What can I say about this one? It’s a shorter prose poem, one published toward the end of this book and written later than most of the others, in November 1879.
I chose this one to translate next because it was quick, and the language was fairly accessible…but the content was rather deep and complex, a challenge to render both expressively and accurately.
I’m still not sure I got it right. I think I need to spend more time learning about Turgenev (i.e. reading more than one biography) to get an idea of where he was going with it, but I do know that Turgenev was not a very religious man. In fact, the impression that I got from Henri Troyat’s biography of him was that Turgenev would be described in today’s terms as “spiritual but not religious.” His reverence for nature and human beings seemed to have spiritual qualities, but he would not have considered himself a Christian. In this prose poem, he is in a dialogue of sorts with a Christian man — and not just any Christian, but a holy, religious, sincere orthodox (big and small O) monk.
What do you think he’s saying, as he compares the two of them?
Russian original:
Я знавал одного монаха, отшельника, святого. Он жил одною сладостью молитвы — и, упиваясь ею, так долго простаивал на холодном полу церкви, что ноги его, ниже колен, отекли и уподобились столбам. Он их не чувствовал, стоял – и молился.
Я его понимал – я, быть может, завидовал ему, – но пускай же и он поймет меня и не осуждает меня – меня, которому недоступны его радости.
Он добился того, что уничтожил себя, свое ненавистное я; но ведь и я – не молюсь не из самолюбия.
Мое я мне, может быть, еще тягостнее и противнее, чем его – ему.
Он нашел, в чем забыть себя… да ведь и я нахожу, хоть и не так постоянно.
Он не лжет… да ведь и я не лгу.
My English translation:
I knew a certain monk — a hermit, a saint. He lived on the sweetness of prayer alone — and, intoxicated with it, stood for so long on the cold floor of the church that his legs grew swollen beneath the knee and came to resemble pillars. He didn’t feel them; he only stood and prayed.
I understood him — and, perhaps, envied him. But let him understand me, too, and not judge me — me, to whom his joys are inaccessible.
He has succeeded in annihilating himself, his hateful I; but when I don’t pray, it’s not out of pride.
My I is perhaps much more burdensome and repugnant to me than his is to him.
He found something in which to forget himself…and I, too, find it, though not so constantly.
He doesn’t lie — but then, neither do I.
Commentary:
No real comments this time, except to say that I like the little rhyme at the end. Makes it feel more like a poem.
