History and Summary
When
Babel first began writing the individual stories of Red
Cavalry, they were nonfiction recaps of his experiences in the
war, published in newspapers. However, through numerous
rewrites, his characters and stories became fictional, and it is
still hard to determine which of the stories in the compilation are
true memory and which are imagination.
While this collection of stories was immensely popular
throughout Russia, Budyonny
criticized Babel, saying that his representation of the Cossack army
was insulting and inaccurate.
In
Red Cavalry, Kirill Vasilyevich Lyutov follows the course of
the Russian
Civil War with unsophisticated, uneducated Cossack soldiers. The reader sees these
soldiers wreak a trail of savagery through Russia's Polish
territoryfrom the point of view of Lyutov, a Jewish war correspondent
and Babel's alter-ego. The work brings together the
tensions that Babel must have experienced while traveling with the
Red
Army. Lyutov seems to identify
himself as an ethical and honorable Jew, but this identification
strictly contrasts the Cossacks’ mechanical devotion to the
state. Lyutov also struggles to be accepted and
respected by these primitive and uninhibited men rather than set
apart as a weak and intellectual Jew.
The Problem with Translation
It
isextremely difficult to read Babel’s work in English. Red Cavalry gives a reader a glimpse into
the reality of military Soviet life, but can a Westerner living in
the 21st century really understand what Babel was trying
to convey when he is not reading it in the original language? The
translation of a work is, if nothing else, a commentary on the work.
Whether accidentally or on purpose, a translator can evoke a
completely different response from the reader than the original
author had intended. Following are two different translations of the
same story from Red Cavalry. This is the first story of
the collection. The reader can clearly see the difference between the
two translations, and can begin to understand how hard it is to
figure out what Babel was really trying to convey to the reader.
“Crossing into
Poland”
The
commander of the VI Division reported: Novograd-Volynsk was
taken at dawn today. The Staff had left Krapivno, and our
baggage train was spread out in a noisy rearguard over the
highroad from Brest to Warsaw built by Nicholas I upon the
bones of the peasants.
Fields flowered around us, crimson with poppies; a noontide
breeze played in the yellowing rye; on the horizon virginal
buckwheat rose like the wall of a distant monastery. The
Volyn’s peaceful stream moved away from us in sinuous
curves and was lost in the pearly haze of the birch groves;
crawling between flowery slopes, it wound weary arms through
a wilderness of hops. The orange sun rolled down
the sky like a lopped-off head, and mild light glowed from
the cloud gorges. The standards of the
sunset flew above out heads.
Into the cool of evening dripped the smell of yesterday’s
blood, of slaughtered horses.
The blackened Zbruch roared, twisting itself into foamy knots
at the falls. The bridges were down, and we waded across the
river. On the
waves rested a majestic moon. The horses were in to the cruppers, and the
noisy torrent gurgled among hundreds of horses’ legs.
Somebody sank, loudly defaming the Mother of God. The river
was dotted with the square black patches of the wagons, and
was full of confused sounds, of whistling and singing, that
rose above the gleaming hollows, the serpentine trails of
the moon.
Far on in the night we reached Novograd. In the house where I
was billeted I found a pregnant woman and two red-haired,
scraggy-necked Jews. A third, huddled to the wall with his
head covered up, was already asleep. IN the room I was given I
discovered turned-out wardrobes, scraps of women’s fur
coats on the floor, human filth, fragments of the occult
crockery the Jews use only once a year, at Eastertime.
“Clear this up,” I said to the woman. “What
a filthy way to live!” The two Jews rose from their
places and, hopping on their felt soles, cleared the mess
from the floor. They skipped about noiselessly,
monkey-fashion, like Japs in a circus act, their necks
swelling and twisting. They put down for me a feather bed
that had been disemboweled, and I lay down by the wall next
to the third Jew, the one who was asleep.
Faint-hearted poverty closed in over my couch. Silence
overcame all. Only
the moon, clasping in her blue hands her round, bright,
carefree face, wandered like a vagrant outside the window. I
kneaded my numb legs and, lying on the ripped-open mattress,
fell asleep. And in my sleep the
Commander of the VI Division appeared to me; he was pursuing
the Brigade Commander on a heavy stallion, fired at him
twice between the eyes. The bullets pierced the Brigade Commander’s
head, and both his eyes dropped to the ground.
“Why did you turn back the brigade?” shouted
Savitsky, the Divisional Commander, to the wounded man—and
here I woke up, for the pregnant woman was groping over my
face with her fingers. “Good
sir,” she said, “you’re calling out in
your sleep and you’re tossing to and fro. I’ll
make you a bed in another corner, for you’re pushing
my father about.” She
raised her thin legs and rounded belly from the floor and
removed the blanket from the sleeper. Lying on his back was
an old man, a dead old man. His throat had been torn out and
his face cleft in two; in his beard blue blood was clotted
like a lump of lead. “Good
sir,” said the Jewess, shaking up the feather bed, “the
Poles cut his through and he begging them: ‘Kill me in
the yard so that my daughter shan’t see me die.’
But they did as suited them. He passed away in this room,
thinking of me.—And now I should wish to know,”
cried the woman with sudden and terrible violence, “I
should wish to know where in the whole world you could find
another father like my father?” |
“Crossing the
Zbrucz”
Nachdiv
6* has reported that Novograd-Volynsk was taken at
dawn today. The staff has moved out of
Krapivno, and our transport is strung like a noisy rearguard
along the high road, along the unfading high road that goes
from Brest to Warsaw and was build on the bones of muzhiks
by Nicholas I.
Fields of purple poppies flower around us, the noonday wind is
playing in the yellowing rye, and virginal buckwheat rises
on the horizon like the wall of a distant monastery. The
quiet Volyn is withdrawing from us into a pearly mist of
birch groves, it si creeping away into flowery knolls and
entangling itself with enfeebled arms in thickets of hops.
An orange sun is rolling across the sky like a severed head,
a gentle radiance glows in the ravines of the thunderclouds
and the standards of the sunset float above our heads. The
odour of yesterday’s blood and of slain horses drips
into the evening coolness.
The Zbrucz, now turned black, roars and pulls tight the foamy
knots of the rapids. The bridges have been
destroyed, and we ford the river on horseback. The horses
sink into the water up to their backs, the sonorous currents
ooze between hundreds of horses’ legs. Someone sinks,
and resonantly defames the Mother of God. The river is
littered with the black rectangles of carts, it is filled
with a rumbling, whistling and singing that clamour above
the serpents of the moon and the shining chasms.
Late at night we arrive in Novograd. In the billet that has
been assigned to me I find a pregnant woman and two
red-haired Jews with thin necks: a third is already asleep,
covered up to the top of his head and pressed against the
wall. In the
room that has been allotted to me, I find ransacked
wardrobes, on the floor scraps of women’s fur coats,
pieces of human excrement and broken shards of the sacred
vessels used by the Jews once a year, at Passover.
‘Clear up,’ I say to the woman. ‘What a
dirty life you live, landlords&’
The two Jews got up from their chairs. They hop about on felt
soles, clearing the detritus off the floor, they hop about
in silence, monkey-like, like Japanese in a circus; their
necks swell and revolve. They spread a torn feather mattress
for me, and I lie down facing the wall, alongside the third,
sleeping, Jew. A timid destitution immediately closes over
my place of rest.
All has been murdered by silence, and only the moon, clasping
her round, shining, carefree head in blue hands, plays the
vagrant under the window.
I stretch my numbed legs, I lie on the torn mattress and fall
asleep. I dream of nachdiv
6. He is pursuing the
kombrig* on a heavy stallion, and puts two bullets in
his eyes. The bullets penetrate the kombrig’s
head, and both his eyes fall to the ground.
‘Why did you turn the brigade about?’ Savitsky—nachdiv
6—cries to the wounded man, and at that point I
wake up because the pregnant woman is fumbling with her
fingers in my face.
‘Panie*,’ she says, ‘you are shouting
in your sleep, and you’re throwing yourself about. I’m
going to make your bed up in the other corner, because you’re
pushing my Papasha*&’
She raises thin legs and a round belly from the floor and
removes the blanket from the man who had fallen asleep. And
old man is lying there, on his back, dead.
His gullet has been torn out, his face has been cleft in two,
dark blue blood clings in his beard like pieces of lead.
‘Panie,’ the Jewess says, and she shakes up
the feather mattress, ‘the Poles were murdering him,
and he begged them: “Kill me out in the backyard so
that my daughter doesn’t see me die.” But they
did what suited them. He died in this room, thinking about
me. And now
tell me,’ the woman said suddenly with terrible force,
‘tell me where else in all the world you would find a father
like my father?’
*nachdiv 6—abbreviation
of nachal’nik divizii—‘divisional
commander’. The ‘6’ refers
to the number of the division; i.e. ‘the commander of
the sixth division’. *kombrig—abbreviation
of komandir brigady—‘brigade commander’. *Panie—‘Sir’
(Polish) *Papasha—‘papa’,‘Daddy’. |
It
is clear from reading both of these versions of the same story that
the translation can greatly affect the reader’s perception of
the story. From both versions, the
reader can get the same general gist of the meaning, but will still
miss some of the nuances that one version offers if he only reads one
of the versions. After noticing how different
the two translations are, the reader can begin to realize that he
cannot automatically assume he knows what Babel was trying to
convey in the work. He can only really know what
the translator was trying to convey in his edition.