FESTAL CENTENNIAL

This poem was written as a prologue to a gala performance of Kotlyarevsky's operetta, Natalka Poltavka, produced at Lviv in 1898 to commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of the publication of the Eneida, Kotlyarevsky's poetic parody imitated from Virgil's Aeneid. Kotlyarevsky's work was the first in modern times to be written in the vernacular and resulted in a revival of Ukrainian national consciousness. While he was still a boy, the last remnants of Ukrainian autonomy disappeared in Great Ukraine with the destruction by the Russian government of the Sich, the headquarters of the once powerful Kozak Republic. In his burlesque Kotlyarevsky decided to depict Aeneas and his companions as Ukrainian Kozaks wandering about Europe in search of a new home after the destruction of the old. "The Eneida was a revelation to the Ukrainians. Here was a poem in the common vernacular glorifying the Kozaks. . . . It touched off the long hidden spark which most had regarded as extinct. Henceforth Ukraine had a written language understood by the people, and it was up to the people to write in it as well as to speak in it. The country and the people had the proof that their ordinary vernacular could be adapted to literature and that real books could be written in it." Herein lies the significance of the commemoration for which Franko wrote this prologue. It was received with extraordinary enthusiasm and helped to make the occasion a memorable one. The first stanza is quoted from the opening of Kotlyarevsky's Eneida, and the last line and a half is from the Ukrainian national anthem.

 

FESTAL CENTENNIAL

The stage is completely dark, but in the distance is seen the glare of a great conflagration; in the foreground to the right is an ancient funeral mound.

THE KOZAK-IMMORTAL

An old greybeard with a bandura is sitting on the mound. At first only the outline of his figure can be seen in the darkness as he gazes at the glare of the conflagration and recites dully and ironically:

 

"Aeneas was a lusty chap,
A better Kozak you'd ne'er find,
Cunning he was in desperate hap,
The boldest fellow of his kind.
For when the Greeks had fired Troy,
And nothing left they could destroy,
He buckled on his haversack
And, with a band of Trojans few,
All singed, a ragamuffin crew,
On burning Troy he turned his back."

   

He rises, straightens up, the bandura tinkling the while.

 

She's going up in flames! Our Troy-Ukraine
Is blazing, dying, blood drips from her heart.
Methinks this is her final hour of pain.
The enemy has won by cunning art!
Defenders slain who once the foe defied,
Her walls all broken down, and now the land,
The only shroud of those who for it died—
On that the foe has laid his ravening hand.

 

Nay, that's not all! For in our inmost part
The fire has raged as well; naught but dead .coals
Remain therein, dead ashes is our heart.
The vital faith that once burned in our souls
Is quenched! Upon that awful pyre we smart,
Our innate strength consumed! Despair controls,
And bows our once proud foreheads to the ground.
0 Mother, poor and childless, stripped, discrowned!

And we? What others deem a brand of shame,
We take as daily bread without offence!
What others 'traitor' call, we 'stupid' name;
What they call 'base,' we call 'expedience';
What others as 'unprincipled' acclaim,
We look upon as 'due obedience'!
Shame we no longer feel! Quite undistressed,
We calmly in our own abasement rest.

 

Distant thunder is heard, the conflagration draws nearer, the stage becomes lighter. The Kozak rises and points to the west:

 

Yes, there he is! That lusty Kozak youth
Who from his burning home himself did save.
He was a cunning fellow, in good sooth!
Let brethren perish in a fiery grave,
Let vultures tear a mother without ruth,
Let headsmen massacre the heroes brave—
His own Penates he's not left behind,
As now he seeks another home to find!

 

Thy dust, 0 Mother, he shook off his feet!
He left thee wounded, weltering in thy gore!
A natural heart from out his breast he tore,
Replaced it with a dog's, for life is sweet
To him. He bellows loudly: "Come, let's go!
Here dew will no more fall or grass regrow.
Our Mother's dead! Let's leave the body here
This very night and in the wide world fare!

 

"A better lot awaits, where meats abound
And fall all smoking hot, whene'er we'd dine!
Who seeks for pleasures, they're in Carthage found;
Who will his pockets with good ducats line,

Who wants to be a prince with glory crowned -s-
To Rome with me! There is our ark, our shrine!
What good are ruins? Let's forget Troy's name,
And on to Rome for wealth, and power, and fame!"

Thus off they went, the scorn of mankind all!
A Mother new they went to seek again.
They quenched the innate instinct that doth call
A dog to turn and seek his former den.
Puhu, Aeneas, hear! . . . 'Tis vain to bawl
And cry. . . . Then go, base-hearted men!
Go, show to all the nations thy disgrace,
Thy beggar's wallet and thy shameless face!

 

Meantime the scene becomes somewhat brighter so that villages in ruins from fire and the fields strewn with corpses become visible.

 

O sun! rise thou no more on our Ukraine!
Lest thou be frighted by this scene forlorn,
Let blindness come! From sight my eyes restrain,
That this grim picture may not, like a thorn,
Stab my old heart and there with hellish pain
Forever sting! But lo, a sound is borne!
An angel tolling for a nation's end?
Or else to rouse what still lives on? . . . But no!

 

The sound of a bell is heard in the distance.

 

An angel, yes! With diamond mallet stroke
He strikes upon the crystal vault of heaven.
Ah, how the sounds those ancient wounds evoke
Once more! This bloody welt was given
On Berestechko's field, and Chudniv broke
This bone of mine! This wound, for centuries
Unhealed, came from Andrusov's miseries!
And here, Poltava, and Tsar Peter's yoke!

 

The sound of the bell becomes stronger, mingled with peals of thunder. It begins to grow dark again. The Kozak falls on his knees on the funeral mound.

 

Is this, 0 God, the ending of my song?
Ukraine is dead . . . grant that I, too, may die!
Grant that this body, tortured, oh so long,
At last, unfettered, in the grave may lie!
Oh, blot us from the memory of man,
That our seed ne'er our history may scan!
And thou, 0 God, forget us in Thy grace,
And level with the earth our resting place!

 

A blast of thunder. The Kozak sinks to the ground. The thunder rolls for a moment, then slowly the scene begins to brighten. In the east a ruddy glow is spreading, the sun is about to rise. The stage represents the sume scene, but with green gardens and neat cottages. On the right can be seen the distant towers and cupolas of a city. Around the funeral mound luxuriant bushes of cranberry and wild cherry have grown, interspersed with gay flowers.

THE KOZAK-IMMORTAL

The same figure, but rejuvenated, comes out from behind the mound with his bandura. At first he walks gloomily, sunk in thought, but by degrees his movements become more energetic, his voice grows stronger:

 

I've soundly slept, I plainly see,
And, Kozak-like, a century.
Whether to win or lose I stand.
I'll look once more upon the world
And see Ukraine, my native land,

That Eden's beauties once unfurled,
That was the dearest spot on earth,
The blessed land which gave me birth.
I wonder who now rules o'er her,
And what the folk who dwell in her?
This newer generation's tongue—
What do they speak, what songs are sung?
0 God, my heart is filled with fear!
It may be that no longer there
Dwell any who still speak our tongue,
Our ballads are no longer sung;
Perhaps the Kalmuck or Kirghiz
Roves o'er the steppes where sleep our kin;
The Chuvash, Mordvin, or the Finn
May dwell now in our villages.
Great God, why from that century's sleep
Didst Thou call on me to awake ?
Was I aroused my heart to break,
Then back into the grave to creep?

 

He comes forward. Behind the scenes a chorus is heard; at first very softly, then growing louder all the time, but still as though coming from a distance.

 

"Hey there, Mother, hey!
See the Kozaks ride!
May good fortune them betide
As they fly away!

 

"As they ride so fleet
How the steppe resounds,
And the foe before them bounds
In complete defeat."

THE KOZAK-IMMORTAL

With an expression of utmost joy:

 

O God, I hear our mother tongue,
Our ancient songs still being sung!
The glorious memories of our nation
Still live in this new generation!
For still they sing of Kozak fame,
Their bloody fights they still acclaim—
Here's proof that my beloved race
Is not yet locked in death's embrace.

 

He looks round at the landscape:

 

Another proof: these fields of grain,
These villages and gardens fair,
Bespeak folk of Ukrainian strain,
Fit chaplets for Ukraina's hair!
And lo, the burial mounds I see,
Beneath which sleep our chivalry!
Ukrainian maids with loving care
Still to those mounds with flowers repair!
Still for themselves Ukrainians reap
Their daily bread from this broad plain!
No stranger foot in our domain
Doth tread the soil where our dead sleep!

 

He comes still further forward and looks at the audience:

 

But lo, what miracle is this?
A mystery of mysteries!
Descendants of Aeneas, these?
But what a change has taken place!
The ones who thought it no disgrace

A hundred years ago to leave
Their burning home, and fled apace
A better fortune to achieve . .

Now 'neath their Mother's wings once more
They have returned to pay their debt,
And in their native land have set
Their hands that Eden to restore.
And see, behold how their eyes glow
With that same flame of long ago
Which burned in ours, that sad night when
Bohdan, our captain, called his men,
The Zaporogs, to talk of war.
I see that night as 'twere today.
Around us Dnieper's sullen roar,
As the Devourer cast up spray,
And growling, gnawed his banks away.
There on the steppe facing the Sich,
And looking like a bird of prey,
The tyrant's camp loomed up to stretch
Its claws and rend us ere 'the day.
A tear gleamed in brave Bohdan's eye,
But fire flamed in his soul, his speech:
"Let's die, my brothers, or on high
Maintain the flag of liberty."
To perish—there's no other way—
Shall it be chains or in the fray ?
He who doth hate a captive's chains,
The test of battle ne'er disdains!
Have ye your native strength still whole?
Are all your sabres blunt and dull?
Is all your knightly courage null,
Has it died out in your dead soul ?"
And louder than the Dnieper's roar,
The Kozak host roared back and swore:
"We'll rout the foe before we'll yield,

Or leave our corpses on the field!"
Then in the yellow glare cast by
The flickering torches in the dark,
Ten thousand strong, there flashed a spark
In every Zaporozhian eye.
My brothers, 'twas those sparks began
The conflagration dread which ran
And spread as far as Bug and San.
Ten thousand living sparks that day
Changed Ukraine's history in the fray
And turned its course another way.
I see, I see those sparks again!
You say: "We are too few." Ah, nay!
In thirty millions it is plain
We can ten thousand find today.
You say: "Can we a Bohdan find?"
Let each prepare to take his share
When the great moment shall appear.
Make yourselves strong in heart and mind,
Try out your wings with all your might,
For when 'tis time for perilous flight,
Then from your efforts, as the sum
And crown of all, shall Bohdan come.
For that great moment let us all
Get ready for the trumpet call!
Each one a Bohdan may become
Whenever that due time may come.
You say: "We cannot fight that way."
Then forge new weapons for the fray!
Create new souls with courage braced!
But fight, spend not yourselves in sighs!
No more with evil temporize!
Fall, rather than your powers waste!
Stand proudly, do not bend the knee,
Better to die than traitor be!

Let each think that on him the state
Of millions rests, that for the fate
Of millions who are yet to live
He must some day an answer give.
Let each one say: "Here on this spot
Where I stand in the battle hot
Depends the outcome of the fight
In this great war for truth and right.
If I surrender or give way,
Or like a fickle shadow sway,
That which was bought at bloody cost
By others' labors may be lost."
Hold fast by thoughts like these and train
Your children's minds to think the same.
Provided that the seed be clean,
Good, wholesome harvests shall be seen.
"How long before we victory see?"
How long to wait?" Make no delay!
If you learn how to win today,
The morrow will bring victory.
Then not in vain shall we see rise
From slumber Ukraine's virile race;
And not in vain in their young eyes
Those old-time fires we shall trace.
Perhaps in their good, strong right hands
Will gleam and flash new shining brands.
Long have we been by woes bestead,
A grievous lot our souls doth try,
But let us shout: "Ukraine's not dead,
She's not yet dead, nor shall she die!"

1898