An Essay Toward a History of Shakespeare in Norway, Martin Brown Ruud [books suggested by bill gates txt] 📗
- Author: Martin Brown Ruud
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that nothing is really Norwegian except what is written in the dialect
of a particular group of Norwegians. The fundamental error of the
"Maalstrævere" is the inability to comprehend the simple fact that
language has no natural, instinctive connection with race. An American
born in America of Norwegian parents _may_, if his parents are energetic
and circumstances favorable, learn the tongue of his father and mother,
but his natural speech, the medium he uses easily, his real
mother-tongue, will be English. Will it be contended that this American
has lost anything in spiritual power or linguistic facility? Quite the
contrary. The use of Danish in Norway has had the unfortunate effect of
stirring up a bitter war between the two literary languages or the two
dialects of the same language, but it has imposed no bonds on the
literary or intellectual powers of a large part of the people, for the
simple reason that these people have long used the language as their
own. And because they live in Norway they have made the speech
Norwegian. Despite its Danish origin, Dano-Norwegian is today as truly
Norwegian as any other Norwegian dialect, and in its literary form it
is, in a sense, more Norwegian than the literary Landsmaal, for the
language of Bjørnson has grown up gradually on Norwegian soil; the
language of Ivar Aasen is not yet acclimatized.
[27. William Shakespeare: _Macbeth_. I norsk Umskrift ved Olav
Madhus. Kristiania. 1901. H. Aschehoug & Co.]
For these reasons it will not do to let Madhus' calm assertion go
unchallenged. The fact is that to a large part of the Norwegian people
Lassen's translations represent merely a slightly Danicized form of
their own language, while to the same people the language of Madhus is
at least as foreign as Swedish. This is not the place for a discussion
of "Sprogstriden." We may give full recognition to Landsmaal without
subscribing to the creed of enthusiasts. And it is still easier to give
credit to the excellence of the Shakespeare translations in Landsmaal
without concerning ourselves with the partisanship of the translator.
What shall we say, then, of the _Macbeth_ of Olav Madhus?
First, that it is decidedly good. The tragedy of Macbeth is stark, grim,
stern, and the vigorous, resonant Norwegian fits admirably. There is
little opportunity, as in Aasen's selections from _Romeo and Juliet_ for
those unfortunate contrasts between the homespun of the modern dialect
and the exquisite silk and gossamer of the vocabulary of romance of
a "cultured language." Madhus has been successful in rendering into
Landsmaal scenes as different as the witch-scene, the porter-scene
(which Lassen omitted for fear it would contaminate the minds of school
children), the exquisite lines of the King and Banquo on their arrival
at Macbeth's castle, and Macbeth's last, tragic soliloquy when he learns
of the death of his queen.
Duncan and Banquo arrive at the castle of Macbeth and Duncan speaks
those lovely lines: "This castle has a pleasant seat," etc. Madhus
translates:
_Duncan_:
Ho hev eit fagert lægje, denne borgi,
og lufti lyar seg og gjer seg smeiki
aat vaare glade sansar.
_Banquo_:
Sumar-gjesten,
den tempel-kjære svala, vitnar med,
at himlens ande blakrar smeikin her,
med di at ho so gjerne her vil byggje.
Det finst kje sule eller takskjeggs livd
og ikkje voll hell vigskar, der ei ho
hev hengt si lette seng og barne-vogge.
Der ho mest bur og bræer, hev eg merkt meg,
er lufti herleg.
This is as light and luminous as possible. Contrast it with the slow,
solemn tempo of the opening of Act I, Sc. 7--Macbeth's "If it were done
when 'tis done," etc.
Um det var gjort, naar d'er gjort, var det væl,
um det vart snart gjort; kunde løynmordsverke,
stengje og binde alle vonde fylgdir
og, med aa faa hurt honom, naa sitt maal,
so denne eine støyten som maa til,
vart enden, alt, det siste som det fyrste
i tidi her--den havsens øyr og bode
me sit paa no--,--med live som kjem etter
det fekk daa vaage voni. Men i slikt
vert domen sagd alt her. Blodtankane,
me el, kjem vaksne att og piner oss,
som gav deim liv og fostra deim; og drykken,
som me hev blanda eiter i aat andre,
vert eingong uta miskunn bodin fram
av rettferds hand aat vaare eigne munnar.
The deep tones of a language born in mountains and along fjords finely
re-echo the dark broodings in Macbeth's soul.
Or take still another example, the witch-scene in Act IV. It opens in
Madhus' version:
_Fyrste Heks_:
Tri gong mjava brandut katt.
_Andre Heks_:
Tri og ein gong bust-svin peip.
_Tridje Heks_:
Val-ramn skrik. D'er tid, d'er tid.
_Fyrste Heks_:
Ring um gryta gjeng me tri;
sleng forgiftigt seid--mang i.
Gyrme-gro, som under stein
dagar tredive og ein
sveita eiter, lat og leid,
koke fyrst i vaaro seid.
_Alle_:
Tvifaldt træl og møda duble;
brand frase, seid buble!
_Andre Heks_:
Møyrkjøt av ein myr-orm kald
so i gryta koke skal.
dle-augo, skinnveng-haar,hundetunge, froskelaar,
slève-brodd, firfisle-svórd,
ule-veng og lyngaal-spórd
til eit seid som sinn kann rengje
hèl-sodd-heitt seg saman mengje!
This is not only accurate; it is a decidedly successful imitation of the
movement of the original. Madhus has done a first-rate piece of work.
The language of witch-craft is as international as the language of
science. But only a poet can turn it to poetic use.
Not quite so successful is Macbeth's soliloquy when the death of Lady
Macbeth is announced to him:
Det skuld'ho drygt med.
Aat slikt eit ord var komi betre stund.--
"I morgo" og "i morgo" og "i morgo,"
slik sig det smaatt fram etter, dag for dag,
til siste ord i livsens sogubok;
og kvart "i gaar" hev daarer vegen lyst
til dust og daude.
It is difficult to say just where the fault lies, but the thing seems
uncouth, a trifle too colloquial and peasant-like. The fault may be the
translator's, but something must also be charged to his medium. The
passage in Shakespeare is simple but it breathes distinction. The
Landsmaal version is merely colloquial, even banal. One fine line
there is:
"til siste ord i livsens sogubok."
But the rest suggests too plainly the limitations of an uncultivated
speech.
In 1905 came a translation of _The Merchant of Venice_ by Madhus,[28]
and, uniform with it, a little book--_Soga um Kaupmannen i Venetia_ (The
Story of The Merchant of Venice) in which the action of the play is told
in simple prose. In the appendatory notes the translator acknowledges
his obligation to Arne Garborg--"Arne Garborg hev gjort mig framifraa
god hjelp, her som med _Macbeth_. Takk og ære hev han."
[28. William Shakespeare--_Kaupmannen i Venetia_. Paa Norsk ved
Olav Madhus. Oslo. 1905.]
What we have said of _Macbeth_ applies with no less force here. The
translation is more than merely creditable--it is distinctly good. And
certainly it is no small feat to have translated Shakespeare in all his
richness and fulness into what was only fifty years ago a rustic and
untrained dialect. It is the best answer possible to the charge often
made against Landsmaal that it is utterly unable to convey the subtle
thought of high and cosmopolitan culture. This was the indictment of
Bjørnson,[29] of philologists like Torp,[30] and of a literary critic
like Hjalmar Christensen.[31] The last named speaks repeatedly of the
feebleness of Landsmaal when it swerves from its task of depicting
peasant life. His criticism of the poetry of Ivar Mortensen is one long
variation of this theme--the immaturity of Landsmaal. All of this is
true. A finished literary language, even when its roots go deep into a
spoken language, cannot be created in a day. It must be enriched and
elaborated, and it must gain flexibility from constant and varied use.
It is precisely this apprentice stage that Landsmaal is now in. The
finished "Kultursprache" will come in good time. No one who has read
Garborg will deny that it can convey the subtlest emotions; and Madhus'
translations of Shakespeare are further evidence of its possibilities.
[29. Bjørnson: _Vort Sprog_.]
[30. Torp. _Samtiden_, Vol. XIX (1908), p. 408.]
[31. _Vor Literatur_.]
That Madhus does not measure up to his original will astonish no one
who knows Shakespeare translations in other languages. Even Tieck's
and Schlegel's German, or Hagberg's Swedish, or Foersom's Danish is no
substitute for Shakespeare. Whether or not Madhus measures up to these
is not for me to decide, but I feel very certain that he will not suffer
by comparison with the Danish versions by Wolff, Meisling, Wosemose, or
even Lembcke, or with the Norwegian versions of Hauge and Lassen. The
feeling that one gets in reading Madhus is not that he is uncouth, still
less inaccurate, but that in the presence of great imaginative richness
he becomes cold and barren. We felt it less in the tragedy of _Macbeth_,
where romantic color is absent; we feel it strongly in _The Merchant of
Venice_, where the richness of romance is instinct in every line. The
opening of the play offers a perfect illustration. In answer to
Antonio's complaint "In sooth I know not why I am so sad," etc, Salarino
replies in these stately and sounding lines:
Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies, with portly sail,--
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,--
Do overpeer the petty traffickers
That curt'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
The picture becomes very much less stately in Norwegian folk-speech:
Paa storehave huskar hugen din,
der dine langferd-skip med staute segl
som hovdingar og herremenn paa sjø
i drusteferd, aa kalle, gagar seg
paa baara millom kræmarskutur smaa',
som nigjer aat deim og som helsar audmjukt
naar dei med vovne vengir framum stryk.
The last two lines are adequate, but the rest has too much the flavor of
Ole and Peer discussing the fate of their fishing-smacks. Somewhat more
successful is the translation of the opening of Act V, doubtless because
it is simpler, less full of remote and sophisticated imagery. By way of
comparison with Lassen and Collin, it may be interesting to have it at
hand.
_Lor_:
Ovfagert lyser maanen. Slik ei natt,
daa milde vindar kysste ljuve tre
so lindt at knapt dei susa, slik ei natt
steig Troilus upp paa Troja-murane
og sukka saali si til Greklands telt,
der Kressida laag den natti.
_Jes_:
Slik ei natt
gjekk Thisbe hugrædd yvi doggvaat voll
og løveskuggen saag fyrr løva kom;
og rædd ho der-fraa rømde.
_Lor_:
Slik ei natt
stod Dido med ein siljutein i hand
paa villan strand og vinka venen sin
tilbake til Kartago.
_Jes_:
Slik ei natt
Medea trolldoms-urtir fann, til upp
aa yngje gamle Æson.
_Lor_:
Slik ei natt
stal Jessika seg ut fraa judens hus
og med ein fark til festarmann for av
so langt som hit til Belmont.
_Jes_:
Slik ei natt
svor ung Lorenso henne elskhugs eid
og hjarta hennar stal med fagre ord
som ikkje aatte sanning.
_Lor_:
Slik ei natt
leksa ven' Jessika som eit lite troll
upp for sin kjærst, og han tilgav ho.
_Jes_:
I natteleik eg heldt nok ut med deg,
um ingin kom; men hyss, eg høyrer stig.
But when Madhus turns from such flights of high poetry to low comedy,
his success is complete. It may be a long time before Landsmaal can
successfully render the mighty line of Marlowe, or the manifold music of
Shakespeare, but we should expect it to give with perfect verity the
language of the people. And when we read the scenes in which Lancelot
Gobbo figures, there is no doubt that here Landsmaal is at home. Note,
for example, Act II, Sc. 1:
"Samvite mitt vil visst ikkje hjelpe meg med aa røme fraa denne
juden, husbond min. Fenden stend her attum òlbogen min og segjer til
meg: "Gobbo, Lanselot Gobbo; gode Lanselot, eller gode Gobbo, bruka
leggine; tak hyven; drag din veg." Samvite segjer: "nei, agta deg,
ærlige Gobbo," eller som fyr sagt: "ærlige Lanselot Gobbo, røm
ikkje; set deg mot røming med hæl og taa!" Men fenden, den
stormodige, bed meg pakka meg; "fremad mars!" segjer fenden; "legg i
veg!" segjer fenden; "for alt som heilagt er," segjer fenden; "vaaga
paa; drag i veg!" Men samvite heng un halsen paa hjarta mitt og
talar visdom til meg; "min ærlige ven Lanselot, som er son av ein
ærlig mann, eller rettare: av eit ærligt kvende; for skal eg segja
sant, so teva det eit grand svidt av far min; han hadde som ein
attaat-snev; naah; samvite segjer: "du skal ikkje fantegaa." "Du
skal fantegaa,"
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