Bless your freedom

The Ukrainian artist-poet Taras Shevchenko was born a serf in 1814 near Kyiv. Ukraine then was part of the Russian empire, but both his paintings and his poems spoke to his passion for Ukraine.

It is frankly weird reading about how Shevchenko and his fellow serfs passed from one owner to another, along with the land to which they were attached, but that’s what the life of a serf was. From an early age (like around 10 years old) he got into trouble for painting Ukrainian (anti-Russian) heroes. When he was 17, his master brought him to Saint Petersburg and sent him to study with the Russian painter Vasiliy Shiriayev. While there he met with other Ukrainian artists; one of them donated a painting for a raffle, the proceeds of which were used to buy Shevchenko’s freedom in 1838.

Shevchenko embarked on what seems like a furious career as both painter and poet, turning out works in both genres with great frequency. But his love of his homeland got him in trouble with imperial authorities. Tsar Nicholas I read one of Shevchenko’s poems (“Dream”); he was okay with the Ukrainian taking shots at him, but not with the ridicule of his wife. (The poem was written in Ukrainian, but sadly Nicholas could read it.) Initially imprisoned in Saint Petersburg, Shevchenko was sentenced to exile in as a private in a military garrison in the Urals. Nicholas personally certified the sentence and stipulated that the Ukrainian was absolutely not to paint or write.

During his exile, he took part in a lengthy naval expedition along the coast of the Aral Sea; his job was to sketch what he saw. His next residence was not so salubrious: the fortress of Novopetrovsk in Kazakhstan. He was there for seven years, until he received amnesty from the new tsar, Alexander II (known as “The Liberator”).

He returned to Saint Petersburg, but his health had been broken during exile, and he died in 1861, aged 47, just seven days before Alexander announced the emancipation of all serfs.

Initially interred in Saint Petersburg, his remains were subsequently removed to Ukraine, as he requested in today’s entry for National Poetry Month.

“Testament”

When I die, then make my grave
High on an ancient mound,
In my own beloved Ukraine,
In steppeland without bound:
Whence one may see wide-skirted wheatland,
Dnipro's steep-cliffed shore,
There whence one may hear the blustering
River wildly roars.
Till from Ukraine to the blue sea
It bears in a fierce endeavor
The blood of foemen — then I'll leave
Wheatland and hills forever:
Leave all behind, soar up until
Before the throne of God
I'll make my prayer. For till that hour
I shall know naught of God.
Make my grave there — and arise,
Sundering your chains,
Bless your freedom with the blood
Of foemen's evil veins!
Then in that great family,
A family new and free,
Do not forget, with good intent
Speak quietly of me.

Translated by Vera Rich