We continue to showcase to our readers the rich history of Georgia and its literature. One of the most prominent figures that is known and loved nation-wide is Ilia Chavchavadze, whose unparalleled work has transformed his contemporary Georgia. His dedication and love to the nation still reverberate to this day in the poems that are studied by the young generations. Unfortunately, his life was taken away too soon, his assassination was seen as a national tragedy, which was mourned by the whole nation.
We offer to our readers a portion of his autobiography, translated by Oliver Wardrop; as a selection of Chavchavadze’s poems translated by Marjory Wardrop. This is not the first time we are featuring the works of the Wardrop siblings in our newspaper.
The work presented here is only a brief preview of the body of work that Ilia Chavchavadze left his country since we can’t possibly cover all of his achievements in one article. We will continue to feature his works in other editions of our newspaper.
Autobiography
I was born on October 27 (o. s.) 1837 in the village of Kwareli, in the district of Telavi, in the province of Tiflis in the region comprising also the district of Signakh, called Kakheti. My father (Grigol) was a man of some education, he served as an officer in the Nizhegorod dragoons and had a good knowledge of the Russian language.
My mother was remarkable for her intimate acquaintance with the Georgian literature of her day, she knew almost by heart nearly all the poetry and all the ancient tales and stories then to be found in manuscript and print. She loved to read in the evenings to us her children stories and tales, and after reading would tell them over again in her own words and in the next evening, whoever of us repeated best what he had heard the night before was rewarded by her praise, which we greatly prized.
I began my studies by learning my native Georgian language with the deacon of the parish at the age of eight. This deacon was distinguished for his knowledge of Georgian; he was famous as a good reader of the holy books and was especially gifted with the fascination of a splendid narrator. His stories, suited to the childish comprehension in form and substance, dealt with separate episodes of the religious, but more particularly the civic history of our country and consisted of narrations of various heroic exploits in defence of the faith and fatherland. Many of these tales left an impression on my memory and served me many years afterwards as subjects for a poem, "Dimitri the Self- sacrificing" and a short Christmas story. Some passages in my Story of a Beggar exhibit marks of this influence. I learned my lessons at the deacon's with the peasant children of my native village, of whom there were only five or six as far as I recollect. We all lived at home and only came from morning till midday. So far as I remember we only spent an hour a day learning to read and write, and all the rest of the time till noon was spent in games under the supervision and guidance of the deacon, and especially, in listening to his alluring stories.
ELEGY
The pale light of the full moon
Was streaming on the fatherland
And its white ray among the mountains
Hovered in deep blue space.
Nowhere a sound, nowhere a cry
Nothing born of parents stirred
Save sometimes crying in pain
Some Georgian sobbing in his sleep was heard.
Again alone… and the mountain's shade
Caressed my native land in sleep
Still sleep O God! Sleep, always sleep
When shalt thou deem us worthy to awake?
SPRING
The wood is clothed in leaf?
The swallow twitters again,
In the garden the solitary vinestem
Weeps with excess of joy.
The mead is in bloom,
The mountains blossom,
O beloved fatherland
Why dost thou not bloom?
O OUR ARAGVA…
O our Aragva how I love thee!
Thou art the witness of our ancient life
On thy banks my, fatherland
Was at one time a glory.
The ancient greatness of my native land
Flourished before thy holy eye.
I love thee for this, that I a Georgian
There on thy banks was born.
In thy waves in the midst of my land
A long history lies buried
And pure Georgian blood
Has been poured forth on thy banks.
There where thy powerful stream
Mingles with the troubled slow Kura
There once was spilt Georgian life
There thundered the voice of Georgia for
for fatherland's sake.
Centuries have passed over thy waves
And centuries over — those Georgians
With overflowing heart on thy holy waters
How many times have I gazed with grief —
What sought I ? my country's past,
In thy sight my ancient fatherland has sunk in the stream.
