Translation of Poem by A.A. Fet, Афанасий Фет, "Люди спят; мой друг, пойдем в тенистый сад," "They’re all asleep, my friend; let’s meet in the garden’s haze"

 

A.A. Fet

(1820-1892)

 

Люди спят; мой друг, пойдем в тенистый сад.
Люди спят; одни лишь звезды к нам глядят.
Да и те не видят нас среди ветвей
И не слышат — слышит только соловей…
Да и тот не слышит, — песнь его громка;
Разве слышат только сердце и рука:
Слышит сердце, сколько радостей земли,
Сколько счастия сюда мы принесли;
Да рука, услыша, сердцу говорит,
Что чужая в ней пылает и дрожит,
Что и ей от этой дрожи горячо,
Что к плечу невольно клонится плечо…

1853

 

 

d

Literal Translation

The people are sleeping; my friend, let’s go out into the shadowy garden.

The people are sleeping; only the stars are gazing at us.

And even they can’t see us amidst the branches

And can’t hear us—only the nightingale hears . . .

And even he cannot hear—for his song is loud;

In fact, only heart and hand can hear:

The heart hears how much joy [there is] on the earth,

How much happiness we have brought here;

And the hand, in listening, says to the heart

That some other hand is burning and trembling in it,

That because of that other [hand]’s tremble it feels hot,

And that one shoulder to another is unwittingly reclining . . .

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

They’re all asleep, my friend; let’s meet in the garden’s haze.

They’re all asleep, and only the stars upon us gaze.

And amidst all the foliage the stars cannot see,

Nor can they hear us, but high in his tree

The nightingale hears . . . no, his song is too loud . . .

Only the heart and the hand are endowed

With ears that can hear all the joys of this earth,

And the bliss you and I feel, the rapture and mirth.

The hand tells the heart that within her handclasp

Another hand smolders and quails in that grasp,

That tremble builds ardor that grows in her, burns,

As shoulder to shoulder inclines, softly yearns.

 

Translation of Poem by A.A. Fet, Афанасий Фет, "Растут, растут причудливые тени," "They grow larger and larger, the whimsical shades"

 

Афанасий Фет

(1820-1892)

 

Растут, растут причудливые тени,

В одну сливаясь тень…
Уж позлатил последние ступени
Перебежавший день.

Что звало жить, что силы горячило –
Далеко за горой.
Как призрак дня, ты, бледное светило,
Восходишь над землей.

И на тебя как на воспоминанье
Я обращаю взор…
Смолкает лес, бледней ручья сиянье,
Потухли выси гор;

Лишь ты одно скользишь стезей лазурной;
Недвижно всё окрест…
Да сыплет ночь своей бездонной урной
К нам мириады звезд.

1853

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

They grow larger and larger, the whimsical shades

Till they blend into one formless shadow . . .

Last steps on the stairway play gilded charades

As day yields to gloaming, then evening’s deathblow.

 

What called me to live, my powers’ handmaiden

Has now evanesced, lost from sight. 

The ghost of the day with its pale fire laden

O’er the earth rises high, shines its light.

 

On Thee, orb of night, as if on a dream,

I gaze with an eye weary, jaded . . .

The woods silent lie, pallid glow on the stream,

The glimmer on hilltops has faded;

 

Thou alone waft along on your lazuline way,

While all else around lies quiescent . . .

And out of its bottomless urn doth purvey

The night endless starlight canescent. 

 

 

 

 

Famous Botkins in Russian History

                                                              Dr. Sergei Petrovich Botkin

Famous Botkins in Russia

Vasily Petrovich Botkin, a man who was born in both 1811 and 1812, was a writer, critic, and translator. He was an acquaintance of the great critic Belinksy, with whom he carried on a long correspondence, later published. Letters from Spain is Botkin’s most well-known published work. A typical Western liberal, Botkin wanted social change but opposed the idea of violent revolution. In his article on the poet A.A. Fet’s work (1857), he spoke out in favor of “pure art.” He died in 1869. Why was he born in two different years? Because in his day Russia still went by the old Julian calendar, which lagged behind the Gregorian calendar of the West. He was born on December 27, 1811, in Russia, which was January 8, 1812, in Western Europe. Lots of people in Russia were born, or died, in two different years. But nobody was born, or died, in two different millennia. Because in 1918, long before the changing of the millennium that you and I were lucky enough to experience, the Soviets adopted the Gregorian calendar.

 

One of the most famous doctors in Russian history was Sergei Petrovich Botkin (1832-1889). He studied at the medical faculty of Moscow State University (1850-1855); served as field doctor in the Crimean War (1855); wrote his dissertation “On Absorption of Fat in the Bowels” (1860); served as field doctor in the Russo-Turkish War, worked out novel ways to treat wounded soldiers on the battlefield (1877). A specialist in internal diseases, Botkin was one of the first to work out diagnosis and treatment of floating kidney. He played an active role in women’s rights, helped organize medical courses for women in 1872. He was curator of St. Petersburg city hospitals and member of the city Duma, 1881-1889.

 

The Botkin Hospital in Moscow is named after the great physician. In the summer of 1972, I was a patient there. In 1959, Lee Oswald was a patient there.

 

Porfiry Petrovich Goes to Visit Dr. Botkin

In Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment the examining magistrate Porfiry Petrovich is a hypochondriac. He complains of problems with hemorrhoids, of his “confounded laughter,” which causes him to shake for half an hour at a time; he’s afraid he might have a stroke. He goes to consult with the renowned Dr. Botkin, who spends thirty minutes examining each patient.

 

“He just laughed when he looked at me. He sounded me and listened to my chest. ‘Incidentally,’ he says to me, ‘tobacco is no good for you; your lungs are affected.’”

C and P, Part 6, Chapter 2

And then, of course, there's Vladimir Nabokov's Botkin (Kinbote), lunatic protagonist of the novel Pale Fire.

[excerpted from the book by U.R. Bowie, Here We Be. Where Be We?]

Vasily Petrovich Botkin

Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА, "Подруга (No. 7) [Как весело сиял снежинками]," HOW

                                                                            Sophia Parnok

МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА

(1892-1941)

(С.Парнок)

Подруга (No. 7)

 

 

Как весело сиял снежинками

Ваш – серый, мой – соболий мех,

Как по рождественскому рынку мы

Искали ленты ярче всех.

 

Как розовыми и несладкими

Я вафлями объелась – шесть!

Как всеми рыжими лошадками

Я умилялась в Вашу честь.

 

Как рыжие поддевки – парусом,

Божась, сбывали нам тряпье,

Как на чудных московских барышень

Дивилось глупое бабье.

 

Как в час, когда народ расходится,

Мы нехотя вошли в собор,

Как на старинной Богородице

Вы приостановили взор.

 

Как этот лик с очами хмурыми

Был благостен и изможден

В киоте с круглыми амурами

Елисаветинских времен.

 

Как руку Вы мою оставили,

Сказав: "О, я ее хочу!"

С какою бережностью вставили

В подсвечник – желтую свечу...

 

– О, светская, с кольцом опаловым

Рука! – О, вся моя напасть! –

Как я икону обещала Вам

Сегодня ночью же украсть!

 

Как в монастырскую гостиницу

– Гул колокольный и закат –

Блаженные, как именинницы,

Мы грянули, как полк солдат.

 

Как я Вам – хорошеть до старости –

Клялась – и просыпала соль,

Как трижды мне – Вы были в ярости! -

Червонный выходил король.

 

Как голову мою сжимали Вы,

Лаская каждый завиток,

Как Вашей брошечки эмалевой

Мне губы холодил цветок.

 

Как я по Вашим узким пальчикам

Водила сонною щекой,

Как Вы меня дразнили мальчиком,

Как я Вам нравилась такой..

 

December, 1914

 

d

 

 

 

Literal Translation

 

How gayly were shining the snowflakes

On your gray, on my sable fur,

As we [ambled] through the Christmas bazaar,

Searching for ribbons that were brightest of all.

 

How on pink and not sweetened

Waffled pastries I stuffed myself: six!

How I took delight—in your honor—

In all the rust-red little horses.

 

How [men in] rust-red poddyovkas [long, tight-waisted coats worn by the Russian merchant class]

Like sails, invoking God as witness, foisted rags [cheap clothing] upon us,

How the stupid peasant women marveled at

The exotic Moscow upper-class ladies.

 

How at one o’clock, when the folk [hucksters in the bazaar] dispersed,

We reluctantly entered a cathedral,

How you fixed your gaze

On an ancient [icon of] the Mother of God.

 

How that visage with the morose eyes

Was grace-giving and enervated,

In an icon-case with rotund putti

From the times of Elizabeth [Tsarina Elizaveta Petrovna, reigned 1741-1762].

 

How you let go of my hand,

Exclaiming, “Oh, I want her [it]!”

With what care you inserted

A yellow candle into the votive stand [metal holder beneath the icon where lit candles are placed].

 

O that hand, fashionable [genteel, high-class], with an opal ring!

O, the whole of my ruination!

How I promised you

I’d steal the icon this very night!

 

How into the hotel at the monastery—

To the din of the bells at sunset—

Full of bliss [secondary meaning here: like crazed holy fools], like birthday girls,

We stormed, like a regiment of soldiers.

 

How I swore to you to retain my good looks

Until old age, and sprinkled some salt,

How three times—you were incensed!—

The king of hearts came up for me.

 

How you squeezed my head,

Caressing every curl,

How the flower on your enamel brooch

Felt cold against my lips.

 

How I rubbed my drowsy cheek

Against your narrow [slender] small fingers,

How you teased me, called me a boy,

How you liked me that way. . .

 

 

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

How

(From the Series “Girlfriend,” No. 7)

 

for Sophia Parnok

How gayly did the snowflakes glimmer

On your gray coat, my sable fur,

As through the Christmas market’s shimmer

We shopped for ribbons’ bright allure.  

 

How waffled pastries, pink, unsweetened,

I stuffed myself on—four plus two!

How folk-carved horsies, rust-red sleek and

Glossy moved me—as they did you.    

 

How in God’s name smooth-talking hucksters

Were foisting on us furbelows,

As stupid crones stood round in clusters,

And leered at Moscow demoiselles.

 

How when the marketfolk dispersed

At one, into a church we plod,

How you, enthralled, stood long immersed

In icon age-old: the Mother of God. 

 

And how that face with eyes of gloom

Looked drained, grace-giving, cool, serene,  

In icon-case baroque, festooned

With round-cheeked rosy cherubim.

 

How you exclaimed, my hand releasing,

“I’d like to take her home with me!”

Then charily, into slot easing,

You placed a taper tenderly.

 

Your hand, how posh, with opal ring,

The key to my ruination!

How I then promised you to bring

(To steal) the icon—desecration! 

 

How we, in blissful festive mode,

To din of bells, at evening’s gloaming,

Into the convent hostel flowed,

Went bursting in like hightide foaming.

 

How I’d stay young, to age adverse,

I crossed my heart and hoped to die,

How three times straight the king of hearts

Came up for me; your angry sigh!

 

And how you gently squeezed my head,

Caressing each and every curling,

While your enamel brooch dispread

Its chill against my lips’ warm yearning.

 

How my drowsy cheek felt pleased

Against your fingers’ slenderness,   

And how you called me “schoolboy,” teased,

How much you liked my boyishness . . .

d

 

Translator’s Commentary

 

Interesting how Marina Tsvetaeva maintains the illusion—at least at first glance—that the love story here is heterosexual. In addressing her lesbian lover Sophia Parnok, she uses the polite “you” form, which does not distinguish grammatically the sex of the person addressed. One wonders if in actuality she used the familiar “ты” with Parnok.

 

Almost every stanza of this poem presents problems for someone translating it into English, especially for one attempting to retain meter and rhyme. What my final version amounts to is a paraphrase, but, I hope, a genuine poem in English, which retains the gist of the original, and, above all, the almost giddy happiness. For this poem about lesbian love ranks among the happiest that Tsvetaeva ever wrote.

 

Proponents of literal translation, of course, will find my efforts unacceptable, to say the least. There are just too many metaphors and words that I had to sacrifice, in order to stay true to the gods of meter and rhyme.

 

Here are a few examples of problems for the translator:

 

Stanza Two: The little rust-red horses; just what are they? If I could go back in time and walk along with Tsvetaeva and Parnok through that Christmas bazaar, I could find out. Could they be artificial horses that are part of a carousel running round and round? Or real ponies? I finally decided (guessed) that they were folk carvings of horses, children’s toys on sale at the bazaar.

 

Stanza Three: What does the translator do with the personified “rust-red poddyovki,” the merchant-class coats that (synecdoche) invoke God’s name (as to the quality of their products)? The men in these coats are trying to foist off cheap clothing on our heroines. And what in the world is this image of sails that the poet uses in describing these coats? Dunno, and even if I knew I still could not begin to get that imagery into English, while keeping the meter. Unfortunately, there is no good translation for poddyovki, and we end up giving up on the coats and the “sails” altogether. Who are the Moscow demoiselles the peasant women are marveling at? Probably our heroines, Tsvetaeva and Parnok, stylishly dressed, upper-class.

 

Stanza Five: Reluctant to leave the bazaar (which is closing down for business), the heroines go into a cathedral, where they come upon an ancient icon in an icon-casing “from Elizabethan times.” I gave up on getting the Tsarina Elizabeth into the translation. She would not fit into the meter, and, besides, “Elizabethan times” immediately suggests British history to the reader in English.

Stanza Eight: I hated to lose the metaphor of the regiment of soldiers storming into the monastery hotel, but that horde of marching men just could not cram itself into the meter, and I had to settle for a different storming image.

Stanza Nine: I assume that the sprinkling of salt is a superstition connected with warding off evil (like knocking on wood), but somehow the salt sprinkling wouldn’t fit, no matter how I twisted it. So I came up with a way of swearing (in English) that you’ll do something—in this case swearing to remain young and beautiful: “cross my heart and hope to die.”

Stanza Ten: Had to sacrifice the flower on the brooch here. I did, however, retain the image of the enamel brooch and the way it felt cold against Marina’s lips.

                                       

                                           Sergei Efron and Marina Tsvetaeva, Newlyweds