IVAN VYSHENSKY

This poem was the outcome of Franko's studies foi the thesis he wrote for his doctorate in philosophy. His subject was Ivan Vyshensky, one of the mysterious figures in Ukrainian history. Very little is actually known about him. He was probably born about 1330 and died in the odor of sanctity about 1630. When he was about thirty-five years of age, following the ascetic traditions of the time, he visited Mount Athos, that remarkable monastic republic in the Aegean Sea where there was a large number of his fellow-countrymen living as hermits or as clois-tered monks. He entered one of the orders and passed through the successive stages of novice, monk, and hermit, until at last he took the final step of being immured for ever. Before this final step, however, he had written a number of interesting "epistles" which he despatched to Ukraine, urging his countrymen to keep up the struggle for freedom. While a great patriot he was fettered by his antiquated and conservative ideas of the religious life, but his writings undoubtedly exercised a great influence in his day, all the more because of his reputation for saintliness. In 1605 he left Mount Athos for Ukraine but did not justify the expectations of the people in a practical manner. While his political writings from a distance warmed the people up to combat, his preaching of asceticism did not approve itself to the popular mind. His longing for the highest step of the ascetic life, namely: being immured for ever, drew him back to Mount Athos. Nothing is known with certainty as to his end, and the end which Franko assigns to him in the poem grows naturally out of his aim in writing it. The present version has been somewhat condensed but the theme and the narrative remain complete.

IVAN VYSHENSKY

A pyramid of green it floats
Upon a heaving field of blue,
It lies upon the azure sea
Like an enormous emerald.

Thus laved by ocean's restless waves,
Beneath a cloudless, tender sky,
In beauty calm it rises up,
The slumbering isle of Mount Athos.

It slumbers? Nay, for nature there
Unceasingly is at her task
Of readornment, cherishing
The isle as mother does her child.

Below, from seething waves arise
Its ancient, gray, and time-worn cliffs
In proud defiance toward the sky,
Like ramparts inaccessible.

There round their feet a music wild
Ne'er for a moment intermits;
The waters crash against the rocks
And splash them with their silver spray.

Above, the mountain summits all
Are with primeval forests clothed;
The foliage forever hums
An endless mournful melody.

The holy mount forever dreams;
The days and nights float over it
As lightly as a rosy cloud;
No voice but nature's own is heard.

Although o'er all the mount are seen
Man's winding pathways, serpentine,
Yet never do they come to life
By sounds of laughter, talk, or song.

Although in places in the woods,
On mountain sides, in deep ravines,
Are monasteries, single cells,
Inhabited by living men,

Yet deepest silence reigns o'er all
These habitations where men dwell;
The seal of silence binds the lips
Of all the holy dwellers there.

Without a word they walk about
With solemn pace, all garbed in gray,
With withered frames and sunken cheeks,
Abstracted, other-worldly looks.

But three times daily o'er the mount
One hears the sound of clanging bells,
As though a flock of flying swans
Were waking echoes overhead.

The bells in mournful cadence toll
As though reproving those who dwell
In all this beauty, yet have turned
The isle into a place of gloom,

Who, of a nest for lofty thought,
A school to quicken high impulse,
Have turned it all into a tomb
In which to bury living men.

II

The bells are ringing on the Mount
The signal for the vesper prayer.
The great bell on the Priory
Sounds first and then the rest join in.

O'er all the mountain crests the peal
Rolls in metallic monody,
The rocks reecho to the sound,
'Tis heard in cave and hermitage.

Deep sighs are uttered in response,
And withered figures cross themselves,
A quiet whisper breathes the words:
"Lord, grant Thy saints eternal rest!"

But see! Upon the rocky scarp
Of those tall cliffs which overhang
And gaze down on the dashing waves—
Can that be where the swallows nest ?

No! Those are caverns hollowed out
In places inaccessible,
Retreats shaped in the living rock,
The haunts, perhaps, where sea-mews hide?

Not so! but cells where ascetics
May dwell who take the "final step,"
The living tombs with no return,
The strait gate to eternity.

A moak, who has as novice served,
And has obeyed monastic rule,
Then afterwards in solitude
Has lived the silent hermit's life,

And wishes to accomplish then
The ascetics utmost exploit,
By fasting, silence, all alone
To listen to the inward voice,

And breaking every human tie,
And conquering every fleshly lust,
Feels in himself both strength and will
To gaze into the Eternal Eye—

Such, by permission of his prior,
May choose himself a cave to serve
Him as a living tomb from whence
He nevermore to life returns.

'Tis then the bells ring out a dirge,
And then o'er all the holy mount
The quiet whispers breathe the words:
"Lord, grant Thy saint eternal peace!"

III

The bells are ringing on the Mount.
'Tis Sabbath and the vesper hour.
The great bell on the Priory
Rings first and then the rest join in.

O'er every mountain peak the sound
Rolls in metallic monody,
The rocks give back the echoing tones,
'Tis heard in cave and hermitage.

The tolling ceased, yet on the breeze
The sound continued to vibrate,
While in Zographa's Priory
The creak of locks and bolts was heard.

The gloomy gates were opened wide,
And then from out the Priory
A solemn cortege marches forth,
Intoning a lugubrious chant.

The sacred banners wave o'erhead
Like flames of fire flashing bright,
A cross which bears the Crucified
Advances slowly in the lead.

And bearded monks walk on behind,
Arrayed in purple priestly robes,
Then after come more bearded monks,
But barefoot, wearing coarse gray gowns.

Among these walks a bent old man,
Greybearded, with a deep-lined face,
In sackcloth garbed, worn next his skin,
And carrying a beechwood cross.

A simple cross, carved out of beech. . . .
A breeze blows in from off the sea;
It plays upon the old grey beard,
Caressing both the beard and cross.

With hoarse and quavering voice he sings
In chorus with the chanting monks
The anthem with the sad response:
"Lord, grant Thy saints eternal rest!"

But now the holy cortege halts
And stands upon the very verge
Of one dread precipice whose depth
Strikes horror when one downward looks.

There halfway down upon the cliff
A speck is visible, as though
It was a marker placed to show
The halfway point 'twixt heaven and earth.

It is a cave, a living tomb
For hermit's use. God only knows
Whose hands once carved it out or when,
Or for what purpose and for whom!

No one with hands and feet could climb
Or reach it with a ladder's aid.
Twas but by ropes let down in space
That man could reach it through the air.

There on the precipice's edge,
A groove, scored in the rock by ropes,
Alone gave sign that far below
There was a way to reach the cave.

The monkish train had halted here
To celebrate the funeral mass. . . .
Whose is the corpse they will inter?
Who is the sainted ascetic?

IV

The solemn service ends at last,
The final prayers have now been said,
Upon their knees with murmuring lips
The hermits and the monks remain.

The prior first gets to his feet,
And after him all rise in turn;
A solemn silence falls wherein
Naught but the roaring surf is heard.

The prior lifted up his voice
And spake unto the old greybeard,
Who, gripping tight his beech-wood cross,
Stood there surrounded by the monks.

"O thou, wwho till this hour hast lived
"As monk Ivan Vyshensky here,
From henceforth as a living man,
Thy name shall be no longer heard.

"Betake thyself, then, on thy way!
The cross thou boldest in thy hands,
Is all that we may give to thee—
Of other gifts thou hast no need.

"What thou shalt need of food and drink
To meet thy body's wants—each week
The manciple shall bring thee here
And let down to thy dwelling place.

"And now, farewell! Receive from me
This final kiss of brotherhood,
And may God grant that we ere long
Shall in His Kingdom meet again!"

The prior kissed the parting saint,
The monks and hermits silently
Kissed his thin hands, or reverently
The skirts of his rough garment touched.

The blustering wind came from the sea
And blew about in disarray
His old grey beard and hair as he
With cross in hand soon disappeared.

V

"I greet thee, my eternal home,
Calm haven after raging storm,
To which my soul these many years
With keen desire hath longed to come!

"The rock, which here envelops me,
Like faith, is firm, impregnable.
It is my fortress, my retreat,
My pillow, and my coverlet.

"This cross of beech, my only friend,
My comforter in times of grief,
Defender when temptations come,
And my support when death draws nigh.

"The azure sky which I behold,
Which fills the entrance to my cell,
Speaks of the hope that some day soon
My soul to heaven may wing its flight.

"The bright sun rising in the east,
Which for a space pours in my cell
A flood of gold and crimson light,
Recalls to mind the Holy Ghost,

"Who in ecstatic moments comes
To visit my poor, contrite soul
And blesses all its senses with
A flood of bliss ineffable.

"The deep-blue sea which over there
Now basks and glitters in the sun,
But here below beats on the rocks,
Now murmuring, now bellowing loud,

"Speaks to me of man's earthly life,
Alluring, peaceful, glittering,
When seen afar, but near at hand
So cruel, fierce, and grim appears.

"This is my world! The mutable
Has disappeared; the cries and shouts,
The noise of conflict in the world,
No more can penetrate this cell.

"All gone—the petty, painful cares
Which stir emotion in the soul
And turn the seeker's mind away
From fixity on God alone!"

So spoke the hermit to himself,
The man within his lonely cell,
Who yesterday Vyshensky was,
But now today is dead to all.

Then in a corner of his cave
He sat down on a stone, his back
Supported by the cold, stone wall,
And sank his head down on his knees.

Then nature's mighty harmony
O'erwhelmed the hermit's soul till he
Was carried by its ebb and flow,
Now up, now down, in reverie.

Betwixt the heaven and the earth,
Now up, now down, the ascetic's soul,
Sunk in the mystic's ecstasy,
Was cradled, lulled, and rocked in dreams.

(Immured in his living tomb, Vyshensky thinks he has broken every tie between him and life, but life still keeps sending its messengers to disturb his strivings for the mystic's ineffable union with God. First there are the doubts which continually come into his meditations and which cause fits of discouragement and despair. Finally some cherry blossoms drift into his cell. The sight of these starts a train of recollections of his native land, Ukraine, against which the old devotee struggles desperately).

IX

Tis eventide. A shadow stretched
From out the cliffs athwart the sea,
Where, in the distance, tiny waves
With gold and crimson flashed and glowed.

From his high nest the hermit gazed
In peace upon the heaving sea;
Somewhere across those glittering waves
There was a path led far away,

A pathway to a distant strand,
O'er mountains and across wide plains
Until it reached Ukraine. In thought
He traced that pathway once again.

In thought he sends a greeting back,
A greeting full of love and grief,
A host of loving hopes and fears
Which long since he had deemed were dead.

When, lo! along that shining path,
A bark is slowly drawing near,
The gold and crimson on the sea
Are shattered by the dripping oars.

The warm, soft breeze that evening brings
Fills out the white sail of the bark,
And like a stately swan it glides
Straight onwards for the holy isle.

Was it some brethren coming back
From travel to a distant land
To beg for alms ? Or could it be
Some merchants coming here for trade ?

Perhaps it might be pilgrims, who
Had come to visit at a shrine
And pay their vows ? Or messengers
Who came with news of grave events ?

The old man followed with his eyes
The bark until 'twas lost to view
And disappeared behind the mole;
Then when 'twas gone, he heaved a sigh.

The hermit thought he had perceived
The coats of Kozaks in the bark
And sheepskin caps with crimson tops—
Ah, no! it must have been a dream.

 

X

Another night, another morn,
Another round of strenuous prayer,
Yet still the old man's soul was torn
By doubts and strange disquietude.

When suddenly, a rapping came
From someone signalling above,
As was the rule. Down in his cell
The hermit made a like response

And then suspended on a rope,
A basket with his food came down,
And in the basket whitely gleamed
A paper like a letter sealed.

The old man's hands began to shake;
The paper bore familiar words
And written in his native script;
He knew the image on the seal.

"Unto our holy eremite,
Ivan Vyshensky, in his cell
On Athos, where in solitude
He walks the path our Lord commands—

"The Orthodox Ukrainians,
Assembled in the town of Lutsk
For common counsel and advice,
Their greetings and petition send.

"To God we give most fervent thanks
For all the prayers of holy men,
For those who on themselves have laid
The burden of the Cross for us.

" Tis by God's mercy and His grace,
And by the saints who for us pray,
That we still stand firm in the faith
And have not yet abandoned hope.

"The council hath considered how
'Twere best in this tempestuous hour
To cast some small protection round
God's Holy Church and her defend.

"And so we herewith send to thee,
O reverend father Vyshensky,
Our deputies with this request:
Come back and guide the helm of state!

"Come back again to thy Ukraine,
Inflame our courage by thy words;
Be thou to us the shepherd's fire
That guards the sheepfold in the dark!

"O reverend father, 'neath the blows,
Our shoulders sag, our heads are bowed,
The poison of despair is fast
Infecting every fighter's soul.

"O hear thy Mother calling thee,
Ukraine, the land that gave thee birth!
Thy Motherland with tears calls for
Her best beloved son to come!

"Do not contemn our humble prayer!
O haste thy Motherland to save!
Perchance thy wisdom and thy voice
May yet avail to save our land."

The letter bore these added words
Inscribed: "The Kozak deputies
Will come tomorrow for thy word;
Tomorrow they will come again."

XI

The hermit paced his narrow cell,
And with the cross clasped to his breast,
He calmly chants his stated prayers,
The letter banished from his mind.

The whole night had been spent in prayer:
His wrinkled cheeks all wet with tears;
He clung unto his beechwood cross
As child clings to its mother's breast,

But when the sun rose in the east,
He sat down fearfully to wait
Till he should hear the rapping give
The signal on the rock o'erhead.

At last the muffled rapping came,
The old man gave a sudden start,
But not a hand did he stretch forth
To give an answer to the call.

XII

Then evening came. The shadow lay
Stretched like a carpet on the waves
While from behind the mount the sun
Sent its last rays across the sea.

The rays obliquely fell and made
A golden pathway o'er the sea
From Athos where its waters beat
Unto the setting sun itself.

And in the entrance to his cave,
With shoulders bent, the hermit sits
And cons the letter o'er and o'er
And spots it with his falling tears.

"O hear thy Mother calling thee,
Ukraine, the land that gave thee birth!
Thy Motherland with tears calls for
Her best beloved son to come!"

Beloved son! Can 'son' be called
A man, who in the darkest hour,
When foes assail and courage droops,
Will not fly to his mother's aid?

Has he forgot those holy words
Which run: "Who saith that he loves God,
Yet his own brother doth not help,
He lies, and doeth not the truth."

A gust of mortal fear and dread
Swept o'er the hermit, gripped his heart
And stopped his breathing and brought out
Cold drops of sweat upon his brow.

He stared out at the deep, blue main,
'Mid which the holy mount loomed up
With all its massive bulk outlined
As with a braid of molten gold.

Now see! there from Mount Athos' bay
A bark is putting out to sea;
It glides from out the shadow grey
Into the setting sun's bright beams.

A Turk is standing at the helm,
The bark is full of Kozak coats
And sheepskin caps with crimson tops—
The dripping oars spill red and gold.

- The deputies from our Ukraine!
The hermit's heart within him leaped;
Beside himself with love and fear
He wildly stretched his withered hands.

"O stay, O stay! Turn back for me!
Vyshensky lives! The same as old
I love Ukraine, my Motherland!
What years I have I'll give to her!

"O stay, O stay! Turn back again!"
In vain! His cries they cannot hear.
And o'er the sparkling, golden waves
The bark sails swiftly on her way.

The hermit wrings his withered hands,
,His anguished heart is crushed with grief,
And on the ground before his cross
He casts himself upon his face.

"O Crucified One! Thou didst give
A great commandment unto us:
To love our brethren as ourselves,
And lay our lives down for our friends!

"Grant me to love my brethren thus
And lay my life down for their sakes!
Grant me to look once more upon
And help to save my native land!

"The bark there is the only tie
That binds me still to service, Lord!
Grant that the tie may not be snapped,
Oh, turn it back to me, O Lord!

"Oh, turn the wind against them. Lord,
Or make the sea in tempest rise!
Or else that I may from this cliff
Fly o'er the waters like a bird!.

"Oh, grant me this one miracle!
One miracle, for this brief space!
Oh, leave me not here in despair,
A terrified, forsaken child!"

Thus did Ivan Vyshensky pray
And pressed the cross close to his breast.
Then suddenly he felt a throb
Of pain intense which made him glad.

Then softly, gently passed away
All longing, all disquietude;
A flood of glowing certainty
Surged through the old man's heart and soul.

'Twas clear assurance that the Lord
In heaven above had heard his prayer;
The miracle was here at last,
Illumination's hour had come.

That which he long had waited for,
A sense of complete blessedness,
Enveloped him like tender breeze,
Or harmony ineffable.

With joy he rose up to his feet,
Three times he gravely crossed himself,
And then he blessed the golden beams
Which, like a path, lay on the sea.

Naught else for him was real except
That golden pathway o'er the waves,
And that small bark far out at sea—
He took a step—and disappeared. . . .

And nothing in the cave remained
Besides the cross—the bleaching bones
Of false illusions, vain desires—
The ocean's never-ceasing roar.

1900