garnett_cover

<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/essays/constance-garnett-heroic-translator/"></div>In the midst of Mud and Stars: Travels in Russia with Pushkin and Other Geniuses of the Golden Age, Sara Wheeler takes a detour to a fellow Englishwoman, Constance Garnett (1861-1946), who between 1894 and 1934 published more than 60 volumes of translations of Russian literature and created the first mass English-reading audience for Dostoevsky and Chekhov. “Her work has stood the test of time,” declares Wheeler. “I love her, and I love her stuff. She had been weaned on the great English Victorian novelists, and she has their ear for language.” Garnett was not the indefatigable traveler that Wheeler is, but Wheeler must have enjoyed learning from Richard Garnett’s biography, Constance Garnett: A Heroic Life (1991), that his grandmother ventured twice to Russia. On her first journey she met Tolstoy at his Moscow house, where he praised her translation of his The Kingdom of God Is Within You and asked her to translate his revision of the Gospels; on her second journey she brought her 12-year-old son with her. Garnett wrote almost nothing of her own except letters, but she was savvy and generous as she “moved through the literary and political circles of a troubled time and emerged as a heroine, always on the side of the poor and oppressed, fighting in a man’s world,” writes Wheeler.
Garnett had been a whiz at ancient Greek at Cambridge University and seemed to absorb languages the way some artists absorb textures, shapes, and colors. “She began learning Russian just before she turned thirty when she fell in with a gang of fiery exiles,” Wheeler gushes. “Connie befriended many Russian Jews who had fled persecution after the assassination of Alexander Il.” Garnett learned enough of the language in a few months that, with the encouragement of a charismatic Russian revolutionary, she began translating a novel by Ivan Goncharov: “The first sentence took hours to puzzle out, but I soon advanced to translating a page a day.” She wrote her father-in-law a little later:
<blockquote>I do a few pages — some four or five —  […] every day, but I want a dictionary still for every sentence; and I think it will be some years before I have, as you say, ‘mastered’ the language, even in the sense of reading it as fluently as French. The idea of speaking it has faded away before an increased knowledge of the subtlety of the language.</blockquote>
She never did become a fluent speaker of Russian; like ancient Greek, Russian was primarily a written language for her.
But eventually she was translating at a sprint: five volumes of Turgenev in a year; 12 volumes of Dostoevsky in eight years; and, most famously, those 13 volumes of Chekhov in six years. “Her greatest virtues,” writes Gary Saul Morson, “were her profound and sympathetic understanding of the works themselves and a literary artist’s feel for the English language.” She has her detractors, as does any translator (often fellow translators, or academics who see opportunities to nitpick across enormous woven carpets). “[T]he Russian language,” sighed one such detractor, the scholar Henry Gifford, “has its inimitable brevities. It is in such small but crucial points that the translator meets his supreme challenge, and unless he can snatch a grace beyond the reach of art he will inevitably be defeated.” Such expectations are hardly realistic.
¤
Several years ago, when I was preparing an anthology of Great Love Stories for Dover Publications, I decided to translate a Chekhov story myself. My favorite is “The Lady with the Little Dog” (the very story Sara Wheeler was proud of herself for learning to read in the original in her late fifties), but there are so many great Chekhov love stories that I thought I should include one less well known. “A Misfortune” (“Neschast’e”) suggested itself. I read the story in Russian again and again until I knew on sight the meaning and relationship of every word. My Greek professor decades ago had insisted we first-year students not write our definitions on the pages of Xenophon’s Anabasis; “otherwise you’re not translating,” he had said, “you’re just reading your own English.” I knew my “A Misfortune” through and through. So I sat, in imitation of Garnett, with a pad of paper on my lap with the story at my side, and started translating, knowing that it would come out all right. I had in mind D. H. Lawrence’s description of Garnett “sitting out in the garden turning out reams of her marvelous translations from the Russian. She would finish a page, and throw it off on a pile on the floor without looking up, and start a new page. The pile would be this high … really almost up to her knees, and all magical.” But it’s good for us to know and appreciate that, for many years, because of vision troubles, she actually had to dictate her translations and “tried to use her eyes only for proofs.” That is, she translated by ear.
As for me, with my amateur, clumsy Russian, I like to make literal translations, at least to start, so I changed the syntax as little as possible and left out definite and indefinite articles from my draft of “A Misfortune” (the title of which I tried to recast but couldn’t; Garnett’s is just right). After a few days and more than 15 hours of staggering, I got through it and had a complete rough text. I was as pleased as a little boy who had made his own rickety tree-fort, but as soon as I sat myself on a park bench and started to try to make my version readable, it was as if sharp little points jutted up from the page. When I smoothed down one spot, broken shards popped up elsewhere. I had not had this difficulty, I thought, with some Tolstoy pieces I had painstakingly translated, and wasn’t Chekhov, as “everyone” agreed, easier to read in Russian than Tolstoy?
He is. But reading is not translating.
I could not smooth out and pave the rocky road. I contacted Vlad, one of my former Russian tutors, a translator and poet attending graduate school in the States, and asked if he could help me. He agreed, though he warned me his wife was pregnant with twins and she was counting on his help and attention. I sent him what I had typed up as well as Garnett’s version and told him he had free rein.
I could sense his difficulties when he sent me back the first few pages. Perhaps he deferred too much to mine. He broke up or sanded down some of my stiff phrasings, but his own phrasing was slippery, occasionally overlooking tiny details or distinctions in the Russian that even I could see. I took a shot at syncretizing our translations, but Chekhov’s quick, lively, humorous sentences now had a disturbing skittery limp that would have alarmed an orthopedist. The text was literally correct but sounded unlike any natural language and was funny for the wrong reasons.
I sent Vlad my new version of the first pages and he reviewed it, shrugged, and argued a couple of fine Russian points, which I, of course, conceded to him. My deadline for submitting the book manuscript was approaching. I asked if he could get me the rest of the translation within two weeks. He sent it to me in three weeks, the day before his wife gave birth.
I started reading the final version and felt myself wincing like someone sitting in the back of a truck that’s gone off-road.
And then, halfway through, Vlad had completely, marvelously smoothed it out! The language caught up to itself and cohered. We were rolling, flying down the highway! Vlad had found his rhythm and a consistent, easy voice: “She was sitting by the window, feeling miserable and cross. It is only by being in trouble that people can understand how far from easy it is to be the master of one’s feelings and thoughts.” Well, wait, that sounded so familiar that he must have borrowed a bit from Garnett. I read on: “Andrey Ilyitch, languid with hunger and exhaustion, fell upon the sausage while waiting for the soup to be brought in, and ate it greedily, munching noisily and moving his temples.” That too was Garnett. As was the next sentence, and the next. Vlad’s entire revision of the second half was Garnett’s!
So I sent Vlad a present for his babies and used the whole of Garnett’s “A Misfortune” in the book.
¤
When I began writing a biographical study of Tolstoy in the years he was writing Anna Karenina, I decided, after fussing with my own herky-jerky translations of passages from my favorite novel, that it would be less distracting to use one of the out-of-copyright editions by Garnett, Louise and Aylmer Maude, or Leo Wiener. My first response to any published translation is gratitude. What else should it be? Of course all three of theirs are better than what I could do, but Garnett’s shines brightest. She once said, “The qualifications for a translator are to be in sympathy with the author he is translating, and most important of all to be in love with words and interested in all their meanings.” She herself demonstrates this sympathy, this love, and this interest to the fullest.
Garnett’s 1901 version of Anna Karenina is so wonderfully hers, and her wordings are always different from mine. She truly has her own voice, but she also hears her authors’ voices and seems to catch their particular spirits. But no English voice can perfectly coordinate with Tolstoy’s, and realizing that is an important part of any good translator’s process of maturation. Garnett aimed only to give every translation her all. Once, having retranslated some stories the original versions of which she thought lost, she discovered those first renditions and realized “that though someone else might do a better version, it was clear that I could not myself. I had done the only version that I was capable of.”
I find that Garnett is like a cross-country runner who is so agile that her feet hop, skip, and spring where slowpokes hesitate and stumble. Her admirers admit she makes mistakes; her detractors, who, I can’t help thinking, resent her ease and pace, fume that she makes the translations sound like herself… and that she makes mistakes … and that she can’t convey the unconveyable.
To those objections I can only say: try it yourself.
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Constance Garnett: A Heroic Translator

knausgaard

<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/essays/knausgaard-war-peace/"></div>In Inadvertent, his good essay-lecture on the theme of “Why I Write” for the Yale library, Karl Ove Knausgaard remembers his boyhood reading habits: “I didn’t know anyone else who read except my brother, so I never talked about what I experienced in books, but it didn’t matter, the whole point of them being precisely that I read them alone, and yet I never felt like that, for while you were reading you were always together with someone else.” When I read Knausgaard, and I’ve read everything of his that’s been published in English except the last three-quarters of A Time for Everything (it felt like I didn’t have time to keep reading about angels), I do feel he’s the “someone else” whose presence I’m in.
I wrote him at his and his brother’s publishing house in Norway this spring to invite him for a conversation about Tolstoy, but I didn’t hear back from him. (It was a long shot.) Now I wish I could imagine into existence a talk with him about War and Peace. My number one novel is Anna Karenina, but War and Peace ain’t bad neither. For the last few months I’ve been reading it in Russian a page or two a night. Every so often, maybe because I have to read Russian very slowly, I stop in amazement and appreciation as I realize: That single paragraph there is ONE volume of Knausgaard! I love the depth of Knausgaard’s books, but reading War and Peace I keep stumbling upon molecules that seem to contain planets:
Near the altar of the church at Bald Hills there was a chapel over the tomb of the little princess, and in this chapel was a marble monument brought from Italy, representing an angel with outspread wings ready to fly upwards. The angel’s upper lip was slightly raised as though about to smile, and once on coming out of the chapel Prince Andrew and Princess Mary admitted to one another that the angel’s face reminded them strangely of the little princess. But what was still stranger, though of this Prince Andrew said nothing to his sister, was that in the expression the sculptor had happened to give the angel’s face, Prince Andrew read the same mild reproach he had read on the face of his dead wife: “Ah, why have you done this to me?”
As Tolstoy noted in one of his pedagogical essays, “Every artistic phrase &#8230; distinguishes itself from the inartistic in that it calls up countless possible thoughts, imaginings and revelations.” This moment in Prince Andrew’s life is one of those that vivifies thinking and feeling.
Knausgaard has these moments too, and whenever they happen, my sense of the world expands for a second into infinity. I didn’t complain to anybody about Volume 6 of My Struggle, except for the 400-page Hitler section, which, by reverse engineering could, I think, be condensed into one paragraph. Otherwise I’m completely down with My Struggle, the happiest extended literary experience I’ve had since I started reading Russian novels in the original.
But in Inadvertent, I was amused to learn that Knausgaard had only read War and Peace (“a book I love above all others”) twice. Twice! (“ … and both times I have been sucked into it, as happens only with the greatest of novels, when you invest more and deeper emotions into what you are reading than you do in your own life, and at times may find yourself yearning for the spaces opened up by the novel, even longing for its characters”). How many times should one read one’s book of books? Yes, War and Peace is a big book, but still!
My knowing of Knausgaard’s acknowledgment of War and Peace made me conscious of the resonance of passages where Tolstoy had condensed life into diamonds and that Knausgaard, in Struggle after Struggle, expanded into the stars. In his essay, Knausgaard points to this paragraph from Book VI, Chapter XIX (he or his translator Ingvild Burkey use Louise and Aylmer Maude’s translation):
After dinner Natasha, at Prince Andrew’s request, went to the clavichord and began singing. Prince Andrew stood by a window talking to the ladies and listened to her. In the midst of a phrase he ceased speaking and suddenly felt tears choking him, a thing he had thought impossible for him. He looked at Natasha as she sang, and something new and joyful stirred in his soul. He felt happy and at the same time sad. He had absolutely nothing to weep about yet he was ready to weep. What about? His former love? The little princess? His disillusionments? … His hopes for the future? … Yes and no. The chief reason was a sudden, vivid sense of the terrible contrast between something great and illimitable within him, and that limited and material that he, and even she, was. The contrast weighed on and yet cheered him while she sang.
One more scene from War and Peace that does for me in an instant what all of Knausgaard’s brilliant “Seasons” quartet did for me over days:
As often happens after long sleeplessness and long anxiety, he was seized by an unreasoning panic—it occurred to him that the child was dead. All that he saw and heard seemed to confirm this terror.
“All is over,” he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He went to the cot in confusion, sure that he would find it empty and that the nurse had been hiding the dead baby. He drew the curtain aside and for some time his frightened, restless eyes could not find the baby. At last he saw him: the rosy boy had tossed about till he lay across the bed with his head lower than the pillow, and was smacking his lips in his sleep and breathing evenly.
What I mean is that Tolstoy and Knausgaard are writers who get carried away and carry me away. They are exhaustive and intense, but like all great authors, they make me happy in their own ways.
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Knausgaard and War and Peace

Knausgaard and War and Peace

blaisdell-wells

walls

<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/interviews/conversing-thoreau-interview-laura-dassow-walls/"></div>By<a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/contributor/bob-blaisdell"> Bob Blaisdell</a>
Laura Dassow Walls is an English professor at the University of Notre Dame and the author of The Passage to Cosmos: Alexander von Humboldt and the Shaping of America, Seeing New Worlds: Henry David Thoreau and Nineteenth-Century Natural Science and Emerson’s Life in Science: The Culture of Truth. In this year that marks Thoreau’s 200th birthday, we exchanged emails about the writing of her new and first-rate biography, Henry David Thoreau: A Life. <a href="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/interviews/conversing-thoreau-interview-laura-dassow-walls/#more-4661" class="more-link">Read more</a>
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Conversing with Thoreau: An Interview with Laura Dassow Walls

Wonder Confronts Certainty: Russian Writers on the Timeless Questions and Why Their Answers Matter

The Open Presentness of Past Moments: On Gary Saul Morson’s “Wonder Confronts Certainty”

"Writing only leads to more writing." — Colette

Literary Criticism

Freedom from Violence and Lies: Anton Chekhov’s Life and Writings

Anton Chekhov: A Life

Chekhov Large and Small

"I don't think anyone should write their autobiography until after they're dead." — Samuel Goldwyn

Biography &amp; Autobiography

Mr. Mudrick Is 100

Bob Blaisdell, a longtime contributor to Los Angeles Review of Books, is the author of Creating Anna Karenina: Tolstoy and the Birth of Literature's Most Enigmatic Heroine, Chekhov Becomes Chekhov: The Emergence of a Literary Genius, and Well, Mr. Mudrick Said … A Memoir.

Bob Blaisdell

The Trojan Women: A Comic

Troy Is Burning: Anne Carson and Rosanna Bruno Reimagine Euripides’s “The Trojan Women”

"All lurid, unsavory, gruesome illustrations shall be eliminated." — Comics Code, 1954

Comics

Writing Isn’t a Sacred Activity, It Is an Ordinary Activity: A Conversation with Karl Ove Knausgaard

"For a long time now I haven't been I."
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Around the World

"Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. Truth isn't." — Mark Twain

Fiction

"The older one grows, the more one likes indecency." — Virginia Woolf

Memoir &amp; Essay

Tom Seaver: A Terrific Life

The Other Mr. Met

"I see great things in baseball." — Walt Whitman

Sports

Au Revoir, Tristesse

Rapt Rereadings

And the Earth Will Sit on the Moon

The Nose Nose: On Gogol’s “And the Earth Will Sit on the Moon: Essential Stories”

Lives and Deaths

Just Dying for It: On Tolstoy’s “Lives and Deaths: Essential Stories”

Mud and Stars

The Stars Her Destination: On Sara Wheeler’s “Mud and Stars: Travels in Russia with Pushkin and Other Geniuses of the Golden Age”

Rock, Paper, Scissors

The Good Doctor: On Maxim Osipov’s “Rock, Paper, Scissors”

Bob Blaisdell, a longtime contributor to Los Angeles Review of Books, is the author of Creating Anna Karenina: Tolstoy and the Birth of Literature's Most Enigmatic Heroine, Chekhov Becomes Chekhov: The Emergence of a Literary Genius, and Well, Mr. Mudrick Said … A Memoir.