| Review: Julian Henry Lowenfeld, trans. «My Talisman / Мой талисман: The Poetry of Alexander Pushkin» |
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| Volume 08-09 (2005-06) - Vols. 8-9: Reviews / Рецензии | |
| Written by Flath, Carol Apollonio | |
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My Talisman / Мой талисман: The Poetry of Alexander Pushkin, translated with a foreword and biography by Julian Henry Lowenfeld. A Bilingual Book. New York: Green Lamp Press, 2003. v + 718 pp. ISBN 0-9748720-0-8.
This large and sloppy tribute to Pushkin’s poetry brims over with tender affection. The book owes its very existence to the translator’s enduring love for the poet; love predominates in his acknowledgments to teachers and friends, and it is an enduring theme both in the biographical sketch and in the poems themselves. The warm circle of love, however, quite pointedly excludes scholars, critics, and other translators.
In his prefatory note, Julian Henry Lowenfeld rashly decides to “make no apologies” (ii) for what will turn out to be a considerable number of offenses. Minor inconsistencies in transliteration, say, of the Cyrillic letter “ч” need not detain us, and we magnanimously grant the familiar Emersonian point about the “hobgoblin” of consistency and the “foolish minds,” etc., which the translator peremptorily cites in his defense (i). Many of us may still be rooting for Lowenfeld when he proclaims his preference for “language with a punch.” But it turns out that that punchy language has come at the expense of the “fruitless quest for arid exactitude” that apparently underlies the “academic mania for footnotes” (ii). It is here, in mid-sentence, that Lowenfeld loses most of the readers of Pushkin Review. The publishing world accommodates books with footnotes as well as books without, but is the line between beautiful language and scholarly rigor so stark that the two cannot share space? If Lowenfeld’s remaining readers grant the possibility that this assertion is true, then they will be justified in expecting a deeply satisfying reading experience. We will address this question in due time. Niceties of style aside, the more “pedantic” reader will feel downright indignant at Lowenfeld’s neglect to cite external sources, even in his eighty-page biography of the poet. Where did all this information come from? Surely not from the nameless hordes of hostile “biographers” (90), “many Russian critics” (71), “certain Soviet and even modern Pushkinists” (41), “other scholars … others, and … still others (95)” and suchlike as “there are those who …” (56) write “clueless tomes” (10) and against whom Lowenfeld fiercely defends his beloved Pushkin. Under these circumstances, all it takes is a single howler, and the reader’s fragile trust crumbles. So, for example, “…eight surviving children (of whom Pushkin was the second; five others died in infancy)…” (26) is undoubtedly the product of an editorial lapse, but the damage is done.
The book, though clearly the result of long and energetic effort, bears the telltale marks of hasty production. Transitions between sections are at times abrupt, one does encounter the odd typo, and the occasional font-size change or squeezed spacing is distracting. The decision to present the poetry in a bilingual format, though, is admirable. Each poem is presented on facing pages, with Russian on the left, English on the right. The book may offer some value as, in Nabokov’s term, a “pony” for students struggling with unfamiliar vocabulary, but the translation is sufficiently erratic to discourage that. The inclusion of parallel texts for the rest of the material is of marginal use. It is difficult to imagine the native speaker of Russian, for example, who would benefit from the inclusion of the earnest Russian-language version of the biography, and the careful reader will discover some curious lapses in the bilingual principle. For example, a reference to the Gabrieliad in the English version of the introduction (7) is coyly omitted from the Russian version (616). Mr. Lowenfeld downplays the blasphemous nature of this “sparkling ‘piece of mischief,’ a spoof of the Annunciation story (never meant for publication, but just as a private prank, a way to kill time)” (47). When it comes to Pushkin’s wife, however, he is less reticent. Some catty challenges to Natalia Nikolaevna’s honor (in the English version only) are likely to outrage the more sedate scholarly reader. Such, for example, include: “her flirtation (or worse)[1] with a handsome French officer” (15), the “live-in ‘toyboy’ of Baron Heckeren” (88); “Allegedly … D’Anthès … threatened to kill himself unless she consented to become (or resume being) his mistress” (94). Also missing from the Russian text is the reference to “unearthed- and very-earthy correspondence between D’Anthès and Yekaterina” (95) that Lowenfeld cites (without crediting his source) as proof that Natalia Nikolaevna’s sister Ekaterina was already pregnant at the time of Pushkin’s initial challenge to D’Anthès.
The serious reader, who can choose from a number of excellent scholarly biographies, including the most recent contribution by T. J. Binyon,[2] has nothing to gain from Lowenfeld’s biography. It is as translation, though, that My Talisman offers itself, and it is as translation that it begs to be judged. The translator’s taste is the governing principle for the selection of poems, and for their sequential organization. With the exception of some excerpts from longer works—Eugene Onegin, “The Bronze Horseman,” and Scene XIII from Boris Godunov—lyric poetry predominates. Initially a chronological principle seems to be at work. The book opens with a bold set of “Songs of Youth,” followed by “Southern Idylls” and “Rustic Exile: Mikhailovskoye.” Theme takes over in mid-stream, however, and the biographical structure gives way to nebulous emotional categories such as “The Storms of Fate,” “Meditations,” and “From the Heart.”
None of the poems are translated here for the first time. It is with interest, then, that we learn that previous translators have proven inadequate to the task: “Pushkin’s undiluted voice is long overdue in the English language” (21). Lowenfeld contextualizes his endeavor with their failure: Various quite eminent scholars (Arndt, Johnston, Deutsch, and Falen, to name but a few) have produced fair rhyming translations, deserving of praise and respect. Yet Pushkin’s majestic lightness is not easily conveyed. Too often Pushkin’s Russian verses, so easy and magnificent in the original, come out even in good English translations with an incongruously comic effect derived from the forcing of the rhyme, like some Tin Pan Alley jingle.… (5)
This is not the place to embark on an extended defense of the translators slandered here. Conveniently, all of them and many more are represented in a single work, the superb new fifteen-volume Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin,[3] which the reader is urged to consult for comparison. As for Lowenfeld, his work falls short both of his own, and their, standards. No one, of course, can adequately convey the spirit of Pushkin’s verse while retaining the integrity of its original poetic structure. Nabokov famously proclaimed his refusal to try, and his militantly literal translation of Eugene Onegin[4] remains the joy of the language student. Lowenfeld falls into the trap, endeavoring to maintain both literal meaning and form, and in doing so sacrificing Pushkin’s essence. “Error” is a dangerous term to apply to poetic translations, and Lowenfeld’s work is generally reliable, though there are instances of inaccuracies, misreadings, and what we might call missed opportunities: “holy” for светлом (presumably misread as святом) (171); or “hear” for permutations of Russian “listen” (наслушаться/заслушивался: “hear and hear”) (39; 152–53; 405), for example. As for the style, certain patterns predominate. In his struggle with Pushkin’s ubiquitous iambs, the translator resorts to a recurring set of cheap, low-content words (“did,” “right,” “very,” “up,” “so,” etc.). Strings of idiosyncratically ordered mono- and disyllables abound: “bare dark forest bleak” (109); “make sound, make sound, you little breeze obedient” (149); “dear languid passion swift” (127); “From branches stripped all bare the very last few leaves” (415). Other translators, in similar situations, deploy a richer vocabulary.[5] At times the word-strings descend into incoherence: “with their light touch croon playful runs” (181); “the bay that dozes hushed, black cliff-peaks silver painting (155); “she spanned / Her shadow young above me flying” (191); “Your voice of the abyss, dull pounds” (201); “Ope wide your bliss enveloped gazing” (231); “into the park the fence leaped o’er” (117). The word-to-world relationship in this translation can be unduly loose. In clashes with out, leading with pushing, and beyond with twixt: “Found something in her out with my capricious dreaming” (417); “There, towards a ravine he’s leading / with a push, our lonely horse” (363); “Yet twixt us looms a bound beyond our ken” (191). Some actions and situations are difficult, or even painful, to picture: “But you from our caressing bitter / pulled back your lips and tore them free” (193); “with skates of sharpened steel strapped on me” (415); “So, nostrils dusty drinking of quicksand shifting” (435). In Autumn, Pushkin’s cozy lovers are torn apart by Lowenfeld’s stampeding sleigh: “So quick and free the sleigh runs with your girlfriend / When, wrapped in sable furs so warm and fresh, you race” (415). In an arresting example, Ruslan and Liudmila’s famous rusalka (Русалка на ветвях сидит) becomes a group of freakish, fused mermaids: “Mermaids from branches hang their tail” (227). At times the sacrifice of vocabulary seems too costly for the payback of an inexact rhyme: “Tried, tried to hold you tightly tucked / My moans prayed you’d not interrupt” (193). And some colloquialisms test the limits of even the frolicsome Pushkin: “Snowstorm’s done clear blown my eyes in” (363); or, in reference to Natalia Nikolaevna: “My wife’s a big hit” (77).
The characteristic features of Lowenfeld’s style can be seen at work in the initial lines of “The Captive”: Сижу за решеткой в темнице сырой. Imprisoned, I’m caged in a dungeon that’s dank,
The translator’s lexical redundancy diffuses the eloquent economy of the poet’s vocabulary (“imprisoned” and “caged”). Even with the inserted crutches (that’s, but, nigh, still, then), it’s a rough ride. As for the content—the perfect image at the center of the poem—it has changed beyond recognition. Pushkin’s prisoner looks down at the eagle under the window of his cell; Lowenfeld’s dank dungeon situates the scene at ground level. Lowenfeld’s eagle eats grains, which mysteriously bleed. In an unforgettable and precise visual snapshot, Pushkin’s eagle pecks at a piece of meat, tossing it into the air, flapping a wing with the effort, and casting a glance up at the prisoner. Lowenfeld’s eagle not only flies over to the prisoner’s cell, but actually thrusts the bloody food through the window.[6] At a certain point, this is neither translation nor poetry.
There is no substitute, in any language, for rich vocabulary and poetic sense, but these are rare virtues. This book indeed does serve its purpose, which is to renew our appreciation of Pushkin, and to introduce his poetry to new readers. The virtues of My Talisman are, fittingly, Pushkin’s: the wealth of drawings by the poet, some captioned, some self-explanatory, and, of course the poetry, which, at least in Russian, is as beautiful as ever. As ever, it stands in sublime indifference to the translators who rush, as Falen’s Pushkin puts it, “in tumult tumbling / To fall about [its] feet like slaves!”[7]
Carol Apollonio Flath Citation:
Download: [1] All emphasis mine. —CAF. [2] Pushkin: A Biography (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003). [3] Alexander Pushkin, Complete Works of Alexander Pushkin in English, ed. Ian Sproat et al. (Norfolk: Milner and Company Limited, 1999 – 2003). [4] Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse, translated from the Russian, with a commentary, by Vladimir Nabokov (Princeton University Press; Bollingen Paperback Edition, 1990). [5] Compare the three-syllable gem, “reluctant,” in the unjustly maligned Babette Deutsch’s version: “the last reluctant leaves from naked boughs” (Complete Works, 3: 182). [6] Compare Falen’s version: “I sit in my cell where the windows are barred. / An eagle is feeding below in the yard; / A sullen companion, a captive like me, / He tears at the blood-covered carcass I see (Complete Works, 2: 84). [7] Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse, translated with an introduction and notes by James E. Falen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 19.
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