Earlier this year a friend recommended I read the works of Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva. Each poet has a large body of work, and I chose a few poems at random without knowing anything about their creators. I only recently discovered that these two women were contemporaries. While Akhmatova is associated with frigid St. Petersburg and Tsvetaeva with regal Moscow, similar tragedies and sorrows befell both poets.
Similar Lives in Different Cities
Marina and Anna were both born into aristocratic families. These aristocratic ties would cause them significant trouble after the Russian Revolution in 1917. With the Revolution arose a new definition of “appropriate” art, and the new party in power would denounce the works of both poets because of their “bourgeois aesthetic”. In 1921, Akhmatova’s former husband was accused of taking part in an pro-monarchy, anti-Bolshevik conspiracy and was killed by firing squad. Similarly, in 1941, Tsvetaeva’s husband was arrested for espionage and executed.
The similarities continue. Both women escaped into exile from Russia, and wrote much of their work abroad. They feared for their lives in their country, and channeled their anguish and despair at the violence of the Revolution and the years of Stalinist repression through their poems. Their uncompromising works grated against the prevailing party’s standards for acceptable art, and left them without friends and family and forced them away from their homeland. As a result of their exile status, each poet also dealt with poverty and struggled to find work both in and outside Russia.
Another of Akhmatova’s husbands was sentenced to the Gulag and her son was imprisoned for antirevolutionary activities, leaving her with little family or financial means. Her ruined literary career kept her penniless, and for many years she was barely able to scrape by in St. Petersburg. Similarly, during a famine in Moscow shortly after the Bolsheviks took power, Tsvetaeva found herself without familial support or money to help feed her children. She put her daughters in an orphanage in hopes they might be better off. One of them died of starvation.
Though based in different cities, the two poets were in very similar circles and personally knew or corresponded with many of the same writers. In fact, they even shared a similar love interest in that of Osip Mandelstam. Both women are reported to have had an affair with the young Jewish poet. Unfortunately, Mandelstam suffered a similar fate as did many in their small literary circle. After his second arrest he was sentenced to work in a labor camp and died there unceremoniously.
Similar Themes, Different Voices
After toiling at translating their works from the original Russian, I at last grasped each poet’s voice. Though they were peers, Akhmatova’s reserved style contrasts Tsvetaeva’s lyrical expression. I chose two poems that were similar in theme so that it would be easier to see how their styles differ. Each addresses a lover, though I would not call either a love poem in any traditional sense.
Марина Цветаева, Marina Tsvetaeva
Мне нравится, что вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не вами,
Что никогда тяжелый шар земной
Не уплывет под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной -
Распущенной - и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.
Мне нравится еще, что вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не вас целую.
Что имя нежное мое, мой нежный, не
Упоминаете ни днем, ни ночью - всуе…
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!
Спасибо вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что вы меня - не зная сами! -
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце, не у нас над головами,-
За то, что вы больны - увы! - не мной,
За то, что я больна - увы! - не вами!
__
I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I am not sick of you,
(I like that) this heavy ball of earth
Will not swim away from under our feet.
I like that you can be funny —
Loose — but don’t play with words,
And you don’t blush in a suffocating wave,
When our sleeves slightly touch.
I like that when you’re near me
We quietly hug each other,
And that you don’t tell me
To burn in hellfire for not kissing you.
(I like that) my tender name, my dear,
You never take in vain, in day or night…
That in churchly silence
They did not sing above us: hallelujah!
Thank you from the heart and hand
For that which —not knowing yourself! —
You love me: for my night rest,
For our rare meetings in sunset hours,
For our not-walks under the moon,
For the sun over our heads,
That you are sick — alas! — not of me,
That I am sick — alas! — but not of you.
Анна Ахматова, Anna Akhmatova
Широк и желт вечерний свет,
Нежна апрельская прохлада.
Ты опоздал на много лет,
Но все-таки тебе я рада.
Сюда ко мне поближе сядь,
Гляди весёлыми глазами:
Вот эта синяя тетрадь -
С моими детскими стихами.
Прости, что я жила скорбя
И солнцу радовалась мало.
Прости, прости, что за тебя
Я слишком многих принимала.
__
Wide and yellow is the evening light,
Tender is the April chill,
You delayed many a year,
But yet I’m happy for you.
Come sit closer to me,
Look with your sparkling eyes:
Here is a blue notebook —
With my childhood poems.
Forgive me, that I lived in mourning
And was not happy with the sun.
Forgive me, forgive me, that
I mistook so many others for you.
А Closer Look
What’s most apparent to me is the difference in composition between the two poets. Just looking at the poems, you can see Akhmatova’s poems are much more terse. Tender is the April chill is much more compact in the original Russian, and the reader feels this chill through her economical style. When she asks the person to whom she addresses the poem to forgive her, I really get the sense that she is repentant, but for something she can’t control (…that I lived in mourning). Her tone is austere but it does not sacrifice the emotion in the work.
Tsvetaeva’s tone, in contrast, is much more lively. Her tone is not severe like Akhmatova’s. She conveys a certain innocence in her repetition of “I like that…, I like that…”, and a wide-eyed incredulousness at the end (“That you are sick…but not of me!"). The imagery is also more imaginative than in Akhmatova’s work. The “heavy earthly sphere” that Tsvetaeva is grateful won’t “swim away under her feet” contrasts the realistic “wide and yellow light” in Akhmatova’s poem. It’s also interesting to note the religious elements in Tsvetaeva’s poem, and the complete absence of religious imagery in Akhmatova’s. Hell is a topic that Tsvetaeva frequently touches on in her works, and the image of flames underscore the passion in her work and contrasts neatly with Akhmatova’s icy, understated style. In more ways than one, the Moscow-bred Tsvetaeva is the perfect foil for the St. Petersburg-raised Akhmatova.
I’ll have a longer post later about the difficulties of translating poetry, and what makes the challenge so rewarding. It’s evident that my translations above are (other than poor) also very literal. For most lyrical poetry, it’s almost impossible to preserve the original melodic quality, while also trying to capture the exact images that the poet expresses. Often the best way to touch on both is to put side by side a literal translation and an attempt at matching the poem’s original rhyme scheme. Since Akhmatova’s poem is half the size of Tsvetaeva’s (12 lines vs 24), I try to capture the original rhyme in this rendering: __
The evening light is yellow and wide,
Tender is the April chill,
Many a year you to me denied,
Yet for you I still feel a thrill.
Closer to me you drew,
Looking with your eyes glowing:
Here is my notebook, blue —
With my childhood poems.
Forgive me, that I came undone,
And was not happy with the sun.
I mistook you for someone,
Mistook you for many other ones.
__
It’s a graceless attempt to be sure, but I hope it gives a taste of how the rhyme scheme in the original Russian makes the poem so memorable.