II.
Did you but study as you should,
You would possess your own wisdom;
And you might creep up to heaven.
But it is we—
Oh, no, not we;
It is I—no, no, not I.
I’ve seen it all, I know it.
There’s neither heaven nor hell,
Not even God—
Just I and the short, fat German,
Nothing more.
Grand, my brother.
You ask me something,
“I don’t know,
Ask the German,
He’ll tell you.”
That’s the way you learn
in foreign lands.
The German says—
“You are Mongols.
Mongols, Mongols;
Naked children
of the golden Tamerlane.”
The German says—
“You are Slavs,
Slavs, Slavs; [[87]]
Ugly offspring
of famous ancestors.”
You read the writings
of the great Slavophils,
Push in among them,
Get on so well
That you know all the tongues
of the Slavonic peoples
Except your own—God help it.
“Oh, as for that
Sometime we’ll speak
our own language
When the German
shows us how,
Our history too,
he will explain,
Then we’ll be alright!”
It came about finely
on the German advice.
They learned to speak so well
That even the mighty German
could not understand them,
Not to speak of common folks.
Oh what a noise and racket!
“There’s Harmony, and Force
And Music—and everything.
And as for History
The Epic of a free people!
What’s all this about the poor Romans,
Brutus, etcetera, and the Devil knows what?
Have we not our Brutuses [[88]]
and our Cocles
Glorious and never to be forgotten?
Why freedom grew up with us
Bathed in the Dnieper
Rested her head on our hills,
The far-flung Steppes
are her garments.”
Alas! ’twas in blood she bathed
Pillowed her head on burial mounds
On bodies of Cossack freemen,
Corpses despoiled.
But look ye well
Read again of that glory!
Read it, word by word,
Miss not a jot nor tittle,
Grasp it all:
Then ask yourselves—
Who are we? Whose sons?
Of what fathers?
By whom and why enchained?
Then you shall see
Who your glorious Brutuses are.
Slaves, door-mats!
mud of Moscow
scum of Warsaw
are your lords;
Glorious heroes they are.
Why are you so proud
Sons of unhappy Ukraine.
That you go so well under the yoke?
Even better you go [[89]]
than your fathers went.
Don’t brag so much,
they just skin you,
They rendered out your fathers’ bones
Perhaps you are proud
that your brotherhood
has defended the faith.
You cooked your dough-nuts
o’er the fires
of burning Turkish towns,
of Sinope and Trebizond.
True for you
And you ate them
And now they pain you,
And on your own fields
the wily German
plants potatoes.
You buy them from him,
eat them for the good of your health
and praise Cossackery.
But with whose blood
was the land sprinkled
that grew the potatoes?
Oh, that’s a trifle;
so long as it’s good for the garden.
Very proud you are
that we once destroyed Poland.
Very true indeed:
Poland fell,
but fell on top of us. [[90]]
So your fathers shed their blood
for Moscow and for Warsaw,
And left to you, their sons
their fetters and their glory.
[[91]]