Don Quixote! (and translations)

I'm reading War and Peace, finally, and picking a translation (from the Russian) brought up the old problem of dealing with translated books. In the infinity of youth, I thought I could just learn every language that I wanted to read in. (What a great delusion.). The issue with translations was most profound with one of my top-five favorite books of all time: Don Quixote de la Mancha. I remember the day I was in the dusty Half-Price Books store on Guadalupe St. in Austin, Texas, now, as a mini-example to what's happened to the town as a whole, a series of boutiques; it was a sunny day, and the south-facing windows were presenting the late-morning sun's light on the fiction section as I browsed for all the books I was going to read. I came across Don Quixote and picked up several editions of the book. Most were abridged; true to my nature, I went for the "complete and unabridged" one: 785 pages, small type. A great decision. The book had me from the beginning. But I soon learned the essential role translation plays in a book, though that should've been obvious. I lost the book in the middle of reading it and bought a replacement, though not the same translation. The new one was so different and bad I couldn't even read a couple of pages. So, after much searching, I found the same Wordsworth Classics edition and finished the book. Below are several Don Quixote translations (below that are two translations of War and Peace and below that are links to my own translation attempts: three of Pablo Neruda's poems), born from a "spare" 45 minutes in the Cal library.

Here's the opening passage (witness the way Cervantes is able to set the book's tone immediately: genuine, sweet, goodhearted, funny):

The lovely Don Quixote de La Mancha (Wordsworth Classics edition by, I think, John Ormsby):

At a certain village in La Mancha, which I shall not name, there lived not long ago one of those old-fashioned gentlemen who are never without a lance upon a rack, an old target, a lean horse, and a greyhound. His diet consisted more of beef than mutton; and with minced meat on most nights, lentils on Fridays, griefs and groans on Saturdays, and a pigeon extraordinary on Sundays, he consumed three quarters of his revenue: the rest was laid out in a plush coat, velvet breeches, with slippers of the same, for holidays; and a suit of the very best homespun cloth, which he bestowed on himself for working days. His whole family was a housekeeper something turned forty, a niece not twenty, and a man that served him in the house and in the field, and could saddle a horse, and handle the pruning-hook. The master himself was nigh fifty years of age, of a hale and strong complexion, lean-bodied, and thin-faced, an early riser, and a lover of hunting. Some say his surname was Quixada, or Quesada (for authors differed in this particular): however, we may reasonably conjecture he was called Quixana (i.e. lanthorn-jaws) though this concerns us but little, provided we keep strictly to the truth in every point of this history.

Keys to the humor: "which I shall not name" "old-fashioned gentlemen" "old target" "pigeon extraordinary" "consumed three quarters of his revenue" "an early riser, and a lover of hunting."

Now see the same passage translated by Walter Starkie:

At a village of La Mancha, whose name I do not wish to remember, there lived a little while ago one of those gentlemen who are wont to keep a lance in the rack, an old buckler, a lean horse and a swift greyhound. His stew had more beef than mutton in it and most nights he ate the remains salted and cold. Lentil soup on Fridays, "tripe and trouble" on Saturdays and an occasional pigeon as an extra delicacy on Sundays, consumed three-quarters of his income. The remainder was spent on a jerkin of fine puce, velvet breeches, and slippers of the same stuff for holidays, and a suit of good, honest homespun for week-days. His family consisted of a housekeeper about forty, a niece not yet twenty, and a lad who served him both in the field and at home and could saddle the horse or use the pruning-knife. Our gentleman was about fifty years of age, of a sturdy constitution, but wizened and gaunt-featured, an early riser and a devotee of the chase. They say that his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for on this point the authors who have written on the subject differ), but we may resaonably conjecture that his name was Quixana. This, however, has very little to do with our story: enough that in its telling we swerve not a jot from the truth.

Starkie killed all the humor in the language. Of course, whose to say whether it was in the original Spanish to begin with. I dare say it was (see below)!

Another translation, by Tobias Smollet, who did his work in the early 18th century:

In a certain corner of La Mancha, the name of which I do not choose to remember, there lately lived one of those country gentlemen, who adorn their halls with a rusty lance and a worm-eaten target, and ride forth on the skeleton of a horse, to course with a sort of a starved greyhound.

Three fourths of his income were scarce sufficient to afford a dish of hodge-podge, in which the mutton bore no proportion to the beef, for dinner; a plat of salmagundy, commonly at supper; gripes and grumblings on saturdays, lentils on fridays, and the addition of a pigeon or some such thing on the Lord's-day. The remaining part of his revenue was consumed in the purchase of a fine black suit, with velvet breeches and slippers of the same, for holy-days, and a coat of home-spun, which he wore in honour of his country, during the rest of the week.

He maintained a female house-keeper turned of forty, a niece about half that age, and a trusty young fellow, fit for field and market, who could turn his hand to any thing, either to saddle the horse or handle the hough.

Our squire, who bordered upon fifty, was of a tough constitution, extremely meagre and hard-featur'd, an early riser, and in point of exercise, another Nimrod. He is said to have gone by the name of Quixada, or Quesada, (for in this particular, the authors who mention that circumstance, disagree) though, from the most probable conjectures we may conclude, that he was called by the significant name of Quixada; but this is of small importance to the history, in the course of which it will be sufficient if we swerve not a tittle from the truth.

The star of this translation, obviously, is "which he wore in honour of his country."

And Tom Lathrop's translation:

In a village in La Mancha, whose name I don't quite remember, there lived not long ago an hidalgo of the kind who have a lance in the lance rack, an old shield, a lean nag, and a fleet greyhound. A stew of a bit more beef than mutton, hash most nights, bacon and eggs on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and an occasional pigeon on Sundays consumed three-quarters of his income. The rest of it was used up on a broad-cloth tunic with velvet undertunic for holidays, with matching slippers; and on weekdays, he adorned himself with his finest homespun outfit.

In his house he had a housekeepr who was past forty, a niece who was not yet twenty, and a houseboy who saddled his horse and did the gardening. The age of our hidalgo was close to fifty. He was of sturdy constitution, but a bit thin, lean of face, a great early riser, and fond of hunting. They say that his last name was Quijada or Quesada - for there's some difference of opinion among the authorities who write on this subject - although by credible conjecture we are led to believe that he was named Quejana. But this is of little importantance to our story - it's enough that in telling of it we don't stray from the truth.

And the original Cervantes Spanish

En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme, no ha mucho tiempo que vivia un hidalgo de los de lanza en astillero, adarga antigua, rocin flaco y galgo corredor. Una olla de algo mas vaca que carnero, salpicon las mas noches, duelos y quebrantos los sabados, lantejas los viernes, algun palomino de anadidura los domingos, consumian las tres partes de su hacienda. El resto della concluian sayo de velarte, calzas de velludo para las fiestas, con sus pantuflos de lo mesmo, y los dias de entresemana se honraba con su vellori de lo mas fino. Tenia en su casa una ama que pasaba de los cuarenta, y una sobrina que no llegaba a lost veinte, y un mozo de campo y plaza, que asi ensillaba el rocin como tomaba la podadera. Frisaba la edad de nuestro hidalgo con los cincuenta anos; era de complexion recia, seco de carnes, enjuto de rostro, gran madrugador y amigo de la caza. Quieren decir que tenia el sobrenombre de Quijada, o Quesada, que en esto hay alguna diferencia en los autores que deste caso escriben; aunque por conjeturas verisimiles se deja entender que se llamaba Quijana. Pero esto importa poco a nuestro cuento; basta que en la narracion del no se salga un punto de la verdad.

I'm willing to bet that Google Translator does a better job than the non-Ornsby translations:

Somewhere in la Mancha, whose name I remember, not long ago a gentleman who lived those of lance and ancient shield, a lean hack and a greyhound. An olla of rather more beef than lamb, hash most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, sometimes squab as a Sunday, with three quarters of his income. The rest della concluded broadcloth coat of velvet breeches and shoes for the holidays, with slippers of the same, and the days of weekday vellori was honored with more than fine. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece a lost twenty, and a lad for the field and square, which saddle the hack as well take the trimmer. Was nearing the age of our gentleman of fifty years, was of tough, dry meat, lean-faced, very early riser and friend of the hunt. Mean that the nickname had Quijada, or Quesada, here there is some difference in referring to this case the authors write, although it is plain guesswork verisimilar named Quijana. But this matters little to our story, just as in the narrative of not point out the truth.

Maybe not better, but approaching more tolerable than the others, really.

So, on to War and Peace. I picked to read the one translated by Rosemary Edmonds. First read a passage of the one not chosen.

Trans. by Constance Garnett; Modern Library Edition, 1994. [Clunkier language]:

"Well, Prince, Genoa and Lucca are now no more than private estates of the Bonaparte family. No, I warn you, that if you do not tell me we are at war, if you again allow yourself to palliate all the infamies and atrocities of this Antichrist (upon my word, I believe he is), I don't know you in future, you are no longer my friend, no longer my faithful slave, as you say. There, how do you do, how do you do? I see I'm scaring you, sit down and talk to me."

These words were uttered in July 1805 by Anna Pavlovna Scherer, a distinguished lady of the court, and confidential maid-of-honour to the Empress Marya Fyodorovna. It was her greeting to Prince Vassily, a man high in rank and office, who was the first to arrive at her soirée. Anna Pavlovna had been coughing for the last few days; she had an attack of la grippe, as she said - grippe was then a new word only used by a few people. In the notes she had sent round in the morning by a footman in red livery, she had written to all indiscriminately:

"If you have nothing better to do, count (or prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too alarming to you, I shall be charmed to see you at my house between 7 and 10. Annette Scherer."

Then the one I chose, translated by Rosemary Edmonds; Penguin Classics, 1978 [better]:

"Eh bien, mon prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now no more than private estates of the Bonaparte family. No, I warn you - if you are not telling me that this means war, if you again allow yourself to condone all the infamies and atrocities perpetrated by that Antichrist (upon my word I believe he is Antichrist), I don't know you in future. You will no longer be a friend of mine, or my 'faithful slave', as you call yourself! But how do you do, how do you do? I see I'm scaring you. Sit down and talk to me."

It was on a July evening in 1805 and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honour and confidante of the Empress Maria Fiodorovna. With these words she greeted the influential statesman Prince Vasili, who was the first to arrive at her soirée.

Anna Pavlovna had been coughing for some days. She was suffering from an attack of la grippe as she said - grippe being then a new word only used by a few people. That morning a footman in scarlet livery had delivered a number of little notes all written in French and couched in the same terms:

"If you have nothing better to do, count (or prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too alarming, I shall be charmed to see you at my house between 7 and 10." Annette Scherer.

--

See some of my own translations of several Pablo Neruda poems: El Tigre, El Insecto, Oda a la Naranja. They are faithful to the language and spirit of their original at least. I was somewhat trying to seduce a Spanish teacher with them. I think it worked, but we'll never know.