Vasyl Lopata. Portrait of Ivan Mazepa, 1991 / ukrlib.com.ua
This story has been told in countless ways. It has served as inspiration for great novelists and playwrights, painters, and filmmakers. Behind the scenes, the bandura played, and part-singing resonated, while on the main stage, a passionate yet fleeting love unfolded. Impossible by its very nature, making it all the more intense and intoxicating.
NEXT DOOR…
They were neighbors. Between them stood oaks, birch groves, and thousands of graceful elms. In spring, the leaves were young and barely green, but in summer, they turned mossy and dark. Plowed fields, ramparts, and an entrance gate. One shared sky and the common land of Baturyn. Air-saturated with chamomile and fragrant sweet pea.
The girl’s father and her beloved were old friends — no wonder Vasyl Kochubey made Mazepa his godfather. They drank together, sometimes at Kochubey’s home, sometimes in the hetman’s residence. Ivan Stepanovych helped advance his friend’s career, raising him from a chancery clerk to a general judge. He granted him lands and gifted him Dykan’ka. He gladly baptized his younger daughter — who, as it turned out, was not just a lovely child but his future beloved, Motria.
Hetman Mazepa was respected and even cherished, for he had legalized serf labor at only two days per week, invested over one and a half million gold coins in Kyiv’s development, and personally funded the construction and restoration of nearly fifty churches and religious buildings. He allocated lands to Orthodox monasteries and donated icons, books, and bells. He financed book printing and took care of the Kyiv-Mohyla Academy. And beyond all that, he possessed an extraordinary charisma.
He skillfully plucked the strings of the bandura, wrote poetry, and had an undeniable magnetism. The moment he opened his mouth, everyone listened — people, trees, birds. His eloquence had no equal. Fluent in Latin, Russian, Italian, Tatar, Polish, French, and German, he would pepper his speech with Latin quotes. At his court lived German doctors, with whom he spoke in their native tongue, and Italian craftsmen, with whom he conversed fluently in Italian.
Of course, Motria could not resist. How could she? He was profound, attentive, and charismatic. He knew how to remain eloquently silent, love passionately, and shower his beloved with pearls and diamonds. What did it matter that he was sixty-five and she was only sixteen? Does true love ever care about age?
THE SCORCHING SUMMER OF 1704
That summer was the most passionate of their lives. It seemed as if nature itself was on their side. The waters of the Seym River moved swiftly and confidently as always, making the bream and pikes almost dance. Bank swallows flitted in and out of their burrows, chirping with boundless vitality. Gray and white herons bobbed their crests and tirelessly hunted over the water’s surface.
Their hunting was observed by the tousled trees. River beavers were busy constructing new lodges. Thoughtful mills and millhouses labored at their own pace, ensuring the finest grind of flour, while Motria Kochubey hurried to the old oak to leave a letter in its hollow.
The youngest of the Kochubey daughters was beautiful and sharp-witted. Quick in thought and action. She lived with her parents in a small, single-story house with arched windows and a triangular, crenelated roof. In winter, she warmed herself by the turquoise-tiled stove; in summer, she basked under the generous Baturyn sun. That sunlight made the house seem even brighter, and the marigolds spread their bitter fragrance all the more energetically.
Motria herself did not understand how she had fallen in love with her own godfather. It simply happened — one day, they met on the road, locked eyes, and the whirlwind began. Eternal truths faded, church canons lost their weight, and the threat of anathema ceased to matter. Ivan Stepanovych had not only held her under the cross and renounced the devil — he had wielded the hetman’s mace for years, striving to unite the Left and Right Banks and free Ukraine from Moscow’s yoke.
He was the most influential man in the Dnieper region. He built churches, schools, seminaries, and hospitals. A master of military affairs, he kept an impressive weapons collection at his estate in Honcharivka, and in the city, he maintained a workshop for manufacturing cannons. Highly educated, he hosted diplomats, princes, and even the emperor himself in his castle.
He organized choral concerts and grand feasts. He was both a pragmatist and a romantic — and one of the wealthiest landowners in Europe, with properties in Moscow, Kyiv, Pereiaslav, Chernihiv, Nizhyn, Hlukhiv, Starodub, and many other towns and villages across Ukraine. He rode horses, practiced fencing, and traveled in his youth to Holland, Italy, Germany, and France.
And so, she adored everything about him — his fair hair, the wrinkles on his forehead, his high rank. His posture, his gaze, the elegance of his hands. Moreover, she once overheard her mother whisper about his remarkable skill in matters of love. That in tenderness and passion, he knew no borders, no limits.
BETWEEN THE SEYM, SWAYING ELMS, AND RAMPARTS…
For a while, they kept their love a secret. Fortunately, they were neighbors — meeting in the birch grove, by the river, or near her father’s chancery. Motria could not take her eyes off him: tall, with a neatly trimmed mustache in the Polish style and dressed in the latest French fashion.
He had a stern appearance, eyes bright and lively, speaking with passion and conviction. He recited his poetry. He knew their love was sinful, that the church forbade such unions, but he was powerless against it. He loved her. Almost in passing, he asked if she would marry him, and the enamored girl said yes.
Soon, he wrote a letter to her father, asking for his goddaughter’s hand. He explained that he had been a widower for two years and that the hetman’s household needed a mistress. Motria had won his heart, and he sought their blessing for a lawful marriage. Vasyl read the request three times, consulted with his wife, Liuba — who nearly burst with fury — and responded with a polite but firm refusal.
The main reason was not the church or its laws but something far more personal. Many years ago, old Kochubey’s wife had been one of Ivan’s lovers, and Vasyl himself had long envied his powerful neighbor, secretly dreaming of the hetman’s mace. Furious, the mother stormed into Motria’s room and slapped the «shameless girl» across the face so hard it felt like boiling water had scalded her cheek.
She called her a harlot, struck her again, and ordered her to pack. If you cannot control your sinful passions, you will live among nuns — rise at three for midnight prayers, take a vow, and serve the monastery. The house erupted into chaos. Servants rushed about, preparing the carriage and packing trunks and suitcases.
Motria acted swiftly, desperately, driven by the same fiery will as her mother. Seizing the moment of confusion, she slipped through the door and ran into the night toward her beloved’s palace. She raced through the birch and elm groves, pushing past the darkness, her fear, and her shame.
THE ESCAPE
She arrived nearly in the dead of night, breaking through the guards by any means necessary. Ivan was still awake, writing letters to his carved secretary. The lovers embraced, and passion ran through them like fire, reaching their very bones. The sudden closeness made her head spin. They were utterly alone — only the moon peered through the windows, and the wind shuffled the stars into a random pattern.
Motria breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling. Suddenly, the hetman clenched his fists and gently pushed her away. His experience and reason were strong enough to restrain him from seduction. Instead, they sat across from each other — to think, to deliberate.
The girl was mesmerized as she took in the palace — the vast collection of books, mostly in Latin, the fireplace, the glazed majolica tiles adorned with smiling angels, the floor laid out in an intricate mosaic of blue, green, and terracotta tiles. The gilded and silvered candelabras gleamed in the dim light.
Ivan knew he had influence over the church and was certain they would be wed. But when he shared his plan with Motria, he saw hesitation in her eyes — she feared taking such a step without her parents’ blessing.
The man lowered his gaze, seeming to shrink in stature, his mood darkening with sorrow. By morning, he sent his beloved home just as untouched as she had arrived. He wanted neither scandalous gossip nor a loud quarrel with the neighbors.
«MY MALLOW FLOWER!»
They never saw each other again. Loyal servants Karpo and Melashka carried their letters, for Motria was not allowed to leave the house — she was placed under house arrest. Her mother boiled with rage, cursing both the hetman and her own child.
Motria spent hours by the window, gazing longingly at Mazepa’s mansion with its mansard roof. In her mind, she walked the familiar path past the wooden estate church, the servants’ wing, and the guardhouse. She sent him a lock of her hair, a nightgown, and the still-warm necklace she had just taken off her neck. She reread his tender and passionate words: «My dearest beloved Motronka! My mallow flower! I send you my bow, Your Grace, my heart, and with it, a small gift — a book and a diamond ring…»
His letters piled up, burning with desire. In each one, he kissed her entire body in words, confessing that he had never loved anyone as he loved her. He pleaded for just a moment together.
But Kochubey’s wife was furious and refused to give up her plan to lock Motria away in a convent. Her husband, Vasyl, went even further.
Together with Poltava’s colonel, Iskra, he wrote to the Russian emperor, Peter I, accusing Mazepa of secretly negotiating with the Polish and Swedish kings and plotting a grand betrayal. And, if that were not enough, he had the shameless soul to seduce his underage daughter — his own goddaughter! And if Your Majesty does not believe me, here are this scoundrel’s love letters. Imagine the audacity of this decrepit seducer, lusting after young, untouched flesh!
Peter read the letter, stood up, watered his beloved tulips — of which he was immensely proud — and ordered the accusers to be arrested and tortured. For the whip is no angel — it cannot extract the soul, but it will extract the truth.
When Vasyl Kochubey saw the stake, the torture wheel, and the iron hoop, he quickly confessed to the lie. Both were handed over to Ivan Stepanovych for execution, and the sentence was carried out in Borshchahivka.
THE BATURYN MASSACRE
A few years later, everything changed. Motria was married off, Ivan Mazepa openly sided with Charles XII, and in retaliation, Peter ordered the city of Baturyn to be burned to the ground — the very city into which the hetman had poured his greatest efforts and wealth.
The tsar’s army had at its disposal around fifteen thousand dragoons and five thousand infantry, while Baturyn was defended by only eight thousand foot soldiers. Rumors spread that at dawn on November 13, a Pryluky colonel named Nis led the invaders through a secret passage, allowing them to take the defenders by surprise.
A horrific massacre began — young and old alike were shot, stabbed, strangled, drowned, and tortured. Women were raped before being executed. Looted treasures were carted away. Then fire was set to the homes and streets, consuming everything — mills, churches, the hetman’s residence.
Only the Kochubey estate remained untouched. The emperor himself had ordered its preservation, and Menshikov, who led the slaughter, ensured that command was obeyed.
Mazepa could not recover from the destruction of Baturyn or the defeat at Poltava. His spirit withered. His proud Cossack mustache, his charisma, his magnetic energy — all were gone. He fell ill, tormented by gout, drifting in and out of consciousness. Before his death, he raved — perhaps still whispering declarations of love to Motria or perhaps to his suffering, blood-soaked homeland.
