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18 WWW. UNWLA.ORG “НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, ЛИСТОПАД 2013 Remembering Olha Kobylianska This fall Ukraine’s Bukovyna region has been abuzz with news of various events dedicated to the 150th anniversary of Olha Kobylianska’s birth in a little Bukovynian town of Gura - Humora (now part of Romania). Special exhibits, conferences, literary evenings, lectures, and theater pe rformances have been taking place all through October and November, and will culminate in several days of jubilee ce l- ebra tions. A new ten - volume edition of Kobylianska’s works is being prepared for publication, with the first volume due to appear by the end of 2013. T he Chernivtsi oblast even declared 2013 as the year of Olha Kobylianska. Could the writer herself ever have thought that her works would not only keep her memory alive among her compatriots, but even confer upon her the status of one of the best Ukrainian women writers ever born? Kobylianska’s tiny sketch “The Cross,” written in the early twentieth century, poses the question of one’s legacy, of what is left behind after one dies, in a most poignant and unusual way — the question is pondered by the dead narrator who observes his own funeral and comments on w hat he sees. On the other side of death, things begin to look different than they did during one’s life, and what comes to stand out among one’s worldly treasures and achievements is something that no one wants or is even able to inherit. — Olesia Wallo Olha Kobylianska The Cross A Sketch (1905) I died. All those who respected and loved me, appreciated and hated me, wronged and defended me, are now seized with the same grief for me. And so they came. They filled the rooms, placed wreaths at my feet, and whispered sadly among themselves. As always, women and men – they were everywhere. But that is the way it is. I was interested in the ones preparing or a- tions to declaim over my grave, and in the girls and boys. The former were thinki ng only of the m- selves, wondering what kind of impression their speech would make on those gathered here and forgetting completely about the deceased. The youthful boys and girls were eyeing one another. Some of them were mournful, and their eyes were dam p with tears. Sensitive girls! The gravity of the moment attuned to them in this way, and they immediately succumbed. But, if the truth be told, no one here was thinking about me. I had left behind neither a wife, nor children, nor a sister, nor a brothe r – and I had buried my parents a long time ago. I had lived alone – and died a rich man. But still – my funeral did distinguish itself in a number of ways. A large throng of people walked behind my coffin. And everything was black – all black. The hearse that car ried me was swaying, weighed down by the prevailing sadly respectful mood and costly wreaths. I’m saying costly , because the money spent on them would have shod several dozen tiny bare feet and brought joy to more than one orphan or some helpless, elderly woman about whom no one cares. But flowers for a d e- ceased are good form, they say; they meet the standards of propriety, and this is why they trailed after me... I felt truly blessed Everything was going along like cloc k- work, of its own accord. Decently and mournfully, as befitted my merits and my person. Even I was beginning to feel better and better with every passing moment. Yes, as I have said – my funeral did, after all, distinguish itself in some ways. Many eyes looked upon me in life, and many looked at me during my funeral – but not a single pair eyes was clouded by so much as a tear. Not a single pair of eyes. * * * At last, they buried me, and the time came for dividing up my possessions. And once again the room was overflowing with my friends, acquaintances, relatives, and others. Once again there was pacing, cautious and respectful, and whispering, half - grave and half - nervous. It seemed as if I were still here som e- where, still among the living. And truly, I was here; I was alive and saw
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