G
Norwegian translations of Shakespeare cannot, thus far, be called distinguished. There is no complete edition either in Riksmaal or Landsmaal. A few sonnets, a play or two, a scrap of dialogue—Norway has little Shakespeare translation of her own. Qualitatively, the case is somewhat better. Several of the renderings we have considered are extremely creditable, though none of them can be compared with the best in Danish or Swedish. It is a grateful task, therefore, to call attention to the translations by Christen Collin. They are not numerous—only eleven short fragments published as illustrative material in his school edition (English text) of The Merchant of Venice[I.22]—but they are of notable quality, and they save the Riksmaal literature from the reproach of surrendering completely to the Landsmaal the task of turning Shakespeare into Norwegian. With the exception of a few lines from Macbeth and Othello, the selections are all from The Merchant of Venice.
A good part of Collin's success must be attributed to his intimate familiarity with English. The fine nuances of the language do not escape him, and he can use it not with precision merely but with audacity and power. Long years of close and sympathetic association with the literature of England has made English well-nigh a second mother tongue to this fine and appreciative critic. But he is more than a critic. He has more than a little of the true poet's insight and the true poet's gift of song. All this has combined to give us a body of translations which, for fine felicity, stand unrivalled in Dano-Norwegian. Many of these have been prepared for lecture purposes and have never been printed.[I.23] Only a few have been perpetuated in this text edition of The Merchant of Venice. We shall discuss the edition itself below. Our concern here is with the translations. We remember Lassen's and Lembcke's opening of the fifth act. Collin is more successful than his countryman.
Lor:
Hvor Maanen straaler! I en nat som denne,
da milde vindpust kyssed skovens trær
og alting var saa tyst, i slig en nat
Troilus kanske steg op paa Trojas mure
og stønned ud sin sjæl mod Grækerteltene
hvor Cressida laa den nat.
Jes:
I slig en nat
kom Thisbe angstfuldt trippende over duggen,—
saa løvens skygge, før hun saa den selv,
og løb forskrækket bort.
Lor:
I slig en nat
stod Dido med en vidjekvist i haand
paa havets strand og vinkede Æneas
tilbage til Karthago.
Jes:
I slig en nat
Medea sanked urter som foryngede
den gamle Æsons liv.
Lor:
I slig en nat
stjal Jessica sig fra den rige Jøde
med en forfløien elsker fra Venedig
og fandt i Belmont ly.
Jes:
I en saadan nat
svor ung Lorenzo at hun var ham kjær
og stjal med mange eder hendes hjerte,
men ikke en var sand.
Lor:
I slig en nat
skjøn Jessica, den lille heks, bagtalte
sin elsker og han—tilgav hende alt.
"A translation of this passage," says Collin,[I.24] "can hardly be more than an approximation, but its inadequacy will only emphasize the beauty of the original." Nevertheless we have here more than a feeble approximation. It is not equal to Shakespeare, but it is good Norwegian poetry and as faithful as translation can or need be. It is difficult to refrain from giving Portia's plea for mercy, but I shall give instead Collin's striking rendering of Shylock's arraignment of Antonio:[I.25]
Signor Antonio, mangen en gang og tit
har paa Rialto torv I skjældt mig ud
for mine pengelaan og mine renter....
Jeg bar det med taalmodigt skuldertræk,
for taalmod er jo blit vor stammes merke.
I kalder mig en vantro, blodgrisk hund
og spytter paa min jødiske gaberdin—
hvorfor? for brug af hvad der er mit eget!
Nu synes det, I trænger til min hjælp.
Nei virkelig? I kommer nu til mig
og siger: Shylock, laan os penge,—I,
som slængte eders slim hen paa mit skjæg
og satte foden paa mig, som I spændte,
en kjøter fra Jer dør, I be'r om penge!
Hvad skal jeg svare vel? Skal jeg 'ke svare:
Har en hund penge? Er det muligt, at
en kjøter har tre tusinde dukater?
Eller skal jeg bukke dybt og i trælletone
med sænket røst og underdanig hvisken
formæle:
"Min herre, I spytted paa mig sidste onsdag,
en anden dag I spændte mig, en tredje
I kaldte mig en hund; for al den artighed
jeg laaner Jer saa og saa mange penge?"
It is to be regretted that Collin did not give us Shylock's still more impassioned outburst to Salarino in Act III. He would have done it well.
It would be a gracious task to give more of this translator's work. It is, slight though its quantity, a genuine contribution to the body of excellent translation literature of the world. I shall quote but one more passage, a few lines from Macbeth.[I.26]
"Det tyktes mig som hørte jeg en røst;
Sov aldrig mer! Macbeth har myrdet søvnen,
den skyldfri søvn, som løser sorgens floke,
hvert daglivs død, et bad for mødig møie,
balsam for sjælesaar og alnaturens
den søde efterret,—dog hovednæringen
ved livets gjæstebud....
Lady Macbeth:
Hvad er det, du mener?
Macbeth:
"Sov aldrig mer," det skreg til hele huset.
Glarais har myrdet søvnen, derfor Cawdor
skal aldrig mer faa søvn,—Macbeth,
Macbeth skal aldrig mer faa søvn!"