San Remo, April 4(17), 1903
My Highly Esteemed Friend,
I regret that you took my letter as teasing—it was not intended that way at all. If anything, it was directed at myself rather than at you. This year has been a critical one for me; once again, I find myself at a crossroads, much as I did in my early youth. I must make decisions, think for myself, and rely on my own strength—often not only without support but even facing opposition from those who, one would think, should not be opposing me. (At that time, Lesia Ukrainka’s parents did not support her plans to study and work abroad, editor’s note.) This constant struggle wastes energy and exhausts the mind. Because of it, I sometimes lose my sense of reality and am unfair to both others and myself. Add to that my usual chronic and, perhaps, lifelong illness, and you may understand—and even forgive—any missteps in how I express myself in my letters. I hold nothing against you and blame you for nothing. No matter what your “schiste toward people” (schiste—a dialectal Galician form of the word happiness) may be, you have shown me such schiste that even the slightest offense I might have caused you—however unconsciously—would deeply pain me. That may not be of much use, but it is the truth.
I never asked you for any “statistics” (referring to information about the salaries of gymnasium teachers and the approximate fees for tutoring services in Galicia, editor’s note)—neither for myself nor for my friend. (Lesia Ukrainka is referring to Klymentii Kvitka, her future husband, editor’s note.) I simply thought that you might already have a general idea of the conditions. For instance, I know the minimum fee for such lectures in Russia, so if someone asked me, I wouldn’t need to compile exact statistics—I could answer based on what I know. I assumed that perhaps you had simply forgotten to mention it. But I don’t want to trouble you with this matter; you have enough work as it is. Once I am in Lviv, I will inquire myself, so please don’t waste your time or energy on it.
Neither my friend nor I would have any objections to becoming Austrian citizens. Unlike my uncle (Mykhailo Drahomanov, editor’s note), I would even be willing to become an Abyssinian citizen if it meant no longer being a subject of the Russian Empire. I do not consider Russian subjecthood a national trait—rather, it is a national misfortune. To me, it is a matter of practical importance. A Ukrainian compromises just as much by being a subject of either Russia or Austria. St. Petersburg is as foreign to me as Vienna, and I see no great sacrifice in changing my passport. On the contrary, I would be happy to do so at the first opportunity. So, if living in Austria requires me to cease being a Russian subject, I will take all necessary steps to make that happen as soon as possible. I just don’t know how easy or quick the process will be. I would prefer not to be seen as a fugitive emigrant but as a properly naturalized citizen, so that I could still visit Ukraine from time to time. After all, while I consider Austrian Ukraine my homeland, many things still tie me to certain places in Russian Ukraine, preventing me from saying definitively that I am leaving for good. In any case, I would need to return to Ukraine before making my final decision—there are many matters I must settle, whether before liquidation or before a different, new government. (This passage was removed by Soviet censors in the 12-volume edition of Lesia Ukrainka’s works published in 1979, editor’s note.)
Regarding the public perception of Drahomanivshchyna, I can only say this: I do not believe that truth is so elusive that it can be lost entirely. If not you or I, then surely those stronger than us will bring it to light—at least the core of it. As for myself, once this acute crisis passes (I hope by the fall), I will assess my own strengths and define a clear course of action—what I can and must do. And the information I asked you to look into in Lviv is part of that decision-making process. Once again, I ask: if this matter causes you even the slightest inconvenience, please do not trouble yourself—I will manage it on my own.
I hope you will not find dealing with me too burdensome. I may not have the same capabilities as the late Kovalevskyi (referring to Mykola Vasylovych Kovalevskyi (1841–1897), a public figure, associate, and friend of Mykhailo Drahomanov, who was long involved in financing Ukrainian publications abroad, editor’s note), but I can still be of some use to my friends in this cause. In any case, we will discuss these and other matters when we meet—if not in a month, then in two. In the meantime, do not be angry with me. When I make mistakes, they harm me more than anyone else—but at least I am not among the complacent.
Goodbye! My regards to your mother.
L.K.
In a letter to the Ukrainian Galician politician Mykhailo Pavlyk, writer Lesia Ukrainka discusses her plan to emigrate from the Russian Empire. Written in 1903 from San Remo, where she was undergoing treatment, the letter reflects her candid thoughts, unrestrained by the censorship of the Russian Empire, which would hardly have allowed such a message to pass had it come to her attention. At the very least, Soviet censors did not overlook the most revealing passage, omitting it from the 12-volume edition of her works published in 1979. This omitted fragment offers insight into the views of the Ukrainian elites of the time—of which Ukrainka was a prominent representative, being both the niece and student of one of the greatest Ukrainian political thinkers of the nineteenth century, Mykhailo Drahomanov—on the dual citizenship of Ukrainians under two different empires (Austro-Hungarian and Russian) and the experiences that came with it.