shell after shell, that man shall come to
the Creator, to the Master, with empty hands—
and he will find that he is deaf and dumb
in heaven…
(I.ii.)
The conceits are often as whimsical as those in Shakespeare, defying that Enlightenment ideal of rhetorical decorum according to which Shakespeare’s imagination was deplored as savage and untutored. So Tremens declares that
…The soul is like a tooth, God
wrenches out the soul—crunch!—and it is over…
What comes next? Unthinkable nausea and then—
the void, spirals of madness—and the feeling of being
a swirling spermatozoid—and then darkness,
darkness—the velvety abyss of the grave…
(II.)
Or, earlier, he remembers an evening in which he “shook with fever,/rippling like a reflection in an ice-hole” (I.i.). One is reminded of a line in Chapter 26 of Nabokov’s penultimate novel, Transparent Things, which was finished nearly fifty years after Morn, in 1972, about “an African nun in an arctic convent touching with delight the fragile clock of her first dandelion.” Such wild conceits, yoking together hot fancy and cold reason, are common in Nabokov’s mature style. They derive, as Morn helps us to see, from Shakespeare, and mark the rebellion of Nabokov’s genius against the decorousness of the Age of Reason.
Equally Shakespearean is Nabokov’s subtly reasoned orchestration of many different voices and registers. At one extreme, we have the high-toned rhetoric of Tremens, Klian, Morn, Dandilio, and Ganus, each of whom Nabokov endows with an individual voice that speaks of their desires, values, and condition. The first note struck is that of Tremens’s feverish rhetoric, tightly coiled upon itself, thickly patterned with spite and self-pity, and embroidered with antique curses: “Begone, fever, you snake!” (I.i.). In Klian, the court poet of Tremens’s revolution, that destructiveness finds a sexual urgency which takes his rhetoric to the very limit of intelligibility. In our translation, we have allowed many of his speeches to remain as obscure in English as they are in the original Russian, where they seem to evince his commitment to the revolutionary poetics of violence upon the word associated with such poets as Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893–1930), on whom he may be modelled.
At the other pole of the play’s rhetoric are Morn and Dandilio: in Morn there is a noble purity and simplicity of speech—“radiant,” to identify it by one of Morn’s own favourite words. Although Morn is not a poet, he has the champagne-like effervescence he himself identifies with creativity, and it is definitive of him that when Ganus attacks him he responds with the carefree laughter which gives him his power. Dandilio shares with Morn this equanimity, which is not to be mistaken for a Buddhist absence of will or desire: on the contrary, Dandilio urges that life be embraced without scruple or discrimination. He is a snuff-taking eighteenth-century Optimist of the kind Voltaire famously satirized in Candide, and whom Nabokov would reprise in the figure of Pale Fire’s John Shade. He believes that all in the world is well, good and evil, Morn and Tremens alike. In the compressed aphorisms of his speeches the sententious gravity of the Age of Reason is combined with the intermittently childlike and singsong tenor of its thought.
Indeed, memories of childhood, and especially of the pains and illnesses of childhood, stud the play, introducing into it a domestic counterpoint to the stagy rhetoric, in something like the way that Shakespeare typically sets tavern against court, and prose against verse. (The Old Man who enters to clean up after Edmin and Morn have fled is, with his rustic speech, closely reminiscent of such Shakespearean characters as the Porter in Macbeth.) Dandilio says that life assuages all pain, like a mother rushing in to kiss better a child who has scratched itself (ii. 340–45); Midia says her soul is attached to Morn like a child’s tongue to the metal it has licked on a frosty day (I.ii. 253–56); and the feel of a cold gun muzzle pressing up against his chest reminds Morn, at a moment when he is considering suicide, of the “lacquer tube” a doctor once pressed against his chest (III.i.). In Ella that domesticity is articulated with a freshness that is essential to the total effect of the play, and it is telling that she often expresses herself in gestures—twirling, stroking the air—rather than in the destructive speechifying of Tremens, Klian, and Ganus.
As all of the above indicates, Morn presents some extraordinary difficulties to its translators. The task of translating it is all the more daunting because Nabokov was himself one of the most prominent modern critics of lazy and careless translation. As a young man, Nabokov had written elegant, readable translations of a range of English and French authors, from Carroll and Keats to Ronsard, Byron, and Shakespeare. In America, in the 1940s, he also produced verse translations into English of some of Pushkin’s little tragedies, of Fyodor Tyutchev, Mikhail Lermontov, and Afanasy Fet. Yet he began to stress the near-impossibility of successful translation, describing it in Chapter 7 of his 1947 novel Bend Sinister by the following extravagant analogy:
It was as if someone, having seen a certain oak tree (further called Individual T) growing in a certain land and casting its own unique shadow on the green and brown ground, had proceeded to erect in his garden a prodigiously intricate piece of machinery which in itself was as unlike that or any other tree as the translator’s inspiration and language were unlike those of the original author, but which, by means of ingenious combinations of parts, light effects, breeze-engendering engines, would, when completed, cast a shadow exactly similar to that of Individual T—the same outline, changing in the same manner, with the same double and single spots of suns rippling in the same position, at the same hour of the day.
Or, as he put it still more tersely, and (to a translator) intimidatingly, in his poem “On Translating ‘Eugene Onegin’” (1955):
What is translation? On a platter
A poet’s pale and glaring head,
A parrot’s screech, a monkey’s chatter,
And profanation of the dead.
That translation of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, which was published in 1964 alongside three volumes of commentary, is famous, or notorious, for its defiant fidelity to rendering the exact and complete meaning of the original text at the expense of readability or elegance in English—a fidelity that Nabokov called “the servile path.”
Our policy has been to prioritize accuracy to Nabokov’s language, wherever possible, but we have not sought to produce a crib, as Nabokov did in his translation of Eugene Onegin. Rather we have aimed to find words, phrases, and rhythms which do justice both to the exact shades of meaning and to the very various tones and registers of Nabokov’s Morn—and to finish with a text that re-creates at least some of the power and beauty of the original, both in private reading and in performance. Our goal has been to produce a text that does not sound like a translation, but like the play that Nabokov would have written had he written Morn in English in 1923. That ideal is not entirely speculative, given that we do have some poems and essays which Nabokov wrote in English in the early 1920s, as well as the example of his own translations of his early Russian work into English, and his own writings in English. Nabokov read and wrote English from an early age, studied in Cambridge from 1919 to 1922. and was regarded by the other Russian émigrés as strongly oriented towards England and the English language. There are places in Morn, especially in the speeches of the title character, where the Russian hints of English—as, conversely, in Pnin and Lolita, Nabokov writes an English which sounds distinctly foreign. There are also many places in the text, and especially in Tremens’s and Klian’s speeches, where the Russian language is being deliberately wrenched into a revolutionary strangeness.
We have throughout resisted all temptations to tame or normalize Nabokov’s language, which often sounds as distinctive and peculiar in Russian as in our translation—or, for that matter, as in Nabokov’s own English. Indeed, there are moments in the text where we were able to draw on Nabokov’s own translation of a phrase. So,
for instance, when Midia has left Morn, he uses the curious phrase letuchii dozhd’—literally, “flying rain.” We might have been tempted to make this “fleeting rain,” were it not for the fact that one of Nabokov’s first poems, from 1917, is entitled “Dozhd’ proletel,” which Nabokov himself translated as “The Rain Has Flown,” adding in a note printed in Poems and Problems (1970) that “The phrase letit dozhd’, ‘rain is flying,’ was borrowed by the author from an old gardener (described in Speak, Memory, Chapter 2 et passim) who applied it to light rain soon followed by sunshine.” In the opening speech of the play, we have sought to preserve Tremens’s warlock-like tones and his elliptical, highly compressed images. So, too, when Ella in the same scene addresses the coals burning in the fireplace, she uses a strange and archaic phrase—“Chur—goret’!”—which we have translated by a phrase equally strange and archaic: “Fain burn!” (I.i.). In this case we were influenced by the modern associations of the word “fain” with Shakespeare. In his translation of Pushkin, Nabokov often sought out the phrases in such poets as Byron which Pushkin had reworked into Russian; we have done the same in trying to retain the shimmering pale fire of Shakespeare’s language which is often glimpsed in Nabokov’s original Russian. This Shakespeareanism is always dominant but it often in turn absorbs and transforms the echoes of other literary exemplars, so that in Dandilio the terse aphorisms of a Voltaire or a Pope acquire Shakespearean vividness and whimsy, a richness of imagery which, conversely, deepens the fractured, syntax-defying Futurist speeches of Klian. In short, the play contains a range of registers and discourses, often overlain, and we have had to try to reproduce this in our translation.
In a few, though not very many, instances, we have permitted ourselves to travel a fair way beyond the original Russian, where reproducing it would have resulted in entirely the wrong feel and tone, though always with the intention of expressing the essential meaning. In Act II, Tremens declares: “Segodnia otkryvaiu/moi nebyvalyi prazdnik”—literally, “Today, I will open [or, inaugurate]/my unprecedented [or, fantastic] festival [or, holiday].” Any combination of these possibilities in English would have sounded clumsy and silly; at least as importantly, none of the words in English capture the full semantic range of the Russian words, especially nebyvalyi, which dictionaries translate as “unprecedented” and “fantastic.” “Fantastic” was out because it has come in modern English to mean something excellent and admirable. What was needed was a word which would express the idea of a revolutionary rupture in history, and an element of the improbable. We finally landed on “monstrous,” which derives from the Latin monstra—nature- and history-rending portents, of the kind Tremens himself embodies. Likewise, “festival” and “holiday” both carry excessively positive and pleasurable connotations which do not do justice to prazdnik in this context. “Carnival,” we felt, with its hints of flesh and anarchy, would complement the animal idea of the “monstrous” while contrasting with its implication of the unprecedented; just as, in the Russian, there is a paradox latent in the idea of a prazdnik, usually an annual festival, being nebyvalyi—unprecedented. We therefore arrived at our solution: “Today I shall unleash my monstrous carnival” (II.).
A smaller example comes from the final scene of the play, in which Morn says that the crowd does “not know that the poor Eastern bride/is barely alive beneath her tasselled weight” (V.ii.), where “tasselled weight” stands for tiazhest’iu kosmatoi, which would more literally be translated as “shaggy weight.” Not only would “shaggy” have sounded comical, it would have made an obscure passage still more unclear: Morn here is looking for a female parallel to the image, in his previous speech, of a knight who seems glorious to the crowd but is hot and sweaty inside his armour (as Morn is dying within the prison of his fairy tale). The “Eastern bride” looks beautiful to the crowd but is suffocating within her heavy ornamental marriage robes. By “tasselled” we sought to translate kosmatoi in a way that would make this idea, if not obvious, at least accessible.
All our work was, however, doubled, if not tripled, by the demands of translating Nabokov’s pentameter line. It was essential that Morn, with its high tragic ambition, remain a verse-play, but we soon decided against trying to reproduce Nabokov’s own fairly strict iambic pentameter. It would have been impossible to do so without straying a long way from our primary goal of reproducing Nabokov’s own nuances of sense. We opted instead for a loose five-stress line, evaluating the total rhythmic pattern of the line according to where the stresses seemed to us naturally to fall, in context. We have also tried if at all possible to pay respect to the integrity of each individual line and to avoid meaningless line-endings and awkward enjambments. Therefore we have not simply broken each line after ten or eleven syllables, and have looked to create lines whose beginnings, endings, and progressive syntactic pattern are part of their poetic meaning.
We feel, nevertheless, that we have achieved a steady beat throughout the play, and we have tried to make the rhythms relevant to the sense and tenor of a particular speech. As is, indeed, the established practice of English pentameter, the ear will, once it is accustomed to the five-stress pattern, hear lines as five stresses even where they are a syllable or two over or under the established measure. Such “hypermetric” syllables are common in Shakespeare. In the case of split lines, we have allowed ourselves greater liberty—as also with lines ending with an ellipsis (three dots), where the idea is that the line should seem to trail off, so that there is a good reason for a stress to go missing. Some characters’ speeches, especially those of Dandilio and Tremens, the play’s two most grandiloquent orators, seemed naturally to unfold into many-syllabled lines which verge on the hexameter—appropriately, perhaps, in a play which gestures towards a lost grandeur. Ganus thinks of the vanished King, saying that
…His footsteps
linger in the palace, like the step of a hexameter
dwindling in one’s memory…
(III.ii.)
Contrastingly, when Morn is reduced by his cowardice to the lowly state of a bourgeois “mister,” he muses that
…I, I am Mister Morn—
that is all; an empty space, an unstressed
syllable in a poem without rhyme.
(IV.)
Such a slackening of rhythmic pressure characterizes the speeches of characters when they drop out of the high heroic mode; and we have attempted to capture this Shakespearean contrast of prosody and prose.
Lastly, a word on the edition we have translated. Morn survives in a typewritten copy and in a handwritten fair copy; neither is entirely complete, with a few passages missing in Act V. These texts were edited together by Serena Vitale and Ellendea Proffer for the 1997 Zvezda edition, and re-edited by Andrei Babikov for the 2008 Azbuka edition. It is this latter edition on which our translation is based.
—THOMAS KARSHAN, 2012
Dramatis Personae
Main Characters
TREMENS
ELLA
GANUS
KLIAN
FOREIGNER
MIDIA
DANDILIO
MISTER MORN
EDMIN
Other Characters
SERVANTS
GUESTS (including FIRST GUEST, SECOND GUEST, LADY, GREY-HAIRED GUEST, SECOND VISITOR, THIRD VISITOR)
OLD MAN
FOUR REBELS
CAPTAIN and FOUR SOLDIERS
ACT I.
Scene I
A room. The curtains are drawn. A fire blazes. TREMENS sleeps in an armchair by the fire, wrapped up in a spotted blanket. He awakens heavily.
TREMENS:
Dream, fever, dream; the soundless changing
of two sentinels standing at the gates
of my powerless life…
On the walls
the floral patterns form mocking faces;
the burning hearth hisses at me, not with fire
but with a serpent chill… O heart, O heart,
blaze up! Begone, fever, y
ou snake!… Helpless
am I… But, O my heart, how I would like
to lend my trembling sickness to this fair
and careless city, so that the Royal Square
should sweat and blaze, as does my brow;
so that the barefoot streets should grow cold,
so that the whistling wind should shudder
the tall houses, the gardens, the statues
at the crossroads, the embankments, the ships
on the convulsing waters!…
[calls out]
Ella!… Ella!…
[ELLA enters, elegantly coiffed but in a dressinggown.]
TREMENS:
Give me some port and that glass phial,
the one on the right, with the green tag…
So, you are going dancing?
ELLA [uncorks the decanter]:
Yes.
TREMENS:
Will your Klian be there?
ELLA:
He will.
TREMENS:
Is it love?
ELLA [sits down on the arm of the chair]:
I don’t know… It’s all so strange…
It’s not at all as it is in songs… Last night
I dreamt that I was a new white bridge,
made out of pine, I think, and covered in tears
of resin, thrown lightly over an abyss… And so
I waited. Alas, there were no timid footsteps—
the bridge yearned to yield sweetly, to crunch
in torment beneath the thunder of blind hooves…
I waited—and then, suddenly, I saw:
towards me, towards me, blazing, wailing,
whirled forth the form of a Minotaur,
with the broad chest and face of Klian!
Blissfully I surrendered—and awoke…
TREMENS:
I understand, Ella… Well, this pleases me—
The Tragedy of Mister Morn Page 2
