As promised in my earlier post, here are some passages from Veltman’s Virginie (all from the inserted correspondence, which constitutes at least half the text) that provide ironic takes on Russian literacy in the early 19th century; I’ll put the Russian originals after the translations (probably still with uncaught OCR errors). The first is from a social gathering:
At dinner I wound up sitting next to a young man who was submerged in a weighty jabot; I started a conversation with him, wanting to acquire some information about Russia, but imagine my surprise: he seems to have no more knowledge of Russia than I do. Here’s our conversation:
I. – What an extraordinary talent for learning languages Russians are endowed with; I have never seen a European nation that spoke French so fluently.
He.—Yes; but all those who want to be educated are forced to do so.
I don’t understand; please explain it to me.
He.—It’s quite clear; we don’t have our own language. Would you believe that in Russian it is not possible to put two decent words together in a salon, not to mention that the Russian language has absolutely no words for expressing ideas; it is impossible for an enlightened person to express his thoughts in Russian.
I. – That’s remarkable; I had imagined that the Russian language was one of the richest.
He. – You are mistaken. The Russian language exists only among the common people. It is a crude language, the very simplest.
I. – But the written language? the language of Russian literature?
He. — All Russian literature is written in the Slavic language, that is, in the Church language. This language is even worse: no one learns it except the clergy and scribes; for even our legal proceedings are in the Slavic language.
I. – But surely someone is engaged in the development of the Russian language?
He.— Absolutely nobody; all decent people speak and write French, they know English, German, Italian.
I.- But I seem to remember reading that in Russia there are the poets Lamanousoff, Dershavni….
He – Lomonosov is famous only because he was the first to write the vilest poems in Russian… And as for Minister Derzhavin. . . He is a Minister, therefore, it was not difficult for him to make himself famous . . . and what did he write? some odes; but they are also in the Slavic language, which, I confess, I do not understand, and therefore I cannot be enraptured by Russian works. In any case, I have no need of them, like any educated person who can read European works… I’d rather open the charming Delille, the sublime Racine, Corneille, Voltaire! …
Is it possible to express in Russian, for example, the verse when Assur says to Semiramis: “Madame! c’est à vous d’achever votre ouvrage”?
I asked him to translate the verse into Russian; my interlocutor thought for a long time, and finally translated it. I wrote it down, and here it is:
“Sadarina, eto vam prinadlejit kontchit vasch rabоto.”
My God, is it even possible to compose something decent in Russian? continued the Russian youth.
Judging by his words, and by the general conversation of society in French, one must assume that the Russian language will completely die out and be replaced by French.
За обѣдомъ мнѣ пришлось сидѣть близь одного молодаго человѣка, погруженнаго въ важное жабо; я завелъ съ нимъ разговоръ, желая получить нѣкоторыя свѣдѣнія объ Россіи; но представь себѣ мое удивленіе: онъ мнѣ кажется столько же знаетъ Россію, сколько и я. Вотъ нашъ разговоръ:
Я. — Какою необыкновенною способностью одарены Русскіе къ изученію языковъ; я ни одной Европейской націи не видалъ, которая бы такъ свободно говорила по Французски.
Онъ.—Да; но къ этому вынуждаетъ и необходимость всѣхъ тѣхъ, кто желаетъ быть образованнымъ.
Этого я не понимаю, прошу васъ объяснить мнѣ.
Онъ.— Это очень ясно; у насъ нѣтъ своего языка. Повѣрите ли вы, что по Русски не льзя связать двухъ приличныхъ словъ, въ салонѣ, не говорю уже что Русскій языкъ не имѣетъ совершенно словъ для выраженія идей; просвѣщенному человѣку не возможно высказать своей мысли по Русски.
Я. — Это удивительно, я воображалъ, что Русскій языкъ есть одинъ изъ богатѣйшихъ.
Онъ.— Ошибаетесь. Русскій языкъ существуетъ только въ простонародьѣ. Это грубой, самой простой языкъ.
Я. — Но языкъ письменный? языкъ словесности Русской?
Онъ.— Вся словесность Русская писана на Славянскомъ языкѣ, то есть на церковиомъ. Этотъ языкъ еще ужаснѣе: ему никто не учится кромѣ духовенства, да приказныхъ служителей; ибо у насъ и судопроизводство на Славянскомъ языкѣ.
Я. — Но вѣроятно, кто нибудь занимается образованіемъ Русскаго языка?
Онъ.— Никто рѣшительно; всѣ порядочные люди говорятъ и пишутъ по Французски, знаютъ Англиискій, Нѣмецкій, Итальянскій языки.
Я. — Однако же, сколько помнится мнѣ, я читалъ, что въ Россіи есть Поэты Lamanousoff, Derchavni……
Онъ.— Ломоносовъ въ славѣ только потому, что первый сталъ писать гадчайшіе стихи по Русски… Ну, а… Министръ Державинъ. . . Онъ Министръ, следовательно, ему не трудно было прославить себя. . . и чтожъ имъ написано? нѣсколько одъ; но также на Славянскомъ языкѣ, котораго, признаюсь, я не понимаю, и следовательно не могу восхищаться отечественными произведеніами; впрочемь и не имѣю нужды, какъ и всякій образованный человѣкъ, читающіи Европейскія произведенія… Я лучше разверну очаровательнаго Делиля, возвышеннаго Расина, Корнеля, Волтера! …
Возможно ли по Русски выразить стихъ, на примѣръ, когда Ассуръ говорить Семирамидѣ:
»Madame ! c’est à vous d’achever votre ouvrage…?
Я просилъ перевести этотъ стихъ по Русски; долго думалъ мой собесѣдникъ, и наконецъ перевелъ; я записалъ его, вотъ онъ:
»Sadarina, eto vam prinadlejit kontchit vasch rabоto.—
О, Боже мой, возможно ли по Русски что нибудь порядочно сочинить? продолжалъ Русскій юноша.
»Судя по его словамъ, и по общему разговору общества по Французски, должно полагать навѣрное, что Русскій языкъ долженъ перевестись совершенно, и его замѣнитъ Французскій языкъ.
From a later letter, describing another gathering:
Taking advantage of the opportunity to continue my conversation with the woman who had enchanted me with her mind, I did not find in her words that hopelessness regarding the life of the Russian language with which my neighbor at the table at Prince L.’s [I think that’s what “К. L.” represents, but on the earlier occasion the text has “K. N.” (Prince N.)] had startled me.
“It’s true that we have little love for our own literature,” she told me, “but that seems to result from the fact that literature does not love us; she herself chases after other people’s tastes and habits, she herself hardly lives at home. How can we maintain our affection for her? Up to now, she has offered us the horrors of Radcliffe, and the children of Ducray-Duminil; now she begins to offer us her terrible titles, and her children, whom we can neither take in hand nor carry in our arms…..”
“But tell me, I heard from your compatriots that the Russian language is crude and has no words to express thoughts?”
“I agree that without knowing the Russian language, it is difficult to express your thoughts in it, just as in every language that you don’t know.”
“But I don’t think I’ll meet a Russian in the best society who doesn’t know Russian.”
“Why? [I don’t understand “Отъ что же?” here] There’s a black sheep in every family.”
“So my first meeting was very disadvantageous for Russian writers, of whom, however, I heard there are very few?”
“On the contrary, there are many so-called writers, but very little literature.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I won’t try to explain it to you; but it seems to me that the whole reason is that among us the title of writer is not one that is acquired [sc. by continued effort], but is acquired along with the first printed sheet of paper, on which all that is required is that it says “so-and-so wrote it,” yet this so-and-so looks for success in all paths of social life. During the morning he strives for rank; before dinner is the time for visits from lunch and invitations for the evening; in the evening he rushes with his opera hat from living room to living room, so that people will say he is everywhere. Before dawn he yawns carefully in the vicinity of a mazurka or cotillion, so that in the morning he has the right to yawn carelessly in some Office.”
“When does such a writer occupy himself with literature?”
“During minor illnesses: coughs, headaches, etc., which keep you from leaving your room. This is the fate of most of our writers. However, we have, in addition to those who chase after the muses, some who are the favorites of the muses, those whose works would do honor to every enlightened people.”
“Is there Poetry in Russian as well?” I asked.
“Allow me to point out that your question is not a European one,” my interlocutor answered. “Every savage who has feelings, who knows sadness and joy, involuntarily sings them; everywhere he compares his beloved object with the beauty of nature, everywhere he makes all nature around him sad along with himself.”
“I agree with you,” I remarked, “but that is not the poetry of the people; I believe that the poetry of a people consists in memories of its glory, in memories of the greatness of its ancestors, in pictures of past events.”
“Oh,” my interlocutor interrupted me, “we still live and feel too much to spend time on memories; our thoughts are still on the greatness of the future, our past is insignificant compared to the present. From what will we compose a poem, what will we be sad about, if nothing has changed us yet?”
“Wonderful!” I cried out involuntarily, captivated by the mind of this woman; by blushing myself, I made her blush as well.
»Возпользовавшись случаемъ завести снова разговоръ съ очаровавшей меня умомъ своимъ, я не встрѣтилъ въ словахъ ея той безнадежности, въ отношеніи жизни Русскаго языка, которымъ меня поразилъ мой сосѣдъ за столомъ у К. L.
» — Правда, что у насъ мало любви къ собственной литтературѣ, сказала она мнѣ; но это кажется происходитъ отъ того, что литтература насъ не любитъ; она сама гоняется за чужимъ вкусомъ и привычками, сама почти не живетъ дома; какимъ же образомъ сохранить намъ къ ней привязанность? До сихъ поръ, она предлагала намъ ужасы Радклифъ, и дѣтей Дюкредюминиля; теперь начинаетъ она предлагать намъ свои страшныя заглавія, и своихъ дѣтей, которыхъ нельзя взять ни въ руки, ни на руки…..
» — Но скажите, я слышалъ отъ вашихъ соотечественниковъ, что Русской языкъ грубъ, не имѣетъ словъ для выраженія мыслей?
» — Я согласна, что не зная Русскаго языка, трудно выражать на немъ мысли свои, точно также, какъ на каждомъ языкѣ, котораго не знаешь.
» — Но я не думаю встрѣтить въ лучшемъ обществѣ Русскаго, который не зналъ бы по Русски.
» — Отъ что же? въ семьѣ не безъ урода.
» — Стало быть моя первая встрѣча была очень невыгодна для Русскихъ литтераторовъ, которыхъ однакожъ я слышалъ, очень мало?
» — Наиротивъ, такъ называемыхъ литтераторовъ много, но литтературы мало.
» —Это для меня непонятно.
» — Не берусь вамъ изтолковать этого; но мнѣ кажется, что вся причина состоитъ въ томъ, что у насъ званіе литтератора не составляетъ званія благопріобрѣтеннаго, но пріобрѣтается вмѣстѣ съ первымъ печатнымъ листомъ бумаги, на которомъ стоить только выставить: сочинилъ такой-то, и между тѣмъ этотъ такой-то, ищетъ удачи на всѣхъ стезяхъ жизни общественной. Во время утра бьется онъ изъ чина; передъ обѣдомь по визитамъ изъ обѣда и приглашенія на вечеръ; ввечеру носится съ своей chapeau claque изъ гостиной въ гостиную, изъ того, чтобъ сказали: онъ вездѣ бываетъ. До разсвѣта осторожно зѣваетъ въ окрестностяхъ мазурки или котильона, изъ того, чтобъ поутру имѣть право зѣвать неосторожно въ какой нибудь Канцеляріи.
» — Когда же занимается подобный литтераторъ литтературой?
» — Во время небольшихъ своихъ недуговъ: кашля, головной боли и пр., не позволяющихъ выходить изъ комнаты. Это судьба большей части нашихъ литтераторовъ; однакоже у нась есть, кромѣ волокить за музами, и любимцы музъ, люди, которыхъ произведенія сдѣлали бы честь каждому просвѣщенному народу.
» — Не уже ли есть и Поэзія на Русскомъ языкѣ? спросилъ я.
» — Позвольте вамъ заметить, что вы сдѣлали ие Европейскій вопросъ, отвѣчала моя собесѣдница. Каждый дикарь, имѣя чувства, зная печаль и радость, невольно воспѣваетъ ихъ; вездѣ онъ любимый предметъ свой сравниваетъ съ красотой природы, вездѣ заставляеть онъ вмѣстѣ съ собою грустить и всю окружающую его природу.
» — Я съ вами согласенъ, замѣтилъ я, но это поэзія не народа; я полагаю, что поэзія народа состоитъ въ воспоминаніяхъ его славы, въ воспоминаніи величія его предковъ, въ картинахъ прошедшихъ событій.
» — О — прервала меня моя собеседница — мы еще слишкомъ живемъ и чувствуемъ себя, чтобъ удѣлять время на воспоминанія; наши мысли еще въ величіи будущности, наше прошедшее ничтожно предъ настоящимъ; изъ чего же мы составимъ поэму, о чемъ будемъ грустить, если намъ еще ничто не измѣняло?
» — Прекрасно! вскричалъ я невольно, плѣненный умомъ этой женщины; покраснѣвъ самъ, я заставилъ и ее покраснѣть.
The next passages are shorter:
After that, how can one fail to believe the Russian traditions about their giants that they call Bagatur, which means rіchard—rich man, and as a certain Russian philologist said to me, corresponds to the Norman risar—giant, from which came French richard as well. Besides Ilya Murom, in Russia there have been giants such as Bova, the son of Guy [Gvidon] and Mildred [Militrisa] the daughter of King Gerbeaud [Kirbit], who fought with Theodon [Dodon]
[I have no idea who any of these people are]; Alyosha fils d’un Pope, Jeruslan, Lasar et Vitch, Ivashka belaya rubashka, and many others, to whose victories Russia owes its expansion.Какъ же послѣ этого не вѣрить Русскимь преданіямъ о ихъ великанахъ, которыхъ они называютъ Bagatur; что зиачитъ rіchard—богачь, и какъ мнѣ сказывалъ одинъ Русскій филологъ, соответственно Нормандскому risar—великанъ, отъ котораго произошло и Французское richard. Кромѣ Ilia Mourom, въ Россіи были великаны: Bowe сынъ Короля Guidon и Mildreda дочери короля Gerbeaud, воевавшій съ Theodon; Aliocha fils d’un Pope, Jeruslan, Lasar et Vitch, Iwachka belaja roubachka и множество другихъ, которыхъ побѣдамъ обязана Россія своимъ распространеніемъ.
* * *
Nearby, I noticed a whole row of – not bookstores, but open shops [or ‘benches’?]. Believing that they sold foreign books and wanting to buy something, I asked for a catalog of books, but to my surprise I was told that there were no catalogs. My surprise increased even more when I learned that these were all Russian books, and in all these shops there was not a single foreign book: when I asked for a French book, they gave me a French primer. Wanting to know the contents of the books, I looked at them, and what do you think? They were all Radcliffe novels. At least in the bookstore I found Russian goods that nobody told me were French. Although the Russian letters are completely similar in handwriting to the Latin and to ours, whoever introduced the writing system, I don’t understand why, mixed up their names, so that m in Russian is t, d in Russian is b, and b is some kind of incomprehensible letter called Jer that has no sound in pronunciation; our p is Russian r, and n is Russian p; our ѵ is pronounced like ï, our g is a d, and our g is Russian tche. This confusion of the names of letters and, at the same time, their similarity is the reason that it is not possible for a European to learn the Russian language, and a Russian who wants to know any of the European languages must first get out of the habit of his own, even forget it completely. Having explained this to myself, I understood why I meet many Russian educated people who do not know their own language……
Подлѣ, я замѣтилъ цѣлый рядь книжныхъ — не магазиновъ, но открытыхъ лавокъ; полагая что въ нихъ продаются иностранныя книги, и желая что нибудь купить, я спросилъ каталогъ книгъ; но къ удивленію моему мнѣ сказали, что каталоговъ нѣтъ; удивленіе мое еще болѣе увеличилось, когда я узналъ, что это все Русскіи книги и во всѣхъ этихъ лавкахъ нѣтъ ни одпой иностранной: когда я спросилъ Французскую книгу, мнѣ подали Французскую азбуку. Желая знать содержаніе книгъ, я разсматривалъ ихъ, и что же? это все романы Радклифъ. По крайней мѣрѣ, въ книжной лавкѣ я нашелъ Русскій товаръ, и Русскую книгу не назвали мнѣ Французской. Буквы Русскія хотя и совершенно сходны по почерку съ Латинскими и нашими; но вводитель письма, не понимаю для чего, перепуталъ ихъ названія; па пр. m по русски t, d по русски б; а б есть какая-то непонятная буква, называемая Jer, но не имѣющая въ произношеніи никакого звука, наше р есть русскій r, а n есть русское р; наше ѵ произносится какъ ï; наше g есть d; наше r есть русское tche; это смѣшеніе названій буквъ и между тѣмъ однообразіе ихъ, есть причина того, что Европейцу не возможно выучиться русскому языку, а Русскій, желающій знать какой нибудь изъ Европейскихъ языковъ долженъ прежде непремѣнно отвыкнуть отъ своего, даже забыть его совсемъ. Объяснивъ себѣ это, я понялъ, отъ чего я встрѣчаю многихъ изъ Русскихъ образованныхъ людей, не знающихъ собственнаго языка……
A couple of sidelights: at one point Virginie refers to an ornament called эсклаваж, i.e. esclavage, which turns out to have an archaic meaning ‘type of chain or bead necklace’ (“for its resemblance to a slave’s neck-chains”), and when she and her father arrive in Paris, they take rooms at the Hotel de Modène, an obvious allusion to the narrator’s lodgings in Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey (see this post). I decided to take the opportunity to find out its location, and I eventually turned up a detailed account of an earlier reader’s search in The London Magazine and Review, Vol. 1 [n.s.], from Jan.-April 1825, pp. 387 ff., with the solution on p. 391:
The present Hotel de Modene then (No. 12, Rue Jacob,) is not the house where Sterne lodged. The undoubted scene of the “Case of Conscience,” the “Starling,” &c. is the very next house to it, No. 14. The latter is now a private house, and its business as an Hotel, together with its name, were transferred to its neighbour about five-and-twenty years ago. Prior to that period, No. 14 was, and had been time out of mind, the Hotel de Modene; and it was not till within these few years that there was even a second bearing a similar denomination on the whole of that side of the river.
I hope this information will be of use to future readers of Sterne, if not of Veltman.
Presently in the very same Rue Jacob a bit further up the block is an establishment called the Hotel d’Angleterre which claims to use that name because it was supposedly the British Embassy back in the day and was in fact where the British negotiators of the https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Paris_(1783) were based. I stayed there with my beloved late first wife during the Parisian phase of our honeymoon in 1996 and was delighted to discover it was still in operation this past fall when I went to Paris to visit the younger child of that marriage, who was then studying at the Sorbonne. (I stayed, however, at a less old-fashioned feeling place that was closer to my daughter’s apartment in Pigalle.)
Separately, for those of us w/ no Russian can you explain “Sadarina, eto vam prinadlejit kontchit vasch rabоto”? Is it a comically incongruous rendering of the French, or?
“Bova the son of Guy, Mildred the daughter of King Gerbeaud who fought with Theodon [I have no idea who any of these people are]
Bowe сынъ Короля Guidon и Mildreda дочери короля Gerbeaud, воевавшій съ Theodon”
I think he’s saying Bowe is the son of Guidon and Mildred, rather than listing her as a separate entry. In the Russian version of the Bevis story (Бова королевич), Bova’s mother’s name is Militrisa Kirbitevna, so maybe that’s where Veltman gets Mildred and Gerbeaud from? And the villain that Bova slays is Dodon, possibly the origin of Theodon.
Dodon also appears in The Golden Cockerel, although his death is completely different.
But more substantively, what was the actual situation of translations-into-Russian of Western literary texts back circa the 1830’s when Veltman was writing? How much got translated versus just the attitude being “if you care you will be able to read French-or-whatever and won’t need a Russian translation”? The bookshelves in my living room are adorned with inter alia the Russian translation of some of the poetry of that distinguished Englishman A.A. Milne (see https://www.abebooks.com/9781557790682/Think-Tram-Mne-Kazhetsia-Chto-155779068X/plp), but attitudes and circumstances may have changed since the 1830’s.
i didn’t realize bovo had such a presence in russian! i’m excited to go looking for the lubok versions!
I think he’s saying Bowe is the son of Guidon and Mildred, rather than listing her as a separate entry. In the Russian version of the Bevis story (Бова королевич), Bova’s mother’s name is Militrisa Kirbitevna, so maybe that’s where Veltman gets Mildred and Gerbeaud from? And the villain that Bova slays is Dodon, possibly the origin of Theodon.
You’re absolutely right on all counts; I have changed the translation accordingly, and I thank you most heartily. This is why it’s so important to offer one’s work for public comment!
Dodon also appears in The Golden Cockerel, although his death is completely different.
And Guidon was borrowed by Pushkin for his other fairy tale, The Tale of Tsar Saltan. Yeruslan Lazarevich makes appearance as the title character in Ruslan and Ludmila, which made some critic to quip that instead of writing serious poetry Pushkin decided to retell the stories of Yeruslan Lazarevich and Bova Korolevich, but Pushkin did take the bait and Bova remained firmly outside High Literature.
@hat
re от что же, I was unable to find this phrase in the Russian national corpus. However here is an example from woman.ru
The woman writes about her partner calling her stupid.
У меня есть какие-то базовые школьные знания по этим предметам,но мне они неинтересны и всё.А парень очень помешан на политике, войнах и тому подобном.Недавно обсуждали вторую мировую , я у него спросила что-то по этому поводу,он мне сказал:”Как можно не знать таких вещей,ты такая глупая”.
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A commenter writes:
Ну если у вас ругань из-за такой ерунды, от что же будет когда появится реальная жизненная проблемма?
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I suppose you can translate “what in the world…”
I looked up Ann Radcliff in Wikipedia and in Russian version have found a list, which would have probably delighted Veltman. It is prefaced by “In Russian, Radcliffe’s novels were translated and led to a lot of imitations. Most of the imitations belong to unknown authors who published their works under the name of the famous novelist. The following novels were published under Radcliffe’s name:” In other words, not only 19c. Russian printers didn’t make a difference between translation and imitation, but a modern Wikipedia author doesn’t think it is worth figuring out.
PP, от что же is от чего же in standard (literary) Russian. That is, not accusative form of что, but genitive. I don’t know if it is an OCR error, printer’s error or Veltman used a form which didn’t become standard.
In the dialog that you cited it is an obvious typo от что же should be то что же.
BTW, not standard at all, but I bet many Russians can say “от что же” using contraction вот -> от.
I am glad to know that Russian readers of Ann Radcliffe 200 years ago were treated to distant dog-barks in their own language.
@do
Thanks. I thought this might be some kind of nonstandard indeclinable version of the pronoun (like “was” in German). BTW, is “ot” for “to” a common typo? Maybe the commenter was dyslexic…
I bet many Russians can say “от что же” using contraction вот -> от.
That’s how I read it, especially in that context.
What about the “не льзя” that occurs in the first excerpt? Is that a typo or was it still standard to treat that word as two separate morphemes? There was a word in Old Russian “льзѣ” meaning “possible”, but I assume that was completely obsolete by Veltman’s time, but maybe more transparent for people who knew Church Slavonic.
BTW, not standard at all, but I bet many Russians can say “от что же” using contraction вот -> от.
I thought of that, but didn’t know if it was possible in 1837. I’d say that’s more likely than a typo от for то.
What about the “не льзя” that occurs in the first excerpt? Is that a typo or was it still standard to treat that word as two separate morphemes?
Not a typo, Veltman does it all the time. It wasn’t standard, but V loved all things archaic.
Separately, for those of us w/ no Russian can you explain “Sadarina, eto vam prinadlejit kontchit vasch rabоto”? Is it a comically incongruous rendering of the French, or?
Sorry, I forgot to respond to this at the time: Racine is notoriously hard to translate; as I said back in 2009 about a Pushkin poem, “the poem is simple, and it works in Russian because of the perfection of the language and rhythm, but if you try to translate it it just sounds… simple.” Racine used a tiny vocabulary (2500 words, I think) and used it with unparalleled power; in French it sounds majestic, but when you transport it into another language… well, let’s just say the Russian is no worse than an English rendering “Madam, it is up to you to finish your work.” It makes sense, but it ain’t poetry.
One example, Benjamin Constant’s Adolphe, first published in 1815/6, had its first translation into Russian published in 1818; Pyotr Vyazemsky, who had already noted the novel in 1816, sending a copy to A. I. Turgenev, would publish his own translation in 1831. The novel had a deep influence on contemporary Russian writers, especially Pushkin (his library has a copy of the third (French) edition of 1824, annotated in his own hand). (cp. Anna Akhmatova’s “Адольф” Бенжамена Констана в творчестве Пушкнина, first published 1936)
ulr offers an excellent example. It’s particularly striking because: a) the original is in French, where a higher-percentage of the novel-reading strata of Russian society presumably could have gotten by without a translation compared to an original in English or German or what have you; and b) I rather strongly suspect that Constant’s numerous other works advancing broadly liberal political theories (this was apparently his only published novel, even though it was successful enough in its day that you’d think he would have been encouraged to do more?) might have had particular difficulty in getting published in Russian. Or, more specifically getting published in Russia given the likely attitude of Czarist censors. (Probably the same thing in that it was too early for their to be an emigre/dissident press publishing politically controversial works in Russian outside the political boundaries of the Russian state.) But I could be wrong about that and maybe dangerously liberal foreign ideas flowed into Russia via translation for a while before the censors became fully cognizant of the menace.
@hat
Happy to help! I’m a (very) longtime lurker so it’s nice to have something to contribute for once.
Part of what was so confusing about the Veltman text is that Bevis’ mother seems stubbornly nameless in the Western variants of the tale I could find. So it seems like a bit of cultural reciprocity: Bevis/Beuve/Buovo goes east and morphs into Bova, then adopts Militrisa, who comes back West and morphs into Mildred?
@brad
The Italian name is “Blondoia”, which could be Blanaid– a Blanaid Ní Bhrían (or Blanaid Nic Brian) is a possible wife for Malcolm II, who was king of Scotland at the right time. Militrita looks more like Miltrud or Miltruþ, which are attested and have the same second element as two of the English king Edgar’s wives, but I think you would need to find an English or Anglo-Norman version which has a name, in order to show the Italian and Russian names are not just made up.
It makes sense, but it ain’t poetry.
I only kind of get it — my French is only good enough to get an impressionistic feel, or I might be imagining things. Does the “poetry” depend on the construction c’est à vous de?
@PlasticPaddy
A-ha! Just took some digging: Militrisa likely comes from “harlot” (Latin meretrice, drifting to Franco-Italian meltris), which is used as a description of Bevis’ mother (“la meltris dama”) in lieu of a name. Source for the meltris bit is Francesca Gambino, “Code-mixing nel Bovo d’Antona udinese” (etc.), but it’s the Lietuviškoji enciklopedija, vol 2 (1936) that clued me to the direct link between the description and the eventual proper name. If this is indeed the case (and it looks like a strong case), “Mildred” really would be an attempt to readopt the name in Anglo-Saxon terms, coming full circle.
The villain appears as Devoun, Duodo/Dodo, and Doon in various other Western versions, so Dodon already has a clear lineage.
I only kind of get it — my French is only good enough to get an impressionistic feel, or I might be imagining things. Does the “poetry” depend on the construction c’est à vous de?
No, poetry doesn’t depend on grammar. How would you explain the excellence of any particular bit of great poetry you happen to know? In French, it’s just great, that’s all, the same way Pushkin or Shakespeare is great. Mind you, it’s not just that one line in isolation; as with Shakespeare, it achieves its force through context. Dramatic poetry is not lyric.
Militrisa likely comes from “harlot” (Latin meretrice, drifting to Franco-Italian meltris), which is used as a description of Bevis’ mother (“la meltris dama”)
Thanks so much for that!
What about the name of the king, Кирбит ?
Mind you, it’s not just that one line in isolation; as with Shakespeare, it achieves its force through context. Dramatic poetry is not lyric.
Which means that quoting a single line, as Veltman’s Russian youth did, doesn’t help unless the listener or reader knows the play. I imagine the youth did, but I don’t know how many of Veltman’s readers would have. It also means that a comparison to a Russian line with no context isn’t totally fair, though it may not be totally unfair either.
I’m sure the four /v/s in “Madame! c’est à vous d’achever votre ouvrage” help with the poetry. Also that my French wasn’t good enough in my youth to get it (and my French is worse now).
Is it possible to express in Russian, for example, the verse when Assur says to Semiramis: “Madame! c’est à vous d’achever votre ouvrage”?
Could there be a complex joke here? Veltman is clearly satirizing the youth in question (“one must assume that the Russian language will completely die out and be replaced by French”); poking fun at Francophilia was pretty common among writers of this era, and Veltman’s writing in Russian after all. Could that be why he has the youth pick that quote: it’s from Voltaire’s Semiramis, and not an especially interesting or memorable line.. *except* that Voltaire famous called Catherine the Great the Northern Semiramis, so there might a sly nudge here on Veltman’s (not the youth’s) part, like “it’s up to you to finish your work [of Enlightenment]” as a response to “is it even possible to compose something decent in Russian?” And then the youth fails by producing something plodding and literal before quitting entirely. Maybe a stretch, but it’d be a good and funny reason to use that particular line.
Good point!
I think, Hat might be the best person to give you the answer. He is an expert on Veltman and Ruslit in general. My sense is that Veltman is writing in 1837 and the events are placed in very early 1800s. All the questions about the quality of Russian belle-lettres and suitability of Russian language to support high quality imaginative literature, which might have been plausibly put forward in earlier times, were seen like snobbery or worse in 1837. Maybe, by way of analogy, if someone now writes a novel about 1990 and make a character argue that no way computers can best people in go.
Thank you @Brad and @PP for your persistence. I feel privileged to eavesdrop on the “digging”.
I think rozele would be interested in the Yiddish version of Bova/Bevis story existing from 16c. under the name Bovo-bukh or Bovo-meise (this sounds very much like bubbe-meise). https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bovo-Bukh
All the questions about the quality of Russian belle-lettres and suitability of Russian language to support high quality imaginative literature, which might have been plausibly put forward in earlier times, were seen like snobbery or worse in 1837.
Yes, it’s important to keep the timeline in mind. By the time the novel came out, Russian literature had a fair amount to boast about: Karamzin, Batyushkov, Gogol, and of course Pushkin (whom V knew personally), so there is considerable irony in presenting the self-flagellating views of the previous generation.
Speaking of irony, this passage has certainly acquired a sadly ironic tinge in the context of modern Russia:
“Oh,” my interlocutor interrupted me, “we still live and feel too much to spend time on memories; our thoughts are still on the greatness of the future, our past is insignificant compared to the present. From what will we compose a poem, what will we be sad about, if nothing has changed us yet?”
But was it ironic in 1837? Was Veltman commenting on a contemporary obsession with the Great Patriotic War?
наше г есть русское tche
I’m about 90% sure this is a misreading: it should be “наше r есть русское tche” [= ч], as in the much later [Chekhov’s, apparently] classic реникса (that is, renyxa, i.e. чепуха).
You’re right, of course; I fixed another one of those and I’ll go fix this one. Thanks!
But was it ironic in 1837? Was Veltman commenting on a contemporary obsession with the Great Patriotic War?
This is probably another one that in 1837 looked much different than in 1800. Karamzin’s The history of the Russian state, the first popular and readable account of Russian history, came out in 1816-1826.
@D.O.: yes, having spent a fair amount of time with the Bovo-bukh is why i’m excited to now know a little about the russian version! in 2016, i worked on creating a large-scale performance based on the Bovo-bukh for its 500th anniversary – and damn is that epic a strange beast. the whole crew’s favorite character was definitely pelukan – a halber man, un a halber hund!
in the yiddish version, bovo’s mother (more or less following the italian) is בראנדונײה | branduney (or in a different edition ברדונײה), which the english translation i have gives as “brandonia”. it’s not impossible that it’s a less-common version of the name that’s been chosen or tweaked to rhyme properly with “borguney” (bourgogne) or “babiluney” (babylon).
[Chekhov’s, apparently] classic реникса (that is, renyxa, i.e. чепуха)
I know of that kind of joke going from Russian to English (v. Exapno Mapcase), but I’d never heard of it doing the return trip.
(Speaking of which, Happy Birthday, A.C.)
> But was it ironic in 1837? Was Veltman commenting on a contemporary obsession with the Great Patriotic War?
Could Veltman’s contemporaries prognosticate over a century into the future, or was that phrase also used for the War of 1812?
English Wikipedia tells me that Отечественная война was used for 1812, but without Великая. (Weirdly there doesnt seem to be an ru.wikipedia page for the phrase??? There is a uk.wikipedia page, which is a bit of a mess — but thats more than understandable)
EDIT: oh wait en.wiktionary does say Великая Отечественная война was used for the war of 1812, though without a citation. Google ngrams does show a (barely visible) bump of incidence in the 1840s
A mog?
… a halber man…
“Martel was angry. He did not even adjust his blood away from anger.”
Could Veltman’s contemporaries prognosticate over a century into the future, or was that phrase also used for the War of 1812?
My understanding is that “velikaya” was ocassionally added on before 1941. Since 1945 the war against Napoleon has been officially relegated to simply “otechestvennaya” to keep a clear distinction. But I was thinking from the perspective of 1837.
@Vanya — Thanks, that makes sense! The Google Ngram results I linked in my post agree with you, although it seems to have been rare.