Venice in April

Turgenev, Diary of a Superfluous Man A few weeks ago, after a visit to friends in Garrison, New York, I spotted a sign for a bookstore and made Peter get off the highway. We ended up in a shop called Antipodean Books, where I stayed so long that our plans for that evening were ruined, but where the proprietor, in an act of generosity, offered me thirteen out of the seventeen volumes (what dealers poetically call a "broken set") of the Heinemann edition of Turgenev's complete works (Constance Garnett's translation) for just twenty-five dollars. They are still in their original dust jackets, a fetching, hazardous-materials shade of orange! Since I'd already read a few of Turgenev's better-known titles in other translations, the broken set suited me perfectly. Also, aesthetically speaking, I am weak-willed about duodecimo hardcovers, and each of these is just 4.5 by 6 inches—genuinely pocket-sized. And did I mention the highway-worker's-raincoat orange?

This is by way of bloggy-autobiographical prelude to my point, which is just to present a couple of quotes that I like. The two novels I've read in the set so far are about revolutionaries, but for some reason the passages that have most pleased me in them were about spring.

In Virgin Soil, when the hero Nezhdanov wanders in the garden of his employer one May afternoon, Turgenev writes:

Nezhdanov sat with his back to a thick hedge of young birches, in the dense, soft shade. He thought of nothing; he gave himself up utterly to that peculiar sensation of the spring in which, for young and old alike, there is always an element of pain . . . the restless pain of expectation in the young . . . the settled pain of regret in the old. . . .

I don't have anything to say about the quote, other than that I like the precision and the poignancy of it. (The ellipses are Turgenev's, by the way, not mine.)

The other passage that particularly struck me comes toward the end of On the Eve, a novella about a Bulgarian revolutionary and the Russian woman who falls in love with him, when the hero and heroine find themselves staying in Venice much longer than they intended to and somewhat against their wishes. The Venice chapters come as something as a surprise, a surge of sentiment in a book that has seemed up to that point to be concerned mostly with conflict, and if the book offered no more, they would make it worth the price of admission. The passage seems uncannily to prefigure Thomas Mann, but the bittersweetness is Turgenev's own. Reading it, I discover that my few visits to Italian cities have all taken place in the wrong months, but that's the least of the regrets evoked.

No one who has not seen Venice in April knows all the unutterable fascinations of that magic town. The softness and mildness of spring harmonise with Venice, just as the glaring sun of summer suits the magnificence of Genoa, and as the gold and purple of autumn suits the grand antiquity of Rome. The beauty of Venice, like the spring, touches the soul and moves it to desire; it frets and tortures the inexperienced heart like the promise of a coming bliss, mysterious but not elusive. Everything in it is bright, and everything is wrapt in a drowsy, tangible mist, as it were, of the hush of love; everything in it is so silent and everything in it is kindly; everything in it is feminine, from its name upwards. It has well been given the name of 'the fair city.' Its masses of palaces and churches stand out light and wonderful like the graceful dream of a young god; there is something magical, something strange and bewitching in the greenish-grey light and silken shimmer of the silent water of the canals, in the noiseless gliding of the gondolas, in the absence of the coarse din of a town, the coarse rattling, and crashing, and uproar. 'Venice is dead, Venice is deserted,' her citizens will tell you, but perhaps this last charm—the charm of decay—was not vouchsafed her in the very heyday of the flower and majesty of her beauty. He who has not seen her, knows her not; neither Canaletto nor Guardi (to say nothing of later painters) has been able to convey the silvery tenderness of the atmosphere, the horizon so close, yet so elusive, the divine harmony of exquisite lines and melting colours. One who has outlived his life, who has been crushed by it, should not visit Venice; she will be cruel to him as the memory of unfulfilled dreams of early days; but sweet to one whose strength is at its full, who is conscious of happiness; let him bring his bliss under her enchanted skies; and however bright it may be, Venice will make it more golden with her unfading splendour.

Meaulnes’s romance

Le Grand Meaulnes, photo by Peter Terzian

In The Magician’s Book,
her lovely, impassioned account of the Chronicles of Narnia, my friend Laura Miller suggests that the magic of C. S. Lewis’s books may owe more to medieval than to modern sensibilities. She points out that in his scholarship, Lewis defended medieval literature from the condescension of twentieth-century critics, who sometimes saw it as crudely allegorical. In fact, Lewis insisted, it was these critics’ understanding of medieval allegory that was crude. Writes Miller:

What made allegory powerful, and in Lewis’s eyes “realistic,” is that it was a sophisticated way of representing the inner lives of human beings at the time the great allegories like The Romance of the Rose were written. Though we now take for granted the notion of psychologically conflicted characters (who are “torn” or “divided” by forces contained within their own hearts and minds), the medievals didn’t have an artistic and conceptual toolbox quite like our own. Instead of imagining each person as possessing a complex interior mental space full of warring impulses, their picture of character was more external. So for them the natural way to portray what we would regard as a debate within a person’s psyche would be to write a passage in which a figure labeled (for example) Reason stands in a garden quarreling with a figure called Passion. . . . In a true allegory, where aspects of a woman’s personality are made to walk about and otherwise behave like independent people, the woman herself—the territory on which the conflict is being played out—becomes a physical space, a plot of land. The medieval self is, in this sense, geographical.

In later chapters, Miller suggests that Lewis’s Narnia books are romances, not novels, and belong to an alternative tradition that includes not only J. R. R. Tolkien and William Morris but also Dante, Thomas Malory, and Edmund Spenser. After crediting the critic Northrop Frye for the categories, Miller writes that “Most romance . . . belongs to youth and speaks to the desire to get out in the world and prove oneself, which may be why the form proliferates most luxuriantly and in some of its purest strains in children’s fiction.”

Recently, I read a book that turned out to be a romance, though I wasn’t expecting it to be one. When I began Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaulnes, first published in 1913, I thought it was going to be about French schoolboys. The narrator, François Seurel, opens by looking back to a November day in the 1890s when he was fifteen years old and studying to earn his teaching certificate at a school where his father was headmaster. In describing the day that a new boy arrived at the school, Seurel’s tone is wistful, a little melancholy:

He arrived at our house one Sunday in November, 189…

I still say “our house,” even though the house no longer belongs to us. We left that part of the country almost fifteen years ago and we will surely never go back to it.

The new boy’s arrival coincides with Seurel’s recovery from a childhood hip disorder, which all but crippled him and left him shy and quiet. The new boy, Augustin Meaulnes, is in perfect health and is two years older than Seurel. Because of his height, the boy is soon to be nicknamed by his classmates “le Grand Meaulnes,” Tall Meaulnes (which sounds more cryptic in English than in French, and so in English the book either bears its French title or another one altogether). Meaulnes is also a little wild. Even before Mme. Meaulnes has settled with Seurel’s parents on the terms for boarding her son, Meaulnes finds in the Seurels’ attic two as-yet-unexploded fireworks and detonates them in the schoolyard as Seurel stands by. Seurel describes himself as “holding the tall new boy by the hand and not flinching.” Meaulnes, who reminds Seurel of a young Robinson Crusoe, is to be his guide into risk and adolescence.

Such a commencement doesn’t necessarily promise romance in C. S. Lewis’s sense of the word. The story of a mild boy looking up to a bolder one could be told novelistically, with a very modern psychology. But even in these opening chapters, it’s evident that Alain-Fournier isn’t a psychologist of that sort. Seurel describes his crush on Meaulnes without any embarrassment; he isn’t in any conflict about it. Nor is Meaulnes in any conflict about his wildness. He never apologizes when he breaks the rules set by Seurel’s father; he certainly never shows any signs of feeling guilty. For their part, Seurel’s parents are never petulant about Meaulnes’s behavior. Everyone treats everyone else with a kind of plainness and straightforwardness that is probably the first sign that this is a romance and not a novel. The second sign comes when Meaulnes runs off one day with a horse and carriage, becomes lost in the countryside, and, following a stone tower, stumbles into a ruined castle where he is invited to join a strange pageant, performed entirely by children . . .

To say much more would give too much away. The charm of the book is that it moves from realism to romance (and back again) without acknowledging any incommensurability between the genres. The people that Meaulnes finds in the castle are human; the bewitchment of the place is not by magic but by a kind of family history. But if, as Miller writes, “the medieval self is geographical,” then Meaulnes’s self is medieval, and so is Seurel’s, because the two boys will struggle with their geographic knowledge of the castle, or rather geographic ignorance of it, for the rest of the book. As in Lewis’s romances, all the characters find doubles, and in some cases triples. These doubles aren’t named Reason and Passion, or Childhood and History, or Wealth and Poverty, but they have the same internal simplicity and interactive complexity that Lewis, in Miller’s paraphrase, credits to allegory. By the end, there is nothing childish about the story at all, except insofar as the tragedy of adult love is one first perceived in childhood.

Vagaries of translations past

In The Year of Reading Proust (1999), Phyllis Rose related an anecdote that stuck in my head for a long time, because of its symmetry. It concerned the Englishing of the title of Proust’s multi-volume novel À la recherche du temps perdu.

Proust’s first English translator, C. K. Scott-Moncrieff, famously rendered the title as “Remembrance of Things Past,” drawing on a line from Shakespeare sonnet number 30, which begins:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
I summon up remembrance of things past
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste . . .

Recent translators, however, have preferred to be more literal and less allusive, and Proust’s title is today more often given as In Search of Lost Time. When, in Rose’s memoir, she mentions this change to a friend, he regrets it. It’s less sonorous, the friend complains, and furthermore, Scott-Moncrieff was not taking the liberty he seemed to be taking. As everyone knows, the phrase comes from a Shakespeare sonnet. But, continues the friend,

“. . . do you know that when Voltaire translated Shakespeare’s sonnets, he translated that phrase into French as ‘à la recherche du temps perdu’? That’s where Proust got it. So when Moncrieff wanted to translate Proust’s title, he went back to the Shakespeare sonnet Voltaire had been translating.”

It’s a perfectly formed anecdote. The pieces of the puzzle fit together exactly; the boldness of the first translator is justified by a knowledge of French literature that later translators lack. When I read Rose’s book, I went looking in Columbia’s library for Voltaire’s translations of Shakespeare’s sonnets, because the story made me want to see them with my own eyes. I couldn’t find them, but I figured I would run across them later, so I made a point of remembering to look for them again when I had a chance.

So I looked for them this afternoon, when I was in the New York Public Library. No luck. My guess is, Voltaire never translated Shakespeare’s sonnets. In the age of Google, if you spend an hour or two looking in scholarly databases for a piece of information about people of the stature of Voltaire and Shakespeare, and you can’t find it, it is not likely that it exists. There is no mention of such a translation among the volumes of the Oxford edition of the Complete Works of Voltaire. There’s also the circumstance that Voltaire was at times rather cranky on the subject of Shakespeare. He translated Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy in his Lettres philosophiques of 1726, and he called Shakespeare “a genius” and “sublime” in 1770, but by 1776 he was calling him a “huckster” and discounting his earlier praise of Shakespeare as an attempt “to point out to Frenchmen the few pearls which were to be found in this enormous dunghill.”

In a 1963 issue of Shakespeare Quarterly, a scholar named Ralph Aiken suggested that the phrase “remembrance of things past” may itself have come from French. Aiken noticed that the phrase appears in a 1579 English translation by Thomas North of an introduction that Jacques Amyot wrote to his 1559 French translation of Plutarch’s Lives. Amyot was praising written history as an improvement over and fitting heir to the singing of memory that happens in oral cultures:

Now therefore I will overpasse the excellencie and worthines of the thing it selfe, forasmuch as it is not onely of more antiquitie then any other kind of writing that ever was in the worlde, but also was used among men, before there was any use of letters at all: bicause that men in those dayes delivered in their lifetimes the remembrance of things past to their successors, in songes, which they cause their children to learne by hart, from hand to hand, as is to be seene yet in our dayes, by thexample of the barbarous people that inhabite the new found landes in the West, who without any records of writings, have had the knowledge of thinges past, welneare eyght hundred yeares afore. [Aiken’s italics]

Aiken notes that “North has followed the French with his usual fidelity; Amyot’s phrase is ‘la memoire des choses passees [sic],’ and not, unfortunately, ‘la recherche du temps perdu.'” So Aiken, a formidably well-read Shakespeare scholar, was on the lookout for an instance of someone translating Proust’s title the way Scott-Moncrieff did, before Scott-Moncrieff did, and didn’t seem to know of one.

Maybe Rose’s friend misremembered the name of the translator? A number of French translations of Shakespeare were available to Proust and Scott-Moncrieff, and perhaps the anecdote will turn out to be true with someone else’s name in Voltaire’s place. I looked up Victor Hugo’s prose translation of the sonnets, just in case. I was for a while baffled by Hugo’s decision to give to sonnet 30 the number XLIV, but eventually I found the one I was looking for:

Quand aux assises de ma pensée doucement recueillie j’assigne le souvenir des choses passées, je soupire au défaut de plus d’un être aimé, et je pleure de nouveau, avec mes vieilles douleurs, ces doux moments disparus . . .

Hélas, no luck there, either. For now, this anecdote, like the one of quayside New Yorkers clamoring to hear the fate of Little Nell, should probably be athetized. I’ll leave you with Hugo’s rendering of the sonnet’s closing couplet, because it’s pretty and ends up almost rhyming:

Mais si pendant ce temps je pense à toi, cher ami,
toutes mes pertes sont réparées et tous mes chagrins finis.

Turgenev: The Translation Game

Over the winter, Peter and I attended all three installments of Tom Stoppard’s Coast of Utopia, in the course of which I learned a great deal about the literary history of 19th-century Russia and international anarchism, and came to the realization that what I really want to do with my life is dress like Ivan Turgenev.

Despairing of that, however, I have settled for reading some of his books. At the Strand I happened onto a $10 Cresset Library edition of A Sportsman’s Notebook from 1950, in Charles and Natasha Hepburn’s translation, which I enjoyed, even in its occasional lushness:

It was a marvellous picture: around the fires a circle of reddish, reflected light trembled and seemed to die away into the darkness; at times the flame blazed up and scattered swift gleams beyond the edges of the circle; a thin tongue of light licked the bare willow-twigs and disappeared in a flash— long, sharp shadows, bursting in for a moment in their turn, ran right up to the fires: it was the war of darkness with light.

There are many such passages, and for them to work, there has to be a consistency of tone. My sense was that they did work, that the Hepburns’ intermittent florid touches did not damage the essential delicacy of the prose. I moved on to a Novel Library edition of First Love and Rudin, also from 1950, mostly because I’m the sort of book-collecting aesthete who likes the dainty Novel Library editions, but also because Isaiah Berlin had translated First Love. Alec Brown did Rudin, and I liked his translation even better than Berlin’s, if that’s possible. To be honest, though, I was only reading for pleasure, and wasn’t too worried about translations.

But then I came to Fathers and Sons, and for some reason, I grew fussy. You would think that determining which is the best translation of a foreign-language classic would be the sort of task the internet would be good at. But it isn’t, really; there’s no such category at Metacritic. Not even searching a scholarly archive like JSTOR helped, because the academics make a point of not knowing about translations, lest anyone think they read foreign-language books in anything but the original. So I stayed up late one night, consulting various versions of the opening page of Fathers and Sons, by means of Amazon’s Search Inside function and Google Books, trying to figure out which translation I wanted to read. By now I knew what I liked about Turgenev — the unobtrusively telling detail, the mild irony, the as-if-overheard quality of the dialogue. I liked Constance Garnett’s version of the opening page, but for some reason I had it in my head that since this was Turgenev’s best-known work, there had to have been some improvement in the translation of it since hers. I ended up choosing Bernard Guilbert Guerney’s, which the Modern Library published in 1961.

Now I should say up front that this is not a tale with a villain. Guerney’s is by no means a poor translation. But it’s sort of a loud one, by which I mean that the reader is often made aware that a translator has translated it. This began to bother me in chapter 6, in an exchange between the hero’s uncle, Pavel Petrovich Kirsanov, and the nihilist Bazarov about science:

“Physics is your particular study, isn’t that so?” Pavel Petrovich inquired in his turn.

“Physics, yes; and natural sciences in general.”

“They say the Germans have achieved great success in that field of late.”

“Yes, we could go to school to the Nemtzi for such things.”

Pavel Petrovich had used the term Germans in lieu of the common Nemtzi [tongue-tied ones] out of irony which, however, had been entirely wasted. (Trans. Guerney)

I found this unwieldy, not least because of the bracketed annotation “[tongue-tied ones],” whose relevance I couldn’t quite see. If Nemtzi was the common word for “Germans,” why hadn’t it been translated as “Germans”? Guerney’s rendering required the reader to pause and re-read the dialogue, replacing the word “Germans” with some sort of mental notation along the lines of ironic term for Germans that might be used by a proud dandy who’s been living too long in the provinces. Unfair to the reader! I went online and consulted Garnett. Her version:

“Is your special study physics?” Pavel Petrovitch in his turn inquired.

“Physics, yes; and natural science in general.”

“They say the Teutons of late have had great success in that line.”

“Yes; the Germans are our teachers in it,” Bazarov answered carelessly.

The word Teutons instead of Germans Pavel Petrovitch had used with ironical intention; none noticed it, however. (Trans. Garnett)

Teutons! Of course! English already has an ironic term for Germans that might be used by a proud dandy who’s been living too long in the provinces. Why hadn’t Guerney used it? My suspicion: he wanted to show off that he knew that “Nemtzi” literally meant “tongue-tied ones,” and to suggest that this etymology contributed to the Turgenev’s irony in the scene. But a translator’s showing off shouldn’t interrupt the flow of a scene. I ordered a copy of Garnett’s Fathers and Sons, also published by Modern Library, at once.

But before it could arrive, I discovered that the Novel Library also had an edition of the novel. Powerless against my bibliophilia, and having happy memories of Isaiah Berlin and Alec Brown, I ordered it, too. It turned out to have been translated by someone named George Reavey, who translated the dialogue thus:

‘Is physics your chief occupation then?’ Paul Petrovich inquired in turn.

‘Physics, yes; and the natural sciences in general.’

‘They say that the Teutons, of late, have done wonders in this domain.’

‘Yes, the Germans are our masters there,’ Bazarov replied casually.

Paul Petrovich had used the word ‘Teutons’ instead of ‘Germans’ with ironical intent, but this had passed unnoticed. (Trans. Reavey)

I liked this even better. There was no nonsense about “Nemtzi,” and the dialogue had a natural air that it didn’t in Garnett. To some extent this is a matter of taste, and also of one’s theory of translation. I happen to think that it’s not only fair play but necessary to re-order the words of a sentence when translating, particularly when translating from a language with genders and cases, such as Russian, to one without them, such as English. But such things give people like Milan Kundera the heebie-jeebies, FYI. (I wrote an article on this once, for Lingua Franca.)

Philistine that I am, I was entirely capable of choosing to read George Reavey’s version because the Novel Library edition was cuter than the others, even if I hadn’t thought the translation was better, too. In any case, I started the novel over, from the beginning, and read happily away in Reavey’s Turgenev, about the poignant-because-a-bit-ridiculous affection of Nicholas Petrovich for his son Arcady, about Arcady’s hero-worship of the somewhat brutish Bazarov, about the impossible dignity of Arcady’s uncle Pavel Petrovitch. And all was well, I was very happy, until I came to Madame Odintzov.

Madame Odintzov was a little older than Arcady; she had turned twenty-nine, but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a young student, as though the difference of years between them were much greater. . . . Her nose, like that of most Russians, was a trifle thick, and her complexion matt; for all that, Arcady decided that he had never met such an entrancing woman. (Trans. Reavey)

“Matt”? As a surface texture for a photograph, yes, but as a complexion on a human being, I couldn’t even picture it. But in a proximity dangerous for a compulsive like me, I now had two other translations for comparison.

Madame Odintsov was a little older than Arkady— she was twenty-nine— but in her presence he felt himself a schoolboy, a little student, so that the difference in age between them seemed of more consequence. . . . Her nose— like almost all Russian noses— was a little thick; and her complexion was not perfectly clear; Arkady made up his mind, for all that, that he had never before met such an attractive woman. (Trans. Garnett) She was but a little older than Arcadii— going on twenty-nine— yet he felt like a schoolboy, like a freshman in her presence, just as if the difference in their ages were far more considerable. . . . Her nose— like the noses of almost all Russians— was a trifle bulbous, and her complexion was not altogether clear; for all that Arcadii decided that he had never encountered a woman so alluring. (Trans. Guerney)

I didn’t like “bulbous” at all, and I didn’t think Madame Odintsov would, either. Nor did I like “freshman,” because the word seemed too specific to American society. And how old was she, anyway— twenty-nine or almost twenty-nine? But “not perfectly clear” seemed a more plausible adjective for a woman’s complexion than “matt”; in the suggestion of a flaw in Madame Odintsov’s beauty, Turgenev might have intended a touch of pathos. And to say that the difference in their ages seemed of more consequence was subtler than to say that it seemed greater. So perhaps Reavey’s wasn’t the platonic ideal of translation after all.

I went back to it nonetheless, though saddled, now, with the knowledge that I could at any time compare versions. Which I did. Here, for example, is another problematic passage, involving a colloquial phrase, in a discussion that Bazarov and Arcady have about Madame Odintsov:

   ‘A certain gentleman was just telling me that the lady in question was— “quite hot” but he looks a fool. Well? What is your opinion? Is she really— “quite hot?” ‘
   ‘I completely fail to grasp the allusion,’ Arcady replied.
   ‘Come, come! What innocence!’
   . . . ‘Well?’ he asked when they were out in the street. ‘Are you still of the opinion that she is— “quite hot?” ‘
   ‘One can never tell! Just look at the way she has put herself on ice!’ Bazarov retorted . . . (Trans. Reavey)
   “A gentleman has just been talking to me about that lady; he said, ‘She’s— oh, fie! fie!’ but I fancy the fellow was a fool. What do you think, what is she!— oh, fie! fie!”
   “I don’t quite understand that definition,” answered Arkady.
   “Oh, my! What innocence!”
   . . . “Well?” he said to him in the street; “are you still of the same opinion— that she’s . . .”
   “Who can tell? See how correct she is!” retorted Bazarov . . . (Trans. Garnett)
   “A certain high-born gent was telling me just now that this lady is ‘My-my-my!’ But then the gentleman himself seems to be a nincompoop. Well, is she truly ‘My-my-my!’ in your opinion?”
   “I don’t fully understand that definition,” Arcadii retorted.
   “Come, now! What an innocent fellow!”
  . . . “Well?” Arcadii questioned him when they were outside. “Is it still your opinion that she’s ‘My-my-my’?”
   “Really, who knows what she’s like! Just see what an icicle she has turned herself into!” Bazarov retorted . . . (Trans. Guerney)

There’s no way to win, in translating a colloquialism. A rendering that sounds successfully up-to-date now may sound like, well, “fie, fie,” a century later. But I think Reavey has the best of it here, because he’s the only one whose rendering of Arcady’s indignant retort (“I completely fail to grasp the allusion”) conveys that he of course does grasp it but is rebuking Bazarov’s vulgarity, and because Reavey manages to save the specificity of the ice imagery in the last line (Guerney’s icicle doesn’t quite sound idiomatic to me). Here’s another:

Madame Odintzov continued to treat him like a younger brother: she seemed to appreciate his good qualities and youthful simplicity— and no more. (Trans. Reavey) Madame Odintsov treated him as though he were a younger brother; she seemed to appreciate his good-nature and youthful simplicity and that was all. (Trans. Garnett) Odintsova was still treating him as a younger brother: apparently what she appreciated about him was the geniality and simpleheartedness of youth— and that was all. (Trans. Guerney)

Reavey seems to have fallen into an error: if Mme. Odintsov appreciates Arcady’s good qualities, there can’t be anything worth appreciating that she has overlooked. No doubt Garnett’s “good-nature” and Guerney’s “geniality” are closer to what Turgenev meant. (Let me confess here that I can neither speak nor read Russian; all of my inferences about accuracy are just that, inferences, made by parallax.) And for the sake of justice, here’s a round that Guerney seems to win. Bazarov is falling into cynicism about the supposed improvement in the lives of serfs:

‘As I was walking yesterday by the side of a fence, I heard some local lads bawling, instead of some old song, this new refrain: The appointed hour is drawing nigh,
And love comes welling to the heart. . . .
That’s progress for you.’ (Trans. Reavey)
“Yesterday I was walking under the fence, and I heard the peasant boys here, instead of some old ballad, bawling a street song. That’s what progress is. (Trans. Garnett) “I was going past a fence yesterday and I heard some of the local peasant boys, but instead of singing some old song they were bawling the latest cheap hit: ‘Now the faithful time is coming, the heart feels it is in love.’ Well, there’s your progress. (Trans. Guerney)

When I read this sentence in Reavey’s version, I was baffled. I couldn’t figure out why Bazarov was mocking the song he heard. The lyrics were mediocre, but it wasn’t at all clear why they served as an occasion for an ironic remark on progress. Garnett provides the necessary cultural information— namely, that the boys are singing a trashy pop song, instead of a traditional folk ballad— but she leaves the song itself out, and its words matter, because Bazarov, given his plight at this stage in the story, probably found in them a further reason for cynicism. Of the three translators, here only Guerney fulfills all his duties, sketching out enough of the cultural context for us to understand the point of Bazarov’s sarcasm, and giving us a version of the jingle itself. But since, in the end, I did like Reavey’s version the best, I want to end on one of his triumphs. Katya and Arcady are discussing poetry:

   ‘I don’t like Heine,’ Katya said, with her eyes indicating the book in Arcady’s hands, ‘when he is either sarcastic or plaintive. I prefer his pensive and nostalgic moods.’
   ‘And I prefer his gibing tone,’ Arcady remarked.
   ‘That’s the residue of your sardonic turn of mind.’
   (‘Residue!’ Arcady thought. ‘If only Bazarov could hear that!’) (Trans. Reavey)
   “I don’t like Heine,” said Katya, glancing towards the book which Arkady was holding in his hands, “either when he laughs or when he weeps; I like him when he’s thoughtful and melancholy.”
   “And I like him when he laughs,” remarked Arkady.
   “That’s the relics left in you of your old satirical tendencies.” (“Relics!” thought Arkady— “if Bazarov had heard that?”) (Trans. Garnett)
   “I have no love for Heine,” Katya spoke up, indicating with her eyes the book Arcadii was holding, “either when he laughs or when he weeps; I like him when he’s pensive and melancholy.”
   “But I like him when he laughs,” Arcadii remarked.
   “That’s because of the persistent old traces of the satirical tendencies in you.” (“Old traces!” Arcadii reflected. If Bazarov were to hear that!) (Trans. Guerney)

“Residue” is a brilliant choice, because it has a little frisson of the chemistry lab to it, which would indeed have impressed the scientific Bazarov, and it suggests that Arcady is one of Katya’s experiments, a pleasantly ironic attitude for her to have toward him, who is only just beginning to take her seriously.