Taras Shevchenko Haidamaki* ("Haidamaki" / "Vse yde, vse mynaie — i kraiu nemaie" "Гайдамаки" / "Все йде, все минає — і краю немає") To Vassily Ivanovich Grigorovich in memory of April 22, 1838 All flows and all passes — this goes on forever.... Yet where does it vanish? And whence did it come? The fool does not know, and the sage knows no better. There's life... then there's death.... As here blossoms a one, Another there withers beyond a returning.... Its yellow leaves fall, to be green never more. But still the bright sun will come up in the morning, At nightfall the stars will come out as before To swim in the heavens, and then, gentle sister, You too, silver moon, will come out for a stroll, You'll glance as you pass into puddles and cisterns, And sparkle the oceans — you'll shine as of old You shone over Babylon's fabulous gardens, And as ages from now you will still be regarding What haps to our children. Forever you'll glow! I tell you my notions, my heart I unburden, And sing you the muses inspired by yourself. Oh, what shall I do with my onerous burden? Advise me, for I am not just by myself, I've children: what am I to do with my offspring? To bury them with me? That would be a crime — The soul is alive. Its ordeal may be softened If someone will read these word-teardrops of mine, The tears that were shed in the night, in seclusion, The tears that were poured from the heart in profusion. I'll not have them buried, for they are alive! And as the blue sky overhead has no limit, There's also no start and no end to the spirit. And where does the soul stay? Those words are but guile!! May it on some heart here on earth leave an imprint — Because it is hard unremembered to die. Oh girls, to remember you first are obliged! For it always loved you, my roses, sincerely, And tenderly strove your sad lot to describe. So rest ye in peace until daybreak, my children, The while I consider who should be your guide. My sons, my Haidamaki brave! The world is free and wide! Go forth, my sons, and make your way — Perhaps you'll fortune find. My sons, my simple-minded brood, When you go forth to roam, Who will receive my orphans poor With warmth into his home? So fly, my fledgling falcons, fly To far Ukraine, my lads — At least, if there you hardship find, 'Twon't be in foreign lands. Good-hearted folks will rally 'round And they won't let you die; While here.... Well, here... it's hard, my sons! If you're allowed inside The house, it's only to be jeered — You see, they are so wise, So literate and so well-read, The sun they even chide: "It does not rise the proper way, Nor shine the way it should; Now, here's the way it should be done...." So what is one to do? You must pay heed, perhaps indeed, The sun's not rising right, The way they read it should in books.... Oh, they are brainy, quite! About you, then, what will they say? I know what fate is yours! They will poke fun and laugh their fill, Then throw you out of doors. "Let them stay there," they'll say, "until Their father will get wise And in our language tell his tale, His hetmans old describe. The fool, instead, is holding forth In language obsolete, And a Yarema in bast shoes Brings out for us to see. The fool! He hasn't learned a thing Though he was soundly caned. Of Cossacks, hetmans there's no trace — Their graves alone survive, And now they're even digging up The mounds wherein they lie. And he wants us to listen to What the old minstrels say. Your labour's lost, sir: if you aim To make yourself a mint Of money, and a lot of fame, Then of Matryosha sing, And of Parasha, charming witch, Parquet, gold braid and spurs. Then you'll make good!! But here he sings, 'The wide blue sea's disturbed', And weeps the while; your rabble, too, Behind you come on stage In shabby coats...." My thanks to you For your advice so sage! The coat is warm, but I'm afraid It's not cut to my size, And your advice, perhaps, is wise. But it is lined with lies. Excuse me, please!... Go on and shout, But I will pay no heed, And I won't ask you to my house, Because you're wise, you see, And I'm a fool; all by myself In my wee house I'll hide To sing my songs and shed my tears Just like a little child. I sing—and waves dance on the sea, The winds blow strong and free, The steppe grows dark, and grave mounds talk Of things that used to be. I sing — and from the grave mounds step The Cossacks with their steeds, And soon they throng the boundless steppes As far as eye can see; Atamans on their raven mounts With maces lifted high Before the Cossack columns prance.... Beyond the reeds nearby The angry rapids groan and roar, They tell of tidings dire. I listen and my heart is sore. Of oldsters I inquire: My fathers, tell me why you mourn? "No cause is there for cheer! The Dnieper's angry with us, son, Ukraine is all in tears...." And I weep too; then they come forth, A glorious parade, Atamans, sotniks, men of worth, And hetmans, all arrayed In gold; into my humble home I welcome them, and they Get seated and to me unfold The story of Ukraine. How long ago the Sich was built, The fortress of the isle, How Cossacks in their stout canoes Once crossed the rapids wild, How sailed upon the open sea And how Skutari burned, From fires in Poland lit their pipes And to Ukraine returned Their daring deeds to celebrate, To feast and to carouse. "Innkeeper, pour! Play, minstrel, play!" The Cossacks blithely shout. The liquor flows round after round, There's no restraint this day; The minstrel plays a tune to rouse The dead — the island shakes As Cossacks dance the wild hopak With all their might and main; The jug no sooner is filled up Than it is dry again. "Make merry, coatless gentlemen, As free as wind at play! Let's have more music, more to drink, Make merry while we may!" Both youth and oldsters join the dance, Their feet like lightning fly. "Ah, that's the way! Go to it, sons! You'll make good bye-and-bye!" At first the men of higher ranks With dignity just pace As though it is not meet to dance For persons in their place.... Then their feet too begin to prance Despite their weighty years. I watched the dashing Cossack dance And laugh through brimming tears. I look on with laughter, my eyes overbrimming.... I'm lonely no longer, I've friends at my side! In my modest dwelling the Cossacks make merry, The rushes are rustling, the steppe stretches wide; In my little cottage the blue sea is sounding, A poplar-tree whispers, a grave mound complains, A maiden sings softly of love in the springtime — I'm lonely no longer, I've plenty of friends! That's where my gold, my wealth I find, That's where my glory lies! As for your counsel — you're too kind! Thanks for your false advice. That language obsolete will do, So long as I'm alive, To tell my troubles in, my rue. So I bid you good-bye! I'll go to see my children off, They must be on their way. Perhaps somewhere they'll come across A Cossack old and grey, Who'll open up his arms to them, Greet them with trembling tears. And as for me, I say I am A peer above all peers! Thus, seated at the table's end, I think: Whom should I ask? Who will agree to guide my sons? The new day dawns at last; The moon retires, the sun is red. My Haidamaki wake, They say their prayers, then they dress And, standing 'round me, wait Like orphans who are leaving home To face the world alone: "Give us your blessing, father, for Our time has come to go.... So wish that fortune we may find As o'er the earth we roam." But wait.... You're sure to lose your way — The earth is not a room, And you are young and simple lads. Who'll show you where to go? Who'll guide you? Who will walk ahead? My sons, I'm worried so! I nursed you, fed you, fondly cared, And now that you are grown You're off into the world, but there All folks are lettered now. Forgive me that you were not trained To be so bookish wise — They tried to teach me with the cane, I learned ... but otherwise! I know the alphabet, of course, But not the things they prize. What will they think of you, my sons? Come, let us find your guide! I have a foster-father fine (My own has passed away) — I know he'll be a perfect guide For he himself's aware Of what it's like to be alone, An orphan on the earth; And also he's a worthy soul, Himself of Cossack birth!... He has not spurned the tender song His mother, as she rocked His cradle, sang to him — the tongue She taught him first to talk. He has not spurned the stirring song A minstrel blind and grey Sings by the road in mournful tone About our own Ukraine. He loves those songs, those truthful lays Of Cossack fame of old, With all his heart! So let us make Our way to his abode. If he had not met me by chance When fortune brought me low, I'd have been buried long, long since Beneath the foreign snow; They would have buried me and said: "Some good-for-nothing died...." Oh, it is difficult indeed To suffer, not know why. That's past and gone, so let it be!... Let's go to him, my lads! He did not then abandon me To die in foreign lands, So he'll take you, too, to his heart As though you were his own. And then, a prayer, and you start — Off to Ukraine you go! Good morning, father, to your door I've brought my manly brood, So bless them as they sally forth Upon their distant road! * * * INTRODUCTION The nobles once ruled Poland's roost, A very haughty lot; With Muscovites they measured swords, The Turk and Tatar fought, And Germans too.... Yes, once 'twas so.... But all things pass away. The high-born braggarts used to strut, And drink both night and day, And with their kings play ducks and drakes. Not with Sobieski Jan, Nor yet Batory: those two were Not of the common run — But with the rest. And they, poor souls, In fear and trembling ruled. The conclaves, big and little, fumed, And Poland's neighbours viewed A spectacle — how Polish kings The Polish kindom fled, And listened how the noble mob The sejms brought to an end. "Nie pozwalam! Nie pozwalam!" The haughty nobles roared, While the big magnates stoked up fires And tempered well their swords. This lasted for a lengthy time Until to Warsaw-town The lively Poniatowski came To occupy the throne And undertook to some degree The noble breed to squelch.... He failed! He wanted what was best, Or maybe something else. Only their veto — that one phrase To take from them he sought. And then.... All Poland burst in flames, The gentry ran amok.... "The king's a villain, scoundrel vile, A Moscow tool!" they cry. At Pac's appeal, Pulawski's call The Polish nobles rise. A hundred leagues — Confederates — All Poland they inflamed, Lithuania they overran, Moldavia, Ukraine; They scattered wide and they forgot That freedom was their aim — They joined with Jews in compact foul To rob and devastate. They ran mad riot through the land, They churches set ablaze.... The Haidamaki then began To sanctify their blades. * * * THE CHURCHWARDEN “The grove is silent, The wind is quiet, The moon is sailing, The stars are sparluing, Come out - I’m waiting For you, my darling; Come out and meet me Tonight, my sweetling! My dear, I’m pleading, Come to your lover, We’ll hold each other, For I am leaving ' This night to wander. Come out, my darling, We’ll share our sorrow, Dream of tomorrow, Cling to each other.... How sad is parting!” Yarema sadly sang this song While strolling by the grove; He waited for Oksana Tong - Until he gave up hope. The stars came out; a silver ball, The moon shone in the sky; The willow gazed into the well And listened as nearby A nightingale gave all he had In heart-entrancing trill, As though he knew the Cossack lad Was waiting for his girl. But poor Yarema’s heart was sore, He barely dragged his feet And did not look or listen more.... “What use are looks to me, When only misfortune, no luck have I got? The years of my youth flit away all for naught. Alone in the world. I’ve no kinfolk or home - A straw in the field that’s blown hither and yon. The wild winds soon carry away the lone straw: And that’s how by people I’m buffeted too. Why do they thus treat me? Because I’m alone. There was but one heart on the earth that was true One person that loved me, now that too is done, She too has forsaken me.” Tears filled his eyes. The poor fellow wept there alone in the grove, Then said his farewells. “Oh my darling, good-bye. Out on the big highway my lot I’ll improve, Or else I will perisn.... Änd you will not cry, You won’t know about it, and you will not see How ravens are pecking these Drown Cossack eyes, The eyes which you fondly once kissed, oh my sweet! Forget this poor orphan - and seek someone new! Forget that you promised that you would be mine - For I, a poor vagrant, am no match for you, A churchwarden’s daughter. A better you’ll find.... So take whom you will.... And, my darling, don’t fret, Don’t worry about me... for such is my fate. But if you near tidings that I’ve met my death, Go off by yourself then and quietly pray. Just you in all the world, my dear, Just you for me will pray!” He bowed his head and heavy tears Came coursing down his face. He leaned despondent on his staff.... A rustle!... Ana he peered: Like some woods creature slipping past The trees, Oksana neared. He forgot everything and raced.... “My sweetheart!” both exclaimed. Hearts overbrimming, they embraced Again and yet again. “Enough, my sweet!” “A wee bit more.... Some more, my turtle-dove! Oh, hold me to your heart, my own... How tired 1 am, my love!” “Sit down and rest, my shining star That dropped down from the sky!” He spread his cloak upon the ground. With star-lit eyes she smiled. ‘Then you must sit beside me too.” They held each other tight. “My shining star, my sweetheart true, What held you up tonight?” ‘Tonight I couldn’t come on time: My father’s ill, you see - I had to nurse him all this while...” “And didn’t think of me?” “How can you speak about me so!" And tears came to her eyes. "Don’t cry, my dear, I only joked." "A joke!" Again she smiled. She laid her head upon his breast And seemed to fall asleep. "You see, Oksana, I just teased And you began to weep. Now don’t you cry, ana look at me, Whom long you will not see. Tomorrow I’ll be far from here, Oksana, far away.... At Chihirin tomorrow night I’ll set my blessld blade. Witn it I’ll silver gain, and gold, And fame will be my prize; I’ll dress you rich from head to toe Like bird of paradise, And seat you on a tripod stool Just like a Hetman’s wife, And look at you... My whole life through On you I’ll feast my eyes." "Ah, but perhaps you will forget? When rich, in Kiev-town Yourself a high-born bride you’ll get, Oksana you’ll disown!..." "Is there one lovelier than you?" "I do not know. Perhaps...." "Don’t anger God, because, in truth, All beauties you surpass! Not in the sky, beyond tne sky, Nor yet across the sea Can one find beauty such as thine!" "Oh hush! You must not say Such crazy things!" "But that’s a fact!" Thus, far into the night Yarema and Oksana talked, And only stopped to plight Their love with ardent, sweet caress; Sometimes they wept with pain That they must part, and then embraced And pledged their love again. How they would live, Yarema told, When home again he came, How he’d obtain a lot of gold, How fortune he would gain, How Haidamaki planned to slay All Poles in the Ukraine, How he’d be master, not a slave, If he alive remained. Oh girls, he talked till one was bored To hear him talk that way! "Go on with you! As though we could Be bored!" So you may say, But if your dad or mother should By chance find that you read Such sinful tales, I’m sure they would Tell you what’s what, indeed! Well then... but no, it’s such a tale We cannot help but read! I know, you’d like me to relate How ’neath a willow-tree, Beside a pool, a handsome lad Tells of his hopes and love, How they embrace, how he is sad And she, a turtle-dove, Smooths out his brow, the while she feels As though her heart will break. “My dear, you’re eveiything to me! You are my love, my fate! My all!...’’ The willows, even, bent The things they said to hear. Now there was talk! But I won’t tell Those things to you. my dears, Especially since nignt is nigh - You’d dream about them yet. We’ll let the lovers say good-bye The same way that they met - With quiet-spoken gentle words That nobody could near, And none could see the stricken girl’s And sad lad’s parting tears. Leave them alone.... Perhaps they’ll meet Again while they’re alive Upon this earth.... Well, we shall see.... But meanwhile, what’s the light That makes all windows bright In the churchwarden’s home? Let’s take a look inside.... Oh would we had not known! I wish we’d not seen it, did not have to tell! Because the heart’s burning for humans with shame. Those are the Confederates - look at them well - Who banded together, with freedom their aim. Look how they are serving in fair freedom’s cause.... May they all De damned, and their mothers be cursed Because they gave birth to such monsters on earth! Look what they are at in the churchwarden’s house, The hounds from hell. The roaring fire in the hearth The entire house lit up. Backed in the corner, Leiba shrank And cowered like apup. The Poles roared: "Tell us where’s the gold, Or die!" The warden never told. They tied his hands tight with a rope, Then threw him to the floor - But not a word. "Bring red-hot coals! And bring some boiling tar! Drip tar on him! So! Are you cold? The coals now let him have! You rascal, will you tell or no? Oh, he’s a stubborn knave!" They poured some coals into his boots.... “Drive nails into his head!" He stood all torture that he could, The warden then fell dead Without the holy sacrament! "Oksana...!" and he died. The frenzy of the Poles then ebbed. “What now? Let us decide What we’re to do now, gentlemen, That he’s out of our reach! Let’s bum the church down! "People, help!" Like some unearthly screech The sudden cry fell on their ears. The Poles were petrified. Oksana at the door appeared. "They've murdered him!" she cried And senseless fell. The leader waved His hand, and they slunk out Like downcast hounds. And then the maid. He lifted, left the house.... Yarema! But he nothing knows, And tramping, sings a song Of Nalivaikors fight with Poles. The gentry soon were gone, And took Oksana, still aswoon. The dogs barked some, but soon they too In silence their night vigil kept. The moon turned pale; the people slept, The warden too.... He won’t rise soon; He’s gone to his eternal rest. The nre died down, then flickered out.... The warden’s body seemed to move, Then dismal sadness reigned throughout. * * * THE THIRD COCK’S CROW The frenzied gentry one more day Spread terror through Ukraine; Just one more day the country lay In torture and in pain. And then the Day of Maccabees, A saint-day in Ukraine, Was past.... The Pole and Jew at feasts With blood their liquor drained, Complained the plunder was too poor, Schismatics they condemned. The Haidamaki waited for Their foes to go to bed. At last they went - nor dreamed that ere The dawn they would be dead. The Poles soon slept, but Jews Remained awake, without a light To count their profits in the night, Out of the public view. Their heads, then, pillowed on their gold They too droppea off to sleep. And so they slept.... Forever may they sleep! And then tne moon came out to make a tour - The sky and stars to see. the earth and seas, To watch the people ana observe their deeds, And tell it all to God when night is o’er. The silver moon shines over all Ukraine, But does it see my hapless orphan maid, Oksana, snatched from her Vilshana home? Where does she languish, where in anguish weep? And does Yarema know? Well, we shall see, We’ll find out later, but I now propose Another song to sing and tune to play; Malevolence will dance - not maidens gay. I sing the Cossack country’s sorry fate; Now listen closely, later to relate It to your children, they to theirs, so they Should know how Cossacks made the gentry pay For their misrule, when Polish lords held sway. A long, long time the clamour dread Resounded through Ukraine, A long, long time the blood ran red In streams across the plains. It ran in rivers, then it dried. The steppes are green again: In Cossack graves our grand-dads lie, Their grave mounds dot the plain. What of it that the mounds are high? Nobody knows they’re there, Or whose the bones that ’neath them lie, Nobody sheds a tear. As it blows through, the wind alone A gentle greeting says, The dew alone at break of dawn With tender teardrops laves. The sun then turns its rays on them, It dries and makes them warm; Their grandsons? Oh, they’re not concerned - For lords they’re growing com! They’re numerous, but ask if one Knows where is Gonta’s grave - Where did the tortured martyr's bones His faithful comrades lay? Where’s Zaliznyak [251, that splendid soul, Where sleeps that manly heart? It’s hard to bear! The hangman rules, While they forgotten are. A long, long time the clamour dread Resounded through Ukraine, A long, long time the blood ran red In streams across the plains. O’er all the earth it cast a pall; This horror day and night Was ghastly, yet when we recall Those deeds, the heart is light. Oh bright-shining moon! Climb down from the sky And hide behind hills, don’t give us your light; For you’ll be appalled, although you have seen At Alta and Ros. and also the Seine, Whole oceans or blood, spilled no one knows why. But what will be now! My friend, leave the sky And hide behing hills, for viewing that scene E’en you’d have to cry. High in the sky the silver moon Sheds melancholy light. Beside the Dnieper, a young man Is walking in the night, It may be from a party gay. But why is he so sad? Perhaps he’s poor and so the maid Will not give him her hand? Oh no. she pledged she’d be his bride Though he is dressed in rags. Why then, with such heart-rending sighs His feet he barely drags? The Cossack feels that all’s not well, That some ill-fortune waits. The heart can feel but cannot tell What’s held in store by fate. The country ’round seemed not asleep But wholly desolate, As though no human life remained. Not even dogs or birds: lust from the woods, a mournful strain - The howl of wolves - is heard. No matter! For Yarema walks Not to Oksana’s gate, Not to Vilshana tor a talk - But for a bloody date In the Cherkassy. There the cock Will crow three times this night.... And then... and then... Yarema walks And to the stream confides: "Oh Dnieper, my Dnieper, you’re wide and you’re deep! Much red Cossack blood to the sea you have borne; More yet will you carry! You coloured the sea The blood of the gentry will flow lilTe a flood; The Cossacks of old will arise once again The hetmans will rise with their cloaks all in gold; Good fortune will smile to the Cossack refrain: ’No Jews and no Poles!’ And - oh God, to behold! - The mace of the hetman will flash once again!" So, walking in his tattered coat, Yarema dreamed, And fondly in his hand caressed his blessed blade. The Dnieper seemed to hear him, for the mighty stre; The waves upon its back like lofty mountains raised; Its teeth the wind in anger gnashed, The trees bent to the ground; The thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, And rents showed in the cloud Yarema did not see a thing, He just kept marching on; One thought would come and smile at him, Another come and frown: "Oksana’s there, and though in rags I had a happy time; While here... who knows what yet will hap? Here, maybe, I will die." And then the crowing of a cock Was heard from the ravine. "Ah, it’s Cherkassy...! Oh dear God! Let me alive remain!" * * * THE RED BANQUET Throughout Ukraine the clang of bells Proclaims the day of doom; The Haidamaki fiercely, yell: "The gentry's end has come! The gentry's finished! We shall set A fire to sear the sky!" The very clouds are painted red — The province is on fire. Medvedivka's the first to burn And heat the clouds above. Smila is next, the country 'round Well-nigh aflood with blood. Korsun and Kaniv are ablaze, Cherkassy, Chigirin; Along the Highway spread the flames As far as the Volyn, And blood flows freely. Gonta's made Polissya his domain, While near Smila bold Zaliznyak Tests his Damascus blade — In old Cherkassy, where his dirk That has been sanctified, Yarema, too, tries out. "Good work! The mad dogs all must die! Good work, my lads!" so Zaiiznyak Shouts in the market-place Which now's a hell; and through that hell The Haidamaki race. Yarema — a blood-curdling sight — In battle-frenzy fells Three-four at once. "Good work, my boy! Their souls be damned to hell! Kill, kill! You'll either win high rank, Or go to paradise! Now, children, ferret out the rats!" The rebels in a trice Spread out to cellars, attics, nooks To search for hiding foes; They killed them all, all goods they took. "Now you may stop, my boys! You've tired yourselves, now rest a bit." The market squares and lanes, With corpses strewn, are flowing red. "More vengeance yet we claim! Go over them a second time To make sure, doubly sure, That the vile dogs will never rise, And never plague us more!" The Haidamaki after that Assemble in the square. Yarema on the outskirts stands. "Come closer, don't be scared," Shouts Zaliznyak. "I'm not afraid!" With cap in hand he comes Up to the chief. "Where from, my lad?" "Vilshana is my home." "Vilshana? Where the villains slew The warden of the church?" "What's that? They slew?" "His daughter, too, According to reports, They carried off. You knew them well?" "They took some girl away?" "The warden's daughter, so they tell." "Oksana!" Just the name Yarema whispered and he fell Unconscious where he stood. "Oho! So that's what.... The poor lad! Mikola, bring him to!" Mikola brought him to. He cried: "A hundred hands I need, A blade in each, to extirpate The Polish gentry breed! Revenge, such terrible revenge 'Twill put hell in the shade!" "Well said, my lad, to keep that pledge There'll be no lack of blades. Come with us to Lisyanka now, We'll temper there our steel!" "Oh father, quickly let us go! I'll follow where you lead, I'll follow to the ends of earth I'll go to hell below To tear her from the devils, sir! To the earth's end I'd go.... But I'll not find her anywhere, I'll never see her more!" "Perhaps you will. Don't give up hope. Now tell us what's your name?" "Yarema." "And your surname, boy?" "I have none!" "No surname? Were you a bastard? In the lists, Mikola, put him down As ... let us find a name that fits — How does Hasnothing sound? Let's name him that! "No, that's not it!" "Is Hardluck better, friend?" "No, that won't do." "Here, wait a bit, Halaida, that's the name!" They wrote it down. "Halaida, lad, Now we'll go out to play You'll find good fortune ... maybe, bad. Well, boys, let's on our way!" From extra horses in the camp They gave one to the lad. He laughed as on his horse he leapt, And then again was sad. Outside the city gates they rode; Cherkassy was in flames.... "All here, my sons?" "Yes, every one!" "Let's go then!" Like a chain Along the Dnieper's wooded banks The Cossack column winds. Behind them on a little nag The minstrel Volokh rides, And as from side to side he sways. He sings a new-born lay: "Oh, Zaliznyak his Cossacks brave Leads for an outing gay!" Cherkassy's left behind, the flames Still leaping to the cloud. No one looks back. Nobody cares! They only laugh aloud And curse the gentry vile. Some talk, Some listen to the song The minstrel sings. While Zaliznyak Rides at the head alone, With glowing pipe, his ears alert To any night surprise; Yarema, too, without a word Behind his leader rides. The green groves and the darker woods. The Dnieper and the hills, The sky, the stars, the people, goods, And his o'erwhelming ills — All disappeared, all are no more! He nothing knows or sees — Just like a corpse. His heart is sore And yet he does not weep. He does not weep: the vicious snake That's coiled within his breast Drinks up his tears, his heart that aches It tears to tiny shreds. Oh, soothing tears! Oh, healing tears! You wash away all woes; Wash mine away.... I cannot bear This ache that's in my soul! Not all the water in the sea Or in the Dnieper wide Can calm my heart and drown my grief; Is nought but suicide Then left for me? Oksana, dear! Oksana, oh my own! Where have they taken you? I fear.... Perhaps the beasts have thrown Her in a dungeon where in chains She lies awaiting death, The gentry cursing and her fate With her last, dying breath. Perhaps Yarema she recalls, Vilshana, and her home, Perhaps in thought to him she calls: "Yarema, darling, come, Take your Oksana in your arms! Thus we'll together sleep Forever. Let them work their harm — We'll be beyond their reach, we'll be!..." The wind blows from beyond Liman And bends the poplar low — A maiden also may be bent Beneath misfortune's blows. She'll grieve awhile, but time will pass And all may be forgot.... Maybe... a lady, richly dressed, She with some Pole.... O God! The worst of tortures ever planned In hell for sinful souls I'll suffer, but I could not stand That final fiendish blow: "My heart would break though it were stone If ever that came true! Oksana, darling! Oh, my own! Where have they taken you? Where are you held, where are you hid?" Then tears began to flow In torrents like a summer rain Or like a springtime flood. Then came the dawn. Zaliznyak reined His horse beside a wood: "Here's where we turn off from the road And turn our horses free!" The Cossacks rode into the grove And soon were hid by trees. * * * HUPALIVSHCHINA The rising sun found all Ukraine In ashes or in flames, Just here and there behind locked doors The gentry trembling waits. Each village has its gallows-trees With corpses thickly hung — Just of the bigwigs, smaller fry Are piled in heaps like dung. At cross-roads and along the streets The dogs and ravens feed On human flesh and pecked-out eyes; And no one pays them heed. There's no one left, only the dogs And groups of children roam — The women, too, took oven-prongs, And Haidamaki joined. Such evil 'twas that then engulfed The whole of the Ukraine! 'Twas worse than hell.... And yet, what for? For what were people slain? They're so alike, one father's sons — They should as brothers be. But no, they could or else would not, They had to disagree! Blood had to flow, fraternal blood, For one's with envy filled Because his brother's bin is full, His fields give handsome yield! "Let's kill our brother! Burn his home!" No sooner said than done. And all was over! But not quite, For there were orphan sons. They grew in tears — but they grew up; Their toil-worn hands they freed And turned to vengeance — blood for blood And hurt for hurt their creed! The heart is sore when you reflect That sons of Slavs like beasts Got drunk with blood. Who was to blame? The Jesuits, the priests! The Haidamaki through ravines And forests made their way, Halaida riding in their midst, His heart in constant pain. Voronivka, Verbivka, too, Already are behind, And here's Vilshana. "What to do? Shall I stop and inquire About Oksana? Better not, So no one knows my woe." The Haidamaki meanwhile trot Along the village road Without a halt. Halaida hailed One of the little lads: "Is't true the warden here was slain?" "Why no, my father says The Polish lords burned him to death — The ones that lie out there. Oksana, too, was carried off, My father says, somewhere. The funeral...." He did not wait, But gave his horse the spur. "Why did I not die yesterday Before I ever heard! If I should die today, I know I'd rise up from the grave To take revenge upon the Poles. Oksana! Where did they Take you, my own?" He bowed his head And let his horse walk free. Oh, it is hard for a poor lad To hold in check his grief. He catches up. The place they pass Where inn and stables stood — There's nothing now but smoking ash, And Leiba is gone, too. Yarema smiled — a mirthless grin That fearful was to view. Two days ago here he had been A slavey to the Jew, And now.... His heart began to pine For those bad days of old. The rebel band passed the ravine And turned off from the road. They came upon a stripling lad — A patched coat on his back, His shoes were bast, he also packed Upon his back a sack. "Hey, wait a minute, beggar boy!" "I am no beggar, sir, The Haidamaki I have joined!" "A sight you are, for sure!" "From where, young scarecrow, do you hail?" "From Kerelivka way." "Do you know Budishch and the lake?" "Of course I know the place — Go down that gully, it will lead You straight to Budishch lake." "Are any gentry to be seen?" "There's not a one today, Though yesterday were quite a few. We couldn't bless our wreaths — The Poles would not allow us to. That's why we killed the beasts! My dad and I used blessed blades, While mother's sick in bed, Or else she too...." "Fine, that's the way! Here's something for you, friend, A ducat, which you must not lose." He took the golden coin, Inspected it, then said, "Thank you!" "Well, let's get going, boys! But don't make any noise, d'ye hear? Halaida, follow me! Beside this lake in the ravine There is a clump of trees In which a Polish treasure's found. When we come to the wood We will surround it without sound In case some Poles still should Be left on guard." When they arrived, They stood about the wood And looked — but saw no sign of life.... "Oho, the devil's brood Is here all right! What pears I see Up there among the leaves! They must be ripe! Just shake the trees!" Like rotten pears, indeed, The Poles came tumbling to the ground To meet the penal blade. The Cossacks scoured till all were found And not one live remained, Then found where treasure chests were hid And took away the gold, Ransacked the pockets of the dead, And on their mission rode on to Lisyanka. * * * GONTA IN UMAN As to Uman they made their way, The Haidamaki bragged: Their silks and satins we will take To make ourselves foot-rags! The days go by, the summer wanes, And the Ukraine is still ablaze; In hamlets hungry children wail — Their parents gone. The yellow leaves Of autumn rustle in the trees; The clouds roll by; the sun is glazed; No sound is heard of human speech; In villages the beasts that feed On human corpses howl. The Poles Were left unburied, food for wolves, Until the heavy winter snows Concealed their bones.... The raging snow-storms did not stop The vengeance worse than hell: The Poles froze, while beside the fires The Cossacks warmed themselves. Spring came and woke the sleepy earth From its deep winter sleep: With primroses it was adorned And periwinkles sweet; The larks in fields and nightingales In groves each morning sing Their sweetest songs in joyful praise Of earth adorned by spring.... A heaven truly! And for whom? For people. Yes, but they? They do not even want to look, Or that it's poor, they say. They want it tinted up with blood And brightened with a blaze; The sun and blooms aren't bright enough, And clouds cast too much shade. What they mean is: too little hell! Oh people! Will you e'er Be satisfied with what you have? Oh, people, you are queer! To blood and human savagery Spring did not bring a halt. It's terrible.... Yet 'twas the same In ancient Troy, recall, And will be in the future, too. The Haidamaki rode — And where they went the earth was scorched And washed with human blood. Maxim acquired a worthy son, Renowned throughout Ukraine; Yarema, though adopted, is His true son just the same. While Zaliznyak is well content To smile the Poles and slay, Yarema rages — he would spend In carnage night and day. He shows no mercy, does not spare Or miss a single Pole — For the churchwarden's death he makes Them pay a hundredfold, And for Oksana.... At the thought Of her his heart grows faint. "Go to it, son!" cries Zaliznyak, "We'll dance until our fate Wills otherwise!" And so they did: Along the entire way From Kiev to Uman the dead In heaping piles were laid. The Haidamaki on Uman Like heavy clouds converge At midnight. Ere the night is done The whole town is submerged. The Haidamaki take the town With shouts: "The Poles shall pay!" Dragoons are downed, their bodies roll Around the market-place; The ill, the cripples, children too, All die, no one is spared. Wild cries and screams. 'Mid streams of blood Stands Gonta on the square With Zaliznyak together, they Urge on the rebel band: "Good work, stout lads! There, that's the way To punish them, the damned!" And then the rebels brought to him A Jesuit, a monk, With two young boys. "Look, Gonta, look! These youngsters are your sons! They're Catholics: since you kill all, Can you leave them alone? Why are you waiting? Kill them now, Before your sons are grown, For if you don't, when they grow up They'll find you and they'll kill...." "Cut the cur's throat! As for the pups, I'll finish them myself. Let the assembly be convened. Confess — you're Catholics!" "We're Catholics.... Our mother made...." "Be silent! Close your lips! Oh God! I know!" The Cossacks stood Assembled in the square. "My sons are Catholics.... I vowed No Catholic to spare. Esteemed assembly!... That there should Be no doubt anywhere, No talk that I don't keep my word, Or that I spare my own.... My sons, my sons! Why are you small? My sons, why aren't you grown? Why aren't you with us killing Poles?" "We will, we'll kill them, dad!" "You never will! You never will! Your mother's soul be damned, That thrice-accursed Catholic, The bitch that gave you birth! She should have drowned you ere you saw The light of day on earth! As Catholics you'd not have died — The sin would smaller be; Such woe, my sons, today is mine As cannot be conceived! My children, kiss me, for not I Am killing you today — It is my oath!" He flashed his knife And the two lads were slain. They fell to earth, still bubbling words: "O dad! We are not Poles! We ... we...." And then they spoke no more, Their bodies growing cold. "Perhaps they should be buried, what?" "No need! They're Catholic. My sons! Why did you not grow up? My sons, why weren't you big? Why did you not war 'gainst the foes With me as Cossacks brave? Your mother. Catholic accursed, Oh why did you not slay?... Let's go, my brother!" With Maxim Across the square he treads; They cry together: "Punish them Till every Pole is dead!" And awesome was their punishment.... Uman went up in flames. No house, no church, but had been searched, And not a Pole remained — They all were dead. Such carnage cruel As at Uman that day Had ne'er been seen. St. Basil's school, Where Gotna's sons had stayed, Was razed down to the very ground By Gonta, raging wild. " 'Twas you that ruined my little sons'" With every blow he cried, "You swallowed them when they were small You taught them evil lore And not the good!... Tear down the walls!" The Haidamaki tore The walls to pieces. 'Gainst the stones They bashed the heads of priests, And the young pupils still alive They threw in cisterns deep. Until late at night they slaughtered the Poles; Not one was let live. Yet Gonta still raved — Oh monsters, come out! Crawl out from your holes! My sons you've destroyed-oh, cruel's my fate! I've nobody now! For nothing to wait! My sons, whom I loved, so handsome and good, You're gone from me now. I'm thirsty for blood! I want in the blood of the gentry to wade, To drink it, and watch how it flows and turns black... Oh winds, as ye blow, why waft ye not back Some Poles for our blades?... Oh cruel's my fate! And yet I can't weep! Ye stars in the sky, Please leave me alone and hide behind clouds. I murdered my sons!... My heart is wrung dry! Where will I find peace?..." So Gonta cried loud; And then in the square big tables were laid Amid the debris, 'mid corpses and blood, And loaded with looted liqueurs and fine food- The rebels sat down. It was their last raid, Their last supper too!" Make merry, my brood! We'll drink while we may, and fight while we may!" Old Zaliznyak cried. "We'll frolic, my lads! Fast music, minstrel! Let earth really shake Tonight in Uman when my Cossacks dance!" And the minstrel played: "My father's an innkeeper, Shoemaker too; My mother is a spinner, Matchmaker too; My brothers are brave fellows They roam the woods, A cow found in the forest, Rich necklace too, And I'm Khristya, a maiden With beads so fine, My needlework is made in A leaf design. With red boots my feet adorning, I go milking in the morning — I water the cow, I do, And milk her too, With the lads I stop to spoon, I stop to spoon." "Heigh-ho! Supper's o'er, Hey, children, lock the door, Old woman, don't you fret, Sidle up to me, my pet!" The Cossacks dance. But one is gone.... Why does not Gonta dance? Why joins he not in merry song, Nor drinks he with the lads? He is not there; his heart won't let Him sing and dance and joke. But who is he who silent flits In black loose-hanging cloak About the square? See, there he stops And 'mong the dead he digs As though he's searching. Then he stoops, Two little bodies picks And lifts them gently on his back And carries them away Behind the blazing church, where black He fades into the shades Of summer night. Who can that be? It's Gonta, and his load — His sons — he bears some place where he Can cover them with sod, So that the youthful Cossack flesh Should not be food for dogs. Down darker lanes, where fires are less, And smoke serves as a fog To screen him from all prying eyes, The Cossack bends his steps, So none should see how Gonta cries Or where his children rest. Out in a field, far from the road, He lays them; takes his knife And with the bless'd blade digs a hole. Uman supplies the light So he can see the work he does And the two lads who lie As though asleep still in their clothes.... Why do they fear inspire? Why is it Gonta seems to hide As though he were a thief? Why does he shake? From time to time The wind bears to the chief The sounds of Cossack revelry; He does not heed the noise — A fine deep house amid the fields He's building for his boys. It's done at last. He lays his sons Into their home, the hole, His ears still ringing with the sound: "Oh dad, we are not Poles! " Then Gonta from his pocket takes A crimson silken cloth, The dead eyes kisses, then he makes The sign of sacred cross, And covers the young Cossack heads. Then lifts the cloth again, To gaze once more upon his dead.... The tears then gush like rain: "My children! Open up your eyes, Look at Ukraine, my boys: For her, my sons, you gave your lives And I, too, am destroyed. Who will there be to bury me? In some far foreign field Who will there be to weep o'er me? My fate is black indeed! The most unfortunate of men, I'm left alone, in pain! Why was I granted children, then? Or why was I not slain? They would have laid me in the earth- I bury them instead." Again he kissed them, made the cross. The cloth drew o'er their heads, And earth he then began to pile: "Rest in your hole, my sons, Your mother, bitch, did not provide Fine beds to lie upon, Without corn-flower wreaths and rue, My sons, you'll have to sleep Please pray to God. I beg of you, That he should punish me Yet on this earth for what I did, For this most awful crime. Forgive me, sons! You I forgive That Catholics you died." He levelled off the earth and laid Green sod upon the grave, So none could tell where Gonta made His sons' last resting place. "Sleep well, my lads, and wait for me, I will not tarry long. My knife cut short your span of life, The same will be my lot. They'll kill me, too.... May it be soon! But who will bury me? The Haidamaki! Just once more I'll join them on a spree! ..." So Gonta went; his shoulders sagged, He tripped as though were blind. The burning city lit his path, He raised his eyes and smiled — A smile most awful to behold. He looked back on the field, And wiped his eyes.... And then by smoke I The Cossack was concealed. * * * EPILOGUE Much time has gone by, since a child a poor orphan, In sackine and coatless, without any bread, I roamed that Ukraine where Zaliznyak and Gonta With sanctified sabres had wreaked vengeance dread. Much time has gone by since, along those same highways Where rode Haidamaki, exhausted and sore I tramped through the country, its high roads and byways, And weeping, sought people to teach me good lore. As now I recall them, my youthful misfortunes, I grieve that they're past! I would trade present fortune If only those days could be brought back again. Those evils, the steppes that seem stretching forever, My father and grandfather old I remember.... My father is gone, but my grand-dad remains. 0n Sundays, on closing the book about martyrs And drinking a glass with the neighbours, my father Would beg of my grand-dad to tell us the story Of the Haidamaki revolt long ago, How Gonta, Zaliznyak once punishment gory Inflicted on Poles. And the ancient eyes glowed Like stars in the night as the old man related How gentry folk perished and how Simla burned .. The neighbours from horror and pity near fainted. And I, a wee fellow, the churchwarden mourned, Yet, nobody noticed, all gripped by the horror, The child that was weeping alone in the corner. I thank you, my grand-dad, 'twas you that preserved The story I've told of the old Cossack glory: And by the grandchildren it now will be heard. I beg your pardon, readers dear, That artlessly I spin This yarn of bygone Cossack feats, Without the bookish skill. I'm just repeating grand-dad's tale — Good health to him! — and he Ne'er dreamed that there would come a day When learned folk would read His narrative. Now don't be hurt, Old grand-dad — let them rant. And in the meantime I'll return To my small rebel band, And when I've led them to the end, I'll rest — and then again, At least in dreams, my eyes shall look Upon that fair Ukraine Where once the Haidamaki roved And awful vengeance wreaked, Whose roads I measured years ago With blistered naked feet. The Haidamaki had a spree, Made merry unrestrained: With gentry's blood almost a year They watered the Ukraine, Then were no more — their dented blades Were put away to rust And Gonta's gone: no cross or grave To mark his place of rest. O'er all the steppe the wild winds swept The Cossack dust away, No one was left to mourn his death Or for his soul to pray. A foster-brother yet remained Alive upon the earth; But when he learned the fiendish fate The devils had reserved For Gonta, how his brother died — For the first time in life Old Zaliznyak began to cry. He did not wipe his eyes, But pined away, and soon was dead; He died in foreign parts, In foreign earth his bones were laid: So hapless was his lot! Their iron chief with deepest grief The Haidamaki bore To bury in a foreign field; They built a mound, and mourned Awhile, then brushed their tears away And went back whence they came. Yarema, leaning on his staff, Long stood beside the grave, "Rest, father, in this foreign place, For in our native land No longer is there any space, Nor freedom to be had.... Sleep soundly, honest Cossack soul! You won't forgotten be." Across the steppe Yarema went, His tears still flowing free, And he kept always looking back, Till he was lost to sight. Then just the grave mound in the steppe Was dark against the sky. By Haidamaki with good seed Ukraine had then been sown, The harvest, though, they did not reap. So what is to be done? The seeds of justice did not sprout; Instead, injustice grew.... The Haidamaki all dispersed, Each chose what he would do: Some just went home, but others took To forests with their blades To prey on merchants. This repute To our own days remains. The ancient Cossack fortress, Sich, Then later was laid waste: Some Cossacks 'cross the Danube fled, Some to Kuban escaped; That's all that's left — except the plaint The Dnieper rapids howl: "They finished off our sons, and aim To pulverise us now! " But people, passing by, don't heed The rapids' angry roar; And the Ukraine is fast asleep, Asleep for evermore. Since those grim years the grain grows green And lush across Ukraine; No screams are heard, no carnage seen; The winds blow 'cross the plains, They bend the willows in the wood And grasses on the lea. Now silence reigns. That is what God Has willed. So let it be. But sometime, when the day is done, And all is warm with spring, Old Haidamaki walk along The Dnieper's banks and sing: "Our good Halaida's house has floors. Let the sea surge! Let the sea swell! Halaida, all will yet be well! " *The poem "Haidamaki" in given incomplete (six sections out of fourteen). The name Haidamaki was given by the Polish gentry to the peasant rebels that operated together with the Cossaks on the part of Ukraine that still remained under Polish rule during the eighteenth century. The word is of Turkic origin and means "unruly ones". The height of the Haidamaki movement, known as Koliyivshchina, was reached in 1768, and this is the theme of Shevchenko's poem. Taras Shevchenko "Haidamaki" / "Vse yde, vse mynaie — i kraiu nemaie" ("Гайдамаки" / "Все йде, все минає — і краю немає") 1841, S.- Petersburg (С.- Петербург) Translated by John Weir Original publication: Taras Shevchenko. Zibrannia tvoriv: U 6 t. — K., 2003. — T. 1: Poeziia 1837-1847. — S. 128-190 Source: Taras Shevchenko. Selected poetry. Kiev, "Dnipro", 1977, p. 55 - 113.