Vasyl Stefanyk SUICIDE ("Stratyvsya," 1891,Synya knyzhechka)

The train rushed into distant lands. In the corner on a bench sat a peasant and cried. So that no one would see him cry, he hid his head in an embroidered bag (taystra). The tears fell like rain, the kind of a sudden rain that starts quickly and soon passes. The hard beat of the train pounded like a hammer into the peasant's soul. "I dreamed about him just the other day. Somehow I was pulling water out of a well and he appeared somewhere way at the bottom in a torn jacket, my God was it torn. It seemed he would drown any minute. Nykola, my son, I say to him, what are you doing here? And he answers me: "Oh, daddy, I can't take the army anymore." I say to him: suffer, be patient and learn as much as you can, and keep yourself clean. And now, now he's already learned . . . One large tear streaked down his face and fell on the taystra. "I'm going to him, but I know that I will not find him anymore. But will there be anyone to come back to? She ran after me through the fields, begging me with bloody tears, to take her along. Her feet turned blue from the snow, she screamed as if she were touched in the head. But I chased the horses on . . . Maybe she's freezing to death somewhere there in the field ... I should have taken the old woman along. What do we need now? Let the money go, let the stock die from hunger. For such corpses like us, there's no need. Let her sew us bags and we'll go begging among people in the city in which Nykola's grave is." He pressed his face to the window and his tears flowed down the glass. "Oh, my old one, such is the wreath we waited out for our grey hair. You're probably beating your head against the walls, weeping to God." The old man sobbed like a child. The weeping and the train bounced the old head as if it were a pumpkin. Tears flowed like water from a spring. The peasant seemed to hear the voice of his old woman as she runs barefoot and begs him to take her along. But he whips the horses, whips them. One can only hear a yelp in the field, but far, far away. "For certain I won't find her when I get back. If only they would put me away together with Nykola into the grave. Let us rot together at least, since we could not live together; let even the dogs forget to bark for us, but let us be together. How can he be all alone here in this foreign land? The train rushed on. "It's a darn shame that you grew up like an oak. No matter what he took up, it seemed to burn in his hands. I should have cut one of them off while he still was a kid . . ." The train reached a big city. He got off the train together with the other people. But he remained all alone on the street. Walls, walls, and in between wallsstreets; and over the streets thousands of lamps, all strung on one rope. The lights sank and quivered in the darkness. It seemed that any minute now the light would fall and a black hell would descend. But the lights sank their roots into the darkness and did not fall. "Oh, Nykola, if only I could see you. Even if you're dead. I too will die here." He sat under a wall. He placed the embroidered bag on his knees. Tears no longer fell on it. The walls bent, one toward the other; the lights all fell together and played with color like a rainbow. They closed in on the peasant, in order to see him better for he had come here from very distant lands. It began to rain. He huddled even more and began to pray. "Mother of Christ, you help out all good people, St. Nicholas . . . ," and he pounded his fist against his chest in contrition. A policeman came by and showed him the way to the barracks. "Mister soldier, is it here that Nykola Chorny died?" "He hung himself among the alders behind the city. Now he is lying in the morgue. Go down this street and there someone will show you." The soldier returned to his guard. The peasant lay in the street and groaned. Once he had regained a little strength he went down the street. His legs doubled over and stumbled as if wind-blown. "My son, oh, my son, so you killed yourself. Tell me son what pushed you into your grave? Why did you destroy your soul? Oh, will I ever bring happy news for your mother from you. We will perish uselessly." In the morgue on a white slab lay Nykola. His beautiful hair swam in blood. The top of his head fell off like a piece of shell. On his stomach there was a cross, for they had cut him up and sewn him together. The father fell on his knees and prayed. He kissed his son's feet and repeatedly struck his head against the slab. "Oh, child, mother and I were preparing a wedding for you, ordering the musicians, and you went and left us . . ." Then he picked up the corpse, embraced it by the neck and asked as if consulting: "Tell me how many services am I to order, how much to give for the poor, so that God may forgive you your sin?"

Tears fell on the corpse and on the cold white slab. Weeping, he was dressing his son for death: a white embroidered shirt, a large embroidered belt and a hat with peacock feathers. He placed the embroidered bag under his head and at his head he placed a candle to burn for a lost soul. Such a handsome and nice young man in feathers. He lay on a cold marble slab and, it seemed, smiled at his father.