4.  Chapter 4: The Problem of Translating a Literary Style with Reference to General Stylistic Features in Der Tod in Venedig

Comparatively little has been written in the field of translation theory about the problem of transposing a literary style into another language. Snell-Hornby’s (1988) summary of the literature still generally applies to the present situation:

Style is nominally an important factor in translation, but there are few detailed or satisfactory discussions of its role within translation theory. In their definitions of translation, both Nida and Wilss put style on a par with meaning or content. In Reiß (1971), Wilss (1977) and Koller (1979), references to aspects of style in translation are frequent, and Stolze (1994) devotes a complete section (1982: 300ff.) to the question of style. In all cases, however, the discussion is linked to specific items or examples, and no coherent theoretical approach is attempted. In the recent theories of Vermeer and Holz-Mänttäri the problem of style recedes perceptibly into the background: in Holz-Mänttäri (1984) it is barely mentioned, and in Reiß and Vermeer (1984) the topic is limited to brief references to the general need for a “Stiltheorie” in translation (1984: 22, 219). Up to now this has remained a desideratum. (Snell-Hornby 1988: 119-120)

Snell-Hornby is one of the few theorists to deal directly with the problem of style and she illustrates her arguments with examples of translated texts, which are then subjected to detailed analysis. The same approach will be taken with Luke’s and Lowe-Porter’s translations. Snell-Hornby’s approach seems to be eminently practical:

With the development of text-linguistics and the gradual emergence of translation studies as an independent discipline in its own right, there has been an increasing awareness of the text, not as a chain of separate sentences, these themselves being a string of grammatical and lexical items, but as a complex multi-dimensional structure consisting of more than a mere sum of its parts - a gestalt whereby an analysis of its parts cannot provide an understanding of the whole. Thus textual analysis, which is an essential preliminary to translation, should proceed from the “top down,” from the macro to the micro level, from text to sign. (Snell-Hornby 1988: 69)

The other sections of this chapter will be concerned with textual analysis, which will reveal something of the complexity of Thomas Mann’s style as well as the difficulty in ‘reproducing’ his stylistic effects.

In her study of the concept of style, Snell-Hornby cites Leech’s and Short’s term transparent to describe an easily digestible style (Leech and Short 1981: 19) and a difficult complex literary style is designated as opaque (Leech and Short 1981: 29). For the purpose of this study, the term opaque can be further defined in terms of [page 54↓] richness and density. The perspective of richness refers to the quantity and variety of stylistic features whereas density concentrates on the interaction of the various features together with their frequency per number of words in the text.

In addition to Snell-Hornby, Hatim and Mason (1998) are also amongst the few recent theoreticians who tackle the problem of style directly. They start with the traditional distinction between form and content with the severely practical question:

Should content be faithfully rendered at all costs, and form only if the translation of content allows? (Hatim and Mason 1998: 8)

It is true that most translators and, particularly the translators discussed in this study, give primacy to content over form or, in other words, to semantics over semiotics. Style is often treated as if it were a dispensable luxury.

The imitation or reproduction of a certain style, however, does have grave dangers if the translator is not fully aware of differing cultural factors. For example, Hatim and Mason quote Nida (1964), who as a Bible translator, is only too conscious of the pitfalls of misapplied cross-cultural transference:

What is entirely appropriate in Spanish, for example, might turn out to be quite unacceptable ‘purple prose’ in English, and the English prose we admire as dignified and effective often seems in Spanish to be colourless, insipid and flat. Many Spanish literary artists take delight in the flowery elegance of their language, while most English writers prefer bold realism, precision, and movement. (Nida 1964: 169)

To a certain extent, Nida’s ‘dilemma’ can be resolved by a judicious application of Newmark’s distinction between “semantic” and “communicative” translation, or alternatively the terms “domesticating” and “foreignising” translation as applied by Venuti (1995) can be used. A communicative translation would either find a ‘functional equivalent’ in the target language (for example, parallel wordplay in a humorous text) or, at least produce a stylistically readable TL text. A “foreignising” text, on the other hand, can afford to make more demands on the reader who wishes to experience something of the ‘feel’ or even ‘awkwardness’ of the original. Hatim and Mason rightly see the problem of translating style as semiotics:

The translator, as language user in a setting which is generally not that of the ST [source text] producer, has to be able to judge the semiotic value which is conveyed when particular stylistic options are selected. (Hatim and Mason 1998: 10)

An example of semiotic analysis is given in 5.4 with regard to the translation of poetry, where the concept of second-order semiotics is defined and illustrated. Before semiotics, there must, however, be analysis as has already been argued. In the case of Thomas Mann, the scrutiny of stylistic aspects is an enormous undertaking. This is an area which will be seen to provide a fruitful interface between literary analysis and translation. It will also be seen that Thomas Mann’s style is both extraordinarily dense and rich.

It is interesting to see how two other writers on Thomas Mann translations deal with the problem of translating Mann’s style. Hellman’s (1992) study comparing the French translation of Der Zauberberg with the original generally avoids any direct confrontation with the problem of style which is subsumed under different headings such as “Sondersprachen”, “Wortbildung”, “Abtönung” and “Rhetorische Figuren”. It is disappointing, however, that Hellmann (1992) restricts his comments to referring to a few translation deficiencies without offering alternative solutions or embarking on a theoretical discussion of how to deal with these difficulties. Although Hayes (1974) does devote a page to ‘style’ in his comparison of the Lowe-Porter and Burke translations of Der Tod in Venedig, he comes to the rather unhelpful conclusion that style is indefinable:

Style. The definitions of literary style are as numerous as the definers. (Hayes 1974: 37)

Hayes does, however, tackle many of Thomas Mann’s stylistic features, even if indirectly, under headings such as “diction” and “rhetorical figures”. There is, however, no general description of Mann’s style and he confines his comments to a few examples of Lowe-Porter’s mistranslations.

Style is used in the context of the present analysis as an umbrella term for stylistic features including connotation, structure, rhythm and general sonic effects together with their interaction with each other to produce a certain general tone or register. The first step is to analyse the style of a writer such as Mann which includes the study of the works of scholars who have undertaken this task. Just as the technical translator needs to be, or rapidly to become, an expert in the field he or she is translating, so the literary translator needs to work in close harmony with scholarly analyses of the particular writer who is being translated, which unfortunately would not seem to be the case with the Lowe-Porter translation. So much has been written on the stylistic aspects of Thomas Mann’s works that it would be virtually impossible even to summarise the [page 56↓]research taking place on a world-wide basis. For the purposes of a study of Thomas Mann in translation, it will be sufficient to focus on those aspects which are of interest to the translator. In the case of Thomas Mann, it is fortunate that there are two excellent articles which have concentrated on these key stylistic aspects: Koch-Emmery (1953) and Seidlin (1963). The former article analyses Mann’s style in conjunction with the Lowe-Porter translation whereas the latter not only refers explicitly to translation problems but also highlights those very aspects which would seem to be untranslatable.

Koch-Emmery outlines the difficulties in the syntactic structure of Thomas Mann’s sentences:

But this is only the beginning of a translator’s difficulties. Thomas Mann has inherited from no less a predecessor than Goethe a German style which, in its ponderous, sonorous beauty, is a miracle of logical precision, of flexible phraseology and accumulative vigour. Every single paragraph in Thomas Mann’s writings represents a solid structure, it is built to an architect’s plan; some of them may be compared to castles, others to cathedrals, others to picture galleries or wayside inns, but they are all solidly constructed. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 275)

The truth of these rather florid assertions will be confirmed even more in the detailed analysis in Sections 4.3-4.4, which show just how tightly constructed Mann’s sentences really are, sometimes demanding the same complexity as poetic form. Thomas Mann was a quite deliberate and self-conscious stylist as statements such as the following example clearly demonstrates:

Mein Streben ist, das Schwere leicht zu machen; mein Ideal: Klarheit; und wenn ich lange Sätze schreibe, wozu die deutsche Sprache nun einmal neigt, lasse ich es mir, ich glaube, nicht ohne Erfolg, angelegen zu sein, der Periode vollkommene Durchsichtigkeit und Sprechbarkeit zu wahren. Einmal, zu Beginn der Josephgeschichten, habe ich mir den Spaß gemacht, einen Satz zu schreiben, der sich über anderthalb Seiten erstreckt. Die Übersetzer haben ihn natürlich in viele kurze zerlegt. Aber wer deutsch versteht, lese sich den Josephsatz nur vor und sehe, ob man dabei ein einziges Mal den Faden verliert. (Mann 1965: 199-200. My emphasis.)

This complexity of Mann’s style is confirmed by Koch-Emmery’s detailed description:

The unique secret of German syntax is that you can encase your sentences into each other, interlink and dovetail them in a hundred different ways. This skilful art has been exploited by [page 57↓]Thomas Mann with a dazzling, almost uncanny mastery. The result is a word texture so closely knit, so delicately shaped, so subtly suggestive of every shade of thought and emotion, that any less enterprising translator would have despaired of ever rendering it down into comprehensible English. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 275)

It can be seen from the above quotations that both Thomas Mann and Koch-Emmery rule out the possibility of a foreignising translation that could reflect the same complexity of Mann’s sentences. Koch-Emmery argues that no matter how competent a translator might be, the stylistic features of Thomas Mann’s prose are inevitably lost in translation. To illustrate his argument, his analysis proceeds by contrasting a German sentence with Lowe-Porter’s English translation:

In the following I shall place original and translation side by side, not merely to criticise but to arrive at some general criteria of translation from the German. The translator, just because he or she feels that purely literary translation is out of the question, concentrates on detail, on word-translations but is inclined to overlook the main principle that underlies the sentence structure in the original. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 276. My emphasis.)

Koch-Emmery’s rather unusual coined noun word-translations presumably refers to semantic considerations in the form of ‘equivalent’ words and phrases, or, in other words, the precedence of content over form. The methodology of both Lowe-Porter and Luke is quite clearly word-by-word, phrase-by-phrase and sentence-by-sentence translation with the main stress on semantic accuracy rather than on rendering stylistic or formal features. In addition, Lowe-Porter has a tendency to simplify and break down Thomas Mann’s complex syntax into shorter sentences as a deliberate strategy. Her justification for this approach was based on her belief that the stylistic differences were merely the differences between German and English rather than having anything to do with Thomas Mann’s particular stylistic genius. It is, of course, also true that German syntax can hold many more subordinate clauses than can English syntax, but there is no reference to Thomas Mann’s own specific ‘play’ with the syntactic features of German. To justify this approach, she wrote:

The German constructs more relative and subordinate clauses, with longer sentences, a different order. So the sentences, in order not to produce clumsy English, must be broken up - with the result that nobody is quite satisfied [...]. Sometimes the actual order not only of the words but of the thoughts, the logical sequence, differs in the two languages. (Thirlwall 1966: 199-200)

Koch-Emmery’s stylistic criticism is particularly interesting as he does not concentrate only on the connotative aspects, but instead, highlights the structural and [page 58↓]syntactic stylistic features of whole sentences. Koch-Emmery claims that the typical structure of a Thomas Mann sentence has a triadic form, consisting of the following elements: A an introductory clause (protasis), B - the principal statement and C explanation or elaboration (apodosis). Koch-Emmery uses terminology taken from sacred art, which reflects the ‘awe’ writers within the literary canon inspired and the veneration academics and literary critics often expressed at that time:

I also like to refer to it [the structure] as the triptych because it bears a striking resemblance to the three panels of an altar-piece. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 277. My insertion.)

Koch-Emmery copiously illustrates his thesis with nine examples from various works of Thomas Mann. As this material is used to emphasise this same basic point, three examples taken from Der Tod in Venedig should suffice to illustrate his analysis:

Example I

A. Weder auf der gepflasterten Ungererstraße, deren Schienengleise sich einsam gleißend gegen Schwabing erstreckten, noch auf der Föhringer Chaussee war ein Fuhrwerk zu sehen; (protasis)

B. hinter den Zäunen der Steinmetzereien, wo zu Kauf stehende Kreuze, Gedächtnistafeln und Monumente ein zweites, unbehaustes Gräberfeld bilden, regte sich nichts, (principal statement)

C. und das byzantische Bauwerk der Aussegnungshalle gegenüber lag schweigend im Abglanz des scheidenden Tages. (apodosis)

Lowe-Porter’s translation is set out in a similar way for the sake of clarity although the structural divisions do not strictly apply to her translation, which, in fact, breaks down the tight unity of the original into three separate sentences:

A. Not a wagon in sight, either on the paved Ungererstrasse, with its gleaming tramlines stretching off towards Schwabing, nor on the Föhring highway.

B. Nothing stirred behind the hedge in the stone-mason’s yard, where crosses, monuments, and commemorative tablets made a supernumerary and untenanted graveyard opposite the real one.

C. The mortuary chapel, a structure in Byzantine style, stood facing it, silent in the gleam of the ebbing day. (Lowe-Porter 1978: 7)

Koch-Emmery expresses his disappointment because of the way Lowe-Porter destroys the (triadic) structure, the rhythm and the tension:

A large number of Thomas Mann’s periods seem to begin with a main clause, which, however, does not contain the principle statement, but only leads up to it. Again the translator feels compelled to cut the period into three independent sentences and to reverse the rhythm. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 280)

Lowe-Porter’s three sentences have the opposite stylistic effect to the original. They also have a much faster pace and rhythm even though they are supposed to be creating an atmosphere of emptiness and desolation, anticipating the theme of death. The phrase “Not a wagon in sight” in contrast to the source text, “war ein Fuhrwerk zu sehen” has a brisk, cheerful rhythm. Similarly the clause, “Nothing stirred” almost has the effect of an event, even though in this case the lack of movement should be felt as absence. The last sentence does indeed have a poetic effect, but one of dignity, calm and beauty, but not of fading away with a hint of slow, departing death as in the source text. The whole passage, however, fails as a reproduction of Thomas Mann’s style, as is validly argued by Koch-Emmery, because the tension and tightness of the structure held together by the syntactic tightness of Mann’s prose are totally lost in the translation. In the source text, in part A, there is an almost unbearable tension caused by the long separation from the negative particles in the weder . . . . noch construction, which results in giving a ‘ghostly’ existence to the vehicle in the clause war ein Fuhrwerk zu sehen as if reflected in a non-existent negative universe.

In part B in the source text, the ‘negative’ discourse is continued, creating an increased sense of emptiness, lack of movement and atmosphere of death in the parallel main clause, regte sich nichts. In part C, the deathly associations of the stillness are made explicit (apodosis) with the reference to the "Aussegnungshalle”.

Brilliance, beauty and art are subsidiary themes expressed in the following phrases: "einsam gleißend", "das byzantinische Bauwerk" and "im Abglanz", thus subtly intertwining the themes of art and death. The final effect in part C is one of fading away amidst the dazzling beauty of monumental art with the rhythm reflecting the sense perfectly. The ‘hardness’ of the potential masculine rhyme in Abglanz is set against the gentle rhythm of the parting day with the slow, feminine half-rhyme of scheidenden echoing schweigend in the same phrase, thus subtly hinting at the themes of slow parting, stillness and death:

[...] lag schweigend im Abglanz des scheidenden Tages. (My emphasis.)

The final phrase scheidenden Tages can scan as a typical hexameter ending (a dactyl followed by a trochee) or, in this case, rather an imperfect spondee (Tages) in the genitive ending es with the fricative, fading away slowly into the silence of death, and thus bearing the weight of a stressed syllable.

The same kind of criticism Koch-Emmery makes concerning Lowe-Porter’s translation could equally apply to Luke’s version, even though his translation is semantically more accurate:

Luke: Not one vehicle passed along the Föhringer Chaussee or the paved Ungererstrasse, with its gleaming tramlines stretching off towards Schwabing, nor on the Föhring highway.

Nothing stirred behind the fencing of the stone-masons’ yards, where crosses and memorial tablets and monuments, ready for sale, composed a second and untenanted burial ground;

across the street, the mortuary chapel with its Byzantine styling stood silent in the glow of the westering day. (Luke 1988: 195-196)

Luke correctly translates Fuhrwerk as “vehicle” and both translators do achieve some poetic effect with the final main clause. In this case, Lowe-Porter’s translation “silent in the gleam of the ebbing day” would seem preferable to Luke’s “silent in the glow of the westering day” because the idea of ebbing as in the sentence He felt his life ebbing away is more suggestive of the feeling of slow death than Luke’s use of the obscure verb westering.

In the next example, Koch-Emmery makes no comment, but the implication is clear that rhythms and tightness of construction are missed in the translation. It concerns the sudden and frightening appearance of the figure in the graveyard who is reminiscent of the ‘Grim Reaper’:

Example II

Mäßig hochgewachsen, mager, bartlos und auffallend stumpfnasig, (protasis)

gehörte der Mann zum rothaarigen Typus (principal statement)

und besaß dessen milchige und sommersprossige Haut. (Mann 1977: 339) (apodosis)

Lowe-Porter: He was of medium height, thin, beardless and strikingly snub-nosed; he belonged to the red-haired type and possessed its milky, freckled skin. (Lowe-Porter 1978: 8)

In Section A of the source text, the physical effect of the sinister figure is dramatically portrayed with the accumulation of adjectives contrasting with the humorous and ironic tone of the prosaic, rational explanatory sections, B and C: The ‘Grim Reaper’ has suddenly become a very ordinary human being. Without subjecting the Lowe-Porter translation to detailed, structured analysis, it is quite evident that the bathos is lost in the translation, which merely offers a neutral, factual description, thus losing all the sinister nuances and ironic effect of the source text. Again, the same loss of [page 61↓]rhythmic and structural effect applies to the Luke version which has a cheerful, almost ‘chirpy’ rhythm. It is, in fact, remarkably close to the Lowe-Porter version:

Luke: The man was moderately tall, thin, beardless and remarkably snub-nosed; he belonged to the red-haired type and had its milky, freckled complexion. (Luke 1988: 195)

The third example taken from the same paragraph in Der Tod in Venedig displays similar stylistic losses:

Example III

Erhobenen Hauptes, so daß an seinem hager dem losen Sporthemd entwachsenden Halse der Adamsapfel stark und nackt hervortrat, (protasis)

blickte er mit farblosen, rotbewimperten Augen, zwischen denen sonderbar genug zu seiner kurz aufgeworfenen Nase passend, zwei senkrechte energische Furchen standen, (principal statement)

scharf spähend ins Weite. (Mann 1977: 339) (apodosis)

Lowe-Porter: His chin was up, so that the Adam’s apple looked very bald in the lean neck rising from the loose shirt: and he stood there, sharply peering into space out of colourless, redlashed eyes, while two pronounced perpendicular furrows showed on his forehead in curious contrast to his little turned-up nose. (Lowe-Porter 1978: 8-9.)

The majestic dignity of ‘Death’ expressed in the opening, archaically poetic phrase “Erhobenen Hauptes” has a ludicrous prosaic effect in the English version, “His chin was up”, with its inevitable association with collocations such as Chin up, old boy! Part A of the original sentence expresses something of both the dignity and horror of death by increasing the tension with the tight and taut structure of part B so that Part C ends in a release of tension with the lordly figure of Death looking into the distance whilst, at the same time, the adverb scharf reminds us of Death’s cruel scythe. The feminine ending of the phrase “ins Weite” heightens the feeling of openness, hinting at infinite space. Many other stylistic points could be made, but Koch-Emmery gives a rather vague, but enthusiastic summary of the stylistic, syntactical features of this sentence:

The skeleton of the sentence: Erhobenen Hauptes blickte er scharf spähend ins Weite is broken up by two long parentheses which give apparently two fortuitous but very characteristic traits; they make the reader feel that he himself watches the scene, that he himself is an onlooker, who has a very clear visual impression. In the translation the description comes after the main clause, it is no part of the first ‘striking impression’, but tagged on at the end. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 283)

Again, there is a similar stylistic loss in Luke’s version:

[page 62↓] His head was held high, so that the Adam’s apple stood out stark and bare on his lean neck where it rose from the open shirt; and there were two pronounced vertical furrows, rather strangely ill-matched to his turned-up nose, between the colorless red-lashed eyes with which he peered sharply into the distance. (Luke 1988: 195-196)

Luke’s version is free of the grosser infelicities to be found in Lowe-Porter’s translation referred to above, but again, Thomas Mann’s subtle stylistic features are also lost.

In summary, Koch-Emmery’s basic argument throughout his article is that the translator or any translator “obsessed with the idea of finding an exact English equivalent for every German word” (Koch-Emmery 1953: 276) invariably misses the subtlety inherent in the structure of Thomas Mann’s sentences, thereby losing their essential stylistic features. He argues that the translator (i.e. Lowe-Porter) breaks down one finely structured sentence of the source text into two or three sentences for the sake of simplicity to produce clear, idiomatic prose in the target language with the result that the meaning is conveyed, but stylistic effect is lost. This is a good example that illustrates how the academic approach is inadequate for doing justice to the stylistic features in Thomas Mann’s highly poetic prose. Although Koch-Emmery does not explicitly state that the stylistic effect is more important than the semantic content, this is the clear import of the argument. However, Koch-Emmery resorts to the ‘untranslatability’ argument with regard to great literature, despairing with regard to the possibility of an equivalent stylistic effect being produced.

I would find it very hard to improve on Mrs. Lowe-Porter’s translations, yet I am convinced that a careful analysis of the major discrepancies between her version and the German text will help, not only to show up Thomas Mann’s inimitable artistry, but also to pave the way for a more faithful, a more congenial art of translation, which in the long run, will profit world literature as a whole. (Koch-Emmery 1953: 283-284. My emphasis.)

Mandel (1982), like Koch-Emmery and Hayes, seems to have been impressed by the sheer quantity and commercial success of the Lowe-Porter oeuvre:

Her near-monopoly of translating Mann’s books resulted in more triumphs than failures; no one has claimed perfection for her work but few denied her considerable achievements and integrity. (Mandel 1982: 33)

Mandel does not, however, give as thorough an analysis of Mann’s stylistic features as does Koch-Emmery nor does he refer to the latter’s article. On the other hand, Mandel does recognise that any fair and thorough treatment of Lowe-Porter’s work would require “a book-length study” (Mandel 1982: 36):

Like Thirlwall’s book (1966) Mandel’s article is essentially an encomium to Lowe-Porter’s oeuvre, but Mandel gives a brief analysis of some stylistic features in the opening paragraph of Der kleine Herr Friedemann. He compares the source text with three translations into English: those of Scheffauer, Lowe-Porter and Luke in their chronological order:

Thomas Mann: Er war nicht schön, der kleine Johannes; und wie er so mit seiner hohen und spitzen Brust, seinem weit ausladenden Rücken und seinen viel zu langen, mageren Armen auf dem Schemel hockte und mit einem behenden Eifer seine Nüsse knackte, bot er einen seltsamen Anblick.

Scheffauer: He was not a beautiful child, little Johannes: and as he sat there on his stool with his pointed pigeon-breast, his hunched-up back, and his all too long, skinny arms, and cracked nuts with a great zest, he offered a most remarkable spectacle.

Lowe-Porter: He was not beautiful, little Johannes, as he crouched on his stool industriously cracking his nuts. In fact, he was a strange sight, with his pigeon breast, humped back, and disproportionately long arms. (My emphasis.)

Luke: Little Johannes was no beauty, with his pigeon chest, his steeply humped back and his disproportionately skinny arms, and as he squatted there on his stool, nimbly cracking his nuts, he was certainly a strange sight. (Mandel 1982: 37. My emphasis.)

Like Koch-Emmery, Mandel notes that Lowe-Porter tends to break sentences down in the interests of readability but at the expense of subtle stylistic features whereas, in this case, the other two translators retain something of the structure and tension of the original:

The long sentence quoted and the translations demonstrate quickly the many options open to translators. Mann’s sentence of 46 words is carefully architectured with a leisurely flowing parallelistic series of descriptive phrases. Scheffauer’s 45-word sentence is quite faithful to the original. Lowe-Porter compacts matters into 33 words and too easily digestible sentences. As a general principle, she said ‘I have felt it sensible to break up the sentences and even to transpose them.’ By doing so in this case, she resorts to an unauthorised connective, ‘in fact’. Staying with a one-sentence translation, however, Scheffauer and Luke are able to preserve Mann’s neatly-wrought frame or envelope which begins and ends with a statement about Johannes. (Mandel 1982: 37-38)

Mandel also spotted the grossly infelicitous translation of using the possessive in the phrase cracking his nuts together with Luke’s tendency to follow the Lowe-Porter text too closely, even to the point of copying her mistakes:

In an unguarded moment, Lowe-Porter produces an idiomatically awkward, if not funny, phrase about a boy ‘cracking his nuts,’ which is blandly repeated by Luke. All three translators would have been better advised to use the word ‘walnuts,’ which was Mann’s point of reference in an earlier sentence. Other personal preferences or slips by the translators are discernible and debits and merits crop up impartially. (Mandel 1982: 38. My emphasis.)

Mandel also gives a very brief analysis of a sentence taken from the graveyard encounter already discussed in 4.2. He notes Lowe-Porter’s poor rendering of the phrase Fremdländischen und Weitherkommenden in the sentence which follows on immediately from the one already quoted:

Thomas Mann: Offenbar war er durchaus nicht bajuwarischen Schlages: wie denn wenigstens der breit und gerade gerandete Basthut, der ihm den Kopf bedeckte, seinem Aussehen ein Gepräge des Fremdländischen und Weitherkommenden verlieh.

Lowe-Porter: He was obviously not Bavarian; and the broad, straight-brimmed straw hat he had on even made him look distinctly exotic. (Lowe-Porter 1978: 8-9)

Mandel rightly notes that Lowe-Porter’s phrase which “even made him look distinctly exotic” does not evoke an alien, strange and frightening personage:

Readers may remember that Aschenbach in Der Tod in Venedig sees someone whose straw hat gave him the appearance of a ‘Fremdländischen und Weitherkommenden’: Lowe-Porter in Death in Venice translates with compression, so that the straw hat ‘even made him look distinctly exotic.’ Kenneth Burke takes no short cuts and reproduces Mann’s double description of the figure who has ‘the stamp of a foreigner, of someone who had come from a long distance.’ Lowe-Porter’s word ‘exotic’, one may argue has interpretative aptness, but that is not what Mann wished to emphasise. (Mandel 1982: 38)

It would be difficult to argue that her choice of the adjective exotic could have any “interpretative aptness” with its contrary positive implications of colour, life and energy. Incredibly, Luke once again slavishly follows Lowe-Porter’s translation with his choice of the adjective exotic:

He was quite evidently not of Bavarian origin: at all events, he wore a straw hat with a broad straight rim which gave him an exotic air, as of some one who had come from distant parts. (Luke 1988: 195-196. My emphasis.)

In this context, a translation such as the adjective alien would be a rough equivalent and even though Luke’s phrase “as of some one who had come from distant parts” is adequate for the surface meaning, a bolder translation such as There was something alien about him as of a stranger who had emerged from some far-flung part of the [page 65↓] planet would emphasise the elements of foreignness and eeriness about the ‘Death’ figure. The combination of alien and planet would further underline the ‘inhuman’ connotations. Mandel also does not refer to the stylistic conceit in the phrase “der breit und gerade gerandete Basthut” which also ends like a classical hexameter with two clear-cut dactyls followed by a spondee. Mandel’s conclusion is similar to that of Koch-Emmery in that he argues that, despite her stylistic deficiencies, Lowe-Porter’s oeuvre represents a colossal literary achievement. He does concede that her translations are of inferior literary quality:

By comparison, Lowe-Porter translations often have a harsher edge than those of most other translators mentioned in this essay and do not, for instance, come up to the level of literary finesse gained by Lindley. There is something to her self-characterisation as a sociological rather than a ‘literary bird.’ It helps to explain her preference for brevity when Mann’s phrases seem redundant or literary flourishes, the radical surgery she performed in the ‘Johannes’ sentence is typical. That approach can have the effect of undercutting Mann’s deliberate artistry, symbolic iteration, thematic allusions, and variable repetition. (Mandel 1982: 38)

As has already been seen in this Section, Mandel’s analysis of stylistic features displayed in Lowe-Porter’s work, however, lacks precise reference and tends to be rather vague with his notions such as “linguistic approximations”, “dialect substitutions” and “historical styles different from Mann’s”, as in the quotation below:

[...] for in her translating she has invented her own linguistic approximations, has made dialect substitutions, and has drawn on historical styles different from Mann’s; at times, she aimed to ‘translate etymologically - the idea - in other words,’ and to fit new words into the original contexts. (Mandel 1982: 39. My emphasis.)

Again, it is not quite clear, what he means by “etymological translation” other than non-literal translation or perhaps “word-translation” as used by Koch-Emmery in this chapter. Mandel’s phrase, “fitting new words into original contexts” is likewise unclear.

Mandel quotes Lowe-Porter’s observation that the reproduction of style is analogous to portraiture rather than photography:

Lowe-Porter once said that the effect of reproducing the style of the original in general results in a portrait, not a photograph. If translation is portraiture, Lowe-Porter has indeed used a personal palette. (Mandel 1982: 39)

The metaphor of a portrait may be rather too complimentary in her case as good portraiture implies artistic licence to provide an enhanced effect with the result that a portrait can often tell us more than a photograph whereas her translation often [page 66↓]completely misses or ignores stylistic features as has been indicated in this chapter, resulting in mere distortion of the original.

Mandel’s final conclusion concerning Lowe-Porter’s translation oeuvre is very generous again referring to the quantity rather than the quality of her work:

And yet, each new translation of Thomas Mann’s fiction will be measured against Lowe-Porter’s prodigious labours and well defined aims (1982: 39).

After the examination of general stylistic features in the previous Sections, it is now appropriate to undertake a micro analysis of one paragraph chosen for analysis taken from the opening of the second chapter of Der Tod in Venedig (Mann 1977: 149). There are two main reasons for choosing this particular sentence. Firstly, the sentence does not seem to be too complex or obviously poetic, as is the case with many passages in Thomas Mann such as the opening passage of Chapter IV of Der Tod in Venedig, which will be discussed in Chapter 6.3. Nevertheless, the sentence under close scrutiny will show how incredibly subtle and complex great literary writing can be. The second reason for choosing this sentence is that Seidlin’s analysis (1963) is an exemplary, if somewhat effusive study at the micro level, which reveals the complexity involved in defining the concept ‘style’.

Seidlin’s essay refers to the following sixteen-line opening sentence of this paragraph, which is set out as in Seidlin’s analysis together with the rest of the paragraph:

1 Der Autor der klaren und mächtigen Prosa-Epopöe vom Leben

2 Friedrichs von Preußen; der geduldige Künstler, der in langem

3 Fleiß den figurenreichen, so vielerlei Menschenschicksal

4 im Schatten einer Idee versammelnden Romanteppich, Maja

5 mit Namen, wob; der Schöpfer jener starken Erzählung, die

6 ‘Ein Elender’ überschrieben ist und einer ganzen dankbaren

7 Jugend die Möglichkeit sittlicher Entschlossenheit jenseits

8 der tiefsten Erkenntnis zeigte; der Verfasser endlich (und

9 damit sind die Werke seiner Reifezeit kurz bezeichnet) der

10 leidenschaftlichen Abhandlung über ‘Geist und Kunst’, deren

11 ordnende Kraft und antithetische Beredsamkeit ernste Beur-

12 teiler vermochte, sie unmittelbar neben Schillers Raisonne-

13 ment über naïve und sentimentalische Dichtung zu stellen:

14 Gustav Aschenbach also war zu L., einer Kreisstadt der

[page 67↓] 15 Provinz Schlesien, als Sohn eines höheren Justizbeamten

16 geboren. (Seidlin 1963: 149)

Seine Vorfahren waren Offiziere, Richter, Verwaltungsfunktionäre gewesen, Männer, die im Dienst des Königs, des Staates, ihr straffes, anständig karges Leben geführt hatten. Innere Geistigkeit hatte sich einmal, in der Person eines Predigers, unter ihnen verkörpert; rascheres, sinnlicheres Blut war der Familie in der vorigen Generation durch die Mutter des Dichters, Tochter eines böhmischen Kapellmeisters, zugekommen. Von ihr stammten die Merkmale fremder Rasse in seinem Äußern. Die Vermählung dienstlich nüchterner Gewissenhaftigkeit mit dunkleren, feurigeren Impulsen ließ einen Künstler und diesen besonderen Künstler erstehen. (Mann 1977: 14)

As with Koch-Emmery, Seidlin’s analysis is particularly interesting because it also stresses the syntactic features of Mann’s style, a grey area in translation theory as has already been shown in 4.1. Although the whole passage is presented in full in Appendix II, it is relevant at this point to quote the Lowe-Porter translation:

Gustave Aschenbach was born at L-, a country town in the province of Silesia. He was the son of an upper official in the judicature, and his forbears had all been officers, judges, departmental functionaries - men who lived their strict, decent sparing lives in the service of King and State. Only once before had a livelier mentality - in the quality of a clergyman - turned up among them; but, swifter, more perceptive blood had in the generation before the poet’s flowed into the stock from the mother’s side, she being the daughter of a Bohemian musical conductor. It was from her he had the foreign traits that betrayed themselves in his appearance. The union of dry, conscientious officialdom and ardent, obscure impulse, produced an artist - and this particular artist: author of the lucid and vigorous prose epic on the life of Frederick the Great; careful, timeless weaver of the richly patterned tapestry entitled Maia, a novel that gathers up the threads of many human destinies in the warp of a single idea; creator of that powerful narrative The Abject, which taught a whole grateful generation that a man can still be capable of moral resolution even after he has plumbed the depths of knowledge; and lastly - to complete the tale of works of his mature period - the writer of that impassioned discourse on the theme of Mind and Art whose ordered force and antithetic eloquence lead serious critics to rank it with Schiller’s Simple and Sentimental Poetry. (1978: 17)

The first and most obvious syntactic aspect of Lowe-Porter’s translation is that she breaks up the one sixteen-line sentence into three separate sentences. The second point to be made is that this is one of the rare occasions that Lowe-Porter alters the sentence order. The main clause of the original is changed into a complete sentence and is placed at the beginning of the extract as opposed to being at the end. Other sentences within the same paragraph are incorporated within the structure of what was one original sentence. The third feature which is, perhaps, a consequence of the first [page 68↓]two alterations, is the great simplification of the original syntax together with an addition of finite verbs and explanatory phrases. These alterations were, no doubt, introduced for reasons of readability and clarity, and indeed, the Lowe-Porter version is easy to assimilate. These changes may seem innocuous. They could even be excused in the case of a free, communicative translation, but as has been shown in the previous chapter, the alterations lose the rhythm, tension and stylistic effect of the original. To illustrate this, it is relevant to quote Seidlin, who refers to a translation which can easily be identified as the Lowe-Porter version:

Wer die Symbolik dieses Satzbaus nicht versteht, wer das gewaltige Gefüge etwa umstellen, mit dem Geburtsdatum beginnen und mit der Aufzählung der Werke fortfahren wollte (wie es leider die amerikanische Übersetzerin von Tod in Venedig tat), hat kein Gefühl für die Einmaligkeit und Unantastbarkeit eines großen Stils. (Seidlin 1963: 150. My emphasis.)

The reference to Lowe-Porter as having “kein Gefühl für die Einmaligkeit und Unantastbarkeit eines großen Stils” may seem rather harsh, but it, in fact, only confirms Koch-Emmery’s criticisms, even though the latter may have expressed them less forcefully. Lowe-Porter was aware of Seidlin’s criticism and even referred to it obliquely:

I recall receiving a scolding from a German refugee scholar 25 for transposing the order of two paragraphs, because it seemed to me the transition would thus be less uneasy for an English reader. (Thirlwall 1966: 200. My emphasis.)

Like Koch-Emmery who also finds architectural imagery to be an appropriate analogy to convey the structural features of Thomas Mann’s sentences, Seidlin justifiably refers to the structure of this particular sentence as Architektur and forcefully rejects any hint of chance in the construction of this elaborate sentence:

Das ist Architektur, Architektur eines Satzes, der nicht hingeschrieben, sondern hingebaut ist, nicht in zufälliger Fügung, sondern in planmäßiger Gefugtheit. (Seidlin 1963: 148)

Continuing his architectural analogy, Seidlin divides the sentence into a key-stone (Schlußstein) which appears at the end (lines 14-16) and five blocks which are dependent on the key-stone. (This analysis resembles that of Koch-Emmery referred to in with the idea of the principal statement with dependent clauses (protasis) and (apodosis)). In Seidlin’s description of this sentence, he maintains that there is a deep [page 69↓]thematic purpose in this structure to the effect that the artist who produces great works of art pays for the price of this achievement by suffering a corresponding impoverishment as a human being. Seidlin gives a line-by-line structural analysis, but the basic structural point is conveyed by the cumulative effect of the five ‘blocks’ which build up (the great works of art) only to be contrasted with a deliberately bathetic anti-climax: the man himself, Aschenbach, a dwarf of a human being (i.e. the centre of the bathos); a man overshadowed by and exhausted by his immense achievements, which gradually pile up to become a colossal edifice almost crushing the puny individual who appears in the last section of the sentence. It is for such reasons that Seidlin describes the style as “genial”:

Der Schlußstein, auf den der ganze Satz hinausläuft, ist kurz: zwei Zeilen nur - und dem gegenüber steht eine Stauung von dreizehn Zeilen. Die Balance, so könnte man sagen, ist schlecht. Aber sie wird sofort für uns Sinn und tiefe Berechtigung bekommen, wenn wir in Erwägung ziehen, was hier balanciert wird. Dreizehn Zeilen sind ausgefüllt mit der Aufzählung und Charakterisierung von Gustav Aschenbachs Werken, dann folgen zwei Zeilen über den Menschen Gustav Aschenbach. Und diese Verteilung scheint mir eine der genialen stilistischen Symbolgebungen, die wir in der modernen deutschen Literatur finden. (Seidlin 1963: 149. My emphasis.)

A great stylist uses structure for a purpose and Thomas Mann’s sentences are nearly all deliberately and elaborately structured. The sentence under examination is a wonderful example of this effect as Seidlin well illustrates:

So wie er da steht, erzählt uns dieser Satz durch seinen Bau allein die Lebensgeschichte und das Lebensleid Gustav Aschenbachs: erst das Werk, dann noch einmal das Werk, dann noch einmal das Werk, dann noch einmal das Werk - und dann erst, ganz im Hintergrunde, die Person dessen, der es schuf: das ist die heroische Leistung, die pathetische Größe des Dichters Gustav Aschenbach. (Seidlin 1963: 150)

It is no wonder that after this introductory analysis Seidlin was incensed by the Lowe-Porter translation which simply ignores this brilliant structure by placing the key-stone of the sentence at the beginning of the paragraph, thus nullifying at one stroke the whole purpose of the intended effect by giving more importance to Aschenbach than to his works.

The Lowe-Porter version also fails to reproduce the clear progression displayed in Aschenbach’s development from the Autor of a historical novel to Künstler, then to Schöpfer and finally to a Verfasser of philosophical and spiritual works. According to Seidlin (1963: 150), Aschenbach’s career had four distinct phases: the first as an historical novelist is the lowest because the content and volume [page 70↓]predominate over form (Autor); the second level is the artist and craftsman who weaves a great carpet of themes in an all-embracing novel with the main achievement being the production of form (Künstler); the third phase could be described as the ethical phase in which Aschenbach tried to diagnose the spiritual problems of his time in an original fashion (Schöpfer), followed by the final and philosophical phase (Verfasser) when he synthesises his works in philosophical treatises which have the depth of the ethical phase combined with the brilliance of his artistic phase so that his final works are not referred to as a grim Germanic Abhandlung but a lighter more sparkling French raisonnement consisting of dialectical discussion worthy of Schiller himself. Seidlin summarises these stages:

Es sind die Elemente des schöpferischen Werkes, die hier umschrieben werden, es ist gleichzeitig die Bezeichnung von Aschenbbachs literarischer Entwicklung, die in vier Stufen verläuft: Stoff - Gestaltung - Ethos - Philosophie. Eine Pyramide nannten wir es; es ist der allmähliche Aufstieg von der reinen Materie zum reinen Geist, ein Prozeß progressiver Spiritualisierung. (Seidlin 1963: 153)

After analysing the thematic structure of this sentence, Seidlin then shows how Mann’s fastidious choice of vocabulary reflects the subtle modulations of the main ideas together with their nuances. The analysis is enthusiastic and in the midst of full flow, Seidlin offers a very neat and apt definition of style within this context:

Die völlige Übereinstimmung von Sinn und Ausdruck, jenes völlige Zusammenfallen von Sprachgebung und Bedeuten (und das ist ja Stil) macht die unvergleichliche Größe und den einmaligen Zauber des Thomas Mannschen Werkes aus. (Seidlin 1963: 153. My emphasis.)

Each apparent stylistic idiosyncrasy in Thomas Mann’s work usually has a clear purpose. At the artist/craftsman stage in lines 2-4, where Aschenbach wove his carpet (Romanteppich) consisting of many individual fates and destinies into a philosophically unified whole, Thomas Mann uses the expression vielerlei Menschenschicksal. This, at first sight, would seem to be ungrammatical (a plural qualifier with a singular noun), but its purpose is to express unity in diversity:

der geduldige Künstler, der in langem Fleiß den figurenreichen, so vielerlei Menschenschicksal im Schatten einer Idee versammelnden Romanteppich, Maja mit Namen, wob. (3-5)

These kinds of ‘idiosyncrasies’ contribute to the notion of a ‘great literary style’. Seidlin may be criticised for being rather over-enthusiastic when he places this stylistic device on the same level of the theoretically impossible, mathematical process of squaring the circle:

[page 71↓] Die Mathematik behauptet, es sei unmöglich, die Quadratur des Kreises zu finden. Nun, Thomas Mann hat hier das Unmögliche getan. Er hat die Gleichzeitigkeit von Singularität und Pluralität durch eine grammatikalische Wendung geschaffen. (Seidlin 1963: 154)

Nevertheless, his enthusiasm is well-placed. It is only at this most detailed micro level of literary criticism that the subtlety of Thomas Mann style really becomes evident. The literary translator working within the framework of naive semantic equivalence²⁶ needs not only to read the secondary literature highlighting stylistic features, but also needs to constantly to subject the source text to a thorough and sensitive analysis.

Unfortunately, with the Lowe-Porter translation, there seems to be no evidence whatever of understanding the stylistic features of Thomas Mann’s prose whereas Luke’s translation shows that, at least, there is some superficial consideration of this area, but nothing like the depth displayed in Seidlin’s study. This will become clear in the detailed analysis of the translations themselves.

Every phrase, every collocation in Thomas Mann’s choice of language is significant. In the same clause, Seidlin goes on to show how the ominous phrase im Schatten einer Idee has Dionysian associations which can be further linked with the Shiva aspect of the Maya theme. The syntactic features of this clause are, however, even more subtle:

[...] den figurenreichen, so vielerlei Menschenschicksal im Schatten einer Idee versammelnden Romanteppich.

The tightness of this participial phrase is very difficult to reflect in English, but its very taut density “gestraffte Dichtheit” reflects the artistry of the “carpet weaver”:

Wie leicht wäre es gewesen - und unserem Sprachgefühl sogar entsprechender - das mit Objekten angeschwellte Präsenzpartizip in einen Relativsatz aufzulösen. Aber es durfte nicht geschehen, weil dadurch die syntaktische Einheit der Gruppe gelöst worden wäre. Wie mit einer harten, festen Klammer sind hier Vielheiten zur Einheit gepreßt: gestraffte Dichtigkeit ist das Ziel, so wie es das Ziel des Teppichwebers ist. Und gehen wir zu weit, wenn wir auch noch in der Verbform des Satzes dieses Streben nach gedrängter Dichtheit erkennen wollen? (Seidlin 1963: 155)

Even the syntactic choice of the strong form of weben in the same clause is significant according to Seidlin: wob in its powerful, strong or masculine form has a mono-syllabic simplicity which acts as a simple and powerful unifying force bringing the strands of the carpet together in contrast to the ‘weak’ form webte where this effect would be lost:

Es scheint uns mehr als ein belangloser Zufall, daß Thomas Mann die starke Verbform wob der schwachen webte, die ebenso korrekt und vielleicht sogar geläufiger wäre, vorzieht. Ist doch wob, das einsilbige, volltönende Verb, viel gesammelter und versammelnder als das zweisilbige, tonmäßig abfallende webte (nicht umsonst nennen wir die eine Form stark, die andere schwach), ist es doch weitaus geeigneter, die Einheit zu suggerieren, die als Leitgedanke über dem hier diskutierten Satzteil steht. (Seidlin 1963: 155)

Seidlin then goes on to list other important words in the sentences with their associations, connotations and sonic qualities. His detailed analysis is very condensed and always enthusiastic and interesting, but for the sake of brevity, these important stylistic aspects in the Thomas Mann sentence can be listed in note form to highlight their main associations:

Epopöe (line 1): two aspects:

Phonological:

Sicher hat das Klangliche eine Rolle gespielt: das Wort ‘Epos’ (mit dem Akzent auf der überkurzen ersten Silbe, die nur aus einem Vokal besteht) suggeriert wenig von ‘klarer Mächtigkeit,’ die uns als das Charakteristische der geschichtlichen Chronik vermittelt werden soll. Dafür erscheint die Langform Epopöe schon viel geeigneter. Und noch einen anderen klanglichen Wert gibt das Wort Epopöe. Mit dem schweren Akzent auf dem Vokal der letzten Silbe, dem das labial-explosive p vorausgeht und den kein Konsonant abschließt (der im Gegenteil durch das End-e in Länge gezogen wird), mit all diesen Lautqualitäten tönt das Wort wie ein Trompetenstoß. Was im Worte ‘Epos’ wie eine Schamade erklingen würde, das klingt im Worte Epopöe wie eine martialische Fanfare. (Seidlin 1963: 157)

Seidlin may again be criticised for exaggeration as in his use of the phrase wie eine martialische Fanfare to express the effect of an open vowel, but his basic argument is not only valid but also highly perceptive.

Semantic: such an obscure literary genre has more than a hint of affectation and extreme artistic fastidiousness in keeping with Aschenbach’s character both as a man and as an artist.

2. The unusual reference, Friedrich von Preußen (line 2) (as opposed to Friedrich der Große or Friedrich II) provides a link with Silesia together with its associations of Prussian discipline and frugality. There is also the sonic effect of the harsh hissing s [page 73↓]sound in Preußen emphasised by the preceding vowel, which according to Seidlin is lost in the relatively sonorous phrase Friedrich der Große.

3. Raisonnement (line 12): French clarity, logic, precision, wit and elegance.

The syntactic, structural and semantic features represent only a few aspects of the style. Seidlin maintains that the rhythmic or musical aspects are even more important:

Wir haben bisher von den architektonischen und den symbolischen Elementen des großen Satzes gesprochen. Wir würden das Wichtigste übergehen, wollten wir seine musikalische Meisterschaft unerhört lassen. (Seidlin 1963: 158)

He shows that the sentence starts off with a slow, gentle legato rhythm, which increases speed in the individual clauses to reach a cumulative effect in the penultimate section where the return to legato in the final clause confirms the bathetic effect already displayed by the structural features of the sentence. This basic rhythm is further defined by musical movements: andante, allegretto, allegro, allegro con brio and andante maestuoso. The clause units can be basically divided into dactyls and iambs. The iambs generally slow down the pace whereas dactyls have the reverse effect with the result that the overall proportion of iambs to dactyls represents the pace of a section. Seidlin calculates the proportion of dactyls to iambs in each section of the sentence and expresses this as a percentage for each clause. For the sake of brevity, it will suffice to summarise Seidlin’s results in bar graph form with each bar of the graph representing one of the five clauses:

The rhythmic structure reflects the thematic elements: a slow ponderous start reflecting the seriousness and heaviness of his early work, but as the list progresses the pace increases as the great works accumulate until the breathless crescendo in the fourth clause where they reach their final climax in the profound synthesising philosophical work, and suddenly in the fifth and final clause, as Seidlin so well illustrates, the pace reverts to its former rhythm providing us with the appropriate anti-climax: the man himself, Aschenbach, a dwarf in comparison with his works.

In conjunction with the metrical rhythms, the general tonal structure of the sentences and the rich semantic constructions of the unusual selection of words, there are also many associations produced by assonance and alliteration. The choice of certain phonemes particularly with regard to the interaction of vowel and consonants in conjunction with the above-discussed rhythmic features adds yet another dimension to the musical aspects of Thomas Mann’s poetic prose. As this is a general stylistic feature of Thomas Mann, one example from Seidlin should suffice for illustrative purposes:

Nehmen wir die ersten Worte der beiden Satzteile, so wird uns die lautmäßige Ähnlichkeit entgehen können. Es sind dunkle Laute, die uns hier wie dort als Akzentträger begegnen: au, a, o, u, ein ganz vereinzeltes ä und überhaupt kein einziger Laut des oberen Registers, kein I, ü, e oder eu. Aufklang und Abklang ruhen lautlich auf Vokalen, die eine feierliche und ruhig gesetzte Färbung haben, die Satzsymphonie beginnt und endet majestätisch und schwer - molto grave würde die Musiksprache es nennen. (Seidlin 1963: 160)

As with music criticism, it is difficult to prove many critical aspects in a scientific way. Seidlin does try to prove on a probability basis that the metrical patterns in this sentence cannot be a matter of mere chance. Indeed, it would be difficult to prove the contrary. Nevertheless, Seidlin’s final court of appeal is simply to read the sentence with sensitivity, “sinngemäßes Lesen”, a not unreasonable strategy since poetry, like music, needs in the final analysis to be listened to:

Wir brauchen uns diesen Aufklang und Abklang nur laut vorlesen, um ihre Parallelität, ihre Gemessenheit und ernste Ruhe, aus dem Klang zu erfühlen: der Autor der klaren und mächtigen Prosa und Gustav Aschenbach also wurde zu L., geboren. Volltönend beginnt der große Satz, volltönend endet er - ein kurzes Stück deutscher Prosa, aber in seiner stilistischen Vollendung ein Stück Architektur auch, ein Stück musikalischer Komposition. (Seidlin 1963: 160)

Seidlin shows that only a thoroughgoing analysis can penetrate those hidden depths of what is rather loosely termed as ‘stylistic features.’ The conclusion of Seidlin’s excellent, though somewhat effusive analysis, also deserves to be quoted in full:

Wie wir es in Joseph der Ernährer finden, es stehe hier, weil in ihm das Entscheidende gesagt scheint, was sich über Stil - sei es nun Lebensstil oder Kunststil - sagen läßt: Die liebste und lieblichste Form aber war ihm Anspielung; und wenn es anspielungsreich zuging in seinem aufmerksam überwachten Leben und die Umstände sich durchsichtig erwiesen für höhere Stimmigkeit, so war er schon glücklich, da durchsichtige Umstände ja nie ganz düster sein können. (Seidlin 1963: 160-161)

Even after Seidlin’s seemingly exhaustive study of twelve pages devoted to one sentence, there are still several features which have not been covered in his analysis. The whole sentence is pervaded with a deep irony, which, for example, breaks out with the insertion of also in line 14, as if mention of the author were almost an afterthought:

14 Gustav Aschenbach also war zu L., einer Kreisstadt der

15 Provinz Schlesien, als Sohn eines höheren Justizbeamten

16 geboren. (Seidlin 1963: 149)

There are also other elements of what could be called deliberate ‘overwriting’ highlighting the aestheticism as well as the exaggerated fastidiousness of Gustav Aschenbach. The stylistic features quoted by Seidlin illustrate this point and in conjunction with a slow, uninterrupted reading of the whole sentence, the poetic and literary density shows signs of deliberate overloading to reflect the exaggerated self-consciousness and aestheticism of the artist as a form of irony. This feature of Mann’s style will be analysed in detail in Chapter 4 with regard to the opening passage of Chapter IV in Der Tod in Venedig. The main point from a translation-theoretic perspective is precisely to show that characteristic features of great style seem almost to tend towards infinity. It is not surprising that this topic has been generally neglected in translation theory as style is difficult enough to define in monolingual studies. Seidlin’s study is a bold and generally effective attempt to demonstrate both the range and depth of a great stylist.

Only a translator with the stylistic gifts of Thomas Mann himself could encode most of the features described by Seidlin. Nevertheless, even an echo of some of these aspects would be a great improvement on the present translations. In the case of Lowe-Porter virtually all the subtle stylistic features are not only lost, but there is also serious distortion of the essential nature of this passage. This can now be established by detailed analysis of her work which will be carried out in note form for the sake of brevity.

Version I: (Lowe-Porter 1978: 12-13)

Gustave 1 Aschenbach was born at L -, a country town 2 in the province of Silesia3. He was the son of an upper official in the judicature, and his forebears had all been officers 4, judges, departmental functionaries 5 - men who had lived their strict, decent, sparing lives in the service of king and state. Only once before had a livelier mentality 6- in the quality of a clergyman 7 - turned up among them; but swifter, more perceptive blood 8 had in the generation before the poet’s flowed into the stock from the mother’s side, she being the daughter of a Bohemian musical conductor. It was from her he had the foreign traits that betrayed themselves in his appearance. The union of dry, conscientious officialdom 9 and ardent, obscure impulse 10, produced an artist - and this particular artist: author of the lucid and vigorous 11 prose epic on the life of Frederick the Great 12; careful, tireless weaver of the richly patterned tapestry entitled Maia,a novel that gathers up the threads of many human destinies in the warp of a single idea 13; creator of that powerful narrative The Abject 14, which taught a whole generation 15 that a man can still be capable of moral resolution even after he has plumbed the depths of knowledge 16; and lastly - to complete the tale of works 17 of his mature period - the writer of that impassioned discourse on the theme of Mind and Art 18 whose ordered force 19 and antithetic eloquence 20 led serious critics to rank it with Schiller’s Simple and Sentimental Poetry. 21

1) The Christian name Gustav is preferable to "Gustave". In the English-speaking world reference is always made to Gustav Mahler and all the other versions use the German version.

2) The phrase a country town is not equivalent to Kreisstadt as the former refers more to ‘a town in the country’ than to the main town in a particular district. A phrase such as a small provincial city or Koelb’s (1994) formulation a district capital in the province of Silesia could be regarded as roughly equivalent.

3) [This reference note concerns the whole sentence.] As already analysed in 4.4, to begin with this sentence destroys the whole point and effect of the original. The demolition process of the main structural purpose of the sentence is continued by introducing other elements of Aschenbach’s life taken from later sentences in the same paragraph, thus nullifying the clearly intended effect.

4) In addition in the above sentence, the noun officers is too general because this would refer primarily to civil servants and even policemen in English. Luke’s translation military officers is preferable.

5) The collocation departmental functionaries implies a much lower status for Aschenbach’s forebears than is the case by referring to officials working within a department rather than Verwaltungsfunktionäre who would be full ‘government officials’ or ‘civil servants’. Koelb (1994) chooses the general term government [page 77↓] functionaries whereas Chase (1999) goes one step further in generality with his translation bureaucratic functionaries; both translations would seem to be adequate.

6) The phrase livelier mentality is a totally wrong translation for innere Geistigkeit - a phrase such as a more inward spirituality or even deeper spiritual elements would convey the meaning and reflect the appropriate connotations. The error is a grave one because the notion of ‘inward-looking spirituality’ in the source text hints at an intellectual, and thus artistic element entering the family with the emphasis on depth and introspection, ultimately leading to neurosis and decadence. The phrase livelier mentality, however, would be a more appropriate characteristic for the ‘Bürger’ implying a positive, humorous, healthy and cheerful outlook on life. Thus, a basic thematic element has been completely reversed.

7) Lowe-Porter’s phrase in the quality of a clergyman is an infelicitous expression - phrases such as in the form of or in the person of are both preferable versions. Luke’s version “A more inward spirituality had shown itself in one of them who had been a preacher” is more acceptable.

8) The phrase more perceptive blood for “sinnlicheres Blut” is not only a complete mistranslation but is also another confusion of themes at their most elementary level. The ‘fiery mother’ figure represents the wild, exotic, sensual, passionate artistic elements in Aschenbach’s character (as with Tonio Kröger), and thus also, the Dionysian passions Aschenbach tries to control by his strictly disciplined life, but which burst out in the end to destroy him. This mistake is an example of a fundamental misreading of the basic themes in the novella at their most elementary and uncontroversial level. The phrase a more sensual blood as in Version IV further on in this chapter is adequate.

9) The translation of the noun Gewissenhaftigkeit as “officialdom” fails to refer to the human quality of conscientiousness (as is correctly translated in the Luke version) and the notion of officialdom is closer to the abstract and negative concept of ‘bureaucracy’, inappropriate in the context of the severe, strict devotion to duty typical of the Bürger in Mann’s works.

10) The phrase ardent obscure impulse fails to capture the Dionysian connotations of “darker, more fiery impulses” (Luke) or even, “darker, more fiery urges” (Version IV).

11) The translation of the adjective mächtig as “vigorous” is profoundly misleading. All the other translators interpret mächtig to indicate the scope of the work. The [page 78↓]adjective vigorous would have the opposite connotations because it is clear from the Appendix III extracts that Aschenbach’s prose is described in terms of a classical fastidiousness, even with a hint of anaemic aestheticism i.e. anything but ‘vigorous’, a quality which clearly belongs to the Bürger camp rather than to what is in this case a very rarified artistic camp.

12) The translation of the title Friedrich von Preußen as Frederick the Great is possible in a communicative translation, but misses some sonic effects, as has already been pointed out by Seidlin in 4.5. There are both sonic and semantic reasons for choosing the title Friedrich von Preußen as opposed to Friedrich, der Große so that the translation Frederick of Prussia would adequately cover both the phonological and connotative aspects of this phrase.

13) The phrase warp of a single idea for im Schatten einer Idee. At first sight, this seems to be a good solution continuing the imagery of weaving. However, it fails to express the dark Dionysian connotations of the ‘shadow’ looming over human existence.

14) The book title The Abject for Der Elende is virtually meaningless. The word abject usually works only as a qualifier as in the collocation abject misery. On its own, it tends to be meaningless, as in the sentence: *He is abject. As der Elende is personified, it should refer to a particular individual as in Version III The Vile Wretch, or should have a vividly clear meaning such as the title Human Scum in Version IV. (It is, however, true that the adjective abject is used as an adjectival noun by contemporary literary critics such as Julia Kristeva in reference to the horror film genre, but for the general reader, the above point would still apply.)

15) In the phrase a whole generation for “einer ganzen dankbaren Jugend”, the adjective dankbar is ignored without reason, thus losing the connection concerning the salutary effect his work had on a whole generation.

16) The translation of Erkenntnis as “knowledge” is appropriate in some contexts, but the term knowledge in English has too many scientific or prosaically factual associations as in the German concept of Wissenschaft. This is not a case of factual knowledge, but rather of insight or of an awareness penetrating the very depths of existence.

17) The phrase, to complete the tale of works, as a translation of “und damit sind die Werke seiner Reifezeit kurz bezeichnet” is an inappropriate collocation - a tale of woe is possible, but not “the tale of works.”

18) The German noun Geist can be a cause of difficulty for the translator, but the translated title Mind and Art for Geist und Kunst has more psychological connotations whereas the raisonnement in question is clearly literary and philosophical so that the translation Intellect and Art is far more appropriate here.

19) The phrase ordered force for “ordnende Kraft” is inappropriate; in translating the present participle as a past participle, the Apollonian dynamic power of the original collocation is lost.

20) The phrase antithetic eloquence is a virtually meaningless. Luke’s phrase antithetical eloquence makes a little more sense, but Version III, its eloquent use of antithesis makes the meaning clear and would seem to be more felicitous. Chase’s phrase dialectic eloquence is felicitous, but has too many Germanic associations for what Seidlin has cogently argued is supposed to refer to a brilliantly transparent raisonnement in a classical French essayist style.

21) The title Simple and Sentimental Poetry is a lamentable translation for Schiller’s treatise Über naïve und sentimentale Dichtung. This commits not only the gross error of being bewitched by ‘false friends’ but also betrays a complete ignorance of the German philosophical and literary traditions. The connotations in English are ludicrous because ‘simple and sentimental’ verse could refer to popular verse as in ‘greeting card’ poetry. The adjective naiv can, however, be translated as naïve as is the case in collocations such as the naïve school of painters referring to Henri Rousseau, for example, with similar import to the naïve Dichtung in Schiller’s treatise. The German adjective sentimental in this context has, of course, little to do with the English ‘false friend’ sentimental in the context of nostalgia or superficial emotion, but it still presents a translation difficulty. Luke’s version reflective shows an understanding of the German term sentimental and no doubt, echoes Wordsworth’s idea of verse ‘recollected in tranquillity’.

Whilst keeping within the conventions of academic translation, Lowe-Porter often tends in the direction of a communicative translation, particularly with the re-arrangement of the sentences and structure. If she had undertaken a free communicative translation, some of the mistakes would have been forgivable, but as this is still a conventional translation, the whole effect of the sentence structure is lost. Worse than this is the confusion of themes, as referred to in the notes and as discussed in detail in Chapter3. This shows a failure to understand Mann’s work at a most elementary and obvious level. A reader would miss the basic thematic structure of [page 80↓]Mann’s work in the Lowe-Porter version. The certain liveliness and occasional readability of her prose style are, however, sufficient to dupe the unsuspecting reader into having faith in the translator. This could be one of the factors which explain the longevity of the high esteem that Lowe-Porter’s translations have enjoyed.

Version II: (Luke 1988: 200)

Luke’s version also lies within the conventions of the academic approach, but is a closer, more semantic translation than Lowe-Porter’s:

The author of the lucid and massive prose-epic 1 on the life of Frederic of Prussia; the patient artist who with long toil 2 had woven the great tapestry of the novel called Maya, so rich in characters 3, gathering so many human destinies together under the shadow of one idea; the creator of that powerful tale entitled A Study in Abjection 4, which earned the gratitude of a whole younger generation by pointing to the possibility of moral resolution even for those who have plumbed the depths of knowledge 5; the author (lastly but not least 6 in this summary enumeration of his maturer works) of that passionate treatise Intellect and Art which in its ordering energy and antithetical eloquence has led serious critics to place it immediately alongside Schiller’s disquisition On Naive and Reflective Literature: in a word, Gustav Aschenbach, was born in L . . ., an important city in the province of Silesia, as the son of a highly-placed legal official. His ancestors had been military officers, judges, government administrators; men who had spent their disciplined, decently austere life in the service of the king and the state. A more inward spirituality had shown itself in one of them who had been a preacher; a strain of livelier, more sensuous blood 7 had entered the family in the previous generation with the writer’s mother, the daughter of a director of music from Bohemia. Certain exotic racial characteristics in his external appearance had come to him from her. It was from this marriage between hard-working, sober conscientiousness and darker, more fiery impulses that an artist, and indeed this particular kind of artist, had come into being.

1. The compound noun prose-epic misses the connotations (already discussed) of epopee in Version IV.
2. The phrase long toil for in langem Fleiß is an infelicitous formulation in English. Toil is rarely, if ever qualified by ‘long’ or ‘short’ but, the intensity of the toil is usually subject to qualification, as in ‘hard toil’ or ‘bitter toil.’ The phrases enduring diligence in Version VI or long application in V (as in Appendix II) are adequate, though not ideal translations.
3. The phrase rich in characters for so vielerlei Menschenschicksal misses the point of Mann’s deliberate use of the singular noun after a plural qualifier as has already been discussed in the Seidlin analysis. The singular form could have been used so rich in character for a closer, if not equivalent effect.[page 81↓]
4. Although the translation of the title A Study in Abjection for der Elende is an improvement on Lowe-Porter’s phrase The Abject, the same criticism applies in that abject or abjection needs immediate context to have any meaning. Versions III and IV express more the tone of moral opprobrium and outrage, which is the main point here, with the respective translations The Vile Wretch or even, Human Scum.
5. The noun knowledge for Erkenntnis: see note 16 on Lowe-Porter (above).
6. The phrase lastly but not least for damit sind [...] bezeichnet is a very unliterary cliché which Mann would, no doubt, have eschewed.
7. The phrase more sensual blood would be preferable as in the Chase (1999) translation (Appendix II, Version VI) to the phrase a more sensuous blood. The adjective sensuous usually has a conscious element, whereas this reference to the typical mother figure in Mann’s oeuvre quite clearly refers to her passionate nature deemed as decadent by the Bürger camp.

Luke’s version is far closer to the original than Lowe-Porter’s and the basic argument is sustained, though in a weakened or domesticated form. In Lowe-Porter’s version, some of the basic themes are confused whereas Luke’s version can, at least, be categorised as an ‘adequate’ translation despite some inaccuracies and infelicities even though, in Luke as in all the other published versions, virtually all the stylistic subtleties pointed out by Seidlin are either missed or ignored.

After such an exhaustive analysis, the question then arises as to what strategy a translator can choose to encode the information gathered in this way and also as to what methods the translator should adopt to reflect something of the depth and complexity of Mann’s style. For the translator, there could be said to be at least four possible strategies:

4.6.1 Strategy I

This would aim at producing a close semantic translation based on a thorough study of the author and would attempt to reflect many of the aspects as illustrated by close textual analysis. Where there are inevitable stylistic losses, these can be compensated by new ‘appropriate’ stylistic features added by the translator. Some of the poetic rhythms are lost in this version which would be aimed at the serious literary reader and would ideally be placed next to the original as a parallel annotated text. In doing so the reader may glean something of the richness and complexity of Thomas [page 82↓]Mann’s style. Unlike Version IV, which I have also offered, this version is not intended for easy reading but more for close textual analysis.

Version III: (Suggested Semantic Version) (Gledhill)

The author of the lucid and massive prose epopee on the life of Frederick of Prussia, - the long-suffering artist who had patiently and painstakingly woven together so great a variety of human character and destiny into a vast tapestry unified beneath the shadow of one great idea in his novel entitled Maya - the creator of that most disturbing story, A Vile Wretch which revealed to the new young and grateful generation that it was still possible to have an ethical commitment which transcends even the deepest of philosophical insights - and finally to characterise the works of his later years, the writer whose mature period was exemplified by a passionate treatise on Intellect and Art, ranked equally by some serious critics with Schiller’s famous raisonnement on naïve and sophisticated poetry because of its creative sense of order and its eloquent use of antithesis - Gustav Aschenbach was born in the town of L., a district capital in the province of Silesia, as the son of a high-ranking official in the judiciary. [End of sentence]

His forebears had been army officers, judges, civil servants, men who had led austere lives of respectable frugality in the service of their king and country. A more inward form of spirituality had once manifested itself amongst his ancestors in the form of a clergyman; the poet’s mother, the daughter of a Bohemian music master, introduced more thrilling, more sensual blood into the family. His foreign features came from her. The union of a scrupulous, sober dedication to duty with darker, fiery impulses produced an artist, and indeed, combined to produce this particular artist.

The disadvantage is that the passage can appear stilted and dense in the target language and so, there need to be some ‘communicative’ aspects to be incorporated for the sake of readability. The advantage, however, is that the reader is receiving something of the flavour, density, musicality, irony and complexity of Thomas Mann’s style, even though at second hand. The translation aims at producing equivalents, where possible, such as the noun epopee for “Epopöe”.

4.6.2 Strategy II

A close, but communicative literary translation would not even attempt to reflect the myriad complexity of the source text, but would aim at expressing the actual content of the original in a literary but natural style. There would, however, still be an attempt to capture something of the poetic register and, in Mann’s case, the intellectual richness of the original. Chase’s version (1999) (Appendix II: VII) has something of these qualities. I have written Version IV as an example of a fairly conservative, but natural communicative translation which primarily aims at [page 83↓]readability and secondarily, at retaining a close fidelity to the tenor and tone of the original:

Version IV: (Suggested Communicative Version) (Gledhill)

The author of that colossal prose epic on the life of Frederick of Prussia - the artist who wove a vast tapestry uniting the multifarious strands of human destinies and characters beneath the shadow of one unifying idea in his novel called Maya - creator of the powerful story entitled Human Scum, which, however, made moral action possible again to a whole generation of grateful readers and take precedence over artistic insights penetrating the nether depths of knowledge - writer of that passionate treatise on Art and the Intellect (which characterised his later period) and which was so cogently argued and was so sophisticated in its use of antithesis that some leading critics put it on a level with Schiller’s famous treatise defining the difference between naïve, and ‘consciously wrought’ poetry - Gustav Aschenbach was born in L., a town in Silesia as the son of a highly placed, state lawyer. [End of sentence]

His ancestors came from the ranks of military officers, judges, civil servants - all men who lead impeccably respectable, though frugal lives in the service of their king and country. There had been one manifestation of a deeper, more spiritual influence in the form of an ancestor who had been a clergyman; the poet’s mother, who was the daughter of a Bohemian music director, introduced a more hot-blooded and sensual streak into the family. His foreign-looking appearance came from her. The combination of dry devotion to duty with darker, yet fiery urges was a mixture which could produce an artist and which, in fact, did produce this particular artist.

Version IV interprets and explains the original making it both accessible and easy to assimilate for the English reader. The semantic features of the original such as the progression Autor→Künstler→Schöpfer→Verfasser are preserved in this translation as long as they do not detract from the fluency of the SL text (which, however, is not the case with the published versions where virtually all the stylistic features of the SL text listed in this chapter are either omitted or ignored yet without any compensatory stylistic devices.)

Version IV reads well in modern natural English and may be characterised as bold. The opprobrium in Der Elende is vividly translated as Human Scum. As a communicative translation aims at a wide readership, the reference to Schiller is almost given a metalinguistic explanatory translation as naïve and consciously wrought poetry because a wide readership could not be expected to be familiar with Schiller’s aesthetic philosophy.

4.6.3 Strategy III

This takes Strategy II one step further and would be an adaptation (Bearbeitung) of the Thomas Mann original. It could be an English Death in Venice [page 84↓]with an English character and would not attempt to translate sentence by sentence. The seventeenth-century Gotha translators of English Restoration plays as described by Unger (1996) illustrate how imaginative translations of comedies could be produced which, according to Unger, were as successful as theatre in Germany as they had been in England²⁷. At the same time, the academic translations extant at the same time were generally ignored.

Another more recent example is Adriana Hunter’s translation £9.99 (2003) of Frédéric Beigbeder’s novel entitled 99 Francs referred to in a literary article by Bassnett (2203):

The English title gives a clue as to her special translation strategy. 99 Francs has become £9.99, and just as the money has been transposed from francs to pounds, so Hunter has transposed the entire novel from Paris to London. The novel is a black comedy about a grotesque clique of cocaine-sniffing, violent advertising executives who inhabit an amoral world. The translation is brilliant – the protagonist inhabits a high-octane, high-fashion world, and Hunter has skilfully transposed every reference so that English readers can have a flavour of the corrupt world of advertising and consumerism. This is a very clever example of creative translation, for it is hard to see how a novel that was so rooted in French culture could have succeeded with English readers had Hunter not boldly decided to go far beyond a translator’s brief. (Bassnett: 2003: 67)

This is high praise indeed from an eminent translation critic and yet the innate conservatism of contemporary criticism is evident in the phrase “far beyond a translator’s brief” in the above extract. What is a ‘standard translator’s brief’? In this context, it is obviously understood to be what has been defined as the academic strategy.

It would, however, in this case seem evident that Strategy III would be inappropriate for one of the greater prose classics of German literature unless the translator had a literary gift similar to that of Thomas Mann. However, particularly for lesser known works, this can be an excellent solution.

4.6.4 Strategy IV

This would go even further than Strategy III and would be a complete rewriting (Neudichtung) of the Death in Venice ‘legend’ or ‘myth’ as created by Thomas Mann. As in Strategy III, it would also need a literary talent of an appropriate stature to be comparable with Thomas Mann. This is very much in the world of speculation and in the twilight territory between literarische Bearbeitung, [page 85↓] Neudichtung and original works of literature and so, is not appropriate for detailed discussion on translation theory. In this context, Visconti’s film Death in Venice can be seen as an example of post-Derridean διαφερειν or transformation as discussed in Chapter 5.

It can be confirmed from this analysis that style is an ‘umbrella’ term for a very complex set of phenomena. These elusive features are still a long way from being open to scientific analysis. It has, however, been seen that mathematical methods such as the bar graph used in this chapter can be a very useful tool to supplement literary analysis. Literary translation theory is still, in my opinion, a literary and philosophical activity. This view is shared by the famous writer and critic Octavio Paz who is an ardent defender of translation as an essentially literary activity:

In recent years, perhaps because of the increasing primacy of linguistics, there has been a tendency to deemphasise the decidedly literary nature of translation. There is no such thing - nor can there be - as a science of translation, although translation can and should be studied scientifically. Just as literature is a specialized function of language, so translation is a specialized function of literature. And what, we might ask, of the machines that translate? If they ever really translate, they too will perform a literary operation, and they too will produce what translators now do: literature. (Schulte 1992: 157)

Footnotes and Endnotes

²⁵  The dismissive tone of this remark is further emphasised by the outrageous reference to the refugee status of Oskar Seidlin at that time. There is no doubt that Lowe-Porter could be helpful to refugees; Thomas Mann himself had been a ‘German refugee writer’. Her tone implies that the criticism was based on trivial grounds, i.e. simply getting the sentence order wrong rather than, as is clear from the ensuing analysis, being a case of a profound deafness to the musical and literary qualities of Mann’s style.

²⁶ 

This does not exclude ‘functional equivalence’ as defined by Osers: “But let us look more closely at the principle of functional equivalence and see to what extent it may be seen as a translation norm. It states that a translation should have the same impact, or effect, on the TL reader as the original had on the reader of the SL original. I would claim that, in this rather general form, the principal of functional equivalence is nowadays accepted by every reputable literary translator.” (Osers 1995: 57-58) See also Nida’s discussion of ‘dynamic equivalence’ in (Nida 2000: 129) and in 6.3.

The complexity of Thomas Mann’s style, however, would need a radical redefinition of this term to the effect that a new level of theory would be reached at which point it is questionable whether it is a useful term or not. The present discussion is an attempt to come to terms with the complexity of literary style without being distracted by too many definitions.

²⁷  Unger’s (1996) strategy is discussed in detail in 8.4.