Profanation of the dead & a virescent rainbow edged with mauve - a review of Vladimir Nabokov's Verses and Versions

I'll start this review on the right foot. The beginning of Vladimir Nabokov's 1954 poem "On Translating 'Eugene Onegin'":

What is translation? On a platter
A poet's pale and glaring head,
A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter,
And profanation of the dead.

I'm afraid this applies more than a bit to Verses and Versions (2008), a recent, complete, collection of Nabokov's translations. The book is a malformed hybrid.

The problem is not with Nabokov's translations as such, many of which are marvels. It's the completeness of the book that works against it. Here's what I mean. Alexander Pushkin receives over 140 pages, about a third of the book, commensurate with his status, right? But it turns out that a substantial chunk of the Pushkin poems - maybe half - are actually culled from Nabokov's extensive notes to his translation of Eugene Onegin. Many of the poems are not complete, but simply a few lines, because they were translated only in order to elucidate a point about a line or two in a completely different poem. Editors Brian Boyd and Stanislav Shvabrin are actually re-publishing footnotes from another book, the poem in the body of the book, and the footnote itself in the footnotes of this book!

I was curious about the older Russian poets, whose works I didn't know, or thought I didn't know - Mihail Lomonosov, Nikolay Karamzin, and so on. It turns out I had read all of this before, yes, in the notes to Eugene Onegin. And then there are the program notes to an album of Russian songs recorded by Nabokov's son. All a little ridiculous, all for scholars. It deserves to have been collected and available, but in an overpriced scholarly edition perhaps titled Scraps and Scroungings.

Fortunately, Verses and Versions is salvageable for the ordinary, common, and amateur reader. For each poem, we have the Russian on the left, with the year of publication, and the English on the right, with its year of publication. What the reader can do is skip past anything dated 1951-57 - those are all from the notes to Eugene Onegin. The poems from 1941-43 are from Nabokov's Three Russian Poets, and those from 1944-47 are from an expanded edition. The three poets are Pushkin, Mikhail Lermontov, and Fyodor Tyutchev. I put up one of the Lermontov poems last Thanksgiving.

In general, if its from the 1940s, read it. If it's later, skip it. Then you'll also get a few really interesting Vladislav Hodasevich poems and three nice ones by Afanasiy Fet, and Pushkin's amazing "Mozart and Salieri," one of my favorites. I prefer Nabokov's version to Charles Johnston's. The popular audience edition really should have been a beefed up Three Russian Poets.

How about one of those Tyutchev poems:

Appeasement

The storm withdrew, but Thor had found his oak,
and there it lay magnificently slain,
and from its limbs a remnant of blue smoke
spread to bright trees repainted by the rain -

- while thrush and oriole made haste to mend
their broken melodies throughout the grove,
upon the crests of which was propped the end
of a virescent rainbow edged with mauve.

I don't know enough of Tyutchev to know if this sounds like him. It sure sounds like Nabokov.

The reason for the decadal split, by the way, is Nabokov's famous conversion to literal, rather than poetic, translation. Personally, I think we should have both, the literal translations for the scholars, and the poetic ones for me.

Happy Thanksgiving from Mikhail Lermontov

Thanksgiving

For everything, for everything, O Lord,
I thank Thee -
for the secret pangs of passion,
the poisoned fangs of kisses,
the bitter taste
of tears;
for the revenge of foes
and for the calumny of friends,
and for the waste
of a soul's fervor burning in a desert,
and for all things that have deceived me here.
But please, O Lord,
henceforth let matters be arranged
in such a way
that I need not keep thanking Thee
much longer.

Mikhail Lermontov, 1840, tr. Vladimir Nabokov in Verses and Versions, p. 289

I don't think that's exactly the right spirit of the holiday. I'll try something more traditional tomorrow.

A useful comment, too good to lose.

The proprietor of Lizok's Bookshelf left a comment to my Lermontov notes over at the Russian Reading Challenge that is too good to leave to the usual processes of internet evaporation:

"Dear Wuthering,
I'm so glad you're enjoying Lermontov -- he was a wonderful writer and poet!

If you want to read more poetry, this page has English and Russian versions of some of Lermontov's most famous poems, along with audio: http://max.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/endtobegin.htm

By the way, Lermontov's "Demon" was a huge inspiration for painter Mikhail Vrubel: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikhail_Vrubel. Vrubel's paintings are such a familiar part of Russian culture that the various "Demons" (and an "Angel") even play a role in a Ukrainian-produced soap opera that I've been watching!

Enjoy,Lisa,

Lizok's Bookshelf"

This is from a Professional Reader, a Russian specialist. The poetry site is useful, not just for Lermontov, but for selections from poets like Fet and Tyutchev, even more obscure in English.

And then there are those Vrubel paintings. See below, for his painting of Lermontov's Demon (1890), borrowed from the first-rate Wikipedia entry linked by Lizok. Russian painting from the 19th century has had trouble finding it's place in the standard art history story ("Abstraction Equals Progress Or, How Tiepolo Inevitably Led to Warhol"), despite its richness and innovations. The Mikhail Vrubel paintings demonstrate the problem - my first thought is "what are these"? A promising subject for future research.

Thanks for the links.

Mikhail Lermontov, the poet

Lermontov wrote a number of narrative poems. These are well-suited to be read in translation. At least the translator can communicate the story, even if the poetry is lost. Charles Johnston has translated three good ones in Narrative Poems by Alexander Pushkin & Mikhail Lermonotov, all from 1837 to 1841:

The Tambov Lady – a gambler stakes his wife,
The Novice – a monk flees a monastery,
The Demon – Lucifer falls in love with a Georgian princess.

I've read that The Demon is often considered to be the greatest Russian poem. No way to judge that in translation, but here's a sample from Johnston:

He wandered, now long-since outcast;
his desert had no refuge in it:
and one by one the ages passed,
as minute follows after minute,
each one monotonously dull.
The world he ruled was void and null;
the ill he sowed in his existence
brought no delight. His technique scored,
he found no traces of resistance –
yet evil left him deeply bored. (Stanza II)

Pechorin, from A Hero of Our Time, could have said the same thing.

Lermontov's, anyone's, lyric poems lose a lot in translation, but Lermontov's wikipedia entry includes Vladimir Nabokov's version of Lermotov's "The Dream." In English, it's a perfect poem. Otherwise, I have not read his lyrics - any recommendations?

Also posted at the Russian Reading Challenge.

Mikhail Lermontov and A Hero of Our Time

Mikhail Lermontov (1814-41) lived and worked in the shadow of Pushkin. His verse forms, his subject matter, and his death in a pointless duel (age 27), suggest his older contemporary at every turn. For the last four years of his life, he was widely acknowledged as Pushkin's heir, Russia's greatest living poet. But Lermontov is very much worth reading for his own sake.

Lermontov's single short novel, A Hero of Our Time (1840), is a series of four adventures of Pechorin, the supposed hero of the title. The adventures are all set on the war-torn Caucasian frontier, and involve smugglers and Chechnyan bandits, kidnapping, Russian roulette, and dueling - exciting stuff. Why, then, is Pechorin always so bored?

That's the central irony of the novel - the adventures are all a result of Pechorin's boredom, his struggle against the meaningless of his life. The result is always some sort of disaster. Pechorin sows chaos, just to have something to do, and leaves a trail of casualties. Here's a sample of how he operates. Pechorin is trying to steal the Princess Mary from his friend Grushnitski, for sport:

"During all these days, I never once departed from my system. The young princess begins to like my conversation. I told her some of the strange occurrences in my life, and she begins to see in me an extraordinary person. I laugh at everything in the world, especially at feelings: this is beginning to frighten her. In my presence she does not dare to launch upon sentimental debates with Grushnitski, and has several times already replied to his sallies with a mocking smile; but every time that Grushnitski comes up to her, I assume a humble air and leave them alone together. The first time she was glad of it or tried to make it seem so; the second time she became cross with me; the third time she became cross with Grushnitski." (p. 121, Ardis edition)

The result, in this case, is one of the greatest, craziest, dueling scenes in Russian literature.

A Hero of Our Time has an indirect, modern structure. A Lermontov-like narrator first hears a long story about Pechorin, then, by chance, actually meets him. Then the last three stories are in Pechorin's own voice, from his journals. So the reader starts at a distance, but draws closer and closer to Pechorin.

Lermontov's hero is a relative of Goethe's Werther and any number of Byronic heroes, and his own descendants will be seen again in certain protagonists of Tolstoy, Turgenev, and Dostoevsky, and any other character who asks "What's the point of it all?"

This is cross-posted at the Russian Reading Challenge. I'm not sure it's any more useful or well written than Lermontov's wikipedia entry, but such is life.

The long "Princess Mary" chapter is the earliest non-English story I know set in a spa town. In England, I'm thinking of Jane Austen and Tobias Smollett. Who am I forgetting?