Lectures on Russian literature

unfortunately K.

Balmont's version of Edgar Allan Poe's 'Bells.' What Balmont's numerous translations look like may be readily understood when I say that his own work invariably disclosed an almost pathological inability to write one single melodious line.

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Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian literature

Having at his disposal a sufficient number of hackneyed rhymes and taking up as he rode any hitch-hiking metaphor that he happened to meet, he turned something that Poe had taken considerable pains to compose into something that any Russian rhymester could dash off at a moment's notice. In reversing it into English I was solely concerned with finding English words that would sound like the Russian ones. Now, if somebody one day comes across my English version of that Russian version, he may foolishly retranslate it into Russian so that the Poe-less poem will go on being balmontized until, perhaps, the 'Bells' become 'Silence.' Something still more grotesque happened to Baudelaire's exquisitely dreamy

'Invitation au Voyage' ( 'Mon enfant, ma soeur, Songe a la douceur. . . . ') The Russian version was due to the pen of Merezhkovski, who had even less poetical talent than Balmont. It began like this:

My sweet little bride, Let's go for a ride ;

Promptly it begot a rollicking tune and was adopted by all the organ-grinders of Russia. I like to imagine a future French translator of Russian folksongs re-Frenchifying it into:

Viens, mon p'tit, A Nijni

and so on, ad malinfinitum.

Barring downright deceivers, mild imbeciles and impotent poets, there exist, roughly speaking, three types of translators—

and this has nothing to do with my three categories of evil; or, rather, any of the three types may err in a similar way. These three are: the scholar who is eager to make the world appreciate the works of an obscure genius as much as he does himself; the well meaning hack; and the professional writer relaxing in the company of a foreign confrere. The scholar will be, I hope, exact and pedantic: footnotes — on the same page as the text and not tucked away at the end of the volume—

can never be too copious and detailed. The laborious lady translating at the eleventh hour the eleventh volume of somebody's collected works will be, I am afraid, less exact and less pedantic; but the point is not that the scholar commits fewer blunders than a drudge; the point is that as a rule both he and she are hopelessly devoid of any semblance of creative genius. Neither learning nor diligence can replace imagination and style.

Now comes the authentic poet who has the two last assets and who finds relaxation in translating a bit of Lermontov or Verlaine between writing poems of his own. Either he does not know the original language and calmly relies upon the so-called 'literal' translation made for him by a far less brilliant but a little more learned person, or else, knowing the language, he lacks the scholar's precision and the professional translator's experience. The main drawback, however, in this case is the fact that the greater his individual talent, the more apt he will be to drown the foreign masterpiece under the sparkling ripples of his own personal style. Instead of dressing up like the real author, he dresses up the author as himself.

We can deduce now the requirements that a translator must possess in order to be able to give an ideal version of a foreign masterpiece. First of all he must have as much talent, or at least the same kind of talent, as the author he chooses. In this, though only in this, respect Baudelaire and Poe or Jhukovski and Schiller made ideal playmates. Second, he must know thoroughly the two nations and the two languages involved and be perfectly acquainted with all details relating to his author's manner and methods; also, with the social background of words, their fashions, history and period associations.

This leads to the third point: while having genius and knowledge he must possess the gift of mimicry and be able to act, as it were, the real author's part by impersonating his tricks of demeanor and speech, his ways and his mind, with the utmost degree of verisimilitude.

I have lately tried to translate several Russian poets who had either been badly disfigured by former attempts or who had never been translated at all.

The English at my disposal is certainly thinner than my Russian; the difference being, in fact, that which exists between a semi-detached villa and a hereditary estate, between self-conscious comfort and habitual luxury. I am not satisfied therefore with the results attained, but my studies disclosed several rules that other writers might follow with profit.

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Vladimir Nabokov: Lectures on Russian literature

I was confronted for instance with the following opening line of one of Pushkin's most prodigious poems: Yah pom-new chewed-no-yay mg-no-vain-yay

I have rendered the syllables by the nearest English sounds I could find; their mimetic disguise makes them look rather ugly; but never mind; the 'chew' and the 'vain' are associated phonetically with other Russian words meaning beautiful and important things, and the melody of the line with the plump, golden-ripe 'chewed-no-yay' right in the middle and the

'm's' and 'n's' balancing each other on both sides, is to the Russian ear most exciting and soothing —a paradoxical combination that any artist will understand.

Now, if you take a dictionary and look up those four words you will obtain the following foolish, flat and familiar statement: 'I remember a wonderful moment.' What is to be done with this bird you have shot down only to find that it is not a bird of paradise, but an escaped parrot, still screeching its idiotic message as it flaps on the ground? For no stretch of the imagination can persuade an English reader that 'I remember a wonderful moment' is the perfect beginning of a perfect poem. The first thing I discovered was that the expression 'a literal translation' is more or less nonsense. 'Yah pom-new' is a deeper and smoother plunge into the past than 'I remember,' which falls flat on its belly like an inexperienced diver; 'chewed-no-yay' has a lovely Russian 'monster' in it, and a whispered 'listen,'and the dative ending of a

'sunbeam,'and many other fair relations among Russian words. It belongs phonetically and mentally to a certain series of words, and this Russian series does not correspond to the English series in which 'I remember' is found. And inversely,

'remember,'though it clashes with the corresponding 'pom-new' series, is connected with an English series of its own whenever real poets do use it. And the central word in Housman's 'What are those blue remembered hills?' becomes in Russian 'vspom-neev-she-yes-yah,' a horrible straggly thing, all humps and horns, which cannot fuse into any inner connection with 'blue,' as it does so smoothly in English, because the Russian sense of blueness belongs to a different series than the Russian 'remember' does.

This interrelation of words and non-correspondence of verbal series in different tongues suggests yet another rule, namely, that the three main words of the line draw one another out, and add something which none of them would have had separately or in any other combination. What makes this exchange of secret values possible is not only the mere contact between the words, but their exact position in regard both to the rhythm of the line and to one another. This must be taken into account by the translator.

Finally, there is the problem of the rhyme. 'Mg-no-vain-yay' has over two thousand Jack-in-the-box rhymes popping out at the slightest pressure, whereas I cannot think of one to 'moment.' The position of 'mg-no-vain-yay' at the end of the line is not negligible either, due as it is to Pushkin's more or less consciously knowing that he would not have to hunt for its mate.

But the position of 'moment' in the English line implies no such security; on the contrary he would be a singularly reckless fellow who placed it there.

Thus I was confronted by that opening line, so full of Pushkin, so individual and harmonious; and after examining it gingerly from the various angles here suggested, I tackled it. The tackling process lasted the worst part of the night. I did translate it at last; but to give my version at this point might lead the reader to doubt that perfection be attainable by merely following a few perfect rules.

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