To move from that fertile ground towards either extreme—that is, towards interlinear literalness or total accommodation to the new language—is to lose the possibilities that exist only in the space between two times and languages. Tolstoy’s prose has been much praised and much criticized. He scorned fine writers, calling them “hairdressers,” yet we know from the many drafts he preserved that he constantly worked over his texts, revising and refining them, bringing them closer to what he wanted to express. Tolstoy’s prose is an artistic medium; it is all of a piece; it is not good or bad Russian prose, it is Tolstoyan prose. What the translator should seek in his own language is the equivalent of that specific artistic medium. He must have the freedom in his own language to be faithful to the original.
In Tolstoy: A Critical Introduction (Cambridge, 1969), R. H. Christian says: “From the point of view of language and style, Tolstoy has been better served by his translators than many of his fellow-countrymen. Nevertheless, standards fall a long way short of perfection. Clumsiness and simplesse apart, no English version of War and Peace has succeeded in conveying the power, balance, rhythm and above all the repetitiveness of the original. Perhaps it is repetition which is the most characteristic single feature of Tolstoy’s prose style.” He illustrates his point with two passages, the second of which, in our translation, reads as follows (italics added):
…thought Prince Andrei, waiting among many significant and insigificant persons in Count Arakcheev’s anteroom.
During his service, mostly as an adjutant, Prince Andrei had seen many anterooms of significant persons, and the differing characters of these anterooms were very clear to him. Count Arakcheev’s anteroom had a completely special character. The insignificant persons waiting in line for an audience in Count Arakcheev’s anteroom…
Without mentioning the parallel play on “significant and insignificant persons,” Christian notes that the Russian word priémnaya (“anteroom”) recurs five times in as many lines, and that the Maude translation (1927) glosses over that fact by omitting the word once and using three different words for the rest. I will add that in Ann Dunnigan’s translation (1968) the repetitions are treated in exactly the same way as in the Maudes’ that Anthony Briggs, in his 2005 version, omits the repeated word twice and varies it twice; while Constance Garnett (1904) omits it once, but otherwise keeps the repetitions. This passage is a fairly restrained example of what I have called Tolstoy’s “signature style,” but it does illustrate how the balance and rhythm of his prose depend on repetition. These qualities are lost when the general principle of avoiding repetitions is mechanically applied to it. Tolstoy also had a fondness for larger rhetorical structures based on repeated triads of nouns, verbs, adjectives, and so on. We have made it a point to keep his repetitions, as well as other devices of formal rhetoric (for instance, chiasmus) that Tolstoy consciously used and that his translators have often ignored. Tolstoy once boasted that in writing War and Peace he had used every rhetorical device of the old Latin grammarians, which means they are not there by chance.
The other extreme of Tolstoy’s style is exemplified by the short sentence (the shortest in War and Peace) that I have already quoted: “Drops dripped.” It is the first sentence of a paragraph made up of four brief, staccato sentences, four quite ordinary observations, which acquire a lyrical intensity owing solely to the sound and rhythm of the words: Kápli kápali. Shyól tíkhii góvor. Lóshadi zarzháli i podrális. Khrapél któ-to. “Drops dripped. Quiet talk went on. Horses neighed and scuffled. Someone snored.” It is a night scene, and one of the most haunting moments in the book. Other English versions translate the first sentence as “The branches dripped,” “The trees were dripping,” or, closer to the Russian, “Raindrops dripped.” They all state a fact instead of rendering a sound, which (by a stroke of translator’s luck) comes out almost the same in English as in Russian.
Here is another example of the same stylistic compactness, this time expressing a psychological insight rather than a sense impression. It describes the moment when Natasha, who has almost cut herself off from all life, suddenly has to take care of her grief-stricken mother. Tolstoy says simply: Prosnúlas lyubóv, i prosnúlas zhízn. “Love awoke, and life awoke.” All that Tolstoy leaves unsaid about Natasha’s inner life in these few words is implied by their very matter-of-factness, expressed in the exact rhetorical balance of the phrasing. Other English versions read: “Love was awakened, and life waked with it,” “Love awoke, and so did life,” or “When love reawakened, life reawakened.” They convey the same general meaning, but hardly the same sense as the original.
A final example. Tolstoy describes children playing in their room when their mother comes in: Dyéti na stúlyakh yékhali v Moskvú i priglasíli yeyó s sobóyu. “The children were riding to Moscow on chairs and invited her to go with them.” To translate the first phrase as “The children were sitting on chairs playing at driving to Moscow,” or “The children were playing at ‘going to Moscow’ in a carriage made of chairs,” or “The children were perched on chairs playing at driving to Moscow,” as has been done, is to miss both the rhythm and the point. The charm of Tolstoy’s sentence comes from the fact that he does not explain in an adult way what the children are doing; he enters into the spirit of their game by the phrasing he uses to describe it, and the whole atmosphere of the moment is suddenly there, naïve, natural, and alive.
I do not mean to suggest that Tolstoy calculated these effects. They are not “effects” at all, they are what he saw and felt, as he wanted and was able to express it. But to translate what he saw and felt, one must also translate, as far as possible, the way it is expressed. These examples will give at least an idea of how we have gone about that task. We have kept all the French and German as Tolstoy had it, as well as the mixed voicings, the Gallicisms, Germanisms and implied foreign accents, as they play throughout the book. We have tried to be true to Tolstoy’s rhetorical power, his sharp irony, and his astonishing delicacy.
—RICHARD PEVEAR
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Russian names are composed of first name, patronymic (from the father’s first name), and family name. Formal address requires the use of first name and patronymic; diminutives are commonly used among family and friends and are for the most part endearing, though in a certain blunt form (Katka for Katerina, Mitka for Dmitri) they can be rude or dismissive; the family name alone can also be used familiarly or casually, and on occasion only the patronymic is used, usually among the lower classes. In speech, the patronymic can also take a shortened form: Andreich instead of Andreevich, or Kirilych instead of Kirillovich. The accented syllables of Russian names are long, the others very short. We also give the French forms of first names as Tolstoy uses them.