An Essay Toward a History of Shakespeare in Norway by Martin Brown Ruud (the lemonade war series .TXT) 📖

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.

 

    [27. William Shakespeare: _Macbeth_. I norsk Umskrift ved Olav

    Madhus. Kristiania. 1901. H. Aschehoug & Co.]

 

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.

dle-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,[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."

 

    [28. William Shakespeare--_Kaupmannen i Venetia_. Paa Norsk ved

    Olav Madhus. Oslo. 1905.]

 

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,[29] of philologists like Torp,[30] and of a literary critic

like Hjalmar Christensen.[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.

 

    [29. Bjørnson: _Vort Sprog_.]

 

    [30. Torp. _Samtiden_, Vol. XIX (1908), p. 408.]

 

    [31. _Vor Literatur_.]

 

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,"