Category Archives: Translations

From Czech: The Blue Chrysanthemum, by Karel Čapek

(My translation of Karel Čapek’s short story Modrá chryzantéma, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929.)

PDF

S

o let me tell you – said old Fulinus – how Klára came into the world. It was that time when I was managing Prince Lichtenberg’s park in Lubenec. And the old prince, he was some connoisseur, Mr Čapek, believe me! He used to get mature trees sent over from Veitsch in England, and when it came to Dutch tulip bulbs – seventeen thousand! But that’s by the by. It was when I was walking down the street in Lubenec one Sunday that I met Klára. She was the village idiot – a deaf-mute and as mad as a hatter, but wherever she went she hee-hawed, but hee-hawed like the happiest person in the world. What is it, Mr Čapek, that makes those village idiots so happy? I was just going to get out of her way, so that she wouldn’t give me a kiss, when I noticed she was carrying a bouquet. Just some dill and some common-or-garden weeds from the meadows but, all of a sudden, I noticed something that made me stop in my tracks. In amongst it all, Mr Čapek, that nutty woman had a big, blousy chrysanthemum, which was blue! And what a blue, Mr Čapek! A bit like Phlox Laphamii, but with a touch of slate-grey and with a deep-pink border. And the inside was a beautiful saturated blue, like Campanula Turbinata. But even that’s not everything. The point is, Mr Čapek, in the case of the Chrysanthemum Indicum, a colour like that was – and to all intents and purposes still is – completely unknown! Some years ago I visited old Veitsch, and Sir James was boasting about how, the year before, they’d had a chrysanthemum – imported from China – that had bloomed with a touch of lilac but unfortunately it had died in the winter. And here was this cackling scarecrow of a woman with a chrysanthemum as blue as the bluest blue you can think of!

Continue reading From Czech: The Blue Chrysanthemum, by Karel Čapek

From Portuguese: The Man Who Spoke Javanese, by Lima Barreto

(My translation of the short story O homem que sabia javanês – The Man Who Spoke Javanese – by the Brazilian writer Lima Barreto, which was published in the Gazeta da Tarde in 1911)

 

PDF

I

 was in a coffee shop, telling my mate Castro how I’d conned people in order to earn a living. Once, when I was in Manaus, I’d even had to pretend I hadn’t been to university so that my clients wouldn’t think me unqualified for being a fortune-teller-cum-magician.

Continue reading From Portuguese: The Man Who Spoke Javanese, by Lima Barreto

From Czech: The Fortune Teller, by Karel Čapek

(My translation of Karel Čapek’s short story Věštkyně, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929)

 

PDF

A

nyone with half a brain will realise that this incident couldn’t have happened here or in France or Germany. As is well known, here and in those countries judges are required to punish wrong-doers according to the letter of the law rather than according to their ineffable acuity as superior gentlemen. This story involves a judge who made a judgement based not on the relevant sections of law but on his trusty common sense. So, as you will see, it has to do with England or, to be more precise, London, or, to be even more precise, Kensington; or perhaps Brompton or Bayswater – anyway, somewhere thereabouts. The judge was His Honour Judge Kelly and the woman who was the object of his ineffable acuity was Miss Edith Myers.

Continue reading From Czech: The Fortune Teller, by Karel Čapek

From Czech: Amongst People, by Karel Čapek

(My translation of Karel Čapek‘s short story Muž, který se nelíbil, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929.)

“I’ve got something for you,” said Mr Pacovský to Sergeant Kolda.

Before the Austro-Hungarian Empire collapsed, Mr Pacovský used to be in the mounted police, but after the war he just couldn’t adapt to the new situation. So he retired and travelled a bit before, finally, leasing the Bella Vista inn. Although it’s rather out of the way it’s beginning to become quite popular with tourists.

“Sergeant Kolda,” said Mr Pacovský, “I don’t get it. This fellow Roedl has had a room here for a fortnight. Which is no problem: he’s paying his way, doesn’t get drunk and doesn’t gamble, but… could you come and take a look at him some time?”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked Sergeant Kolda.

“That’s just it!” blurted out Mr Pacovský. “I’m damned if I know. There’s nothing special about him, but… How should I say it? I just don’t like the look of him!”

Sergeant Kolda scratched his head: “Roedl, Roedl… The name doesn’t ring a bell. What does he do?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr Pacovský. “He says he works in a bank, but I can’t get him to say which bank. There’s something fishy about him. He’s polite and everything, but… He never gets sent any post. It’s like he’s hiding from people. And I don’t like it.”

“How do you mean,” asked Sergeant Kolda, “‘he’s hiding from people?’”

“Well… he’s not exactly hiding from people,” said Mr Pacovský, “but… who on earth wants to go to the countryside in September? And whenever a car stops in front of the inn, he’s off to his room like a flash, even if he’s in the middle of his dinner. So, as I say… I don’t like the look of our Mr Roedl.”

Sergeant Kolda scratched his head again. “You know what, Mr Pacovský? How about this? Tell him you’re closing the inn for autumn. Let him go to Prague or wherever and then he can be someone else’s problem. Easy!”

The next day, which was a Sunday, a young Constable called Hurych – aka Márinka or Panenka – was returning from a walk. On the way he thought he might stop off for a drink and so, when he emerged from the woods, he headed directly to the Bella Vista. And, at the very moment when he was lingering at the back door of the inn to take a few puffs on his pipe, he heard a window being opened on the first floor at the rear of the building, and something hitting the ground with a thud. So he ran back to the courtyard and caught hold of a man who’d just jumped out of the window.

“What on earth are you doing?” he demanded. “Jumping out of the window like that?”

Apart from being pale, the man he was holding by the shoulder didn’t look overly concerned.

“Why shouldn’t I jump out of the window?” he replied, almost in a whisper. “I live here.”

“Well, even if you do,” said Constable Panenka after a pause for thought, “it doesn’t seem right to be jumping out of the window.”

“I didn’t know it was illegal to jump out of windows,” said the man, in a matter-of-fact way. “Ask Mr Pacovský. He’ll confirm that I live here. My name’s Roedl.”

“OK,” said Constable Panenka. “But show me your papers first.”

“Papers…?” said Mr Roedl. “I don’t have any papers with me, but I can write off for them.”

“We’ll do that ourselves,” snapped Constable Panenka. “Come with me, Mr Roedl.”

“Where?” said Mr Roedl, who’d gone even paler. “What right… what right have you to arrest me?”

“Because I don’t like the look of you, Mr Roedl,” said Constable Panenka. “Now kindly come quietly.”

At the police station, Sergeant Kolda was sitting behind the desk in his slippers, smoking his long pipe and reading the official bulletin. When he saw Panenka coming in with Mr Roedl, he wasn’t amused:

“Christ Almighty, Márinka! What the hell? Can’t I even have a bit of peace and quiet on a Sunday? Why do you have to bring people in on a Sunday, of all days?”

“Sir,” declared Constable Panenka, unperturbed, “I don’t like the look of this man. When he saw me entering the Bella Vista he jumped down into the courtyard from a window and wanted to get lost in the woods. And he’s got no papers on him. So I arrested him. He says his name is Roedl.”

“Ah!” said Sergeant Kolda, suddenly interested. “Well, well, Mr Roedl. So you’re here at last.”

“But you can’t arrest me,” said Mr Roedl.

“No, we can’t,” agreed Sergeant Kolda. “But we can keep you here, can’t we? Go back to the inn, Márinka, search Mr Roedl’s room and get his things brought over here… Have a seat, Mr Roedl.”

“I… I refuse to say anything,” spluttered Mr Roedl. “I shall make a complaint!… I protest!…”

Sergeant Kolda sighed. “Bloody hell, Mr Roedl! I really don’t like the cut of your jib. So I’m not going to waste my time. Sit there and keep your mouth shut.”

Having said that, he picked up the bulletin again and carried on reading. And it wasn’t until some minutes had passed that he said:

“Do you know, Mr Roedl, I can see in your eyes that’s something’s not right with you. If I were you, I’d spill the beans and have done with it. But if you don’t want to, you can have it you own way.”

Even paler, and with sweat running down his face, Mr Roedl sat there. Sergeant Kolda watched him for a while. Then, harrumphing, he got up and went over to rearrange the mushrooms he was drying under the stove.

“Look, Mr Roedl,” he began again after a while, “we’ll find out who you really are and then you’ll be sitting in the clink with no-one at all to talk to. Don’t be an ass!”

But Mr Roedl remained resolutely silent and Sergeant Kolda, muttering to himself in annoyance, began cleaning his pipe.

“Well,” he said, “look at it this way. It could take up to a month for us to find out who you are. But that month won’t be knocked off your sentence. And that would be a pity, wouldn’t it?”

“And if I talk,” said Mr Roedl, “that would…”

“That would mean you’ll be remanded in custody,” Sergeant Kolda explained, “and that’ll be taken into account. But as you wish. I don’t like the look of you and I’ll be glad when they take you off to the regional court. So that’s how things stand, Mr Roedl.”

Mr Roedl sighed. His eyes flitted around the room and he looked even more woebegone and haunted than before. “Why does everyone say they don’t like me?” he asked, barely audibly.

“Because you’re afraid,” Sergeant Kolda replied calmly. “You’re hiding something, Mr Roedl, and no-one likes that. Why don’t you look people in the eyes? You’re hot and bothered, aren’t you Mr Roedl?”

“Rosner,” came the anxious correction.

Sergeant Kolda thought for a moment. “Rosner, Rosner… Now, which Rosner would that be? The name sounds somehow familiar.”

“Ferdinand Rosner.”

“Ferdinand Rosner,” repeated Sergeant Kolda. “That’s definitely familiar. Ferdinand Rosner…”

“The deposit bank in Vienna,” offered the pale, crestfallen man.

“Ah, yes!” cried Sergeant Kolda. “Now I remember: embezzlement! Yes, yes… Rosner. My dear Mr Rosner, we’ve had an arrest warrant out for you for the last three years!… So you’re Mr Rosner.”

Sergeant Kolda seemed to enjoy repeating the name.

“But why didn’t you tell us straight away? I was almost going to kick you out… Guess what!” he shouted at Constable Hurych, who was just entering, “it’s Rosner, the embezzler.”

“But…” came a single, painful monosyllable from Mr Rosner.

“But you’ll get used to it, Mr Rosner,” said Sergeant Kolda. “You should be glad it’s out in the open. But, dear me, where have you been hiding for the past three years?”

“In sleeping cars and in swish hotels – the sorts of places where they don’t ask who you are and where you’re from.”

“Well I never!” exclaimed Sergeant Kolda, rather more sympathetically. “You were having the life of Riley, weren’t you?”

“Yes and no,” said Mr Rosner. “I couldn’t go into any old pub, where the cops might come and poke around, could I? I had to live beyond my means, like it or not! And I never stayed at a place longer than three nights, except here – and that’s where you caught me.”

“Never mind!” said Sergeant Kolda. “The money had run out, hadn’t it, Mr Rosner? So it was the end of the road, however you look at it.”

“It was,” agreed Mr Rosner. “But let me tell you, I couldn’t have endured carrying on. Christ! This is the first time in three years I’ve had a proper chat with anyone! I couldn’t even have a decent meal in a restaurant – as soon as anyone started staring at me, I’d be looking to take my leave. I imagined every other person was working for the police. Even Mr Pacovský.”

“Well, that’s hardly surprising,” said Sergeant Kolda. “He used to be a policeman.”

“Exactly,” muttered Mr Rosner. “So how can you ever escape? And why did everyone look at me like that? Do I look like a criminal or something?”

Sergeant Kolda took a good look at him. “Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Rosner, I don’t think you do now. Now you look pretty much like an ordinary person. But a while back, my friend, I really didn’t like the look of you. I don’t know, something about you… Well, Márinka will take you to the court. It’s not six yet, so they’ll discount today from your sentence. And if it wasn’t Sunday today I’d take you there myself, so you could see… erm… that I don’t have anything against you. It must have been the result of not having a home to call your own, Mr Rosner. But now you’ll be OK. Arrest him, Márinka!”

“You know what, Márinka?” said Sergeant Kolda later that evening. “I was getting to like that Mr Rosner. Quite a nice fellow, wasn’t he? I don’t think they’ll give him more than a year.”

“I asked them to give him two blankets,” said Constable Panenka, rather sheepishly. “He’s not used to sleeping on planks.”

“Quite right,” said Sergeant Kolda. “And I’ll tell the guard to have a chat with him every now and then. So he can see he’s back amongst people.”

From Portuguese: With Muffled Drum, by Machado de Assis

(My translation of the short story Marcha Fúnebre by Machado de Assis)

O

ne night in August 1866, Senator Cordovil was having difficulty sleeping. He’d come away early from the Fluminense Casino, soon after the Emperor had left, and had felt perfectly well, both mentally and physically. Indeed it had been an excellent evening, especially as one of his enemies, who had a heart problem, had died at about ten o’clock, the news arriving at the Casino shortly after eleven.

Continue reading From Portuguese: With Muffled Drum, by Machado de Assis

From Portuguese: Our Song, by Machado de Assis

(My translation of the short story Cantiga de esponsais by Machado de Assis – 1839-1908)

I

magine it’s 1813. You’re in the Carmelite Church, listening to one of those marvellous old masses that used to be the essence of public entertainment and musical artistry. You know what a sung mass is; you can imagine what a sung mass would have been in those far-off times. I’m not asking you to concentrate on the priests and sacristans, nor the sermon, nor the eyes of the Cariocan girls (already beautiful in those days), nor the mantillas of the dour senhoras, nor the shoes, hairdos, pelmets, lights, incense… none of that. I’m not even talking about the orchestra (which is excellent). I’m just pointing out the white-haired old man who—with all his devoted soul—is conducting the orchestra.

Continue reading From Portuguese: Our Song, by Machado de Assis

From Portuguese: Looking after, by Machado de Assis

(My translation of the short story O enfermeiro by Machado de Assis)

S

o you think what happened to me in 1860 warrants a few pages? Fair enough, but on condition you don’t let anyone see it until I’m dead. You won’t have to wait long, maybe a week, if not less; I don’t have any illusions about that.

Continue…

From Portuguese: The Clairvoyant, by Lima Barreto

(My translation of the short story A Cartomante, by Lima Barreto, which was published in Histórias e Sonhos in 1951)

No doubt about it: only the evil eye could explain all the trials and tribulations of the past five years. Whenever he tried to achieve anything, it all went wrong. Take, for instance, his application for the public health job; no sooner had he secured the backing of a government bigwig than politics did a flip-flop. And if he bought a lottery ticket, it would always be the next group of numbers or the one just before. Everything seemed to be telling him he’d never get on in life again. If it wasn’t for his wife’s sewing, they’d really have been in dire straits. It was five years since he’d earned anything at all; and on the rare occasions he’d had such a thing as a banknote in his pocket it had been at the cost of grovelling to friends and acquaintances.

Continue…

From Czech: Midnight Mass, by Jan Neruda

(My translation of the short story Svatováclavská mše by Jan Neruda, which was published in Povídky malostranské in 1877)

Portrait by Jan Vilímek

I  was sitting at the bottom of the steps leading up to the choir lofts and could hardly breathe. Through the iron grill of the door, which stood ajar, I had a good view of the nave – as far as the silver tomb of St Jan on the right and the sacristy on the left. Benediction had finished a long time ago and St Vít’s cathedral was empty except for two people: my mother, who was kneeling at the tomb, lost in prayer; and the old sacristan, who was making his last round before locking up. He walked past me, only a few paces away, and turned to the exit under the royal oratory, where I could hear him turning the key in the door and then trying the handle to make sure it was locked. Then he carried on and, as he did so, my mother got to her feet, made the sign of the cross and walked off beside him, and both of them were soon hidden from view by the tomb. For a few moments I could only hear the echo of their footsteps and snatches of conversation before they reappeared over by the sacristy. I heard him shut the door and, once again, there was the sound of locking and making sure with the handle. Then they continued to the exit on the right. There were two metalic clicks, after which I was alone in the cathedral and unable to get out. A wave of heat seemed to sweep across my back – a strange feeling, but not unpleasant.

Continue…

From Portuguese: A Christmas Miracle, by Lima Barreto

(My translation of the short story Milagre do Natal)

The Andaraí district is very melancholy and very damp. The mountains that adorn our city are even higher out there and are still covered by the dense vegetation that must have been even more abundant in bygone days. And the dark grey of the trees turns the horizon almost black, and the general ambience even sadder.

Continue…

From Czech: The Lost Letter, by Karel Čapek

(My translation of the short story Ztracený dopis, which was published in Povídky z jedné kapsy in 1929.)

 

“Boženka,” said the minister of state to his wife as he took another generous helping of salad, “I got a letter this afternoon that I think will interest you. I’ll have to present it to the council of ministers. If people get to know about it, a certain political party will find itself in a pretty pickle. Take a look at it yourself.”

Continue…

From Portuguese: Cazuza’s One and Only Murder, by Lima Barreto

(My translation of the short story O único assassinato de Cazuza, which was published in Contos reunidos in 1949. There’s a strong autobiographical element in this story.)

Hildegardo Brandão, known to his friends as Cazuza, had got to the age of fifty and a bit, and was down but not out. After acute crises of despair, bitterness and resentment brought on by the injustice which had thwarted him in all his worthy ambitions, a sort of grave and calm beatitude had descended on him, as if he were preparing himself for death.

Continued…