Getting the Hang of It

In late November of the Year of Our Lord 1462 the thirty-one-year-old François Villon, France’s original poète maudit, or accursed poet, is arrested and locked up in Paris’s Grand Châtelet. He has already tasted the dures crostes (hard crusts) and other far darker realities of prison life in the summer of 1461 in the Loire, and is coming off a second briefer stint for larceny at the start of the same month of November. Soon after his final arrest he is subjected to the question de l’eau (a medieval form of water torture). The Provost of Paris has doubtless grown tired of Villon; in his dry eyes Villon is not so much an accomplished versemonger as a recidivist pot poet and swan of the swill, past master in piss-artistry, roisterer, murderer (at age twenty-four in a tavern brawl, though he is found to have acted in self-defense) and repeat thief. He is condemned to be “hanged and strangled from the Paris gibbet.” Cold comfort for a poet, the sentence, “étrangler et pendu au gibet de Paris,” forms a perfect alexandrine, the leading twelve-syllable line of verse in French and equivalent to the English iambic pentameter.

Villon appeals his condemnation before the Parlement of Paris. Not surprisingly for a repeat offender, he considers himself to have been judged by “tricherie” (cozenage, deceit) in what most editions print as his last poem, “The Ballad of the Appeal,” with its eloquent refrain “Was it then time to hold my tongue?” (Étoit-il lors temps de moi taire?) The Parlement generally confirmed the sentences handed down by the Provosty.

Villon apparently composed three poems during this time, one of which is a simple quatrain, a bit of very real gallows humor – although it conceals something more than a mere joke – that has since become famous in French literature. In the first edition of the poems (Levet, 1489), the quatrain looks like this:

Je suis francois, dont ce me poise
Ne de paris empres pontois
Qui dune corde dune toise
Saura mon col que mon cul poise

while modern editions, updating the punctuation and spelling, print it thus:

Je suis François, dont il me poise,
Né de Paris emprès Pontoise,
Et de la corde d'une toise
Saura mon col que mon cul poise.

Notice that the original edition, apart from the start of each verse, does not capitalize. It is a detail that allows for, and makes clear, an ambiguous reading of the poet’s name, generating one of the additional meanings and charms of the quatrain (also called a “rondeau” in that original edition, although formally it is not).

A straightforward prose translation in English today would read like this, “I am François, on me that burden weighs, born in Paris near Pontoise, and thanks to a six-foot length of rope, my neck will know what my arse weighs.”

Peter Dale devised two verse translations of these four lines; this is the better of the two:

Francis I am, which weighs me down,
Born in Paris near Pontoise town,
And with a stretch of rope my pate
Will learn for once my arse's weight.

This version is very good indeed. While in place of the original French monorhyme, that is, verse that has but one terminal rhyme (an aaaa rhyme pattern), Dale offers two rhyming couplets (aabb), it is understandable since English is a rhyme-poor language and the single rhyme is hard to bring off (it’s also hard to bring off in French). More perplexing is Dale’s decision to overlook the length of rope indicated in the poem (and at the rhyme no less – a toise was an old French measure of six French feet, just over six English feet, that is not entirely foreign to English: Byron rhymes “toises” with “noises” in Don Juan, for example, and there are several other rare quotations in the Oxford English Dictionary). All the more perplexing in that there is a solution that would work metrically and lexically, either “And with six feet of rope my pate” or, for a more informal, man-of-the-street echo, “And with six foot o’ rope my pate.” Given the context of Villon’s poetry, which has one poulained foot in popular verse and song, the latter is the better translation – but either would do, especially since “stretch” doesn’t resonate with any other words in the verse. (You can hear “wretch” in there but you have to cock an ear to catch it.) On the other hand, Dale is right: “stretch” is more menacing than, say, “length of rope” (“to stretch” has long been slang for “to kill” while “to stretch a person” means to hang him, also in slang).

It is a remarkable feat that Villon’s dark joke has survived nearly 560 years and shines through, as fresh as the day it was made, even in my plodding prose translation above and a range of verse ones. The punchline is that good. (By the way, punchline in French is chute, literally fall or drop, which is quite grimly appropriate for the last verse here.)

Villon’s original French actually holds several jokes and an eloquent ambiguity or two, which even modern French readers might miss, along with English translators, and if the latter do catch them, the clever play is very difficult to bring over into English. The French Wikipage devoted to Villon draws on several reliable sources, including the excellent commentary that Claude Thiry provided in his edition of Villon’s complete poems (Poésies complètes, ed. Claude Thiry, Le Livre de poche, 1991).

In the first verse, for example, we have the poet introducing himself, but, as the very first edition points up with its absence of initial capitals, Villon could be saying both “I am François” and “I am françois,” which was the current spelling of modern French “français,” i.e., I am French. As the French Wikipage puts it, drawing on commentary by Claude Thiry and Marcel Schwob, “This double meaning is presented by Villon as a double blow of fate.” What is weighing on him (“me poise”) is the fact that he is who he is, a down-and-out wretch who has led a life of petty and not-so-petty crime. But the other burden is his nationality. Villon’s comrade in harms Robin Daugis, though much more involved in the affaire Ferrebouc (another street brawl and the final criminal straw that led to their arrest), was Savoyard, not French; the wheels of Justice proved more deliberate and one of her scales weighted much more in his favor. Daugis was pardoned when the Duke of Savoy visited Paris.

The dual reading of “François” and “French” is possibly available to an educated and very careful French reader; it is quite difficult, if not impossible, to convey in an English translation. If English readers think of the ambiguity the name Frank would introduce here, echoing the adjective “frank” and suggesting both “straightforward” and “evident, obvious,” they will begin to have an idea of what is going on beneath the surface in French. Finally, in a ditty about being hanged, Villon prepares the punchline – and we wouldn’t know this in a first reading – by stressing weight and gravity with me poise, from the verb poiser, modern French peser, to weigh physically, emotionally, or both.

It is in his second verse that Villon couches his first joke, one that works, as in Shakespeare’s best puns, on an immediate level but also much deeper, even perhaps for the joker alone to savor. Here’s how the joke works. The poet mentions Paris, a place that presumably all his readers would know, but goes on to situate the city in relation to a much smaller out-of-the-way town, Pontoise. It’s a bit like being presented to the Queen and exclaiming, “Oh, I know you! Every time I post a letter, I see your head!”

However, if we are to believe Thiry and his research, as the Wikipage puts it, Pontoise “isn’t chosen at random or for the rhyme,” or for its alliteration with Paris and emprès (near). “The provost of Paris who condemned Villon was Jacques de Villiers, Lord of L’Isle-Adam, near Pontoise.” Villon might even have been ruefully joking to himself that Pontoise was a bit too near Paris for the comfort of his windpipe. “I’m not at the end of my rope yet but soon enough, lads…” There is a slight chance, too, that Pontoise offers a distant ironic echo with a present form (pantoise) of the Old French verb pantoisier, which Frédéric Godefroy defines in his specialized dictionary of Old French as “to pant, be short of breath, have a hard time breathing” (“…haleter, avoir l’haleine courte, respirer avec peine”); derived from the same verb, the French adjective pantois(e) enters the language after Villon’s day – the first occurrence in print is in 1546 thanks to Rabelais (“couillon pantois,” which, leaping o’er several centuries and one ocean, one might translate as “winded schmuck”). There is finally a historical irony here; one of the poets that Verlaine includes in his 1884 Accursed Poets is Auguste Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, of the same family that four centuries before produced the man who condemned the poète maudit to hang by the neck!

In the final two verses, a number of purely musical and visual effects are going on that add to the charm of the punchline. The initial consonant and vowel of corde in line three is echoed in line four with col (neck). I should also point out that col is an old spelling of modern French cou, which is preserved in a few specialized terms and as a conscious throwback today to ye olde times (as we do – very lamely – in English to suggest quaint and quiet venerability, e.g., Ye Olde Tech Shoppe; one of those pseudo-archaisms that ought to be dubbed sarchaisms for their sarcastic vein). There is the visual and auditory echo, too, of mon col que mon cul… which is nearly impossible to reproduce in English (neck and nates sounds good, but the latter word is too rare to work here). I should note that the final el of cul was and is not pronounced, while in Villon’s day col was already on its way to its modern pronunciation, going from “coa” to “coo.” When we add in que (in modern French ce que), we have a vowel sound shifting from back to front while the initial consonant remains the same. A clever reader might even hear in that thrice-repeated consonantal sound k… k… k…, a grim gasping for breath (in those days, there was no drop and instantaneous death when the neck was broken; the hanged indeed “danced” beneath the gibbet).

As I mentioned above, Villon’s “rondeau” is a monorhyme over four verses. This is fairly rare in English and modern French poetry, and tends to be perceived as boring and not terribly sophisticated in terms of technique, or as the 18th-century Encyclopédie puts it, “…if one has a delicate ear, one wearies of this perpetual return of the same sounds” (some “serious” poetry in medieval Latin and Old French was written in monorimes or using recurring assonance (same or similar vowel sound) but it was never a dominant verse form, and by Villon’s time, this was already long-established). It continues to burst forth though, particularly in popular poetry (here in hip-hop):

Brain cells are lit, ideas start to hit,
Next the formation of words that fit,
At the table I sit, making it legit,
And when my pen hits the paper, ahh shit!
– Big Daddy Kane, "Ain't No Half-Steppin'"

Finally, the rhymes in the first and fourth lines are on the exact same word (the obsolete form of the verb peser in poiser), although the sense is slightly different, dont il me poise and [ce] que mon cul poise. This is normally very verboten in succeeding terminal rhymes in French and English prosody, although French does allow homophones (English poetry looks down – terminally – on rhyming, say, knight and night; or cope, the verb, and cope, the noun, which could cover the knight while darkly covering for the night). Benoît de Cornulier points out in his study of Villon’s “Quatrain”( “‘Je suis F/françois’ de Villon comme espèce de rondeau,” http://www.normalesup.org/~bdecornulier/QuatrainVillon) that this might be why the original Levet edition speaks of a “rondeau.” The fixed form that is the rondeau repeats all or the first part (hemistich) of the first verse at two or more verses later in the poem. More significantly, Cornulier draws a parallel between Villon’s “rondeau” here and children’s counting out rhymes, quoting this famous one in English:

Eeny meeny miney mo
Catch a tiger by the toe
If he hollers, let him go
Eeny meeny miney mo

“…the four ‘verses’ of which display the same aaaa rhyme sequence,” Cornulier stresses, providing an example from French as well. Villon is making a joke at his own expense and the form of his quatrain may well be consciously playing up the light-heartedness as a rather brave way of making even darker fun of his impending doom. As Cornulier reminds us, the rope, the “hemp,” brings to mind something else that is suspended, the scales of Divine Justice; Christendom uniformly and firmly believed that all souls were weighed after death (“…ordinarily the archangel Saint Michael… acted as the so-called ‘ponderator’”). Villon knew his soul would be weighed soon and knew all too well that it was especially heavy.

How do the translators who respect the monorhyme do? John Payne (1842-1916) respects the single rhyme, but his version leaves a lot to be desired:

I’m Francis, ill avails it me,
Born near Pontoise, in Paris see:
Whose neck, at the end of a rope of three,
Must feel how heavy my buttocks be.

He misses the allusion to weight in the first verse. He doesn’t catch the Paris-to-Pontoise joke and therefore flubs it in his translation. Our corde d’une toise (the toise was an old French measure of six French feet, just over six English feet) seems to be halved for the sake of the rhyme, although Payne may have been using a poetic shortcut to allude to a length of strong rope; I can find no instances of “rope of three” or “cord of three,” but Ecclesiastes 4:12 in the King James translation asserts that a “three-fold cord is not quickly broken.” It’s a stretch. (Oddly enough, Christians of a conservative stripe, it would seem, in the United States have taken this Bible verse, not as a divinely sanctioned invitation to threesomes, say, but as a divinely inspired symbol for a strong traditional marriage.) And why buttocks? Was our poet too prudish to consider arse/ass, which is what cul is lexically and in terms of appropriate register? Did he prefer the alliteration and rhythm of “my buttocks be,” which forces him to count “heavy” as a single syllable at the caesura? Whatever his reasons, he weakens Villon’s punchline by choosing a term from a higher register than arse/ass. That’s unforgivable.

Peter Dale’s other version of the quatrain reproduces the aaaa rhyme scheme and like his version above fundamentally gets Villon’s humor:

I’m Frank, which weighs me down of late,
Born in Paris  by Pontoise situate.
And from a rope, six foot to eight,
My neck will know my arse's weight. 

Dale properly sets up the punchline in the first verse and suggests a deeper reading of the poet’s name with “Frank.” He could arguably justify “by Pontoise situate” with the inversion and rare adjective “situate” as reproducing the effect on a French reader today of the now obsolete term emprès (it would be just près de in modern French). But what about drawing out the toise to up to eight feet? It’s a detail that fellow translators wink at. Dale definitely knows the ropes.

H.B. McCaskie also chose to keep the monorhyme:

I’m Frances, I regret to say,
Paris born (that's Pontoise way)
So in six-foot of rope one day
Neck must learn what buttocks weigh.

The poet here leaves out the important though not absolutely necessary allusion to weight in line one, at least makes possible the joke of line two, and fits in the more or less correct length of the rope. On the other hand, “one day” tends to retard Villon’s date with the hangman, and while Villon never specifies how long he has, the last two verses in French read with the finality, and imminence, of a death sentence. The absence of possessive adjectives in the final English verse does lend it a kind of stern inevitability (that eternal practical joker, the Grim Reaper, sends out Save the date! cards with no return address – so even if you wanted to send your regrets…), but the expression remains odd. And Villon’s “my neck… my arse” adds a wryly personal note that is missing in McCaskie’s version. But why didn’t the translator here use the alliterative, and lexically accurate, “Neck will know what buttocks weigh”? Lost opportunity. McCaskie does, however, introduce a different metrical pattern, perhaps to counter the possible monotony of the rhyme sequence, alternating eight-syllable lines with seven (octosyllables with heptasyllables). Every even line begins then on a strong beat.

David Georgi, also respecting the single rhyme scheme, comes up with this for his English version of Villon’s complete poems (Northwestern University Press, 2013):

I am François, alack, alas!
Born in Paris (south of Arras)
And from the six-foot rope at last
My neck will learn the weight of my ass.

Alack? Alas? What gives, Georgi? And why the new georgraphy? It rhymes. It lilts. You get a pass. But faithful to Villon? My ass.

Abandoning strict adherence to one rhyme ought to make it easier in turn to recreate more of the original sense. Here is what Lewis Wharton made of the poem (his translation of the complete poems appeared in the 1930s):

I am François, luckless jay,
Born at Paris, Pontoise way,
My neck, looped up beneath the tree,
Will learn how heavy buttocks be.

It seems Wharton didn’t grasp or didn’t care that the French poet was stressing weight in the very first line, going so far as to use the very same word at the rhyme in the crucial fourth verse. Hard to ignore the poet’s insistence but Wharton did. And he shows – what is it? Squeamishness before the word arse? He could have preserved the meter and the correct register by writing, “Will learn how heavy my arse be.” Finally, “tree” is not a mistranslation for the sake of the rhyme; alone or in such expressions as “dry tree” and “Tyburn tree, “ not to mention “fatal tree,” the word could mean a gallows.

The American poet Galway Kinnell (1927-2014) in his translation of the poems (University Press of New England, 1965) rejects rhyme but it’s hard to tell if he did so in the name of greater fidelity:

I am François which is my cross
Born in Paris near Pontoise
From a fathom of rope my neck
Will learn the weight of my ass.

Where has the connotation of weight, a moral burden, gone in the first verse? The poet-translator’s use of the expression “one’s cross to bear” is a bit of a misrendering of Villon. True, the biblical reference does imply a heavy physical burden, but the underlying sense, at least for Christian readers, would be a physical or moral burden that is exterior to the person named, along with the clear allusion, in terms of Christian belief, to an inevitable and necessary, albeit utterly unjust, execution. That is not what one would understand with a first reading of Villon’s first line of verse. Another problem, of word choice in this case, probably leaps out to most readers, i.e., “fathom,” right length, wrong element – at least nowadays. The Oxford English Dictionary does cite five authors writing well before, around the same time as, and shortly after Villon in which the six feet of “fathom” are applied to dry-land measure, so to speak, but after 1500, save in one occurrence, fathom is used to gauge the depth of a body of water. Galway might have argued that his is an old usage that is contemporaneous with Villon’s verse, but that is not immediately apparent to today’s readers. They are stuck with an image of “full fathom five” and sailing ships. Interestingly, Galway the poet consciously or “naturally” also falls into using a varied metrical pattern, 8-7-8-7.

Finally, I stumbled on this attempt by Bob Zisk, which also uses a brace of rhyming couplets:

I am François: on me that burden weighs.
I was born at Paris, not far from Pontoise.
Soon from the loop of a hangman's knot
My neck will know how big an ass I've got.

As Zisk points out, the rhyme weighs/Pontoise does indeed return the pronunciation of ois(e) to an earlier day. In the Middle Ages toise would have been a homophone, it’s generally thought, with our English “toys”; sometime later, it broadly shifted to rhyming with “weighs,” then finally to what is currently accepted as standard pronunciation, a diphthong that gives the American piehole such a hard time – for a reader of a certain age, Patty Duke’s Helen Keller trying to pronounce the stuff that fish swim in offers a good idea of the contortions the Anglophone mouth not schooled in French seems to put itself in. By the way, while “crescent,” making its way from Middle French into English in the 14th and 15th centuries, poses no problem – it came from creissant – “croissant,” same word really but enjoying much more wide-spread popularity only recently, becomes crew-sant in American mouths.

Croissant moon up in that dark sky,
Dark as my cup o' joe,
I feel so down, I wanna die,
Dark as my cup o' joe,
Sunny side up three hour away,
Dark as my cup o' joe,
My sugar gone went just yesterday,
Dark as my cup o' joe.
– Ed Hopper Blues 

The main drawback with Zisk’s version, though, is that metrically it’s all over the damn place. The first verse sets up a standard iambic pentameter line, but unless you pronounce “Paris” as a single syllable, line two has eleven syllables – and they are limping to Parnassus. You could fix the problem simply enough by an inversion and a better choice of words, “At Paris was I born, close to Pontoise,” but the third verse has only nine syllables. Also, although it follows that a big ass would weigh more than a smaller one, weight, heaviness, gravity are what the quatrain wants to whisper in readers’ ears, for physical and moral reasons. The first verse in this bad English version correctly introduces the theme, even insists on it with both “burden” and “weighs.” The translator, however, squanders that in the punchline verse. I could also quibble with “loop.” The Oxford English Dictionary gives just one quotation – from 1944, moreover – for the word in the sense of a noose and hanging. The word Zisk wants is “halter”; it has a long history of meaning “noose” and the Oxford lists a half-dozen quotations beginning with Craxton in 1481.

Here’s my go at it:

I’m François – Frank – and grave’s my fate,
Paris born (you know, near Pontoise),
And thanks t'a hemp of one good toise,
My neck will know my arse's weight.

My version doesn’t quite bounce lightly along enough on its way to the punchline, as light verse should, and I opt for an easier abba stanza, but it does have a few features worth crowing about. The traditional apostrophe to indicate the elision of a vowel in English poetry (“t’ a hemp” for “to a hemp”) and the use of the rare word toise (Byron uses “toises” in Don Juan, rhyming it with “noises”), along with several other word choices (hemp and, for American readers especially, arse), are enough to tip off readers that they are in a different world and earlier age. Second, the interjection of the French poet’s name in good old English, like Moby-Dick’s “Call me Ishmael,” sets a particular conversational tone while hinting that there is another less obvious reading hovering around the speaker’s own name in French, along with the soupçon of a certain character trait or even self-justifying reason for the fix the speaker finds himself in. Moreover, I work in the “weighs me down/weighs on me” of Villon’s first verse indirectly with “grave,” from the Latin gravis, meaning heavy (plus the great Shakespearean pun on “grave”: “Look for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man” – Mercutio and the Villon profiled in his own poetry would have gotten along like two rascals with a corporate credit card until they ended up fatally stabbing each other). Finally, “hemp” for “rope” is your only choice since that is the term poets and prose writers used in centuries past when talking about the suspended sentence. The Oxford English Dictionary provides six quotations while recording the existence of such gems as “stretchhemp” (“a person worthy of the gallows”) and “to wag hemp” (“to be hanged”). It is a sign of human progress that practically all these hangman terms have disappeared from the language. It is equally a sign of just how brutally backwards part of the electorate in the United States has become when we are forced to talk about a gibbet and American Presidential politics.

Today’s editions of Villon’s poetry place “Quatrain” as one of the last three poems in the collection. This is not for reasons the above discussion and the content of the four verses would lead us to believe: “Until the squeezer nips your scrag,” that is, until the halter nips your neck, according to the brilliant 19th-century “canting” adaptation by William Ernest Henley of a Villon ballade, his famous “Ballade de bonne doctrine à ceux de mauvaise vie” with its well-known refrain “Tout aux tavernes et aux filles,” which Henley translates as “Villon’s Straight Tip to All Cross Coves” and “Booze and the blowens cop the lot” respectively – the English here surpasses the French in the familiarly exotic (see https://words.fromoldbooks.org/Farmer-MusaPedestris//villons-straight-tip-to-all-cross-coves.html – the entire site is absolutely irresistible: https://words.fromoldbooks.org/Farmer-MusaPedestris//)!

No, Villon did not “wag hemp,” did not die on the gallows, at least not according to official records. On the eve of the Epiphany, January 5, 1463, the Parlement of Paris met and quashed the earlier ruling, banishing Villon from the capital for ten years. Soon after, François Villon leaves Paris, disappears from the record, and enters legend and literary history. If he composed any verses after this date, they have been lost forever.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Tetigisti-ing the Rem Acu

How do we know where a word exists in a language vis-à-vis all the other words of the language? By that I mean, is the word high or low, formal, informal, or somewhere in between, dressed in a suit and tie or T-shirt and grungy tennis shoes? Is it used mostly on formal occasions (belles-lettres and solemn ceremony) or in everyday speech? In other words, how do we know what is often referred to as register (first used in this sense by the linguist Thomas Bertram Reid back in 1956 according to Wikipedia)? Where does the word sit on the spectrum of use?

When dealing with our native tongue, we develop that sense over the years simply by dint of using the language, associating the word, or a certain pronunciation, or even a grammatical usage (For shame, Johnny! Remember, a double negative is a no no! A hoary chestnut that is still probably steering learners of English in the direction of a passing grade on TOEFL tests around the globe) with a certain setting, social situation, age group, reading material, and so on. If you can read this and find it at all interesting, and someone said to you, “He don’t speak English so good,” you would immediately know that either the person is a native speaker of English with probably only a minimum of formal education; or he or she is pulling your language leg. You know that third-person “don’t” and “good” used as an adverb are tokens of “low” or very informal spoken English and not to be employed if you want to pass for educated. On the other hand, advanced education be damned, you wouldn’t get terribly far as a pop lyricist if you scrupled to use third-person “don’t.” It doesn’t mean a thing if it doesn’t have that swing… The structure is now fixed in the English popular song tradition, not the least because “don’t” is a single syllable, a rather full vowel, and can take a strong accent. It fits (“You know it don’t come easy…,” “It don’t matter to me…,” “It ain’t no use to sit and wonder why, babe./It don’t matter anyhow…,” this last song lyric by a winner of the Nobel Prize in literature no less!).

To illustrate the idea of register, I can co-opt a classic example of three major strata that exist in English and cleave nicely along usage lines, i.e., “give up” (bedrock Anglo-Saxon) with respect to “surrender” (borrowed from the French) and vis-a-vis “capitulate” (straight outta Latin). In terms of register, “give up” is everyday English, “surrender” less so, and “capitulate” only gets trotted out on special occasions (or, as I remember reading it, a simple soldier gives up, his brigade surrenders, and the whole bleddy country capitulates – although obviously a soldier could also be realistically heard saying “I surrender, I surrender…”). By the way, “outta” above is of course a spelling convention (merely aping the widespread pronunciation of “out of” and echoing Straight Outta Compton) that situates my parenthetical remark in a low or street register, a common tic of comic writers, pairing low with high, “straight outta” and talk of Latin. Linguistically, this is all premised on register.

On a personal note and a particularly exclusive register, the irretrievably corny and unhip exclamation “pshaw” is one of my earliest memories of reading in, I suppose, the first grade of my American school. I don’t think there is any comparably odd consonant cluster in Dr. Seuss’s books, which is really where I had already learned to read, and it so puzzled me that I have remembered it and the feeling of “this can’t be!” at its discovery to this day. In terms of register for English, it was, already back in 1964, an oddball out-of-place backwards-kin kind of term (N-grams puts its peak presence at 1902, while the online Collins sets its highest recorded use in 1797) and I can now only conclude that either our first-grade readers were exceedingly out-of-date, or, like one of those everyday monsters comically philippicked by the great French stand-up Pierre Desproges, the author was a cruel and sadistic horror who enjoyed laying the occasional linguistic booby trap in children’s books , chuckling to the grave over how he had gummed up neuronal bandwidth in heads throughout the land. He was truly mental. “Pshaw” thus occupies a particularly rare place in my idiolect, a register like those legendary forms in Japanese that solely exist for the unimaginably rare chance that you might have to reply to the emperor’s inquiry about your health over tea. It also evokes an odd formal register in current English generally; anyone, say a learner of English, looking up the word will find it indicated as “rare” (the online Oxford much more accurately prefaces the definition with “humorous, dated”). Finally, the term makes me long to read the adjective pshavian, based on the name of the well-known comic playwright George Bernard Pshaw. In contemporary English terms, “pshaw” just got pwned.

The question of register in terms of translation came up for me recently with the death of Stephen Hawking. A German-speaking friend and colleague wrote to me and a mutual French-speaking friend about how we would translate into French the following quotation, specifically the sentence beginning “It has been a glorious time…”:

At a conference in Cambridge held in celebration of his seventy-fifth birthday in 2017, Professor Hawking said “It has been a glorious time to be alive and doing research into theoretical physics. Our picture of the Universe has changed a great deal in the last fifty years, and I’m happy if I’ve made a small contribution.”

The ensuing discussion among us raised for me the question of how we know, learn, suss out the register of a word, turn of phrase, grammatical construction, etc. in an acquired language. I lived for over seventeen years in French-speaking countries, principally in French-speaking Switzerland, and so quite naturally through reading but also, importantly, by aural osmosis I absorbed what I might call the “brainfeel” for lots of areas of French. It means that when I overheard here in Brooklyn a pleasant woman greet a local merchant she knew and apparently regularly saw with a cheery Bonne journée! I realized straightaway, regardless of the accent, that neither was a native-speaker of French. The locution immediately sounded wrong because, at least where I had used French daily, you would mostly say bonjour on arriving and bonne journée only when departing – not strictly a question of register, of course, but emblematic of how we know where what we say fits into a language as a whole. (How did I know the merchant wasn’t a native speaker, if he knew any French at all? A French merchant probably would have pointed out to her the error by then.)

For the translation of Hawking’s declaration, I suggested something but admitted outright that it was probably no good and that our native speaker would come up with a good solution, and in fact he did, offering three possible translations off the cuff. I then pointed out why I thought one turn of phrase (une époque bénie des dieux – literally a time/period blessed by the gods) might not work because, knowing a little about Hawking, an avowed atheist, I doubted he would have gone for anything having God or gods in it in English at that late date (even though he does mention God at the end of his A Brief History of Time and in a few other famous remarks). Then I posed a question, which brings us to register. Why, I asked our friend, had he avoided “glorious” in French since the adjective glorieux/se exists? It seemed a natural choice.

There are two possibilities that worry, or should, a translator when facing a supposedly natural choice. The first is one that translators and anyone learning a language are warned about or discover early on when the two languages, native and foreign to the learner, have significant overlap, which is very much the case of French and English. These are the faux amis, the false friends, of French and English, the ancien (often translated as “former”), which is not “ancient”; or the déception (disappointment) that is not a deception (even though the latter can certainly provoke the former). Molestar in Spanish could lead to a smile or international incident, depending on the circumstances, were it translated as “to molest”; it is the stuff of a classic joke (and no molestar/please do not molest obviously should have been hanging on all the doors of all those hotel rooms where Harvey W. plied his – in his eyes – formidable powers of seduction).

The second possibility, which springs from the first I think, of a translation seeming like the natural choice is that the damn word in one language has a cognate in the other, e.g., glorious and glorieux/glorieuse, which occupy more or less the same semantic field in their respective languages and, crucially to our discussion, the same register nowadays. And yet the translator avoids what argues to be the natural choice.

As it happens, my French-speaking friend never answered my question, but the German-speaker, who lives not far from Geneva and is surrounded by French, did counter that glorieux was less commonplace in French, and of a higher register, and so it would be a mistranslation to put une époque glorieuse. I now tried to disabuse my friend of what I think are his misconceptions about the English “glorious.” I told him the term is really not something you would use every day, at least not in American English and, I’m pretty sure, in the English used in the UK; I linked him to the N-gram for “glorious” in American and English use, showing its decline from the mid-19th century, and I argued that the decline in written sources probably mirrored a decline in its use in speech. Finally, I reminded him that because of his handicap, Steven Hawking’s “speech” in 2017 was much closer to writing anyway.

The German-speaker then did some research on his own and offered four or five quotations (from 2017-2018) in which “glorious” was indeed used, it seemed to him, in regular speech. And here is where my reasoning shows how one can form some idea of a word’s register in a foreign tongue. I pointed out that all his citations were instances of writing and not an attempt to reflect English as it is spoken today. The first was from a sports article and the author mentions an American football player by name along with his “glorious mustache.” Someone learning English, for example, could ponder the adjective choice here coupled with an apparently conspicuous bit of facial hair; a normally trivial thing, a feature of the athlete’s face, is being singled out, in itself probably a humorous effect. How to point up or emphasize the humor if not by modifying the noun with an adjective normally not associated with trivial things? In other words, try to reverse engineer the joke. “Glorious” is probably reserved for much more important things.

Along these lines, a lot of the priceless 16th-century comic writer François Rabelais’s material is lost on French readers today, but a great deal more was lost on me when I was immersing myself in his works back when I was first really studying French literature at the University of Geneva. Most editions provide extensive notes to help today’s readers, but when Rabelais, for instance, takes Latin nouns and verbs and comically Gallicizes them, hauls them over into French lock, stock and barrel, any educated native speaker of French is probably in on the joke right away. For me, they were just more nouns and verbs I had to look up (in the Huguet, the wonderful seven-volume dictionary of 16th-century French). The equivalent in English might be to coin, say, aleajactaesting and sictransitgloriamundize (a quidnunc already exists). And indeed, in the great comic writer P.G. Wodehouse’s priceless Aunts Aren’t Gentleman, the twit and toff Bertie Wooster, who has managed to retain Jeeves’ Latin tag rem acu tetigisti (“you have touched the thing/the matter with the needle,” in other words, you have hit the nail on the head), declares at one point, “I agreed with him that he had tetigisti-ed the rem acu.” In my case, I was being a good and sedulous student, looking the words up, but also a bit obtuse. Rabelais’s humor was practically giving me a raspberry point blank in the face.

The second citation came from the Smithsonian, more of a suit- and even suit-and-tie-kind of publication than a jeans-and-sneakers one. The third was from Seventeen, not a bastion of formal writing in the high style, yes, but the quotation sprang from a movie review of sorts, which is already pitched at a higher level probably than an interview. Importantly, the turn of phrase was “glorious summer,” while the remaining two quotations had to do with beautiful views of nature and the natural world. I explained to our man that he was probably unaware of an expression that was almost certainly hovering over or behind these three usages, “made glorious summer,” from two very famous verses by Shakespeare. I went on to maintain, without any hard data though, that any English-speaker of a certain age (hinting at “over thirty” – hedging my bets) with some university education, and any writer worth their salt really, would indeed have encountered the two verses

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York.

After my above email exchange, by the way, I tested my theory about “glorious summer,” with a fairly limited test group, i.e., just one, a friend who is also edging toward sixty and who holds a BA from an American university but not in literature – and who is not in the writing dodge. I asked him in an email if he could, off the top of his head, cite the opening verses of Richard III. He admitted he could not and that he did not in fact know the play. Then I asked him if he recognized the two verses quoted above. He knew them straight off and had read and heard them on several occasions. And he concurred that if somebody today said “We had a glorious time,” instead of “We had a great time,” the adjective would definitely stand out. The parallel to draw in this case would be with “awesome,” which was of a very high register once (it implied the kind of terror one would feel before the divine when there was no question the divine existed), but today is part of everyday English and synonymous with “nice,” “great,” “cool,” etc. A nonnative speaker of English would have no end of clues to situate the term properly.

Tom Stoppard’s brilliant play The Invention of Love is about, among other things, the great English poet and classics scholar A.E. Housman and Latin love poetry. Early in the first act, the young Housman, already a keen reader of the Latin poets, analyses a verse from Horace’s Odes (III, 24) and in doing so, gives us a tutorial on how one can sometimes work out, even in a dead language, the possible standing of a word by paying close attention to what the text itself may be telling us:

Housman: The Odes. Sorry. Odes Three, 24, “ludere doctior seu Graeco iubeas trocho” – it’s where he’s saying everything’s gone to the dogs.
Pollard: That’s it! …they’re better at playing with the Greek hoop!
Housman: Actually, “trochosis Greek, it’s the Greek word for hoop, so when Horace uses “Graecus trochus” it’s rather like saying “French chapeau.” I mean he’s laying it on thick, isn’t he?

How do you poke fun at pretentious Latinate vocabulary in Latin? You go Greek.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Its Very Own Breath

In the literary or “free” translation (I am more comfortable with calling it adaptation) of poetry, occasionally the Fates or, when one is very lucky, Erato smiles on the whole endeavor and sense and sound magically align in the into-language as they have in the original. The great recently deceased poet Richard Wilbur, for example, seemed to have had ses couverts mis en permanence (always been a welcome guest) chez Ms. Erato, since his ability to consistently preserve meter and even rhyme scheme while remaining true to the original was astounding.

More rarely a poem in one language goes through the wringer of translation and comes out, not a clean, if wet, pair of trousers, but, say, a Hugo Boss suit. The magician’s stage business, however, is absent in the poet-translator since the trick is transparent, entirely in the open, for anyone who reads the two languages. The great song-writer poet Leonard Cohen, for example, was always forthright about his debt to and admiration of the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca; indeed, it was Cohen’s stumbling on an English translation of Lorca when this English-speaking native of Montreal was fifteen that convinced him, as he recounted it a number of times, to spend his life chatting up the muse and maybe coaxing from her a few lyrics as well. Years later Cohen repaid Lorca with compound interest by translating his “Pequeño vals Vienés,” turning it into a very beautiful English song and stand-alone poem in the process called “Take This Waltz.” To my ear, Cohen’s adaptation is better than Lorca’s poem for a formal reason, namely he adds rhyme. Since Cohen’s translation was set to music, he had to maintain a certain meter of course (yes, the song is indeed in triple time for the waltz that it is), but it is the recurring rhymes and half-rhymes that ground what could have been surreal (something that is in the Spanish original) and possibly cloying imagery in a kind of aural real world, one of fixed rhymes. Here’s the start of the poem followed by Cohen’s translation/adaptation:

En Viena hay diez muchachas,
un hombro donde solloza la muerte
y un bosque de palomas disecadas.
Hay un fragmento de la mañana
en el museo de la escarcha.
Hay un salón con mil ventanas.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals con la boca cerrada.

Este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac
que moja su cola en el mar.

Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women,
There’s a shoulder where Death comes to cry,
There’s a lobby with nine hundred windows,
There’s a tree where the doves go to die,
There’s a piece that was torn from the morning,
And it hangs in the Gallery of Frost,
Aye, aye aye aye,
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.

This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz,
With its very own breath of brandy and death
Dragging its tail in the sea.

Yes, there are echoes at the ends of Lorca’s lines, with muchachas, disecadas, ventanas, or mañana and cerrada, but these are not true rhymes since the accented syllable falls before the “as” or “a” and the consonants terminating the accented syllables aren’t the same. Cohen’s die/cry is a true rhyme and so it goes throughout his adaptation, nearly systematically (here, for example, “frost,” “waltz”—very close, and with the final st of one dancing around to become a ts in the other!—and “jaws” all share the same vowel). He even works in fantastic internal (so-called leonine) rhymes in “torn from the morning” (which likewise brings to mind—brings to ear—mourning, given the talk of death and dying) and “With its very own breath of brandy and death,” which is superior to de sí, de muerte y de coñac thanks to those rhymes as well as the alliterations of “breath of brandy and death”…

When there is padding in Cohen’s adaptation, it is the precious stuff of real inspiration, all goose down and Egyptian cotton. One of my favorite lines of Cohen’s is a nearly literal translation of Lorca:

Hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto
(literally “there are fresh garlands of tears”)

becomes the stunning

with a garland of freshly cut tears.

¡Ay! ¡mi corazón! That’s good. To maintain the triple time here, one could translate the line more closely as “there are freshly cut garlands of tears” but because of the preceding verse in Cohen’s adaptation, he has to drop “there’s” or “there’re.” The padding is in the “freshly cut” where the Spanish has only “fresh.” But while shifting from a plural “garlands” to a singular, which intensifies the image in its simple way (and allows him to add the unaccented indefinite article to piece out the meter: one two three, with a gar…), Cohen makes the tears themselves “freshly cut” (heightening the image even more by introducing an additional note of absurdity), thus achieving the requisite number of syllables and fashioning an unforgettable line of English verse.

I should point out for anyone unfamiliar with the history of translating verse that adding rhyme to the into-language version of non-rhyming poetry isn’t anything new, although nowadays translators either follow suit, rhyming or not rhyming according to the original’s form, or opt for meter without rhyme regardless of the original, or, finally, offer a prose version that is heightened with an array of rhetorical effects. Recurring rhyme at the end of verse lines became the second aural indicator of poetry in the Middle Ages (meter—a regular scheme of stressed and unstressed syllables or a regular number of syllables—is of course the first, and the very definition of verse), and poets, even when translating poems from antiquity (Latin and ancient Greek poetry never impose an end-rhyme scheme), would naturally use meter and rhyme in their versions. Chaucer borrows material from Vergil and his Aeneid for The House of Fame, and when he briefly translates in his own poem just the first hemistich of the Latin epic:

Arma virumque cano

Of arms and the man I sing…

he puts it into a couplet of iambic tetrameter:

I wol now synge, yf I kan
The armes and also the man…

Complete translations of the epic followed, starting in the early sixteenth century, always in heroic couplets (i.e. pentameter), the verse form for noble or epic subjects. In the second half of the seventeenth century, Dryden rendered the opening of the Aeneid thus:

Arms and the man I sing, who, forc’d by fate,
And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate,
Expell’d and exil’d, left the Trojan shore…

Even the classicist and great English poet A.E. Housman, no slouch when it came to understanding and more importantly appreciating Latin poetry, even he, when he chose to English his most beloved lyric, Horace’s ode that begins Diffugere nives (Odes iv 7), put it into a strict abab rhyme scheme:

The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
And grasses in the mead renew their birth,
The river to the river-bed withdraws,
And altered is the fashion of the earth…

Nowadays, when strict rhyme schemes have fallen out of favor with several generations of poets, the poet-translator wouldn’t dream of adding end rhyme where none exists in the original poem. Cohen wasn’t therefore breaking new ground but he was doing something fairly surprising for the time from the point of view of translating verse. The popular-song tradition led him to denature the original but surpass his Spanish master in this instance.

By way of a coda in the sea, I had all this in mind a few days ago when I came across a quatrain from a fine lyric by the nineteenth-century post-romantic Spanish poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, “Rima XXIV” (“Dos rojas lenguas de fuego…”). The generative principle of the poem is simple enough. In five quatrains the poet evokes a series of two things in nature that represent in the concluding line of the poem “our two souls” (“eso son nuestras dos almas”). My two balls (de mes deux plutôt…), might conclude a Lolita if Humbert had tried to read Spanish poetry to his Carmencita… But Bécquer’s poem does have a certain wistful sensuality wafting throughout. It, too, has its very own breath but of parchment and the fleeting perfume of a lost love.

I was struck by the following quatrain and as I began to render it in English as a challenge, I realized I could work not one but two rhymes (abab) in:

dos olas que vienen juntas
a morir sobre una playa
y que al romper se coronan
con un penacho de plata

Two waves that come together,
Together to die upon the shore
And as they break, they feather,
Crowned by a silver plume before…

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment