A Horace from Pryputni
The 18th-century Ukrainian poet Simon Klymovsky, author of the famous song “A Cossack Went Over the Danube,” was considered a mythic figure for a long time. In 1905, however, historian Vsevolod Sreznevsky was lucky enough to find two very interesting manuscripts in Peter I’s personal library, both signed “your unworthy servant, Kharkov Cossack Simon Klimov.” This finally dispelled doubts about whether this man really existed. Two other historians Novikov and Karamzin knew there were some of Klymovsky’s works at the imperial library, but the texts were “under lock and key.” Finally, after getting a hold of them N. Karamzin wrote that they contained “good feelings and poems,” and that Klymovsky himself “was as wise as seven Greek sages, and highly esteemed by his Cossack brothers.” Later V. Sreznevsky published Klymovsky’s works, thus making them accessible to the general public. In our times, Valery Shevchuk, a researcher of ancient literature, translated the 18th-century poet’s writings into modern Ukrainian and published them in The Anthology of Ukrainian Poetry.
Two Klymovsky’s letters to the tsar, On the Truth and Kindness of Benefactors and On the Justice of Leaders are extremely interesting from many angles. Above all, these poetic tracts are very defiant! “A tsar without the truth is a dead tsar,” S. Klymovsky wrote. He went on to describe the moral decline inevitable in a society ruled by one who “falls... into a dirty abyss.” The price for disregarding the truth is darkness, lies, fury, and “moral disease.” One who dislikes the truth does not deserve to be a tsar, because parts of him die even as he still lives, Klymovsky asserts. The author promises that heavenly grace will only come down on those who “strive to do things in truth.” This is not a cold moralizing, but a passionate call and teaching:
Better truth in poverty and cold
Than injustice with power and gold.
This manuscript was completed in August 1724. H. Nudha and V. Shevchuk, who researched S. Klymovsky’s heritage, pointed out the political context in which “the Kharkiv Cossack” wrote the tracts addressed to Peter I. The policy of punishing Ukraine “for Mazepa” led to awful consequences: the economy took a nosedive, a lot of people were exterminated, and limitations were imposed on Ukrainian book-printing. Hetman’s rule was abolished in 1722, and Ukraine was to be ruled by the “Little Russia Collegium” headed by Brigadier-General Velyaminov. Pavlo Polubotok, who had gone to Petersburg to win at least some limited rights for Ukrainians, never came back. He died in a dungeon after being tortured.
The words of S. Klymovsky’s poetic message bring to mind Polubotok’s monologue in The History of Rus, also addressed to Peter I: “Being right and meek, just and merciful is the true virtue of all the world’s Monarchs. So, Caesars and Rulers should be the first to uphold and apply these universal laws that protect humankind from evil. Why did it happen then that you, Your Majesty, placed yourself above the law and torment us with your unrestrained power?..” Although both authors have the same intentions — reminding the tsar about truth, justice, and mercy, and warning them about destructiveness of tyranny, — there is also an essential difference: while Polubotok’s patriotic monologue is full of political passion, Klymovsky focuses on moral and philosophical principles.
Peter I died soon after punishing Polubotok. But did he read Klymovsky’s messages? How did he get them in the first place? Finally, what was the free-thinking poet’s life story? There are no answers to these questions. There are only some conjectures. S. Klymovsky’s life story is usually connected to Kyiv Mohyla Academy, where he allegedly studied (although Kyiv Mohyla Academy Encyclopedia in Names does not mention Klymovsky). N. Karamzin considered him a “disciple of nature,” who was not formally educated. This point of view is hardly correct because the poet’s works show that he knew different languages, literature, and philosophy. Horace should be named among the most influential authors in Klymovsky’s life.
Another question that remains unanswered is when exactly the poet lived. We can say that he lived a very long life, perhaps even more than a hundred years. By all accounts, he was a very young man in 1724. It is probable that Klymovsky had to run from the tsar who was enraged by his messages. In any case, at the end of 18th century Klymovsky lived in the village of Priputni, which he and his friend had founded in the fields of the Wild Steppe. Here the old poet was visited by Levitsky, who published an article “The Village of Pryputni (Kherson province, Yelisavetgrad district)” in a Kharkiv- based journal Ukrainski Vestnik in 1818. (Hryhory Nudha found this essay and included it into his book A Cossack, a Philosopher, a Poet, which was published twice already). Levitsky gave a detailed account of his visit to old Klymovsky.
In the mid-90s, when a movie director from Kirovograd Volodymyr Moshchynsky and I were making the TV film Freethinker, we went to Pryputni with Nova Praha area researcher Fedir Plotnir as a guide. After reading H. Nudha’s study, he managed to spot the God-forsaken Pryputni with the help of the old (dated 1888) descriptions of Aleksandriya district. It is now the territory of Znamenka district, Kirovohrad oblast. If one drives from the oblast center in the direction of Oleksandriya, make a turn near the village of Vasino, then proceed a few kilometers down a dirt road, and here it is: a deep ravine where Simon Klymovsky and his friend once lived.
The village has long been deserted, with the last residents leaving during the 1932-1933 manmade famine. Yet, the landscape remains unchanged. A big pond is still glistening on the ravine’s bottom, in front of which, on a hill next to the Khomchyn Grove, stood Klymovsky’s house, where N. Levitsky was received as a guest. He saw the old Cossack holding books by Horace and Virgil in his hand. At this moment, peasants wearing wide-brimmed straw hats were passing by. The sun was setting. The host invited the guest to see the sunset from the hill. Levitsky remembered his words that a life has meaning only if it is virtuous. Levitsky says that Klymovsky had good relationships with the peasants in the village. The youth appreciated his advice about daily living and his songs. The essay also mentions the song “A Cossack Went Over the Danube” (“a new and improved version.., well-known in my homeland,” Levitsky adds).
This song by S. Klymovsky enjoyed unprecedented popularity. It was sung even as early as the mid-18th century in many places, including Russia’s northern capital. The song cannot be linked to a specific historical event (for example, the foundation of the Trans- Danubian Sich or a military expedition to the Balkans). Besides, the word “Danube” often symbolizes JUST A RIVER in folklore. The theme of a Cossack’s departure from his beloved girl, the song’s images, and the melody’s nature make this a romantic song. In the romantic period, many new texts were written to the tune of “A Cossack Went Over the Danube.” Among their authors are such popular early-to-mid-19th-century Russian poets as A. Merzliakov and A. Somov. Composers seemed to be competing for more and more variations of this Ukrainian song. Here are just a few it inspired: the aria of Lesta in the opera Lesta, the Dnieper Mermaid (1803) by Hungarian composer F. Kauer, C. Cavos’s opera The Cossack as Poet (1812), young A. Pushkin’s poem The Cossack, A. Delvig’s The Pole, S. Davydov’s divertissement A Feast on the Vorobyovy Hills (1816), and A. Aliabyev’s variation for violin and orchestra (1818). M. Zakrevsky, who included S. Klymovsky’s work into the album An Old Banduras Player in 1860, noted that this song was “well-known all over educated Europe.”
In his book about S. Klymovsky, H. Nudha told an interesting story of a German folklore “incorporating” the song “A Cossack Went Over the Danube.” In 1808, the nobility of Baden-Baden held a “garden party” in Schwarzwald, also attended by Russian guests. The feast attracted a German composer C. Tiedge. Hearing the song about a Cossack’s separation from his girlfriend, he made a loose arrangement of this piece, and since then the Germans have viewed this version of the Ukrainian song as part of their own folklore.
Eight years later, Ludwig van Beethoven decided to make a new arrangement of “A Cossack Went Over the Danube.” The composer was on friendly terms with Andrey Razumovsky, Russia’s ambassador in Austria, who kept a large number of musical publications in his Vienna palace. The son of Ukraine’s last hetman, A. Razumovsky dearly loved the land and culture of his ancestors. This family cherished the memory of Baturyn (former Cossack capital — Ed. ). It is perhaps under Razumovsky’s influence that Beethoven took interest in Ukrainian musical folklore. The genius imparted new features to the song “A Cossack Went Over the Danube:” the voice that sang it was now accompanied with piano, violin, and cello; the original marching tempo gave way to a slower and more tender tune.
We could not imagine our TV film on Klymovsky without this magic arrangement by Beethoven. Still, the film also demonstrates the original Ukrainian version sung in four voices by the Yavir quartet...
Could the gray-haired Horace of Pryputni have imagined that fortune would smile on his song? How would he feel to know that this song would be heard in every continent, become part of German folklore, and that even American cowboys would be singing it? We, Ukrainians, sometimes recall this song, too — we, a talented, carefree and now independent nation that sees off every past year under the increasing roaring of Russian rock.
