ormond
20.03.05, 11:25
Wlasnie wrocilem ze spotkania z Marcelim Weylanedm - tlumaczem Pana
Tadeusza. Jego tlumaczenie - wynik pasji calego zycia - niedawno ukazalo sie
na rynku wydawniczym.
Marcel Weyland pochodzi z polskiej rodziny zydowskiej. Polske opuscil ww
wrzesniu 1939 i poprzez Wilno, Japonie i Szanghaj w 1946 znalaz sie w
Australii. Tutaj wyksztalcil sie i pracowal jako architekt i prawnik.
Tlumaczeniem mickiewiczowskiego arcydziela zajmowal sie "od zawsze", ale na
powaznie, poswiecil temu 12 lat zycia.
A tutaj mala probka jego miary mickiewiczowskich strof:
Thereupon grasped the Tribune, to his belt well knotted,
His great buffalo horn, long twisty and spotted
As the snake boa; two-handed to his lips pressed it,
Blew his cheeks out like pumpkins, eyes with blood congested,
Half slid down his two eyelids, drew in half his belly,
And to his lungs he sent off all his spirit swelling.
And blew: the horn, a whirlwind, with a mighty beating,
Drives the notes through the forest, the echo repeating.
Hushed the huntsmen, stood beaters, amazed at the strong,
Limpid grace, the perfection and sweetness of song.
The old man all his art, once through forests renowned,
Perhaps for the last time, for the huntsmen's ears found;
He soon filled, brought to life, all the woods, groves of oak,
As if with hounds he filled them, and hunting evoked:
For the hunt's abridged history his horn was re-telling:
First a signal resounded, wake up! - the reveille;
And then yelp after yelp, whines - the dogs are disputing;
Here and there a note harsher, like thunder: shooting
Now the Tribune paused holding the horn; in the glade
it seemed to all he played still: but now echo played.
A poemat oczywiscie zaczyna sie inwokazja:
Lithuania, my country! You are as good health:
How much one should prize you, he only can tell
Who has lost you. Your beauty and splendour I view
And describe here today, for I long after you.
A jak po angielsku jest "bursztynowy swierzop" i palajaca "panieniskim
rumiencem" dziecielina? Jesli ktos ciekawy:
[...]
Where grows the amber mustard, buckwheat white as snow,
Where with maidenly blushes clover flowers glow,
And all as if beribboned by green strips of land,
The balks, upon which scattered quiet pear trees stand.
