這篇其實多談譯藝 (二人合作) 幾年前歐美發現公共領域的翻譯產品
譯者可以"名利雙收" 不過品質競爭激烈
Richard Pevear, in collaboration with Larissa Volokhonsky, has translated works by Chekhov, Dostoyevsky, Gogol and Tolstoy. Their translation of “War and Peace” is to be published this week.
Essay
Tolstoy’s Transparent Sounds
By RICHARD PEVEAR
Published: October 14, 2007
Beginning Oct. 15, a monthlong discussion of “War and Peace” will appear in the online edition of The Times. The panelists will include Bill Keller, the executive editor of The Times; Stephen Kotkin, the director of Russian and Eurasian studies at Princeton University; and Francine Prose and Liesl Schillinger, both frequent contributors to the Book Review. The moderator will be Sam Tanenhaus, the editor of the Book Review. Readers can find the discussion at nytimes.com/books.
To many readers, Tolstoy’s “War and Peace” is the most intimidating of literary monuments. It is there, like a vast, unexplored continent, and all sorts of daunting rumors circulate about life in the interior. But once you cross the border, you discover that the world of “War and Peace” is more familiar and at the same time more surprising than the rumors suggested. That is as true for the translator as it is for the first-time reader.
Larissa Volokhonsky and I spent three years working on our translation of Tolstoy’s novel, and in that time each of us read it some five times in Russian and in English. Yet even in my final checking of the proofs, I still found myself delighting, laughing or holding back my tears as I read. An example of this last is the moment near the end when Pierre and Natasha, after all the harrowing experiences they’ve lived through, finally meet again in Princess Marya’s drawing room. Pierre sees that Princess Marya has someone with her, but he doesn’t realize who it is. Princess Marya is perplexed:
She again shifted her gaze from Pierre’s face to the face of the lady in the black dress and said:
“Don’t you recognize her?”
Pierre glanced once more at the pale, fine face of the companion, with its dark eyes and strange mouth. Something dear, long forgotten, and more than sweet looked at him from those attentive eyes.
“But no, it can’t be,” he thought. “This stern, thin, pale, aged face? It can’t be her. It’s only a reminiscence of that one.” But just then Princess Marya said: “Natasha.” And the face, with its attentive eyes, with difficulty, with effort, like a rusty door opening — smiled, and from that open door there suddenly breathed and poured out upon Pierre that long-forgotten happiness of which, especially now, he was not even thinking. It breathed out, enveloped, and swallowed him whole. When she smiled, there could no longer be any doubt: it was Natasha, and he loved her.
What makes this passage so moving is not only the drama of the moment itself, but also the way Tolstoy has sensed it and captured it in words. It can’t be paraphrased; the translator has to follow as closely as possible the exact sequence and pacing of the words in order to catch the “musical” meaning of the original, which is less apparent than the literal meaning but alone creates the impression Tolstoy intended.
I’ve said “translator,” and in a sense my collaboration with Larissa is so close that the two of us make up one translator who has the luck to be a native speaker of two languages. We work separately at first. Larissa produces a complete draft, following the original almost word by word, with many marginal comments and observations. From that, plus the original Russian, I make my own complete draft. Then we work closely together to arrive at a third draft, on which we make our “final” revisions. That working situation has its advantages. Translators are always in danger of drifting into the sort of language that is commonly referred to as “smooth,” “natural” or, as they now say, “reader friendly,” but is really only a tissue of ready-made phrases. When that happens to me, as it sometimes does, Larissa is there to stop me. Where I have my say is in judging the quality of our English text, that is, in drawing the line between a literal and a faithful rendering, which are not at all the same. If the translation does not finally “work” in English, it doesn’t work at all.
I’ll take an example of what that collaboration can produce from Tolstoy’s description of the Russian Army crossing the river Enns. After a good deal of confusion, the hussar captain Denisov finally manages to clear the infantry from the bridge and send his cavalry over. As the first riders move onto the bridge, Tolstoy writes, “On the planks of the bridge the transparent sounds of hoofs rang out.” The Russian is unmistakable — prozrachnye zvuki, “transparent sounds” — and I find its precision breathtaking. It is pure Tolstoy. To my knowledge, it has never been translated into English. What we find in other versions is the “thud” or “clang” of hoofs, and it is likely that I would have done something similar if Larissa had not brought me back to what Tolstoy actually wrote. His prose is full of such moments of fresh, immediate perception. Coming upon them and finding words for them in English has been one of the most rewarding aspects of our work.
Here is a very different and rather amusing example of the challenges of rendering Tolstoy’s prose faithfully. Count Ilya Andreich Rostov, Natasha’s father, is giving a banquet in honor of General Bagration. Ordering the menu, he insists that “grebeshki” be put in the “tortue.” I assumed that tortue was French turtle soup, but what about grebeshki? The Russian word can mean either “cockscombs” or “scallops.” Which would you put in a turtle soup? I did some research into the uses of cockscombs, but with rather unappealing results. I looked at previous translations: one has “scallops” and thinks the soup is a “pie crust”; another has “cockscombs” in a “pasty”; in a third the “cockscombs” are in a “soup”; the fourth agrees about the soup but puts “croutons” in it.
Going by my own taste, I decided to put scallops in the turtle soup. This reading got as far as the first set of page proofs. Just then we met by chance, at a dinner in Paris, a woman who used to run a cooking school. We asked her which it should be. She, too, was puzzled. A few days later we received a long e-mail message from her. She had become so intrigued by our question that she went to the National Library the next day and looked up the history of the culinary use of cockscombs and scallops. She voted firmly for cockscombs and was happy to inform us that they came into fashion in higher circles precisely around the time of the Napoleonic wars. By another coincidence, I had given Larissa a copy of Alexandre Dumas’s Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine for her birthday. Leafing through it, she came upon a recipe for sauce tortue, meant to accompany turtle and prepared with cockscombs. Suddenly the whole passage made sense, because the chef replies to the old count’s order: “Three cold sauces, then?” The other translations have “three cold dishes” or “entrees,” with no relation to sauces at all. Thanks to Mme. Meunier and Dumas, we were able to make the correction in the second set of proofs.
Does such a small thing really matter? Well, it certainly did to Tolstoy. What this seemingly trivial detail reveals is the extraordinary accuracy of his historical memory, even in something as unimportant as cockscombs. He knew where to place them and in what.
Tolstoy’s prose is a rich, fluid, multivoiced artistic medium. In “War and Peace,” there is a war between the French and Russian languages that mirrors the war between the French and Russian Armies. His play with French and with the Petersburg aristocracy’s Gallicized Russian is a major element of social satire in the novel’s composition, allowing him the sort of linguistic infiltrations later found in Joyce and Nabokov. This adds a dimension to the novel that English readers don’t suspect is there, because previous English translations have eliminated it. But this precocious modernism is never wordplay for its own sake. It is always moved by passion.
The world of “War and Peace” envelops you. It is built on uncertainties, illusions, sudden reversals, constantly shifting perspectives, but once you enter it you feel you’re in sure hands. Over it all is the “infinite sky” that Prince Andrei discovers as he lies wounded on the field of Austerlitz. This vast unity that embraces the broadest human diversity is the secret, the mystery, of Tolstoy’s art. If it offers a great challenge to its translators, it also offers great rewards to its readers, as I’ve tried to suggest in a small way.
