T IS not uncommon to hear Russians talk, and talk well, about Pushkin to Europeans or Americans and to remark how little of the enthusiasm passes from speaker to listeners. Among people who do not easily read his language, Pushkin is likely to be regarded as a sort of Slav Byron and this does not excite them unduly. Byron, indeed, was a brilliant and individual writer who has left poems which properly decorate the anthologies, but today he is not taken as seriously as he was years ago. He was a bit of a charlatan; his eloquence, which sometimes got the better of him, is no longer to our taste and his dramas have a little the musty odor of Vathek or the Castle of Otranto. Naturally, if Pushkin is another Byron, and lesser because partly deriving from the Englishman, his reputation does not compel all educated folk to read or, even unread, to rank him among the greatest. It is unnecessary to say that his poetry, at least, is untranslatable. Whoever attempts to translate real poetry either presents a more or less literal exposition of the poet's thought or composes a new poem. This, of course, is not to deny that there are great translations but these stand on their own merits as independent works of art because of their own poetic accomplishment rather than because they reflect their originals with any startling fidelity. If one considers famous translations one encounters such examples as Omar Khayyam, a justly celebrated tour deforce in Fitzgerald's miraculous verses but far removed from the quatrains of the Persian philosopher. Perhaps the point could be better emphasized by pointing to Ronsard's rendering of the Augustan Anima Vagula into his charming and traitorous little words. Even in prose it may be said that the great translations rely as much on their own peculiar flavor as on their originals, although they can be, have been, and are much more faithful than the poetic. There are other obstacles to European or American appraisal of Pushkin. He was a creator of language. The Russian of the upper classes as he found it was artificial, pompous, and affected; it was in fact only part Russian, without pride of ancestry or hope of progeny, like the proverbial mule. So dominating had been the fashion in St. Petersburg, from the days of its founder, for German and French
Read full abstract