22. Gloria Victis

All this took place a long, long time ago. After a hundred, two hundred years perhaps, this legend remains. And now, on the top of an artificial hill, made by the hand of man, the largest of all those of the same kind to be found in Ukraine, can be seen a large cross of red granite. On this cross, the patient point of a dagger has engraved the name: MAROUSSIA.

The entire hill is called the Kourgane, it is the tomb of the little girl. It is covered with beautiful green grass strewn all over with lovely, sweet-smelling flowers which grow there only, and are never seen elsewhere. These flowers are so beautiful that you might take them for the smiles of a child. When transplanted, they refuse to grow and die immediately. People have tried to sow the seeds in other places, but they refuse to come up. A name has been given to them, the only one which seems appropriate,—they are called Maroussia.

The people relate her story in the long evenings, at home. They say that a Cossack, famous for his courage, intelligence, beauty and goodness, and still more for his patriotism, made this large hill.

He had only one arm, having lost the other in the last battle fought for the independence of Ukraine, and, with the one hand left him, carrying the soil, handful by handful, he built this hill. It took years and years for him to accomplish it. Young when he began, his beard and his hair were white when he finished it. However, some say that a little boy, named Tarass, begged so much to be allowed to help, that his aid was accepted, and that this boy also grew old before the tomb was finished. This much is certain, that when the Kourgane was as high as a church steeple, and the cross was placed on it, the Cossack seated himself at its foot and wept until he died. Before this, no one had ever seen the Lion weep. It was the tears that fell from his eyes which produced these flowers so beautiful and so sweet, which had never before bloomed in any part of the world.

Those who know the language of flowers, assure us, that on the nights when the moon is full, these flowers can be heard to murmur: “We bloom only on the graves of those who have given their lives for their country.”

The children, girls and boys, accompanied by their parents, come every year from all parts of the country, on pilgrimages to the tomb of the little girl. Each one brings a wreath and places it there. They carry away with them pictures and medals made in honor of Maroussia.

Many of these children cry when the glorious death of the heroic child is related to them, and yet there is not one of them, boys or girls, who does not wish that he or she might have been Maroussia.

Unfortunately, there is more than one Ukraine in the world. God grant, that in every country subject to a conqueror’s yoke, there may be born many children, capable of living and dying like the little Maroussia whose story, I have just related to you.

No one can explain the triumphs of the wicked and the trials of the just.

FINIS.

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