Welsh Journals

SOME WELSH POETS TRANSLATED by Wil Ifan THOSE of us who watch jealously over the good name of Welsh poetry are rather un- happy when there is talk of translating it. We point out to the interested Englishman, at the same time apologising for presuming to point out what must be so evident even to a non-Celt, that a Welsh lyric or a Welsh ode loses such a great deal in translation "The sentiment, you know the idiom and all that, you know the atmosphere," and as a rule we round off the pathetic plea with an easy reference to Celtic mysticism, which we hope is rather convincing. And yet we cannot forget that there are quite successful English translations of the masterpieces of other languages: we cannot forget, for ex- ample, that the wailing and the shouting and the singing of a Semitic far away people, have been carried across pretty successfully into England; and no one will argue that there is much in com- mon between a Palestinian Jew and an English- man, at any rate not in the hearing of a good Jew. Perhaps it means that you can always carry across if there is anything to carry, and you know your job. And knowing your job, of course, means knowing it at both ends. Many University dons have failed to translate the Latin classics into English, because unfortunately they only know their one language. On the other hand, it is to be feared that a man like the late Edgar Wallace, who could write English, very early in life failed to unravel the mysteries of the Latin conjugations. It isn't enough even for the would-be translator to have his spiritual home in the border counties, where he is neither one thing nor the other. He must be a citizen of two worlds. But even then there is a danger. One sometimes feels that a translation is too true to be good. A Welsh maid is taken to London town where she is taught to speak as good English as London knows. She amazes us with her fluency and her easy mastery of the English diphthongs- there are no English vowels to speak of-but has she not learnt her lesson a little too well? The Londoner himself would have liked her all the better for an occasional vowel from the hills or a consonant with an anvil note from the smithy at LIanerchymedd still clinging to it. The good translator tries not to do his work so thoroughly that it might well have been left undone. Who would thank the would-be sound translator for printing a new lot of translated English lyrics when hundreds of dainty grey and blue and laven- der book-covers are already hiding the same sort of thing, hiding them far too securely for the poor author's taste? Perhaps you will listen to these attempts of mine for the very reason that they betray a strange accent; not pleasant per- haps, only strange, and therefore pleasant. The Englishman has an itching ear for strange sounds, and his notorious lack of knowledge of other tongues makes him an easy prey for those who are mean enough to take advantage of him. Who was it who paid a Welsh novelist lavishly for entertaining them with an exhibition of a genuine Cardiganshire accent? He entered into the spirit of the game and plied it on thickly, using a spade that had been previously used for other work about the yard. It stands to the moral credit of the London critics that their innocent hearts never once suspected. Some of them even sympathised with the Cardiganshire that had been so ruthlessly translated, little dreaming who the real victims were. In my selection of Welsh authors I cannot pre- tend to be following any kind of plan. I do not claim that I have chosen the best lyrics of the language nor that my choice is a representative one. I shall forthwith put myself right with scores of sensitive poets by acknowledging that the three finest Welsh writers are not mentioned in this book at all. Moreover, I must confess that I have not sought diligently for the best specimens of any one author's work. It is, indeed, a hap- hazard adventure from first to last, and I feel that I have a right to begin just anywhere. Many of my attempts will exemplify the very weaknesses that have been referred to in the foreword, but I want the poets to believe that in no case have I wilfully or maliciously wronged them. Waldo is a new name in Welsh verse. We have already had two Waldo divines, both mighty pulpiteers; but this new Waldo does not preach. He is a young graduate who finds that farm labouring and wandering about the lanes of Aber- gwaun is much more congenial than handing on his book-knowledge to an un-eager generation. We who sit round "Y Ford Gron" have seen that he can tell a good story steeped in stuff not of this earth, and yet as remote as possible from the sound fairy tale that children are supposed to revel in. His solemn inside finds relief in concocting impossible limericks and parodies. The Aber- gwaun Waldo is himself more Waldos than one, but we feel that most of them meet together in this sonnet to the Pedlar.