by Andrei Bitov
* Belles lettres—“fine letters” (Fr.). (A. B.)
* A typical example of back-(re)translation, or gaining in translation … In English the name Ris (spelled Rhys or Reese) bears no associations with “rice,” as it does in Russian. (A. B.)
* Translated from the verse of Inga Kuznetsova. (A. B.)
* Here the translator cut some capers, trying to cope with the untranslatable alliteration and assonance of the English text. In the original, for example, “sunny” rhymed with “funny,” “I” with “bonsai,” and so on.
† Here, too, the translator relied on personal experience of the native tongue.
* Pardon me, if you insist, as Zoshchenko remarked (2008 edition). (A. B.)
* Of all the poems, the translator liked this one most, and he gave his all trying to translate it. It turned out twice as long, and the poetry may have escaped altogether:
There was wind, and birds.
Children blossomed in their jackets.
Yesterday’s faces were unable
To recognize us at all.
Not much remained
Of you and me,
And a road rose up
Out of yesterday.
So the blinding taste
Will stay. Drink it all.
And taste,
How full you are, and how empty.
The translation of this poem, however, allows me to date this place in my work on the larger translation of the book: January 28, 1997. At Princeton, the news reached me of the death of the poet Vladimir Sokolov (which is where these “faces” came from). A victim of taste, his whole life he worked on a long poem with the title (not easy for the Russian language) of “The Plot.” He never finished it. His subject converged to a point by a coincidence: this day, January 28, 1997, was the first anniversary of the death of Joseph Brodsky.
Oh, the 28th of January! Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Blok (if we take into account “The Twelve”) … Brodsky and Sokolov were certainly in good company. What is this? The stars? Or is it “the heavens mocking the Earth”?
This footnote leads me synchronically to another memoir, which allows me to establish another date, connected with the very beginning of my work on this “translation,” my first test of the pen.
“The spirit of sad idleness…”—the Russian always strives to start with what is easiest. And I began with the poems. I didn’t dare write them in my own name; but under the name of the protagonist, and all the more since it was a translation “from a foreign tongue” … “Thursday” seems fairly decent. Still feeling the momentum, I drafted “The Death of the Bride.” Just at that moment, I ran into Joseph on Nevsky Prospect (in other words, he hadn’t yet left for good). Knowing that he earned his keep as a translator and was celebrated for his “Elegy for John Donne,” I described my project to him and asked for a professional consultation. “Sure, why not?” he said. And we went up to my place for a cup of coffee. I explained to him that coffee grounds were the inspiration for my literal translations. He glanced at “The Death of the Bride,” and praised the last line: “My God! How brief!”
“Still, it’s not quite the thing,” he concluded. “Oh, by the way, I’ve got something here on the same subject.” And with a magician’s gesture he pulled out of his breast pocket a sheet of paper casually folded into a quarto. “I wrote it yesterday. Did you know Bobo? No? Strange. Well, she died.”
And in his rich, gingery voice he read: “Bobo is dead, but don’t take off your hat…” His dandyism turned out to be justified: not only did Inga and I like it, but he liked it himself.
“You’ve convinced me” was all I managed to say to him.
I don’t know whether this was the premiere of the poem. The next time I heard it, I was at his home, already very drunk, at his send-off. (A. B., February 10, 2008.)
* Begging your pardon (again). (A. B.)
* Jerome K. Jerome—author of the book Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog). (A. B.)
* Whether he had read the great author of The Butterfly That Stamped Its Foot, the forgotten A. Tired-Boffin, is open to question. (A. B.)
* G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday.
* Only now do I begin to understand Bartholomew. Indeed, what is the modern-day European Union, with its euro (of which Bartholomew could not conceive, even in his alternative history), if not Napoleon’s plan, risen to the surface of the present like Atlantis? His Europe, created by fire and sword, disintegrated quickly. The chief architect was dismissed; but his project came to life again, annexing new countries of the former Socialist Empire. Thus, Russia, in retreating, finally inches back toward Europe, like China inching into Siberia. (A tardy note from the translator, April 28, 2011, 4:00 p.m. The Bartholomiad is complete: “The audience has transpired.” See above. A. B.)
* A conundrum for a translator. The Russian language devotes a single character, or letter, to this sound: “ш.” Similarly, English needs two letters (“kh”) to represent the Russian sound and letter “х” (as in “Anton Chekhov”). And in French—just imagine!—“onion” and “ostrich,” “anchor” and “bee” and “spider,” “lamb,” “jester,” and “lampshade” all begin with the same letter! From here on out, the translator will be confronted with many such difficulties, and will not be able to cope with them. (A. B.)