Translation of Poem by Fyodor Tyutchev, Фёдор Ива́нович Тю́тчев, "Есть в осени первоначальной," IN EARLY AUTUMN OF EACH YEAR

 

 

 

Fyodor Tyutchev
(1803-1873)

 

Есть в осени первоначальной
Короткая, но дивная пора —
Весь день стоит как бы хрустальный,
И лучезарны вечера…

Где бодрый серп гулял и падал колос,
Теперь уж пусто всё — простор везде, —
Лишь паутины тонкий волос
Блестит на праздной борозде…

Пустеет воздух, птиц не слышно боле,
Но далеко ещё до первых зимних бурь —
И льётся чистая и тёплая лазурь
На отдыхающее поле…

1857 г.

(Aug. 22, 1857)

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                                             Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

In early autumn of each year
Comes one time steeped in brief elation; 
The day is crystalline and clear,
And evening gleams with coruscation . . .

Where bold scythe swished and grains dreamed of bread
Now all is empty, bare—sheer spaciousness abides;
Naught but a gossamer web, a thin thread,
Gleams on a furrow now idle, misprized . . .
 
The air reeks of emptiness, devoid of birdsong’s zest,
But winter snows are far-off still, not something vision seizes,  
And a bluish haze descends on pure warm breezes,
O’er fields and steppe that lie in peace, at rest . . .

 

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Translator’s Note
(On Ellipses)

 Note the multiplication of the dots in Tyutchev’s original manuscript for this poem. The first stanza concludes with three dots, the second with six dots, and the third takes the dots all the way off into heavenly skies (nine of them). What is the point of these ellipses? In contemplating the usage of elliptical dots in Russian fiction writing of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, I’m reminded somehow of the Russian folktales and epics (bylina) featuring dragons with three heads, six heads, nine heads, even twelve. The hero cuts off one head with his saber and that head has a way of growing back. So it goes with ellipses: they seem to persist, even when they have no good reason for being.

In English style, at least in modern times, the most common reason for using three spaced dots (. . .) is to indicate that something has been omitted. Then there is the marking of a pause, a hesitation, or interruption on the part of the speaker: “I didn’t really . . . what I mean is . . .” The robot that answers all my questions online also suggests that ellipses may indicate an unfinished thought, or a speaker trailing off into silence: “Oh, if only she had . . . well, it doesn’t matter anyway . . .”

But ellipses (usually three unspaced dots: …) in Russian prose and poetry of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries often have none of the uses mentioned above. The dots are a kind of Romantic excrescence, indicating something like a pause for contemplation, or a sigh. The writer takes in a breath to contemplate the ethereal nature of existence on earth. Or to share briefly the profundity of it all with his reader. Other than that, one cannot come up with anything tangible to express the meaning of those trailing dots. From the modern perspective we might be better off if they were simply omitted.

Note that in printed versions of the Tyutchev poem above no one tries to retain the original punctuation by dots in the poet’s handwritten manuscript. Most of the dots are released to float off into the ether, where they properly belong. But Russian editors must feel bad about losing them altogether, so they stick in three unspaced dots at the end of each stanza. Indicating what? As explained above, indicating something like a sigh, or indicating the ineffable, or not much of anything.