Zubr Hunting
This is a marvelous story about the remarkable poem, The Song of the Zubr, written in 1522 by Belarusan diplomat Mikola Husoŭski especially for Pope Leo X.
The zubr is the Belarusan name for an animal like American bison, but quite bigger. It has been preserved only in Belarus.
History tells an amazing story of how this came to be.
The Vatican, 1521. Pope Leo X arranges entertainment for his guests: the ambassador from the distant northern country of the Grand Principality of Litva (the medieval Belarus) Bishop Erasm Vitely along with his retinue. Ah, how he wanted to impress the foreigners with this new show—the still-novel Italian corrida!
…But suddenly, someone in the retinue exclaimed: "Wow! It looks just like our zubr hunting!"
That sparked a number of curious questions from the Pope. Mikola from Husaŭ happened to be in the retinue. As the son of a forest warden and a great hunter himself, he began to recount his hunting adventures. He explained that zubr hunting resembled a corrida, but instead of taking place in a ring, it was held directly in the forest. Some daredevils would even face the furious wild animal in single combat. In fact, such events were held as training for soldiership skills.
The amazed Pope asked the ambassador to present him with a stuffed specimen of this odd animal and requested a poem written in verse about it (as was the fashion at the time).
The Bishop immediately sent messengers to Kniaz* Radzivill for a stuffed animal; and Mikola Husoŭski was ordered to write down his entire story on paper and to compose a truly poetic work about the zubr, the country, and the hunts.
The Song Appears
Thus, in 1522, The Song of The Zubr appeared to the world. It has become a brilliant piece of art of the Renaissance—a work of a high poetry that belongs to the treasury of world literature. In truth, it was a song about his home country, the grand hymn of his motherland, its nature, and of the courageous, beautiful soul of its people.
Written in Latin, the international language of the era, the poem was meant to introduce European society to medieval Belarus, its people, their customs, and their outlook on the world. And for us, their descendants, it has become a vital chronicle of life during that time.
“So, let's go to the North, into the depths of the forests!
As a tracker, I will lead you, for I am used to it.
We are going to meet the formidable, mighty animal there.
Let him roar; and this roar will break through my lines
Like an echo, the song will attain a harmony.
Let him butt my line, so that we can look upon
This wonder in the expanse of the Litvian Duchy.
Its mighty body is so huge that if it is mortally wounded
And, wounded, kneels down,
Three hunters can sit between its horns...
...Our land is a wonderful haven of mysteries and miracles...” (c) M.H.
A Land of Giants
This is a story about a country of mighty volats (giant; strong, valiant men)—of nature and men who were equal in strength in the struggle for life. It was a country, where stalwart fellows regarded ferocious competition with furious, wild animals as entertainment.
It is the story of a volat-state governed by wise, fair rulers, and defended by courageous, strong warriors who steeled their valour in competitions and hunts.
This was a wealthy, free country where "everybody is equal before the law and has a right to hunt, so obtain as much, as you can"(© M.H.). It was a place where a peasant or a forest warden's son had the opportunity to study at any university in Europe or hold a position in any government service.
It was a country of educated artists and poets, where spirituality was considered the highest value—where hunters became diplomats, and diplomats, by chance became poets.
Namely, such a country was capable to halting the mighty invasions of the Golden Horde from the east and the Crusaders from the west at the exact same time.
And this is the story of how The Zubr became our proudly admired and dearly beloved national animal through the centuries since that time.
My personal story
Finally, there is my personal story connected with this work—my essay The Country of Free Volats which was written as my homework during my first year of English school in Canada.
The essay can be found on my website: The country of Free Volats
In my design, I included the solar signs of ancestors and male valor to the left upper corner of the piece.
At the bottom is an inscription reading “Zubr Hunting”, rendered in the Belarusan Traditional Stitching Motifs Font**, alongside the symbols of forest and a woodland.
*Kniaz is a highest noble rank; in this case, the ruler of the country.
** Belarusan Traditional Stitching Motifs Font is a stylized interpretation of the Cyrillic and Latin alphabets, inspired by traditional Belarusan ornamental patterns found on belts and towels. It was created by Belarusan philosopher and linguist Mihail Bayaryn.
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Here is what can be found online about Mikola Husousky and "The Song of the Zubr".
(also, try to make your own research—maybe, you can find some more))
Rediscovering Mikola Husouski: Carmen De Statura Feritate Ac Venatione Bisontis
Mikola Husouski or Mikola Husoski_2
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Song of the Bison:
Text and Translation of Nicolaus Hussovianus’s "Carmen de statura, feritate, ac venatione bisontis"
https://muse.jhu.edu/book/82172
In 1521, the young Lithuanian diplomat Nicolaus Hussovianus was watching the bullfights at a papal celebration in Rome. He remarked that the spectacle reminded him of the bison hunts he had witnessed as a young man in the Lithuanian woods, and his employer then asked Hussovianus to write a poem about the bison hunts, to accompany the gift of a stuffed bison for Pope Leo X, an avid hunter. Song of the Bison is the first complete English translation of Hussovianus’s Latin poem, which is claimed as a national epic by Belarus. The exciting poem discusses not only Hussovianus’s own experience in hunting and observing the European bison, but also the political, social, religious, and aesthetic developments of sixteenth-century Europe, and ends with an urgent plea for unity among European states threatened by foreign invasions.
It was not long ago, when in a big crowd
I saw a spectacle that took place in Rome.
When the bulls engaged in the fierce battle
Shaking off waves of bolts from their bodies,
Their wrath increased by those puncturing goads,
Swiftly turning on men in widespread slaughter,
When I marveled how much madness was aroused
By applause and wounds in the frenzied sway:
One of my friends recalled the woods of the north:
I began to tell in response to requests
About various wild beast hunts and the great strength
Of the bison - but my tongue caused me trouble,
For then I was charged to repeat promptly
My words in a song - and this is my chore.
In truth, we are reluctant to write about
The bison - He's a hated and terrible beast,
Which, although we are proud, if we kill him,
Inhabits the regions of the north pole
And caused me at times such great trepidation
That I ran away, mocked by the wicked crowd.
But why heed the crowd! It is much more frightful
To test one's weapons before the learned men;
For either I'll stagger under this burden
Or will only receive a polite applause.
Yet unwilling to ignore words of the man
To whom I owe so much, I'll delay no more.
I won't say my imagination runs dry,
But I give you what barren ground can produce.
Coming recently to unknown Italy,
We began, as ordered, to compose this piece.
I plead, a visitor from the remote lands,
With legitimate reasons, that no one hope
That this narrative be more lofty in style
Than is required to understand it.
Do you know, reader, what quill serves me today?
I keep it in the quiver, right by my side.
I take paper from the quiver to write,
From it fly my swishing bolts to kill forthwith.
You write, while I draw a bowstring with more skill,
We may be equal, though our skills are different.
Don't mock foreign lines of the unlearned man,
I carry, amazing thing, quite sharp arrows,
Filled with a poison of such unusual strength:
He who is hit by them falls from the slightest wound.
Accustomed to wade through the northern forests,
Now I also want to hide in the pine woods.
For good or bad - one can get lost in the woods -
Let the most horrid beast roar in my poem
And with a resounding echo convey
The distinctive tunes that formed our song… continue ...
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