Russian Literature: A Very Short Introduction

This version of the opening lines of ‘19 October 1825’, translated by Thomas Budge Shaw, teacher of English at the Tsarskoe Selo Lyceum (the school Pushkin attended) in the 1840s, was highly regarded in its time. But now it sounds unbearably fusty. This is not Shaw’s fault. He is strictly accurate in metrical terms; though inventing some ‘pale clouds’ and ‘steaming frost’, he closely follows the sense of the Russian too, which is quite an achievement. The problem is that linguistic taste has altered in the English-speaking world as it has not in Russia. Though Pushkin’s style in this piece has a formality that recalls eighteenth-century elegies, the Russian words rendered by ‘hath roll’d’ or ‘doff’d’ are still standard in colloquial speech, not mothballed by centuries of non-use. ‘Purply-gold’ is a convincing rendition of the emotional and highly-coloured adjective bagryanyi

(crimson: the word

bagryanitsa

is used for silk brocade in that colour), but it provokes dyspepsia in Anglophone readers of poetry who have swallowed (as many have) T. S. Eliot’s strictures against high-style poeticisms. Given that the phrases that most move Russian readers are likely to strike English-speaking ones as particularly laughable or tasteless, it follows that translations admired by native speakers of Russian tend to go down badly with native speakers of English, and vice versa. Anglophone translators who followed Joseph Brodsky’s advice, and rendered Mandelstam in the manner of late Yeats, would be unlikely to enjoy the warm esteem of their contemporaries. Even if Pushkin had (as with Rabelais and Urquhart) been translated by a brilliant contemporary, the translation would probably strike modern readers as disappointing. The reaction of Rebecca West, used as the chapter epigraph, typifies the frustration of those who have tried to read Pushkin in English and not been able to get the point.

But one should not get too melodramatic about this. Pious sentiments about the untranslatability of Pushkin seem to be a genre requirement in every introduction to the writer: they are as true, but also as false, as platitudes about poetry getting lost in translation. Certainly, Pushkin is best read in Russian, just as Aeschylus is in Greek, or Dante in Italian. But reading these writers in English is better than not reading them at all. And, as the cases of Shakespeare in Russian or Dostoevsky in English make clear, great writers are best served by a proliferation of translations. Only if the whole range of a writer’s work is available does his or her diversity become clear. At least until the 1990s, when more ambitious translation projects got under way, Pushkin in English meant Evgeny Onegin plus a handful of famous love poems – ‘I remember the wonderful moment’ (1825), ‘I loved you’ (1829), ‘On the hills of Georgia’ (1829). He came across as a sort of Russian Byron, though much of his verse is far closer in spirit to Pope, or then again to Shelley, Blake, Wordsworth, or even Burns. The more translations there are, the more likely readers are to find in one or other poem, or in one or other version of the same poem, the ‘sense of discovery’ that is (as the Italian writer Italo Calvino has argued) one of the most important reasons for reading a classic writer.

This ‘sense of discovery’ does not necessarily make itself felt when the text reads easily in English. Ted Hughes’s version of Pushkin’s Romantic poem ‘The Prophet’ (1827) uses harsh consonant clashes not found in the original, as well as dispensing with rhyme. But the use of a rough, abrasive manner is probably the only way in which the mythic force of Pushkin’s belief in the poet’s messianic gifts (not a notion with which an Anglophone audience is immediately comfortable) could be captured in 1990s English. Nabokov’s annotated prose version of Evgeny Onegin, a supplement to the Pushkin text rather than an autonomous ‘translation’ in the ordinary sense, shows another method of proceeding, one according to which the rendering is deliberately made so inadequate to the original as to leave the latter’s integrity intact.