And of Hrits she’s singing; So she sings and so repeats it Till the bushes sorrow. She comes back—in perfect quiet That no one may see her. Katerina does not worry, She has no forebodings; In her new and modern kerchief She looks out the window. Katerina looks around her— Six months now are passing. At her heart a pain is gnawing, And her side is aching. Katerina feels her illness, It prevents her breathing. She recovers. In her cradle There’s a child now lying. And the women foully murmur, Jest unto her mother, That the Moskals are returning And in her are resting. “Yes, you have a black haired daughter, And she is not lonely, On the stove she has in training A good Moskal baby. She has now a black haired baby, Mayhap she has studied.” May the devil, scandalmongers, Beat you as severely As that mother whom you’re mocking For her little baby. Katerina, O my darling! You are so unhappy! Where can you go to find refuge With a little orphan? Who will feed you or receive you Without your dear lover? Father, mother now are strangers, Hard ’tis to live with them. Katerina was now healthy, Left her little quarters, Looked upon the street around her, And caressed her baby; As she looks, there’s no one friendly! What is next to happen? If she went into the garden, People there would see her. At the sunrise Katerina Walks around the garden, In her arms her son she carries, And her eyes she covers; “Here I looked at them parading, Here I used to greet him, There, O there ... my son, my baby!” More she never uttered. In the garden soon the cherries Hung all full of blossoms. When the first came out in flower, Katerina walked out, Walked out but she was not singing, As was her old custom, When she waited for the Moskal In the cherry orchard. Now the black haired maiden sings not, Curses her ill fortune, While the bitter, hateful women Say whatever moves them, Hammer out their unkind speeches. What will be her future? Were the black haired lover present, He could stop their talking. But the black haired lover’s distant, Hears not, does not notice How her enemies laugh at her, How Katrusya’s weeping. Has the black haired lover perished By the quiet Danube?... Or in Muscovy he’s staying With another darling? No, the lover has not perished, He is well and living. Where can he find eyes so handsome, Black hair so alluring? There in Muscovy the distant Or across the blue sea— There he has no Katerina. Here she’s doomed to sorrow! Mother knew to give her black hair, Coal black eyes to give her, But she knew not how to give her Fortune for her lifetime. Without fortune is her beauty But a fading flower; In hot sunshine, raging breezes, Soon it ’gins to wither. Wash your white face every hour With your tears so bitter, For the Moskals have gone homeward, Other roads they’ve taken. II Sits the father at the table With his shoulders drooping; He cannot behold the sunshine, Heavy is his sorrow. Near him sits the aged mother On the bench hand-carven. Through her tears she’s speaking coldly, Speaking with her daughter. “When’s the wedding, O my daughter? Where is he you’ve chosen? When’s the wedding party coming With its chiefs and boyars? There in Muscovy my daughter! Go and search and find them; Do not tell there to good people That you have a mother. Cursed be the day and hour When I bore you for us! Had I known, I would have drowned you Ere the sun had risen.... You have turned into a monster, And into a Moskal ... O my daughter, O my daughter, Once my rosy flower! Like a berry, like a birdlet You have lived and changed Into evil ... O my daughter, What have you done to us? So you’ve thanked us.... Go now after Moskals as your kinsfolk. You have not obeyed my warnings, Now give heed to others! O, my daughter, go and find them, Find them and address them, Be content among strange people, Never come back to us. Come not back to us, my daughter, From a distant country ... Who will bury my old body, When you have departed? Who will weep above my coffin As my child would sorrow? Who upon my grave will set out The dark red kalynas!⁠[1] Who without you will remember My poor soul so sinful? Oh, my daughter, O my daughter, O my darling daughter. Go from us now.” Coldly, coldly, She gave her a blessing. “God be with you!”—and as dying On the floor she’s fallen. Then the aged father added: “Why are you delaying?” Katerina started sobbing, To his feet she’s fallen: “O, forgive me, O my father, For my awful misdeed! O, forgive me, dearest father, Dearest, loving falcon!” —“Let the Lord Himself forgive you And good people likewise! Pray to God and go your own way— I shall feel far better.” Then she rose and said a farewell, Silently departed; While her aged parents stayed there Just as two poor orphans. She went to the cherry orchard, Said a prayer on leaving, Took some earth from ’neath a cherry, On her cross she placed it. Then she said: “I’ll come back never! In a distant country, In strange earth I shall be buried By the hands of strangers, But this earth which I am taking Lies upon my spirit And repeats to foreign people All that I have suffered. Do not tell it, treasured keepsake! May I ne’er be buried, That the people ne’er may notice I’m a ruined sinner. Say it not—and who will tell them That I am his mother; O my God! My woe unbounded! Where can I be buried? Son, I soon shall myself bury Underneath the water, And you will my sins atone for As an orphan lonely, With no father!—” Katerina Wept as she departed. On her head her little kerchief, In her arms her baby. Going from the village sadly, Back she scarcely glances, But her head she cast down earthward And began lamenting. Like a poplar in the meadow, She stood on the highway; Like the dew just at the sunset, So her tears were gleaming. Through the bitter tears she’s shedding, Nothing she can notice, But she pressed her baby closer, Kissed him while she’s weeping, And her son, the little angel, Pays it no attention. His small arms he stretches to her And he seeks her bosom ... Then towards sunset, ’mid the oakwoods Glows the sky with crimson; She lost hope and she turned backwards. Walked ... and only sorrowed. In the village evil gossip And unkind was spoken But her father and her mother Did not hear the stories. Why, O why do people always In this world harm others? One they bind, and one they murder, One they joy in hurting ... Why is this? The saints can tell us! For the world is spacious But there is no place upon it Where a man’s unbothered. One his fortune has predestined Everywhere to wander, While another will be buried Where his home was ever. Where, O where are there good people Who wish only one thing, To live with and love their fellows? They have gone, have vanished. There’s on earth a fortune, Who can it discover? There’s on earth a freedom, Who can e’er possess it? On the earth are people Who reap gold and silver, They succeed in ruling And they know no trouble.— Neither that nor freedom! With their woe and sorrow Others don their tunics. Take your gold and silver And be rich in treasures. It is tears I’m choosing To shed them in plenty; I will drown misfortune With my bitter weeping. Slavery I’ll trample With my feet unshodden! Then I will be happy And I’ll be so wealthy, If my heart is able To remain in freedom! III Owls are calling, sleeps the forest, Stars are shining brightly. O’er the path and o’er the bushes Larks are singing freely. All good people now can slumber,— Each has been so wearied. Joy or tears have wearied each one But the night doth hide them. The dark night is come to hide them Like a bird a-nesting; Where has it Katrusya hidden— In the woods? a cabin? Or is she her son amusing ’Neath an open haymow? In a forest is she fearing Wolves behind each treetrunk? God grant that no one may ever Have such fine black tresses, If they must such heavy payment Make for their possession! What can yet the future give her? ’Twill be evil, evil! Yellow sands are on her pathway, Strangers are there many; Savage winter will confront her ... And the man she’s seeking, Will he know his Katerina, Give his son a greeting? With him would the black haired maiden Roads, sands, woe not notice; If he greets her as a mother, Speaks as does a brother ... Let us notice, let us listen ... And meanwhile—I’m resting And I’m asking at this hour For the road to Moscow. It is far, my noble brothers, That is true, I tell you! Now my heart is chilled and downcast, When I think upon it. I have measured it before this, May no one repeat it! I would tell about the hardships— No one would believe them! “He who tells them sure is raving, (That’s their talk in secret) He is only telling stories To deceive the people.” That’s your truth, your truth, O people! Why should it concern you That I shed my tears before you From my hard bought knowledge! Why is this? Each living person Has his own misfortune! Devil take it! At this moment Give to them tobacco And a match, that they may never Be at home unhappy, Or they will tell you so quickly, They have evil visions.— Let the devil seize them firmly— ’Tis my task to notice Where my wretched Katerina With her Ivas travels. Far past Kiev and the Dniper, ’Mid a darksome forest, On the carters’ road they’re going, Of the Owl they’re singing. There she is, a-pressing onward, Like a pious pilgrim! Why is she so sad and gloomy, Why are her eyes weeping? On her head is but her kerchief, On her back a basket, In one hand her staff she carries, Bears her sleeping baby. She has met with some stray carters, Has the baby hidden, And she asks of them, “Good people! Where’s the road to Moscow?” —“Road to Moscow? You are on it! But it’s a long journey.” “Yes, to Moscow, I implore you, Give me money for it.” That’s the first step—how she hates it! Begging is not easy! Why is this? The baby needs it, And she is his mother! So she wept, pressed on her journey, In Brovary⁠[2] rested, With the coin she bought a cookie For her little baby ... Long, so long she walked exhausted And she asked assistance; Then at last, all spent and weary, ’Neath a hedge she rested.... O, why was she granted those black eyes so sparkling, For them to weep sorely beneath a strange hedge! O maidens, look now and regret when you’ve seen her, That you had no need for your Moskal to search, That you did not need, as Katruysa is needing, So then do not ask why the people abuse her, And why they will turn her away from their doors,— Do not ask, O black haired maidens; People cannot answer. Him whom God deems right to punish They will punish also. People bend as do the willows As the wind is blowing. For an orphan, when the sun shines, Warmth is always lacking. People would obscure the sunlight, If they had the power, That it might not light the orphan, Dry away his weeping. Why is this, O God most loving? Why is light so painful? What has she done unto people? What do they want of her? That she weep? O my poor darling! Weep not, Katerina! Do not show your tears to people, Hold them till you perish! Let not your bright face be darkened With its clear black tresses— Until sunset, in the forest Wash your face with weeping! Weep away!—they will not notice And they cannot mock you And your heart can find some solace, While your tears are flowing. So notice, O maidens, how great is the evil! The Moskal has lightly forsaken his love. Misfortune sees not him with whom she was loving, And people may see but no mercy they know. “’Tis right, so they say, that this wretched girl perish, For she did not know to be careful with love!” Restrain yourselves, beauties, at times inauspicious, That you may not need a bad Moskal to seek. Where’s Katrusya straying? She slept nights beneath the hedgerows, Rose up in the morning, Unto Muscovy she hastened. Then the winter opens. O’er the fields the blizzard’s howling. Katerina travels In light sandals—it is awful— And without warm clothing, Katya goes—her feet grow sorer— And she sees disaster. Then behold, here come the Moskals— No ... her heart is dying ... She flies up and goes to greet them, Asks: “Is there among you, My own Ivan, my dear lover?” But they say: “He is not.” Then as is the Moskal habit, They laugh loud and murmur, “What a woman! We have talent! Whom are we not fooling?” Katerina looked in wonder,— “But you seem like people! Do not weep, my son, my burden! What must be, is coming! I’ll go further—I’ve been coming ... And perhaps I’ll meet him. I will give you up, my darling, And myself will perish!” Meanwhile howls and roars the blizzard, O’er the field it eddies. In the fields is Katya standing, Weeping without measure. Then the blizzard seems to tire, Here and there relaxes; Katerina would be weeping, But her tears are lacking. Then she looked upon the baby; Drenched with tears, it’s ruddy As the flower in the morning Shining in the dewdrops. Katerina smiled a little, But her smile was bitter; Round her heart, a coal black serpent Wound itself around it. Near at hand she heard some voices. Nearby is the forest. At its edge, hard by the roadside, There’s a little cabin. “Let us go, my son! ’Tis twilight. They may let us enter. If they don’t, within the courtyard We can find some shelter. Near the cabin we will rest us, Ivas, my poor baby! Where will you find nightly shelter, When I am not with you? From the dogs, my darling baby, You must seek for friendship! Dogs are evil—they will bite you. But they will not blame you, Will not say amid their jesting, ‘Go, eat with the puppies!’ ... O my poor, unhappy person, What will happen to me?” A parentless dog will have its own fortune. An orphan can find a good word in the world; They beat him, growl at him, and bind him in fetters, But no one tries ever his mother to mock. Ivas they will ask and before he can answer, They give not the child e’en a moment to speak. At whom on the street are the dogs wont to bark? The naked and hungry who sleep ’neath the hedge. Who leads the blind beggars? The black-haired young bastards ... For one is their fate.... They have little, black eyebrows, And people all envy the beauty they have. IV Beneath the hill’s a narrow valley And like the brows of noble sires, The oaks of Hetmans proudly stand; There is a pond, a dam, and willows, The ice holds fast the little pond, A very little open water Is shining like a kettle red— By heavy clouds the sun is shaded, The wind blows up and how it howls, There’s nothing near, around all’s white, And loud’s the roaring of the woods. So the blizzard moans and whistles, Howling through the forest. Like the sea, the field is whitened By the driving snowflakes. From the cabin comes a woodsman To inspect the forest. What is that? It is a pity That you can see nothing! “That is wild and devilish music! Keep from out the forest! In again!... But what is coming? Who the devil are they? Misery has sent them onward, It must be real trouble. O the devil! Just look at them! See, they are snow-covered!” —“Are these Moskals? Are they really?” —“What is this? You’re crazy.” —“Where are now my darling Moskals?” —“Here they are. Look at them!” Katerina came a-flying, And she did not falter. Maybe Muscovy this moment Comes where she can find it, For she only knows in sorrow That she calls a Moskal. Through the stumps and through the hedges She flies out, scarce breathing, Stood barefooted in the roadway, Rubbed her face—it’s freezing. Then the Moskals came to meet her, Every one on horseback, “This is ill! This is my fortune!” With them, as she’s looking, In the van the captain’s riding. “Ivan, O my darling! O my heart! my dearest lover! Where have you been hiding?” She ran to him, caught his stirrup ... He looked on in wonder ... With his spur his horse he’s striking ... “Whither are you fleeing? You remember Katerina? Have you now forgotten? Look again, my darling sweetheart! Look again upon me! I am your beloved Katrusya! Why do you dash from me?” But his horse he spurred on wildly And he will not notice. “Wait a moment, darling sweetheart! See, I am not weeping. Ivan, have you now remembered? Darling, look one moment! Yes, by God, I am Katrusya!” —“Fool, let go my stirrup! Take away this crazy woman!” —“God! you do this, Ivan! Are you leaving me forever? After all you’ve promised?” —“Take her off! What is the matter?” —“What’s this? Take me from you? Why? O tell me, O my darling! To whom are you giving Your Katrusya, who once followed You into the garden,— Your own Katya, who bore to you Your own son and baby? O my father, darling brother! If you will avoid me! I will be a servant to you ... Go and love another ... Love the world!... I will forget it That you were my lover, That I bore a son unto you, Bore it out of wedlock, Wedlock! What an awful scandal! Why must I die for it? Leave me now, forget me always, But don’t fail your offspring! You’re not leaving? O my darling! Do not hurry from me. I will bring your son to see you....” She has dropped his stirrup, Rushes to the house. Returning She is bringing Ivas; Dirty, swaddled, stained with weeping Is the child unhappy. “Here he is! Just look upon him! Where have you been hidden? He is gone and vanished, baby! Father has disowned you! O my God! My child unhappy! What can I do with you? O you Moskals! O my darlings! Take him with you from me! Oh, my friends! Do not forsake him! He is but an orphan! Take him with you; hand him over! He’s your captain’s offspring! Take him with you! I will leave him, As his father left him,— May God grant an evil hour Will not leave him also! ’Twas in sin your mother bore you Into God’s bright world. Grow on up, a jest for people.” On the road she laid him. “Let him go and seek his father, As I have been seeking.” Then she vanished in the forest, Leaving him behind her. The child wept—It made no difference Unto them—They left it. There it is and to its sorrow Did the woodsman find it. Katya, barefoot, ran a-crying, Ran into the forest, Cursing Ivan, her base lover, Weeping, weeping, pleading. So she ran into the clearing, Cast one glance around her, Saw the pond, ran to it, stood there, Waited for a moment, “God, accept my sinful spirit! Pond, you take my body!” In she leaped—passed ’neath the surface, And the water gurgled. So the black haired Katerina Found what she was seeking. Then the wind howled o’er the surface— There was no trace of her. It is not the stormy breezes That the oak will shatter. ’Tis not hard and ’tis not evil, When the mother dieth; Little children are not orphans, Who have lost their mother, For her good name stays behind her, And her tomb stays also. Evil people all are laughing At the little orphan; At the tomb his tears are flowing, But his heart is quiet. But what is there for that orphan, What can be left for him, When his father has not seen him, And his mother leaves him? What is there for that poor bastard? Who will speak unto him? He has neither folk nor cabin; Woe and sand and highways ... Noble face and mother’s tresses ... Why? For men to know him! She has stamped him, cannot hide it. Would his beauty withered! V Unto Kiev went a kobzar, Sat him down to rest him; And his escort was well burdened With a pile of baskets. For a little child was escort. Now he drops to slumber. At that moment the old kobzar Sings a song of Jesus. All who pass, come up and offer One, a roll; one, money To the old man and the children Come to the young escort. All the beauties look and marvel When they see him ragged: “See what wondrous hair fate gave him, But it gave no fortune!” Then along the road to Kiev Comes a coach resplendent, In the coach there is a lady With her lord and family. See, it stopped beside the beggars And the dust soon settles. Ivas ran up. Through the window A soft hand has beckoned. Then the lady looks at Ivas And she gives him money. The man looked—but turned so quickly— For he recognized him, Recognized the black eyes sparkling And the black hair also, Knew his son stood there before him And he would not take him. For his name the lady asked him. “Ivas”—“That is pretty!” Then the coach moved on and Ivas In the dust was hidden. They picked up the things they’d gathered, Stood up, both poor devils, Made their prayers at sunset hour, Went along the highway.