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In order to illustrate the fine and difficult art of translation, we present you here with three translations of a paragraph from Book Three, Chapter Three: "The Confession of an Ardent Heart in Verse." We begin with Dostoevsky's original (source information): Pevear and Volokhonsky, Vintage Classics, 1990. There's just one thing: how can I make a compact with the earth
evermore? I don't kiss the earth, I don't tear open her bosom; what
should I do, become a peasant or a shepherd? I keep going, and I
don't know: have I gotten into stench and shame, or into light and
joy? That's the whole trouble, because everything on earth is a
riddle. And whenever I happened to sink into the deepest, the very
deepest shame of depravity (and that's all I ever happened to do),
I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Did it set me right?
Never! Because I'm a Karamazov. Because when I fall into the abyss,
I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased
that I'm falling in just such a humiliating position, and for me
I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin
a hymn. Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also
kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me
be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your
son, Lord, and I love you, and I feel a joy without which the world
cannot stand and be. Constance Garnett, Modern Library, 1950. But the difficulty is how am I to cling forever to Mother Earth.
I don't kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a
peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going
to shame or to light and joy. That's the trouble, for everything
in the world is a riddle! And whenever I've happened to sink into
the vilest degradation (and it's always been happening) I always
read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For
I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong
with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading
attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that
degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me
be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which
my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy
son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the
world cannot stand. Andrew H. MacAndrew, A Bantam Classic, 1970. But what makes it hard for me is that I don't know how I could
possibly enter that eternal alliance with Mother Earth. I don't
kiss Mother Earth, I don't plow her soil... Should I, then, become
a peasant, a shepherd, or what? I go on and on, and I don't know
where I'll find myself next - in stench and disgrace or in light
and joy. And that's where the main trouble likes: everything in
this world is a puzzle. Whenever I've sunk into the deepest shame
and depravity - and that has happened to me more often than anything
else - I've always recited that poem about the goddess Ceres and
man's fate. But has it reformed me? No - because I'm a Karamazov,
because if I must plunge into the abyss, I'll go head first, feet
in air. I'll even find a certain pleasure in falling in such a humiliating
way. I'll even think that it's a beautiful exit for a man like me.
And so, in the very midst of degradation, I am low and despicable.
I must still be allowed to kiss the hem of the veil in which my
God is shrouded; and even if I may be following in the devil's footsteps,
I am still Your son, O Lord, and I love You, and fell the joy without
which the world cannot be. After you've read the translations, consider the following questions.
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