Translation of Poem by Fedor Tyutchev, "Silentium"

 

 

Fedor Tyutchev

(1803-1873)

Ф. И. Тютчев

Silentium!

Молчи, скрывайся и таи
И чувства и мечты свои –
Пускай в душевной глубине
Встают и заходят оне
Безмолвно, как звезды в ночи, –
Любуйся ими – и молчи.

 

Как сердцу высказать себя?
Другому как понять тебя?
Поймет ли он, чем ты живешь?
Мысль изреченная есть ложь.
Взрывая, возмутишь ключи, –
Питайся ими – и молчи.

 

Лишь жить в себе самом умей –
Есть целый мир в душе твоей
Таинственно-волшебных дум;
Их оглушит наружный шум,
Дневные разгонят лучи, –
Внимай их пенью – и молчи!..

(Not later than 1830)

 

 

Literal Translation

Silentium!

Be silent, conceal yourself and hide

Both your feelings and your [day]dreams—

Let them stand up and walk on

In the depths of your soul

Silently, like stars in the night—

Esteem [admire] them—and be silent.

 

How can the heart express itself?

How can another understand you?

Will he understand by what you live?

A thought uttered is a lie.

By stirring them up, you’ll muddy the founts (springs)—

Take nourishment from them—and be silent.

 

 

Learn to live solely within yourself—

In your soul there’s a whole world

Of secretly magical thoughts;

External noise deafens them,

Diurnal rays disperse them—

Hearken unto their singing—and be silent!

 

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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Silentium!

 

Speak not, live covertly and hide

Your feelings and your dreams inside—

Let them rise up and walk with grace

In the depths of your soul’s most seemly place,

As silent as night stars in tenderness wrought—

Cherish your fancies: hush now—speak not.

 

How can one heart to another get through?

Can an alien someone comprehend you?

The crux of your soul no one else can descry,

And once past your lips any thought is a lie.

By stirring the wellsprings you’ll bring up the rot—

Drink deep from their nourishing waters—speak not.

 

Learn to live solely inside your own life—

That shadowy world in your soul-realm is rife

With cryptic thoughts, beguiling gems;

The world’s foul clamor deafens them,

Dispersed they are by light, distraught—

Harken to their song—speak not!

Translation dates and places: Flagstaff, Yuma, Los Angeles, April, 2021

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Translator’s Note

First published in 1833, in the newspaper Molva (Rumor), “Silentium” is probably Tyutchev’s best known work, and one of the most renowned poems in the Russian language. Down through the years, millions of Russians have learned it by heart, including Dmitry Mendeleev and Lev Tolstoy, who once was quoted as saying, “What an astonishing thing! I don’t know a better poem.” The fourth line of the second stanza—“A thought uttered is a lie (Once past your lips any thought is a lie)”—has become proverbial.

 

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Two More Lovely Translations of “Silentium!”

Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.

How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.

Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.

Translated by Vladimir Nabokov

 

 

Seal thou thy lips, to none impart
The secret dreams that fill thy heart.
Within it let them blaze and die
As do the silent stars on high
When o’er the earth night’s shadows stray –
Delight in them – and silent stay.

Thy sentiments to none confide;
From those about thee thy thoughts hide,
For when voiced what are they but lies!..
Churn up a stream, and silt will rise
And darken it… Drink, drink thou deep
Of waters clear – and silent keep.

Live in the world of self — thy soul
Of magic thoughts contains a whole
Bright universe… Let not the noise
And light of day dispel the joys
That meditation gives to thee…
Hear thy heart’s song – and silent be!

Translated by Irina Zheleznova

 

 

 

                                                              Commentary by U.R. Bowie

I would not presume to attempt a self-critique of my effort above, but here are a few comments on the other two poems, which both show signs of long and meticulous effort. Vladimir Nabokov has some lovely lines. I especially like his "stars in crystal skies that set before the night is blurred." Never mind that a later Nabokov--after he had decided that rhymed and metered translation of poetry was illegitimate and illegal--would have scorned his own line here, for deviating too far from the original. The word "blurred," of course, comes as a result of that old tyrant, Rhyme, insisting on having his way. There is only one weak line in the Nabokov poem; it's in the last stanza: "the magic of veiled words that might." That line is badly in need of more work.

Irina Zheleznova came up with the nice idea of using old English pronouns (thee and thine), and they work for her. Her first stanza is a marvel of beauty; I can find no fault with it. And her solution to describing not stirring up the wellsprings is pure genius: "churn up a stream and silt will rise and darken it." Oddly enough, she botches the most renowned line, the one about how a thought uttered is a lie: her meter breaks down here. The next to last line in the final stanza--"that meditation gives to thee"--also is unworthy of the genius of the poem as a whole.

 declamation of "Silentium" in Russian:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0TWyMvOO6wA

Translation of Poem by Fedor Tyutchev, От жизни той, что бушевала здесь, The life that once in these parts teemed

 

Fedor Tyutchev

(1803-1873)

 

От жизни той, что бушевала здесь,
От крови той, что здесь рекой лилась,
Что уцелело, что дошло до нас?
Два-три кургана, видимых поднесь…

Да два-три дуба выросли на них,
Раскинувшись и широко и смело.
Красуются, шумят, — и нет им дела,
Чей прах, чью память роют корни их.

Природа знать не знает о былом,
Ей чужды наши призрачные годы,
И перед ней мы смутно сознаем
Себя самих — лишь грезою природы.

Поочередно всех своих детей,
Свершающих свой подвиг бесполезный,
Она равно приветствует своей
Всепоглощающей и миротворной бездной.

Second half of August, 1871

 

                                                                    Literal Translation

Of the life that raged here,

Of the blood that flowed here like a river,

What has survived, what has come down to us?

Two or three burial mounds, visible to this day . . .

And two or three oaks have grown on top of them,

Broadly and bravely spreading wide their branches.

They flaunt their beauty, they hum-sough—and are not concerned

Whose remains, whose memory their roots dig up.

 

Nature is totally indifferent to the past,

Our phantasmal years are alien to her,

And when faced with her we are vaguely conscious

Of our very selves—as only nature’s reverie.

One by one, all of her children,

Who have completed their useless feats,

She welcomes equally into her

All-consuming and pacific abyss.

 

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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

The life that once in these parts teemed,

The blood that here in rivers streamed,

What’s left of that, what do we see?

Just burial mounds, some two or three . . .

On top of them a pair of oaks

Spread branches wide, nurse oaken hopes.

They sough oak songs, care not a jot

Whose bones they dig at, roil the rot. 

 

Don’t try to tell cold nature of the past,

For human fates she’s no enthusiast,

When face to face with her we grasp the theme

That we are naught but nature’s fickle dream.

 

She takes us, one by one, we human weeds,

Who've finished all our mighty useless deeds,

All equally she welcomes us with bliss

Into her all-consuming calm abyss.

 

 

 

 

Translation of Poem by Fyodor Tyutchev, "Накануне годовщины 4 августа 1864 г., "On the Eve of the Anniversary of August 4, 1864"

 Elena Denisieva  With Her Daughter Elena; Only About Three Years After This Photograph Was Made, Both of Them Were Dead

Федор Тютчев

(1803-1873)

Накануне годовщины 4 августа 1864 г.

Вот бреду я вдоль большой дороги
В тихом свете гаснущего дня…
Тяжело мне, замирают ноги…
Друг мой милый, видишь ли меня?
Все темней, темнее над землею —
Улетел последний отблеск дня…
Вот тот мир, где жили мы с тобою,
Ангел мой, ты видишь ли меня?
Завтра день молитвы и печали,
Завтра память рокового дня…
Ангел мой, где б души ни витали,
Ангел мой, ты видишь ли меня?

August 3, 1865

 

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Literal Translation

 

On the Eve of the Anniversary of August 4, 1864

 

Now I wander along the highroad

In the quiet light of the expiring day . . .

I feel bad, my legs feel rooted to the spot . . .

My dear friend, do you see me?

All is growing darker, darker over the earth –

The last reflection of the day has flown off . . .

Here is that world where you and I lived,

My angel, do you see me?

Tomorrow is a day of prayer and sorrow,

Tomorrow is the memory of that fatal day . . .

My angel, wherever your soul might be hovering,

My angel, do you see me?

 

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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

On the Eve of the Anniversary of August 4, 1864

 So here I am, I wander highroad weary,

In quiet light of day as daylight dies . . .

So sick at heart, my legs can hardly bear me . . .

My dear friend, do you see me, hear my sighs?

 

Darker grows the dimness, and sheer dark envelops earth—

The final glint of daylight just flew off to some elsewhere . . .

This is the world where you and I once lived with joy and mirth,

My angel, do you see me, are you there?

 

Tomorrow is a day of prayer and grieving,

Tomorrow is the memory of that fatal, dreadful day . . .

My angel, is your soul still there, awake, or unperceiving,

My angel, can you see my anguish, my dismay?

 

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Translator’s Note

(From Wikipedia)

The poem above is dated August 3, 1865, exactly—as the title reveals—a year and a day before the anniversary of Elena Denisieva’s death. In 1850 Tyutchev began an illicit affair with Denisieva (1826-1864), who was over twenty years younger than him. She remained his mistress until her death from TB in 1864, bearing him three children, two of whom died within less than a year after their mother’s death, also of tuberculosis. After the children’s death in May, 1865, the poet wrote as follows in a letter: “I began not a single day without a certain sense of amazement, the way a person continues to go on living, although his heart has been ripped out and his head cut off.”

 

Tyutchev’s love poems that came out of the affair, the so-called “Denisieva Cycle,” are considered among the finest love lyrics in the Russian language.

Translation of Poem by Fyodor Tyutchev, "Слезы людские, о слезы людские," "O TEARS OF HUMANITY"

 

Fyodor Tyutchev

(1803-1873)

 

Слезы людские, о слезы людские,
Льетесь вы ранней и поздней порой…
Льетесь безвестные, льетесь незримые,
Неистощимые, неисчислимые, —
Льетесь, как льются струи дождевые
В осень глухую порою ночной.

Autumn, 1849

Translation by U.R. Bowie

Tears

O tears of humanity, humankind’s tears,

Flowing in early times, flowing for years…

You flow in obscurity, flow on invisibly,

Never exhaustibly, ever innumerably –

Flowing the same way that rainwater streams

In desolate autumn through nocturnal dreams.

 

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Translation by Peter Tempest

Tears of humanity, tears of humanity,
flowing eternally early and late…
Flowing invisibly, flowing in secrecy,
ever abundantly, ever unceasingly —
flowing as rain flows with autumn finality
all through the night like a river in spate.

 

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 Translator’s Note

According to I.S. Aksakov, “once, on a rainy evening in autumn, Tyutchev returned home by hired droshky, almost wet through, and said to his daughter, ‘j’ai fait quelques rimes [I’ve composed a few verses].’ While they were helping him out of his [wet] clothing, he dictated to her the lines of his charming poem, ‘Tears of humanity.’” See two-volume collection of Tyutchev’s works, Moscow (Nauka Publishers), 1965, Vol. 1, p. 383.

 

Translation of Poem by Fyodor Tyutchev, SPRING THUNDERSTORM, Весенняя гроза

 

 

Fyodor Tyutchev

(1803-1873)

 

Весенняя гроза

 

Люблю грозу в начале мая,
Когда весенний, первый гром,
Как бы резвяся и играя,
Грохочет в небе голубом.

Гремят раскаты молодые,
Вот дождик брызнул, пыль летит,
Повисли перлы дождевые,
И солнце нити золотит.

С горы бежит поток проворный,
В лесу не молкнет птичий гам,
И гам лесной и шум нагорный –
Все вторит весело громам.

Ты скажешь: ветреная Геба,
Кормя Зевесова орла,
Громокипящий кубок с неба,
Смеясь, на землю пролила.

Date of poem: 1828, later revised at beginning of 1850s

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Literal Translation

 

Spring Thunderstorm

 

I love a thunderstorm at the beginning of May,

When the first spring thunder,

As if frolicking and playing,

Rumbles in a light blue sky.

 

The young peals of thunder rattle,

The raindrops drizzled, dust flies,

Pearls of rain are hanging,

And sunshine gilds the threads.

 

From the mountain runs down a nimble torrent,

The clamor of birds in the forest goes on unceasingly,

And the clamor of the woods and sounds on the hillside

Keep merrily seconding the thunder claps.

 

You’ll say: empty-headed Hebe,

While feeding Zeus’s eagle,

Laughing, a cup seething with thunder

Poured out from heaven over the earth.

 

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Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

Spring Thunderstorm

 

I love in early May a cloudburst,

When spring’s first thunder, meek and humble,

As if at play, in storms unversed, 

Through azure skies vents muted rumble.

 

The callow peals of mumbling thunder,

Then spits of rain strew errant dust,

And liquid pearls hang rapt with wonder,

As sunshine gilds wet threads nonplussed.

 

From mountainside a swift stream flows,

The forest birds cheep-twit and chatter, 

The woods and hills in clamor’s throes

Keep jocund time with thunder’s clatter.

 

While feeding Zeus’ eagle, beaming

Playful Hebe, steeped in mirth,

Took cup with din and bedlam teeming,  

And, laughing, poured it over Earth.

 

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Unmetered, Unrhymed Translation by Frank Jude

A Spring Storm

I love May’s first storms:
chuckling, sporting spring
grumbles in mock anger;
young thunder claps,

a spatter of rain and flying dust
and wet pearls hanging
threaded by sun-gold;
a speedy current scampers from the hills.

Such a commotion in the woods!
Noises cartwheel down the mountains.
Every sound is echoed round the sky.
You’d think capricious Hebe,

feeding the eagle of Zeus,
had raised a thunder-foaming goblet,
unable to restrain her mirth,
and tipped it on the earth.

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Early Variant (1829)

Люблю грозу в начале мая:

Как весело весенний гром

Из края до другого края

Грохочет в небе голубом!

 

С горы бежит ручей проворный,

В лесу не молкнет птичий гам,

И говор птиц, и ключ нагорный –

Все вторит радостно громам!

 

(Second stanza of final variant is missing; third and final stanza here—I have not typed it out—is identical to fourth and last stanza in final variant.)

 

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Translator’s Note

So what’s the best way to translate a poem in Russian that has meter and rhyme in the original? My method is to try getting meter and rhyme into the new poem in English. But since some time in the early twentieth century, many have denigrated what they consider the old-fashioned way of meter and rhyme in poetry. I understand what they are saying. Meter, and especially rhyme, can stand over the translator with a whip, forcing him into making changes that often pull the poem away from its original semantic meanings. I find rhyming to be the biggest tyrant of all.

 That’s why I include the fine translation by Frank Jude above. Although his method of translation (no rhymes, no meter) is diametrically opposed to mine, in my opinion he has done a good job of rendering Tyutchev’s famous poem into English. By throwing off the chains of meter and rhyme, he, for the most part, is able to keep the translation closer in exact meanings of words to the original. I would suggest only one change, easily made. Give Hebe her laughter (which is in the original) by rendering the final line as follows: “and tipped it, laughing, onto Earth.”

U.R. Bowie

 

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A Note from Annotations to the Poem in Two-Volume Set of Tyutchev’s Works (Nauka Publishers, 1965)

 In Greek mythology Hebe is the goddess of eternal youth, serving as cupbearer at meals for the gods of Olympus. She is often depicted in paintings as caressing Zeus’ eagle and bringing him nectar (ambrosia) in a goblet. In both art and poetry of the early 19^th Century the image of Hebe is widespread. In the present poem Tyutchev allows himself something of an arbitrary variant of the myth. The poet depicts his Hebe not as bearing a cup full of ambrosia, the drink of the gods, but a cup teeming with thunderclaps. This suggests that Hebe here has taken on the function of Zeus’ eagle, who is frequently depicted squeezing a bolt of lightning in his claws.