At first it had no name. It was the thing itself, the vivid thing. It was his friend. On windy days it danced, demented, waving wild arms, or in the silence of evening drowsed and dreamed, swaying in the blue, the goldeny air. Even at night it did not go away. Wrapped in his truckle bed, he could hear it stirring darkly outside in the dark, all the long night long. There were others, nearer to him, more vivid still than this, they came and went, talking, but they were wholly familiar, almost a part of himself, while it, steadfast and aloof, belonged to the mysterious outside, to the wind and the weather and the goldeny blue air. It was part of the world, and yet it was his friend.
Look, Nicolas, look! See the big tree!
Tree. That was its name. And also: the linden. They were nice words. He had known them a long time before he knew what they meant. They did not mean themselves, they were nothing in themselves, they meant the dancing singing thing outside. In wind, in silence, at night, in the changing air, it changed and yet was changelessly the tree, the linden tree. That was strange.
Everything had a name, but although every name was nothing without the thing named, the thing cared nothing for its name, had no need of a name, and was itself only. And then there were the names that signified no substantial thing, as linden and tree signified that dark dancer. His mother asked him who did he love the best. Love did not dance, nor tap the window with frantic fingers, love had no leafy arms to shake, yet when she spoke that name that named nothing, some impalpable but real thing within him responded as if to a summons, as if it had heard its name spoken. That was very strange.
He soon forgot about these enigmatic matters, and learned to talk as others talked, full of conviction, unquestioningly.
The sky is blue, the sun is gold, the linden tree is green. Day is light, it ends, night falls, and then it is dark. You sleep, and in the morning wake again. But a day will come when you will not wake. That is death. Death is sad. Sadness is what happiness is not. And so on. How simple it all was, after all! There was no need even to think about it. He had only to be, and life would do the rest, would send day to follow day until there were no days left, for him, and then he would go to Heaven and be an angel. Hell was under the ground.
Matthew Mark Luke and John
Bless the bed that I lie on
If I die before I wake
Ask holy God my soul to take
He peered from behind clasped hands at his mother kneeling beside him in the candlelight. Under a burnished coif of coiled hair her face was pale and still, like the face of the Madonna in the picture. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved, mouthing mutely the pious lines as he recited them aloud. When he stumbled on the hard words she bore him up gently, in a wonderfully gentle voice. He loved her the best, he said. She rocked him in her arms and sang a song.
See saw Margery Daw
This little chicken
Got lost in the straw
Dr Copernicus
Inicialmente, não tinha nome. Era a coisa em si, a coisa viva. Era a coisa em si, a coisa viva. Era sua amiga. Em dias de vento, dançava, demente, mexendo os braços livremente ou, no silêncio da noite, dormitava e sonhava, balançando no azul, no ar dourado. Mesmo à noite, não ia embora. Enroscado na cama de gavetão, conseguia ouvi-la mexer-se sombriamente lá fora, no escuro, durante toda a longa noite. Havia outros, mais próximos dela, ainda mais vivos. Esses iam e vinham, e falavam, mas eram completamente familiares, quase uma parte de si, enquanto ela, firme e distante, pertencia ao misterioso exterior, ao vento e ao tempo e ao ar azul dourado. Fazia parte do mundo, e ainda assim, era sua amiga.
– Olha, Nicolau, olha… vê a árvore grande!
Árvore. Esse era o nome dela. E ainda: tília. Eram palavras boas. Conhecia-as muito antes de saber o que queriam dizer. Não significavam elas mesmas, não eram nada em si mesmas, mas sim a coisa que dançava e cantava lá fora. No vento, em silêncio, à noite, no ar em mudança, ela mudou e, no entanto, era imutável a árvore, a tília. Era estranho.
Tudo tinha um nome, mas embora cada nome não fosse nada sem a coisa nomeada, a coisa não se importava com o seu nome, não tinha necessidade de um nome, era apenas ela mesma. E havia ainda os nomes que não significavam nada de substancial, não da forma como tília e árvore significavam aquela dançarina sombria. A mãe de Nicolau perguntava-lhe a quem amava mais. O amor não dançava, nem batia na janela com dedos frenéticos, o amor não tinha braços frondosos para agitar. Mas quando ela dizia aquele nome que nada nomeava, algo impalpável, mas real, dentro dele, respondia como se a uma convocação, como se tivesse ouvido dizer o nome da coisa. Era muito estranho.
Passado pouco tempo esqueceu-se destes assuntos enigmáticos, e aprendeu a falar como os outros falavam, cheio de convicção, sem questionar.
O céu é azul, o sol é dourado, a tília é verde. O dia é claro, termina, a noite cai, e então fica escuro. Dorme-se, e de manhã acorda-se novamente. Mas o dia virá em que não se vai acordar. Chama-se morte. A morte é triste. A tristeza é o que a felicidade não é. E assim por diante. Como tudo era simples, afinal! Não havia necessidade de sequer pensar nisso. Ele apenas tinha que existir, e a vida faria o resto: mandaria um dia suceder ao outro até que não restassem mais dias, para ele, e então ele iria para o Céu e tornar-se-ia um anjo. O inferno ficava debaixo da terra.
Mateus Marcos Lucas e João
Abençoai esta cama apoiada no chão
E se morrer antes de acordar
Pedi ao santo Deus para a minha alma levar
Olhou, por entre as mãos cruzadas, para a sua mãe, ajoelhada ao seu lado, à luz das velas. Sob o cabelo encaracolado coberto por uma touca imaculada, o seu rosto estava pálido e imóvel, como o rosto da Nossa Senhora representado no quadro. Os seus olhos estavam fechados, e os seus lábios mexiam-se, dizendo em surdina versos devotos, enquanto ele os recitava em voz alta. Quando tropeçava nas palavras difíceis, ela encorajava-o delicadamente, com uma voz maravilhosamente delicada. Era ela quem ele mais amava, disse então. Ela embalou-o nos seus braços e cantou uma canção.
Abaixo e acima, Maria Lima
Esta pequena galinha
Perdeu-se na palhinha
The excerpts from the novels by John Banville seem to have the theme of introspection and self-awareness in common, with surreal elements ("the thing" in "Dr Copernicus") as well as sensorial ones (the idea of happiness in "Eclipse"). The narrative style transports us to those moments, those landscapes, those reflections.
One of the greatest difficulties I felt was precisely in maintaining the narrative rhythm in both excerpts. The author makes use of long sentences, with little punctuation, fitting one thought into the other. I tried to respect this cadence but sometimes I felt the need to divide the sentences, using punctuation and short sentences to convey the same idea, in order to create a text that sounds natural to the Portuguese reader. An example of this is a sentence taken from "Eclipse" (lines 27-29, page 32): “Everything was the same now as it had been before, the housewives, that busy dog, the same, and yet in some way transfigured.”, translated to “Estava tudo igual: as donas de casa, aquele cão apressado. Tudo igual. E, contudo, de uma certa forma, transfigurado”.
This journey through the narrator’s reflections is told almost in poetic form. The almost lyrical discourse is marked by certain elements I tried to maintain, whenever possible. Below are some examples.
- word repetition:
-
“It was the thing itself, the vivid thing./ It was his friend.”, translated to “Era a coisa em si, a coisa viva./ Era sua amiga.” (“Dr Copernicus” (lines 1-2, page 3))
-
“…I experienced something to which the only name I could give was happiness, although it was not happiness, it was more and less than happiness.”, translated to “…senti algo a que apenas poderia chamar de felicidade, embora não fosse felicidade, era mais do que felicidade, e era menos.” (“Eclipse” (lines 27-29, page 32)). I took the liberty of emphasizing “e era menos”, by separating this expression from the rest of the sentence through a comma, in order to reinforce the idea of the source, in terms of reflection. I believe this idea would be dimmed in Portuguese if I kept the same structure as the original work.
- rhymes and alliterations:
-
“…belonged to the mysterious outside, to the wind and the weather and the goldeny blue air.”, translated to ”pertencia ao misterioso exterior, ao vento e ao tempo e ao ar azul dourado.” (“Dr Copernicus” (lines 8-10, page 3))
-
“On windy days it danced, demented, waving wild arms, or in the silence of evening drowsed and dreamed, swaying in the blue, the goldeny air.”, translated to “Em dias de vento, dançava, demente, mexendo os braços livremente ou, no silêncio da noite, dormitava e sonhava, balançando no azul, no ar dourado.” (“Dr Copernicus” (lines 2-4, page 3))
- inversion of the order of elements in the sentence:
-
“From a lowering sky fine rain was falling, so fine as to be hardly felt.”, translated to “Do céu sombrio, chuva miudinha caía, tão miudinha que mal se sentia.” (“Eclipse” (lines 12-13, page 32)).
Another challenge I was faced with was the translation of the English pronouns. In some cases I found the need to proceed to a certain disambiguation in Portuguese: “His mother asked him who did he love the best.”, translated to ”A mãe de Nicolau perguntava-lhe a quem amava mais.” (“Dr Copernicus” (line 22, page 3)).
Finally, the prayer and the lullaby in Eclipse, in which I tried to keep the rhymes:
| Matt Mark Luke and John | Mateus Marcos Lucas e João |
| Bless the bed that I lie on | Abençoai esta cama apoiada no chão |
| If I die before I wake | E se morrer antes de acordar |
| Ask hold God my soul to take | Pedi ao santo Deus para a minha alma levar |
In this case, I added "apoiada no chão" to the verse so it would rhyme with "João". It seems fitting considering the narrator's description of his own bed (“truckle bed”).
| See saw Margery Daw | Abaixo e acima, Maria Lima |
| This little chicken | Esta pequena galinha |
| Got lost in the straw | Perdeu-se na palhinha |
| Localized option: | |
| Nana nana meu menino | |
| que a mãezinha logo vem. | |
| Foi lavar os teus paninhos | |
| à pocinha de Belém. |
In the case of the lullaby, it was difficult to keep the name featured in the original and still keep the rhyme. However, after some research, I realized the name Margery Daw seems to have been included for the single purpose of rhyming with the “seesaw” on which the children played. In Portuguese, I removed the name of the object per se and replaced it with the action that occurs in a seesaw: a child rides on each end, one end goes up as the other goes down. The name Maria Lima was chosen for the purpose of rhyme. The Portuguese option is a localized lullaby the Portuguese would relate to.
I sought a single purpose with the strategies mentioned above: to convey the author's ideas in a way that sounded natural to the Portuguese target audience, so that the translated text felt like an original text.
John Banville