#95 = Volume 32, Part 1 = March 2005
Arthur B. Evans
Jules Verne’s English Translations
I would therefore describe a
good translation to be that in which the merit of the original work is so
completely transfused into another language as to be as distinctly apprehended,
and as strongly felt, by a native of the country to which that language belongs
as it is by those who speak the language of the original work.
—Alexander Fraser Tytler, Essay on the Principles of Translation 8-9
I am the most unknown of men.
—letter from Jules Verne to Mario Turiello, March 2, 1895
On October 5, 1897, in a letter to an Italian admirer, Jules Verne made
the following remark: “I’m not surprised that the translations you’ve been
speaking to me about are bad. That is not particular to Italy; in other
countries they are no better. But we can do nothing about it, absolutely
nothing” (“Correspondence avec Mario Turiello” 124).
This brief comment by Verne during the final decade of his life says volumes
about the overall quality of his translations. Scholars now unanimously agree
that the early English translations of Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaires
were extremely shoddy and often bear little resemblance to their original French
counterparts. In a rush to bring his most popular (and profitable) stories to
market, British and American translators repeatedly watered them down and
abridged them by chopping out most of the science and the longer descriptive
passages (often from 20 to 40% of the original); they committed thousands of
basic translating errors, mistakes that an average high-school student of French
would have managed correctly; they censored Verne’s texts by either removing or
diluting references that might be construed as anti-British or anti-American;
and, in several instances, they totally rewrote Verne’s narratives to suit their
own tastes (changing the names of the characters, adding new scenes, deleting
others, relabeling the chapters, and so on).
As early as 1874, the slapdash nature of Verne’s English translations was
already becoming common knowledge. That year, in a preface to his own—very
poor—American translation of Verne’s De la Terre à la lune (1865)
entitled The Baltimore Gun Club, Edward Roth expressed his righteous
indignation over the
hasty translations of Verne’s
works by English hands, in which—either through ignorance, incapacity, or
prejudice—his errors ... were uncorrected, his defects exaggerated, and even
some of his best passages omitted. These translations, reprinted by American
publishers, spread like wild fire last year over the country and were everywhere
hailed with the greatest delight.1 (4)
Around the fin-de-siècle, Verne enthusiast and collector Willis E.
Hurd—who would much later, in 1940, establish an American Jules Verne Society2—was
among the first to point out that some of Verne’s works had more than one
English translation available and that their overall lengths seemed to vary
considerably:
In 1891 I first became aware of
the fact that one of Verne’s books had been translated into English by more than
one translator. That year I became the possessor of a Ward, Lock & Co. (London)
edition of “A Journey into the Interior of the Earth.” I compared it with my
Scribner edition of “A Journey to the Centre of the Earth” and met with
astonishment. Both in style bore the earmarks of the romancer, but how different
otherwise they were! The story was practically the same, but several chapters in
each translation did not appear in the other. The names of the characters, even,
were different.... The American edition, I noted, contained several thousand
more words than the English edition.... (88)
As he continued to collect them, Hurd soon found that more than one English
translation also existed for several other Verne novels, e.g., for De la
Terre à la lune (1865, From the Earth to the Moon, The Baltimore Gun Club),
Les Enfants du capitaine Grant (1867, The Children of Captain Grant,
In Search of the Castaways), Aventures de trois Russes et de trois
Anglais dans l’Afrique australe (1872, The Adventures of Three Englishmen
and Three Russians in South Africa, Adventures in the Land of the Behemoth),
Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours (1873, Around the World in 80
Days, The Tour of the World in 80 Days), Les Indes noires (1877,
The Black Indies, The Child of the Cavern), Hector Servadac (1877,
Hector Servadac, Off on a Comet), L’école des Robinsons (1882, The
Robinson Crusoe School, Godfrey Morgan: A California Mystery), L’étoile
du sud (1884, The Southern Star, The Vanished Diamond), and Sans
dessus dessous (1889, Topsy-Turvy, The Purchase of the North Pole).
Hurd reacted to this discovery with both bibliophilic excitement (“Once more the
collector’s thrill had me” [88]) and bemused puzzlement over the “fascinating
angles attending the collection of works of our famous French author” (89).
Less sanguine was the reaction of American literary scholar Walter James
Miller who, during the 1960s and 1970s, was the first to compare the standard
English translations of two of Verne’s most popular novels—Twenty Thousand
Leagues Under the Sea (1870) and From the Earth to the Moon—against
their French originals. As he encountered dozens upon dozens of errors,
omissions, and alterations in the English-language versions, Miller quickly came
to understand why Verne’s reputation in Great Britain and America was so
different from how he was known in France and in most other countries:
All the world regards
Jules Verne as the first real popularizer of the romance of science. After that
basic agreement, however, critical opinion is strangely contradictory.
French and other Continental readers go on to admire Verne
for his attention to scientific method, his concern for technical accuracy, his
ability to work wonders with authentic facts and figures.
But American readers have the impression that Verne is
somewhat casual with basic data and arithmetic, even with details of plot and
character....
Could they be talking about the same author?
The answer is tragically simple. Europeans read Verne in the
original French or in good, full-length translations. Americans have based
their opinions on slashed and slapdash versions rushed into print in the 1870s
and reissued ever since as “standard” editions. Ironically, although Verne’s
books pay full tribute to American daring and know-how, Americans have never
been able to judge the true nature and extent of his genius. (“Jules
Verne in America” vii; italics in original)
In several compelling articles (appearing most often as prefaces or
appendices to his own new translations of these two works), Miller outlined in
great detail the damage done to Verne’s reputation by insensitive and
incompetent translators. Miller’s conclusion was concise and categorical: “The
English-speaking world has never had a fair chance to know the real Jules Verne”
(“Foreword” ix).3
In the past few decades, the situation has improved greatly—thanks mostly to
the efforts of a handful of translators and scholars such as Miller, William
Butcher, Edward Baxter, and Stanford Luce and certain university presses such as
those at Oxford, Nebraska, and Wesleyan.4 But, even today, many of
those hackneyed nineteenth-century translations that were for so long the
“standard” versions of Verne’s works continue to be available on the shelves of
American and British bookstores or online through booksellers such as Amazon.com.
Commercial publishing houses, generally unwilling to spend money on
retranslating Verne (or simply unaware of how bad these translations are),
persist in recycling the old public-domain editions. Consider, for example, the
omnibus volume of Jules Verne: Five Complete Novels published by Gramercy
(New York) in 1995 and distributed by Random House or the many facsimile
reprints such as Dick Sands: A Captain at Fifteen (1878), Robur the
Conqueror (1886), or The Floating Island (1895) distributed by
Fredonia Books in Amsterdam (who have over 30 Verne titles currently available
in paperback). These reprints feature some of the worst public-domain
translations ever done of Verne’s works.
Even more distressing is the fact that these same defective translations can
also now be found in full-text digital format on websites such as Project
Gutenberg (<www.gutenberg.net>) and can be purchased on CD-ROM or as
downloadable e-books. Examples include the Jules Verne Collection CD-ROM
marketed by QVision Publishing (Sandy, UT) published in 1998 or the e-book
version of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, which I purchased and downloaded
from Amazon.com recently, only to discover that it was the dreadful 1872 Mercier
Lewis translation denounced by Miller (see above). Such indiscriminate recycling
is unfortunately giving a second—electronic—life to these Verne travesties,
extending their influence into the twenty-first century and beyond.5
Even university presses are not exempt from this practice. For instance, in
1998 the University of Nebraska Press republished Verne’s posthumous La
Chasse au météore (1908, The Hunt for the Meteor) in its “Bison
Frontiers of Imagination” series—a facsimile reprint of the error-filled 1908
British translation entitled The Chase of the Golden Meteor—with no
mention of the fact that the novel had largely been rewritten by Verne’s son
Michel. In a book review published in Extrapolation the following year,
Brian Taves expressed the sentiments of all Verne scholars when he admonished
the Press, saying:
It’s happened again. A
reputable publisher ... has attractively reprinted a Jules Verne book whole from
the first British edition, on that basis calling it unabridged.... Regarding
turn-of-the-century translations as adequate translations of Verne is surprising
for a scholarly publisher.... For more than 30 years, editions of Verne have
deliberately explored textual issues surrounding their translation.... For a
publisher striving for academic standing to simply ignore these aspects is no
longer acceptable. (181-84)
This time, however, the story ends happily. In an amazing demonstration of
publisher integrity and good conscience, the University of Nebraska Press agreed
to retranslate this Verne title and republish it as a critical edition, with
Walter James Miller as editor-translator (forthcoming in 2005).
Before providing some concrete examples of how many of Verne’s texts were
mangled by his English-language translators, a few words should be said about
how these translations were originally published. Why? Because, at least in
Verne’s case, how his novels were published often determined what was
published. A very shrewd businessman, Verne’s French publisher Pierre-Jules
Hetzel had great success in marketing his books to readers both young and old.
American and British publishers adopted many of Hetzel’s successful strategies,
but they chose to promote Verne’s English translations exclusively to a juvenile
audience. And they did so in one of three ways: with elegant cloth-bound luxury
editions that could be offered as holiday gifts, with collectible editions like
those of the “Every Boy’s Library” series by Routledge, or with magazine serials
such as The Boy’s Own Paper (a popular periodical for adolescents begun
in the late 1870s and somewhat reminiscent of Hetzel’s own Magasin
d’Education et de Récréation). Did the editors of these English-language
publishing houses deliberately shorten, simplify, and “cleanse” Verne’s
narratives in order to enhance their appeal to this youthful public? Or were the
translation manuscripts they received for publication judged to be so
unsophisticated in content and tone that only adolescents and pre-adolescents
could reasonably be targeted as their potential readers? It is impossible to
know. But whatever the sequencing of these events, the outcome was the same:
Verne’s works were marketed primarily to British and American boys. And, until
very recently, his literary reputation among adult readers has suffered
proportionately.6
In surveying the 160+ different English translations of Verne’s Voyages
Extraordinaires, I am aware of no standard or universally recognized method
to gauge their individual quality. But simple logic would seem to dictate that
three important aspects to consider would be their completeness, accuracy,
and style.
Completeness. Many of Verne’s English-language translations contain
fewer chapters than their original French counterparts. Such is the case, for
example, in the 1870 Chapman and Hall translation of Verne’s Cinq semaines en
ballon (1863), accurately titled Five Weeks in a Balloon but
containing only 37 chapters of the original’s 44. Furthermore, this translation
condenses the first six chapters of Verne’s novel into one large summary
chapter. Sometimes, heavily abridged chapters adjacent to each other in the text
are combined, as was done for chapters 10 and 11 of the Lewis Mercier/Mercier
Lewis (he used both names) translation of Twenty Thousand Leagues under the
Sea. Or sometimes a chapter is simply edited out entirely, such as the
lengthy pedagogical chapter about comets in Verne’s Hector Servadac
(II§3) that was excised from the I.O. Evans “Fitzroy Edition” of this novel, or
the chapter in The Steam House (1880) in which Verne explains in great
detail the historical background to the 1857 Sepoy Revolt in India (I§3), which
is missing from the “Fitzroy Edition” of this novel as well.7 The
1874 Shepard translation of Verne’s The Adventures of Three Russians and
Three Englishmen in Southern Africa titled—perplexingly—Adventures in the
Land of the Behemoth features both types of cuts: chapter four—a pedagogical
explanation of the main scientific focus of the expedition, measuring an arc of
the meridian via triangulation—was dropped entirely and chapters seven and
eight, also very didactic in nature, were abridged and then combined. But one of
the worst cases of abridgment, in my opinion, may be the first English edition
of The Children of Captain Grant published as In Search of the
Castaways by Lippincott in 1873. The anonymous translator chopped a total of
10 chapters from Verne’s original 70, gathered the remainder into one volume
instead of three, and cleverly adjusted the typography and page size so that the
resulting book boasted a full 620 pages—seemingly identical to the 622 pages of
the original Hetzel luxury octavo edition.
While several of Verne’s English translations have been shortened by the
wholesale removal of chapters, by far the most common method of abridgment is by
paraphrase—where a lengthy portion of Verne’s narrative is replaced by a short
summary. In the interests of “streamlining” the story (i.e., deleting the
passages of scientific pedagogy and foregrounding the action sequences)
translators often cut the long exchanges of didactic dialogue between the
Vernian mentor character and his “students.” One typical example is from The
Voyages and Adventures of Captain Hatteras, where the good-natured scientist
Dr. Clawbonny has a quite humorous and highly instructive exchange with some of
Hatteras’s crew members on the subject of polar cosmography and astronomy. In
the 1874 Routledge translation of this work, this entire scene—which occupies
four pages of text in the original French edition—is now reduced to the
following two declarative sentences:
Clawbonny
then went on to describe the diurnal and annual motions of the earth—the one
round its own axis, the extremities of which are the poles, which is
accomplished in twenty-four hours, and the other round the sun, which takes a
whole year.
Bell and Johnson listened half incredulously and couldn’t see
why the earth could not have been allowed to keep still, till Altamont informed
them that they would then have had neither day nor night, nor spring, summer,
autumn, and winter. (166)
Further, the removal of this multi-page dialogue then allowed the translator
to combine the remainder of this chapter with the previous one. As a result, in
this translation of Captain Hatteras, there is one chapter less in Book
II than in Verne’s original or in the other available English translations of
this novel.
As mentioned, when early translators abridged Verne’s texts, they tended to
zero in on those passages they saw as expendable—the technical explanations, the
geographical or historical descriptions, and the many episodes of scientific
pedagogy. Removing these passages, however, not only impoverishes the plot of
Verne’s stories but also undermines their very identity as “hard” science
fiction (or, as Verne called them, romans scientifiques—scientific
novels). And it seriously compromises Verne’s authorial credibility among
anglophone readers. As a direct consequence of such cuts, for example, one
American book reviewer in 1883 castigated Verne’s works as teeming with
scientific errors:
The astonishing vogue of these
productions constitutes their chief claim to criticism, but they may be said to
challenge it by a special eminence in worthlessness. In most works of the kind,
extravagant blunders are only occasional, or at worst sporadic, relieved by
intervals of tolerable accuracy; but our French author’s unveracity must be
accounted chronic, since he can rarely complete a dozen pages without some
perversion of fact. (Hazeltine 345)
Or consider the following case, cited by Walter James Miller in The
Annotated Jules Verne: Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. The
traditional, “standard” English translation of this novel by Mercier Lewis was
notorious for how it continually abridged Verne’s scientific content. For
instance, in the chapter “All by Electricity” that explains in detail the
engineering of Nemo’s Nautilus, the translator chooses to omit Verne’s
description of the sodium batteries that power this vessel. According to Miller,
By omitting this crucial
passage, Mercier Lewis made Verne vulnerable to sneering attacks on his
integrity as a science-fiction writer. For example, Theodore L. Thomas, in his
influential article “The Watery Wonders of Captain Nemo” (Galaxy, December
1961), charged that Verne had failed to provide adequate descriptions of “the
storage batteries used aboard the Nautilus. There are none,” he said flatly.
Oddly enough, Thomas preferred to accuse Verne rather than
suspect the translator. (76)
Quite often, the translators omit Verne’s enumerations and lists, such as in
the very long—and hilariously excessive—roster of African explorers toasted at
the end of the first chapter of Five Weeks in a Balloon, replaced in the
1893 Hutchinson edition with the following sentence: “Many toasts were drunk to
the names of celebrated African travelers, either past or present, and of all
countries, in alphabetical order, and concluded with the name of Ferguson who,
by his incredible attempt, was to form the last link connecting these explorers’
labours, and complete the series of African discoveries” (4). Another very
common type of excision—and one that also deletes important self-referential
biographical material (Verne was secretary of Nadar’s “heavier than air”
aeronautics club)—is the list of pioneer aviators cited near the beginning of
chapter six in Verne’s helicopter novel, Robur the Conqueror:
From 1854 to 1863 appeared
Joseph Pline with patents for several aerial systems; Bréant, Carlingford, Le
Bris, Du Temple, Bright, whose ascensional propellers turned backwards, Smythies,
Panafieu, Crosnier, et al. Finally, in 1863, thanks to the efforts of Nadar, a
“heavier than air” club was founded in Paris. There, inventors could experiment
with these machines, of which many were patented: Ponton d’Amécourt and his
steam helicopter, La Landelle and his system of combining propellers with
inclined planes and parachutes, Louvrié and his aeroscaph, Esterno and his
mechanical bird, Groof and his apparatus with wings worked by levers. The
impetus was given, inventors invented, calculators calculated all that could
make aerial travel practicable. Bourcart, Le Bris, Kaufmann, Smyth, Stringfellow,
Prigent, Danjard, Pomès and De la Pauze, Moy, Pénaud, Jobert, Hureau de
Villeneuve, Achenbach, Garapon, Duchesne, Danduran, Parisel, Dieuaide, Melkisff,
Forlanini, Brearey, Tatin, Dandrieux, Edison, some with wings or propellers,
others with inclined planes, imagined, created, constructed, and perfected their
flying machines that would be ready to take to the skies once some inventor
developed a motor of adequate power and lightness. (my translation)
This passage, in the English-language version of the novel published by the
American publisher George Munro in 1887, is reduced to:
From 1854 to 1863 appeared
Joseph Pline, Breant, Carlingford, Du Temple, Bright, Smythies, and Edison, some
with wings, others with screws, imagining, creating, and perfecting machines and
preparing the road for the time when some inventor shall evolve the perfect
work. (Robur the Conqueror, or A Trip Round the World in a Flying Machine
56)
Lastly, many British and American translators did not hesitate to “embroider”
Verne’s narratives with additional fictional material of their own invention.
Examples are too numerous to cite, but they range in significance from a few
words added here and there to whole paragraphs to entirely new scenes and
episodes that were never in Verne’s original texts. As an example of the first,
consider the following passage from the 1878 translation by Ellen Frewer of
Verne’s A Captain at Fifteen retitled Dick Sands, The Boy Captain,
describing the eccentric entomologist Cousin Benedict (translator additions are
shown in italics):
Every available hour did he
spend in the pursuit of his favourite science: hexapods ruled his thoughts by
day and his dreams by night. The number of pins that he carried thick on the
collar and sleeves of his coat, down the front of his waistcoat, and on the
crown of his hat defied computation; they were kept in readiness for the
capture of specimens that might come his way, and on his return from a
ramble in the country he might be seen literally encased with a covering
of insects, transfixed adroitly by scientific rule.
This ruling passion of his had been the inducement that had
urged him to accompany Mr. and Mrs. Weldon to New Zealand. It had appeared to
him that it was likely to be a promising district, and now having been
successful in adding some rare specimens to his collection, he was anxious to
get back again to San Francisco and to assign them to their proper places in his
extensive cabinet.
Besides, it never occurred to Mrs. Weldon to start without
him. To leave him to shift for himself would be sheer cruelty. As a
matter of course, whenever Mrs. Weldon went on board the “Pilgrim,” Cousin
Benedict would go too. (9)
These various “improvements” to Verne’s prose, although they do violate the
code of translator non-intervention and are therefore unacceptable, may seem
somewhat less reprehensible since they supplement rather than replace Verne’s
original text.
Of a very different order of magnitude, however, are the many additions and
rewrites evident in the infamous Roth translations of Verne’s From the Earth
to the Moon and Around the Moon (collectively retitled The
Baltimore Gun Club) and Hector Servadac (retitled To the Sun? Off
on a Comet!). In addition to creating an entire chapter ex nihilo and
adding it to the story of Around the Moon—detailing Maston’s (who is renamed
“Marston”) journey from Long’s Peak to San Francisco by stage and Pacific
Railroad—Roth repeatedly uses Verne’s texts as a launching pad for his own
idiosyncratic rants. One example should suffice to give a flavor of Roth’s
“amplifications.” Not a word of the following tirade can be found in Verne’s
original.
Not only was the railroad
completed as far as Cedar Keys, but also the latter town was connected with
Tampa by a branch constructed along the low marshy Gulf coast at great trouble
and expense. Barbican had made the company a present of his route,
strongly recommending it as being higher and healthier, more picturesque and
fertile, besides being shorter and less expensive. But Barbican, through a great
artillerist, was unfortunately only a Baltimore man, and no mere Baltimore man
could by any possibility teach a Boston man, as the President of the Gulf
Railroad Company prided himself upon being.
For, outside of Boston, as you must know, everything in the
United States is provincial; literature, fashion, society, at best second rate;
all the boys and girls in the Union learn their lessons out of Boston
newspapers, Boston magazines, and Boston books; the Revolutionary War began and
ended within sight of Bunker Hill; the Boston people single handed had licked
the British in 1812; aided a little by some other New Englanders, they had put
down the great rebellion of ’61; Faneuil Hall, “the cradle of American Liberty,”
was the only place where the “Centennial” should be celebrated; her municipal
system was unequaled; her fire department was simply perfect; no act of cruel
bigotry had ever disgraced her lofty minded and enlightened people; her men were
all corresponding members of learned societies, and her women read so much that
they all wore eyeglasses; her public schools produced the profoundest of
scholars and the most virtuous of citizens. Such, at least, was the Nicene Creed
repeated every Sunday by every good Bostonian. The President of the Gulf
Railroad happened to be an extra good Bostonian. A Baltimorian to dictate to
him? Never! Of course, he had his way; the branch followed the worst possible
route because a Baltimorian had pointed out the best possible one. What matter
if it cost the company an additional million of dollars and five thousand poor
Irish laborers their lives? A grand moral principle had been successfully
vindicated. If Boston is not to have her way, the world is not worth living in!
(114)
Another charter member of the Jules Verne Translation Hall of Infamy is the
“Hardwigg” edition of Journey to the Centre of the Earth published by
Griffith and Farran in 1871. Sadly, this atrocious translation was the first
English version to be published of this popular Verne novel. Even more sadly, it
is still sometimes published today as the “standard” version. As in the horrid
Roth translations, the translator of this edition felt little need to remain
faithful to Verne’s original narrative. For instance, compare the following two
excerpts: the first is a reasonably accurate modern translation of the beginning
of the opening chapter of Verne’s text, and the second is the “Hardwigg” version
of this same passage:
On 24 May
1863, which was a Sunday, my uncle, Professor Lidenbrock, came rushing back
towards his little house, No. 19 Königstrasse, one of the oldest streets in the
old quarter of Hamburg.
Martha must have thought that she was very behindhand, for
the dinner was only beginning to sizzle on the kitchen stove.
“Well,” I said to myself, “if my uncle is hungry, he’ll make
a dreadful fuss, for he’s the most impatient of men.”
“Professor Lidenbrock here already!” cried poor Martha in
astonishment, half opening the dining-room door.
“Yes, Martha; but don’t worry if the dinner isn’t cooked,
because it isn’t two o’clock yet. St. Michael’s clock has only just struck half
past one.”
“Then why is Professor Lidenbrock coming home?”
“He’ll probably tell us himself.”
“Here he is! I’m off, Mr. Axel. You’ll get him to see reason,
won’t you?”
And our good Martha went back into her culinary laboratory.
I was left alone. But as for getting the most irascible of professors to see
reason, that was a task quite beyond a man of my rather undecided nature. So I
was getting ready to beat a prudent retreat to my little room upstairs, when the
street door creaked on its hinges, heavy footsteps shook the wooden staircase,
and the master of the house, passing through the dining room, rushed straight
into his study.
On his way, he found time to fling his cane with the
nutcracker head into a corner, his broad¬-brimmed hat onto the table, and these
empathetic words at his nephew:
“Axel, follow me!” (Penguin, trans. Robert Baldick, 1965)
Looking back to all that has occurred to me since that
eventful day, I am scarcely able to believe in the reality of my adventures.
They were truly so wonderful that even now I am bewildered when I think of them.
My uncle was a German, having married my mother’s sister, an
English¬woman. Being very much attached to his fatherless nephew, he invited me
to study under him in his home in the fatherland. This home was in a large town,
and my uncle was a professor of philosophy, chemistry, mineralogy, and many
other ologies.
One day, after passing some hours in the laboratory—my uncle
being absent at the time—I suddenly felt the necessity of renovating the
tissues—i.e., I was hungry, and was about to rouse up our old French cook, when
my uncle, Professor Von Hardwigg, suddenly opened the street door and came
rushing upstairs.
Now Professor Hardwigg, my worthy uncle, is by no means a bad
sort of man; he is, however, choleric and original. To bear with him means to
obey; and scarcely had his heavy feet resounded within our joint domicile than
he shouted for me to attend upon him.
“Harry! Harry! Harry!” (Griffith and Farran, trans. anon.,
1871)
Beyond the initial shock of wondering if these two translations were drawn
from the same novel at all, it is interesting to analyze some of the
altera¬tions made in the second one and to speculate about what might have
inspired them. The translator for this Griffith and Farran version is not named
but was undoubtedly British: note the anglicizing of the names of the principal
characters (Lidenbrock-Hardwigg, Axel-Harry) and the ancestry of Axel-Harry,
who now comes from English parents and whose mother is still alive and
presumably living in England. This nationalist undercurrent is reinforced by
such phrases as “My uncle was a German” and “the fatherland” and “our old French
cook.” But there are other oddities in this text as well: the attempt at a kind
of anti-scientific entre nous humor in “and many other ologies” and the
speaker’s circumlocutory speech patterns which are intended, one supposes, to
add character and depth to the portrayal of Axel-Harry.
And consider the important differences in the narrative flow of these two
texts. For example, Verne first posits two identifier sentences—explaining time,
place, and characters—and then follows them up with a brisk interchange of
dialogue. This provides an effective in medias res introduction to the
narrator Axel, certain information about the family maid and Lidenbrock, and a
tinge of mystery to this opening scene. The 1871 translator, on the other hand,
connects together a long series of descriptive statements, leaning heavily on
denotative background-building, paraphrasis, and pseudo-stylistic register
shifts for his effects. In so doing, he destroys the crispness and drama of
Verne’s original text in addition to changing its basic content. Reading such
translations, one can easily understand the recurring complaints of
Anglo-American critics who have always contended that Verne’s narratives have
little literary merit and that his prose is often as wooden as his characters.
Finally, the authorial hubris of this anonymous translator rivaled that of
Edward Roth. Not content to rewrite Verne’s original story line by line and
paragraph by paragraph, he too added to the novel entire plot episodes of his
own invention. The most incredible of these occurs late in the novel: young
Harry’s nightmare encounter with two ferocious prehistoric monsters—a hybrid
shark-crocodile and a carnivorous “antediluvian gorilla” fourteen feet high
([New York: Tor, 1992] 226-29). The chapter that features these events is itself
retitled and is now called “The Ape Gigans.”
Accuracy. Speaking of titles, British and American publishers had no compunction
about retitling Verne’s novels as they saw fit, creating a bewildering labyrinth
of references for the Vernian bibliographer. Many of Verne’s translations were
published separately in two or three distinct volumes with each part titled
individually (e.g., At the North Pole or The English at the North Pole
for the first part of The Voyages and Adventures of Captain Hatteras and
The Desert of Ice or The Field of Ice for the second part);
sometimes two independent novels (e.g., From the Earth to the Moon and
Around the Moon) were packaged together under one omnibus title. For this
reason, any given work in Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaires might carry as
many as five or six different English titles. Most English-language titles of
Verne’s novels are fairly easy to recognize: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under
the Sea(s) or At the Bottom of the Deep, Deep Sea for Vingt mille
lieues sous les mers, for example; or Journey/Voyage/A Trip to the Centre
of the Earth or Into the Interior of the Earth for Voyage au
centre de la terre; or Propeller Island or A Floating Island
for L’Île à hélice. But some English translation titles are much less
obvious: Adrift in the Pacific for Deux ans de vacances (1888,
A Two Years’ Vacation); or In Search of the Castaways for Les
Enfants du capitaine Grant (The Children of Captain Grant); or The
Child of the Cavern for Les Indes noires (The Black Indies);
or The Clipper of the Clouds for Robur-le-conquérant (Robur the
Conqueror); or The Purchase of the North Pole for Sans dessus
dessous (1889, Topsy-Turvy); Foundling Mick for
P’tit-Bonhomme (1893, Lit’l Fellow); or A Package Holiday for
L’Agence Thompson and Co. (1907, The Thompson Travel Agency); or
Seventy Degrees North Latitude for Le Pays des fourrures (1873,
The Fur Country); or Simon Hart: A Strange Story of Science and the Sea
for Face au drapeau (1896, Facing the Flag).8
In many of these early English translations, the fictional
protagonists’ names have also been changed. In the “standard” English version of
The Mysterious Island (1874), for example, the American engineer and
leader of the castaways, Cyrus Smith, has been renamed Cyrus Harding, his
compatriot Pencroff is now called Pencroft, and the name of the young man
accompanying them, Harbert, is changed to the more familiar Herbert. As
mentioned, in the most prevalent translation of Journey to the Center of the
Earth, Professor Otto Lidenbrock becomes Professor Von Hardwigg, his nephew
Axel becomes Harry, and his daughter Gräuben becomes Gretchen. In The Steam
House, Lady Munro’s first name is anglicized from Laurence (probably deemed
to be too androgynous) to the unquestionably feminine Laura. In Topsy-Turvy,
the name of the British emissary representing England at the auction of these
northern territories has been (predictably) changed from Dean Toodrink to Dean
Todrin and J.T. Maston is now called (for no obvious reason) J.T. Marston. And
finally, in the posthumous The Amazing Aventure of the Barsac Mission
(1919), the heroine Jane Buxton becomes Jane Blazon (perhaps to appear less
buxom?).
In terms of simple vocabulary and lexicon, the number of errors in these
early translations is astonishing. And some are painfully comical if compared to
the original French texts. A random but fairly representative sampling of such
mistakes include the following “jewels” (identified in each edition by book
part, chapter, and page):
Five Weeks in a Balloon - New York:Vincent Parke, 1911:
“Cela est
attristant” [It is saddening] is rendered as “It is melancholy.” (I§23.303)
“Fergusson ne tarda pas à avoir l’explication de ce phénomène” [Fergusson did
not delay in having an explanation for this phenomenon] has its meaning reversed as “Ferguson [sic] did
not stop to ascertain the cause of the phenomenon” (I§30.339)
“voilà l’un des plus grands chagrins qu’il m’ait été donné de ressentir!” [this
is one of the greatest sorrows I’ve ever had to endure] is now “this is one of
the greatest troubles I have ever had to deplore!” (I§34.355)
“Il est heureux ... que j’aie eu cette pensée” [It was fortunate I had this
idea] is translated as “It was a very happy idea of mine” (I§35.357)
“Le ballon se relève-t-il?” [Is the balloon rising again?] becomes the
inadvertently comical “Is the balloon relieved at all?” (I§41.389)
From the Earth to the Moon Direct and Round the
Moon - London: Routledge, 1877:
“les
Arcadiens prétendirent que....” [the Acadians claimed that....] is literally
translated as “the Acadians pretended that....” (FI§5.30)
“le président intervint” [the president intervened] becomes “the president
interfered” (FI§8.47)
“je voudrais être au premier coup de pioche” [I’d like to be present at the
first blow of the pickax] is changed to say “I should like to see the first
stroke given at once” (FI§13.75)
“Je suis un homme d’intérieur” [I am a stay-indoors man] is unintentionally made
humorous when translated as “I am a homely man” (AI§1.167)
“l’écorce terrestre” [the earth’s crust] now sounds a bit fruity as “the rind of
the earth” (AI§5.200)
“parallèlement” [in parallel fashion] becomes the delightfully alliterative
“parallelly” (AI§15.263)
Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea - New York:
Tor, 1995:
“les
mauvaises terres de Nebraska” [the Badlands] become “the disagreeable territory
of Nebraska” (I§2.8.)
“le passage du Nord-Ouest” [the Northwest Passage] is called “the passage of the
North Sea” (I§3.13)
“faire un crochet” [making a detour] is literalized as “making a curve” (I§3.14)
“A un autre plus adroit! cria le commandant” [Give it to another (gunner) who is
more adroit!’ shouted the commander] is—predictably—rendered as “‘Another more
to the right!’ cried the commander” (I§6.32)
“un fil électrique” [an electric wire] is labelled “an electric thread”
(I§11.63)
“Le capitain pressa trois fois un timbre électrique” [an electric bell] becomes
“The Captain pressed an electric clock three times” (I§13.72)
“un tranquille cabinet de travail” [a quiet study] is changed to “a quiet
repository of labour” (I§21,127)
“Et armé d’une lentille, il alluma un feu” [And armed with a magnifying lens, he
started a fire] is hilariously translated as “And provided with a lentil, he
lighted a fire” (I§20.114)
But there also exists a more sinister type of inaccuracy in
many of Verne’s English translations. This brand of betrayal to the integrity of
Verne’s texts has little to do with linguistic incompetence, streamlining plots
for an adolescent audience, or creative additions to his prose. It constitutes
one of the worst crimes that a translator, editor, or publisher can commit:
ideological censorship. A number of Verne novels were rewritten to adhere to a
pro-anglo political agenda and were methodically “purged” of any perceived
anti-British or anti-American content before being published.
Consider, for example, portions of the Griffith and Farran
edition of A Journey to the Centre of the Earth discussed earlier. In the
first chapter, a close reading reveals that certain “ideological adjustments”
have been made to Verne’s narrative. Compare the two following excerpts—the
first, what Verne actually said, and the second, the “adjusted” version:
Lidenbrock’s name was accordingly very much honoured in the gymnasiums and
learned societies. Sir Humphry Davy, Humboldt, and Captains Franklin and Sabine
made sure they visited him on their way through Hamburg. Messrs Becquerel,
Ebelmen, Brewster, Dumas, Milne-Edwards, and Sainte-Claire Deville liked to
consult him on the most stimulating questions in chemistry. That science owed
him some wonderful discoveries. In 1853 there had appeared in Leipzig a Treatise
on Transcendental Crystallography by Professor O. Lidenbrock, printed in
large-folio pages with plates—but without covering its costs.
Add to that that my uncle was the curator of the mineralogical museum of Mr
Struve, the Russian ambassador, which was a valuable collection much esteemed
throughout Europe. (trans. William Butcher, 1992 Oxford, 5)
He corresponded with all the great, learned, and scientific men of the age. I
was therefore in constant communication with, at all events the letters of, Sir
Humphrey Davy, Captain Franklin, and other great men. (trans. anon., Griffith &
Farran, 1992 Tor, 3)
In the original, Lidenbrock is said to have corresponded with and been consulted
by many famous scientists and explorers of the time. In his version, the British
translator—no doubt in order to restrict the membership of such an exclusive
group to those of English nationality—chose to delete from their ranks the
German Humboldt, the American Sabine, and the French scientists Becquerel,
Dumas, and Sainte-Claire Deville. As for mentioning Lidenbrock’s “wonderful
discoveries” in his “Treatise on Transcendental Crystallography” published in
Leipzig (a good example of Verne’s tongue-in-cheek humor and his toying with
referentiality) or the Russian ambassador's mineralogical collection “much
esteemed throughout Europe” in the next paragraph—our translator simply axed
these non-British references entirely.
Other examples of such “patriotic” censorship in Verne’s works can be found in
the standard translation of The Mysterious Island by W.H.G. Kingston. Compare
the two following passages—the first a faithful rendering of what Verne wrote,
and the second Kingston’s version—to see how this British translator politically
“corrected” Verne’s text:
The British yoke had weighed perhaps too heavily on the Hindu population. Prince
Dakkar became the spokesman for the malcontents. He instilled in them all the
hatred that he felt for the foreigners. He traveled not only to the still
independent areas on the Indian Peninsula but also to those regions directly
subject to British administration. He recalled the great days of Tippo Saïb who
had died heroically at Seringapatam in the defense of his country.
In 1857, the great Sepoy revolt broke out. Prince Dakkar was its soul. He
organized the immense uprising, and he devoted both his talents and his wealth
to this cause. (trans. Sidney Kravitz, 2001 Wesleyan UP, 590-91)
Instigated by princes equally ambitious and less sagacious and more
unscrupulous than he was, the people of India were persuaded that they might
successfully rise against their English rulers who had brought them out of a
state of anarchy and constant warfare and misery, and had established peace and
prosperity in their country. Their ignorance and gross superstition made them
the facile tools of their designing chiefs.
In 1857 the great sepoy revolt broke out. Prince Dakkar, under the belief that
he should thereby have the opportunity of attaining the object of his
long-cherished ambitions, was easily drawn into it. He forthwith devoted his
talents and wealth to the service of this cause. (1986 Signet Classic, 463)
Here, Verne’s chastizing commentary on the British rule in India is transformed
into a glowing testimonial to their “civilizing” influence. The anti-colonial
revolt is now attributed to ambitious and “designing” Indian princes who turned
the ignorant masses against their enlightened foreign rulers. Incidentally, this
same pro-British bias is also evident in the English translation of another
Verne novel that focuses on India, The Steam House (1880), where sentences such
as “Lord Clive, free of competitors and with nothing more to fear from Portugal
or France, then undertook and assured the conquest of Bengale, over which Lord
Hastings was named governor general” (I§3.34) become “Lord Clive’s brilliant
successes having assured the English power in Bengale, Warren Hastings
consolidated the empire Clive had founded” (I§3.35).
Such blatant political rewrites are disturbingly frequent. In The Children of
Captain Grant, the protagonists come across in Australia a young aborigine boy
named Toliné who has been schooled in the British educational system and who has
recently won first prize in geography. He asks Paganel to question him on his
geographical knowledge and, during a very funny give-and-take dialogue that
continues for six pages, it quickly becomes evident that Toliné has been taught
that the British own or control virtually all the nations of the world. Finally,
an incredulous Paganel observes
“So that’s how they teach geography at Melbourne! ... Europe, Asia, Africa,
America, Oceania, the whole world, all belonging to the English! With such an
ingenious form of education as this, I understand the submissiveness of the
natives! Well, Toliné, how about the Moon, does that belong to the English,
too?”
“It will belong to them someday,” gravely answered the young aborigine.
Thereupon Paganel got up. He could not keep still any longer. He walked a
quarter of a mile from the encampment and burst into uncontrollable laughter.
(my translation)
This entire six-page episode is expunged from the first English translation of
this novel—produced, ironically, not in London but in Philadelphia and titled In
Search of the Castaways—and in its place is found the following:
Paganel and the others had now gathered round, and Toliné had to answer many a
question.... [T]he fact that he had taken “the first prize in geography” was
sufficient introduction to Monsieur Paganel, who forthwith tested his knowledge,
greatly to his own satisfaction and considerably to the credit of his young
pupil. The curiosity of his discoverers having been fully satisfied, Toliné was
made welcome and partook with the others of the general repast. (I§36.342)
Similar modifications have been made to the English version of Verne’s
Topsy-Turvy (retitled The Purchase of the North Pole, trans. anon., 1890 Sampson
Low): “But there are no desert islands left nowadays—the English have taken them
all” becomes “But there are no desert islands now” (I§13.99). Later in the
novel, where a sultan who is “right considered to be one of the most remarkable
sovereigns of the peoples of Central Africa who are striving to escape the
influence—or, more accurately, the domination—of the English” is, in the
translation, simply “considered to be one of the most remarkable sovereigns of
Central Africa” (I§17.118).
Another case of heavy-handed censorship can be seen in the standard English
translation of Verne’s 1895 Propeller Island, translated as The Floating Island,
or The Pearl of the Pacific (trans. W.J. Gordon, 1896 Sampson Low). The
equivalent of dozens of pages have been cut from this Verne story because they
were viewed as being somehow critical of the Americans or the British. Such
unacceptable passages included a description of the United States doubling its
size by annexing Canada and Central America (I§1), a short blurb making fun of
England’s refusal to adopt the metric system (I§5), several very anti-American
paragraphs focusing on the colonial history of Hawaii (I§9), a discussion about
corrupt British politics (I§13), a few paragraphs concerning the lack of manners
of many British citizens (II§1), a lengthy discussion where the British are
condemned for introducing snakes onto the islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe
before handing them over to the French (II§6), and a comical dialogue comparing
the British to cannibals (II§9). Sometimes such changes, though distressing, can
be inadvertently humorous. In one problematic passage—a long anti-missionary
diatribe that the translator apparently decided could not be easily cut from
Verne’s narrative—a simple but ingenious solution was found: the nationality of
the rapacious cleric was simply changed from British to German (II§1.190).
Such ideological censorship was not limited to politics and nationalism. Many
references to the Catholic religion—especially if portrayed in competition with
Protestantism—were systematically chopped out of Verne’s translations. One such
passage, in Propeller Island, describes a good French missionary as follows:
“This missionary has devoted himself body and soul to the spread of Catholicism.
And it was not without certain difficulties, for he has had to compete with a
Wesleyan pastor who presented him with serious competition in the neighborhood”
(II§9). Another, describing a thriving Catholic mission, was also excised from
the same novel:
These religious men did regret their native land so far away. But isn’t it true
that such regrets are more than compensated for by all the good they are doing
in these islands? Isn’t it a consolation to see themselves respected by the
people of this part of the world that they have saved from the influence of the
Anglican ministers and converted to the Catholic faith? (II§5)
Lastly, some portions of Verne’s narratives that were viewed as being of dubious
morality or “good taste” to Anglo-American sensibilities were also either
expunged or wholly rewritten. Sentences deemed to be too graphic or risqué, such
as “tu têterais encore ta maman” [“you’d still be sucking at your mother’s
breast”] in Five Weeks in a Balloon (I§9) were euphemized in translation as
“you’d be toddling after your mammy yet” (trans. Lackland, 1869 Appleton, 65) or
“you would not be weaned yet” (trans. anon., 1911 Vincent Parke, 217) or “you’d
still be drinking your mother’s milk” (trans. Chambers, 1994 Wordsworth, 196).
In The Mysterious Island (II§13), alcohol is the culprit, where “Le capitaine
Pencroff était absolument satisfait de son équipage, et ne parlait rien moins
que de le gratifier ‘d’un quart de vin par bordée!’” [“Captain Pencroff was
fully satisfied with his crew and spoke of rewarding them with nothing less than
a quarter liter of wine by watch!”] is reduced to “Captain Pencroff was
perfectly satisfied with his crew” (trans. Kingston, 1986 Signet Classic, 272).
And several paragraphs of humour noir in the first chapter From the Earth to the
Moon, where Verne praises the exquisite battlefield carnage afforded by bigger
and more lethal artillery, were apparently too much for the British
co-translators Mercier and King who decided to delete them entirely from their
1873 English version of this novel.
It is interesting to observe that Verne’s own anti-Semitism—as evident, for
example, in his highly racist portrayal of the Jew Isac [sic] Hakhabut in Hector Servadac—seems to have caused no problem for his English translator, who even
intensified Verne’s already unflattering portrait of this Shylock character.
When Captain Servadac and his orderly Ben-Zouf pay an unannounced visit to
Hakhabut’s home, the latter at first refuses to greet them and then, realizing
who they are, says: “‘Ah! It is you, your excellency governor general,’ he said
without budging from his cabin” (my translation). The standard English
translation of this sentence is “Oh, your Excellency, my lord, I did not know
that it was you,” whined the Jew, but without emerging any further from his
cabin” (II§7, trans. Frewer, 2000, Univ. Press of the Pacific, 252, my
emphasis). Later in the same chapter, Servadac and Hakhabut begin to negotiate
the loan of a weighing scale:
“Master Isac,” Captain Servadac then said, “we have come here quite simply to
ask a favor of you.”
“A favor?”
“In our common interest.”
“But I don’t have any common interests!”
“Hear me out, and stop complaining, Hakhabut. We’re not here to take advantage
of you.” (my translation)
The Frewer translation reads as follows:
“Listen to me,” said Servadac; “we have come to ask a favour of you.”
Imagining that at least half his property was to be confiscated, the Jew began
to break out into his usual formula about being a poor man and having nothing to
spare; but Servadac, without taking any heed of his complainings, went on:
“We are not going to ruin you, you know.” (253-54)
If one also examines how Blacks are portrayed throughout Verne’s works, it seems
that many of his English translators misrepresented him here as well. Whereas
Verne almost always used the terms “Nègre” (Negro) or “Noirs” (Blacks), several
of his translators opted for more pejorative terms such as “darkeys” or
“niggers.” The various English editions of Verne’s first novel, Five Weeks in a
Balloon, clearly demonstrate this:
“Shall we let this darkey drop all at once?” inquired Joe. (I§15.119, trans.
Lackland, 1869 Appleton)
“But how are we to scatter those wretched niggers?” asked Kennedy. (I§14.71,
trans. anon. 1870 Chapman and Hall, rpt. 1995 Sutton “Pocket Classics”)
“How astonished those niggers do look!” (I§20.122, trans. Frederick A. Malleson,
1875 Ward Lock)
“Hollo!” cried Joe. “Niggers instead of crocodiles! Faith, I prefer the former.
But how do these fellows dare to bathe in such places as this?” (I§35.359,
Routledge, trans. unknown, 1876 Routledge, rpt. 1911 Vincent Parke)
“That might be a nuisance,” replied Kennedy. “In the interests of civilization
it would be better to be taken for ordinary men. It would give these niggers a
different idea of European power.” (I§30.294, trans. Arthur Chambers, 1926
Dent/Dutton)
As readers we must not, of course, fall into the trap of making anachronistic
value judgments and condemning certain words that we find offensive but that
were acceptable (albeit colloquial) at the time they were published. But it is
nevertheless true that if these translators had been more competent in French
and/or had chosen to be more faithful to what Verne had originally written, such
terms would never have found their way into the English versions of these novels
in the first place.
Style. Translators often have difficulty conveying an author’s style. Verne’s
early translators were no different, just worse. Reading Verne’s works in French
and in English, one is continually amazed at how much is “lost in
translation”—not only because of the latter’s incompleteness or inaccuracy when
compared to the originals but also because of their very different style. The
French Verne is intelligent, humorous, witty, theatrical, socially aware, and
surprisingly self-reflexive as a writer.9 The English Verne, the one encountered
in most of his translations, seems shallow, one-dimensional, melodramatic, and
naive. Anglophone literary critics have generally only read the English Verne,
and their reactions are predictable. According to one early critic: “The almost
life-long métier of Jules Verne was the pseudo-scientific novel, but he was the
most superficial of all who have practised the art” (“Science in Romance” 414).
Another more contemporary critic has also said of Verne: “His tone is flat, his
characters are thin, and he pauses all too frequently for lectures: his is a
non-sensual world” (Aldiss 96).
To effectively communicate an author’s style, a good translator must strike a
delicate balance between (often conflicting) goals: remaining scrupulously
faithful to the original and trying to create a similar aesthetic effect in the
target language. Too much of the former will lead to stilted prose and even
comical awkwardness as in Mercier’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, where
a sentence like “les mantelets furent rebattus extérieurement” [the hatches were
opened outwards] is rendered as “the port lids were pulled down outside”
(I§21.129, 1995 Tor). Too much of the latter will result in excessive translator
interpolation, as in the following scene from Verne’s Hector Servadac as
“adapted” by the American translator Edward Roth in his 1877 translation called
To the Sun? Off on a Comet! (rpt. 1960 Dover):
“Gentlemen,” said Count Timascheff, “the disaster has been immense. Along this
whole eastern section of the Mediterranean, we have not found a single trace of
the old lands: neither those of Algeria nor of Tunisia, except one little
point—a rock emerging from the sea near Carthage, and which contained the tomb
of the king of France...”
“Louis the Ninth, I believe?” said the Brigadier.
“More known by the name of Saint Louis, Sir!” countered Captain Servadac, to
whom Brigadier Murphy offered a half-smile of concession. (my translation)
“Gentlemen,” calmly continued the Count, “the disaster, I am sorry to say, has
been immense. Along the whole of the eastern portion of the Mediterranean we
have not be able to find a single trace of the old countries—neither Algeria—nor
Tunis—except one little point, a rock emerging from the sea, near the ruins of
Carthage, and containing the tomb of Saint Louis.”
“Saint Louis? Saint Louis?” asked Murphy, who was no stronger in hagiology than
in geography. “Oliphant, who was Saint Louis?”
“Saint Louis—hum—haw—” answered the Major, a little more diffidently this time;
“Saint Louis is a seaport town in the United States famous for cotton and corn
and Indians. But—haw—the Saint Louis spoken of by the Count—hum—was some martyr
of that name in the old times— hum—haw—yes, in the old times.”
“You’re right, Major Oliphant,” observed Servadac, more impatiently than ever
before; “Saint Louis was a martyr; but he was more, he was a king of France; he
was still more, he was the best and greatest king that ever sat on a throne in
any age and in any country!”
The automatons showed their appreciation of this volunteered information by a
stiff formal bow, and the Count, rather disliking to be interrupted so often,
hastened to conclude his narrative in as few words as possible. (I§14.118)
One stylistic change common to most of Verne’s English translations is their use
of anglicized names and American or British slang. The names of the main
characters are sometimes changed, either slightly as in Kurtis to Curtis (The
Wreck of the Chancellor, 1875) and Captain Hod to Captain Hood (The Steam
House), or moderately as in Jean-Jacques Langévol to John James Langevol (The
Begum’s Millions) and Doniphan to Donovan (A Two Years’ Vacation), or in
somewhat more radical fashion as in Cyprien Méré to Victor Cyprien (The Southern
Star, 1884) and Lidenbrock to Hardwigg (Journey to the Centre of the Earth).
Even more frequent is the anglicization of certain interjections such as “By
Jove!” or “Egad!” for “Parbleu!” and “The deuce!” for “Diable!” or the use of
certain colloquial expressions such as “we are eating humble pie” [“nous nous
humilions,” we have been humbled] in From the Earth to the Moon (trans. Linklater, I§1.11) or “these thoughts were racking [sic] my brain” [“ces
réflexions tourbillionnaient dans ma tête,” these thoughts were spinning around
in my head] in Journey to the Centre of the Earth, (Routledge, I§41.223).
Needless to say, converting Verne’s French idiom to English slang can sometimes
be dangerous because colloquialisms tend to change rapidly over time, and a
sentence such as “he was soon completely knocked up” [“il fut bientôt sur les
dents,” he was soon exhausted] in From the Earth to the Moon (Routledge,
I§22.127) might well perplex the contemporary American reader.
Two aspects of an author’s style that can often help to distinguish between good
and bad translations are poetic descriptions and humor (especially ironic
wordplay). Both are inherently difficult to convert into a foreign tongue and,
predictably, most of Verne’s jokes and evocative passages have either been
glossed over or ruined in his early English translations. The following
“sensual” description of the polar “open sea” in The Voyages and Adventures of
Captain Hatteras—a passage that was singled out for praise by Michel Butor10—is
quite typical:
The waters of this liquid plain, which were tinted with the faintest hues of
ultramarine, proved to be unusually transparent and endowed with a wonderful
dispersive quality, as if they were made of sulphur carbide. This diaphanousness
allowed one to see clearly to immeasurable depths. It seemed that the Polar
basin was lit from below like a vast aquarium; no doubt some electrical
phenomenon, produced at the bottom of the sea, illuminated its deepest recesses.
As a result, their boat appeared to be suspended above a bottomless abyss.
(II§21, my translation)
With its meaning twisted and its tone emptied of poetry, here is how this
passage appears in the most commonly available English translation of this novel
(still in print today):
The water of this Polar Sea presented some peculiar features worth mentioning.
In colour it was a faint ultramarine blue, and possessed such wonderful
transparency that one seemed to gaze down into fathomless depths. These depths
were lighted up, no doubt, by some electrical phenomenon, and so many varieties
of living creatures were visible that the vessel seemed to be sailing over a
vast aquarium. (anon. trans., 1874 Routledge, rpt. as The Desert of Ice, 2002
Fredonia, II§21.102-03)
As for humor and wordplay, the following examples show how anglophone readers
have never been able to savor Verne’s wit. The first, from The Tribulations of a
Chinaman in China (1879), features a noble Oriental who is always properly
“oriented”:
As for Wang, he had opened his huge yellow umbrella decorated with black
monsters and, keeping himself “oriented” to the east as all highbred Chinese men
should be, he looked around for things worth observing. (my translation)
But this clever piece of word play is entirely lost in translation:
Wang had opened his huge yellow umbrella decorated with figures of black
monsters, and walked along, suffering very little to escape the keen eye of his
observation. (trans. Frewer, 1879 Sampson Low I§3.30)
The second, from Caesar Cascabel (1890), is typical of the omnipresent
entre
nous humor in Verne’s texts, as the narrator “winks” at the reader:
“Long live reindeer!” exclaimed young Sandre, this shout having, of course,
nothing monarchical about it. (my translation)
But even such inconsequential humorous asides are frequently sacrificed in
translation:
“Hurrah for the reindeer!” shouted young Sander. (trans. A. Estoclet, 1890
Cassell, II§11.320).
Finally, as the third book of a trilogy beginning with From the Earth to the
Moon and continuing with Around the Moon, Verne’s satiric novel Topsy-Turvy
(a.k.a. The Purchase of the North Pole) is another work that is teeming with
double entendres, authorial “winks,” and self-referential parody. These comical
effects operate on many levels. The novel’s very title emphasizes the text’s
purposeful sabotage of the “Science-conquers-Nature” ideology implicit in most
of Verne’s earlier novels. And consider the tongue-in-cheek and highly phatic
chapter titles such as “In Which Reappear Some Old Acquaintances of Our Young
Readers” or “In Which One Sees Appear a Deus Ex Machina of French Origin.” And,
finally, there is the plot itself—a satiric, caricature-like portrayal of
Verne’s erstwhile Gun Club heroes Barbicane, Nicholl, and Maston (and a new
character, Alcide Pierdeux [pi R squared]) who are now attempting to straighten
the Earth’s axis with a giant cannon blast—and fail miserably.
Let us examine just two of the many stylistic gems to be found in this novel and
compare them with their English-language equivalents. First, in a delightful
adaptation of Newton’s gravitational formula, Verne describes the love-sick Mrs.
Evangelina Scorbitt as follows:
Yes! These scientists appeared worthy of her admiration and fully justified a
woman’s feeling attracted to them proportionally to their mass and in inverse
ratio to the square of their distance. And indeed J.T. Maston was corpulent
enough to exercise on her an irresistible attraction.... (my translation)
In the American translation of this work, this clever Newtonian simile is
nowhere to be found:
Yes, these wise people seemed to her worthy of all admiration and support. She
felt herself drawn strongly towards them. And J.T. Maston was exactly that kind
of man and one she adored.... (trans. anon., 1890 Ogilvie, rpt. 1960 Ace,
I§4.47)
In this novel (as in several others, such as Claudius Bombarnac [1892] and
The
Sphinx of Ice [1897]) Verne repeatedly engages in a kind of good-humored auto-referentiality—simultaneously
plugging his own works while citing characters and events in them as if they
really existed, thereby blurring the line between fact and fiction. In the
following passage, for example, he makes a comparison with the hero of his 1877
novel Hector Servadac, who had earlier journeyed through the solar system:
Who knows? Perhaps President Barbicane and Captain Nicholl regretted not being
able to take their places inside the projectile. In the very first second, they
would have travelled more than two thousand eight hundred kilometers! After
having penetrated the mysteries of the lunar world, they would have penetrated
those of the solar world, and under conditions somewhat different but just as
interesting as the Frenchman Hector Servadac, who was carried off on the surface
of the comet Gallia! (my translation)
In the translation, however, this rich intertextual reference is simply cut:
Who knows, perhaps President Barbicane and Capt. Nicholl regretted that they
were not able to get into the projectile. In the first second they would have
travelled 2,800 kilometers. (trans. anon., 1890 Ogilvie, rpt. 1960 Ace,
I§18.141)
As these many examples clearly illustrate, readers who read Verne exclusively in
English translation are not reading the real Jules Verne. Measured by any
standard of completeness, accuracy, and style, these translations have committed
to Verne’s oeuvre what can only be described as “a massacre” (Butcher 131).
Yet one might legitimately ask: why does all this matter? Why should today’s sf
readers be concerned about the faithfulness of Verne’s translations? Is it not
true that—whatever their quality may have been—Verne’s tales succeeded in
capturing the imagination of generations of anglophone readers on both sides of
the Atlantic? Did they not popularize an entirely new literary genre and make
him one of the top-translated authors of all time?11 And, furthermore, is it not
conceivable that these often shoddy English translations just might have become
19th-century bestsellers because they were abridged, anglicized, and “adapted”?
Perhaps. But one must also remember that it was these same bowdlerized English
translations that established Verne’s reputation in anglophone countries as a
prescient but non-literary12 writer of adventure stories for children—an author
whose works were, for well over a century, not deemed fit for academic study. It
is, of course, impossible to know in retrospect how more accurate English
translations of Jules Verne’s works might have affected—either positively or
negatively—his literary reputation and his cultural legacy in the United Kingdom
and America. But I tend to agree with Brian Aldiss, who once observed that “The
poverty of English translations of Verne has not diminished his popularity,
merely his chance of a better critical appraisal” (96). In the year 2005, the
centenary of Jules Verne’s death, we celebrate his memory. What better time for
the anglophone world to rediscover the real Jules Verne?
NOTES
All translations from the French are mine unless otherwise attributed.
1. In this preface, Roth goes on to outline how, in his own translation, he
intends to “improve” on Verne’s texts for the American reader:
Then my resolution was taken. It was to make an original translation, the best I
could, of works of such undeniably inherent merit, a translation which, while
strictly following the spirit of the author—this it could not do if slavishly
bald and literal—would try to make the most of his strong points, throw the weak
ones into shade, soften off extravagances, give the names a familiar sound,
correct palpable errors—unless where radical, and then say nothing about
them—simplify crabbed science, explain difficulties, amplify local coloring,
clear up unknown allusions, put a little more blood and heart into the human
beings—in short, a translation which should aim as far as possible at that
natural, clear, familiar, idiomatic style which Verne himself would have used if
addressing himself in English to an American audience.
Such services rendered to Jules Verne’s stories, if done honestly,
unobtrusively, and with even tolerable success, could hardly fail to be of
decided advantage to the American public. (4-5)
2. See Michaluk.
3. In part because of Miller’s pioneering efforts in blowing the whistle on
these horrid versions which had become the standard English translations of
Verne, literary critics today are aware of the problem. Note, for example,
Everett Bleiler’s comments that
Verne has been very badly served in translation. The Victorian “standard”
translations are inaccurate, without literary merit, and often severely
abridged. Verne’s comments on social matters are often omitted.... All this is
not satisfactory, but the reader often has only a choice between bad
translations and no translations at all... (582)
Sf critic John Clute also observes that “Verne was served astonishingly badly by
his contemporary translators” (“The Facts” 5) and that
The reputation he long had in English-speaking countries for narrative
clumsiness and ignorance of scientific matters was fundamentally due to his
innumerate and illiterate translators who—along with the publishers who
commissioned their work—remained impenetrably of the conviction that he was a
writer of overblown juveniles and that it was thus necessary to trim him down,
to eliminate any inappropriately adult complexities, and to pare the confusing
scientific material to an absolute minimum” (“Jules Verne” 1276-77).
4. See Miller’s retranslations of Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea (1965,
1976) and From the Earth to the Moon (1978) as well as his more recent
co-publication with Frederick Paul Walter of Twenty Thousand Leagues under the
Sea (US Naval Institute, 1993); Butcher’s fine translations of Journey to the
Centre of the Earth (1992), Around the World in Eighty Days (1995), and Twenty
Thousand Leagues under the Seas (1998) in the “Oxford World’s Classics” series
published by Oxford UP; Edward Baxter’s Family Without a Name (NC Press, 1982)
and The Fur Country (NC Press, 1987); Baxter’s English translation of Verne’s
Invasion of the Sea (2001) as well as Stanford Luce’s The Mighty Orinoco
(2002),
The Begum’s Millions (forthcoming 2005), and The Kip Brothers (forthcoming 2006)
as well as Teri Hernandez’s translation of Travel Scholarships (forthcoming
2006), all in Wesleyan UP’s new “Early Classics of Science Fiction” series.
Other updated Verne translations since the 1960s include Anthony Bonner’s Twenty
Thousand Leagues under the Sea (Bantam, 1962); Robert Baldick’s Journey to the
Center of the Earth (Penguin, 1965), Around the World in Eighty Days
(Dent/Dutton, 1968), and From the Earth to the Moon and Around the Moon
(Dent/Dutton, 1970); Evelyn Copeland’s Adventures of the Rat Family (Oxford,
1993); Sidney Kravitz’s The Mysterious Island (Wesleyan, 2001) and Jordon
Stump’s version of the same (Modern Library, 2001); Benjamin Fry’s Magellania
(Welcome Rain, 2002); Stephen Gray’s The Star of the South (Protea, 2003);
Andrew Brown’s A Fantasy of Dr. Ox (Hesperus, 2003); and Michael Glencross’s
recent Around the World in Eighty Days (Penguin, 2004).
5. On the other hand, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the e-book of
Journey to the Centre of the Earth that I downloaded from Amazon.com (published
by the Modern Library, with a preface by sf author David Brin) was not the
infamously poor “Hardwigg” version of this novel but, rather, a more faithful
public-domain translation first published by Routledge in 1876.
6. For more information on the publishing history of Verne’s works in English,
see Brian Taves and Stephen Michaluk’s excellent The Jules Verne Encyclopedia
(89-194).
7. I.O. Evans’s “Fitzroy Editions,” published during the late 1950s and 1960s,
constitute undoubtedly the most comprehensive series of modern Verne
translations in English (far more than the 1911 “Vincent Parke” collection,
edited by Charles F. Horne). In fact, for many of Verne’s later novels and
virtually all of his posthumous works, no other English translations exist.
Unfortunately, I.O. Evans often abridged Verne’s texts and made other changes to
“adapt” them to an anglophone audience. In an essay published in the Bulletin de
la Société Jules Verne in 1968, he defended himself, saying:
I have been chided for not publishing an unabridged version of Verne’s work and
for having, in fact, subjected it to editorial cuts that were too extensive. I
will only say that, if I had published it in its entirety, I would have risked
discouraging the reader. Even during Verne’s time, certain parts of his
narratives must have been considered off-putting. And the contemporary public,
partly as a result of radio and television, no longer has the patience to
assimilate long passages of geographical information, many of which are
outdated.
Instead, I tried to remain faithful to the spirit of Verne, presenting him in a
manner that would please today’s readers. And the fact that these corrected
versions now number 60 volumes shows that I was not mistaken. Stripped of their
excessively long passages, Verne’s stories take on a new life. They are more
interesting than one might imagine, compared to their originals.
Jules Verne believed strongly in Providence, and I think that he himself would
judge that I have been guided in my work by Providential inspiration. (5-6, my
translation)
Although the purist might view the “Fitzroy” editions as a betrayal of Verne’s
original texts, it must not be forgotten that an entire generation of
Anglo-American readers have discovered Jules Verne through these popular
editions—readers who probably would not have otherwise become familiar with
Verne’s oeuvre. As one such reader explained:
Until the Evans editions came along, I had no idea of the quantity and scope of
Vernian works. If nothing else, he introduced me to the much wider world of
Verne than I ever knew existed. Many of the earlier English translated works I
have acquired since then are a result of my knowing of their existence through
the Evans translations. If some of the translations were not entirely accurate
or some of the translations were abridged, so what? They were enjoyable reading
and provided a firm foundation for continuing. For that reason, I have always
been grateful for his work. (Mark Eckell, e-mail message to the Jules Verne
Forum [listserve of Zvi Har’El’s Jules Verne Collection], Nov. 1, 2004).
For more on these (and other) English-language editions, consult The Jules Verne
Encyclopedia and Andrew Nash’s very informative website <http:.//julesverne.ca/>.
8. For a relatively complete listing of alternative English titles for Verne’s
works, see Taves and Michaluk (95-102).
9. See Compère, especially the chapter entitled “J.V. en ses miroirs” [J.V. in
his Mirrors] which discusses the “metatextuality” of Verne’s wrting—those
moments where the text focuses on itself and its own functionality as a semiotic
system (see especially pp. 124-52).
10. See Butor, especially 145-48.
11. According to the most recent survey in the “Index Translationum” (at
<http://databases.unesco.org/xtrans/stat/xTransStat.a?VL1=A&top=50&lg=0>), the
top ten most translated authors in the world are: Walt Disney Productions,
Agatha Christie, The Bible, Jules Verne, Lenin, Barbara Cartland, Enid Blyton,
William Shakespeare, Hans Christian Andersen, and Danielle Steel.
12. Even literary critics who are pro-sf have sometimes characterized Verne’s
writing as hopelessly non-literary. Kingsley Amis in his New Maps of Hell
(1960), for example, speaking of Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
(the very poor Mercier Lewis translation), describes the venerable French author
as follows:
With Verne we reach the first great progenitor of modern science fiction. In its
literary aspect his work is, of course of poor quality.... Even the more active
passages are full of comically bad writing....
One would have to blame Verne’s translator for some of those ineptitudes, but
such was the form in which the novels reached English-speaking readers, none of
whom, to my knowledge, has bothered to complain. The story and the ideas were
the thing. (28-29)
WORKS CITED
Aldiss, Brian. Billion Year Spree: The True History of Science Fiction. New
York: Schocken, 1974.
Amis, Kingsley. New Maps of Hell. New York: Ballasting, 1960.
Bleiler, Everett. “Jules Verne.” Science Fiction Writers: Critical Studies of
the Major Authors from the Early Nineteenth Century to the Present Day. New
York: Scribner, 1982. 582.
Butcher, William. “Journey to the Centre of the Text.” Babel 40:11 (1994): 131.
Butor, Michel. “Le Point suprême et l’âge d’or à travers quelques oeuvres de
Jules Verne.” Répertoire. Paris: Ed. de Minuit, 1960. 130-62.
Clute, John. “The Facts About Verne.” Interzone (September 1999): 5.
─────. “Jules Verne.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. New York: St.
Martin’s Press, 1993. 1275-79.
Compère, Daniel. Jules Verne écrivain. Geneva: Droz, 1991.
Evans, I.O. “Jules Verne et le lecteur anglais.” Bulletin de la Société Jules
Verne 6 (1968): 3-6.
Hazeltine, H.W. “Jules Verne’s Didactic Fiction.” Chats About Books, Poets and
Novelists. New York: Scribner, 1883. 337-46.
Hurd, Willis E. “A Collector and His Jules Verne.” Hobbies (August 1936): 88-89.
Michaluk, Jr., Stephen. “The American Jules Verne Society.” The Jules Verne
Encyclopedia. Ed. Brian Taves and Stephen Michaluk, Jr. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow,
1996. 23-31.
Miller, Walter James. “Foreword: A New Look at Jules Verne.” The Annotated Jules
Verne: Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. Trans. and ed. Walter James
Miller. NY: Crowell, 1976. vii-xxii.
─────. “Jules Verne.” Writers for Children. Ed. Jane M. Bingham. New York:
Scribner, 1988. 591-98.
─────. “Jules Verne in America: A Translator’s Preface.” Jules Verne. Twenty
Thousand Leagues under the Sea. Trans. Walter James Miller. NY: Washington
Square, 1965. vii-xxii.
─────. “Some Notes for Purists on Verne’s Translators.”
The Annotated Jules
Verne: From the Earth to the Moon. Trans. and ed. Walter James Miller. NY:
Crowell, 1978. 166-67.
Roth, Edward. “Preface.” In Jules Verne, From the Earth to the Moon. NY: King &
Baird, 1874. Rpt. as “Preface” in Jules Verne, From the Earth to the Moon, All
Around the Moon. Trans. Edward Roth. NY: Dover, 1962: 3-5.
“Science in Romance.” The Saturday Review 99 (April 1, 1905): 414-15.
Taves, Brian. Review of Jules Verne, The Chase of the Golden Meteor (Lincoln: U
of Nebraska P, 1998). Extrapolation 40.2 (Summer 1999): 181-84.
───── and Stephen Michaluk, Jr. The Jules Verne Encyclopedia.
Lanham, MD:
Scarecrow, 1996.
Tytler, Alexander Fraser. Essay on the Principles of Translation. London: Dent,
1907.
Verne, Jules. Letter to Mario Turiello dated March 2, 1895. Rpt. in Jules Verne.
“Correspondance avec Mario Turiello.” Europe 613 (mai 1980): 115.
─────. Letter to Mario Turiello dated October 5, 1897. Rpt. in Jules Verne.
“Correspondance avec Mario Turiello.” Europe 613 (mai 1980): 124.
(for a complete listing of Verne’s novels cited in this article, see “A
Bibliography of Jules Verne’s English Translations” which immediately follows)
Zvi Har’El’s Jules Verne Collection (the best Internet website and listserve on
Jules Verne). Ed. Zvi Har’El. January 2005. <http://jv.gilead.org.il/>.
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