The little Taras was born a serf. His first memories are of a mother’s
love, of the kindness of an elder sister, and like a musical undertone
to all his life—the consciousness of the wonderful beauty of Nature.
But soon another power of hideous aspect laid its grasp on the childish
soul. It was the knowledge of slavery, a grim and horrible thing that
was slowly but surely grinding out the lives of his parents, and that
would surely, later, reach out for his own.
Yet even the system of serfdom may allow a little happiness to a child,
still too young to work.
The little boy had been told that beyond the distant hills were iron
pillars holding up the sky. At five years of age he set out to find
these pillars. Some teamsters found him wandering on the steppe and
brought him back to his home. But this incident marked the character of
the boy as an idealist and a dreamer.
Then there was Grandfather John, the brave old man who, half a century
before, had fought in the ranks of the Haidemaki who so nearly broke
the Polish power. On a Sunday the wondering family would listen to the
mighty voice ringing out in the little home—telling of ancient battles
for freedom.
When Taras was seven years of age he lost his mother. His father was
left with six children, and thought to improve matters by marrying a
widow with three. Thereafter the miseries increased for little Taras
who was hated by his stepmother.
The father lived a few years longer, and to him Taras owed the
knowledge of reading, for though they were serfs and lived in a
wretched hovel, the Shevchenko’s prided themselves on having retained
some elements of culture.
Our little hero, however, had a strange passion for drawing and
painting and also for singing, and found some employment among the
drunken painters, and church-singers of the village.
Later his master tried to make him work, but found the lad hopeless for
anything but his beloved painting. Finally, he reached Petrograd in the
suite of his master’s son, where he was apprenticed to a decorator.
A famous man came upon a ragged boy sitting on a pail, in the Royal
Gardens, in the moonlight, drawing a picture of a statue there. This
was the beginning of a period of good fortune. The lad was introduced
to some of the great men of the capital. His genius was recognized. A
famous painter painted a picture that was raffled off for sufficient
money to purchase the boy’s freedom, and he was entered as a student in
the Academy.