Franz Kafka

Friday, May 26, 2017

"Vanka" (Russian: Ванька) by Anton Chekhov, Full Text in English; "Vanka" (1886) by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, translated by Ivy Litvinov

Anton Chekhov. Vanka (1886)

NINE-YEAR-OLD Vanka Zhukov, who had been apprenticed three months ago to Alyakhin the shoemaker, did not go to bed on Christmas eve. He waited till his master and mistress and the senior apprentices had gone to church, and then took from the cupboard a bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, spread out a crumpled sheet of paper, and was all ready to write. Before tracing the first letter he glanced several times anxiously at the door and window, peered at the dark icon, with shelves holding cobbler's lasts stretching on either side of it, and gave a quivering sigh. The paper lay on the bench, and Vanka knelt on the floor at the bench.
"Dear Grandad Konstantin Makarich," he wrote. "I am writing a letter to you. I send you Christmas greetings and hope God will send you his blessings. I have no Father and no Mummie and you are all I have left."
Vanka raised his eves to the dark window-pane, in which the reflection of the candle flickered, and in his imagination distinctly saw his grandfather, Konstantin Makarich, who was night watchman on the estate of some gentlefolk called Zhivarev. He was a small, lean old man about sixty-five. but remarkably lively and agile, with a smiling face and eves bleary with drink. In the daytime he either slept in the back kitchen, or sat joking with the cook and the kitchen-maids, and in the night, wrapped in a great sheepskin coat, he walked round and round the estate, sounding his rattle. After him, with drooping heads, went old Kashtanka and another dog, called Eel, on account of his black coat and long, weasel-like body. Eel was wonderfully respectful and insinuating, and turned the same appealing glance on friends and strangers alike, but he inspired confidence in no one. His deferential manner and docility were a cloak for the most Jesuitical spite and malice. He was an adept at stealing up, to snap at a foot, creeping into the ice-house, or snatching a peasant's chicken. His hind-legs had been slashed again and again, twice he had been strung up, he was beaten within an inch of his life every week, but he survived it all.
Grandad was probably standing at the gate at this moment, screwing up his eves to look at the bright red light coming from the church windows, or stumping about in his felt boots, fooling with the servants. His rattle would be fastened to his belt. He would be throwing out his arms and hugging himself against the cold, or, with his old man's titter, pinching a maid, or one of the cooks. "Have a nip," he would say, holding out his snuffbox to the women.
The women would take a pinch and sneeze. Grandfather would be overcome with delight, breaking out into jolly laughter, and shouting:
"Good for frozen noses!"
Even the dogs would be given snuff. Kashtanka would sneeze, shake her head and walk away, offended. But Eel, too polite to sneeze, would wag his tail. And the weather was glorious. The air still, transparent. fresh. It was a dark night, but the whole village with its white roofs, the smoke rising from the chimneys, the trees, silver with rime, the snow-drifts, could be seen distinctly. The sky was sprinkled with gaily twinkling stars, and the Milky Way stood out as clearly as if newly scrubbed for the holiday and polished with snow....
Vanka sighed, dipped his pen in the ink, and went on writing:
"And yesterday I had such a hiding. The master took me by the hair and dragged me out into the yard and beat me with the stirrup-strap because by mistake I went to sleep rocking their baby. And one day last week the mistress told me to gut a herring and I began from the tail and she picked up the herring and rubbed my face with the head. The other apprentices make fun of me, they send me to the tavern for vodka and make me steal the masters cucumbers and the master beats me with the first thing he finds. And there is nothing to eat. They give me bread in the morning and gruel for dinner and in the evening bread again but I never get tea or cabbage soup they gobble it all rip themselves. And they make me sleep in the passage and when their baby cries I dont get any sleep at all I have to rock it. Dear Grandad for the dear Lords sake take me away from here take me home to the village I cant bear it any longer. Oh Grandad I beg and implore you and I will always pray for you do take me away from here or I'll die. . . ."
Vanka's lips twitched, he rubbed his eyes with a black fist and gave a sob.
"I will grind your snuff for you," he went on. "I will pray for you and you can flog me as hard as you like if I am naughty. And if you think there is nothing for me to do I will ask the steward to take pity on me and let me clean the boots or I will go as a shepherd-boy instead of Fedya. Dear Grandad I cant stand it it is killing me. I thought I would run away on foot to the village but I have no boots and I was afraid of the frost. And when I grow up to be a man I will look after you and I will not let anyone hurt you and when you die I will pray for your soul like I do for my Mummie.
"Moscow is such a big town there are so many gentlemens houses and such a lot of horses and no sheep and the dogs are not a bit fierce. The boys dont go about with the star at Christmas and they dont let you sing in church and once I saw them selling fish-hooks in the shop all together with the lines and for any fish you like very good ones and there was one would hold a sheat-fish weighing thirty pounds and I have seen shops where there are all sorts of guns just like the master has at home they must cost a hundred rubles each. And in the butchers shops there are grouse and wood-cock and hares but the people in the shop dont say where they were shot.
"Dear Grandad when they have a Christmas tree at the big house take a gilded nut for me and put it away in the green chest. Ask Miss Olga Ignatvevna tell her its for Vanka."
Vanka gave a sharp sigh and once more gazed at the windowpane. He remembered his grandfather going to get a Christmas tree for the gentry, and taking his grandson with him. Oh, what happy times those had been! Grandfather would give a chuckle, and the frost-bound wood chuckled, and Vanka, following their example, chuckled, too. Before chopping down the fir-tree, Grandfather would smoke a pipe, take a long pinch of snuff, and laugh at the shivering Vanka. . . . The young fir-trees, coated with frost, stood motionless, waiting to see which one of them was to die. And suddenly a hare would come leaping over a snow-drift, swift as an arrow.. .. Grandfather could never help shouting:
"Stop it, stop it . . . stop it! Oh, you stub-tailed devil!"
Grandfather would drag the tree to the big house, and they would start decorating it. . . . Miss Olga Ignatyevna, Vanka's favorite, was the busiest of all. While Pelageva, Vanka's mother, was alive and in service at the big house, Olga Ignatyevna used to give Vanka sweets, and amuse herself by teaching him to read, write and count to a hundred, and even to dance the quadrille. But when Pelageya died, the orphaned Vanka was sent down to the back kitchen to his grandfather, and from there to Moscow, to Alyakhin the shoemaker. . . .
"Come to me dear Grandad," continued Vanka. "I beg you for Christs sake take me away from here. Pity me unhappy orphan they beat me all the time and I am always hungry and I am so miserable here I cant tell you I cry all the time. And one day the master hit me over the head with a last and I fell down and thought I would never get rip again. I have such a miserable life worse than a dogs. And I send my love to Alyona one-eyed Yegor and the coachman and dont give my concertina to anyone. I remain your grandson Ivan Zhukov dear Grandad do come."
Vanka folded the sheet of paper in four and put it into an envelope which he had bought the day before for a kopek. ... Then he paused to think, dipped his pen into the ink-pot, wrote: "To Grandfather in the village," scratched his head, thought again, then added:
Pleased that no one had prevented him from writing, he put on his cap and ran out into the sheet without putting his coat on over his shirt.
The men at the butcher's told him, when he asked them the day before, that letters are put into letter-boxes, and from these boxes sent all over the world on mail coaches with three horses and drunken drivers and jingling bells. Vanka ran as far as the nearest letter-box and dropped his precious letter into the slit. . .
An hour later, lulled by rosy hopes, he was fast asleep. . . . He dreamed of a stove. On the stove-ledge sat his grandfather, his bare feet dangling, reading the letter to the cooks. . . . Eel was walking backwards and forwards in front of the stove, wagging his tail. . .

Saturday, May 20, 2017

"Zum Nachdenken für Herrenreiter," or "Reflections for Gentlemen-Jockeys," by Franz Kafka: English version with original text in German

From "The Tales of Franz Kafka: English Translation With Original Text In German," available as e-book on Amazon KindleiPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through  Amazon and  Lulu.

 "Zum Nachdenken für Herrenreiter,"  by Franz Kafka:

Nichts, wenn man es überlegt, kann dazu verlocken, in einem Wettrennen der erste sein zu wollen.
Der Ruhm, als der beste Reiter eines Landes anerkannt zu werden, freut im ersten Krawall des Orchesters zu stark, als daß sich am Morgen danach die Reue verhindern ließe.
    Der Neid der Gegner, listiger, ziemlich einflußreicher Leute, muß uns in dem engen Spalier schmerzen, das wir nun durchreiten nach jener Ebene, die bald vor uns leer war bis auf einige überrundete Reiter, die klein gegen den Rand des Horizonts anritten.
    Viele unserer Freunde eilen den Gewinn zu beheben und nur über die Schultern weg schreien sie von den entlegenen Schaltern ihr Hurra zu uns; die besten Freunde aber haben gar nicht auf unser Pferd gesetzt, da sie fürchteten, käme es zum Verluste, müßten sie uns böse sein, nun aber, da unser Pferd das erste war und sie nichts gewonnen haben, drehn sie sich um, wenn wir vorüberkommen, und schauen lieber die Tribünen entlang.
    Die Konkurrenten rückwärts, fest im Sattel, suchen das Unglück zu überblicken, das sie getroffen hat, und das Unrecht, das ihnen irgendwie zugefügt wird; sie nehmen ein frisches Aussehen an, als müsse ein neues Rennen anfangen und ein ernsthaftes nach diesem Kinderspiel.
    Vielen Damen scheint der Sieger lächerlich, weil er sich aufbläht und doch nicht weiß, was anzufangen mit dem ewigen Händeschütteln, Salutieren, sich Niederbeugen und in die Ferne grüßen, während die Besiegten den Mund geschlossen haben und die Hälse ihrer meist wiehernden Pferde leichthin klopfen.
    Endlich fängt es gar aus dem trüb gewordenen Himmel zu regnen an.

 "Zum Nachdenken für Herrenreiter, Reflections for Gentlemen-Jockeys" by Franz Kafka: English version.

From "The Tales of Franz Kafka: English Translation With Original Text In German," available as e-book on Amazon KindleiPhone, iPad, or iPod touchon NOOK Bookon Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through  Amazon and  Lulu. 
    When you reflect upon it, to be first in a race is not something to be desired.
At the outbreak of the orchestra, the glory of being recognized as the best rider in the country is too strong of a pleasure not to bring some remorse the next morning.
 The envy of your opponents, cunning and highly influential men, must hurt you in the narrow enclosure you now ride through in the plain area, which soon became empty, except for some stragglers of the previous race, small figures against edge of the horizon.
     Many of your friends rushing to collect their winnings and only cry 'Hurrah!' to you over their shoulders from the distant counters; your best friends laid no bet on your horse, fearing that they might get angry with you if you lost, and now that your horse was first and they have won nothing, they turn away as you pass and rather look along the grandstands.
     Your rivals behind you, firmly in the saddle, strive to ignore the bad luck that has befallen them and the injustice that was somehow inflicted upon them; they take a fresh look at things, as if a different race were about to start, and this time a serious one after such a child's play.
     To many ladies the winner appears ridiculous, because he is swelling with importance and yet does seem not to know what to do with the never-ending handshaking, saluting, bowing, and waving, while the defeated keep their mouths shut and lightly pat the necks of their whinnying horses.
     And finally, from the presently overcast sky, it even begins to rain.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

"Arano (Plowing)" by Giovanni Pascoli. English translation, with original Italian text. "Arano (Plowing)," from the collection "Myricae," (1891)

Giovanni Pascoli, as a professor (1882)

The following translation of "Arano (Plowing)" by Giovanni Pascoli, is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!)


In the field, where, rusty-red in the rows,
a few vine leaves shine,  and from the thicket
the morning fog seems smoke,

folk are plowing: with slow cries, one the slow
cows pushes; one plants the seeds; one beats again
the turfs with his patient hoe;

for the sparrow knows and his heart rejoices,
from a mulberry's bristly branches he spies all on;
and the robin: you can hear from the hedges
his delicate tinkling made of gold.

      By Giovanni Pascoli, from the collection "Myricae," (1891)


Al campo, dove roggio nel filare
qualche pampano brilla, e dalle fratte
sembra la nebbia mattinal fumare,

arano: a lente grida, uno le lente
vacche spinge; altri semina; un ribatte
le porche con sua marra pazïente;

chè il passero saputo in cor già gode,
e il tutto spia dai rami irti del moro;
e il pettirosso: nelle siepi s’ode
il suo sottil tintinno come d’oro.

      By Giovanni Pascoli, from the collection "Myricae," (1891)

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

"Valentino (Valentine)" by Giovanni Pascoli. English translation, with original Italian text. "Valentino (Valentine)," from the collection "Canti di Castelvecchio" (1903)

The following translation of "Valentino (Valentine)" by Giovanni Pascoli, is from the book "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," published by LiteraryJoint Press (2017). Also available as Amazon ebook (Free on Kindle Unlimited!)

Cover of: "The Poems of Giovanni Pascoli: Translated in English, with Original Italian Text," LiteraryJoint Press (2017).

Valentino (Valentine)

Oh, Valentino dressed anew
like the shrubs of the hawthorn!
On your tiny feet marked by the thorny bush
no shoes you wear but your own skin;
you wear the ones that your mom made,
which you never changed since you were born,
which did not cost a dime: instead
it cost much the suit she has sewn. 
It did cost; for mom spent all that
in her tinkling moneybox she owned:
now it is empty; and over a month
has sung the whole hen-house to get it filled.
Just think, in January, when the firewood
was never enough, you were shivering, alas!,
and the hens were singing, A cackle!
There, there, a cackle, a cackle for you alone!
Then, the hens brooded, and March
came, and you, skinny little peasant, you stayed
as caught in the middle, with feathers,
but your feet bare, like a bird:
like the bird that came from the sea,
that hops in the cherry tree, and knows not
beyond pecking, singing, and loving
if some other happiness exists.

From the collection "Canti di Castelvecchio" (1903)


Oh! Valentino vestito di nuovo,
come le brocche dei biancospini!
Solo, ai piedini provati dal rovo
porti la pelle de' tuoi piedini;
porti le scarpe che mamma ti fece,
che non mutasti mai da quel dì,
che non costarono un picciolo: in vece
costa il vestito che ti cucì.
Costa; ché mamma già tutto ci spese
quel tintinnante salvadanaio:
ora esso è vuoto; e cantò più d'un mese
per riempirlo, tutto il pollaio.
Pensa, a gennaio, che il fuoco del ciocco
non ti bastava, tremavi, ahimè!,
e le galline cantavano, Un cocco!
ecco ecco un cocco un cocco per te!
Poi, le galline chiocciarono, e venne
marzo, e tu, magro contadinello,
restasti a mezzo, così con le penne,
ma nudi i piedi, come un uccello:
come l'uccello venuto dal mare,
che tra il ciliegio salta, e non sa
ch'oltre il beccare, il cantare, l'amare,
ci sia qualch'altra felicità

From the collection "Canti di Castelvecchio" (1903)