[3.5] Pushkin from Pushkin Press. (This is at once amusing symmetry, and a little too on-the-nose. First time I've read him. This collection is mostly poetry.) Translation by Anthony Briggs, whose War & Peace I'd have read if it were available as an ebook two years ago; glad to read more of his at last.
'The Queen of Spades'; 'The Stationmaster':
More than cosy enough in the way perfectly characteristic of C19th classics. (A paper book of these, read after nightfall, beside a fire, teeters on the brink between perfect and cloying.) Marginally darker ends than British Victorians - perhaps the Russian sting is reminiscent of someone later like Saki or M.R. James, but it's too long since I've read them. Less harshly realist than l.C19th Scandinavians, and very much in a pretty world of the upper classes, where everything turns out fairytale-alright for a lot of people, and toughness and poverty, whilst mentioned, ultimately seem skimmed over - the same again in a somewhat facile poem near the end, 'Winter Evening'. (Easy to forgive in film, less so in books for some reason; perhaps expect greater seriousness of the latter.) Feels like the same world as War & Peace. These stories are so famous it would have been impossible for them to live up to their reputation - another argument for reading classics as a teenager, because you experience them fresh without so much that came after.
At one point in Queen of Spades, someone asks if there even are any Russian novels...
Pimen's Monologue from Boris Godunov:
Nice clean readable translation of blank verse; obviously modern, still atmospheric. Would have liked to read the rest if it were here. Shame there was so much less of this play than of...
Mozart and Salieri:
which was hammy in a way no translator could rescue - in what followed what, and in the basic meanings of what was said. Might have been camply funny if it weren't one of those stories in which I've minimal interest as fiction as opposed to carefully researched biography pointing out what we just can't know. Also lacks the attraction of reading a Russian write about Russian history as in Boris Godunov.
'The Bronze Horseman'
Easy to imagine reading this aloud as a kid. Small epic of St Petersburg, its flooding and one young working class chap's story. Nice tidy rhymed translation with ample enjambments. Very 4-stars. Again, the surprise of its being darker than English equivalents of this sort of thing.
'Tsar Nikita and His Forty Daughters'
Very silly smutty fairytale, translated in a very silly jaunty rhymed style whose name I should probably know (or used to). I like it when he manages to make extra puns [probably] peculiar to English.
pointlessly short Extract from Yevgeny Onegin
I stumble around under the impression that there is no satisfactory English translation of Onegin: no wonder, given that my GR friends give the thing an average rating of 3.14 - against a general average of 4.06. (I like people who are fussy about translations. Though if I do try it, and not in an old, free version, it'll be the Stanley Mitchell translation - praised in an Amazon review by Russian translator Robert Chandler, who also recommended an edition of Crime and Punishment that I loved.) Little to say about this extract, except it gives the impression that the poem contains different moods and rhythms within a few pages of one another, and as a fragment of an obviously much bigger story it's too short to have much opinion about other than via close reading and dissection.
Various short poems:
General tendency for these to open promisingly, then I would be disappointed by the ending. I did enjoy (and these are very typical subjects for me to like, and typical Romantic-era subjects): some bits about autumn and winter, a few of the more florid love verses, miscellaneous intimations of mortality, a working-class setting with more attention to the people's lives (in 'Man Found Drowned', though again an anticlimatic conclusion).
I'm a bit morbid compared with most other non-Goths these days, finding it a philosophical and picturesque way to live with ropey health; interesting to see how Pushkin (writing in his thirties) takes it that bit further, in a time when one saw far more younger people and contemporaries die. (He died at 37, but in a duel, not from consumption or the like.)
Some of 'When I Stroll Down a Busy Street' is familiar:
I tell myself: the world keeps turning.
However many of us are here,
or
A lone oak tree attracts my gaze.
I think: this patriarch sublime
Will long outlive these empty days,
As it outlived my father’s time...
or
I think: farewell, I’ve had my day.
You take my place, I’m reconciled —
Yours is to thrive, mine to decay.
But he is far more (to me strangely) specific; the era, presumably, means he sees far greater probability an imminence, and thinks of things I felt no need to:
I always say goodbye in thought
Each day, each year, and try to guess
Which day in which year will have brought
The anniversary of my death.
It is strange to read that knowing it, nearly two hundred years later; one gets the impression from the final 'I Have My Monument', that he suspected people still would.
'Autumn (a fragment)' I commend to those friends who also like autumn and winter best:
Springtime I can’t abide, With all that smelly, thawing slush. Thank you. I can't stand spring either - bright and cold at the same time, no thanks - and suspect it would be even worse in Russia. Summer though, if comfortably warm enough to spend outside, and it's possible to spend it outside (and otherwise to sleep long enough in the dark), I love, but indoor days in summer, urgh apart from lack of heating bills.
In autumn every year I come into full flower.
The thrilling Russian cold inspires me through and through.
I love my life again each day and every hour.
My appetite returns on time, and sleep does, too.
My blood is up, my glad heart surges with new power.
Desire and joy are mine, I’m young, the world is new,
Fresh life wells up in me… Such is my constitution.
(If you’ll forgive such a prosaical intrusion.)