Perspectives

Studies in Translatology

ISSN: 0907-676X (Print) 1747-6623 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/rmps20

De-sacralizing the origin(al) and the transnational

future of Translation Studies

Brian James Baer

To cite this article: Brian James Baer (2016): De-sacralizing the origin(al) and the transnational
future of Translation Studies, Perspectives, DOI: 10.1080/0907676X.2016.1211157

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0907676X.2016.1211157

Published online: 29 Aug 2016.

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PERSPECTIVES, 2016
http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/0907676X.2016.1211157

De-sacralizing the origin(al) and the transnational future of

Translation Studies
Brian James Baer
Modern and Classical Language Studies, Kent State University, Kent, OH 44242, USA

ABSTRACT ARTICLE HISTORY

This article begins with the premise that the shift from source- Received 1 May 2016
oriented approaches in Translation Studies to target-oriented Accepted 4 July 2016
approaches has left the concept of the original largely
KEYWORDS
undertheorized. As such it remains haunted by Romantic notions Original; originality; source-
of originality that in turn associate translation with loss, distortion, oriented approaches; target-
and contamination. Tracing the transnational circulation of a oriented approaches; Thomas
Russian-themed English poem, Thomas Moore’s ‘Those Evening Moore; Ivan Kozlov
Bells’, and its Russian translation, the author models a kind of
cultural transfer that has long been ignored in literary studies and
translation studies as ‘inauthentic’. Only by historicizing the
concept of the original, the author argues, can Translation Studies
fully participate in the transnational turn in cultural studies,
serving as an important critical site for interrogating the legacy of
Romanticism it has until now merely replicated.

and, while the composers of the Continent have enriched their Operas and Sonatas with
Melodies borrowed from Ireland—very often without even the honesty of acknowledg-
ment—we have left these treasures, in a great degree, unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our
Airs, like too many of our countrymen, have, for want of protection at home, passed into
the service of foreigners. (Thomas Moore, quoted in Kelly, 2008, p. 159)

In 2007 the international publishing conglomerate Harper Collins released a new trans-
lation of Leo Tolstoy’s epic novel War and Peace, translated by Andrew Bromfield. This
edition appeared in an already crowded market: a translation of War and Peace by
Anthony Briggs was released in 2006 by Viking Books and a translation by Richard
Peaver and Larissa Volokhonsky was released in 2007 by Vintage Books. What distin-
guished Bromfield’s translations from the others, however, was the phrase ‘Original
Version’ prominently displayed on the book jacket. The translation was done from a
re-constructed ‘first’ draft of the novel, published in Russian by Zakhar Press in 2000.
To add a further note of authenticity, the English edition is accompanied by a short intro-
duction by a distant cousin of Leo Tolstoy, the writer Nikolai Tolstoy.
However, as the editor of the English edition, Jenefer Caotes, and the translator, Brom-
field, explain in their ‘Note on the Translation’, this ‘original’ version had a rather com-
plicated history:

CONTACT Brian James Baer bbaer@kent.edu

© 2016 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group
2 B. J. BAER

This shorter Russian text was brought out in 2000 by the Moscow publisher Igor Zakharov as
“the first complete edition of the great novel War and Peace.” His edition, however, was in
fact derived from an earlier edition which, although unknown to the world at large, had long
been familiar to literary specialists as the first draft, recovered by the Tolstoy scholar Evelin
E. Zaidenshnur. [ … ] Zaidenshnur’s text was a mosaic of manuscripts retrieved from across
the archive and reassembled through the careful matching of Tolstoy’s original handwriting,
in and paper and close examination of his numerous notebooks, diaries and letters for clues
and references to the work in progress. (Tolstoy, 2007, p. xi)

But such detective work, while informative, is highly imperfect; as Bromfield goes on to
explain:
Inevitably, however, in the long process of deciphering, several thousands of pages of
impenetrable scrawl, crisscrossed with cancellations, messily overwritten and with scribbled
additions ballooning into the margins, there were errors and oversights in transcription.
Words were misread, sentences misplaced. Nevertheless, as befitted a scholarly enterprise,
the text included multiple variants in brackets (cancelled words as well as alternative read-
ings) and the entire project was described in meticulous depth. (Tolstoy, 2007, p. xii)

The Russian publisher, Zakharov, then took this artefact of postmodern editing avant la
lettre and rendered it more ‘marketable’ by removing the scholarly apparatus and variants,
partially rewriting the text, and removing the original French. He then promoted it, in
Coates and Bromfield’s words, ‘“as half the usual length, less war and more peace, no phi-
losophical digressions,” and so on’ (Coates & Bromfield, 2007, pp. xi–xii). Nikolai Tolstoy
further complicates the status of this original version by justifying its publication not on
the grounds that it is more authentic or true but because, he argues, ‘[Tolstoy] envisaged
his creation as a living entity subject to continual modification’ (Tolstoy, 2007, p. ix). In
other words, the author himself rejected the whole idea of a single, fixed original.
And so the claim of ‘original’ in this instance is a highly ambivalent one, testifying on
the one hand to the continued value placed on the concept while on the other challenging
the very ontological status of the original as ‘stable, bounded’ (Baker, 2010, p. 435). In
other words, both Coates and Bromfield’s explanatory note and Nikolai Tolstoy’s intro-
duction deconstruct the very concept of the original that Vintage uses to market this
re-translation.
In Translation Studies, a critique of source-text-oriented approaches as ‘subjective,
ahistorical, and unsystematic’ (Kittel, 1998, p. 5) led to a radical turning away from the
‘original’ to the study of the reception environment of translations, leaving the concept
of the original, I would argue, undertheorized, making it perhaps the greatest unknown
known of Translation Studies.1 And so, while I fully agree with Mona Baker that ‘Trans-
lation can no longer be understood as the reproduction of a stable, bounded “original” but
has to be re-conceptualized as an ongoing rewriting of an already pluralized “original”’
(Baker, 2010, p. 435), incorporating this insight into translation research is, perhaps,
easier said than done; not only because of the enormous cultural investment so many
have in the Romantic concept of the original, and in the attendant concepts of originality
and origins, but also because the concept has been so thoroughly incorporated into so
much of our translation theory, both implicitly and explicitly.
This conceptualization of the original was implicitly incorporated into early theory in
Translation Studies through a lop-sided concern with the translation of ‘special’ originals –
the Bible and literary masterpieces – which were believed (I stress the word ‘believe’ here as
 PERSPECTIVES 3

this was an article of faith not an empirically demonstrated fact) to represent an ideal
merging of word and sense, which inevitably produced translations as imperfect copies,
for how could the lowly translator ever hope to recreate the same merging of word and
sense that was the product of divine inspiration or original genius? This is why
St. Jerome recommended a word-for-word approach to the translation of sacred texts,
not because such translations were more accurate but because in those originals ‘even
the syntax contains a mystery’ and so should not be simply altered to suit target-language
norms (Jerome, 2002, p. 25).2 In practice, however, this literalist approach only forestalled
the whole question of interpretation, leaving these often opaque renditions in the hands of
Biblical exegetes and commentators, resulting in what Anthony Pym describes as a ‘double
discourse: one voice was the source as authority; the other was the intermediary as guide’,
although, as Pym points out, that other voice has been mostly lost to history (Pym, 2000,
p. 49).3
A hierarchical opposition between the original, as fixed and transcendent, and trans-
lations, as multiple and ephemeral, was explicitly incorporated into translation theory
by the Polish translator and scholar Edward Balcerzan, who argued that iterability, or seri-
ality, represented the very ‘ontology of translation’ and non-iterability the ‘ontology of the
original’ (1968). Those mutually-defining ontologies are also evident in André Lefevere’s
concept of translation as rewriting:
Whether they produce translations, literary histories or their more compact spin-offs, refer-
ence works, anthologies, criticism, or editions, rewriters adapt, manipulate the originals they
work with to some extent, usually to make them fit in with the dominant, or one of the domi-
nant ideological and poetological currents of their time. (1992, p. 8)

The idea of translation as manipulation leaves largely intact the view of the original as
stable and enduring; as if the original had not been made to fit in with the dominant or
one of the dominant ideological and poetological currents of its time. It also ignores the
phenomenon of canonical translations, the King James version of the English Bible
being a prime example, or of translations that prove to have more staying power than
their original, which will be the subject of the case study below.
In this way of thinking, the original, or source text, is posited as the ‘thing itself’, marked
by a transcendent fullness of meaning, inevitably condemning translation, as its defining
other, to a rhetoric of loss, distortion, and manipulation. The current interest in the
phenomenon of retranslation only reinforces this ontological distinction (see Deane-
Cox, 2014; Vanderschelden, 2000; Venuti, 2003). While belying the fact that only a very
small percentage of the small percentage of literary works that are translated ever get
retranslated, the literature on retranslation largely ignores the situation in which multiple
versions of the original may appear in the source language while there is typically one and
only one translation into a given target language; a phenomenon that would seem to invert
Balcerzan’s ontologies.4
These ontologies, however, continue to organize thinking about translation, perpetuat-
ing a Romantic model of translation as the ‘recovery’ of original meaning (Seidman, 2006,
p. 2). To liberate Translation Studies from Romantic (nationalist) assumptions perpetu-
ated by this binary and to allow Translation Studies to fully participate in the transnational
turn in Cultural Studies, Doug Robinson has called for the de-theologization of translation
studies, an important aspect of which would involve the de-sacralization of the origin(al),
4 B. J. BAER

or what David Greetham describes as ‘the Romantic notion of the single, authoritative,
“originary moment” in the creation of texts versus the multivocal’ (2010, p. 7). By
doing so, we are taking an important step forward in the process of de-nationalizing, or
rather transnationalizing, Cultural Studies by deconstructing nationalist historiography,
which has relegated to oblivion ‘anything that was owed to or even borrowed from
other cultural traditions by way of translation’ (Mueller-Vollmer & Irmscher, 1998, pp.
ix–x). So historicizing the original is, I believe, an important first step in theorizing the
concept and un-doing the legacy of Romanticism.

Historicizing the original, or the queer origins of originality

The cult of the original, or of originality, is an enduring legacy of the Romantic movement,
theorized and promoted by writers and thinkers across Europe. Jean Jacques Rousseau was
an early promoter of the modern concept of originality in The Social Contract ([1762]
1997), in which he describes original, or true, genius as ‘that which creates everything
out of nothing’ ([1762]1997, p. 73). In his Critique of Judgement ([1790]1911), Kant
declares:
genius is a talent for producing that for which no definite rule can be given, and not an apti-
tude in the way of cleverness for what can be learned according to some rule; and that con-
sequently originality must be its primary property.

The English poet Edward Young in his 1795 essay ‘Conjectures on Original Composition’
promotes originality over neoclassical imitation (Young, [1795]1854).5
This historically new obsession with originality obscured the writer’s centuries-old role
as disseminator and mediator – not originator – which, as Roland Barthes notes in his
essay ‘The Death of the Author’, were defining characteristics of premodern authorship
(Barthes, 1992). Organized around the aesthetic and ethical principle of imitatio, premo-
dern text production, including translation, was designed to explain and disseminate the
works of the ancients, who, in this model, were the only true authors of the only true orig-
inals (see Greene, 1982). Consider, for example, Martin Luther’s introduction to his col-
lected works in Latin of 1545. ‘For a long time’, Luther writes, ‘I strenuously resisted those
who wanted my books, or more correctly my confused lucubrations, published. I did not
want the labors of the ancients to be buried by my new works and the reader kept from
reading them’ (1962, p. 3). The purpose of ‘original’ writing was to reflect the light of
the ancient authors, making all contemporary text production, be it self-authored or trans-
lated, secondary but equally so.
This Romantic conceptualization of the original, despite its inherent contradictions, has
had a decisive influence on the construction of translation in the modern era as the defin-
ing other of originality, associating translation with a now degraded imitation, hence sec-
ondariness, distortion, and loss. So, for scholars in the field of Translation Studies, there is
a lot at stake in de-sacralizing or ‘pluralizing’ the original.
The process of de-sacralization has been taking place in the margins of translation
studies in recognition of the impact of globalization and increasing technologization on
text production. The relatively recent attention that has been paid to the translation of
news, for example, challenges the Romantic conceptualization of the original to the
extent that a news report in one language may be put together from various source
 PERSPECTIVES 5

language texts. As Roberto Valdeón comments, ‘Generally speaking, the resulting product
makes it difficult to trace the original text’ (Valdeón, 2015, p. 450), a phenomenon that led
María José Hernández Guerrero (2009) to propose the concept of ‘unstable’ sources.6 At
the same time, advances in technology have exposed the inherent contradictions in the
ontological status of the original as defined by Romanticism by making possible the pres-
entation of multiple versions of a text or of exegetical commentary on a single screen or
only a click away (see Cazdyn, 2004; Littau, 1997).7
That being said, what constituted a ‘true’ original was even in the pre-modern period,
with its sacred originals, the subject of debate. Michael Holquist tells the story of an
Augustinian monk and professor of classical languages at the University of Salamanca,
Fray Luis de León (1527–1591), who was imprisoned for five years for having translated
the Song of Songs into Spanish from the ‘original’ Hebrew. As Holquist explains:
Fray de Leon’s work was a crime in the eyes of the Inquisition not only because his target
language (Spanish) was a vernacular but also because in translating from Hebrew he had
used a vernacular source language. The aspect of his case that exemplified censorship’s arbi-
trariness [and, I would add, the arbitrariness of the original] is the Inquisition’s charge that he
began with “the corrupt original,” […] as opposed to the authoritative Latin Vulgata (Barn-
stone 8). For the church, the Hebrew text’s priority in time was a mark less of originality than
of pre-Christian corruption. (Holquist, 1994, pp. 17–18)

The oxymoronic phrase, ‘corrupt original’, Holquist argues, ‘points to the frangibility of all
claims to authority made on the basis of originality’ (Holquist, 1994, p. 18).
Moreover, there are other philosophical models in which the original is not the ultimate
source of historical Truth at all. For Russian radicals in the nineteenth century, who
ascribed to a Hegelian vision of historical time, the Truth, so to speak, was in the
future. Individual texts contributed to the unfolding of that Truth, allowing for significant
liberties to be taken. Leo Tolstoy, for example, in his translation of the US Abolitionist
William Lloyd Garrison’s essay ‘Declaration of Sentiments, Adopted at the Peace Conven-
tion’ (2016 [1838]), regularly replaced references to Americans and America to more
general ones, such as ‘us’, ‘we’, and ‘all people’, thus displaying fidelity to the cause of uni-
versal emancipation rather than to the ‘original’ text, narrowly conceived, lending support
to Matthew Arnold’s statement: ‘Probably [all] would agree that the “translators first duty
is to be faithful”; but the question at issue between them is, in what faithfulness consists’,
or, one might say, in what the original consists (Arnold, 2002, p. 251).8 Incidentally, the
preface Tolstoy wrote to accompany his translations of the US abolitionists Garrison and
Adin Ballou would become the basis of his ‘original’ treatise ‘The Kingdom of God Is
within Us’ (1955 [1893]).9
This decentering of the original calls into question a number of attendant concepts,
such as authenticity, and brings – or should bring – new attention to the phenomenon
of pseudo-translations, which have long been relegated to the margins of Translation
Studies, and of Literary Studies. For example, despite the enormous influence of James
MacPherson’s songs of Ossian (1760) on contemporary poetry – it was among the most
translated works in early nineteenth-century Russia (Barratt, 1972, p. 63) – its status as
a ‘fake’ led to its banishment from reading lists in departments of English and Translation
Studies.10 By deconstructing the Romantic ontology of the original, therefore, we blur the
boundary that had once separated pseudo-translations from ‘authentic’ translations,
6 B. J. BAER

bringing a greater variety of cultural phenomena into the orbit of Translation Studies.
Moreover, by re-conceiving pseudo-translations not as fake but as translations of an ‘ima-
gined’ original, we draw a connection between this phenomenon and the rise of the
modern nation, which Benedict Anderson famously described as an ‘imagined commu-
nity’ (2006 [1983]). Indeed, Michael Cronin suggested just such a connection when he
described the translator as ‘forger’ of nation and empire (2006, p. 103).
In deconstructing the original, then, we historicize what Doug Robinson describes as
the ‘primal scene’ of translation put forward by Translation Studies, ‘in which a text in
a unified national language cannot be understood by speakers of another unified national
language until it is translated’, broadening the scope of our research and allowing us to see
originals as always already embedded in an intercivilizational context that inevitably
shapes their translation, packaging, and reception, and to leave questions of authenticity
aside as largely irrelevant in transcultural exchanges (Robinson, forthcoming). Only by de-
sacralizing the origin(al) can we begin to think beyond the opposition of source-text and
target-text approaches. As Harald Kittel explains,
The crux of the matter is that something new has been created in transit from (A) to (B)
which is neither exclusively a source nor a target side phenomenon; it cannot be described
satisfactorily or defined solely in their respective terms, nor can it be reduced to their respect-
ive limited concerns without incurring some loss. (Kittel, 1998, p. 7)

To illustrate an approach to translation that de-centers the original and refuses to see
translation as a recovery of ‘original’ meaning, I will trace the life of a text that defies easy
classification as either true or fake and which travelled back and forth between the Anglo-
phone West and Russia over the course of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The text
I am referring to is the lyric poem ‘Those Evening Bells. Air: The Bells of St. Petersburg’, by
the Irish poet Thomas Moore, which appeared in the first issue of a collection entitled
National Airs (1818–1827).

‘Those Evening Bells’ as a queer origin(al)

The author of ‘Those Evening Bells’, Thomas Moore (1779–1852), is largely known today
as the first biographer of Lord Byron and as an Irish national poet – indeed, two mono-
graphs dedicated to Moore’s life and work bear the title Bard of Erin and The Minstrel of
Ireland – but both of those identities are problematic, largely because the demands of the
newly emerging literary marketplace undercut the Romantic claims of authenticity and
unmediated sincerity it trafficked in. While it is true that Moore published a very
popular biography of Byron, it is also well known that he was involved in the burning
of Byron’s very candid diaries and letters after his death in order to protect his reputation,
suggesting that the biography Moore later produced was by no means ‘the whole truth’.
But his reputation as an Irish bard was even more problematic. First, while Catholic,
Moore attended Samuel Whyte’s English Grammar School in Dublin, where he learned
to speak standard British English, which he spoke the rest of his life, which, incidentally,
he spent in England. Kenneth and Warren Ober describe Moore as ‘an expatriate Irish-
man, [who] had already become the darling of the English literary establishment’ by
the time ‘Those Evening Bells’ was published (Ober & Ober, 2005, p. 166). And while
Moore did support Irish causes, specifically the legalization of Catholicism, he was
 PERSPECTIVES 7

never a member of the United Irishmen movement and hardly fits the image of a Roman-
tic folk rebel. Second, his most famous body of work, Irish Melodies (1807-1834), described
by Thérèse Tessier as ‘Moore’s most moving testimony in verse to his attachment and fide-
lity to his native land’ (1981, p. v), were not the inevitable outpouring of his Irish soul: he
wrote them in mid-career at the urging of his publisher, who sought to capitalize on the
Romantic fashion for ‘folk’ culture. In this way, Moore represents the contractions of the
contemporary field of literary production: ‘newly characterized by rapid and mechanical
means of dissemination, [it] was drawn to folkloric or oral forms as a model for immedi-
acy, organicism, and tradition’ (Stewart, 1994, p. 5). At the same time, Moore ‘borrowed’
several of the airs for his first edition of the Irish Melodies from the collection by the anti-
quarian Thomas Bunting, giving him no attribution. The question of copyright brings us
to one of the central paradoxes of Romantic discourse on originality: it occurred as writers
were moving from a system of patronage to a more free market system, which generated
the first copyright laws. So the idea of original genius was always already tied to its com-
modification on a newly emerging marketplace, something that problematized the search
for authenticity and genuineness.
Moreover, Moore’s marketing strategy was hardly ‘original’, having already been suc-
cessfully pursued by the Scottish. It is likely, Tessier conjectures, that Moore aspired ‘to
do for Ireland what [Robert] Burns had done for Scotland’ (Tessier, 1981, p. 5). That
being said, Moore and the composer Stephenson were critiqued for having ‘refined’ the
traditional Irish melodies, complicating the whole question of their authenticity. As
Kelly notes, ‘This would become a vexed issue in musicological circles, but at the time
it was not something that much concerned Moore—nor, indeed, was there any particular
reason why it should have. The Melodies was not an antiquarian project but a commercial
one’ (Kelly, 2008, p. 159). But while Moore would depend on the royalties from the Irish
Melodies throughout his life, he felt obliged to guarantee their authenticity by posing as a
kind of scribe: ‘I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wilde sweetness I
wak’d was they own’ (quoted in Kelly, 2008, p. 159). In these he invoked ‘the Anglo-Scots
[bardic] tradition of holding the body rigidly still and letting the ballad speak through
oneself’ (Stewart, 1994, p. 125).
Another aspect of Moore’s commercialization of the melodies involved imbuing the
Irish folk music with ‘Ossianic gloom’ and suggesting a close connection between politics
and music in Ireland. That connection, Moore wrote in a prefatory letter to the first edition
of the Melodies, is evident ‘in the tone of sorrow and depression which charaterises most of
our early Songs’ (Kelly, 2008, p. 160). The antiquarian Thomas Bunting refuted the claim,
insisting that the music he had transcribed was performed in a ‘spirited, animated and
highly lively style’ (quoted in Kelly, 2008, p. 160), but Moore’s melancholic representation
of the Irish folk won the day.
Third, the very concept of Irish national identity was highly contested in Moore’s time.
As Moore’s most recent biographer, Ronan Kelly (2008, p. 6), points out, ‘“Irishness” in
Moore’s era was a concept in flux’. So the invention of Moore as the ‘bard of Erin’ requires
as many sleights-of-hand as the modern invention of the Irish fol, in which he played so
instrumental a role. And while Moore’s ‘Irishness’ may have lent those airs a certain auth-
enticity in the eyes of the public, it did not prevent Moore from composing Spanish, Por-
tuguese, Indian, Hungarian, Italian, and Russian Airs in the collection entitled National
8 B. J. BAER

Airs (1818). Some of these countries – all of which are located on the developmental per-
iphery of Europe – Moore had visited as a tourist, but others, like Russia, he had not.
We can, therefore, only conjecture as to the inspiration for Moore’s Russian-themed
poems; although it is perhaps more accurate to describe the poems as ventriloquized, as
the lyric subject speaks as if he were Russian, raising the whole question of translation
and performance. In any case, if we were to look for Russian ‘sources’ for Moore’s
poem, there were some English translations of Russian literature available at the time,
as Emily Tall notes:
Before the 19th century, Russian literature was little known in Britain, although some infor-
mation was available from the press, travel descriptions, and encyclopedias, and there had
been some translations of Catherine II, Lomonsov, Derzhavin, and Sumarokov. A landmark
was Sir Joh Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets (1921–1923), which included trans-
lations from some of the best poets of the 18th and early 19th centuries—Lomonosov, Derz-
hahvin, Karamzin, Zhukovsky, Krylov, and Vyazemsky—and created a genuine burst of
interest in Russian literature in both English and America. As for prose, some of Karamzin’s
tales had appeared beginning in 1800 and some of Scott’s Russian disciples had been pub-
lished as well. (1985, p. 125)

The fact that the English translated Russian disciples of Sir Walter Scott, however, proble-
matizes the Romantic ideal of originality and origins. Walter Scott’s novels, which them-
selves fuelled Romantic interest in the foreign and exotic, returned from those foreign
lands in the form of translated epigones, thoroughly confounding the concepts of foreign-
ization and domestication. Moreover, foreign works with Russian themes were also very
popular with Russian audiences, such as, for example, Sophie Cottin’s novel Elisabeth
or les Exiles de Siberie (1806) (Barratt, 1972, p. 185n). Cottin, by the way, like Moore,
had never visited Russia.
Perhaps unsurprising then is that Moore’s attempt to ventriloquize other cultures left
him open to the charge of forgery. The contemporary Irish writer Francis Mahoney, as
Kelly points out,
published a jeu d’esprit entitled “The Rogueries of Tom Moore,” in which he argued that
certain of the most famous Melodies were in fact plagiarized from Latin, Greek or French
sources—the “originals” of which he duly produces. To cap it all, Moore’s famous
“Evening Bells” was apparently lifted from Mahoney’s “Shandon”—Shandon being Maho-
ney’s satirical nom de plume. (2008, p. 528)

The Latin source text produced by Mahoney may very well have been a recent translation
of ‘Those Evening Bells’ into Latin – Cantus Hibernici – by Nicolas Lee Torre, which
Mahoney mistook for the original.
In any case, Moore’s Russian Air, ‘Those Evening Bells’, would be translated into
Russian by Ivan Kozlov in 1827, under the title ‘Vechernii zvon’, appearing in print in
1828 in the almanac Severnie tsvety [Northern Flowers] (1828, pp. 29–30). Kozlov’s com-
position was set to music in 1828 by the Russian composer Aleksandr Aliab’ev (1787–
1851). It is interesting to note that Kozlov, who was a rather prolific translator did not
indicate in that initial publication that his translation of Moore’s poem was a translation
and so it is perhaps no surprise that a Russian reviewer in 1831 described Moore’s poem as
‘a translation of a poem by Kozlov into English by T. Moore’ (Barratt, 1972, pp. 177–178).
In the 1830s Countess Sara Fedorovna Tolstaia did an English translation of Kozlov’s
 PERSPECTIVES 9

Russian translation of Moore’s poem, which was subsequently translated back into
Russian by M.N. Likhonin. Neither of these translations makes any mention of Moore
or Kozlov, although in an 1839 biographical sketch that opened a collection of Tolstaia’s
works, Moore is mentioned as an important influence (Alekseev, 1963, p. 276n).
So successful was Kozlov’s translation that it was republished repeatedly and soon began
to be referenced in other ‘original’ Russian poems, such as Evdokiia Rostopchina’s ‘The
Sound of Bells at Night’ (1839), Denis Davidov’s ‘Evening Bells’ of the early 1830s, and
Afanasy Fet’s ‘Evening Bells’ of 1840, which was dedicated to Kozlov’s memory (see
Rubinchik, 2013). The same is true of Aliab’ev’s musical composition, which has been refer-
enced in musical compositions by the Russian composers L. Langer, A.I. Diubiuk, and K.P.
Vilboa (Shteinpress, 1959, p. 43). The popularity of Kozlov’s poem and of Aliab’ev’s musical
composition in Russia in turn fuelled the search for a Russian – or at least an ‘eastern’ –
original for Moore’s poem, which continued throughout the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries. A. Kalinovksii, for example, argued in 1885 that the source of Moore’s poem
was a Russian translation of a poem written in Greek by a Georgian monk in the eleventh
century (Alekseev, 1963, 276). This version was repeated in 1898 by A.S. Khakhanov and
embellished by Ts. S. Vol’pe in 1938 (Alekseev, 1963, 277). This theory was definitively
debunked only in 1960, when the Soviet scholar M.P. Alekseev was unable to find any
textual evidence and so declared: ‘We are dealing here with a legend, stubbornly preserved
in Georgian literature but devoid of any factual basis’ (Alekseev, 1963, p. 278).11 Alekseev
was able to determine that the Georgian texts that were cited as possible sources were in
fact translations of Kozlov’s translation of Moore’s poem (Alekseev, 1963, p. 278).12

Re-citing the translation as an original

Alekseev’s work brings us to the 1960s, where we see an important re-citation of ‘Vecher-
nii zvon’. Actually, it is Aliab’ev’s melody that returns in David Lean’s epic film adaptation
of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago (1965). The melody appears in a scene that takes place
at a Moscow train station as Zhivago and his wife, along with scores of others, await a train
that will take them far away from the city. Zhivago silently observes the crowd while his
wife sleeps beside him. The camera moves from Zhivago’s face to pan across the crowd,
showing a peasant man playing ‘Vechernii zvon’ on a balalaika, a traditional Russian
three-stringed instrument with a distinctive triangular body.
This particular citing of ‘Vechernii zvon’ does not simply russify it; it presents it as a
Russian folk song, rather than as the translated salonnyi romans, or salon romance, it orig-
inally was. It had circulated in salons, where it would have been initially performed with a
piano accompaniment. And while the balalaika lent folk authenticity to the song in Lean’s
film, the instrument was undergoing an elevation in status in Russia. Following the concert
violinist Vasily Andreev’s standardization of the balalaika form in the 1880s, the instru-
ment was increasingly introduced into high-culture venues. Andreev, for example,
began to use the balalaika in his concert performances. The Soviets embraced the balalaika
as a working-class instrument and the Red Army Choir eventually changed its instrumen-
tation, replacing violins, violas, and violincellos with balalaikas and domras, producing the
kind of high-communist kitsch so brilliantly parodied by Milan Kundera in The Unbear-
able Lightness of Being (see Bayley 1984).
10 B. J. BAER

The fact that the ‘Vechernii zvon’ melody is strummed on the balalaika, one might
argue, lends an air of authenticity to Maurice Jarre’s original musical compositions,
specifically to the motif referred to as ‘Lara’s Theme’, which appears repeatedly through-
out the film, often accompanied by balalaikas. Like Moore, Jarre was an expert at roman-
ticizing the developmental periphery of the West, call it the Orient or the Global South. He
wrote scores for dozens of movies in the course of his long career, but he received the
Oscar for best original score for three ‘eastern’ epics – Lawrence of Arabia (1962),
Doctor Zhivago (1965), and A Passage to India (2006) – the films with which he
remains most closely associated. In fact, Lean read a translation of Pasternak’s Doctor
Zhivago shortly after completing Lawrence of Arabia (McGasko, 2015).
Another way these films map a Western-conceived Orient is in the figure of the Iranian
Omar Sharif, who made his name in the West playing the Romantic Eastern other: the
Bedouin Sherif Ali in Lawrence of Arabia, for which he won a Golden Globe for Best Sup-
porting Actor, and a Russian in Doctor Zhivago, for which he won the Golden Globe for
Best Actor. Moreover, Doctor Zhivago was filmed in Spain. And so, as critic Audrey
Golden points out: ‘the classic tale of revolutionary fervor was filmed nearly in its entirety
within the confines of Spain, a country controlled at the time by the fascist dictator Fran-
cisco Franco’ (2015). The closest the production got to its ‘spiritual home’ was when some
scenes were filmed in Finland, about 10 miles from the Soviet border (McGasko, 2015).
Interestingly, Pasternak’s novel, Doctor Zhivago, which could not be published in the
Soviet Union due to its ambivalent portrayal of the Revolution, appeared first in Italy,
while the film adaptation by David Lean would not make it to Russian audiences until
1994. The first Russian production was a television mini-series broadcast in 2006, in
which many of the stereotypically Russian elements of Lean’s film version were
removed: ‘Lara is a redhead not a blond, Yuri’s balaika is nowhere to be seen and the
Zhivago dacha has been stripped of its onion-shaped domes’ (Blomfield, 2006).
It is quite possible that Jarre – or Lean – became acquainted with ‘Vechernii zvon’ from
a 1959 recording of Russian folk songs, entitled Songs of Russia Old and New (1960), per-
formed by Theodore Bikel. Like Sharif, Bikel would become famous playing ‘foreigners’ for
Anglophone audiences. An Austrian-born Jew who left Austria shortly before the Second
World War to settle in Israel, he made his stage debut in Israel as Tevye in Fiddler on the
Roof and later created the role of the Austrian nationalist Captain von Trapp in the orig-
inal Broadway production of Rogers and Hammerstein’s musical The Sound of Music. He
also put out several albums of folk songs, mostly Jewish, but also two albums of Russian
folk songs, which he sang in Russian, as well as the eclectic ‘Folk Songs from just about
Everywhere’ (1959).
Following the release of the film, lyricist Paul Francis Webster added words to Jarre’s
composition and ‘Lara’s Theme’, now retitled ‘Somewhere, My Love’, was performed by
a number of popular singers, including Connie Francis and Andy Williams. So recogniz-
able did the melody become, and so associated with a romanticized vision of Russia, it can
be heard playing on a music box in the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me (Gilbert,
1997), foreshadowing the appearance of sexy Russian agent Anya Amasova, played by the
American actress Barbara Bach.
I should mention that Lean’s Doctor Zhivago belonged to a larger cultural project of
reimaging or re-presenting Russia in the Anglophone West in the 1960s, as evident in
the enormous popularity of another translated Russian song, ‘Those Were the Days’.
 PERSPECTIVES 11

Copyrighted by Gene Raskin, the son of Soviet immigrants to the USA, the melody of
‘Those Were the Days’ was taken from the gypsy-inflected Russian song ‘Dorogoi dlin-
noiu’ [Along the Long Road] by composer Boris Fomin (1900–1948), to which Raskin
added his own lyrics to replace the Russian lyrics written by poet Konstantin Padrevsky
(1888–1930). Raskin’s lyrics were a very loose translation. Raskin never acknowledged
the song as a translation or the melody as borrowed. The Russian ‘original’ was popular
in 1920s Russia – with versions released in 1925 and 1926 – but it was soon banned by
the regime as counter-revolutionary, which may have heightened its popularity in
émigré circles, where it became a popular standard. While the first release of Raskin’s
English version appeared in 1962, performed by the folk group The Limelighters, it
would become an enormous international hit when released by Mary Hopkins in 1968
in a version produced by Paul McCartney.

Time and translation

In his now classic study, Inventing Eastern Europe: The Map of Civilization on the Mind of
the Enlightenment (1994), Larry Wolff argues that the developmental model was a product
of the Western Enlightenment, which immediately defined the ‘East’ not simply as under-
developed but as inhabiting an alternative temporality, depicted in works of art and litera-
ture, as well as ethnographic studies (see Fabian, 2002). ‘Orientalist depictions of exotic
temporality’, argues Andrew Barrows (2011, p. 89), ‘relegated the Orient to a static
zone of temporal otherness outside of the linear progression of time’. Not coincidentally,
we see a similar depiction of time in the Romantic revival of folk culture. As Susan Stewart
notes in regard to the folk ballad:
The ballad’s historical exoticism promised, through the theory of minstrel origins, an auth-
entic authorship and a legitimating point of origin for all consequent national literature. But
all this depended upon the invention of a historical rupture, a separation that would enable
the “discovery” of the ballad and the authentication of that discovery as in fact a recovery.
(Stewart, 1994, p. 107)

That temporal separation is often marked by melancholic reverie, as with Moore’s infusion
of ‘Ossianic gloom’ into his Irish folk melodies. Incidentally, Stewart (1994, p. 88) notes
Walter Scott’s indebtedness to ‘the vein of Ossian’ in his ballads, suggesting the enormous
influence of this pseudo-translation on the Romantic invention of folk.
Moreover, time – specifically, a melancholic, Orientalist time – is a central theme, if not
the central theme, in all the works discussed above, beginning with Moore’s ‘Evening Bells’
and ending with Raskin’s ‘Those Were the Days’. While one can identity a number of dis-
tinct temporalities in the songs and poems discussed above, they share a common nostal-
gic orientation built on a contrast between a developmental (forward-looking) temporality
and a non-developmental (backward-looking) one. The temporality in Moore’s and
Kozlov’s poems, for example, is ostensibly diurnal; it was common in Romantic poetry
to invoke the times of the day to allegorize the stages in a person’s life. At the same
time, for Moore’s readers – as for Kozlov’s – in the early nineteenth century, the nostalgia
evoked by the sound of the evening bells in a country village takes on an historical dimen-
sion, suggesting the migration from country to city that became a defining feature of the
modern era. Moreover, Kozlov’s translation of Moore’s ‘home’ as krai, or ‘homeland’, left
12 B. J. BAER

open another interpretation – that of exile or emigration – which would explain the
poem’s particular popularity in Russian émigré communities following the Bolshevik
Revolution.
Webster’s lyrics to Lara’s Theme are also organized temporally. Although the lyrics
begin with the adverbial modifier of place somewhere, they then invoke the four seasons:13
Somewhere my love
There will be songs to sing,
Although the snow
Covers the hope of spring.
Someday we’ll meet again my love
Someday, whenever the spring breaks through.

In this characterization of Russian history, which Dr. Zhivago pretends to be, the Soviet
period is cast as winter. This is, perhaps, not coincidental insofar as the immediate
post-Stalinist period, which was characterized by a relaxation of censorship and a less
aggressive Soviet foreign policy, had already been described as a ‘thaw’. The term was
taken from the title of a novel by writer and journalist Ilya Ehrenburg, Ottepel’ (The
Thaw), released in 1954, just a year after Stalin’s death. The first print run of the novel
(45,000 copies), which critiqued Stalinist society, sold out in a single day. It was immedi-
ately translated into English by Manya Harari, appearing in 1955 in the UK (Regnery) and
the USA (Harvill Press). So, the temporal framing is layered, evoking at once a traditional
Orientalist motif of temporal stasis as well as a more contemporary reading of Soviet
history. Moreover, this Western reading of the Soviet period was diametrically opposed
to the official Soviet interpretation as representing an alternative path to modernity, or
the svetloe budushchee (bright future) of Soviet propaganda.
An even more radical shift in temporality is evident in Raskin’s version of ‘Those Were
the Days’ when compared to the Russian lyrics of Pedrevsky, beginning with the title. The
Russian title, ‘Along the Long Road,’ immediately introduces space as the dominant theme
in the song: ‘Ekhali na troike s bubentsami, / A v dali mel’kali ogonki’ (Racing in a sleigh
with bells, / While in the distance lights flickered). Racing across the Russian steppe, the
lyric subject of the song has a sublime experience of the vastness of the space surrounding
him, as expressed in the song’s refrain:
Dorogoi dlinnoiu / Along the long road
Da nochkoi lunnoiu / On a moonlit night
Da s pesnei toi, chto vdal’ letit zvenia, / With a song that flies tinkling into the distance
Da chto s starinnoiu, Da s semi-strunnoiu, / With an old, seven-stringed guitar
Chto po nocham tak muchila menia. / That every night tormented me so.

With its focus on Russia’s geography, the Russian song references an entire subgenre of
Russian folk songs about the vastness of the steppe, such as ‘Step’ da step’ krugom’
(Steppe all around) and ‘Akh, ty step’ shirokaia’ (Ah, you wide steppe), not to mention
the closing image in Gogol’s novel Dead Souls, in which Russia is presented as a racing
troika.
Raskin, on the other hand, eliminates virtually all references to space in favour of time,
specifically time past:
Those were the days, my friend,
We thought they’d never end.
 PERSPECTIVES 13

We’d sing and dance

Forever and a day.
We’d live the life we choose,
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.

Ironically, Raskin would sue a Gefilte fish company in the 1970s for using the melody in a
commercial. While the company claimed the melody to be a Russian folk song and there-
fore not covered by copyright, Raskin won the suit as he had officially copyrighted the
melody in the early 1960s; this was made possible by the fact that the Soviet Union had
not signed international copyright conventions, leaving Fomin’s melody without legal pro-
tection. Raskin would live comfortably off the royalties from the song for the rest of his life.

Conclusion
The de-sacralization of the original is, I think, long overdue in Translation Studies and
needs to happen in order for our field to fully participate in the transnational turn in Cul-
tural Studies. While the focus on the reception environment has been liberating and pro-
ductive, removing the original from the equation has left it under-theorized and our
investment in ‘the Romantic ideology of the solitary originator’ (Greetham, 1992,
p. xiii) more or less intact, allowing ‘the Romantic notion of the single, authoritative, “ori-
ginary moment”’ to be simply transferred to the act of translation. As is evident in the
study of news translation, de-centring the original allows us to focus on all that fore-struc-
tures the act of translation, what Martin Heidegger in Being and Time (1962 [1927]) and
his student Hans Georg Gadamer in Truth and Method (2004 [1960]) referred to as preju-
dice or bias. We never approach translations in a vacuum but always from within a
complex and shifting intercivilizational relationship, producing its specific prejudices
and biases. Moreover, no culture is so isolated as to have no preconceived notion of the
cultural other before any act of translation takes place. Only when we recognize this
can the act of translation be conceived of as a dialogue rather than the recovery of an orig-
inal meaning.14
De-sacralizing the original makes another contribution in that it challenges the Roman-
tic assumptions about textual and national identity that continue to organize the study of
literature and culture by thoroughly problematizing the quest for authenticity or the real.
The world of simulacra described by Jean Baudrillard (1994) is not, as we have seen, a
uniquely postmodern phenomenon; it emerged with Romanticism, when a longing for
origins, originals, and originality was inseparably connected to their commodification in
a newly emerging capitalist marketplace, so brilliantly described by Susan Stewart in
Crimes of Representation (1994).
Jean Baudrillard’s definition of the simulacrum, which he claims to have taken from
Ecclesiastes, that ‘[it] is never that which conceals the truth—it is the truth which conceals
there is none. The simulacrum is true’ (1994, p. 1), offers an alternative way of conceptua-
lizing translation. In such a model, the translation is no longer that which conceals the
truth of the original, but the truth that conceals there is no truth in the original, with
truth understood as transcendent meaning, fixed and a priori. This in turn makes trans-
lation as true as the original, both in terms of its ontological status and also because the
14 B. J. BAER

effects of translations on cultures are no less true or real than the effects of so-called
originals.
Understanding translation within a post-Romantic, post-nationalist conceptualization
of culture is a necessary first step in fully integrating translation into cultural history and
allows us to revalue not only translation but also a host of related concepts implicated in
that Romantic model, such as contamination, which, like imitation, served as a defining
other of original genius. Once translations are seen as true, then ‘contamination may be
seen’, to quote Greetham, ‘as normative, healthy, and necessary: a textual (and human)
condition to be celebrated rather than condemned’ (2010, pp. 3–4).15

Notes
1. Here I am referencing a special issue of the journal Target (24:1; 2012), entitled The Known
Unknowns of Translation Studies, edited by Elke Brems, Reine Meylaerts, and Luc van Door-
slaer, in which leading scholars in the field – all former CETRA professors – reflected on areas
they felt were still in need of scholarly investigation. I have, for my purposes, reversed the
term to describe a concept, the original, which many consider to be self-evident and that
is often used without reflection but that is, in my opinion, in need of rigorous, systematic
conceptualization.
2. In the Hebrew tradition, the belief that the Hebrew letters themselves held divine meaning
generated a resistance to translation, as described by Seidman (2006).
3. We see this still today in legal settings, in which literalist approaches are promoted so as to
leave questions of interpretation in the hands of the ‘professionals’ – in this case, lawyers and
judges – as if it were possible to create translations that are entirely devoid of the translator’s
interpretive decision-making (see, for example, Elias-Bursač, 2012).
4. A good example of this is Kornei Chukovsky’s A High Art, which underwent numerous revi-
sions over the course of the author’s life, but had only one English translation.
5. However, many scholars note a tension in Young’s argument. As Matthew Wickman
explains,

Much of what remains compelling about Edward Young’s Conjectures on Original

Composition (1759) devolves from a tension between the essay’s thematic contradic-
tions and the energy that shapes them. These contradictions primarily arise from
the discrepancy between Young’s effusive polemics advocating original thinking and
expression, and his elegiac tribute to Joseph Addison in which he admonishes his
readers to imitate Addison’s noble death (1998, p. 899).
6. On the way translation of news is introducing new paradigms of translation and new con-
cepts of the original into Translation Studies, see van Doorslaer ‘The Double Extension of
Translation in the Journalistic Field’ (2010) and ‘Translating, Narrating and Constructing
Images in Journalism with a Test Case on Representation in Flemish TV News’ (2012).
7. I would argue that those technological advances merely render the contradictions in our con-
ception of the original more visible; they were there from the advent of Romanticism, marked
by a quest for authenticity and originality that occurred alongside the fall of patronage and
the commodification of aesthetic objects in the new free-market economy. So, the contradic-
tions were always there.
8. The information regarding Tolstoy’s translation of William Lloyd Garrison’s essay was pre-
sented by Galina Alekseeva from the State Museum-Estate of Leo Tolstoy at Yasnaya Polyana
at the 2014 AATSEEL Conference held in Chicago, Illinois, on 9–12 January 2014. The title of
her talk was ‘The American Collection of Books in Tolstoy’s Personal Library: Original
Sources for Work and Life’.
 PERSPECTIVES 15

9. Tolstoy’s treatise, incidentally, was banned in Russia as critical of the Orthodox Church and
so was first published in Germany in 1894.
10. The Russian poet Alexander Pushkin largely dismissed the problem of its ‘authenticity’, con-
sidering the whole question of whether the work was ‘a translation, an imitation, or his own
composition’ to be largely irrelevant given the fact that ‘everyone read and re-read [Ossian]
with delight’ ([1830]1986, pp. 276–77).
11. All translations mine unless otherwise indicated.
12. The Russian author and translator Vladimir Nabokov recounts a similar incident in the essay
‘The Art of Translation’ (1976, p. 268), in which the Russian composer Sergei Rachmaninov
asks him to translate into English a Russian poem that he wanted to set to music. Nabokov
then discovers that the Russian original was in fact Konstantin Balmont’s translation of Edgar
Allan Poe’s ‘Bells’.
13. In fact, it is typical in Russian to use adverbial modifiers of place (e.g. gde-to, or ‘somewhere’)
to refer to time, as in the phrase ‘Gde-to v marte’ (Somewhere in March). It is unclear
whether Webster knew any Russian, but the usage appears to be a borrowing or structural
calque. What follows in the song supports this interpretation.
14. Barrett, Powley, and Pearce (2011) describe the centrality of translation to Gadamer’s think-
ing on the nature of interpretation:

Gadamer add[s] another dimension to what it means to “understand.” Understanding is

related to agreement. To understand a text is akin to entering a dialogue between con-
versation partners seeking to achieve some kind of common ground. This is not the
same as grasping the author’s intention. Understanding is always translation, a
matter of putting things into words, taking something foreign and articulating it in
terms that are familiar. Understanding, application, interpretation, and translation
are terms that are almost interchangeable in Gadamer. (2011, p. 189)
15. We hear an echo of this in a remark made by the nineteenth-century Russian translator
Vasilii Zhukovskii in a letter to the writer Nikolai Gogol: ‘My mind is like flint that needs
to be struck against a rock in order for a flame to ignite’ ([1847]1960, p. 544).

Disclosure statement
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Notes on contributors
Brian James Baer is Professor of Russian and Translation Studies at Kent State University, where
he teaches translation-related courses at the undergraduate, Master’s, and doctoral levels. He is
founding editor of the journal Translation and Interpreting Studies (TIS), general editor of the
Kent State Scholarly Monograph Series in Translation Studies, and co-editor, with Michelle
Woods, of the book series Literatures, Cultures, Translation (Bloomsbury). He is author of the
monographs Other Russias: Homosexuality and the Crisis of Post-Soviet Identity (2009), which
was selected as a Choice Outstanding Academic Title by the American Library Association in
2011, and Translation and the Making of Modern Russian Literature (2015). In addition, he
has edited a number of collected volumes: Beyond the Ivory Tower: Re-thinking Translation Peda-
gogy, with Geoffrey Koby (2003), Contexts, Subtexts and Pretexts: Literary Translation in Eastern
Europe and Russia (2011), No Good without Reward: The Selected Writings of Liubov Krichevs-
kaya (2011), Russian Writers on Translation. An Anthology, with Natalia Olshanskaya (2013),
and Researching Translation and Interpreting, with Claudia Angelelli (2015). He is also the trans-
lator of Juri Lotman’s final book-length work, The Unpredictable Workings of Culture (2013). He
is currently working on an annotated translation of Andrei Fedorov’s (1953) Introduction to
Translation Theory.
16 B. J. BAER

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