Yale Journal of Literary Translation issue 17 fall 2025
Letter from the Editors
In one of the less-discussed lines of one of the most-discussed essays on translation, Walter Benjamin asserts that “there is no muse of philosophy, and there is also no muse of translation.”1 If the poet’s domain is that of imagination, the translator’s is something closer to method.
While reflecting on his own translations of the Pindaric odes, Frank Nisetich contests Benjamin’s edict. There is indeed a muse of translation, and if Nisetich “had to give her a name,” it would be “Eurydice.” And so he figures the translator as “a kind of Orpheus who descends into the underworld in search of something lost”; who enters into the world of the foreign tongue, hoping to recover that which he sees in all its “original beauty”—Eurydice. He leads her, “in his poetic labors,” up to the world of the living, only to look back at the final moment and lose her once again. But upon his return, the “memory” or “impression” of his beloved—“his version, his translation”—becomes the source of a renewed song.2
There is much in Nisetich’s metaphor that reflects the particularities of his own practice. The asymmetry between the language of the translated (dead, Hadean) and that of the translation (lively, this-worldly) will hardly resonate with translators working between two modern languages. On the other hand, the Orpheus and Eurydice story lends itself well to some of the old clichés about translation, which are clichés for good reason. In figuring Orpheus’ loss, made so much more cruel by its apparent contingency, as a constitutive component of the translator’s process, Nisetich recalls translation’s oft-noted futility. The translator’s attempt to carry over the original is always a failure; a good translation is merely one that fails well.
Yet the translator’s inescapable loss of the original text does not require us to posit translation as a passage to a lower form of language. There is more to the slipping away of the translated original, just as there is more to Eurydice’s vanishing. As Virgil recounts, after Orpheus loses his beloved, his voice gradually grows bereft of its poetic fervor and becomes “bare voice and death-cold tongue” once the musician is physically maimed.3 This transformation in fact recalls Benjamin’s vision
1 Walter Benjamin, “The Translator’s Task,” trans. Steven Rendall, Traduction, Terminologie, Rédaction 10, no. 2 (1997): 160.
2 Frank Nisetich, translator’s introduction to Pindar, Pindar’s Victory Songs (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), 73-74. The editors extend their thanks to Professor Peter Cole for bringing this essay to their attention.
3 Virgil, Georgics, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1916), Book IV, line 525.
of translation and its distinguishing power: to gesture at a mode of “pure speech” unbound from any particular language’s semantic web; at that “language of truth” or “true language” which is implicit in the struggle to reconcile tongues.4
But just as the pure language of Benjamin’s translator gains its power only in relation to the original, Orpheus’ “bare voice” remains moored to its content. The only word that the new Orpheus utters is Eurydice’s name, which “the banks re-echoed.”5 Orpheus’ unceasing cry eternalizes his beloved’s presence in the world of the living. The dismembered Orpheus becomes a permanent receptacle for Eurydice’s name, the echo of which resembles the reverberation of the original text in translation. Much like the passionate fidelity of Orpheus’ “bare voice” allows Eurydice to persist on earth rather than remain confined to the world below, the translator imbues the translated word with a distinct kind of permanence, shorn of the restrictions of its first tongue, and, in Benjamin’s words, thereby liberates “the language imprisoned in the work by rewriting it.”6
The translator’s loving devotion to the original text thus remodels the conventional relationship between artist and muse. It is this reimagination of musehood that we have taken up as our issue’s theme. In the following pages, there are all kinds of muses, ranging from a city to a painter’s model to a rose and beyond. But while these more traditional muses are often calcified, reified into static image by the artists they inspire, every piece in this issue is itself animated by a different relationship to a different kind of muse. Instead of surrendering her speech to an artist’s craft, the voice of the translator’s muse resounds in translation.
We hope you enjoy reading this issue.
Sincerely,
Alexia Dochnal & Toby Platt Editors-in-Chief
4 Benjamin, 159-160.
5 Virgil, Book IV, line 527.
6 Benjamin, 163.
Sea, Sky, and Land
Mar, Cielo y Tierra
María Luisa Bombal
translated by Peregrine Todd
Анюта
Anton Chekhov
translated by Alexia Dochnal
Poem of separation
Soneto de separação
Vinicius de Moraes
translated by Sophia Chin McManus
Faiz Ahmed Faiz translated by Sahar Mokal
I’m Listening to Istanbul
İstanbul’u Dinliyorum
Orhan Veli Kanık
translated by Kerem Babaoğlu
Your Agony Tu Agonía
Horacio Quiroga
translated by Madison Melgoza
Spring without Autumn
Abulqosim Lohuti translated by Toby Platt
translated by Penelope Pyo
Selection from Haft Peykar: Bahrām Sees Seven Figures
Nezami Ganjavi
translated by George Grube
The Play of the Sibyl Casandra
El Auto de la Sibila Casandra
Guillaume Apollinaire, 1905
Pour que sourie encore une fois Jean-Baptiste
Sire je danserais mieux que les séraphins
Ma mère dites-moi pourquoi vous êtes triste
En robe de comtesse à côté du Dauphin
Mon cœur battait battait très fort à sa parole
Quand je dansais dans le fenouil en écoutant
Et je brodais des lys sur une banderole
Destinée à flotter au bout de son bâton
Et pour qui voulez-vous qu’à présent je la brode
Son bâton refleurit sur les bords du Jourdain
Et tous les lys quand vos soldats ô roi Hérode
L’emmenèrent se sont flétris dans mon jardin
Venez tous avec moi là-bas sous les quinconces
Ne pleure pas ô joli fou du roi
Prends cette tête au lieu de ta marotte et danse
N’y touchez pas son front ma mère est déjà froid
Sire marchez devant trabants marchez derrière
Nous creuserons un trou et l’y enterrerons
Nous planterons des fleurs et danserons en rond
Jusqu’à l’heure où j’aurai perdu ma jarretière
Le roi sa tabatière
L’infante son rosaire
Le curé son bréviaire
translated from French by Erin Lee
So that John the Baptist smiles once more Sire I would dance better than seraphim Mother tell me why you grieve in Countess’s dress beside the Dauphin
My heart was beating beating so fast at his word As I danced in the fennel listening to him And I embroidered lilies on a banner Fated to flutter at the tip of his pole
And for whom do you wish I embroider this now His pole blooms again on the banks of the Jordan And o King Herod all the lilies withered In my garden when your soldiers transported him
Come with me all over there under the quincunxes
Do not cry o Herod’s pretty jester
Take this head in place of your fool’s bauble and dance
Do not touch the brow Mother it is already cold
Sire walk in front your attendants walk behind We will hollow out a hole and bury him there We will plant new flowers and dance in a circle Until the hour where I will have lost my garter
The king his snuffbox
The baby his rosary
The cleric his prayer book
Mar, Cielo, y Tierra
María Luisa Bombal, 1940
Sé muchas cosas que nadie sabe. Conozco del mar y de la tierra infinidad de secretos pequeños y mágicos.
Sé, por ejemplo, que aguas abajo, más abajo de la honda y densa zona de tinieblas, el océano vuelve a iluminarse y que una luz dorada e inmóvil brota de gigantescas esponjas refulgentes y amarillas como soles. Toda clase de plantas y de seres helados viven allí sumidos en esa luz de estío glacial, eterno: actinias verdes y rojas se aprietan en anchos prados vivos a los que se entrelazan las transparentes medusas que no rompieron todavía sus amarras para emprender por los mares un destino errabundo; duros corales blancos se enmarañan en matorrales estáticos por donde se escurren peces de terciopelo sombrío que se abren y se cierran blandamente, como flores; hay hipocampos cuyos crines de algas se esparcen en lenta aureola alrededor de ellos cuando galopan silenciosos, y si se levanta a ciertas caracoles grises, de forma anodina, se suele a menudo encontrar debajo a una sirenita llorando.
Sé de un volcán sumergido en constante erupción; su cráter hierve incansable día y noche y sopla espesas burbujas de lava plateada hacia la superficie de las aguas.
Sé que en las horas de bajamar quedan al descubierto, en las rompientes, pintados lechos de delicadas anémonas, y compadezco al que huelle esa alfombra ardiente que devora.
Sé de golfos repletos de espumas eternas por donde los ponientes arrastran pausadamente sus innumerables colas de arco iris.
Existe una ahogada muy blanca y enteramente desnuda que todos los pescadores de la costa tratan en vano de recoger en sus redes... pero tal vez no sea más que una gaviota extasiada que llevan y traen las corrientes del Pacífico.
Conozco los escondidos caminos, las venas terrestres por donde el
Sea, Sky, and Land translated from Spanish by Peregrine Todd
I know many things that no one knows. I know countless tiny magical secrets about the sea and the land.
I know, for example, that deep underwater, beneath the thick zone of darkness, the ocean lights up again. A steady golden light shines from huge sponges, glowing like yellow suns. All types of plants and frozen beings live awash in the light of this eternal cold summer: green and red anemones pressed together in swaths of living meadow, braided with transparent jellyfish who haven’t yet cast off to sail the seas on a nomadic journey; hard white corals tangled in enchanted thickets through which shadowy velvet fishes slip, opening and closing their gills gently, like flowers; seahorses whose seaweed manes spread out in a slow halo around them as they gallop silently. And if you lift certain gray conches, you can often find a small, weeping mermaid.
I know of an underwater volcano in constant eruption. Its crater boils tirelessly day and night and blows bubbles of thick silver lava towards the surface of the water.
I know that at low tide, on sandbanks, spotted beds of delicate anemones are uncovered, and I pity whoever tramples on this burning carpet—it devours.
I know of gulfs full of never-ending foam where the setting sun slowly drags its countless rainbow tails.
See a drowned woman, pale and entirely nude, whom all the fishermen on the coast try in vain to catch in their nets… but she may only be a seagull in a trance, taken and carried by the currents of the Pacific.
I know hidden paths, veins in the earth where the ocean tides seep, rising up to the pupils of certain women, who suddenly look at us with deep green eyes.
océano filtra las mareas, para subir hasta las pupilas de ciertas mujeres que nos miran de pronto con ojos profundamente verdes.
Sé que los buques que se han caído por la escalera de un remolino siguen viajando siglos abajo por entre arrecifes sumergidos; que sus mástiles enredan enfurecidos pulpos y que en sus bodegas anidan estrellas de mar.
Todo eso sé del mar.
Sé de la tierra, que quien desprenda la corteza de ciertos árboles encontrará adheridos al tronco, durmiendo, mansas mariposas polvorientas que el primer rayo de luz traspasa y deshace como un implacable alfiler impío.
Recuerdo y veo un parque otoñal. En sus anchas avenidas se amontonan y pudren las hojas y debajo palpitan tímidos sapos color musgo que llevan una coronita de oro en la cabeza. Porque nadie lo sabe, pero la verdad es que todos los sapos son príncipes.
Temo, con pavor desmedido de niño, a la gallina ciega. La gallina ciega es color de humo y vive echada debajo de los matorrales, semejante a un mísero montón de cenizas. No tiene patas para caminar, ni ojos para ver; pero suele levantar el vuelo ciertas noches con alas cortas y espesas. Nadie sabe adónde va, nadie sabe de dónde viene, al amanecer, tinta en sangre que no es la suya.
Conozco una lejana selva del sur en cuyo suelo de limo se abre un agujero estrecho y tan profundo que si te echas de bruces sobre la tierra y pones el ojo, divisarás allá abajo, igual que al extremo de una largavista, algo así como un polvo de oro que gira vertiginosamente.
Pero nada es más imprevisto que el nacimiento del vino. Porque no es cierto que el vino nazca bajo el cielo y dentro de la uva prieta de agua y de sol. El nacimiento del vino es tenebroso y lento; yo sé mucho de ese crecer furtivo de asesino. Una vez clausuradas las puertas de la fría bodega y después que las arañas han tendido sus primeras cortinas, es cuando el vino se decide a despuntar del fondo de las grandes tinajas herméticamente cerradas. A la par de las mareas, el vino sufre la influencia taciturna de la luna que ora lo incita a retraerse, ora lo ayuda a refluir. Y es así como nace y crece en la oscuridad y el silencio de su invierno.
Puedo contar algo más de la tierra. Sé de una región desértica adonde un pueblo ha quedado sepultado en los médanos, tan solo emerge la aguja de la torre de la iglesia. En las noches borrascosas todos los rayos de la tormenta se precipitan sobre la flecha solitaria erguida en medio de la llanura, y se enroscan en ella, silbando, para hundirse luego en la arena. Y cuentan que, entonces, la torre desaparecida se estremece Mar, Cielo, y
I know that the ships that have slipped down a whirlpool’s staircase continue to voyage below for centuries between underwater reefs; their masts tangle in indignant octopi and starfish cling to walls of their holds.
All this I know about the sea.
I know about the land, that whoever peels the bark off certain trees will find gentle, dusty butterflies sleeping on the trunk, which the first ray of sunlight pierces, like a cruel, unflinching needle, and they dissolve.
I remember and see an autumnal park. In its broad avenues leaves pile up and decay. Underneath, shy moss-colored toads quiver, wearing little gold crowns on their heads. No one knows, but the truth is that all toads are princes.
I am afraid, with the intense fear of a child, of the blind hen. The blind hen is the color of smoke and lives under the bushes, like a forlorn pile of ashes. She doesn’t have feet to walk, or eyes to see; but she takes flight on certain nights with her short, thick wings. No one knows where she goes and no one knows where she returns from at dawn, stained in blood that’s not her own.
I know of a narrow, deep hole that opens in the mud floor of a faraway southern jungle. If you lie flat on the ground and press your eye to it, you will be able to just make out something, as if through a telescope, something like a cloud of gold dust that spins dizzily.
But nothing is as unexpected as the birth of wine. Because it’s not true that wine is born under the sky inside a grape darkened with water and sun. The birth of wine is sinister, slow; I know plenty about the furtive origins of this murderer. Once the doors of the cold wine cellar are shut and after the spiders have hung their first curtains, the wine decides to sprout from the large sealed clay jars. The sullen moon governs wine as it does the tides, sometimes telling it to withdraw, sometimes telling it to flow back. And this is how wine is born and grows in the dark silence of its winter.
I can tell you something else about the land. I know of a desert where a town is buried in the dunes. Only the tip of the church’s steeple pokes out. On stormy nights lightning bolts throw themselves at the solitary spire, pointed up in the middle of the flatness. The lightning coils around it, whistling, then dives into the sand. And they say that afterward, the buried tower shudders from top to bottom and you can hear an underground ringing of bells…
Mar, Cielo, y Tierra
de arriba abajo y se oye resonar un tañido subterráneo de campanas...
El cielo, en cambio, no tiene ni un solo secreto pequeño y tierno. Implacable, despliega entero por encima de nosotros su mapa aterrador.
Me gustaría creer que tengo mi estrella, la que veo despuntar primero y brillar un instante para mí sola una cada anochecer, y que en esa estrella mis pasos tienen un eco y también mi risa y mi voz. Pero ¡ay! demasiado sé que no puede haber vida de ninguna especie allí donde los átomos cambian de carácter millones de veces por segundo y donde ninguna pareja de átomos puede permanecer unida.
Hasta miedo me da nombrar el sol. ¡Es tan poderoso! Si nos interceptaran su radiación, el curso de los ríos se detendría inmediatamente.
Apenas sí me atrevo a hablar de un cóndor que los vientos empujaron fuera de la atmósfera terrestre y que, vivo aún, cae en el espacio infinito desde hace incontable número de años.
Tal vez la súbita caída de las estrellas fugaces responde a un llamado previsto desde la eternidad, que las precipita a integrar determinadas figuras geométricas, hechas de relucientes astros incrustados en un rincón apartado del cielo. Tal vez.
Y no quiero, no quiero hablar más del cielo; porque le temo y temo los sueños con que se introduce a menudo en mis noches. Entonces me tiende una escalera estelar por la que subo hasta la bóveda rutilante. La luna deja de ser un pálido disco pegado al firmamento para convertirse en una bola escarlata que rueda solitaria por el espacio; las estrellas se agrandan en un parpadeo de rayos, la vía láctea se aproxima y derrama oleadas de fuego. Y, de segundo en segundo, yo más al borde de aquel precipicio abrasador...
No; prefiero imaginar un cielo diurno por donde deambulan castillos de nubes en cuyas flotantes estancias aletean las hojas secas de un otoño terrestre y los cometas de papel que perdieron jugando, los hijos de los hombres.
The sky, on the other hand, doesn’t have a single small, tender secret. Unforgiving, it spreads out its entire terrifying map above our eyes.
I want to believe that I have a star all to myself, which I’m the first to see rise and that shines for me alone, fleetingly, every evening, and that in the star my footsteps echo and so do my laugh and my voice. But alas, I know too well there can’t be a single living creature up there where the atoms change character millions of times in a second and where no pair of atoms can stay connected.
I’m afraid to even name the sun. It’s so absolute. If its rays were blocked from us, rivers would stop flowing.
I hardly dare talk about the condor pushed by the winds out of the atmosphere. Still alive, it has been falling through endless space since the dawn of time.
It could be that some pre-determined signal, planned for all eternity, tells shooting stars to plunge suddenly, hurling them into the form of certain geometric shapes. Shapes made of glowing stars embedded in a remote corner of the sky. It could be.
And I do not, do not want to go on about the sky; because I fear it and I fear the way it creeps into my nights. In my dreams, the sky lets down a ladder of stars which I climb up to the sparkling dome. The moon stops being a pale disc glued to the sky and becomes a scarlet ball that rolls on its own through space; the stars grow larger with a flash of light; the Milky Way comes closer and scatters waves of fire. And, second by second, I near the edge of that blazing void…
No; I’d rather imagine an afternoon sky crossed by wandering cloud castles, floating rooms filled with the flapping of dry autumn leaves and paper kites lost by the sons of men as they played.
Chekhov] translator’s note
translated from Russian by Alexia Dochnal
“Anyuta” was first published under Anton Chekhov’s frequent pseudonym, “A. Chekhonte,” in the satirical St. Petersburg magazine Oskolki (Fragments) in March 1886. The story came to life two years after Chekhov completed his medical degree in Moscow. Chekhov began to publish his fiction while in medical school, where he was surrounded by students like this story’s Stepan Klochkov. The earliest version of “Anyuta” was subject to scrutiny by the St. Petersburg Censorship Committee. Though the authorities forced Chekhov to temper elements of his narrative due to the supposed indecency of Anyuta’s character, the liberally minded editor of Oskolki, Nikolai Leykin, declared that the story remained “not too spoiled” after these interventions.
In the cheapest of the Lisbon Hotel’s lodging rooms, a third-year medical student, Stepan Klochkov, was pacing from one corner to the other and zealously cramming for medical school. From the tireless, tense cramming, his mouth turned dry and sweat emerged on his forehead.
By the window, whose edges were tinged with icy patterns, his roommate Anyuta—a small, skinny, 25-year-old brunette, very pale, with gentle gray eyes—sat on a stool. Her back bent, she was embroidering the collar of a man’s shirt with red thread. The work was pressing… the hallway clocks hoarsely struck two in the afternoon, and the room was still not cleaned up. A crumpled blanket, scattered pillows, books, a dress, a big dirty basin filled with soapy slop in which cigarette butts swam, trash on the floor—everything, it seemed, was cast into one pile, muddled and crumpled on purpose …
перемешано, скомкано… — Правое легкое состоит из трех
Границы! Верхняя доля на передней стенке
Клочков.
достигает до 4 —5 ребер, на боковой поверхности до 4-го ребра… назади до spina scapulae…
Клочков, силясь представить себе только что прочитанное, поднял глаза к потолку. Не получив ясного представления, он стал прощупывать у себя сквозь жилетку верхние ребра.
— Эти ребра похожи на рояльные клавиши, — сказал он. — Чтобы не спутаться в счете, к ним непременно нужно привыкнуть.
Придется поштудировать на скелете и на живом человеке… А нука, Анюта, дай-ка я ориентируюсь!
Анюта оставила вышиванье, сняла кофточку и выпрямилась.
Клочков сел против нее, нахмурился и стал считать ее ребра.
— Гм… Первое ребро не прощупывается… Оно за ключицей… Вот это будет второе ребро… Так-с… Это вот третье… Это вот четвертое…. Гм…. Так-с… Что ты жмешься?
— У вас пальцы холодные!
— Ну, ну… не умрешь, не вертись… Стало быть, это третье ребро, а это четвертое… Тощая ты такая на вид, а ребра едва
прощупываются. Это второе… это третье… Нет, этак спутаешься и
не представишь себе ясно… Придется нарисовать. Где мой уголек?
Клочков взял уголек и начертил им на груди у Анюты
несколько параллельных линий, соответствующих ребрам. — Превосходно. Всё, как на ладони…
а теперь и постучать можно. Встань-ка! Анюта встала и подняла подбородок. Клочков занялся выстукиванием и так
“The right lung consists of three parts…” Klochkov kept cramming. “Borders! The outermost part reaches the fourth or fifth rib on the chest’s front wall, the fourth rib on the side surface … the spina scapulae on the back …”
Klochkov, striving to imagine to himself what he had just read, lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. Failing to receive a clear image, he began to probe, through his waistcoat, his own outer ribs.
“These ribs are like piano keys,” he said. “To avoid mixing up the counting, one must absolutely get used to them. One has to study them on a skeleton and on a living person … Oh come on, Anyuta, let me get oriented!”
Anyuta left the embroidery, took off her blouse, and straightened out. Klochkov sat across from her, furrowed his brows, and began counting her ribs.
“Hm… The first rib isn’t palpable… It’s behind the collarbone… Here now, this must be the second rib… That’s it… Here’s the third … Here’s the fourth… Hm… That’s it… What are you getting tense for?”
“Your fingers are cold!”
“Well, well… you won’t die, stop twisting… It must be that this is the third rib, and this is the fourth… You look so skinny on the outside, but I can barely feel your ribs. This is the second… this is the third… No, even so you get confused and can’t imagine it clearly … I’ll have to draw them. Where’s my charcoal?”
Klochkov took the charcoal and drew a few parallel lines corresponding to ribs on Anyuta’s chest.
“Excellent. It’s all just like the palm of your hand. Well, and now we can tap a little. Get up!”
Anyuta stood up and raised her chin. Klochkov busied himself with his drumming and submerged himself so deeply in this act that he did not notice how Anyuta’s lips, nose, and fingers had turned blue from the cold. Anyuta trembled and feared that the doctor, if he noticed her trembling, would stop drawing with the charcoal and stop tapping, and then, perhaps, would do poorly on the exam.
“Now it’s all clear,” Klochkov said, ceasing to tap. “You sit there like that and don’t erase the charcoal, and in the meantime I’ll cram a little more.”
And the doctor began to walk and cram again. Anyuta, tattooed with precision, black stripes on her chest, huddled up from the cold, sat and thought. All in all she spoke very little, she was always mute and yet thinking, thinking…
комнатам, таких, как Клочков, знала она человек пять. Теперь
все они уже покончали курсы, вышли в люди и, конечно, как порядочные люди, давно уже забыли ее. Один из них живет в Париже, два докторами, четвертый художник, а пятый даже, говорят, уже профессор. Клочков — шестой… Скоро и этот кончит курс, выйдет в люди. Несомненно, будущее прекрасно, и из Клочкова, вероятно, выйдет большой человек, но настоящее совсем плохо: у Клочкова нет табаку, нет чаю, и сахару осталось четыре кусочка. Нужно как можно скорее оканчивать вышиванье, нести к заказчице и потом
и табаку.
— Можно войти? — послышалось за дверью.
Анюта быстро накинула
Вошел художник Фетисов.
я к вам с просьбой, — начал
зверски глядя из-под
одолжение, одолжите мне вашу прекрасную девицу часика
Пишу, видите ли, картину, а
никак нельзя! — Ах, с удовольствием! — согласился Клочков. — Ступай, Анюта.
— Чего я там не видела! — тихо проговорила Анюта.
— Ну, полно! Человек для искусства просит, а не для пустяков каких-нибудь. Отчего не помочь, если можешь?
Анюта стала одеваться. — А что вы пишете? — спросил Клочков. — Психею. Хороший сюжет, да всё как-то не выходит; приходится всё с разных натурщиц писать. Вчера писал одну с синими ногами. Почему, спрашиваю, у тебя синие ноги? Это, говорит, чулки
In her six or seven years of teetering among lodging rooms, she had known five people of Klochkov’s kind. Now they had all finished their studies, taken leave into the world of men, and, of course, as respectable people, had long forgotten her. One of them lives in Paris, two are doctors, the fourth is an artist, and the fifth is even, so they say, already a professor. Klochkov is the sixth… Soon this one, too, will finish his studies and step into the world of men. Without a doubt, the future will be beautiful and, from Klochkov, a great man will likely emerge. But the present is altogether bad: Klochkov has no tobacco, no tea, and only four pieces of sugar remain. She has to finish the embroidery as soon as possible, take it to the client, and then buy, for the quarter received in return, tea and tobacco.
“Can I come in?” a voice was heard behind the door.
Anyuta quickly threw a woollen scarf over her back. Fetisov the artist entered.
“I’m coming to you with a request,” he began, turning to Klochkov, a bestial gaze peering from beneath the hair that hung over his forehead. “Grant me a loan: lend me your beautiful maiden for one or two hours! I am working on a painting, you see, and that absolutely can’t be done without a muse!”
“Ah, with pleasure!” Klochkov agreed. “Go on, Anyuta.”
“What’s there that I haven’t seen before?” Anyuta said quietly.
“Well, that’s enough! The man is asking you for the sake of art, not for some empty nonsense. Why not help out if you can?”
Anyuta began to get dressed.
“And what are you painting?” Klochkov asked.
“Psyche.1 A good subject, and yet somehow it’s still not coming together; I’ll need to paint using different muses. Yesterday I painted one with blue legs. Why, I asked her, are your legs blue? My stockings are bleeding color, she said. And you’re still cramming! Happy man, the suffering is real.”
“Medicine is that kind of thing, there’s no way to do it without cramming.”
“Hm… Sorry, Klochkov, but you’re living terribly, like a pig! The devil knows how you live!”
1 According to the 2nd-century Latin author Apuleius, Psyche was a mortal woman who, after completing a series of arduous tasks by Aphrodite’s command, earned the right to marry Eros, the god of love, and became the goddess of the soul (psyche).
должен быть эстетиком. Не правда ли? А у вас тут чёрт знает что!
Постель не прибрана, помои, сор… вчерашняя каша на тарелке… тьфу!
— Это правда, — сказал медик и сконфузился, — но Анюте
некогда было сегодня убрать. Всё время занята.
Когда художник и Анюта вышли, Клочков лег на диван и стал зубрить лежа, потом нечаянно уснул и, проснувшись через час, подпер голову кулаками и мрачно задумался. Ему вспомнились
слова художника о том, что развитой человек обязательно
должен быть эстетиком, и его обстановка в самом деле казалась ему теперь противной, отталкивающей. Он точно бы провидел
умственным оком то свое будущее, когда он будет принимать своих больных в кабинете, пить чай в просторной столовой, в обществе жены, порядочной женщины, — и теперь этот таз с
помоями, в котором плавали окурки, имел вид до невероятия гадкий. Анюта тоже представлялась некрасивой, неряшливой, жалкой… И он решил расстаться с ней, немедля, во что бы то ни стало.
Когда она, вернувшись от художника, снимала шубу, он поднялся и сказал ей серьезно: — Вот что, моя милая… Садись и выслушай. Нам нужно расстаться! Одним словом, жить с тобою я больше не желаю.
Анюта вернулась от художника такая утомленная,
изнеможенная. Лицо у нее от долгого стояния на натуре осунулось, похудело, и подбородок стал острей.
на слова медика она ничего не сказала,
“Which is how? It’s impossible to live differently… I only get twelve a month from Dad, and for that money it’s hard to live respectably.”
“So it is…” the artist said and wrinkled his face with disgust, “but you can live better anyhow… A cultivated man must absolutely be an aesthete. Isn’t that true? Yet here at yours, devil knows what! The bed isn’t made, slop, trash… yesterday’s kasha on the plate… yuck!”
“That’s true,” the doctor said and grew embarrassed, “but Anyuta didn’t have time to clean up today. She’s busy all the time.”
When the artist and Anyuta left, Klochkov lay down on the couch and began to cram lying down, then fell asleep by accident and, waking up an hour later, propped his head up with his fists and gloomily lost himself in thought. The words of the artist about how a cultivated man must absolutely be an aesthete resurfaced in his memory, and his surroundings in reality now seemed to him sickening, repulsive. In his mind’s eye, he could clearly foresee that future of his, when he will receive his patients in his office, drink tea in his spacious dining room in the company of his wife, a respectable woman— and now that basin of slop, in which cigarette butts swam, appeared wretched beyond belief. Anyuta also seemed to him beautyless, unkempt, pitiful… And he decided to leave her, immediately, no matter what.
When she, returning from the artist, was taking off her fur coat, he stood up and said to her, somber:
“Here’s the thing, my sweet… Sit down and listen. We have to part ways! In a word, I no longer wish to live with you.”
Anyuta returned from the artist so exhausted, powerless. Her face, from the long posing, had turned gaunt, thinned out, and her chin grew sharper. In response to the doctor’s words she didn’t say anything, and only her lips trembled.
“You’ll agree that sooner or later we would have to break up anyway,” the doctor said. “You’re good, kind, and you’re not stupid, you’ll get it…”
Anyuta put on her fur coat again and, mute, wrapped her embroidery in a sheet of paper, gathered the thread, the needles; she found the bundle with four pieces of sugar on the window and placed it on the table by the books.
“This is yours… sugar…” she said quietly and turned away to hide her tears.
He walked across the room in embarrassment and said:
“You’re strange, really… You yourself know that we’ll inevitably break up. We can’t be together for a century.”
She had already gathered all her things and had already turned to take leave of him, and he began to feel sorry for her.
And what if she lives here for another week? he thought. Actually, let her live for a little longer, and in a week I’ll tell her to leave.
And, frustrated by his own characterlessness, he shouted at her sternly: “Well, why are you standing there? If you’re going to leave, then leave, but you don’t want to, so take off your coat and stay! Stay!”
Anyuta took off her coat without a word, quietly, then blew her nose, also quietly, sighed, and noiselessly returned to her perpetual pose—to the stool by the window. The student pulled the textbook toward himself and paced from one corner to the other again.
“The right lung consists of three parts…” he crammed. “The outermost part reaches the fourth or fifth rib on the front wall of the chest…”
And in the hallway someone shrieked from the depths of their throat: “Grrigooory! The samovar!”
De repente do riso fez-se o pranto
Silencioso e branco como a bruma
E das bocas unidas fez-se a espuma
E das mãos espalmadas fez-se o espanto.
De repente da calma fez-se o vento
Que dos olhos desfez a última chama
E da paixão fez-se o pressentimento
E do momento imóvel fez-se o drama.
De repente, não mais que de repente
Fez-se de triste o que se fez amante
E de sozinho o que se fez contente.
Fez-se do amigo próximo o distante
Fez-se da vida uma aventura errante
De repente, não mais que de repente.
Soneto de separação Vinicius de Moraes, 1938
In a flash, from laughter sprang tears
Silent and white, like the mist at sea
And where lips met rose a foam that sears And between clasped hands there grew fear.
All at once, from a calm came the gale
Blowing out the final flicker in our eyes. And passion foreshadowed the end of a tale, And in a moment frozen, something died.
Suddenly, no more than suddenly so, Sorrow filled in wounds left open by love
And only loneliness remained in cheer’s afterglow.
Distance stretched where friends were close Life became stumbling into the unknown Suddenly, no more than suddenly so.
[Faiz Ahmed Faiz]
translator’s note
translated from Urdu by Sahar Mokal
This piece belongs to a subset of Urdu literature unofficially called ‘resistance poetry,’ a product of the Progressive Writers’ Movement (PWM) that dominated literary culture in Pre-Partition British India. The Movement sought to penetrate the hegemony and institutional injustice that permeated the socio-political climate of the 1930s by instead championing an anti-imperialist, leftist worldview. Faiz Ahmed Faiz, a notable member and celebrated poet, who was also heavily surveilled by government forces at the time, often wrote to awaken the revolutionary spirit in the masses—and to remind them of freedom’s utter dependence on the present moment.
Speak, for these lips of yours are free
Speak—your tongue is yours for the time being
Your weary body is still yours
Speak for there’s Life in you for the time being
Look how in the blacksmith’s shop
The flames are high, the iron glowing
The keyholes are beginning their widening
The space between each chainlink, growing.
Speak, in a moment there’s so much time
Before body and tongue are all but dead
Speak while Truth is still alive
Speak what you know must be said! Speak
Demain, dès l’aube
Victor Hugo, 1856
Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit, Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées, Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe, Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur, Et quand j’arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Tomorrow, at dawn translated from French by Greer Kennedy
Tomorrow, at dawn, once the countryside lightens, I will depart. You see, I know you await me. I will go through the forest. I will go through the mountain. I cannot dwell far from you any longer.
I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Seeing nothing around, hearing not a single sound, Alone and nameless, my back bowed, my hands crossed, Somber, and the day will be for me like the night.
I will neither watch the gold of the falling sun, Nor the sails waning in the distance towards Harfleur And when I arrive, I will lay on your tomb A bouquet of green holly and heather in bloom.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Önce hafiften bir rüzgâr esiyor;
Yavaş yavaş sallanıyor
Yapraklar, ağaçlarda;
Uzaklarda, çok uzaklarda,
Sucuların hiç durmayan çıngırakları
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Kuşlar geçiyor, derken;
Yükseklerden, sürü sürü, çığlık çığlık.
Ağlar çekiliyor dalyanlarda;
Bir kadının suya değiyor ayakları;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Serin serin Kapalıçarşı
Cıvıl cıvıl Mahmutpaşa
Güvercin dolu avlular
Çekiç sesleri geliyor doklardan
Güzelim bahar rüzgarında ter kokuları;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı;
Başımda eski alemlerin sarhoşluğu
Loş kayıkhaneleriyle bir yalı;
Dinmiş lodosların uğultusu içinde
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
Istanbul’u Dinliyorum
Orhan Veli Kanik, 1947 . . .
I’m Listening to Istanbul translated from Turkish by Kerem Babaoglu
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed;
A wind blows lightly at first;
Leaves on trees;
They sway slowly and softly.
The water-bearers’ ceaseless rattles chime. Away, far away,
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed.
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed; Suddenly, birds pass over;
Aloft, in flocks and flights, screaming and squawking.
The nets are being pulled at the fishgarths;
A woman’s feet brush the water;
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed.
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed;
The chill and breeze in the Grand Bazaar
The chirps and trills in Mahmut Pasha
The pigeons in courtyards
The thumps coming from the docks
The smell of sweat in the lovely spring wind;
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed.
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed;
I’m drunk on the well-aged liquor
A mansion with dim boatsheds;
In the midst of the calmed southwestern winds’ howl
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; Bir yosma geçiyor kaldırımdan;
Küfürler, şarkılar, türküler, laf atmalar. Bir şey düşüyor elinden yere; Bir gül olmalı;
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı.
İstanbul’u dinliyorum, gözlerim kapalı; Bir kuş çırpınıyor eteklerinde;
Alnın sıcak mı, değil mi, biliyorum; Dudakların ıslak mı, değil mi, bilmiyorum; Beyaz bir ay doğuyor fıstıkların arkasından Kalbinin vuruşundan anlıyorum; İstanbul’u dinliyorum.
I’m
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed; A tart is walking along the pavements; Curses, songs, ballads, whistles. Something falls from her hand; Must be a rose; I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed.
I’m listening to Istanbul, my eyes closed A bird flutters at your hems; Is your brow warm or not, I know; Are your lips wet or not, I know; A white moon rises behind the pistachio plants I understand by the beating of your heart; I’m listening to Istanbul.
La tarde se moría y en el viento la seda de tu voz era un piano, y la condescendencia de tu mano era apenas un suave desaliento.
Y tus dedos ungían un cristiano perdón, en un sutil afilamiento; la brisa suspiró, como en el cuento de una melancolía de verano.
Con tu voz, en la verja de la quinta, calló tu palidez de flor sucinta.
La tarde, ya muriendo, defluía
en tu sien un suavísimo violeta, y sobre el lago de tersura quieta los cisnes preludiaron tu agonía.
Tu Agonía Horacio Quiroga, 1901
Your Agony translated from Spanish by Madison
The afternoon was dying and in the wind the silk of your voice was a piano, and the condescension of your hand was just a soft discouragement
And your fingers anointed a Christian forgiveness, in a subtle sharpening; the breeze sighed, like in the story of summer melancholy.
With your voice, on the fence of the villa, your pallor, like a fleeting flower, fell. The evening, already dying, flowed out onto your temple a gentlest purple, and over the lake of still smoothness the swans heralded your agony.
[Abulqosim Lohuti]
translator’s note
Spring without Autumn translated from Tajik by Toby Platt
Produced in the early Tajik SSR, Lohuti’s poem adopts the classical ghazal form while playing with its tropes and inserting, almost jarringly, some contemporary political content. Because the Persian language and its verse forms have evolved rather slowly (9th century Persian verse is far more linguistically accessible and formally familiar for a contemporary Persian speaker than, say, Beowulf is for a contemporary English speaker), the translator of the 20th century ghazal must decide whether to lean into its affinities with the classical or, instead, its enduring approachability. I have tried to highlight rather than collapse this tension by styling the nightingale’s speech, but not that of the more formally rebellious interlocutor, as archaic. I am indebted to Professor Samuel Hodgkin for pressing me on my approach to this stylistic issue.
Саҳар булбул ба шодӣ зад сафирам,
Ки: «Бархез, эй рафиқи дилпазирам!
Ба боғ ову бубин бар шохаи гул
Чӣ сон ман соҳиби тоҷу сарирам.
Гузашт он даври бадбахтӣ, ки мебаст
Хазон дар хонаи худ чун асирам.
Ба ҷанги ӯ баҳор омад, зафар кард,
Кунун дар гулшани худ ман амирам.
Бихон дар мадҳи мо шеъре, ки ҳоким
Гули сурх асту ман пешаш дабирам.
Ту донӣ, қимати шеъри туро ман
Накӯ донам, ки ҳамтабъи Заҳирам.»
Ба булбул гуфтам: «Эй ёри сухансанҷ,
Аз ин фатҳу саодат ман хабирам.
Надонам чун баҳореро, ки гулҳо
Ато додаст чун Геву Далерам?
Кунун ман ҳам на он мардам, к-аз ин пеш
Ту медидӣ зи
At dawn the nightingale cooed joyfully: “Arise, dear friend, oh come and see Here in the garden ‘pon the flow’r Both crown and throne bestowed on me.
Gone is that age of cruel travails
When Autumn made my home a jail. Spring took up arms, emerged as conqueror Now o’er these flow’rs I rule as the Emir. Come praise us both in verse: the rose doth reign While I, her senior, courtly scribe remain. As Zahir’s1 peer, you know that I Won’t let your verses’ worth slip by.”
In reply I said, “O eloquent friend, I’m well aware of Autumn’s end. Such blossoms bloom as my Daler and Gev;2 With such a Spring, whatever could contend? I too have changed since long before, When I was hopeless at death’s door. No Autumn shall succeed this Spring of mine, For over me a sun most brilliant shines. On life’s long path, I’ve learned to stand Since Lenin’s party took my hand. Although these hairs an age betray, This youth of mine is here to stay.”
1 Zahir Faryabi, a 12th century Persian poet traditionally credited with a key role in the maturation of the Persian ghazal. 2 Lohuti’s sons. Spring without Autumn
Edictum domini deique nostri, quo subsellia certiora fiunt et puros eques ordines recepit, dum laudat modo Phasis in theatro, Phasis purpureis rubens lacernis, et iactat tumido superbus ore: “Tandem commodius licet sedere, nunc est reddita dignitas equestris; turba non premimur, nec inquinamur”: haec et talia dum refert supinus, illas purpureas et adrogantes iussit surgere Leïtus lacernas.
Epigrams 5.8
Martial, Late 1st Century CE
translator’s note
Epigrams 5.8
After Peter Porter translated from Latin by Penelope Pyo
Epigrams 5.8 portrays a theatergoer’s reaction to Domitian’s reinforcement of the Lex Roscia theatralis. My translation pays homage to Peter Porter’s 1972 translation collection After Martial, which deliberately uses contemporary slang and references to convey Ancient Roman concepts. Since Leïtus’s job as a designator is to monitor the front rows for imposter equestrians like Phasis, I recast Leïtus as an usher. The capitalization and indentation of “ONLY EQUESTRIANS IN FRONT ROWS!” echoes Porter’s Epigrams 1.43 translation. I owe the translation of domini deique nostri as “our supreme lord and ruler” to the Bohn’s Classical Library’s 1897 translation.
Our supreme lord and ruler’s newest theater decree: ONLY EQUESTRIANS IN FRONT ROWS!
Puffed-up Phasis praises the law from his prime seat. Draped in flaming purples, his peacocking only grows: “The equestrians can lounge once and for all without getting soiled by the plebeian stampedes!” He crows on and on from his spread-eagled sprawl until usher Leïtus kicks him to the nosebleeds.
[Nezami Ganjavi]
Selection from Haft Peykar: Bahram Sees Seven Figures translated from Persian by George Grube
I. One day, Bahrām-Gur returned from the plain; Khavarnaq Palace kept his merry reign.
II. The Shah found a secret room that was locked: Guarded by no one, it was somehow blocked.
III. Never had he stepped foot into that nook, Which neither bankers nor retainers took.
IV. He asked, why is this hidden chamber closed? Where’s the key to this room that’s undisclosed?
V. The Treasurer came, presented the key; The Shah undid the lock—what did he see!
VI. He saw a chamber like a treasure trove, Making jewelers of those in that alcove.
VII. Finer than Xinjiang’s best art collection, Packed with hand-picked paintings of perfection,
VIII. Each one of which wrought in intricate style— Oh, those paintings on the walls that beguile.
IX. Seven figures formed in Bahrām-Gur’s sight, Each linking to a country, color, light.
El Auto de la Sibila Casandra Gil Vicente, 1513
translator’s note
Coro:
A obra seguinte foy representada aa dita Senhora no mosteyro Dexobregas nas matinas do Natal . Trata se nella da presunçam da Sebila Casandra , que como por spirito prophetico soubesse o misterio da Encarnaçam presumio que ella era a virgem de quem o Senhor auia de nacer. E com esta openiam nunca quis casar. A qual Casandra entra em figura de pastora, dizendo:
Casandra: ¿Quien mete ninguno andar
Ni porfiar
En casamientos comigo?
Pues seame Dios testigo
Que yo digo
Que no me quiero casar.
Translated below is the first act of El Auto de la Sibila Casandra by Gil Vicente, a 16th-century play widely considered one of the first examples of a feminist play in Iberian theater. At first glance, this appears to be a comedy poking fun at Casandra’s refusal to wed and her desire to be the Virgin Mother; however, it becomes quickly obvious that Casandra could not care less about God, openly critiquing various patriarchal structures surrounding marriage. While the play itself is in Old Spanish, it begins with an introductory chorus in Old Portuguese. Vicente’s plays were often performed before Portuguese courtesans, who would have understood both languages.
Chorus:
This play deals with the presumption of Casandra the Sybil. Who, as if through a prophetic spirit, knew of the mystery of the Incarnation (of Christ) and presumed herself to be the virgin from whom the Lord would be born. As such, she does not ever wish to marry. She enters dressed as a shepherdess, saying:
Casandra: Whoever could dare suppose And insistently propose
To marry me?
O God, may you oversee
That forever it will be
That marriage I oppose.
¿Qual será pastor nacido
Tan polido
Ahotas que me meresca?
¿Alguno ay que me paresca
En cuerpo, vista y sentido?
¿Qual es la dama polida
Que su vida
Juega, pues pierde casando,
Su libertad cautivando,
Otorgando
Que sea siempre vencida,
Desterrada en mano agena,
Siempre en pena,
Abatida y sujuzgada?
¡Y piensan que ser casada
Que es alguna buena estrenal
Salomon: Casandra Dios te mantenga!
Y yo venga
Tambien mucho nora buena;
Pues te veo tan serena
Nuestra estrena
Ya por mi no se detenga,
Y pues ya que estoy aqua
Bien será
Que diga a que soy venido
Y tanto estoy de ti vencido
Que creo que se hará.
Cas.: No te entiēdo.
Sal.: ¡Anda, ven!
Que por tu bien
Te enbian a llamar tus tías
Y luego daqui a tres días
Alegrías
Ternás tu y yo tambien.
Cas.: ¿Qué me quieren?
Sal.: Que me veas
Y me creas
Para hecho de casar.
The Play of the Sibyl Casandra
So, which shepherd will be born With such refined adorn
That of me, he is so deserving?
Is there any man so worthwhile observing With body, features, and tact wellborn? Which refined dame
Would, with her life, gamble and game
Only to lose it by marrying, Her freedom burying, Ferrying
Herself forever defeated, in shame, Into the grasp of a foreign hand, Doomed forever to Lugentes land, Dejected and with hope buried? And still they think being married, is something fortunate and grand!
Salomon: Casandra, may God be with you to the end! And I intend
To bring many blessings in the future I’ve foreseen; For I see you so serene Our fortunate queen.
Do not feel the need to hold back for me, And since I am already here, It would be good
To tell you why I have come. How, by you, I’ve been overcome, And I now know what will happen, and should. Cas.: I don’t understand.
Sal.: Come here, make haste!
For your own sake
Your aunts have sent for you promptly. In three days, there will be Joyous fanfare as far as the eye can see Awaiting you and me too
Cas.: But what do they want me to do?
Sal.: For you to see me, And believe me as someone you would wed.
Cas.: Lo que dahi puedo pensar
Quellas o tu deuaneas.
Sal.: ¿Somos parientes o qué?
Bien se vee
Que soy yo para valer
Tal que juro a mi poder
Que de no ser
Ni esta paja me dee.
Yo soy bien aparentado
Y abastado,
Valiente zagal polido
Y aun estoy medio corrido
De aver aca llegado.
Anda, si quieres venir.
Cas.: Sin mentir
Tu estás fuera de ti:
Lo que te dixe hasta aqui
Sera ansi
Aun que sepa de morir.
Sal.: ¿No me vees?
Cas.: Bien te veo.
Sal.: No te creo.
¿Pues no q̄res?
Cas.: No te q̄ero.
Sal.: Casamiento te requero.
Cas.: Ya primero
Dixe lo que es mi desseo.
Sal.: ¿Qué me dizes?
Cas.: Yo te digo
Que comigo
No hables de casamiento,
Que no quiero ni consiento
Ni con otro ni contigo.
Sal.: ¿Quieres tu estar a cuenta?
Cas.: ¿Y en essa afrenta
Tengo contigo destar?
No me quiero cautiuar
Pues nascí horra y isienta.
Cas.: The only thing going through my head
Is that they, or you, are insane.
Sal.: Are we relatives?
It should be clear without mention
That I am worth quite a lot. I swear this on all that I have got.
For if I were not, I would not even ask for an ounce of attention. I am wonderfully handsome, With a wealthy sum.
I am a valiant, polite young man
And I am still a bit irritable from the long span
Of the journey here.
So, hurry then, if you wish to come.
Cas.: To tell you the truth and then some, You are out of your mind,
And I guarantee that you will find That what I have told you will stay so,
Even over my dead body
Sal.: Can you not see me?
Cas.: I see you perfectly well.
Sal.: Why, this must be a lie you tell. And still you don’t want me?
Cas.: I wouldn’t want you in any life.
Sal.: Well, I insist that you be my wife.
Cas.: I already told you of my strife
When this conversation began.
Sal.: What did you tell me about?
Cas.: I believe I made it clear to see
That with me,
You will not speak of this marriage that I so lament. For I do not want nor consent
To this or anything else that you foresee
Sal.: Are you sure you want to stay with your choice?
Cas.: Must I really in this affront rejoice
Making myself out to be a clown?
For I do not wish to be chained down, When I was born free and with an independent voice.
Sal.: Tu tia misma me habló
Y prometió
Muy chapado casamiento.
Cas.: Otro es mi pensamiento.
Sal.: Pues yo siento
Que bien te meresco yo
Y por eso vine aqua.
Cas.: Bien estaa.
Sal.: Según el tu no querer
A mi ver
Otro amor tienes allá.
Cas.: No quiero ser desposada
Ni casada,
Ni monja ni hermitaña.
Sal.: Dime ques lo que tengaña,
Que essa saña
Empleas mal empleada.
Toma consejo comigo
O contigo
Quando sin pasion te veas,
Y mira lo que desseas,
Que razon trae consigo.
Cas.: No pierdas tiempo comigo,
Ya te digo
Bien clara mi entencion.
Sal.: Quien te viesse el coraçon
Por mirar mi enemigo
Y saber por que razon.
Cas.: No tomes desto passion
Ni alteracion
Pues que no desprecio a ti,
Mas nacio cuando nací
Comigo esta openion
Y nunca mas la perdi.
Sal.: ¿Qué te hizo el casamiento,
Es tormiento
Que se da por algun hurto?
Cas.: Y aun por eso le surto
The Play of the Sibyl Casandra
Sal.: Your aunt herself told me, though, Promised me it would be so, That we would have a very distinguished wedding. Cas.: Just the thought I am dreading.
Sal.: Though it seems that on thin ice I’m treading, I do wholeheartedly believe that I deserve you And for that reason, I’ve come
Cas.: Yes, that and then some.
Sal.: Since you’re in such opposition To my humble petition, You must have another love.
Cas.: I do not want to be betrothed Nor proposed, Nor to be a nun or a hermit, no.
Sal.: Then tell me what it is that troubles you so, That elicits the cruelty you show, And causes you with such rich vigor to treat me so poorly. Take my advice, Though yours too will suffice, Once you see yourself without passion, While others revel in satisfaction, You will come running back to me, this much can be easily assumed Cas.: Assumed, consumed, perfumed, In any case, it should be easily presumed, What sort of response I’ll give you next.
Sal.: Oh, who could, by your heart, not be confused and vexed? At least with my enemies, I know exactly why I hate them.
Cas.: Take no offense, as I do not wish to demean Listen to my words and do not cause a scene. For it is not that I hate you in any way, But when I was being born that day, So too was my conviction And it is here to stay.
Sal.: Whatever did marriage do to you? Is it truly torment through and through? Given to you by some crime I commit?
Cas.: No matter what it is, I will abhor it.
Porque es curto
Su triste contentamiento.
Muchos dellos es notorio
Purgatorio
Sin concierto ni templanza
Y si algun bien se alcança
No es medio plazentorio.
Veo quexar las vezinas
De malinas
Condiciones de maridos
Vnos de ensoberuecidos
Y aborridos,
Otros de medio galinas,
Otros llenos de mil celos
Y recelos,
Siempre aguzando cuchillos, Sospechosos, amarillos
Y malditos de los cielos.
Otros a garçonear
Por el lugar
Pauonando tras garcetas
Sin dexar blancas ni prietas
Y reprietas;
Y la muger sospirar,
Despues en casa reñir
Y groñir
De la triste allí cautiua.
Nunca la vida me biua
Si tal cosa consentir.
Y pues eres cuerdo y sientes,
Para mientes:
Muger quiere dezir moleja,
Es ansí como una oueja
En peleja,
Sin armas, fuerças ni dientes;
Y si le falta sentido
Al marido
De la razon y, vertud
