Saturday, November 13, 2021

Olga Tokarczuk THE BOOKS OF JACOB excerpts

 


Fitzcarraldo Editions


https://fitzcarraldoeditions.com/books/the-books-of-jacob#_



THE BOOKS OF JACOB

Olga Tokarczuk

Translated by Jennifer Croft

Published 15 November 2021

French paperback with flaps, 928 pages



THE BOOK OF FOG


I .

1752, ROHATYN


It’s early morning, near the close of October. The vicar forane is standing on the porch of the presbytery, waiting for his carriage. He’s used to getting up at dawn, but today he feels just half awake and has no idea how he even ended up here, alone in an ocean of fog. He can’t remember rising, or getting dressed, or whether he’s had breakfast. He stares perplexed at the sturdy boots sticking out from underneath his cassock, at the tattered front of his faded woollen overcoat, at the gloves he’s holding in his hands. He slips on the left one; it’s warm and fits him perfectly, as though hand and glove have known each other many years. He breathes a sigh of relief. He feels for the bag slung over his shoulder, mechanically runs his fingers over the hard edges of the rectangle it contains, thickened like scars under the skin, and he remembers, slowly, what’s inside – that heavy, friendly form. A good thing, the thing that’s brought him here – those words, those signs, each with a profound connection to his life. Indeed, now he knows what’s there, and this awareness slowly starts to warm him up, and as his body comes back, he starts to be able to see through the fog. Behind him, the dark aperture of the doors, one side shut. The cold must have already set in, perhaps even a light frost already, spoiling the plums in the orchard. Above the doors, there is a rough inscription, which he sees without looking, already knowing what it says – he commissioned it, after all. Those two craftsmen from Podhajce took an entire week to carve the letters into the wood. He had, of course, requested they be done ornately:


HERE TODAY AND GONE TOMORROW

ИOUSE TO MILK IS YOUR SORROW


Somehow, in the second line, they wrote the very first letter backwards, like a mirror image. Aggravated by this for the umpteenth time, the priest spins his head round, and the sight is enough to make him fully awake. That backwards И... How could they be so negligent? You really have to watch them constantly, supervise their each and every step. And since these craftsmen are Jewish, they probably used some sort of Jewish style for the inscription, the letters looking ready to collapse under their frills. One of them had even tried to argue that this preposterous excuse for an N was acceptable – nay, even preferable! – since its bar went from bottom to top, and from left to right, in the Christian way, and that Jewish would have been the opposite. The petty irritation of it has brought him to his senses, and now Father Benedykt Chmielowski, dean of Rohatyn, understands why he felt as if he was still asleep – he’s surrounded by fog the same greyish colour as his bedsheets; an off-white already tainted by dirt, by those enormous stores of grey that are the lining of the world. The fog is motionless, covering the whole of the courtyard completely; through it loom the familiar shapes of the big pear tree, the solid stone fence and, further still, the wicker cart. He knows it’s just an ordinary cloud, tumbled from the sky and landed with its belly on the ground. He was reading about this yesterday in Comenius.

     Now he hears the familiar clatter that on every journey whisks him into a state of creative meditation. Only after the sound does Roshko appear out of the fog, leading a horse by the bridle; after him comes the vicar’s britchka. At the sight of the carriage, Father Chmielowski feels a surge of energy, slaps his glove against his hand and leaps up into his seat. Roshko, silent as usual, adjusts the harness and glances at the priest. The fog turns Roshko’s face grey, and suddenly he looks older to the priest, as though he’s aged overnight, although in reality he’s a young man yet.

     Finally, they set off, but it’s as if they’re standing still, since the only evidence of motion is the rocking of the carriage and the soothing creaks it makes. They’ve travelled this road so many times, over so many years, that there’s no need to take in the view any longer, nor will landmarks be necessary for them to get their bearings. Father Chmielowski knows they’ve now gone down the road that passes along the edge of the forest, and they’ll stay on it all the way to the chapel at the crossroads. The chapel was erected there by Father Chmielowski himself some years earlier, when he had just been entrusted with the presbytery of Firlejów. For a long time he had wondered to whom to dedicate the little chapel, and he had thought of Benedict, his patron saint, or Onuphrius, the hermit who had, in the desert, miraculously received dates to eat from a palm tree, while every eighth day angels brought down for him from heaven the Body of Christ. For Father Chmielowski, Firlejów was to be a kind of desert too, after his years tutoring His Lordship Jabłonowski’s son Dymitr. On reflection, he had come to the conclusion that the chapel was to be built not for him and the satisfaction of his vanity, but rather for ordinary persons, that they might have a place to rest at that crossroads, whence to raise their thoughts to heaven. Standing, then, on that brick pedestal, coated in white lime, is the Blessed Mother, Queen of the World, wearing a crown on her head, a serpent squirming under her slipper.

     She, too, disappears into the fog today, along with the chapel and the crossroads. Only the treetops are visible, a sign that the fog is beginning to dissipate.

      ‘Kaśka won’t go, good sir,’ Roshko grumbles when the carriage comes to a stop. He gets out of his seat and vigorously crosses himself – once, twice, and then again.

     He leans forward and peers into the fog as he would into water. His shirt pokes out from underneath his faded red Sunday doublet.

     ‘I don’t know where to go,’ he says.

     ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? We’re on the Rohatyn road now,’ the priest says in astonishment.

     And yet! He gets out of the britchka to join his servant. Helplessly they circle the carriage, straining their eyes into the pale grey. For a moment they think they see something, but it’s only that their eyes, unable to latch on to anything, have begun to play tricks on them. But how can they not know where to go? It’s like getting lost in one’s own pocket.

     ‘Quiet!’ the priest says suddenly and raises his finger, straining to hear. And indeed, from somewhere off to the left, through the billows of fog, the faint murmur of water reaches their ears.

     ‘Let’s follow that sound,’ the priest says with determination. ‘That’s water flowing.’

     Now they’ll slowly creep along the river people call the Rotten Linden. The water will be their guide.



* * * 




https://www.massreview.org/sites/default/files/010_56.3Tokarczuk.pdf


Olga Tokarczuk

The Books of Jacob

Translated from Polish by Jennifer Croft



On how Iwanie, a little village on the Dniester, becomes a republic

Iwanie is not far from the fault that is the bed of the Dniester River. The way the village is arrayed along the Transnistrian plateau it looks like dishes set out on a table, too close to the table’s edge.  A single careless movement, and it will all come clattering down.

Through the middle of the village runs a river, sectioned off every few yards by primitive valves that produce little ponds and pools. Ducks and geese were once kept here. All that’s left of them now is a few white feathers: the village was abandoned after the last plague. It has only been since August, (with the Schorrs’ money and the benevolent bishop’s blessing, since the village lies on his estate) that the true believers have resided here. As soon as the safe conduct is issued by the king, people begin to make their way to Iwanie in carriages and on foot—from the south, from Turkey, from the north, from the towns of Podolia. They are, by and large, the same people who’d camped out on the border after being expelled from Poland, people who discovered, on  finally being permitted to return home, that in fact they no longer had homes. Their jobs had been given to others, and their houses had been looted and moved into, and if they wanted them back they’d have to try to  figure out some way of asserting their property rights, by law or by force.

Some lost everything, especially those who made their living by trade and who’d had stalls and significant stock at the time. These people have nothing now. Like Shlomo of Nadwórna and his wife, Wittel. Shlomo and Wittel owned workshops in Nadwórna and Kopczyńce that made duvets. All winter women would come and pluck feathers, always overseen by Wittel, whose nature is swift, and clever. Then they would sew their warm quilts, so good they’d get commissioned by estates and palaces, their down light and fragrant, the exteriors ornate with pink patterned Turkish damask. But all this was lost in the later tumult. Feathers were strewn across Podolia by the wind, damask trampled or thieved. The house’s roof caught fire. Now it’s uninhabitable.

Peeking out from the wintry mix of black and white, the little dwellings of Iwanie are overgrown with river reeds. A road winds along between them, traveling down the pocked, uneven yards that are strewn with the remnants of abandoned plows, rakes, shards of pots.

The village is run by Osman of Czerniowce, and it is he who posts guards at the village entrance, to prevent undesirables from straying in. Sometimes the entrance is blocked by carts. The horses stomp holes into the frozen ground.

Newcomers to the village must  first go to Osman and leave all their money and valuables with him. Osman is Iwanie’s steward, and he has an iron lockbox where he keeps the common holdings. His wife, Chava, Jacob’s sister, manages the offerings from true believers across Podolia and the Turkish lands — the lockbox contains clothing, shoes, tools for work, pots, glass, and even children’s toys. And it is Chava who assigns the morning’s work to the men of the village.These men take the cart to get potatoes from a farmer; these others go for cabbage.

The community has its own cows and a hundred chickens. The chickens are a new acquisition—still the sounds of coop-building permeate the air, the noises of the perches being hammered in. Past the little houses there are community gardens. The gardens are pretty, though there isn’t much in them yet: they arrived in August, too late to plant. Wild vines line the houses’ roofs, untended, giving sweet little grapes. They were able to harvest some pumpkins. There was an abundance of plums, as well — small, dark, and sweet — and apple trees that bulged with apples. Now that the frosts have set in, everything’s turned gray. Now they are all audience to the winter theater of putrefaction.

People arrive all winter, on a daily basis, especially from Wallachia and the Turkish lands, but also Czerniowce, Jassy, even Bucharest. All thanks to Osman—it is he who draws their brethren, especially those subjects of the Sultan who have already converted to Islam. From the local Podolian Jews these folk differ only slightly: they’re a bit more tanned, more vibrant, readier to dance. Their songs are a little livelier. Languages, clothing, and headdress mix. Some wear turbans, like Osman and his plentiful family, while others wear fur shtreimels. Some sport Turkish fezzes. And northerners wear four-pointed caps. The children embrace their new playmates, those from Podolia and those from the East all chasing each other merrily around the ponds. When winter comes, they chase each other around the ice.


Quarters are tight. For now they crowd inside their little dwellings with their children and all of their possessions, and even so they’re very cold, because the one thing they have none of in Iwanie is wood to burn. In the mornings the little panes of glass in the windows are covered in frost that forms patterns in an innocent imitation of the products of spring — leaves, buds, fern  flower shoots.

Chaim of Kopczyńce and Osman allocate housing to newcomers. Chava, who’s in charge of provisions, distributes blankets and pots, shows them where they can cook, where they can wash up — there is even a mikveh at the end of town. She explains that here everyone eats together and cooks together. And all work will be communal: the women will take care of the sewing, and the men will repair the buildings and  find fuel. Only children and the elderly are entitled to milk.

And so the women launder, cook, sew, feed. There has already been one birth here, of a boy they named Jacob. Meanwhile the men head out in the mornings on business, seeking trade — earning money. In the evenings they convene. A couple of adolescents make up Iwanie’s postal service, delivering packages on horseback, going all the way to Kamieniec if need be, sneaking across the border, to Turkey, to Czerniowce. From there the post goes on.

Yesterday the other Chaim, the one from Busko, Nachman’s brother, brought Iwanie a herd of goats, dispensing them evenly around the different households—there is no little rejoicing over this, for there had not been enough milk for the children. The younger women assigned to the kitchen all leave their offspring with the older women, who have assembled a thing in one of the cottages that they call “kindergarten.”


It is the end of November, and everyone in Iwanie is eager for Jacob’s arrival. Scouts have been sent to the Turkish side. The younger boys stake out the river’s high banks, inspect the older men’s beards. A solemn silence has descended upon the village, everything ready since yesterday. Jacob’s abode glistens, cleansed. Over the miserable  oor of tamped-down clay they’ve unfurled kilims. Snow-white curtains hang in the windows.

And  FInally there are whistles and whoops from along the riverbanks. He is here.

At the entrance to the village, Osman of Czerniowce awaits, suffused with joy but solemn, and on seeing them, he starts to sing in a strong and beautiful voice: “Dio mio, Baruchio...”  and the melody is taken up by the excited crowd that is waiting there, too. The procession that comes around the bend looks like a Turkish formation. In its center is a carriage, and excited eyes seek Jacob out there—but Jacob is the man riding ahead, on the gray horse, dressed like a Turk, in a turban and a fur-lined light blue coat with broad sleeves. His beard is long and black, which lends him years. Jacob dismounts and touches his forehead to Osman’s forehead, and Chaim’s, laying his hands on their wives’ heads. Osman leads him to his house, which is the largest in Iwanie; the yard all cleared, the entrance lined with spruce. But Jacob points at a little hut nearby, an old shed slapped together out of clay, and he says he wants to live alone, anywhere, he says — that hut in the yard there would work  fine.

“But you are a Hakham,” says Chaim. “How could you possibly live alone in a hut?”

But Jacob insists.

“I’m a simple man,” he says.

Osman doesn’t really get it, but he rushes to arrange for the shed to be tidied up now for Jacob all the same.


On the sleeves of sabbatai zevi's holy shirt

Wittel has thick curls the color of the grass in autumn. She is tall, with a good build. She holds her head high. She appointed herself to Jacob’s service. She glides between Iwanie’s houses, graceful, jocular,  ushed. She is witty. Since Jacob’s hut is in their yard, she has taken on the role of his protector, at least until the arrival of his rightful wife, Hana, and their kids. For now Wittel has a monopoly on Jacob. Everybody is always wanting something from him, always pestering him, and Wittel is the one who shoos them away. Sometimes people come down just to look at where he lives, and then Wittel goes and beats carpets on the fence and blocks the entrance with her body.

“The Lord is resting. The Lord is praying.The Lord is delivering His blessing to our people.”

By day everyone works, and Jacob can often be seen amongst them, with his shirt unbuttoned—for Jacob never gets cold—as he chops wood in a frenzy or unloads carts and carries bags of  our. Only when the sun sets do they all gather for the teachings. It used to be that the men and women heard the teachings separately, but He has introduced a different custom now into Iwanie. Now the teachings are for all adults.

The elders sit on benches while the youth squeeze in along the bundles of grain.The best part of the teachings is the start of them, because Jacob always tells funny stories that make them all burst out laughing. Jacob likes dirty jokes.

“In my youth,” he begins, “I went to one village where they had never seen a Jew before. I drove up to the inn where all the farmhands and the wenches went. The wenches were weaving, and the farmhands were  filling their heads with all sorts of different stories.There was one of them that spotted me and launched into insults, and kept on mocking me. He started telling this story about the Jewish God and the Christian God, how the Christian smacked the Jew smack dab in the kisser. This seemed to really crack them up because they belly-laughed like the guy was some  first-class wit, even though of course he wasn’t. So I told them one, too, about Mohammed and Saint Peter. And Mohammed says to Peter,‘I got a good idea to rut you, good and Greek.’ Peter didn’t want to, but Mohammed was strong, and he tied Peter to a tree and did his thing. Peter howling out how his backside was burning, how he’d take him on as his saint now, if he’d only just stop.

“Well, my little story didn’t go over so well, and the farmhands and the wenches had all cast their eyes down to the ground, but then that more aggressive one said to me, like to make peace, ‘Let’s call a truce,’ he says, ‘We won’t say nothing on your God, and you don’t say nothing on ourn. And let alone Saint Peter.’”

The men chuckle, and the women look down, but in fact they all like it that Jacob, a saint and a scholar, is also just himself, without turning his nose up.They like that he lives on his own in that little hut, and that he wears regular clothes. They love him for it. Especially the women. The women of the true faith are con dent and gregarious.They like to  irt, and what Jacob teaches pleases them: that they can forget the Turkish customs that say they ought to be shut up inside their homes. He says Iwanie needs women just as much as men, for different things, but still it needs them all the same.

Jacob also teaches that from now on there is nothing that belongs to just one person; no one has things of his or her own. If anybody was to need something, he is to request it of the person who has had it prior, and his request shall inevitably be granted. Alternatively those in want can go to the steward Osman or to Chava, and whatever their lacks, they will be attended to — if their shoes fall apart, or their shirt comes unraveled, or the like.

“Even without any money?” shouts one of the women, and the other women are quick to respond:“In return for those pretty eyes...” 

And everyone laughs.

Not everyone understands the thing about giving up their belongings. Yeruchim and Haim from Warsaw keep saying that it can’t last, that people are greedy by nature and will just want more and more and try to turn a pro t off the things that they receive. But others, like Nachman and Moshe, say they’ve seen this kind of community work before. So they stick up for Jacob. Nachman in particular is a big supporter of the idea. He can often be found delivering his speech on the subject around the different households of the village:

“This was exactly how it used to be in the world before there were laws. Everything was held in common, every good belonged to everyone, and everyone had enough, and the commands ‘Thou shalt not steal’ and ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’ didn’t exist because if anybody had said them nobody else would have even understood. ‘What is stealing?’ they would have asked.‘What is adultery?’We should live in the same way, because the old law no longer applies to us now.There have been three: Sabbatai, Berechiah, and now Jacob. He is the greatest of them, and he is our salvation. We must rejoice that our time is the time of salvation.The old laws no longer apply.”

During Hanukkah, Jacob distributes pieces of Sabbatai Zevi’s shirt as relics. This is a great event for the entire community. It is the shirt that the First One threw to Halabi’s son; Schorr recently purchased both its sleeves from Halabi’s son’s granddaughter, paying a pretty price for them, too. Now pieces of the material — each of them smaller than a  fingernail — make their way into amulets, little cherrywood boxes, pockets, and leather pouches worn around the neck. The rest of the shirt is placed in the box at Osman’s. It will belong to all those who have yet to arrive.


On the workings of Jacob's touch

Moshe from Podhajce, who knows everything, sits among the women weaving. He is very warm. Clouds of fragrant smoke rise toward the wooden ceiling.

“You all know,” he says,“the prayer that talks about Eloah encountering the demon of illnesses, who used to set up shop in people’s extremi- ties and so make them sick. But Eloah says to the demon, ‘Just as you can’t drink down the whole sea, so you will not do any further harm to mankind.’ Just like that. And Jacob, our Lord, is like Eloah: he, too, can converse with the demon of illnesses.And all he has to do is give him a dirty look, and off the demon goes.”

This makes sense to them. For there is ever an endless procession of people standing at the door to Jacob’s shed, and if Wittel permits them inside, into the presence of the Lord, Jacob will lay his hands on the heads of the suffering, moving his thumb over their foreheads, back and forth, sometimes he blows in their faces — and it almost always helps. They say that he has hot hands that can melt away all maladies, all variety of pain.

Jacob’s fame quickly spreads through the vicinity, and even local peasants end up coming to Iwanie (which they call “calling on the slubs”). They’re suspicious of these oddballs, neither Jews nor Gypsies. But Jacob rests his hands on their heads, too. In exchange they leave eggs, chickens, apples, grain. Chava tucks everything away in her chamber and distributes it evenly later on. Every child receives an egg for Shabbat. Chava says “for Shabbat,” although in reality Jacob has told them not to keep the Sabbath. All the same, unable to get used to this new edict, they still mark the passage of time from Shabbat to Shabbat.

In February something strange occurs, a real miracle, but of this Moshe knows next to nothing. Jacob has forbidden talk of it. Chaim, on the other hand, was there. A Podolian girl grew ill, very ill by the time she was brought in—for she had begun even to die.And her father let out a terrible howl, tearing out his own beard in despair because she had been his most beloved child.They sent for Jacob. At first when he got there he only shouted at them to shut up.Then he holed up with the girl for a while — and then when he left, she was cured. And he told her to wear white.

“What did you do to her?” asked Shlomo,Wittel’s husband.

“I had relations with her, and she got better,” said Jacob. And he re- fused to say any more on the matter.

Shlomo, a polite and serious man, did not at  first understand what he had just been told. He couldn’t quite recover from it after. That evening Jacob smiled at him as though perceiving Shlomo’s torment, and he reached out and tugged him gently in by the nape of the neck like a girl does with a boy. He blew into his eyes and told him not to tell anyone. Then he went off and paid him no more mind.

But Shlomo did tell his wife, though she swore she’d keep it secret. And yet, although no one knew how it had happened, within a few days all of Iwanie had heard the secret. Words are like lizards, able to elude all containment.


On what the women say while plucking chickens

First, that the face of the Bible’s Jacob served as the model when God was creating the angels’ human faces.

Second, that the Moon has Jacob’s face.

Third, that you can engage a man to give you children if you can’t get pregnant with your husband.

They recall the story of Issachar, son of Jacob and Leah: Leah engaged Jacob to sleep with her and then bore him a son. She compensated Jacob with a mandrake found by Reuben in the desert, much desired by the infertile Rachel. (Then Rachel ate that mandrake and bore Jacob his son Joseph.) All this in the Scriptures.

Fourth, that you can get pregnant by Jacob without him even brushing up against your pinky  finger.

Fifth, that when God created the angels, right away they opened up their mouths and praised Him. And, too, when God created Adam, the angels piped right up: “Is this the man we are to worship?” “No,” replied God.“This is a thief. He will steal a fruit from my tree.” So when Noah was born, the angels asked excitedly, “Is this the man we are to praise to high heaven?” Yet God replied, in consternation, “No, this is just an ordinary drunk.” When Abraham was born, they asked again, but God, gone gloomy, replied, “No, this one was not born circumcised and will only later convert to my faith. ”When Isaac was born, the angels asked God, still hopeful,“Is it this one?” “No,” replied God, severely displeased indeed. “This one loves his eldest son, who hates me. ” But when Jacob was born, they asked their question once more, and this time, the response was, “Yes, this is him.”

Several of the men working on the shed stop doing what they’re doing so they can stand in the doorway and eavesdrop on the women. Soon their heads are white with feathers: someone must have snatched up one of the baskets with a little too much zeal.




Monday, July 5, 2021

The Adventures of Sindbad the Seafarer

 Bolesław Leśmian,

The Adventures of Sindbad the Seafarer 


 translated by Mary Besemeres


Illustrations by Julia Konieczna


Introduction written by Mikołaj Gliński







“The Adventures of Sindbad The Seafarer” is one of the most beloved Polish books for children. Written in 1913 by one of the greatest Polish poets of the century, Bolesław Leśmian, the book is loosely based on the stories of Sinbad the Sailor from the classic Middle Eastern collection One Thousand and One Nights. However, Leśmian developed this material very differently, introducing completely new episodes and characters, like Sindbad’s poetry-writing uncle Tarabuk and his cunning but sympathetic nemesis the Sea Devil.


In the following excerpt from the book’s First Adventure, we find Sindbad in one of Leśmian’s newly-invented episodes. Our story begins as Sindbad is leaving the palace of King Miraz, to whose daughter he is now engaged, in order to visit the mysterious island of Kassel – the seat of the evil sorcerer Degyal. Perhaps the only thing that makes him a bit uneasy is the king and princess’s strange habit of mispronouncing his name as ‘Hindbad’. But, for now, this does not seem all that important. 



https://przekroj.pl/en/literature/the-adventures-of-sindbad-the-seafarer-boleslaw-lesmian


The First Adventure




Night fell. I was led to a palace chamber that had been prepared for me. I soon fell sound asleep, worn out with all my adventures. At dawn I woke refreshed and ready for my journey to Kassel.


By my chamber door stood a knight, waiting to lead me to the shore and direct me to the magic island. I followed him quickly to a nearby cove, where a small boat with two oars was moored. The knight pointed out a black dot on the horizon and told me to row the boat towards it. That dot was the island of Kassel.


Merrily, I leapt into the boat and rowed off.


Within six hours I had approached Kassel closely enough that I could hear the mysterious booming of the far-off gongs. I began to row the boat faster, and shortly reached the shore of the strange isle.


I jumped out and pulled the boat high up onto the sand to stop the tide from carrying it away. I ran further up the beach, looking around me in wonder. The island was completely barren, covered in rocks and boulders. The sound of the invisible gongs began to grow louder. Evidently, seeing me on his island, Degyal was making his gongs clash louder in order to stun me. My ears were filled with such a thunderous noise that I almost fainted. I made an effort of will to stay alert, and walked on boldly.


Suddenly, I recalled Piruza’s words: “Degyal hides away from human sight, and, while remaining invisible himself, sees everyone and everything around him.” Hardly had I recalled these words when I felt the piercing gaze of the invisible spirit upon me. He can see me! I thought. I could feel myself reflected from head to toes in the pupils of Degyal’s monstrous eyes. I felt him staring at me, stalking my every move, his unseen eyes boring into my face.


If you can see me, hit the gongs harder, I thought.


At that moment the awful metallic shriek of the gongs rose.


I felt myself blanch with fear, but even more disturbing was the thought that Degyal could see this. I hastily covered my face with my hands – only to realize that Degyal could see this, too.

The thought that I was visible to Degyal but unable to see him filled me with anger as well as fear. My anger was so great that it pushed aside the fear. The previous day’s success had made me so confident that I had come to view myself as an extraordinary man, whom no one, not even Degyal, could equal. But in the presence of this invisible being I now felt small and feeble. This feeling of slightness and weakness enraged me.


I clenched my fists, stamped my foot, and shouted:


“Appear or speak to me, you… invisible creature!”


Degyal’s voice resounded amidst the clanging of his gongs:


“I will not appear to you, as I hate human sight! I choose to remain invisible. I prefer to speak, so that you hear my words but see nothing. You have insulted me by clenching your fists and stamping your foot. I will avenge the insult! You are small and weak in the face of my strength. I could kill you with one twitch of my eyebrows if not for the protective amulet. But I can still wreak revenge on you. You believe yourself to be a mighty and unusual man. You imagine there is no one else in the whole world to equal you. I will punish your pride. With one wave of my hand I will create a human being as like you as two peas are in a pod.”


“Then create one!” I shouted angrily, and stamped my foot again.


In the place where my foot had touched the ground there suddenly appeared a man so like me that I stepped back in fear. He had exactly my eyes and my face, he was of my height, and even wore my clothes. He stood there quietly, deep in thought. He didn’t even deign to look at me or greet me with a bow.

I stood rooted to the spot, eyeing him with dismay.


After a while, my strange twin’s indifference began to unnerve me, so I asked him warily:


“It’s me – don’t you see me?”

“I can see you, but your presence doesn’t interest me,” he replied.

“Tell me at least what your name is?” I asked, fearfully.

“My name is Hindbad,” said the man with my voice.

“Hindbad?” I laughed loudly, shrugging my shoulders in scorn. “That’s my own name, garbled by King Miraz.”

“So what?” asked my look-alike. “I prefer a name which the king, himself, has deigned to garble, to the name you bear, unknown stranger.”

“Unknown?” I cried angrily. “You are wrong to call me unknown. You clearly haven’t heard that tomorrow I am going to be crowned king, ruler of half a mighty kingdom!”

“Not you, but I will be crowned king and ruler of half a mighty kingdom tomorrow,” Hindbad replied calmly.

I laughed again and said, mockingly:

“Goodbye, dear Hindbad! I must hurry now, as I don’t wish to be late for my wedding to the beautiful Piruza, daughter of King Miraz. I have no time to chat with you.” I turned away and walked back towards the beach, where I had left my boat.


Hindbad followed me.

I hurried towards the boat and leapt into it.

Hindbad leapt in after me.


His presence in the boat filled me with unease. I felt a revulsion for this creature whom Degyal had, with one wave of his hand, brought into existence. A sense of foreboding grew within me. Quickly I pushed off from the shore and when the boat was on the open sea I decided to rid myself of Hindbad’s disturbing company by throwing him overboard.

But Hindbad guessed my intention.

“You want to throw me into the water?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes!” I reached out to get hold of him.


Hindbad glanced at me so strangely that I felt my hands fall by my sides, numb. I could not move them at all.


“I don’t understand why you want to get rid of me,” observed Hindbad in mock-surprise. “After all, I am your equal in every way. You should care for me and love me as you love yourself. I have your voice, your eyes, your face, even your clothes. I am just as brave, just as clever as you. You have to admit that I deserve to be the husband of the lovely Piruza, the son-in-law of King Miraz and ruler of half his kingdom.”


I said nothing.


Once I was able to move my hands again, I grasped the oars and went on rowing. We glided along in silence, watching one another with distrust and disdain. Hindbad seemed like a mirror image of myself. It was his resemblance to me that disturbed me, more than just the presence of another man in the boat. I felt the mysterious depths of the sea beneath me, and close by, only the unsettling sight of my strange twin.

He sat opposite me, looking silently into my eyes. His silence made me angry.


“Why are you so silent?” I asked.

“And why have you been so silent?” asked Hindbad in turn.

“I’ve been silent because I have nothing to say to you!” I replied.

“I too have been silent because I have nothing to say to you!” retorted Hindbad proudly.

“Do you imagine, my lord Hindbad, that I will row you all the way, like a ferryman?”

“We can take turns rowing, my lord Sindbad,” replied Hindbad and casually took the oars from my hands.


He barely moved the oars. But the boat sped forward, driven by an invisible force. This strange boat ride frightened me, but I tried not to let Hindbad see my fear. Hindbad stared silently into my eyes, scarcely touching the oars. In the end, he stopped rowing altogether, yet the boat still slid forward at an alarming rate.


In silence we reached the shores of King Miraz’s island.

I jumped out onto the sand. Hindbad jumped out after me.






It was only now that I realized that I had spent a whole day and night on Kassel and returned to King Miraz’s land on the day of my wedding.

It was now morning. I made my way to the palace to greet Piruza, who must have missed me, and King Miraz, whom I had won over with my cleverness two days earlier. I walked swiftly. Hindbad walked just as swiftly, behind me. As we neared the palace, I suddenly felt my legs go numb. I was stuck to the spot, as sometimes happens to you in dreams, when you try to run and can’t move. I tried my utmost to walk on, but to no avail. Clearly, I was under a spell.


Hindbad passed me and entered the palace alone.

Powerless and horrified, I waited for the numbness to go away. A few minutes later it did. I ran into the palace and went straight to the throne room. I found Hindbad there, in the arms of King Miraz, who, with tears in his eyes, was thanking him for returning in time for the wedding. Piruza stood next to them, and gazed joyfully at Hindbad.


“Dear Hindbad,” the king was saying. “Your trip to Degyal’s island worried me a great deal. I feared that you might die, that I might never see you again!”

“I knew you would be brave and clever enough to escape any dangers,” said Piruza proudly. “I kept telling my father that Hindbad could not die!”

“You were right,” said Hindbad. “I am too brave and clever to die even in combat with such a mighty being as Degyal.”

Hearing these words I burned with rage. I took a step forward and cried:

“Your Majesty! Can you not see your own mistake?”


King Miraz looked at me. Piruza looked at me. The king was astonished. So was Piruza. Before them were two men as alike as two peas in a pod.


“What is the meaning of this?” cried the king. “What a strange resemblance! It’s making me dizzy. Instead of one, I see two future sons-in-law, only one of whom can be the right man!”

“And I see two future husbands!” said Piruza, despairingly. “Which of them shall I marry today?”

“Me,” said Hindbad calmly.

“Silence, liar!” I shouted, outraged. “Not you but I am betrothed to Piruza! Your Majesty, beware of this monster, do not be fooled by his resemblance to me! Degyal created him to punish me for having offended him. This is an artificial creature, conjured up by black magic, whom Piruza must never wed. From the moment he first sprang into existence he has dogged my every step. Outside the palace he cast a spell on me that froze me to the spot, so that I couldn’t warn you both about him!”


King Miraz frowned, and thought to himself. At length, he asked me:

“What is your name?”

“Sindbad,” I said.

“And you, what is your name?” the king asked Hindbad.

“Hindbad,” replied my look-alike.

“If I remember correctly, my son-in-law’s name is Hindbad,” declared the king.

“Oh yes, his name is Hindbad!” Piruza agreed gladly.

“Your Majesty! Piruza!” I cried in despair. “My name has always been Sindbad, but you kept getting it wrong! Can’t you recall how many times I corrected you? I kept asking you to call me Sindbad, not Hindbad!”

“It’s true that Piruza and I do mishear names,” said King Miraz. “But whatever name we come up with is the name we stick with – we treat the original as a mistake, our own version as the real name. That is our habit, which we have no intention of changing. In our view, the young man who is to wed Piruza is named Hindbad.”

Hindbad took a triumphant step towards the king and pointed at me with scorn:

“Forgive me, your Majesty, for my chance resemblance to that untrustworthy foreigner. But I promise you that nothing else links us. I am honest and honourable, while he is a worthless thief. He stole the amulet which 


Princess Piruza lent me. The evidence is right there on his neck – he’s wearing the amulet for all to see, he must have forgotten to hide it.”

King Miraz and Piruza looked at my neck and said, indignantly:

“Thief! Scoundrel! Of all the insolence! He hasn’t even bothered to hide what he stole!”


“Justice!” I moaned. “I am innocent. I have never sullied my hands with theft! Piruza, dear Piruza! Don’t you remember hanging the amulet around my neck yourself to ward off Degyal’s attack? But you couldn’t shield me from his horrible revenge! He is inflicting torments on me now. Piruza, you alone can save me from this state of affairs. Look closely at me and your heart will tell you who I am! It won’t deceive you. It will beat harder when you look at me, it will tell the truth from lies, Sindbad from Hindbad, and show you which of us is your future husband and which an unworthy imposter!”


“Look at the two of them, Piruza!” exclaimed King Miraz. “First at one, then the other, then at both of them. Let your heart guide you, and tell me which man it chooses.”

Piruza looked first at me, then at Hindbad, then at both of us. She said shyly:

“My heart points to each of them. They are equally charming, equally handsome, equally eloquent. And they are so alike that it’s really all the same to me which of them I marry. I find myself trusting both of them. So I think there is a better way to resolve this quandary. Our country has a special custom: on the day of their wedding, the bridegroom gives the bride a gift. I am sure that each of you has prepared a gift for me. I shall marry whichever of you gives me the loveliest, most amazing gift.”


At these words, I was deeply dismayed. The events of the previous day – the constant clanging of invisible gongs on the island of Kassel, the encounter with Degyal, the sudden appearance of Hindbad – all of this had so distracted me that I had entirely forgotten to find a present for Piruza. Ashamed, I hung my head.

“Where is your gift?” asked Hindbad mockingly.

“I don’t have one,” I whispered brokenly.


Piruza, disgusted, turned her back to me.

Hindbad walked over to Piruza and presented her with a small book bound in gold. Smiling radiantly, Piruza accepted it from his hands. Hindbad then said:


“This is no ordinary book. Of all the books in the world this one is the strangest and most wonderful. You must have heard, beautiful Piruza, how the constant booming of gongs on Kassel means that no living thing can survive there. All of the island’s plants, animals and people have died out. But mighty Degyal turned the inhabitants and the flora and fauna of the island into pictures. He arranged the pictures in this book and placed it in a crack in a rock, as a memento of the once blooming life of Kassel. Everything is still alive in this book, only in miniature. You will see tiny trees here, tiny people, tiny animals. Life goes on inside this book, just as it once did on Kassel. Spring follows winter, summer follows spring and autumn follows summer. The little people of this book plant and harvest crops, build new palaces, hold grand weddings, laugh, weep and bury their dead and greet the newly born. I had to wrestle with Degyal to take this book from him. Our battle was fierce. But I gladly risked my life to bring you this wedding gift. Look inside, and you will see how marvellous it is.”


Piruza opened the book and let out a cry of wonder. On its magical pages were brightly coloured, living pictures. It was spring in the world of the book, bursting with sunlight and the scent of blossoms. Tiny people came out of tiny palaces onto tiny streets. They ran across these streets onto tiny meadows, where they bent down and picked tiny flowers.






Piruza put her ear to the pages and listened to the distant voices of the tiny people. Together, they were all shouting: “It’s spring, it’s spring!” We could hear the singing of tiny birds perched on tiny branches. Piruza gazed at the book in delight, then asked Hindbad, “May I reach into these pictures and take one of the little people out, to have a closer look?”


“You may,” replied Hindbad. “But take care not to knock over their palaces, or break any of the trees, or burn your hand on the little sun which shines in their little sky.”

Piruza reached gingerly into one of the pictures and brought out a tiny man, whom she placed on the palm of her hand. He was the size of a pin. Proudly and gallantly he strode about on her hand.


“Who are you? What is your name?” she asked him.

“My name is Omar the Fourth, called the Great or the Magnificent,” said the little figure. “I am the king of my country. Hold me carefully and be sure not to drop me, as I could die and then our land would be without a king, a terrible state of affairs. To tell you the truth, I don’t much like your big birds, big palaces and big people. I much prefer to live in miniature, which is excellent for my health, and keeps me in good spirits. I must point out that you have been holding me for too long on your hand, taking up time that I must devote to matters of state. Allow me then to make you a royal bow as a gesture of farewell, and then please return me to my homeland.”


The little man bowed low, and Piruza put him carefully back into the picture. Immediately he was surrounded by a crowd of tiny people, greeting him joyfully after what, for them, had been his long absence. Piruza closed the book and exclaimed:


“How can I thank you enough, Hindbad, for such a marvellous surprise! I never dreamt I’d receive such a magical gift! I choose you as my husband. I can see that you are noble and wise. I have no doubt that you are the youth who solved my father’s riddle. As for that foreigner, he is a worthless thief and imposter!”

“Your Majesty! Piruza!” I cried. “I beg you for one thing: command Hindbad to speak the words of the riddle, to prove that he really was present that day in the square when it was proclaimed to the crowd.”

“No more of these tests and proofs!” said Piruza angrily. “They are an insult to my future husband’s dignity. I trust Hindbad, and I love Hindbad. I will no longer put up with the presence of the worthless foreigner in our palace!” And turning to me, she stamped her foot and shouted:


“Out of my sight!”

“Out of my sight!” shouted King Miraz.

“Out of my sight!” shouted Hindbad.


Not wanting to be further insulted, I turned and walked out.


On the street, my sense of outrage passed, but in its place came grief and despair. In an instant I had lost everything that it had taken me just an instant to win. I had lost Piruza, I had lost half a kingdom, and I had lost the crown which was to have been mine in a few hours’ time! How terrible was Degyal’s revenge. The hour of my wedding to Piruza was approaching, but it would be Hindbad, not I, who would marry the princess. In front of the palace a retinue of courtiers and knights on horseback assembled. On a terrace the palace orchestra began to play a lively tune. It was a wedding march.


I hid behind a nearby tree to watch the wedding procession, in which I was to have played an active part, and whose hero had now become Hindbad. Soon, King Miraz, Princess Piruza and Hindbad came happily out of the palace, mounted their steeds and rode away towards the temple, where the high priest would celebrate the couple’s marriage. They were followed by the knights on horseback and the courtiers, who rode in gold carriages. I recognized the horses on which the king, Piruza and Hindbad rode. They pranced gracefully along the street, just as the Sea Horse had taught them. I felt a great pain in my heart. One of those steeds had been prepared for me. On just such a prancing steed, beside that very princess, I was to have gone to the temple, and to have been crowned king. But instead of me, Hindbad rode on that steed. Instead of me, Hindbad tasted happiness. Crowds watched the procession. I heard them cry out, “Long live Hindbad! Long live Hindbad!”


My own name, garbled by the king and the princess, now rang in the air as the name of the future king!

No one knew or even glanced at the real Sindbad, who hid himself behind a tree, to watch and to envy, instead of being watched and envied. I put my arms around the trunk of the tree and for the first time in my life I wept bitterly. I was ashamed of my tears, but could not restrain them. They flowed copiously down my face and my clothes, forming a smallish puddle at my feet.


I must have wept for a long time, for so long in fact that while I was taken up with crying, Hindbad and Piruza were married. I saw the wedding retinue returning to the palace. Eventually, I stopped crying, but I didn’t leave my tree. I stood there stubbornly until night fell and stars sparkled in the sky.

The palace windows glittered with fiery lights. The orchestra thundered. In the windows the silhouettes of dancing couples came and went. I could tell, from behind my tree, which of these silhouettes belonged to the bride and groom. I recognized them by the fact that they were a brighter blue than all the others. It must have been joy that made them that particular shade of blue. It was a strange thought for me that there, in that brightly lit up palace, behind the windows and walls, a man was dancing and laughing with my fiancée at that moment – a man as like me as two peas in a pod, but despite that, my hated enemy.


At midnight, weary with weeping, I leant against my tree-trunk and fell into a heavy, painful sleep. I slept until sunrise, when I was awoken by the touch of someone’s hand. I opened my eyes, still sore from crying. Beside me stood an old woman. Her bony hand was touching my back. “Wake up, wake up!” she whispered.

I looked at her, and could not hide my astonishment. I had never before seen such an ancient, bony, rickety old woman. She spoke not with a voice, but with a murmur. It sounded like the rustling of dry paper. Her eyes were set so deep in their sockets they could no longer be seen. Her face was covered with silvery moss, and on her chin a large toadstool had sprouted. Every so often she would stroke the toadstool with her bony fingers, as though to make sure that it was still there. Judging by her appearance, she must have been at least a thousand years old.


“Why are you waking me?” I asked.

“To warn you of danger,” whispered the old woman.

“Who are you?” I asked in a tired voice.

“You will be surprised when I tell you,” murmured the old woman. “I am the mother of Degyal, but I feel only pity and warmth towards you. My husband was a famous cobbler in this town. When Degyal was born, I was happy, thinking that he would be a worthy heir and take up his father’s honest and noble trade. But Degyal was already a misfit by the age of eight, wasting time with magic tricks, showing nothing but contempt for his parents, and telling us firmly that he would rather be an invisible spirit than even the most famous cobbler in town. My husband and I laughed at his wishes and begged him to take on some real, honest work. But he was stubborn, ignored us and declared he had a calling to work black magic. In vain I and my husband (God rest his soul) advised him that to earn a crust he must take up the cobbler’s trade. 


He refused to learn his father’s trade and, thanks to his sorcerer’s skills became less and less visible to us with each passing day. Since his childhood, Degyal has hated people, plants and animals. The only thing he loves is music. In his room he amassed thousands of gongs and cymbals, and would bang on these day and night. The sound left me and my husband (God rest his soul) unable to sleep. We lost all energy to work. One day we finally said to Degyal:

‘You are a bad son. Not only have you become harder and harder for us to see, but what’s worse, you deprive us of sleep with your gongs, making us ill. We beg you to stop banging on the gongs and to stop disappearing. If you continue, we will disown you! We don’t want an invisible son who does nothing but bang on gongs day and night.’


Degyal’s response was to vanish from our sight completely. We cursed him for his stubbornness, his disobedience and his love of black magic. From then on, he made his home (together with his gongs) on the island of Kassel, where he has ruled ever since as a powerful, unseen spirit. With the noise of his gongs he stuns every living creature there and sows fear and death around him. And he still refuses to take on an honest trade. Although he is my son, I hate him with all my heart for his monstrousness and his deliberate invisibility. That is why I am warning you of his plans. Not only does he feel hatred for you, but he also hates Hindbad, even though he created him himself and gave him the magical book to charm Piruza. He hates you because you dared to insult him, and he hates Hindbad because he resembles you. So he has decided to kill both you and Hindbad, to put you together in one coffin, and to bury you in a single grave.”

I felt a shudder run down my spine when I heard that I might soon find myself in a single grave, buried together with my enemy. How horrible a grave with two such corpses would be! Who would pray at such a grave? And how would they know who to pray for: the soul of Sindbad or the soul of Hindbad? Even after death that horrid resemblance would pursue me! I would share a coffin, the silence of the tomb and rest everlasting with my monstrous twin, created by black magic.


“Kind old lady!” I cried in despair. “What must I do to avoid this fate?”


“Degyal has begun to work on the magic which he needs to destroy both you and Hindbad. Leave this place and go at once to the city harbour. You will find a ship bound for Balsora there. Board the ship and return to Baghdad. If you do this, you will escape Degyal’s plans. Since he won’t be able to reach you once you are so far away, he will also leave Hindbad in peace and allow him to live on in glory and happiness.”


I thanked Degyal’s mother for her advice. It was painful to hear that in saving myself I would also be saving Hindbad. But I much preferred that to the prospect of being locked up with him forever in a single grave. I bid the old woman goodbye and ran down to the harbour. A ship was indeed waiting there, leaving shortly for Balsora. I boarded it and soon we had sailed out into the sea, getting further and further away from the island of King Miraz.







* * *





https://culture.pl/en/article/translating-sindbad-from-the-antipodes-an-interview-with-mary-besemeres



Translating Sindbad from the Antipodes: An Interview with Mary Besemeres

#language & literature


Published: Apr 15 2020


The writer and translator Mary Besemeres first encountered the fairytale world of Bolesław Leśmian’s ‘Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza’ (The Adventures of Sindbad the Seafarer) while growing up between two languages and cultures in Australia. Here, she talks with Culture.pl about her decades-long endeavour to translate it into English – which now involves her collaboration with the illustrator Julia Konieczna.




Mikołaj Gliński: Do you remember your first encounter with the work of Bolesław Leśmian?  I understand it’s not the most typical story, considering you grew up in Australia...


Mary Besemeres: I remember my mother reading to my sister and me from the two books, Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza  (The Adventures of Sindbad the Seafarer) and Klechdy Sezamowe  (Stories from the Arabian Nights, literally Sesame Tales).

I remember especially, from ‘Klechdy’, the story about Princess Parysada and Ptak Bulbulezar (the bulbul bird), with the doomed knights who turned to stone because they couldn’t resist turning around – when stalked by invisible, chattering demons – to see who was there. Such a good image for self-doubt and self-sabotage. Also the ‘Baśń o Rumaku Zaklętym’(The Magic Horse), with its compelling evil magician who appears to Prince Firuz-Shah in a dream as a flying head, sarcastically asking the prince to stop playing ball with it and step in before the king has the magician’s head cut off.

Leśmian’s wizards are among his most memorable characters. As a teenager I was struck by a strange poem [by Leśmian] about a wanderer drowning mysteriously in the colour green: “topielec zieleni”. One summer when I was fifteen, I translated Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza  on my typewriter, while staying at the beach cabin of our family friend, Ciocia Irena. That version is the basis for the current one (although much has changed!).


MG: The first volume of this new-old Sindbad translation appeared towards the end of 2019 in a limited edition, with beautiful illustrations by Julia Konieczna. How did this collaboration start? 


MB: In late 2018, the artist Julia Konieczna was looking for someone to translate Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza  into English, as she’d already begun to create a series of artworks for the book and was looking to publish them with the text in English. She came across my essay in Translating Lives: Living with Two Languages and Cultures  (which I co-edited with my mother Anna Wierzbicka) and wrote to me, asking if I would be interested in contributing my translation. I of course jumped at the chance. I reworked my old translation over almost a year.






MG: 'Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza’ by Bolesław Leśmian is a version of a classic tale found in the famous Arabic collection ‘A Thousand and One Nights’. What is the difference between Leśmian’s version and the original?


MB: There are a lot of differences, as well as some obvious overlaps. The basic outline of a seafarer’s seven voyages is there, but whereas in the Arabian story, Sindbad travels to seek his fortune, Leśmian’s Sindbad is a rich young man seduced into travel by a charming, persuasive monster, Diabeł Morski (the Sea Devil). I love Julia Konieczna’s images of the Diabeł Morski; they convey his almost endearing quality as well as his sly intent. There is no poor ‘Sindbad the Porter’ in Leśmian’s version, but instead, an annoying uncle, Wuj Tarabuk, who helps prompt Sindbad’s adventures by making him want to leave home. Tarabuk is a boastful and terrible poet – a crime in Leśmian’s books, yet he is also ultimately loveable, a bit like Toad in The Wind in the Willows.

Leśmian kept some famous episodes from the original: Sindbad stranded on an island that turns out to be a whale, Sindbad carried by the giant bird Roc to a valley of diamonds. But Leśmian’s book is not an adaptation so much as a riff on the original. It uses the familiar story as a springboard for his own wild imagination and preoccupations. On every voyage, Sindbad meets with both dangerous figures like Roc and with enchanting ones, like the wizard-princess, the ‘flaming’ (płomienna) Sermina. (As he admits to us, Sindbad falls in love easily and often.)

The menace mostly comes from a churlish, coarse figure, usually male, the allure from someone ethereal and mysterious, invariably female – most obviously in the struggle between Stella (a gourmand princess) and Urgela (Sindbad's lute-playing dream). (I call Urgela ‘Irgella’ in the text to avoid her name being read as ‘Erguhla’ or ‘Erjela’.) The other absolutely original quality which Leśmian brings to the story is the voice he tells it in – his special mix of styles, from the eerie and enigmatic to the downright hilarious.


MG: Why did you decide to translate this particular book by Leśmian and, say, not ‘Klechdy Sezamowe’ or ‘Klechdy Polskie’ – Leśmian’s other beautiful tales for children?


MB: Sindbad’s adventures were so entertaining and the narrator’s voice so unique that I’ve always wanted to share them with English speakers. Leśmian conjures up a real aura of mystery about the sea and its far-off places – that spoke to me as a child and still speaks to me now more than the idea of looking for one’s fortune.

In fact, I did mean to translate ‘Klechdy Sezamowe’ as well, but I only got as far as ‘Baśń o Rumaku Zaklętym’, which I called ‘The Enchanted Steed’. Finishing that translation is something that I'd like to do. There are some wonderfully feisty heroines in it, like the Bengal princess, and Morgana, who would capture readers’ imaginations. I never read ‘Klechdy Polskie’, as we didn’t own a copy.





MG: Leśmian’s Sindbad is now more than a hundred years old. Writing for children – its techniques and topics, sensitivity to political and social matters – all of that has very much changed over the last century… Where does the relevance of Leśmian’s Sindbad lie for you, today?


MB: It’s true that writing for children has changed a lot over the past century. But there are ‘classics’ like Winnie the Pooh  or Babar  or Pippi Longstocking  that continue to be loved by readers across languages – in the case of Pippi, despite some passages that are seriously dated. As a reader, it’s possible to reject those problematic sentences, to mentally bracket them, while still cheering on the irrepressible heroine.

There are children’s books that endure, and Leśmian’s Przygody Sindbada Żeglarza  is one of these for me because of its sheer inventiveness, theatricality, and deadpan humour. My children loved hearing it in translation (and are keen to see the book in print with more of Julia’s pictures). In Poland, Leśmian’s books clearly retain classic status, with Klechdy Sezamowe  reissued in 2017.

I also think Leśmian’s tale would fascinate anyone with an interest in poetry and prose for children, and particularly in Jewish literature for children. So many Polish childhood classics were created by Polish Jewish authors, like Jan Brzechwa (Leśmian’s cousin), Julian Tuwim and Janusz Korczak, not to mention the illustrator J.M. Szancer. Two of Korczak’s novels have appeared in English (as Kaytek the Wizard  and King Matt the First). There are readers for this literature, and Przygody Sindbada is a striking example.


MG: You grew up in Australia and from early on spoke two languages. Growing up in two languages is probably also about reading children’s books in English and Polish. Did that experience mark your life?


MB: Yes, a great deal. In an essay for Translating Lives, I wrote: ‘The Polish children’s books I read growing up in Australia had a certain lyricism which made them very different from English-language ones. Stories in Polish often conveyed a wistful mood. There was none of the expectation of humour that seemed built into stories for children in English – British classics like Alice in Wonderland [or]... Beatrix Potter’s books, and Australian ones like The Magic Pudding – books that I also loved but which didn’t transport me to quite such a haunting other world.’

I think these differences that I perceived in books are related to differences which I experienced whenever I moved between the English-speaking sphere of school and the Polish-speaking sphere of home, and especially when we visited Warsaw. People there typically related to each other differently from how they did in Australia. Things that were acceptable in Poland – emotional warmth, open expression of sadness, open disagreement – would seem either sentimental or too confronting in mainstream Australian society. I grew up understanding both these modes, and feeling more at home in one or the other, depending on the context. I enjoyed the warmth of Polish speakers, the depth of their conversations, but I also valued the dry humour on offer in Australia. And I missed these things when I was in the other place and culture.


MG: Did this experience of bilingualism impact how you looked at this project and your decisions as a translator?


MB: Yes. I wanted readers to have access to this rich world that I grew up with. In translating the book, I was inviting them into that world, so I was conscious of not wanting to lose their interest. In a few places I decided not to include a sentence or two because I knew the joke would fall flat in English or would distract too much from the story. For example, one of the experienced old sailors Sindbad meets – his eternal nemesis – talks about how big the Roc is by comparing it to a ship, then takes his time making the point that he hasn't actually seen the Roc himself... I cut that passage short in my version.


MG: Leśmian’s writing for children is certainly uncanny and very evocative. Some people consider it disturbing, and even unsettling for younger readers.. Do you share this feeling? Could this be a problematic reading experience for younger readers?


MB: Perhaps it depends on the child, but given how grim the Grimms’ fairy tales are, Leśmian’s writing seems unlikely to me to alarm younger readers. It might surprise them. Like The Phantom Tollbooth or the film Yellow Submarine, what could be alienating for some readers will appeal to others as ingenious. I think the book can be enjoyed without understanding every nuance. There’s a scene where Sindbad encounters a monument to an unknown man, which he brings to life by calling it “Genius”, as per the instructions engraved on the pedestal. The statue begins to tell Sindbad a strange story of having ruled over a kingdom from which he banished all poets, plants and birds, and built a temple to mediocrity that he made his people worship at. When Sindbad hears this, he yells: “Donkey!” - the only way to silence the statue, according to the inscription. With an unhappy look, it turns back to stone. The scene is funny and dramatic, but can clearly be read at different levels.





MG: Leśmian’s poetry is widely considered untranslatable. What do you find to be the greatest difficulty when it comes to translating his prose into English?


MB: Leśmian combines a haunting, uncanny quality with often absurd humour. In this he’s a bit like Kafka. The tone of the book is one of the things I found the hardest to translate, since English is less comfortable with such a wide range within a single narrative voice. In the Polish, there’s a constant zig-zag between tones, which works. In revising my translation, I noticed, too, how often in the original there was a non-sequitur or a detail that in English would just sound bizarre or irrelevant. It’s as though there’s less patience among readers of English with this level of quirk. Leśmian’s narrative also has an incantatory feel, fed by frequent clever and amusing rhymes, that is very hard to capture in English. I did my best.


MG: You’ve published the wonderfully illustrated first chapter of Sindbad. What’s your next step? And what is the goal of the whole project?


MB: Like Julia, I am keen to make this strange and enthralling work of Leśmian’s better known outside of Poland. I’m honoured to be involved as a translator and very glad of the opportunity to try to mediate between the worlds of Polish and English. Julia has also been teaching illustration workshops online for children to develop their drawing abilities and flex their imaginations in response to Leśmian’s story. I have already seen some terrific Sea Devils (diabły morskie) produced by her students. We hope the book will be published and will ‘catch on’ with readers of English, young and old.


After publishing the first chapter of the book in a single sample volume, the authors of The Adventures of Sindbad the Seafarer are currently looking for a publisher for the whole book. To find out more about the idea and support the project, go to: https://www.mynameissindbad.com


        Dr Mary Besemeres was born in Warsaw in 1972 to John Besemeres and Anna Wierzbicka, and migrated to Australia aged 10 months. She is an Honorary Lecturer at the Australian National University's School of Literature, Languages & Linguistics, and writes about cross-cultural autobiography, bilingualism and migrant experience. She is the author of Translating One's Self: Language and Selfhood in Cross-Cultural Autobiography (Peter Lang, 2002). With Professor Anna Wierzbicka, she co-edited Translating Lives: Living with Two Languages and Cultures(UQP, 2007). Mary was founding co-editor with Maureen Perkins of the Routledge journal Life Writing.

Interview conducted in English by Mikołaj Gliński, Apr 2020




 Mikołaj Gliński

Mikołaj studied classics at Humboldt University in Berlin and cultural studies at the University of Warsaw's Institute of Polish Culture, where he wrote his MA in literature and history. He is a long-serving author for the English section at Culture.pl, where he specialises in these topics, as well as languages, his personal passion. Mikołaj is also co-author of Culture.pl's first book Quarks, Elephants & Pierogi: Poland in 100 Words