In 1903, a book was published in Odesa with the words “Stories and Poems” printed in large, bold letters on the cover. The author of this softcover book, which sold for 40 kopecks, was the writer N.I. Yushkevich.
However, what makes this work by Yushkevich interesting to us is not that it begins with poems after all, followed by short stories—thereby deceiving the reader in the most underhanded way.
The thing is, the author wrote the first two verses in Kharkiv. Although, judging by the verses, the poet’s mood in our hometown was gloomy, depressed, and absolutely miserable. All in all, our city didn’t bring him any joy…
When my young, feeble mind
Is filled with gloomy thoughts;
When a swarm of painful doubts—
A legacy of past generations—
I try in vain to resolve,
Yet cannot forget them;
When my soul, in silent anguish,
Like a traveler on a deserted road,
Waits for some echo of a response
And is unlikely to find it there…When, in my cherished aspirations—
So often unnoticed by others—
I wait in vain for sympathy,
And, to add to my toil,
I am met with a condescending smile;
When, with sadness, I recall
The series bof trials I have endured
And in the future, instead of rewards,
I foresee nothing but hardship…Then… Then I scorn the earthly world!
Then I bow my knees
before the face of the highest powers of heaven.
And no!… I do not ask for miracles!
Like a warrior on the battlefield,
my prayers are humble and brief…Angel of God, my guardian,
Holy protector sent to me from heaven!
I earnestly pray to you: guide me toward goodness,
lead me on the path of salvation and peace,
protect me from evil and distress,
and be my defender in times of trouble…
This is all I ask,
and thus I offer up my prayer.
***
Abandoned by all, forgotten by all,
I set out on life’s path too soon;
Too soon I tasted that poisonous fruit:
Even as a child, I came to know the very essence of life.Life—I am convinced—is a game of cruel fate;
Life’s yoke is heavy, brothers;
Life is a field of debauchery and vice,
And for very few, a source of joy…Early on, I delved into the human conscience:
I found lies, selfishness, and deceit within it.
Early on! Ah, how early I
came to understand all this—and yet I became indifferent so soon.And here I am! A fruit that ripened out of season,
Barely clinging to its branch…
It is not meant for joy: it is meant for shame.
It weighs down the branch and hangs among its peers.
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