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 (Russkii Vestnik – Zhurnal Literaturnyi I Politicheskii. Moskva : M. M. Kotkov, v. 139-150 (1878-1881). Dartmouth call number: 58BF.):
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.
