Ukrainian Song.... But do you know what the Ukraine is?
Where in Spring the warm wind breathes, bearing on its wings from
“Earey” (Egypt) the myriads of grouse and other birds, and into the
hearts of the people the paean of love; where the woods are carpeted
with blue “prolisoks” and red “riast”; where Vesnianka, the “Lada” of
Spring, with the assistance of vovkoolaks and spirits of the woods, is
running through the forest scattering bloom, her song echoing over the
whole country; where the sun is so bright and gay; where the willow tree
in full blossom looks like a great yellow stack, orchards are white with
cherry; where millions of nightingales sing all the night long—where
Petrus so truly loves Natalka—
_There is the Ukraine._
Where in the Summer the Dnieper is carrying down its broad yellow waters
to empty them into the bluish waves of the Black Sea; and upon the
steeps of its mountainous right bank, like pyramids, the ancestral
grave-hills stand, looking over the endless plains golden with ripening
rye; where the little white huts of the villagers hide themselves in the
green orchards of scarlet apples, yellow pears, purple prunes, musical
with the humming of bees; where, beside a broad road, under a willow
tree, a blind lirnik-beggar sits, singing a song of the vanished
freedom; where the “grandsons” of that freedom mow the lush grass, with
their scythes glistening in the hot sun, just as the sabres of their
grandfathers flashed on the same field—
_There is the Ukraine._
Where in Autumn in the wood on the peaceful bank of a Dunai the hopvine
with its gold and bronze covers the bared branches of ash trees; where
on cranberry bushes the red bunches burn in the rays of the Autumn sun
like a circlet of rubies; where Marusina walks in the wood picking the
berries and calling upon her fated one in her songs; where in the
fields, now umber-coloured, the herds of cattle graze; where the poplar
rustles sadly with her leaves yet green over a lonesome grave—as a
maiden deserted by her lover; where, when the leaves fall, the
night-heaven is so darkly blue and the stars so bright—
_This is Ukraina._
Where in Winter Witch-Marina with snow white as swansdown covers the
fields, making of them an endless white sea; where Frost-Moroze with its
magic power changes fog into rime and sleet, transforms the forests into
silver coral jungles of the undersea kingdom; where in gayety the people
know how to spend the whole winter season, entertained by folk-drama;
where hymns to the pagan goddess Lada are heard at Christmas;
Where the red foxes, seeking refuge in tall “ocherets,” or bulrushes,
and hares lying in utter stillness on the hillocks, shall hear the
stamping of horses’ hoofs, the baying of hounds and the sudden clamour
of the horn—
_There is Ukraina._
Where on the summits of the Carpathians old oaks and pines murmur, and
the native Hutzul in white embroidered shirt and red breeches plays on
his trimbeeta amid his grazing flocks in the mountain meadow; where on a
dark night thunder roars and the lightning plays on the white breasts of
beech-trees; where Dobush sleeps with his robber Oprishki, in a rocky
cave under the Chorna-Hora, waiting for the summons to arise once more
against the enemies of the Ukraine—
_There is the Highland of the Ukrainian._
Where the southern prairies meet the waves of the Black Sea, and grey
eagles circle in the heavens watching the numberless herds of sheep;
where the Dnieper’s cataracts roar, dashing down to the Khortitsa
Island, asking it: “Where are the banners of the hetmans and the cannons
of old?” There, where a black cloud covers heaven from Lyman, the Mount
of the Dnieper, in the semblance of the dragon of the fairy tales—
_There are the Zaporogian Steppes._
And the ages passed over the Ukraine.... “In the beginning” black-haired
Scythians came from Ariastan to the Ukraine with their herds—later, the
race was crossed with blue-eyed, white-haired Finns; both disappeared
and the tall, dark brown-eyed, fair-haired Ukrainian arose, the
beneficent gods Yoor and Lada nursing him in his cradle.
Mongolians came from Asia, and Ghingiz-Khan built his pyramids of men’s
skulls.... And on the Steppes, on the Kalka river the brave Russichi
barred the way to the Polovets, with scarlet shields, and all fell for
the motherland. Still, the Mongolian waves rolling over the Ukrainian
rock were unable to devastate Europe. The Khan turned back, civilisation
was saved, but the Ukraine was covered with corpses, on whose bones
Cossacks arose who again checked the Tartars. There in the Ukraine was
Freedom personified by the Zaporogian Cossack, in blue zhupan and red
breeches, mounted on his grey horse.
Seven feet deep is the black soil of Ukraina, bringing forth from one
seed one hundred and twenty fold. Poles, Turks, and Muscovites began to
press forward, eager to grasp the land flowing with milk and honey and
bind her as a captive. Long centuries the sabre of the Cossack flashed
beheading invaders from all parts of the world. At last it was shivered
and broken!
Now naught is left of Ukraina save her songs—but in that song she still
lives, engraved in the heart of the people. Let it be sung, and before
your eyes you shall resurrect the dead centuries.
The Ukrainians sing their Kolady, Vesnianky, Kupalni—and the ancient
gods of the Sun and Thunder are again alive, adversaries of
Christianity.
The bride-maidens sing the wedding songs, and ancient days come back
when a wild youth gathered a band of the boys of his tribe and raided
another village to kidnap a maiden. All her relatives rose to defend
her, and sometimes only after a bloody fight did the bridegroom carry
his bride safely home. A thousand years passed, and only song was left
to show that such barbarous days had ever been.
In the troublous days that followed, when the Cossacks ringed Ukraina
with the terrible circle of their sabres, they sang of Freedom; and even
now those songs will stir a man’s blood and make him long to leap on a
horse and gallop over the broad steppes, “swift to the fields of
Freedom.”
Moscow, Tartary, Lithuania, Poland, Turkey—what neighbours!—the Hetmans,
wars and revolutions—at length the fall of Seech, the last stand of
Ukrainian freedom—the whole Ukrainian history was put into song by the
Kobzars, the rhapsodists, and if the Ukraine has lost her written
history it is still preserved in her historical songs.
The period of bondage and feudalism began in 1771. The Cossacks had
disappeared, but their place was taken by the avengers of the people’s
sorrows—Robbers, Haidomaki, Oprishki—the Ukrainian Robin Hoods—and
their deeds also are recorded in their songs. The bitter fate of the
feudal slave sighs in the song of the Ukrainian woman—before, a free
Cossachka, now the slave of her husband, with no rights of her own.
Full of self-pity and sorrow are the “Songs of Unhappy Women.” The
sons of Cossacks became Tchumaks and tramps; they wrote their songs on
their broken hearts.... But eternal song, that of love, of the
nightingale’s voice, and the cherry blossom, is the same
everywhere—unchangeable—young, charming, immortal!
Italian songs are glorious, but the singing of the Ukrainian is also a
precious pearl in the common treasury of mankind. It was born out of the
beauty of the Ukraine, and it is beautiful; it was born on the steppes,
and as the steppes it is wide; it was born in battles, and it is free;
it was born of the tear of a lonesome girl, and it rends the heart; it
was born of the thoughts of the Kobzars and its harmonies are pregnant
with thoughts—
_This is Ukrainian Song._