Bai Jin Translation Complete Collection, Volume 3

Author: Turgenev (Russia)
Translator: Ba Jin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 1997-06-01
Features: Excerpt: "To translate Virgin Soil, one must not use a wooden plow that merely scrapes the ground; one must use a deep-plowing iron plow."①—Excerpted from a farmer's notes In the afternoon of a spring day in 1868, around one o'clock, a young man of about twenty-seven, dressed in ragged clothes, climbed the back stairs of a five-story building on St. Petersburg Officer Street. This man laboriously dragged a pair of worn-out rubber boots, swaying his bulky and clumsy body, and finally reached the top of the stairs, stopping in front of an old, half-opened door. He did not ring the bell but took a deep breath and burst into a small, dimly lit hallway.
"Is Nedzhdanov at home?" he asked in a voice that was not very clear. "He's not here. I'm here, come in," a woman's equally rough voice came from the next room. "Are you Mashurina?" the newcomer asked again. "I am. And you are Ostrovodmov?" "Pymin Ostrovodmov," the man replied, carefully taking off his rubber boots and hanging his old coat on a nail, then entering the room where the woman's voice came from.
This room had a low ceiling and was dirty, with walls painted deep green. The only light came from two small, dusty windows. The only furnishings in the room were: an iron bed in the corner, a table in the center, several chairs, and a bookshelf piled with books. Sitting beside the table was a woman of about thirty, bareheaded, wearing a black woolen coat, and smoking a cigarette. She saw Ostrovodmov enter and silently extended her large, red hand to him. Ostrovodmov shook her hand without a word and sat down in a chair, taking out a half-smoked cigar from the pocket of his coat. Mashurina gave him a match—he lit the cigar. They were both silent, not even glancing at each other, and began to exhale circles of blue smoke in the already smoky room.
The two men smoking had some similarities, though their faces were nothing alike. On their somewhat unattractive faces (both had thick lips, teeth, and noses, and Ostrovodmov even had a few pimples) could be seen a sense of integrity, determination, and diligence.
"Did you see Nedzhdanov?" Ostrovodmov asked at last. "Yes, he'll be back soon. He went to the library with a few books."
Postscript: Preface by Shu Ji: Now, let us continue discussing Virgin Soil. Fifty years ago, the Japanese invading army surrendered after being defeated. By the end of 1945, I returned to Shanghai, my eyes still trembling with the sight of two hands, but my third brother Yao Lin was already lying in a hospital bed with a high fever, having been admitted after being recommended by a friend. He only lived for a week. As for my friend Shengquan①, who was still missing, we continued to wait for his return, though he had already fallen victim to the Japanese. While flipping through Virgin Soil, which I had brought from Chongqing, I couldn't help but think of the fate of a righteous, kind, and talented friend. I had kept my promise and brought two long novels by Turgenev back to Shanghai, but where could I find my friend? Both books were published by Wen Sheng Press. Virgin Soil was not handed over to Pingming Press for a new layout in time, mainly because there were many unsuitable translations in the book, and I didn't have time to revise them. My personal affairs had only become more numerous. But I couldn't use this "excuse" to delay what I should have done. In the early 1960s, I finally made up my mind to revise the translation of Virgin Soil. Sometimes, when I went to Beijing for meetings, I took the revised version with me, planning to do some "work" in my spare time. However, I could only "find time," so even with the book coming and going, I made very few changes. Later, I went to Vietnam twice for interviews, and upon my return, I had to rush to write essays and reports. I completely lost hope in the revision work. Just then, the Cultural Revolution broke out. I felt a fierce wind carrying a vast cloud of darkness blow in my face, and like a criminal, I was labeled an "anti-revolutionary academic authority" and dragged into a "cattle shed." My home was searched, I was publicly humiliated, and subjected to mental torment and personal humiliation. My wife was beaten with a copper headband by the Red Guards in Beijing. She couldn't understand it, contracted an incurable illness, and couldn't receive timely treatment, passing away at an early age. I did not believe the lies and insisted on seeing the end of it. I survived, and naturally, I also witnessed the trial of the "Gang of Four."
A year after Shao Shan passed away, my "problem" was resolved, with the conclusion being that the class struggle between enemies was being treated as class struggle among the people, and I was not given a label and allowed to return to translation work. This decision was made by the Shanghai "Party Committee" of the "Gang of Four." The second resolution, however, overturned this conclusion—it was, of course, the people's decision. The second resolution was read to me in person by the "secretary" of the Work-Study Brigade that had entered the Shanghai Writers' Association. He also said, "No work, only study." I asked, "Can I do some translation?" He replied, "Yes, yes." The next day, at the study group meeting of the Writers' Association, when he announced my participation in the study, he added, "Translation." I no longer had to worry about time! I no longer had to secretly hide in a small room above the garage to translate the "Four Olds"①. My study was still sealed, so I used the broken desk in that small room to work.
To say I was working in peace was actually to be on edge, for the words of the Work-Study Brigade veterans were not necessarily trustworthy. Who could guarantee that tomorrow he wouldn't come and search through all my manuscripts? But I had a plan. My translation would not be published now, so I would revise it in the book and then copy it onto manuscripts, and I could also make two copies with carbon paper to send to the library. In any case, my efforts would not be in vain. Even if Li Ni died from the and suffering in the later stages of the Cultural Revolution, his translations are still being read by people today.
In 1978, Virgin Soil was published by the Beijing People's Literature Publishing House, and my manuscripts were also sent to the library. Recently, while recovering in Hangzhou, looking out at the lake outside, I couldn't help but think of a spring outing fifty-eight years ago, when Turgenev's novels were still in my hands, still telling the story of the friendship between three intellectuals. I miss my departed friend, and this friendship will never disappear. Now, as the complete translations are being published, please allow me to dedicate the two long novels I translated to the two unfortunate deceased friends (Lu Li and Li Ni), hoping that their souls will find eternal peace!
August 27, 1995