THE SPECIFICITY OF SIMENON: ON TRANSLATING MAIGRET Judith Louise Taylor A Thesis Submitted for the Degree of PhD at the University of St. Andrews 2009 Full metadata for this item is available in the St Andrews Digital Research Repository at: https://research-repository.st-andrews.ac.uk/ Please use this identifier to cite or link to this item: http://hdl.handle.net/10023/713 This item is protected by original copyright This item is licensed under a Creative Commons License The Specificity of Simenon: On Translating Maigret by Judith Louise Taylor A thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, completed in the School of Modern Languages, University of St. Andrews 6 October 2008 I, Judith Louise Taylor, hereby certify that this thesis, which is approximately 80,000 words in length, has been written by me, that it is the record of work carried out by me and that it has not been submitted in any previous application for a higher degree. I was admitted as a research student in September 2005 and as a candidate for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in September 2006; the higher study for which this is a record was carried out in the University of St Andrews between 2005 and 2008. Date: 6 October 2008 Signature of candidate: I hereby certify that the candidate has fulfilled the conditions of the Resolution and Regulations appropriate for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the University of St Andrews and that the candidate is qualified to submit this thesis in application for that degree. Date: 6 October 2008 Signature of supervisor: In submitting this thesis to the University of St Andrews we understand that we are giving permission for it to be made available for use in accordance with the regulations of the University Library for the time being in force, subject to any copyright vested in the work not being affected thereby. 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Date: 6 October 2008 Signature of candidate: Signature of supervisor: Abstract The project examines how German- and English-speaking translators of selected Maigret novels by the Belgian crime writer Georges Simenon have dealt with cultural and linguistic specificity, with a view to shedding light on how culture and language translate. Following a survey of different theories of translation, an integrated theory is applied in order to highlight what Simenon’s translators have retained and lost from three selected source texts: Le Charretier de la Providence (1931), Les Mémoires de Maigret (1951) and Maigret et les braves gens (1961). The examination of issues of linguistic and cultural specificity is facilitated by application of an integrated theory of translation coupled with the methodology devised by Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1992, 1995 and 2002). In addition, consideration of paradigms of detective fiction across the three cultures involved, and Simenon’s biography and wider œuvre, help elucidate the salient features of the selected source texts. In view of the translators’ decisions, strategies for minimising various types of translation loss are presented. While other studies of translation theory have examined literary and technical texts, this study breaks new ground by focussing specifically on the comparative analysis of detective fiction in translation. Keywords comparative literature crime culture detective fiction French German Maigret Simenon stylistics translation Acknowledgement Thanks are due to the staff of the Fonds Simenon, University of Liège, for their gracious permission to access the archive. Contents Page Introduction 1 Chapter 1: Theoretical Approaches to Translation 8 The linguistics-based approach 8 The comparative literature approach 25 The integrated approach 41 Chapter 2: Detective Fiction as a Cultural Phenomenon 52 English-language detective fiction 54 French-language detective fiction 64 German-language detective fiction 70 Chapter 3: Simenon’s Biography, Genre and Style 81 The life of Georges Simenon 82 The œuvre 88 Chapter 4: Textual Analysis, Le Charretier de la Providence 103 Chapter 5: Textual Analysis, Les Mémoires de Maigret 153 Chapter 6: Textual Analysis, Maigret et les braves gens 184 Conclusion 218 Glossary 226 Bibliography 228 1 INTRODUCTION The Specificity of Simenon: On Translating Maigret This project is a comparative examination of German and English translations of selected Maigret novels by the Belgian crime writer Georges Simenon. It has been undertaken with a view to examining how cultural otherness and language translate and to demonstrating strategies to minimise cultural and linguistic loss in the translation process. The project will begin with a survey of different theories of translation, with a view to finding and developing a theory that can be applied to both literary and technical writing, one that takes account of both cultural otherness and linguistic features. This will be followed by an examination of detective fiction in French, German and English, in order to situate Simenon’s work within the wider context of the genre, and to highlight the constants and divergences in detective fiction among the three cultures. Consideration of Simenon’s biography and work is then necessary, both to relate the textual sample under scrutiny here to the wider œuvre and to shed light on the salient features of his writing. After discussion of the theory and methodology to be applied and the contextual details, the textual analysis of three Maigret novels in translation will show what Simenon’s translators have retained and lost in terms of the cultural and linguistic specificity of the source texts. It is hoped that reasons can be suggested for the translators’ decisions, and that strategies to help minimise the loss of cultural and linguistic otherness, while still ensuring reader comprehension, can be found. The first area for consideration is translation theory, addressed in chapter one. The translator must take care to transfer what Anton Popovič calls the invariant core of meaning of the source text, so that, in the case of literary fiction, the basic plot remains unaltered (otherwise a different narrative may result); at the same time, he or she is constrained by cultural and contextual factors. This being so, the project will argue the case for an integrated theory of translation, which takes account of both linguistic and cultural factors. Until comparatively recently, the sphere of translation theory has been dominated by the traditional dichotomy of linguistic (Übersetzungswissenschaft) versus cultural 2 (Translation Studies) approaches. Proponents of the former emphasise the transfer of linguistic meaning to the detriment of cultural factors, and attempt to forge a rigorously scientific discipline. On the other hand, supporters of the literature-focused cultural school claim that, first and foremost, a text should be considered against its cultural background. These would appear, then, to be mutually exclusive points of view and irreconcilable. It is suggested here that adherence to either one of the traditional approaches to translation emphasises one aspect of the process at the expense of others, resulting in translation loss, for the reader is prevented from an adequate understanding of the linguistic or cultural specificity encoded in the source text. In reality, elements of both approaches are necessary in the production of a successful translation, as was recognised in the late 1980s and early 1990s by Mary Snell-Hornby and Albrecht Neubert et al.1 These theorists argue for an integrated approach to translation theory, replacing the earlier compartmentalisation with a continuum. However, Snell-Hornby and Neubert do not always share the same point of view. This is largely due to the fact that, although they plead for an integrated theory, Snell-Hornby aligns herself with Translation Studies, while Neubert’s background is in linguistics. The dichotomy thus still persists. For the integrationist school to be of benefit to the wider sphere of translation theory, the tending towards a polarised mindset needs to be challenged. Translation requires not only the linguists’ transfer of meaning, but also a careful consideration of co-textual, contextual and cultural factors (whether related to source or target culture) as advocated by Translation Studies scholars. The integrated approach is appropriate, too, in the rendering of scientific texts, for example, which require Popovič’s transfer of the invariant, but which are nevertheless products of a specific cultural background, and so cultural elements should also be taken into account. No text, irrespective of type, exists in a cultural vacuum. The discussion of translation theory will be followed in chapter two by an examination of detective fiction as a cultural paradigm. The integrated approach is relevant to the appropriate translation of this genre, because it is a literary text-type that can vary considerably between French-, German- and English-speaking cultures, and 1 See Mary Snell-Hornby, Translation Studies: An Integrated Approach (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamin, 1988), and Albrecht Neubert and Gregory M. Shreve, Translation as Text (Kent, Ohio and London, England: Kent State University Press, 1992) 3 because the semantic core should be transferred to avoid altering of plot and narrative, central aspects of the genre. For its primary corpus, the project will focus on the work of the Belgian writer Georges Simenon, partly because he depicts a unique milieu, often the darker side of Paris. Simenon is also an appropriate choice because his work has been translated into 131 languages.2 This demonstrates that there exists a demand for his work in other cultures, and suggests an interest in the specificity of his work. This gives rise to a fundamental question, namely: how, if at all, do Simenon’s translators deal with otherness? In order to address the question of otherness, some attempt must be made to define what is meant by the term. The concept is utilised in various spheres of knowledge, and is differently nuanced in different areas, but the common factor is that otherness entails some form of difference from the self or the known. Deborah Lupton, for example, examines otherness with regard to notions of risk, stating: […] the Other – that which is conceptualized as different from self – is the subject of anxiety and concern, particularly if it threatens to blur boundaries, to overtake the self.3 This negative aspect of otherness is counterbalanced to some extent by Giles Gunn’s discussion. Here, the other is seen as standing in opposition to the self, but, in the encounter with the other, the self is encouraged to find ‘some new understanding of and relationship to himself.’4 Identity boundaries then become blurred. While still describing otherness in terms of opposition and difference, Debra Kelly, in an article examining the various identities of Apollinaire, outlines the issue as being more than cultural in the narrow sense: in other words, as being additionally concerned with the clash between different social groupings, rather than just between those of differing ethnicities.5 Lastly, 2 Robert Georgin, cover text to Simenon (Lausanne: l’Age d’Homme, 1980). 3 Deborah Lupton, Risk (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), p.124. 4 Giles Gunn, The Interpretation of Otherness. Literature, Religion and the American Imagination (New York: Oxford University Press, 1979), p.191. 5 Debra Kelly, ‘Identity, Alienation and Belonging: Guillaume de Kostrowitzky/Guillaume Apollinaire and the Experience of War,’ in: David Murphy and Aedín Ní Loingsigh, eds., Thresholds of Otherness/Autrement mêmes. Identity and Alterity in French Language Literatures (London: Grant and Cutler, 2002) pp.151-174. 4 Nigel Rapport and Joanna Overing examine ethnography with relation to otherness, quoting Peter Mason: All ethnography is an experience of the confrontation with the Other set down in writing, an act by which that Other is deprived of its specificity.6 Such writing, it is observed, must meet target audience expectations and thus needs to conform to literary and stylistic conventions. Furthermore, Rapport and Overing state that ethnocentric constructions of strangers in ethnographic writing typically reduce otherness to being something familiar and easily accessible. In this context, translation can be seen as a type of writing that conforms to this model – more particularly, translation of a certain kind, such as that envisaged by Ovidi Carbonell, where the translator effaces the otherness of the source text, presenting the translation as an original work.7 However, as this thesis will seek to demonstrate, translation as a form of ethnography need not deprive the other of its specificity, and it is possible to retain the otherness of the source while making this comprehensible to the target readership of the translation. Otherness is thus a dichotomised concept that centres on some form of difference: generally, either a confrontation between different ethnicities or national groupings, or a confrontation between different social groupings. It should be borne in mind, however, that the dividing lines here are approximate and porous, for it is possible to have more than one ethnic identity, and most individuals perform more than one social function, and can thus be categorised as belonging to more than one social grouping. The fact that otherness is a dichotomised concept is evident in detective fiction. The subject matter under consideration in such writing is ‘other’ in itself, in that it involves a departure from everyday norms. In detective fiction, the pre-existing, real- world social order is disrupted: an other, who does not conform to accepted social practice, shatters prescribed social rules and threatens established values and belief 6 Peter Mason, Deconstructing America: Representations of the Other (London and New York: Routledge, 1990), p.13. Quoted in: Nigel Rapport and Joanna Overing, Social and Cultural Anthropology. The Key Concepts (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), p.13. 7 Ovidi Carbonell, ‘Exoticism in Translation: Writing, Representation, and the Postcolonial Context,’ in: Isabel Santaolalla, ed., “New” Exoticisms. Changing Patterns in the Construction of Otherness (Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi, 2000), p.57. 5 systems, thereby challenging the reader’s own values and beliefs, by committing what society holds as a crime: murder. It then falls to the detective, as restorer of order, to capture this threatening other, reinstate the previously established order and remove the otherness from society’s midst. In the Maigret novels, however, the otherness is not necessarily challenging, in that those considered by society to be ‘other’ – criminals, prostitutes, and other underworld characters – are often held by the Commissaire to be less dangerous than those in authority, the class prescribing the social rules broken by the criminal in the first place. Indeed, Hendrik Veldman writes of otherness in the Simenon œuvre: Face à ‘l’étranger,’ à ‘la brebis galeuse’ les membres du groupe serrent les rangs pour défendre les intérêts de leur catégorie sociale. […] Le groupe peut avoir plusieurs motifs pour cette attitude: protection d’une prétendue dignité, d’une réputation ou sauvegarde d’une vie stagnante, tranquille et uniforme. Les membres essayent de garder intact leur groupe de petites gens, d’honnêtes gens, de petit bourgeois, de petits commerçants, leur clan demi- ou quasi-riches.8 The questions arise here of how translators deal with the issues of otherness and specificity, and more pertinently, whether Simenon’s translators have been successful in bringing their readership to an understanding of the specifics of selected novels. In order to seek answers to these questions, an integrated approach to translation will be applied in the textual analysis of selected Simenon texts in chapters four to six. A sample of novels will facilitate discussion, for the œuvre is too extensive to be considered as a whole. The following source texts were therefore selected: Le Charretier de La Providence (1931), Les Mémoires de Maigret (1951), and Maigret et les braves gens (1961). These were all republished in 2003, the centenary of Simenon’s birth, by the Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, one of the most prestigious imprints in France, and can thus be seen as having passed into the literary canon. The act of canonisation bestows on the texts an enhanced level of academic standing. The selection was also made on the basis that these novels have 8 Hendrik Veldman, La tentation de l’inaccessible. Structures narratives chez Simenon (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1981), pp.25-26. 6 generated a variety of translations (generally two for both the languages studied here; in one case as many as four German translations). The texts were also chosen as a representative sample from different stages of Simenon’s career: Le Charretier de la Providence can be seen as typical for the early part of his writing life, Les Mémoires de Maigret for the height of his popularity, and Maigret et les braves gens for the closing years of his career. The question of typicality is complicated by the fact that Simenon’s œuvre can be clearly divided into the Maigret and the non-Maigret works, though there are elements of commonality in both. In addition, two of the chosen texts incorporate elements that are distinctly non-typical. This becomes evident on closer examination: 1. Le Charretier de La Providence (1931) is drawn from the early part of the novelist’s career, before he had fully settled into a distinct writing style. The basic plot formula already displays core characteristics that can be found in later Simenon texts: a murder ruptures the stability of a previously established order, and Commissaire Maigret emerges as the hero who must do all in his power to restore that balance. The novel is, however, different from most of the rest of the œuvre in terms of its location: it is set on the canals of provincial France, rather than in Paris. Numerous examples of terminology for the nautical register can be found. There are biographical reasons for this,9 since several of the early Maigret texts were written aboard Simenon’s own boat, the Ostrogoth. Thus, though the novel may not be typical for Simenon’s work as a whole, it may be seen as typical of that stage in the author’s writing life. 2. Les Mémoires de Maigret (1951) comes from the peak of Simenon’s career. It is set in Paris, and deals with the types of character that can be found in other Maigret texts. It is, however, written with a first person intradiegetic narrator: this is unusual, in that there are only fourteen texts in Simenon’s œuvre that have a first-person narrator. As the title suggests, it is the Commissaire himself who purports to be writing, telling of how he met the young journalist Georges Sim, who metamorphoses later into Georges Simenon, and 9 Because of the influence of the author’s biography on his work, chapter three surveys his life and work. 7 attempting to clear up any misunderstandings Simenon may have generated. The first-person narrative also describes various stages in Maigret’s career. 3. The final text for analysis is Maigret et les braves gens (1961). It is the most typical of the three, in the sense that it draws upon what could be seen as the standard formula simenonien, both on the level of plot and of milieu: it involves the murder of a member of the middle class, is filled with instances of deceit, and is set in Paris. On a linguistic level, that is, in terms of grammar, syntax and style, all three of the source texts selected display, relatively consistently, a range of characteristic features. The chosen novels thus contain both identifiably typical and less typical features. In addition, the selection of texts from more than one period in Simenon’s career lessens the risk of building up a distorted picture of the writer and his work. For the purposes of the detailed examination of the target texts, the ‘schema of textual matrices’ (cultural, formal, semantic, varietal and genre) from Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge’s Thinking French/German Translation is of particular relevance.10 The keys provided here will be (implicitly or explicitly) employed to elucidate the cultural and linguistic specifics of the chosen source texts and their translations. The emphasis that Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge place on both the cultural and the linguistic dimensions is crucial. Finally, the analysis of the target texts will examine what the translators have retained and lost from the source texts, focusing particularly on how the translators have dealt with linguistic and cultural specificity, and suggest, in the light of the above theory, methodology and constraints, some possible explanations for these findings. 10 Sándor Hervey and Ian Higgins, Thinking Translation. A Course in Translation Method: French to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), revised as: Sándor Hervey and Ian Higgins, Thinking French Translation. A Course in Translation Method: French to English (London and New York: Routledge, 2002), p.5. This is the edition used here. Sándor Hervey, Ian Higgins and Michael Loughridge, Thinking German Translation. A Course in Translation Method: German to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), p.227. A second edition of this text appeared in 2006. There is much less focus on language variety in the later edition. The 1995 edition is drawn on here. 8 CHAPTER ONE THEORETICAL APPROACHES TO TRANSLATION 1. INTRODUCTION If the integrated theory is to be used as the means to minimise cultural and linguistic translation loss, the theory itself must first be carefully examined. The volumes providing the nucleus of thinking for the integrated theory of translation are Mary Snell-Hornby’s Translation Studies: An Integrated Approach,1 and Albrecht Neubert and Gregory Shreve’s Translation as Text.2 Though the basic standpoints that emerge in both of these are supported here, the study tends more towards Snell-Hornby’s division of translation theories into two basic schools, as opposed to Neubert and Shreve’s multi-faceted view. Neubert and Shreve in fact assert that the ‘models’ they outline are not theories at all, but are more akin to hypotheses, because these ‘only claim to explain and describe reality’, and furthermore ‘a model cannot become a theory without providing evidence which supports its claim to explanatory power.’3 Translation is often marked by controversy, and its terminology is no exception, with theorists frequently using identical terms to designate different concepts. This project, however, is not concerned with the debate over labels, and for simplicity’s sake Snell- Hornby’s terminology is adopted here when referring to the divisions: traditional translation theory is divided into two main schools, known as Übersetzungswissenschaft, and vertaalwetenschap or Translation Studies. After exploring these approaches, and outlining the thinking of some of the theorists, the third approach will be outlined. 2. THE LINGUISTICS-BASED APPROACH Linguistics strives to make language study a scientific discipline, as Snell-Hornby points out. Similarly, the Übersetzungswissenschaft approach, so called because the 1 Mary Snell-Hornby, Translation Studies: An Integrated Approach (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamin, 1988). 2 Albrecht Neubert and Gregory M. Shreve, Translation as Text (Kent, Ohio and London, England: Kent State University Press, 1992). 3 Ibid., p.13. 9 original practitioners were German, attempts to conduct the study of translation in a ‘rigorously scientific’4 fashion, frequently incorporating mathematical methods. Linked to this view of translation as science is the concept of translation equivalence, a notion central to linguistics-orientated schools of translation theory. This approach is particularly marked in J. C. Catford’s A Linguistic Theory of Translation.5 2.1 John C. Catford Catford claims that his study is concerned with ‘the analysis of what translation is.’6 He goes on to argue that: Translation may be defined as follows: the replacement of textual material in one language (SL) by equivalent textual material in another language (TL).7 Catford then breaks down this wider notion, identifying several different categories of translation. Firstly, he sets out ‘full versus partial translation.’ These could be termed spatial concepts, since they deal with the physical amount of text to be translated: in the former, the whole source text undergoes the translation process; in the latter, stretches of the source text are not translated. This is because they may be deemed to be, using Catford’s term, ‘untranslatable,’ or because the translator may have taken the decision to deliberately inject exoticism into his or her target text. Catford then outlines further categories. ‘Total translation,’ where translation occurs on all ‘levels’ (grammatical, lexical, phonological and graphological), is described by Catford as what is usually intended when one speaks of translation. This is set against ‘restricted translation,’ where translation only takes place on one level. What exactly Catford envisaged with this type of translation is not entirely clear. It does not appear to serve any real purpose, except in an artificial context. Finally, the theorist outlines ‘rank- bound translation,’ which usually takes place ‘at word or morpheme rank.’ This means that the translator finds word-for-word or morpheme-for-morpheme equivalences, but does not attempt to find equivalences for ‘higher ranks’. ‘Normal’ 4 Snell-Hornby (1988), p.14. 5 J. C. Catford, A Linguistic Theory of Translation (London: Oxford University Press, 1965). 6 Ibid., p.vii. Original emphasis. 7 Ibid., p.20. Original emphasis. 10 translation, says Catford, is ‘unbounded,’8 meaning, it is postulated, that a word can be equivalent to a phrase or sentence. From this discussion of Catford’s types of translation, one item of terminology is prominent: equivalence. The concept of equivalence is contentious, and has particular significance for linguistics-based translation scholars. Catford dedicates three chapters to its discussion, and goes as far as to state that ‘the central problem of translation-practice is that of finding TL translation equivalents. A central task of translation theory is that of defining the nature and conditions of translation equivalence.’9 He sets out the distinction between ‘textual equivalence’ and ‘formal correspondence.’ Textual equivalence, according to Catford, occurs when a stretch of the target language text is seen to be the equivalent of a given stretch of the original text. On the other hand, formal correspondence occurs when any category of the target language (Catford lists these as ‘unit, class, structure, element of structure, etc.’) fills ‘as nearly as possible, the “same” place in the “economy” of the TL as the given SL category occupies in the SL.’10 These statements over-simplify the translation process: they can both be reduced to the equation stretch of TT = stretch of ST. Indeed, Catford himself uses mathematical formulae in describing translation, or, at least, tries to make mathematical principles fit in translation. For example, he makes the claim that in a given stretch of source text, some expressions are ‘almost certain’ to be used more than once, and that, from the examination of the textual equivalents in the target text, a ‘general statement’ of textual equivalents for each SL expression, usable for every instance of the expression, can be created. This, asserts Catford, can be demonstrated in figures, as a percentage, or as a ‘probability,’ which is gauged through the use of what the theorist calls a ‘probability scale,’ where 1 means ‘absolute certainty’ and 0 means ‘absolute impossibility.’ Catford illustrates this with the equation ‘SL X = TL x, 1.’ ‘This means,’ claims Catford, ‘that if you choose any occurrence of X in the SL text at random, it is certain that its TL equivalent will be x.’11 He also uses mathematical principles in relation to expressions that appear repeatedly in the source text. These, he claims, often have more than a single equivalent in the target language. He further argues that each of these TL equivalents will appear a particular number of times, and that by dividing the number 8 Ibid., p.25. 9 Ibid., p.21. 10 Ibid., p.27. 11 Ibid., p.30. 11 of times a given TT item appears by the number of times the original expression occurs in the source text, the so-called ‘equivalence-probability’ of the TL equivalent will be acquired. These ‘equivalence-probabilities’ can be used (when generalised) to create what Catford calls ‘translation rules,’ which can be utilised for other texts and possibly even for entire languages. However, linguistic usage is not as straightforward as Catford’s approach would imply. Language use does not take place in a vacuum: co-textual and contextual factors are constantly at work, and thus each occurrence of an item in a source or target text must be considered in its own right. Because no co- text or context is ever identical to another, exact equivalence rarely, if ever, exists. Catford, admittedly, acknowledges the rôle of context in the translation process, but not in great depth, and only in its relation to grammatical forms. Other linguistics- based theorists recognise that such precise equivalence as a concept for use in translation is not defensible. Indeed, a modified form of the concept can be found in Roman Jakobson’s theory of 1959 – six years before Catford’s work. Jakobson writes that ‘Equivalence in difference is the cardinal problem of language and the pivotal concern of linguistics,’ and yet despite this difference, ‘All cognitive experience and its classification is conveyable in any existing language.’12 A step towards the notion of an invariant core of meaning in translation can be discerned from this discussion. Furthermore, as Snell-Hornby makes clear, Catford’s linguistic theory of translation is based on overly simple, context-deprived statements of the type ‘I have arrived’ or on isolated lexical items such as prepositions. Finally, Catford somewhat paradoxically confuses his own argument regarding translation equivalence. He states that the idea that a transfer of meaning takes place in the translation process is ‘untenable,’ and that each language carries a meaning sui generis. If this is so, in other words, if each language, and by extension, each lexical item of that language, has a meaning unique to itself, how can any concept of translation equivalence exist? Taken to an extreme degree, Catford’s proposal that a Russian text has a Russian meaning and an English text has an English meaning would imply that the act of translation itself is impossible.13 12 Roman Jakobson, ‘On Linguistic Aspects of Translation,’ in: Reuben A. Brower, ed., On Translation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959), pp.233 and 234. My emphasis, JLT. 13 Ian Higgins, in ‘Where the Added Value Is: On Writing and Reading Translations,’ directly poses the question of whether translation is possible, concluding: ‘[…] we all know from our everyday dealings with other people that, even within a single speech-community, denotative meanings – and, still more, connotative meanings – are so indeterminate that few people will respond to any but the simplest utterance in the same way. […] So, for example, no two members of a given Francophone speech- 12 2.2 Wolfram Wilss Like Catford, Wolfram Wilss sees translation as a ‘linguistic formulation process.’ The concept of translation equivalence is central to his theory, as set out in his Science of Translation: Problems and Methods.14 Wilss’ theory is manifestly grounded in linguistics; yet, despite being bracketed together within the sphere of translation theory by their common Übersetzungswissenschaft roots, Wilss and Catford diverge fundamentally.15 Wilss does not deny the existence of extra-linguistic reality; in other words, he does not believe that the human being’s world-view is completely conditioned by the language he or she speaks; thus a given language does not have a meaning unique to itself.16 As Wilss acknowledges, translation is a major means of international communication and is therefore crucial in this time of increasing globalisation, a situation that would not exist were it not for a degree of extra- linguistic reality. Even phenomena from outwith the cultural experience of a group speaking a particular language, asserts Wilss, can be described in that language. The question of the extent to which a text can be translated leads on to the notion of translation equivalence in Wilss’ volume. He argues that ‘the translatability of a text and the optimal degree of TE [translation equivalence] which can be achieved are largely interdependent.’17 This could be taken to mean that the more easily translatable the text, the higher the degree of equivalence. Wilss’ claim implies that there exists a highest desirable level of equivalence. The desire for exact sameness between source text and target text is evident in Wilss’ definition of how Übersetzungswissenschaft conceives of the translation process. It is: community are going to read Granier’s “Musique” in the same way, let alone members of other French- speaking communities or speakers of other languages. No, translation is no more impossible than any other mode of reading. Just as there is no definitive meaning of a text, accessible to anyone who reads it properly, so there is no definitive translation waiting out there to be captured by anyone who translates it properly.’ Forum for Modern Language Studies, vol. 44, no. 3 (Oxford: Oxford, 2008), p.254. Catford’s view of language persists today (see, for example, Diri I. Teilanyo, ‘Culture in Translation. The example of J.P. Clark’s The Ozidi Saga,’ in Babel, vol. 53, no. 1 (Amsterdam: John Benjamin, 2007), pp.4-5). 14 Wolfram Wilss, The Science of Translation: Problems and Methods (Tübingen: Narr Verlag, 1982). 15 Wilss was familiar with Catford’s work. See Wilss (1982), p.253. 16 Ibid., p.35. 17 Ibid., p.39. My emphasis, JLT. 13 a linguistic formulation process in the course of which the translator, through a series of code-switching operations, reproduces in a TL a message produced by an SL expedient, thus making it accessible to the TL receiver; translating is here characterised as “interlingual translation” or “translation proper” […].18 This description of the translation process is similar to Catford’s, reducing the operation to a simple replacement of text in one language by the text of another language, once more implying sameness between linguistic units of different languages, which does not exist. The code-switching process is assisted, in Wilss’ view, by the use of semantic componential or ‘feature’ analysis. Here, lexical items are broken down into constituent units of meaning. The information gained from such analysis is important in translation: because it enables the translator to determine semantically isomorphic relationships between words in an SL and in a TL and thus to find out whether a translation can be carried out on the basis of a lexical one-to-one correspondence or must be executed on the basis of a non-one-to-one correspondence.19 There are two main problems with this method. It presupposes that a translator can discover every nuance of meaning embodied in a lexical item. Given the many semantic levels at work in language, this does not seem possible, particularly given that each time a lexical item appears in a text its composite meaning is altered. Every time an element appears in a new co-text and context, its meaning must be considered anew. Inextricably linked to this problem, componential analysis can function only at the level of the individual word. This is of little benefit to translation theory, since no lexical item has its full meaning out of context, and the overall semantic value of the word alters with each new context. Despite this clearly contextless consideration of language and translation, Wilss does not deny the importance of co-textual, contextual and cultural factors. He affirms that, in the translation process, the translator must recognise that he or she is dealing with ‘contextually determined bundles of semantic features,’ and that these 18 Ibid., p.54. My emphasis, JLT. 19 Ibid., p.75. 14 must be rendered into the target language by a means which ‘guarantees a compensatory redistribution of the individual sets of componential features.’20 Again, however, this assumes that all semantic components can be acquired from componential analysis. Finally, with specific reference to context, Wilss observes that: Since translating is a linguistic process bound to the context of situation, and since in the translation process there are two linguistic contexts arrayed against each other, one in the SL and one in the TL, each having its own specific lexical distribution, the relevance of contextualism for the science of translation is indisputable.21 Much textual space is dedicated to the examination of the concept of translation equivalence. Wilss affirms that translation equivalence is an ‘essential issue’ but also recognises its controversial nature. He laments the fact that, because the notion is so contentious, no clearly defined criteria for measuring translation equivalence have ever been set out. It remains, however, a critical element in his theory. He also highlights the crucial function of the ‘stylistic dimension’ of translation, claiming: a translation […] cannot meet the standards of TE [translation equivalence] demanded of it unless it guarantees TE not only in content but also in style.22 Is it feasible in translation to ‘guarantee’ equivalence both in referential content and in the stylistic dimension of a text? In a general way, this may be possible, but only at the macro level. In any case, the aspiration to guarantee such an outcome is perhaps somewhat naïve. Wilss appears to realise this, stating that ‘the translator […] does not translate words or individual sentences (unless an isolated sentence has text status; […]), but texts. Translation, therefore, is a text-oriented event.’23 Thus, the theorist advocates a text-linguistics approach, suggesting that each system found in a text should be considered within the greater system of the text, rather than in isolation. 20 Ibid. 21 Ibid., p.72. 22 Ibid., p.81. 23 Ibid., p.112. 15 However, in his discussion of literal translation, Wilss disagrees with Rabin, who states that ‘The real problem lies in the fact that the individual semantic items […] are not commensurate’24 and that individual words are frequently used with meanings other than those found in the dictionary, since they are affected by the co-text and context in which they appear. Wilss refutes this proposition, claiming that Rabin fails to note that ‘interlingually the meaning of many words, above all in the LSP [language for special purposes; technical] field, is identical.’25 Even given that literal translation is being considered here, can two lexical items in different contexts be said to be identical? One final point remains to be made with regard to Wilss’ theory, namely that it echoes what Popovič calls the ‘invariant core’ of meaning. Wilss states that, in an exercise where four translators are given the same text to translate under the same conditions, though no completely identical translations will be produced, ‘there is a nucleus with findings identical for all four translations.’26 This fits with the earlier- noted belief in an extra-linguistic reality, for without assuming the invariant semantic core, as with extra-linguistic reality, translation would be impossible. 2.3 Peter Newmark As with Wilss, Peter Newmark’s theory as expounded in Approaches to Translation27 is grounded in linguistics: Translation theory derives from comparative linguistics, and within linguistics, it is mainly an aspect of semantics; all questions of semantics relate to translation theory.28 The linguistics basis of Newmark’s theory is also suggested by his definition of the translation process. Translation, argues Newmark, is the substitution of a written message in the source language by the same message in the target language. Once more, this raises the problem of sameness in the translation process, since Newmark’s 24 C. Rabin, ‘The Linguistics of Translation,’ in: A.H. Smith et al., eds., Aspects of Translation. Studies in Communication 2 (London: 1958), pp.123-145. Quoted in: Wilss (1982), p.92. 25 Wilss (1982), p.93. My explanation, JLT. 26 Ibid., p.162. 27 Peter Newmark, Approaches to Translation (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1981). 28 Ibid., p.5. 16 definition appears to imply that the source text message can be replicated exactly in the target language. However, he goes on to concede that, if a text describes elements unique to the source culture, and because each language differs lexically, grammatically and phonetically, then translation loss is inevitable, and so precise sameness cannot be achieved. Moreover, Newmark points out that no linguistic item is semantically self-contained; in other words, he acknowledges the importance of co- textual and contextual factors and their effect on the broad notion of meaning. The main problem with Newmark’s discussion is his apparent insistence on prescribing rules for translation rather than describing and suggesting how the process could be carried out, with empirical backing.29 For example, he gives three ‘rules of thumb’ for any translation: i) translations must be ‘as literal as possible and as free as is necessary […], i.e. the unit of translation should be as small as possible’; ii) ‘a source language word should not normally be translated into a target language word which has another primary one-to-one equivalent in the source language’; iii) translations should never be subjected to what he calls ‘interference.’30 ‘Interference,’ states Newmark, ‘however plausible, is always mistranslation,’ that is, any adoption of a source language linguistic structure into a translation is always incorrect.31 While it may be difficult to criticise the first rule – with the exception, perhaps, of the ‘unit of translation,’ which Newmark does not really explain at this stage in the text – the second and third rules necessitate comment. Newmark’s second rule fails to take account of the fact that, in certain co-texts and contexts, a TL expression having more than one ‘primary one-to-one equivalent’ in the SL may be the best choice for that context. Similarly, the third rule’s insistence that the target text should never adopt any of the linguistic or structural features of the original is open to debate: if, for example, the formal properties of a source text are wholly alien to the target culture and language, or if the original contains references to concepts unique to the experience of source language speakers, it may be defensible for the translator to adopt or adapt these features in the target text. Newmark’s ‘rules’ appear to disregard 29 Newmark’s comment that ‘Most languages have some lexical and grammatical features of low semantic content which may have no equivalents in the target language; there is often no need for the translator to take account of them’ (p. 148) is alarming. Such features of ‘low semantic content’ in Newmark’s view include German modal particles, which in fact contain more ‘semantic content’ than Newmark seems prepared to admit, as Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995) demonstrate (pp.188- 202). 30 Newmark (1981), p.12. 31 Ibid. 17 certain aspects of contextual background, and appear to contradict his earlier comments. Newmark goes on to propose two translation methods ‘appropriate to any text.’ The first of these is ‘communicative translation.’ Here, the aim of the translator is to create the same effect on the target culture reader as the source text produced on its readers. This, claims Newmark, is the ‘one basic guideline in translation.’32 Later in the text, he tempers this, referring to ‘similar response’ rather than ‘same effect’: A translator who aims at something other than producing a similar response cannot claim to be attempting a full translation, but this does not mean that all translations should never sound like translations.33 The force of this apparently minor change should not be underestimated. An attempt to produce the same effect on the target text reader will probably always be frustrated, since there are cultural and temporal distances involved, and different people react in different ways, even within a single culture. In any case, how can a translator know how the original audience reacted? A similar response may, however, be achievable, particularly where two cultures are geographically and temporally close. Newmark’s second method is ‘semantic translation,’ where the translator strives: within the bare syntactic and semantic constraints of the TL, to reproduce the precise contextual meaning of the author.34 It is, again, difficult to see how this could be achieved, since accounting for every nuance of meaning intended by the author, if such were possible, would most likely lead to an unidiomatic translation. In addition, Newmark claims that these two approaches may overlap to a certain extent, provided that the text under consideration is ‘virtually culture-free.’ As shown below, the suggestion that a text could be contextless is fallacy. Newmark’s argument thus appears to contain, if not full-blown contradictions, then at least areas requiring clarification. His approach to the notion of translation 32 Ibid., p.132. 33 Ibid., p.133. My emphasis, JLT. 34 Ibid., p.22. 18 equivalence is also ambiguous, as his definitions of communicative and semantic translation show. For example, in both of these methods for translation, he claims that: provided that equivalent-effect is secured, the literal word-for-word translation is not only the best, it is the only valid method of translation.35 This implies that equivalence means exact identity of source and target language expressions. On the other hand, Newmark states that the suggestion of precise equivalence given by bilingual dictionaries is illusory. The fact that theorists themselves have such difficulty with the notion of equivalence (often contradicting themselves) is evidence of its controversial nature. 2.4 Werner Koller Werner Koller, too, contributes to the discussion of equivalence in his Einführung in die Übersetzungswissenschaft (first published in 1979).36 No less than half of the work focuses on the concept, reflecting its crucial, if contentious, position. This, however, should not deter the integrationist or the Translation Studies scholar from reading Koller’s discussion, for though Snell-Hornby effectively dismisses him, he shows sensitivity to literary-cultural approaches to translation. Early in his discussion, Koller states that: Eine Übersetzung ist das Resultat einer sprachlich-textuellen Operation, die von einem AS-Text [Ausgangssprache or source text] zu einem ZS-Text [Zielsprache or target text] führt, wobei zwischen ZS-Text und AS-Text eine Übersetzungs- (oder Äquivalenz-)relation hergestellt wird.37 Throughout the debate, Koller sees equivalence, not in terms of a precise linguistic transfer leading to exactness, but as a ‘relationship.’ Moreover, this relationship is 35 Ibid., p.39. 36 Werner Koller, Einführung in die Übersetzungswissenschaft (Wiebelsheim: Quelle und Meyer, 2001 [1979]). 37 Ibid., p.16. Original emphasis. 19 subject to a variety of external issues that determine its nature in individual cases. Koller explains: In der Übersetzung wirksam, d.h. die Äquivalenzrelation bedingend, ist ein ganzes Gefüge von Faktoren: - die Ausgangssprache und die Zielsprache mit ihren strukturellen Eigenschaften, Möglichkeiten und Zwängen, - die „Welt“, wie sie in den Einzelsprachen unterschiedlich klassifiziert wird, - unterschiedliche Wirklichkeiten in ihren einzelsprachspezifischen Repräsentationen, - der Ausgangstext mit seinen sprachlichen, stilistischen und ästhetischen Eigenschaften im Kontext der sprachlichen, stilistischen und ästhetischen Normen der Ausgangssprache, - sprachliche, stilistische und ästhetische Normen in der Zielsprache und auf seiten des Übersetzers, - strukturelle Merkmale und Qualitäten eines Textes, - Gestaltungswillen und Werkverständnis des Übersetzers, - explizite und/oder implizite Übersetzungstheorie des Übersetzers, - Übersetzungstradition, - Übersetzungsprinzipien/-vorschriften und Selbstinterpretation des Autors des Originaltextes, - praktische Bedingungen, unter denen der Übersetzer arbeitet bzw. arbeiten muß.38 This confirms the tenet that the translator is bound by constraints, emanating from both source and target cultures and languages. The list additionally hints towards a need, though Koller never states it explicitly, for a combined linguistic and cultural approach to translation. The list also raises the issue of how concepts of the world and reality are encoded in a language. Koller briefly outlines the thinking of Johann Leo Weisgerber 38 Ibid., p.17. 20 (1899-1985), Benjamin Lee Whorf (1897-1941) and Edward Sapir (1884-1939), observing that these scholars hold that each individual language not only encodes but shapes the speaker’s Weltanschauung and view of reality. Thought is therefore shaped by language. In addition, Sapir and Whorf are of the opinion that differences in the grammatical systems of languages demonstrate speakers’ differing views of the world, making translation impossible. Koller, however, argues against such a stand, claiming that languages are, in fact, more flexible than Weisgerber, Sapir and Whorf allow, and showing that there is a universality of the human mind that the three overlook. Yet, he also recognises that language does have an effect on, though does not completely shape, how human beings conceive reality. Koller comments: Keine natürliche Sprache ist aufgebaut wie die ‘Sprachen’ der formalen Logik […] Sprache ist zwar ein kulturbedingtes Phänomen und beeinflußt als solches die Art der Wirklichkeitserfassung, im Erkenntnisprozeß können aber die sprachlich vermittelten Denkschemata zugleich reflektiert und damit überwunden werden.39 He also asserts that there are an infinite number of languages within languages, and that there are communities of speakers of the same language who are spatially far apart. There are, in addition, many instances where several languages exist within a single culture, to say nothing of the fact that millions of people around the world are polyglot. If the thinking of Weisgerber, Sapir and Whorf is correct, where does this leave such individuals? To return to Koller’s example, if language shapes thought and culture, why do speakers of the same language who are spatially distant live within different cultures? If Sapir and Whorf’s argument were correct, the cultures would surely be the same. In addition, as Nigel Armstrong comments: Sapir’s version of linguistic determinism seems to assume that thought is impossible without language; we can rebut this by pointing to the quite familiar experience of having a thought that we find difficult to put into words. Yet again, linguistic determinism implies an odd conception of bilingualism: 39 Ibid., p.174. 21 namely, that bilinguals would need to operate with two quite different world- views, switching from one to another as they switched language.40 However, the individual’s views do not automatically change when they switch language, and therefore language and conception of reality must (to some extent at least) be independent. Sapir and Whorf’s view effectively rules out the possibility of translation, and thus of there being any form of equivalence between languages. Koller does not hold such an opinion. His discussion of equivalence, while admittedly still tending towards a notion of equivalence as sameness, is nevertheless a step forward from the narrowly linguistic approach. For Koller, equivalence is the relationship that is created in translation between a source text and a target text.41 He divides equivalence into two types: denotative and connotative. Each of these has many different subdivisions. Denotative equivalence, for example, has as its first subdivision ‘Eins-zu-eins Entsprechungen,’ and Koller illustrates this with the example of German die Schweiz rendered as French la Suisse. He admits, however, that the synonymy exemplified in this instance can only occur on the denotative level, and that problems can arise if the target language has two or more ‘synonymische Varianten’. Precise equivalence thus does not exist, but this does not preclude a relationship between source and target texts. However, Koller bases his various ‘Entsprechungen’ on isolated words, despite an earlier admission that human communication occurs at textual level, and not at the level of individual lexical items. In any case, the benefits of separating equivalence into denotative and connotative are questionable: words, phrases, sentences and texts encapsulate both denotative and connotative meanings, and it is difficult to see how one could be divorced from the other, even in a scientific or technical text. These criticisms aside, Koller’s text can be seen as a step towards recognition that both linguistic and literary/cultural approaches are required in translation. He asserts that ‘Übersetzung ist – in einem weiteren Sinne – immer Kulturarbeit, in einem engeren Sinne Spracharbeit.’42 40 Nigel Armstrong, Translation, Linguistics, Culture: A French-English Handbook (Clevedon/Buffalo/Toronto: Multilingual Matters, 2005), pp.15-16. Note: ‘linguistic determinism’ is the suggestion that ‘speakers’ thoughts and perceptions are determined or conditioned by the categories that their language makes available to them.’ (p.14). 41 Koller (2001), p.159. 42 Ibid., p.59. 22 2.5 Eugene A. Nida Nida, despite writing the earliest of the studies under consideration here, has been left until last, because his work Toward a Science of Translating. With Special Reference to Principles and Procedures involved in Bible Translating43 tends most towards the integrated theory advocated here. One may at first be wary of a theory of translation built upon evidence from such a narrow source, but Nida defends his choice. He asserts that ‘none surpasses Bible translating’ because of the wide range of text types involved, including, among other types, poetry, law, proverbs and dialogue; the fact that the Bible has been rendered into so many languages and dialects (Nida pegs the figure at more than 1,200); the temporal extent of Bible translation; the cultural diversity involved; the vast body of evidence from manuscripts, coupled with the number of individuals who have undertaken Bible translation and the volume of information gathered on procedures they have employed. This makes Bible translation useful in the broader examination of translation. Nida does concede, however, that using the Bible is not without its difficulties, and these mainly arise from the cultural and temporal distance between source texts and target texts. Nida’s discussion adumbrates the integrated theory advocated later by theorists such as Albrecht Neubert and Mary Snell-Hornby. Yet, on his own admission, Nida’s work is grounded in linguistics, and he attests that translation is a ‘valid subject for scientific description.’44 The insistence on the scientific may appear at first to be unwise, since translation and language use do not take place in contextless, laboratory-like conditions, but the ostensibly scientific bias does not constitute as great a problem as one might expect. Nida then makes some preliminary comments on the nature of meaning, for, in his view, traditional approaches to meaning are inadequate for translation. The various approaches to meaning appear to be divided according to whether they centre upon the ‘semantic field’ or the ‘semantic context.’ Proponents of the semantic field approach, according to Nida, include Hermann Osthoff (1847-1909), who argued that meanings group together in ‘systems.’ On the other hand, the semantic context deals with how context influences meaning, and on the actual contexts themselves, as 43 Eugene A. Nida, Toward a Science of Translating. With Special Reference to Principles and Procedures involved in Bible Translating (Leiden: Brill, 1964). 44 Ibid., p.3. 23 shown in the work of Bronislaw Malinowski (1884-1942).45 Nida himself demonstrates that the function of a particular lexical element cannot be fully ascertained without its context, but that the semantic field of the element is just as important. A theory of meaning cannot be limited to one or the other of these: in Nida’s view both are equally important. This approximately foreshadows the approach to be adopted in this project, in that it shows the importance of the linguistic core of meaning and of contextual factors. Nida also argues that no lexical item ever has the same meaning twice, and that the meanings of such items are in a state of constant change because no two contexts (or ‘speech events,’ to use Nida’s term) are the same. These factors, coupled with the fact that no two people have exactly the same background or use the same expressions in a given situation, mean that, in theory, communication between those speaking different languages would be impossible. However, owing to a certain universality of human experience (and, more specifically, the presence of extra-linguistic reality in the form of an invariant core of meaning, though Nida does not state this as such), there exists a ‘relatively high degree of mutual intelligibility’46 between the peoples of the world. Nida’s other principal argument that dovetails with the integrated theory concerns how the translator should approach the translation process: The meaning of a particular unit, regardless of its extent, must be analysed in terms of the wider context of the total relevant discourse, whether this unit is a paragraph, section, chapter, or book. In other words, the immediate unit selected for analysis cannot be treated as a separate element; it must be considered as an integral part of the total discourse.47 Nida also appreciates the importance of the wider context in translation, since: words have meanings only in terms of the total cultural setting, and a discourse must be related to the wider sphere of human action or thought.48 45 Ibid., pp.37-38. 46 Ibid., p.53. 47 Ibid., p.243. My emphasis, JLT. 48 Ibid., p.244. 24 He also recognises that translation inevitably incurs loss – the translator is a human being, and can rarely, if ever, take account of all aspects of meaning and cultural context. Such a line of reasoning is echoed in the work of the Translation Studies theorists, such as Susan Bassnett. The most controversial issue discussed by Nida in his text is the question of ‘correspondence.’ Having stated that, because each language is unique, there are no ‘fully exact translations’, and that the traditional poles of literal versus free translation are in fact degrees on a scale, Nida outlines his ‘two basic orientations in translating’: ‘formal’ and ‘dynamic’ equivalence. In formal equivalence, the translator concentrates on the form and content of the message, aiming to match poem to poem, sentence to sentence, chapter to chapter, and so on: Viewed from this formal orientation, one is concerned that the message in the receptor language should match as closely as possible the different elements in the source language.49 Dynamic equivalence stems from the principle of equivalent effect, which seeks to make the relationship between the translation and its target audience the same as the relationship between the original text and its reader, aiming for ‘complete naturalness of expression.’ These ‘orientations’ appear, albeit perhaps approximately, to be alternative labels for literal and free translation. Moreover, they also seem to suggest that equivalence is a precise point-to-point relationship, a situation that, as has been demonstrated, cannot exist because of co-textual, contextual and cultural factors. Nida thus creates a minor contradiction in his text: before sketching his two approaches to translation, he states that ‘identical equivalents’ do not exist, though the two orientations imply otherwise. It may be more useful to express the two approaches in terms other than those suggesting precise sameness, for it is the use of such terminology that helps to create this contradiction. Despite this confusion, the discussion of correspondence is nevertheless enlightening, because Nida sets his formal and dynamic equivalence as two poles at either end of a spectrum, so that both are, in fact, necessary for translation – an argument that echoes integrationist thinking. 49 Ibid., p.159. 25 Before coming to the integrated school, however, the work of theorists advocating the opposing view, the Translation Studies approach, requires examination. 3. THE COMPARATIVE LITERATURE APPROACH The other dominant school of translation theory, as Snell-Hornby suggests, is derived from Comparative Literature. She also states that the intent of the vertaalwetenschap or Translation Studies scholars is ‘the exact opposite of that represented by the linguistically oriented school […]: not intended equivalence but admitted manipulation.’50 Those advocating a Translation Studies approach generally confine themselves to the translation of literary texts, almost as a revolt against the linguistics-based approach, which they see as too restrictive, since it focuses on technical, non-literary translation, often divorced from context. Indeed, some, such as André Lefevere, go as far as to question the validity of linguistics-based approaches in translation. 3.1 André Lefevere. Lefevere’s Translating Literature: Practice and Theory in a Comparative Literature Context51 begins with an almost complete dismissal of linguistics-based translation theory. His first point is quoted here at length, as it is to be a crucial element in the theory to be employed in the examination of Simenon’s novels and their translations: I must first ask the reader to imagine the translation of literature as taking place not in a vacuum in which two languages meet but, rather, in the context of all the traditions of the two literatures. It also takes place when writers and their translators meet, an encounter in which at least one of the parties is a human being, made of flesh and blood and provided with an agenda of his or her own. Translators mediate between literary traditions, and they do so with some goal in mind, other than that of “making the original available” in a 50 Snell-Hornby (1988), p.23. 51 André Lefevere, Translating Literature: Practice and Theory in a Comparative Literature Context (New York: The Modern Language Association of America, 1992). 26 neutral, objective way. Translations are not produced under perfect laboratory conditions. Originals are indeed made available, but on the translators’ terms, even if these terms happen to produce the closest literal (faithful) translation.52 This can be pared down to two main issues: firstly, the translation process takes place within the framework of a context; secondly, the translator, whether consciously or unconsciously, leaves his or her mark on the translation, making translation a subjective exercise. This is quite distinct from any standpoint propagated by the linguistics-based scholars. Indeed, in their theories, many proponents of linguistics- based approaches do not appear to consider in any depth the rôle of the translator and the external issues acting upon the translator. A theory of translation needs to take account of these contextual issues. It appears to be for this reason that Lefevere dismisses the thinking of linguistically orientated translation theorists. Such theorists, states Lefevere, treat language as a contextless ‘abstract system.’ On the other hand, the vertaalwetenschap scholars deal with language, and by extension, translation, in concrete use. Despite this dismissal of the linguistics-based school of translation theory, Lefevere does acknowledge the contribution made by proponents of a text linguistics approach. In his view, two main advances from the basic linguistics standpoint have been achieved by text linguistics. In the first place, as the name implies, text linguistics has moved on from theory derived from simple contextless sentences, such as those found in Catford’s thinking, to the consideration of the text as a whole. In the second place, text linguistics admits that texts and translations do not exist in isolation, but are part of a cultural background. Yet the text linguistics approach, according to Lefevere, is not without its pitfalls. It is still marked by the use of rigid categorisation of texts. The principal difficulty arising from such formal dividing of texts is that literary and non-literary texts are made to appear mutually exclusive. In reality, this is not the case: if, for example, Simenon’s Le Charretier de La Providence is examined, elements of both types can be found. Though it is a work of fiction, the novel contains factual information about canal boats and life along the waterways of France more generally. Lefevere calls, not for rigid categorising of texts, as text linguistics scholars persist in doing, but rather that these two types, 52 Ibid., p.6. 27 literary and non-literary, should be considered as poles on a scale or spectrum. This tends towards an integrationist approach. Clearly, however, there are texts that display more features of one type than the other, and Lefevere’s work focuses on manifestly literary texts. In the chapter dedicated to making explicit the problems engendered by the illocutionary use of language53 – in other words, the use of language for effect – the illustrative examples come exclusively from poetry, prose and drama. Yet some of the devices described are found in texts that may be classed as non-literary: metaphor and simile, for instance, can be used as conveyors of information in an otherwise factual text. Therefore, though focusing on texts classified as literary, Lefevere’s earlier dismissal of the use of typology also applies here: if many literary texts display features of non-literary texts, and vice-versa, the traditional rigid categorisation of texts cannot legitimately be maintained as a tool in translation theory. Lefevere also addresses the difficulty of translating customs and concepts that are alien to the target culture, though this may not be as troublesome as may initially appear, thanks largely to the universality of human experience. As was evident from the study of the work of Wilss and Koller, languages can describe and express concepts foreign to a particular cultural background. The notion of extra-linguistic reality and the universality of human experience, however limited, brings the discussion back to the question of translation equivalence, a concept that, along with other linguistics-based notions, Lefevere chooses to discard, since: one cannot help but think that the dominance of the concept of equivalence has greatly contributed to the stagnation of thinking about translation.54 Lefevere asserts that the fundamental problem with equivalence is that translators and theorists cannot agree on what is denoted by the term, and thus it should be abandoned completely. However, simply abandoning the entire concept of equivalence because theorists cannot agree on what it means is misguided: it is not entirely devoid of usefulness, as Juliane House claims. She suggests that equivalence is ‘the conceptual basis of translation’ (apparently agreeing with Catford) but crucially adding: 53 Ibid., pp.16-84. 54 Ibid., p.10. 28 Invariance in translation captures that which is the tertium comparationis in translation. The concept of invariance is not an absolute one, but must be decided in each and every individual case by the goal, the purpose of the translation. Certain demands of invariance are (externally) set up for a translation, and when these demands are fulfilled, the translation is ‘equivalent.’ Equivalence is therefore always and necessarily relative, and has nothing to do with identity. ‘Absolute equivalence’ would be a contradiction in adiecto.55 3.2 James S. Holmes. Translated! Papers on Literary Translation and Translation Studies56 is a posthumous collection of some of James Holmes’ papers on translation. Though the first section focuses on the translation of poetry, it nevertheless raises important points for a more general theory of translation. The second part includes thoughts on Translation Studies, and models and methods for translation. In the paper entitled ‘The State of Two Arts: Literary Translation and Translation Studies in the West Today,’57 Holmes observes: As it has ever been, or at least for centuries, the general public still tends to look upon translation as a quite simple matter, the substituting of a word for a word, a phrase for a phrase, with at most here and there a small linguistic adjustment because languages are after all somewhat idiosyncratic. The translator is, in this simplistic common-sense view, a kind of cross-linguistic transcriber or copyist, a slightly glorified typist.58 If one looks back at the works of the linguistically orientated theorists, it could be inferred that it is in some measure due to the extreme form of the linguistics-based approach, which sees translation as a process of substitution, that the enterprise is held 55 Juliane House, Translation Quality Assessment: A Model Revisited (Tübingen: Narr, 1997), p.25. 56 James S. Holmes, Translated! Papers on Literary Translation and Translation Studies (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1988). 57 Ibid., pp.103-111. 58 Ibid., p.103. 29 in low esteem.59 Holmes’ criticism is somewhat more temperate: in ‘Translation Theory, Translation Theories, Translation Studies and the Translator,’ he holds accountable, not the linguistics-orientated translation theorists, but the discipline of linguistics itself.60 The major problem of linguistics-based approaches to translation is that they: have had to work with a linguistics which is only interested in the sentence and linguistic phenomena below the sentence level.61 Thus, linguistically orientated theorists have been hampered by inadequate tools. In the ‘State of Two Arts,’ Holmes does, however, criticise the limitation of consideration to the sentence and below; instead, the text, and its cultural context, should be the objects of investigation. For this reason, Holmes sees the thinking of Itamar Even-Zohar and his scholars in Tel Aviv as the necessary remedy for sentence and sub-sentence analysis. Even-Zohar’s notion of the literary polysystem is an important tool for translation. Holmes states that: Making use of insights from the field of general systemics, the study of how systems work, Even-Zohar and his colleagues have posited that “literature” in a given society is a collection of various systems, a system-of-systems or polysystem, in which diverse genres, schools, tendencies, and what have you are constantly jockeying for position, competing with each other for readership, but also for prestige and power. Seen in this light, “literature” is no longer the stately and fairly static thing it tends to be for the canonists, but a highly kinetic situation in which things are constantly changing.62 It is interesting to note that Even-Zohar and his colleague Gideon Toury, in the introduction to Translation Theory and Intercultural Relations, observe that ‘Every 59 The Übersetzungswissenschaftler cannot be held wholly accountable for this condescending but seemingly commonly held view of translation. The use of translation as an exercise in testing basic linguistic competence at schools and universities across the world may also be to blame. 60 Ibid., pp.93-98. 61 Ibid., p.94. 62 Ibid., p.107. 30 approach [to translation] is legitimate and may be useful’63 and that they include contributions from both linguistics- and cultural or comparative literature-based approaches to translation. The implications for translation of Even-Zohar’s polysystem framework are clear. If the ideology and dominant literary form of a culture is constantly changing, the rules of acceptability for that culture (i.e., the cultural constraints) will also be in an almost constant state of change, and this will affect what can be translated, and how it can be translated. This clearly demonstrates the danger inherent in translating words and sentences in isolation from the rest of the text, and of translating the text without taking due account of the temporal-cultural context. The translation may also offend against the prevailing literary system or political ideology. Moreover, the polysystem theory shows the need for revisions of translations; for, just as a single text may be read differently by the same individual on different occasions, so a given translation, previously acceptable in the eyes of a culture, may fall out of favour. Holmes describes this as the ‘cross-temporal factor.’64 He sets out a basic model for translation: A person who can be called the source (S) encodes a message (M) in a specific language (A) and transmits it to a receiver (RA). This receiver, as translator, then performs a kind of ‘translingual transfer’ (==TR>) to encode in a second language (B) a new message (MB) that is intended to ‘mean the same as’ or ‘correspond to’ or ‘be equivalent to’ the original message, or at any rate to give the illusion of doing some of these things. Functioning as a new source (SB), the translator then transmits this new message to a new receiver (RB).65 Holmes identifies problems with this model, demonstrating that it involves nothing more than a linguistic transfer – in other words, it deals with translation abstractly, without context. Furthermore, the model seems to suggest a static approach to translation, a situation, says Holmes, which can really only apply if the source text is 63 Itamar Even-Zohar and Gideon Toury, eds., Translation Theory and Intercultural Relations, Poetics Today, volume II, no. 4 (Tel Aviv: Porter Institute for Poetics and Semiotics, University of Tel Aviv, 1981), p.viii. 64 Holmes (1988), pp.35-44. 65 Ibid., p.35. 31 contemporary. Holmes echoes Even-Zohar’s point when he shows that literary and cultural systems are in a constant state of change, and that: the translator of a poem of another age cannot ignore this fact, which confronts him with a series of problems in which the cross-temporal factor may loom as large as the interlingual.66 In addition, if literary and socio-cultural systems are in a state of constant change, as Holmes and the polysystem theorists argue, no two systems will ever be identical. Likewise, no two translators will ever produce identical translations. Holmes illustrates this with an example from algebra.67 If one sets the equation (x + y)(x – 2y) for five pupils, the chances are that the answers from each will be identical. If, however, five translators are given the same text to translate, five different translations will ensue. ‘To call this equivalence,’ states Holmes, ‘is perverse.’68 However, unlike Lefevere, and as shown below, Snell-Hornby, Holmes does not dismiss out of hand the entire notion of equivalence. He does dispense with the notions of ‘true’ equivalence or sameness, for these are clearly not attainable in translation. For Holmes, translation is a process of what he calls ‘counterparts’ or ‘matchings’: words, turns of phrase, and the rest, fulfilling functions in the language of the translation and the culture of its reader that in many and appropriate ways are closely akin (though never truly equivalent) to those of the words etc. in the language and culture of the original and its reader.69 Holmes’ term ‘matching’ is untenable for translation, because (despite his assurances to the contrary) it still implies complete equality between the source text expression and the target text expression, a level of sameness that cannot be attained. ‘Counterpart’ may be preferable, since it does not suggest absolute equality to the same extent; in other words, it permits a degree of difference. The main point here is, 66 Ibid., p.36. Holmes refers here to a ‘poem,’ poetry being his primary concern. The point is applicable to other genres. 67 ‘On Matching and Making Maps: From a Translator’s Notebook,’ in: Holmes (1988), pp.53-64. 68 Ibid., p.53. 69 Ibid., p.54. 32 however, not the quibble over terminology, but the point that ‘equivalence’ meaning ‘sameness’ as a term in translation is not defensible. 3.3 George Steiner Like Holmes, George Steiner sees language and culture as undergoing constant change. This is argued in After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation, first published in 1975.70 In his preface to the second edition, Steiner asserts that ‘There are, most assuredly, and pace our current masters in Byzantium, no “theories of translation”.’71 Theories, for Steiner, can only be used ‘in the exact and in the applied sciences,’ for ‘they have predictive obligation, can be crucially tested, and are falsifiable.’72 If Steiner is to be believed, the exercise being attempted here cannot, in fact, be realised. This is, however, not the case: the project will test the integrated theory of translation, proving it, refuting it or adapting it as the actual textual evidence requires. Despite his fervent dismissal of translation theory, Steiner describes a ‘model’ for translation, which, he asserts, ‘makes no claim to “theory”,’73 but which reads like a theory nevertheless. Steiner calls this the ‘four-beat model,’ and it merits closer examination. The basic premise underlying Steiner’s model is the ‘hermeneutic motion,’ the ‘act of elicitation and appropriative transfer of meaning.’74 This occurs in four stages: trust, aggression, incorporation, and reciprocity. The first step, trust, involves an investment of belief on the part of the translator, the belief that the source text contains something that is waiting to be understood. In the second stage, the translator ‘extracts’ from the source text. Steiner describes this step using violent imagery, but the stage in question can otherwise be described as comprehension of the source text. Thirdly, incorporation is the adoption into the target text of what has been extracted in the second step. This, according to the author, will result in anything from full cultural transposition into the target text to straightforward transplantation, giving a translation marked by foreignness. The final step in Steiner’s model, reciprocity, ‘is very difficult 70 George Steiner, After Babel: Aspects of Language and Translation (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1992 [1975]). 71 Ibid., p.xvi. 72 Ibid., p.xv. 73 Ibid., p.xvi. 74 Ibid., p.312. 33 to put abstractly.’75 Put simply, the standing of the source text is increased in its own background culture because it has been considered worthy of translation. While it is agreed that this can be described as a ‘model’ illustrating the translation process, it can also be argued that this is equally a theory of how the translator might translate. As with the approaches already outlined, this ‘model’ can be subjected to empirical testing to determine its validity or otherwise. Despite his questionable opinion on the notion of theory and its applicability in the domain of translation, Steiner does make a number of points that will prove to be indispensable to the theory of translation advocated in this project. His first chapter explores the concept of understanding language and text. Translation per se, that is, in its wider sense, is not examined; rather, Steiner undertakes to demonstrate the importance of language in context. He does so by considering Posthumus’s closing monologue from the second act of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline from the point of view of a native speaker of English.76 Steiner crucially states that: The determination of tone-values, of the complete semantic event brought about by Posthumus’s words, the attempt to grasp the full reach of those words both inward and in respect of other personages and the audience, moves in concentric and ever-widening circles. From Posthumus Leonatus at the close of Act II, we proceed to Cymbeline as a whole, then to the body of Shakespearean drama and to the context of cultural reference and literature on which it draws.77 Thus, like Lefevere and Holmes, Steiner recognises the vital importance of considering the system within the system, the lexical element in relation to the act or chapter, to the work as a whole, and to the background context. Furthermore, he acknowledges the pressure of history on meaning generally. The text, for example, is rooted in a historical context, and thus a particular term or expression may have an entirely different meaning for a modern audience to that understood by the text’s original audience. It can be seen that a translation, too, has a background context, and the translator may be faced with the decision either to translate into the target 75 Ibid., p.316. 76 Ibid., p.1. 77 Ibid., p.7. 34 language of the same time period as the source text, or to render it into a contemporary idiom. Lexical elements, then, in Steiner’s view, do not have fixed meanings, since semantic values are subject to historical, cultural and contextual factors. However, Steiner does dispense with Wilhelm von Humboldt’s hypothesis, developed later by Sapir and Whorf, that an individual’s native language conditions his or her Weltanschauung and how he or she interprets reality. In other words, Steiner acknowledges the existence of an extra-linguistic reality. He asks: […] if the Humboldt-Sapir-Whorf hypothesis were right, if languages were monads with essentially discordant mappings of reality, how then could we communicate interlingually? How could we acquire a second tongue or traverse into another language-world by means of translation?78 As was seen in the discussion of Koller’s thinking, the hypothesis in its most extreme form cannot be valid, because human communication across linguistic boundaries does indeed take place. 3.4 Susan Bassnett Steiner’s thinking is echoed by Susan Bassnett in Translation Studies.79 Here, the theorist advocates a structuralist approach to literary texts that sees the text as being ‘a set of related systems, operating within a set of other systems.’80 Like Steiner, she concentrates solely on literary translation, although many of the points she makes can be applied in technical translation. If the translator does not recognise the importance of relating individual systems to each other, to the whole text, to the literary genre and to the background culture, the translation will probably prove to be inadequate. Bassnett asserts: The failure of many translators to understand that a literary text is made up of a complex set of systems existing in a dialectal relationship with other sets 78 Ibid., p.98. 79 Susan Bassnett, Translation Studies (London: Methuen, 1980). 80 Ibid., p.77. 35 outside its boundaries has often led them to focus on particular aspects of a text at the expense of others.81 The concentration on one aspect of the text to the detriment of others may result in a translation that is at best unbalanced, though the reader may remain unaware of this if the target text reads well. Again echoing Steiner, Bassnett acknowledges the rôle and effect of history in translation. Here, she makes two main points, one on the semantic level, the other relating to the intertextual level. Firstly, the fact that texts should contain lexical items that have semantically evolved since their original use cannot be avoided when one is translating diachronically. Secondly, Bassnett cites Julia Kristeva’s notion of intertextuality, where all texts are connected: ‘no text can ever be completely free of those texts that precede and surround it.’82 Intertextuality has obvious implications for the translator: he or she may decide not to contravene the literary conventions of the culture into which he or she is translating; that is, he or she may continue the tradition of the texts preceding the translation. Alternatively, the translator may opt to create a target text that has no precedent in the target culture. The latter point could render Nida’s principle of dynamic equivalence void, for, though the target text may be innovative for its culture, the source text may sit within an established tradition, and so the response provoked in the target audience will differ from that of the original audience. This implies that the audience is a static entity, where all members produce the same reaction, but each reader interprets the text idiosyncratically, and moreover, the text may be interpreted differently by the same reader on different occasions. Thus, as Bassnett states, ‘the idea of the one correct reading is dissolved,’83 but the point is made with a proviso: the relative freedom it bestows on the translator as reader must be treated carefully, for, as Bassnett demonstrates: The reader/translator who does not acknowledge the dialectical materialist basis of Brecht’s plays or who misses the irony in Shakespeare’s sonnets […] is upsetting the balance of power by treating the original as his own property. And all these elements can be missed if the reading does not take into full 81 Ibid. 82 Ibid., p.79. 83 Ibid. 36 account the overall structuring of the work and its relation to the time and place of its production.84 Thus far, then, Bassnett does not diverge from the thinking of other Translation Studies scholars. However, where she fundamentally differs from them is in her treatment of linguistics-based approaches. She does not deny the use of linguistically orientated thinking in translation, and comments that: beyond the notion stressed by the narrowly linguistic approach, that translation involves the transfer of “meaning” contained in one set of language signs into another set of language signs through competent use of the dictionary and grammar, the process involves a whole set of extra-linguistic criteria also.85 This ‘also’ is crucial, because, in acknowledging the need for both linguistic and literary/cultural standpoints, Bassnett’s thinking is closer to the integrated theory of translation than any other theorist’s work examined thus far. Indeed, in the preface to the third edition of Translation Studies (2002), Bassnett both recognises the traditional dichotomy prevalent in translation theory and acknowledges the contribution of both linguistics-based and literary approaches to the subject, further claiming that: The apparent division between cultural and linguistic approaches to translation that characterized much translation research until the 1980s is disappearing, partly because of shifts in linguistics that have seen that discipline take a more overtly cultural turn, partly because those who advocated an approach to translation rooted in cultural history have become less defensive about their position.86 Bassnett, however, belongs with the Translation Studies scholars, for she does not consider any non-literary, or technical, translation, and, in any case, her thoughts on 84 Ibid., pp.79-80. 85 Ibid., p.13. 86 Susan Bassnett, Translation Studies (London and New York: Routledge, 2002 – 3rd edition), p.3. 37 equivalence are certainly more at the vertaalwetenschap pole of the spectrum than the Übersetzungswissenschaft extreme. Like Holmes before her, Bassnett questions the notion of equivalence meaning ‘sameness.’ Even expressions that appear synonymous, she states, do not give full equivalence. A dictionary may indeed give ‘perfect’ as a synonym for ‘ideal,’ but ‘full’ equivalence is not achieved, because ‘each unit contains within itself a set of non-transferable associations and connotations,’87 to say nothing of the idiosyncratic connotations derived by the individual reader. The so-called ‘associative fields’ of any two expressions will never be identical. Having dispensed with the notion of equivalence as ‘sameness,’ Bassnett goes on to state that: It is an established fact in Translation Studies that if a dozen translators tackle the same poem, they will produce a dozen different versions. And yet somewhere in those dozen versions there will be what Popovič calls the “invariant core” of the original poem. This invariant core, he claims, is represented by stable, basic and constant semantic elements in the text, whose existence can be proved by experimental semantic condensation. Transformations, or variants, are those changes which do not modify the core of meaning but influence the expressive form. In short, the invariant can be defined as that which exists in common between all existing translations of a single work.88 The point is important for this project: without an invariant semantic core, the basic plot structure of the Simenon text would be altered, and referents would change. Yet Bassnett has also demonstrated the need to take account of contextual and socio- cultural issues: In the same way that the surgeon, operating on the heart, cannot neglect the body that surrounds it, so the translator treats the text in isolation from the culture at his peril.89 87 Bassnett (1980), p.15. 88 Ibid., pp.26-27. 89 Ibid., p.14. 38 3.5 Anton Popovič Anton Popovič’s notion of the invariant core is crucial for this project. The positioning of Popovič here, as the final figure in the list of literary scholars, is also appropriate: like Bassnett, Popovič sees the importance of combining both linguistic and literary/cultural approaches to translation. For the native speaker of English with no knowledge of Slovak, access to Popovič’s work is limited, since little appears to have been written in, or has been translated into, English (French or German). The more useful of the two most readily available texts by Popovič in English is his Dictionary for the Analysis of Literary Translation.90 The Dictionary is largely built from Popovič’s own texts.91 The terms that appear here ‘form an integral part’ of his theory.92 Given the difficulty involved in acquiring Popovič’s work, any summary of his thinking in English risks being incomplete. From a reading of the Dictionary, two main themes emerge, and these coincide with the points raised throughout this chapter: equivalence and the notion of the invariant core, and texts as part of cultural contexts. Taking the cultural angle first, Popovič clearly recognises the fact that the translator is bound by cultural constraints. Two of the earliest entries in the Dictionary are ‘actualization of translation’ and ‘adaptation of translation.’93 These are target culture-biased, and amount to the translator’s conforming to target culture norms and reader expectations: in the case of the former term, modernisation takes place to accommodate contemporary tastes; in the latter, the translator modifies any cultural specificities in the source text, again to conform to target culture norms. Both of these translation devices result from what Popovič calls the ‘cultural gap in translation.’ He gives the explanation for this as: Communicative difference between the original and the translation. It results from temporal differences between the cultural context of the original and that of the translation. The cultural code realized in the original text may or may 90 Anton Popovič, Dictionary for the Analysis of Literary Translation (Edmonton: Department of Comparative Literature, University of Alberta, 1975). 91 Anton Popovič, Teória umeleckého prekladu (Theory of Literary Translation) (Bratislava: Tatran, 1975) and Problémy literárnej metakomunikácie – teória metatextu (Problems of Literary Metacommunication – Theory of Metatext) (Nitra: Klkem, 1975). 92 Popovič (Dictionary, 1975), copyright page. 93 Ibid., p.1. 39 not coincide in its intensity (most frequently it does not) with the cultural code realized in the text of the translation (a retarded or accelerated development of culture).94 On a basic level, this implies that each culture is unique. It may be beneficial to broaden the concept to take account of the fact that the spatial dimension also has a major part to play in the ‘communicative difference,’ to say nothing of the fundamental linguistic differences between cultures. The two types of modification device described above have a distinct target culture bias, but Popovič also acknowledges that the translator may operate under constraints stemming from the source culture and even the source language. This is manifest in the concept that carries the complex title ‘precocious development realization of text.’95 This appears to involve the introduction into the target culture of a text that contravenes the norms of the target culture system. The text may seem strange or exotic to the target reader, and thus a source text bias can be discerned, as opposed to the target text bias found above. Popovič, then, is alert to the fact that cultural background, whether of the source or the target culture, plays a major rôle in translation. He is also concerned with the linguistic aspect, as shown by his explanation of terminology that is considered to be more linguistic than cultural. His notion of the ‘invariability of meaning in translation’ is most worthy of note. Popovič asserts that: The invariant core is represented by stable, basic and constant semantic elements in the text. Their existence can be proved by an experimental semantic condensation. This core of standardized meanings makes a reader’s or translator’s (or another) concretization, i.e. transformations or variants, possible. These imply changes that do not modify the core of meaning but influence only the expressive form.96 This echoes, to some extent, the linguists’ conception of translation as a transfer of meaning from source to target. It is the basic semantic relationship that is created by 94 Ibid., p.4. 95 Ibid., p.35. 96 Ibid., p.11. 40 the act of translation. Popovič’s view suggests that the extra-linguistic should remain constant (or almost constant), but how this extra-linguistic aspect is expressed will not. It must be noted that, if devices other than the purely semantic are used by the source text author, such as those found on the phonic level (alliteration, assonance, and so on) or some form of humour, the invariant will most likely not be semantic, or, at least, not merely semantic. In such a case, translation loss occurs, as Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge testify, but this can be countered with compensation: that is, the technique of making up for the translation loss of important ST features by approximating their effects in the TT through means other than those used in the ST.97 Finally, Popovič recognises the importance of equivalence for a theory of translation, a point clearly linked to the concept of the invariant core. He discerns four types of equivalence: linguistic, paradigmatic, stylistic and textual. Linguistic equivalence is the ‘homogeneity of elements upon the linguistic […] levels of the original and the translation.’ Paradigmatic equivalence is the ‘equivalence of the elements of a paradigmatic expressive axis upon the stylistic level as a system of expressive elements.’ Stylistic, or translational, equivalence, is explained as ‘functional equivalence of elements in both original and translation aiming at an expressive identity with an invariant of identical meaning.’ Lastly, textual, or syntagmatic equivalence is the: arrangement of the elements upon the syntagmatic axis of the text which is conditioned by the expedient’s expressive feeling, provided there is a freedom of choice of expressive means from the paradigmatic “stock” of style (expressive system).98 These definitions are complex and not entirely transparent, but importantly for the purposes of this study they show awareness that the invariant can take other forms (i.e., it does not only have to be semantic in nature). The greatest problem lies with 97 Sándor Hervey, Ian Higgins and Michael Loughridge, Thinking German Translation. A Course in Translation Method: German to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), p.229. 98 Popovič (Dictionary, 1975), p.6. 41 ‘stylistic equivalence,’ which is given the subtitle ‘translational.’ This seems to imply that it is the form of equivalence most appropriate for translation. The problem arises because Popovič’s definition appears to imply that precise equivalence on both stylistic and semantic levels is required. Identity on one of these levels is unlikely; to achieve exact sameness on both is surely impossible. It should, then, be remembered that, for the purposes of this project, the invariant semantic core is a linguistic transfer of meaning that does not encompass any connotative or associative values, for these are generally affected by culture. It rests upon the notion of extra-linguistic reality and on the universality of human experience, which are manifested differently in different cultures and languages. Exact equivalence on all levels does not exist. Popovič’s notions of equivalence are elusive, and it is unclear whether they refer to this kind of exact sameness, or whether they in fact denote the more general relationship advocated here. However, his ‘invariability of meaning in translation’ is less ambiguous: Popovič advocates here a transfer of basic linguistic meaning, the manifestation of which differs between languages and cultures. It is thus this point, and not the more elusive notions of equivalence, that can be most fruitfully drawn on in this project. 4. THE INTEGRATED APPROACH The approaches to translation proposed by Susan Bassnett and Anton Popovič, then, link into the thinking of those advocating the integrated theory of translation. The two pivotal texts here are Mary Snell-Hornby’s Translation Studies: An Integrated Approach99 and Albrecht Neubert and Gregory Shreve’s Translation as Text.100 As is suggested by the titles of these works, Snell-Hornby tends towards the Comparative Literature school, whereas Neubert and Shreve start from a linguistics-based standpoint. This can lead to areas of contention at times. One remaining point needs to be made in relation to the theorists whose work has already been outlined in this study: however extreme and, at times perhaps, untenable some of their theories may seem, none is wholly aberrant, and all have something significant to contribute to the overall picture of translation theory. Both linguistics-based and literary/cultural 99 Snell-Hornby (1988). 100 Neubert and Shreve (1992). 42 approaches are necessary to produce an appropriate translation, as recognised by Mary Snell-Hornby. 4.1 Mary Snell-Hornby Snell-Hornby’s volume is constructed around two fundamental precepts: in the first place, she shows that the traditional strict categorisation which has marked the sphere of translation for generations should be abandoned in favour of what she calls a holistic principle; in the second place, she calls for the rejection of the misconception that translation is simply a matter of rendering isolated words from one language into another. Instead, as Susan Bassnett has also argued, translation begins with the perception that the text is inextricably linked to its cultural background, what Snell- Hornby terms ‘text-in-situation.’ Here: text-analysis proceeds from the macro-structure of the text to the micro-unit of the word, this being seen, not as an isolatable item, but in its relevance and function within the text.101 This point suggests Snell-Hornby’s affinity with the Comparative Literature school. She herself claims that her study is ‘concerned with literary translation.’ Yet, it also examines some technical translation: Snell-Hornby aims for flexibility in her approach, striving for an integrated theory that can be applied to a range of individual texts and text types. In other words, she has adopted a theory that can be applied both to technical texts and to literary texts. For this reason her theory: can and should utilize relevant concepts and methods developed from the study of language (this despite massive misgivings on the part of scholars in literary translation […]) without automatically becoming a branch of linguistics or having to adopt linguistic methods and theoretical constructs wholesale.102 101 Snell-Hornby (1988), p.2. 102 Ibid., p.3. 43 The adoption of the linguistics-orientated approach into Snell-Hornby’s theory would appear to have been facilitated by more temperate linguistics-based thinking, which sees translation, not simply as a mere transfer of linguistic meaning, but as an act of communication that crosses cultural boundaries.103 Despite this advance in thinking from the mid-1980s, for Snell-Hornby the two dominant schools of translation theory persisting in Europe are the Übersetzungswissenschaft and Translation Studies approaches. Snell-Hornby outlines the basic tenets of these two schools and introduces the main theorists from each, some of whom are referred to here. She also identifies the principal problem arising from this strict dichotomisation, namely that the scholars in question devise theories for their own particular type of translation, thus no attempt is made to ‘bridge the gap’ between literary and non-literary translation. Each school, Snell-Hornby claims, rejects the work of the other as being of no use to translation (which is not strictly true: one need only look at the above discussion of Susan Bassnett’s thinking). Yet, despite this call for bridging of gaps, two essential factors mark Snell-Hornby out as leaning towards the Comparative Literature/cultural school pole of her own spectrum: her endorsement of the use of the Gestalt principle in translation, and her dismissal of the notion of equivalence. Snell-Hornby’s incorporation of the holistic Gestalt principle arises from the need to counter the belief, generally originating in linguistics-based approaches, that translation is merely a matter of isolated words. The use of the principle, derived from Gestalt psychology, is ‘a foregone conclusion in literary studies.’104 The principle holds that the whole ‘is more than the mere sum of its parts, and an analysis of the parts cannot provide an understanding of the whole.’105 According to Snell-Hornby, this is indispensable to the integrated approach to translation. To a certain extent, her argument is valid: each individual system can only be properly understood if related to the greater system of the text; in other words, the chapter, text, and background culture give fuller meaning to smaller systems. This is the view of those advocating a literary/cultural approach to translation. However, to state that ‘an analysis of the parts cannot provide an understanding of the whole’ is questionable. Granted, the individual items in a text simply added together will not give full meaning to the 103 Ibid., pp.43-44 ff. 104 Ibid., p.29. 105 Ibid. 44 whole text. This is because the text is a system within larger systems, those of socio- cultural background and the totality of human experience. These, too, have a bearing on the semantic value of the text. Yet, individual systems in a text are not devoid of all meaning, and so these must have a certain bearing on the understanding of the text, even given that they cannot afford complete understanding. Similar difficulties arise from Snell-Hornby’s discussion of equivalence, the central concept of the linguistics-based approaches. Her main difficulty with this notion is that it: presents an illusion of symmetry between languages which hardly exists beyond the level of vague approximations and which distorts the basic problems of translation.106 Snell-Hornby illustrates this point by relating the German word ‘Äquivalenz’ to the English term ‘equivalence.’ She asserts that: To my knowledge no translation theorist has ever doubted that Äquivalenz and equivalence are perfectly symmetrical renderings of a common interlingual tertium comparationis. In fact the opposite is true: on closer investigation subtle but crucial differences emerge between the two terms, so that they should rather be considered as warning examples of the treacherous illusion of equivalence that typifies interlingual relationships.107 Furthermore, the two terms are used with different meanings even within their own languages, and theorists cannot agree on what translation equivalence actually denotes. In any case, Snell-Hornby sees the German term as being ‘increasingly static and one-dimensional,’ while the English word has become ‘increasingly approximative and vague to the point of complete insignificance.’108 The concept of equivalence is thus dismissed as being of little use for translation theory. Once again, her argument is persuasive. If equivalence is understood to mean sameness, then the concept can be dismissed. However, as with her discussion of the Gestalt principle, 106 Ibid., p.22. 107 Ibid., p.17. Original emphasis. 108 Ibid., p.21. 45 Snell-Hornby does not seem to give any thought here to the invariant core of meaning, or to any form of extra-linguistic reality. Her dismissal of equivalence is referred to notably by Gideon Toury.109 Toury asserts that: What this approach [Toury’s own] entails is a clear wish to retain the notion of equivalence, which various contemporary approaches (e.g., Hönig and Kußmaul 1982; Holz-Mänttäri 1984; Snell-Hornby 1988) have tried to do without, while introducing one essential change into it: from an ahistorical, largely prescriptive concept to a historical one. Rather than being a single relationship, denoting a recurring type of invariant, it comes to refer to any relation which is found to have characterized translation under a specified set of circumstances.110 The point of this section is not to discuss Toury’s thinking, but, given that he is countering Mary Snell-Hornby’s argument, the above requires some comment. His own approach recognises that the translator is bound by socio-cultural constraints, both in terms of the source and the target cultures. Furthermore, translation is governed by norms, and the translator is faced with the choice of adhering to the linguistic and cultural norms of the source (leading to possible incompatibilities with target culture norms) or to linguistic and cultural norms of the target (which could lead to what Toury calls ‘shifts’ from the source text). However, he overextends his view of translation as norm-governed behaviour when he attempts to draw up laws for translation. What is this, if not a prescriptive approach to translation? In any case, Toury’s notion of equivalence as outlined above is vague, and seems to dismiss the invariant core of meaning as a form of equivalence.111 However, what is most interesting about Toury’s approach is the fact that ‘translational relationships’ are set up between ‘textual segments,’ in Toury’s words, not complete texts. This point of view is questionable: while relationships do exist between ‘low-level linguistic items,’ they are also created between texts. In addition, as previously seen, texts cannot be divorced from their constituent systems, and thus must have an effect on the 109 Gideon Toury, Descriptive Translation Studies and Beyond (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamin, 1995). 110 Ibid., p.61. 111 This obviously stands in contrast to the approach taken in this study. However, it is agreed that the relationship between source and target texts can be more than purely semantic. Indeed, it is posited that an equivalence can be created even in the absence of a semantic relation. 46 equivalence forged between these ‘low-level linguistic items’: it is only within the context of the text and the wider system of culture that the ‘linguistic items’ can be properly understood. Thus, Toury does not fully close the apparent gap in Snell-Hornby’s discussion of equivalence. The problem is better addressed by two other integrationists, Albrecht Neubert and Gregory M. Shreve. 4.2 Albrecht Neubert and Gregory M. Shreve Neubert and Shreve’s view of translation begins from a text linguistics approach, which recognises that meaning is not restricted to isolated words and sentences, but this apparent text linguistics orientation is only the point of departure. Neubert and Shreve argue that each ‘model’ of translation that they outline has something of relevance for an integrated theory, and that text linguistics provides the ‘integrating concept,’ the text as a system of systems as opposed to an isolated, unchanging specimen of language. Rather than advocating the simplified view that translation is a straightforward transfer of meaning from word to word or sentence to sentence, text linguistics holds instead that it is the ‘composite semantic value and pragmatic function of the source text’112 that are transferred. This leads to the issue of equivalence. Neubert and Shreve state that much of the rejection of the notion of equivalence arises from a narrow linguistic understanding of the term, like that of Snell-Hornby. While they agree that source and target language words are only rarely, if ever, precisely equivalent, they crucially suggest that, though the conception of narrow linguistic equivalence is not justifiable, ‘communicative equivalence’ is. They are of the opinion that this notion of equivalence: refers to semantic congruence within the scope of target language prototypical constraints. The source text’s textuality is deliberately re-configured to produce a target textuality. There is an intrinsic source text – target text relationship in a good translation that we cannot ignore. If we cannot use the 112 Neubert and Shreve (1992), p.23. 47 term communicative equivalence to refer to this relationship, what other term would suffice? We will readily adopt a more useful term.113 Leaving aside the somewhat tenuous notion of the ‘good’ translation, the quotation raises several interesting points. Firstly, a certain level of concord with the Translation Studies or Manipulation school of translation theory is discerned, since Neubert and Shreve admit that the source text is manipulated to produce a certain result for a new cultural audience. Secondly, they acknowledge a degree of semantic transfer in the translation process. Finally, they question Snell-Hornby’s dismissal of equivalence, a dismissal made with no attempt to provide a more appropriate term. Indeed, Neubert and Shreve assert that: A call to abandon the term […] should be based on more than etymological considerations (Snell-Hornby 1988). No other useful term has been offered in its place.114 It would appear, then, to be a matter of working with the existing terminology until a new signifier for the concept is found. Neubert and Shreve also differ from Snell-Hornby in that they see not just two traditional approaches to translation, but multiple standpoints. These they term ‘critical,’ where the acceptability of the target text is examined; ‘practical,’ where comprehension of the target text through consideration of the translation process is sought; ‘linguistic,’ where the linguistic mechanisms that have a rôle in the transfer of meaning are under investigation115; ‘text-linguistic,’ which, as already shown, forms the crux of the theorists’ own approach; ‘socio-cultural,’ where translation is treated as an act of communication across cultural boundaries; ‘computational,’ which looks at machine translation; and finally ‘psycholinguistic,’ where the mental processes involved in translation are considered. It could however be argued that these ‘models’ proposed by Neubert and Shreve could each be placed under one or the other of the categories linguistics or literary-cultural, thus giving two broader approaches. In the 113 Ibid., p.143. 114 Ibid., p.143. 115 It should be made clear at this point that despite Neubert and Shreve’s Leipzig School background, they state that ‘In our opinion, equating any form of the linguistic model with a full translation theory is not justified. There is more than just linguistics involved in translation […] it is just one important model among many.’ Ibid. (1992), p.20. 48 manner of Steiner, the issue becomes more complicated when Neubert and Shreve argue that the approaches they outline are ‘models,’ not theories. A model, they state, is similar to a hypothesis, in that it only claims to ‘explain and describe reality.’116 Moreover, a model can only become a theory with empirical backing. This is questionable: a theory is similar to a hypothesis, in that it is to be proved or disproved empirically. What the above discussion of Neubert and Shreve’s study shows is this: despite the minor disagreements with Snell-Hornby over the nature and use of equivalence and of approaches to translation, the basic premises of the two texts are similar. Indeed, Neubert and Shreve affirm that ‘Snell-Hornby’s agenda for an integrated translation studies dovetails in many respects with our own.’117 The explicit recognition that each of the hitherto mutually exclusive points-of-view on translation has something to contribute to the process is crucial. A theory of translation has been outlined that should be applicable to any text. This is particularly important if the text under consideration shows both literary and non-literary features. One final point remains to be made with regard to theories of translation. Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge’s thinking has not been included as a theory of translation. This is because the volume is concerned with the ‘application and practice’ of translation.118 Moreover, it is explicitly stated that: The course is not intended as a disguised version of translation theory, or of linguistics. 'Theoretical' issues do, of course, arise in it, because translation practice and its deployment of linguistic resources are so complex. However, such issues are not treated out of theoretical interest, but out of direct concern with specific types of problem encountered in translating. That is, our slant is methodological and practical - theoretical notions have been freely borrowed from translation theory and linguistics merely with the aim of rationalizing methodological problems.119 In short, the authors have devised a methodology that employs aspects of theory in tackling specific translation difficulties and suggesting potential 116 Ibid., p.13. 117 Ibid., p.33. 118 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.1. 119 Ibid., p.2. Original emphasis. 49 solutions, illustrating with worked examples. The authors clearly and unambiguously state the aim for their volume: Our main interest lies in developing useful translation skills and, generally, in improving quality in translation work.120 5. CONCLUSION The integrated theory is employed here as a means to attempt to mitigate cultural and linguistic loss in the translation process. Types of cultural and linguistic features in the source texts and translations of the chosen Simenon corpus will be identified using Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge’s methodology, which examines the formal properties of texts and translations at various ‘levels’: cultural, formal, semantic, varietal and genre.121 This filter will also be used to help identify the type of compensation required, if any. In each case, strategies can then be devised to minimise translation loss, strategies that take account of both linguistic and cultural factors (even if weighted more towards one of these). The above discussion has argued that the integrated approach to translation should facilitate the reader’s understanding of the specifics of cultural and linguistic otherness. However, it must be recognised that, in terms of the publishers’ requirements, this may not be a primary consideration. Instead, the overwhelming factor is likely to be financial: a publisher strives for high sales; thus the readability of the translation is key. Yet, as the project will show, readability need not mean the loss of cultural otherness. Indeed, unnecessary cultural and linguistic loss may impact upon the reception of a translation: for example, the 1934 translations of Le Charretier de la Providence, which, as shall be demonstrated, incur a high level of loss at the cultural level, have apparently never been republished; on the other hand Baldick’s version, which does not entail such high degree of loss, has been reissued, as recently as 2003. Additionally, translators’ backgrounds may impact upon their translation strategies. All of the translators whose work is considered here have, or had, related employment, such as being authors in their own right. Robert Baldick, for example, 120 Ibid. Original emphasis. 121 Ibid., p.227. 50 appears to have been an Oxford academic.122 Harold Effberg is the pseudonym of Dr. jur. Harold Friedeberg, and he wrote crime fiction, as well as being legally trained.123 Ingrid Altrichter is a freelance translator, working with French and English writing: children’s literature, contemporary and historical texts, biographies and crime novels.124 Such factors, which fall at the ‘contextual’ end of the integrated theory spectrum, may have a bearing on the strategic decisions examined in chapters four to six. The importance of the integrated theory of translation when approaching a text by Simenon and when evaluating its translations should not be underestimated. In his Maigret novels, Simenon depicts a milieu sui generis: the France of the time; the French criminal justice system; the French petit bourgeois class. Because of this obvious cultural embeddedness, the translator of Simenon must give due consideration to socio-cultural and contextual factors of both source culture and target cultures. The same is true for the critic evaluating the translations, who must also recognise that some of the target cultural factors include constraints over which the translator has no control, or of which he or she is unaware. The contextual/cultural element is of core significance, but the linguistic factor is equally important, so that the plot is not altered. The integrated approach is significant for the analysis of Simenon’s corpus in a further respect. His texts often include both literary and non-literary elements. As previously noted, Le Charretier de La Providence is a prime example of this mélange. Descriptions of landscape and atmosphere are interspersed with details about the workings of French waterways. Such details appear to require a high degree of semantic transfer, but contextual factors should not be ignored: the target audience, for example, may have no previous knowledge of canal life, and thus an exegetic translation may be appropriate. This novel thus provides evidence that the linguistic and the cultural cannot be divorced one from the other. Finally, though this study effectively deals with literary translation alone, for which it proposes the integrated theory, the wider importance of the theory should not be taken too lightly. Its greatest benefit is that it should be applicable to any text. Though scientific or technical texts may fall more towards the linguistic or semantic 122 Robert Baldick, preface to The Life of J.-K. Huysmans (Oxford: Clarendon, 1955). 123 Klaus Schreiber, swbplus.bsz-bw.de/IFB_06-2_240.htm, p.5, n.11. Accessed 25 August 2008. 124 www.kuno-baerenbold.de/portraits.htm. Accessed 25 August 2008. 51 transfer pole of the spectrum, and literary texts will tend to require more of the contextual/cultural end, the opposite in each case still plays its part. This can be illustrated by an example borrowed from Snell-Hornby:125 translation of a report on atomic reactors may appear to require a simple transfer of meaning, since the lexical elements will most likely have narrower semantic fields than those lexical items found in a literary text. In fact, this situation may only be true for texts being translated into a culture that enjoys the same (or a similar) degree of technological advancement, and for specialists. If the target culture is not technologically advanced, or if the target audience is not educated to a high degree in the subject covered by the source text, then the translator must take account of these cultural factors when rendering the original text. Thus, the importance of the integrated theory of translation, for both the translator of Simenon and the translator of any other text or text type, is compelling. 125 Snell-Hornby (1988), p.42. 52 CHAPTER TWO DETECTIVE FICTION AS A CULTURAL PHENOMENON: GENERIC MODELS IN ENGLISH, FRENCH AND GERMAN 1. INTRODUCTION Having established the aim of this project and what is meant by integrated theory of translation in relation to it, it is appropriate now to examine detective fiction as a cultural paradigm, to highlight salient features and differences between the cultures involved and situate Simenon’s writing intertextually. A survey of native detective fiction is necessary before analysis of the selected source texts and translations can occur. This is because existing native detective fiction can shape target audience expectations for the genre: the reader brings their previous literary experiences to their reading of a translation. By establishing paradigms for the genre in each of the three language cultures involved, it is possible to ascertain what the target audience expectations might be and the constraints within which the translators have had to work, or the boundaries against which they have reacted. The critic is thereby provided with potential explanations for particular strategic decisions. Detective fiction is the chosen genre, and it has been surmised, most notably by Dennis Porter, in The Pursuit of Crime: Art and Ideology in Detective Fiction,1 that detective fiction differs significantly in the three cultures with which this investigation is concerned. Porter declares that crime and detection are ‘cultural phenomena,’ and that: Like all popular literary genres […] detective stories combine what might be called deep ideological constants with surface ideological variables. The former exist as indispensable structural elements of a deliberately delimited action and as the rôles deriving from the action; the latter take the form of attributes of the dramatis personae, the character and milieu of crime, police methods, etc. The former are universal genre characteristics; the latter vary 1 Dennis Porter, The Pursuit of Crime: Art and Ideology in Detective Fiction (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1981). Authorised facsimile (Ann Arbor: UMI Books on Demand, 1999). 53 greatly from one cultural tradition to another and even from one author to another.2 Thus, between different cultures, it is posited, there are both constants and variables in detective novels. Porter’s views, and the assumptions raised in the present project, will be tested in this chapter. The chapter also aims to elucidate linguistic and cultural differences and similarities among the detective fictions of the three linguistic cultures involved. In order to pursue these aims, seminal texts in each of the three linguistic cultures will be examined. The texts were selected because of their significance within their cultures of provenance. For the most part, they mark an origin of some description: either, the first in a language culture, or the first by an author of significance. In addition, it should be noted that, while one of the selected source texts can be classed as a pseudo-memoir, no further examination is made of the memoir genre. This is because the text in question, Les Mémoires de Maigret, was chosen in part because of its atypical features with regard to the detective genre, but, more importantly, because of the features it shares in common with that genre, and with the wider Maigret corpus. In particular, its references to differing departments within the French police system provide an engaging challenge to the translator and the translation critic, as shown in chapter five. The text was selected because of the features from the detective genre that it contains, and its similarities to the rest of the œuvre, rather than the fact that it is a pseudo-memoir. Following the survey of detective fiction as a cultural phenomenon, any cultural differences will then be made explicit, as well as any areas of commonality among the detective genres of the three linguistic cultures, for commonality is at least as important as variation in translation. As Edgar Allan Poe is generally credited with initiating the genre, it is appropriate to begin with English-language detective fiction. 2 Ibid., p.125. My emphasis, JLT. 54 2. ENGLISH-LANGUAGE DETECTIVE FICTION 2.1 Edgar Allan Poe Poe’s three detective stories, The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841), The Mystery of Marie Rogêt (1842), and The Purloined Letter (1845) all take as their protagonist a French amateur detective, the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin. The three short stories were written about thirty years after the creation of the detective arm of the French police, and at almost exactly the same time the detective department of the Metropolitan Police was set up in London. The influence of these events on the American Poe remains a matter for speculation.3 The focus here is on the first of Poe’s texts, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, since this, allegedly, is ‘the short story which started it all.’4 While much in Poe’s tale disqualifies it as a model for future detective writing, his protagonist Dupin prefigures later fictional detective figures. The Chevalier is a curious human being, as the narrator discovers to his delight, for he is similarly inclined: Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we should have been regarded as madmen – although, perhaps, as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret from my former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone. It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to be enamoured of the Night for her own sake; […]. At the first dawn of the morning we closed all the massive shutters of our old building; lighting a couple of tapers […]. By the aid of these we then busied our souls in dreams – 3 The establishment of the French Sûreté could not have influenced Poe, given that he was only three years old at the time, but that does not mean that he would not have been familiar with its later development. Furthermore, it is worth noting that the young Poe and his adopted parents lived in the UK for a time (1815-1820). 4 Martin Priestman, Crime Fiction from Poe to the Present (Plymouth: Northcote House, 1998), p.7. 55 reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness.5 Here Dupin is imbued with a quasi-supernatural aura and is not portrayed as a positive, reassuring figure in whom the reader can place his or her trust, though the narrator does just that. Dupin is also set apart from other human beings through his ‘peculiar analytical ability.’6 For example, he is able, through a series of observations, to ascertain what an individual is thinking. His mind can make leaps to conclusions that no other human being, least of all members of the police force, would be able to make. The apparent double murder is, in fact, not a murder at all: from the evidence gathered, which he reads about mainly in newspapers, Dupin concludes that the ‘murders’ could only have been perpetrated by a ferocious animal, an escaped orang- utan. His hypothesis is then confirmed when the animal’s owner, who lost control of the beast, admits that Dupin’s conclusions are accurate. Thus, Poe represents the Chevalier Dupin as infallible, able to perform mental feats that no other mortal could attempt. The plot of the text revolves around this dénouement. Because The Murders in the Rue Morgue is a short story, there is little scope for extensive plot development, and thus form influences narrative style. Witness testimonies are given in note form; Dupin makes only one visit to the scene of the murders, and this incident is virtually glossed over, with the three-quarters of a page dedicated to Dupin and the narrator’s visit to the scene of crime, compared with the five pages given over to the newspapers’ witness accounts. There is little in the way of action; most of the space is taken up with reading newspapers and Dupin’s explanation of the mystery. Indeed, in the beginning, there is no plot, but rather what might be termed an exposition of a theory of analysis. The unusual nature of characterisation and narrative in this tale is reflected linguistically. Syntactically, as the above extract shows, short clauses are interspersed with longer clauses. This makes for an exciting crescendo to the dénouement of the work. Sentences lasting for three or four lines can involve a conjunctive clause, thus: 5 Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ in: Six Tales of Mystery and Imagination (London: Octopus, 1980), p.138. 6 Ibid., p.139. 56 The possible moves being not only manifold but involute, the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more acute player who conquers.7 The above also shows that the vocabulary is learned, producing a formal style. Lexical items are borrowed from the semantic field of the intellect. In addition, the theory of analysis is explained using the analogy of a chess game, and vocabulary from the technical register of chess is present. The oral style of the protagonist is no less formal than that of the exposition, as, for example, in the following: ‘It was the fruiterer,’ replied my friend, ‘who brought you to the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for Xerxes et id genus omne.’ 8 The use of the Latin, in particular, produces a very formal tone, and to some extent increases the complexity of the text, and possibly also serves to date it. Latin is not the only foreign language to be found in the story. Items of French vocabulary are present both in direct speech and narrative passages, resulting in a somewhat exotic (and educated) tone. This is in keeping with the text overall, which is set in Paris and takes a Frenchman as its protagonist, and this helps to create vraisemblance. A final aspect of the style merits note. Stephen Knight comments that verbs are frequently in the passive voice in the text, which results in a disengaged tone on the part of the first-person narrator.9 This might suggest emotional distance, appropriate, perhaps, in the light of the fact that the narrator is making a report of events, but this interpretation is at odds with the emotional responses of the narrator and the intensity of his involvement with the investigation. The author thus creates striking tension between grammatical voice and content. Poe’s text, then, is complex and literary. The investigation is ultimately cerebral, with most of the evidence derived from newspaper witness testimonies. This fits with Dupin’s isolated, eccentric character, though full character trait development is not forthcoming owing to the short story format of the text. The Chevalier appears 7 Ibid., p.135. 8 Ibid., p.140. 9 Stephen Knight, Form and Ideology in Crime Fiction (London and Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1980), p.46. 57 in the other two texts in Poe’s short series and constitutes an important feature of these narratives. He provides a template for later fictional detectives, not least Sherlock Holmes. Before turning to Holmes, the most iconic of all Anglophone fictional detectives, brief mention should be made of the novel described by T. S. Eliot as ‘The first, the longest, and the best of modern English detective novels,’ William Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone (1868).10 This novel appears to owe little to its American- authored predecessors, other than that the principal detective figure is an amateur, though nowhere near as cerebrally skilled as Dupin. The novel is composed of various testimonies from the main actors concerned with the initial crime: namely, the theft of a yellow diamond, originally stolen from a Hindu shrine in India. These statements are commissioned by the character acting as principal detective, Franklin Blake, fiancé of Rachel Verinder, from whom the jewel is taken. Each testimony is written in a different narrative style, reflecting its narrator’s character and social standing, and this increases the readability of the novel. The interest in the text is further enriched by the fact that Franklin discovers that the thief was none other than himself, though he was completely unconscious of his actions, having been drugged. This information is revealed to him by Rachel, who witnessed him taking the diamond, and Blake, therefore, is not really successful as a detective: the truth is presented to him rather than being uncovered by him. An altogether more successful amateur detective is Arthur Conan Doyle’s Holmes. 2.2 Arthur Conan Doyle Despite Doyle’s attempt to kill him off in 1893 and his obvious distaste for his creation, Holmes remains one of the most popular characters in fiction.11 He is the successor to the Chevalier Dupin and to Émile Gaboriau’s Monsieur Lecoq, as Martin Priestman observes. Holmes’s traits are: 10 (William) Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1966). T. S. Eliot quotation from back cover. 11 Knight (1980), p.67 and p.97. 58 initially scraped together from Poe’s dégagé intellectual joker Dupin, and from Gaboriau’s melancholic bachelor Tabaret and ferret-eyed professional Lecoq. From the more energetic, animal-like elements of these characters emerges the brash, anti-intellectual Holmes of A Study in Scarlet, whose sneers at Dupin and Lecoq as detectives hold an honourable place in the oedipal predecessor- bashing which is one of the ritual pleasures of series detection.12 Martin Kayman further claims that, in A Study in Scarlet (1887), the Holmes novel with which this chapter is concerned, Holmes makes Dupin and Lecoq out to be genuine historical figures.13 Closer examination shows that it is Dr. Watson, the narrator and Holmes’s sidekick, who speaks: ‘You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe’s Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories.’ Holmes retorts that Dupin is inferior to himself, and Watson continues: ‘Have you read Gaboriau’s works? […] Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?’14 Kayman is thus wrong on two counts. Firstly, it is Watson, not Holmes, who initially makes the comparison between his companion and the two predecessors. Secondly, and more importantly, Watson is not labouring under the misapprehension that Dupin and Lecoq actually existed. Dupin and Lecoq are fictitious, but within this narrative universe Sherlock Holmes is real. Despite his protestations, Holmes is similar in many ways to Poe’s Dupin. Like Dupin, he manifests certain (apparently) superhuman qualities. He has an ability to describe the perpetrator of the crime in detail on the basis of what appears to be little or no evidence. In A Study in Scarlet, the man who poisoned his victim, a former rival-in-love, was, according to the great detective: […] more than six feet high, was in the prime of life, had small feet for his height, wore coarse, square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar. He came here with his victim in a four-wheeled cab, which was drawn by a horse with three old shoes and one new one on his off fore-leg. In all probability the 12 Priestman (1998), p.14. 13 Martin A. Kayman, ‘The Short Story from Poe to Chesterton,’ in: Martin Priestman, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Crime Fiction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p.42. 14 Arthur Conan Doyle, The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes (London: Penguin Books, 1981), pp.24-25. My emphasis, JLT. 59 murderer had a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand were remarkably long.15 The bulk of these deductions are made simply on the basis of the footprints and tracks left on the ground outside the empty house. Holmes’s postulation about the murderer’s ‘florid face’ is based on the fact that there is blood spilt across the floor of the house, and the German word Rache is written in blood on the wall (complete with the scratches of long fingernails), but the victim shed no blood, having been poisoned, and thus Holmes surmises that the murderer must have suffered a nosebleed. Holmes’s deductions, however, amount to little more than hypotheses that remain to be proved or disproved at the dénouement. The fact that the detective’s deductions are invariably correct is part of the pleasure and readability of Doyle’s work. The use of the hypothesis as an investigative device brings Holmes closer to Simenon’s Maigret, whose investigations always proceed on this basis. However, they differ sharply in the type of evidence they use to formulate their hypotheses. In Maigret’s case, he places higher importance on non-material evidence, such as a suspect’s personality or facial expression, or their relationships with those around them. Holmes, on the other hand, maintains distance from others and relies more on material evidence. In addition, the two detectives are similar in that both authors compare them to animals. Verbs such as ‘grogner,’ ‘aboyer’ and the hunting dog metaphor in the expression ‘le lien qui se noue entre le policier et le gibier qu’il est chargé de traquer,’ for example, are used in relation to Maigret.16 In Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet, Watson uses a metaphor to compare Holmes to a hunting dog: Leaning back in the cab, this amateur bloodhound carolled away like a lark while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind.17 The example is interesting, because of the catachresis: one would not normally expect a bloodhound to sing like a bird, but Watson is trying to illustrate the various facets of Holmes’s character. The metaphor also illustrates the great detective’s method of investigation, and his perseverance in solving the crime. 15 Ibid., p.32. 16 See Maigret et les braves gens (2004), p.129 and p.152 for the first example, and Les Mémoires de Maigret (1997), p.154 and p.113 respectively for the second two examples. 17 Doyle (1981), p.36. My emphasis, JLT. 60 Stephen Knight asserts that the basic formula of a Sherlock Holmes story has three elements: relation, investigation and resolution of the mysterious events.18 Fundamentally this is indeed how the plot of A Study in Scarlet unfolds, but it has an interesting twist: the investigation is essentially complete in the first part of the text. Part two is largely dedicated to the story of the love rivalry and the circumstances leading to the eventual murderer’s desire for revenge. This section does not have Dr. Watson as narrator, though the final two chapters are once more recounted in his voice. In part two, the reader discovers that, in this case, murderer is really victim, and that the two dead men, to a large extent, deserved the punishment meted out to them. In any case, the murderer/victim dies, peacefully, of an aortic aneurysm before he can appear in court. Two elements stand out as important here: Doyle’s ability to swing the reader’s emotional response towards the ‘murderer’ from hostility to sympathy, and the juxtaposition of Victorian London with an atmospheric depiction of the arid desert of the great Alkali Plain and the broad valley of Utah, where the tale of the love-triangle-of-sorts takes place. In terms of grammar and syntax in the text, lengthy passages of narrative are alternated with (sometimes lengthy) passages of quick dialogue in Watson’s reminiscences. Standalone main clauses are interspersed with compound clauses containing conjunctions and relative clauses, making a varied pace of reading. In the section describing the Alkali Plain and Utah, there is less direct speech, since Doyle focuses here more on action and description. The lexis of the novel provides more of interest. The text begins with extended use of military terminology, as Watson describes his time as an army surgeon and the circumstances leading to his return to London. Because Watson is a doctor, terms from the medical lexical field also feature, such as ‘aortic aneurism.’ These all serve to build the vraisemblance of the work. Moreover, many expressions in the text would be considered archaic by modern standards, but this anchors the novel temporally, adding to the temporal colouring: it is a product of its time and culture. There are numerous allusions to horse-drawn cabs, and reference is also made to the dispatching of telegrams. 18 Knight (1980), p.75. 61 Lastly, the text is generally formal in terms of language variety. After viewing the scene of the crime and interviewing the constable who found the body, Watson says of the corpse: If ever human features bespoke vice of the most malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber, of Cleveland.19 The formality of this sentence and others like it contrasts with the informal speech of other individuals, such as that of the police constable who discovered the body. Constable Rance’s speech is marked by dropped consonants and the addition of a- before imperfect forms of verbs. This informal style is indicative of the geographical setting of the novel, and the two levels of formality mark a sharp class distinction. A similar narrative technique is found in many of the novels of another English writer, Agatha Christie. 2.3 Agatha Christie Knight comments that Christie knew Doyle’s work well. Like Doyle, Christie’s works mainly feature middle-class characters in an upper middle-class setting. The middle class also constitutes the target audience of Christie’s texts, as Gerd Egloff attests: Christie’s novels, and those following her example: […] fanden ihre Leser in der middle class, unter den Angehörigen der professions wie Rechtsanwälten, Ärzten und Wissenschaftlern, unter Beamten, Lehrern, Offizieren, Pensionären und deren Frauen: die Struktur des von ihr gelesenen klassischen Detektivromans ist ein Ausdruck der sozioökonomischen Lage dieser alten middle class.20 Christie wrote about the middle class, for the middle class. Like Doyle’s Holmes, Christie’s two main detective protagonists – Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple – belong themselves to the middle class. However, Poirot also differs significantly from 19 Doyle (1981), p.36. 20 Gerd Egloff, ‘Mordrätsel oder Widerspiegelung der Gesellschaft? Bemerkungen über die Forschung zur Kriminalliteratur,’ in: Erhard Schütz, ed., Zur Aktualität des Kriminalromans (Munich: Fink, 1978), p.71. Original emphasis. 62 Doyle’s detective, in several respects.21 As Knight shows, Christie rejects the ideal of the romantic male hero as a protecting force, such as that suggested by Holmes, taking, instead, a rather fussy, almost effeminate little man as her protagonist. Ira Tschimmel claims that, despite being Belgian, Poirot is the incarnation of the effeminate Frenchman envisaged by the English.22 This certainly appears to be true: Poirot is often mistaken in his adopted homeland for being French. His effeminate vanity is one feature that distinguishes him clearly from Holmes. Moreover, he is not a man of action. His method of investigation focuses purely on the power of the mind, using his famous ‘little grey cells,’ whereas Holmes must see the physical aspects of the crime, and this often requires his penetration into London’s underworld. Poirot’s world, on the other hand, remains the world of the English country house or elegant London hotel – the exclusive domain, in fact, of the upper middle class and aristocracy. Both Doyle and Christie employ the device of the blundering sidekick. Watson and Hastings, Poirot’s ‘associate,’ act as foils to the great detectives, and also keep their heroes’ feet firmly on the ground. As in the above Doyle text, in The Mysterious Affair at Styles it is Hastings, the sidekick, who narrates, and thus the tale is told from his perspective, so that the reader is bound to his point of view and misapprehensions. The plot still follows a linear format, which is reasonably straightforward: the murder itself is preceded by explanation of how the narrator came to be at Styles Court. Mrs. Inglethorp, owner of Styles, is murdered, and Hastings asks Poirot, who conveniently happens to be living in the village at the time, to investigate. The first and most obvious suspect is almost instantly dismissed; the other inhabitants of Styles all come under suspicion at some point in the investigation, building suspense in the narrative. All is happily resolved, however, when Poirot reveals the dead woman’s second husband (the initial suspect) and his lover as the perpetrators. Thus, the basic plot formula is the same as Christie’s predecessors: build-up; murder (or, in the case of Dupin and Holmes, discovery of murder by written means); investigation and 21 Here, Miss Marple is not examined, for two reasons: firstly, the project deals with a male detective, Maigret, and thus it is appropriate that other male detectives should be considered here. Secondly, this chapter deals in the main with ‘firsts’: either the first novel written by an author, or the first to appear within a linguistic culture. Thus the Christie novel under consideration is The Mysterious Affair at Styles, the author’s first, which features Hercule Poirot as the protagonist. 22 Ira Tschimmel, Kriminalroman und Gesellschaftsdarstellung: eine vergleichende Untersuchung zu Werken von Christie, Simenon, Dürrenmatt und Capote (Bonn: Bouvier, 1979), p.24. 63 deduction; dénouement. Of the three texts thus far considered, however, only in Christie’s is cold-blooded murder actually committed. The story of this premeditated murder and its unravelling is again related in the first person. The narrator, Hastings, is in many ways like Watson. The Mysterious Affair at Styles begins in a similar way to A Study in Scarlet: Hastings, like Watson, finds himself alone in England, having been invalided out of the army, and, again like Watson, a chance meeting with a friend begins his involvement with the great detective. Sententially, Hasting’s narrative is mainly composed of short main clauses. This results in a straightforward reading experience for the reader, allowing him or her to concentrate more on the unravelling of the mystery. On the grammatical level, there is a predominance of active verb forms in Hastings’s account: he explains that he ‘cannons’ into Poirot as he is coming out of the village post office, and ‘runs’ out onto the tennis court. Hastings is emotionally in the midst of the action, explaining his use of the active voice rather than the passive. Lexically, Hastings’s narrative again echoes Watson’s, employing what may appear to the modern reader as slightly archaic, quaint vocabulary, such as ‘my dear fellow,’ and this gives the text a rather formal, middle-class tone. Poirot’s own speech – at least, as reported by Hastings – is that of a non-native speaker of English, for example: ‘Did your mistress ever have a green dress?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a –how do you call it? – a sports coat?’ ‘Not green, sir.’ […] ‘Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much.’23 Poirot’s style of speech is occasionally stilted, and peppered with French vocabulary, contrasting with the middle-class English diction of those around him. Christie’s text therefore both mirrors and departs from previous models in English-language detective fiction. What should be noted is the fact that none of the narratives examined here is a ‘police procedural’: none takes a policeman as the protagonist or proceeds on the basis of a police investigation, unlike Simenon’s œuvre. Later English-language detective fiction does take the police procedural 23 Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (London: HarperCollins, 2001 [1920]), p.82. 64 format. A popular modern British detective is Colin Dexter’s Morse, a chief inspector with the Thames Valley Police Criminal Investigation Department. The fact that he is a policeman, however, is one of the few ways in which Morse differs from many of his literary predecessors: he too is of the middle class; has a trusted sidekick, the ever- loyal Lewis; and is endowed with extraordinary cerebral powers. Unlike the earlier detectives, Morse is not an infallible hero, frequently making mistakes on the road to the dénouement, and, if the murderer is female, not infrequently falling in love with her. Though policemen detectives may not appear in early English-language detective fiction, the situation is altogether different in the French-language genre. 3. FRENCH-LANGUAGE DETECTIVE FICTION 3.1 Émile Gaboriau According to Sita Schütt, the English detective department, founded in 1842, was composed of highly-criticised, ill-trained detectives. The press of the time called for a detective arm after the French model, which was claimed to be highly efficient. However, the French model was generally viewed with suspicion in Britain. This was symptomatic of a wider fear of French culture generally.24 At that time in France, serialised crime reporting was a lucrative employment for authors. It was in this context that Émile Gaboriau (1832-1873) found success with his first roman judiciaire (a term, Schütt claims, that Gaboriau coined in conjunction with his editors): L’Affaire Lerouge, (1866). This was rapidly translated for circulation in the United Kingdom. Gaboriau’s novels were very popular, but his fame was later eclipsed by Arthur Conan Doyle, who adopted many of the Frenchman’s techniques.25 However, it is not L’Affaire Lerouge that constitutes the focus of the discussion of Gaboriau, but a later text, Monsieur Lecoq, serialised in 1869.26 This is not the first of Gaboriau’s detective stories, nor is it even the first involving Lecoq. Lecoq first appears in L’Affaire Lerouge, but only in a marginal rôle, as a disciple of 24 Sita A. Schütt, ‘French Crime Fiction,’ in: Priestman (2003), pp.59-60. 25 Ibid., p.63. 26 Émile Gaboriau, Monsieur Lecoq: L’enquête and L’honneur du nom (Paris: Garnier, 1978 [1869]). For simplicity’s sake the text will hereafter be referred to as a novel, despite being serialised initially: it is currently published as a novel. 65 the amateur detective Le Père Tabaret, to whom he turns for advice in the novel bearing his own name. Lecoq leads the investigation in Le Crime d’Orcival, which first appeared in 1867, two years before Monsieur Lecoq. This novel has been selected in a chapter dealing in the main with initial detective stories because, as Claude Cantégrit states in the preface to the 1978 edition of the text, ‘elle est très caractéristique.’27 In addition, the text is presented as though it were the first novel of a series. It is also noteworthy from a structural point of view, being in two parts. The first section, entitled L’enquête, deals with the deaths, the capturing of the killer and his subsequent escape, and Lecoq’s investigation. The second part, L’honneur du nom, explains the circumstances leading up to the killings, and is essentially a historical romance. Lecoq only appears in the penultimate and final chapters and the epilogue, to reveal that his suspicions in L’enquête were well founded: the Duc de Sairmeuse was indeed the killer, though he acted in self-defence, and, after all of the horrific events recounted in L’honneur du nom (insurrection, unrequited love, revenge, murder), the reader feels that the duke is justified in his actions: indeed, in the epilogue of part two, he is found not guilty of his alleged crimes. Because the first part of Monsieur Lecoq deals with the police enquiry and hints, heavily, at the solution to the puzzle, it is the L’enquête section of the work that is the focus of attention here. In Monsieur Lecoq: L’enquête, the protagonist is presented to the reader as if for the first time. Lecoq appears to be at the beginning of his career. His commanding officer says of his quick thinking in stopping the apparent murderer from escaping: — Bien, mon garçon, dit-il à son agent, très bien! … Ah! tu as la vocation, toi, et tu iras loin […].28 However, the commanding officer, Gévrol, a police inspector, known to his men as the Général, soon becomes jealous of Lecoq’s abilities and the praise he earns from his fellow officers, and the two become enemies. Lecoq, here, is clearly a young man, and relatively unknown to his superior. It is not until the beginning of chapter two that Lecoq’s name, physical description and history are provided. He is only twenty-five 27 Gaboriau (1978, i), p.VIII. 28 Ibid., p.10. 66 or twenty-six years old, and thus appears to be at the beginning of his career in the Sûreté. There are also clear similarities between the French detective and the Englishman Holmes, which is only to be expected given that Doyle adopted some of Gaboriau’s methods. Both men are blessed with great intelligence. In addition, both have accomplices who function as foils to their own greatness, though it would be unfair to place Dr. Watson on the same plain as Lecoq’s assistant père Absinthe, who ‘[…] traversait la vie entre deux vins, sans toutefois dépasser jamais un certain état de demi-lucidité.’29 Holmes appears to owe much to Lecoq in terms of investigative method. The latter makes deductions that seem beyond verification, yet can be readily explained on the basis of the evidence. For example, Lecoq deduces that the apparent murderer was a highly educated individual from a phrase he cries during his capture. By studying the footprints in the snow outside the seedy cabaret where the murders took place, Lecoq reasons that there were two women near the scene, and that these were servant and mistress. Maigret adopts a different method of investigation, relying more on non-material evidence. Holmes and Lecoq fundamentally differ in temperament. Holmes is so intellectually superior that he is emotionally distanced from others, and often seems aloof or indifferent. Lecoq, on the other hand, is an altogether more emotional creature. ‘Son calme habituel’ (p.43) is punctuated by anxiety, hope and other more powerful emotions, for example: Quant à Lecoq, il se dressa, pâle et les lèvres un peu tremblantes, comme un homme qui vient de prendre une suprême détermination.30 This makes the Frenchman substantially different in nature to Holmes: he seems more human, and it is not unknown for him to make errors. Grammatically, Monsieur Lecoq has two notable features. The first is the predominant use of the passé simple, the tense normally associated in French with canonical literature. This may be surprising, if the novel is taken to be as an example of popular fiction, having been first serialised in Le Petit Journal. The use of the past historic, as is generally accepted, gives the text a certain stylistic formality. Secondly on the grammatical level, active, rather than passive, verb forms predominate. Again, 29 Ibid., p.20. 30 Ibid., p.250. 67 this shows Lecoq to be a man of action, unlike his antecedent Dupin, and also brings him closer to the reader. Sententially, occasional use is made of lists, which serves to create suspense by acting as a delaying tactic. In addition, in contrast to Doyle, Gaboriau explains that Lecoq is unlike the bloodhound: ‘Moins inquiet, moins remuant, moins agile, est le limier qui quête.’31 The analogy is still drawn, but Lecoq is presented as more effective as a detective than the bloodhound. Gaboriau can thus be seen as setting up a model for later detective fiction writers, especially those taking a professional police detective as protagonist, such as Simenon. He also appears to provide a template, more so than Poe, for Arthur Conan Doyle. He differs significantly, however, from another French crime writer, Maurice Leblanc. 3.2 Maurice Leblanc The crime writing of Maurice Leblanc (1864-1941) takes as its protagonist the gentleman-cambrioleur Arsène Lupin, who first appeared in 1905. Schütt explains that the character of Lupin was inspired by the real-life anarchist Alexandre Jacob, who robbed to fund his cause and who was captured in 1903.32 The text under consideration here, the first Lupin tale, L’arrestation d’Arsène Lupin (1905), focuses on theft rather than murder.33 Here, the reader does not properly meet the protagonist until the end of the short story. Throughout, the passengers of transatlantic liner La Provence try to discover which of them is the notorious thief Lupin, having been informed of his presence two days following departure from France. The telegraph message received gives a brief description of Lupin, but this is of little use, since Lupin is a master of disguise: 31 Ibid., p.29. 32 Schütt (2003), p.70. 33 That does not mean that murder never features in the Lupin stories. Theft is Lupin’s crime, and he would never go beyond this, or take anything from anyone who could not afford it. Murders do occasionally appear in the stories – for example, in Le sept de cœur and La perle noire – but in these tales Lupin ends up in a detective rôle. See Maurice Leblanc, Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-cambrioleur (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 1972), pp.99-133 and pp.145-159. 68 Arsène Lupin, l’homme aux mille déguisements: tour à tour chauffeur, ténor, bookmaker, fils de famille, adolescent, vieillard, commis-voyageur marseillais, médecin russe, torero espagnol!34 The narrator’s excitement is manifest in this extract from the story. This belies the twist at the dénouement: having taken a great interest in tracking the fugitive Lupin down throughout the text and thereby fulfilling the detective rôle, the first-person narrator is revealed at the end as being Arsène Lupin himself.35 It is only in the closing few paragraphs, then, that the readers discover that they have been duped; that, like the French police and their celebrated detective, Ganimard, who finally succeeds in arresting Lupin at the conclusion of the tale, Lupin’s powers of disguise have fooled them. Because of the first-person narrative, the reader is given more insight into the protagonist’s character than is the case in a Sherlock Holmes tale or an Auguste Dupin story. Most importantly, the reader learns relatively early on (and this is confirmed in his arrest) that Lupin is far from infallible. His weakness for women becomes apparent when he falls for his fellow passenger, Miss Nelly Underdown: J’aurais bien voulu savoir quelque chose pour plaire à miss Nelly! C’était une de ces magnifiques créatures qui, partout où elles sont, occupent aussitôt la place la plus en vue. […] tout de suite son charme m’avait troublé, et je me sentais un peu trop ému pour un flirt quand ses grands yeux noirs rencontraient les miens.36 It is his relationship with Miss Nelly that brings to the fore Lupin’s gentlemanly qualities. He is chivalrous towards her, protecting her when she fears the great jewel thief (himself, though, like the reader, she is unaware of this until the end). When Miss Nelly reappears in Herlock Sholmes arrive trop tard, it becomes clearer that 34 Maurice Leblanc, ‘L’arrestation d’Arsène Lupin,’ in: Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-cambrioleur, p.13. 35 Lupin is not always the narrator in the stories. Sometimes they are in the third person; occasionally a first person narrator is used who is not Lupin. Having the first person narrator as the criminal, as is the case here, is unusual in detective fiction, though not unknown (see for example Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926) later than the Lupin tale). 36 Ibid., pp.5-6. 69 Lupin has lost his heart to her, to the extent that he returns the items he has stolen.37 His love for Nelly marks a change from most of the other crime fiction protagonists explored here: Dupin, Holmes, Poirot and Lecoq are not in any way interested in women, for if they were, this might undermine their superhuman qualities. Lupin is more human, someone with whom the reader more readily identifies than the other characters, which is ironic given that Lupin is a criminal, though he often acts as detective, both in this story and elsewhere. Despite Lupin being the criminal, and despite the fact that the tale is a crime story rather than a murder mystery, the basic plot formula is the same as in the other works. The mystery – namely, which of the passengers is Arsène Lupin in disguise? – is investigated on board by none other than Arsène Lupin himself, though during the narration of these events the reader is unaware of the narrator’s true identity. Lupin has presented himself to his fellow travellers and to the reader as Monsieur Bernard d’Andrésy. The mystery is unravelled when the ship docks on the other side of the Atlantic, when the great French police detective Ganimard steps aboard and arrests the narrator, now revealed as Lupin. Leblanc, then, largely retains the underlying format found in the other texts – namely, mystery, investigation and solution. On the grammatical level, as was the case in Gaboriau’s novel, Leblanc employs the past historic in tandem with the imperfect tense, with their conventional functions: the past historic to relate single, complete events, with the imperfect to denote continuous or repetitive actions or events. The syntactic style of the text is varied, with very short phrases, such as the opening words of the story, interspersed with longer, compounded clauses. Moreover, the narrative is marked by internal questions and exclamations, questions that usually relate to the mystery of Lupin’s identity. This results in the reader remaining unaware that the narrator is Lupin – why, after all, would the narrator ask a question, such as ‘Mais alors, mon Dieu, qui était Arsène Lupin?’ if he himself was the thief? In addition, much space is devoted to the depiction of climate and surroundings. This is achieved in part by straightforward description, or through the use of a figurative lexis. This is best illustrated in a passage from the beginning of the text, where the Atlantic is personified: ‘[…] les 37 Maurice Leblanc, ‘Herlock Sholmes arrive trop tard,’ in: Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-cambrioleur, pp.159-184. 70 colères de l’Océan, l’assaut terrifiant des vagues et le calme sournois de l’eau endormie.’38 This is similar to the climat aspect of Georges Simenon’s writing. 4. GERMAN-LANGUAGE DETECTIVE FICTION 4.1 E.T.A. Hoffmann The German Romantic writer and composer Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann (1776-1822) was born in Königsberg, in what was then East Prussia. His short detective story Das Fräulein von Scuderi was written in 1818 and published in 181939 – in other words, before Poe’s first detective story, usually credited as the earliest example of the genre. The detective-protagonist of the tale, Fräulein von Scuderi, was a historical figure, and thus Hoffmann’s work, like Poe’s Marie Rôget, draws upon authentic historical events. H. Walker comments that Hoffmann gathered his material for the story from several sources, the first of which was an anecdote from Wagenseil’s Nuremberg Chronicle of 1697. The poisonings in Paris, on which, claims Walker, the story was based, are ‘historical fact.’ The remaining sources were Voltaire’s Siècle de Louis XIV, which gives descriptions of Louis XIV and those around him, and Pitaval’s Causes célèbres, a collection of criminal cases.40 Unlike the other tales under consideration here, the detective in this case is female. Fräulein von Scuderi seems more human than her later male colleagues, erring in judgement and with the ability to see the humanity in others. She is highly esteemed by all, including the murderer Cardillac. She functions as protecting angel and mother-figure towards Olivier, falsely accused of both the murders perpetrated by his master Cardillac and the murder of Cardillac himself. She thus embodies, as Winfried Freund suggests, the utopian character of the novella, as a morally-upright (and unmarried) hero who overcomes tyranny and evil.41 Freund’s comments point towards divergences between Hoffmann’s short story and that of Poe and other detective writers. Unlike the other texts examined, 38 Maurice Leblanc, ‘L’arrestation d’Arsène Lupin,’ p.11. 39 E.T.A. Hoffmann, ‘Das Fräulein von Scuderi,’ in: Der Sandmann/Das Fräulein von Scuderi (Cologne: Anaconda, 2007), pp.51-128. Das Fräulein von Scuderi first published 1819. 40 E. T. A. Hoffmann, Das Fräulein von Scuderi (London and Glasgow: Blackie and Son, 1937), p.vii. 41 Winfried Freund, Die deutsche Kriminalnovelle von Schiller bis Hauptmann (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1980), p.52. 71 malevolent supernatural forces plague Das Fräulein von Scuderi. In particular, Cardillac’s actions are depicted as being beyond his control. He is presented as the plaything of evil, a victim of an almost Calvinist predestination. This is best illustrated in a conversation between Cardillac and Olivier, which Olivier relates to Fräulein von Scuderi. Having been caught in the act of murder by Olivier, Cardillac tries to explain his actions: ‘ “Du hast mich geschaut in der nächtlichen Arbeit, zu der mich mein böser Stern treibt, kein Widerstand ist möglich.’ ”42 The goldsmith also suggests that Olivier was acting under the influence of a malevolent star. Cardillac is trying to explain his behaviour by implying that human beings have no control over their actions, and thus absolves himself of blame. In Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue, no human being is responsible for the two murders, but in that instance, instead of evil forces, a wild animal is to blame. Poe also imitates Hoffmann’s tale in that he adopts the short story structure, which does not permit much by way of plot and character development.43 Yet, the plot of Das Fräulein is more complex than that of the later novella. In Hoffmann’s work, two narrative themes can be discerned: the murders committed by Cardillac, and Cardillac’s own slaying. Initially, both appear to form part of the same thematic strand, with Olivier apparently responsible, but Fräulein von Scuderi discovers the truth, when the Count von Miossens, a colonel in the Royal Guard, informs her that he killed the goldsmith, though in self-defence. True justice, once again, has been meted out. On the linguistic plane, Das Fräulein von Scuderi differs syntactically from the other works that have been examined above. Sentences tend to be longer and more complex than in French and English, for example: Des Grafen Miossens Aussage vor der Chambre ardente war indessen bekannt geworden, und wie es zu geschehen pflegt, daß das Volk leicht getrieben wird von einem Extrem zum andern, so wurde derselbe, den man erst als den verruchtesten Mörder verfluchte und den man zu zerreißen drohte, noch ehe er 42 Hoffmann (2007), p.105. My emphasis, JLT. 43 Poe was familiar with Hoffmann’s work, though not in its original German, as Buranelli comments. See Vincent Buranelli., Edgar Allan Poe (Boston: Twayne, 1977), p.25. 72 die Blutbühne bestiegen, als unschuldiges Opfer einer barbarischen Justiz beklagt.44 Such complexity is characteristic of German literary writing, as epitomised, for example, in the work of Thomas Mann. It results in a text that is, at times, syntactically dense. Lexically, two aspects merit discussion. The first is the use of terminology referring to threatening external forces, terms such as ‘das Schicksal,’ ‘teuflisch’ and ‘Geisterbeschwörungen.’ Thus a word system is created, which gives the work a malevolent supernatural colouring. Secondly, the use of occasional French terms adds authenticity to the text’s setting, injecting an appropriate level of exoticism. This is also the case in Poe’s tale. The twentieth-century German-language detective writer Friedrich Glauser abandons the supernatural element found in the works of Hoffmann and other late eighteenth/early nineteenth-century German-language Romantic writers. Abandoned, too, is the use of the novella as a format for a detective narrative. It is to the Austrian- born Glauser that this review of detective writing now turns. 4.2 Friedrich Glauser Friedrich Glauser was born in Vienna in 1896. Having failed at a Gymnasium there, he was sent to a reformatory institution in the Swiss countryside, where he made the first of several attempts to commit suicide. As a morphine addict, he was incarcerated on several occasions, and also spent time in psychiatric institutions. His embarking on a literary career, at the age of twenty-nine, was an endeavour to break out of the downward spiral that his life had become. A true break was never to be. Glauser did, however, write some successful detective novels, featuring Wachtmeister Studer. The first Studer tale, Wachtmeister Studer, also published under the title Schlumpf Erwin Mord (1935), is the focus of concern here.45 Before examining this text, however, it is fruitful to consider Stefan Brockhoff’s Zehn Gebote für den Kriminalroman, which is appended to the 1989 edition of Glauser’s Wachtmeister Studers erste Fälle,46 44 Hoffmann (2007), pp.124-125. 45 Friedrich Glauser, Wachtmeister Studer (Zürich: Arche Verlag, 1989 [1986] First published 1935). 46 Friedrich Glauser, Wachtmeister Studers erste Fälle (Zürich: Arche Verlag, 1989 [1969]). 73 together with Glauser’s open letter in response to these so-called ‘ten commandments.’ Brockhoff sets out the desiderata for a crime novel as follows: - that all puzzling events should be explained and resolved at the end of the tale; - that everything must be in its appointed place; - that murders should be committed with ‘customary’ means (in other words, firearms, poison and ‘other fine achievements of the human mind’); - that the culprit must be an evil human being, but one without any special powers; - that the detective must also be a human being; - that the crime novel must tell the story of the battle between the criminal and the detective; - that the criminal must be known to the reader (but not recognised as such by him or her); - that the reader should know of all events as they happen (in other words, they should not be informed of an event for the first time during the Aufklärung); - that the reader should not tire of reading the story; - that the reader should have the feeling of being part of the events.47 None of the works considered in this chapter conforms to all of the above. In Glauser’s response, he states, among other points, that it is the author’s job to demonstrate that ‘Menschen sind einfach Menschen,’ and that there is little or no difference between criminal and detective. Thus, the boundaries between self/known and other are blurred. Moreover, Glauser places great importance on suspense, an element not mentioned by Brockhoff. The reader must also be made to reflect. Most important of all, however, is Glauser’s declaration that he is a disciple of Simenon, that Simenon was his ‘teacher.’48 Indeed, Glauser has been described as the ‘Simenon der Schweiz.’49 47 Glauser (1989-erste Fälle), pp.177-180. My translation, JLT. 48 Friedrich Glauser, ‘Offener Brief über die «Zehn Gebote für den Kriminalroman»,’ in: Glauser (1989-erste Fälle), pp.181-191. 49 Despite being Austrian by birth, Glauser is generally seen as Swiss, for he spent most of his life in Switzerland. 74 The most striking point of similarity between Glauser and Simenon is their protagonists. Simenon’s Maigret and Glauser’s Studer are not only physically similar, in that they are both large men, but they are both patient, almost stolid characters. Both detectives enjoy stable, comfortable domestic lives, and have extremely patient wives who are occasionally able to offer their husbands advice in the course of an investigation. Moreover, both Maigret and Studer harbour a degree of contempt for those in authority, often sympathising instead with suspects and the guilty. Such types are frequently depicted as ordinary human beings whose circumstances have caused them to err. This bears out Glauser’s response to Brockhoff. Where the two authors differ is in their approach to plot structure. The basic format in Glauser’s Wachtmeister Studer – murder, investigation, resolution – is as found in many or most of Simenon’s works. However, overall Glauser’s text is more complex than the basic three-part structure suggests. What is initially thought to be murder is then presented as a suicide (that should simply have been an injury made to look like an attack). In the end, Studer proves that murder was committed. These twists increase the suspense for the reader, enhancing the reading experience. The two detectives are similar in their method of investigation, for Studer, like Maigret, is more interested in people and their relationships than in the physical evidence. Linguistically, one aspect in particular stands out, and that is Glauser’s use of Swiss German. The narrative is generally in Hochdeutsch, but numerous characters frequently use the dialect in direct speech. For example, Sonja, daughter of the dead man and girlfriend of the boy accused of killing him, is never referred to as ‘ein Mädchen’; rather, she is alluded to as ‘ein Meitschi.’ She eats ‘Weggli’ as opposed to ‘Brötchen,’ and greets Erwin, her boyfriend, with ‘Grüeß di’ instead of ‘Grüß dich.’ Studer greets Erwin with a diminutive form of his surname: ‘Schlumpfli.’ Also noticeable is the frequent use of ‘Ihr’ rather than ‘du’ when addressing an inferior or an individual informally. Pronoun-switching is most marked in an exchange between Studer and the examining magistrate: ‘Der Untersuchungsrichter wußte selbst nicht, warum er plötzlich vom «Ihr» zum «Sie» überging.’50 The Wachtmeister is an authoritative figure, despite his lowly position in the cantonal police. The habitual use of this more informal ‘Ihr,’ coupled with the use of lexical items from the Swiss German vocabulary, help embed the text in its Swiss milieu. 50 Glauser (1989 [1986]), p.20. 75 Another grammatical device found in the text is the use of the subjunctive. This conveys reported speech, which has the paradoxical effect of bringing the reader closer to the character, for such passages of text read like snatches of interior monologue, making it seem as if the reader is granted privileged insight into the character’s thoughts. This is not the case: a conversation, with at least two characters, is taking place, and this is merely being reported to the reader, rather than being quoted directly. Lastly, much of the stylistically informal narrative is given over to Studer’s thoughts, with the story focalised through his perspective, since he is the protagonist of this third-person narrative. For example: Also…Es stimmte alles! Sogar der Fluchtversuch im Bahnhof Bern. Ein dummer Fluchtversuch! Kindisch! Und doch so begreiflich! Diesmal langte es ja für lebenslänglich…Studer schüttelte den Kopf.51 This allows the reader to share the Wachtmeister’s perspective. Simenon uses the same technique to make his detective seem more human. The short phrases and exclamations here demonstrate Studer’s state of emotional excitement, for he has just saved young Erwin’s life. Like Maigret, then, Studer is a more believable, more human character than many of his predecessors, and this gives Glauser’s text more of an aura of vraisemblance. In a similar vein, Friedrich Dürrenmatt employed some of these devices in his detective writing. However, Dürrenmatt used the techniques of detective fiction as a means to subvert rather than as a way to perpetuate the genre. 4.3 Friedrich Dürrenmatt Friedrich Dürrenmatt (1921-1990) was born in Konolfingen, Emmental. His œuvre displays a wide generic range: plays, novels, poems, essays, television scripts and libretti.52 Dürrenmatt’s first detective story, Der Richter und sein Henker, first published in serialised form in 1950-1951, was an apparent revolt against the genre. 51 Ibid., p.11. 52 Kenneth S. Whitton, Dürrenmatt: Reinterpretation in Retrospect (New York/Oxford/Munich: Berg, 1990), p.1. 76 Crime fiction, in Dürrenmatt’s view, was built upon a principle of logic, rather like a game of chess, and this irritated the writer greatly. ‘Der Wirklichkeit,’ he asserted, ‘ist mit Logik nur zum Teil beizukommen.’53 Yet, as Kenneth Whitton observes, Der Richter und sein Henker is still a relatively typical crime story.54 Dürrenmatt’s detective-protagonist is Kommissär Hans Bärlach, who also appears in the second of Dürrenmatt’s detective stories, Der Verdacht. In certain respects Bärlach is not unlike Maigret: for example, he has little time for those in power, such as his Chef Dr. Lucius Lutz. Yet, unlike Maigret and the almost god-like detectives described above, Bärlach has one major weakness: the policeman is dying of stomach cancer, and, at the close of the tale, has only one year to live. In addition, he is presented as somewhat grotesque, as shown by the excessive amount of food and drink he consumes in the dénouement scene. Moreover, the extreme fear he experiences after the murderer makes an attempt on his life in his own home, and the resultant pain he feels in his stomach, reduces him to a sub-human, animal-like state: Der Alte kroch auf Händen und Füßen herum wie ein Tier, warf sich zu Boden, wälzte sich über den Teppich und blieb dann liegen, irgendwo in seinem Zimmer, zwischen den Stühlen, mit kaltem Schweiß bedeckt. »Was ist der Mensch?« stöhnte er leise, »was ist der Mensch?«55 This could be interpreted as a form of parody. Detectives such as Holmes are likened to animals, but Bärlach’s metamorphosis is not a positive one: the use of the animal simile shows the policeman’s weakness rather than his superior strength. He is not infallible, making him appear more credibly human than some other fictional detectives. The principal way in which Dürrenmatt subverts the established conventions of the genre is in the plot structure. The tale is, in a sense, ‘false-bottomed’: throughout, it appears that it is Bärlach’s old arch-enemy, Gastmann, who is responsible for the murder of the Kommissär’s subordinate, Ulrich Schmied. During the course of the investigation, Gastmann is killed by the police officer, Tschanz, who is assisting Bärlach on the case, and it seems that justice has been achieved. It has, in 53 Quoted in: Tschimmel (1979), p.99. 54 Whitton (1990), p.31. 55 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Der Richter und sein Henker (Zürich/Cologne: Benziger, 1952 [1950-51]), p.87. 77 that Gastmann has now paid for a pointless murder he had committed decades previously, but Gastmann is not the murderer of Schmied. Instead, as Bärlach has guessed, or known, all along, Tschanz murdered Schmied, jealous of the latter’s success and popularity. Tschanz, apparently overcome by remorse, commits suicide. Such an outcome is unlike the majority of other texts considered here since one would not ordinarily expect an investigating detective to be guilty of the crime. On the other hand, justice has triumphed, and the guilty party is punished. However, all is far from well at the end of the text, in that Bärlach is haunted by the adumbration of his own demise. Linguistically, the most notable aspect of this text is the occasional use of Kauderwelsch: the mixing of languages, in this case, French and German. This emerges from the mouth of the policeman, Jean Pierre Charnel, a native speaker of French who is uncomfortable with the German language: »Non«, sagte Charnel, »keine Spur von Assassin. On a rien trouvé, gar nichts gefunden.«56 Charnel’s command of German is poor, particularly in terms of grammar, for example: »Er nicht Geld verdienen, er Geld haben.« This would be difficult for a translator to tackle successfully. A further linguistic point is the use of direct and indirect speech in combination: that is, stretches of direct speech are interspersed with passages of reported speech. On a banal level, this increases the pleasure of the reading experience for the reader, for it provides variety. An aura of vraisemblance is again present, due in no small part to Dürrenmatt’s use of real place names – places that can be verified on a map – throughout the narrative. Some of these places are French- speaking, others German, and this is reflected in the names. Occasionally, both French and German names for places are given in the text, for example, ‘Bärlach verwunderte sich über den Namen Lamboing. »Lamlingen heißt das auf deutsch«, klärte ihn Clenin auf.’57 Despite the Kommissär’s insistence that the German form is preferable, the town is generally referred to in the narrative by its French title, and this seems 56 Dürrenmatt (1952), p.48. Even the French here is not strictly accurate, if Charnel is supposed to be speaking standard French: there should really be an n’ before the auxiliary verb. In everyday speech, however, this is frequently omitted. 57 Ibid., p.18. 78 appropriate, given that the town is French-speaking.58 The use of these verifiable place-names also provides local colouring in the narrative. Syntactically, the text employs both short phrases composed of a single principle clause, and longer, combined clauses. The pace of reading is thus varied, and, in a similar vein to the use of direct and reported speech, this increases the pleasure of the reading experience. In addition, short clauses are often used emphatically, as, for example, is the case when Gastmann’s great hound is killed by Tschanz: ‘Der Hund war tot’59 is not only a single sentence, but is also a single paragraph. This heightens the sense of disbelief, and highlights the horror of this passage. Dürrenmatt’s tale therefore displays a combination of the conventional and the subversive. 5. CONCLUSION This analytical survey has brought to light many of the similarities and differences between the detective fictions of Anglophone, Francophone and German-speaking cultures. The main trends identified are as follows: - whereas surface structures in detective fiction may vary between cultures, and, indeed, between writers, the deep structure – namely, crime (usually violent murder), detection, revelation – largely remains constant; - the detective figures vary significantly. Anglophone and Francophone detectives, at least early on, tend to be intellectually almost superhuman, but this is not the case in the German-language texts examined here. All but one of the detectives is male – a female protagonist presents difficulties for a translator rendering a text for an audience whose culture does not expect or permit women to fill such a rôle in society; - detective figures become more ‘human’ as time progresses, and, as a consequence, more believable. This is more a temporal issue than a cultural one (though in the German-language texts considered here, the protagonists are more human from the beginning. This is perhaps because 58 See Leonard Forster’s notes to Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Der Richter und sein Henker (London: Harrap, 1962), p.127. Forster notes here that the German form of the name is ‘practically never used.’ 59 Dürrenmatt (1952), p.41. 79 Hoffmann’s protagonist is a woman – stereotypically more given to empathy than men); - likewise, writing becomes stylistically less formal over time. This, again, is more a temporal difference than a difference between the cultures involved; - dialectal differences in the mouths of characters are generally confined to the Swiss writing, though some are found in the works of Doyle. No differences are apparent in the French. The use of dialect on the part of the Swiss writers may be for subversive reasons, though this would need to be researched further; - figurative language, if employed at all, is largely confined to the metaphor of the detective as a bloodhound; - the genre in all three languages generally begins with an amateur detective before the police become more popular in this rôle; - investigative methodology varies between detectives rather than between cultures; - finally, there is one remaining issue that has not yet been discussed, for it applies to the three cultures involved: references to criminal justice systems. These are more prevalent in police procedurals than in texts dealing with amateur detectives. Police ranks do not correspond between cultures, and this constitutes a major problem for the translator. Because such terminology forms part of the specificity of a text’s cultural otherness – in other words, here the French police institution confronts that of the reader’s own culture - the translator would probably be best advised to retain the foreign expression, since these items of vocabulary are often transparent (meaning that the reader can glean the meaning). One could use some form of calque, for example, ‘commissioner.’ Unfortunately, the method does not apply in all cases: ‘Wachtmeister,’ for instance, is problematic. ‘Watchman’ is not appropriate, having connotations of pre- police times. Some form of compromise may be used, such as ‘Wachtmeister Studer, detective (constable) of the Bern cantonal police.’ Whatever strategy the translator chooses, inserting a target culture rank with no reference to the source culture would create too much of a cultural incongruity. 80 What has become clear is that the similarities between the detective fictions of the three linguistic cultures involved outweigh the differences, as Dennis Porter suggests. The writings of the three cultures are different, but also display substantial similarities, and thus there is some recognition of the self (or the known) in the specificity of the other. The same can be said for human beings: the other’s difference shows up similarities. This is typified in the personage of Lupin, as both detective (known) and criminal (other), and in the words of Glauser, that ‘Menschen sind einfach Menschen.’ Further, it could be said that the self can be recognised in a particular type of human being – the criminal – and this leads to both the fear and the fascination inspired by detective fiction: the fear of what we ourselves could so easily be, and the resultant interest created. 81 CHAPTER THREE SIMENON’S BIOGRAPHY, GENRE AND STYLE 1. INTRODUCTION As the integrated theory of translation advocated here suggests, the translator cannot adequately fulfil his or her task unless he or she has an in-depth knowledge of the cultural and contextual factors surrounding a text. Without an understanding of contextual issues, core aspects of text’s significance may be lost. This is particularly serious if the significant detail involves linguistic and cultural specificity. With this in mind, in order to gain a comprehensive understanding of the three Simenon novels under consideration here, two areas will be explored in this chapter. Firstly, though an examination of biographical details is generally considered to be outmoded as an analytical tool, there is nevertheless a case to be made for its usefulness. A survey of his biography gives, for example, an understanding of Simenon’s relationship with his parents, and this, as shown below, aids understanding of the characters in the source texts. This can influence the translators’ lexical choices. Likewise, the overall style of Simenon’s writing can be attributed to his journalistic origins. This constitutes an integral part of the specificity of the Simenon œuvre. In addition, exploring the biography reveals, for instance, Simenon’s early interest in the canalling life, and highlights the accuracy of his lexical choices and descriptions in Le Charretier de la Providence. This can, in turn, influence the translation decisions: the precision of the source text detail constitutes part of the novel’s cultural specificity, and should thus be retained. The biographical survey thus helps the translator by shedding light upon the critical features of the source texts. Secondly, it is useful to consider the œuvre itself, its division into Maigret and non- Maigret novels, and the associated cultural and linguistic issues. The process, it is hoped, will shed light on how the three source texts under consideration in this project are to be understood in relation to the rest of the author’s work, in order to highlight specificities in the source texts. Furthermore, the examination of biographical information and œuvre will help illuminate how the translators of the three source texts have approached their task; in other words, whether they have taken a linguistics-based standpoint, a cultural/contextual point of view, or a more integrated 82 approach, and show what has been retained or lost in terms of the cultural and linguistic specificity of Simenon’s writing. 2. THE LIFE OF GEORGES SIMENON Georges Joseph Christian Simenon was born in Liège, Belgium, in February 1903, the first child of Désiré Simenon and his wife Henriette, née Brüll. According to Jacques Dubois, the Simenon family belonged to the ‘petite bourgeoisie traditionnelle.’1 Dubois observes that the petit bourgeois atmosphere in which Simenon was raised was ideologically conservative, repressive and fearful of the working class, and that this mindset remained with the author throughout his life. This is despite the fact that the young Simenon broke with his social class and milieu at an early age, moving to Paris, aged nineteen, in pursuit of a career. The act of rupture with places and people was to be repeated throughout Simenon’s life. The repressive climate of Simenon’s early life was not simply due to his petit bourgeois surroundings, however. His mother manifested a distinct preference for Christian, the author’s only brother, born in September 1906. Furthermore, Henriette Simenon is described in critical literature as being domineering, imposing her authority over her husband. Désiré, on the other hand, is seen as a tolerant human being, and appears to have become a quasi-heroic figure in the eyes of his son. The influence of his early life in Simenon’s work should not be underestimated, a point underlined by Bernard Alavoine: Chez beaucoup de romanciers, les thèmes les plus forts sont ceux qui sont ancrés dans la petite enfance. Simenon n’échappe pas […] à la règle.2 Traces of the author’s parents can be found in the features of many of his characters, though echoes of Simenon’s brother Christian are largely absent. Having left school in 1918, aged just fifteen, Simenon began his writing career the following year, working as a journalist, under the pseudonym Georges Sim, for the conservative Catholic newspaper La Gazette de Liège. The major rupture of the 1 Jacques Dubois, ‘Statut littéraire et position de classe,’ in: Claudine Gothot-Mersch et al., Lire Simenon: réalité/fiction/écriture (Brussels: Labor, 1980), p.22. 2 Bernard Alavoine, Georges Simenon: Parcours d’une œuvre (Amiens: Encrage, 1998), p.29. 83 first part of the author’s life, however, was his move to Paris with his first wife, Tigy, in 1922. He became friends here with the artists Vlaminck and Picasso, and in 1925 began an affair with the dancer Josephine Baker. The next major rupture came in 1928, when Simenon decided to see France by means of the country’s canal and river system, acquiring a motor barge called the Ginette, and later the Ostrogoth. From the point of view of this study, this period in Simenon’s life is significant, for it was during this time that the first Maigret story appeared: in September 1929, while berthed in the Dutch port of Delfzijl, Simenon wrote Pietr-le-Letton. However, Danielle Bajomée suggests many Simenon specialists agree that the Commissaire appeared in texts earlier than this.3 Pierre Assouline claims that Maigret had already appeared in a text from 1928, entitled L’Amant sans nom, in the features of the protagonist’s adversary, the mysteriously titled agent no 49. Assouline suggests that: Tout y est déjà ébauché en pointillé, jusqu’à la pipe dont il serre le tuyau entre ses dents!4 Pietr-le-Letton is, however, the first Maigret novel to be published under the author’s own name, and the first to be accepted for publication by Simenon’s main publisher of the time, Fayard. It is therefore considered to be the first true Maigret text. Other early Maigret novels were written during Simenon’s fluvial journeys, including one of the texts under examination here, Le Charretier de La Providence. The Maigret series was not officially launched until 20 February 1931, at a spectacular ball in the Boule blanche nightclub in Montparnasse. This event, known ever after as the bal anthropométrique, had a Quai des Orfèvres theme, and was attended by many important Parisian figures of the day. Assouline notes two main outcomes from the launch of the Maigret series. The first is the failure of the mainstream French literary establishment ever to take Simenon’s work seriously, treating him with some degree of contempt.5 The second was the reaction of the Quai des Orfèvres to the launch of the Maigret novels. This was less a reaction to the bal than a response to the character of Maigret and Simenon’s depiction of the Police Judiciaire. Assouline observes that those at the 3 Danielle Bajomée, Simenon: Une légende du XXe siècle (Tournai: La Renaissance du livre, 2003), p.34. 4 Pierre Assouline, Simenon: biographie (Paris: Julliard, 1992), p.141. 5 Ibid., p.158. The exceptions to this were Gide and Gallimard. 84 Quai did not find Maigret to be a believable detective. Simenon countered this by stating that he had taken liberties because he wanted to show ‘l’esprit plutôt que la lettre.’6 The police were eager to help Simenon create a more accurate picture of the French criminal justice system, and the directeur of the Police Judiciaire, Xavier Guichard, invited the young writer to the Quai des Orfèvres: «C’est très bien vos livres, lui dit Xavier Guichard. Très amusant. Votre personnage de Maigret ressemble tout à fait à nos commissaires. Seulement il y a un tas d’erreurs administratives. Pour les corriger, vous allez faire le tour des services avec l’un d’eux.» […] Et Simenon repart, mettant ses pas dans ceux du commissaire Guillaume, chef de la Brigade criminelle, non sans avoir assisté au rapport du matin, à la réunion des chefs de brigade dans le bureau de Guichard, et même aux examens psychiatriques de l’infirmerie spéciale du Dépôt.7 This prefigures the beginning of Les Mémoires de Maigret (1951), where an almost identical situation is described. The level of meticulousness displayed by the writer during his visit to the Quai echoes the image of the older Simenon making copious notes of names, addresses, plans of quarters and buildings on the backs of the famous enveloppes jaunes before beginning a novel. Having launched the Maigret series in 1931, Simenon declared to Arthème Fayard, two years later, that he wished to write ‘un vrai roman.’ This desire may have had some bearing on Simenon’s entering into a contract with the prestigious French publisher, Gaston Gallimard, in 1933, and also on his decision, in 1934, to abandon the Maigret series, only to return to it a few years later. However, Simenon was never fully accepted by Gaston Gallimard’s associates, many of whom considered him to be too vulgaire and populaire. The name Simenon came to be quasi-synonymous with the roman policier, despite his friendship with André Gide, whom he met in 1935. He never escaped the epithet of crime writer. The year 1939 was highly significant. Not only did it see the outbreak of the Second World War, it was also the year that Marc, Simenon’s first and only child with Tigy, was born. His story following the outbreak of war in 1939 is colourful: he 6 Ibid., p.159. 7 Ibid., p.160. 85 appears to have been both collaborator and résistant and neither. For a few months in 1940, Simenon was given the task of acting as ‘haut-commissaire aux réfugiés belges pour la Charente-Inférieure,’ which entailed looking after the northern French and Belgians who had fled the advancing German army.8 He was perceived as a heroic character during this time: Ceux qui ont vécu ces trois mois exceptionnels à ses côtés témoigneront des qualités qu’il révéla à cette occasion. […] Comme le dit le consul de Belgique, Simenon a vraiment été «la cheville ouvrière» de cette entreprise de sauvetage. Sa totale abnégation est notamment attestée par Lina Caspescha qui, avec quelques autres, l’a secondé pendant ces trois mois. Le journaliste Pierre Bonardi, qui a pu l’observer dans le feu de l’action, évoquera un «surhumain dévouement».9 However, at the end of his time as haut-commissaire, Simenon moved his family to the Vendée, seeking neutrality.10 The story is not as uncomplicated as it first appears. Assouline claims that the author wanted to try to escape history, to attempt to hide from the war.11 This may indeed be the case: Simenon was known to tend towards individualism, and was said to hate politicians and international movements such as communism and capitalism. This apparently apolitical stance in the face of the events unfolding in the world around him did not prevent Simenon writing for collaborating Belgian newspapers, or for the fascist L’Appel. Additionally, in 1932, he wrote an anticommunist novel, entitled Les Gens d’en face, and, as a young man still working for the conservative Gazette de Liège, published articles that manifested anti-Semitic tendencies. It is no doubt for these reasons that Simenon’s name appeared on the Resistance’s list of collaborators. It should be made clear that Simenon never actually displayed any pro-German feeling, nor did he publish any political articles during the war. Assouline suggests that Simenon was more an economic or intellectual collaborator than a political one.12 Yet he was seen as having good relations with the German occupiers, and did not seem perturbed by the fact that the newspapers for 8 Benoît Denis, “Chronologie 1877-1947,” in: Georges Simenon, Romans I (Paris: Gallimard, 2003), p.LXXXIV. 9 Assouline (1992), p.286. 10 Alavoine (1998), p.20. 11 Assouline (1992), p.290. 12 Ibid., p.371. 86 which he was writing were known to collaborate. In fact, on 30th August 1945, the Police Judiciaire sought his expulsion from France. They were too late, for Simenon had already left for America.13 It can be concluded from Simenon’s war record, then, that he supported neither occupier nor résistant, but determined rather to preserve his own self-interest and that of his family. His ‘neutrality,’ if such it was, goes some way to explaining his move to Switzerland later in life. Before arriving in the US in 1945, Simenon spoke very little English, and acquiring the language allowed the writer to verify some of the translations of his work. One of his chief translators had been the Englishman Geoffrey Sainsbury. Assouline shows that Sainsbury changed names, characteristics, and certain narrative details, changes with which Simenon could not disagree, for the simple reason that he spoke no English.14 Assouline notes that Simenon: laisse éclater sa colère lorsqu’il comprend que Geoffrey Sainsbury, son plus ancien traducteur et l’un de ses plus lucides critiques, s’est arrogé un véritable droit de regard sur son œuvre.15 Life in the United States forced the author to learn the language, and he was then able to examine his translators’ work. He was dissatisfied with what he found. Assouline states: Il sait pertinemment qu’une traduction littérale serait une catastrophe. Mais il juge que ses traducteurs prennent trop de liberté avec le texte originel.16 Geoffrey Sainsbury’s free translations, in particular, came in for criticism, with the result that the collaboration between the two men was ended in 1952. One point that Simenon is said to have disputed once he had acquired English is how one should render ‘commissaire.’ He debated whether it was best to render the term as ‘inspector,’ as he himself wished, as ‘superintendent,’ as the translator opted, or as 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid., p.252. 15 Ibid., p.413 16 Ibid. 87 ‘detective,’ in a bid to please an American public.17 As Simenon recognised, the rendering of French police rank into a target language text is a difficult but important cultural point. This issue will be addressed again in chapter four. On arrival in the US, the author soon engaged a secretary-cum-interpreter. In New York, he found Denyse Ouimet, a 25-year-old woman from Ottawa, Canada, who became his mistress. Simenon divorced Tigy in 1950, and married Denyse the same year; a son, Jean, had been born in 1949. The following year Simenon’s friend André Gide died. Gide had been highly impressed by Simenon’s writing, as the following shows: A vrai dire, je ne comprends pas bien comment vous concevez, composez, écrivez vos livres. Il y a là, pour moi, un mystère qui m’intéresse tout particulièrement. Je ne crois pas volontiers aux phénomènes (et pour moi, vous en êtes un).18 Two years after the birth of his only daughter, Marie-Jo, in 1953, Simenon took the decision to move his family back to Europe. For two years, the Simenons lived in France; then, in 1957, they moved to Switzerland. Simenon called the country ‘la plus figée d’Europe.’19 In Assouline’s view, neutral Switzerland was the ideal nation for one who appeared eager to escape the march of history. It suited his individualistic nature.20 Following the birth of his youngest son, Pierre, in 1959, the marriage began to deteriorate, with Simenon manifesting signs of depression and his wife suffering psychological difficulties. In April 1964, Simenon and Denyse agreed to separate, but, unlike the end of his earlier marriage, the estrangement was apparently not amicable. In 1965, Teresa Sburelin, who had been employed as Denyse’s femme de chambre in 1961, became Simenon’s compagne officielle, a relationship that endured until Simenon’s death. The suicide of Marie-Jo in 1978 led Simenon to return to writing (he had supposedly retired in 1973), publishing his Mémoires intimes in 1981. His health then deteriorated and he died on 4th September 1989, aged eighty-six. 17 Ibid. 18 Quoted in: Alain Bertrand, Georges Simenon (Lyon: La Manufacture, 1988), p.130. 19 Assouline (1992), p.485. 20 Ibid. 88 3. THE ŒUVRE Simenon’s private life cannot fail to have had a bearing on his work, and it is to the work more specifically that the discussion now turns. The œuvre is divided here into Maigret and non-Maigret (or romans durs) texts, since the focus is on Maigret. Despite being best known for the Maigret novels, the greater part of Simenon’s work consists of romans durs that do not involve the detective. The division of the novels into two categories is superficial, for despite the various differences between the two groups, there are many common tendencies and themes. It is thus appropriate, in addition to consideration of the two groups individually, to examine the areas of common ground between the two. 3.1 Commonality of themes, tendencies and techniques. A strong common thread in terms of theme and characterisation in the Maigret and the non-Maigret texts is the rôle of the mother- and father-figures. In many cases, mother- and father-figures can be traced back to Georges Simenon’s own parents. Simenon’s apparently abusive mother can be discerned in the features of many of the more unpleasant female characters. There are numerous women in his work who display Henriette Simenon’s domineering tendencies, although these are not necessarily the mothers of the protagonists. For example, in Feux Rouges, a roman dur, Steve Hogan’s wife Nancy is depicted as fulfilling a traditionally masculine rôle, since she is the family’s main breadwinner, has the better career, and leaves her husband to look after their two children.21 Likewise, in Maigret à l’école, published in 1954, the murder victim, Léonie Birard, a retired, unmarried, postmistress in the village of Saint-André-sur-Mer, was a bully, who used the secrets she read in the villagers’ mail against them.22 The counter to domineering women such as these in the Simenon œuvre is Mme Maigret. Though wife, Louise Maigret also functions as surrogate mother to her husband, Maigret’s own mother having died giving birth to her second child when Maigret was only eight.23 21 Georges Simenon, Feux Rouges (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1970; first published 1953). 22 Georges Simenon, Maigret à l’école (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1954). 23 Georges Simenon, Les Mémoires de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité,1997), pp.61-65. 89 The father figure, on the other hand, is an altogether more positive force than many of the female characters, and can be discerned most clearly in the Maigret novels. Désiré Simenon was seen by his son as a placid, reassuring figure, who is idealised in the features of many male protagonists, but in those of Maigret in particular. Maigret himself has two positive father figures in his life, in addition to his biological progenitor: Inspector Jacquemain, who gives him the idea to join the police force, and the man who introduces him to life at the Quai des Orfèvres, Xavier Guichard, directeur of the Police Judiciaire. The real Xavier Guichard, also directeur of the Police Judiciaire, helped Simenon correct the inaccuracies in his novels by allowing him access to the Quai. In turn, Maigret comes to act as a paternal figure to his inspectors, namely Lucas, Janvier and Lapointe, often addressing them as his ‘children.’24 It is the world of his father – the world of the petites gens or lower-middle class – that Simenon depicts in his writing. Alavoine writes of the characters borrowed from this class: Ces gens très ordinaries que l’on croise tout au long de l’œuvre de Simenon risqueraient d’être d’une certaine banalité s’il ne leur arrivait pas quelque chose d’important.25 This ‘quelque chose d’important’ taking place in the lives of perfectly ordinary characters arises, it seems, from Simenon’s interest in individual destiny, and this is particularly evident in the romans durs. In these non-Maigret texts, suggests Alavoine, destiny functions as a disruptive force, and in the novels of the 1930s, the disruption tends to take the form of an initial violent death, though it can be manifest in other ways.26 Hendrik Veldman largely agrees with this, though he explains it in rather different terms. The simenonien hero suffers an unexpected event, and this causes him to break with his social class and milieu, making it necessary for him to find a new, solitary route through life. This is seen as a revolt against the binding, stifling conventions imposed on the individual by society, frequently incarnated in the spouse. The character is then an outsider or other with regard to his social group of 24 Bertrand (1994), p.71. 25 Alavoine (1998), p.92. 26 Ibid., pp.93-95. 90 origin, and the group from which the individual has broken closes its ranks in order to defend its own interests. The other – in Deborah Lupton’s words, ‘that which is conceptualized as different from self’27 – is seen as threatening to self and order. The one who has broken social convention is then shunned by society. At the novel’s conclusion, the hero can either return to the group and its conventions or break with these definitively.28 There are two problems with Veldman’s argument. In the first instance, his thoughts on the unexpected event can only be said to apply to the non-Maigret texts, since the catalyst for the Commissaire’s investigation – the murder – can hardly be perceived as unexpected. The Maigret series is formulaic, and as such the reader expects at least one violent death towards the beginning of the novel. Secondly, his argument does not take sufficient account of the idea of Maigret as a redeemer-figure. Frequently (though not exclusively) the Commissaire steers the sinner through trial to salvation, and sympathises with them, thus the route through life is not solitary. Moving from characterisation to consideration of style, Veldman notes two types of verbal communication present in Simenon’s works.29 Banal conversations on rather superficial issues take place, but there are also more in-depth exchanges, such as police interviews. In addition, where the protagonist may not be able to communicate with other human beings, he can still be found to hold interior monologues, generally expressed by Simenon in style indirect libre.30 Furthermore, Veldman claims that Simenon’s work contains what he describes as an irregular rhythm: passages of quick dialogue followed by more ‘static’ stretches of text. One novel that uses just this technique is La neige était sale, published in 1948. An illustrative passage can be found in the third chapter of the text. Herr Wimmer, who lives in the same apartment block as Frank, the novel’s protagonist, attempts to stop Frank and Sissy from going out together, for Frank is not considered suitable for Sissy. The couple’s ensuing conversation runs: «Je me demande s’il le dira à mon père. — Il ne le dira pas. 27 Deborah Lupton, Risk (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), p.124. 28 Hendrik Veldman, La tentation de l’inaccessible. Structures narratives chez Simenon (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1981), pp.13-35. 29 Ibid., pp.163-164. 30 A technique also extensively adopted by the ‘Simenon der Schweiz’ Friedrich Glauser. 91 — Je sais que papa ne l’aime pas, mais… — Les gens ne disent jamais rien.» Il déclare ça avec assurance, parce que c’est vrai, parce qu’il en a l’expérience. Est-ce que Holst est allé le dénoncer? Il a envie d’en parler à Sissy, de lui montrer le revolver qu’il a toujours dans sa poche. Il risque sa vie, avec cette arme-là sur lui, et elle ne s’en doute pas […].31 Whether the narrative passage in the above is static or even stagnating, as Veldman would have his reader believe, is a matter for debate. The use of style indirect libre and questions in this novel results in passages of non-dialogue that are dynamic, aided by use of the present tense. Passing from the syntactic to the lexical level, Claudine Gothot-Mersch attests that Simenon claimed to have taken great care in setting out word order in his texts, and also in building syntactic rhythm, a claim that contradicts to some extent the suggestion that Simenon’s writing often has an irregular rhythm.32 Moreover, the author manifests an efficiency of style, what Bertrand describes as ‘l’efficience passant par la simplicité […] le resserrement stylistique,’ ‘sobre, concis, élémentaire.’33 A passage from Maigret à l’école can serve as a typical example of this tendency. At this point in the text, the questioning of the murder victim’s maid has just been completed, and the Commissaire is about to visit the scene of the crime: Il avait envie d’un verre de vin. Il lui semblait que c’était l’heure. La récréation était finie, dans la cour. Deux vieilles femmes passaient avec des sacs à provisions, se dirigeant vers la coopérative.34 While one should be hesitant about using an isolated example, passages such as this abound in Simenon’s texts. The straightforward, non-figurative presentation of ordinary characters in their everyday setting can be seen as unsurprising when set against the author’s choice of subject, milieu and target audience: as shown above, Simenon generally depicts middle-class individuals in middle-class areas, and he aims 31 Georges Simenon, La neige était sale (Paris: Gallimard, 2003, ii; first published 1948), p.35. 32 Claudine Gothot-Mersch, ‘Le travail de l’écrivain à la lumière des dossiers et manuscripts du Fonds Simenon,’ in: Gothot-Mersch et al. (1980), p.100. 33 Bertrand (1988), p.167 and p.168. 34 Simenon (1954), p.83. 92 for as wide an audience as possible, hence he cannot use a language that is overly simple and informal, or too ornate, formal or complex. The language also reflects Maigret’s own character. Additionally, Simenon’s style is unadorned for another reason: in order to depict the world objectively, in order to show the human being’s true colours - what Simenon terms l’homme nu - Bertrand suggests, Simenon employs a strategy of ‘défrichage’ to achieve ‘la neutralité.’35 A reflection of the ‘real’ world is also achieved topographically. The œuvre employs a mélange of both authentic and fictitious towns and villages. The ability to find a place on an atlas verifies the existence of that place, and adds credibility to the events described in the novel. However, it can also be argued that a lack of an authentic place name does not necessarily detract from the realistic air of a given text. The village of Saint-Fiacre, Maigret’s place of birth and the location of the action in L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre (1932), is fictitious. This does not prevent it being realistic, for there are stereotypical characters that one would have found in many small French villages during that time, with all the local amenities one might expect to find. In any case, Dubois and Denis, in their notes to Romans, suggest that Saint-Fiacre may be the fictional representation of Paray-le-Frésil, where Simenon lived and worked for a time. Thus Saint-Fiacre, though perhaps not a real place itself, is readily identifiable with a real village.36 Another element adding to the verisimilitude of a Simenon text is the use of physical traits of characters that can be traced back to individuals that the author knew. One point, albeit a relatively extensive one, remains to be made with regard to the vraisemblance of Simenon’s writing. It centres on the idea of atmosphere, for which the author is famous. The climat of Simenon texts is achieved largely due to the use of what can be termed sensory devices. Stimulation of the senses is a device frequently employed by the author. Firstly, visual stimulation is often created by the use of colour, which generally has a semantic or symbolic charge. Red appears to have been Simenon’s favourite colour, unsurprising, perhaps, given that it is the 35 Bertrand (1988), p.170: ‘Simenon pousse jusqu’à la perfection les virtualités d’une certaine langue commune, celle qui appartient à la ménagère, au travailleur, au cadre.’ 36 In L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre, it is suggested that the village where the Commissaire was born is near Matignon. After having suggested that Saint-Fiacre is the fictional counterpart of Paray-le-Frésil, Dubois and Denis state that: ‘Il n’existe pas dans le département de l’Allier, dont Moulins est le chef- lieu [the text also suggesting that the village is near Moulins], de localités nommées Saint-Fiacre et Matignon (on les trouve néanmoins, assez éloignées l’une de l’autre, dans le département des Côtes- d’Armor).’ Dubois and Denis (2003, i), p.1362. 93 colour generally associated with passion. Furthermore, light is important in Simenon’s work, as is its absence. Allusion is frequently made to rain, mist, and generally grey weather, particularly in early works, which reflect the sombre events unfolding.37 Alavoine also shows that it is not uncommon for novels to begin in sunshine.38 The hot, sunny weather, however, can feel oppressive and uncomfortable, such as is the case in the opening passage of La colère de Maigret, where the intense heat reflects Maigret’s uneasiness.39 Many, if not most, of Simenon’s novels, and especially the Maigret texts, begin with a description of the climatic conditions, and this generally adumbrates events yet to take place, or, in some cases, reflects the protagonist’s mood or personality. Sound also has an important rôle to play in the œuvre. In particular, certain sounds help recall the past: for example, the use of bells, states Alavoine, symbolises the author’s education at a religious school.40 Veldman, on the other hand, emphasises the significance, not only of sound, but also of the absence of sound.41 Thirdly, the sense of taste seems to have great significance, particularly in the Maigret novels. In Veldman’s view, there is a strong link between what Maigret eats or drinks and the place in which he finds himself. For example, in Normandy the Commissaire orders calvados and in the United States he drinks beer or whiskey. When at home in Paris, however, the drink will depend on the quartier and the weather.42 In addition, food is a prominent feature of the Maigret’s marriage, and Madame Maigret’s main purpose in life appears to be cooking for her ever-hungry husband. Lastly, like sounds, odours are used in the novels as a means of triggering memories. In L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre, set in the village of Maigret’s birth, various odours cause Maigret to recall his childhood. Olfactory sensation in Simenon’s œuvre can also be associated with particular occupations. The frequent references to sensual perception are a means of recalling the past. This results in many texts containing autobiographical elements, though overt references to historical events at the time of writing are largely absent.43 This raises the question of the use of temporality and tense in the Simenon œuvre. The past often 37 Alavoine (1998), pp.55-58. 38 Ibid., p.59. 39 Georges Simenon, La colère de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1963). 40 Alavoine (1998), p.66. 41 Veldman (1981), pp.131-135. 42 Ibid., p.130-131. 43 See Bajomée (2003), p.166, where Simenon is portrayed as simply allowing history to pass by. 94 breaks into the present in Simenon’s work, and this is particularly true of L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre, in which several senses are stimulated at once, triggering childhood memories: Et Maigret retrouvait les sensations d’autrefois: le froid, les yeux qui picotaient, le bout des doigts gelé, un arrière-goût de café. Puis, en entrant dans l’église, une bouffée de chaleur, de lumière douce; l’odeur des cierges, de l’encens…44 This is a clear instance of the past being felt in the present, achieved by means of sensory stimulation. Veldman notes that there are many allusions to repetitive actions in the past, resulting in widespread use of the imperfect tense, which is frequently employed for this purpose. In L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre, most of the references to the past are to repetitive actions reported in the imperfect tense, with the passé simple employed as the main narrative tense. The most obvious example of the past erupting in the present is the process of investigation itself: the murder enquiry is a means of recreating the past in the ‘present’ time. There are thus many themes, character types, settings, structures and linguistic features common to the two sections of Simenon’s work. Any translator of a Simenon novel needs to be aware of these, for they form part of the contextual background, and the individual text can only be understood if considered with regard to the wider œuvre as well as the cultural and historical backgrounds. Having elucidated the wider issue of the entire body of Simenon’s work, it is now appropriate to examine the two sections individually. 3.2 The romans durs. From the point of view of comprehending the spectrum of Simenon’s work as far as possible, it is necessary to have some understanding of the non-Maigret body of the œuvre itself. This will help elucidate areas of interest in the Maigret texts by highlighting differences between the two types of narrative. 44 Georges Simenon, L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre (Paris: Gallimard, 2003, I; first published 1932), p.109. 95 Firstly, the composition of the romans durs invites comment. The structure of these novels is an area examined by Jacques Dubois, who, through the consideration of six of these texts, sketches out a schéma typologique: a) à la faveur d’un événement, le héros rompt avec ses habitudes, ses fonctions et les normes de son milieu; b) sa rupture est consacrée par un crime; c) il connaît l’évasion, l’aventure et un certain envers des choses dans un monde trouble; d) sa «libération» est consacrée par une rédemption; e) il échoue, soit qu’il devienne fou, soit qu’il revienne au départ avec une impression de néant; f) toutefois, le héros a conquis, en cours d’expérience, une sorte de lucidité et il a dressé un bilan de soi.45 What the above structure emphasises heavily is the crucial rôle of opposition in the non-Maigret texts. Racelle-Latin discerns several binary oppositions throughout the body of work, including the dichotomies wife/prostitute, workplace/den of iniquity, health/sickness, love/hate, and power/weakness (or more specifically argent- pouvoir/faiblesse morbide).46 Most, if not all, of these oppositions are manifest in L’Homme qui regardait passer les trains, a roman dur par excellence. This novel also displays a different kind of opposition: the dichotomy of individual versus the other. The protagonist Popinga, however, rather than (re)defining himself against any one person, with the possible exception of Commissaire Lucas, defines himself in opposition to society and its constraining laws and moral codes, physically embodied in his wife. In this way, he becomes the other of society, exhibiting behaviour that would make the majority feel threatened. A similar situation is found in Feux Rouges, where the wife acts as a constraining force, but the issue of otherness is complicated in this novel by the fact that traditional conceptions of gender rôles are challenged: Steve Hogan, the protagonist, is often left looking after the children, since his wife, 45 Quoted in Danièle Racelle-Latin, ‘De «Pedigree» aux romans psychologiques: approche d’une signifiance,’ in: Gothot-Mersch et al. (1980), p.57. 46 Ibid., p.69. 96 Nancy, has a high-powered job and is thus the family’s main breadwinner. In a passage entitled ‘La radicale étrangeté des femmes,’ Bajomée writes further: Il arrive aussi que l’objet-femme se mue subitement en sujet dans la jouissance: devenue l’intolérable égale de l’homme, elle doit être supprimée.47 In the case of Nancy, this is exactly what happens. She becomes an other to be feared, and yet is behaving in a traditionally male fashion, and therefore is both ‘same’ and ‘other,’ as defined in the introduction. Secondly, with regard to the linguistic field, Alain Bertrand makes several observations on the lexical, grammatical and syntactic levels. He notes the ‘usage presque exclusif de tournures et de mots concrets, «creux» ou généraux.’48 In addition to these ‘concrete expressions,’ Simenon employed word systems and expressions typiques, or ‘standard collocations,’ such as ‘petite fille,’ ‘volets verts’ and ‘devenir un homme.’49 Also significant in the œuvre is the use of words and expressions particular to technical registers, the most obvious example of this being French criminal justice terminology, examined in its various forms in chapters four to six, but Bertrand also notes the use of semantic fields relating to illness and liquids, particularly in relation to atmospheric precipitation, which helps create the climat of Simenon’s work.50 On the grammatical level, Bertrand claims that the author characteristically uses the imperfect tense, where one would expect the passé simple.51 However, as demonstrated above, Simenon uses the past historic extensively in conjunction with the imperfect. This can be illustrated by examining a passage from L’Homme qui regardait passer les trains: Le reste ne fut qu’un rêve. On se retrouva sur la berge du Wilhelmine Canal, non loin d’un des Éléonore, l’Éléonore IV, qui chargeait des fromages pour la Belgique. La neige était dure comme de la glace. D’un geste machinal, Kees retint son patron qui risquait de glisser en allant poser les vêtements du paquet 47 Bajomée (2003), p.142. 48 Bertrand (1988), p.62. 49 Ibid. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid. 97 sur la berge. Il aperçut un instant le chapeau célèbre, mais n’eut pas envie de sourire.52 The passage uses the tenses with their conventional functions: the past historic to denote single, completed actions in the past; the imperfect to describe continuous, and not necessarily completed, events or states. Simenon does not simply use the passé simple and the imparfait in his narratives, however. In La neige était sale, from 1948, and Les anneaux de Bicêtre, published in 1963, for example, the author makes extensive, though not exclusive, use of the present tense.53 The issue of tense is further addressed in chapter six. Finally, on the syntactic level, Bertrand draws attention to Simenon’s preference for short phrases, marked by exclamations and suspension points. Instances of such linguistic behaviour are common in his work, and L’Homme qui regardait passer les trains is no exception to this: Or, ce n’était pas vrai! D’abord, en Europe centrale, la messe de minuit était finie, puisque là-bas il était 1 heure. En Amérique, il faisait encore grand jour! Et partout, en dehors des églises, des nègres parlaient de leurs affaires, des filles se réchauffaient d’un café arrosé après avoir fait le trottoir tandis que des portiers d’hôtel…54 The passage clearly manifests the characteristics alluded to above. In this case, the use of short phrases, exclamations and suspension points reflects the unsound mind of the novel’s protagonist. This is not an extensive examination of the cultural and linguistic issues arising from the non-Maigret section of Simenon’s writings. A complete examination would require a study in itself. The above merely highlights some of the major points of interest found in this part of the œuvre that may prove to be of assistance when the Maigret texts are considered and when the textual analysis is undertaken. 52 Georges Simenon, L’Homme qui regardait passer les trains (Paris: Gallimard, 2003, i; first published by Gallimard in 1938), p.569. My emphasis, JLT. 53 As does Eugène Dabit, in L’Hotel du Nord (Paris: Denoël, 1950), first published in 1929. Interestingly, this novel is set on a canal (recalling Le Charretier de la Providence). The (often sudden) intrusion of the present tense adds a sensation of frightening immediacy to certain passages of the work. 54 Simenon (2003, i), p.607. 98 3.3 The Maigret novels. It is for the Maigret novels that Simenon is best known, especially abroad, where he is barely known for having written anything else, despite non-Maigret texts being more numerous than novels featuring the Commissaire. This is due in no small measure to the fact that the Maigret stories have been extensively translated and filmed, and have a broad popular appeal. Bertrand identifies five stages in the narrative structure of the Maigret novels.55 The first of these he terms l’affaire, which is generally the murder. The second stage is l’éponge. At this point, the Commissaire begins his enquiries, simply absorbing his new surroundings, attempting to put himself in the shoes of the victim, without any form of interpretation of facts. Following this step comes la rumination: once the Commissaire has built up a picture of the milieu, states Bertrand, he considers what he has ascertained. The fourth step in Bertrand’s schema is la révélation ou l’expulsion. Here: […] certaines lignes, certains volumes, certaines couleurs se détachent sur le fond brouillardeux et remplissent peu à peu les blancs du récit avant que le film des événements se déroule sur la toile intérieure.56 From the vast array of details that Maigret builds up from having put himself in the victim’s place, certain factors emerge as more significant than others. The final stage is the vérification de l’hypothèse, in which ‘Maigret sent le coupable.’57 From the details that emerged as significant in the previous stage, Maigret forms a hypothesis about the crime. The confession of the guilty party then confirms the hypothesis. The key to the enquiry stage of the structure, which is a combination of the éponge, rumination and révélation ou expulsion steps of Bertrand’s schema, lies in Maigret’s use of intuition. He attempts to ‘get under people’s skin’ in order to really understand them; in other words, he tries to unearth what Simenon himself called l’homme nu. Els Wouters observes that the Commissaire need only observe an 55 Bertrand (1988), pp.47-51. 56 Ibid., p.50. 57 Ibid. 99 individual to ascertain his or her ‘état d’âme,’ and that this is usually attained through consideration of non-linguistic signs, for language can frequently be misleading.58 These extra-linguistic details are one type of what have been termed ‘indices existentiels’ or ‘existential evidence,’ which expose the individual’s subconscious, as opposed to ‘indices matériels’ or ‘concrete evidence’ such as fingerprints or cigarette ends.59 The ‘indices existentiels’ are most often employed in the Maigret novels, as Wouters shows. Maigret is not Sherlock Holmes; he rarely, if ever, concerns himself with concrete clues, focusing instead on people, and their relationships with one another. A prime example of this can be found, once again, in Maigret à l’école: from a young schoolboy’s lies, and another’s silence, Maigret uncovers the truth about Léonie Birard’s murder. Thus, the non-linguistic signs in this novel are at least as important as the linguistic signs. The structure of the novels and the method employed by their protagonist help shed light on the character of that individual. Occasionally, the Commissaire’s efforts appear to grind to a halt, throwing him into an ill humour. He rarely, if ever, shows any form of pronounced excitement or joy. Bertrand lists the adjectives typically ascribed to Maigret as ‘gros, grand, lourd, massif, pesant, large, épais, solide.’60 He then categorises this aspect of physical presence under three headings: ‘volume,’ ‘pesanteur’ and ‘opacité.’61 The first of these refers to the amount of space that the Commissaire fills, and the second to his weight, described by Bertrand as ‘une lourdeur pachydermique.’62 Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, Bertrand refers to Maigret’s opacity or impenetrability, described as his ‘impassibilité bovine.’63 Faced with the silent mass and glazed expression, the suspect invariably confesses, evidence again of the power of the non-linguistic. Yet despite this apparent animality, Maigret is altogether human, frequently showing a high degree of compassion for the unfortunates he meets. On this issue, Bertrand observes: Par la qualité de son écoute, de son silence et de son regard, Maigret dévoile une capacité de «souffrir avec» conjugée avec un extraordinaire pouvoir 58 Els Wouters, Maigret: «je ne déduis jamais». La méthode abductive chez Simenon (Liège: CÉFAL, 1998), p.35 and p.36. 59 Ibid., pp.17-18. 60 Bertrand (1988), p.44. 61 Ibid., pp.45-47. 62 Ibid., p.45. 63 Ibid., p.46. 100 maïeutique pour guider le personnage «innocent» dans son processus de libération. Au terme de son voyage initiatique, le coupable se trouve affranchi, desaliéné de tout le poids du passé, de la charge de ressentiment, de frustration et d’humiliation dont il était la victime.64 Furthermore: Maigret, c’est l’acceptation de l’homme dénudé jusque dans la mort ou la résurrection.65 The Commissaire often sympathises more with the criminal with whom he comes into contact than with the figures of justice with whom he works, in particular examining magistrates. He has, for example, a somewhat hostile relationship with the juge d’instruction Coméliau. This does not mean that the criminals of the Maigret texts go unpunished for their crimes. Maigret generally comes to an understanding of why a crime came to be committed (see the example of the old man Jean at the climax of Le Charretier de la Providence, analysed in chapter four), but more often than not the Commissaire does turn the individual over to receive justice, and thus good triumphs over evil and the previously established social order and convention are restored. This is reassuring for the reader, affirming a comforting world-view in which good will always triumph over the forces of evil. Bajomée suggests that the Commissaire’s reassuring nature is due in some way to the fact that he is a creature of habit.66 He says little, and does not easily get anxious or excited. He is faithful to his wife and never tempted by the prostitutes with whom he must often deal. He dislikes technological progress and is suspicious of any new invention. His needs are simple. The image built up is thus of a forgiving, trustworthy father-figure, a comforting character for the reader, based to an extent on Simenon’s own father. Indeed, the whole of the Maigret part of the œuvre, one might argue, is geared towards this feeling of ultimate reassurance and stability. Maigret is not infallible however – the conclusion of L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre, where one of the suspects solves the case, is testament to this - but such a quality adds to the appeal of the character. 64 Ibid., p.30. 65 Ibid. 66 Bajomée (2003), p.38. 101 Maigret is frequently invested with the characteristics of an animal, with Simenon employing verbs such as ‘renifler,’ ‘fureter’ and ‘sentir’ to depict his actions.67 Yet, the use of metaphor is rare in Simenon’s work, for metaphors detract from the linguistic neutrality for which the author aimed, but this makes the metamorphosis of Maigret into an animal all the more significant. It is appropriate, since he proceeds on the basis of instinct and experience rather than intellect. The general lack of rhetorical tropes, however, is evidence that Simenon aimed for a neutrality of writing style to depict reality, and this is appropriate in the light of the Commissaire’s (and Simenon’s) ‘recherche de l’homme nu.’ The greatest difference, then, between the two parts of Simenon’s œuvre is in their impact on the readership. Whereas the romans durs can leave the reader with the uncomfortable feeling that the needs of justice have not been fulfilled, the Maigret texts demonstrate an altogether more positive approach to the world, with good triumphing over evil and the redemption of the sinner. 4. CONCLUSION What relevance, then, have these insights for the translator of Simenon’s work? Syntactically, Simenon’s writing is uncomplicated, employing short phrases and clauses, often main clauses. In a similar vein, the novels are textually clearly structured, with two basic structures discernible – the Maigret and the roman dur – which are repeated through each section of the œuvre. Linked to this textual and syntactic simplicity is the notion of non-figurative lexis. These points are of importance to the translator, for Simenon’s work requires the straightforward, unadorned presentation of ordinary characters in their everyday milieu, the milieu of the petit bourgeois in which Simenon grew up, and thus to present to the target language reader a text that is syntactically and lexically complex, for example, would risk causing a clash between subject and vehicle. An element unique to the source – Simenon’s writing style – would be compromised or effaced. In order to depict the world and the human creature objectively, a neutral style is required. The largely non- figurative lexis makes the occasional metamorphosis of Maigret all the more striking; however, the translator must be mindful of the general absence of metaphor from the 67 Bertrand (1988), p.42. 102 œuvre, for figurative imagery detracts from the stylistic neutrality. Furthermore, the use of word systems, for example, in describing the weather, needs to be retained in translation, for these are essential in building up Simenon’s celebrated climat, found throughout his œuvre, and thus they are intertextually vital. Disregard for the word systems would entail an inappropriate degree of translation loss, as would the removal of the intrinsic verisimilitude. The latter is important in capturing the France of the time, and if this specificity is not retained, too high a degree of translation loss may result. In the light of the above examination of Simenon’s life and work, the position of the three source texts under consideration in this project in the scheme of the œuvre can be ascertained. A grasp of the contextual data should throw light onto the source texts. This will facilitate an increased understanding of what the translators have retained and lost in their work, and the reasons for their decisions. Having explored some of the contextual and cultural issues surrounding the Simenon œuvre, the study can now turn to the analysis of the translations. 103 CHAPTER FOUR TEXTUAL ANALYSIS: LE CHARRETIER DE LA PROVIDENCE 1. INTRODUCTION Simenon’s Le Charretier de La Providence,1 first published in 1931, is representative of the early part of the author’s career. With regard to plot, it follows a familiar structure, used by Simenon’s predecessors and successors (see chapter two): crime/problem, investigation and solution/resolution. Maigret is called upon to investigate the murder of a middle-class woman, whose body is found buried in the straw of a canalside stable. The enquiries take Maigret along the canals of the area, a world with which Simenon himself was familiar, as shown in chapter three. The protagonist investigates the suspects’ relationships with the dead woman and with each other, until he uncovers the truth. The text contains both familiar and less familiar elements from Simenon’s writing: on the one hand, the novel is not set in the Commissaire’s usual area of jurisdiction, Paris, and this results in the extensive use of canalling and nautical terminology; on the other hand, Maigret’s investigative method, for example, is consistent with the rest of the œuvre. There are four German versions of the text, and two translations into English; however, for reasons of space, only two of the German target texts will be examined in detail, along with both of the English translations. The German target texts are Harold Effberg’s Die Nacht an der Schleuse, from 1934,2 and Jutta Sonnenberg’s Maigret tappt im Dunkeln, from 1966.3 The English translations are an unattributed 1934 version, The Crime at Lock 14,4 and Lock 14 (1963) by Robert Baldick.5 Effberg and Sonnenberg’s translations were primarily selected because of their publication 1 Georges Simenon, Le Charretier de La Providence (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2003 [1931]). 2 Georges Simenon, Die Nacht an der Schleuse, translated by Harold Effberg (Berlin: Schlesische Verlagsanstalt, 1934). The date of publication is not included in the text; this is the date given in the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek online catalogue. 3 Georges Simenon, Maigret tappt im Dunkeln, translated by Jutta Sonnenberg (Munich: Heyne, 1968). First published (according to Sprick) in 1966. 4 Georges Simenon, ‘The Crime at Lock 14’ in: The Shadow in the Courtyard and The Crime at Lock 14, translation not attributed (New York: Covici Friede, 1934), pp.171-317. This seems to be a US English translation. 5 Georges Simenon, Lock 14, translated by Robert Baldick, originally published as Maigret Meets a Milord (London: Penguin Books, 1963); republished, with minor revisions (London: Penguin Classics, 2003). The 2003 edition is cited here. 104 dates, which produce a textual sample comprised of a 1934 translation in each language, and a translation from the 1960s in each language. The other German translations are M. Konrad’s 1948 Der Schiffsfuhrmann6 and Claus Sprick’s Maigret und der Treidler der >Providence<, first published in 1983.7 Only occasional reference is made to these translations for comparative purposes. Because this sample involves novels, in order to allow a detailed discussion of passages that manifest significant strategic problems, the textual analysis is inevitably selective. The passages in this chapter and subsequent chapters were chosen for their salient linguistic and cultural features: an expression may have a particular connotative meaning, for example, or may have a significant function at the discourse or intertextual levels. In short, the passages were selected to show a variety of types of translation loss primarily in terms of cultural and linguistic specificity. It would be possible to proceed by grouping types of translation loss together; however, this is not the method adopted here. Rather, the textual analysis follows the chronology of the plot. This approach has been taken for a number of reasons: it gives the reader the chance to follow the text, and allows the passages to be cited contextually. Moreover, in each passage, several cultural and linguistic features are often at work in combination, and breaking these up risks producing a discussion that is overly fragmented, and one that loses sight of the systems at work beyond the individual passages. The examination of translation loss will include reference to various factors: Cultural: references to the cultures of provenance of the source and target texts. Linguistic: language-specific problems. Prosodic: stress patterns of languages are examined at this level. Grammatical: concerned with the grammatical structure of languages, for example, the inflection of verbs and word order in sentences. 6 Georges Simenon, Der Schiffsfuhrmann, trans. M. Konrad (Vienna: Hammer, 1948). The date for this translation is given as 1948 on the copyright page of Sprick’s translation, but not on Konrad’s own translation. 7 Georges Simenon, Maigret und der Treidler der >Providence<, trans. Claus Sprick (Zurich: Diogenes, 2006 [1983]). 105 Lexical: word choices. Word systems are considered at this level. These, according to Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge, are series of words that ‘can be distributed in contrastive and recurrent patterns that signal or reinforce the thematic development of the text.’8 Sentential: relates to the formation of sentences as ‘complete, self-contained linguistic units.’9 Discourse: at this level, the way in which texts are created is considered. Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge draw particular attention to two factors: cohesion, ‘the transparent linking of sentences,’ and coherence, ‘tacit thematic development running through the text.’10 Intertextual: the links between a given text and other texts within a culture.11 Semantic: aspects of meaning. These can have various connotative forms. Varietal: the ‘type’ of language used. Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge define this as ‘the way the message is expressed.’12 This includes consideration of social register (style revealing the social function of the speaker or writer) and tonal register (the tone taken by them). This categorisation is based on Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge’s schema of textual filters,13 some of which is derived from linguistic theory.14 The methodology of Hervey et al. is appropriate in applying the integrated theory of translation, for, like this theory, it incorporates both linguistic and cultural/contextual concerns. 8 Sándor Hervey, Ian Higgins and Michael Loughridge, Thinking German Translation. A Course in Translation Method: German to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), p.59. 9 Ibid., p.233. 10 Ibid., p.68. 11 Ibid., p.69. 12 Ibid., p.100. 13 Ibid., p.227. 14 Ibid., p.37. 106 2. TEXTUAL ANALYSIS 2.1 Title The first strategic problem arises in the title, which risks translation loss at what Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge identify as discourse and intertextual levels. At the discourse level, Simenon’s own title is not entirely congruent with the narrative, in that the charretier of the title does not feature prominently. The narrative is more concerned with the English aristocrat Sir Walter Lampson and the inhabitants of the Southern Cross. The title is, however, indicative of the early stage of Simenon’s career, in that the source texts from this period do not follow the later formula of including the Commissaire’s name combined with another aspect of the narrative. This device reflects the formulaic nature of the Maigret corpus and the genre as a whole, and thus has a significant intertextual function. Effberg’s translation dates from 1934, and his title, Die Nacht an der Schleuse, reflects Simenon’s practice in the early period of his career, since it does not refer to Maigret. However, translation loss is incurred at the discourse level: the title is not strictly accurate, since more than a single night is described in the course of the narrative, and the murders themselves occur on two separate nights. Jutta Sonnenberg’s target text, on the other hand, dates from 1966, when Simenon was established as an author. Her title, Maigret tappt im Dunkeln, is more akin to those of the source texts that appeared at the time of the translation, taking Maigret’s name and a further aspect of the text. Loss thus occurs nonetheless at the intertextual level, for although by naming the Commissaire it echoes the later established pattern, it is very non-specific, in that it could apply to any Maigret novel: he always ‘gropes in the dark’ at the beginning of an investigation. Taking into account the fact that Simenon’s own title does not fully correspond with the narrative, an apt rendering of the title would be an adaptation of Sprick’s 1983 translation: Der Treidler der >Providence<, which involves transfer of the invariant semantic core, and retains the slight incongruity of the author’s own title. The contemporary translations (Effberg and the unattributed 1934 translation) and Baldick’s title, Lock 14, reflect the early publication of the source text.15 The unattributed translation’s title, The Crime at Lock 14, is problematic, because it 15 The original title of this translation, however, was Maigret Meets a Milord, which, like Sonnenberg’s title, is more akin to the titles of Simenon’s source texts of that time. 107 implies one crime will take place at the lock. A solution to this difficulty would be the removal of the definite article: Crime at Lock 14. A further possible alternative would be Murder at Lock 14. This minimises loss, because it preserves the specificity of the source text title and the narrative, whilst being intertextually appropriate for Simenon’s novels of the time. 2.2 Chapter Divisions A further general point merits note at the outset in relation to the discourse level. Where the other translators maintain Simenon’s chapter titles and structuring, Effberg omits the headings, and changes the chapter divisions, making the source text’s chapters into smaller entities and generally splitting where the source text has a line break to indicate a change of direction in the narrative. For example, chapters one to three of Effberg’s translation correspond to chapter one of the original and the other target texts. In terms of discourse, this entails inappropriate translation loss: the overall effect of the translation is of a more fragmentary narrative, with events seeming to occur at spaced intervals, rather than consecutively. The overall coherence of this translation would be improved if the original chapter divisions were retained, as has been done in the other target texts. The above issues relating to the titles and chapters are evidence of the need to translate contextually, taking account not only of ‘lower’ levels of Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge’s formal properties, but also of the ‘higher’ levels of discourse and intertextuality, as suggested in chapter one. 2.3 Passage Analysis QUOTATION I The novel opens: Des faits le plus minutieusement reconstitués, il ne se dégageait rien, sinon que la découverte des deux charretiers de Dizy était pour ainsi dire impossible. (p.7) 108 This passage is significant, in that it presents a concentration of salient contextual and linguistic features, which gives rise to a number of strategic problems at the sentential, intertextual, semantic and cultural levels. Effberg’s target text begins: Auch die nachträgliche, auf das genaueste vorgenommene Aufreihung der einzelnen Vorfälle führte zu keinem anderen Ergebnis als dem, daß der schauerliche Fund, den die beiden Fuhrleute von Dizy gemacht hatten, eigentlich in das Reich der Fabel zu verweisen war. (p.5) Sonnenberg opens her translation as follows: Auch bei sorgsamster Prüfung aller Tatsachen ließ sich aus ihnen nur ein einziger Schluß ziehen, nämlich der, daß die Entdeckung der beiden Fuhrmänner aus Dizy sozusagen unmöglich war. (p.5) The passage is significant at the sentential level, since it is designed to catch the reader’s attention by beginning in medias res. The reader is plunged straight into events, and is given more information gradually: the facts are mentioned before something of the mystery is revealed. The sentential sequence in the original thus shifts from the particular to the general, prefiguring the plot, and therefore having ramifications at the discourse level: moving from small details to more general conclusions about who committed the crime and why. Both translations follow the basic structure of the source text extract. However, in Effberg’s translation, the reference to ‘Vorfälle’ is delayed in the sentence, tempering the emphatic effect. The order is also important at the prosodic level: the stress in the French text falls at the end of the phrase, that is, on ‘impossible,’ marking this as the most important piece of information. Sonnenberg’s target text is also constructed in such a way that ‘unmöglich’ is towards the end of the sentence, placed in penultimate position, 109 immediately before the closing Verbklammer (verbal bracket),16 the finite verb form ‘war.’ (Conventionally, the penultimate position is where the most important piece of new information is placed in a subordinate clause in German). The discovery made by the two drivers17 cannot actually be ‘impossible,’ because, however surprising it may seem, it did take place, and, by placing the notion of apparent impossibility in penultimate position, Sonnenberg more effectively conveys the irony at work in the source text. Effberg’s decision not to place the information at the end of the passage incurs inappropriate translation loss at the semantic level, particularly in terms of connotative meaning: ‘in das Reich der Fabel’ is not only less explicit than Sonnenberg’s ‘unmöglich,’ and therefore less emphatic, it further adds an inappropriate supernatural element and subjectivity into the text, having connotations of myths and fairytales. Translation loss is thus also incurred contextually, in that figurative rhetorical devices such as this are not part of Simenon’s writing style, and references to the supernatural do not occur. However, Effberg’s translation can be understood intertextually, against the background of the system of native German- language detective fiction, where the supernatural does feature. In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Das Fräulein von Scuderi, for example, malevolent external forces appear to be at work.18 The murderer Cardillac’s actions are presented as being outwith his control: he explains he is the plaything of an evil star. Thus, though the supernatural may be considered inappropriate in terms of Simenon’s œuvre, it is found in German- language detective fiction. It is therefore not necessarily unexpected for the target audience, and this may explain Effberg’s idiom. Overt subjectivity is also found in ‘der schauerliche Fund,’ the translation of the source text’s neutral ‘la découverte.’19 Simenon’s authorial style is more matter-of-fact, as found throughout his œuvre, and potentially attributable to his early career as a journalist (see chapter two). Furthermore, the addition of ‘schauerlich’ tempers the effect of surprise achieved later, when the revelation of the nature of the drivers’ discovery takes place. 16 A.E. Hammer, Hammer’s German Grammar and Usage, revised by Martin Durrell (London/New York/Melbourne/Auckland: Edward Arnold, 1991; first published 1971), p.455. 17 ‘Driver’ is the term used in the unattributed 1934 English translation (see, for example, p.171, p.172 and p.173). Baldick’s chosen expression is ‘carter,’ which suggests one who drives carts, rather than barges. 18 E.T.A. Hoffmann, Das Fräulein von Scuderi (Cologne: Anaconda, 2007 [1818/1819]). 19 The supernatural and subjectivity are central to the writing of the German Romantic period. Hoffmann’s story dates from this period, and provides a foundational text for German detective fiction. 110 Admittedly, because of the formulaic character of detective fiction, the reader anticipates that a crime will have occurred; however, the popularity of the genre rests to some extent on the reader being able to suppress previous experience. The 1934 English translation runs: From the most meticulous reconstruction of the facts, no conclusion was possible other than that the discovery made by the two canal men of Dizy was, so to speak, impossible. (p.171) Baldick’s translation: Nothing could be deduced from the most minute reconstruction of the facts, except that the find by the two carters from Dizy was so to speak impossible. (p.1) In the unattributed translation, loss occurs firstly at the level of language variety, with regard to tonal register. ‘Meticulous reconstruction,’ in particular, manifests an increased degree of formality compared with the original. The loss of the authorial style is inappropriate, not least because the style contributes to the readability of a Simenon text. There may, however, be a contextual explanation for the decision motivating this translation. There is some precedent for formality in English-language detective fiction: in chapter two, it was shown that Poe and Doyle’s detective writing employed stylistic formality. These two writers are widely read, and as such the formality of their writing style may help shape an English-speaking target audience’s expectations, and this, in turn, may have acted as an influence (or a constraint) upon the translator.20 However, adopting this formal tonal register creates too great a degree of varietal and contextual loss, and thus it is preferable to retain instead the relative simplicity and informality of the source text. Lexical loss also arises in this translation, from the use of ‘possible’ and ‘impossible’ in very close succession. This weakens the sentential focus on ‘impossible.’ The apparent impossibility is the most significant piece of information 20 For a fuller examination, see above, pp.53-54 (Poe) and p.58 (Doyle). 111 in this extract; thus its undermining constitutes inappropriate loss. In order to preserve the sentential and lexical effect, a possible alternative would be ‘no conclusions could be drawn.’ At the semantic level, the translation contains an instance of generalisation: that is, the use of a hyperonym, or a term with a broader meaning than that of the source text expression, namely ‘canal men.’21 In this case, the loss of the source text specificity of ‘charretier’ is avoidable. The fact that the men are drivers is significant in the context of the plot: they are about to uncover the misdeed of one of their own kind. The irony of the situation is thus reduced in the target text, but would be preserved with the use of ‘drivers.’ In a similar vein, Baldick’s rendering is more formal than the original text, most obviously in the expressions ‘deduced’ and ‘the most minute reconstruction.’ The translation reads almost like a formal legal report, but Simenon’s style is relatively informal throughout his work, and is thus a crucial element in the reading experience of a Simenon text and its specificity. Again, the translation decision incurs avoidable loss at the level of language variety, which affects the contextual level, and would be minimised if the informal style of the original were to be preserved. Secondly, at the semantic level, it is questionable whether ‘minute’ is an apt rendering of ‘minutieusement.’ If Popovič’s transfer of the invariant core is applied here, a more felicitous translation of the source language expression would be ‘careful.’ ‘Minutieusement’ and the English ‘minute’ do not share a common semantic core, making ‘minute’ a faux ami. In any case, ‘minute’ generally collocates with ‘detail;’ thus the combination ‘minute reconstruction,’ creates further semantic loss. A more idiomatic English translation, that takes accounts of all of the above, would be: Even when the facts were carefully put together, no conclusions could be drawn, except that the discovery made by the two drivers from Dizy seemed somehow impossible. 21 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.79. 112 QUOTATION II The omniscient third-person narrator then outlines the events that took place before the ‘découverte’: A ce moment, il y avait dans le port, au-dessus de l’écluse 14, qui fait la jonction entre la Marne et le canal latéral, deux péniches à moteur avalantes, un bateau en déchargement et une vidange. Un peu avant sept heures, alors que commençait le crépuscule, un bateau- citerne, l’Eco III, s’était annoncé et avait pénétré dans le sas. (p.7) Here, strategic problems arise at the grammatical and discourse levels. The passage is also significant for its use of lexis from the canal and nautical semantic fields. Lexical loss should be minimised, for specificity here lies, firstly, in the creation of a word system (which is also a discourse-level issue, because it helps create cogency) that constitutes the major lexical element of the novel, and secondly in the relation of that word system to Simenon’s own biography, a contextual factor in translation.22 The corresponding paragraphs in Effberg’s target text run: In diesem Augenblick befanden sich in dem Hafen oberhalb der Schleuse Nr. 14, die die Verbindung zwischen Marne und dem Seitenkanal bildet, zwei zu Tal fahrende Motorboote, ein Kahn beim Löschen und eine leere Zille. Kurz vor sieben Uhr, als gerade die Dämmerung einsetzte, hatte ein Tankschiff, Echo III, seine Ankunft angezeigt und war in die Schleusenkammer eingefahren. (p.5) Sonnenberg translates as follows: Zu dieser Zeit befanden sich im Kanalabschnitt oberhalb von Schleuse vierzehn, die die Verbindung zwischen der Marne und dem Seitenkanal 22 See Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.59, for a more comprehensive explanation of word systems. 113 herstellte, zwei stromabwärts fahrende Lastkähne, ein Schiff, das seine Ladung löschte, und ein Schlackenräumboot. Bei einsetzender Dämmerung, kurz vor sieben Uhr abends, hatte sich ein Tankschiff, die ›Eco III‹, angemeldet und war in die Schleusenkammer eingefahren. (p.5) The first translation problem is grammatical: the use of the present tense finite verb ‘fait’ in the source text. This indicates the imparting of factual data, for a map can verify that the Marne and the secondary canal do meet here.23 Verisimilitude is thus created. Effberg mitigates potential loss by employing the present tense ‘bildet.’ The second difficulty occurs at the discourse level. The use of successive temporal markings builds a sense of tension that rises until it finds catharsis in the revelation of what the two drivers have found. It is therefore important, in terms of discourse, for the temporal markers to occupy the appropriate syntactic position and for the translator to maintain this syntax throughout the opening pages, so that the impression of a countdown is given. Effberg does this, beginning both paragraphs with explicit temporal markers. Semantically, an instance of mistranslation occurs in Effberg’s version, in the reference ‘eine leere Zille.’ The corresponding source text expression is ‘une vidange,’ which refers to a boat that clears debris from the bed of a stretch of water. Effberg’s translation implies an empty barge, which, despite being an item of technical vocabulary from the appropriate field, does not convey the invariant semantic core. The final point of interest in Effberg’s translation is the Germanisation of Eco III. This suggests a target audience bias, which results in unacceptable loss, because it effaces the specificity of the cultural otherness inherent in the name. Effberg’s strategy throughout normalises references with cultural values: the markers of difference found in the original are effaced where feasible. The fact that the text is a translation is thereby obscured.24 23 Charles Hadfield, The Canal Age (Newton Abbot/London/North Pomfret: David and Charles, 1981; first published 1968), p.187. 24 For a discussion of this type of issue, see Ovidi Carbonell, ‘Exoticism in Translation: Writing, Representation, and the Postcolonial Context,’ in: Isabel Santaolalla, ed., “New” Exoticisms. Changing Patterns in the Construction of Otherness (Amsterdam/Atlanta: Rodopi, 2000), p.57. 114 Sonnenberg deals with the strategic problem of tense by using a preterite form, ‘herstellte,’ which could be taken to imply that this is simply another piece of narrative, rather than fact, thereby entailing unacceptable grammatical loss. Effberg’s choice of the present tense form ‘bildet,’ therefore, is the more appropriate of the two. It transfers the invariant core, in this instance both semantic and temporal, giving an impression of factual authenticity. With regard to the discourse level problem, Sonnenberg does not place the second of the two temporal markers here in the most apt syntactic position. Rather than appearing in initial position, ‘kurz vor sieben Uhr abends’ falls in second place, and thus the sense of accumulating tension is lessened. This loss can be mitigated, as Effberg’s version shows. With regard to the lexical and contextual strategic difficulties, three terms from Sonnenberg’s translation merit careful scrutiny. These are ‘der Kanalabschnitt’ (‘le port’), ‘ein Schlackenräumboot’ (‘une vidange’) and ‘die Schleusenkammer’ (‘le sas’). Isolating the terms in this way may appear to go against the ethos of this project, but they will be considered contextually, that is, in the wider context of the novel and background culture, even if they are isolated from their immediate co-text. ‘Der Kanalabschnitt,’ is an instance of partially-overlapping translation.25 The French expression ‘le port’ implies a much larger construction, possibly with a city or large town built around it. The German ‘der Hafen,’ employed by Effberg, is similar, and both seem to suggest a stopping point on the coast rather than on an inland canal. Sonnenberg’s rendering is partially overlapping, in that it retains the reference to a stopping place for boats, loses the allusion to a larger construction and adds the explicit reference to the canal. The wider context of chapter and novel makes it clear that ‘coastal stopping point’ is not the meaning intended by Simenon, for the narrative is set in Champagne, a region entirely landlocked. Thus, of the two translations, Sonnenberg’s entails least loss semantically and contextually. ‘Ein Schlackenräumboot’ is given as a rendering of ‘une vidange,’ though the German expression does not appear to be in current usage. ‘Die Schlacke’ refers to cinders or, more generally, waste products. The semantic core of the verb ‘räumen’ is similar to those of the English ‘to vacate,’ ‘to clear,’ or ‘to shift.’26 The semantic core 25 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.83. 26 ‘Das Räumboot’ and ‘minesweeper’ refer to the same signifié. Native speaker informants consulted were unfamiliar with ‘Schlackenräumboot.’ It is not recorded in the Brockhaus Enzyklopädie, the Brockhaus-Wahrig Deutsches Wörterbuch or in Duden’s Das große Wörterbuch der deutschen 115 of the source language term (a boat that clears the canal bottom of debris) is transferred into German, which was not so for Effberg’s text; however, Sonnenberg’s lexical decision does not have quite the same implication of being an item of technical lexis, for the intelligent target text reader should be able to make a guess as to the signifié simply by breaking the word down into its constituent sense units. This loss at the level of register is regrettable, because of the degree of otherness and cultural specificity lost. A means of reducing loss in both Effberg and Sonnenberg’s target texts would be to employ ‘der Bagger,’ which, though not restricted to the nautical or marine semantic field, nonetheless looks like an instance of technical lexis, in that it cannot be divided into constituent sense units. This example illustrates the importance of co-text and context in translation, for the context in this case resolves any ambiguity in the reader’s mind: the whole novel is set on a canal, and the reference to ‘une vidange’ occurs at the end of a list of boats, and therefore the type of ‘Bagger’ in question, a dredger, not a digger, should be evident.27 The same is true for ‘die Schleusenkammer,’ used in both target texts as a rendering of ‘le sas.’ Once again, it could be said that the former is more explicit than the latter, for the semantic core of the former can be discerned from the constituent sense units. Both the French and the German terms refer to the lock chamber, and therefore the translators have transferred the invariant semantic core of the source language expression.28 The source language term ‘le sas,’ however, is not restricted to the nautical register. The expression also refers to the same signifié as the English word ‘sieve.’ Thus, whereas the translators’ choice is restricted to the nautical register, Simenon’s own word choice is not. As before, this is to the translators’ advantage, and compensates to a degree for Sonnenberg’s omission in other areas of the unfamiliar technical register of particular lexical items used by Simenon. The extract is rendered in the version by the anonymous translator as: Sprache, nor does it appear on the internet. Thus, one can infer that Sonnenberg has created a neologism. 27 Sprick uses the more explicit ‘der Baggerschiff.’ This avoids ambiguity, but looks less like an item of technical vocabulary. See Simenon/Sprick (2006), p.7. 28 The Duden Universalwörterbuch explains that ‘die Schleusenkammer’ is the ‘zwischen den Toren einer Schleuse […] liegende Kammer.’Duden Deutsches Universalwörterbuch (Mannheim/Leipzig/Vienna/Zürich: Dudenverlag, 2001). Le Petit Larousse Illustré 2000 (Paris: Larousse, 1999) defines ‘le sas’ as the ‘partie d’un canal comprise entre les deux portes d’une écluse.’ 116 At the time, there were in the little harbor around Lock 14 which forms the junction between the Marne River and the lateral canal, two motor boats headed upstream, a garbage barge, and a freight boat unloading its cargo. A little before seven o’clock, just as twilight was falling, a tanker, the Echo III, had sounded its warning horn and entered the lock. (p.171) Baldick’s translation of the same passage reads: At that time, in the port above Lock 14, which marked the junction between the Marne and the canal, there were two motor barges going downstream, one boat unloading, and a dredger. Shortly before seven o’clock, when dusk was beginning to fall, a tanker, the Éco III, had arrived and entered the lock. (p.1) The highest degree of loss in the earlier translation occurs at the semantic level. ‘Little harbor’29 has the same implications as Effberg’s ‘Hafen.’ The ‘port au-dessus de l’écluse 14’ seems in fact to be a length of canal at which boats can moor, a point recognised by Sonnenberg in her translation. The target text thus incurs inappropriate loss. In D.D. Gladwin’s The Canals of Britain, ‘canal pounds’ is used to refer to any stretch of canal between two sets of locks.30 However, adopting this terminology, which has the advantage of belonging to the apposite thematic semantic field, would not be without risk, since the referent might be obscure for the reader uninitiated in the canalling world. A further choice is ‘reach.’31 This is the more felicitous option, and indeed is used later by Baldick: unlike ‘pounds,’ the reader can infer the signified, especially if the English text reads ‘on the reach of the canal above Lock Fourteen.’ ‘Reach’ is preferable to the published translation, from both contextual/cultural and linguistic points of view, since it manifests a transfer of Popovič’s invariant semantic core, but also takes account of contextual and cultural issues, as discussed in chapter one. The target text reader is brought to an understanding without the loss of the source text’s specificity. 29 The American spelling is due to the fact that the translation was published in the USA. 30 D.D. Gladwin, The Canals of Britain (London: Batsford, 1973), p.30. 31 See Joyce M. Hawkins and Robert E. Allen, eds., The Oxford Encyclopaedic English Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991). Reach designates ‘a continuous extent, esp. a stretch of a river between two bends, or the part of a canal between locks.’ 117 ‘Two motor boats headed upstream, a garbage barge, and a freight boat unloading its cargo’ also contains instances of semantic loss. ‘Upstream’ does not convey the invariant core: the source text states that the motor barges are going downstream. ‘Vidange’ refers to a dredger; the target text’s ‘garbage barge’ is not only a mistranslation, it also loses the technical register inherent in the original term. These losses weaken the overall otherness of the source text. Baldick incurs loss at the level of formal properties, in relation to grammar: he employs a past tense, ‘marked.’ This reduces the specificity of the original novel: it lessens the implication of factual authenticity that Simenon creates throughout. In order to avoid this loss, the unattributed translation’s ‘forms’ is more appropriate. The cultural specificity is also diminished at the lexical and semantic levels. As is the case with the source language expression ‘le port,’ Baldick’s lexical choice ‘port’ suggests semantically something much larger and more industrialised than is implied in the source text descriptions. The source text suggests that there is in fact little to be found at Dizy. Again, employing ‘canal reach’ would reduce this loss. Finally, Baldick’s decision to omit the particularisation in the expression ‘le canal latéral,’ which he gives simply as the hyperonym ‘canal,’ is questionable. If a map of the network of canals and rivers in the Vitry-le-François area is consulted,32 it becomes clear that the Marne and the Canal de l’Aisne à la Marne come together to form the Canal de la Marne à la Sâone, which runs through Vitry-le-François on the way south towards the Sâone. The evidence all suggests that it is the larger canal that features in Le Charretier de La Providence. In addition Simenon writes: Tout à l’autre bout du canal, par-delà le plateau de Langres, que les bateaux escaladaient écluse par écluse et qu’ils redescendaient sur l’autre versant, la Sâone, Chalon, Mâcon, Lyon… (p.17) The canal in the novel therefore runs north to south, as does the Marne-Sâone canal. Thus, the junction to which reference is made seems to be the confluence of the Marne and the Aisne-Marne canal. The information is therefore verified as factual and is testament to Simenon’s meticulous attention to detail. Charles Hadfield speaks of the ‘Marne lateral canal,’ and it seems appropriate to adopt this technical terminology 32 Hadfield (1981), p.187. 118 into the target text, which would then read ‘the junction between the Marne and the lateral canal.’ Indeed, ‘lateral canal’ is the solution employed in the unattributed English translation, with the exegetic ‘River’ inserted after ‘Marne.’33 In this instance, then, it is clear that, in order to minimise loss at the semantic level, contextual and cultural factors should be taken into account. QUOTATION III As well as the Eco III, another boat arrives: A sept heures vingt, La Providence était arrêtée en face du Café de la Marine, derrière l’Eco III. Les chevaux rentrèrent à bord. Le charretier et le patron se dirigèrent vers le café, où se trouvaient d’autres mariniers et deux pilotes de Dizy. (p.8) The significance of this section lies in its overt cultural specificity. Otherness is manifested in the French names, and, lexically, in the use of technical terms. These elements embed the text in its French context, as well as relating the text to Simenon’s life. Effberg renders the passage as: Es war sieben Uhr zwanzig, als die Providence angesichts des Schleusen- Cafés hinter Echo III festmachte. Die Pferde wurden an Bord genommen. Fuhrmann und Schiffer begaben sich in das Café, wo sich noch anderes Schiffsvolk und zwei Lotsen aus Dizy befanden. (p.6) Sonnenberg’s version: Um sieben Uhr zwanzig hatte die ›Providence‹ gegenüber vom Café de la Marine hinter der ›Eco III‹ festgemacht. Die Pferde wurden an Bord geführt. 33 Simenon (1934-unattributed translation), p.171. 119 Der Fuhrmann und der Besitzer des Kahns steuerten auf das Lokal zu, in dem sich schon andere Schiffer und zwei Steuermänner aus Dizy befanden. (p.6) Effberg has again adopted a strategy of cultural normalisation, using the communicative translation ‘Schleusen-Café’ for ‘Café de la Marine.’ This entails unnecessary loss, because it reduces the French specificity of the source text lexis, eroding the overall cultural impact. In order to reduce the loss, it seems more apt to employ Sonnenberg’s strategy and retain the French expression, which accounts for both linguistic and cultural/contextual factors. Cultural normalisation through use of communicative translation such as that employed here appears to be the strategy adopted by Effberg throughout. Suggestions can be offered for why this is so. Translators are often bound by constraints, such as their own educational background, publishers’ requirements, the prevalent literary conventions of their time and culture, or, indeed, because of the political climate in which they are working. It is possible that, given that his translation appeared in 1934, Effberg effaces French cultural references because of the events taking place at the time he was translating: Germany in 1934 was witnessing the rise of extreme German nationalism under Hitler. This is speculative, but it would explain the systematic reduction of the specificity of the French cultural otherness, and would account for the translator’s strategy, or what may have been interventions from the publisher or censor. Such political and social pressures constitute the type of contextual and cultural constraints that come to bear on the translator, discussed at the end of chapter one. The translation of the lexical item ‘le patron’ also merits inspection. The French term has two distinct semantic cores, having the senses of both English words ‘captain’ and ‘owner.’ The split semantic core is problematic for the translators, who have to particularise. Sonnenberg’s choice and that used in the unattributed English translation imply possession (‘Besitzer’ and ‘owner’) whereas both Effberg and Baldick’s suggest captaincy (‘Schiffer’ and ‘skipper’ respectively, though the German term can have the broader meaning of a bargee34). The ‘patron’ of the barge is, in fact, both: ‘Quant à La Providence, dont le patron était propriétaire […].’35 This resolves both linguistic and contextual issues, giving the translator the answer to the question of which semantic core to select. Effberg and Baldick recognise that, at this stage, a 34 This is the term adopted by Baldick (for example, pp. 9-11 and pp.50-51). 35 Simenon (2003), p.16. My emphasis, JLT. 120 lexical item pointing towards captaincy rather than ownership is appropriate, thus Sonnenberg’s target text would be better served either with ‘der Schiffer’ or indeed ‘der Kapitän,’ the latter being employed by Sonnenberg in the later explanation. Likewise, the 1934 English version would be more apt if ‘skipper’ was used at this point. If a term indicating captaincy is not employed here, the later clarifications are incongruous. It is, therefore, only by examining the broader systems of chapter and text that the translator can adequately render ‘le patron.’ The issue is also testament to the fact that, in translation, linguistic and contextual factors cannot be divorced, and thus an integrated approach incurs least loss. In the later German translation, ‘die Steuermänner’ conveys the invariant core, despite being a particularisation of the source language correspondent ‘pilotes,’ the latter having aeronautical and automotive meanings in addition to the nautical semantic field, whereas the German expression, it seems, can only be used within the nautical domain.36 An alternative to ‘die Steuermänner’ is ‘die Lotsen,’ the term adopted by Effberg. Unlike the French signifier, this cannot be used to refer to one who pilots an aeroplane, though it can be employed to denote navigator (within a car) or air traffic controller. Yet ‘die Steuermänner’ is a characteristic choice by Sonnenberg, for, like her other choices, it displays an explicitness not manifest in the source text.37 ‘Die Lotsen,’ an alternative, is ambiguous; that is to say, the semantic core cannot be gleaned from constituent sense units. Conversely, the fact that Simenon, throughout this novel, uses technical language is important from a contextual perspective. At the time of writing, Simenon was living aboard his own canal boat, and so the use of language from a particular semantic field is significant. The text may be seen as less simenonien than other, later, novels, written as it was in 1931, at the beginning of Simenon’s career as a novelist.38 The formula he developed later is not yet established. It could be postulated, from the fact that she uses less obscure formulations throughout, that Jutta Sonnenberg translated in the light of Simenon’s wider œuvre. On this point one cannot be certain, though given that Sonnenberg’s target text first appeared in 1966, towards the end of Simenon’s writing career, it is a distinct possibility. 36 Brockhaus-Wahrig Deutsches Wörterbuch (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt/Wiesbaden: F.A. Brockhaus, 1984). 37 This increased explicitness is typical of the German language more generally, according to Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.67. 38 For the biographical context of this, see the survey in chapter three. 121 The 1934 English target text reads: At seven-twenty, the Providence was tied up opposite the Café de la Marine, behind the Echo III. The horses were taken back on board. The driver and the owner directed their steps towards the café, already well filled with other rivermen and two pilots from Dizy. (p.172) The later English translation runs as follows: At twenty past seven the Providence was moored in front of the Café de la Marine, behind the Éco III. The horses were taken on board. The carter and the skipper made for the café, where there were some other seamen and two pilots from Dizy. (p.2) Here, the unknown translator’s strategy is paradoxical. The decision to retain ‘Café de la Marine’ is appropriate: it is both comprehensible to the target readership and preserves the cultural specificity of the source text. However, the Anglicisation of Echo III reduces the cultural otherness, as is the case in the 1934 German version. Where Effberg maintains a strategy of cultural normalisation throughout, for which there may be clear socio-political reasons, the 1934 English translation is inconsistent in its retention of cultural specifics. In order to minimise the loss it would be more apt to preserve the French spelling. Cultural loss is thus minimised at the grammatical level. In both translations, the use of the lexical item ‘pilots’ is apt, referring to a boat’s pilot. This reflects Simenon’s use of the particular canal register. However, the first association for the contemporary Anglophone reader is likely to be one who captains an aircraft (though, perhaps, not for the original readership of the 1934 English-language version). Whether a contemporary reader interprets a term correctly depends on the individual’s level of education or sphere of knowledge. If the reader does not understand the polysemic nature of ‘pilot,’ the meaning from the aeronautical domain seems most likely to be selected. Admittedly, however, finding aircraft pilots in a canalside inn in the middle of nowhere would be incongruous, but if the reader does not possess the required cultural knowledge, they may interpret the 122 text in a particular way with no further thought. This would entail unnecessary loss, in that structure created by the use of terminology from the technical semantic field is eroded. Similarly, further loss of cultural specificity in Baldick’s target text arises at the semantic level. In the phrase ‘[…] there were some other seamen and two pilots from Dizy,’ the term ‘seamen’ poses a problem, in that it contains some undesirable reflected meaning from the morpheme ‘sea,’ and Lock Fourteen, as previously indicated, is not near the coast. In any case, ‘seamen’ is too general, since the driver and the barge-owner are not really sailors (a possible interpretation of ‘seamen’), but barge dwellers. Use of ‘barge dwellers,’ ‘barge folk,’ or ‘bargees’ would reduce semantic loss. QUOTATION IV Early the following morning, the two drivers prepare their horses to leave, and make their ‘découverte’: a body has been hidden under the straw. At this stage, the narrative line returns to the temporal point of departure of the novel, and the protagonist is presented to the reader: Le commissaire Maigret, de la Première Brigade Mobile, était en train de récapituler ces faits en les plaçant dans leur cadre. (p.10) Here, the translators are faced with the cultural specificity of lexical items from the French criminal justice system, which also occurs throughout the œuvre; lexical and cultural loss would reduce the specificity of the reference to France’s justiciary in the 1930s, as well as diminishing the vraisemblance. The passage also introduces Maigret’s preferred method of investigation, which is fundamental to the Maigret novels. Particularly significant in this area is the use of the preposition en. Effberg chooses to render the paragraph as follows: Der Kommissar Maigret von der ersten Kriminalbereitschaft war dabei, diese Geschehnisse der Reihenfolge nach festzulegen und sie untereinander in Beziehung zu bringen. (p.10) 123 Sonnenberg’s translation reads: Kommissar Maigret von der Pariser Kriminalpolizei erstattete zusammenfassend über diese Tatsachen Bericht. (p.7) On the cultural level, specificity lies in ‘Première Brigade Mobile.’ In order to translate this in such a way as to minimise loss, knowledge of the history and composition of the French police force is key. When the Police Judiciaire was created by Georges Clemenceau, the then French Minister for the Interior, in 1907, it was arranged into twelve ‘brigades régionales de police mobile.’39 Number one of these mobile brigades was based in Paris. Whereas Effberg does convey the invariant semantic core here, the cultural colouring is again normalised. A direct cultural borrowing of the French title with no exegesis would be inadvisable, since this risks confusion on the part of the German-speaking reader. Similarly, a literal rendering would be problematic, for the resulting calque entails greater translation loss at the cultural level – the calque would not refer to the French justiciary; however, it would reduce loss in terms of cultural contamination (avoiding using a German cultural expression in the French context). The retention of the French title, with Sonnenberg’s translation as exegesis, is the most apt solution, giving ‘[…] von der Première Brigade Mobile, der Pariser Kriminalpolizei.’ This preserves the cultural specificity of the source text, while also explaining the reference to the German-language reader. Another problematic issue is Effberg’s use of ‘und’ between ‘festzulegen’ and ‘sie,’ a grammatical transposition that incurs contextual loss. The use of the conjunction implies that the two actions – going over the facts and putting them into their physical context – are distinct. In fact, Maigret reviews the facts within the surroundings in which they took place, signalled in the source text by the use of ‘en.’ This is evidence of the Commissaire’s preferred working method: engaging with a case by visiting where events occurred, where the participants in the drama lived and worked. Therefore, the appropriate rendering of a single preposition is significant, when viewed against the background of the wider work. This supports Susan 39 ‘La Police Judiciaire à travers 90 ans d’histoire,’ from http://www.interieur.gouv.fr/rubriques/c/c3_police_nationale/c332_dcpj. Accessed on 27 February 2006. 124 Bassnett’s statement that individual lexical items cannot be translated in isolation, as outlined in chapter one. An alternative that shows the simultaneity of the two actions is given below. In Sonnenberg’s translation, the claim that Maigret ‘erstattete zusammenfassend über diese Tatsachen Bericht’ results in semantic and contextual loss, in that it does not capture the fact that Maigret is attempting to ‘absorb’ the milieu; that is, put these facts into context. Over the next few pages of the novel, the Commissaire learns about the canal, wanders around without any apparent goal, and recreates the scene of the discovery in his imagination. Sonnenberg’s text implies that he is making a summary report of the facts given over the previous few pages. The omission of the recreation of the crime scene and absorbing of the milieu entails unacceptable loss, since the specificity of Maigret’s investigative technique throughout the œuvre is reduced. The Commissaire’s working methods mirror those of his creator: Simenon was famed for his meticulous research into the milieus adopted as settings for his novels, and for sketching out entire background histories for his protagonists, in order that they might be credible. Simenon thus transfers some of his own characteristics onto Maigret. Sonnenberg’s translation does not take adequate account of these contextual factors, nor does it properly manifest the invariant core of the source text statement, whereas Effberg’s translation shows a more apt transfer of the core. Sonnenberg’s rendering of this passage appears to be more a substitution than a genuine translation, and this results in translation loss on a variety of levels. Using the principles of the integrated theory would mitigate this loss. The following is proposed as an alternative German translation: Kommissar Maigret von der Première Brigade Mobile, der Pariser Kriminalpolizei, war dabei, diese Tatsachen in der Kanalumgebung zu durchdenken. Similar cultural issues arise in the English-language target texts. The earlier translation is as follows: Inspector Maigret, of the Paris Judiciary Police, was in the process of recapitulating these facts and setting them in order. (p.174) 125 Baldick renders the extract: Chief-Inspector Maigret of the Flying Squad was recapitulating these facts and putting them in their context. (p.3) The first cultural item that poses a strategic difficulty is ‘commissaire,’ which both translators render using terminology from their own cultures: ‘Inspector’ and ‘Chief- Inspector’ respectively. This raises the problem of how best to render culture-bound lexical items that nevertheless have an approximate corresponding term in the target culture. The two solutions in the published translations are inappropriate, because police ranks between the cultures involved do not match exactly. As noted in the biographical survey in chapter three, Simenon himself entered into the debate about how best to render ‘commissaire’ into the target language. His own preference was for ‘inspector,’ as chosen by the unknown tranlator. 40 This lexical choice effaces the French cultural colouring, resulting in avoidable loss. Instead, in order to preserve the element of culturally-specific otherness, it seems preferable to retain the source language term. There are, however, two problems with employing such a strategy: firstly, it introduces exoticism not present for the source text reader; secondly, the title may be obscure for the target audience. However, the charge of unwarranted exoticism is countered by the fact that ‘commissaire’ is culturally specific, and the basic meaning (namely that it is a police officer’s title) can readily be gleaned from the context. The exegetic addition of ‘police’ before the first appearance of ‘Commissaire’ reduces loss by providing an explanation for the reader. The literal rendering in each version entails varietal-level loss, in that the translations are more formal in style than the original French, though the semantic core has been transferred. The issue of formality must be addressed, because Simenon used an informal, everyday style, reflective of the subject matter and the protagonist, with his down-to-earth character and simple pleasures. This is an element of the overall specificity of Simenon’s writing, and loss should be minimised. Therefore, it is arguable that the less formal ‘going over/through these events’ is preferable to ‘recapitulating these facts,’ found in both translations. 40 Pierre Assouline, Simenon: biographie (Paris: Julliard, 1992), p.413. See also p.83 above. 126 With regard to the 1934 version specifically, it can be seen that ‘recapitulating these facts and setting them in order,’ like the earlier German translation, again separates out the two actions rather than making them simultaneous. Additionally, semantic loss arises in the second phrase ‘setting them in order.’ This is because the expression is not congruent with Maigret’s method of investigation as outlined in subsequent paragraphs: as explained above, the Commissaire proceeds on instinct and emotion, and the anonymous translator’s choice implies a clinical, almost scientific methodology, similar to the approaches taken by Dupin and Holmes, as suggested by the examination of these characters in chapter two. An alternative solution that reduces the semantic loss, and the resulting contextual loss, is suggested below. In Baldick’s target text, a further instance of loss at the level of culture arises. This occurs because ‘Flying Squad’ is adopted as a rendering of ‘Première Brigade Mobile.’ This produces a cultural incongruity in the text, by alluding specifically to the armed robbery branch of the Metropolitan Police, based in London, and thus the connotative meaning is British. It is inappropriate in the context of a description of the French criminal justice system and police force in the first half of the twentieth century. Additionally, the semantic core is not carried over to the translation in ‘Flying Squad,’ in that this unit deals with cases of armed robbery. An alternative that encompasses both linguistic and cultural factors is the 1934 translation’s ‘Paris Judiciary Police,’ which transfers the invariant semantic core, does not cause a cultural incongruity, and reduces cultural loss by referring explicitly to Paris. A further solution that minimises loss at the cultural level is ‘Parisian Police Judiciaire.’ Furthermore, Baldick’s ‘putting them in their context’ is stilted, and a more pertinent rendering, in both English-language translations, would be ‘by examining/familiarising himself with the surroundings in which they took place.’ This is less concise than the source text, but it reduces loss at the level of context by reflecting Maigret’s investigation of the physical surroundings. Moreover, the use of ‘by’ in the alternative is significant. As was the case with Effberg’s translation and the unattributed version, Baldick’s use of ‘and’ makes the two events seem distinct, where the source text’s ‘en’ suggests that the actions are interdependent. 127 QUOTATION V Maigret’s method of investigation is then elaborated: Depuis une heure qu’il était là, le commissaire n’avait songé qu’à se familiariser avec un monde qu’il découvrait soudain et sur lequel il n’avait en arrivant que des notions fausses ou confuses. L’éclusier lui avait dit: — Il n’y avait presque rien dans le bief: deux moteurs avalants, un moteur montant, qui a éclusé l’après-midi, une vidange et deux panamas. Puis le chaudron est arrivé avec ses quatre bateaux… Et Maigret apprenait qu’un chaudron est un remorqueur, qu’un panama est un bateau qui n’a ni moteur ni chevaux à bord et qui loue un charretier avec ses bêtes pour un parcours déterminé, ce qui constitue de la navigation au long jour. (p.11) The passage not only familiarises the reader with Maigret’s investigative method, it additionally provides information about the life of the canal. Lexical translation decisions here are impacted by, and have an impact on, the contextual and cultural levels. Maigret’s investigations say much about his character throughout the corpus; the canalling terminology gives a technical dimension to the text and relates to Simenon’s own experiences, adding to the specificity of the text (see chapter three). Additionally, Maigret’s position here is similar to that of the reader, in that he has little understanding about the life and workings of the canal, and thus the jargon used is as obscure to him as to the reader. This is advantageous for the translator, since explanations are given in the French text for the unfamiliar terminology, thus providing a strategy that assists the reader’s comprehension. Effberg translates: Die ganze Stunde seit seiner Ankunft hatte der Kommissar an nichts weiter gedacht, als sich in eine unbekannte Welt einzuleben, die sich ihm plötzlich auftat und über die er bisher nur eine falsche oder sehr verwirrte Kenntnis besaß. 128 Der Schleusenwart hatte ihm erklärt: „Im Becken befand sich fast gar nichts: zwei talabwärts fahrende Motorboote, ein bergauffahrendes, das nachmittags durchgeschleust wurde, ein Leerkahn und zwei Panamas. Dann kam der Kochkessel mit seinen vier Booten.“ Und Maigret wurde dahin belehrt, daß mit Kochkessel ein Dampfer, und mit Panama ein Boot bezeichnet wird, das weder Motor noch Pferde an Bord hat und sich daher für eine bestimmte Reise einen Fuhrmann mit seinen Tieren mietet, eine besondere Art der Schiffahrt auf lange Strecken. (p.11) Sonnenberg’s translation of this passage runs: Die eine Stunde, die er bisher an Ort und Stelle verbracht hatte, war von Kommissar Maigret zunächst darauf verwandt worden, sich mit der fremden Welt vertraut zu machen, in die er so plötzlich versetzt worden war und über die er nur falsche und verworrene Vorstellungen hatte. Der Schleusenwärter hatte zu ihm gesagt: »Auf dem Wasser war nicht viel los. Zwei Lastkähne, die stromabwärts fuhren, einer flußaufwärts, der am Nachmittag die Schleuse passiert hatte, ein Schlackenräumboot und zwei Panamas. Dann ist noch der Schlepper mit seinen vier Kähnen gekommen.« Durch den Schleusenwärter erfuhr Maigret, was ein Schlepper war und daß es sich bei einem ›Panama‹ um einen Kahn handelte, der weder einen Motor hatte noch Pferde zum Treideln an Bord mitführte und deshalb für bestimmte Strecken einen Treidel-Fuhrmann und seine Pferde mietete. (p.8) Grammatically, in the phrase ‘il découvrait soudain,’ Simenon makes Maigret the subject. However, the statement in Effberg’s translation that Maigret is trying to immerse himself in an unknown world ‘die sich ihm plötzlich auftat’ again insinuates that an external force is affecting events: the world is the subject. This is not appropriate, for the Simenon œuvre rarely, if ever, suggests the existence of external forces. The loss on the grammatical level renders the Commissaire impotent, and thus retention of the protagonist as the phrase’s subject is more appropriate. The lexical decisions here contribute to the word system, which is a fundamental cohesive element in the text. Firstly, ‘Becken,’ while at least giving the 129 appearance of being an item of specialised technical vocabulary, nevertheless does not properly transfer the invariant, suggesting more the idea of the English geographical term ‘basin’ than ‘stretch of canal.’ A possible alternative is ‘die Wasserhaltung,’ which conveys the invariant semantic core appropriately and is accepted terminology within the semantic domain. It would be more fitting in Sonnenberg’s translation, since its meaning is derivable from the constituent semantic components, which is in line with many of Sonnenberg’s solutions elsewhere. Secondly, Effberg renders ‘une vidange’ as ‘ein Leerkahn.’ The constituent sense units in the German term would again appear to suggest an empty barge (like ‘leere Zille’), rather than a dredger. For this reason, it would be more apt to use ‘der Bagger’ as before. The alternative is appropriate since it is also an item of technical vocabulary, which would nevertheless be comprehensible to the target reader. More problematic, however, is Effberg’s translation of ‘le chaudron’ as ‘der Kochkessel.’ Whether this is a colloquial expression or technical term for a tug is not clear. The explanation for ‘der Kochkessel’ given in the final paragraph of this passage is a mistranslation: Effberg suggests that in using ‘Kochkessel,’ the lockkeeper is referring to ‘ein Dampfer.’ This does not convey the invariant semantic core of ‘remorqueur,’ or tugboat, but refers instead to a steamboat. A more apt translation, for reasons outlined below, is ‘Bugsierer.’ The last clause in the source text, ‘ce qui constitue de la navigation au long jour,’ is translated by Effberg as ‘eine besondere Art der Schiffahrt auf lange Strecken.’ Because this is problematic at the semantic level, in that the French is unclear, it is difficult to determine whether the German is appropriate; however, the target language expression is less obscure than its source language counterpart. The later German translation employs passive constructions in place of the original’s active forms. This grammatical transposition has the contextual effect of making the German Maigret appear to be at the mercy of external forces. The use of the passive could be construed as appropriate in light of what is said of his investigation over the following few pages: the Commissaire does not seem to have any idea of how to proceed with his inquiries, and wanders around in a semblance of aimlessness. Sonnenberg may also have chosen to make Maigret more passive because of his lack of previous knowledge of the canal domain. Alternatively, it may be that the translator’s choice has been influenced at the intertextual level, determined to some degree by existing German-language detective fiction. Here, one can draw a 130 parallel between Simenon’s writing and the work of Friedrich Dürrenmatt, which is discussed in more detail in chapter two. The latter’s detective Bärlach is portrayed in Der Richter und sein Henker and Der Verdacht as being passive and physically impotent.41 In the second of these novels, the detective, physically paralysed by his stomach cancer, is at the mercy of the murderer Emmenberger, until the giant Gulliver rescues him. Despite the protagonist’s paralysis, the author uses active verb forms. Maigret is depicted as actively discovering the canal world for the first time, rather than being a passive figure, as manifested in Simenon’s use of the active voice. Therefore, as before, the active voice would be more appropriate in this German translation. Secondly, with regard to the lexical decisions at the level of technical register, Sonnenberg errs on the side of transparency, using generalisation to render ‘le bief’ as ‘das Wasser,’ where, as suggested above, ‘die Wasserhaltung’ could also have been employed. In this instance, only a very broad semantic core has been transferred by Sonnenberg, but this does not result in too high a degree of loss. The term ‘panama’ is carried over untranslated into the German target text (but given an upper-case p, in line with German spelling convention), an acceptable decision given that the expression is explained in the following paragraph. However, rendering ‘le chaudron’ as ‘der Schlepper’ incurs loss at the level of language variety (‘chaudron’ being nautical slang), because ‘der Schlepper’ is a term that would require no explanation for the German reader, so that the phrase beginning ‘Durch den Schleusenwärter erfuhr Maigret, was ein Schlepper war […]’ seems odd. A more fitting solution should be found, since, in the source text, it is not necessarily the case that Maigret does not comprehend the signifié, but rather that he does not understand its slang signifiant. Indeed, in light of Maigret’s place of upbringing, it seems unlikely that the Commissaire would be unfamiliar with the concept of a tug. In the Mémoires, Maigret explains that he was born near Moulins on the Allier River and went to school in Nantes, a port on the Loire estuary. Thus, when viewed contextually, Sonnenberg’s lexical choice seems questionable. A potentially preferable solution would be to employ the alternative ‘der Bugsierer’ in the lockkeeper’s statement, and have the explanation read as ‘Durch den Schleusenwärter erfuhr Maigret, dass mit Bugsierer ein Schlepper gemeint wird […].’ Using ‘der Bugsierer’ is advantageous in that it is 41 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Der Richter und sein Henker/Der Verdacht (Zürich and Cologne: Benziger, 1952/1953). 131 unique to the nautical or marine register, whereas ‘der Schlepper’ can be used in other technical registers.42 Furthermore, ‘Panama’ is explained in the lockkeeper’s testimony, and constitutes another example of explicitness in Sonnenberg’s translation: in the target text explanation, the translator adds ‘zum Treideln’ to ‘Pferde,’ whereas the source text has the unembellished ‘chevaux.’ The splitting is appropriate, since it is implied in the original. Finally, unlike Effberg’s target text, no attempt is made to render ‘[…] ce qui constitue de la navigation au long jour.’ This may well be because the meaning of the source text expression is obscure. The unknown translator renders the passage: Since he had arrived an hour ago, the inspector had applied himself to becoming acquainted with this world he had suddenly discovered and about which he had previously had only false and confused notions. The lock-keeper had told him: ‘There was very little in the canal—two motor boats going upstream, and one, which came through the lock in the afternoon, going down. Then there was a garbage barge, and two Panamas. And the boiler that came in with four barges in the evening….’ By patient questioning, Maigret discovered after a while that a boiler is a tow- boat, and that a Panama is a boat without either motor or horses and which hires a driver with his animals for the duration of a trip. (pp.174-175) In Baldick’s target text, the extract reads: During the hour that he had been there, the chief-inspector had thought of nothing but of how to familiarize himself with a world which he had suddenly discovered and about which, on his arrival, he had only vague, mistaken ideas. The lock-keeper had told him: ‘There was hardly anything in the canal reach: two motor barges going downstream, one motor barge going upstream which made the lock in the 42 Bugsierer is marked in both Duden’s Das große Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache and the Brockhaus-Wahrig deutsches Wörterbuch exclusively as Seemannssprache. 132 afternoon, a dredger, and two Panamas. Then the kettle arrived with her four boats…’ And Maigret had learnt that a kettle is a tug, and that a Panama is a boat which has neither an engine nor any horses on board but hires a carter with his horses for a given distance, an operation known as ‘getting a snatch.’ (p.4) The beginning of the earlier translation of this passage entails loss at the varietal matrix. The statement that Maigret ‘had applied himself to becoming acquainted’ with the canal world is too formal, and incurs contextual loss: when viewed against both the style of the source text and the greater scheme of the totality of the Maigret texts, this increased formality appears misplaced, because the style of the source text reflects the personality and characteristics of the protagonist, as suggested in chapter three, thus the style should be neither too formal nor too informal. In addition, the statement is more in keeping with the character and investigative methodology employed by Sherlock Holmes, which are detailed in chapter two. The informal style is also an integral feature of the Simenon corpus, and enhances the specificity of the author’s writing. This illuminates the difficulty posed when attempting to render the particular style of a given author. Baldick’s solution minimises loss in this regard. Additionally, ‘There was very little in the canal,’ as well as being unidiomatic and giving rise to grammatical loss owing to the literally translated ‘in,’ results in an imbalanced text: the expression implies boats at anchor, whereas the list following the colon describes a scene that is primarily one of movement. The same is true of Baldick’s version at this stage. The thrust of the German target texts is thus preferable, and so an English translation along the lines of ‘There wasn’t much happening/much activity on the canal’ is perhaps more desirable. Loss would therefore be minimised if the translators adopted a more communicative strategy. Mistranslation is again present in the unattributed translation: this is true in the translation of the directions (‘avalant’ and ‘montant,’ which the unknown translator confuses) and in the rendering of ‘vidange’ (‘garbage barge’). Loss thus occurs at the semantic level, and more particularly, in terms of literal meaning. Admittedly, the first two mistranslations do not greatly impact on the readability of the novel; the question thus arises as to whether these incur serious translation loss. For those able to verify target texts, however, it does call into question the credibility of the translator. The semantic loss resulting from the mistranslation of ‘vidange,’ on the other hand, is 133 inappropriate, for it erodes the technical register that helps create verisimilitude and coherence in the novel. That said, the use of ‘boiler’ does preserve to some extent the element of technical slang that the lockkeeper is adopting. The term has the appearance of being slang for ‘chaudron’; whether this is genuinely the case is debatable.43 The generally objective nature of Simenon’s writing is also weakened by the addition of ‘by patient questioning’ and ‘after a while.’ These additional details cannot be derived from context; thus the particularisation is inappropriate and unnecessary. With regard to lexical and semantic issues in the later English version, the repetition of ‘motor barge’ is cumbersome and unnecessary; a simplified ‘two motor barges going downstream, one heading upstream’ would be more suitable. In addition, the lockkeeper refers to the ‘kettle,’ a rendering of the French ‘le chaudron.’ Whether ‘kettle’ is, in fact, a slang signifiant for the vessel referred to by ‘le chaudron’ is unclear. Context clarifies the allusion, for the term is explained in the following paragraph. However, a more felicitous rendering would be to use ‘tug’ in the first instance, and use ‘towboat’ as the explanation. This, however, would entail loss at the level of register, because ‘tug’ is drawn from standard English. Alternatively, ‘tub’ is an item of informal jargon, but it would constitute an example of partially- overlapping translation, because it retains the reference to a small boat, loses the specific allusion to a tug, and adds the impression of an old vessel.44 Arguably, the context negates any ambiguity. Finally, Baldick’s translation of the passage ends with an attempt to render the obscure source text expression (omitted in the 1934 version) ‘la navigation au long jour’: ‘an operation known as “getting a snatch.”’ Whether this is an authentic English idiom in this context is not clear. The inverted commas suggest that it may be a term coined by Baldick, though it is difficult to be certain. It has the advantage of being explained to some extent for the reader, since it is linked to the hiring of driver and horses by ‘an operation known as […].’ The idiom results in further semantic loss in terms of reflected meaning, since the lexical item ‘snatch’ has incongruous sexual connotations. That said, the term can be found in the nautical semantic domain: it is explained as a ‘fairlead with a spring across its mouth to 43 Slang terms for ‘tug’ were sought in A Dictionary of the World’s Watercraft. From Aak to Zumbra (London: Chatham, 2001) and Peter Kemp, ed., The Oxford Companion to Ships and the Sea (London: Oxford, 1976), as well as on the internet. No suitable terminology was found. 44 It is similar to the German ‘Pott,’ which is used by Sprick (p.11). 134 prevent slippage of the rope.’45 However, whether this is the meaning intended by the author is not derivable from the context. The French is obscure, and Baldick attempts to mitigate loss by employing the exegetic ‘operation known as […].’ QUOTATION VI Later, an expensive yacht appears on the canal. The Commissaire interviews its debauched owner Sir Walter Lampson, husband of the victim, and his companion Willy Marco. Maigret also questions the three inhabitants of the Providence. These events are then followed by another murder. Prior to this second tragedy, the atmosphere in the inn is described: C’était morne et lourd. Dehors, une péniche s’était rangée à moins de deux mètres du Southern Cross dont tous les hublots étaient éclairés. (p.79) This quotation is significant when examined in the context of the corpus. As observed elsewhere, the creation of climat is a core aspect of Simenon’s writing. Sentential, lexical and semantic decisions within the context of the creation of atmosphere have repercussions at the levels of discourse and culture. This echoes Bassnet’s discussion of the interconnectedness of textual and contextual systems within texts, as outlined in chapter one. Effberg suggests: Es herrschte eine düstere, trübe Stimmung. Draußen hatte sich ein Kahn in weniger als zwei Meter Entfernung von dem Kreuz des Südens hingelegt, dessen Bullaugen hell erleuchtet waren. (p.86) Sonnenberg renders the passage as: 45 Peter Whitlock et al., The Country Life Book of Nautical Terms Under Sail (Feltham: Country Life Books/London: Hamlyn, 1978), p.05.03. A ‘fairlead’ is ‘any fixture used to lead a rope in a required direction.’ 135 Die Stimmung war dumpf und trübsinnig. Draußen hatte ein Lastkahn in nicht mehr als zwei Meter Entfernung neben der ›Southern Cross‹ angelegt, deren Bullaugen alle erleuchtet waren. (p.57) At the beginning of this passage, both translators make sentential decisions that incur loss. In this case, however, the translation loss is appropriate, for reasons of comprehension and expectation on the part of the reader. The target texts make explicit that it is the atmosphere in the inn that is ‘morne et lourd.’ It appears, then, that the cultural expectations for explicitness differ between source and target languages. The invariant core of meaning of this example is not affected by translating in this way, because the additional information can be derived from the context. The issue of explicitness is to some extent a matter of cogency, an area examined by Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge, who observe that: […] what counts for normal, rational cogency in texts of a certain type in one culture may give the appearance of lack of cogency or excessive fussiness to members of another culture, so that a TT that reproduced point-for-point the discourse structure of the ST, and did not reorganize it in the light of the TL, might appear stilted, poorly organized or over-marked to a TL audience. So, for instance, it is more common in German than in English for texts to be explicitly structured by punctuation and by the use of connectives […] that signpost the logical relationships between sentences.46 The volume is concerned with German and English, but the point could equally apply to German and French. An English-language text can afford to show the same level of explicitness as the original, since the target audience does not expect a particularly high level of explicitness. On the other hand, both German translations conform to target culture expectations of greater explicitness. Examining Effberg’s translation specifically, it can be noted that his lexical choices ‘düster’ and ‘trüb’ result in loss at the semantic level, since these terms have semantic cores that are too close to each other to be used to full effect in this context. Lexical items suggesting, on the one hand, mood, and on the other hand, the idea of a 46 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.67. 136 heavy atmosphere, would be more appropriate. Retaining ‘trüb’ as a marker of mood, the atmospheric conditions could be evoked by ‘schwül,’ the lexical choice made by Konrad in his translation of the novel.47 Loss is thus minimised at the semantic level, for the two distinct meanings are retained, and also at the level of context, since the significance of the climat is also preserved. The second point of note regarding Effberg’s target text is his translation of the name of the yacht, which is English in the source text: the Southern Cross becomes the Kreuz des Südens. This is consistent with the translator’s practice of cultural neutralisation throughout the text, which, as previously suggested, may be the product of contemporary issues in 1930s Germany. It entails substantial, and avoidable, loss, in that the cultural specificity of the source text name is effaced, and thus all English cultural connotations. The English name contributes to the creation of foreignness that the aristocrat and his entourage bring to the canal, and is therefore ‘other’ in the source text. Effberg’s lexical selection diminishes this double-faceted cultural specificity, thereby weakening a fundamental theme in the narrative. In order to reduce this cultural and contextual loss, it is appropriate to consider the preservation of the original English title. If a foreign-language term is significant in context, depending on its function, a translator should consider its retention, or compensate for the loss in kind. The anonymous translator renders: The weather was still dreary. Outside, a small boat had tied up less than two yards away from the Southern Cross. The portholes of the yacht were all illuminated. (p.228) The later English translation reads: It was gloomy and close. Outside, a barge had moored less than six feet from the Southern Cross, whose port-holes were all lit up. (p.49) 47 Simenon/ Konrad (1948), p.61. 137 The translation decision at the beginning of this extract in the 1934 version again incurs semantic loss, in that ‘The weather was still dreary’ is unnecessary, and inappropriate, particularisation: unnecessary, because the English-language reader does not require an increased level of explicitness (see above), and inappropriate because it is the atmosphere in the café that is ‘morne et lourd.’ The description of the atmosphere adds to the overall structure of climat, which itself is a constant feature of the Maigret corpus and central to the œuvre’s specificity. In this way, Baldick’s translation of the sentence is more suitable. QUOTATION VII The atmosphere described, the narrative resumes. The second tragedy is revealed: the body of Willy Marco has been found in the canal. The excitement draws onlookers: A l’arrière-plan, il y avait des gens qu’on n’avait pas vus arriver, le conducteur du petit train, des terrassiers, un paysan dont la vache suivait toute seule le chemin de halage. (p.83) The significance of this passage lies in the fact that it illustrates the repercussions of the murder (or lack thereof) on the wider world. The first German target text reads: Im Hintergrunde hatten sich unbemerkt Leute angesammelt, der Lokomotivführer des kleinen Arbeitszuges, die Erdarbeiter, und ein Bauer, dessen Kuh verlassen den Leinpfad weiterwanderte. (p.90) Sonnenberg’s translation runs: Inzwischen waren noch mehr Menschen herbeigekommen: Der Fahrer der Feldbahn, Arbeiter und ein Bauer, dessen Kuh ihm gehorsam wie ein Hund den Treidelpfad entlang folgte. (p.60) 138 In the earlier target text, the increased explicitness resulting from the exegesis in the expression ‘der Lokomotivführer des kleinen Arbeitszuges,’ is an instance of particularisation. This is appropriate given that the additional information, namely, that the train is used for work purposes, is derivable from context.48 In addition, Effberg’s choice of ‘Erdarbeiter’ as the translation for ‘terrassiers’ is apt, in that it conveys the semantic core of an individual excavating or digging. In Sonnenberg’s translation, the invariant semantic core is not fully transferred from the source text, except in the references to the train driver, canal workers and the farmer with his cow, and the literal fact that more people have arrived. It also omits the fact that these individuals emerged unseen in the background. The greater problem with the later German translation occurs at the end of the paragraph: ‘ein Bauer, dessen Kuh ihm gehorsam wie ein Hund den Treidelpfad entlang folgte.’ In the source text, the farmer has stopped to watch events unfolding at Lock Fourteen, and his cow carries on along the towpath by herself. In the translation, the farmer does not stop. This mistranslation involves significant loss, because the source text shows that the world of the human community has been disrupted, while nature is unaffected. In Sonnenberg’s translation, the fact that the farmer continues undermines the source text image, which demonstrates the all-encompassing, repulsive fascination of the crime. This illustrates the significance of the invariant semantic core: insufficient transfer of the core has far-reaching effects on the context, in this case, diminishing the otherness and impact of the murder. The following suggested alternative compensates for the loss entailed in the German translations, incorporating elements of both: Im Hintergrunde waren unbemerkt noch mehr Menschen herbeigekommen: Der Fahrer des kleinen Arbeitszuges, Erdarbeiter und ein Bauer, dessen Kuh allein den Treidelpfad entlang folgte. As with Sonnenberg’s version, the 1934 American translation contains mistranslation: 48 See Simenon (2003-Le Charretier), p.13, where the train is described as ‘un petit train Decauville’ that ‘allait et venait dans un chantier.’ See also the definition of particularisation from Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), pp.82-83. 139 People had appeared in the background, their arrival unperceived by the first- comers on the scene – a few ditchdiggers, workmen, and a peasant whose cow followed the towing-path all by herself. (p.231) Baldick translates: In the background there were people nobody had seen arrive: the driver of the little train, some navvies, and a peasant whose cow went on following the towpath by herself. (pp. 51-52) Firstly, the unattributed target text contains sentential loss. This is because the order is illogical. The ‘few ditchdiggers, workmen, and a peasant’ appear to be the ‘first- comers,’ rather than those who came later, as suggested in the source text. Employing ‘Some people had appeared unseen in the background’ would reduce the loss. Secondly, the list itself incurs semantic loss, which occurs from the omission of the reference to the driver of the Decauville train and the substitution of this for ‘a few ditchdiggers.’ Whether this loss is serious is open to question, though, as before, it does cast doubt on the credibility of the translator. Further semantic loss arises from the use of ‘peasant’ in both translations, since this has a pejorative attitudinal meaning.49 ‘Peasant’ originally merely meant someone who worked on the land, but in modern usage the term is pejorative.50 Arguably, the most apt solution open to the translator is ‘peasant-farmer.’ This denotes one who works on the land and, in addition, the use of the two terms in conjunction counters any inappropriate connotations that could arise if used individually: for example, the pejorative connotation of ‘peasant,’ or the possible implication for some British readers of high status in ‘farmer.’ 49 See the Collins English Dictionary: ‘1a. a member of a class of low social status that depends on either cottage industry or agricultural labour as a means of subsistence […]. 2. Informal. a person who lives in the country; rustic. 3. Informal. an uncouth or uncultured person.’ 50 See The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology. The term comes from Old French, originally meaning ‘one who lives in the country and works on the land.’ The French paysan, with which ‘peasant’ shares an etymological root, simply denoted a ‘homme d’un pays’ in the Middle Ages – see Oscar Bloch and Walther von Wartburg, Dictionnaire étymologique de la langue française (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1991 [1932]). Similarly, the German ‘Bauer’ is explained in Kluge’s etymological dictionary as Landmann – see Friedrich Kluge, Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1989 [1883]). 140 In the later target text, the invariant core has been transferred, and thus the basic narrative has not been altered, but loss results from adjustments in language variety. The specificity of the French cultural context is reduced where Baldick adopts ‘navvies.’ This is a British-English expression, and thus creates a cultural incongruity. The term is more informal than the source language ‘terrassiers,’ and refers to a labourer who works on a building or other excavation site.51 Because the action is set on a canal, connotations of building sites or excavations would be inappropriate in a translation, as would the cultural transposition: in other words, the allusion to a British cultural phenomenon in a French context. A possible alternative that avoids unwarranted cultural loss or semantic connotations would be ‘canal workers.’ QUOTATION VIII Maigret sets off, now with two murders to solve, to find the Providence. He questions Jean, the driver. The interview is terminated when the barge enters the lock: D’habitude, on n’ouvre les quatres vannes d’une écluse que l’une après l’autre, petit à petit, afin d’éviter les remous qui pourrraient casser les amarres du bateau. (p.137) As with quotation VI, this passage helps create the climat of the narrative, though in a different way. The sentence helps create the verisimilitude of the novel, not least due to the use of the present tense of the verb ouvrir. The grammatical decision thus has contextual ramifications, building tension that prefigures the tragic event about to occur. Effberg offers: 51 Collins English Dictionary (Glasgow: HarperCollins, 1998 [1979]) gives ‘Navvy: Brit. informal. a labourer on a building site, excavations, etc.’ The etymology of navvy, however, reveals that its original semantic value is appropriate to the context: ‘labourer employed in the excavation and construction of earthworks. XIX. colloq. abbrev. of NAVIGATOR used in this sense (XVIII), prop. one who constructs a “navigation” or artificial waterway (cf. F. canal de navigation),’ from The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, ed. C.T. Onions (Oxford: Clarendon, 1966). 141 Für gewöhnlich werden die vier Klappen einer Schleuse ganz langsam eine nach der anderen geöffnet, um zu verhindern, daß der eintretende Strudel die Landetaue des Bootes zerreißt. (p.156) Sonnenberg translates: Normalerweise öffnete man die vier Kammern der Schleuse nur langsam und nacheinander, damit keine zu starke Strömung entstand, die das Schiff von seinen Haltetauen losreißen konnte. (p.101) The interest at the contextual level arises from the fact that Simenon incorporates his first-hand knowledge into the text, as shown in chapter three, in the examination of the author’s nautical interests. The factual aspect of the passage is signalled by the use of the present tense, designating a procedure that happens habitually. Here, then, the tense can be seen to form part of the invariant, and the translator should retain the idea of the habitual and the factual. Effberg’s use of the present tense does convey the factual aspect of the subject, helping create a sense of verisimilitude and pointing towards Simenon’s personal circumstances at the time. Effberg’s translation decision thus sees transfer of the invariant, in this instance, grammatical rather than semantic. By taking this strategic decision, contextual loss is also minimised, in that the sense of building tension is preserved. Similarly, Effberg’s lexical choice, ‘die vier Klappen,’ sees a transfer of the invariant core, but it can be applied to other semantic fields, and thus a degree of the technical, factual aspect, which helps build the vraisemblance, is lost. There exists, however, a technical German term that refers to the sluice gate: ‘das Schütz.’52 The choice of this expression would ensure that the technical register manifest in ‘les vannes’ is not lost. Sonnenberg’s translation also incurs loss. The use of the finite verb form ‘öffnete,’ while conveying the semantic core, results in loss at the grammatical level, since the imperfect tense is usually employed in reporting actions or events in the past. Since Simenon otherwise uses the past tense throughout, his use of the present 52 See Brockhaus-Wahrig deutsches Wörterbuch. ‘Das Schütz’ is the ‘ bewegliche Vorrichtung an Wehren u. Schleusen, um den Wasserdurchlauf zu regeln.’ Konrad employs a more explicit form: ‘Wasserschützen’ (p.108). 142 here is striking, and by employing the imperfect, Sonnenberg diminishes the effect of factual authenticity, and so the use of the present tense would have been more appropriate. The same is true for ‘entstand.’ In addition, ‘pourraient’ expresses the conditional or the possible, and the corresponding form in German would be the subjunctive ‘könnte.’53 However, Sonnenberg again employs an imperfect form, ‘konnte,’ thereby losing the hypothetical aspect suggested in the source text. With regard to the semantic level in Sonnenberg’s translation, Popovič’s core has been conveyed, with the possible exception of the first clause. This is because the target text suggests that the lock has four chambers, rather than four gates. ‘Die vier Schleusentore’ or ‘die vier Tore der Schleuse’ are possibilities, requiring no explanation for the reader, and are compatible with the level of cogency otherwise preferred by Sonnenberg throughout her translation. In order to minimise loss in terms of the technical register, as suggested above, a more appropriate lexical choice is ‘das Schütz.’ Robert Baldick’s translation runs: Usually the four sluices of a lock are opened only one after another, little by little, to avoid the wash which might break the boat’s mooring ropes. (p.89) On the grammatical level, ‘are opened,’ also used in the unattributed translation, appropriately indicates the habitual nature of the action. The conditional ‘pourraient’ is also rendered by the English conditional ‘might’ in Baldick’s translation, manifesting a note of uncertainty. It can thus be seen that Baldick transfers not only the semantic core but also temporal and modal aspects. However, sentential loss is incurred, owing to the inelegant style in the first clause. A better rendering in terms of idiomaticity, which reduces sentential loss, might be: ‘Usually, the four sluice gates of a lock are opened slowly, one after the other […].’ Alternatively, the unattributed version also minimises loss: 53 This is used in Konrad’s translation, p.108. 143 Usually, the sluices of a lock are opened little by little, one after the other, so as not to allow too great a rush of water to enter the chamber at once and so risk breaking the mooring lines of the boat. (p.275) QUOTATION IX The Providence54 then slips into the lock, and its driver falls into the water after it. Whether this is intentional or not is never clarified. After being crushed between the boat and the lock wall, he is recovered, unconscious, from the water. He is taken to hospital, where the owner of the barge and his wife beg to see him. The wife cries: — Laissez-moi le voir…Même de loin!…Il faisait tellement partie du bateau! Elle ne disait pas de la famille, mais du bateau, et peut-être était-ce plus émouvant? Son mari s’effaçait derrière elle, mal à l’aise dans un complet de serge bleu, le cou maigre dans un faux col en celluloïd. (p.145) Crucial in the Maigret corpus are relationships. These frequently hold the solution to the mystery, in addition to providing much of the human interest in the stories. This passage forms part of that system, making explicit the relationship dynamics at work in this novel and in the corpus as a whole. The main difficulty for the translators here lies in part in how to deal with the pronominal usage, as correspondence in this area between languages is often approximate. The more general problem of translation of pronouns is addressed in chapter six. Effberg engages with these issues as follows: „Lassen Sie mich ihn sehen! Nur von weitem! Er war doch ein Stückchen von unserem Schiff!“ 54 Not the Madeleine as the source text and Sonnenberg’s translation suggest. According to the end of chapter seven, it is the Providence’s turn to go through the lock, and in any case, chapter seven also suggests that the Madeleine is nowhere near this lock. The mistake raises the question of whether the translator should rectify obvious errors in the source text. If the error is clearly unwitting on the part of the author, then the answer is probably that the translator should make a correction, as Effberg and Baldick have done. 144 Sie sagte nicht von der Familie, sondern vom Schiff, und vielleicht war dies noch rührender. Ihr Mann verschwand völlig hinter ihr, wenig glücklich in seinem blauen Anzug, der magere Hals in einem Zelluloidkragen. (pp.166-167) Sonnenberg offers: »Lassen Sie uns doch mal zu ihm. Damit wir ihn wenigstens von weitem sehen können. Er gehört doch zum Schiff.« Sie sagte nicht: »Er gehört doch zu uns«, sondern »zum Schiff«, und das war besonders erschütternd. Ihr Mann verkroch sich hinter ihr. Man konnte ihm ansehen, wie unbehaglich er sich in dem blauen Anzug fühlte und in dem Zelluloidkragen, der den mageren Hals eng umschloß. (p.107) In the source text, the use of ‘partie’ implies that the driver is part of the physical fabric of the vessel, an essential component of it, rather than being a family member. This connotative meaning is retained in Effberg’s lexical choice ‘Stückchen,’ and thus contextual loss is minimised. Both translators incur cultural loss by omitting the reference to ‘serge.’ In the Middle Ages the production of hybrid fabrics, known as serges, was widespread in France.55 The term thus has clear cultural connotations. Additionally, the lexical choice functions in the source text to show Canelle’s low social standing. Since both the French connotation and the indication of social class are significant cultural details, a German translator could employ ‘der blaue Sergeanzug,’ context pointing towards the fact that serge is a fabric. While not preventing translation loss entirely, since the reader may not recognise the French connotations, the strategy does minimise loss by retaining the implicit reference to class. Hortense Canelle is closer to the old driver than her husband, who is an altogether passive figure, and remains in the background for the most part. Sonnenberg’s translation of the woman’s words does not take account of this. The fact 55 See John H. Munroe, ‘Medieval Woollens: Textiles, Textile Technology and Industrial Organisation, c.800-1500,’ in: David Jenkins, ed., The Cambridge History of Western Textiles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p.184. 145 that Simenon writes ‘laissez-moi’ is contextually significant within the system of the text, as Susan Bassnett, and Eugene Nida, would attest: to translate smaller systems without taking due regard for the systems of context and culture will result in inappropriate translation loss, as suggested in chapter one. Furthermore, Popovič’s invariant semantic core is not transferred, through the omission of the overt reference to herself. The use of the first person singular pronoun at a moment when her husband is by her side is striking in the source text, and functions to highlight the relationship between the woman and the driver, alienating the husband. The reference is also significant within the system of Simenon’s own life and the wider corpus: the domineering female figure is a frequent presence, and, as suggested in chapter three, echoes Simenon’s mother, though in this case the character’s personality also has softer aspects. Thus, significant grammatical, semantic and contextual loss would be minimised here if the first person plural pronouns were to be replaced with first person singular pronouns. Lastly, Sonnenberg’s ‘erschütternd’ (‘émouvant’) suggests a traumatic emotional reaction, whereas the source text lexical item does not have such violent connotations. Effberg’s choice, ‘rührender,’ is thus more apposite. Contextual loss arises in the unattributed translation: ‘Please let us see him! Even if we can only peep in the door! He was so much a part of the boat!’ She did not say ‘of the family’ but ‘of the boat.’ Maigret did not doubt that for these people, that phrase had a greater significance. Her husband held himself back behind her, self-effacing and timorous, ill at ease in a blue-serge suit, his thin neck sticking out of a celluloid collar. (p.282) Linguistic and cultural/contextual issues raised by this extract are generally appropriately rendered by Baldick: ‘Let me see him!…Even if it’s only from a distance…He was so much part of the boat…’ She did not say ‘of the family’ but ‘of the boat,’ and perhaps that was even more touching. 146 Her husband stood shyly behind her, ill at ease in a blue serge suit, his scraggy neck enclosed by a celluloid collar. (pp.94-95) In a similar fashion to Sonnenberg, the use of the pronouns ‘us’ and ‘we’ in the unattributed target text results in inappropriate grammatical loss, which has contextual ramifications that are outlined above. The loss would be reduced in the English- language text, as is true in the German translation, if first person singular pronouns are adopted. The specificity of Maigret’s character is rather diminished in the target text sentence: ‘Maigret did not doubt that for these people, that phrase had a greater significance.’ The loss is primarily semantic, since in the source text, it is the Commissaire who is moved by Mme Canelle’s word choice. Baldick’s translation decision reduces this loss. Contextual loss also arises in the earlier translation, with the unnecessary addition of ‘self-effacing and timorous’ to describe the husband. This does not take account of contextual factors: M Canelle is an insubstantial figure in the narrative, and the exegesis gives him more substance, bestowing characteristics upon him that are not given in the source text. The translator’s use of ‘ill at ease’ is thus sufficient in this context. As with the German versions, the question of how to reduce the loss of the socio-cultural connotations inherent in ‘complet de serge bleu’ again arises. Some form of exegesis, for example, by adding ‘rough’ to the translations’ ‘blue serge suit’ would minimise loss by keeping the cultural allusion: ‘rough’ suggests cloth worn by the lower classes, and ‘serge’ preserves the French connotations.56 Thus, the invariant linguistic core can be transferred, with due account taken of cultural and contextual factors. QUOTATION X Maigret returns to the hospital the following morning to find the man has absconded. The Commissaire appears initially to be at a loss as to the course of action to be undertaken: 56 In the unattributed translation, the hyphen between ‘blue’ and ‘serge’ is superfluous. 147 Maigret tourna un moment en rond dans le jardin, comme un cheval de cirque, et soudain, soulevant le bord de son chapeau melon en guise de salut, il se dirigea vers l’écluse. (p.149) As with the previous extract, this passage is notable for its use of an item with strong cultural connotations: the ‘chapeau melon.’ This raises the problem of how to translate the term for a cultural item that has different connotative meanings in different cultures. Effberg’s translation reads as follows: Maigret lief einen Augenblick rund um den Garten wie ein Zirkuspferd, aber plötzlich nahm er, indem er seinen steifen Hut lüftete, Richtung auf die Schleuse. (p.173) Sonnenberg renders this as: Wie ein Zirkuspferd ging Maigret einmal im Kreis herum, dann lüftete er den Hut und verließ den Garten. Er lenkte seine Schritte zur Schleuse. (p.111) Before the translators’ decisions can be examined, the culture-specific associative meaning for the source culture needs consideration. In the Histoire de France en bandes dessinées: de la révolution de 1848 à la IIIe République and Valerie Steele’s Paris Fashion. A Cultural History, the bowler hat, in the France of the Third Republic (in other words, pre-Maigret, but not pre-Simenon), is a symbol of prosperity, or of desire for prosperity. Steele shows a 1913 plate of an elegantly-dressed couple, with the male sporting a medium-length coat accessorised with spats, cane, and bowler hat.57 This ensemble suggests that the gentleman is at least middle-class. There is a similar image in the Histoire de France en bandes dessinées, as well as a cartoon of 57 Valerie Steele, Paris Fashion. A Cultural History (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), p.231. The term used here is ‘bowler hat,’ despite the English cultural connotations, because the only alternative in English is ‘derby,’ which has American cultural colouring. 148 Britain’s King Edward VII complete with bowler hat.58 The volume also contains an illustration of a nationaliste in a plain suit and bowler being arrested, though it is difficult to be certain whether he is of the middle class or not.59 For the most part, however, the bowler hat in France appears to have been symbolic of wealthy middle- class power. Two terms exist for this type of hat in German: ‘die Melone,’ which has a Latinate root, and ‘der Bowler,’ which is a cultural borrowing from English. To employ either of these lexical items would entail too great a degree of translation loss, for, in each case, and despite the Latinate root of ‘Melone,’ both terms have British associative meanings, and would create a cultural incongruity in the target texts. Unsurprisingly, then, neither of these solutions is used in either translation: Effberg selects ‘der steife Hut’ and Sonnenberg adopts ‘der Hut.’ While these lose the French cultural specificity, they nonetheless minimise cultural loss by avoiding unwarranted cultural connotations. In terms of class association, Effberg’s selection incurs least loss through the use of compensation in kind: the exegetic ‘steif.’ This retains the stiffness of ‘chapeau melon,’ giving the item more of a sense of prestige than Sonnenberg’s lexical choice. The anonymous translator renders the extract: He was circling the little garden like a circus horse, his eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly, he lifted his derby hat vaguely to the little group and strode off in the direction of the lock. (p.286) Baldick’s translation runs: Maigret walked round and round the garden for a while like a circus horse, and suddenly, touching the brim of his bowler hat by way of farewell, he set off for the lock. (p.98) 58 Histoire de France en bandes dessinées: de la révolution de 1848 à la IIIe République (Paris: Larousse, 1978), p.994 and p.997. 59 Ibid., p.995. 149 Briefly, the unattributed rendering again raises the semantic-level issue of exegesis: the explicit allusion to the ‘little group’ is appropriate particularisation, because this information can be inferred from the context in the source text. The invariant semantic core of the original can thus be seen to have been transferred. However, the addition of ‘his eyes fixed on the ground’ is questionable: this is not suggested by the source text. The cultural and contextual importance of the reference to Maigret’s headwear and the need for appropriate lexical decisions on that basis were outlined above. Baldick’s lexical selection in this regard is ‘bowler hat.’ An examination of the origins of this item shows its British cultural connotations: Rural life was responsible for many of the new styles just coming into the male wardrobe. The bowler hat invented by Mr. Bowler for William Coke of Leicestershire, who wanted a low, hard hat for riding, widened its appeal. In 1860 the Windsor cricket team, with Lords Paget, Berkeley and Skelmersdale, sported low-crowned bowler hats with the club colours as the hatband […].60 It thus has its origins as an item of upper-middle class or aristocratic apparel, as suggested by the upper-middle and upper class pursuits of horse-riding and cricket. Later, however, Christopher Breward associates an alternative connotation with the bowler hat: In his novel To London Town of 1899, Arthur Morrison alluded to the encoding of a bowler hat with connotations of workshop etiquette, and the observation of a hierarchical order that was easily fractured by inappropriate display, stating that ‘it was the etiquette of the shop among apprentices that any bowler hat brought in on the head of a new lad must be pinned to the wall with the tangs of many files; since a bowler hat, ere a lad had four years of service, was a pretension, a vainglory and an outrage.’61 60 Diana de Marly, Fashion for Men: An Illustrated History (London: Batsford, 1985), p.102. 61 Christopher Breward, The Hidden Consumer. Masculinities, Fashion and City Life, 1860-1914 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), p.211. 150 As in French, then, this hat is a marker of status within a class hierarchy. However, Baldick’s use of ‘bowler hat’ creates a cultural clash, because of the strong English/British connotations of ‘bowler.’ Two further solutions would be possible: firstly, ‘derby hat,’ the term found in the 1934 translation, which transfers the invariant semantic core but has inappropriate American colouring, creating a cultural incongruity; the second alternative would be the generalising, neutral ‘hat,’ which avoids unwanted cultural connotations, but loses the prestige and French associations inherent in ‘le melon;’ in other words, it loses any cultural specificity. In the end, it is revealed that Jean is guilty of both murders, and he crawls home to the Providence to die. 3. CONCLUSION Le Charretier de La Providence, then, provides an engaging challenge to the translator, because it contains many features that give rise to a range of translation problems. The main manifestations of cultural specificity derive from Simenon’s evocation of the canal life in early-1930s France. In addition, there are numerous allusions to ranks within the French police force and criminal justice procedure in the text. Because these particular semantic fields appear in other Maigret novels, for reasons of space they will be dealt with in chapters five and six. This does not imply that the cultural specifics relating to criminal justice are less important than the issues addressed above – on the contrary, the allusions to criminal justice are arguably the most striking instances of cultural specificity and otherness, and they will be accorded due attention. The novel also exemplifies a range of instances of linguistic specificity, where texts in German or English behave differently and different solutions to linguistic difficulties have been found, in particular with regard to connotative meaning. Effberg’s version employs a generally exegetic strategy. He uses inappropriate subjectivity, where Simenon tends towards a more objective style. The introduction in places of a supernatural undercurrent is not apposite, though in the wider system of the German literary tradition, it may be understandable, and compatible with target culture reader expectations. As the issue with the temporal markers demonstrated, Effberg does seem to translate with an eye on the rest of the novel; however, cultural 151 loss is incurred, where French cultural connotations are effaced. There may be historical reasons for this, namely the rise of German nationalism under Hitler. Jutta Sonnenberg’s translation deals with issues of linguistic specificity by employing a translation strategy that makes explicit what the source text merely implies. This constitutes the greatest shift in this translation. In addition, details are omitted in certain passages and there is evidence of a degree of disregard for what Popovič calls the invariant semantic core. There are, furthermore, areas where Sonnenberg appears to lose sight of the systems of chapter, complete text, contextual background and cultural background. However, her use of an appropriate tonal register indicates an awareness of the need to translate with an eye on the greater picture. The unattributed translation manifests a combination of Effberg and Sonnenberg’s strategies. There is some evidence of cultural normalisation, though not to the same extent as Effberg; additionally, the translator makes extensive use of exegesis, although, unlike Sonnenberg’s version, in some cases this is unnecessary for an English-speaking audience, for Anglophones, as shown above, do not always expect the same level of explicit detail as a German-speaking readership. Some of these exegetic formulations are also mistranslations; mistranslation is also evident in the nautical semantic field. It is thus difficult to state definitively where this translation falls in terms of the integrated theory, since it favours different aspects at different stages. Robert Baldick’s target text tends towards the linguistic end of the integrated spectrum, resulting in a literal translation that is generally rather too formal in style, as was the case in the unattributed version. Baldick also makes certain cultural transpositions that clash with the French setting and diminishes the sense of cultural specificity. He does, however, generally pay close attention to the nautical register. Most translation decisions here, then, are apparently influenced by contextual and cultural issues. This is not to say that there are no target language constraints acting upon translators. Here, the language factors acting upon the translation decisions include the tendency of German to add explicit detail that is only implicit in the source text (evidence of German’s tendency to concretise); German’s propensity towards compounding, as shown by Sonnenberg’s use of overtly ‘germanicised’ vocabulary; and the problem of hyponomy and hyperonomy between languages, exemplified in the ‘patron’ example. The issue of language constraints will be 152 addressed more fully in chapter six, when linguistic factors are examined, in order to draw some conclusions about the comparative features of the languages involved. The translators under consideration here have thus dealt with the specificity of the source text and culture in various ways. They all incur some form of translation loss: some of it inevitable, some unnecessary. The latter results where an aspect of the translation process is favoured at the expense of other elements: for example, in Effberg’s case, the cultural specificity of the source, namely, the French colouring, is lost, though the invariant semantic core is conveyed. His translation strategy, then, appears to be one of cultural normalisation, resulting in unnecessary loss. 153 CHAPTER FIVE TEXTUAL ANALYSIS: LES MÉMOIRES DE MAIGRET 1. INTRODUCTION The second source text to be considered is Les Mémoires de Maigret (1951).1 The text takes the form of a fictional autobiography with Maigret as narrator outlining memories of his first meeting with Simenon, his childhood, how he came to join the police force, and details of some of his cases, all under the pretext of setting straight some of the inaccuracies perpetrated by Simenon in the novels. This means that there is little plot development, nor can the text be considered to belong to the genre of detective fiction in the normal understanding of the term, for there is no crime, no investigation and no retribution. This contrasts with the schema for Maigret novels noted in chapter three. Instead, narrative development is temporal, though not straightforwardly chronological. The first two chapters are concerned with Maigret’s first meeting and establishment of relations with Georges Simenon, a fictionalised version of the real-life author. Certain biographical elements and references to actual events can be discerned. The narrative line then moves backwards to a phase external to the temporal point of departure of the text, moving from Maigret’s childhood through to his beginnings in the Police Judiciaire. The narrative ends by shifting from this temporal stage to Maigret in retirement, at the point of writing his memoirs. Les Mémoires de Maigret presents a range of challenges for the translator. Real world allusions and references to Simenon’s own life are frequent. The Mémoires also makes significant reference to different departments within the French police system, and this poses a strategic problem for the translator, for allusions such as these are unique to their cultural and temporal settings. Linguistically, the text manifests a similar relatively informal style to that found in other Maigret texts. This style, as previously noted, has the function of ensuring that the narrative conveys the Commissaire’s own ordinary, middle-class background and life. It is also a significant aspect of the readability of the corpus.2 1 Georges Simenon, Les Mémoires de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1997 [1951]). 2 For further explanation of this novel’s inclusion, see chapter two. 154 The two translations of Les Mémoires de Maigret to be examined extensively here are Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau’s Maigrets Memoiren,3 and Jean Stewart’s Maigret’s Memoirs, both first published in 1963.4 All three translators have rendered other Maigret texts, and thus have experience in the kinds of strategic problems that Simenon’s work presents, in addition to knowledge of the wider system of Simenon’s works. Reference will also be made to a second German translation made by Roswitha Plancherel in 1978.5 Analysis of this translation will be limited, for on the whole she is most successful in limiting the loss of cultural and linguistic specificity, and her decisions are often instructive in the process of comparison. There are a few isolated cases where the translator, apparently in her search for idiomatic German, uses expressions with inappropriate attitudinal meaning. 2. TEXTUAL ANALYSIS 2.1 Structure Before considering the body of the text, it should be noted that Wille and Klau have omitted the headings of the chapters, whereas the original gives some indication, at the beginning of each chapter, of the content to follow. In the second chapter of the source text, the Commissaire explains that these chapter headings were not his own decision, but were inserted later by his editor, ostensibly for typographical reasons, but in reality, Maigret suspects, to make the text more reader-friendly. Wille and Klau omit this explanatory paragraph from chapter two because they have cut out the headings. It is not clear why they should have done this: the chapter headings are useful devices, calculated to increase the target audience’s desire to continue reading. They often pick out a particular detail in the chapter that can only be fully appreciated in reading the chapter to the end. By omitting them, Wille and Klau’s target text loses something of the entertainment value and readability of the source text. Here, how the discourse is treated has a clear effect on the contextual level. 3 Georges Simenon, Maigrets Memoiren, translated by Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau (Cologne/Berlin: Kiepenheuer and Witsch, 1963). 4 Georges Simenon, Maigret’s Memoirs, translated by Jean Stewart (London: Heinemann/Secker and Warburg/Octopus, 1978 [1963]), pp.13-81. 5 Georges Simenon, Maigrets Memoiren, translated by Roswitha Plancherel (Geneva: Edito- Service/Zürich: Diogenes, 1978). 155 2.2 Passage Analysis QUOTATION I The opening paragraphs of Les Mémoires de Maigret see the Commissaire describing a relatively banal day in the Quai des Orfèvres. It is into this everyday scenario that the fictionalised version of Simenon later steps: Peu importe. Mes souvenirs, par ailleurs, sont précis quant au temps qu’il faisait. C’était une quelconque journée du début de l’hiver, une de ces journées sans couleur, en gris et blanc, que j’ai envie d’appeler une journée administrative, parce qu’on a l’impression qu’il ne peut rien se passer d’intéressant dans une atmosphère aussi terne et qu’on a envie, au bureau, par ennui, de mettre à jour des dossiers, d’en finir avec des rapports qui traînent depuis longtemps, d’expédier farouchement, mais sans entrain, de la besogne courante. Si j’insiste sur cette grisaille dénuée de relief, ce n’est pas par goût du pittoresque, mais pour montrer combien l’événement, en lui-même, a été banal, noyé dans les menus faits et gestes d’une journée banale. (pp.7-8) Intertextually, the extract is significant. As shown in the previous chapter, Simenon frequently describes the weather at the beginning of a novel. The technique enhances the readability of the text, juxtaposing narrative with descriptive colour. As an aspect of Simenon’s specificity, how to render this climat is a significant strategic problem. Wille and Klau’s German translation of this paragraph merits some comment: Doch das ist auch gar nicht wichtig. Ich erinnere mich übrigens noch genau an das Wetter damals. Es war irgendein Tag Anfang des Winters, einer jener farblosen grauweißen Tage, die ich gern »Bürotage« nenne, weil man das Gefühl hat, daß sich in einer so trüben Atmosphäre nichts Interessantes ereignen kann, und an denen man, weil es nichts Besseres zu tun gibt, alte Akten aufarbeitet, Berichte fertig schreibt, die schon lange herumliegen, mit verbissenem Eifer, aber ohne Schwung laufende Arbeit verrichtet. (p.7) 156 In the first paragraph, Wille and Klau translate ‘peu importe’ as ‘Doch das ist auch gar nicht wichtig.’ In the source text, the colloquial language variety arising from the sentential concision also has a prosodic function. It is an emphatic device, a means of underlining the triviality of the date on which the events to be narrated took place. Wille and Klau do render the colloquialism and emphasis, limiting varietal and prosodic loss. However, this loss is not minimised by sentential concision: instead, the translators employ two illocutionary particles in combination, ‘auch’ and ‘gar.’ ‘Auch’ is used as a means of showing the correction of a false impression, in this case, the false impression that the date should be a key factor. ‘Gar’ functions as an intensifier, 6 and thus it can be seen that the translators have here employed a strategy of compensation in kind, defined as the ‘making up for one type of textual effect in the ST by another type in the TT.’7 In this case, the effect of particular syntactic structuring in the source text has been translated using an alternative device, the illocutionary particle. This is characteristic of the target language idiom: for textual nuancing such as emphasis, German makes wider use than French or English of illocutionary particles, an issue revisited in chapter six.8 Wille and Klau translate ‘[…] parce qu’on a l’impression qu’il ne peut rien se passer d’intéressant dans une atmosphère aussi terne […]’ as ‘[…] weil man das Gefühl hat, daß sich in einer so trüben Atmosphäre nichts Interessantes ereignen kann […].’ The source language lexical item ‘impression’ has connotations of the cerebral, whereas the target text’s translation of the term, ‘das Gefühl,’ which is also Plancherel’s choice, is concerned more with the emotive. Despite this apparent semantic loss, the German lexical choice is apt because, though the more cerebral term may seem more appropriate for a detective, the target text rendering is appropriate to Maigret’s character. Throughout the œuvre, Maigret’s investigative method looks at how human beings relate to each other, rather than examining concrete clues. The omission of the second paragraph in this section aside, the German translators have thus transferred both something of the composite linguistic 6 A.E, Hammer, Hammer’s German Grammar and Usage, revised by Martin Durrell (London/New York/Melbourne/Auckland: Edward Arnold, 1991), pp.177-178 and pp.189-190. 7 Sándor Hervey, Ian Higgins and Michael Loughridge, Thinking German Translation. A Course in Translation Method: German to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), pp.27-28. 8 Ibid., p.186. 157 value and have also been attentive to wider contextual systems, thereby minimising semantic loss. The second paragraph is self-reflexive, calling attention to the description of the atmosphere and the irony of the fact that Simenon’s arrival did not have the impact it might ordinarily have had. This is achieved through the novel’s first person narrative, a relatively rare grammatical feature in the Simenon corpus, making the paragraph of even greater significance. In context, then, this second paragraph is crucial, but Wille and Klau exclude it, though Plancherel does not. The degree of discourse-level and contextual loss in the earlier translation is thus inappropriate, loss that can be reduced by retaining the paragraph and the first person voice. Jean Stewart translates both paragraphs in the English target text: It doesn’t matter. At any rate I remember quite clearly what the weather was like. It was a nondescript day at the beginning of winter, one of those colourless grey and white days that I am tempted to call an administrative day, because one has the impression that nothing interesting can happen in so drab an atmosphere, while in the office, out of sheer boredom, one feels an urge to bring one’s files up to date, to deal with reports that have been lying about a long time, to tackle current business ferociously but without zest. If I stress the unrelieved greyness of the day it is not from any desire to be picturesque, but in order to show how commonplace the incident itself was, swamped in the trivial happenings of a commonplace day. (p.13) The colloquial nature of the source text’s ‘peu importe’ is rendered by Stewart through the use of the contracted form ‘doesn’t,’ though one could also employ ‘no matter,’ since this seems more dismissive of the previous few paragraphs’ musings on the date. Secondly, the translation of the source text’s ‘[…] parce qu’on a l’impression qu’(e) […]’ as ‘[…] because one has the impression that […]’ is stylistically more formal than the original because of the use of the impersonal pronoun ‘one,’ which marks more heavily formal or upper-class discourse than the source language’s neutral ‘on’ (see also below and chapter six). This decision at the level of language variety entails contextual loss: the increased formality is incongruous with Maigret’s character and the corpus as a whole, and thus some of the 158 specificity of the source is lost in the translation process. Returning to the paradigm of English-language detective fiction outlined in chapter two, it can however be seen that formality is a feature of the genre, as shown, for example, in the writing of Christie.9 Thus, a degree of stylistic formality may be expected by Anglophone readers of detective fiction, and therefore Stewart may have been bound by contextual and cultural constraints. As suggested in chapter two, target audience expectations can be shaped by native detective fiction. In order to minimise varietal, and thus contextual, loss, the more informal, less socially-marked ‘you’ would be more appropriate, since it takes account of both linguistic and contextual concerns.10 There is further translation loss in the final lines. ‘Expédier’ in the source text implies something completed. This semantic core is not transferred in ‘tackle,’ thus semantic loss arises. Similarly, Stewart’s lexical choice ‘current’ entails further semantic loss, because ‘courante’ does not denote ‘work being undertaken at present.’ Rather, the source text suggests day-to-day police tasks: in other words, nothing out of the ordinary. In order to convey the invariant core and thereby reduce semantic loss, the following alternative is suggested: ‘[…] to get through everyday tasks vigorously but with no real enthusiasm.’ As with the impersonal pronoun, Stewart’s ‘it is not from any desire to be picturesque’ is too formal. A possible alternative might be: ‘If I stress that day’s unbroken dullness, it’s not because I want to add embellishment […].’ QUOTATION II Maigret proceeds to describe the morning meeting with the directeur: Contrairement à ce que le public se figure, on n’entend pas parler que de criminels. (p.9) 9 Cf. ‘Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him.’ Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (London: HarperCollins, 2001 [1920]), p.34. 10 Stewart is inconsistent, changing pronoun forms later on the same page, from the impersonal ‘one’ to the personal ‘you.’ 159 This extract raises the difficulty of the greater frequency of impersonal constructions in French and German than in English. Chuquet and Paillard comment, with regard to French and English, that: La très grande fréquence du pronom on en français correspond en anglais à une gamme assez étendu de procédés pour renvoyer au générique. Ce sont à la fois les contraintes contextuelles et les intentions de l’énonciateur qui permettront de choisir entre ces différents procédés […].11 while Lang and Perez suggest that on can be rendered by most of the English personal pronouns or by ‘general nouns such as “people.”’12 In German, too, the impersonal is found more often than in English: man is an indefinite pronoun. It corresponds to English ‘one’, but, unlike that, it is not restricted to formal registers or elevated speech. It thus corresponds to the general use of ‘you’ in spoken English, or, frequently, to ‘they’ or ‘people.’13 In this context, then, Wille and Klau’s ‘Entgegen dem, was sich das Publikum vorstellt, ist nicht nur von Verbrechern die Rede’ (p.8) and Plancherel’s similar ‘Entgegen den landläufigen Vorstellungen wird nicht immer nur von Verbrechern gesprochen’ (p.11) do not entail serious grammatical loss, since they use a passive construction to render the impersonal. However, in Plancherel’s formulation semantic loss occurs, because it does not manifest appropriate transfer of the invariant core. The rendering implies that on certain occasions, talk may indeed be solely about criminals, suggested by ‘nicht immer nur.’ This could be rectified by omitting ‘immer.’ Because of the correspondence between French and German usage, the English translator is faced with a difficulty at the grammatical level that does not arise for the German translator of a French source text. The solutions for the English 11 Hélène Chuquet and Michel Paillard, Approche linguistique des problèmes de traduction: anglais↔français (Gap/Paris: Ophrys, 1987), p.67. 12 Margaret Lang and Isabelle Perez, Modern French Grammar: A Practical Guide (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), p.57. 13 Hammer/Durrell (1991), p.110. 160 translator vary according to context and overall style and formality. Stewart’s translation reads: ‘Contrary to general belief, we don’t talk exclusively about crime.’ (p.13). This incurs both semantic and grammatical loss: the French sentence is impersonal, with the Commissaire making no allusion to himself, because he is now retired. Thus, Stewart’s decision to use a personal pronoun, which would be apt in certain contexts, is inappropriate here. A possible alternative is: ‘Contrary to popular belief, talk won’t just be about criminals.’ This avoids the grammatical loss of the impersonal form and takes account of the contextual fact of Maigret’s retirement. The meeting between Maigret and Simenon (here under the pseudonym Georges Sim) takes place in the directeur’s office. The young writer has come to carry out research for some novels that he is proposing to write, and the directeur, Xavier Guichard, a historically-verifiable character, instructs Maigret to show the young man round, despite the fact that Maigret is a commissaire, a senior officer in the Police Judiciaire. The events described here did indeed take place, though the commissaire responsible for showing the young writer around the Quai was in fact called Guillaume. This is one of the clearest instances of Simenon incorporating biographical information into the corpus. To facilitate understanding of the text, the translator needs to have some awareness of the author’s biography, as argued in chapter three. QUOTATION III Simenon begins producing novels. Maigret is none too pleased with the texts, not least because the author has the fictitious Commissaire investigating crimes with the Parisian Police Judiciaire that he investigated when he was an officer of the Sûreté: »Or, dans Monsieur Gallet décédé, je raconte une enquête qui s’est déroulée dans le Centre de la France. »Y êtes-vous allé, oui ou non? C’était oui, bien entendu. — J’y suis allé, c’est vrai, mais à une époque où… — A une époque où, pendant un certain temps, vous avez travaillé, non plus pour le quai des Orfèvres, mais pour la rue des Saussaies. Pourquoi troubler les idées du lecteur avec ces subtilités administratives? 161 »Faudra-t-il, pour chaque enquête, expliquer en commençant: “Ceci se passait en telle année. Donc Maigret était attaché à telle service.” »Laissez-moi finir… Il avait son idée et savait qu’il allait toucher un point faible. — Etes-vous, de par vos habitudes, vos attitudes, votre caractère, un homme du quai des Orfèvres ou un homme de la rue des Saussaies? (pp.41-42) The salient features of this passage are the intertextual reference to the earlier novel Monsieur Gallet décédé and the cultural-level references to the French criminal justice system. These raise the questions of how to translate novel titles and how to render culturally-embedded items. Wille and Klau tackle these difficulties as follows: »Aber in meinem Buch >Der tote Herr Gallet< berichte ich von einer Untersuchung, die sich in Mittelfrankreich abgespielt hat. Sind Sie dort gewesen, ja oder nein?« Natürlich war ich dort gewesen. »Ich bin dort gewesen, aber in einer Zeit, da…« »In einer Zeit, da Sie noch bei der Sûreté gearbeitet haben. Warum den Leser mit solchen Verwaltungssubtilitäten verwirren? Muß man bei jeder Untersuchung im Anfang erklären, dies ereignete sich in jenem Jahr, als Maigret noch in der und der Abteilung war? Lassen Sie mich ausreden…« Er hatte seine Idee, und er wußte, daß er jetzt an einen schwachen Punkt kam. »Sind Sie nach Ihren Gewohnheiten, Ihrer Haltung, Ihrem Charakter ein Mann der Kriminalpolizei oder ein Mann der Sûreté?« (p.36) Dealing with the intertextual-level problem first: there are two German translations of the novel Monsieur Gallet décédé (1931) to which this passage refers: Wille and Klau’s Maigret und der tote Herr Gallet (1961) and Plancherel’s 1981 Maigret und der verstorbene Monsieur Gallet, which went in to its sixth edition in 2005. The intertextuality arises in that the author alludes to one of his own novels, and therefore it is appropriate that Wille and Klau should refer to their own work, which, in any 162 case, was the sole German translation at that time. Wille and Klau do not borrow their own title exactly, for Maigret und […] is omitted, but this is apt since the French title itself does not refer to Maigret. However, if one were to set aside these considerations, Plancherel’s translation of the title is preferable, though, in her translation of the Mémoires, she uses Wille and Klau’s title for Monsieur Gallet, and this may be because theirs was the only translation available at the time.14 However, Plancherel’s retaining of the French Monsieur in her own translation of Monsieur Gallet is more apt than Wille and Klau’s use of the German Herr, since a Frenchman, not a German, is the focus. In accordance with a Translation Studies approach, involving preservation of the source text’s cultural otherness, source language titles and forms of address should on the whole be retained. This not only retains the intertextual specifics of the title in the source text, it also minimises cultural loss. The references to the two police maisons raise translation issues at the cultural level. Of the metonyms employed in the source text – ‘Quai des Orfèvres’ for the Police Judiciaire, and ‘Rue des Saussaies’ for the Sûreté Nationale – only the second can be said to be rendered to some extent into Wille and Klau’s target text, resulting in cultural loss. The Quai des Orfèvres is omitted, and no compensation is provided for the loss. On the other hand, the second metonym is rendered by its actual French title, the ‘Sûreté.’ The omission of the metaphorical figure is appropriate in the light of the fact that Wille and Klau’s choice shows both consideration for the target audience and a transferring of both the otherness present in the French cultural allusion and the invariant core. ‘Sûreté’ is also less confusing than ‘Rue des Saussaies’ for the German-speaking reader, since it is explained later in both source and target texts. In the final paragraph of the extract, the ‘Quai des Orfèvres’ allusion would be clear to the source text reader. This is the common French metonym for the Police Judiciaire of Paris. In rendering the figurative expression as ‘die Kriminalpolizei,’ though transferring the invariant core, the German translators incur cultural loss, by effacing the cultural specificity of the French criminal justice system found in the source text. There is no corresponding metonym with common currency in German akin to the Metropolitan Police’s Scotland Yard or the Quai.15 A possible alternative is: ‘ein Mann der Kriminalpolizei am Quai des Orfèvres,’ which provides an 14 Simenon/Plancherel (1978), p.42. 15 Even if there had been, the translator could not employ it, as a cultural incongruity would result. 163 explanation for the target reader while retaining the explicit French cultural reference. A similar device could be adopted for the Sûreté at this point, such as ‘ein Mann der Sûreté in der Rue des Saussaies.’ The difficulty with using such exegesis is that the target text is less succinct than the original, though arguably this is outweighed by cultural and contextual factors, for loss at these levels is more serious here.16 Further discussion of translation of other aspects of the French justiciary, such as the prosecution system and structure of the national force, is found in chapter six. Jean Stewart’s translation of the same passage is as follows: ‘Now in The Late Monsieur Gallet I described an investigation which took place in the centre of France. ‘Did you go there, yes or no?’ It was yes, of course. ‘I went there, it’s true, but at a period when…’ ‘At a period when, for a certain length of time, you were working not for the Quai des Orfèvres but for the Rue des Saussaies. Why bother the reader’s head with these administrative subtleties? ‘Must one begin the account of every case by explaining: This took place in such and such a year. So Maigret was seconded to such and such a department. ‘Let me finish…’ He had his idea and knew that he was about to touch a weak point. ‘Are you, in your habits, your attitude, your character, a Quai des Orfèvres man or a Rue des Saussaies man?’ (p.26) To begin again by addressing the issue of intertextuality: by 1963 there were two English-language translations of Monsieur Gallet décédé, The Death of Monsieur Gallet (1932 – unattributed) and Margaret Marshall’s 1963 Maigret Stonewalled. As Stewart’s rendering of Les Mémoires dates from 1963, it is possible that she knew of the first translation, yet she does not refer to this version. Of the two translations of Monsieur Gallet décédé, the earlier title is preferable, because it retains the French references, namely the title and name, whereas Marshall’s translation, though more 16 The solution of combining the original French with a German exegesis is adopted by Plancherel elsewhere: see p.18, ‘»In diesem Fall sollten wir bei der Polizeiwache, im >Dépôt<, anfangen […]«’. 164 akin to later Maigret titles, loses the culture-specific allusion. Putting aside the issue of intertextuality with regard to existing translations, Stewart’s version is apt, and indeed preferable to the 1932 version. The Death of Monsieur Gallet places focus on death itself, whereas both Simenon’s title and Stewart’s translation signify the deceased individual, more appropriate in the light of the Commissaire’s investigative method: Maigret tends to be more concerned with the victim and his or her relationships as a means of solving the mystery than with the event of death and its circumstances. In this way, Stewart minimises intertextual and contextual loss. At the contextual level, however, some loss is incurred. The translator borrows the metonyms employed by Simenon for the Police Judiciaire and the Sûreté Nationale but these have not been adequately explained thus far in the target text. Therefore, it would seem appropriate for Stewart to use some form of exegesis, as was the case in the German target text, even if this results in a less concise translation: ‘[…] you weren’t working for the Police Judiciaire at the Quai but for the Sûreté in the Rue des Saussaies.’ In any case, ‘Sûreté’ is explained a few lines later, and, in view of the fact that Stewart uses the expression ‘Sûreté Nationale,’ it would also be appropriate to employ ‘Police Judiciaire.’ The reference to the Sûreté also serves as a temporal cultural marker, for it refers to the pre-1966 French police system. After 1966 the Sûreté became the Police Nationale.17 QUOTATION IV Maigret then goes on to explain the differences between the two police departments: Admettons aussi, ce que Simenon avait compris depuis le début, qu’en ce temps-là surtout il existait deux types de policiers assez différents. Ceux de la rue des Saussaies, qui dépendent directement du ministre de l’Intérieur, sont plus ou moins amenés par la force des choses à s’occuper de besognes politiques. Je ne leur en fais pas grief. J’avoue simplement que, pour ce qui est de moi, je préfère n’en pas être chargé. 17 Le Petit Larousse Illustré (Paris: Larousse, 1999). 165 Notre champ d’action, quai des Orfèvres, est peut-être plus restreint, plus terre à terre. Nous nous contentons, en effet, de nous occuper des malfaiteurs de toutes sortes et, en général, de tout ce qui est inclus dans le mot «police» précisé par le mot «judiciaire». (pp.42-43) This extract has considerable contextual significance, for it clarifies further the differences between the two police services highlighted in the passage above. It illustrates the need to translate in context: if the terminology used to refer to the police departments is not consistent, the coherence of the text will be diminished. Wille and Klau: Geben wir auch zu, was Simenon von Anfang an begriffen hatte, daß es in jener Zeit zwei ziemlich verschiedene Typen von Polizeibeamten gab. Die in der Rue des Saussaies, die dem Innenminister unmittelbar unterstehen, sind mehr oder weniger gezwungen, sich mit politischen Angelegenheiten zu befassen. Ich beneide sie nicht darum, mir ist es im Gegenteil lieber, nichts damit zu tun zu haben. Unser Aufgabengebiet am Quai des Orfèvres ist vielleicht beschränkter, alltäglicher. Wir befassen uns mit Übeltätern aller Sorten und allem, was das Wort Kriminalpolizei umschließt. (p.37) To understand the nomenclature used here, and thus to be able to make appropriate lexical choices, some research is required. The first sentence in this passage highlights the fact that, at that time, the Police Judiciaire and the Sûreté Nationale were very different. The Sûreté is the ‘direction générale du ministère de l’Intérieur chargée en France de la police, devenue, en 1966, Police nationale.’18 The Sûreté Nationale, as the name suggests, operated throughout France, as is the case for the Police Nationale, of which the Police Judiciaire is a part. Maigret, however, works specifically for the Parisian Police Judiciaire, which is still based at 36, Quai des Orfèvres. This is not the national headquarters of the Police Judiciare, though Simenon often misleads in this regard (and it is a common misconception). Rather, the national headquarters of the 18 Ibid. 166 Police Judiciaire is currently located in the Rue des Saussaies, where the Sûreté Nationale was based.19 In relation to the two types of police officer, the German translation here adopts the metonym for the Sûreté. This may result in semantic loss with regard to the reader’s comprehension, for, though Simenon has been employing the figurative reference throughout, Wille and Klau have not, and the allusion has not been clarified. If, as suggested above, the metonym is explained earlier in the text, then Wille and Klau’s lexical choice here does not incur contextual or cultural loss. If not explained, a similar strategy to that suggested above should be adopted, combining ‘Sûreté’ and ‘Rue des Saussaies.’ This exegesis aids the reader’s comprehension, while minimising cultural and temporal loss; in other words, the invariant core is transferred, and cultural and contextual factors are given due attention. Additionally, in the final paragraph, the German translators directly borrow ‘Quai des Orfèvres’, and this results in the same difficulties as ‘Rue des Saussaies.’ In this case, however, semantic loss is limited, because of the explicit reference to the Kriminalpolizei. Similar difficulties arise for the English-speaking translator: Let us admit, too, as Simenon had understood from the beginning, that particularly in those days, there existed two rather different types of policeman. Those of the Rue des Saussaies, who are directly answerable to the Ministry of the Interior, are led more or less inevitably to deal with political jobs. I don’t blame them for it. I simply confess that for my own part I’d rather not be responsible for these. Our field of action at the Quai des Orfèvres is perhaps more restricted, more down to earth. Our job, in fact, is to cope with malefactors of every sort and, in general, with everything that comes under the heading ‘police’ with the specific limitation ‘judiciary.’ (pp. 26-27) 19 The French government website lesservices.service-public.fr clarifies this. The ‘Annuaire de l’administration’ lists the ‘Direction centrale de la police judiciaire’ as being at 11, Rue des Saussaies and gives the address of the ‘Direction régionale de la police judiciaire,’ part of the Parisian police prefecture, as 36, quai des Orfèvres. Accessed on 20th March 2008. See also the French interior ministry’s website, www.interieur.gouv.fr, under ‘la police nationale>Organisation>Organisation et structure DCPJ.’ Accessed on 20th March 2008. 167 The section addressing the Police Judiciaire’s area of work entails semantic-level loss, in that it is too literal, staying overly close to the source text. This in turn gives rise to varietal-level loss, because the literal strategy results in a target text that is too formal for this context. The use of ‘judiciary police,’ too, is incongruous, for nowhere in the target text is the Police Judiciaire referred to as such, and the allusion is unclear for the target text reader. By giving a literal translation, Stewart also loses the cultural specificity of ‘Police Judiciaire.’ The following alternative translation addresses these losses: Our sphere of activity is perhaps more limited and everyday. In fact, we deal with all kinds of criminal, and with anything that falls under the heading ‘police’ qualified by the word ‘judiciaire.’ QUOTATION V Having outlined how he met Georges Simenon, the Commissaire describes his childhood. The memory of his father, Evariste Maigret, is clear: Je le revois fort bien. J’ai gardé de lui des photographies. Il était très grand, très maigre, et sa maigreur était accentuée par des pantalons étroits que des jambières de cuir recouvraient jusqu’au-dessous des genoux. J’ai toujours vu mon père en jambières de cuir. C’était pour lui une sorte d’uniforme. Il ne portait pas la barbe, mais de longues moustaches d’un blond roux dans lesquelles, l’hiver, quand il rentrait, je sentais en l’embrassant de petits cristaux de glace. (pp. 58-59) The similarities between Evariste Maigret and Georges Simenon’s own father are striking. Maigret senior is described as a man who remained close to his roots while striving to better himself; likewise, Jacques Dubois writes of Simenon’s father: 168 Pour Désiré, le père de Georges Simenon, par exemple, la famille et le quartier d’origine, tous deux commerçants, demeurent un milieu très proche, spatialement et mentalement.20 Familial absences feature in the lives of both Simenon and his creation. Désiré Simenon died when Georges was just eighteen. Maigret’s father Evariste also died when his son was young. Désiré Simenon and his fictional counterpart are physically similar, not least because of the long moustaches they both wear. The above depiction of Maigret’s father therefore should be seen against the background image of Simenon senior and the fact that Simenon’s childhood experiences seem to influence the œuvre in its entirety.21 This constitutes part of the specificity of the œuvre, as suggested in chapter three. Wille and Klau translate the extract: Ich sehe ihn noch deutlich vor mir und besitze auch mehrere Fotografien von ihm. Er war sehr groß und sehr mager, und seine Magerkeit wurde noch durch enge Hosen betont, die Ledergamaschen bis zu den Knien bedeckten. Ich habe meinen Vater immer in Ledergamaschen gesehen. Das war für ihn eine Art Uniform. Er hatte einen langen rotblonden Schnurrbart, in dem im Winter, wenn er von draußen zurückkam – ich spürte das, wenn ich ihn küßte -, kleine Eiskristalle hingen. (p.49) The translators’ lexical decision ‘besitze’ involves loss in terms of connotative meaning. The source text ‘gardé’ implies a conscious decision to keep the photographs, and this is reinforced by the admiration that Maigret still has for his father. There is a clear desire to keep the pictures. In the German term, however, there is no apparent emotional connection: the photographs are owned, and no more. Plancherel’s choice of lexis minimises connotative loss: ‘aufbewahrt.’22 The attitudinal meaning of this term is positive, and suggests that the Commissaire is keeping (rather than just possessing), and looking after, the photographs. 20 Jacques Dubois, ‘Statut littéraire et position de classe,’ in: Claudine Gothot-Mersch et al., Lire Simenon: réalité/fiction/écriture (Brussels: Labor, 1980), p.22. 21 See above, chapter three, and Alavoine (1998), p.29. 22 Simenon/Plancherel (1978), p.58. 169 Linguistically, the passage gives a clear, visual description reminiscent of a journalistic text, a reminder that Simenon had been a journalist. Wille and Klau have been successful in limiting loss of this straightforward, factual style, by using simple language. Finally, they do not render the French ‘Il ne portait pas la barbe […],’ but this may be due to a linguistic complication: a phrase such as Plancherel employs, ‘Er trug keinen Bart, wohl aber einen langen rotblonden Schnurrbart […],’ replicates the meaning but leads to sentential loss: there is an awkward repetition not present in the original text.23 The problem is a product of the commonness of compound nouns in German: this is a structural characteristic of the target language that impacts on the translation strategy. Stewart’s translation: I can picture him very well. I have kept some photographs of him. He was very tall, very thin, his thinness emphasized by narrow trousers, bound in by leather gaiters to just below the knee. I always saw my father in leather gaiters. They were a sort of uniform for him. He wore no beard, but a long sandy moustache in which, when he came home in winter, I used to feel tiny ice- crystals when I kissed him. (p.32) The third sentence in this paragraph involves sentential loss, in that the omission of the conjunction ‘and’ makes the sentence grammatically unidiomatic. The source text includes ‘et’ before ‘sa maigreur,’ but to place ‘and’ in the translation before ‘his thinness’ would render the sentence even more unidiomatic. Instead, grammatical and sentential loss would be minimised if the sentence were to include ‘and’ before ‘very thin,’ thereby keeping the phrases dealing with the idea of weight together. Lastly, ‘He wore no beard’ at the beginning of the final sentence involves loss with regard to collocative meaning, since in English the verb ‘to wear’ usually collocates with items of clothing. Once more, this is the product of literal translation. A more suitable English expression would be ‘He didn’t have a beard […]’ or possibly ‘He had no beard […].’ 23 Simenon/Plancherel (1978), p.58. 170 QUOTATION VI Maigret goes on to outline his schooling, how he came to Paris, his entry into the police force, and the circumstances in which he met Louise, his future wife. Maigret illustrates his wife’s attitude to Simenon: Au fond, elle est enchantée de l’image que Simenon a tracée d’elle, l’image d’une bonne «mémère», toujours à ses fourneaux, toujours astiquant, toujours chouchoutant son grand bébé de mari. C’est même à cause de cette image, je le soupçonne, qu’elle a été la première à lui vouer une réelle amitié, au point de le considérer comme de la famille et de le défendre quand je ne songe pas à l’attaquer. (p.93) Several variables work together at once in this extract: grammatical, semantic, varietal and contextual. Translation decisions at one level can have ramifications at other levels. Mme Maigret is a particularly useful filter through which to consider such factors, because of her well-defined character and constant presence in the Maigret corpus. In the earlier German translation, the passage runs: Im Grunde ist sie von dem Bild begeistert, das Simenon von ihr gezeichnet hat, dem Bild der guten braven Hausfrau, die immerzu kocht und reinmacht und ihr großes Baby von Mann beständig verhätschelt. Dieses Bildes wegen, vermute ich sogar, hat sie ihm als erste eine solche Freundschaft entgegengebracht, daß sie ihn als zur Familie zugehörig betrachtet und ihn selbst dann in Schutz nimmt, wenn ich gar nicht daran denke, ihn anzugreifen. (p.78) The passage examines the image that Simenon has created of Madame Maigret, and Maigret refers to the image as being that of ‘une bonne «mémère»,’ which Wille and Klau translate as ‘die gute brave Hausfrau.’ This entails translation loss on several counts: firstly, the language-variety loss of the colloquialism in the French expression; 171 secondly, the loss of the idea that this is not Maigret’s own choice of term; thirdly, the semantic loss of the connotation of doting fussiness that is continued later in the sentence; lastly, the grammatical and contextual loss of the idea of mothering inherent in the suffix ‘-mère.’ This last point can be related back to Simenon’s own experience: Madame Maigret is a counter to his domineering mother, as described in chapter three. Indeed, Simenon paints the Maigrets’ marriage as being slightly œdipal, in that Madame Maigret is often more like a mother to her husband than a wife, and this impression is increased by the fact that the couple have no children of their own. Thus, the translation of this sentence should retain clearly the idea of the mother- offspring relationship, which Wille and Klau’s rendering does not, though their target text does translate ‘grand bébé de mari’ as ‘großes Baby von Mann.’ As a consequence, the German sentence is less balanced than the original, which includes the idea of motherhood twice. A more appropriate target language expression could be ‘das gute brave Mütterchen,’ or Plancherel’s choice, ‘Hausmütterchen.’24 This minimises semantic loss by retaining the references to a housewife and a mother figure. Plancherel however renders ‘toujours à ses fourneaux’ as ‘Heimchen am Herd,’ which, while transferring the invariant semantic core – Mme Maigret is indeed a housewife who is always at her stove – also involves loss in terms of attitudinal meaning, in that it adds a pejorative note into the target text, which is not appropriate, for the picture sketched is positive. A more appropriate adjustment in Plancherel’s version would be ‘braves Hausmütterchen, immerzu kochend […].’ Further, Wille and Klau’s ‘reinmacht,’ the translation for ‘astiquant,’ constitutes unacceptable generalisation, for it loses the positive connotations present in the source language expression of making an item shine, which helps add a more strongly visual element to Simenon’s description of this ‘bonne mémère.’ Plancherel’s translation of this, too, is problematic, for she particularises, giving ‘immerzu Boden wachsend.’ The implication of polishing the floor is not derivable from the context in the source text, although it does have an implied olfactory dimension, in the smell of wax, which serves as compensation for the loss of the usual visual association with ‘astiquant.’ Suggestions for more appropriate translations for a German target text are ‘polieren’ or ‘putzen.’ 24 Simenon/Plancherel (1978), p.92. 172 Similar strategic problems emerge in Jean Stewart’s translation of the passage: Actually, she’s delighted with Simenon’s picture of her, the picture of a good housewife, always busy cooking and polishing, always fussing over her great baby of a husband. It was even on account of that picture, I suspect, that she was the first to become his staunch friend, to the extent of considering him as one of the family and of defending him when I haven’t dreamed of attacking him. (p.45) Firstly, in a similar fashion to the earlier German target text, Stewart renders ‘mémère’ as ‘good housewife.’ Again, this loses the literal idea of mothering, omits the connotations of an œdipal dimension of the Maigrets’ relationship and results in a less-balanced formulation, for the translation ‘great baby of a husband’ later in the sentence is appropriate. A more apt rendering might be ‘doting, mothering wife.’ Secondly, the use of the perfect tense in the final sentence of the same paragraph is unidiomatic, in the expression ‘I haven’t dreamed.’ A more appropriate translation would be: ‘[…] when I don’t mean to attack him.’ QUOTATION VII At the time he met his future wife, Maigret was serving as a commissaire’s assistant. He goes on to describe various events that took place while working in different departments of the police force. He also depicts relations between policemen and their ‘clients’ while he was a young officer with the ‘police des mœurs’: On m’a demandé souvent, en me parlant de mes débuts et de mes différents postes: — Avez-vous fait de la police des mœurs aussi? On ne l’appelle plus ainsi aujourd’hui. On dit pudiquement la «Brigade Mondaine». Eh bien! j’en ai fait partie, comme la plupart de mes confrères. Très peu de temps. A peine quelques mois. Et, si je me rends compte à présent que c’était nécessaire, je n’en garde pas moins de cette époque un souvenir à la fois confus et un peu gêné. 173 J’ai parlé de la familiarité qui s’établit naturellement entre les policiers et ceux qu’ils sont chargés de surveiller. Par la force des choses, elle existe aussi bien dans ce secteur-là que dans les autres. Plus encore dans celui-là. En effet, la clientèle de chaque inspecteur, si je puis dire, se compose d’un nombre relativement restreint de femmes que l’on retrouve presque toujours aux mêmes endroits, à la porte du même hôtel ou sous le même bec de gaz, pour l’échelon au-dessus à la terrasse des mêmes brasseries. Je n’avais pas encore la carrure que j’ai acquise avec les années, et il paraît que je faisais plus jeune que mon âge. Qu’on se souvienne des petits fours du boulevard Beaumarchais et on comprendra que, dans un certain domaine, j’étais plutôt timide. La plupart des agents des mœurs étaient à tu et à toi avec les filles dont ils connaissaient le prénom ou le surnom, et c’était une tradition, quand ils les embarquaient dans le panier à salade au cours d’un rafle, de jouer au plus mal embouché, de s’envoyer à la face, en riant, les mots les plus orduriers, les plus obscènes. (pp.122-123) Here, there are both culture-bound items and semantic issues arising from grammar. The source text’s second and third sentences here are problematic for the translator, not only from a cultural perspective, but also from the point-of-view of the historical change in the nomenclature. In addition, for the English translator, the difficulty of rendering source language pronouns again arises. The German translation of this lengthy passage reads: Man hat mich oft, wenn man mit mir über meine Anfänge und meine verschiedenen Posten sprach, gefragt: »Sind Sie auch bei der Sittenpolizei tätig gewesen?« Nun, wie die meisten meiner Kollegen habe ich, wenn auch nur kurze Zeit, ihr angehört. Nur ein paar Monate. Und wenn ich jetzt auch weiß, daß das notwendig war, so werde ich in Erinnerung an jene Zeit immer noch ein wenig verlegen. 174 Ich habe von dem vertraulichen Verhältnis gesprochen, das ganz natürlich zwischen den Polizeibeamten und jenen, die sie überwachen müssen, entsteht. Auch auf diesem Gebiet ist es nicht anders. Ja, vielleicht ist es dort sogar noch enger. Die Kundschaft jedes Inspektors, wenn ich so sagen darf, besteht dort aus einer relativ beschränkten Anzahl von Frauen, die man fast immer an den gleichen Stellen trifft, vor der Tür des gleichen Hotels oder unter der gleichen Gaslaterne oder auf den Terrassen der gleichen Brasserien. Ich war damals noch nicht so füllig, wie ich es mit den Jahren geworden bin, und habe wohl jünger gewirkt, als ich in Wirklichkeit war. Wenn man sich an die Kekse in der Wohnung am Boulevard Beaumarchais erinnert, wird man verstehen, daß ich Frauen gegenüber ziemlich schüchtern war. Die meisten Beamten der Sittenpolizei waren auf du und du mit den Mädchen, deren Vornamen oder Spitznamen sie kannten, und es war eine Tradition, wenn sie sie nach einer Razzia in die Grüne Minna verfrachteten, man sich lachend die ordinärsten und obszönsten Worte ins Gesicht schrie. (pp.101- 102) Wille and Klau translate ‘police des mœurs’ as ‘die Sittenpolizei,’ and omit the third sentence, a typical strategy to overcome translation difficulties on their part. In so doing, they lose the shift to more informal terminology. The use of ‘die Sittenpolizei’ results in cultural and semantic loss, in that the French colouring is effaced, though the invariant core is transferred. A means of rendering the change in style of the terminology employed would be to use ‘die Sittenpolizei’ in the first instance as the German translators have done, or even to use the strategy suggested above of employing a combination of source text expression and German exegesis here: ‘die Sittenpolizei, la police des mœurs,’ and then in the third sentence to insert ‘die Sitte,’ a more informal term. In this way, the earlier German translation would reproduce the standard form versus more informal term found in the original text. A further alternative is Plancherel’s solution: »Haben Sie auch bei der Sittenpolizei gedient?« Man nennt sie heute nicht mehr so. Man sagt verschämt >Brigade Mondaine<. (p.118) 175 The retention of the French expression both preserves the cultural values present in the original text, but is also comprehensible, due to the explanation, to the target language reader. Maigret describes his feelings towards his memories of that time in his career in the sentence beginning ‘Et, si je me rends compte à présent que c’était nécessaire […].’ Wille and Klau’s translation of this sentence again displays evidence of grammatical transposition between the two languages, in the illocutionary particle ‘auch’ in the phrase ‘Und wenn ich jetzt auch weiß […].’ ‘Auch,’ in this instance, has an emphatic function, highlighting a concession in what Maigret is about to say: even though he now recognises his time with the police des mœurs as a vital stage in his career, the memory of that period still fills him with a sense of unease. Wille and Klau’s ‘verlegen’ incurs a lesser degree of semantic loss than Plancherel’s ‘konfus,’ meaning ‘confused’ or ‘muddled.’25 This loses the reference to embarrassment in ‘confus.’ Plancherel’s translation is otherwise apt, and thus the following modified form of it minimises semantic loss: ‘[…] so bewahre ich doch eine peinliche und zugleich unangenehme Erinnerung an jene Zeit.’ The reference to the police vehicle as ‘le panier à salade’ is problematic. Wille and Klau convey the colloquial tone of the French by employing ‘die Grüne Minna,’ but the German expression refers specifically to the German police system. In 1866 in Berlin, a green horse-drawn cart was first used for the transportation of prisoners.26 The French expression dates from 1827, and was adopted because the police wagon was originally made of thick wickerwork, much the same as the salad baskets of the time.27 The German translation thus creates a cultural incongruity by importing a lexical item with German cultural connotations into the French context. ‘Der Polizeiwagen’ would minimise loss, because it normalises all unwanted associations, though it loses the French cultural allusion and the colloquial language variety. Plancherel’s target text uses a calque: ‘Salatkorb.’28 This expression is not 25 Simenon/Plancherel (1978), p.119. The source language term can have this semantic core, but the use of this core in this context would incur loss, for Maigret explicitly alludes to his timidity. Moreover, ‘verlegen,’ from Wille and Klau’s translation, does not usually collocate with ‘Erinnerung.’ 26 ‘Es handelte sich um einen grünen Pferdefuhrwerkswagen mit Luftschlitzen, der später im Volksmund “Grüne Minna” genannt wurde.’ www.berlin.de/polizei/wir-ueber- uns/historie/monarchie.html. Accessed on 6 April 2007. 27 www.prefecture-police-paris.interieur.gouv.fr/documentation/reportages/liaisons_87/retro_87.pdf. Accessed on 6 April 2007. Note: Liaisons is the magazine of the Parisian préfecture de police. 28 Simenon/Plancherel (1978), p.119. 176 used colloquially in German to refer to a police van, and the meaning is not fully derivable from the context. In this instance, therefore, the translation strategy is weighted too much towards the source culture. However, as a means of preserving the cultural symbol and ensuring that this is comprehensible to the target reader, Plancherel’s solution could be adapted as follows: ‘[…] und wenn sie sie nach einer Razzia in den Polizeiwagen, den >Salatkorb<, verfrachteten […].’ Problems of this type of cultural transfer also arise for the English-speaking translator of this passage: I have often been asked, with reference to my early days and my various jobs: ‘Have you been in the Vice Squad too?’ It isn’t known by that name today. It is modestly called the ‘Social Squad.’ Well, I’ve belonged to that, like most of my colleagues. For a very short period. Barely a few months. And if I realize now that it was necessary, my recollections of that period are nevertheless confused and somewhat uneasy. I mentioned the familiarity that grows up naturally between policemen and those on whom it is their job to keep watch. By force of circumstances, it exists in that branch as much as in the others. Even more so. Indeed, the clientèle of each detective, so to speak, consists of a relatively restricted number of women who are almost always found at the same spots, at the door of the same hotel or under the same street lamp, or, for the grade above, at the terrace of the same brasseries. I was not then as stalwart as I have grown with the passing years, and apparently I looked younger than my age. Remember the petits fours incident at the Boulevard Beaumarchais and you will understand that in certain respects I was somewhat timid. Most of the officers in the Vice Squad were on familiar terms with the women, whose names or nicknames they knew, and it was a tradition when, during the course of a raid, they packed them into the Black Maria, to vie with one another in the coarseness of speech, to fling the filthiest abuse at one another with a laugh. (pp.56-57) 177 The first strategic problem to emerge here, as was the case with Wille and Klau’s translation, is the rendering of the source language title ‘police des mœurs.’ Again, the historical change in the nomenclature is unique to the French cultural setting of the source text, and should be retained as far as possible, without introducing any cultural incongruity into the translation, in order to minimise cultural loss. Stewart’s ‘Vice Squad,’ in the first instance, appears to be an appropriate translation, in that it is generic; however, it has no specific cultural marking, and thus the allusion to a particular division of the French police system is lost. ‘The vice squad, the police des mœurs,’ uses an exegetic strategy similar to that used in dealing with the issue of the Quai des Orfèvres in quotation three above. It also limits cultural loss. The second allusion, ‘Social Squad,’ Stewart’s translation for ‘Brigade Mondaine,’ would seem to be a coinage, signalled by the fact that it appears between inverted commas. Because there is no temporal distinction in English with reference to this unit, Stewart’s choice does not create any cultural incongruity. In addition, the idea of the euphemism is transferred. When speaking of his emotional reaction at his memory of this period of his career, Maigret claims that his recollection is ‘à la fois confus et un peu gêné,’ which Stewart renders as ‘confused and somewhat uneasy.’ The English entails semantic loss, for ‘confused,’ like the German ‘konfus,’ has a different semantic core to the source language ‘confus.’ Again, this may be the result of Stewart’s literal translation strategy. The source text term refers to a sense of embarrassment rather than confusion. Thus, the translator’s lexical decision is not congruent with the context, that is, Maigret’s admission of timidity. The register of the paragraph generally, as is often the case in Stewart’s translation, is too formal. A proposed alternative is: ‘And though I know now that it was a necessary stage in my career, my memory of that time still makes me feel uneasy and embarrassed.’ The loss incurred earlier in this passage by the use of, for example, ‘Vice Squad’ is compensated for in kind later in this section, through the use of French expressions that have been borrowed into the target language and are part of its current lexis. References to ‘clientèle,’ to ‘petits fours’ and to the ‘Boulevard Beaumarchais’ manifest both a transfer of Popovič’s invariant semantic core but also take account of cultural and contextual factors, while still being comprehensible to the target language reader. Target language reader expectations may also be a factor, in that precedents exist for French borrowings in native English-language detective 178 fiction. This may be because, as shown in chapter two, English-speaking crime writers have used Francophone protagonists, such as Poirot and Dupin. The final source text paragraph includes a strategic difficulty at the grammatical level for the Anglophone translator. The French ‘à tu et à toi’ was straightforward for the German translators, since German distinguishes between formal (social distance) and informal (familiar) variants of the second person pronoun. This option is not open to English speakers, and thus Stewart offers ‘on familiar terms.’ Here, the invariant core – that is, the idea of familiarity – is rendered, and this is enhanced by the statement that most of the police officers knew the first names or nicknames of their clients. The transposition from a grammatical device to a sentential feature limits loss in this instance. The second difficulty in this paragraph is Stewart’s rendering of ‘Black Maria’ for the source text’s ‘panier à salade.’ According to the Metropolitan Police website, Black Maria: was the nickname for secure police vans with separate locked cubicles, used for the transportation of prisoners. The name is said to have come from a large and powerful black lodging-house keeper named Maria Lee, who helped constables of Boston, Massachusetts in the 1830s when they needed to escort drunks to the cells. The Met’s first vehicle of any kind was a Black Maria drawn by two dray horses, acquired in 1858.29 Thus, ‘Black Maria’ is an American or British cultural reference, and therefore inappropriate in a narrative set in France (as was the case with ‘Grüne Minna’). It may be more apt to employ ‘police wagon, which we called the “salad basket”’ but not ‘police van,’ for this risks a temporal clash by being too modern for the context. Lastly, the final two phrases in the translation of this passage display two kinds of translation loss: firstly, they lack idiomaticity, in that ‘coarseness of speech’ is a cumbersome formulation, and ‘fling’ collocates unusually with verbal abuse;30 secondly, they are too formal stylistically for this narrative, for reasons already outlined. A possible alternative translation might be: ‘[…] to compete at being the 29 www.met.police.uk/history/black_marias.htm. Accessed on 6 April 2007. 30 ‘Hurl’ is a more common collocation with ‘abuse.’ 179 most foul-mouthed and to hurl, laughing, the filthiest, most obscene insults at each other.’ QUOTATION VIII Maigret describes his time in another department: the unit concerned with immigration. He details a typical raid on illegal immigrants: D’habitude, nous pouvions atteindre le premier étage sans avoir alerté les locataires et on frappait à une première porte, des grognements répondaient, des questions dans une langue presque toujours étrangère. — Police! Ils comprennent tous ces [sic] mot-là. Et des gens en chemise, des gens tous nus, des hommes, des femmes, des enfants s’agitaient dans une mauvaise lumière, dans la mauvaise odeur, débouclaient des malles invraisemblables pour y chercher un passeport caché sous les effets. […] Ils possédaient des papiers, vrais ou faux. Et, cependant qu’ils nous les tendaient, avec toujours la peur que nous les mettions dans notre poche, ils cherchaient instinctivement à nous amadouer avec un sourire, trouvaient quelques mots de français à balbutier: — Missié li commissaire… (pp.137-138) This final section highlights how otherness is treated within the source culture. Wille and Klau translate: Gewöhnlich konnten wir den ersten Stock erreichen, ohne daß die »Gäste« etwas davon merkten. Man klopfte an eine Tür, und es ertönte dann ein Gemurmel in einer fast immer ausländischen Sprache. »Polizei!« Sie verstehen dieses Wort alle. Und Leute im Hemd, splitternackte Leute, Männer, Frauen, Kinder, eilen im trüben Licht umher und suchen in riesigen Koffern nach einem unter anderen Sachen versteckten Paß. […] Sie besaßen Papiere, echte oder falsche. 180 Und während sie sie uns reichten, immer mit der Angst, daß wir sie in unsere Tasche steckten, bemühten sie sich instinktiv, uns mit einem Lächeln zu schmeicheln. (pp.113-114) Wille and Klau’s decision to render ‘grognements’ as ‘Gemurmel’ involves attitudinal loss. This is because the source text term recalls the noise of animals grunting, whereas the target language expression implies instead human murmuring. The source text likens the immigrants to animals throughout the passage, whereas the translation accords them more dignity, only referring to them as ‘Tiere’ in the final sentence. Context thus suggests that loss would be minimised if a more appropriate term such as ‘Grunzen’ were used. In the second full paragraph of the source text, the list of people adds to the sense of rising agitation. This device is even more effective in German than in the original, due to the fact that the target language requires no articles, creating an increased tempo. The grammatical decision in the target text thus has prosodic ramifications. In the same paragraph, however, the German translators omit the reference to ‘la mauvaise odeur,’ and this incurs unacceptable semantic and contextual loss, since the mention of the bad smell highlights the impoverished condition of the immigrants’ lives. Furthermore, the reference to olfactory sensation gains in importance when considered against the background of Simenon’s œuvre as a whole: the sense of smell is often used as a means of recalling the past, or to help build the climat of a given text. In chapter three, the importance of the sense of smell in L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre was highlighted. Thus, ‘[…] eilen im trüben Licht und in der schlechten Luft umher […],’ for example, limits contextual loss in the target text. The expression ‘[…] uns mit einem Lächeln zu schmeicheln,’ for ‘[…] nous amadouer avec un sourire […]’ also contains inappropriate attitudinal meaning. ‘Amadouer’ suggests the idea of mollifying or attempting to soothe, whereas ‘schmeicheln’ adds connotations of insincerity. Thus, ‘schmeicheln’ can be seen as an instance of particularisation, with the target language term being more specific than the original. In this case, however, this is an unsuitable translation choice, and a more appropriate solution might be ‘beschwichtigen.’ Secondly, Wille and Klau once again omit the final part of the paragraph, from ‘[…] trouvaient quelques mots de français à balbutier: - Missié li commissaire…’ This is problematic for the translator, because the immigrants are speaking bad French, rather than poor German. However, not employing poor French loses the fact that the immigrants’ command of the language 181 is weak, thereby emphasising their status as outsiders. The solution lies in the text, which specifies that the immigrants can only speak ‘quelques mots de français.’ Therefore a more appropriate rendering in the German translation might read: ‘[…] stotterten ein paar Worte in gebrochenem Französisch: »Bitte, missié li commissaire…«.’31 The English translation of the passage runs: Usually we managed to reach the first floor without rousing the lodgers, and we would knock at the first door and be answered by grunts, by questions almost invariably in a foreign language. ‘Police!’ That’s a word they all understand. And then, in their underclothes or stark naked, men, women and children scurry about in the dim light, in the stench, unfastening unbelievable cases to hunt for a passport hidden under their belongings. […] They owned papers, real or forged. And while they held them out to us, fearful lest we should thrust them in our pockets, they tried instinctively to win us with a smile, found a few words of French to stammer: ‘Please, Mister Officer…’ (pp.61-62) The sense of agitation generated by the list device in the source text is not adequately transferred into the target text. A more fragmentary strategy would be more apt, though the loss here is compensated for by ellipsis later in the same clause: ‘in the dim light, in the stench.’ This contributes to the air of agitation, and to the vraisemblance. In the paragraph addressing the issue of identity papers, ‘lest’ increases the formality of the register to an inappropriate degree. ‘And while they held them out to us, afraid that we might pocket them […]’ is arguably a more apt translation. However, Stewart’s choice of ‘[…] found a few words of French to stammer […]’ is a suitable translation decision. In addition, for reasons outlined above, the immigrants’ 31 Plancherel employs a similar solution: ‘[…] mit einem Lächeln, ein paar gestotterten Brocken Französisch zu erweichen: »Missié li commissaire…« (p.133). 182 pleadings may be more aptly given as ‘ “Please, missié li commissaire.”’ This also limits cultural loss, for it avoids importing the English values of ‘Mister’ into the French context. 3. CONCLUSION Simenon’s Les Mémoires de Maigret was selected for its combination of typical and less-typical features. Its atypicality lies primarily in its difference to ‘canonical’ detective fiction: it has no murder, no investigation (except perhaps in the investigation of Maigret’s life, which could be seen as a mystery of sorts) and no real plot structure. Typical features include the informal style and the use of terminology from the French justiciary, which, in this instance, is more varied than elsewhere in the corpus because of the pseudo-autobiographical nature of this text. Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau opt for a free translation at a number of points, usually in the form of the omission of certain key, if strategically problematic, paragraphs. With the exception of the paragraph and chapter heading omissions, where unacceptable translation loss is incurred, the translators generally seek to limit loss using other means, employing compensation in kind: for example, the emphatic effect of concision in the source is achieved in the target text by deploying illocutionary particles. Instances of cultural loss include translating ‘Monsieur’ as ‘Herr’ and ‘Quai des Orfèvres’ as ‘Kriminalpolizei.’ This results in a target text that is arguably more readily comprehensible to the target audience, but one that incurs significant loss in the area of cultural specificity. While the invariant semantic core may be transferred in these instances, there is a significant degree of cultural loss, which diminishes the specificity of the source. Roswitha Plancherel’s German target text shows a strategy that is generally balanced: that is, culturally-specific items are retained and explained for the target language reader by insertion of brief, idiomatic exegesis. However, occasionally the translator goes to an extreme in her attempt to preserve the otherness of the source, resulting in instances of mistranslation or of unwanted connotative meaning, such as was the case in the pejorative reference to Mme Maigret as ‘Heimchen am Herd,’ which clashes with the context and with the overall picture of the character created throughout the Maigret corpus. Because Plancherel’s translation generally preserves the source specificity but is comprehensible to the target readership, it empirically 183 proves the integrated theory of translation and thus conforms to the approach posited in chapter one. Jean Stewart’s English translation, on the other hand, manifests other difficulties. The level of stylistic formality is too high throughout the text, and this entails an inappropriate degree of translation loss. The style of the original novel is significant: the relative informality and simplicity reflects the character of the protagonist. In addition, mistranslation is not infrequent, and periodically the standard of idiomaticity falls below reasonable expectations.32 Loss at these three levels – semantic, sentential and varietal – can be seen as the consequence of Stewart’s generally literal translation strategy. Although Plancherel’s version demonstrates the pitfalls that open if a translator focuses on one level of textual variables at the expense of others, her target text is evidence of the fact that, for translation to succeed in bringing a target reader to understand instances of cultural and linguistic specificity and minimise loss, both a transfer of a composite semantic value and due consideration for source and target cultures are required. 32 For example p.26, p.45. 184 CHAPTER SIX TEXTUAL ANALYSIS: MAIGRET ET LES BRAVES GENS 1. INTRODUCTION Of the three source texts examined in this study, the final novel, Maigret et les braves gens (1961),1 most closely conforms to what could be termed the typical Maigret novel. It is set in Paris, contains the support characters found elsewhere, and follows a familiar format: murder (or, more accurately, the revelation of the murder), investigation, and resolution. In this novel, the victim, René Josselin, is a middle-class gentleman, a retired businessman, well-considered, married with a daughter and with no apparent enemies. Maigret’s subsequent enquiries turn up little, and it is only through the examination of the dead man’s relationships with his family that he uncovers the truth. The investigation sees the Commissaire ill at ease, due in part to his desire to get under the skin of others, and experience their lives for himself. This leads to the solution of the riddle. Contextual and cultural issues will again be examined; however, the focus will be on language problems, including differences in lexical usage between the three languages; syntactic issues and word order; discourse and articulation; and grammar. The translations under examination are Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau’s Maigret und die braven Leute (1963),2 and Ingrid Altrichter’s version with the same title (1988).3 The English translation is Maigret and the Black Sheep by Helen Thomson (1976).4 1 Georges Simenon, Maigret et les braves gens (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 2004 [1961]). 2 Georges Simenon, Maigret und die braven Leute, translated by Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau (Stuttgart/Zürich/Salzburg: Europäischer Buchklub, no date given – 1963 given on Altrichter’s copyright page). 3 Georges Simenon, Maigret und die braven Leute, translated by Ingrid Altrichter (Zürich: Diogenes, 1988). 4 Georges Simenon, Maigret and the Black Sheep, translated by Helen Thomson (London: Book Club Associates, 1976). 185 2. TEXTUAL ANALYSIS: CONTEXTUAL AND CULTURAL ISSUES QUOTATION I At the beginning of the novel, Maigret, recently returned from a holiday, is awakened by a telephone call from a fellow police commissaire whom Maigret has known since his beginnings in the force: Je m’en excuse. De toute façon, je pense que le Quai des Orfèvres va vous appeler d’un instant à l’autre pour vous mettre au courant, car j’ai alerté le Parquet et la P.J. (p.8) This passage raises the question of differences in the police forces of the three cultures under consideration. Differences between departments within the French police force, and how these might potentially be rendered, were examined in relation to Les Mémoires de Maigret in the previous chapter. However, the issue of differences arising among the three cultures has not yet been explored in any depth and before the individual references can be properly understood within their contexts, some examination of the differing police systems is required. Wille and Klau render the extract as follows: Das tut mir leid. Ich glaube aber, man wird Sie jeden Augenblick vom Quai des Orfèvres aus anrufen, um Sie ins Bild zu setzen, denn ich habe die Staatsanwaltschaft und die Kriminalpolizei benachrichtigt. (p.7) Altrichter translates: Ich bitte um Entschuldigung. Allerdings glaube ich, daß der Quai des Orfèvres Sie auch gleich anrufen wird, um Sie zu informieren, denn ich habe bereits die Staatsanwaltschaft und die Kriminalpolizei alarmiert. (p.6) 186 France has two centralised police forces: the Police Nationale and the Gendarmerie Nationale.5 The former is under the supervision of the interior ministry, and is responsible for policing urban areas. It has nine subdivisions, including the Police Judiciaire (part of which is the Parisian Police Judiciaire, based at 36, Quai des Orfèvres). The Gendarmerie, on the other hand, is under the control of the defence ministry, and is a military force responsible for public safety in rural areas and small towns.6 More important for the purposes of the novel is the prosecution system that operates in France. The office of the public prosecutor (‘procureur’) is responsible for initiating criminal proceedings. At this point, the office supervises the police investigation before handing over to the examining magistrate (‘juge d’instruction’), who is then responsible for the police enquiries. In Maigret et les braves gens, this procedure is followed: the Police Judiciaire arrive, followed by the deputy from ‘le Parquet’ (prosecutor’s office7), and finally, the young ‘juge d’instruction,’ Etienne Gossard. Maigret makes his report to Gossard at the end of chapter six, and obtains his permission for the ruse of chapter seven, and therefore it is clear that Gossard is in charge of the inquiry, with the Parquet only making an appearance at the beginning of the novel. Simenon’s depiction of the French criminal justice system here corresponds to reality. In Germany, policing remits are divided between the individual federal states and the nation. There are three main police organisations in Germany: the Bundespolizei, the Landespolizei and the Bundeskriminalamt.8 The Bundespolizei falls under the jurisdiction of the interior minister. It is charged, amongst other tasks, with maintaining border security, protecting government buildings and embassies and providing security at airports and on the state railway system. Each Landespolizei is organised differently, but the basic duties include a criminal investigation unit 5 See http://polis.osce.org/countries/details?item_id=24. Accessed on 8 May 2007. 6 There is also a third force, though this is not centralised: the Police Municipale, whose remit is to deal with all criminal and public order issues within its designated area. See John Benyon et al., Police Co- operation in Europe: An Investigation (Leicester: Centre for the Study of Public Order, 1993), pp.74- 78. 7 Sheehan explains that the prosecutor in France is known as the ‘Ministère public’ or as ‘le Parquet.’ A.V. Sheehan, Criminal Procedure in Scotland and France. A comparative study, with particular emphasis on the role of the public prosecutor (Edinburgh: HMSO, 1975). Le Petit Larousse explains that ‘le Parquet’ is the ‘Ensemble des magistrats qui exercent les fonctions du ministère public.’ There seems to be a difference of opinion here – is ‘le Parquet’ the individual, or the sum total of his or her office? The latter seems to be intended by Simenon. 8 http://polis.osce.org/countries/details?item_id=17. Accessed on 8 May 2007. 187 (Landeskriminalamt); prevention of petty crime; traffic police; stand-by police; waterways police; and aerial units. Lastly, the Bundeskriminalamt oversees co- operation between national and federal state institutions in criminal investigation matters, and is in addition the central office for police information and intelligence. The public prosecutor’s offices in Germany are ‘criminal justice bodies of independent responsibilities vis-a-vis [sic] the courts and attached to the judiciary.’9 The status of the prosecutor seems to differ according to the level of court to which they are linked, from the Generalbundesanwalt of the Bundesgerichtshof, the ‘Federal Court of Justice,’ to the prosecutor attached to a regional court, described by the OSCE as the ‘Senior Prosecutor-in-Charge.’ According to Sheehan, a similar structure exists within the prosecution system of France.10 The German public prosecutors deal with criminal investigation matters, and must gather the facts when an individual is suspected of having committed a crime. With regard to the prosecution systems, the ‘public prosecutor’ in Germany would appear to be charged with a combination of the tasks of ‘le Parquet’ and the ‘juge d’instruction.’ However, ‘le Parquet’ is a unique French colloquial reference, but this is likely to be incomprehensible to the target language reader, and therefore the cultural specificity is lost. Thus, the three German translators make an appropriate decision in rendering ‘le Parquet’ as ‘die Staatsanwaltschaft’ at this point, within Saint-Hubert’s direct speech, whereas later they could have employed ‘die Staatsanwaltschaft, der sogenannte “Parquet.”’ Despite the observation that the rôle of the public prosecution in Germany combines the remits of ‘le Parquet’ and the ‘juge d’instruction’ or examining magistrate, the distinction must be made in the target text, because it is the French system that is described. At a later point, the German translators use ‘der Untersuchungsrichter,’ as distinct from ‘die Staatsanwaltschaft,’ thereby marking the distinction.11 In the German police system, criminal investigation is both a local and national matter, as it is in France to a lesser extent. The German translators’ decision to render ‘la Police Judiciaire’ as ‘die Kriminalpolizei’ is not culturally specific, whereas using ‘Bundeskriminalamt’ or ‘Landeskriminalamt’ would incur imposition of German cultural values onto a French context. ‘Kriminalpolizei’ entails, however, 9 Ibid. 10 Sheehan (1975), p.16. 11 Wille and Klau p.17; Altrichter p.18. 188 the loss of the unique French cultural reference. In addition, the target text audience may not associate ‘Quai des Orfèvres’ with ‘Kriminalpolizei.’ The difficulty could be overcome by the insertion of ‘des Quais’ after ‘die Kriminalpolizei.’ In any case, the translators could have considered employing ‘Police Judiciaire’ elsewhere, though this is not appropriate at this point owing to the direct speech.12 Exegesis used to explain culturally-specific lexical items such as these for the reader would be incongruous in direct speech, because the characters are embedded in the culture and know the workings of its institutions. Helen Thomson translates the passage into English as follows: I’m so sorry. Anyway, at any minute I think you’ll have a call from the Quai des Orfèvres which will put you in the picture, as I’ve alerted the D.P.P. and Police Headquarters. (p.1) Again, this raises the issue of the disparity between different police and legal-justice systems. Unlike the French and German systems, in the United Kingdom there is no central police institution. Instead, England and Wales operate within one criminal justice framework, while Scotland and Northern Ireland have devolved power in this area. Policing in the United Kingdom is divided into 52 individual police forces: 43 in England and Wales, 8 in Scotland and 1 in Northern Ireland.13 In terms of the prosecution service, France and England display greater similarities than France and Germany.14 Before the establishment of the Crown Prosecution Service in 1986, the police in England decided whether cases should go to court. Now, Crown Prosecutors are responsible for the determination of whether an individual should be charged.15 This is similar to the system operating in France. Thomson’s decision to render ‘le Parquet’ as ‘the D.P.P.’ (Director of Public Prosecutions) is problematic: According to the Crown Prosecution Service’s official leaflet, ‘The Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) is the principal prosecuting authority in England and Wales. It is headed by the Director of Public Prosecutions (DPP) 12 An exegesis would be incongruous, because Saint-Hubert does not need to explain ‘Police Judiciaire’ to Maigret. It may be more suitable later in the text, during a narrative passage. 13 http://polis.osce.org/countries/details.php?item_id=73. Accessed on 8 May 2007. 14 The information following only applies to the English/Welsh system, which is the largest. 15 The Decision to Prosecute (Crown Prosecution Service, 2004), accessed via www.cps.gov.uk on 22 January 2008. 189 […].’16 The translator is thus introducing a British (or, more accurately, English) cultural allusion into a French context, creating an incongruity and incurring cultural loss. A preferable strategy, as outlined in relation to the German case, would be to employ a culture-neutral expression at this stage, such as ‘the (public) prosecutor’s department,’ and, later, when the term occurs in the narrative rather than in direct speech, to use ‘le Parquet, the (public) prosecutor’s department.’ As with the German translation, a difficulty arises in the translator’s direct transfer of ‘Quai des Orfèvres.’ This is followed at the end of the sentence by the translation of ‘P.J.’ into the target language as ‘Police Headquarters.’ The reader may not make the connection between the two elements. In addition, despite retaining the cultural flavouring, the ‘Quai des Orfèvres’ reference risks being unclear to the target audience. Since it is the Direction Régionale de la Police Judiciaire of Paris that is located at the Quai,17 the translator’s generalising choice of ‘Police Headquarters’ entails cultural and semantic loss, as it does not refer to the Police Judiciaire specifically. A more suitable alternative would be: ‘[…] and the Police Judiciaire at the Quai.’ QUOTATION II After receiving the telephone call, Maigret goes to the crime scene. He first interviews Véronique, the victim’s daughter, in her childhood bedroom: La porte ouverte, Maigret entendit des voix dans le salon, celles du substitut Mercier et d’Etienne Gossard, un jeune juge d’instruction qui, comme les autres, avait été tiré de son lit. Les hommes de l’Identité Judiciaire n’allaient pas tarder à envahir le salon. (p.20) This extract is lexically significant: it helps build the criminal justice word system that is an aspect of the specificity of this novel and the corpus as a whole. Wille and Klau’s version reads: 16 Ibid., p.1. My emphasis, JLT. 17 ‘Annuaire de l’administration,’ lesservices.service-public.fr. Accessed on 20 March 2008. 190 Durch die offene Tür hörte Maigret Stimmen im Salon, die des Staatsanwalts Mercier und Etienne Gossards, eines jungen Untersuchungsrichters, der wie die anderen aus dem Bett geholt worden war. Es würde nicht lange dauern, und die Männer vom Erkennungsdienst würden im Salon erscheinen. (p.17) Altrichter translates as follows: Als die Tür offen war, vernahm Maigret im Salon Stimmen: die von Mercier, dem Vertreter des Staatsanwalts, und von Etienne Gossard, einem jungen Untersuchungsrichter, der wie die anderen aus dem Bett geholt worden war. Bald würden auch die Männer vom Erkennungsdienst im Salon einfallen. (p.18) The lexical decisions ‘Untersuchungsrichter’ and ‘Erkennungsdienst’ seem apt, since their remit in the target culture is similar to the source culture. Wille and Klau’s choice of ‘Staatsanwalt’ for ‘substitut’ incurs a degree of semantic loss. The source text suggests a deputy rather than the actual procureur, whereas the German text does not in any way imply a lowering in status, though a ‘Staatsanwalt’ is only a part of the ‘Staatsanwaltschaft.’ This may, in fact, be compensation enough for the loss. More successful in minimising semantic loss is Altrichter’s translation, ‘der Vertreter des Staatsanwalts,’ for this makes explicit the fact that it is the procureur’s deputy who is present. Thomson’s translation of the same passage runs: When the door into the sitting-room was opened Maigret could hear the voices of Mercier, the representative from the D.P.P., and Etienne Gossard, a young examining magistrate who, like the others, had been hauled out of bed. The men from the Forensic Laboratory would soon be taking over the sitting-room. (p.10) ‘Representative’ does suggest the idea of subordination implicit in the original, but ‘D.P.P’ creates cultural loss because it is a cultural transposition, in that once more it places an English cultural item in a French context. A potential alternative would be: 191 ‘[…] Mercier, the deputy from le Parquet, the public prosecutor’s office […].’ This retains the idea of hierarchy from the source text, and also avoids any unwanted cultural connotations: the use of lower case letters in ‘public prosecutor’s office’ suggests public prosecution generally, rather than pointing to a specific cultural group. In addition, the fact that the novel depicts the French criminal justice system is preserved by the explicit naming of ‘le Parquet,’ previously omitted in the direct speech. QUOTATION III The final significant cultural point to note is the reference to the P.M.U., the pari mutuel urbain. Maigret decides to follow the route taken by M. Josselin each day. In a small bar on the way, the garçon informs Maigret that he knew M. Josselin by sight but that: […] Il n’est jamais entré ici… Un matin que je me trouvais boulevard Saint- Michel, je l’ai vu sortir du P.M.U… Cela m’a frappé… J’ai l’habitude, chaque dimanche, de jouer le tiercé, mais cela m’a surpris qu’un homme comme lui joue aux courses… (p.116) Here, a new semantic field is introduced, that of gambling. As with the criminal justice terminology discussed above and in previous chapters, this has a considerable degree of cultural embeddedness. Wille and Klau render the passage thus: […] Er ist nie hier hereingekommen. Als ich eines Morgens am Boulevard Saint-Michel war, habe ich ihn aus dem Wettbüro kommen sehen… Das hat mich erstaunt. Ich wette jeden Sonntag mit zwei anderen zusammen, aber es hat mich überrascht, daß ein Mann wie er beim Rennen wettete. (p.90) Altrichter offers as a translation: 192 […] Er war nie hier drinnen. Einmal habe ich ihn morgens, als ich am Boulevard Saint-Michel war, aus dem Wettbüro herauskommen sehen. Da war ich platt. Ich mache ja für gewöhnlich jeden Sonntag meine Dreierwette, aber es hat mich überrascht, daß ein Mann wie er auf Pferde setzt… (p.112) The waiter reveals that he had seen M. Josselin exiting the P.M.U., one of the network of sales points throughout France where customers can place bets on horse-racing.18 It is, therefore, a French institution, and the use of a culturally-neutral lexical choice, ‘das Wettbüro,’ is understandable in that it does not entail a cultural incongruity, though it does incur cultural loss, in that all French cultural values are effaced. It would thus be more suitable to use the source text terminology and exegesis, giving ‘das P.M.U. Wettbüro,’ which is the same solution suggested above for ‘le Parquet’ and ‘Quai des Orfèvres.’ ‘P.M.U.’ is explained in the source text itself shortly after the above passage, when Mme Josselin claims not to understand the contraction: — Il aurait pu jouer au P.M.U.? — Qu’est-ce que c’est? — Il existe à Paris et en province des bureaux, le plus souvent dans des cafés ou dans des bars, où on prend les paris… (p.126) This provides an explanation, once translated, for the target text reader. Wille and Klau’s rendering, however, incurs semantic and cultural loss: »Hätte er nicht in einem Wettbüro wetten können?« »Wettbüro? Was ist das?« »Es gibt in Paris und in der Provinz Büros, meistens in Cafés oder Bars, wo man Wetten abschließen kann.« (p.97) The cultural loss arises here because ‘Wettbüro’ is a communicative translation, an explanation of the source culture terminology. In addition, the translators create a semantic incongruity (or at least an implausibility) in that the target language term is 18 See www.pmu.fr/pmu/html/fr/enterprise. Accessed on 1 June 2007. The Petit Larousse Illustré 2000 further clarifies that is it the ‘organisme détenant en France le monopole de l’organisation et de l’enregistrement des paris sur les courses de chevaux, effectués sur les hippodromes et en dehors.’ Larousse (1999). 193 clear to the reader and therefore probably comprehensible to an intelligent woman like Mme Josselin. In order to minimise these losses, the French form could be employed, given that the Commissaire explains the expression, and because it is ostensibly as obscure to Mme Josselin as it is for the target language reader. An alternative to Wille and Klau’s translation of the explanation would be: »Hätte er nicht im P.M.U. wetten können?« »P.M.U.? Was heißt das?« More apt still is Altrichter’s solution: »Er hätte doch in einem P.M.U. wetten können?« »Was ist das?« »Das sind die Büros der Pari Mutuel Urbain, die es sowohl in Paris als auch in der Provinz gibt, meistens in Wirtshäusern oder Bistros, in denen die Wetten angenommen werden.« (p.122) Potential factors to be considered here in relation to semantic and contextual loss are the expectation and needs of the target audience: Altrichter appears mindful of this issue while striking a balance with the retention of the cultural colouring. The reference to the culturally-specific institution P.M.U. is preserved in its original form, expanded in the source language (though capitalised, following German stylistic convention), but is then explained for the target reader. Altrichter’s target text preserves the cultural values and semantic core by retaining the expression from the source semantic field and providing an exegetic gloss in the target language. A further instance of gambling terminology is ‘le tiercé.’ This is a type of bet in which the player has to choose the first three horses over the line in a race.19 Thus Wille and Klau mistranslate, suggesting that the waiter bets with two other people, rather than placing a particular kind of bet. The German counterpart of ‘le tiercé’ is ‘Dreierwette,’ the appropriate expression for this context, as Altrichter recognises (p.112). 19 Larousse (1999). 194 Thomson employs a similar strategy to Altrichter: […] He never came in here… One morning when I was in the Boulevard Saint-Michel I saw him coming out of the Pari-Mutuel… That surprised me… Every Sunday I usually bet on the tiercé but I was surprised that a man like him should bet on horses… (p.75) Here, Thomson has rendered ‘P.M.U.’ using ‘Pari-Mutuel,’ a French term that has been borrowed into English to refer to that type of betting. How comprehensible the expression would be for a modern-day Anglophone reader is not clear; however, owing to the later explanation given by Maigret for Mme. Josselin’s benefit, and in the light of the fact that at the end of the waiter’s testimony it is already evident that M. Josselin was seen emerging from the café containing the betting counter, Thomson’s translation decision appears apt. To avoid any potential misunderstanding, however, it would be appropriate to insert ‘betting counter’ after ‘Pari-Mutuel.’ In a similar vein, Thomson borrows ‘tiercé’ from the source text. This is more problematic than ‘Pari-Mutuel.’ The term is not employed in the horse-racing semantic field in English; additionally, because of the direct speech, the strategy adopted above for minimising loss with regard to the judiciary semantic field, namely transferring the source term with an English gloss, cannot be used here. A corresponding English-language term is ‘trifecta.’20 However, this belongs exclusively to the horse-racing lexis, and would be obscure for the target readership unfamiliar with this semantic field. More important here is to transfer the invariant core of ‘betting on horses,’ and aid the target readership’s comprehension, in order to minimise loss: the cultural borrowing ‘tiercé’ incurs cultural loss, because it produces too high a degree of exoticism. This overrides the semantic loss of the exact type of bet involved. The suggested alternative reads: ‘I usually bet on the horses every Sunday, but I was surprised that a man like him would too.’ Maigret et les braves gens employs salient cultural features in the form of lexis from the criminal justice and betting semantic fields. With regard to minimising cultural and semantic connotative loss, Altrichter adopts the most appropriate strategy, for hers most carefully balances source against target: that is, she generally 20 Peter Asch and Richard Quandt, Racetrack Betting: The Professors’ Guide to Strategies (Dover, Mass.: Auburn House, 1986), p.7. 195 preserves the cultural colouring while providing an unobtrusive explanation for the target audience. 3. TEXTUAL ANALYSIS: GRAMMATICAL AND STYLISTIC ISSUES Issues will be grouped according to subject, rather than following the plot chronologically.21 Extracts have been numbered for ease of reference. 3.1 Pronominal Usage Pronominal usage has different conventions in French, German and English. Various strategies are thus required in order to minimise potential loss. The first passage for consideration is taken from the beginning of the novel, where Maigret is talking to his colleague Saint-Hubert. QUOTATION I Il ne reconnaissait pas la voix, encore qu’elle lui parût familière. — Ici, Saint-Hubert… Un commissaire de police de son âge à peu près, qu’il connaissait depuis ses débuts. Ils s’appelaient par leur nom de famille, mais ne se tutoyaient pas. Saint-Hubert était long et maigre, roux, un peu lent et solennel, anxieux de mettre les points sur les i. — Je vous ai éveillé? — Oui. — Je m’en excuse. De toute façon, je pense que le Quai des Orfèvres va vous appeler d’un instant à l’autre pour vous mettre au courant, car j’ai alerté le Parquet et la P.J. (p.8) Wille and Klau’s rendering of this passage runs: Er erkannte die Stimme nicht, obwohl sie ihm bekannt vorkam. 21 This is for ease of analysis. Individual points are dealt with here at the level at which they have the most immediate impact, but they may have ramifications at other levels. 196 »Hier Saint-Hubert…« Es war ein Polizeikommissar ungefähr seines Alters, den er seit seinen Anfängen kannte. Saint-Hubert hatte rotes Haar, war lang und mager, ein wenig langsam und sehr gewissenhaft. »Habe ich Sie geweckt?« »Ja.« »Das tut mir leid. Ich glaube aber, man wird Sie jeden Augenblick vom Quai des Orfèvres aus anrufen, um Sie ins Bild zu setzen, denn ich habe die Staatsanwaltschaft und die Kriminalpolizei benachrichtigt.« (p.7) Altrichter translates the exchange as: Er erkannte die Stimme nicht, wenngleich sie ihm nicht fremd vorkam. »Hier ist Saint-Hubert…« Ein Polizeikommissar, der ungefähr in seinem Alter war und den er seit seinen ersten Dienstjahren kannte. Sie sprachen einander ganz formlos mit ihren Nachnamen an, aber sie duzten sich nicht. Saint-Hubert war lang und hager, rothaarig, ein wenig langsam und feierlich und in allem bis aufs I-Tüpfelchen genau. »Habe ich Sie geweckt?« »Ja.« »Ich bitte um Entschuldigung. Allerdings glaube ich, daß der Quai des Orfèvres Sie auch gleich anrufen wird, um Sie zu informieren, denn ich habe bereits die Staatsanwaltschaft und die Kriminalpolizei alarmiert.« (p.6) Lastly, Helen Thomson’s translation of the extract: He did not recognise the voice although it sounded familiar. ‘It’s Saint-Hubert here…’ A police superintendent about his own age, whom he had known from the start of his career. They called each other by their surnames, but did not use the familiar ‘tu.’ Saint-Hubert was tall and thin, a red-head, rather slow and formal and anxious to dot the i’s. 197 ‘Have I woken you up?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m so sorry. Anyway, at any minute I think you’ll have a call from the Quai des Orfèvres which will put you in the picture, as I’ve alerted the D.P.P. and Police Headquarters.’ (p.1) In this passage, Simenon draws attention to the distinction between the second person informal and singular pronoun, and the second person formal and singular pronoun in French: ‘tu’ and ‘vous.’ ‘Vous’ is the second person plural, both in formal and informal contexts. Differentiation in the German second person pronoun is similar, though not identical: ‘du’ is the second person informal and singular and ‘Sie’ is formal and both singular and plural; however, German also has a second person plural pronoun, ‘ihr,’ which is informal. English has only one second person pronoun form, used in all contexts: ‘you.’ Despite the apparent correspondence between French and German usage, there are subtle nuances to be considered: for example, whereas the French ‘vous’ is formal, suggesting politeness, the German ‘Sie’ indicates social distance ‘rather than “politeness”.’22 The implication in the Simenon text is that one might expect Maigret and Saint-Hubert to address each other in more familiar terms, given that they have known one another for many years and hold the same rank within the police force. Yet, they address each other as ‘vous,’ coupled with surnames. Human relationships such as this play an essential rôle in the Maigret texts, and the alternation between the formal and informal pronouns is as important in this novel as elsewhere, for it characterises the relationships between the Commissaire and his various inspectors. Thus, the explicit reference to Maigret and Saint-Hubert’s mode of address gains in importance when considered against the background of the novel, œuvre and culture as a whole. A parallel can be drawn with indigenous German-language detective fiction: Glauser’s Wachtmeister Studer and his colleague Murmann, while using surnames, address each other as ‘du,’ and their whole relationship appears to be friendlier than that of Maigret and Saint-Hubert.23 Against this background, Wille and Klau’s omission of the allusion to the fact that Maigret and Saint-Hubert call each other by 22 A.E. Hammer, Hammer’s German Grammar and Usage, revised by Martin Durrell (London/New York/Melbourne/Auckland: Arnold, 1991), p.45. 23 Friedrich Glauser, Wachtmeister Studer (Zürich: Arche, 1989), pp.47-48. 198 surname and ‘vous’ incurs grammatical, discourse-level and intertextual loss. Altrichter, on the other hand, does retain this information, recognising that the difference would be unusual even for a German-speaking reader. Because English does not distinguish between formality and informality in its pronominal usage, the issue of demonstrating relationships through pronouns is more problematic. Vinay and Darbelnet comment on this stylistic difference in English: Puisque l’anglais ignore ce procédé morphologique, il faudra compenser cette déficience par un appel à des notations stylistiques familières […].24 The ‘notations stylistiques’ they advocate include using a first name (impossible here because the men call each other by surname), employing a familiar mode of address, such as ‘pal,’ or manipulating the syntax. Thomson does not employ any of these alternatives, retaining instead the source language pronoun ‘tu,’ with the exegetic ‘familiar.’ This has both advantages and disadvantages. It preserves the linguistic otherness of the source text while providing some explanation for the target language reader. The insertion of the source language may have the opposite effect to that intended, making the text less comprehensible to the target audience. This effect could be mitigated by inserting an exegetic phrase such as ‘when addressing each other’ after ‘tu,’ though this exegesis and the use of ‘tu’ risk alienating the reader, rather than helping them comprehend the otherness. This linguistic point takes on added significance when considered in context: the fact that Maigret and Saint-Hubert address each other using ‘vous’ implies a more formal dimension to the relationship, and brings into sharper relief the fact that Maigret enjoys a more fatherly rapport with the majority of his subordinates. Evidence of the Commissaire’s relationship with his inferiors is found in Maigret et les braves gens, when Inspectors Lapointe and Torrence report on their investigations within the Josselins’ apartment block: QUOTATION II — Qu’est-ce que je fais? questionnait Lapointe. 24 J.-P. Vinay and J. Darbelnet, Stylistique comparée du français et de l’anglais (London/Toronto/Wellington/Sydney: Harrap/Paris: Didier, 1958), p.189. 199 — Occupe-toi d’abord de ce téléphone. A vous, Torrence... Il ne le tutoyait pas, bien qu’il le connût depuis beaucoup plus longtemps que Lapointe. Il est vrai que celui-ci avait plutôt l’air d’un jeune étudiant que d’un inspecteur de police. (p.75) In Wille and Klau’s German translation, this passage runs: »Was soll ich dann tun?« fragte Lapointe. »Erledige erst einmal diese Telefongespräche. Und nun zu Ihnen, Torrence.« Er duzte ihn nicht, obwohl er ihn schon viel länger kannte als Lapointe. Dieser wirkte allerdings auch mehr wie ein Student als wie ein Polizeiinspektor. (p.58) Altrichter offers: »Was soll ich jetzt tun?« fragte Lapointe. »Kümmere dich als erstes um dieses Telefongespräch! Nun zu Ihnen, Torrence…« Ihn duzte er nicht, obwohl er ihn schon viel länger kannte als Lapointe. Allerdings sah dieser auch mehr wie ein junger Student aus als wie ein Polizeiinspektor. (p.72) The English translation is as follows: ‘What shall I do next?’ asked Lapointe. ‘Get on with the telephoning first. And now, how have you got on, Torrence…’ He did not use the familiar ‘tu’ although he had known him far longer than Lapointe. It was true that Lapointe looked more like a young student than a police inspector. (p.47) 200 Once again, Simenon draws attention to the distinction in French pronominal usage.25 In particular, Maigret treats the youngest of his inspectors, Lapointe, like a son, even addressing him at one point as ‘mon petit.’ The relationship is embodied in the informal pronoun ‘tu’ that the Commissaire employs whenever addressing the young inspector. On the other hand, the other inspector in this scene, Torrence, is addressed as ‘vous,’ the formal second person pronoun. Maigret’s relations with Lapointe are usefully considered against the background of the fact that Maigret and his wife have no children of their own, and so the Commissaire often acts like a father-figure towards his inspectors, and Lapointe in particular. The difference in Maigret’s attitude towards the two inspectors is illustrated in the second line of the extract.26 As the German translations demonstrate, the target language is able to cope with the grammatical switch in the pronouns owing to the corresponding ‘du’/‘Sie’ distinction. Precedents for a superior using an informal mode in addressing a subordinate can again be found in native language fiction: Wachtmeister Studer’s Hauptmann calls him by surname, but also uses ‘du.’27 This form of address, however, is not uniform in German-language detective fiction.28 Unlike Studer, Dürrenmatt’s Bärlach is addressed as ‘Sie’ and by rank and surname by his superior. Bärlach himself addresses his subordinate Tschanz initially by ‘Sie’ then later by ‘du,’ maintaining the surname throughout.29 The use of ‘du’ in the German detective fiction is related to rank rather than personal familiarity; however, compensation for this in the target texts is unnecessary, for Simenon himself makes explicit reference to the more familiar relations between Maigret and his inspectors, in the paragraph beginning ‘Il ne le tutoyait pas […],’ and the translators render this accordingly. The values implicit in ‘vous’ in Maigret’s first line of speech are lost in the English translation, yet a distinction is nevertheless made, for here Thomson again 25 In Gaboriau’s Monsieur Lecoq, the protagonist’s superior officer addresses him as ‘tu,’ but rather than being a sign of familiarity or even affection, the inspector is being condescending, jealous of Lecoq’s abilities. See Emile Gaboriau, Monsieur Lecoq (Paris: Garnier, 1978). 26 A few paragraphs after this extract, Maigret questions Torrence using the tu-form: ‘Tu es sûr?’ This may simply be an error on the author’s part, though this is speculative. Such inconsistencies are found elsewhere in the œuvre – in any case, Torrence was killed in the first Maigret novel, Pietr-le-Letton. Wille and Klau reproduce the mistake. If it is an error, the translators could have considered using ‘Sie,’ as Altrichter has done. Notably, Maigret addresses Torrence elsewhere in the œuvre using both ‘tu’ and ‘vous’: in L’Amie de Madame Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1952) pp.53-54 and La colère de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1963), pp.165-167, p.177, p.184 and p.185, he uses ‘tu’; in La folle de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1970) p.59 and p.184, Torrence is addressed as ‘vous.’ 27 Glauser, Wachtmeister Studer (1989), p.9. 28 Pronominal usage between Studer and his examining magistrate is briefly examined in chapter two. 29 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Der Richter und sein Henker (Zürich/Cologne: Benziger, 1952/53), p.16, p.21 and p.53. 201 employs the strategy of retaining the tu-form. The contrast is not as clear as in the original text, with its virtual juxtaposition of ‘vous’ and ‘tutoyait,’ whereas in English ‘you’ is the only pronoun available, but the cultural value of the source text is nonetheless conveyed. As before, using ‘tu’ may risk confusion on the part of the target language reader, but Thomson does insert exegesis – again, ‘familiar’ – which suggests a closer relationship. For greater clarity, one could insert ‘when addressing Torrence.’ What does the difference in pronominal usage between the three languages say about the language and its speakers? The lack of distinction renders the picture of social linguistic usage in English simpler and, at the same time, more complex: everyone in English is addressed as ‘you,’ regardless of age, employment or social standing; however, for translation into English, where the distinction marked by the ‘tu’/‘vous’/‘du’/‘Sie’/‘ihr’ switches in French and German is important for the context, the situation then becomes problematic, and the translator generally has to employ some form of compensation in kind. Does the levelling of social distinction in English pronominal usage suggest that the native speakers of English see society as socially-balanced, with all individuals on an equal social footing? Not necessarily: the fact that the translator can employ forms of compensation in kind, in other words, other means of conveying the information inherent in the differing second person pronouns of other languages, is evidence of this. The linguistic difference is simply that: it does not necessarily reflect a particular mindset or social expectation. 3.2 Tense The issue of tense can again be problematic for the translator, for each of the three languages in question has its own temporal, modal and aspectual systems, as shown in the following example. Here, Maigret is interviewing the maid of the Josselins’ neighbours. QUOTATION III — A quelle heure avez-vous entendu du bruit dans la chambre voisine? — A six heures, ce matin, quand je me suis levée. — Des pas? 202 — Des pas quoi? Elle ne comprenait pas le mot et il fit mine de marcher, ce qui déclencha à nouveau son rire. — Si… Si… — Vous n’avez pas vu l’homme qui marchait? La porte ne s’est pas ouverte? — C’était un homme? — Combien êtes-vous de personnes à dormir au sixième étage? A chaque phrase, il lui fallait un certain temps pour comprendre. On aurait dit qu’elle traduisait mot à mot avant de saisir le sens. (pp.102-103) Wille and Klau translate the dialogue: »Wann hörten Sie in dem Nebenzimmer Geräusche?« »Um sechs Uhr morgens, als ich aufgestanden bin.« »Schritte?« »Was Schritte?« Sie verstand das Wort nicht, und er machte ihr vor, was es bedeutete, worauf sie von neuem in Lachen ausbrach. »Ja… ja…« »Haben Sie den Mann nicht gesehen, der da herumging? Hat sich die Tür nicht geöffnet?« »War es ein Mann?« »Wie viele Personen schlafen im sechsten Stock?« Es dauerte immer eine ganze Zeit, bis sie seine Fragen verstand. Sie schien sich jedes Wort zu übersetzen, ehe sie den Sinn erfaßte. (pp.79-80) Altrichter’s version runs: »Um welche Zeit haben Sie die Geräusche im Zimmer nebenan gehört?« »Heute morgen um sechs Uhr, als ich aufstand.« »Schritte?« »Was ist Schritte?« Sie verstand das Wort nicht, und er machte ihr die Bewegung vor, was erneut ihr Gelächter auslöste. 203 »Ja…Ja…« »Haben Sie den Mann nicht gesehen, der da herumlief? Ging die Tür nicht auf?« »War es ein Mann?« »Wie viele Leute schlafen im sechsten Stock?« Bei jedem Satz brauchte sie eine Weile, bis sie ihn verstand. Man hätte meinen können, sie übersetzte ihn Wort für Wort, ehe sie seinen Sinn begriff. (p.99) The English translation reads: ‘When did you hear noises in the nextdoor room?’ ‘At six o’clock this morning, when I got up.’ ‘Footsteps?’ ‘How do you mean, footsteps?’ She did not understand the word and he imitated someone walking, which set her off laughing again. ‘Si… Si…’ ‘You did not see the man who was walking? The door did not open?’ ‘Was it a man?’ ‘How many of you sleep on the sixth floor?’ She needed a little time to understand each sentence. One might say she translated word by word before grasping the meaning. (p.66) In the source text passage, Simenon employs three tenses to refer to the past: in the direct speech, the passé composé (perfect tense), in the direct speech and narrative, the imparfait (imperfect), and in the narrative exclusively, the passé simple or, as Alfred Malblanc refers to it, the passé défini (past historic tense). French has a greater number of tenses than German or English. This being the case, it is useful to consider the stylistic implications of this mélange of tenses, and what problems result for the translator of this passage. As is universally accepted, the perfect tense is used in French to describe completed actions in the past, in spoken or written texts. It is also generally considered to be less formal than the past historic. The event it describes may be related to, or felt in, the present. This accounts for the use here of the perfect in the 204 direct speech. Additionally, the perfect appears in one sentence of direct speech in combination with the imperfect: ‘Vous n’avez pas vu l’homme qui marchait?’30 Lang and Perez explain the use of this type of construction: The perfect is often found in close proximity to the imperfect. When this occurs, the perfect is expressing an action or event, the imperfect is describing the background, and/or giving an explanation.31 This is the case here: the single action of seeing (or, rather, of not seeing) is set against the background of an individual walking around. Also employed here is the past historic in combination with the imperfect in a stretch of narrative: ‘Elle ne comprenait pas le mot et il fit mine de marcher, ce qui déclencha à nouveau son rire.’32 Malblanc explains the effect of this coupling of tenses: L’imparfait s’allie la plupart du temps au passé défini dans un véritable va-et- vient. Le passé défini, c’est la narration qui progresse, l’apparition d’un événement nouveau, tandis que l’imparfait nous arrête sur une image, état ou mouvement, sur un sentiment, sur une réflexion, il s’inscrit en larges traits dans le récit, son aspect est duratif.33 ‘Comprenait’ can be seen to equate to an emotion or reflection; ‘fit’ and ‘déclencha’ refer to single actions occurring in chronological order, ‘la narration qui progresse.’ In contrast to this ‘va-et-vient’ in French between past historic and imperfect, German, states Malblanc, has only one tense, the preterite: Le va-et-vient du passé défini et de l’imparfait, ce passage d’un point de vue objectif, rapide, ponctuel, à cet arrêt sur un événement, une réflexion, un sentiment, arrêt qui permet de s’y installer, de les voir de l’intérieur, 30 My emphasis, JLT. 31 Margaret Lang and Isabelle Perez, Modern French Grammar: A Practical Guide (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), p.113. 32 My emphasis, JLT. 33 Alfred Malblanc, Stylistique comparée du français et de l’allemand (Paris: Didier, 1963), p.134. 205 subjectivement, ces deux perspectives alternantes sont repoussées en allemand sur un plan unique de phénomènes qui succèdent.34 This is borne out in the German translations: the alteration between subjective and objective is replaced in both German renderings of the ‘comprenait’/‘fit’/‘déclencha’ sentence by observation, a straightforward stating of events or actions in chronological order by the preterite. The alternation of tenses in direct speech functions in a similar way. In the sentence ‘Vous n’avez pas vu l’homme qui marchait? La porte ne s’est pas ouverte?’ the imperfect is used in combination with the perfect tense, giving the same type of ‘va-et-vient’ to which Malblanc alludes in relation to the past historic; however, the impression here is rather of two single events, described using the passé composé (and possibly still felt at the moment of enunciation), cutting across a continuous action in the past, expressed using the imperfect. Where in the previous example German could only employ the preterite, here the preterite can be used in combination with the perfect tense. This is the translation strategy adopted by Wille and Klau: »Haben Sie den Mann nicht gesehen, der da herumging? Hat sich die Tür nicht geöffnet?«35 Altrichter, on the other hand, does use two tenses in the first question, but in place of the perfect in the second, she employs the preterite: »Haben Sie den Mann nicht gesehen, der da herumlief? Ging die Tür nicht auf?«36 What, then, is the stylistic difference between the two German translations? Unlike the French past tenses, the German past does not mark the durative or punctual aspects; therefore the difference is not a matter of the continuous versus a single action in the past.37 Hammer notes that the perfect is employed in both spoken and written German to ‘indicate a past action or event whose effect is still felt at the moment of speaking.’38 Thus, the perfect in German can be seen as subjective, contrasting with the objectivity of the preterite. In this instance, the French tenses in the original text can be seen as subjective, Wille and Klau’s translation follows a subjective/objective/subjective structure, and Altrichter’s utilises a subjective/objective/objective format. Wille and Klau’s ‘Hat sich die Tür nicht geöffnet?’ implies that the occurrence (or non- 34 Ibid., p.135. 35 My emphasis, JLT. 36 My emphasis, JLT. 37 For a fuller explanation, see Malblanc (1963), p.301. 38 Hammer (1991), p.282. 206 occurrence) of the door opening is still felt at the moment of enunciation; on the other hand, in Altrichter’s target text, ‘Ging die Tür nicht auf?’ implies the observation of an action in the past with no judgement upon it. Given the subjective nature of the source text passage, Wille and Klau’s may be the more appropriate of the two German translations. That said, the overall objectivity of the German compared to the overall subjectivity of the French is less a matter of appropriate or inappropriate translation, and more a question of the difference in nature of the two languages: Malblanc argues that French is more intuitive, German more expressive.39 English uses the preterite almost exclusively in translating this passage, both in the dialogue and in the narrative sections. An exception to this is the ‘was walking’ form, which uses the past continuous tense, rather than the preterite, to describe a continuous action that took place at a point previous to the moment of enunciation. The use of the preterite, as in German, suggests objectivity rather than the subjectivity implied by the French: as Chuquet and Paillard attest, with regard to the predominance of the preterite in English: Le prétérit est par excellence le temps de la narration d’événements passés et de la description non marquée, «objective», d’états et de situations passés. […] il correspond à un procès dont le mode de repérage est celui de l’aoristique, c’est-à-dire de rupture avec le moment de l’énonciation.40 There is, for example, no impression in the English translation that the past events are still felt in the present, which the present perfect would suggest, but the use of this tense would result in an ungrammatical target text passage. There is some sense, given the use of the continuous past in the question ‘You did not see the man who was walking? The door did not open?’ of two single events against the background of a continuous action, as in the French, but, like German, the preterite in English does not mark durative or punctual aspect, and therefore ‘did’ does not necessarily refer to a single action or event. If the subjective nature of the French is an important feature, the English-language translator may consider its retention in some way, though this would be via compensation in kind, rather than through the tense system. This 39 For further detail, see Malblanc (1963), p.185. 40 Hélène Chuquet and Michel Paillard, Approche linguistique des problèmes de traduction (Gap/Paris: Ophrys, 1987), p.92. 207 demonstrates the way in which translators are subject to the grammatical constraints of the language into which they are translating. 3.3 Verbs Malblanc highlights a major difference between German (and English) and French: C’est avec le verbe, mieux encore qu’avec le substantif et l’adjectif, qu’apparaît la différence de perspective et de plan entre l’allemand et le français.41 In particular, Malblanc draws attention to the fact that German verbs are more specific than French verbs, not least in the area of direction of movement. French is more general and abstract; German, like English, is more specific and concrete. Malblanc’s point can be tested using quotation set III, again taking the example of Maigret’s question, ‘Vous n’avez pas vu l’homme qui marchait? La porte ne s’est pas ouverte?’ ‘Marchait’ is rendered by Wille and Klau as ‘herumging’ and by Altrichter as ‘herumlief;’ ‘s’est ouverte’ is translated ‘hat sich […] geöffnet’ and ‘ging […] auf’ respectively. In the first example, both German translations specify ‘herum,’ signalling (admittedly non-specific) direction. In the second example, Wille and Klau choose a more abstract verb, similar to the source text, than Altrichter’s more concrete ‘aufgehen,’ which specifies the direction using the directional particle ‘auf.’ These illustrations show that Malblanc’s rule does not apply in every instance, but that, for the most part, French tends to generalise, preferring to deal with abstract terms, whereas German is more particular and employs concrete terms. Vinay and Darbelnet observe of French and English: D’une façon générale les mots français se situent généralement à un niveau d’abstraction supérieur à celui des mots anglais correspondants. Ils s’embarrassent moins des details de la réalité.42 41 Malblanc (1963), p.66. 42 Vinay and Darbelnet (1958), p.59. 208 Like German, English tends more towards the concrete and specific than French. Helen Thomson’s translation of the two questions Maigret puts to Dolorès runs: ‘You did not see the man who was walking? The door did not open?’ Here, the fact that the English does not specify direction with the past continuous verb form ‘was walking’ results in a translation that is unidiomatic. Some directional precision, for example, by adding ‘around,’ would make the target text appear less like a literal rendering from the French, and more in keeping with English linguistic expectations: ‘Did you see the man who was walking around?’ In the case of the second question, Thomson’s translation is similar to Wille and Klau’s, in that the idea of direction is inherent to the verb, making it more abstract – in other words, a directional particle or preposition is unnecessary, unlike the verb adopted by Altrichter. However, in English, in certain contexts, the verb ‘to open’ can be further particularised, for example, by the addition of the prepositions ‘up’ or ‘out,’ though here this is unnecessary. This discussion illustrates the fact that, in general, where French employs a hyperonym, which is more abstract, German and English specify detail and adopt the more concrete hyponym. Once more, translation by hyperonym or hyponym does not necessarily result in significant loss; rather, the translator is simply operating within the linguistic constraints of the language into which they are translating. 3.4 Sentential Issues The issue of the abstract and general versus the concrete and particular is not limited to verbs. Sententially, it can pose a strategic problem for the translator from French. This can be illustrated by an example from the conclusion of Maigret’s initial interview with Véronique, the dead man’s daughter: ‘La porte ouverte, Maigret entendit des voix dans le salon […].’ Wille and Klau’s rendering runs ‘Durch die offene Tür hörte Maigret Stimmen im Salon […],’ and Altrichter translates: ‘Als die Tür offen war, vernahm Maigret im Salon Stimmen […].’ Lastly, Thomson: ‘When the door into the sitting-room was opened Maigret could hear the voices […].’43 The source text sentence gives the general information of there being a door, and that this is open at some point for an indeterminate length of time. In both German and English, this in itself is not sufficient information for the target audience, and target 43 p. 20, p.17, p.18 and p.10 respectively. My emphasis, JLT. 209 language constraints require more explicit detail in both languages, in order to form complete, meaningful sentences. Thus, a literal translation here would be unidiomatic in both Germanic languages. The necessary additional detail is not fully derivable from context: has the door just been opened, or has it been standing open throughout the interview? To which door does the source text refer: Véronique’s bedroom, or the lounge? Dealing with the latter point first, both German translations remain sufficiently ambiguous so as to avoid specifying one or the other, but Thomson’s translation specifies that it is the lounge door. Despite being an addition, this constitutes translation loss, since the information in this instance is not derivable from context. With regard to the aspectual issue, it is again unclear from context, though it seems probable that, because Véronique’s husband has just been summoned, the door has just been opened. Altrichter and Thomson’s translations mark this specification by using the conjunctions ‘als’ and ‘when’ and by the verb forms ‘war offen’ and ‘was opened’ respectively. Wille and Klau’s target text remains ambiguous as to the aspect, imitating the source language by omitting a verb form. This does not mean that the translators do not particularise: they do specify using the preposition ‘durch.’ It is possible to adopt this same method of marginal explicitness in English, which would result in the target text ‘Through the open door […].’ What is clear from this discussion is the following: at the sentential level, the above confirms Malblanc’s proposition that French tends towards the abstract, whereas German and English are generally more concrete, but these are not cast-iron rules. The degree of abstraction or concreteness varies. 3.5. Illocutionary Particles A recurrent issue with regard to German translation in general is the use of illocutionary particles. These ‘inform the listener/reader of the affective force’ of an utterance44 and are particularly characteristic of German. As Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge attest, a German target text lacking in appropriate illocutionary or modal particles will give the text an impression of ‘foreignness’ or ‘oddness.’45 Because this issue is particular to German, less attention will be paid to the English translation of Maigret et les braves gens. 44 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.231. 45 Ibid. p.180. 210 Examples of illocutionary particles appear in the second set of quotations, where Lapointe and Torrence report back to the Commissaire on their inquiries. The two German translations employ identical illocutionary (modal) particles: ‘schon’ in the first instance (both using ‘[…] obwohl er ihn schon viel länger kannte als Lapointe’46), and in the second instance employing two particles, ‘allerdings’ and ‘auch,’ giving ‘Dieser wirkte allerdings auch mehr wie ein Student als wie ein Polizeiinspektor’ in Wille and Klau’s case, and ‘Allerdings sah dieser auch mehr wie ein junger Student aus als wie ein Polizeiinspektor’ from Altrichter.47 The difficulty with illocutionary particles is that their modal force changes according to context and usage. In this case, ‘schon’ has the function of strengthening the ‘obwohl,’ having a similar illocutionary effect to the informal English ‘even though.’ The tenor of the sentence is one of unfulfilled expectation, the ‘schon’ emphasising the turning against convention. The sentence following provides an explanation for this, as concentrated in the particle ‘allerdings,’ with the ‘auch’ stressing the reason for the (implicit) expectation in the previous statement being unfulfilled.48 Thus, the modal particles make explicit for the German reader what is implicit in the French, in a similar fashion to the sentential and grammatical issues highlighted above. In this way, despite the fact that the illocutionary particles are difficult to define, not least because they often have other functions, German can be seen as more particular than French and English, which do not use modal particles to the same extent as German. 3.6 Word Order Illocutionary force, and emphasis in particular, can also be established using other means, including word order. Once more, German is especially interesting in this area, for, despite certain fixed elements, it enjoys greater flexibility than French and English. As Hammer shows, in English at least, the conventional word order is subject+verb+object. In German, almost any type of element can appear in the initial position.49 However, what are the implications of this greater flexibility? 46 My emphasis, JLT. 47 My emphasis, JLT. 48 See Hammer (1991), pp.176-177. 49 Hammer (1991), p.461. 211 QUOTATION IV Des braves gens, avaient dit le commissaire de police, puis le médecin. Des gens presque sans histoire, dans un cadre cossu et reposant. (p.35) The first German version of this short paragraph runs: Brave Leute, hatte der Polizeikommissar und dann der Arzt gesagt. Leute, die in einem behaglichen Rahmen ein stilles, friedliches Leben führten. (p.27) The later German translation reads: Brave Leute hatte erst der Polizeikommissar gesagt und dann der Arzt. Leute, über die es nicht viel zu berichten gab, begütert und sorgenfrei. (p.32) Helen Thomson renders the paragraph into English as: Decent sorts, the police superintendent had said, and now the doctor was saying the same thing. People almost without a history, living in quiet, well- to-do surroundings. (p.19) The expression ‘braves gens’ constitutes a leitmotif in the novel (see below). The two words are thus crucial throughout the work, and this is no exception: Simenon places them in premier position in terms of word order. All translations do the same, to the same emphatic effect. However, the two German translations adopt a different word order following the initial ‘brave Leute.’ It is useful to look at the two target texts in parallel: VORFELD VERBKLAMMER MITTELFELD VERBKLAMMER Brave Leute, hatte der Polizeikommissar und dann der Arzt gesagt. VORFELD VERBKLAMMER MITTELFELD VERBKLAMMER NACHFELD Brave Leute hatte erst der Polizeikommissar gesagt und dann der Arzt. 212 In Altrichter’s translation, there is an element placed outwith the second Verbklammer, which is usually considered to be the final element in a German clause. This technique is termed Ausklammerung.50 The construction is unusual, and the attention is immediately drawn to this element external to the expected German clause structure. This has an emphatic stylistic effect – emphasis falls on the fact that the doctor, too, is now extolling the Josselins’ virtues as ‘braves gens.’ The particular placing of the reference to the doctor highlights Maigret’s frustration with the situation, and his exasperation at hearing the Josselin family described in this fashion yet again. In French, too, greater emphasis falls on the final element in a clause, as Vinay and Darbelnet acknowledge: La position finale absolue est certainement privilégiée en français, du point de vue stylistique.51 Thus the reference to the doctor is also highlighted in the original text. The emphatic effect is greater in Altrichter’s target text than in Wille and Klau’s translation, because the latter retains conventional word order. The same comments also apply to the second sentence: where Wille and Klau adopt the conventional word order for German, Altrichter again employs the Ausklammerung technique, thereby laying greater emphasis upon the Josselin family’s social situation. Thomson’s choice seems appropriate in English for the first sentence. This is because two different tenses need to be used for the main constituent clauses: the reference to the police commissaire occurs at a point earlier in the narrative; the doctor is speaking ‘now’ in the chronology of the narrative. Therefore, the two cannot be grouped together within the same clause. This is felicitous given that the construction also causes emphasis to fall on the section dealing with the doctor’s comments. The above shows the comparative malleability of German word order compared with French and, to a lesser extent, English. The two Germanic languages are also more flexible in terms of word order in the area of nominal constructions. Thus, the German and English translators are faced with a choice in rendering the 50 Hammer (1991), p.483. 51 Vinay and Darbelnet (1958), p.215. 213 following: ‘[…] ce fut un soulagement de sentir l’odeur du café, d’entendre la voix de Mme Maigret […].’ ‘La voix de Mme Maigret,’ a nominal construction, is rendered by Wille and Klau as ‘Frau Maigrets Stimme,’ by Altrichter as ‘Madame Maigrets Stimme,’ and by Thomson as ‘Madame Maigret’s voice.’52 Unlike the source text, which has no choice in terms of word order, the German and English translations adopt a genitive inflection, where both languages could have employed instead a prepositional formulation: ‘die Stimme von Madame Maigret’ or ‘the voice of Madame Maigret,’ which sees a shift in word order. The German prepositional construction is more colloquial than the genitive used in the published translations; in English, however, the prepositional phrase would be more formal. In any case, the alternative constructions would pose a further difficulty if employed in Wille and Klau and Thomson’s translations, given the immediate co-text: immediately prior to the references to Madame Maigret’s voice, the German translation mentions ‘der Duft von Kaffee,’ and the English target text alludes to ‘the aroma of coffee.’ If the translations employed prepositional constructions twice in succession, the resultant texts would be too cumbersome. Altrichter’s rendering could afford the prepositional phrase, for in referring to the smell of coffee she uses a compound noun, ‘der Kaffeeduft.’ 3.7 Lexical Compounding Altrichter’s use of ‘der Kaffeeduft’ highlights a further linguistic procedure found more frequently in German than in French and English: the compounding of nouns. As Malblanc states: L’allemand assemble où il le peut, le français aime à détacher. L’allemand exprime en un seul mot composé les rapports permanents établis entre deux objets ou deux notions.53 English can be seen to fall somewhere between these two extremes. In a similar fashion to the genitive s above, the ability to compound results in a linguistically more 52 p.44, p.35, p.41 and p.26 respectively. In addition, Altrichter and Thomson use the more appropriate title, retaining the French Madame, for this preserves some of the cultural value of the original. 53 Malblanc (1963), p.44. 214 economical language than French. German can employ a prepositional construction, as Wille and Klau’s rendering of ‘l’odeur du café’ example shows: in place of a compound noun, the translators employ ‘der Duft von Kaffee,’ equally acceptable from a grammatical perspective. English, in this instance, is restricted to a prepositional construction, like the source text: ‘the aroma of coffee.’ (‘The coffee’s aroma’ could be used in certain contexts). On the other hand, English can employ a construction approximating compounding: for example, where French speaks of ‘le commissaire de police’ (quotation set IV), which has the format definite article+noun+preposition+noun, English uses ‘the police superintendent’ (or commissaire), taking the structure definite article+adjective+noun, which can be seen as being midway between the French structure and the German compound ‘der Polizeikommissar.’ In the case of English, write Chuquet and Paillard, if the relationship between the two constituent components is sufficiently close, a compound noun can occur.54 The issue of compounding marks a departure from what might be expected in the case of German and French. German is perceived to be more explicit in detail than French, making it a more concrete language. In this case, however, the explicit relations between constituent elements are suppressed. This exemplifies the German language’s capability to produce long compounded nouns and thus more linguistically economical constructions. 3.8 Word Systems The final linguistic issue for comparative examination is the use of word systems.55 A clear instance of this is found in quotation set IV, which begins, in each language, with the reference to the Josselin family as: ‘braves gens,’ ‘brave Leute,’ and ‘decent sorts’ respectively. The family are repeatedly referred to in this way, and thus the idea of ‘braves gens’ becomes a leitmotif in the novel.56 This device is first used in the title and employed at various stages throughout, but the ‘braves gens’ theme is gradually eroded, for these ‘decent’ people have a dark secret that is eventually revealed. Mme 54 Chuquet and Paillard (1987), p.59. The authors cite the examples ‘birthday party,’ ‘tooth-brush,’ (now generally written as the compound ‘toothbrush’) and ‘bedroom.’ 55 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), pp.59-60. 56 See, for example, p.15, p.33, p.35, p.46, p.51, p.58, p.79 (twice) and p.80. There are also several instances of a variation, ‘brave homme’ (for example, p.51 and p.80). 215 Josselin’s confidence-trickster brother, for whom the Josselins have provided for decades, killed his brother-in-law when the latter would not give him any more money, and throughout Maigret’s investigation Mme Josselin covers for her brother. In addition, it is revealed that Monsieur Josselin has been seen emerging from a bar containing a P.M.U. betting counter. Thus, the image of the Josselins as ‘braves gens’ is a false one, something that the Commissaire guesses at an early stage, as shown by his ironic use of the epithet. Wille and Klau and Altrichter appropriate the idea of the ‘braves gens’ and render it throughout, including in the title, as ‘brave(n) Leute,’ preserving the repetition in the original, retaining the Latinate form and employing an apt cognate. Unlike the source text and German translations, the English-language target text incurs lexical-level loss, in that the ‘braves gens’ word system is not preserved to the same extent. Thomson’s title sees a shift in reference, from the family (the ‘braves gens’) to Mme Josselin’s errant brother, who is alluded to in the title as the ‘black sheep.’ Given the linguistic and contextual importance of the word system in the text, it is suggested that the title might read Maigret and the Decent Folk, and thereafter the text could refer to the family simply as ‘decent folk.’ However, whether this banal title would be marketable to an English-speaking readership is debatable. Thomson’s use of the ‘black sheep’ epithet, on the other hand, while resulting in lexical loss in terms of the ‘braves gens’ word system, nevertheless constitutes compensation of a sort. This is achieved by placing emphasis on the other featured in the novel, Mme Josselin’s brother Philippe de Lancieux, who never makes a direct appearance in the narrative. He is a liar, a thief, a blackmailer and a murderer. He breaks social convention, with the result that his well-to-do family, having tried to habilitate him, has little more to do with him and does not mention him in polite society. Philippe’s otherness is neutralised, when, at the end of the novel, he is murdered. Yet, despite being perceived as a threat by the ‘braves gens,’ he is portrayed as a character more to be pitied than shunned, and is therefore reminiscent of Jean in Le Charretier de la Providence. He is depicted as being child-like, and actually believes the ‘stories’ he creates. In addition, the lexical loss incurred by the erosion of the word system is compensated for semantically, through the use of associative and collocative meaning: ‘black sheep’ calls to mind the idiom ‘black sheep of the family,’ and has connotations of strained familial or domestic relations, 216 which is the situation here and in other Simenon novels.57 Once more, as in Le Charretier de la Providence and throughout the œuvre, Maigret solves the crime by examining relationships, and this is reflected in Thomson’s lexical choice. Whereas, in the case of several of the previous issues, the translators were bound by the overarching linguistic constraints of an entire language, here the more pressing constraints are internal to the text and corpus. The failure to build up a word system might result in a weakening of the novel’s structure at the level of the word system, but Thomson employs an idiom that compensates for the loss at several other levels: semantic, discourse, intertext and context. This example raises again the issue of commercial and financial factors in the translation process, a point first addressed at the end of chapter one. The major factor in the translation of the titles of novels is whether or not they will sell. It seems probable that a literal rendering of the source text title in English would not have great selling power, but Thomson’s decision shows that it is possible to balance commercial constraints with textual features, thereby minimising loss. 4. CONCLUSION The discussion above shows the impact of the cultural and contextual levels when making linguistic decisions in translation. The most obvious instance of this is in the example of the ‘tu’/‘vous’ distinction, where context largely determines which is necessary. In the context of the novel and wider Maigret corpus, the pronominal switch takes on greater importance, for the pronouns concretise the relationships at work, and these in turn provide the solution to the mystery. In the area of pronominal convention, English is unalterably different, and compensation in kind becomes the most appropriate option for the translator. Differences in the characteristics and conventions of languages do not necessarily result in inappropriate translations. Malblanc, Vinay and Darbelnet’s stylistic comparisons show German and English to be relatively more concrete and French to be more abstract. This divergence results in linguistic transpositions that do 57 Strained domestic situations are also found in, for example, L’homme qui regardait passer les trains (1938) and Maigret et l’homme du banc (1952). The estranged brother also echoes Simenon’s own life: as suggested in chapter three, his brother Christian was the favourite of his mother and a Nazi collaborator, and Simenon appears not to have had a significant relationship with him. 217 not necessarily entail unacceptable loss, as the discussion of the addition of directional particles in German and English verbs showed. Focusing on the translations themselves, the preservation of source text cultural features may alienate the target language reader. This occurs if the cultural feature is obscure for the reader; in other words, there is no exegesis. The translation will therefore fail to bring the reader to a better understanding of that cultural specificity. This was the case, for example, with the German translators’ retention of ‘Quai des Orfèvres’ towards the beginning of the novel, and Thomson’s transfer of the French ‘tiercé.’ Wille and Klau frequently make non-cultural specific translation decisions, in particular on the level of the judicial register. This has the advantage that it does not involve importing a foreign cultural value system into the context of the source culture, thereby creating cultural incongruity and resulting in loss at the cultural level. While appreciating the significance of the ‘braves gens’ word system, Wille and Klau do not always look to the text as a whole, and on occasion this results in inappropriate translation. Altrichter, on the other hand, appears to have greater cultural and contextual sensitivity than her predecessors, as shown by her retention of source culture connotations. However, Helen Thomson’s strategy with regard to culture-level features is inconsistent. Her translation retains the French ‘tu,’ providing a solution to the problem of English second person pronominal uniformity, thus maintaining the French connotations and demonstrating the relationship dynamics, but some exegetic reformulation would be required to minimise semantic loss in terms of the target reader’s comprehension. At the same time, lexical items with English cultural connotations are imported into the French context, thereby creating cultural incongruities, such as the reference to the ‘D.P.P.’ and the allusions to rank within the police force demonstrated. The above discussion shows that emphasis on a particular salient feature can result in translation loss. This is highlighted by Thomson’s translation, in which too great an emphasis on the source culture results in potential obscurity for the target readership, thus cultural and semantic loss is entailed. A more balanced meeting of the various source and target cultural factors and linguistic issues, as outlined in chapter one, would reduce this loss. 218 CONCLUSION From the analysis of the translations of the three selected Simenon source texts, the following could be established: Le Charretier de la Providence — Harold Effberg’s Die Nacht an der Schleuse, the 1934 German translation, provides much scope for discussion, in relation to cultural and linguistic transfer. Effberg breaks down the chapters of the source text into far smaller entities, and this has implications for the temporal flow of the narrative. A supernatural element is introduced into the text, which links it to some extent to existing German-language detective fiction. In addition, the translation strategy is heavily influenced by contextual factors emanating from the target culture: a process of Germanisation takes place throughout the translation, and this is arguably the result of the contemporary political climate in Germany when it was produced. — Jutta Sonnenberg’s 1966 German translation Maigret tappt im Dunkeln is marked by a strategy of increased explicitness compared with the source text. This is evidence of the constraint of the target language on translation: German tends to concretise, adding detail only implicit in the source language. Sonnenberg’s use of explicit compound nouns, rather than obscure items of technical terminology, is more ‘Germanic,’ but loses something of the canalling register. Inappropriate translation decisions occasionally occur where Sonnenberg does not take adequate account of the text in its entirety. There is also some evidence of miscomprehension. This may be attributed to linguistic factors, or to a failure to translate in the light of the complete text and œuvre. — The 1934 unattributed English translation, The Crime at Lock 14 displays evidence of increased formality. There are also instances of mistranslation, such as the upstream/downstream example demonstrated. In addition, the translation manifests loss of the technical register, as well as unnecessary 219 particularisation, as shown by the reference to the weather, where, in fact, the climat is described in the source text. Contextual loss is also incurred with regard to the function of relationships in the novel: Madame Canelle uses ‘us’ as opposed to the more contextually appropriate ‘me.’ — Robert Baldick, in his English version Lock 14 (1963), employs a strategy with a pronounced bias towards literal translation, and the result is, at times, too formal. In addition, the translation manifests certain cultural transpositions that are incongruous with the French setting. That said, Baldick does appear to pay closer attention to the nautical register. There is some evidence of cultural contamination, however, most obviously in the ‘Flying Squad’ example. Les Mémoires de Maigret — Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau’s Maigrets Memoiren (1963) is the principal German translation considered here. The translators frequently employ omission as a strategy, most evidently in the missing chapter headings. The overall readability of the text is thereby diminished. There is also evidence of a failure to translate in the wider context of the œuvre, such as in the deleting of the climat paragraph towards the beginning of the target text. The French metonyms are retained to some extent, though in places these could be better explained for the target audience. There are some instances of cultural normalisation, but also some limitation of loss using compensation in kind. — Roswitha Plancherel’s 1978 translation was published under the same title, Maigrets Memoiren. It is examined in less detail here, being used principally, though not exclusively, as a control to show ways in which translation loss in Wille and Klau’s version could have been mitigated. Plancherel’s version is generally balanced, with cultural items in the main retained and explained for the reader. This technique may occasionally backfire, if the retention of French terminology leads to obscurities for the target readership. 220 — Jean Stewart’s translation Maigret’s Memoirs (1963) is stylistically too formal as the translation of a Simenon text, and there is some evidence of mistranslation. Idiomaticity is, at times, questionable, such as is the case where the narrator outlines the differences between the two police maisons. The unidiomatic passages suggest a literal strategy, which results, on occasion, in the cultural specificity of a source text item being lost. That said, cultural markings are often preserved, but, paradoxically, this too may be the result of the literal strategy and the direct transfer involved, rather than of any deliberate attention to the context and background. On the grammatical level, too, the literal strategy can pose problems, leading to unidiomatic translation. Maigret et les braves gens — As was the case with their German translation of Les Mémoires de Maigret, Wille and Klau’s Maigret und die braven Leute (1963?) contains omissions, resulting in unacceptable translation loss. The translators opt for non-culture specific lexical items at the level of the judicial register, which avoids cultural clashes between individual systems and the background culture, but loses the French colouring. They also appear to recognise the importance in this text of the word system, though they do not always take due account of contextual and cultural factors at work. — Ingrid Altrichter’s 1988 translation, also published under the title Maigret und die braven Leute, generally shows appropriate rendering of the terminology associated with the source culture criminal justice system. Such technical lexis is translated, where necessary, with culturally neutral terms to avoid any incongruity. That said, the cultural loss entailed in translating lexis relating to source culture institutions, such as ‘police judiciaire,’ which could be clarified using German exegesis, is inappropriate, though as with Wille and Klau’s version, this avoids cultural incongruity. Her use of the French in the ‘Pari Mutuel Urbain’ instance, together with an exegetic gloss, shows careful balancing of source and target, and linguistic and cultural dimensions. In addition, Altrichter, along with Wille and Klau, makes apt use of German linguistic features, such as illocutionary particles, where their absence would 221 make the text seem unidiomatic. On the whole Altrichter deals appropriately with cultural and linguistic specificity and otherness.1 — Lastly, Helen Thomson, in her 1976 English translation Maigret and the Black Sheep, employs a mixed approach to cultural specifics. She appears to recognise the importance of the ‘tu/vous’ distinction in demonstrating relationship dynamics, but is bound by the linguistic constraints of the target language, in this case, pronominal usage. The translation also retains much of the cultural colouring of the source text, though at the same time Thomson sometimes imposes English cultural values onto the French setting, which undermines the translator’s apparent intention of retaining the cultural colouring for the target audience. A clear translation strategy is thus difficult to discern. The decision to import terminology from the source language is at times problematic where no exegesis is provided to clarify the cultural otherness of the source for the target readership. From these individual findings, a number of patterns and conclusions can be deduced. The sample shows that literal translation appears to be more common in English than in German, and more so for the earlier English target texts: the unattributed English translation and Baldick’s rendering of Le Charretier de la Providence seem to employ a literal strategy, as does Stewart’s target text, which dates from the same year as the original publication of Baldick’s version (1963). Wille and Klau’s rendering of Les Mémoires de Maigret, despite also being from that year, uses less by way of literal strategy, as does their translation of Maigret et les braves gens (also thought to date from 1963). Helen Thomson’s 1976 translation of the latest of the source texts appears more cultural/contextual in terms of approach, but, where it is literal, problems of comprehension are created. The defining feature of Harold Effberg’s translation is the process of cultural neutralisation he undertakes. The reasons for such a translation strategy could be cultural and political, given the date of translation in 1 Altrichter, Plancherel and, to some extent, Thomson, tend towards positive otherness (when the other’s difference is viewed as a means of target culture enrichment). Effberg’s strategy, on the other hand, can be aligned with a concept of negative otherness (where the other is a threat to order, self and known). 222 the Nazi period, though this must remain speculative.2 Sonnenberg’s rendering of Le Charretier de la Providence shows evidence of source and target cultural influences, as do Plancherel and Altrichter’s target texts. While, once more, the explanation for less literal translation can only be speculative, it is possible (or even probable) that the reasons are cultural: the target texts are the products of a period in which market demand is for more culturally-embedded, less literal translation. In addition, German may produce fewer literal translations than English owing to the former’s relative grammatical flexibility: sententially, German has a great level of malleability. It can achieve the same linguistic effect using different means. In general, however, on the basis of the sample investigated here, different approaches to translation, and translation loss, seem to derive from cultural-historical and economic issues, rather than from linguistic differences. Furthermore, as suggested in chapter one, translators’ backgrounds may also impact upon strategies. It can now be posited that Baldick’s more formal, academic style may be a result of having been an Oxford don. Effberg, like Geoffrey Sainsbury, alters certain cultural details, making his translations appear more like native texts, and this could be due in part to the fact that he was an author in his own right.3 Altrichter’s experience in translating both fiction and non-fiction may result in her linguistically and culturally balanced target text. Thus, a translator’s background can have an effect on the translations he or she produces. The study of the final source text and its translations, in particular, demonstrated differences between the approaches to cultural and linguistic otherness. Altrichter’s target text frequently balances source culture with target culture, by generally retaining the source text terminology and adding some form of explanation in German (such as in the ‘Pari Mutuel Urbain’ example). Cultural specificity, then, if it is to be understood by the target audience whilst being preserved, needs balance between source and target. The translation of linguistic specificity, on the other hand, appears to have a target language bias: if the linguistic structures of the source 2 Effberg’s apparent approach to translation, potentially motivated (or simply influenced) by the political climate in which he worked, during the period of National Socialism in Germany, raises the question of the issue of morality in translation. The possibility of censorship cannot be excluded. This goes beyond the scope of the present study, but could be further explored in the future. 3 On Sainsbury, see Pierre Assouline, Simenon:biographie (Paris: Julliard, 1992), p.252: ‘Après tout, ne se considère-t-il pas, lui aussi, comme un écrivain à part entière puisque dans ses lettres, il donne du «cher confrère» à Simenon?’ Thus Sainsbury saw himself as an author, and therefore felt he had the freedom and the authority to change whichever details he wished. 223 language are retained, the target text risks being unidiomatic, and therefore the linguistic structures of the target language are required. The adoption of source language features in the target text also risks increased irritation factor,4 and a lack of comprehension on the part of the target audience. If deliberate ‘foreignness’ is an aspect of a particular translation strategy, then preservation of certain source linguistic structures may be appropriate. These results derive from the examination of languages and cultures that are reasonably closely linked, both historically and by geographical proximity. The project is inevitably constrained by limitations in the linguistic (and cultural) competence of its author. In order to obtain more wide-ranging results, paradigms from a wider range of disparate cultures would be required. However, the cultures involved here have sufficient diversity to produce significant findings: for example, the police structures of the countries in question differ considerably, and the languages involved have marked linguistic idiosyncrasies that act as constraints upon the translator. In addition, the project has shown the crucial rôle of similarity: this can either assist the target audience’s comprehension, or, alternatively, cause confusion, risking imposing target culture values onto the source culture system, thereby incurring cultural-level loss. There were, additionally, a number of fundamental questions posed at the outset. These were: a) How have Simenon’s translators dealt with the specifics of otherness in his writing? Have they brought their readers to an understanding of the specificity involved? b) How can cultural and linguistic loss be mitigated? c) Returning to the study’s title: how does Georges Simenon’s writing fit in the broader system of detective fiction? Finally, how specific is his work? The first question has already been answered, both in this concluding section and throughout the main body of analysis. Simenon’s translators, taken as a group, are sometimes successful in bringing their readership to understand the cultural specificity presented, and sometimes not. They employ a range of tactics in dealing 4 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.174. 224 with cultural otherness, from complete suppression of a cultural image, to direct cultural or linguistic transplantation. The second question seeks strategies for mitigating unnecessary translation loss. If translation loss is incurred, it is largely because one aspect of the translation process has been favoured at the expense of other factors. This may be deliberate or involuntary, consciously done or unconsciously, and in turn the translation decisions may result from cultural, contextual and linguistic constraints. In order to minimise cultural and linguistic loss, an approach to translation that takes account of cultural and linguistic factors is necessary, and thus this project has applied an integrated theory of translation, as outlined in chapter one. A translation is not simply a matter of linguistic transfer, nor is it a product of wholesale cultural transposition. It is both, in combination: indeed, as shown in chapter six, the two approaches are inextricable, with each having an effect on the other. All translations are a matter of some composite linguistic transfer, even where a complete cultural reformulation takes place. All translations also occur within a particular context, even where a text for a scientific audience in one language-culture is being translated for a similar and contemporaneous scientific audience in another language-culture. The project has shown that the linguistic is the expression of the cultural, and the cultural influences the linguistic by informing, for example, our lexical, sentential and grammatical decisions. In addition, it has been shown that it is difficult, if not impossible, to take account of all nuances and interpretations in translation; this is due, in part at least, to the fact that every language and culture is unique. However, they are unique on an evolving continuum, and influenced by other cultures and languages. Because of this, and because of a certain degree of universality of the human experience, human beings can still grapple with, and understand, cultural concepts that are essentially ‘other’ to their own lived experience. Lastly, it was demonstrated in chapter two that differences in detective writing derive more from difference of publication date rather than from cultural divergence. In addition, whereas ‘surface’ elements, such as police rank, place, and so on, might vary, ‘deep’ elements, for example, narrative structure and moral design, largely remain constant. Having established that detective fiction evolves historically, it can be seen that the Maigret novels sit within that process of evolution. Simenon’s texts mark a departure from Poe, Gaboriau and Doyle’s stories of superhuman, usually amateur, detectives concerned with solving crime within the middle and upper 225 classes. Simenon’s novels form a bridge between these early texts and contemporary detective writing, which draws on modern types of crime, typically featuring the figure of the lonely detective (such as Morse or Rebus) and a female protagonist. Simenon’s work thus has much in common with other detective writing, but also had and has its own specificities: the humanity of the Commissaire, the detailed representation of climat, the positive depiction of the French police, the capturing of the Parisian milieu on paper in straightforward language. Within this cultural and linguistic specificity and otherness lies the attraction of Simenon’s writing. His work appears to be more popular in German-speaking areas than in the UK: the Swiss publisher Diogenes is currently reissuing translations of all the Maigret novels. Therefore, even now, almost twenty years after the death of the author, there is still a great appetite for Simenon’s specificity. 226 GLOSSARY Co-text: the immediate linguistic context of a word or expression, that is, the other words and expressions surrounding a particular linguistic choice. Context: this can be one of two elements – either the broader co-text, or the circumstances or situation in which an utterance, whether oral or written, or an event, takes place. Cultural issues: references to the cultures of provenance of the source and target texts. Discourse-level issues: at this level, the way in which texts are built is considered. Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge draw particular attention to two factors: cohesion, ‘the transparent linking of sentences,’ and coherence, ‘tacit thematic development running through the text.’1 Grammatical issues: concerned with the grammatical structure of languages, for example, the inflection of verbs and word order in sentences. Intertextual issues: the links between a given text and other texts within a culture.2 Invariant core: described by Popovič as ‘represented by stable, basic and constant semantic elements in the text.’3 It is the basic semantic relationship between texts created by the act of translation. Here, the invariant semantic core is a linguistic transfer of meaning that does not encompass any connotative values. As argued in the project, the invariant need not be semantic. Lexical issues: word choices. Word systems are considered at this level. These, according to Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge, are series of words that ‘can be 1 Sándor Hervey, Ian Higgins and Michael Loughridge, Thinking German Translation. A Course in Translation Method: German to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1995), p.68. 2 Ibid., p.69. 3Anton Popovič, Dictionary for the Analysis of Literary Translation (Edmonton: University of Alberta, 1975), p.11. 227 distributed in contrastive and recurrent patterns that signal or reinforce the thematic development of the text.’4 Linguistic issues: language-specific problems. Prosodic issues: stress patterns of languages are examined at this level. Semantic issues: aspects of meaning. In addition to literal aspects, these can have various connotative forms. Sentential issues: relates to the formation of sentences as ‘complete, self-contained linguistic units’.5 Also called syntax. Varietal issues: the ‘type’ of language used. Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge define this as ‘the way the message is expressed.’6 This includes consideration of social register (style revealing the social function of the speaker or writer) and tonal register (the tone taken by them). This categorisation is based on Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge’s schema of textual filters.7 4 Hervey, Higgins and Loughridge (1995), p.59. 5 Ibid., p.233. 6 Ibid., p.100. 7 Ibid., p.227. 228 BIBLIOGRAPHY NB. Dates given are for the edition cited. Dates of first publication are given in square brackets. TRANSLATION THEORY, METHODOLOGY AND COMPARATIVE STYLISTICS Armstrong, Nigel, Translation, Linguistics, Culture: A French-English Handbook (Clevedon/Buffalo/Toronto: Multilingual Matters, 2005), Bariki, Ozidi, ‘L’implicite culturel dans la traduction,’ in: Babel, vol. 53, no. 2 (Amsterdam: John Benjamin, 2007), p.112-122. Bassnett-McGuire, Susan, Translation Studies (London: Methuen, 1980). New editions published 1991 and 2002. Catford, John C., A Linguistic Theory of Translation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965). Chuquet, Hélène, and Paillard, Michel, Approche linguistique des problèmes de traduction: anglais↔français (Gap/Paris: Ophrys, 1987). Even-Zohar, Itamar, and Toury, Gideon, eds., Translation Theory and Intercultural Relations, Poetics Today 2.4 (Tel Aviv: Porter Institute for Poetics and Semantics, Tel Aviv University, 1981). Hervey, Sándor and Higgins, Ian, Thinking French Translation. A Course in Translation Method: French to English (London and New York: Routledge, 2002). Revised edition of Thinking Translation (1992); edition cited is 2002. Hervey, Sándor, Higgins, Ian and Loughridge, Michael, Thinking German Translation. A Course in Translation Method: German to English (London and New York: Routledge, 1995). Second edition published 2006; edition cited is 1995. Higgins, Ian, ‘Where the Added Value Is: On Writing and Reading Translations,’ Forum for Modern Language Studies, vol. 44, no. 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp.231-257. Holmes, James S., Translated! Papers on Literary Translation and Translation Studies (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1988). House, Juliane, Translation Quality Assessment: A Model Revisited (Tübingen: Narr, 1997). Jakobson, Roman, “On Linguistic Aspects of Translation,” in: Reuben Brower, On Translation (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1959), pp.232- 239. 229 Koller, Werner, Einführung in die Übersetzungswissenschaft (Wiebelsheim: Quelle und Meyer, 2001 [1979]). Lederer, Marianne, ‘Traduire le culturel: la problématique de l’explicitation,’ in: Palimpsestes no 11: Traduire la culture (Paris: Presses de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1998), pp.161-171. Lefevere, André, Translating Literature (New York: Modern Language Association of America, 1992). Malblanc, Alfred, Stylistique comparée du français et de l’allemand (Paris: Didier, 1963). Neubert, Albrecht, and Shreve, Gregory, Translation as Text (Kent, Ohio and London, England: Kent State University Press, 1992). Newmark, Peter, Approaches to Translation (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1981). Nida, Eugene A., Toward a Science of Translating: With Special Reference to Principles and Procedures in Bible Translating (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1964). Popovič, Anton, Dictionary for the Analysis of Literary Translation (Edmonton, Alta.: Dept. of Comparative Literature, University of Alberta, 1975). Rabin, C., ‘The Linguistics of Translation,’ in: A.H. Smith et al., eds., Aspects of Translation. Studies in Communication 2 (London: 1958), pp.123-145. Quoted in: Wolfram Wilss, The Science of Translation. Problems and Methods (Tübingen: Narr, 1982), p.92. Sánchez, María, ‘Translation and sociolinguistics: Can language translate society?’ in: Babel, vol. 53, no. 2 (Amsterdam: John Benjamin, 2007), pp.123-131. Snell-Hornby, Mary, Translation Studies: An Integrated Approach (Amsterdam and Philadelphia: John Benjamin, 1988). Steiner, George, After Babel (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 1992 [1975]). Teilanyo, Diri, ‘Culture in Translation. The example of J.P. Clark’s The Ozidi Saga,’ in Babel, vol. 53, no. 1 (Amsterdam: John Benjamin, 2007), pp.1-21. Toury, Gideon, Descriptive Translation Studies and Beyond (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamin, 1995). Vinay, J.-P., and Darbelnet, J., Stylistique comparée du français et de l’anglais: méthode de traduction (London/Toronto/Wellington/Sydney and Paris: Harrap and Co., and Marcel Didier, 1958). Wilss, Wolfram, The Science of Translation. Problems and Methods (Tübingen: Narr, 1982). 230 DETECTIVE FICTION Primary Sources Christie, Agatha, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (London: HarperCollins, 2001 [1920]). Collins, (William) Wilkie, The Moonstone (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1966 [1868]). Doyle, Arthur Conan, ‘A Study in Scarlet’ in: The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes (London: Penguin Books, 1981), pp.15-86. ‘A Study in Scarlet’ first published 1887. Dürrenmatt, Friedrich, Der Richter und sein Henker and Der Verdacht (Zürich/Cologne: Benziger, 1952/53 [1950/51]). Gaboriau, Émile, Monsieur Lecoq (in two volumes) (Paris: Garnier, 1978 [1869]). Glauser, Friedrich, Wachtmeister Studer (Zürich: Arche Verlag, 1989 [1935]). Glauser, Friedrich, Wachtmeister Studers erste Fälle (Zürich: Arche Verlag, 1989 [1969]). Hoffmann, E.T.A., ‘Das Fräulein von Scuderi,’ in: Der Sandmann/Das Fräulein von Scuderi (Cologne: Anaconda, 2007), pp.51-128. Das Fräulein von Scuderi first published 1819. Leblanc, Maurice, ‘L’arrestation d’Arsène Lupin,’ in: Arsène Lupin gentleman- cambrioleur (Paris: Livre de Poche, 1972), pp.11-25. ‘L’arrestation d’Arsène Lupin’ first published 1905. Leroux, Gaston, Le Mystère de la chambre jaune (Paris: Magnard, 2001 [1907]). Poe, Edgar Allan, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ in: Six Tales of Mystery and Imagination (London: Octopus, 1980), p.134-170. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ first published 1841. Secondary Sources Brockhoff, Stefan, “Zehn Gebote für den Kriminalroman” in: Friedrich Glauser, Wachtmeister Studers erste Fälle (Zürich: Arche Verlag, 1989), pp.177-180. Buranelli, Vincent, Edgar Allan Poe (Boston: Twayne, 1977). 231 Egloff, Gerd, ‘Mordrätsel oder Widerspiegelung der Gesellschaft? Bemerkungen über die Forschung zur Kriminalliteratur,’ in: Erhard Schütz, ed., Zur Aktualität des Kriminalromans (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 1978), pp.58-75. Forster, Leonard, introduction and notes to Dürrenmatt, Friedrich, Der Richter und sein Henker (London/Toronto/Wellington/Sydney: Harrap, 1962), pp.9-17 and pp.127-145. Freund, Winfried, Die deutsche Kriminalnovelle von Schiller bis Hauptmann (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1980). Glauser, Friedrich, ‘Offener Brief über die «Zehn Gebote für den Kriminalroman»,’ in: Glauser (1989 [erste Fälle]), pp.181-191. Jauslin, Kurt, ‘Die Erscheinung des Chinesen. Über philosophische Quellen des Detektivromans,’ in: Roland Berbig et al., Zeitdiskurse: Reflexionen zum 19. und 20. Jahrhundert (Heidelberg: Synchron, 2004), pp.225-238. Kayman, Martin, ‘The Short Story from Poe to Chesterton,’ in: Martin Priestman, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Crime Fiction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp.41-58. Knight, Stephen, Form and Ideology in Crime Fiction (London and Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1980). Porter, Dennis, Pursuit of Crime: Art and Ideology in Detective Fiction (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1981). Authorised facsimile cited (Ann Arbor: UMI Books on Demand, 1999). Priestman, Martin, Crime Fiction: From Poe to the Present (Plymouth: Northcote House, 1998). Pyrhönen, Heta, Murder from an Academic Angle: An Introduction to the Study of the Detective Narrative (Columbia, SC.: Camden House, 1994). Schütt, Sita, ‘French Crime Fiction,’ in: Priestman (2003), pp.59-76. Tschimmel, Ira, Kriminalroman und Gesellschaftsdarstellung: eine vergleichende Untersuchung zu Werken von Christie, Simenon, Dürrenmatt und Capote (Bonn: Bouvier, 1979) Walker, H., introduction to E.T.A. Hoffmann, Das Fräulein von Scuderi (London and Glasgow: Blackie and Son, 1937), pp.v-vii. Whitton, Kenneth S., Dürrenmatt: Reinterpretation in Retrospect (New York, Oxford and Munich: Berg, 1990). 232 GEORGES SIMENON Primary Sources Simenon, Georges, Le Charretier de la Providence (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 2003 [1931]). Simenon, Georges, Die Nacht an der Schleuse, trans. Harold Effberg (Berlin: Schlesische Verlagsanstalt, 19341). Simenon, Georges, ‘The Crime at Lock 14’ in: The Shadow in the Courtyard and The Crime at Lock 14, trans. not attributed (New York: Covici Friede, 1934), pp.171-317. Simenon, Georges, Der Schiffsfuhrmann, trans. M. Konrad (Vienna: Hammer, 19482). Simenon, Georges, Lock 14, trans. Robert Baldick, originally published as Maigret Meets a Milord (London: Penguin, 1963); republished, with minor revisions (London: Penguin Classics, 2003). Edition cited is 2003. Simenon, Georges, Maigret tappt im Dunkeln, trans. Jutta Sonnenberg (Munich: Heyne, 1968 [1966]). Simenon, Georges, Maigret und der Treidler der >Providence<, trans. Claus Sprick (Zürich: Diogenes, 2006 [1983]). Simenon, Georges, Les Mémoires de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1997 [1951]). Simenon, Georges, Maigrets Memoiren, trans. Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau (Cologne/Berlin: Kiepenheuer and Witsch, 1963). Simenon, Georges, Maigret’s Memoirs, trans. Jean Stewart (London: Heinemann/Secker and Warburg/Octopus, 1978 [1963]), pp.13-81. Simenon, Georges, Maigrets Memoiren, trans. Roswitha Plancherel (Geneva: Edito- Service/Zürich: Diogenes 1978). Simenon, Georges, Maigret et les braves gens (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 2004 [1961]). Simenon, Georges, Maigret und die braven Leute, trans. Hansjürgen Wille and Barbara Klau (Stuttgart/Zürich/Salzburg: Europäischer Buchklub, 19633). 1 The publication date is not included on the text, nor in the catalogue of the Fonds Simenon. This is, rather, the date given in the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek catalogue. See www.d-nb.de. Accessed on 22 January 2008. 2 This is the date given for this translation in Claus Sprick’s version. Konrad’s translation itself is undated. 3 This is the date given on Altrichter’s copyright page. Wille and Klau’s translation itself is undated. 233 Simenon, Georges, Maigret and the Black Sheep, trans. Helen Thomson (London: Book Club Associates, 1976). Simenon, Georges, Maigret und die braven Leute, trans. Ingrid Altrichter (Zürich: Diogenes, 1988). Simenon, Georges, L’Affaire Saint-Fiacre in: Romans I (Paris: Gallimard, 2003 [1932]), pp.107-212. Simenon, Georges, L’Homme qui regardait passer les trains in: Romans I (Paris: Gallimard, 2003 [1938]), pp.555-720. Simenon, Georges, La neige était sale in: Romans II (Paris: Gallimard, 2003 [1948]), pp.3-199. Simenon, Georges, L’Amie de Madame Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1952 [1950]). Simenon, Georges, Maigret et l’homme du banc (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1952). Simenon, Georges, Feux Rouges (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1970 [1953]). Simenon, Georges, Maigret à l’école (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1954). Simenon, Georges, La colère de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1963). Simenon, Georges, La folle de Maigret (Paris: Presses de la Cité, 1970). Secondary Sources Alavoine, Bernard, Georges Simenon: Parcours d’une œuvre (Amiens: Encrage, 1998). Assouline, Pierre, Simenon: biographie (Paris: Julliard, 1992). Bertrand, Alain, Georges Simenon (Lyon: La Manufacture, 1988). Bertrand, Alain, Maigret (Brussels: Labor, 1994). Bajomée, Danielle, Simenon: une légende du XXe siècle (Tournai: La Renaissance du livre, 2003). 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