Read Traveler of the Century Online
Authors: Andrés Neuman
Traveler of the Century (41 page)
Sophie, Hans and the organ grinder stood casually chatting a moment longer, before saying goodbye. The old man concluded by solemnly inviting her to his cave. My humble cave, he stated, which is wonderfully cool in the summer. Sophie bade him farewell, promising to come. Hans had a suspicion she would be true to her word. As she turned to leave, taking Elsa's arm, Hans studied Sophie's faceâhe knew she had enjoyed herself and that, in some way, the organ grinder had fascinated her.
The filthy old man with the barrel organ pointed towards the dog. Sophie bent down to stroke the animal and looked contented. Elsa stood watching, motionless. Hans, who also happened to be there, made a strange gesture with his hand. What were they saying to each other? Rudi Wilderhaus was observing the scene through the windows of the Central Tavern. He couldn't hear them or fully make sense of the situation. She was with Elsa, yes, but why were they dallying? And what were they talking about to Hans and that filthy old man?
Laughter broke out over by the bar. One of Rudi's young companions placed a hand on his shoulder as he sat gazing through the window, his back to them. Hey, Wilderhaus, said the young aristocrat, aren't you bothered by your fiancée associating with strange men? How can you accept her frequenting a common inn? My fiancée, Rudi replied, swinging round, associates with whom she pleases, because, unlike yours, she's no fool. As for Sophie's visits to the inn, her father and I are fully aware of them; she goes there to indulge in one of her favourite pastimes, which is literary translation.
Rudi's friends shot each other glances, stifled guffaws, raised
their tankards: Your health, Wilderhaus! said one. I drink to your fiancée's literary endeavours! Rudi clinked his tankard and retorted: And I drink to your descendants carrying on the family tradition of ignorance. All but the toastee laughed. Rudi turned once more to the window. He saw the two women taking their leave of Hans and the filthy old man, before continuing on their way. He thought he detected a smile on Sophie's face. When he rested his elbows on the bar, he looked solemn, though apparently unruffled. Seriously, Wilderhaus, one of the others ventured, don't you think it's a bit much? Oughtn't you to intervene just to be on the safe side, if only as a matter of decency? Sophie's decency is beyond reproach, Rudi said lifting his chin. I told you, I trust her implicitly, and I trust myself even more. Of course, of course, the other man said, but be honest, don't you feel just a little jealous? Rudi remained silent for a moment. He gave a long sigh, slammed down his tankard and growled: Who do you think you're talking to, numbskull! Do you imagine for one moment that I'm intimidated by a lowly scribbler from God knows where, with no family, no estate, no refinement? Do you expect me to feel even remotely jealous of an ignorant commoner who lodges at an inn? What infuriates me are not Sophie's outlandish pastimes, which she has always pursued and quite rightfully, it's the disgraceful insinuations of people like you. The mere fact that you think I should be concerned about this is humiliating and offensive to me. I therefore demand that you retract your vile remarks this instant, or that you repeat them to me while brandishing the weapon of your choice. And the same goes for the rest of you.
their tankards: Your health, Wilderhaus! said one. I drink to your fiancée's literary endeavours! Rudi clinked his tankard and retorted: And I drink to your descendants carrying on the family tradition of ignorance. All but the toastee laughed. Rudi turned once more to the window. He saw the two women taking their leave of Hans and the filthy old man, before continuing on their way. He thought he detected a smile on Sophie's face. When he rested his elbows on the bar, he looked solemn, though apparently unruffled. Seriously, Wilderhaus, one of the others ventured, don't you think it's a bit much? Oughtn't you to intervene just to be on the safe side, if only as a matter of decency? Sophie's decency is beyond reproach, Rudi said lifting his chin. I told you, I trust her implicitly, and I trust myself even more. Of course, of course, the other man said, but be honest, don't you feel just a little jealous? Rudi remained silent for a moment. He gave a long sigh, slammed down his tankard and growled: Who do you think you're talking to, numbskull! Do you imagine for one moment that I'm intimidated by a lowly scribbler from God knows where, with no family, no estate, no refinement? Do you expect me to feel even remotely jealous of an ignorant commoner who lodges at an inn? What infuriates me are not Sophie's outlandish pastimes, which she has always pursued and quite rightfully, it's the disgraceful insinuations of people like you. The mere fact that you think I should be concerned about this is humiliating and offensive to me. I therefore demand that you retract your vile remarks this instant, or that you repeat them to me while brandishing the weapon of your choice. And the same goes for the rest of you.
The other man lowered his head and stammered an apology. His friends hastily did likewise. The group fell silent. Rudi Wilderhaus gestured to the waiter, left a few coins on the bar, and walked out without saying goodbye.
Â
Each time Professor Mietter parted his taut lips to speak, the water fountain in the patio became clearly audible againâthe other salon-goers dutifully stopped talking and waited for his opinion, fingers clasped. Hans could not help being impressed by the professor's authority, although he remained somewhat perplexed by it. The professor never grew excitable in an attempt to impose his argumentsâhe delivered them unhurriedly while the others appeared to take notes in silence. Herr Gottlieb would nod his head in solemn interest. Sophie would smile rather ambiguously. And Hans, who was beginning to understand Sophie's gestures, suspected that these long, ecstatic smiles were a sign that she disagreed completely.
Aware of Hans and Sophie's literary collaboration, Professor Mietter began by expressing his concern that she might be neglecting other important matters for a girl her age whose marriage was only months away. Upon hearing this, Herr Gottlieb uttered a cry that left his whiskers quivering like a pair of darts that have just hit their target. Then, almost imploringly, he said: That is precisely what I say to her, yet she refuses listen to reason. Frau Pietzine agreed with the professor. But on seeing Sophie frown, she added: Well, I dare say there's no harm in it. Frau Levin shifted her fan from one hand to the other, shaking her head disapprovingly. Her husband cleared his throat, pensively. Hans, who wanted to give Sophie a look of encouragement, felt sure Rudi was watching him and, regretting the absence of the round mirror in the drawing room, spiked a slice of orange sprinkled with cinnamon. Encouraged by this protective advice, Sophie resolved not to waste time trying to defend herself, but instead to use humourâthe only thing Professor Mietter didn't understand, and which undermined her father's authority. How right you are, gentlemen, I wish I'd never translated a single verse, I've been so naive! But I promise you, as of tomorrow, what am I saying, as of today! I shall study only moral treatises and cookery books.
Were it not for Frau Pietzine's quick laugh, Hans could have sworn Herr Gottlieb and Professor Mietter were about to take her seriously. Sophie used this opportunity to ask her guests what they would like to drink, and stood up to go and give Elsa instructions. By the time she returned to her seat, the conversation had turned to the practical scope of translation. With scholarly serenity, Professor Mietter was questioning the legitimacy of translations of poetry. Hans, who had scarcely slept a wink and felt his eyelids drooping, was disagreeing with him rather tactlessly.
Don't get me wrong, young man, the professor was saying, I have nothing against the admirable efforts of those who endeavour to translate poetry. God forbid, on the contrary. But strictly speaking, if we leave aside good intentions and study the topic more methodically, you must all agree, as discerning readers of poetry, that each poem possesses an untransmissible essence, a distinctive sound, precise forms and connotations that are impossible to adapt to another language with a similar perfection. It would be quite another thing, of course, to renounce the overly ambitious task of translating the poem and instead offer the reader a kind of guide, a literal transcription of the words that would enable him to penetrate the original, which is what really counts. But these are no longer translations in the literary sense to which you were referring, which, dare I say it, seems to me an impossible undertaking from the very outset.
(As he listened to the professor's arguments, Hans reflected that everything he said was applicable to the field of the emotionsâin short, someone who disbelieved in the possibilities of translation was sceptical of love. This man, Hans reflected unkindly, was linguistically born to solitude. Or, all things considered, to marriage. All of a sudden Rudi choked on his drink, and for a moment Hans was unsure if he had been thinking aloud unawares.)
Professor Mietter continued holding forth about fidelity to the original text, and respecting the author's words. Hans raised a finger and, to his astonishment, the professor instantly fell silent, yielding him the floor with a polite gesture. The professor's judicious mouth gobbled a piece of pineapple in syrup.
I understand your argument, Hans said rather uneasily, but I think being faithful is a contradiction (Rudi turned towards him and gave him a significant stare: Now what are we talking about? thought Hans), because the moment another text emerges, faithfulness is no longer achievable, the poem has been transformed, it has become a different poem. We have to take as a given the impossibility of rewriting anything literally, not even a single word. Some translators are wary of this transformation, seeing it as a betrayal rather than a variation. But if it is well done, if the job of interpretation gives the right result, the text may even be improved, or at least become another poem as worthy as its predecessor. And I would go furtherâI think it is the translator's duty to offer the reader an
authentic
poem in his own language precisely in order to remain faithful to the poetic nature of the original. Of course, this requires the translator to tread a delicate path between the liberties he takes and a true, or rather an honest, understanding of the text. That is the risk, and perhaps the hardest part of all. The fact is I see no alternative but to assume that risk. And let us not deceive ourselvesâeven an original poem has no single interpretation, to read a poem is also to translate it, we can never be completely sure of what a poem is saying even in our own language. As I see it, a translation is not made up of an authorial voice and one that obeys it, rather it is more akin to a meeting of two literary wills. In the end there is always a third personâisn't there?âwho is a third discordant voice, which turns out to be that of the reader (but what are we really talking about here? Hans thought to himself), and if that reader could really understand
the original, as you are suggesting, then, rather than a useful guide, translations would be almost superfluous.
authentic
poem in his own language precisely in order to remain faithful to the poetic nature of the original. Of course, this requires the translator to tread a delicate path between the liberties he takes and a true, or rather an honest, understanding of the text. That is the risk, and perhaps the hardest part of all. The fact is I see no alternative but to assume that risk. And let us not deceive ourselvesâeven an original poem has no single interpretation, to read a poem is also to translate it, we can never be completely sure of what a poem is saying even in our own language. As I see it, a translation is not made up of an authorial voice and one that obeys it, rather it is more akin to a meeting of two literary wills. In the end there is always a third personâisn't there?âwho is a third discordant voice, which turns out to be that of the reader (but what are we really talking about here? Hans thought to himself), and if that reader could really understand
the original, as you are suggesting, then, rather than a useful guide, translations would be almost superfluous.
Aha, said Professor Mietter. Ahem, that depends, asserted Herr Levin. Possibly, acknowledged Ãlvaro. I'm not sure, wavered Sophie. How confusing, sighed Frau Pietzine. Snuff, anyone? proposed Rudi. Goodness, it's hot, commented Gottlieb.
Look, the professor said, clearing his throat, given your penchant for getting lost in metaphor, I shall try to be as clear as possible. Poetry is obviously a universal form of artistic expression. However, in each of its particular manifestations, poetry is a cultural, national art, and as such, by definition, impossible to translate. And shall I tell you why? Perhaps you are familiar with Hamann, who rightly emphasises the inseparability of language and thought. I do not think something abstract and then translate it into my own language. I think directly in that language, because of it, through it. This is why no thought is translatable, at most it is adaptable. Are you with me? Good. If this applies to all disciplines, imagine how extreme the problem becomes in poetry, which is the language of emotions. Bear in mind, since you brought up the emotions earlier, that it is far easier to think in a foreign language than to feel in it (that, said Ãlvaro raising his head, is very true), and from this one can deduce that any feeling expressed in another language cannot be the same feeling, not even a variant of it. At best it can be
inspired
by another feeling. Call this an exchange, an influence or what you will. But, I beg you, do not call it translation.
inspired
by another feeling. Call this an exchange, an influence or what you will. But, I beg you, do not call it translation.
Very well, said Hans, finding himself in the awkward position of having to contest a solid argument, very well, Professor, let us go step by step. You maintain that to translate feeling is more difficult than to translate thought. I am not sure in what measure it is possible to conceive of an idea as being divorced from emotion, or emotion devoid of any ideas. This would be my first objection, that you seem to take for granted the existence of pure
emotion as if it came from nowhere and were self-contained. In my humble understanding, emotions are not only generated by a specific language, they also arise from cultural exchanges, from prior exposure to other languages, from national and foreign connotations. This is the heterogeneous basis of our thoughts, feelings and writings. In order to avoid getting lost in metaphor and upsetting you, I shall try to give you a concrete example, Professor. Does Goethe feel in German on the one hand and on the other speak six languages? Or rather, as an individual who speaks and reads several different languages, does Goethe feel in a specific way that is peculiar to him and which in this case expresses itself in the German language? Isn't his broad cultural knowledge a current that is channelled,
translated
into his mother tongue? And by the same token, are the translations of Goethe's own poems into other languages not simply one more link in an infinite chain of interpretations? Who are we to decide which is the original, the first link? Furthermore, Professor, allow me to say that even if translation were an impossible dialogue, culturally speaking it would be the most necessary one. Renouncing this dialogue would lead to the worst form of nationalism, not to say to esotericism. After separating the poetry of each country, the next step would be to decide which came first and which was superior to the rest. And so this is not simply a question of grammar and philology but of principles.
emotion as if it came from nowhere and were self-contained. In my humble understanding, emotions are not only generated by a specific language, they also arise from cultural exchanges, from prior exposure to other languages, from national and foreign connotations. This is the heterogeneous basis of our thoughts, feelings and writings. In order to avoid getting lost in metaphor and upsetting you, I shall try to give you a concrete example, Professor. Does Goethe feel in German on the one hand and on the other speak six languages? Or rather, as an individual who speaks and reads several different languages, does Goethe feel in a specific way that is peculiar to him and which in this case expresses itself in the German language? Isn't his broad cultural knowledge a current that is channelled,
translated
into his mother tongue? And by the same token, are the translations of Goethe's own poems into other languages not simply one more link in an infinite chain of interpretations? Who are we to decide which is the original, the first link? Furthermore, Professor, allow me to say that even if translation were an impossible dialogue, culturally speaking it would be the most necessary one. Renouncing this dialogue would lead to the worst form of nationalism, not to say to esotericism. After separating the poetry of each country, the next step would be to decide which came first and which was superior to the rest. And so this is not simply a question of grammar and philology but of principles.
Sophie clicked her tongueâher smooth, expressive, darting tongue. Herr Levin? she said, noticing him drumming his fingers on the table.
Indeed, ahem, said Herr Levin I would like, I mean, I think we have ignored an important point in this discussion, or something I consider has a certain bearing. For translation is not simply an individual process, is it? It is also a process that depends on the community in which it is being done. That is, a translator translates for others, or rather with others, and communities
change with history. Doesn't every author, book and text have a history of the ways in which it has been read? And this history forms part of the work itself. What I'm saying is, ahem, how are we to separate the collective readings of the Classics from the Classics themselves? In my opinion translations belong to this kind of rereading, every translator is also a product of his time, of the period when he wrote his translation. No book remains exactly the same throughout time, the readers of each period change it, don't they? And the same goes for translations, each period needs to retranslate its literature. Ahem, I don't mean to go on.
change with history. Doesn't every author, book and text have a history of the ways in which it has been read? And this history forms part of the work itself. What I'm saying is, ahem, how are we to separate the collective readings of the Classics from the Classics themselves? In my opinion translations belong to this kind of rereading, every translator is also a product of his time, of the period when he wrote his translation. No book remains exactly the same throughout time, the readers of each period change it, don't they? And the same goes for translations, each period needs to retranslate its literature. Ahem, I don't mean to go on.
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