(Leader, 20 October 1855)
A CLERGYMAN (of the Charles Honeyman species) 1 once told us that he never set about preparing his sermons till Saturday evening, for he ‘trusted to Providence’. A similar kind of trust, we suppose, must be prevalent among translators, for many of them are evidently relying on some power which
Can teach all people to translate,
Though out of languages in which
They understand no part of speech –2
a Nachklang, or resonance, perhaps, of the famous legend about those early translators, the Seventy who turned the Old Testament into Greek, which legend tells how Ptolemy shut them up in separate cells to do their work, and how, when they came to compare their renderings, there was perfect agreement! We are convinced, however, that the translators of the Septuagint had some understanding of their business to begin with, or this supernatural aid would not have been given, for in the matter of translation, at least, we have observed, that ‘God helps them who help themselves.’ A view of the case, which we commend to all young ladies and some middle-aged gentlemen, who consider a very imperfect acquaintance with their own language, and an anticipatory acquaintance with the foreign language, quite a sufficient equipment for the office of translator.
It is perfectly true that, though geniuses have often undertaken translation, translation does not often demand genius. The power required in the translation varies with the power exhibited in the original work: very modest qualifications will suffice to enable a person to translate a book of ordinary travels, or a slight novel, while a work of reasoning or science can be adequately rendered only by means of what is at present exceptional faculty and exceptional knowledge. Among books of this latter kind, Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason is perhaps the very hardest nut – the peach-stone – for a translator to crack so as to lay open the entire uninjured kernel of meaning, and we are glad at last to believe that a translator of adequate power has been employed upon it. For so far as we have examined the version placed at the head of our article, it appears to us very different indeed from the many renderings of German metaphysical works, in which the translator, having ventured into deep waters without learning to swim, clings to the dictionary, and commends himself to Providence. Mr Meiklejohn’s translation – so far, we must again observe, as we have examined it – indicates a real mastery of his author, and, for the first time, makes Kant’s Critik der reinen Vernunft accessible to English readers.
It may seem odd that we should associate with this mighty book – this terrible ninety-gun ship – such a little painted pleasure-boat as Miss (or Mrs) Burt’s miscellaneous collection of translations from German lyric poets. But we are concerning ourselves here simply with translation – not at all with Kant’s philosophy or with German lyrics considered in themselves, and these two volumes happen to be the specimens of translation most recently presented to our notice. With regard to prose, we may very generally use Goldsmith’s critical recipe, and say that the translation would have been better if the translator had taken more pains; but of poetical attempts we are often sure that no amount of pains would produce a satisfactory result. And so it is with Miss Burt’s Specimens of the German Poets. She appears to have the knowledge and the industry which many translators want, but she has not the poetic power which makes poetical translations endurable to those acquainted with the originals. Amongst others, however, who have no such acquaintance, Miss Burt’s translations seem to have been in some demand, since they have reached a second edition. She has been bold enough to attempt a version of Goethe’s exquisite Zueignung (Dedication), and here is a specimen of her rendering. Goethe sings with divine feeling and music –
Für andre wächst in mir das edle Gut,
Ich kann und will das Pfund nicht mehr vergraben,
Warum sucht’ ich den Weg so sehnsuchtsvoll,
Wenn ich ihn nicht den Brüdern zeigen soll?3
Miss Burt follows him much as a Jew’s harp would follow a piano –
Entombed no longer shall my talent be,
That treasure I amass, shall others share?
To find the road – oh, why such zeal display,
If I guide not my brethren on their way?
A version like this bears about the same relation to the original as the portraits in an illustrated newspaper bear to the living face of the distinguished gentlemen they misrepresent; and considering how often we hear opinions delivered on foreign poets by people who only know those poets at second hand, it becomes the reviewer’s duty to insist again and again on the inadequacy of poetic translations.
The Germans render our poetry better than we render theirs, for their language, as slow and unwieldy as their own post-horses in prose, becomes in poetry graceful and strong and flexible as an Arabian war-horse. Besides, translation among them is more often undertaken by men of genius. We remember, for example, some translations of Burns, by Freiligrath,4 which would have arrested us by their beauty if we had seen the poems for the first time, in this language. It is true the Germans think a little too highly of their translations, and especially are under the illusion, encouraged by some silly English people, that Shakspeare according to Schlegel is better than Shakspeare himself – not simply better to a German as being easier for him to understand, but absolutely better as poetry. A very close and admirable rendering Schlegel’s assuredly is, and it is a high pleasure to track it in its faithful adherence to the original, just as it is to examine a fine engraving of a favourite picture. Sometimes the German is as good as the English – the same music played on another but as good an instrument. But more frequently the German is a feeble echo, and here and there it breaks down in a supremely fine passage. An instance of this kind occurs in the famous speech of Lorenzo to Jessica.5 Shakspeare says –
Soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
This Schlegel renders –
Sanfte Still und Nacht
Sie werden Tasten süsser Harmonie.
That is to say, ‘Soft stillness and the night are the finger-board of sweet harmony.’ A still worse blunder is made by Tieck (whose translation is the rival of Schlegel’s) in the monologue of Macbeth. In the lines –
That but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here –
But here upon this bank and shoal of time,
I’d jump the life to come –
Tieck renders, ‘Upon this bank and shoal of time’, ‘Auf dieser Schülerbank der Gegenwart’, that is, ‘On this school-bench of the present!’ These are cases of gross inaccuracy arising from an imperfect understanding of the original. Here is an instance of feebleness. Coriolanus says –
And like an eagle in the dovecote, I
Flutter’d the Volscians in Corioli.
For the admirably descriptive word ‘fluttered’, Schlegel gives schlug, which simply means ‘slew’. Weak renderings of this kind are abundant.
Such examples of translators’ fallibility in men like Schlegel and Tieck might well make less accomplished persons more backward in undertaking the translation of great poems, and by showing the difficulty of the translator’s task, might make it an object of ambition to real ability. Though a good translator is infinitely below the man who produces good original works, he is infinitely above the man who produces feeble original works. We had meant to say something of the moral qualities especially demanded in the translator – the patience, the rigid fidelity, and the sense of responsibility in interpreting another man’s mind. But we have gossiped on this subject long enough.