So spake the white-armed Goddess Hera, and the Owl-eyed Goddess Athene disregarded it not. Thus Hera the Goddess Queen, daughter of Great Cronus, went her way. . . .
Once Hera has been established as the daughter of Cronus; and Athene as Zeus's virgin daughter, to whom the owl was sacred, why repeat this information? 'Athene took Hera's advice, and went away. . . .'is enough. And when Zeus calls Athene 'the Alalcolomenean', surely the uninstructed reader?which includes most Classicists? should be told that Zeus was teasing his daughter: that Athene resented having been placed under the tutorship of Alalcolomenes the Boeotian, if only because the Boeotians were notorious for dullwittedness?
Paradoxically, the more faithful a rendering, the less justice it does the Iliad. Here is a typical passage from Book vi of Professor Lattimore's unexceptionably profes?sional version, written in broken-backed hexameters:
Bellerophontes went to Lykia in the blameless convoy of the Gods; when he came to the running stream of Xanthos, and Lykia,
the lord of wide Lykia tendered him full-hearted honour. Nine days he entertained him with sacrifice of nine oxen, but afterwards when the rose fingers of the tenth dawn showed, then
he began to question him, and asked to be shown the symbols, whatever he might be carrying from his son-in-law, Proitos. Then after he had been given his son-in-law's wicked symbols first he sent him away with orders to kill the Chimaira. . . .
In other words:
The Olympians brought Bellerophon safe to the mouth of the Lycian River Xanthus, where Iobates received him splen?didly: the feasting lasted nine days, and every day they slaughtered a fresh ox. At dawn, on the tenth day, the time came for Iobates to inquire: 'My lord, what news do you bring from my esteemed son-in-law Proetus?' Bellerophon innocently produced the sealed package, and Iobates, having read the tablets, ordered him to kill the Chimaera.
'Blameless convoy of the gods' and 'Proitos's wicked symbols' mean little to modern readers; nor will they recognize 'Bellerophontes' as 'Bellerophon', or 'Proitos' as 'Proetus', or 'Lykia' as 'Lycia', or 'Chimaira' as 'Chi?maera'. . . .
Professor Lattimore is at least a scholar; far worse things are done in the name of translation by literary amateurs. Not so long ago, The Times Literary Supple?ment applauded 'the breath-taking magnificence and brilliant paraphrases of Ezra Pound's translation of Propertius'. He was said to be 'deliberately distorting the strict sense in order to bring out vividly Propertius's latent irony, and to have written what must surely prove to be a durable addition to, and influence upon, original poetry in the English language of this century'. Very well; I looked up two of the couplets quoted by the reviewer:
Multi, Roma, tuas laudes annalibus addent Qui finem imperii Bactra futura canent.
Sed, quod pace legas, opus hoc de monte Sororum Detulit intacta pagina nostra via.
A word-by-word crib would run:
Multi, Roma, many men, O Rome, addent, shall add, tuas laudes annalibus, praises of thee to the annals, qui canent, and shall prophesy, Bactra futura, that Bactria shall form, imperii finem, thine imperial frontier [i.e. that the Parthian Empire shall be absorbed], sed, but, pagina nostra, my page, detulit, has brought down, hoc opus, this work, de monte Sororum, from the mountain of the Sisters [i.e. the Muses of Parnassus], via intacta, by an untrodden path, quod legas pace, for thee to read in time of peace. . . .
Mr Pound's translation depends on an almost perfect ignorance of Latin, and a guessing at Propertius's sense from the nearest English verbal equivalents. As one might translate a dramatic account of Louis XVI's execution with: lA has la Tyrannie', 'A stocking is tyranny', s'ecria Marat, cried Marat to himself. Le peuple, emu, the purple emu, repondit, laid another egg. As here:
Multi tuas laudes, many of your praises, Roma, 0 Rome, addent annalibus, will be added by annalists, qui, who, Bactra futura, being Bactrians of the future, canent, will sing, fines imperii, about your fine empire. Sed, but, quod, what about, legas, reading matter, pace hoc opus, when all this work is at peace? via, a few, intacta pagina, unsullied pages, detulit, brought down, de monte Sororum, from the hill of Soritis [a word which means 'a forked complex of logical sophisms'].
Mr Pound has dressed this up as:
Annalists will continue to record Roman reputations. Celebrities from the Trans-Caucasus will belaud Roman celebrities
And expound the distensions of Empire,
But for something to read in normal circumstances?
For a few pages brought down from the forked hill unsullied?
The book was advertised recently, with 'Except for a few pedants like Robert Graves, this translation . . .' etc.
I undertook to translate Terence's Comedies three years ago, but found his Latin so pure and terse that a faithful rendering would have been too dull for the stage. Yet the formality of the plot, and the most un-English atmosphere ruled out the use of modern slang. Luckily I came across a translation done in 1689, with fascinating vigour, by Lawrence Echard, a Cambridge undergraduate who later became Prebendary of Lincoln Cathedral; and realized at once that Terence's plays were vastly more readable when dressed up in the language of Restoration comedy. Echard wrote that Terence's bluntness of speech did not suit the gallant manners of his own times, but that he had taken it upon himself to correct this fault and, in some places, had lent the scene greater humour than it originally contained, though always keeping a close eye on Terence's design.
Here is my own attempted version of a scene:
bacchis, entering, to her maid-. It's not for nothing that Laches has arranged this interview, and I'm pretty sure that I can guess what it's about. laches, aside: I must see that my anger doesn't prevent me from persuading her to do as I wish; or make me act in a way I might afterwards regret. I'll go up to her. Good day, Bacchis!
bacchis: Good day, Laches. . . .
laches: I have no doubt that you wonder why I sent for you? bacchis: Yes, I am a little timid when I consider what I am, lest your knowledge of my trade might be to my disadvan?tage; but I can easily defend my moral character. ...
And this is Echard's version:
bacchis, entering: I'll be sworn 'tis no small matter that makes Mr Laches send to speak with me now. Yet, in truth, I'm mightily mistaken if I don't guess what the business is. laches, to himself: I must take special care that my passion neither hinders me from bending her to my wishes, nor makes me do in haste what I may repent at leisure. . . . I'll accost her. . . . Mrs Bacchis, your servant! bacchis: Yours, good Mr Laches.
laches: Truth, I don't doubt but what you somewhat wonder why I sent to speak with ye.
bacchis: And really when I consider that question myself, I fear lest the scandal of my trade should prejudice you against me. For, as to my honest behaviour in it, I defy the world to accuse me. . . .
It will easily be seen how much better than mine Echard's level of English suits Terence.
Daring essays in the translation of Aristophanes have recently been made by a group of American writers. I do not dislike attempts at modernizing ancient dramas, such as Jerome Robbins's West Side Story, which plainly depends on Romeo and Juliet$ but I think it unfair to father sophisticated New World obscenities on Aristo?phanes not even hinted at in his text.
Mr William Arrowsmith justifies a new version of The Birds as follows:
Rhetorical conventions and jargon. What is true of dialects is also true of professional rhetoric and jargon: if they are to be comic, they have to be translated into an apposite convention of English rhetoric or jargon. Invariably, this means that their language must be heightened and made even more ponderous than it is in the Greek. The astronomer Meton, for instance, is used by Aristophanes to parody the jargon and abstruse pom?posity of sophistic science. But because Greek scientific jargon was a relatively immature growth (at least when compared with the jargons of modern science), his words, literally translated, sound to modern ears merely
somewhat silly. In the circumstances, I deliberately heightened this language, adding technical terms and jargonizing it further, in the belief that only by so doing could I create the effect of gobbledegook that Meton's demonstration was intended to have for Athenian ears.
Here is Mr Arrowsmith's handling of the theme:
pisthetairos: And those tools? meton: Celestial rules, of course.
Now attend, sir.
Taken in extenso,
our welkin resembles a cosmical charcoal oven or potbellied stove worked by the convection principle, though vaster. Now then, with the flue as my base, and twirling the cali?pers thus, I obtain the azimuth, whence, by calibrating the arc or radial sine?you follow me, friend? pisthetairos: No, I don't follow you.
meton: No matter. Now then, by training the theodolite here on the vector's zenith tangent to the Apex A, I deftly square the circle, whose conflux, or C, I designate as the centre or axial hub of Cloudcuckooland, whence, like global spokes or astral radii, broad boulevards diverge centrifugally, forming, as it were. . . .
At this point in translation, I think, one should adopt the Victorian descriptive phrase: 1 After Aristophanes'.
To sum up. A translator's first duty must always be to choose the appropriate level of his own language for any particular task.
His second duty is to beware of a deceptive resemblance between words in allied languages. For example, in Spanish actual means 'contemporary'; justification may mean 'an apology'; barba, a woman's or a child's chin; and a biftec is as likely to be pork or lamb as beef. Lecheria is a 'dairy', not a brothel. The French for 'encore' at a theatre is bis. . . .
His third duty will be to treat the other man's work with as much respect as if it were his own, and present it with loving care?which means, in practice, correcting small faults and clarifying references. But, though en?titled to abridge when boredom threatens, he must never foist new ideas on the original.
Finally he must realize that translation is a polite lie, but nevertheless a lie. . . . Ein StUckchen Brot, un morceau de pain, un trozito de pan, are all similarly rendered in English as 'a morsel of bread'. But the altogether different sounds of these words convey immense varia?tions in shape, colour, size, weight and taste of the breadstuff to which they refer, and in the eater's attitude to them.
Perhaps my linguistic shortcomings have tempted me to over-emphasize the importance of knowing one's own language. You may recall the famous conversation? preserved, I think, by Charles Lever?between a musketeer of the Irish Brigade that fought at Fontenoy, and a French sentry:
Qui va lei? says he.
Je, says I, knowing their lingo.
Oil est votre lanterne? says he.
Mon lantern a sorti, says I.
Comment? says he.
Come on, then, says I; and with that I struck him.
Intimations of the Black Goddess
Poets, like prophets and saints, claim to live by certain unshakeable principles. But just as the sole judge of saintliness or prophetic truth is God?not popular awe or fallible Church Councils; so the sole judge of poetry for the professed poet, is the Muse-goddess?not textbook critics or auditors of publishers' net-sales. Her inspiration lias from time to time been manifested, or presumed, in poems; like that of God in prophecies. But since neither deity ever issues an authentic Royal warrant for any particular servitor, prophets have often prophesied erro?neously in God's name; and poets have often misrepre?sented the Muse.
Though able to prove myself a former soldier by producing a row of tarnished campaign medals, I cannot si low that I am a poet merely by displaying a row of well- thumbed verse-volumes. No public honours, no consensus of other poets, no album of press-cuttings, nor even the passage of time itself can give me, or anyone else, more than the courtesy title of poet. The one sure reward for whatever labours we may have undergone is our con?tinued love of the Muse: as prophets count on none other than their continued fear of God. Undeniably a prophet will feel reassured if, in answer to his prayer, he sees the tyrant humiliated, the leper cleansed, the shadow turned back on the sun-dial. Undeniably, too, the poet will feel reassured if, reading what he has written for the Muse's Hnke, he finds that by some miracle he has said almost exactly what he meant.
The inspired Hebrew prophets were at constant logger?heads not only with the endowed Levitic priesthood, but with the monarchy, of which Samuel had always voiced his disapproval: calling for a pure theocracy. And God, it was agreed, chose prophets by certain signs known only to Himself; not they, God. The prophetic age ended for Israel early in the second century b.c., when her Guild of Prophets was disbanded by the Sanhedrin; as it likewise ended for orthodox Christians at the Crucifixion?when all prophecies were thought to have been fulfilled. Since then, the Jews acknowledge only sages?because prophets answer directly to God, but sages must refer to God's unalterable written Law. And the Church acknowledges only saints?always after strict inquiry into their ortho?doxy. Catholic saints (there are, of course, no Protestant saints, with the dubious exception of King Charles the Martyr) live in the Church's shadow, accept her dogma and, because neither married nor forced to earn their livelihood, occupy their entire lives in prayer, preaching, vigils, fasting, and good works. Poets, on the other hand, like prophets, reject dogma and patronage as contravening freedom of thought, and take care to live outside the literary establishment in the rough-and-tumble lay world.
Hebrew prophets gave God sole credit for any miracles done through them; a poet gives the Muse sole credit for his poems. But God, for the prophets, was a national deity; the Muse, though originally a tribal goddess, must now be a personal one. Prophets, moreover, being recognized as holy men, could count on hospitality wherever they went, and therefore?as we learn from the story of Elijah and Naaman?refused all payment for their works; but poets cannot count on such generous treatment as they could in ancient Ireland, for times have changed. They view what they have written as the Muse's clarifications of their own confused thought; not as saleable products or pass?ports to fame?lest they incur her deep displeasure. Nevertheless, if their poems receive public acclaim, they need not feel guilty, having meant them, first, for the
Muse's eye. When Shakespeare opened a sonnet with 1 Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's claws', and ended it: L My love shall in my verse ever live young', he was thinking of the immortal fame thus conferred on his love, rather than of his own. Some poets affect to despise immediate fame, and address posterity?though with small reason to assume that posterity will be more per?spicacious than their own turnip-headed fellow-citizens.
The chaotic ethics of our epoch derive, I believe, from a revolution in early historical times that upset the balance between male and female principles: namely, the supersession of matriarchy by patriarchy. This revolt, and the subsequent patriarchal cult of reason (as opposed to intuitive thought), gave men control over most domestic, agricultural, and other arts. Women became chattels, no longer able even to bestow their love freely or educate their own children.
The poetic trance derives from ecstatic worship of the age-old matriarchal Greek Muse, who ruled Sky, Earth, Underworld in triad, and was worshipped on mountains. Hence her name?the Greek word mousa being etymologically connected with the Latin mons. Her altars?stone herms, or baetyls, around which women devotees danced counter-sunwise at lunar festivals? stood on the foot-hills of Parnassus, Olympus and Helicon. A male dance-leader, originally her willing sacrificial victim, invoked the Muse by improvising hexameter verses to a lyre accompaniment that set an ecstatic round dance in motion. Presently the Muse?like the goddess Erzulie in Haitian voudoun?entered into, or 'rode', some woman dancer, who now acted, spoke and sang on her mistress's behalf. 'Sing, Muse!' had a literal meaning: it was a leader's appeal to the Goddess?'Choose your vessel, and sing to us through her mouth!'
At some time before the eighth century b.c., the god Apollo took over Muse-worship and, calling hims
elf 'Leader of the Muses', transferred her cult to his own sacred precincts. This meant more than self-identifica- tion with the lyre-plucking dance-leader of a nine-woman Maenad company; he was asserting his authority over the Muse herself. The Homeric bards, who based their guild on holy Delos, were Apollo's servitors, itinerant ballad-singers?'ballads' being originally dance songs? and claimed that they could induce the genuine Muse- trance even in a mixed and sedentary audience.
Though, at a later date, ballads were often recited without music, dance measures remained essential to poetic composition: creating a strong hypnotic suggesti?bility in listeners?and, when written down, in readers. By this stage, however, the Muse's invocation had be?come a mere formality. Once her worship was separated from the altar rites, she never again spoke through a woman worshipper. Apollo, as Leader of the Muses, henceforth dictated poems. 'Metres', originally dance measures, were formalized by the Greek epic and dra?matic poets, who applied to them strict Apollonian rules: each variety of metrical foot being assigned its proper emotional use. Yet Apollo, though the patron of formal verse (which included literary epics, odes, hymns and Classical idylls), was incapable of supplying the authentic trance, and discouraged ecstatic utterances except from his own highly tendentious oracles.
The basis of poetry is love, but love between men (apart from rare homosexual pairs) is seldom more than a metaphor?Christians preach on brotherly love, but look how most brothers treat one another! Love between men and women is a fundamental emotion, strong enough to transcend social contracts; and the love bestowed on a poet, however briefly, by a Muse-possessed woman, heightens his creative powers to an unparalleled degree. Poets demand inspiration, rather than tutoring in verse technique by experts of their own sex.