BLUNDERS OF TRANSLATORS.
A most entertaining volume might be made from the amusing and often absurd blunders perpetrated by translators. For instance, Miss Cooper tells us that the person who first rendered her father’s novel, “The Spy,” into the French tongue, among other mistakes, made the following:—Readers of the Revolutionary romance will remember that the residence of the Wharton family was called “The Locusts.” The translator referred to his dictionary, and found the rendering of the word to be Les Sauterelles, “The Grasshoppers.” But when he found one of the dragoons represented as tying his horse to one of the locusts on the lawn, it would appear as if he might have been at fault. Nothing daunted, however, but taking it for granted that American grasshoppers must be of gigantic dimensions, he gravely informs his readers that the cavalryman secured his charger by fastening the bridle to one of the grasshoppers before the door, apparently standing there for that purpose.
Much laughter has deservedly been raised at French littérateurs who professed to be “doctus utriusque linguæ.” Cibber’s play of “Love’s Last Shift” was translated by a Frenchman who spoke “Inglees” as “Le Dernière Chemise de l’Amour;” Congreve’s “Mourning Bride,” by another, as “L’Epouse du Matin;” and a French scholar recently included among his catalogue of works on natural history the essay on “Irish Bulls,” by the Edgeworths. Jules Janin, the great critic, in his translation of “Macbeth,” renders “Out, out, brief candle!” as “Sortez, chandelle.” And another, who traduced Shakspeare, commits an equally amusing blunder in rendering Northumberland’s famous speech in “Henry IV.” In the passage
“Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone.”
the words italicized are rendered, “ainsi douleur! va-t’en!”—“so grief, be off with you!” Voltaire did no better with his translations of several of Shakspeare’s plays; in one of which the “myriad-minded” makes a character renounce all claim to a doubtful inheritance, with an avowed resolution to carve for himself a fortune with his sword. Voltaire put it in French, which, retranslated, reads, “What care I for lands? With my sword I will make a fortune cutting meat.”
The late centennial celebration of Shakspeare’s birthday in England called forth numerous publications relating to the works and times of the immortal dramatist. Among them was a new translation of “Hamlet,” by the Chevalier de Chatelain, who also translated Halleck’s “Alnwick Castle,” “Burns,” and “Marco Bozzaris.” Our readers are, of course, familiar with the following lines:—
“How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on’t! Oh, fie! ’tis an unweeded garden
That grows to seed; things rank, and gross in nature,
Possess it merely.”
The chevalier, less successful with the English than with the modern American poet, thus renders them into French:—
“Fi donc! fi donc! Ces jours qu’on nous montrons superbes
Sont un vilain jardin rempli de folles herbes,
Qui donnent de l’ivraie, et certes rien de plus
Si ce n’est les engines du cholera-morbus.”
Some of the funniest mistranslations on record have been bequeathed by Victor Hugo. Most readers will remember his rendering of a peajacket as paletot a la purée de pois, and of the Frith of Forth as le cinquième de le quatrième.
The French translator of one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels, knowing nothing of that familiar name for toasted cheese, “a Welsh rabbit,” rendered it literally by “un lapin du pays de Galles,” or a rabbit of Wales, and then informed his readers in a foot-note that the lapins or rabbits of Wales have a very superior flavor, and are very tender, which cause them to be in great request in England and Scotland. A writer in the Neapolitan paper, Il Giornale della due Sicilie, was more ingenuous. He was translating from an English paper the account of a man who killed his wife by striking her with a poker; and at the end of his story the honest journalist, with a modesty unusual in his craft, said, “Non sappiamo per certo se questo pokero Inglese sia uno strumento domestico o bensi chirurgico”—“We are not quite certain whether this English poker [pokero] be a domestic or surgical instrument.”
In the course of the famous Tichborne trial, the claimant, when asked the meaning of laus Deo semper, said it meant “the laws of God forever, or permanently.” An answer not less ludicrous was given by a French Sir Roger, who, on being asked to translate numero Deus impare gaudet, unhesitatingly replied, “Le numéro deux se réjouit d’être impair.”
Some of the translations of the Italian operas in the librettos, which are sold to the audience, are ludicrous enough. Take, for instance, the lines in Roberto il diavolo,—
Egli era, dicessi
Abitatore
Del tristo Imperio.
Which some smart interpreter rendered—
“For they say he was
A citizen of the black emporium.”