H
We have hitherto discussed the Norwegian translations of Shakespeare in almost exact chronological order. It has been possible to do this because the plays have either been translated by a single man and issued close together, as in the case of Hartvig Lassen, or they have appeared separately from the hands of different translators and at widely different periods. We come now, however, to a group of translations which, although the work of different men and published independently from 1901 to 1912, nevertheless belong together. They are all in Landsmaal and they represent quite clearly an effort to enrich the literature of the new dialect with translations from Shakespeare. To do this successfully would, obviously, be a great gain. The Maalstrævere would thereby prove the capacity of their tongue for the highest, most exotic forms of literature. They would give to it, moreover, the discipline which the translation of foreign classics could not fail to afford. It was thus a renewal of the missionary spirit of Ivar Aasen. And behind it all was the defiant feeling that Norwegians should have Shakespeare in Norwegian, not in Danish or bastard Danish.
The spirit of these translations is obvious enough from the opening sentence of Madhus' preface to his translation of Macbeth:[I.27] "I should hardly have ventured to publish this first attempt at a Norwegian translation of Shakespeare if competent men had not urged me to do so." It is frankly declared to be the first Norwegian translation of Shakespeare. Hauge and Lassen, to say nothing of the translator of 1818, are curtly dismissed from Norwegian literature. They belong to Denmark. This might be true if it were not for the bland assumption 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.
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.
Ødle-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,[I.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."
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,[I.29] of philologists like Torp,[I.30] and of a literary critic like Hjalmar Christensen.[I.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.
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," segjer fenden; "nei; ikkje fantegaa," segjer samvite. "Du samvit," segjer eg, "du raader meg godt." "Du fenden," segjer eg, "du raader meg godt." Fylgde eg no samvite, so vart eg verande hjaa juden, som—forlate mi synd—er noko som ein devel; og rømer eg fraa juden, so lyder eg fenden, som—beintfram sagt—er develen sjølv. Visst og sannt: juden er sjølve develen i karnition; men etter mitt vit er samvite mit vitlaust, som vil raade meg til aa verta verande hjaa juden. Fenden gjev meg den venlegaste raadi; eg tek kuten, fenden; hælane mine stend til din kommando; eg tek kuten."
This has the genuine ring. The brisk colloquial vocabulary fits admirably the brilliant sophistry of the argument. And both could come only from Launcelot Gobbo. For "the simplicity of the folk" is one of those fictions which romantic closet study has woven around the study of "the people."
Of the little re-telling of The Merchant of Venice, "Soga um Kaupmannen i Venetia"[I.32] which appeared in the same year, nothing need be said. It is a simple, unpretentious summary of the story with a certain charm which simplicity and naïveté always give. No name appears on the title-page, but we are probably safe in attributing it to Madhus, for in the note to Kaupmannen i Venetia we read: "I Soga um Kaupmannen i Venetia hev ein sjølve forteljingi som stykkji er bygt paa."