Nineteenth-Century U.S. Literature in Middle Eastern Languages 9780748683093

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NINETEENTH-CENTURY US LITERATURE IN MIDDLE EASTERN LANGUAGES

EDINBURGH STUDIES IN TRANSATLANTIC LITERATURES Series Editors: Susan Manning and Andrew Taylor Modern global culture makes it clear that literary study can no longer operate on nation-based or exceptionalist models. In practice, American literatures have always been understood and defined in relation to the literatures of Europe and Asia. The books in this series work within a broad comparative framework to question place-based identities and monocular visions, in historical contexts from the earliest European settlements to contemporary affairs, and across all literary genres. They explore the multiple ways in which ideas, texts, objects and bodies travel across spatial and temporal borders, generating powerful forms of contrast and affinity. The Edinburgh Studies in Transatlantic Literatures series fosters new paradigms of exchange, circulation and transformation for transatlantic literary studies, expanding the critical and theoretical work of this rapidly developing field. Titles in the series include: Ethnicity and Cultural Authority: From Arnold to Du Bois, Daniel G. Williams Henry James, Oscar Wilde and Aesthetic Culture, Michèle Mendelssohn American Modernism’s Expatriate Scene: The Labour of Translation, Daniel Katz The Dandy in Irish and American Southern Fiction: Aristocratic Drag, Ellen Crowell Philanthropy in British and American Fiction: Dickens, Hawthorne, Eliot, and Howells, Frank Christianson Transatlantic Women’s Literature, Heidi Slettedahl Macpherson Cultural Authority in the Age of Whitman: A Transatlantic Perspective, Günter Leypoldt Mercenaries in British and American Literature, 1790–1830: Writing, Fighting, and Marrying for Money, Erik Simpson Spanish America and British Romanticism, 1777–1826: Rewriting Conquest, Rebecca Cole Heinowitz Transnationalism in Practice: Essays on American Studies, Literature and Religion, Paul Giles South Asian Atlantic Literature, 1970–2010, Ruth Maxey Atlantic Citizens: Nineteenth-Century American Writers at Work in the World, Leslie Elizabeth Eckel Transatlantic Avant-Gardes: Little Magazines and Localist Modernism, Eric White Nineteenth-Century US Literature in Middle Eastern Languages, Jeffrey Einboden Transatlantic Transcendentalism: Coleridge, Emerson, and Nature, Samantha Harvey Forthcoming Titles: Emily Dickinson and her British Contemporaries: Victorian Poetry in Nineteenth-Century America, Páraic Finnerty Visit the Edinburgh Studies in Transatlantic Literatures web site at www.euppublishing.com/series/estl

NINETEENTH-CENTURY US LITERATURE IN MIDDLE EASTERN LANGUAGES ◆ ◆ ◆

JEFFREY EINBODEN

© Jeffrey Einboden, 2013 Edinburgh University Press Ltd 22 George Square, Edinburgh EH8 9LF www.euppublishing.com Typeset in 11/13 Baskerville MT by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 0 7486 4564 0 (hardback) ISBN 978 0 7486 8309 3 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 0 7486 8310 9 (epub) The right of Jeffrey Einboden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Susan Manning (1953–2013), one of the founding editors of Edinburgh Studies in Transatlantic Literatures, was committed to the exchange of ideas across languages, cultures and nations. Indeed an expansive intellectual generosity characterised her entire academic career, one that has been cut all too short. The Series is a testament to her work and contributes to her legacy as an outstanding scholar, a supportive colleague and a good friend. Andrew Taylor

Contents

Acknowledgmentsvi Introduction1 Part I  Scriptural Circulations 1. Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel 13 2. Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī45 ˙ ˙ ˙ Part II  Orienting the American Romance 3. Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar 4. Navigating the Arabic Whale: Melville and Ihsān ‘Abbās ˙ Part III  ‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves 5. The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin 6. American ‘Song’ of Iraqi Exile: Whitman and Saadi Youssef

75 99 125 156

Notes187 Bibliography214 Index227

Acknowledgments

As the subject of this book is literary genealogy and influence, it is perhaps fitting to begin by confessing my own. Gratitude is due first to my parents, Pam and Ed, without whose love and guidance this book would have been impossible. I thank my teachers at York University, Toronto – and, in particular, John Willoughby and Bernie Zelechow – for fostering my earliest efforts with care and insight. At Clare College, Cambridge, I am indebted to Tamara Follini and Douglas Hedley, under whose supervision this project first took shape, and whose examples continue to inspire it. Colleagues and friends at Northern Illinois University have been generous with their wisdom, time and support. My special thanks to Betty Birner, Luz Van Cromphout and William C. Johnson; Jessica Reyman and Ryan Hibbett; Phil Eubanks, Keith Gandal, Jim Giles, Jeffrey Johnson and Mark Van Wienen. I thank also my students at NIU, whose provocative questions since 2006 have shaped my thinking, and to Shane Winterhalter in particular, for his contributions as my Graduate Assistant. As with any extended project, this book has overlapped and intersected others, benefiting directly and indirectly from parallel efforts. For travel support to archives and conferences, I thank the Graduate School of Northern Illinois University. I am grateful also to the National Endowment for the Humanities for funding my research and teaching of early US Arabic slave writings. Generous collaborators and friends – James Vigus and Fr. Isaac ( John) Slater – provided invaluable encouragement as the book developed. For their gracious hospitality during a critical time of completion, I thank Matthew and Laura Ruttan. I thank too the journals which first featured my research into Middle

Acknowledgments  [ vii ­

Eastern translations of American literature, and which allowed this research to reappear in Chapters 2, 3 and 4, respectively: Translation and Literature, which published my 2009 ‘Washington Irving in Muslim Translation: Revising the American Mahomet’ (18:1, pp. 43–62); the Nathaniel Hawthorne Review, which published my 2008 ‘Composing a Persian Letter: Sīmīn Dāneshvar’s Rendition of Hawthorne’ (34:2, pp. 81–102); and Leviathan: A Journal of Melville Studies, which published my 2010 ‘“Call me Ismā‘īl”: The Arabic Moby-Dick of Ihsān ‘Abbās’ (12:1, pp. 3–19). ˙ My thanks to the anonymous reviewers at Edinburgh University Press, and to Karen Doubilet, Tomer Sidi and Walid Saleh for reading selections from the book and offering instructive corrections and illuminating suggestions. Any slips in substance and style that remain are my own. At the Press, I am deeply grateful to Jackie Jones and Jenny Daly, and to the Series Editors, Andrew Taylor, and especially, Susan Manning, whose examination of my doctoral work in 2005, and encouragement in the years that followed, were essential to this book’s formation. I write in memory of Audrey and Alec, Helen and Les. This book is dedicated to Hillary and Ezra – my reason for writing, and everything else.

The very globe continually transcends and translates itself, and becomes winged in its orbit. The other side of the globe is but the home of our correspondent. Our voyaging is only great-circle sailing [. . .] H.D. Thoreau ‫یکیست ترکی و تازی در این معامله حافظ‬ ‫حدیث عشق بیان کن بدان زبان که تو دانی‬ Hāfiz! In this exchange, Turkish, Arabic are one and the same, ˙ ˙ Express the tradition of love in whatever tongue you know. Muhammad Shamsuddīn Hāfiz ˙ ˙ ˙

Introduction

This study addresses the translation of nineteenth-century US literature into Middle Eastern languages, concentrating on Hebrew, Arabic and Persian renditions of seminal American authors. A book devoted to such a subject has a wide variety of potential motivations and directions, including those which could be classed broadly as historical, political and linguistic. While informed by each of these disciplinary contexts, the primary focus of the present study is textual transformation and endurance, exploring the literary implications of particular acts of translation; rather than a broad, external outline of Middle Eastern reception, I trace the revisionary processes engendered within specific Middle Eastern renditions, offering close readings of Hebrew, Persian and Arabic versions of Longfellow, Irving, Hawthorne, Melville and Whitman. I argue that these selected translations not only exemplify the intriguing problem of transporting US texts into arenas of Middle Eastern language, but also serve as useful tools for re-reading canonical US authors themselves, accenting and illuminating aspects of the ‘American Renaissance’ customarily hidden. The study aims to provide not a niche transmission history for linguistic or regional specialists, but rather a detailed account of individual Middle Eastern renditions which expand, enrich or challenge our reading of their nineteenth-century US sources. In emphasising Middle Eastern contexts for US literature, this study reflects an increasingly prevalent critical perspective within American studies, one which seeks to relocate the national canon within a global frame, expanding the interpretive boundaries for authors conventionally identified as distinctly or exceptionally ‘American’. The principal figures whom I consider – from Irving to Whitman – have played primary

2 ]

Introduction

roles in the nationalist definitions of US literature which were formed during the twentieth century, and have been reciprocally significant in efforts to reframe the US canon through ‘transnational’, ‘postnational’ or ‘hemispheric’ parameters. Recent reconsiderations of early America by Wai Chee Dimock, Paul Giles and Lawrence Buell, for example, have worked to revise the inherited, insular portraits of such literary figures, undermining these received readings of nineteenth-century US authors by emphasising their participation in transatlantic cultural and intellectual exchange. It is perhaps not immediately obvious, however, why the study of translations – and the study of Middle Eastern translations in particular – should serve as a valuable contribution to such current revaluation of American letters. For readers of English, who have direct access not only to the primary works but also to a vast wealth of secondary criticism, it may seem needlessly indirect to approach American literature through an examination of foreign renditions. Although interesting as indices of destination languages and audiences, such translations necessarily stand one step removed from American originals, limited in their capacity to express the nuances and intentions of such primary sources. In reading an Arabic rendition of Moby-Dick, for example, we approach the novel only obliquely, barred from Melville’s text by an intermediate layer of expression and culture. It is, however, precisely this intermediacy which, I argue, reveals as much as it obscures, acting not as a veil but as a lens, refracting implications latent within American texts themselves. The linguistic displacement of Moby-Dick – removing the novel from its home vernacular to a host language such as Arabic – shifts and disrupts its narrative topography, allowing elements submerged within the novel to drift to its textual surface. Imported into other languages and landscapes, Melville’s work becomes usefully estranged from its domestication within the US canon, allowing its structures, references and significances to be interrogated anew. Much of the instructive potential inherent within such translatory displacements is attributable, more specifically, to their functioning as complex readings of American sources authored by some of the most prominent scholars, novelists and poets writing in modern Middle Eastern languages. As long recognised, literature translation involves not literal reproduction but rather literary interpretation, functioning as a ‘peculiar form of creative criticism’ which exhibits a translator’s own hermeneutic approach to their textual source.1 As a ‘locus of difference’, each translation comprises a ‘forcible replacement’, reflecting not only the ‘cultural and social conditions under which it is produced and read’, but also the ‘strength of [a translator’s] interpretation’.2 The renditions addressed

­

Introduction  [3

within the present study invite our particular attention as they offer ­striking – and ‘strong’ – readings of US texts crafted by seminal thinkers and artists who have been so far neglected by the field of American studies. Names such as Joseph Massel, Sīmīn Dāneshvar and Ihsān ‘Abbās ˙ will be invoked as significant interpreters of figures such as Longfellow, Hawthorne and Melville, with these US authors thereby aligned with one of the pioneers of modern Hebrew translation (Massel); Iran’s bestselling novelist (Dāneshvar); and a renowned scholar of Arabic and Islamic studies (‘Abbās). I will suggest that the renditions produced by such key figures offer transnational, cross-linguistic and inter-religious readings of the American Renaissance – readings which not only helpfully supplement the existing critical heritage, but which comprise essential chapters within the global afterlives of canonical US texts, acting as vehicles of encounter whereby celebrated authors writing in Middle Eastern languages resist, negotiate and collaborate with American predecessors. Acknowledging that translations have the potential – in the words of Umberto Eco – to ‘widen out’ their textual sources, does not, however, account for the regional boundaries and temporal margins set by the present study: why have nineteenth-century US texts in particular invited Middle Eastern responses so worthy of consideration? What is distinctive about importations of American Renaissance authors into vernaculars such as Hebrew, Arabic and Persian?3 The complex motivations and methods informing the translations treated in this study resist any single answer to these allied questions; there are, however, trends and tendencies operative within the American Renaissance itself which act as identifiable agents of provocation, calling forth and fruitfully complicating Middle Eastern language renditions in particular. Perhaps most obvious among these is US reference to the Middle East itself, with authors from Irving to Melville explicitly invoking and engaging Islamic and Hebraic texts and traditions. As recognised from the very beginning of Americanist scholarship, an ‘openness toward the Orient’ is ‘common’ to nearly all primary figures traditionally associated with American Romanticism.4 This literary Orientalism – and the critical debate which it has generated – acquires fresh significance, however, when we realise that it is precisely such US Orientalism which invites some of the most intriguing Hebrew, Persian and Arabic renditions of US texts; not only do celebrated works from the American nineteenth century appropriate Middle Eastern traditions, but these very works subsequently become appropriated into Middle Eastern vernaculars, with the American Renaissance serving as a textual bridge, conveying ideas and identities ‘back’ into home languages. I will treat several renditions in the present study – including those of

4 ]

Introduction

Longfellow, Irving and Melville – which represent the latest stage within such complex processes of literary circulation, exploring how they conclude an annular progress of texts and traditions from Middle Eastern sources, to nineteenth-century US appropriations, to contemporary Middle Eastern translations. The irony of these circuitous trajectories – whereby the American Renaissance is situated as a pivotal space between Middle Eastern antiquity and present-day Middle Eastern renditions – has been partly suggested and anticipated by analogous scholarship concerning Henry David Thoreau and his composite relationship with Indic traditions. Not only was Thoreau definitively influenced by ancient Sanskrit scriptures, but his own writings came to inform the Indian independence movement, imported into the subcontinent through Mahatma Gandhi’s reading of Walden and his Gujarati translations from ‘Resistance to Civil Government’. Consistent with her redefinition of American literature as a ‘crisscrossing set of pathways [. . .] weaving in and out of other geographies, other languages and cultures’, Wai Chee Dimock has characterised Thoreau’s writings as transporting the Indic scriptures ‘from America back to Asia’, prompting the Bhagavad Gita to ‘mak[e] its way back to India’.5 The present study proposes that such literary circumnavigation − the ‘return’ of texts to their source languages and locales via US letters − is not unique to Thoreau and the subcontinent, but, rather, active more broadly within the American Renaissance. In recognising the Middle East as not only source but also recipient of US texts, I intend not merely to dilate this model of circularity, however, but rather to interrogate the significant shifts in meaning which such processes engender. Writing in 1849, Thoreau himself marvelled at the seeming longevity of Asian literatures, noting how these ‘sublime sentences’ endure ‘a thousand revolutions and translations’ before reaching American readers; for Thoreau, Asian texts not only ‘survive in wonderful completeness’ within transatlantic rendition, but even seem to ‘wea[r] the English and the Sanskrit dress indifferently’.6 Such assertion of semantic equivalence naturally appears untenable in light of modern translation studies, a discipline which recognises the necessary discontinuities between sources and renditions, suggesting that any act of translation, no matter how ‘faithfully’ performed, amends and adjusts its source. In tracing the ‘return’ of Middle Eastern traditions through US intermediaries, it is particularly urgent to emphasise such discontinuity, recognising that textual traditions are not simply returned to ‘original’ significances. Despite a certain linguistic and geographic circularity, it would be mere ‘historical substantialism’ to suggest that such transmissions are semantically circular, thereby lapsing into what Nicholas Halmi has recently termed the

­

Introduction  [5

‘uncritical assumption of conceptual identities across time’.7 In tracing textual transmissions which are indeed ‘revolutions’ − transmissions which revolve from the Middle East to America and back to the Middle East − the present study will also stress historical difference, balancing notions of annularity with an awareness of these translatory processes as transforming genealogies. A second and broader agent of provocation for the Middle Eastern renditions here treated raises a further irony implicit in my approach. Although this book contributes to a scholarly trend which belies US literary exceptionalism through emphasising its global contexts – through ‘widening circles of awareness’, as suggested by Edward Said – I also recognise that it is precisely such literary exceptionalism which helped prompt and fashion the translations which I address.8 The received portrait of nineteenth-century US authors as pioneers of an independent nationalist tradition, as members of a Matthiesonian ‘American Renaissance’, was a primary impetus for their rendition into Middle Eastern vernaculars, serving as the basis for a complex attraction, inciting both translatory ‘receptions’ as well as ‘resistances’. As noted by Hana Wirth-Nesher in her contribution to As Others Read Us (1991), America’s reputation for ‘self-consciously fashion[ing] for itself a literary tradition that would set it apart from other canons’ was of particular interest to readers in the twentieth-century Middle East, many of whom were themselves ‘attempt[ing] to define [their] own national literature’.9 Viewed in terms of more recent postcolonial critique, several of the present study’s renditions could thus be understood as providing translators and audiences with the means of ‘transforming’ primary elements of ‘dominant discourses’, recruiting iconic nineteenth-century American authors ‘in the service of their own self-empowerment’.10 These processes of ‘orienting’ US classics thereby imply not merely the geographic and linguistic transplantation of American canonicity eastward, but also the transformative and, indeed, corrective power inherent to such transplantations – comprising orientations which not only amend the content and style of individual US texts but which also extend beyond these texts, expanding the very concepts of nationality and novelty implied by the American Renaissance itself. In recognising Middle Eastern language renditions as both appropriating and revising US literary authority, I do not, however, wish to portray these diverse texts as forming a unified, discrete narrative of postcolonial response, nor do I offer a competing theory of ‘Occidentalism’ to mirror and invert Saidean Orientalism.11 Although identifying strategic commonalities across Hebrew, Persian and Arabic translations, I avoid advancing an essentialist and hierarchical model of regional exchange,

6 ]

Introduction

one which posits a homogenous ‘Middle Eastern’ response to the hegemonic ‘American Renaissance’. Promoting such a binary would – in the words of Dimock – serve merely to ‘reproduce[e] the very map’ which this study ‘sets out to scrutinize’, reifying false polarities by suppressing the plurality of languages, nationalities and literary methods implied by each of the translations here addressed.12 Nineteenth-Century US Literature in Middle Eastern Languages instead gives priority to its renditions’ composite identities, fluid borders and linguistic innovations – elements of particular significance to the book’s opening chapter and its reading of Joseph Massel’s 1900 Yehūdāh ha-Makābī (‘‫)’יהודה המכבי‬. This Hebrew translation of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Judas Maccabæus offers a fitting point of departure for the present study, comprising not only its earliest rendition, but also the text which most clearly problematises any simple dichotomy of region or culture. Published in Manchester by a Russian émigré and leading British Zionist, this translation stands at the intersection of centuries, geographies and languages, occupying a space which mediates US and Middle Eastern localities, triangulated between its textual source and its projected destination. Chapter 1 will identify the uneasy balance of secular and sacred commitments evident throughout Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, exploring how Longfellow’s Judaic drama itself becomes a source for Judaic appropriation, enlisted as an instrument for Hebrew language renewal, as well as a vehicle for reclaiming Hebraic history. Paired with this opening discussion will be consideration of a parallel process of cultural recovery through translation – one which involves not Longfellow and the Judaic, but rather Irving and the Islamic. Chapter 2 addresses the Arabic translation of Washington Irving’s Life of Mahomet (1850), reading this text as rendered by the prolific Arab nationalist and Muslim historian ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī. Recalling Massel’s reception ˙ ˙ of Longfellow, I suggest that al-Kharbūtlī’s 1960 translation – his Hayāt ˙ ˙ Muhammad (‘‫ – )’ﺤﻴﺎﺓ ﻤﺣﻣﺩ‬seeks to reclaim sacred traditions and national ˙ precedents through revising its US source, refiguring Irving’s prophetic biography as an advocate for Islamic orthodoxy. Chapter 2 will also suggest, however, that such translatory revisionism offers an ironically fitting means of approaching Mahomet – a text which itself revises and reimagines European appropriations of medieval Muslim sources. In tracing such processes of circulation and redaction, I will situate Irving’s text as a pivotal intermediary, seeing it as the transatlantic axis upon which al-Kharbūtlī both converts and subverts the Orientalist Mahomet, ˙ advancing and reversing Western appropriations of the Arabian prophet. These two opening treatments – of Longfellow and Irving – are aligned not only in their circularity, but also in their foregrounding of

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Introduction  [7

marginal US texts, revealing how American works frequently overlooked in English have acquired renewed significance within Hebrew and Arabic translation. The study’s second part – comprising its third and fourth chapters – will transition towards the standard centres of US canonicity, exploring Middle Eastern receptions of two of the most celebrated novels of the American Renaissance, The Scarlet Letter and Moby-Dick. The former of these will be read in Persian translation, with Chapter 3 devoted to Sīmīn Dāneshvar’s rendition of Hawthorne’s novel, her 1955 Dāgh-e Nang (‘‫)’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﮒ‬. Recognised as the first female Persian novelist, Dāneshvar ‘arguably remains the most famous of all Iranian women authors ever published’, renowned in particular for her 1969 Sūvashūn – the most widely sold novel in Iranian literary history.13 The third chapter will accordingly depict Dāneshvar’s Scarlet Letter as a unique encounter between novelists of global import, exemplifying not only a traversal of language, religion and gender, but also an intersection of national canons. I will argue, in particular, that Hawthorne’s ambivalent fictionalising of Puritan identities and Colonial legacies invites an equally ambivalent translatory response, with Dāneshvar’s rendition serving to amplify the signature ambiguity of Hawthorne’s Letter, extending its indeterminacy through displacing the novel’s American referents. In shifting the historical and orthographic specificities of this American Romance, I will suggest that Dāneshvar enhances the ‘strangeness and remoteness’ of her textual source – a process which will also be of primary concern within Chapter 4, informing my reading of Ihsān ‘Abbās’ rendition of Moby-Dick into Arabic. First pub˙ lished in 1965, ‘Abbās’ Mūbī Dīk (‘‫ )’ﻣﻮﺒﻲ ﺪﻴﻚ‬represents another encounter between celebrated US novel and influential Middle Eastern author; in this case, however, the Middle Eastern author represents not a best-selling novelist but rather his generation’s ‘premier figure [. . .] in the field of Arabic and Islamic studies’.14 Eulogised in 2003 as the twentieth century’s ‘custodian of Arabic culture and heritage’, ‘Abbās’ disciplinary perspective and expertise serve to remap the coordinates of his US source, charting alternative genealogies for Moby-Dick’s protagonists and motifs.15 As with Dāneshvar’s Letter, however, I will argue that rendering Moby-Dick into idioms specific to the Arab world does not misdirect but, rather, fruitfully extends significances already implicit within this American text. In piloting The Whale to new vernacular and cultural waters, I suggest that ‘Abbās succeeds in excavating the novel’s own transnational origins, allowing Moby-Dick to complete a linguistic, and literary, circumnavigation. The third part of this study differs from the two which precede it, focusing not upon aligned translations of different US authors, but rather upon distinct translations of the same US author: Walt Whitman. Chapters 5

8 ]

Introduction

and 6 will address the rendition of Leaves of Grass into Hebrew and Arabic, reading Whitman as received and revised by two seminal figures of modern Middle Eastern poetics, Simon Halkin and Saadi Youssef. Representing diverse cultures and contending politics, these Israeli and Iraqi poets nevertheless share Whitman as a formative precursor, each recruiting the American in their attempts to fashion verse forms and national identities for the twentieth-century Middle East. Beginning with Simon Halkin’s 1952 rendition of Leaves – his ‘Alē ‘Ēsev (‘‫ – )’עלי עשב‬the fifth chapter will explore the role which the translation and imitation of Whitman played during a crucial period of Israeli self-definition; I will suggest, in particular, that Whitman’s ‘pioneering’ persona and his psalmic lyricism served both to invite and to complicate his importation into contemporary Hebrew, propelling Halkin’s rendition back to biblical precedents even while promoting its modernist innovations. Chapter 6 will continue tracking such double movement, discerning an uneasy compound of progressive politics and aesthetics in Saadi Youssef’s Arabic translation of Whitman – his 1976 Awrāq al-‘Ushb (‘‫)’ﺍﻮﺮﺍﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﺐ‬. Published between Youssef’s successive exiles from Iraq, these rendered Leaves articulate both a critique and a celebration of the translator’s own home culture and homeland, reflecting the colonial past and promised futures of the Arab world in the iconic mirror of Whitman’s imagined America. Central to my readings of both Halkin and Youssef will be recognition of the ironies implicit in their dilations of Whitmanian selfhood and displacements of Whitman’s America, acknowledging the revisionary strategies which uproot Leaves from its definitive locality and personal specificity, allowing these poets to replant and cultivate Whitman’s verse in extrinsic lands and languages. In reading Youssef’s Arabic Leaves, Chapter 6 reaches an endpoint which recalls this study’s beginnings, with the Iraqi’s exilic identity formed via US rendition echoing Massel’s own appeal to Longfellow at the very opening of the century. However, the line of chronology which stretches from Yehūdāh ha-Makābī (1900) to Awrāq al-‘Ushb (1976) is, of course, neither straight nor terminal, featuring a myriad of intersections, deviations and extensions which complicate its outline. This genealogy of global translation is indefinite and expanding in its boundaries, with the pivotal translations featured throughout the present study themselves susceptible to further circulations, revolutions and oscillations. Nineteenth-Century US Literature in Middle Eastern Languages itself could be understood as offering a fresh stage of such reciprocal reception, perpetuating and revolving the very textual traditions it critiques, incorporating them back into the ‘original’ language of their US sources. In discussing the Arabic, Persian and Hebrew versions addressed in Chapters 1–6, I necessarily undertake

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Introduction  [9

my own English translations of these translations from English, seeking to provide readers with ‘accurate’ – if not ‘transparent’ – renditions of passages that exemplify fidelities, discontinuities and innovations of significance.16 The very premise of this book thus entails adding another layer of rendition to these already multilayered texts, promoting and reversing their linguistic trajectory by returning them to arenas of English expression and critique. Recognising the complicity of the present study in such complex processes of translation serves to highlight and define its subjective limits; like all products of translation, this study is a work of contingent selection, reflecting the capacities, priorities and interpretive choices of its author. Although included for their instructive potential and regional prominence, the primary renditions addressed – and the extracts which receive particular attention – inevitably express my own selective reading, comprising a canon which is constructive only through excluding countless alternative passages, texts and authors. It is my hope, however, that these boundaries will also prompt future discussion of the vernaculars and editions which exceed and reinforce the study’s margins, encouraging the discovery of substitute centres of gravity within this extensive and evolving tradition of reception.

chapter 1

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel

Opening the front cover of Joseph Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī in 1900, his readers would discover not one, but two, title pages (Figure 1).1 Anticipating the tense dualities that shape the entirety of his Longfellow translation, Massel’s dual title page fuses a range of contraries, pairing distinct languages, cultures and nations. Most immediately apparent is the linguistic duality of his two pages, situating English and Hebrew in confrontation. Inscribed in stylised Roman script on the right, Massel’s title and preliminaries are mirrored on the left, appearing in bold, block Hebrew lettering. In actually reading these facing titles, it is their complex nationality that emerges next. Although translating an American icon – ‘H.W. Longfellow’ – Massel’s work is definitively British in production, naming Manchester as the place where it was ‘printed and published’, specifying even its city district and street address. Complicating this transatlantic binary is the very subject of Judas Maccabæus itself, namely the Maccabean revolt – an ancient story of national and religious struggle, a war for the sovereignty of a people and the possession of sacred land. Details less readily apparent, but more telling, begin to surface in contrasting these twin pages further. Seeming identical at first, discrepancies between the Hebrew and the English become evident upon closer scrutiny. Minor variants emerge, for example, in the translator’s description of himself, with his name supplied fully in Hebrew (‘‫’יוסף מזל‬, ‘Yōseph Mazzel’), ˙ and slightly abbreviated in English (‘J. Massel’). Similarly truncated are the translator’s credentials in English; while Page Right specifies one work to Massel’s credit (‘SAMSON AGONISTES’), Page Left names two publications, electing to add ‘‫( ’מכנף הארץ זמרות‬Songs from the Ends of the Earth). Perhaps more interesting is the very first inconsistency to be found

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Scriptural Circulations

Figure 1  The title pages of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī

between the pages, discovered at their top, in the actual title of the work. On the right, Massel’s English title unsurprisingly matches Longfellow’s own, ‘Judas Maccabæus’ – a title reproduced simply on the left, appearing in Hebrew as ‘‫( ’יהודה המכבי‬Yehūdāh ha-Makābī). Such tidy mirroring is broken, however, by a single line included immediately below Massel’s Hebrew title – a line wholly lacking in the English. Further defining his translation, Massel invents a subtitle for his American source, identifying Yehūdāh ha-Makābī as: ‫שיר חזיון בחמש מערכות וארבע עשרה מחזות‬ [A Song of Vision in Five Acts and Fourteen Scenes]

Featured on one side of his frontispiece only, Massel’s subtitle nevertheless expresses yet another tense duality – the duality of genre. Composed as a ‘song’ (‘‫)’שיר‬, but structured into ‘acts’ and ‘scenes’ (‘‫ ’מערכות‬and ‘‫)’מחזות‬, Judas Maccabæus is introduced to Hebrew readers as straddling not only languages and nations, but also literary forms, fusing together the lyric and the dramatic. Clarifying his work’s hybrid genre, Massel’s subtitle also redefines its content, describing Longfellow’s ‘song’ as a ‘Song of Vision’ (‘shīr hizzāyōn’) – a phrase that itself implies ‘drama’, but which also pos˙

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Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 15

sesses a distinctly scriptural flavour, recalling occurrences of ‘hizzāyōn’ in ˙ the Hebrew Bible, where it signifies a ‘vision’ of prophecy or revelation.2 This biblical frame at the top of Massel’s Hebrew title page is amplified at its bottom; descending from first feature to last, a final inconsistency between these pages is found in their most prosaic detail: date of publication. While the English title page records the work’s year as ‘1900’, the Hebrew suggests that Yehūdāh ha-Makābī was published instead in ‘‫’תר״ס‬ – i.e. ‘[5]660’ – dating Massel’s edition according to traditional Jewish reckoning. Attuned to biblical creation rather than the Gregorian calendar, counting from anno mundi rather than anno Domini, this last feature of Massel’s left-hand title page recalibrates the time and scope of Longfellow’s Judas, situating this American drama within a chronology more broad and ‘deep’, reaching back to primordial, and sacred, beginnings.3 This refiguring of Longfellow’s Judas, labelling it a ‘Song of Vision’ published in [5]660, is itself anticipated by a cover page that precedes Massel’s dual title page (Figure 2). Advertising his edition and its price, Massel’s cover is composed entirely in English; nevertheless, it holds surprising potential to render and revise the significance of Longfellow’s drama. A simple page with startling implications, Massel’s cover opens by amplifying the visionary overtones of his Hebrew subtitle to Judas, borrowing now not merely a single prophetic term but an entire prophetic citation, launching Yehūdāh ha-Makābī with Jeremiah 4: 6, ‘Raise a Banner Zionwards, fly and do not tarry’. This quotation serves to recall Massel’s Hebrew title page also in highlighting, and revising, time. Rather than quantity of years or historical breadth, however, it is pace and urgency that are here emphasised, the concluding imperatives of this Jeremiah verse advising its audience to ‘fly and do not tarry’. Balancing the timeliness of Massel’s cover is its urgency of place, insisting not only when readers should ‘fly’, but where: ‘Zionwards’. A locale both physical and spiritual, both archaic and yet to come, Massel’s Zionist quotation is then followed immediately by his own composite ‘banner’ for Zion, a British crest with lion rampant, flanked by two striped flags, crowned with the Māgēn Dāvid: the Shield, or Star, of David.4 Although not an act of language rendition, this cover – no less than Massel’s twin title pages – performs a potent act of translation, serving to carry across Longfellow’s poem into unexpected arenas of politics, religion and geography. And, as with most translation acts, it is the ironies and conflicts of Massel’s rendition which are here most intriguing. From its opening words and images, Longfellow’s Judas Maccabæus is ‘raised’ as a new Zionist standard, recruited as a ‘banner’ for Jewish self-definition at the turn of the century. Despite dramatising an antique past, Longfellow’s 1872 tragedy

16 ]

Scriptural Circulations

Figure 2  The cover page of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 17 ­

is repurposed in 1900, no longer nostalgic American entertainment, but rather an urgent ‘vision’ of a people’s future. First authored in English and published in Boston, this New England poem is also renovated as grounds for a Middle Eastern homeland, a textual space in Hebrew that supports the erection of a tangible Zion. Perhaps most incongruous is to find a dramatic work by America’s most iconic poet of the nineteenth century not only wearing a Judaic star, but also an imperial British crest, assuming a complex nationality that recalls Massel’s own. Born in Vilna, White Russia, in 1850, Joseph Massel would emigrate with his brothers from their homeland in the early 1880s, intending to gain entrance to Palestine, hoping to contribute to early Zionist repatriation. Refused admission by ruling Turkish authorities, Massel was forced to return north from the Holy Land; after a projected Jewish colony in Cyprus failed, Massel eventually settled in Britain, returning to Russia only briefly, to collect his family. Arriving first in Edinburgh in 1884 or 1885, Massel had moved to Manchester by 1888, where he opened a printing press dedicated to cultivating new forums for Hebrew language and literature. Emerging as a leader of the city’s growing Jewish community, and serving as a delegate to the First, Second and Third Zionist Congresses (1897, 1898 and 1899), Massel would nevertheless also energetically embrace his adopted British identity, writing a panegyric to Queen Victoria, even while championing Jewish sovereignty.5 If the cover-page and dual titles of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī vividly reflect Massel’s complex biography and cultural context, they equally serve as oblique mirrors for their American originals – Longfellow and his 1872 drama. Massel’s readiness to recruit Judas Maccabæus for foreign politics and polemics is clearly signalled in the preliminaries to his Hebrew edition. Less evident, however, is the degree to which such recruitment may also be considered a fitting approach to Longfellow’s poem, extending a revisionary sequence which is essential to the provenance of his own American Judas. Although not ‘literal’ translations, Massel’s curious prefaces do offer illuminating, and surprisingly ‘faithful’, translations – faithful to the complex history of Longfellow’s drama, rehearsing a cycle of appropriation that extends both forward and backward from his 1872 Judas Maccabæus.

♦♦♦ Revealed as a conflicted text in Massel’s dual title page, Judas Maccabæus has provoked an equally conflicted response in the critical heritage. Dramatising the struggle between pagan dominion and Jewish independence through its five acts – embodied by the poem’s antagonist and its

18 ]

Scriptural Circulations

protagonist, the tyrannic Antiochus and the heroic Judas – Longfellow’s theatrical work has been regularly dismissed or derided by scholarly readers, rejected as an abortive failure or a forgettable curiosity. Even before publication, Longfellow himself recorded a tepid reception to Judas; only eight days after its completion Longfellow would pen this terse, and faintly comic, diary entry on 29 December 1871: Read to Greene ‘Baron Castine,’ which he likes, and ‘Judas Maccabaeus,’ which he does not dislike.6

The closest of friends, George Washington Greene appears to have offered a gently hesitant reaction to Judas in 1871, clearly preferring Longfellow’s other efforts – an opinion echoed, somewhat less gently, by scholars through the twentieth century. Representative is the view of the seminal Americanist Newton Arvin, who declared Judas Maccabæus in 1963 to be ‘perhaps more completely forgotten than any other of Longfellow’s ambitious poems’, a text whose ‘language and the verse are not up to the requirements of the tragic action’.7 As one of Longfellow’s final dramatic efforts, the defects of Judas have often been ascribed to the lateness of its composition. Arguing that Longfellow had ‘miss[ed] the point altogether’ in adapting the Maccabean story, Israel Abrahams suggested, as early as 1920, that the fact that it was written in 1871 contributed to the work’s failure, with Longfellow tackling his subject ‘when he had passed the zenith of his power’.8 More common, however, has been blaming Judas’ weaknesses on the speed of its composition; as noted again by Arvin, the drama ‘got itself written in twelve days’, a ‘fact’ which ‘helps to account for its disappointingness’.9 Emphasising its rapid or late composition is, nevertheless, somewhat misleading, as Longfellow’s attraction to the Maccabæus story, and his project of dramatising its contents, reaches back decades, dating to the very opening of his career. Touring Germany in 1836, preparing to take up a professorship in modern languages at Harvard, Longfellow would attend a Frankfurt concert that featured Handel’s own Judas Maccabæus – a three-act oratorio, first performed in 1747. As recalled by his travelling companion, Clara Crowninshield, Longfellow was among a group of foreigners who sat outside, on an unseasonably warm May evening, listening to the ‘solemn’ music ‘between 7 and 8’, particularly impressed by ‘One of the females [who] sung beautifully’.10 An audience member in 1836, Longfellow seems to have waited until 1850 to contemplate his own Judas; in an entry from his Book of Suggestions, dated 14 June, Longfellow considers ‘The Seven Maccabees, a Tragedy’, sketching its outlines as ‘The mother

­

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 19

of the Maccabees is the Jewish Niobe; and her death after that of her seven sons the deepest and noblest tragedy. II Maccabees, ch. VII.’ The fruition of these skeletal plans would be deferred another two decades; however, when he finally began the drama in 1871, Longfellow was mindful of Judas’ long foreground in his own life. ‘Today the thought comes back to my mind of a tragedy on Judas Maccabaeus, which I noted down as long ago as 1850’, Longfellow recorded in his diary on 5 December 1871, and he followed this entry just five days later with: ‘At home all day. Began the tragedy of “Judas Maccabaeus.” The subject is a very striking one, the collision of Judaism and Hellenism. I greatly wonder that it has not been treated before’. By 21 December, Longfellow had completed his work, and he noted ‘Finish the tragedy of Judas Maccabaeus, begun on the 10th’, adding laconically ‘The acts are not long, but there are five of them’.11 The successive ‘stages’ of Longfellow’s Judas – surfacing and submerging through his life, alternately forgotten and remembered – mirrors the tragedy’s own diverse incarnations, and contested cultural ownership, since its biblical beginnings. For Longfellow, Handel’s oratorio was clearly formative, not only as the first version to draw his attention in the 1830s, but also as a source of interest even while completing his drama in the 1870s; in a letter anticipating Judas’ publication, Longfellow writes with enthusiasm to the American actress Charlotte Saunders Cushman on 24 January 1872: [. . .] I want to show you something of my own; a tragedy called Judas Maccabæus, in which there is a character particularly for you. If this could be given with Handel’s music, I should be delighted.12

If Handel would provide inspiration for Longfellow, however, it would be the Bible that supplied his content; as hinted by his Book of Suggestions in 1850, it is a Middle Eastern antiquity, rather than a European modernity, that Longfellow resorts to when sketching his narrative outline, citing the Maccabean books as the root for his ‘tragedy’. However, even this concrete, canonical source for Judas proves somewhat less solid than it initially appears. Volumes of the Protestant Apocrypha, or the Catholic Deuterocanon, the Maccabean books claim distinct Jewish origins, but have survived only in Greek; the Hebrew original for the First Book of the Maccabees, for instance, is now entirely lost.13 Searching for Judas’ beginnings in Longfellow’s biography – finding the drama to have emerged at multiple points, from multiple sources – recalls its elusive beginnings in scripture, its biblical ‘originals’ comprising not the story’s first telling, but rather its retelling, representing a translation without its source.

20 ]

Scriptural Circulations

This indeterminacy of textual origins heightens, too, the irony and significance of the drama’s central conflict. For Longfellow, the heart of Judas is ‘the collision of Judaism and Hellenism’, the struggle for cultural survival and ascendency. The Maccabean books – Greek successors and translations of Hebrew originals – themselves offer a linguistic parallel to this central tension, acting as textual mirror for the drama’s subject: warfare between Judaic and Hellenic. Such ‘collision’ of cultures not only is responsible for Longfellow’s interest in Judas but also shapes his approach to its authorship; the initial spark for composition in 1850 was Longfellow’s insight that ‘The mother of the Maccabees is the Jewish Niobe’ – an ironic analogy, itself replacing Judaic with Hellenic, grafting mythic maternity (‘Niobe’) on to Hebraic maternity (‘mother of the Maccabees’). This malleability of the Judas story – its concern with, and susceptibility to, cultural replacement – accounts, too, for Handel’s oratorio, and its use as a precedent and model for the young Longfellow. Occasioned by the Battle of Culloden, Handel’s own Judas was composed as ‘a compliment to the Duke of Cumberland, upon his returning victorious from Scotland’, celebrating the defeat of Stuart forces on 16 April 1746, signalling the end of the Jacobite Rising.14 Adapting a story of internecine struggle from Middle Eastern antiquity, Handel’s oratorio rewrites the ‘collision of Judaism and Hellenism’ into modern British history, invoking Judas as a vehicle to lionise Hanoverian dominance over the House of Stuart – an illuminating precedent, and transatlantic mirror, for Longfellow’s own attraction to the tragedy in 1871. Although first exposed to the artistic potential of Judas in 1836, and although drafting plans for a new version in 1850, it would only be after witnessing his own nation’s tragedy of internecine conflict that Longfellow would actually produce an American Judas, returning to this story of ancient civil war in the years immediately following his country’s own.15 If Longfellow’s Judas could be considered an act of artistic and political ‘reconstruction’, reflecting its production in 1870s America, the tragedy also reflects a concern with the Judaic that reaches back through Longfellow’s own career and, equally, to American beginnings.Returning from his European tour of 1836, including his encounter with Handel’s Judas, Longfellow’s own poetic efforts would soon turn to Jewish themes, leading to his well known ‘A Psalm of Life’, a lyric reply to both biblical form and content, subtitled ‘What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist’. Published in the October 1838 issue of the Knickerbocker Magazine, Longfellow’s ‘Psalm’ exemplifies his early impulse to revise and respond to the Hebrew literary, situating the ancient Judaic in dialogue with the modern American – an impulse that unfolds through the 1840s

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 21 ­

and 1850s. Opening the latter decade with his embryonic plans for ‘The Seven Maccabees, a Tragedy’, the 1850s would witness Longfellow’s deepening investment not merely in the Judaic, but in the specifically American Judaic, prompted by his personal contact with the most historic of the nation’s Jewish communities. Spending the summer of 1852 in Newport, Rhode Island, and touring the colonial sites of this uniquely preserved settlement, Longfellow records in a 9 July diary entry: Went this morning into the Jewish burying-ground, with a polite old gentleman who keeps the key. There are few graves; nearly all are low tombstones of marble, with Hebrew inscriptions, and a few words added in English or Portuguese.[. . .] It is a shady nook, at the corner of two dusty, frequented streets, with an iron fence and a granite gateway, erected at the expense of Mr. Touro, of New Orleans.16

Impressed by Newport’s synagogue – America’s oldest surviving, dating from 1763 – Longfellow is yet more attracted to its attendant cemetery, whose history extends even further back, dedicated first in 1677.17 Situated in a ‘corner’ – between ‘two dusty, frequented streets’ – the ‘buryingground’ inhabits a corner of culture and nationality as well, intersecting New World and Old, a ‘gateway’ linking the Middle East, Europe and America. Noting first its linguistic variety, ‘with Hebrew inscriptions’ accompanied by ‘a few words added in English or Portuguese’, Longfellow’s 1852 experience in Newport would become a source for artistic translation, giving rise to his 1854 ‘The Jewish Cemetery at Newport’ – an elegy on America’s Hebraic past, a nostalgic memorial of this community’s struggle for survival, and seemingly fated decline. Longfellow’s maturing interest in the Judaic – still unfolding through the 1860s, with poems such as his ‘The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi’ – forms an essential preface to the composition of Judas in 1871, building a genealogy of investment that belies the critical tendency to dismiss this tragedy as anomalous or peripheral. The long foreground of Judas in Longfellow’s career, and the story’s own composite biography, unfolding from the Middle East, to Europe, to America, also amplifies the tensions drawn at the beginning of this chapter – those exhibited in Massel’s title pages. Pushing beyond its American publication in 1872, and arriving at its Hebrew translation in 1900, Judas Maccabæus is renovated as a banner for British Zionism, an act which accrues new significance in light of the drama’s complex past. The bilingual frontispiece of Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, while suggesting its cultural duality, hides a more intricate multiplicity, heightening the irony and poignancy of this act of rendition.

22 ]

Scriptural Circulations

Importing Judas to serve British Jewry, Massel recruits a text grounded in Longfellow’s reading of America’s own Judaic past – a reading which does not point to a future homeland, but instead laments a vanished settlement. A Gentile retelling of Jewish history, the 1872 American Judas is inverted in 1900, becoming a Jewish retelling in a Gentile context, a Zionist poem published in the city of Manchester. Renaming Longfellow’s drama a ‘Song’ (‘‫)’שיר‬, Massel also unconsciously excavates Judas’ complex generic background, gesturing faintly to its musical inspiration, its beginnings in Handel’s oratorio. The ‘collision’ between Jew and Gentile that forms the core of Judas also now seems more complex when newly dramatised in Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, invoking not only the ancient Maccabean revolt, but also recalling each of the intermediary national struggles that contour Longfellow’s drama, from the Jacobite Rebellion to the American Civil War. Perhaps most illuminating for understanding Massel’s translation is realising Judas’ uncertain textual origins, its compromised provenance within the canon of Jewish and Christian scripture. While Massel’s edition initially appears a kind of ‘restoration’ and return in language – rendering a narrative from the Hebrew Bible back into Hebrew – Yehūdāh ha-Makābī is now revealed as a work that must reinvent its own (lost) linguistic past. Reaching back only as far as Greek translation, Massel’s 1900 rendition of the Maccabean drama could be seen as an attempt to establish, for the first time, a Hebrew source for this most Judaic of stories, building a new site for an unrecoverable text.

♦♦♦ While the Zionist cover of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī dramatically announces a definitively Jewish reading of Longfellow, Massel’s 1900 translation qualifies neither as the only, nor the first, Jewish reception of the American’s works. Even before the 1872 publication of Judas, Longfellow’s ‘Excelsior’ would be rendered into Hebrew, translated in 1870 by Zvi Gershuni, an émigré based in New York.18 Moving forward to the beginning of the twentieth century, more celebrated Longfellow poems – Hiawatha and Evangeline – would also be rendered into Hebrew by Massel’s more celebrated successor, Saul Tchernichovsky (1875–1943). Pioneer of modern Hebrew poetry, Tchernichovsky’s editions appeared in Berlin in the decades following Massel’s Yehūdāh, his translation of Hiawatha published in 1912 and Evangeline in 1923.19 Even Longfellow’s Judas would attract Jewish attention in advance of Massel’s 1900 Yehūdāh. Only ten years after the drama’s Boston publication, a Yiddish rendition of Judas would be produced in Odessa, published by the prominent Ukrainian Zionist Moses

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 23 ­

Eliezer Beilinson. Editor of Yiddish-language periodicals and newspapers, Beilinson’s edition anticipates Massel’s own, explicitly reframing its American source through the politics of contemporary Jewish language and religion, with this 1882 translation bearing the title ‘‫’גבורות יהודא מכבי‬ (The Mighty Deeds of Judas Maccabæus). Perhaps more significant is the slogan Beilinson adds to his lionising title, characterising this translation as exploring ‘‫חנכה‬-‫( ’נס‬The Hanukkah Miracle) – a description that signals the religious occasion for Beilinson’s version, produced to commemorate this Jewish holiday in 1882.20 Decades prior to Beilinson’s translation, another Jewish-specific reception of Longfellow’s verses would originate much closer to home, initiated by the American poet Emma Lazarus. Remembered now as author of ‘The New Colossus’ – her 1883 poem inscribed posthumously within the Statue of Liberty – Lazarus would pioneer a literary persona equally Jewish and American, becoming both a devotee of national figures such as Emerson, as well as a leading advocate for Jewish causes, including a Zionist homeland.21 Attracted by Longfellow’s Judaic writings, Lazarus would not, as her European contemporaries did, seek to translate his poetry, but would respond to Longfellow instead through her own verse. Answering his 1854 ‘The Jewish Cemetery at Newport’, Lazarus produced the 1867 ‘In the Jewish Synagogue at Newport’, a poem that echoes the nostalgia of Longfellow’s original, but shifts the site of its meditation, moving to a space of continued Jewish life. With the translation from ‘Cemetery’ to ‘Synagogue’, Lazarus’ dialogue with Longfellow crosses the threshold from the dead to the living, advancing from religious past to possible Jewish futures.22 And it is precisely this shift that informs Lazarus’ reading of Longfellow at his own death, a decade and a half later; invited to eulogise Longfellow at a memorial hosted by the Young Men’s Hebrew Association on 8 April 1882, Lazarus suggests that the weakness of Longfellow’s poetry lies in its emphasis upon the Jewish departed. Admitting that ‘It is scarcely necessary to recall to Jewish hearers the well known lines [from] “In the Jewish Cemetery at Newport”’, Lazarus also understands this iconic poem as symptomatic of Longfellow’s backwardlooking approach, indicating that: not only was he without the eyes of the seer, to penetrate the well of the future, but equally without the active energy or the passionate enthusiasm of an inspired champion in the arena of the present.

Despite its ‘tender humanity’, Longfellow’s Judaic writings remain blind to the urgency of contemporary Jewish issues, including:

24 ]

Scriptural Circulations

The rapidly increasing influence of the Jews in Europe, the present universal agitation of the Jewish question, hotly discussed in almost every pamphlet, periodical and newspaper of the day, the frightful wave of persecution directed against the race, sweeping over the whole civilized world and reaching its height in Russia, the furious zeal with which they are defended and attacked, the suffering, privation and martyrdom which our brethren still consent to undergo in the name of Judaism, prove them to be very warmly and thoroughly alive, and not at all in need of miraculous resuscitation to establish their nationality[. . .].23

While Massel will recast Longfellow’s Judas as a prophetic ‘Vision’, it is Longfellow’s inability to ‘penetrate the well of the future’ – or even the ‘arena of the present’ – that concerns Lazarus. Perhaps more significant, however, is the shared tendency of both Lazarus and Massel to see modern Jewish identity refracted in Longfellow’s strengths and weaknesses, with Lazarus’ 1882 eulogy for the Cambridge poet becoming a vehicle to grapple with the contemporary ‘Jewish question’. If Yehūdāh ha-Makābī would not be first among Jewish reactions to Longfellow’s Judaic verse, it would not be Massel’s first either. Three years before his translation of Judas, Massel published his 1897 ‘‫’מכנף הארץ זמרות‬ (Songs from the Ends of the Earth) – a verse collection mentioned above, listed as one of Massel’s credentials on the Hebrew title page of his Yehūdāh ha-Makābī. Linking these successive publications, Massel’s 1900 reference to his 1897 collection hints at broader similarities between these two works. Anticipating Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, Massel’s Songs from the Ends of the Earth includes his initial efforts to render Longfellow’s Judaic verse, featuring Hebrew versions of classic poems such as ‘The Jewish Cemetery at Newport’. These two editions are also allied, however, in adopting prophetic frames; while Yehūdāh ha-Makābī opens with Jeremiah 4: 6 on its cover page (‘Raise a Banner Zionwards, fly and do not tarry’), Massel borrows his very title in 1897 from the Hebrew Bible, reproducing the initial words of Isaiah 24: 16, that is, ‘songs from the ends of the earth’. Situating his edition within a lineage both ancient and sacred, Massel’s biblical title also suggests the global position and polarity of his 1897 collection, this Hebrew translation of British and American poetry representing (opposite) ‘ends of the earth’, spanning worlds of language and culture.24 It is the differences between Massel’s 1900 Judas and his 1897 collection, however, that are initially most conspicuous, surfacing in the English Preface that opens Songs from the Ends of the Earth. Anatomising the contents of his collection, Massel begins his Preface:

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 25 ­

This little volume which I have the honor to present the public contains. (a) Original poems composed for special occasions; (b) Translations from the best works of British Poets, the subjects of both being chiefly connected with Jewish life and history. (143)

Straddling composition and rendition, Massel’s ‘little volume’ fuses ‘Original poems’ with ‘Translations’, distinct products that are united in a shared focus, both concerned ‘with Jewish life and history’. However, as Songs from the Ends of the Earth will be his first publication to include renditions of Longfellow, perhaps more surprising is Massel’s definition of this collection as including ‘the best works of British Poets’ – a characterisation that obscures and transfers Longfellow’s nationality from the outset, translating his American identity even before translating his American poetry. However, it is not Massel’s description of his collection’s contents, but his apology for its methods, which forms the Preface’s principal focus. Echoing the balance between composition and translation advertised in his first sentences, Massel opens his second paragraph by confessing that ‘Some of the translations will be found to deviate considerably from the original’ – a striking admission, which Massel at once defends: Although the spirit of truth knows no change, yet the words in which it is clothed, being dictated by the sentiments of the particular religion of the author, must when transformed into the language of another creed, assume different shape and form. (143)

This appeal to what might now be termed ‘dynamic equivalence’ – seeking to retain source ‘truth’ through altering its ‘shape and form’ – is made necessary by disparities between ‘the particular religion’ of author and audience, with Massel’s translations depicted as conveying texts ‘into the language of another creed’. This approach to translation is grounded, moreover, in the very purpose of Songs from the Ends of the Earth, which Massel unpacks through the remainder of his short Preface, a critical passage that merits full quotation: My object was to give to Hebrew readers an insight into the purity and excellence of English thoughts and ideas, and I flatter myself that my feeble attempts will convince such readers that English Poetry is an inexhaustible mine of grace and beauty. For many centuries English Scholars have indefatigably and assiduously laboured to convert the Hebrew Divine Psalms and other Poetry into their own tongue, and have given by their efforts comfort and solace to the millions

26 ]

Scriptural Circulations

of the English-speaking race. No revenge could be more sweet and praiseworthy than for Hebrew scholars to turn English poetry into the sacred tongue, thereby opening the eyes of millions to see the riches and glory of modern progress. To those also who are not familiar with Hebrew my work may act as an inducement to them to court a closer acquaintance with a language which notwithstanding its great antiquity and limitations, is yet capable of ‘renewing its youth as an eagle,’ and of expressing notions which are peculiarly the products of scientific progress. (143–4)

Of the multiple directions here pursued, it is Massel’s insistence upon the ‘glory’ of ‘progress’ that seems most prominent, situating his own translation efforts within a historical scheme that is cumulative, ascending from antiquity to modernity. Straddling these temporal extremes is Hebrew itself, a language that belongs to the past – ambivalently, both ‘sacred’ and with ‘limitations’ – but a language which also promises to become a vehicle of evolution, ‘expressing notions’ that are ‘peculiarly the products of scientific progress’. Hebrew’s chronological breadth is due, finally, to its potential for ‘renewing its youth as an eagle’ – a quote from Psalm 103, Massel discovering the modernity of biblical language anticipated in this slice of ancient biblical poetry, citing one of the ‘Hebrew Divine Psalms’ to anticipate Hebrew’s advance into the secular present.25 Massel’s ‘scientific’ and ‘progressive’ Preface seems to take a surprisingly prophetic turn at its conclusion, envisioning his edition as a mythic fulfilment, allowing the Judaic language to revive its ‘youth’, even as it advances and evolves at the brink of a new century. Extolling the merits of his target language, Massel equally celebrates his source content, praising the ‘inexhaustible mine of grace and beauty’ he finds in ‘English Poetry’. In marrying ‘English thoughts and ideas’ with the ‘sacred tongue’, Massel even hopes for an ‘opening’ of vision, allowing ‘the eyes of millions’ to ‘see the riches and glory of modern progress’. This happy wedding of language and source is complicated, however, by perhaps the most striking and original element of Massel’s Preface – namely, his theory of translatory ‘revenge’, whereby contemporary ‘Hebrew scholars’ reverse the historical ‘conversion’ of their literary heritage. Inverting the process by which the ‘Hebrew Divine Psalms and other Poetry’ have been recurrently appropriated by the ‘English’, Massel delights now in the prospects for a ‘sweet and praiseworthy’ reprisal, the ‘revenge’ of appropriating English poetry for Hebrew readers. This brief intrusion of agonistic categories into Massel’s Preface – defining acts of translation as cultural combat – is attended, too, by an elision between

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Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 27

ethnicity and language, with ‘Hebrew Poetry’ understood as consumed by ‘the English-speaking race’ – an elision that locates Massel’s edition within a context of struggle between rival peoples, a site in which religious, linguistic and ethnic endurance is at stake. Although playful and brief, Massel’s depiction of translation as cultural resistance helps place his Songs from the Ends of the Earth within a trajectory that will lead him to the more overtly combative Yehūdāh ha-Makābī. However, this depiction also helps clarify the choices evident in his 1897 anthology itself, suggesting the complex motivations that shape Massel’s selection of poems. Opening his ‘little volume’, readers find contents pages in both Hebrew and English, listing Massel’s renditions from a range of British voices, including recognised favorites (Tennyson, Byron), as well as figures now largely forgotten (Thomas Ragg, E.D. Jackson).26 In the midst of this canonical variety stands Longfellow, an American voice among ‘British Poets’. Reflecting Massel’s stated aim of rendering poems ‘chiefly connected with Jewish life and history’, Longfellow’s ‘The Jewish Cemetery at Newport’ is unsurprisingly included, as mentioned above; however, it is also accompanied by translations of less prominent poems, such as ‘Rabbi Ben Levi’, excerpted from Longfellow’s 1863 verse cycle Tales of a Wayside Inn.27 Perhaps more intriguing is the poem that is chosen to precede these two – Longfellow’s ‘A Psalm of Life’ – the first selection from the American that Massel elects to translate into Hebrew. Featuring no specific reference to either Jewish ‘life’ or ‘history’, it is not the content but the genre of this eight-stanza poem that seems to invite Massel’s attention, its self-definition as a ‘Psalm’ and its provocative subtitle, ‘What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist’ – a frame that positions Longfellow’s verse not as a Hebrew imitation, but rather as an English answer to the iconic Hebrew poet. A contemporary, corrective ‘response’ to a personified past, Longfellow’s ‘A Psalm of Life’ itself inspires Massel’s own dialogic response, offering him the ironic opportunity to answer his American source through the very language it answers, exacting ‘revenge’ on Longfellow’s ‘Psalm’ through translating it into authentic psalmist expression. Massel initiates such ‘(re)conversion’ in his translation through an opening act of deletion. After rendering the poem’s title ‘‫’מזמור שיר החיים‬ (‘A Psalm, a Song of Life’), Massel then neglects to translate Longfellow’s long subtitle, substituting instead a single word ‘‫( ’תרגום‬i.e. ‘translation’).28 Stripped of its contextual frame, ‘A Psalm of Life’ is no longer presented as the ‘Young Man’ speaking back to ‘the Psalmist’, but is instead advanced one step further, becoming a Hebrew response to Longfellow’s English response to the Hebrew poet. Amplifying his subtitle editing, Massel adopts a revisionary approach to Longfellow’s first stanzas, reproducing

28 ]

Scriptural Circulations

their general meaning, but altering specifics of voice and diction; Massel’s first two quatrains, aligned with their American originals on the left, read as follows: Tell me not, in mournful numbers,   Life is but an empty dream! – For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

̗ ‫תִּ שּׂא קוֹל קִינָה‬-‫ַאל תֺּאמַר בֶּן־ָאדָ ם‬ ̗ ˝‫˶כִּי ַה ַחיּ ִים ֶהבֶל ֵהם̗ חֲלוֹם וָָאי ִן‬ ̗ ‫שׁנָה‬ ֵ ְ ‫ֲהלֺא־נֶפֶשׁ אוֹבֶדֶ ת הִיא ז ֹאת ַהיּ‬ . ‫שׁגֶּה ְותֺעָה תַ ְראֵנוּ ָה ָעי ִן‬ ְ ‫ְואְַך ִמ‬

Life is real! Life is earnest!    And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest,   Was not spoken of the soul.29

ˏ ‫ׂש ָּגבָה‬ ְ ִ‫ַה ַחי ִים י ֵש הֵם וְתַ ְכלִיתַ ם נ‬ ˏ ‫ַאף ֹלא ַלּנֶפֶׁש ˏ מְחֹוז ֵחפֶץ ַה ָּקבֶר‬ ! ‫ׁשלְטֹון׃ אֶל־ ָעפָר ׁשּובָה‬ ִ ‫ּודְ בַר־ ֶמלֶָך‬ . ‫ֻחּקַת ַהּגֵו ְלבַּדֹו ˏ ְוהִיא תַ עְ ֵלֶה ֵאבֶר‬

Retaining his source’s imperative mood, Massel opens his translation by also altering Longfellow’s addressee. Replacing the first English words, ‘Tell me not’, is the Hebrew ‘‫‘ – ’ַאל תֺּאמַר בֶּן־ָאדָ ם‬Say not, son of man’ – supplementing Longfellow’s opening command with the vocative phrase ‘‫( ’בֶּן־ָאדָ ם‬literally, ‘son of ’Ādām’, i.e. ‘human’). A biblical idiom – original to books such as Ezekiel and Daniel – this inserted phrase offers a surrogate addressee for ‘A Psalm of Life’, compensating for its lost original. Although Longfellow’s subtitle had itself named the ‘Psalmist’ as his target, Massel’s own target emerges in the first line of his translation, no longer the specific Hebrew poet, but instead a universal ‘son of man’. Shifting subject of address, Massel’s poem also shifts Longfellow’s subject of criticism; while the ‘Psalmist’ had been blamed for despondency in ‘A Psalm of Life’, Massel’s translation sketches a new figure for response and correction: humanity as a whole.30 This revision also anticipates Massel’s tendency to recruit scriptural quotation in his rendition of Longfellow – a tendency that colours both the despair and the affirmation animating the poem’s core debate. In translating the pessimistic language of the American ‘Psalm’, Massel resorts, perhaps unsurprisingly, to Ecclesiastes. While ‘life’ is an ‘empty dream’ in Longfellow’s first stanza, it becomes ‘vanity’ in Massel’s Hebrew (‘‫)’ ֶהבֶל‬, echoing the keyword of Ecclesiastes, the term that occurs first in the book’s iconic opening: ‘Vanity of vanities’ (‘‫)’ ֲהבֵל ֲה ָבלִים‬.31 This allusive source stretches into Massel’s second stanza as well. Translating Longfellow’s ‘Dust thou art, to dust returnest’, Massel prefaces this gloomy idea with a dramatic frame: ‘‫ׁשלְטֹון‬ ִ ‫ – ’ּודְ בַר־ ֶמלֶָך‬a phrase alien to Longfellow’s poem, but one familiar to biblical readers, matching closely the first words of Ecclesiastes 8: 4, namely ‘and the king’s word [is] power’.32

­

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 29

Longfellow’s affirmative language receives equally scriptural treatment from Massel. For example, when the ‘young man’ celebrates the immortality of the ‘soul’, noting that ‘the grave is not its goal’, Massel provides ‘‫‘( ’ַאף ֹלא ַלּנֶפֶׁש ˏ מְחֹוז ֵחפֶץ ַה ָּקבֶר‬Yea, the desired haven of the soul is not the grave’), borrowing the idiomatic ‘desired haven’ directly from Psalm 107, which speaks of deliverance precisely as ‘‫‘( ’מְח ֹוז ֶח ְפצָם‬their desired haven’).33 Revising Longfellow’s ‘response’ to the ‘mournful’ Psalmist, Massel provides not only a Hebrew reply to this English answer, but also a ‘response’ which establishes an internal biblical dialogue, endowing both sides of the original debate – pessimism and optimism – with a distinctly Judaic flavour. Extending his erasure of the English subtitle, Massel effectively excises the English-speaking ‘young man’ from the conversation altogether, voicing both the nihilism and affirmation of Longfellow’s poem through biblical language. This excising of American content is complicated, however, by the form adopted in Hebrew translation. Although Longfellow and Massel each advertise their products as a ‘Psalm’, the genre of both the original and the translation leans decisively towards Anglo-European verse conventions, featuring consistent, alternating end rhymes. Entirely expected for the American Longfellow, this form is more surprising for Massel, who replicates the A/B/A/B rhyme scheme in his quatrains – a scheme not native to traditional Hebrew prosody.34 The extent to which Massel adheres to this rhyme is suggested by his rendition of the second stanza’s third line, where Longfellow’s ‘Dust thou art, to dust returnest’ closely paraphrases Genesis 3: 19. Declining the opportunity to replace English biblical allusion with Hebrew biblical source, Massel adapts this quotation; instead of Genesis’ ‘‫‘( ’ּכִי־ ָעפָר אַּתָ ה ְואֶל־ ָעפָר ּתָ ׁשּוב‬for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return’), Massel offers ‘‫‘( ’אֶל־ ָעפָר ׁשּובָה‬return to dust!’) – not only trimming Longfellow’s scriptural original, but also shifting its verb, moving from imperfect to imperative. The reason for these revisions are found in the very first line of the stanza, which concludes with ‘nisgāvāh’ (‘‫ׂש ָּגבָה‬ ְ ִ‫‘ ;’נ‬sublime’), a word for which Massel requires a rhyme, prompting his transition from the original Genesis verb ‘tāshūv’ (‘‫;’ּתָ ׁשּוב‬ ‘you return’), to his own ‘shūvāh’ (‘‫‘ ;’ׁשּובָה‬return!’), establishing a shared ‘vāh’ ending between lines 1 and 3 of the second stanza.35 Adapting the sacred to fit the sonorous, Massel ‘converts’ Hebrew meaning to fit English sound – a subtle detail which makes his poem seem not only a resistance against cultural conversion, but also a participant in such a process, borrowing rhyme from the ‘inexhaustible mine of grace and beauty’ found in ‘English Poetry’. In this mediating between Judaic content and Gentile form, there emerges also anticipations of the linguistic, religious and ethnic negotiations that culminate in Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī – a drama of

30 ]

Scriptural Circulations

warring cultures, but also a stage on which contestants parley, negotiate and exchange.

♦♦♦ Arriving in Manchester in 1904, Chaim Weizmann – the leader of the World Zionist Organization, and the future first President of Israel – would be welcomed to his new home by none other than Joseph Massel. Remembering his introduction to the city and its Zionist community, Weizmann described Massel in his autobiography as ‘a printer by trade and a Hebrew poet by avocation’, finding his host not only congenial but ‘a veritable angel’.36 This memorial in Weizmann’s autobiography, Trial and Error, brief as it is, has helped secure Massel a minor place in histories of Zionism, his name mentioned regularly, although as a mere footnote to the life of Israel’s ‘founding father’.37 Perhaps more importantly, Weizmann’s appraisal offers insight into Massel’s straddle between material and artistic efforts, his balancing ‘trade’ and ‘avocation’, acting as both ‘printer’ and ‘poet’, even while undertaking civic and political offices. A concrete link in the unfolding network of Jewish advocacy at the turn of the century, Massel would serve as President of Manchester’s own Zionist Organization, while also attending the international Zionist Congresses, the first in 1897. During this same year, however, Massel’s Preface to his Songs from the Ends of the Earth suggests that his passion leans not towards external organisation but internal expression – the rejuvenation of the Hebrew language. During the closing years of the nineteenth century, it is linguistic revival and verse translation that forms the intimate heart of Massel’s political activism. As early as 1890, Massel would elect to self-publish his own Hebrew rendition of Samson Agonistes – a choice that promotes the recovery of Judaic language, while equally highlighting the contemporary struggles for Jewish sovereignty. Attracted not only by the canonical prominence of its author – John Milton – Massel seemed to gravitate to Samson for its specific focus on the Holy Land and its contested possession.38 Intervening between his rendition of Samson and his welcoming Weizmann to Manchester would be Massel’s self-publication of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī – a text that also intersects his diverse ambitions, equally a work of political activism and Hebrew revival, relying on his printer’s ‘trade’, yet grounded in his poetic ‘avocation’. Dramatised in its dual title pages, the complexities of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī seem to culminate Massel’s efforts at the very end of the nineteenth century. However, in opening this 1900 translation, it is the decisive break from previous works – such as his 1890 Samson or the 1897 Songs – that is most apparent; unlike prior efforts, Massel’s Yehūdāh

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 31 ­

features no English-language Preface. Perhaps reflective of the increasing expansion of Hebrew literacy, Massel’s exclusion of English within this British publication implies, too, a shift in his audience, targeting now only readers with Hebrew facility. This exclusion of English may, of course, also be regarded as an act of inclusion, with the entirety of his Yehūdāh open to the global diaspora of Jewish readers who are Hebrew literate. Although inaccessible to many neighbours in the very streets and city of its publication, Massel’s text becomes fully available to educated Jews the world over, equally in Russia and Palestine as in Manchester and London. A Preface does, however, open Massel’s Yehūdāh – a Preface distinct not only in its language, but also in its form and function. Neither an apology for Massel’s method, nor a statement of his aims, Yehūdāh’s Preface comprises instead an original poem, a verse panegyric authored by Massel himself, lionising the work’s eponymous subject, ‘The Maccabi’. Spanning his edition’s first three pages, this seventy-eight line poem serves to remap Longfellow’s text, consecrating Judas as a site for Massel’s fresh composition, offering a stage for his own lyric ingenuity. Rendering not only the content of his Longfellow source, Massel’s prefatory poem signals his intent also to rehearse Longfellow’s approach, discovering in the Maccabean story a catalyst for original authorship.39 Prefacing Judas with a Judaic rallying cry, Massel refigures this American drama of antiquity as a battleground for current ‘Israeli’ identity, opening with an imperative and urgent appeal: ‫עוּרה א ֲִריאֵל גִּבּוֹר יִשׂ ְָראֵל ! ְו ַקנֵּא‬ ָ ̗ ‫שׁמְךׇ ַה ְמּ ֻהלָּל ̗ ַה ְמּ ֻהלָּל ְבּפִי גֵאיוֹנִים‬ ִ ‫ְל‬ [Arise, O Lion of God, Hero of Israel! And be zealous for thy praiseworthy name, praiseworthy in the mouth of the haughty,]

Privileging communal identity and national pride, Massel opens his poem by apostrophising his audience, launching with a powerful alliteration – ‘‫’עוּרה א ֲִריאֵל‬ ָ (‘‘ūrāh ărīēl’) – ‘Arise, O Lion of God’. Marshalling his Hebrew reader against the despotic ‘haughty’ (‘‫)’גֵאיוֹנִים‬, Massel’s first lines establish an agonistic tone that reverberates throughout his poem, echoed in a vocative refrain that concludes its stanzas. Although varying with each repetition, this refrain opens consistently with a direct appeal, Massel reaching out to his audience with a pointed form of address: ‘‫’הֹוי ַמ ַּכּבִים‬ (‘hōi Makabīm’) – that is, ‘Oh Maccabees!’40 Identified with historical and heroic ‘Israel’ in Massel’s first lines, his readers are further defined as the poem unfolds, his refrain specifying them as ‘Maccabees’ – an audacious strategy, blurring the lines between ancient and modern, European

32 ]

Scriptural Circulations

and Middle Eastern, text and audience. Locating his external readers as the internal subjects of the text that he is introducing – as themselves ‘Maccabees’ – Massel translates his audience into the protagonists of the very drama they are about to enter, positioning them no longer as passive recipients but rather as pivotal actors, on Longfellow’s rendered stage. At the conclusion of his rousing, prefatory poem, Massel’s edition at last reaches its translation of Longfellow, but not before providing yet another title page. Unlike the dual titles that open his edition, however, Massel’s last page before his translation begins excludes all mention of Longfellow himself and revises, too, the title for Judas, this American text now designated: ‫מֻקטר מֻגש‬ ‫לכבוד‬ ‫מכבי הדור‬ ‫די בכל אתר ואתר‬ [Incense Offered In Honor of Maccabi of the Age Who is of every place]41

Recalling the temporal collapse performed in his poetic introduction, Massel’s new title for Judas also collapses spatial distance, implying the universality of both this drama’s time and locale. Sacralised as an ‘incense offer[ing]’ (‘‫)’מֻקטר מֻגש‬, Longfellow’s poem features a protagonist who is both timely and ubiquitous; his ‘Maccabi’ is not only representative of the ‘Age’ (or ‘Generation’, ‘‫)’הדור‬, but also occupies ‘every place’ (‘‫ – )’די בכל אתר ואתר‬an idiom that emphatically signifies everywhere.42 Introducing his translated Judas as applicable not only now, but also here, Massel’s retitling marks his final effort to recalibrate Longfellow’s poem, amplifying its present urgency immediately before the translated text begins. Claiming authority and application wherever it encounters its Jewish reader, Massel’s title allows Manchester in 1900 to become the authentic home for the ‘Maccabi’ – the very place and time of his edition’s publication now understood as the drama’s consecrated setting.

♦♦♦ Considering Massel’s prefatory revisions – altering the very name of his American source – it would perhaps be unsurprising to find, in the Hebrew

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 33 ­

pages that follow, a radically different Judas from the one Longfellow originally produced. Yet, from the opening words of act I, scene i, Massel initially seems to replicate his English source without intrusive ornament or substantive digression. It is equally true, however, that the very focus of Longfellow’s drama – Judaic defiance of Hellenic, the preservation of Jewish culture in the face of Gentile dominion – endows Massel’s translation with an ironic, self-referential quality. Reading just the opening scene of Longfellow’s Judas, it becomes clear that Massel’s Hebrew rendition will necessarily perform an inverse enculturation from the one dramatised by the text itself. Longfellow’s first scene reports a dialogue between Antiochus – the Hellenic ruler – and Jason, ‘his High Priest’ – the archetypal Jewish collaborator, who surrenders his national allegiance in order to serve pagan conquerors:       Antiochus. As thou wast Joshua once and now art Jason, And from a Hebrew hast become a Greek, So shall this Hebrew nation be translated, Their very natures and their names be changed, And all be Hellenized.       Jason.             It shall be done.       Antiochus. Their manners and their laws and way of living Shall all be Greek. They shall unlearn their language, And learn the lovely speech of Antioch.43

This introductory dialogue dramatises the very historical process that Massel critiques in the Preface to his Songs from the Ends of the Earth: the ‘conversion’ of Judaic traditions by non-Judaic peoples, the ‘translation’ of ‘Hebrew’ identity, both Jewish ‘natures’ and ‘names’. This process is also, however, precisely what makes Massel’s rendition possible, prompting his efforts to revive Hebrew through the translation of English poetry. The ‘unlearning’ of Jewish language – the goal of the villain Antiochus – is the very motivation for Massel’s present edition, creating the conditions, the linguistic vacuum, that Yehūdāh ha-Makābī seeks to fill. Translating passages such as the above into Hebrew, Longfellow’s drama unavoidably acquires a double consciousness, with Massel’s rendition both resisting the drama’s content – challenging trends of Jewish ‘unlearning’ – while also owing its very genesis to these trends. Translating Judas into Hebrew for a Zionist audience, the focus of Longfellow’s poem is concurrently denied

34 ]

Scriptural Circulations

and confirmed, both rejected and validated by the mere fact of its Hebrew rendition. Considering Massel’s efforts to champion a distinctly Hebraic language and literature, the dramatic form of the opening of his Yehūdāh also seems paradoxical. Reminiscent of a Hellenic, rather than a Hebraic, antiquity, the theatrical frame for Longfellow’s work – its scripted dialogues, soliloquies, stage directions – adds an intriguing layer of generic tension to Massel’s translation, with his Hebrew made to emulate Hellenic form, paralleling the cultural struggle of Jew and Gentile at the very centre of the text itself.44 This broad, formal tension also finds a complement in the most basic, and nominal, translation choice required of Massel: the names for his rendered protagonists. This seemingly simple task is complicated by the significance of names and naming in Longfellow’s drama, with character labels providing an index to cultural shifts and conflict. Antiochus’ opening prediction of Hellenic dominion seems confirmed, for example, in the revision of his High Priest’s name, as he boasts ‘thou wast Joshua once and now art Jason’. Such statements naturally acquire a different flavour in Hebrew, Massel rendering Antiochus’ pivotal declaration as:

?]. . .[ ָ‫הְ ַֹלא תַ חַת י ֵׁשּו ַע י ַזֹון נִק ְֵראת‬ [Instead of Yēshū‘a, are you not now called Yazōn (. . .)?]

(8)

Immediately apparent in this translation is a new tension established by the High Priest’s alternative names. While Longfellow himself had contrasted ‘Joshua’ and ‘Jason’, these names are both English approximations of their originals, Hebraic and Hellenic, and so are merely Anglicised forms of foreign names. For Massel’s readers, however, a distinction emerges between Yēshū‘a and Yazōn – between ‘Joshua’ and ‘Jason’ – that is both more immediate and more significant. While the former is authentic Hebrew, possessing a distinct meaning in Massel’s rendered language – Yēshū‘a is a name native to Hebrew, implying ‘deliverer’ – the latter is a clear exotic, an alien borrowing which contrasts with the language of Yehūdāh.45 Accomplished simply through faithful translation, this inside–outside dichotomy of name anticipates a more overt revision of the passage’s style and voice. While Antiochus categorically affirms Jason’s conversion in Longfellow’s original – ‘As thou wast Joshua once and now art Jason’ – Massel’s Antiochus merely interrogates this idea. In Hebrew, the Hellenic tyrant asks ‘are you not now called?’, framing Yazōn’s conversion as a question, but also foregrounding its linguistic performance, highlighting that the High Priest is now ‘called Yazōn’ (‘ ָ‫ ;’י ַזֹון נִק ְֵראת‬emphasis added).

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 35 ­

Although incremental, such shifts are nevertheless essential to the entire drama, as it is Jason’s own conversion which is framed as synecdoche for the conversion of the Jewish people more broadly; just as the ‘High Priest’ has turned ‘Greek’, so too will the entire ‘Hebrew nation’ be ‘Hellenized’. And, perhaps for this reason, Massel seems anxious to raise doubts as to Jason’s conversion. For example, in rendering the above exchange from act I, scene i, Massel abridges the High Priest’s response to Antiochus’ prediction of Jewish submission. Instead of the assured ‘It shall be done’, Massel’s Yazōn simply interjects ‘‫‘( ’כֵּן ַמ ְלכִּי‬Yes, my sovereign’), altering the prophetic force of Longfellow’s English, melting Jason’s solid answer into a non-committal affirmation in Hebrew. This revision of Judas’ collaborating High Priest echoes throughout Yehūdāh, Massel conserving and deepening the Jewish identity of this character, endowing ‘Jason’ with authentic Judaic expression that is absent from English original. For example, when warning Antiochus of Jewish defiance in act I, scene iii, Longfellow’s High Priest declares simply: ‘I know the stubborn nature of the Jew’ (124), a statement revised by Massel, his Yazōn admitting:



‫ָָארץ‬ ֶ ‫הֵן ְקׁשִי ע ְָרּפֹו ˏמֵָאז נֹודַ ע ּב‬ [Behold, the stiffness of its (i.e. Israel’s) neck, long since known in the land]

(15)

Recalling passages such as Exodus 32: 9, which identify Israel as a ‘stiff-necked people,’ Yazōn characterises his home nation through biblical echo, warning Antiochus of Jewish resistance, even while voicing a distinctively Jewish idiom. Speaking in language that confesses his ethnic origins, Yazōn does not essentialise ‘the Jew’ from the outside – as does Longfellow’s Jason – but instead invokes language from inside his ­people’s history, recruiting a formula native to their own literary heritage.46 This pairing of Jewish characters with Jewish language is amplified as Massel reaches the initial martyrs of Longfellow’s drama – his fated ‘seven sons’, whose imprisonment and execution open Judas’ act II. The first-born, and first mentioned, of these seven sons appeals to religious tradition even as he dies at the hands of Antiochus, finding solace in God’s promise: God looketh on us, and hath comfort in us; As Moses in his song of old declared, He in his servants shall be comforted. (128)

36 ]

Scriptural Circulations

These allusions to Moses and the Hebrew Bible – echoing passages from Deuteronomy as well as 2 Maccabees – seem useful markers of verisimilitude, Longfellow recreating antique Jewish speech as he characterises his pious Jewish protagonist. However, in its casual quotation of scripture, even characterising sacred writ as a ‘song of old’, Longfellow’s English monologue also invites Hebrew revision, prompting Massel to supply a corrective substitute: ˏ ‫ׁשקִיפָה אֵל ּובָנּו תִ ְמצָא נֹחַם‬ ְ ‫ַה‬ ˏ ‫ְתֹורת מׁשֶה נֶאְ ֶמַן ּבֵיתֶ ָך‬ ַ ‫ּכָָאמּור ּב‬ . ‫ּכִי י ָדִ ין אֵל עַּמֹו ˏ עַל עְ ַבָדָ יו י ִתְ נֶחָם‬ [God, look down! And in us, You shall find compassion, As expressed in the Torah of Moses, faithful of Thy house, For God shall judge His people, and repent Himself for His servants.] (19)

While Massel’s initial line conveys the sense of his source, his second and third lines work to transform its American register and voice. Reverting to the original of Deuteronomy 32: 36, Massel’s third line inserts material that is missing from Longfellow’s Judas, adding ‘For God shall judge His people’ (‘‫ – )’ּכִי י ָדִ ין אֵל עַּמֹו‬a scriptural restoration that also serves to rebalance God’s intimate ‘compassion’ with His strict sovereignty.47 Inserting biblical language, Massel also redefines biblical source, replacing Longfellow’s ‘song of old’ with the ‘Torah of Moses’, a corrective which itself leads Massel to also interject ‘faithful of Thy house’. Wholly alien to Judas, this exclamation targets Yehūdāh’s specific readership, recalling a popular honorific for Moses, which occurs, for example, in one of Judaism’s most traditional creedal hymns, the Yigdāl: ˏ‫ּתֹורת אְ ֶמֶת נָתַ ן אֵל ְלעַּמֹו‬ ַ ‫עַל־י ַד נְבִיאֹו נֶ ֶאמַן ּבֵיתֹו‬ [A Torah of truth, God gave to His people by the hand of His prophet, faithful of His house]48

Adding liturgic colour by providing this Mosaic blessing, Massel infuses a pivotal moment in Longfellow’s drama not only with biblical verse, but also rabbinic idiom, revising Judas to intone a lyric echo from the Yigdāl. Unfaithful to his American source, Massel prefers fidelity to the source of his American source, circumventing Longfellow’s English to restore biblical Hebrew to the Jewish martyr’s final words, adding orthodox piety to its parenthetic margins.

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 37 ­

Such interventions reach a climax, but also a surprising r­eversal, as Massel approaches Longfellow’s eponymous protagonist – Judas Maccabæus himself. Appearing on stage at the opening of act III, the first scene of this middle act is reserved solely for Judas’ soliloquy; witnessing the dawn, and anticipating the day’s battle, Longfellow’s hero recalls the Israelite’s miraculous defeat of the Amorites, musing: [. . .] There was no day Like that, before or after it, nor shall be. The sun stood still; the hammers of the hail Beat on their harness; and the captains set Their weary feet upon the necks of kings, As I will upon thine, Antiochus, Thou man of blood ! – Behold the rising sun Strikes on the golden letters of my banner, Be Elohim Yehovah! Who is like To thee, O Lord, among the gods? – Alas! (140–1)

This first appearance of Judas in his own drama signals another first: Longfellow’s inclusion of Hebrew in his English poem, signaled by the italicised words in the penultimate line above, ‘Be Elohim Yehovah! ’49 In this unique meeting of his source text and target language, Massel discovers his American original speaking Hebrew; however, rather than simply retain Longfellow’s transliteration in translation, Massel instead provides the following rendition for the final two lines of the above: ‫ּבֵאֹלהִים נַעְ ַׂשֶה ָחי ִל ˏ מִי כָמ ֹכה‬ !‫הֶָאח! ָּב ֶאלִים אְ ֶלֹו ַּה ˏ אְ ַהָּה אְ ֶֹלהִים‬ [Through God we shall do valiantly, who is like unto You, Aha! Among the gods, God, aha, O God!] (30–1)

Preferring substitution to replication, Massel mutes Longfellow’s ‘Be Elohim Yehovah!’, editing and extending his italics, replacing this imitative phrase with ‘‫‘ – ’ּבֵאֹלהִים נַעְ ַׂשֶה ָחי ִל‬Through God [i.e. bē’lohīm] we shall do valiantly’ – a direct quotation from Psalm 60: 12 and Psalm 108: 13, overwriting simulated American Hebrew (‘Be Elohim’) with authentic, canonical Hebrew (‘bē’lohīm’). Completing Longfellow’s fragmentary Hebrew, however, Massel also jettisons its final word, upholding Jewish tradition by refraining to pronounce, or print, this most sacred name of God, removing all mention of the American ‘Yehovah’ (‘‫)’יהוה‬. Ironically, in the single locus where Longfellow recruits actual Judaic language in his Judaic drama, it

38 ]

Scriptural Circulations

is precisely this language that Massel himself refuses to render, with his US original containing Hebrew that exceeds the bounds of its subsequent Hebrew translation.50 This tension of linguistic control and conversion is witnessed also in the Hebrew puns that Longfellow inscribes into Judas’ opening speech, word play that Massel both permits and prohibits in translation. The exclamation that concludes the above – ‘Who is like / To thee, O Lord, among the gods?’ – is not merely Judas’ celebration of divine inimitability, but also a possible etymology for his own name, a traditional Hebrew phrase which comprises an acronym for ‘Maccabi’. Rendered by Massel as ‘[. . .] ‫ הֶָאח! ָּב ֶאלִים‬/ ‫‘( ’מִי כָמ ֹכה‬Mī kāmokāh / he’āh ! bā’elīm [. . .]’), this ˙ exclamation, which borrows from Exodus 15: 11, assonates with the very name of its speaker, emphasising the mem-kaf-bet at the root of Makabī.51 In simply translating English into Hebrew, Massel offers readers an instance of Judas’ clever self-reference – a reference that remains latent in the US original, likely hidden from Longfellow’s own audience. This process is inverted, however, in Massel’s approach to ‘the hammers of the hail’ in the third line of the quoted speech above. Included by Longfellow not merely for its alliteration, this phrase hints at an alternative origin for Judas’ own moniker – ‘Maccabee’ – a term which sounds very close to a Hebrew word for ‘hammer’, ‘Maqqābāh’ (‘‫)’ ַמ ָּק ָבּה‬. In this instance of punning, however, Massel declines the opportunity to retain the self-referential promise of Longfellow’s diction, refusing to provide the Hebrew that would recall the Maccabee name, offering instead the phrase ‘‫‘( ’וְַא ְבנֵי ָה ֶא ְל ָּגבִיׁש‬stones of hail’) – a substitution that conveys the basic meaning of Longfellow’s ‘hammers of the hail’, but loses its potential to refer back to Judas (the ‘hammer’) himself. Exercising control over the allusive play in his American source, Massel seems to decide the etymology of his own translated ‘Judas’, uncovering the genealogy of his name within sacred phraseology (‘Who is like / To thee, O Lord, among the gods?’), while distancing his hero from mere blunt, martial force (‘hammer’).52

♦♦♦ As Judas Maccabæus approaches its dénouement, it becomes increasingly clear why this poem offers a fit source for Massel’s Hebrew translation in 1900. Staging the forced conversion of Jewish language and identity in its opening acts, the drama builds towards Jewish triumph over Gentile suppression, concluding with Antiochus’ own surrender and surprising conversion. In the play’s final scene – scene ii of act V – Longfellow’s antagonist dies, but not before repenting his crimes against the Jewish

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 39 ­

people; bargaining for his life, and renouncing his own culture and religion, Antiochus even declares that he himself will ‘become a Jew’, apostrophising his new Hebrew deity: Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy To be so much as buried, shall be equal Unto the citizens of Antioch. I will become a Jew, and will declare Through all the world that is inhabited The power of God! (173)

Inverting his initial speech, Antiochus’ final words mark a triumphant reversal of Jewish fortunes, with Hebrew culture now ascendant, its political ‘equal[ity]’ grounded in divine ‘power’. This reversal is anticipated, however, by a more telling speech at the opening of Judas’ concluding scene, where Antiochus’ surrender is linked directly to Judaic text and language; receiving news of the Maccabean struggle from Antioch, Longfellow’s villain intuits his impending doom:       A strange foreboding Of something evil overshadows me. I am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures; I know not Hebrew; but my High-Priest Jason, As I remember, told me of a Prophet Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea Like a man’s hand, and soon the heaven was black With clouds and rain. Here, Philip, read; I cannot; I see that cloud. It makes the letters dim Before mine eyes. (169)

Emphasising his Gentile status – a stranger to both Judaic scripture and language – Antiochus nevertheless couches his looming fate in definitively Judaic terms. Recalling the report of a certain ‘Prophet’, as recounted by his ‘High-Priest Jason’, Antiochus unconsciously appeals to 1 Kings, where the prophet Elijah does indeed see ‘a little cloud rise from the sea / Like a man’s hand’ (18: 44). This biblical allusion voiced by a pagan tyrant is amplified in translation, Massel substituting: [Stirrings of my heart – that evil looms down – cloud my eyes; the Torah of the Jews, I have never known

ˏ ‫ִרגְשֵׁי ִלבִּי‬ ; ‫שׁק ׇָפה ˏ יָעִיבוּ אֶת־עֵינָי‬ ְ ִ‫כִּי ָר ׇעה נ‬ ‫ֶת־תּוֹרת ַהיּ ְהוּדִ ים ט ֶֶרם י ָדַ עְתִּ י‬ ַ ‫א‬

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nor their tongue, but from the mouth of my priest, Yazōn,

‫ּגַם לְׁשֹונָם ˏ אּולָם ִמּפִי כ ֹהְ ַנִי י ַּזֹון‬

thus I heard concerning a certain prophet,

ˏ ‫ׁש ַמעְּתִ י עַל־א ֹדֹות נָבִיא ֶאחָד‬ ָ ‫ּכֵן‬

who saw a little cloud as the palm of a man rising from the sea, and suddenly the heavens were clothed in blackness, and the rains of might were poured upon the earth, read, O Phōlīpōs, for I am seeing the cloud, ˙ And it clouds my eyes.]

‫ׁש ֶָרָאה עָב ְק ַטּנָה ְּככַף אִיׁש עֹלָה‬ ‫ּׁש ַמי ִם‬ ָ ‫ִמּי ָם ˏ ּופֶתַ ע ָלבְׁשּו ַה‬ ˏ ‫ַארצָה נִּתָ כּו‬ ְ ‫קַדְ רּות ˏ ּו ִמטְרֹות ע ֹז‬ ‫ק ְָרא פֹולִיּפֹוס ˏ ּכִי אֶת־ ָהעָב אְ ַנִי רֹאֶה‬ . ‫וְהּוא יָעִיב עֵינָי‬

(55)

Embellishing Antiochus’ report of the ‘little cloud’, received second-hand from ‘Jewish Scriptures’, Massel endows his translation with new conceits, such as ‘clothed in blackness’, and ‘rains of might’ that ‘were poured upon the earth’ – conceits not original to Massel, but which instead recall and merge a range of discrete biblical loci. Longfellow’s English allusion to 1 Kings 18: 44 – ‘a little cloud rise from the sea / Like a man’s hand’ – is solidified into Hebrew quotation by Massel, restored to the precise wording of 1 Kings, ‘‫‘( ’עָב ְק ַטּנָה ְּככַף אִיׁש עֹלָה ִמּי ָם‬a little cloud as the palm of a man rising from the sea’). And as Antiochus’ speech unfolds, so too does his biblical sources, far exceeding the referential grasp of the US original. Instead of Longfellow’s ‘soon the heaven was black / With clouds and rain’, Massel substitutes ‘and suddenly the heavens were clothed / in blackness’, (‘‫ּׁש ַמי ִם ̸ קַדְ רּות‬ ָ ‫)’ּופֶתַ ע ָלבְׁשּו ַה‬, echoing Isaiah 50: 3, a verse which uses precisely this metaphor of ‘clothing’ the ‘heavens’. For his conclusion to this rendered passage, Massel then supplies ‘and the rains of might were poured upon the earth’ (‘‫ַארצָה נִּתָ כּו‬ ְ ‫)’ּו ִמטְרֹות ע ֹז‬, mimicking both Exodus 9: 33, which similarly describes one of the Pharonic plagues, as well as Job 37: 6, the source for the idiomatic phrase ‘rains of might’.53 It is not, of course, unusual to find Massel inserting biblical allusions into Judas, rewriting Longfellow’s drama through the tropes of Hebrew scripture. However, while such interventions have previously informed the Jewish High Priest in act I, or the Maccabean martyrs in act II, it is perhaps more surprising to find Antiochus, the great Hellenic villain, endowed with Judaic fluency. In the fifth act of Longfellow’s Judas, Antiochus vaguely recalls an anonymous report, striving to recall words from an unknown prophet. In Yehūdāh, however, Massel’s translated Antiochus recites Hebrew scripture verbatim, not only quoting the Bible from memory, but also blending multiple biblical loci, weaving a narrative of thunder and plague, cascading from Kings to Isaiah, from Exodus to Job. The allusive core of Antiochus’ speech in Hebrew is also enveloped by a structure that is quintessentially biblical. Unlike his English source, Massel’s translation inserts a similar phrase at this passage’s beginning and

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Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 41

end, rendering Longfellow’s distinct opening (‘overshadows me’) and his closing (‘dim / Before mine eyes’) with a shared Hebrew formula: ‘clouds my eyes’ (‘‫)’יָעִיב עֵינָי‬. Adding pleasing assonance, this Hebrew mirroring also serves to merge the crucial themes of perception (‘eyes’) and tempest (‘cloud’) which form the basis of the original. However, this repetition at the beginning and end of the passage more importantly heightens the formal coherence of Antiochus’ speech in translation, refashioning it into a rhetorical performance that is parallelistic and enveloping in form – structural qualities distinctive of Hebrew poetics.54 While revisionary, and perhaps intrusive, Massel’s reshaping of Antiochus’ speech in act V could also be considered constructive, heightening the drama of Longfellow’s original. In Judas, Antiochus dimly refers to 1 Kings 18, unwittingly aligning himself with the villain of this biblical episode – King Ahab – whose prophesised doom, the ominous ‘little cloud’, now rises against Antiochus himself. In Yehūdāh, however, such allusive pairings are strengthened and multiplied, with Massel’s added references serving to align Antiochus with other biblical precedents, including the villains and victims of other biblical books, from Exodus, to Isaiah, to Job. Massel’s insertions equally serve, however, to subvert Antiochus’ identity as enemy and outsider, pulling him inside a biblical framework, allowing him to rehearse Hebrew prophecy with proper syntax and genre, reciting its precise content and form. This inversion of Antiochus – converting him from pagan orator to biblical poet – while unique to Massel’s translation, is nevertheless faithful to Longfellow’s original, aptly revising his act V, scene ii – the very scene in which Antiochus, just a few lines later, himself exclaims ‘I will become a Jew’. Selecting a fitting place to ‘Judaise’ Antiochus’ speech, Massel allows this villain to anticipate his own deathbed surrender by actually performing his conversion in advance, previewing his act of ‘becom[ing] a Jew’ through a pre-emptive adoption of Judaic speech and allusion. While ironically declaring his ignorance of the ‘Torah’ of the Jews and their ‘tongue’, the shape of Antiochus’ opening speech in Yehūdāh’s concluding scene suggests that he has already assumed a biblical identity – an assumption that occurs in Longfellow’s original only at the close of this final scene. If Massel’s interventions offer both ironic and fitting revisions to Longfellow’s Antiochus, they also seem ironic and fitting adjustments to Longfellow’s drama as a whole, epitomising the process of circular conversion that informs the entirety of Yehūdāh ha-Makābī. The Gentile play, Judas, becomes – as does the Gentile character, Antiochus – the unwitting participant in a new Zionist expression, converted to speak with acquired Jewish fluency. The Maccabean victory that remains embryonic in Longfellow’s

42 ]

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1872 drama, with Antiochus’ dying promise to ‘become a Jew’ still unfulfilled, is vividly accomplished in the 1900 Yehūdāh, this American character and his literary context now revised for the Jewish cause. This revision fittingly reaches crescendo in Antiochus’ anxious speech at the opening of act V, scene ii – a speech which itself grapples with problems of memory and reading, the uncertainties of sight and insight. Unlike Longfellow’s Antiochus, who strains to remember a distant report, Massel’s Antiochus is graced with detailed and exact recall; unlike the repressed and faulty memory of Judas, Massel’s Yehūdāh allows authentic biblical expression to flood the foreground of Longfellow’s drama, saturating the surface of his text’s language and form. Typical of his entire Judas, Longfellow’s act V, scene ii quotes the language of the Authorised Version, with Antiochus’ allusion to 1 Kings couched in the phraseology of the 1611 King James Bible. In Massel’s translation, however, the Hebrew Bible is no longer submerged under English expression – no longer obscured through its history of Gentile ‘conversion’. Instead, the allusive climate of Judas’ act V reclaims its aboriginal Hebraic life and tone, leading to an outpouring, too, of additional Judaic references, arousing an entire atmosphere of biblical activity, from Exodus to Job. While Longfellow’s King James reference concerns the ‘little cloud’ that presages a full-fledged storm, Massel’s translation actually enacts such a rapid and surprising eruption, stirring up a storm of biblical references that cloud not merely the eye and memory of Antiochus, but also the reader’s eye as well, washing away all perception of Longfellow’s American adaptations. Breaking up the repressive air of assimilation, Massel’s rendered passage, as his entire Yehūdāh translation, exacts a ‘sweet revenge’ that straddles processes of seeing and blindness, of remembering and forgetting, themselves mirrored in Longfellow’s original passage. As Antiochus’ own reading within Judas is clouded by encroaching sightlessness, which ironically allows him to envision his imminent conversion and demise, Massel’s cloud of biblical references both obscures and clarifies our own reading, equally hiding Longfellow’s original source and its genealogy of adaptation, but also illuminating the ultimate Judaic inspiration for this tale, breaking a new day of cultural (re)conversion, reclaiming this episode of Hebrew history and tradition through an electric outburst of translatory interventions.

♦♦♦ Wisely the Hebrews admit no Present tense in their language;     While we are speaking the word, it is already the Past. H.W. Longfellow, ‘Elegiac Verse’ (1881)55

Judaic Maccabæus: Longfellow and Joseph Massel[ 43 ­

Straddling memory and prophecy, a ‘vision’ of cultural past and future, it is apt that Yehūdāh first appeared in 1900, situated at the close of one century and on the brink of the next. A culmination of Hebrew language revival at the end of the nineteenth century, Massel’s rendition also looks forward, reaching to the embattled growth of political Zionism in the twentieth. Considering these historical and national polarities, Yehūdāh ha-Makābī seems most urgently reflected not in Longfellow’s triumphant hero ( Judas Maccabæus), nor in his capitulating villain (Antiochus), but rather in Jason, the play’s compromised ‘High Priest’. Caught between cultures – home and foreign – Jason delivers his final speech in scene iii of act IV, occupying a textual space that intersects Judas’ opening soliloquy in act III and Antiochus’ final surrender in act V. Clearing the stage for the final scene of his penultimate act, Longfellow crafts a farewell monologue for Jason that gives voice to the agony of his isolation: [. . .] Alas! I should be with them [i.e. ‘the Jews’], should be one of them, But in an evil hour, an hour of weakness, That cometh unto all, I fell away From the old faith, and did not clutch the new, Only an outward semblance of belief; For the new faith I cannot make mine own, Not being born to it. It hath no root Within me. I am neither Jew nor Greek, But stand between them both, a renegade To each in turn; having no longer faith In gods or men. [. . .] (163)

More relevant to Massel’s project than either the exultant Jewish champion or the yielding Gentile monarch is this anxious meditation on mediating identities. Concluding Longfellow’s fourth act, Jason is left in solitude to lament his ‘weak’ position, trapped between ‘old’ and ‘new’, made to ‘stand between them both’. This cultural indecision is what seems most resisted in Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, a text that itself challenges the weakness of Jewish assimilation, constructing a new literary home for a reviving people, erecting a linguistic ‘banner’ designed to lead towards ‘Zion’. However, implicit within Longfellow’s entire drama, and ­articulated in Jason’s quiet soliloquy, there resounds a persistent expression of the anxieties which attend any such attempt to ‘reconstruct’ identity, whether social, political, religious or linguistic – anxieties that haunt

44 ]

Scriptural Circulations

Yehūdāh’s 1872 American source, and echo powerfully and poignantly into its Hebrew afterlife in 1900 and beyond. Implying the precarious position of his own readers – of the Zionist community at the turn of the century, in Manchester and abroad – Massel’s translation itself seems exposed to the indecision expressed by Jason, vulnerable to the disquiet that attends both lost origins and uncertain futures. In its resistance of enculturation, its robust championing of Jewish identity, it is easy to forget that Massel’s rendition itself intervenes within a textual genealogy which has no clear beginnings, joining a canonical legacy for which the original source – the Hebrew of 1 Maccabees, for instance – is now irretrievably lost. Motivated to recapture and revive history, Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī is perhaps most susceptible to Jason’s questioning of the viability of restoring that which ‘fell away’. The lack of a ‘Present tense’ in Hebrew is identified as ‘wisdom’ in Longfellow’s ‘Elegiac Verse’, the American recognising that even our contemporary speech is involved in an elusive past. Embodying problems of historical return and reclamation – of making ‘present’ that which is ‘past’ – Massel’s Yehūdāh is irresistibly ‘wise’, anticipating not only the Jewish twentieth century, but also this century’s global traditions of rendition and reception, offering a fit introduction to a host of translations whose forward momentum inevitably participates in a complex series of past absences and negotiated presents.

chapter 2

Mahomet or Muh ammad? ˙ Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī ˙ ˙

Delivered to the Massachusetts Historical Society on 15 December 1859, Longfellow’s ‘Address on the Death of Washington Irving’ concludes with a series of vigorous ‘resolutions’. Recommending first to the Society that they ‘rejoice in the completeness of his life and labors’, Longfellow’s second resolution broadens scope, turning from Irving’s ‘completed’ life to his enduring legacy: Resolved, That we feel a just pride in his renown as an author, not forgetting that, to his other claims upon our gratitude, he adds also that of having been the first to win for our country an honorable name and position in the History of Letters.1

A canonising act rather than personal memorial, this resolution emphasises, above all, Irving’s precedence – he is ‘first [. . .] for our country’, ushering America into the ‘History of Letters’. Irving’s national primacy is anticipated, moreover, by the childhood experiences of Longfellow himself; opening his ‘Address’ not with Irving’s public significance, but his private influence, Longfellow recalls: Every reader has his first book. I mean to say, one book among all others, which in early youth first fascinates his imagination, and at once excites and satisfies the desires of his mind. To me, the first book was the Sketch Book of Washington Irving.2

Pioneering the literary biography of America, Irving also pioneers Longfellow’s own, shaping the ‘early youth’ of the corporate ‘country’, as

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Scriptural Circulations

well as this individual ‘reader’. Again celebrating Irving as ‘first’ – a word repeated three times in the above – Longfellow is led next to recall his initial encounter with the writer himself: Many years afterward, I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Irving in Spain, and found the author, whom I had loved, repeated in the man. The same playful humor; the same touches of sentiment; the same poetic atmosphere[. . .]. At this time Mr. Irving was at Madrid, engaged upon his Life of Columbus; and if the work itself did not bear ample testimony to his zealous and conscientious labor, I could do so from personal observation. He seemed to be always at work. “Sit down,” he would say; “I will talk with you in a moment, but I must first finish this sentence.”3

Detecting no discrepancy between fictional ‘author’ and actual ‘man’, Longfellow is delighted to find the lively voice of the Sketch-Book ‘repeated’ in ‘Mr. Irving’ himself. Satisfied as to who he is, perhaps more surprising is where he is: Irving discovered not in his native New York or Boston, but in Madrid. Although celebrated as the ‘first [. . .] for our country’, Irving is initially encountered in Spain, Longfellow meeting this ‘renowned’ American only after reaching European shores. Inhabiting alternate locales, Irving is also writing alternate genres, no longer creating the fiction cherished in Longfellow’s youth, but labouring instead on ‘his Life of Columbus’ – a project which ironically mirrors Longfellow’s own eulogised portrait of Irving. As Longfellow’s biographical ‘Address’ recalls his Massachusetts audience to Spain, relating to them his first meeting with America’s founding author, it was Irving’s own search three decades earlier for the American founder that had also led back to Spain, penning his biography of Columbus, the New World explorer, from a definitively Old World vantage. Perhaps more remarkable than these details in Longfellow’s account are the ones he chooses to omit. Furnishing a vivid sense of Irving’s transatlantic perspective – his looking back to American origins from European coasts – Longfellow’s ‘Address’ neglects to mention that Irving’s perspective in 1827 is equally directed in the opposite direction. While Spain will prompt Irving’s biography of Western discovery, his ‘Life of Columbus’, so too will it propel his biographical interests eastward, towards a biography of the Muslim prophet, giving rise to an American Life of Mahomet. Framed as an ‘easy, perspicuous and flowing narrative’, comprising both ‘the admitted facts concerning Mahomet’ and ‘a summary of his faith as might be sufficient for the general reader’, Irving’s portrait of Muhammad would be deferred in its publication until 1850, appearing more than two decades

­

Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 47 ˙ ˙ ˙

after it was first conceived.4 Despite this delay, Mahomet arises from the very same Spanish years that produced Irving’s Columbus, these disparate figures paired together by 1492 – the year marking not only Columbus’ ‘conquest’ of the New World, but also the climax of the Reconquista, the Christian ‘reconquest’ of Muslim Spain. Searching for Western origins on the Iberian peninsula, Irving finds also Islamic decline, the first steps of America made possible by the final days of Muslim Andalucía, Columbus’ myth arising from the ashes of al-Andalus.5 Remembered in Longfellow’s ‘Address’ as interrupted mid-sentence, Irving’s authorship is itself suspended between contrasting poles during his Spanish sojourn, straddling languages, ethnicities, religions. Arriving in February 1826, Irving will spend three years traversing the sites of antique Andalucía, marvelling at the region’s intersection of Orient and Occident, Islam and Christianity.6 Settling finally in Granada and lodging in the city’s central fortress – the Alhambra palace – Irving’s new home would offer him a concrete symbol of the region’s cultural hybridity, providing a venue and vehicle for his most widely recognised work from the period – the 1832 Tales of the Alhambra. Rendering architecture into literature, the autobiographical Alhambra also discovers literature inside the architectural, with Irving marvelling at the many ‘Arabic inscriptions’ that form the ‘fanciful arabesques which cover the walls of the Alhambra’.7 A source for Irving’s artistic translation, this Moorish palace in Granada also becomes a source that demands actual translation; opening one of The Alhambra’s final chapters, Irving recalls his exploration of the palace in the company of a guide who is familiar with the building’s Muslim origins: I was more than once visited by the Moor of Tetuan, with whom I took great pleasure in rambling through the halls and courts, and getting him to explain to me the Arabic inscriptions. He endeavored to do so faithfully; but, though he succeeded in giving me the thought, he despaired of imparting an idea of the grace and beauty of the language. The aroma of the poetry, said he, is all lost in translation. Enough was imparted, however, to increase the stock of my delightful associations with this extraordinary pile. Perhaps there never was a monument more characteristic of an age and people than the Alhambra; a rugged fortress without, a voluptuous palace within; war frowning from its battlements; poetry breathing throughout the fairy architecture of its halls.8

Accompanied by a local ‘Moor’, Irving’s tour of the Alhambra unfolds both spatially and linguistically, ‘rambling’ not only through its ‘halls and courts’, but also past its ‘Arabic inscriptions’. Traversing these foreign passages – both physical and verbal – Irving finds that his progressive

48 ]

Scriptural Circulations

‘pleasure’ is, however, hindered and narrowed. Despite his guide’s most ‘faithful’ efforts, the American is able to cross only the threshold of the Alhambra’s ‘thought’, barred from the ‘grace and beauty’ of its ‘language’. In a dizzying moment of synaesthesia, Irving discovers that the ‘aroma’ of these visual engravings is ‘all lost in translation’. However, it is precisely this translatory ‘loss’ which also opens a channel of ‘delightful associations’, with ‘enough’ worth surviving in these ‘Arabic inscriptions’ for Irving to appreciate this ‘extraordinary pile’ anew. Meditating on walls that evade translation, Irving is led finally to consider the Alhambra itself as an ambiguous text, with divergent meanings available ‘within’ and ‘without’. A ‘fortress’ but also a ‘palace’, the Alhambra is both ‘rugged’ and ‘voluptuous’, typified by its harsh ‘frowning’ as well as its gentle ‘breathing’, a site of ‘war’ and ‘poetry’. Suspended mid-sentence in Longfellow’s eulogy, Irving’s description of the Alhambra too is suspended, its own interior interrupted from its exterior – a rich ambivalence that is ‘characteristic’ of Irving’s visit to Andalucía, as well as his entire Andalucian canon, informing not only his 1832 Tales of the Alhambra, but also the 1829 Conquest of Granada and, ultimately, Irving’s 1850 ‘sketch of the life of the founder of the Islam Faith’: his Life of Mahomet.9 This remembered moment in the ‘halls and courts’ of the Alhambra – in which a Spanish ‘Moor’ attempts to translate Arabic for Irving – acquires new resonance in light of the Arabic afterlife of Irving’s own Spanish writings. Picturing himself as a puzzled reader of Arabic inscriptions in the nineteenth century, Irving himself has become an author in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries who speaks in Arabic, with modern translators now seeking to ‘impar[t] an idea of the grace and beauty’ of the American’s Andalucian canon to Middle Eastern audiences. Considering their subject matter, it is perhaps unsurprising to find that, among all of Irving’s works, it has been his chronicles of Muslim Spain (e.g. his Alhambra), and his biography of the Muslim prophet (his Mahomet), that have attracted sustained attention within the Muslim world. Author of celebrated tales – most notably ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ and ‘Rip Van Winkle’ – Irving’s well known fiction has received comparatively little notice from Middle Eastern translators, publishers and readers.10 While popular US works such as The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon remain largely overlooked, Irving’s Mahomet has been available to Muslim-majority audiences for over eight decades. First introduced to readers of Persian, Mahomet initially appeared in the Middle East through the publication of a Tehran edition in 1925.11 During the latter half of the twentieth century, Arabic versions also emerged from Egypt and Lebanon, with the most recent appearing in 1999.12

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 49 ˙ ˙ ˙

If not only the subject of Mahomet, but also its tone and method, are considered, however, it is somewhat more surprising to find Irving’s work attracting Muslim audiences. Although this American ‘sketch’ of the Islamic prophet and Islamic faith holds clear relevance for Arabic and Persian readers, Irving’s treatment of these sensitive topics frequently challenges Muslim orthodoxy and has the potential to offend Muslim sensibilities. Viewed within the context of nineteenth-century Orientalism, Irving’s Mahomet initially seems uniquely positive, recognising many virtues within Islamic belief and practice.13 It soon becomes clear, however, that this biography also articulates a sharp and cutting critique, undermining the apostolic mission of the Muslim prophet. Although disagreeing with European depictions of ‘Mahomet’ as an ‘unprincipled imposter’, Irving does characterise the founder of Islam as self-deceived, pronouncing in the conclusion of Mahomet that the prophet was merely ‘bewilder[ed]’, deluded by ‘a species of monomania’ and ‘mental hallucination’ (200). Such a pejorative assessment seems an insurmountable barrier to the welcome reception of Irving’s biography in Muslim arenas. The controversies sparked by the 1988 publication of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, for example, or the Danish cartoons of the prophet in 2005, serve as vivid reminders of devotion to the prophet, as well as the gravity of denigrating his life and character. Within many Muslim-majority nations, the defamation of Muhammad is considered not only a religious offence, but a criminal one – a transgression of both sacred and civic codes.14 Considering Irving’s unsympathetic evaluation of the prophet, and its incompatibility with normative Muslim teachings, the translation of his Mahomet into Arabic and Persian seems a problematic and precarious venture – one likely to invite disregard, or even condemnation, on the part of Muslim readers. And yet, the introduction of Irving’s biography into the Middle East has been attended by neither anonymity nor censure. When the first Arabic rendition of Mahomet appeared in 1960, it would involve the work of both a prominent Muslim scholar and a prominent Cairene press. Translated by ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī – prolific Arab nationalist and Islamic ­historian ˙ ˙ – this original Arabic Mahomet would prove successful enough to merit a second edition in 1966.15 Published by one of the largest and most established presses in Egypt – Dār al-Ma‘ārif – al-Kharbūtlī’s ‘‫( ’ﺤﻴﺎﺓ ﻤﺣﻣﺩ‬Life of ˙ Muhammad) encourages its readers to understand this prophetic biography as a fruitful ‘meeting’ between ‘Western Christian thought and Arab Islamic thought’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺗﻗﺎﺀ ﺍﻠﻓﻜﺭ ﺍﻠﻐﺭﺒﻰ ﺍﻠﻣﺴﻴﺤﻰ ﺒﺎﻠﻓﻜﺭ ﺍﻠﻌﺭﺒﻰ ﺍﻹﺳﻼﻣﻰ‬, with his back cover heralding Mahomet’s ‘neutral, equitable and just explanation’ of ‘Islamic teachings’ (‘‫)’ﺘﻌﺎﻠﻴﻡ ﺍﻹﺴﻼﻡ ﺸﺭﺤﺎ ﻣﺤﺎﻴﺪﺍ ﻋﺎﺪﻻ ﻣﻧﺻﻓﺎ‬.16 This approving Arabic advertisement for an American text which disapproves of the

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Arabian prophet is striking, raising suspicions of a breach between Irving’s original Mahomet and the Mahomet released for Middle Eastern readers. Recalling Irving’s portrait of the Alhambra, his own prophetic biography now seems to possess divergent meanings ‘within’ and ‘without’, its ‘voluptuous’ Arabic translation at odds with its ‘rugged’ and ‘frowning’ American original. Focusing on al-Kharbūtlī’s translation, this chapter ˙ reads the negotiations, redactions and excisions attending the ‘Arabic inscription’ of Irving’s biography: how does Mahomet’s Middle Eastern translation navigate between fidelity to textual source and fidelity to religious tradition – between faithful Islamic translation and adherence to the Islamic faith?

♦♦♦ Renouncing any ‘claim to novelty of fact’ and ‘profundity of research’, Irving’s Preface to Mahomet acknowledges his indebtedness to foregoing works of European Orientalism. Citing both Jean Gagnier and Gustav Weil, as well as an assortment of ‘Spanish sources’, Irving depicts his biography as itself a kind of rendition – an American version of previous European appraisals of the prophet’s life.17 Despite its derivative character, however, Irving’s Mahomet also clearly distinguishes itself from its Continental forebears, providing a highly original treatment of the accepted ‘fact[s]’ and ‘research’. Although heavily reliant upon Gagnier and Weil for both broad chronology and specific detail, Irving nevertheless offers his readers an innovative interpretation of the prophet, producing a lively narrative whose imaginative style and nuanced evaluation clearly differ from the dry and depreciatory offerings of his French and German predecessors.18 It is Irving’s divergence from – rather than dependence upon – foregoing Orientalists which becomes the exclusive focus of al-Kharbūtlī as ˙ he opens his Mahomet translation. Writing in the Arabic Preface to his 1966 edition, al-Kharbūtlī first identifies Irving as ‘very nearly the first ˙ American historian who took an interest in Arabic and Islamic studies’ (‘‫[ ﺃﻮﻞ ﻣﺆﺭﺥ ﺃﻤﺭﻴﻜﻰ ﺍﻫﺗﻡ ﺑﺎﻠﺪﺭﺍﺴﺎﺖ ﺍﻠﻌﺭﺒﻴﺔ ﻮﺍﻹﺴﻼﻤﻴﺔ‬. . .] ‫ ;’ﻴﻜﺎﺪ ﻴﻜﻮﻥ‬15), depicting the prophet in a ‘more faithful, more accurate, and more sincere’ fashion than other Orientalist biographies (‘‫ ;’ﺃﻮﻓﻰ ﻮﺃﺪﻕ ﻮﺃﺼﺩﻕ‬16). Not satisfied with this measured endorsement, al-Kharbūtlī goes on to celebrate the ˙ ‘beautiful, lucid style’ of Irving’s work (‘‫)’ﺃﺴﻠﻮﺐ ﺠﻤﻴﻞ ﻮﺍﺿﺢ‬, as well as its ‘omission of the slander, intimation, ugly phrases and callous spirit’ (‘‫ )’ﺍﺒﺘﻌﺪ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻟﻗﺪﺡ ﻭﺍﻠﺗﻌﺭﻴﺽ ﻮﺍﻷﻠﻓﺎﻅ ﺍﻠﻧﺎﺒﻴﺔ ﻮﺍﻠﺭﻮﺡ ﺍﻟﺼﻠﻴﺒﻴﺔ‬that may be found within much European Orientalism (16). Irving’s ‘unbigoted’ interrogation of ‘the

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 51 ˙ ˙ ˙

historical facts’ (‘‫[ ﺍﻠﺤﻗﺎﺌﻕ ﺍﻠﺘﺎﺭﻴﺧﻴﺔ‬. . .] ‫ ;’ﺒﻌﻴﺪﺓ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻠﺘﻌﺼﺏ‬16) makes Mahomet not only a work which avoids denigrating the prophet, but one which ‘constantly advances praise for the Messenger, celebrates him and commends him’ (‘‫ ﻮ ﻴﻣﺠﺩﻩ ﻭ ﻴﺜﻨﻰ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‬٬ ‫ ;’ﺒﻞ ﻫﻮ ﻳﺴﻮﻕ ﺍﻠﻣﺪﻴﺢ ﻠﻠﺭﺴﻮﻞ ﺩﺍﺌﻤﺎ‬16). Curiously inconsistent with Irving’s criticisms of the prophet, al-Kharbūtlī’s enthusiastic endorsement of Mahomet does preview his ˙ approach to translating this prophetic biography. Portraying Irving as an admiring exponent of the ‘Messenger’, al-Kharbūtlī anticipates his ˙ attempt to reconcile his American source with Islamic traditions and teachings – a revisionary process confirmed at the conclusion of his Arabic Preface. Devoting its final paragraph to the difficulties of rendering Mahomet, al-Kharbūtlī admits that he has occasionally found mere ‘literal ˙ translation’ (‘‫ )’ﺍﻠﺗﺭﺠﻣﺔ ﺍﻟﺣﺭﻓﻴﺔ‬to be inadequate as he approaches this US biography (16).19 Instead, al-Kharbūtlī notes, he has considered it an ‘obli˙ gation’ to amend the ‘shortcomings’ of his original, not only appending explanatory ‘footnotes’ (‘‫ )’ﺤﻮﺍﺵ‬but also ‘correcting all the errors’ which emerge throughout the biography (‘‫ ;’ﺘﺻﺣﻴﺢ ﻜﻞ ﺧﻁﺄ‬16–17). Initially indefinite as to the nature of Irving’s ‘errors’, al-Kharbūtlī’s ˙ prefatory reflection on the translator’s ‘obligation’ does, however, find concrete expression from the very outset of his Arabic edition. Even before the opening of al-Kharbūtlī’s first chapter, translation choices emerge ˙ that seem to reflect these introductory remarks – translation choices, for example, surfacing through al-Kharbūtlī’s table of contents. An appar˙ ently innocuous source, Irving’s contents supplies considerable and key material for rendition, not only listing Mahomet’s thirty-nine chapters, but also providing a concise summary of each. Tracing his biography’s entire chronology, Irving’s opening directory sketches the contours of Muhammad’s life, and even stretches beyond, reaching from prefatory context (Chapter 1: ‘Preliminary Notice of Arabia and the Arabs’), through the principal episodes of the prophet’s biography (‘birth’; ‘marriage[s]’; ‘preach[ing]’; ‘battle[s]’; ‘death’), concluding with a summary of his ‘character’ and ‘career’ (Chapter 39: ‘Person and Character of Mahomet and Speculations on his Prophetic Career’).20 In rendering this American table of contents, al-Kharbūtlī is therefore faced with deciding how best ˙ to translate the primary personages, events and ideas included in Irving’s work – decisions that will set precedents for the remainder of his Arabic translation. Opening al-Kharbūtlī’s contents pages, it is his most basic rendi˙ tion choices that first attract attention: his translation of proper names. Recalling Massel’s Hebrew translation of Longfellow, Irving’s reception in Arabic necessarily returns his American names back to their original

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lexical forms, exchanging imperfect English transliterations for authentic Semitic script and sound. For instance, Irving’s name for the prophet’s first wife – ‘Cadijah’ – is restored to her original – ‘‫‘( ’ﺨﺪﻴﺠﺔ‬Khadījah’) – while the odd-looking American name ‘Orkham’ is returned to the sensible Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻷﺭﻗﻢ‬al-’Arqam’).21 Although natural translation choices, these domesticating substitutions occasionally have the potential to convey meanings absent from Irving’s Mahomet. For example, the occurrence of ‘Abdallah’ within Irving’s English table of contents appears a simple name to AngloAmerican readers; within al-Kharbūtlī’s translation, however, this name ˙ is returned to its original – ‘‫‘‘( ’ﻋﺒﺪ ﷲ‬Abd Allāh’) – a two-word substitution which assumes also its original significance (‘servant of God’).22 Merely replacing Irving’s English transliteration, al-Kharbūtlī inescapably adjusts ˙ the semantic parameters of his source, implying significances that remain submerged under American transliteration. It is not Arabic names, however, but rather Islamic nomenclature that most frequently undergoes such revision within Irving’s table of contents. The most obvious and basic adjustment may be seen in Mahomet’s eighth chapter, which boasts the simple title in Irving’s original: Outlines of the Mahometan Faith (vii)

This chapter heading is slightly shifted within al-Kharbūtlī’s contents list, ˙ replaced by:

‫ﺃﺴﺱ ﺍﻠﻌﻗﻴﺪﺓ ﺍﻹﺴﻼﻣﻴﺔ‬ [The Fundaments of Islamic Creed]

(6)

Conveying the general sense of his American original, al-Kharbūtlī’s trans˙ lation also diverges from his source, trading ‘Mahometan’ for ‘‫’ﺍﻹﺴﻼﻣﻴﺔ‬ (‘al-Islāmīya’, ‘Islamic’). This substitution serves to excise Irving’s archaic adjective, replacing his misleading Western epithet with the accepted Arabic term – a replacement that redefines this religious tradition from ‘within’ rather than from ‘without’. Complementing this substitution is al-Kharbūtlī’s replacement of ‘Faith’ with ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻌﻗﻴﺪﺓ‬al-‘Aqīdah’), an Arabic ˙ term conventionally used by Muslims to specify the creedal principles of their religion.23 Rewriting Irving’s original through domestic idioms, al-Kharbūtlī’s title signals his early efforts to inscribe Mahomet with diction ˙ that is native, rather than foreign, to its own subject matter. In proceeding through the register of Mahomet’s thirty-nine chapters, al-Kharbūtlī’s domesticating efforts amplify as he approaches titles that ˙ reflect negatively on the prophet’s life and mission. In Mahomet’s thirty-

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 53 ˙ ˙ ˙

second chapter, for example, al-Kharbūtlī confronts a potentially prob˙ lematic subtitle, Irving characterising the prophet through remarking: His susceptibility to the charms of poetry (ix)

The core meaning of this statement, if not its connotation, is communicated by al-Kharbūtlī, who instead provides: ˙

‫ﺇﻋﺠﺎﺏ ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻝ ﺒﺎﻠﺸﻌﺭ‬ [The Messenger’s admiration for poetry]

(10)

The initial, and most apparent, amendment here is al-Kharbutli’s excision of Irving’s generic pronoun, replacing ‘His’ not with Muhammad’s proper name, but rather with his vocation: ‘The Messenger’ (‘‫;’ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻝ‬ ‘ar-rasūl’) – a standard honorific for the prophet, which is common in Muslim discourse.24 Perhaps more importantly, however, this occurrence of ‘The Messenger’ is accompanied by a concurrent shift in the language used in his description. Rather than his ‘susceptibility to the charms of poetry’, al-Kharbūtlī portrays merely Muhammad’s ‘admiration for ˙ poetry’ (‘‫[ ﺒﺎﻠﺸﻌﺭ‬. . .] ‫ – )’ﺇﻋﺠﺎﺏ‬a phrase which not only abridges Irving’s original, but which neutralises its connotations, obscuring the pejorative implications of English ‘susceptibility’. While Irving’s title has the potential to convey a sense of ‘weakness’ – picturing the prophet as vulnerable to poetic ‘charms’ – al-Kharbūtlī’s rendition evacuates such potential, ˙ portraying instead Muhammad’s ‘admiration’ for verse. Although minor, this alteration modifies the interpretive parameters of Irving’s original, working in conjunction with the unexpected arrival of ‘The Messenger’ to provide Arab readers with a title that silences the Orientalist echoes faintly audible in Irving’s source. This terminological shift in Chapter 32 is anticipated by one that is both more dramatic and explicit, surfacing in al-Kharbūtlī’s approach to ˙ Mahomet’s sixteenth chapter – the section of Irving’s biography dedicated to the military campaigns of the early Muslim community, entitled in his 1850 Mahomet: The sword announced as the instrument of faith (ix)

This highly charged characterisation functions to imply a relationship between Islam and aggression, associating Muslim ‘faith’ with violent expansion – with conquest by the ‘sword’. This association is refigured, however, in al-Kharbūtlī’s Mahomet, his Chapter 16 retitled as: ˙

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‫ﺍﻟﺠﻬﺎﺪ ﻓﻰ ﺴﺒﻳﻝ ﺍﻠﻌﻗﻴﺪﺓ‬ [Jihād in the way of the creed]

(7)

Exchanging ‘the sword’ for ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻟﺠﻬﺎﺪ‬al-jihād’), al-Kharbūtlī revises both ˙ the content and the tenor of Irving’s original. An Arabic word signifying ‘struggle’, ‘jihād’ differs markedly from its English source; unlike Irving’s ‘sword’, al-Kharbūtlī’s term is not exclusively martial in its significance, ˙ denoting both physical and spiritual ‘struggle’.25 Perhaps more importantly, however, ‘jihād’ also carries decidedly positive connotations, conveying to Muslim readers a sense of righteous and pious endeavour – a meaning wholly absent from Irving’s original. This affirmative quality of ‘jihād’ is bolstered by the remainder of the Arabic title, al-Kharbūtlī replac˙ ing Irving’s ‘announced as the instrument of’ with the succinct phrase ‘‫‘( ’ﻓﻰ ﺴﺒﻳﻝ‬fī sabīl’, ‘in the way [of])’. This rendition not only shortens its US source, but also echoes Muslim characterisations of holy ‘struggle’, the Arabic ‘fī sabīl’ appearing as a common complement for ‘jihād’ within Islamic scripture and traditions; in speaking of ‘righteous struggle’, for example, a prophetic tradition recommends: ‫ﺍﻟﺠﻬﺎﺪ ﻓﻰ ﺴﺒﻳﻝ هللا‬ [al-jihād fī sabīl Allāh i.e. Jihād in the way of God]

Establishing an ancient precedent for his own modern translation, al-Kharbūtlī’s rendition of Mahomet’s chapter title (‘al-jihād fī sabīl al-‘aqīdah’) ˙ finds its origins in a formula itself voiced by the earliest Muslim community (‘al-jihād fī sabīl Allāh’).26 In echoing phraseology original to Islamic history, however, al-Kharbūtlī compounds the disparity between his Arabic trans˙ lation and his US source, conveying to Muslim readers a meaning wholly foreign to Irving’s original contents list. Rather than a title aligning Islam with the ‘sword’, al-Kharbūtlī presents a title whose content and form ˙ reverberate with sacred significance, treating Mahomet’s ‘faith’ no longer ‘instrument[ally]’ but instead as a Godly ‘way’ on which to ‘struggle’.

♦♦♦ This invocation of sacred precedents becomes of decisive importance as readers enter the body of al-Kharbūtlī’s translation, with similar ˙ interpolations surfacing through the first chapters of his Arabic Mahomet. Unsurprisingly, Irving’s original biography is saturated with citations from religious texts, quoting liberally from the Qur’ān, as well as hadīth – canoni˙

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 55 ˙ ˙ ˙

cal sayings of the prophet. And while such Muslim reference would seem to aid al-Kharbūtlī in his rendition of this text for Muslim readers, it also ˙ poses significant problems for literal translation. Islamic quotations within Mahomet derive from European – rather than Middle Eastern – sources. Unable to access Muslim texts in their original Arabic, Irving frequently relies on intermediaries, including British, French, German and Spanish translations – translations which ‘impar[t] an idea’ to Irving of Islamic sources, but which tend to evaporate their authentic ‘aroma’, with genuine Muslim meaning becoming ‘all lost in’ Western ‘translation’. Such European intervention between US biography and Islamic sources gives rise to significant discrepancies between Irving’s English quotations and their Muslim originals – discrepancies which then confront al-Kharbūtlī ˙ with problematic questions regarding how best to render the American’s faulty quotations from the Islamic sacred.27 In coming to translate Qur’ānic citations throughout Mahomet, for example, al-Kharbūtlī often finds Irving’s quotations differing slightly ˙ from their hallowed originals, functioning both to extend and to alter the text of this Arabic scripture. At the outset of his tenth chapter, for example, Irving recounts the conversion of Omar, detailing how the Qur’ān finally prompted his decision to embrace Islam. Unfolding this narrative, Irving provides American readers with a lengthy scriptural quotation, supplying the very verses which encourage Omar’s conversion: The passage which he read, is said to have been the twentieth chapter of the Koran, which thus begins: “In the name of the most merciful God! We have not sent down the Koran to inflict misery on mankind, but as a monitor, to teach him to believe in the true God, the creator of the earth and the lofty heavens. “The all merciful is enthroned on high, to him belongeth whatsoever is in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath, and in the regions under the earth. “Dost thou utter thy prayers with a loud voice? know that there is no need. God knoweth the secrets of thy heart; yea, that which is most hidden. “Verily I am God; there is none beside me. Serve me, serve none other. Offer up thy prayer to none but me.” The words of the Koran sank deep into the heart of Omar. (51)

Those familiar with Muslim texts and traditions will recognise these prominent verses from the Qur’ān. However, they will also recognise that the above quotation comprises a very loose translation, interpolating material absent from the Qur’ān’s Arabic. The final two sentences of Irving’s

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quotation, for example, are wholly spurious, having no sound basis within the original chapter of the Muslim scripture. Arriving at the conversion of Omar within al-Kharbūtlī’s translation, however, Arabic readers find such ˙ discrepancy between the Islamic original and the American biography effaced, with Irving’s passage rendered as: . ‫ ﺇﻻ ﺘﺬﻜﺭﺓ ﻠﻤﻥ ﻴﺧﺸﻰ‬. ‫ ﻤﺎ ﺃﻧﺰﻠﻧﺎ ﻋﻠﻴﻚ ﺍﻟﻗﺭﺁﻥ ﻠﺗﺸﻗﻰ‬. ‫ﻓﻗﺭﺃ ﺒﻬﺎ ﺴﻮﺭﺓ ﻁﻪ ﺍﻟﺗﻰ ﻤﻁﻠﻌﻬﺎ ׃ ﴿ ﻁﻪ‬ ‫ ﻠﻪ ﻤﺎ ﻓﻰ‬. ‫ ﺍﻟﺭﺣﻤﻦ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻌﺭﺶ ﺍﺴﺗﻮﻯ‬. ‫ﺗﻧﺰﻳﻼ ﻤﻤﻥ ﺧﻠﻕ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﻮﺍﻠﺴﻤﻮﺍﺕ ﺍﻠﻌﻠﻰ‬ . ‫ ﻮﺇﻦ ﺗﺠﻬﺭ ﺑﺎﻟﻗﻮﻞ ﻓﺈﻧﻪ ﻴﻌﻠﻢ ﺍﻠﺴﺭ ﻭﺃﺧﻓﻰ‬. ‫ﺍﻟﺴﻤﻮﺍﺕ ﻮﻤﺎ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻷﺭﺽ ﻮﻤﺎ ﺒﻴﻧﻬﻣﺎ ﻮﻤﺎ ﺘﺤﺕ ﺍﻠﺜﺭﻯ‬ . ﴾ ‫ﷲ ﻻ ﺇﻠﻪ ﺇﻻ ﻫﻮ ﻠﻪ ﺍﻷﺴﻤﺎﺀ ﺍﻟﺣﺴﻨﻰ‬ . ‫ﺃﺜﺭﺖ ﻜﻠﻣﺎﺕ ﺍﻠﻗﺭﺁﻥ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻤﺸﺎﻋﺭ ﻋﻣﺭ‬ [And he (‘Umar) read in these (pages) the ‘Chapter TaHa’, whose opening ˙ is: ‘TaHa. We have not sent down the Qur’ān to you as a distress. Except ˙ as a reminder to the one who fears. A revelation from Him Who created the earth and the sublime heavens. The Merciful, established on the throne. To Him belongs that which is in the heavens and in the earth, and what is between them, and what is beneath the ground. And if you speak the word aloud, then He knows the secret, and that which is more hidden. God, there is no god but He, to Him belong the most beautiful names’. The words of the Qur’ān made an impression on ‘Umar’s sensibilities.](88)

Replacing Irving’s faulty Qur’ānic quotation is the very text of the Qur’ān itself – a substitution which rewrites US appropriation with Arabic scripture, exchanging imperfect translation for sacred source.28 Perhaps most conspicuous is the difference between the conclusion of Irving’s quotation and the conclusion of al-Kharbūtlī’s; rather than the American’s ˙ ‘Verily I am God; there is none beside me. Serve me, serve none other. Offer up thy prayer to none but me’, the Arab translator instead provides the original, and distinct, wording of the actual Islamic scripture, ‘God, there is no god but He, to Him belong the most beautiful names’ (‘‫)ﷲ ﻻ ﺇﻠﻪ ﺇﻻ ﻫﻮ ﻠﻪ ﺍﻷﺴﻤﺎﺀ ﺍﻟﺣﺴﻨﻰ‬.29 This amendment of content is furthermore accompanied by an amendment to the framing of Irving’s Qur’ānic citation; while the American introduces his text as ‘the twentieth chapter of the Koran’, al-Kharbūtlī identifies these verses as original to ‘‫’ﺴﻮﺭﺓ ﻁﻪ‬ ˙ (‘sūrat TaHa’) – ‘Chapter TaHa’ – trading Irving’s numerical title for the ˙ ˙ alphabetic title assigned to this chapter within the Qur’ān itself.30 Such changes, while not substantially altering the core significance of this Islamic citation, do function to shift its religious and cultural connotations, inscribing into Irving’s American biography the authentic language of Islamic scripture. Al-Kharbūtlī’s willingness here to ‘correct’ Irving’s ˙

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 57 ˙ ˙ ˙

narrative allows Mahomet to recite the Qur’ān not as a mistranslated and foreign text, but rather as inviolable and familiar original – as a scriptural precedent indigenous to the translator’s, rather than the author’s, religious culture. It is not Irving’s Qur’ānic quotations, however, but rather his pejorative depictions of the Qur’ān which most often undergo significant alteration within al-Kharbūtlī’s Arabic translation. In addition to citing Islamic ˙ scripture directly, Mahomet reflects upon the origins and content of the Qur’ān, providing evaluations such as the following from Irving’s Chapter 8: The doctrines in the Koran respecting the resurrection and final judgment, were in some respects similar to those of the Christian religion, but were mixed up with wild notions derived from other sources; while the joys of the Moslem heaven, though partly spiritual, were clogged and debased by the sensualities of earth, and infinitely below the ineffable purity and spiritual blessedness of the heaven promised by our Saviour. (42–3)

This passage features a range of elements problematic for Muslim readers. Irving not only recruits decidedly Christian language – identifying Jesus as ‘our Saviour’, for example – but also mounts a critique of Qur’ānic eschatology by unflatteringly comparing its ‘wild notions’ with the ‘ineffable purity’ of the Christian afterlife, associating ‘Moslem heaven’ with ‘the sensualities of earth’. Such an Orientalist evaluation of the Islamic scripture is ripe for Arabic redaction, which al-Kharbūtlī energetically ˙ undertakes: ٬ ‫ﺘﺸﺒﻪ ﺗﻌﺎﻠﻴﻡ ﺍﻟﻗﺭﺁﻥ ﺒﻌﺽ ﺍﻠﺗﻌﺎﻠﻴﻡ ﺍﻠﻣﺴﻴﺤﻴﺔ ﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﻳﺨﺘﺺ ﺒﻴﻮﻡ ﺍﻟﻗﻴﺎﻣﺔ ﻮﺍﻠﺤﺴﺎﺐ‬ ‫ ﻓﺎﻠﻗﺭﺁﻥ ﻴﻌﺪ ﺍﻠﻤﺅﻣﻨﻴﻦ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻵﺧﺭﺓ‬. ‫ﻮﻟﻜﻧﻬﺎ ﺗﺧﺗﻠﻑ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﻓﻰ ﺒﻌﺽ ﺍﻠﻨﻮﺍﺣﻰ‬ ‫ ﻓﻰ ﺤﻴﻦ ﺗﻗﺗﺼﺭ ﺍﻟﻤﺴﻴﺤﻴﺔ ﻋﻠﻰ‬. ‫ﺒﺒﻌﺾ ﻤﺒﺎﻫﺞ ﺍﻠﺪﻨﻴﺎ ﺑﺠﺎﻧﺐ ﺍﻠﻤﺒﺎﻫﺞ ﺍﻟﺭﻮﺣﻴﺔ‬ . ‫ﻮﻋﺩﻫﺎ ﺒﺎﻠﻤﺒﺎﻫﺞ ﺍﻠﺭﻮﺤﻴﺔ‬ [The teachings of the Qur’ān are similar to some Christian teachings regarding the day of resurrection and the recompense, but they differ concerning these in some respects. For the Qur’ān promises the believers in the afterlife some worldly delights together with spiritual delights; whereas Christian (teachings) restrict themselves in their promise to spiritual delights.](76)

Al-Kharbūtlī here succeeds in denuding Irving’s passage not only of its ˙ exclusively Christian nomenclature – ‘our Saviour’ is conspicuously absent – but also of the American’s privileging of biblical teachings over Islamic.

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Although the distinction between Christian and Qur’ānic afterlives is maintained within the Arabic rendition – the former characterised as ‘spiritual’, the latter ‘spiritual’ and ‘worldly’ – this distinction is constructed through neutral, rather than partisan, language. Adjectives critical of Islam within Irving’s original (‘wild’, ‘clogged’, ‘debased’) are omitted by al-Kharbūtlī, as are the complimentary words attributed to Christianity ˙ (‘purity’, ‘blessedness’). Whereas the American source mounts a religious comparison saturated in value judgements, the Arabic translation avoids denigrating Qur’ānic teachings by restricting itself to hesitant and elusive description, merely affirming that Christianity and Islam ‘differ’ in ‘some respects’ (‘‫)’ﺗﺧﺗﻠﻑ ﻋﻨﻬﺎ ﻓﻰ ﺒﻌﺽ ﺍﻠﻨﻮﺍﺣﻰ‬. In addition to troubling contrasts between biblical and Qur’ānic traditions, al-Kharbūtlī must confront troubling correlations between these ˙ traditions as well. Mahomet frequently contextualises Islamic doctrine not only through comparing Muslim and Christian scripture, but through identifying Muslim scripture as derivative, with Qur’ānic teachings seen as recalling biblical precedents; again in his eighth chapter, Irving asserts that: Most of the benignant precepts of our Saviour were incorporated in the Koran. Frequent alms-giving was enjoined as an imperative duty, and the immutable law of right and wrong, “Do unto another, as thou wouldst he should do unto thee,” was given for the moral conduct of the faithful. (41)

This appraisal initially appears remarkably positive, aligning Muslim scripture with ‘benignant precepts’, characterising the ‘Koran’ as a champion of the ‘immutable law of right and wrong’. However, Irving also seems to suggest that Islamic scripture has covertly appropriated Christian doctrine, implying that the teachings of ‘our Saviour’ were belatedly ‘incorporated’ into the Muslim canon. The damaging connotations of Irving’s passage prompt al-Kharbūtlī to reconfigure the American’s ˙ framework of influence: ‫ ﻮﺧﺎﺼﺔ ﻓﻰ‬٬ ‫ﺠﺎﺀ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻟﻘﺭﺁﻥ ﺑﻌﺽ ﺍﻟﺗﻌﺎﻟﻳﻡ ﺍﻟﺗﻰ ﺗﺸﺒﻪ ﺍﻠﺘﻌﺎﻟﻳﻡ ﺍﻟﻣﺴﻴﺤﻴﺔ‬ ‫ ﻓﺭﺽ ﺍﻹﺴﻼﻡ ﻗﺎﻨﻮﻨﺎ ﺃﺧﻼﻗﻴﺎ‬. ‫ ﻮﻓﻴﻣﺎ ﻴﺘﻌﻠﻕ ﺒﺎﻟﺧﻴﺭ ﻮﺍﻠﺷﺭ‬٬ ‫ﻓﺭﺽ ﺍﻠﺰﻜﺎﺓ‬ . « ‫ » ﺃﺤﺐ ﻷﺧﻴﻚ ﻣﺎ ﺗﺤﺐ ﻠﻨﻔﺴﻚ‬: ‫ﻴﺗﻤﺜﻞ ﻓﻰ ﻫﺫﺍ ﺍﻟﺣﺪﻴﺙ ﺍﻟﺸﺭﻴﻑ‬ [Some teachings came in the Qur’ān which are similar to Christian teachings, and particularly regarding the duty of alms-giving, and in matters which pertain to good and evil. Islam enjoins the moral ordinance expressed in this noble tradition: ‘Love for your brother that which you love for yourself’.] (74)

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 59 ˙ ˙ ˙

Detaching the Qur’ān from its supposed Christian derivation, Mahomet no longer envisions Muslim scripture as ‘incorporating’ the ‘precepts of our Saviour’; instead, Irving’s biography now admits only a correspondence between the two traditions, suggesting merely that ‘some teachings’ of the Qur’ān are ‘similar’ to those espoused within Christianity. This subtle amendment of Irving’s hierarchy of influence is dramatically reinforced within the second half of al-Kharbūtlī’s translation; replacing Irving’s bib˙ lical citation (‘Do unto another, as thou wouldst he should do unto thee’), a rather different Arabic maxim is provided (‘Love for your brother that which you love for yourself’). While these imperatives are nearly identical in their moral imperative, they derive from very different sources, the first drawn from the Christian Gospels, the second from Muhammad’s canonical sayings, comprising a paraphrase of one of the prophet’s most well known hadīths.31 While Irving had epitomised Qur’ānic moral teach˙ ings through New Testament reference, al-Kharbūtlī alters the allusive ˙ parameters of his source, electing to rely upon Islamic, rather than biblical, citation. This redaction not only interpolates Muslim aphorism into the American Mahomet, but also eliminates this biography’s originally Christian standard for measuring Qur’ānic ethics; by replacing here the ‘immutable law’ of the Gospel with a ‘noble tradition’ from the Muslim prophet, al-Kharbūtlī shifts the referential priority endorsed by Irving’s ˙ text. Rather than granting precedence to the words of Messiah, it is the words of Muhammad that surface now in Irving’s biography, allowing al-Kharbūtlī to give to his American ‘brother that which’ he ‘loves’ for ˙ ‘[him]self’. In asserting the derivative nature of Islamic teachings, Irving’s original Mahomet seeks to contextualise not only its religious subject matter but also to characterise its principal religious subject: the prophet himself. Irving finds a genealogy of external influence reaching even to Muhammad’s internal and domestic life, identifying a familial conduit through which biblical traditions were to shape Islam’s genesis: Much of the Koran may be traced to the Bible, the Mishnu and the Talmud of the Jews, especially its wild though often beautiful traditions concerning the angels, the prophets, the patriarchs, and the good and evil genii. He [Mahomet] had at an early age imbibed a reverence for the Jewish faith, his mother, it is suggested, having been of that religion. (40)

Uncovering Hebraic backgrounds for both Muslim scripture and selfhood, Irving alleges a Jewish source for the ‘Koran’ and for ‘Mahomet’ – a claim that is softly muted in Arabic translation:

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‫ ﻮﺒﺨﺎﺼﺔ ﺍﻵﻴﺎﺖ‬٬ ‫ﺒﻌﺽ ﻣﺎ ﺠﺎﺀ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻟﻗﺭﺁﻥ ﺴﺒﻕ ﺃﻥ ﺠﺎﺀ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻠﺘﻮﺭﺓ ﻮﺍﻹﻨﺠﻴﻞ‬ ‫ ﻮﻠﺫﺍ ﻜﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻣﺴﻠﻣﻮﻥ‬. ‫ ﻮﺍﻠﺠﻦ ﺍﻷﺧﻴﺎﺭ ﻮﺍﻷﺸﺭﺍﺭ‬٬ ‫ﺍﻠﺗﻰ ﺗﺗﻌﻠﻖ ﺒﺎﻟﻤﻼﺌﻜﺔ ﻮﺍﻷﻧﺒﻴﺎﺀ‬ ‫ﻓﻰ ﺍﻠﻓﺗﺭﺓ ﺍﻷﻮﻟﻰ ﻴﺤﺗﺭﻤﻮﻥ ﺍﻠﺪﻴﻦ ﺍﻠﻴﻬﻮﺪﻯ‬ [Some of what appeared in the Qur’ān appeared before in the Torah and the Gospel, particularly those verses which concern the angels and the prophets, and the jinn, both good and bad. For this reason, the Muslims, in the earliest period, reverenced the Jewish religion] (73)

Rejecting Irving’s claim that ‘much of’ the Muslim scripture ‘may be traced’ to Hebrew sources, al-Kharbūtlī prefers again to suggest mere cor˙ respondence between these scriptural traditions; although ‘some’ material within the Bible does ‘appear’ within the Qur’ān, the latter is no longer figured as a source for the former. This revision to the relationship between Judaic and Islamic triggers a revision also to the Judaic precedents mentioned within Irving’s original; although the American identifies ‘the Bible, the Mishnu and the Talmud of the Jews’ as anticipating the Qur’ān, al-Kharbūtlī mentions only ‘the Torah and the Gospel’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺘﻮﺭﺓ ﻮﺍﻹﻨﺠﻴﻞ‬ ˙ – a replacement which restricts Irving’s list to texts acknowledged by the Qur’ān itself.32 It is not scriptural genealogy, however, but rather biographical, which undergoes most conspicuous alteration in Arabic. Mapping Hebraic ancestry for ‘the Koran’, Irving passively hints, too, that the ‘mother’ of the Muslim prophet was of ‘the Jewish faith’ – a kinship ‘suggestion’ whose bonds are entirely dissolved in Arabic. Although retaining a ‘reverence’ for ‘the Jewish religion’ in his final sentence above, al-Kharbūtlī erases the claim of Jewish ancestry, even while replacing ˙ Irving’s singular prophet (‘Mahomet’) with the plural community (‘the Muslims’), avoiding any hint of Jewish descent, either literary or literal, for Muhammad individually.33 Replacing Western historiography with Islamic, al-Kharbūtlī interrupts his Arabic translation with Arabic com˙ position, an act that seems highly intrusive, but also ironically apt. While his US source had suggested the hidden genealogy of Islamic traditions – with both ‘Mahomet’ and ‘the Koran’ privately ‘imbibing’ influence from ‘Jewish’ sources – al-Kharbūtlī’s passage hides its own genealogy, burying ˙ its American ‘mother’ text underneath Arabic translation, revising Irving’s claims regarding Islam’s supposed Jewish revisions.

♦♦♦ Al-Kharbūtlī’s prefatory claim that Mahomet ‘constantly advances praise’ ˙ for the prophet becomes increasingly difficult to reconcile with Mahomet’s actual text as its thirty-nine chapters develop. Opening with a portrait of

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 61 ˙ ˙ ˙

pre-Islamic Arabia, Irving’s biography unfolds chronologically, detailing Muhammad’s birth, adolescence and early manhood – chapters which frequently characterise the prophet in positive terms, recording his ‘moral worth’, ‘judgment’, ‘probity’, ‘sagacity’.34 As Muhammad’s ‘career’ advances, however, so too does Irving’s criticism, surfacing decisively at the outset of Mahomet’s sixteenth chapter. Introducing the military campaigns waged by the early Muslim community, Irving identifies what he understands to be the prophet’s central failing: We come now to an important era in the career of Mahomet. Hitherto he had relied on argument and persuasion to make proselytes; enjoining the same on his disciples. His exhortations to them to bear with patience and long-­suffering the violence of their enemies, almost emulated the meek precept of our Saviour, “if they smite thee on the one cheek, turn to them the other also.” He now arrived at a point where he completely diverged from the celestial spirit of the Christian doctrines, and stamped his religion with the alloy of fallible mortality. His human nature was not capable of maintaining the sublime forbearance he had hitherto inculcated. Thirteen years of meek endurance had been rewarded by nothing but aggravated injury and insult. (87)

Recalling his portrait of the Muslim faith, Irving here invokes Christian precedent to portray the Muslim prophet, juxtaposing ‘Mahomet’ with ‘our Saviour’. This inter-religious comparison serves initially to align these two figures, ‘almost’ equating them together as ‘meek’ victims, each bearing persecution ‘with patience and long-suffering’. However, it is the disparity between Muhammad and Christ which becomes Irving’s focus, the ‘fallible mortality’ and ‘human nature’ exhibited by the Islamic founder contrasted with the ‘celestial’ and ‘sublime’ quality pervading ‘Christian doctrines’. These alleged shortcomings of the Muslim prophet naturally contradict Muslim teachings – a contradiction reflected in al-Kharbūtlī’s ˙ approach to Chapter 16’s introduction: ‫ ﻓﻗﺪ ﻈﻝ ﺤﺗﻰ ﺍﻵﻥ ﻳﻧﺷﺭ ﺍﻹﺴﻼﻡ ﻣﻌﺗﻣﺪﺍ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺤﺠﺔ‬. ‫ﺒﺪﺃﺕ ﻓﺗﺭﺓ ﻫﺎﻤﺔ ﻤﻦ ﺣﻴﺎﺓ ﻣﺤﻣﺩ‬ - ‫ ﻜﻤﺎ ﻴﻗﻮﻝ ﺍﻹﻧﺠﻴﻝ‬- ‫ ﻓﻜﺎﻥ‬. ‫ ﺼﺎﺒﺭﺍ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﺎ ﻳﻠﻗﺎﻩ ﻣﻥ ﺃﺫﻯ ﺍﻠﻣﺸﺭﻜﻴﻥ‬٬ ‫ﻮﺍﻹﻗﻧﺎﻉ‬ ‫ ﻮﻟﻜﻥ ﺗﻓﺎﻗﻢ ﺃﺬﻯ ﺍﻠﻤﺸﺭﻜﻴﻥ‬. ‫ ﺃﺪﺍﺭ ﻟﻬﻢ ﺧﺪﻩ ﺍﻷﻴﺴﺭ‬٬ ‫ﺇﺫﺍ ﺿﺭﺒﻮﻩ ﻋﻟﻰ ﺧﺪﻩ ﺍﻷﻴﻣﻦ‬ ‫ ﻓﻔﻰ ﺧﻼﻞ ﻫﺫﻩ ﺍﻟﺴﻧﻮﺍﺕ ﺍﻟﺜﻼﺙ ﻋﺸﺭﺓ ﺗﻌﺭﺽ ﺍﻟﺭﺴﻮﻝ ﻷﺬﺍﻫﻡ ﻮﺇﻫﺎﻨﺎﺗﻬﻡ‬٬ ‫ﻠﻠﺭﺴﻮﻞ‬ [An important era from the life of Muhammad commenced. Until now he had persevered in propagating Islam through relying upon argument and persuasion, being patient of the offence he suffered from the polytheists. For, as the Gospel says, when they struck him upon his right cheek, he turned to them his left cheek. But the offence of the polytheists now

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became increasingly dangerous to the Messenger, for in the course of those thirteen years, the Messenger was exposed to their offences and their insults](140)

Sanitising his US source, al-Kharbūtlī expunges Irving’s reproach, omit˙ ting all suggestion of Muhammad’s ‘fallibility’, with only the persecution of the prophet and his patient forbearance surviving Arabic translation. Other subtle shifts in diction render this passage amenable to a Muslim readership: ‘our Saviour’ is replaced by ‘the Gospel’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻹﻧﺠﻴﻝ‬, while Irving’s ‘enemies’ becomes al-Kharbūtlī’s ‘polytheists’ (‘‫ – )’ﺍﻠﻣﺸﺭﻜﻴﻥ‬a ˙ traditional term for Muhammad’s early adversaries.35 Supplementing these replacements, al-Kharbūtlī also adds a paratext, appending his own, ˙ original footnote to the above passage, supplying an addendum to justify the prophet’s armed retaliation against his ‘enemies’:



( ۳۴ ٬ ‫ ﺍﻹﺻﺤﺎﺭ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺷﺭ‬٬ ‫ﺪﻋﺎ ﺍﻟﻣﺴﻳﺢ ﺃﻴﺿﺎ ﺇﻠﻰ ﺍﻠﺠﻬﺎﺪ ( ﺇﻧﺠﻴﻞ ﻤﺗﻰ‬ [The Messiah also called for jihād (the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter Ten, 34)]

(140)

Consistent with his revisions to Irving’s chapter introduction, al-Kharbūtlī ˙ aligns the teachings of Messiah and Muhammad, citing a New Testament verse – ‘Think not that I am come to send peace on earth: I came not to send peace, but a sword’ – as comprising Christ’s own call for ‘jihād’. Inverting his source’s rhetorical arc, al-Kharbūtlī not only negates Irving’s ˙ disparaging contrast between ‘Mahomet’ and ‘Saviour’, but provides a postscript that quotes ‘Messiah’ as an endorsement of holy ‘struggle’. While the American biography had invoked Christian precept to disparage Muhammad’s militarism, the Arabic translation employs Muhammad’s militarism to redefine the Christian precept, reading back the notion of jihād into the Gospel, reversing the privileging of ‘our Saviour’ over Islamic prophet. It is with such revisions to both Mahomet’s core, and its margins, that al-Kharbūtlī upholds his introductory advertisement, reconfiguring ˙ Irving’s biography as one which extols, rather than disparages, its historical subject. These ameliorative efforts find their most obstinate challenge, however, at the very opposite end of Irving’s Mahomet – his concluding chapter – which advances overt and ad hominem critiques of Muhammad himself. Entitled ‘Person and Character of Mahomet, and Speculations on his Prophetic Career’ (192), this thirty-ninth chapter rehearses standard Orientalist arguments, portraying ‘Mahomet’, for example, as a sensualist:

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 63 ˙ ˙ ˙ He was scrupulous as to personal cleanliness, and observed frequent ablutions. In some respects he was a voluptuary. “There are two things in this world,” would he say, “which delight me, women and perfumes. These two things rejoice my eyes, and render me more fervent in devotion.” From his extreme cleanliness, and the use of perfumes and sweet-scented oil for his hair, probably arose that sweetness and fragrance of person, which his disciples considered innate and miraculous. His passion for the sex had an influence over all his affairs. It is said that when in the presence of a beautiful female, he was continually smoothing his brow and adjusting his hair, as if anxious to appear to advantage. The number of his wives is uncertain. (193)

From a neutral and declarative opening, Irving’s passage quickly takes a pejorative turn, proceeding from the prophet’s ‘personal cleanliness’ to his ‘voluptuary’ tendencies. Impugning not only personal character, but also spiritual authority, Irving suggests a connection between licentious nature and Islamic traditions, with ‘passion’ exercising ‘an influence over all [Mahomet’s] affairs’. Although his ‘fragrance of person’ is considered ‘miraculous’ by his ‘disciples’, Irving attributes this merely to his ‘use of perfumes’ and the prophet’s wish ‘to appear to advantage’ in ‘the presence of [. . .] beautiful female[s]’. Neither this personal attack, nor its broader implications for prophetic authority, however, ultimately survives in al-Kharbūtlī’s version: ˙ ٬ ‫ ﺍﻟﻧﺴﺎﺀ‬: ‫ » ﺤﺒﺐ ﺇﻠ ّﻰ ﺜﻼﺙ‬: ‫ ﻗﺎﻞ ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻝ‬. ‫ﺍﻤﺘﺎﺰ ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻞ ﺒﺎﻟﻨﻅﺎﻔﺔ ﻓﻰ ﻜﻞ ﺷﻰﺀ‬ ‫ ﻓﻗﺩ ﻜﺎﻦ ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻞ ﻴﺤﺭﺺ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﺴﺗﻌﻤﺎﻞ‬. « ‫ ﻮﺟﻌﻠﺖ ﻗﺭﺓ ﻋﻳﻧﻰ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻠﺼﻼﺓ‬٬ ‫ﻮﺍﻟﻄﻴﺐ‬ . ‫ ﻓﻴﻌﻁﺭ ﺭﺃﺴﻪ ﺪﺍﺌﻤﺎ ﺑﻧﻮﻉ ﻤﻥ ﺍﻠﺰﻴﺖ ﻠﻪ ﺭﺍﺌﺣﺔ ﻋﻄﺭﺓ‬٬ ‫ﺍﻠﻌﻄﻮﺭ‬ . ‫ﺍﺧﺗﻠﻑ ﺍﻟﻤﺅﺭﺨﻮﻥ ﻓﻰ ﻋﺪﺪ ﺰﻮﺠﺎﺖ ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻝ‬ [The Messenger distinguished himself in cleanliness in all things. The Messenger said: ‘Three things have been made beloved to me: women, perfume, and cooling my eye in prayer’. The Messenger was intent upon the use of perfumes, and perfumed his head constantly with a variety of oils which had a fragrant aroma. The historians differ concerning the number of wives of the Messenger.] (295)

Noticeably truncated, this Arabic rendition again mutes its Orientalist original through excision, censoring all intimations of the prophet’s purported vanity and artifice. Restricted to simple statements of fact, al-Kharbūtlī ˙ provides a skeletal report, mentioning merely the ‘cleanliness’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻟﻨﻅﺎﻔﺔ‬ of Muhammad and his ‘use of perfumes’ (‘‫)’ﺍﺴﺗﻌﻤﺎﻞ ﺍﻠﻌﻄﻮﺭ‬. This editing of

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Irving’s own assertions extends also to Irving’s quotation, al-Kharbūtlī ˙ subtly altering the hadīth as cited in English. According to the American ˙ source, the prophet claims ‘delight’ in ‘two things [. . .] women and perfumes’, adding that these ‘two things rejoice my eyes and render me more fervent in devotion’ – a statement linking Mahomet’s supposed sensualism with his religious ‘devotion’, aligning ‘delight’ in the former with ‘fervency’ in the latter. This quotation is itself ‘cleansed’ in Arabic translation, with the prophet instead identifying ‘three things’ as ‘beloved’: ‘women, perfume, and cooling my eye in prayer’ (‘‫ ﻮﺟﻌﻠﺖ ﻗﺭﺓ ﻋﻳﻧﻰ ﻓﻰ ﺍﻠﺼﻼﺓ‬٬ ‫ ﻮﺍﻟﻄﻴﺐ‬٬ ‫ – )’ﺍﻟﻧﺴﺎﺀ‬a substitution which melts Irving’s causal bond between ‘devotion’ and ‘delight’, providing a conjunctive list in which ‘women’ and ‘perfume’ are no longer seen as inspiring ‘prayer’.36 In grappling with the sensitive material of Irving’s final chapter, al-Kharbūtlī finds it necessary to revise even relatively positive evaluations, ˙ shifting details within Mahomet that defy Islamic teachings. Concluding his discussion of Muhammad’s household and personal relations, for example, Irving surmises: He was naturally irritable, but had brought his temper under great control, so that even in the self-indulgent intercourse of domestic life he was kind and tolerant. (193)

Despite its opening pejorative – ‘naturally irritable’ – this passage ultimately associates ‘Mahomet’ with forbearance and humanity, describing his ‘domestic life’ as typified by self-restraint and tenderness. Irving’s initial insinuation of the prophet’s imperfection, however, inspires al-Kharbūtlī ˙ again towards suppression, his Arabic rendition both abridging and amplifying the American source, exercising its own ‘great control’ over Irving’s depiction:



. ‫ ﺼﺒﻮﺭﺍ‬٬ ‫ ﺭﺣﻴﻣﺎ‬٬ ‫ ﺤﻠﻴﻣﺎ‬٬ ‫ﻜﺎﻦ ﺍﻠﺭﺳﻮﻞ ﺣﺴﻦ ﺍﻟﻄﺒﺎﻉ‬ [The Messenger was excellent of character, forbearing, merciful, patient.] (296)

The complexity of Mahomet’s original characterisation here collapses, its tense balance between ‘irritable’ nature and ‘kind’ behaviour entirely resolved, offering instead a ‘Messenger’ who is simply ‘excellent of character’ (‘‫)’ﺣﺴﻦ ﺍﻟﻄﺒﺎﻉ‬. Erasing the fallibility and struggle implied within his source passage, al-Kharbūtlī finds it necessary to supplement this passage’s ˙ ascribed virtues, slightly extending the list of Muhammad’s meritorious qualities, replacing ‘kind and tolerant’ with ‘forbearing, merciful, patient’

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 65 ˙ ˙ ˙

(‘‫ ﺼﺒﻮﺭﺍ‬٬ ‫ ﺭﺣﻴﻣﺎ‬٬ ‫ – )’ﺤﻠﻴﻣﺎ‬adjectives highly characteristic of Islamic traditions, representing attributes regularly ascribed to prophetic figures within the Muslim sacred.37 Minor in scope, but major in significance, al-Kharbūtlī’s ˙ alterations engender a semantic inversion, replacing Irving’s equivocal portrait with an identity that is uniform, as well as uniformly Islamic. Immediately following this discussion of Muhammad’s temperament, Mahomet’s closing chapter shifts focus, transitioning to its final section: ‘Speculations on his Prophetic Career’. This concluding section opens with a critical ‘question’ – was the prophet ‘the unprincipled imposter that he has been represented?’ – a query which prompts Irving’s most sustained consideration of the origins, motivations and veracity of Muhammad’s vocation (193–4). Ultimately exonerating the prophet from such accusations, Irving will diverge from the harshest of European polemicists, acquitting ‘Mahomet’ of both ‘worldly motives’ and a desire for ‘external conquest’ (196, 198). In place of these unsympathetic explanations, however, Irving offers an interpretation of Muhammad’s ‘prophetic career’ equally unacceptable to Muslim readers, his closing paragraph supplying the American’s most succinct evaluation of ‘Mahomet’: It is difficult to reconcile such ardent, preserving piety, with an incessant system of blasphemous imposture; nor such pure and elevated and benignant precepts as are contained in the Koran, with a mind haunted by ignoble passions, and devoted to the groveling interest of mere mortality; and we find no other satisfactory mode of solving the enigma of his character and conduct, than by supposing that the ray of mental hallucination which flashed upon his enthusiastic spirit during his religious ecstasies in the midnight cavern of Mount Hara, continued more or less to bewilder him with a species of monomania to the end of his career, and that he died in the delusive belief of his mission as a prophet. (200)

These concluding sentences initially defend both Islamic founder and Islamic scripture; while the prophet’s ‘ardent, preserving piety’ is irreconcilable with ‘blasphemous imposture’, so too are the Qur’ān’s ‘benignant precepts’ irreconcilable with ‘ignoble passions’ and ‘groveling interest’. Such contradictions do not, however, lead Irving to consider the possibility that either Muslim founder or scripture are divinely sanctioned; rather, the American ‘solves’ this ‘enigma’ through positing ‘mental hallucination’ as the source for Islamic prophecy, depicting ‘Mahomet’ as an ‘enthusiastic spirit’ afflicted ‘with a species of monomania’. Differing from preceding Orientalist depictions of the prophet as avaricious fraudster, Irving instead characterises the prophet as sincere, but self-deceived – an earnest, but

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ultimately deluded, figure. This romantic reappraisal, while perhaps less severe than Enlightenment precedents, would be no less unacceptable to the Muslim reader – a fact reflected by al-Kharbūtlī’s comprehensive ˙ recontouring of Irving’s concluding paragraph: ‫ ﻮﻣﻥ ﺍﻟﺻﻌﺐ ﺃﻥ‬. ‫ﻳﺪﻋﻮ ﺍﻟﻗﺭﺁﻥ ﺇﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﺭﺤﻤﺔ ﻮﺍﻟﺻﻓﺎﺀ ﻮﺇﻠﻰ ﻣﺬﺍﻫﺐ ﺃﺧﻼﻗﻴﺔ ﺴﺎﻣﻴﺔ‬ ‫ ﻮﻴﻜﻓﻰ ﺃﻥ ﻧﻌﺭﻑ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻜﺎﻥ ﻳﻬﺗﻢ ﺒﺎﻠﺗﻌﺒﺪ‬٬ ‫ﻧﺿﻊ ﻮﺼﻓﺎ ﺗﻓﺼﻴﻠﻴﺎ ﻷﺨﻼﻕ ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻝ ﻮﺴﻠﻮﻜﻪ‬ ‫ ﺜﻢ ﻣﺎﺖ‬. ‫ ﻓﻘﺪ ﻗﺿﻰ ﻓﺘﺭﺓ ﻄﻮﻴﻠﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻴﺎﺘﻪ ﻴﺗﻌﺒﺪ ﻓﻰ ﻏﺎﺭ ﺒﺠﺒﻞ ﺤﺭﺍﺀ‬٬ ‫ﻮﺍﻠﺭﻮﺤﺎﻨﻴﺎﺖ‬ . ‫ ﻮﺃﺪﻯ ﻮﺍﺠﺒﻪ ﻜﺭﺴﻮﻞ ﷲ‬٬ ‫ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻞ ﺒﻌﺪ ﺃﻥ ﺃﺒﻠﻎ ﺪﻴﻨﻪ ﻮﺃﺗﻡ ﺭﺴﺎﻠﺗﻪ‬ [The Qur’ān calls to mercy and purity, and to lofty moral teachings. It is difficult for us to compile a detailed description of the Messenger’s character and his conduct; it suffices us to recognise that he devoted himself to pious worship and spiritual matters, and that he spent a lengthy period of his life worshiping in the cave within the mountain of Hirā’. The ˙ Messenger then died, after he had announced his religion, had accomplished his apostleship, and had done his duty as the Messenger of God.] (304)

As Irving’s concluding passage had embodied his approach to Islamic prophecy, so too does al-Kharbūtlī’s conclusion embody his methods of ˙ Islamic revision. The Arabic opens with a reasonable rendition of Irving’s acclamations of the Qur’ān as ‘pure’, ‘elevated’ and ‘benignant’; conspicuously absent, however, is any suggestion that these acclamations originally appear within a debate concerning the prophet’s ‘imposture’, defending ‘Mahomet’ from accusations of ‘ignoble passions’ and ‘groveling interest’. Revising this passage’s original context, al-Kharbūtlī next revises its origi˙ nal significance, removing all mention of the ‘mental hallucination’ and ‘monomania’ essential to Irving’s closing portrait of the prophet. Instead, Arabic readers are offered a final paragraph that acknowledges the ‘difficulty’ of exhaustively detailing Muhammad’s ‘character and conduct’ (‘‫[ ﻮﺴﻠﻮﻜﻪ‬. . .] ‫)’ﻷﺨﻼﻕ‬, electing simply to emphasise his ‘pious worship’ (‘‫ )’ﺍﻠﺗﻌﺒﺪ‬and commitment to ‘spiritual matters’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺭﻮﺤﺎﻨﻴﺎﺖ‬. It is the closing sentence of al-Kharbūtlī’s rendition, however, which most strongly sub˙ verts Irving’s quixotic reading; replacing a ‘prophet’ who ‘died in the delusive belief of his mission’, Arabic readers encounter a figure who had ‘announced his religion’ and ‘accomplished his apostleship’, who died only after fulfilling ‘his duty as the Messenger of God’ (‘‫)’ﻮﺍﺠﺒﻪ ﻜﺭﺴﻮﻞ ﷲ‬. Settling the suspension and ‘bewildered’ confusion that informs Irving’s original, al-Kharbūtlī aptly concludes his entire translation with the word ‘Allāh’ ˙ (‘‫‘ – )’ﷲ‬God’ – exchanging the ‘delusive belief’ of his ‘enigmatic’ US source with the divine source of prophetic ‘duty’.

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In thus reversing the significance of Mahomet’s final sentences, al-Kharbūtlī completes a revisionary process that initiated in the front ˙ matter of his Arabic edition. This closing paragraph serves as the successful fulfilment of al-Kharbūtlī’s prefatory endorsement, ensuring that ˙ Irving’s biography does indeed become a text that ‘constantly advances praise for the Messenger’ – a narrative which serves to ‘celebrate’ and ‘commend’ the Islamic founder. Commencing with minor shifts in diction, and culminating with comprehensive inversions, al-Kharbūtlī’s rendition ˙ transforms an American ‘Mahomet’ into an Arabic ‘Muhammad’, effecting ˙ a substitution restricted not to script and language only, but one which embraces both prophetic identity and religious significance. In reading the conclusion of al-Kharbūtlī’s redacted translation, it is tempting ˙ to see a revision not only to Washington Irving’s biographical subject (‘Mahomet’), but also a revision to the historical identity of Irving himself; by accomplishing such radical changes to his source, the Arab translator significantly misreads and misrepresents his American author, depicting Irving not as Islamic critic but rather Islamic advocate, shifting the character of Mahomet’s author as much as he shifts the character of Mahomet’s protagonist. Such biographical and historical interventions appear to constitute serious violations of sound translation practice, transgressing the boundaries between rendition and composition, privileging revisionary Arabic translation over original American text. However, in al-Kharbūtlī’s ˙ redactions we may also detect an ironically appropriate completion to the project undertaken first by Irving himself; just as the American biography had rendered European sources, assuming the licence to ameliorate its Continental predecessors, al-Kharbūtlī here also renders and ameliorates ˙ his own American source, further advancing Muhammad’s biography along a route of redaction and reformation. The irony of this convoluted transatlantic progress – the conveying of the prophet’s Life from Europe to America to the Middle East – is compounded when we remember that the latest step of this translatory advance actually serves to return this narrative back to its original language and locale; here, textual progress proves also to be textual regress, with modern Islamic revision serving to revive and re-establish ancient Islamic sources. In this circular process of translation and adaptation, Irving’s American Mahomet serves as the cultural intermediary, providing a textual pivot upon which al-Kharbūtlī is able ˙ both to revert and to convert ‘Mahomet’, both advancing and reversing this Western appropriation of the Arabian prophet.

♦♦♦

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‘Every reader has his first book’, Longfellow had observed in his 1859 eulogy, commemorating the unique priority of the Sketch-Book in his own literary life. Al-Kharbūtlī’s encounter with Irving’s Mahomet would prove ˙ to be an equally formative precedent. Opening his career, the Egyptian’s translation of Mahomet in 1960 marks his entrée into professional scholarship, launching a prolific life of academic publishing. However, his translation of Irving would not be limited to al-Kharbūtlī’s youthful efforts, ˙ confined merely between the covers of his first edition. Instead, quotations from his Arabic Mahomet echo through much of al-Kharbūtlī’s subsequent ˙ writings, Irving’s rendered words enduring throughout the Egyptian’s unfolding career. Born into an Arabic afterlife in 1960, the legacy of Irving’s Mahomet expands and evolves through the following decades, propelled by al-Kharbūtlī’s consistent appeal to the American as an authority ˙ on Muslim sacred history. Dilating a circle of revisionary transmission, Irving’s prophetic biography no longer hosts al-Kharbūtlī’s interventions ˙ merely, but itself intervenes in al-Kharbūtlī’s own intellectual biography, ˙ the American Mahomet saturating the pages of his Islamic scholarship. Roots of this broader reception are discoverable even before the Arabic appearance of Mahomet in 1960, with Irving briefly surfacing in al-Kharbūtlī’s doctoral work. Completed at the University of Cairo, and ˙ published in 1959, al-Kharbūtlī’s dissertation – The History of Iraq Under ˙ Umayyad Rule – would seem to have little in common with Irving; nevertheless, the American and his Mahomet emerge near the dissertation’s conclusion, meriting a single, passing mention.38 This dim intimation in al-Kharbūtlī’s 1959 doctorate would escalate and crescendo through the ˙ following decade, with the appearance of Hayāt Muhammad in 1960 initi˙ ˙ ating a rapid succession of publications that reference Irving’s writings. The sheer number of these studies is startling, as is their topical diversity; as an icon of American nostalgia and nationalism, Irving becomes an unlikely touchstone for a broad range of historical treatments, from al-Kharbūtlī’s 1965 Arab-Islamic Civilization; to his 1969 Islam and the People of ˙ Dhimmah; to the 1973 The Messenger in Medina; and even his 1976 The History of the Ka‘ba.39 Cited as authority in studies of Islamic culture, prophecy and architecture, Irving becomes increasingly domesticated within this specialised academic field, occupying a place among traditional sources and orthodox experts. This new role for Irving is, of course, facilitated and filtered by al-Kharbūtlī’s own revisionary approach, dependent on ˙ his contoured translation of Mahomet and its selective quotation. Invoked to varying degrees, Irving’s biography sometimes surfaces merely in al-Kharbūtlī’s bibliography; occasionally, however, entire paragraphs are ˙ borrowed from Mahomet. This variety in extent of citation is complemented

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 69 ˙ ˙ ˙

by al-Kharbūtlī’s various methods of citation, ranging from quotations ˙ that are clearly demarked, to quotations that are subtly woven into the surrounding prose. In his 1972 The Messenger and Psychological Warfare, for example, al-Kharbūtlī adopts the former approach, borrowing two full ˙ paragraphs from Mahomet, clearly signalling this ample excerpt with Arabic quotation marks.40 More interesting, however, is al-Kharbūtlī’s interpola˙ tions from Mahomet that feature no definitive boundaries, his scholarship neglecting to include quotation marks to indicate the beginning or end of Irving’s citation. Blurring frontiers between citer and source, these flexible references recall the blurring of composition and translation first evident in Mahomet’s 1960 translation, with Irving and al-Kharbūtlī fused within ˙ a single language and narrative trajectory, with no border distinguishing American and Egyptian voices. This overlap of identity reaches a climax in al-Kharbūtlī’s studies that ˙ focus exclusively on the prophet – studies which especially rely on Irving citation. In his 1973 The Messenger in Medina, for example, al-Kharbūtlī ˙ recurrently and explicitly references the American, with quotations from Mahomet appearing on more than a dozen discrete pages, serving as one of the most frequent of al-Kharbūtlī’s cited sources.41 This density of citation ˙ works to collapse distance between Irving and al-Kharbūtlī; it also, ironi˙ cally, clarifies the different iterations of Irving that al-Kharbūtlī offers as ˙ his career unfolds, his later studies differing subtly from his earlier Mahomet translation. In 1968, al-Kharbūtlī’s The Messenger in Ramadan again includes ˙ a lengthy quotation from Irving’s Mahomet. However, the Egyptian does not merely reproduce his previously published Arabic translation, but rather revises this earlier publication, adding a brief, but crucial, phrase that is absent from his 1960 edition, highlighted below with underlining: ‫ غيرت موقعة‬: ‫ فقال‬٬ ‫تحدث المؤرخ (واشنجتون أرفنج) عن نتائج موقعة بدر‬ ً ‫ تماما‬٬ ‫ صلى هللا عليه وسلم‬٬ ‫بدر وضع محمد‬ [The historian (Washington Irving) speaks of the results of the Battle of Badr, for he said: the Battle of Badr had entirely altered the position of Muhammad – may God bless him and grant him peace]42

Not only missing from Irving’s 1850 biography, but also from al-Kharbūtlī’s ˙ own 1960 translation, is this normative blessing on the prophet: ‘‫‘( ’صلى هللا عليه وسلم‬may God bless him and grant him peace’) – a phrase which is a mainstay of Muslim piety.43 Revised to reflect its new environment in al-Kharbūtlī’s subsequent writings, Irving’s text is broadened to ˙ better fit its fresh hagiographic context, becoming a vehicle and index of al-Kharbūtlī’s evolving scholarship. Finding it necessary to revise his ˙

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own earlier revision of Irving, the Egyptian further propels Mahomet in its Arabic afterlife, stretching this flexible text yet further, adding a new layer to Irving’s adapted biography. Recalling, too, al-Kharbūtlī’s 1960 translation, it is Irving himself ˙ – as much as Irving’s portrait of the prophet – who shifts in identity as al-Kharbūtlī’s later scholarship continues to rely on, and revise, the ˙ American Mahomet. Quoted as a reliable source, Irving is implicitly recognised as an authority on Islam; however, this surprising overhaul of Irving is effected also through explicit framing, with al-Kharbūtlī directly naming ˙ and characterising Irving himself. Typical is the following preface to a Mahomet citation, Irving introduced by al-Kharbūtlī in his The Messenger in ˙ Ramadan as: :‫ فقال‬٬ ‫وقد درس المؤرخ (واشنجتون أرفنج) تطور العالقات بين اﻠﻣﺴﻠﻣﻴن والروم‬ [The historian (Washington Irving) studied the development of relations between the Muslims and Byzantines, and said:]44

Furnishing a misleading sense of the American’s credentials, al-Kharbūtlī ˙ repeals Irving’s own confession which had opened his Mahomet, where he had admitted no ‘claim to novelty of fact’, nor ‘profundity of research’. Concealing his deeply derivative position, al-Kharbūtlī implies Irving’s ˙ genuine and original ‘study’ of historical ‘relations’, justifying thereby his repeated appeal to this American ‘authority’. Repositioned as a seminal cause, rather than a belated conduit, in Islamic scholarship, Irving is again endorsed as precedent and pioneer – no longer the ‘first’ national fictionist, as eulogised by Longfellow, however, but now al-Kharbūtlī’s studious ˙ ‘historian’ of the Muslim sacred. This evolution in Mahomet’s text, and its author’s identity, receives graphic expression in al-Kharbūtlī’s 1976 History of the Ka‘ba. Detailing ˙ Muhammad’s return to Mecca in 630, and his military victory over his foes, al-Kharbūtlī again appeals to Irving, recruiting this passage from ˙ Mahomet’s Chapter 30: The whole conduct of Mahomet on gaining possession of Mecca, showed that it was a religious, more than a military triumph. His heart, too, softened toward his native place, now that it was in his power; his resentments were extinguished by success, and his inclinations were all toward forgiveness. (144)

Characteristic of Irving’s method is the subtle ambivalence in his portrait of this ‘military triumph’. While emphasising the prophet’s ‘success’ and ‘softening’, Irving hints, too, at more conflicted qualities, associating

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Mahomet or Muhammad? Irving and ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī[ 71 ˙ ˙ ˙

‘Mahomet’ also with previous ‘resentments’. Unsurprisingly, when this passage appears in History of the Ka‘ba, these tensions are resolved, with the prophet’s ‘forgiveness’ meriting exclusive focus. This resolution in content is attended by a new contextual tension, however, al-Kharbūtlī’s quotation ˙ from Mahomet appearing as: . ‫ودلت تصرفات الرسول في مكة على انه نبي مرسل ال على انه قائد مظفر‬ ‫ ولكن‬٬ ‫فقد ابدى رحمة وشفقة على مواطنيه برغم انه اصبح في مركز قوي‬ « ‫توج نجاحه وانتصاره بالرحمة والعفو‬ [The actions of the Messenger in Mecca showed that he was a delegated prophet, not that he was a triumphant leader. And verily he demonstrated mercy and intersession with regard to his countrymen, despite the fact that he had come into a position of power; but he crowned his success and triumph with mercy and forgiveness’]45

Considering the revisions witnessed throughout his 1960 Mahomet, al-Kharbūtlī’s amendments and additions to Irving’s original here are not ˙ unexpected. Removing all hint of ‘resentments’, the Egyptian also multiplies the clemency of the ‘Messenger’, doubling allusions to his ‘mercy’ (‘‫)’رحمة‬. It is not his provision of new material within his quotation, but the punctuation which surrounds al-Kharbūtlī’s quotation that seems ˙ most telling, however. Marking the end of his revisionary citation with a closing bracket – ‘«’ – al-Kharbūtlī neglects to indicate where his citation ˙ starts, omitting an opening bracket at the paragraph’s top. Failing to map this quotation’s initial boundaries, Arabic readers are not provided with a sure border between the speech of Irving and the speech of al-Kharbūtlī, ˙ unable to distinguish with certainty where composition ends and translation begins. Actually performing the precedence and priority of Irving that was first remarked by Longfellow, al-Kharbūtlī’s revised Mahomet is seam˙ lessly interwoven into the body of his History of the Ka‘ba, occupying the status of al-Kharbūtlī’s ‘first book’ through exhibiting no place of precise ˙ beginning in his own scholarly writings. Whether an intentional absence, or an inadvertent slip, this lack of typographic marker is entirely fitting, emblematic of the fluidity between source and translation, between American original and its Arabic revision. Gradually and imperceptibly merging with al-Kharbūtlī’s historiography, ˙ Irving’s Romantic ‘narrative’ oscillates uncertainly beneath the superimposed outline of the Egyptian’s reception, its exterior margins and interior meanings frayed and erased. Refracting the very content of this passage – Muhammad’s triumphant, yet reconciliatory, return home – Irving’s language is itself conquered and subjugated through an act of forceful

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reconciliation, his US original subsumed within a larger discourse of compromise and reunion. Any residual ‘resentments’ of Irving’s Orientalism are now ‘extinguished’, the totalising ‘success’ of al-Kharbūtlī’s revisions ˙ translating Mahomet into a position of mercy and intercession, allowing this Western text to be ‘softened’ and returned to its Eastern ‘native place’. Reconciling opposing texts, even as his text recounts a historical reconciliation, al-Kharbūtlī’s revisions dramatise an uneasy reunion of diverse ˙ voices – Islamic historiography, American Romance – with these rival identities joined within a discourse of conquering ‘mercy’. Amplifying the selective quotation and reshaping of context that had originally given rise to Irving’s own Mahomet, al-Kharbūtlī participates in a textual ‘gaining ˙ possession’ that ironically negates the American’s Orientalist revisions and adaptations – a ‘possession’ that engenders ever new translations, whose ‘inclinations’ seem ‘all toward forgiveness’, but whose sympathetic concessions also hide a multitude of textual reprisals and cultural negotiations.

chapter 3

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar

The literary landscape of Iran shifted seismically in 1969 with the appearance of Sīmīn Dāneshvar’s Sūvashūn, the story of one family’s trials during British occupation in the final years of World War II. Not only the first novel published by a woman in Iran, Sūvashūn was also to become an Iranian best-seller, still celebrated as the most widely sold novel in Persian literary history, enjoying a ‘circulation of over half a million’ and meriting at least twenty reprints.1 Fictional mirror of political history, Sūvashūn blends ancient myth and modern fact, accenting the romantic, fantastic and tragic elements of Iranian life under British rule. Centred on its solitary heroine – Zari – the novel explores, in particular, the labyrinthine psychology of repression, shame and secrecy engendered by this crisis in Iran’s national consciousness, culminating in the martyrdom of Yusuf – Zari’s activist husband – and her subsequent struggles to remember and persevere. Considering the style and subject of Sūvashūn – its blend of history and fiction, its wounded, yet resilient, female protagonist – it is perhaps not insignificant that Sīmīn Dāneshvar had opened her career, fourteen years earlier, by producing a Persian translation of The Scarlet Letter. Classic tale of sin and secrecy, of national founding and personal tragedy, Hawthorne’s own Romantic novel – focused on the wounded, yet resilient, Hester Prynne – likely attracted Dāneshvar’s notice during her tenure as a Fulbright scholar in the United States. Studying creative writing at Stanford between 1952 and 1954, Dāneshvar worked under Wallace Stegner, not only novelist of the American West, but also a fellow Hawthornean, responsible for an edition of Twice-Told Tales in 1966.2 Dāneshvar’s own Scarlet Letter would first appear in 1955, just a year after

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she returned home to Iran. Published in Tehran, and entitled ‘‫’ﺪﺍﻍ ننگ‬ (Dāgh-e Nang) – that is, The Mark of Shame – Dāneshvar’s translation was the first to provide Persian readers with a version of Hawthorne in their own language.3 As a launch for her literary career, Dāneshvar’s choice to translate Hawthorne may appear somewhat curious, seeming an unstable berth from which to embark. One of the defining features of Hawthorne’s fiction is, after all, its interpretive ambiguity, its semantic slipperiness. Hawthorne’s equivocal use of symbol and narrative voice, his partiality to ‘veils’ and ‘twice-telling’, have come to epitomise the enigmatic character of the American Romance – a genre that Hawthorne himself understood as the precarious middle ground between fact and fancy, offering an ‘available foothold between fiction and reality’.4 Indeed, it is the ‘instability’ of Hawthorne’s signs and symbols which have most consistently attracted critical notice, with his scholarly readers endlessly marvelling at the ‘indeterminacy’ of his allusive prose; The Scarlet Letter exemplifies this quality in particular, refusing to provide a stable explanation of its eponymous ‘emblem’. And while such hermeneutic complexity endows Hawthorne’s fiction with rich potency, it also problematises any attempt to render his canon into other languages. One of the primary tasks of translation is to convey with precision the meaning of a given source, to render accurately the significance of a textual original.5 In approaching Hawthorne, however, translators are confronted with narrative and symbolic ambiguity which seems to resist rendition. How are translators to convey the precise meaning of fiction which itself privileges the ‘undecidable’, preferring to evade certainty and precision? Such challenges of Hawthornean translation are exacerbated when rendering his prose for readers whose culture, history and language differ sharply from the culture, history and language of Hawthorne’s first readers. Grounded in distinctly American settings, and customarily grappling with a distinctly American heritage, Hawthorne’s novels and tales pose a unique challenge for translators whose target audience may be wholly unfamiliar with the locales, customs, rites and records of New England. In rendering for non-European readers, translators are furthermore faced with expressing Hawthorne’s ambiguous prose through languages which do not share the syntactic, stylistic or even script conventions common to nineteenth-century American English – languages which have developed according to entirely different cultural, religious and aesthetic standards. It is just such a predicament which confronts translators who seek to introduce Hawthorne’s works into the vernaculars of the modern Middle East. And yet, despite these translatory obstacles, considerable effort has

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 77 ­

been devoted to rendering Hawthorne for Turkish, Hebrew and Arabic readers, with editions of The Scarlet Letter appearing in Istanbul, Tel Aviv and Cairo.6 Tangible confrontations with the complexities of American Romance, each of these Middle Eastern translations exemplifies the difficulties of translating Hawthorne’s signature ambiguity. It is Dāneshvar’s own Dāgh-e Nang, however, which, among these various editions, invites especial attention. Produced by ‘arguably [. . .] the most famous of all Iranian women authors ever published’, Dāneshvar’s translation has enjoyed a complex and continuous afterlife, dilating its reach through decades of Iranian receptions and re-releases, undergoing five editions to date, the latest appearing in 2010.7 Dispatching the Letter from Boston to Tehran, Dāgh-e Nang would initiate a unique correspondence between celebrated novelists in 1955, one which has survived into the first decades of the twenty-first century. It is this edition’s semantic negotiations and redactions, however, which are most significant, signalling both the possibilities and limits of importing Hawthorne into Iranian contexts, emblematic of the challenges implicit in dispatching American Romance into the modern Middle East.

♦♦♦ It is not the challenges of Hawthornean translation, but the vanity of all translation, that would occupy Dāneshvar’s attention as she opened the third edition of her Persian Scarlet Letter. Introducing this 1978 reprint of Dāgh-e Nang, Dāneshvar supplies readers with a short preface, cleverly entitled ‘‫ – ’ﺣﺮﻑ ﺁﺧﺭ‬an idiom implying ‘The Last Word’ (‘Harf-e Ākhir’), ˙ but also a pun on Hawthorne’s own title, signifying ‘The Last Letter’, and possibly even ‘Another Letter’ (‘Harf-e Ākhar’).8 Reflecting back more than ˙ two decades, Dāneshvar launches her punning preface by locating Dāgh-e Nang in her own biography, tracing its origins to her own youthful efforts in translation. It is a wistful tone that Dāneshvar initially strikes, recognising that ‘like many of my contemporaries, I also fell into the snare of translation [‫’]ﺪﺍﻡ ﺘﺮﺠﻣﻪ‬, ignoring the sage advice against ‘re-telling the stories of others’ (5). Noting that translation may serve as an effective means for literary ‘learning’ and ‘practice’ – ‘or at least entertainment’ – it is, nevertheless, merely an easy way out (5). ‘There is no doubt’, Dāneshvar asserts, that ‘if you know both languages well’ the act of ‘translation is much easier’ than original creation (6). The prevalence of translatory efforts among her contemporaries, Dāneshvar continues, is due partially to the linguistic facility acquired by her generation, their knowledge of ‘at least one foreign language’ – a skill itself prompted by their ‘training in the West,

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or in Western schools and Westernized Iranian schools’ (6).9 Gesturing perhaps to her own study in America, this ambivalent recognition of Iranian m ­ ultilingualism – an admirable skill, but also one which distracts from duties to home culture – recalls too Dāneshvar’s own multilingual translation efforts, not only rendering seminal English-language writers (Shaw and Saroyan, as well as Hawthorne), but also Russian and German authors (Chekhov and Schnitzler).10 It is only at the very end of her ‘Harf-e Ākhir’ preface that Dāneshvar ˙ turns attention from her own autobiography and to Hawthorne – a turn marked by a shift, too, in her tone, moving from ambivalence to advertisement. Shelving her misgivings concerning translation in general, Dāneshvar concludes the preface by recommending her Dāgh-e Nang specifically, addressing readers directly as she asserts that the ‘book which you have in hand is well worth the read’ (6). Hawthorne is, after all, a pioneer of his nation’s ‘literary history’, argues Dāneshvar, mentioning only Edgar Allan Poe as his rival in significance (7). It is not Hawthorne’s canonicity, however, but his untimely insight into the human condition that most recommends The Scarlet Letter. For Dāneshvar, the novel uniquely dramatises humanity’s struggles with ‘sin and suffering’ (‘‫)’ﮔﻧﺎﻩ ﻮ ﺭﻧﺞ‬. Most compelling, therefore, are Hawthorne’s characters, whose complexity and variety betray insights into ‘the human psyche’ (‘‫ – )’ﺮﻮﺍﻥ ﺁﺪﻤﻰ‬insights which ‘anticipate Freud’ himself (‘‫)’ﭘﻴﺶ ﺍﺯ ﻓﺭﻮﻴﺪ‬.11 Instructive in revealing Dāneshvar’s motivations for translation, ‘Harf-e ˙ Ākhir’ itself acts as an ironic act of translation, replacing and reproducing the preface which Hawthorne had originally designed for his own novel. Tracing the autobiographical roots of her Dāgh-e Nang, Dāneshvar offers a substitute for Hawthorne’s ‘Custom-House’ essay – his highly personal ‘Introductory’ to The Scarlet Letter. Hawthorne’s 1850 preface opens by apologising for succumbing to an ‘autobiographical impulse’, directly addressing his readers as he furnishes them with an intimate sketch of his ‘three years’ experience in a Custom-House’.12 Regretting the tedium of commercial labour and its hindering of his creative work, Hawthorne nevertheless reveals in this preface that it is the Custom House that is also responsible for his novel’s origins, recounting his discovery of the physical ‘scarlet letter’ in its attic. Merging biographical fact and playful fiction, the intimate colour of Hawthorne’s ‘Custom-House’, and its anxieties regarding artistic productivity, forms an intriguing precedent for Dāneshvar’s own ‘Harf-e Ākhir’ – a precedent that remains hidden, however, from ˙ Persian readers, who are not supplied with the ‘Custom-House’ in translation. Instead, Hawthorne’s personal preface is quietly superseded by Dāneshvar’s own, the American’s reflections on translating a story from

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 79 ­

history replaced by the Iranian’s reflections on the history of her translation. Extending the ‘autobiographical impulse’ of the ‘Custom-House’ – as well as its melancholic and apologetic tone – Dāneshvar’s preface authentically becomes ‘Another Letter’, supplanting the voice of Hawthorne’s own ‘Introductory’, displacing its 1850s literary angst in America by recalling similar angst in 1950s Iran. Rather than Hawthorne’s discovery of the physical ‘scarlet letter’ during an unproductive era in his career, Dāneshvar’s preface recounts her own discovery of the textual Scarlet Letter during her own unproductive era, her youth ‘caught’ in translation corresponding with Hawthorne’s own creative purgatory in the Custom House. A preface that is equally ‘belated’ and ‘additional’ – both Ākhir (‘last’) and Ākhar (‘another’) – Dāneshvar’s new ‘Letter’ offers a fit opening to Dāgh-e Nang, serving not only as precedent for her Hawthornean translation, but also a preview of the Hawthornean revisions and ambivalences that will surface through the unfolding career of this Iranian novelist.

♦♦♦ Commencing with an original Iranian introduction, rather than a translated American ‘Introductory’, Dāneshvar’s third edition reflects a strategy of replacement that is evident from Dāgh-e Nang’s initial incarnation in 1955. Punning and playing with Hawthorne’s ‘Letter’ in particular (‘Harf’), Dāneshvar’s preface helpfully focuses attention on the most basic, ˙ yet intriguing, challenges presented by the American novel. Confronting any translator of The Scarlet Letter is the rendition of its central trope – the ‘Letter’ inscribed in the novel’s very title. Although the first and simplest of graphics, the ‘A’ at the core of Hawthorne’s text raises intractable problems for Middle Eastern rendition in particular. Languages such as Persian do not, of course, share the Latin alphabet common to vernaculars of Western Europe and, as a result, lack the very figure which is ‘emblazoned’ upon Hester’s ‘bosom’. While the Perso-Arabic alphabet does possess its own ‘A’ (the ’alef, ‘‫)’ا‬, this Semitic counterpart fails as a fitting equivalent for Hawthorne’s Latin letter, being wholly unconnected with the English words implied by the ‘A’ within Hawthorne’s novel – most obviously, ‘Adultery’. The very titles chosen by Middle Eastern translators of The Scarlet Letter suggest the difficulty raised by this alphabetic disparity. When first published in 1955, Dāneshvar’s own Persian rendition of Hawthorne’s novel features as its title ‘‫( ’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﮒ‬Dāgh-e Nang) – a phrase signifying not ‘The Scarlet Letter’, but rather ‘The Mark of Shame’, or, more simply, ‘Stigma’.13 Similarly, the first Arabic rendition of Hawthorne’s Romance, which appeared just three years later, in 1958, elected to follow

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this trend, calling itself ‘‫( ’اﻠﺸﺎﺭﺓ اﻠﻗﺭﻣﺰﻳﺔ‬ash-Shārat al-Qirmuzīyah) – namely, ‘The Scarlet Sign’.14 Although these rendered titles differ, they share a common approach to Hawthorne’s Letter, both opting to replace this titular character with ‘symbolic’ terminology. Avoiding literal translation, these Middle Eastern translations emphasise the figurative function of Hester’s ‘A’ rather than its graphic form – entitling the US novel as ‘sign’ rather than ‘letter’. Opening the first pages of Dāneshvar’s rendition, such orthographic emendation is found not only in the title but also in the text of her Persian edition. Throughout Dāgh-e Nang, the Iranian translator frequently dissolves the particularity of Hawthorne’s ‘letter’, preferring to replace his specific glyph with a general symbol. The novel’s titular graphic is initially described in the second chapter – ‘The Market-Place’ – where Hester Prynne first mounts the scaffold to exhibit ‘that SCARLET LETTER, so fantastically embroidered and illuminated upon her bosom’ (53–4). Turning to Dāneshvar’s rendition, Hawthorne’s capitalised phrase is conveyed through a curious, double translation; instead of the prominent ‘SCARLET LETTER’, Persian readers encounter:

‫»ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﻚ« ﻳﺎ ﺁﻥ ﺤﺭﻑ ﺴﺭﺧﻓﺎﻡ‬ [the ‘mark of shame’ or that scarlet letter]

(15)

Two expressions here substitute for Hawthorne’s single original, Dāneshvar replacing the novel’s source phrase with both a verbatim equivalent and a figurative rendition – both ‘scarlet letter’ (‘‫ )’ﺤﺭﻑ ﺴﺭﺧﻓﺎﻡ‬and ‘mark of shame’ (‘‫)’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﻚ‬. This dual substitution not only offers Persian readers two distinct representations of Hester’s ‘badge’, but also subtly privileges Dāneshvar’s own phrase over Hawthorne’s original; here, the ‘mark of shame’ antecedes ‘that scarlet letter’, with the first phrase further accented through its appearance in Persian quotation marks (‘«‫)’»ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﻚ‬. While this peculiar interpolation into Hawthorne’s text may seem intrusive and unwarranted, it does allow Dāneshvar to reinforce the purpose and quality of Hester’s ‘emblem’, thereby guiding her readers to a sound interpretation of this central ‘letter’. Unlike Hawthorne’s first audience, Persian readers would not necessarily intuit the intended implications of Hester’s ‘A’, likely unaware of the verbal associations suggested by this letter in English. While readers of the original ‘The Market-Place’ could be expected to grasp the connection between the red ‘A’ and ‘Adultery’, this connection may not be immediately apparent to Dāneshvar’s target audience; anticipating this difficulty, the Iranian translator elects to gloss Hawthorne’s ‘scarlet letter’, substituting in its place a phrase which sug-

­

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 81

gests both the moral connotations of the ‘letter’ (i.e. ‘shameful’), as well as its referential quality (i.e. ‘symbol’). It is with such a gloss that Dāneshvar handles most of the references to Hester’s ‘scarlet letter’ as the second chapter develops. When, for example, ‘the most iron-visaged of the old dames’ rages against Hester and her ‘red letter’ (54), this latter phrase is replaced with ‘‫‘( ’ﺁﻦ ﻨﺸﺎﻥ ﻗﺭﻣﺰ ﺭﻨﻚ‬that crimsoncoloured sign’) – a substitution which again erases Hawthorne’s graphic, replacing it with mere ‘sign’ (i.e. ‘nishān’, ‘‫ ;’ﻨﺸﺎﻥ‬16). Similarly, when the ‘grim beadle’ ushers Hester through the ‘crowd of spectators’, commanding her to exhibit her ‘scarlet letter in the market-place’ (54), Dāneshvar once again exchanges ‘scarlet letter’ here for her preferred phrase, ‘mark of shame’ (‘dāgh-e nang’, ‘‫ ;’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﻚ‬16). These substitutions – which set a precedent followed throughout much of this Iranian translation – succeed in diverting the Persian reader away from the Roman ‘letter’ at the centre of Hawthorne’s original novel, replacing this unfamiliar graphic with a ‘sign’ more accessible to Dāneshvar’s audience. This double ‘translation’ – which transforms both the linguistic form and semantic constitution of Hawthorne’s eponymous ‘emblem’ – furthermore functions to alter the interpretive task confronting the novel’s readers. Instead of grappling with the American Letter – an alphabetic figure pregnant with potential verbal referents – Persian audiences are frequently given instead an adjectivally delimited ‘sign’, a generic ‘symbol’ defined for them as ‘shameful’. There are, however, numerous instances throughout The Scarlet Letter where the particular contours of Hawthorne’s ‘letter’ are not so easily blurred, passages in which this ‘A’ is specifically inscribed. As the novel unfolds, readers begin to find this primary letter accruing a wide spectrum of meanings, as well as appearing in a wide variety of locales. In Hawthorne’s twelfth chapter, for example, his ‘A’ materialises not only upon ‘Hester’s bosom’ but also in the ‘muffled sky’ (153); during the ‘Minister’s Vigil’, Reverend Dimmesdale ‘look[s] upward to the zenith’, discerning ‘the appearance of an immense letter, – the letter A, – marked out in lines of dull red light’ (155). Similarly, three chapters later, Pearl’s playful gathering of ‘sea-weed’ leads her to ‘imitat[e], as best she could, on her own bosom, the decoration with which she was so familiar on her mother’s. A letter, – the letter A, – but freshly green instead of scarlet’ (178). Episodes such as these function to transplant Hester’s ‘letter’ into a diverse range of settings, allowing her ‘A’ to become aligned with Hawthorne’s other principal characters. And while this reconfiguring of the novel’s titular ‘emblem’ undoubtedly enriches The Scarlet Letter’s symbolic significance, it also presents a persistent problem for Persian translation. These direct references and shifting contexts of Hawthorne’s ‘A’ serve to confront

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the Iranian translator repeatedly with the novel’s alphabetic particularity, posing questions as to how this specific graphic may be rendered in a language which possesses no clear equivalent. Dāneshvar ultimately answers this recurrent problem of rendition in a curious way – namely, through declining to translate the novel’s letter altogether. In her treatment of passages which explicitly reference Hawthorne’s ‘A’, the Iranian translator simply elects to transport this Roman graphic directly into her Persian translation, reproducing this letter exactly as it appears in her US source. This decision to replicate – rather than translate – the ‘A’ of The Scarlet Letter gives rise to peculiar interruptions in Dāneshvar’s Persian translation, with this American letter occasionally disrupting the customary flow of her Perso-Arabic script. For example, in her rendition of the previously cited passage from ‘The Minister’s Vigil’, Dāneshvar depicts Dimmesdale as catching a sight of:

A ‫ﺼﻮﺭﺗﻰ ﻋﻈﻴﻢ ﻫﻤﭽﻮﻥ ﺣﺭﻑ‬ [an immense figure like the letter A] (122)

And similarly, when Pearl mischievously adorns herself with ‘eel-grass’, Dāneshvar portrays her emblematic decoration as:

‫ ﺭﺍ ﺭﻮﻯ ﻠﺒﺎﺴﺶ ﻧﻗﺶ ﻜﺭﺪ‬A ‫ﺣﺭﻑ‬ [the letter A drawn on the front of her garment]

(148)

Both passages function to preserve The Scarlet Letter’s original graphic within Persian translation, confronting Iranian readers with an alphabetic character which is linguistically foreign. In stark opposition to her redaction of Hawthorne’s titular phrase (i.e. ‘the scarlet letter’), Dāneshvar here forgoes any attempt to translate the American ‘A’, leaving this single element of her source material completely untouched within her rendition. In failing to supply a Persian equivalent for Hawthorne’s character, Dāneshvar once again, however, substantially shifts the interpretive possibilities of the original American novel. Just as her previous interventions had amended Hawthorne’s text through redefining his ‘letter’ as ‘symbol’, Dāneshvar’s lack of intervention here serves to transform the novel’s letter into an exotic sign – confronting readers not with a familiar alphabetic character, but with a Latin symbol alien to the Persian text in which it is situated. Dāneshvar’s importation of this unaltered ‘A’ ironically functions to alter its semantic constitution, as this American glyph – within Persian rendition – comprises not the very first and most familiar of letters, but rather a foreign icon.

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 83 ­

Allowing Hawthorne’s ‘A’ to retain its American form within this Iranian edition also naturally compounds the hermeneutic problem posed by this ambiguous letter, widening the linguistic and semantic gap between Persian reader and the novel’s eponymous emblem. Recognising the potential for such an interpretive breach, Dāneshvar occasionally finds it necessary to interpolate paratexts into her Persian translation, innovating footnotes aimed at guiding her readers’ understanding of this foreign ‘A’. Reminiscent of her translatory gloss of phrases such as ‘the scarlet letter’, Dāneshvar’s apparatus seeks to mitigate the difficulties of Hawthorne’s alphabetic symbolism, granting her audience access to information readily available to Anglo-American readers. Returning to ‘The Minister’s Vigil’, for example, Hawthorne presents another explanation for the ‘A’ witnessed by Dimmesdale in the ‘muffled sky’; at the chapter’s conclusion, the ‘old sexton’ asks the minister: “But did your reverence hear of the portent that was seen last night? A great red letter in the sky, – the letter A, – which we interpret to stand for Angel. For, as our good Governor Winthrop was made an angel this past night, it was doubtless held fit that there should be some notice thereof!” (158)

The ‘interpretation’ here offered is based entirely upon the verbal connotations of the novel’s central ‘portent’, the sexton extrapolating ‘Angel’ from the celestial manifestation of its initial letter. And while this simple analogy is immediately comprehensible to Anglophone readers, it is unclear in Persian why this ‘red letter in the sky’ should necessarily imply the term ‘Angel’. The sexton’s reported vision appears in Dāneshvar’s translation as:



‫ ﺪﺭ ﺁﺴﻤﺎﻥ ﺪﻴﺪﻩ ﺷﺪﻩ ﺍﺴﺖ ﻜﻪ ﺒﻨﻈﺭﻣﺎ ﻋﻼﻤﺖ ﻈﻬﻮﺭ ﻓﺭﺸﺗﻪﺍﻯ ﺍﺴﺖ‬A ‫ﻴﻚ ﺣﺭﻑ‬ [a single letter A was seen in the sky, which, in our view, is a sign of the appearance of an angel (i.e. firishtah)]  (125)

Although a reasonable rendition of its Hawthornean source, this Persian statement seems wholly illogical, equating the foreign graphic ‘A’ with the entirely unrelated term ‘firishtah’ (‘‫’ﻓﺭﺸﺗﻪ‬, ‘angel’). Even though perhaps familiar with the Roman alphabet, Dāneshvar’s readers may still fail to make sense of this translation, as the Persian word for ‘angel’ (‘firishtah’) possesses no discernible relationship to the sound or form of this English ‘A’. As a result, Dāneshvar is compelled to append a footnote immediately after the sexton’s statement, clarifying his ‘interpretation’:

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‫ ﺸﺭﻮﻉ ﻣﻴﺸﻮﺪ‬A ‫( ﺑﺎ ﺣﺭﻑ‬Angel) ‫( ﺰﻴﺭﺍ ﺪﺭ ﺍﻨﮔﻠﻴﺴﻰ ﻜﻠﻤﮥ ﻓﺭﺸﺘﻪ‬١ [1) For in English, the word ‘angel’ (Angel) begins with the letter A] (125)

What began as a simple word association in Hawthorne’s English here becomes a somewhat convoluted process of Persian commentary; unlike Hawthorne’s Anglo-American readers, Dāneshvar’s audience must follow a curious series of ciphers to unravel the sexton’s meaning – presented first with a foreign letter, then an equation of ‘A’ with ‘firishtah’, and finally being referred to a footnote explaining this English letter and its verbal derivation. It is both the alphabetic essence of The Scarlet Letter, as well as Dāneshvar’s importation of its ‘A’ into her rendition, which necessitate this intervention into Hawthorne’s narrative. And although such annotations succeed in conveying the requisite information to a Persian readership, their appearance in this Iranian edition also highlights the intractable difficulty posed by the novel’s orthographically entrenched symbolism. In Dāneshvar’s inability to find a transparent equivalent for Hawthorne’s letter – and in her reluctance to translate literally his titular phrase – the limits of literary rendition are revealed, as are the restricted capacities of Persian translation to replicate the ‘character’ of this specific US novel. However, while Dāneshvar’s translation inevitably modifies its Hawthornean source, her modifications could also be seen as enriching – or perhaps even amplifying – the novel’s figurative core. Although Dāgh-e Nang fails to convey effectively the original alphabetic implications of The Scarlet Letter, this Iranian edition does function to transform Hawthorne’s ‘A’ into a symbol both alien and obscure – qualities which befit the ‘hieroglyphic’ at the centre of this American text. In replacing ‘letter’ with ‘sign’, and including a Roman graphic in her Persian text, Dāneshvar accentuates the emblematic texture of Hawthorne’s novel, while also heightening the peculiarity and inscrutability of his central symbol – producing a Persian translation which lacks the verbal fertility of this American ‘A’, but which concurrently inscribes an enhanced sense of this icon’s ‘strangeness and remoteness’ (35).

♦♦♦ Through its first chapters, Dāgh-e Nang shifts not only Hawthorne’s alphabetic character but also his human characters, subtly reforming the identity of his four protagonists. In the novel’s primary figures – Hester, Dimmesdale, Chillingworth and Pearl – Dāneshvar is confronted by fictional personages who resist simple and direct translation into

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 85 ­

Persian. Although rendering literary character is always a formidable task, Hawthorne’s highly allusive prose and his penchant for verbal multivalence serve to anchor his protagonists solidly in Anglo-American traditions of reference and language – grounding his cast of characters in cultural and linguistic contexts from which it is highly difficult to extricate them. Critical readers have long acknowledged, for instance, the figurative quality of character names in The Scarlet Letter, recognising Hawthorne’s tendency to christen his protagonists according to facets of their personalities; ‘Dimmesdale’, for example, appears to reflect the ‘dim interior’ of the Reverend, while ‘Chillingworth’ bespeaks the ‘chilling’ quality of Hester’s husband.15 Although transparent, and perhaps simplistic, these nominal correspondences present an obstacle to effective foreign translation, being wholly dependent on domestic word play – on correlations between (English) surnames and (English) adjectives. The linguistic specificity of Hawthorne’s appellative references ultimately prevents their retention within Dāneshvar’s own edition. In treating the novel’s male protagonists, the Iranian translator elects simply to transliterate their names directly into Persian; ‘Dimmesdale’ thus becomes ‘‫‘( ’ﺩﻴﻤﺴﺪﻴﻞ‬Dīmisdail’), while ‘Chillingworth’ appears as ‘‫‘( ’ﭼﻴﻠﻴﻨﻚ ﻮﺭﺙ‬Chīlīnk varth’).16 Although these transliterations succeed in preserving the sound of Hawthorne’s originals, they relinquish their allusive significance; Dāneshvar’s equivalents – unlike their English sources – are devoid of referential meaning, possessing no verbal analogues in Persian. While American readers are invited to spot parallels between character and name throughout The Scarlet Letter, Iranian readers of Dāgh-e Nang are not offered these parallels – at least not until they reach the title of Hawthorne’s sixth chapter – ‘Pearl’. Unlike all the other names within her translation, Dāneshvar decides to translate – rather than merely transliterate – the label given to Hester’s daughter. Chapter 6 of the Iranian translation is thus entitled ‘‫‘ – ’ﻤﺭﻮﺍﺭﻴﺩ‬Marvārīd’ – the Persian term for ‘pearl’. This deviation from Dāneshvar’s usual approach to translation reflects the overt symbolism of this Hawthornean name; unlike the suggestive quality of ‘Dimmesdale’ and ‘Chillingworth’, ‘Pearl’ is explicitly referential, and the Iranian translator thus finds it necessary to render the lexical content of her name. Reading the opening sentences of Chapter 6, however, we also find Dāneshvar unwilling to forego transliteration altogether, electing to introduce her chapter’s titular character with an innovative double rendition:



‫ﺰﻴﺭﺍ ﻫﺴﺘﺭ ﻜﻮﺪﻚ ﺨﻮﺪﺭﺍ »ﭙﺭﻞ« ﻴﻌﻧﻰ ﻤﺭﻮﺍﺭﻴﺩ ﻧﺎﻡ ﺪﺍﺩﻩ ﺒﻮﺪ‬ [For Hester had given her own child the name ‘Pirl’, that is, ‘Marvārīd’ (‘Pearl’)]

(51)

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Two names are here offered for Hester’s daughter, the first conveying the sound of her original name (‘‫’ﭙﺭﻞ‬, ‘Pirl’), with the second conveying this name’s significance (‘‫ – ’ﻤﺭﻮﺍﺭﻴﺩ‬i.e. ‘Marvārīd’, ‘Pearl’). And while this dual translation permits Dāneshvar both to reproduce and to render Hawthorne’s English name, it is her handling of this name’s figurative origins which is of most interest. Immediately following Pearl’s introduction, Hawthorne’s readers learn that her name derives not from her ‘calm, white, unimpassioned lustre’; instead, Hester ‘named the infant “Pearl,” as being of great price’ (89). This simple rationale for the infant’s christening is rendered by Dāneshvar as:



‫ﻜﻮﺪﻚ ﺧﻮﺪﺭﺍ ﻤﺭﻮﺍﺭﻴﺪ ﻨﺎﻢ ﺪﺍﺪ ﺰﻴﺭﺍ ﻜﻮﺪﻜﺵ ﺒﺭﺍﻯ ﺍﻮ ﺒﻴﻨﻬﺎﻴﺖ ﮔﺭﺍﻧﺒﻬﺎ ﺒﻮﺪ‬ [(Hester) named her child ‘Pearl’ because in her view her child was of infinite value]

(51)

Although expressing the general sense of its American source, this Persian translation seems less able to communicate an essential element of Hawthorne’s text – namely, its biblical reference. Depicting Hester’s daughter ‘as being of great price’ clearly recalls the language of the Authorised Version, which likens the ‘kingdom of heaven’ to ‘a pearl of great price’ – a Christian parable which Hawthorne here cites in order to invest Pearl’s name with scriptural significance. In Dāneshvar’s version, the alliterative diction of this well known Gospel phrase is lost, with ‘Marvārīd’ (‘Pearl’) here acquiring her name from being ‘bī-nihāyat garānbahā’ (‘of infinite value’). This Iranian rendition thus succeeds in conveying the ‘worth’ of Hester’s daughter, but does not employ language specifically evocative of the scriptural precedent which underlies Pearl’s introduction in The Scarlet Letter – a distinction which functions to obscure the biblical origins of Pearl’s symbolic name within Persian translation.17 It is not Hawthorne’s character names, however, but rather his character epithets which present the most complex problems for Persian rendition. Essential to the formation of literary character within The Scarlet Letter is Hawthorne’s ascription of specific attributes or labels to his four protagonists. After Pearl’s introduction in Chapter 6, for example, the novel repeatedly refers to her as an ‘elf-child’, consistently characterising her as a ‘fairy’, a ‘sprite’ or an ‘imp’ (108, 110, 92, 106). Such epithets bespeak the ‘fantastic’ and ‘freakish’ quality of Hester’s daughter, denoting her ‘wild flow of spirits’ as well as her enforced ‘seclusion from human society’ (92, 97). These labels also pose serious difficulties for precise rendition, however, as they are highly idiomatic English terms, words which possess no simple Persian equivalents. As a result, Dāneshvar is often compelled

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 87 ­

to replace such epithets with rather imperfect translations, innovating substitutes which unavoidably alter their American originals. Most prominent among Pearl’s labels, for example, is ‘elf-child’, a phrase which appears within the title of Hawthorne’s eighth chapter, ‘The Elf-Child and the Minister’ (108) – a title rendered by Dāneshvar as:

‫ﺒﭽﮥ ﺸﻴﻄﺎﻦ ﻮ ﻜﺸﻴﺵ‬ [The Devil-Child and the Minister]

(71)

Hawthorne’s ‘elf-child’ is here replaced by the Persian ‘bache-ye shayt ān’ ˙ – a colloquial usage, suggesting ‘urchin’ or ‘little terror’, but which literally signifies ‘satan-child’. A somewhat imperfect substitution for Hawthorne’s original, this rendition succeeds in foregrounding at least one aspect of Pearl’s character featured throughout The Scarlet Letter; Pearl, after all, does appear a ‘demon offspring’ to ‘the neighbouring townspeople’, with Hester herself even glimpsing an ‘evil spirit’ behind her daughter’s countenance (99, 97). In transforming ‘elf-child’ into ‘devilchild’, however, Dāneshvar also denudes Hawthorne’s original text of its ambiguous supernaturalism, excising here an epithet which is neither exclusively good nor exclusively evil in significance. Terms such as ‘elf’, ‘fairy’ and ‘sprite’ used throughout The Scarlet Letter serve to portray Pearl as other-worldly without ultimately deciding her moral value, allowing the novel’s narrator to construct an ethically ambivalent character, a ‘phantasmagoric’ and ‘playful’ figure neither exclusively demonic nor exclusively angelic in her origins.18 Dāneshvar’s inability to find a precise replacement for Hawthorne’s term leads her to dilute the rich ambiguity of this original epithet, introducing Pearl to Iranian readers not through her ‘elvish’ title but rather a ‘satanic’ one – not as a ‘fantastic’ figure but rather a ‘diabolic’ one. This difficulty of translating Hawthornean epithet confronts Dāneshvar not only in her rendition of Pearl, but also in her rendition of Roger Chillingworth, a character prominently identified within The Scarlet Letter as ‘the leech’. Unlike Pearl’s ‘elf-child’, Chillingworth’s label poses a problem for Persian translation due not to its moral ambiguity, but rather to its semantic duality – ‘leech’ serves as one of the novel’s central puns, signifying both ‘physician’ and ‘blood-sucker’, allowing Hawthorne to denote not only Chillingworth’s profession, but also his parasitic attachment to Dimmesdale. This double significance of Chillingworth’s English epithet clearly presents a formidable challenge to straightforward Persian rendition; however, when confronted by ‘The Leech’ as Hawthorne’s title for his ninth chapter, Dāneshvar finds it possible to offer an ­inventive

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solution to this translatory problem, substituting ‘‫ – ’ﭙﺰﺷﻚ‬that is, ‘The Physician’ (81). This replacement – as here rendered – seems sensible, but also flat, failing to convey the dual meanings originally implied by Hawthorne’s epithet. Persian readers, however, may detect an ambiguity lurking beneath this simple substitution, Dāneshvar supplying a word which has the potential to signify not only ‘physician’ but also ‘owl’. Read most commonly as ‘pizishk’ (‘physician’), the Persian ‘‫ ’ﭙﺰﺷﻚ‬may also be read less obviously as ‘pazashk’ (‘owl’), offering Dāneshvar a term that parallels Hawthorne’s own equivocal double entendre. Comparable to the ‘leech’ of The Scarlet Letter, Dāneshvar’s translation conveys a professional and natural import, functioning to characterise Chillingworth as both a doctor and a creature of the wild: both ‘physician’ and ‘owl’. This epithet substitution also functions, however, to redraw the figurative outlines of Hawthorne’s character, presenting Iranian readers with a ‘Chillingworth’ rather different than the one originally found within The Scarlet Letter. While using the label ‘leech’ allows Hawthorne to reinforce Chillingworth’s vampiric nature, Dāneshvar’s replacement (‘physician’/‘owl’) lacks such a connotation, failing to convey the parasitism essential to Chillingworth’s portrait within the American novel. And yet, despite this significant discrepancy between Persian rendition and English source, Dāneshvar’s chosen substitute does nevertheless function as a surprisingly apt label for Hawthorne’s character. Unlike in modern English usage, ‘owls’ are not typically associated with wisdom in Persian, but rather with misfortune, these birds portrayed, in particular, as ­‘inauspicious’ companions – a subtext entirely appropriate for Chillingworth.19 Furthermore, Dāneshvar’s Persian substitution functions also to complement images indigenous to Hawthorne’s original, serving to amplify the symbolic resonance of his American text. In the climax to the novel’s tenth chapter, for example, Chillingworth intrudes upon the sleeping Dimmesdale, violating the Minister’s privacy as he naps; describing this trespass, Hawthorne notes that Dimmesdale’s slumber was usually ‘as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig’ (138). This association of Dimmesdale with a ‘small bird’ – meaningful as it is in Hawthorne’s original – becomes even more significant within the Persian rendition, as this avian simile accords well with Chillingworth’s faint association with an ‘owl’. Readers of the Iranian translation find Dimmesdale’s ‘hopping bird’ image (‘‫ﺍﻯ‬ ‫ )’ﭘﺭﻭﺍﺰ ﭘﺭﻨﺪﻩ‬followed immediately by the entrance of Chillingworth, who is referenced, as usual, by his epithet ‘‫’ﭘﺰﺷﻚ‬ (‘physician’/‘owl’; 103). Unlike Hawthorne’s text, this Persian rendition features a latent juxtaposition between Dimmesdale and Chillingworth in terms of animal imagery, associating the former with a small, flighty

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 89 ­

‘bird’ and the latter with a stealthy bird of prey – with an ‘owl’. Although Dāneshvar’s Persian pun clearly fails to express the significance of Hawthorne’s ‘leech’, it does function to intensify the meaning of the American text, here constructing a symbolic pairing (‘small bird’/‘owl’) which neatly expresses the predatory relationship between Dimmesdale and Chillingworth – a pairing wholly unique to the Persian translation, yet utterly faithful to Hawthorne’s original intent.

♦♦♦ The transfer of any novel across the boundaries of language raises difficult questions regarding the most effective means of rendering literary symbol and fictional character. The translation of The Scarlet Letter into a Middle Eastern vernacular, however, also raises the problem of religious difference, challenging translators to find ways of expressing Christian content through language shaped by Islamic culture and history. Although the American novel is not primarily interested in either faith or theology, its Puritan New England setting necessitates Hawthorne’s frequent use of religious diction, his regular inclusion of ecclesiastic and doctrinal terms within both narration and dialogue. Such appearance of language specific to the Christian tradition presents a persistent difficulty for translators who target Muslim-majority audiences, confronting them with vocabulary which invites religious, as well as linguistic, conversion. The first chapters of Dāgh-e Nang find Dāneshvar frequently successful in conveying the Christian content of Hawthorne’s religious vocabulary; terms such as ‘minister’ and ‘church’ receive transparent Persian replacements (e.g. ‘‫ ’ﻜﺸﻴﺵ‬and ‘‫)’ﻜﻠﻴﺴﺎ‬, effectively expressing the novel’s ecclesiastic setting and communicating to Iranian readers the Christian framework of this American drama.20 These initial chapters also evidence, however, Dāneshvar’s willingness to shift the religious parameters of her US source, insinuating markedly Muslim phraseology into Hawthorne’s narrative. An early instance of such Islamic interpolation occurs in Dāneshvar’s treatment of ‘The Market-Place’, a chapter which introduces the Boston townspeople as they debate Hester and her penalty; first to voice her opinion is ‘a hard-featured dame of fifty’ who speaks on behalf of: we women, being of mature age and church-members in good repute. (51)

In Dāneshvar’s translation, the meaning of this simple characterisation is rendered adequately; however, Persian readers receive also a slight extension:

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‫ﻣﺎ ﺰﻨﻬﺎ ﻜﻪ ﻫﻣﻪ ﻣﺎﻦ ﻣﺎ ﺸﺎﺀ ﷲ ﺒﺎﻟﻎ ﻮ ﻜﺎﻣﻞ ﻮ‬ ‫ﺧﻮﺵ ﺍﺴﻢ ﻮ ﺭﺴﻢ ﻫﺴﺘﻴﻢ ﻮ ﻋﻀﻮ ﻜﻠﻴﺴﺎ ﻫﻢ ﻫﺴﺘﻴﻢ‬ [we women, we who all are – as God willed – of mature full age, and of good name and custom, as well as church members] (13)

Interrupting Hawthorne’s original description, readers discover an idiom highly characteristic of Muslim discourse – the Arabic phrase ‘‫’ﻣﺎ ﺸﺎﺀ ﷲ‬ (‘mā shā’ Allāh’) – literally ‘as God willed’ or, more simply, ‘God willing’. Found several times in the Qur’ān (for example, 6: 128), this devout interjection is customarily used to acknowledge divine bounty; here it serves to give thanks for the longevity of the ‘dame’ and her peers, bequeathing a pious flavour to the speech of this good woman. Although this religious sentiment may seem consonant with Hawthorne’s character, Dāneshvar’s blessing is also wholly unique to her translation, having no basis within her US source. Furthermore, this insertion of phraseology original to Muslim scripture and civilisation into Hawthorne’s passage also provokes an intriguing irony, allowing for a sanctimonious Puritan to thank ‘Allāh’ in Arabic – a zealous ‘church-member’ to boast of her ‘good repute’ while concurrently voicing an expression essential to Islamic religiosity. Such insertion of language familiar to Muslim readers is accomplished by Dāneshvar not only through extending, but also through rewriting, Hawthorne’s original diction – not only through supplementing The Scarlet Letter, but also through creatively substituting its Christian vocabulary. Perhaps the most prominent example of such religious replacement occurs in the Persian title for Chapter 17: originally named ‘The Pastor and his Parishioner’, this chapter detailing the reunion between Hester and Dimmesdale is re-entitled by Dāneshvar ‘‫‘( ’ﻤﺭﻴﺪ ﻭ ﻤﺭﺍﺪ‬Murīd va Murād’), ‘The Desiring and the Desired’ (161). This titular replacement differs starkly from its American source, seeming to convey neither the general meaning nor the religious connotation of Hawthorne’s original. The two words provided here to translate ‘Pastor’ and ‘Parishioner’ derive from the same Arabic root (‘‫’ﺍﺭﺍﺪ‬, ‘desire’), the first term comprising an active participle (‘murīd’, ‘desiring’) and the second a passive participle (‘murād’, ‘desired’). This curious rendition, although clearly divergent from its source, does succeed in echoing the verbal alliteration of Hawthorne’s title – repeating ‘m’ rather than ‘p’ – in addition to suggesting the passionate ‘desire’ which will be the central focus of his chapter. However, those familiar with Muslim terminology will realise that Dāneshvar’s rendition does not eliminate the religiosity of her source, but rather functions to exchange its Christian terminology for Islamic. Literally signifying

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 91 ­

‘Desiring and Desired’, the phrase ‘Murīd va Murād’ belongs also to the technical vocabulary of Muslim spirituality, signifying in this religious context ‘Spiritual Disciple and Spiritual Expert’.21 Such a connotation thus allows Dāneshvar’s rendition to convey the hierarchal and sacred relationship implied by Hawthorne’s ecclesiastic phrase, replacing the Protestant ‘Pastor and Parishioner’ with the Muslim ‘Novice and Adept’. This exchange of religious language, however, once again entails that the characters of this American novel are presented to Persian readers in terms of Islamic, rather than Christian, categories, with Hester and Dimmesdale’s relationship here configured not within a Puritan but rather a Sufi framework. Interpolating Muslim diction into Hawthorne’s Christian drama enables Dāneshvar to produce a translation amenable to her Persian audience, colouring her American source with religious diction more accessible to Iranian readers. However, in exchanging Islamic content for Christian, Dāneshvar risks not only redrawing the cultural parameters of The Scarlet Letter, but also altering its essential significance. The revision of Hawthorne’s language potentially revises, too, his narrative’s broader meaning – an issue that becomes of increasing importance as the novel builds to its fatal climax. Reaching Hawthorne’s penultimate chapter – ‘The Revelation of the Scarlet Letter’ – we find not only an increase in Dāneshvar’s religious interventions, but also an increase in their significance, an amplification of the effect which these Persian emendations have upon the novel’s meaning as a whole. Beginning with the title of this twenty-third chapter, Dāneshvar’s rendition once again differs from her US source; rather than ‘The Revelation of the Scarlet Letter’ (248), Persian readers are offered:

‫ﺒﺭ ﻤﻼ ﺷﺪﻥ ﺩﺍﻍ ﻧﻧﻚ‬ [The Exposing of the Mark of Shame]

(224)

Dāneshvar here continues her practice of exchanging Hawthorne’s ‘scarlet letter’ with ‘mark of shame’ (‘‫)’ﺩﺍﻍ ﻧﻧﻚ‬, substituting Persian ‘sign’ for American ‘letter’. Accompanying this familiar substitution, however, readers also find Hawthorne’s ‘revelation’ replaced with Dāneshvar’s ‘‫‘( ’ﺒﺭ ﻤﻼ ﺷﺪﻥ‬bar malā shudan’, ‘become manifest’, ‘exposed’) – an exchange which serves to blur the religious colouring of Hawthorne’s original title. While the term ‘revelation’ is evocative of divine utterance and scriptural prophecy within the Christian tradition, the Persian phrase ‘bar malā shudan’ indicates a process of disclosure or uncovering, without necessarily implying the mystery and sacred portent of its American source.

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This subtle move away from biblical language is bolstered throughout Hawthorne’s climactic chapter, with one of the novel’s most crucial passages significantly altered through such Persian rendition; at the culmination of Dimmesdale’s confession to the assembly, the Reverend exposes his ‘breast’ to the crowd, prompting the narrator to exclaim: It was revealed! But it were irreverent to describe that revelation. (255)

This statement – characteristic of Hawthorne’s ambiguous, equivocal style – is replaced by Dāneshvar with the following:



‫ﺪﺍﻍ ﺒﺭ ﻤﻼﺀ ﺸﺩ! ﺒﻬﺗﺭﺳﺖ ﺍﺰ ﺘﻮﺼﻴﻒ ﺁﻥ ﻨﺸﺎﻦ ﺧﻮﺪﺪﺍﺭﻯ ﻜﺭﺩ‬ [The mark became exposed! It is better to keep oneself from describing that sign]

(232)

The biblical overtones of Hawthorne’s prose are not only muted here, but silenced altogether, with the words ‘revealed’ and ‘revelation’ both eliminated from this Persian rendition, the former replaced again with ‘bar malā’ shudan’ (‘‫’ﺒﺭ ﻤﻼﺀ ﺷﺪﻥ‬, ‘become exposed’). In purging Hawthorne’s religious terms, however, Dāneshvar also substantially shifts the tone of this vital passage, eliminating its miraculous and sacred ­implications – a shift further reinforced here by Dāneshvar’s identification of the object ‘revealed’. Departing from her evasive source, Dāneshvar defines Hawthorne’s pronouns, replacing his vague ‘it’ and ‘that’ with her own nominal substitutes; rather than ‘it was revealed’, Dāneshvar provides ‘the mark became exposed’ (‘‫)’ﺪﺍﻍ ﺒﺭ ﻤﻼﺀ ﺸﺩ‬, and rather than ‘that revelation’ Persian readers are given ‘that sign’ (‘‫)’ﺁﻥ ﻨﺸﺎﻦ‬. In excising Hawthorne’s Christian language (‘revelation’), Dāneshvar is thus also prompted to determine what appears on Dimmesdale’s chest (‘that sign’), producing a Persian rendition which not only fails to convey the ­apocalyptic nuance of the original, but also serves to identify that which escapes identification in Hawthorne’s original, thereby upsetting the ­narrative mystique essential to this closing scene within the American novel.22 Such revision of the novel’s climactic chapter occurs not only through Dāneshvar’s excision of Hawthorne’s Christian reference, but also through her interpolation of Islamic diction; in addition to amending the revelatory ambiguity of Dimmesdale’s confession, Dāneshvar also subtly alters his valediction, injecting Muslim vocabulary into the Minister’s dying words. Addressing Hester in advance of his public ‘revelation’, Dimmesdale begins his parting sentiments with the following declaration:

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 93 ­

“in the name of Him, so terrible and so merciful [. . .]” (253)

This introductory oath, articulating both the dreadful and the gracious qualities of the Puritan God, undergoes a slight change within Persian rendition: ‫ﺗﺭﺍ ﺒﻧﺎﻢ ﺨﺪﺍﻮﻧﺪﻯ ﺴﻮﮔﻨﺪ ﻤﻴﺪﻫﻢ ﻜﻪ ﻗﻬﺎﺭ ﻮ ﺭﺤﻤﺎﻦ ﻮ ﺭﺤﻴﻢ ﺍﺴﺖ‬ [To you I swear in the name of God, who is Compeller, Beneficent and Merciful (. . .)] (229)

While this translation captures the general sense of its US source, it also expands Dimmesdale’s declaration, extending and altering his divine epithets in particular. Rather than invoking God as ‘so terrible and so merciful’, the Minister here calls upon Him as the ‘Compeller, Beneficent and Merciful’ (‘‫ – )’ﻗﻬﺎﺭ ﻮ ﺭﺤﻤﺎﻦ ﻮ ﺭﺤﻴﻢ‬three terms which not only function to augment Hawthorne’s original, but which also qualify as quintessential Islamic names for God.23 These labels – all etymologically Arabic – have their origin in Muslim scripture and liturgy, serving as three of the most prominent divine names ascribed to Allāh throughout Islamic traditions. The final two terms in particular – ‘‫’ﺭﺤﻤﺎﻦ‬, ‘‫ ’ﺭﺤﻴﻢ‬/ ‘Rahmān’, ‘Rahīm’ / ˙ ˙ ‘Beneficent’, ‘Merciful’ – are sacred epithets pronounced in tandem by Muslims everyday, these names of God customarily used as the introduction to all acts of prayer and worship within Islamic praxis.24 This interpolation of highly characteristic Muslim phraseology into the closing scene of The Scarlet Letter remodels the religious texture of the novel’s conclusion, ironically placing into the mouth of Hawthorne’s Puritan minister language reminiscent of Islamic prayer. Appearing within the climax to this American Romance, Dāneshvar’s religious conversion of her source becomes doubly significant, serving to colour the most dramatic and decisive moments of the novel with Islamic terminology. In her treatment of Hawthorne’s crucial finale, Dāneshvar seems particularly willing to amend his religious vocabulary, altering not only Dimmesdale’s parting words to Hester Prynne, but also his parting words to Roger Chillingworth; according to Hawthorne’s original, Dimmesdale rejects the doctor’s desperate attempt to restrain his confession, rebuking Chillingworth with the following: “Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!” (252)

In Iranian translation, however, Dimmesdale’s theatrical rebuff is altered and expanded:

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Orienting the American Romance !‫ﺁﻩ ﺍﻯ ﻮﺴﻮﺍﺱ ﺍﻠﺧﻨﺎﺱ! ﺒﮔﻤﺎﻥ ﻤﻦ ﺒﺴﻰ ﺪﻴﺭ ﺁﻣﺪﻩﺍﻯ‬ [Ah, O tempter, the withdrawer! I suspect that you come too late!]

(229)

Readers find here a Persian rendition which extends its US source, Dāneshvar again adding her own epithet to Hawthorne’s prose, labelling Chillingworth ‘the withdrawer’ (‘‫’ﺍﻠﺧﻨﺎﺱ‬, ‘al-khannās’). Unlike her previous interpolation into Dimmesdale’s words, however, Dāneshvar’s revision here initially seems nonsensical, introducing a term not only absent from her American source, but one which is wholly unconnected to Hawthorne’s original. Readers literate in Islamic traditions will, however, instantly recognise the significance behind Dāneshvar’s rendition, recalling that the final chapter of the Qur’ān characterises the Devil as: ‫ﺍﻠﻮﺴﻮﺍﺱ ﺍﻠﺧﻨﺎﺱ‬ [al-waswās al-khannās; ‘the tempter, the withdrawer’]

Original to Muslim scripture is the precise formula which becomes inserted into The Scarlet Letter, this two-word epithet from the Qur’ān 114: 4 appearing as Dimmesdale’s final characterisation of Chillingworth. Establishing the original context for this phrase makes Dāneshvar’s interpolation of ‘al-khannās’ (‘the withdrawer’) appear a more reasonable translation choice, as this word functions within Muslim traditions as a standard demonic epithet – a label for the one who ‘withdraws’ from God.25 Within Dāneshvar’s Persian rendition, this injection of a prominent Qur’ānic phrase thus serves to amplify the Minister’s final rebuke, reinforcing his depiction of the devious, diabolic role which Chillingworth has played throughout the novel. However, although the content of Dāneshvar’s interpolation may be reconciled with the core meaning of the Minister’s speech, its Islamic origins continue to contrast sharply with Dimmesdale’s Christian vocation, engendering an irreducible tension between Hawthorne’s original Protestant character and the Qur’ānic vocabulary he speaks within Persian translation. The decisive scene of Dāneshvar’s Iranian edition features not only language reminiscent of Islamic practice, but direct quotation from the sacred book of Islam, ensuring that the climactic moments of this Puritan novel are dramatised through reference to the Qur’ān’s own climax and conclusion.26 The cultural, religious and textual paradox engendered by this scriptural interpolation into Hawthorne’s dénouement serves as a fitting epitome of the problematic issues which attend the entirety of Dāneshvar’s Middle Eastern Letter. As with Dimmesdale’s final words, the whole of Dāgh-e Nang

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 95 ­

negotiates between the demands of its source text and the demands of its target audience, balancing uneasily between American original and Iranian reception. And although frequently prompted to choose literary substitution over literal rendition, Dāneshvar also successfully strives to extend, rather than eclipse, the meaning of Hawthorne’s narrative, shifting the idiom, but not the intentions, of his original Romance. In the conversion of Hawthorne’s novel from Puritan to Persian identity, however, a remarkably hybrid text emerges – a narrative collaboration between the renowned novelists of Salem and Shiraz, a text in which a leech becomes an owl, and a minister quotes the Qur’ān, a classic American Letter sealed with a distinctive Iranian signature.

♦♦♦ The eighth chapter of Dāneshvar’s Sūvashūn is devoted entirely to an overheard conversation. Concealed in her bedroom, the novel’s protagonist, Zari, eavesdrops on an exchange between two sisters – Ezzatoddowleh and Fatemeh – as they reminisce in the adjacent parlor. The chapter concludes with Ezzatoddowleh recalling how she acquired Firdaws, the ­household’s attractive servant girl. Only a week after joining the family, Firdaws is discovered to be pregnant, leading Ezzatoddowleh to suspect that either her husband or her son had ‘got the little girl in trouble’: I thought that they would at least leave a little village girl alone. I never found out which one of them was responsible. I branded the girl, but she wouldn’t tell. She only cried so hard that it broke my heart.27

Read solely within the context of Sūvashūn, this episode seems a minor tangent, merely another instance of cruelty suffered by women, a theme emphasised throughout the novel. If read within the broader context of Dāneshvar’s career, however, this brief moment, overheard between chambers, begins to sound more distinct, speaking in a remarkably Hawthornean accent. Alone in a world of patriarchy, without husband to defend her, Firdaws is discovered to be pregnant. Pressured by authority, she resists nevertheless, stubbornly refusing to reveal the identity of her child’s father. Finally, Firdaws is branded as punishment, chastised for her sin and silence, forced to bear a ‘mark’ – a ‘dāgh’ (‘‫ )’ﺪﺍﻍ‬in the original Persian of Dāneshvar’s novel.28 Overlapping in detail and diction, elements from The Scarlet Letter seem embroidered on the pages of Sūvashūn, the trials of Hawthorne’s heroine shifted from colonial Boston to colonial

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Shiraz, the iconic Hester Prynne piercing the façade of the quiet Firdaws. Such overlap – between the novel Dāneshvar translates in her youth and the novel she composes in maturity – implies a double act of ‘overhearing’, an eavesdropping that unfolds both within and without Sūvashūn: as Zari overhears Ezzatoddowleh’s story of Firdaws in literary fiction, so, too, does Dāneshvar overhear Hawthorne’s story of Hester in literary history. Amplifying the fleeting whisper of Sūvashūn, this complex echo revises the import of Firdaws in particular, allowing this tertiary character in Dāneshvar’s novel to accrue new significance, not only seeming to resurrect a celebrated American predecessor, but also supplying a key to the global background that informs this most Iranian tale. If such acts of overhearing help position Dāneshvar’s 1955 translation as precedent for her 1969 best-seller, they also invite us to broaden the Persian margins for Hawthorne in general, tracing his novel’s circulations within more expansive Iranian currents. The very label given to The Scarlet Letter in Persian – its title, Dāgh-e Nang – occurs in a range of modern contexts, inadvertently linking Hawthorne’s novel with alternative sources and discourses. Signifying a personal ‘stigma’, this Persian phrase has become a commonplace in Iranian social sciences; for example, when Erving Goffman’s 1963 study Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity attracted Persian translation in 2007, its title would appear simply as Dāgh-e Nang (‘‫ – )’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﮒ‬a sensible rendition, but one which ironically allows this classic of Western sociology to share its very name with a classic of Western literature.29 It is this phrase’s specific application to women, and their abuse, however, which gives The Scarlet Letter’s Persian title its most potent relevance. As hinted by Dāneshvar’s own novel, ‘dāgh-e nang’ often signifies the humiliations inflicted on women especially, described recently as the ‘brutal mark of shame burned by a molten iron bar on the face and body of a woman accused of promiscuous adultery’.30 As such, ‘dāgh-e nang’ continues to be tragically current not only in academic debate but also in popular journalism; a 2012 article, published online by BBC Persian, for instance, describes the ongoing violence against women in Tajikistan as ‘dāgh-e nang’, this phrase featured in the article’s very title.31 Perhaps closer to Dāneshvar’s own Dāgh-e Nang, however, is this phrase’s use by feminist voices in Persian, and, in particular, the leading female Iranian poet and filmmaker of the twentieth century, Forugh Farrokhzād. Only two years after Dāneshvar’s translation of The Scarlet Letter as Dāgh-e Nang, Farrokhzād would invoke this phrase in a pivotal, and eerily analogous, context. Dedicated to her only son, Farrokhzād’s ‘A Poem for You’ (‘‫)’ﺸﻌﺮﻯ ﺒﺮﺍﻯ ﺘﻮ‬, authored in 1957, includes the following, autobiographical stanza:

­

Inscribing the Persian Letter: Hawthorne and Sīmīn Dāneshvar [ 97 [I was the one branded with shame (i.e. ‘dāgh-e nang’), ‫ﺁﻦ ﺪﺍﻍ ﻧﻧﮓ ﺧﻮﺮﺪﻩ ﻜﻪ ﻣﻴﺧﻧﺪﻴﺪ‬ Who laughed at vain taunts and cried: ‫ ﻤﻥ ﺒﻮﺪﻢ‬٬‫ﺒﺮ ﻄﻌﻧﻪ ﻫﺎﻯ ﺒﻴﻬﺪﻩ‬ ‘Let me be the voice of my own existence!’ ‫ ﻜﻪ ﺒﺎﻧﮓ ﻫﺴﺘﻰ ﺧﻮﺪ ﺒﺎﺸﻢ‬،‫ﮔﻓﺘﻢ‬ But, alas, a ‘woman,’ was I]32 ‫ﺍﻤﺎ ﺪﺮﻴﻎ ﻭﺪﺮﺪ ﻜﻪ «ﺯﻥ» ﺒﻭﺪﻢ‬

Describing herself in Persian as ‘branded’ with the ‘dāgh-e nang’ – with ‘the mark of shame’ – Farrokhzād links this humiliation with her gender and sex: with being a ‘“woman”’ (‘«‫)’»ﺯﻥ‬. However, most resonant with Dāneshvar’s Dāgh-e Nang, Farrokhzād shares her scorn and defiance with her own child, resisting her puritan critics through becoming the solitary ‘one’ who ‘laughed at vain taunts’ – a faint echo of Hester’s ‘defiant’ example for her Pearl as she grapples with her own ‘dāgh-e nang’.33 This Hawthornian intersection in Farrokhzād’s progressive efforts would receive oblique confirmation recently by one of the most prominent Iranian intellectuals, Hamid Dabashi. Reviewing Farrokhzād’s seminal 1962 documentary The House is Black – an exposé of a leper colony – Dabashi celebrates Farrokhzād’s uncovering of the ‘dāgh-e nang’ endured by the oppressed and forsaken, a stigma which he defines as the ‘Persian version of the Scarlet Letter’ – translating this pivotal Iranian phrase (‘dāgh-e nang’) back into English through the very title of Hawthorne’s own novel (‘Scarlet Letter’), reversing the rendition process that Dāneshvar had first performed in 1955.34 Searching for Hawthornean intersections within Iranian circles – from scholarship, to poetry, to film – is potentially endless. Such a search risks, however, inadvertent acts of over-reading, mistaking mere coincidence for genuine overhearing across cultures: to what extent may artistic correspondence of theme and phrase, American and Persian, be credited with significance? Despite these hazards, it remains clear that The Scarlet Letter’s incarnation, and reincarnations, as Dāgh-e Nang has worked to ‘rebrand’ the novel, allowing this US classic to speak language reminiscent now of feminist activism in Iran – an outcome unanticipated by Hawthorne, and perhaps, by Dāneshvar herself. And it is precisely such accidents of translation, the tendency of rendition to escape our intentions, that concerned Dāneshvar in opening her 1978 preface to Dāgh-e Nang, recognising that she herself had involuntarily ‘fallen’ into this work, caught passively in the ‘snare of translation’. With Dāneshvar’s recent death – on 8 March 2012 – the inadvertent nature of translation, and its unpredictable afterlife, acquired fresh meaning and poignancy. Inspiring tributes from home and abroad, obituaries for Dāneshvar, appearing in newspapers and on news websites from Tehran to Boston, consistently celebrated her pioneering fiction and political identity.35 However, also featured within these

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t­ ributes – tucked quietly in the middle, or as a final footnote – is mention of Hawthorne himself, the American’s name again linked with Dāneshvar’s own at the very close of her life, listed among the several authors she translated. Extending a transnational overhearing, these obituaries – both in English and in Persian – testify to the endurance of translation beyond biography, beyond the intentional lives of authors and their own ‘autobiographical impulse’.36 Surviving for posthumous readers, Hawthorne’s ‘THE LETTER A, GULES’ becomes marked quietly in the margins of Dāneshvar’s own epitaphs, testament to an unlikely and unfinished correspondence, the American Letter still delivered and conveyed through Iranian postscripts.37

chapter 4

Navigating the Arabic Whale: Melville and IHsān ‘Abbās ˙

On prominent display at the Berkshire Athenaeum’s ‘Herman Melville Memorial Room’ are four small pieces of coloured tile. Trivial in size, the significance of these ceramic fragments is clarified by an accompanying entry from Melville’s 1856–7 journal – the diary of his travels in Greece and the Middle East. Writing under the date 6 December 1856, the American records his day spent in Thessalonica, exploring the city’s antique sites: Went into the mosques [. . .] Several of the mosques formerly Greek churches, but upon the conquest of the Turks turned into their present character. One of them circular & of immense strength. The ceiling mosaic. Glass. Pieces continually falling upon the floor. Brought away several.1

This abrupt sketch of remembered images offers an apt place to begin consideration of Melville and Middle Eastern translation. Touring spaces which straddle two sacred histories – buildings which comprise Muslim revisions of European originals – the American is particularly attracted to a site of ‘strength’ and ‘circular[ity]’. Focusing his attention further upon its ‘ceiling mosaic’, Melville discovers this mosque-church to be not only religiously hybrid, but also dynamic in architecture, still transforming before his eyes, with ‘Pieces continually falling upon the floor’. The above entry concludes with Melville himself becoming a participant in the unfolding life of this ‘mosaic’ building; first a ‘Greek church’, then ‘turned’ by the ‘Turks’, the ‘present character’ of this shrine is translated further with Melville carrying ‘away’ fragments, bringing these synthetic memorials back across the Atlantic.

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Melville’s fascination with the Muslim ‘Orient’ has received growing attention in the latter decades of the twentieth century and the first years of the twenty-first. Studies authored by Dorothee Finkelstein (1961), John Yohannan (1977), Jalaluddin Bakhsh (1988) and Timothy Marr (2006) have served to highlight the significant role played by Islamic language and reference in Melville’s fiction.2 Concurrent with this critical trend has been increasing awareness of international receptions of Melville, with recent studies by Daniel Göske (2006) and Irene Hirsch (2006) emphasising global readings of Moby-Dick.3 These scholarly parallels have succeeded in outlining Melville’s own reception of Muslim traditions, as well as several transatlantic receptions of Melville; they have not, however, yet converged, yielding no consideration of Muslim readings of Melville’s fiction. It is nevertheless clear that the American’s writings have attracted considerable attention from Middle Eastern translators, with both primary fiction and secondary criticism receiving rendition in the wake of the US ‘Melville Revival’, beginning in the 1920s. Typee, for example, has appeared in Persian translation, Billy Budd in both Persian and Arabic, and Moby-Dick in Arabic, Persian, Turkish and Urdu. Biographies of Melville published originally in the US have also been translated into Arabic, with versions of Leon Howard’s Herman Melville (1951) and Jean Gould’s Young Mariner Melville (1956) appearing in Beirut and Cairo, respectively.4 As we may expect, Middle Eastern renditions of Melville’s fiction evidence a broad diversity of translatory approach and intended audience. Editions of Moby-Dick, for example, range from stylish volumes aimed at the educated reader (e.g. Yapı Kredi Yayıncılık’s 1999 Turkish rendition produced by leading academic translators) to instructional versions adapted for a juvenile audience (e.g. Dār al-Bihār’s 2006 Arabic ˙ translation, which comes complete with basic comprehension questions for each chapter).5 Most prominent among these editions, however, is the 1965 Arabic translation of Moby-Dick issued by the Beirut publisher Dār al-Kitāb al-‘Arabī.6 Noteworthy not only as the first unabridged rendition of Melville’s novel to appear in Arabic, this translation is exceptional also for having warranted republication more than three decades later, with a second edition released by the Damascene press Dār al-Madā in 1998. Perhaps even more remarkable, however, is the person responsible for this rendition – namely, Ihsān ‘Abbās, the celebrated Palestinian scholar, ˙ historian and literary critic. Author of ‘an astonishing total of close to 200 volumes of studies and edited texts and perhaps 100 articles’, on topics ranging from Islamic studies, Arabic literature and Middle Eastern history, ‘Abbās is widely recognised as one of the Arab world’s most influ-

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ential scholars, eulogised at his death in 2003 as the ‘custodian of Arabic culture and heritage’ during the twentieth century.7 Although acknowledged as a pioneer of modern Arabic and Islamic studies, ‘Abbās was also an avid reader and translator of American literature and literary criticism. Beginning with Arabic renditions of scholarly monographs on Hemingway (1959) and T.S. Eliot (1965), ‘Abbās’ translation efforts soon led him to Moby-Dick, a project which would absorb more than a year and a half of his life.8 Recognised now as a translatory ‘masterpiece’, Abbās’ 1965 Mūbī Dīk has also been identified as a landmark in Arabic rendition, a work which served to demonstrate ‘that modern Arabic was fully capable of meeting even the most difficult of translation challenges and of expressing the most complex concepts and ideas of other cultures’.9 This translation contributed, furthermore, to ‘Abbās garnering a variety of international honours and awards, including Columbia University’s Thornton Wilder Prize in 1982 (conferred upon a ‘distinguished foreign translator of American literature’), as well as an honorary doctorate from the University of Chicago in 1993 (bestowed, in part, for ‘Abbās’ renditions of American literature, which have set ‘new standards for translation into Arabic’).10 ‘Abbās’ engagement with Moby-Dick was not limited, moreover, to his fêted translation. During the same year of its initial publication, ‘Abbās also produced a scholarly treatment of the American novel, authoring a brief essay entitled ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻷﺛﺭ ﺍﻹﺴﻼﻣﻲ ﻓﻲ ﻗﺻﺔ ﻣﻮﺒﻲ ﺪﻴﻚ‬Islamic Influence on the Narrative Moby-Dick’).11 Appearing in the Beirut journal al-Ādāb, this fourpage article surveys the Islamic lexica included throughout Moby-Dick and suggests possible sources for Melville’s appropriations of Muslim vocabulary. Although acknowledging the ‘general atmosphere, names, events and references’ of the American novel to be chiefly biblical in origin, ‘Abbās’ essay nevertheless highlights Melville’s recurrent reliance upon Islamic – and more broadly ‘Oriental’ – textual precedents.12 Such early recognition of Moby-Dick’s relevance to the Muslim world would also be echoed at the very close of ‘Abbās’ life, with his last published interview exhibiting sustained interest in Melville’s novel and its Arab readership. Serving as the conclusion to a posthumous collection of ‘Abbās interviews, this final conversation debates the peculiarities, as well as merits, of Melville’s prose; the Palestinian scholar here discusses not only the ‘magnificence’ of the American’s ‘expression’, but also the difficulties of translating his stylised dialogue and diction.13 Focusing in particular upon Melville’s rarefied terminology, ‘Abbās notes the challenges posed by his target language’s ‘paucity of nautical expressions’, attributing this lexical dearth to the Arab world’s distinct naval culture and history.14 Faced with this discrepancy

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between English and Arabic in their maritime vocabulary, ‘Abbās even admits that he was occasionally prompted to generate new Arabic usages in rendering Moby-Dick, finding it necessary to ‘fashion’ nautical terms which his ‘reader would not find difficult [to understand]’.15 Opening the initial pages of ‘Abbās’ 1965 translation, such lexical innovation is immediately apparent, beginning first with his rendition of ‘Etymology’ – Moby-Dick’s preface, which traces the ancestry of ‘whale’ through a dozen different languages, from Hebrew to Erromangoan.16 Although ‘Abbās supplies a literal translation for this preface, he also finds an occasion to situate his own language within Melville’s glossary, appending a footnote that identifies Arabic as part of this linguistic genealogy. In an added postscript, ‘Abbās outlines how various synonyms within ‘Etymology’ – such as Latin ‘cetus’, Spanish ‘balina’ and even English ‘whale’ – have themselves ‘entered [. . .] into the Arabic language’, a claim which serves to locate Arabic within Melville’s global dictionary of whaling, allowing ‘Abbās’ readers to see their own language implied within Moby-Dick’s lexicon.17 Such innovation – which involves the accommodation of source text to target language – is also inverted by ‘Abbās as his translation proceeds, however; in approaching the cetological narrative of Melville’s novel, for example, the Palestinian translator finds it increasingly necessary to fashion his Arabic to suit Moby-Dick, deriving specialised vocabulary to render the American’s whaling terminology. From the earliest chapters of ‘Abbās’ rendition, his readers regularly discover innovated terms such as ‘‫‘( ’ﺤﻮّﺍﺕ‬hawwāt’; ‘whaleman’) and ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻟﺗﺤﻮﻴﺕ‬at-tahwīt’; ˙ ˙ ‘whaling’) – coinages newly formulated by ‘Abbās in response to Melville’s Anglo originals, both extrapolated from the single Arabic root ‘‫‘( ’ﺤﻮﺕ‬hūt’; ˙ ‘whale’).18 Responding to disparity between source and target languages, ‘Abbās is induced to expand the latter to match the former, cultivating Arabic’s cetological vocabulary within the pages of Mūbī Dīk. As Daniel Göske has recently noted, however, the rendition of MobyDick demands not only ‘getting the nautical or cetological terminology right’, but also ‘pay[ing] attention to a host of cultural associations and literary allusions inscribed in Melville’s text, and [. . .] match[ing] them, as best as possible, to those of the target culture’.19 Confronting the novel’s dizzying array of sources and references, translators are faced with the prospect of either seamlessly ‘appropriating’ such references into their target language or, instead, deliberately preserving the cultural ‘discontinuities’ between their textual source and target language – either ‘domesticating’ or ‘foreignising’ Moby-Dick for their non-English readers.20 This dilemma regarding how best to negotiate Melville’s ‘associations [. . .] and allusions’ is, moreover, compounded for the Arabic translator, who

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frequently encounters allusive language throughout Moby-Dick which is not alien, but rather indigenous, to the Arab world. Melville’s Orientalism, which has so interested recent scholarship, is perhaps nowhere more conspicuous than in his use of diction which is etymologically Arabic, his integration of Arabic ‘loan words’ into his English prose. The occurrence of Orientalist lexica throughout Moby-Dick – words such as ‘sultan’, ‘emir’, ‘harem’ – reverses the challenge posed by Melville’s cetological diction, confronting ‘Abbās with the peculiar task of translating terms already ‘inside’ his target language. Rather than fashion new idioms to express foreign diction, ‘Abbās is instead faced with the opposite problem: how should Melville’s Arabic terms be rendered for an Arabic readership? Perhaps the most straightforward means of approaching Melville’s Arabisms would be simply to return them to their original lexical form, replacing his Anglo-Arabic terms with their Arabic counterparts. Such a substitution – involving the mere exchange of script, rather than a wholesale exchange of diction – is precisely the manner through which ‘Abbās handles much of the Arabic nomenclature found within MobyDick. Melville’s thirty-fourth chapter, for example, is devoted to the Pequod’s ‘Cabin-Table’, and recruits explicitly Middle Eastern terminology to emphasise the hierarchical character of the ship’s dining customs; Starbuck is depicted as the Pequod’s ‘first Emir’, who must follow Ahab to dinner only after ‘his sultan’s step has died away’, while Stubb and Flask are designated as the ‘second Emir’ and ‘third Emir’ as they are sequentially summoned to the cabin table.21 Turning to Chapter 34 in Mūbī Dīk, we find ‘Abbās electing to replace Melville’s Arabisms with their respective Arabic counterparts, returning these Anglo-Arabic terms to their original lexical form. The label ‘Emir’, applied to the Pequod’s three officers, is restored to the Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻷﻣﻳﺭ‬al-’amīr’), while Melville’s designation of Ahab as ‘sultan’ is exchanged for this term’s original, ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﺴﻠﻄﺎﻦ‬as-sult ān’) – ˙ substitutions which comprise ‘transcriptions’ rather than full ‘translations’, allowing ‘Abbās to transplant and preserve Melville’s actual word choice within his own Arabic rendition.22 It is clear, however, that ‘Abbās does not consider such substitution to be an appropriate means of addressing Melville’s Arabic diction in every case. While the reversion of Moby-Dick’s Arabisms to their Arabic equivalents may seem an uncomplicated means of conveying Melville’s original content, such substitutions also serve to ‘regularise’ the novel’s own foreign terms, ‘domesticating’ Moby-Dick’s orienda by submerging its loan words beneath the surface of uniform Arabic translation. As a result, ‘Abbās is occasionally prompted to shift his approach to Melville’s Arabisms, finding ways to communicate their allusive quality to his Arab audience. In its

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eighty-eighth chapter, ‘Schools and Schoolmasters’, for example, MobyDick employs distinctly Orientalist terminology to explain the polygamous practice of whales, the conjugal union between one ‘bull’ and a whole school of females. Describing the male as a ‘luxurious Ottoman’, Melville depicts his multiple ‘wives’ as constituting the whale’s ‘harem’ (391–3) – a term derived from the Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﺤﺭﻴﻢ‬al-harīm’). In translating this chapter, ˙ ‘Abbās does not, however, merely replace Melville’s ‘harem’ with its Arabic source (‘al-harīm’), but rather elects to place this latter term within ˙ Arabic quotation marks, having his rendition appear as ‘((‫( ’))ﺍﻠﺤﺭﻴﻢ‬471). Although again retaining Melville’s diction in Arabic translation, ‘Abbās’ interpolated punctuation functions ironically to ‘foreignise’ this Arabic term, distinguishing ‘al-harīm’ from its textual surroundings, signalling it to ˙ be original to Melville rather than ‘Abbās’ translatory preference. While subtle, the inclusion of quotation marks here encourages readers to hear Melville’s Arabism as voiced by the nineteenth-century American narrator, rather than modern Palestinian translator, allowing the Orientalist nuance of the original to persist within translation despite its replacement by a verbatim Arabic equivalent.

♦♦♦ Further complicating any attempt to translate Moby-Dick is its eclectic use of scriptural sources and its reference to a diverse range of religious traditions, presenting translators with theological diction that is frequently resistant to simple and straightforward rendition. The religious dimensions of Moby-Dick, however, once again also raise problems specific to translators within the Arab world, with the American novel including explicit references to this region’s most prevalent faith. As recognised by ‘Abbās himself in his 1965 essay, Melville’s novel features a host of ‘scattered allusions derived from the Islamic East’, appropriating vocabulary original to Muslim praxis and belief.23 Although ‘Abbās contends that Melville evidences little knowledge of genuine Islamic sources, and is required to rely on Western Orientalists (e.g. William Jones) and literati (e.g. Thomas de Quincey) for his Islamic borrowings, ‘Abbās also catalogues the broad range of Muslim allusions incorporated in Moby-Dick – an allusive range which complicates this novel’s translation for audiences residing within predominantly Muslim cultures and countries.24 The bulk of Melville’s allusions to Islamic praxis surface early in his novel, with Muslim terminology pervading Ishmael’s initial characterisation of Queequeg’s religiosity. The name of the Islamic month of fasting – ‘Ramadan’ – serves as the title for Moby-Dick’s seventeenth chapter, des-

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ignating the ‘fasting, humiliation, and prayer’ undertaken by Queequeg at the Spouter-Inn (69). Although the occurrence of this quintessential Islamic term presents ‘Abbās with the opportunity to simply replace Melville’s usage with its common Arabic equivalent, the context in which ‘Ramadan’ appears resists such verbatim substitution. Despite Melville’s use of this conspicuously Islamic word to describe Queequeg’s religious observance, his veneration of his idol Yojo nevertheless demonstrates that the South Pacific native is not a Muslim.25 Due to this disparity between the Islamic content of Melville’s term and the un-Islamic practices of his fictional character, ‘Abbās is unwilling merely to replace Melville’s chapter title with its Arabic equivalent (i.e. ‘‫‘ ;’ﺭﻤﺿﺎﻦ‬Ramadān’); instead, he ˙ chooses to retitle this chapter with the generic term ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﺻﻮﻢ‬as-sawm’) – a ˙˙ word which simply designates ‘the fast’, being unaffiliated with any particular religious tradition (117).26 This substitution is, moreover, discreetly acknowledged within Mūbī Dīk itself, with ‘Abbās appending a small-print footnote, informing attentive readers that his innovated title (‘as-sawm’) ˙˙ actually replaces ‘Ramadān [. . .] in the original’ (‘‫ ﺭﻤﺿﺎﻥ‬: ‫ ;’ﻔﻲ ﺍﻷﺻﻞ‬117). ˙ Thus, while Melville’s own title to his seventeenth chapter foregrounds nomenclature exclusive to Islam, ‘Abbās’ translation serves both to replace and relegate this title’s Islamic nuance – a revision which avoids labelling a chapter concerned with pagan ritual with distinctly Muslim terminology. This attenuation of Islamic content is to be found not only in the title but also in the text of Melville’s seventeenth chapter. Near the conclusion of ‘The Ramadan’, for example, Ishmael describes how he ‘labored to show Queequeg that all these Lents, Ramadans [. . .] were stark nonsense’ (85). Consistent with his treatment of Melville’s chapter title, ‘Abbās here elects to render the English nouns ‘Lents, Ramadans’ with the Arabic phrase ‘‫‘( ’ﻜﻞ ﺿﺭﻮﺐ ﺍﻠﺻﻮﻢ‬kull durūb as-sawm’), that is, ‘all manners of ˙ ˙˙ fasting’ (121). This Arabic translation once again functions to excise the original’s explicit Islamic content, trading Melville’s particular reference to ‘Ramadan’ with the more generic ‘as-sawm’ (‘fasting’). However, in ˙˙ undertaking this exchange, ‘Abbās also finds it necessary to expunge both specificities within Melville’s passage. Dispensing with Ishmael’s mention of ‘Ramadans’, the Arabic translator is prompted also to dispense with ‘Lents’, as these two terms work in tandem within his US source, the former used to designate Queequeg’s religious fasting and the latter to designate fasting within Ishmael’s own Christian culture. ‘Abbās’ reluctance here to retain Muslim diction thus leads not only to the removal of Moby-Dick’s Islamic reference, but also to the alteration of this reference’s textual environs.

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Occasionally the reader does find ‘Abbās attempting to retain the original flavor of Melville’s Muslim references within the early chapters of Moby-Dick. In the novel’s tenth chapter, for instance, Ishmael again characterises Queequeg’s ‘idolatrous’ rites through distinctly Islamic terms; describing how he finally joins his ‘bosom friend’ in his sacrificial offerings, Ishmael relates that he ‘helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice’ (52). The supplication paid to Yojo is here identified by the narrator as ‘salam[ing]’, an English loan word derived from the Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺴﻼﻢ‬salām’) – a term which signifies ‘salutation’ or ‘peace’, and which shares the same root as the very name of the religion of Islam (i.e. ‘‫‘ ;’ﺇﺳﻼﻢ‬Islām’).27 Turning to ‘Abbās’ rendition, we find the final clause of Ishmael’s above description rendered as:

‫ﻮﺍﻨﺤﻨﻴﺖ ﻠﻪ ﺑﺎﻠﺴﻼﻢ ﻣﺭﺗﻴﻦ ﺃﻮ ﺜﻼﺜﺎ‬ [and I bowed to him in salutation (i.e. salām) twice or thrice] (121)

‘Abbās here succeeds in preserving a fragment of Moby-Dick’s original language, replacing Melville’s ‘salamed before him’ with the Arabic phrase ‘‫‘ – ’ﺍﻨﺤﻨﻴﺖ ﻠﻪ ﺑﺎﻠﺴﻼﻢ‬I bowed to him in salutation [salām]’. However, while Melville’s original use of the outlandish loan word ‘salamed’ would have suggested to contemporary American readers a sense of Oriental foreignness, ‘Abbās’ provision of the common Arabic noun ‘salām’ in this same context does not, of course, hold the same implications for his own audience. Although ‘Abbās does retain a piece of Moby-Dick’s lexicon in translation, his Arabic rendition – unlike Melville’s source – does not function to define Queequeg’s idolatry through language which conspicuously evokes the exotic ‘East’. While ‘Abbās’ translation serves to alter, or even excise, the Muslim language of Moby-Dick, his rendition performs also the opposite function – namely, amplifying Melville’s Islamic references, refashioning the American’s allusions so as to intensify their religious flavour. In Chapter 78, for example, Ishmael observes Tashtego’s assent to the ‘summit of the [whale’s] head’ and remarks that ‘he seems some Turkish Muezzin calling the good people to prayers from the top of a tower’ (341). Likening the harpooneer to one officiating the Muslim ‘call to prayer’, Ishmael here presents his readers with another reference to Islamic praxis – a reference which ‘Abbās modifies slightly through Arabic rendition:



‫ﻜﺄﻧﻪ ﻣﺆﺫﻥ ﻴﺪﻋﻮ ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻠﺣﻳﻦ ﻠﻟﺼﻼﺓ ﻣﻦ ﻗﻤﺔ ﻤﺌﺬﻧﺔ‬ [As if he was a mu’adhdhin calling the righteous ones to prayer from the apex of a mi’dhana](413)

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Rather than ‘some Turkish Muezzin’, ‘Abbās truncates Tashtego’s designation, labelling him simply ‘‫‘( ’ﻣﺆﺫﻥ‬mu’adhdhin’), the etymologic original for Melville’s own Islamic term, signifying ‘the one who announces the call to prayer’, that is, the Muslim ‘adhān’. Excised from Tashtego’s characterisation, however, is his national qualifier (‘Turkish’) – a label likely employed by Melville simply to suggest the Islamic context for his foreign loan word (‘Muezzin’) and dismissed by ‘Abbās as thus being unnecessary, and perhaps potentially alienating, for his own Arab audience. The remainder of his Arabic translation does, however, feature additional symptoms of ‘domestication’, with ‘Abbās supplying Arabic renditions which are both accurate as well as highly suggestive of Islamic discourse. Replacing Melville’s ‘the good people’, for instance, we find ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻠﺣﻳﻦ‬as-sālihīn’) – a term which indeed signifies ‘good people’, but ˙˙ ˙ which also recalls specifically Qur’ānic characterisations of the Muslim 28 ‘righteous’. Perhaps more significant is the substitution which concludes the above rendition, with the English ‘tower’ replaced here with ‘Abbās’ ‘‫‘( ’ﻤﺌﺬﻧﺔ‬mi’dhana’; ‘minaret’).29 Literally signifying the ‘place of ­[announcing] the adhān’, this Arabic term diverges slightly from its American counterpart, offering readers an architectural idiom which is distinctly Islamic; rather than translate his generic source literally, ‘Abbās here converts Melville’s commonplace into a religious specificity, offering readers the Islamic ‘mi’dhana’ rather than the American’s non-specific ‘tower’. Such a process of Islamic specification is to be found, moreover, even within ‘Abbās’ rendition of English passages which lack overt Muslim content or context. In translating Melville’s theological references, ‘Abbās occasionally interpolates diction reminiscent of Islamic precedents, thereby tilting the religious axis of Melville’s original. In the final lines of the novel’s thirty-fifth chapter, ‘The Mast-Head’, for example, Ishmael advises his reader to beware the ‘Descartian vortices’ over which they ‘hover’, concluding his admonishment with the imperative: ‘Heed it well, ye Pantheists!’ (159). In rendering this succinct command into Arabic, ‘Abbās provides the following:

!‫ﺘﻨﺒﻬﻮﺍ ﻠﻬﺬﺍ ﺃﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﻣﺆﻤﻨﻮﻦ ﺑﻮﺣﺪﺓ ﺍﻠﻮﺠﻮﺩ‬ [Take notice of this, oh ye believers in the Oneness of Being!] (205)

Although this translation may seem to extend unnecessarily the Melvillean text, as well as only loosely to convey its content, ‘Abbās’ rendition of Ishmael’s imperative functions as both an appropriate and an effective substitute for Muslim readers. In replacing the single word ‘Pantheists’

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with the extended phrase ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻣﺆﻤﻨﻮﻦ ﺑﻮﺣﺪﺓ ﺍﻠﻮﺠﻮﺩ‬believers in the Oneness of Being’), ‘Abbās succeeds in exchanging Melville’s generic theological designation for an Islamic idiom, switching an English word with no particular religious affiliation for an Arabic phrase that is original to Muslim spirituality. The concept which ‘Abbās here references – ‘‫’ﻮﺣﺪﺓ ﺍﻠﻮﺠﻮﺩ‬ (‘wahdat al-wujūd’, ‘Oneness of Being’) – is common within Sufi vocabulary, ˙ being an esoteric teaching that ascribes ontic reality exclusively to Allāh. Implying that the entire ‘world is the self-manifestation of God’, this doctrinal formula serves as an apt rendition for Ishmael’s warning against the ‘bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature’ (159), particularly as Arabic lacks a ready and exact equivalent for the English term ‘pantheist’.30 In exchanging Melville’s usage with an originally Sufi expression, however, ‘Abbās also bequeaths a distinctly Islamic voice to his American source, infusing Ishmael’s speech with phraseology highly characteristic of Islam and its mystical traditions. The semantic shift effected by such Islamic interpolation is even more conspicuous in ‘Abbās’ rendition of passages which are contextually Christian. Moby-Dick’s ninth chapter, for example, comprises Father Mapple’s ‘Sermon’, his exegetical commentary on the Book of Jonah. Preceding the chapter’s lengthy homily is a brief hymn, the final stanza of which reads: My song for ever shall record That terrible, that joyful hour I give the glory to my God, the mercy and the power (42)

This passage, and the sermon it introduces, confronts ‘Abbās not only with explicitly religious language, but with religious language reflective of a specific historical moment, emulating the Methodist oratory of the Bostonian missionary preacher, Edward Taylor. And while ‘Abbās’ translation of ‘The Sermon’ suggests his willingness to reproduce the evangelical flavour of his source, the religious denomination of Melville’s text is converted through Arabic translation, with Abbās domesticating Father Mapple’s rhetoric to suit his target readers. The concluding two lines of the above hymn are translated as: ‫ﻠﻠﻪ ﺍﻠﻤﺠﺪ ﺧﺎﻠﺻﺎ‬ ‫ﻓﻬﻮ ﺍﻠﻗﻭﻯ الذي وسعت رحمته كل شيء‬ [Glory belongs purely to Allāh, For He is the All-powerful, He whose mercy encompasses all things] (70)

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The biblicism of Melville’s original is here lost, his hymn’s faint echo of the Lord’s prayer (i.e. ‘the kingdom, and the power, and the glory’) replaced by quintessential Islamic language. For instance, the second line defines God as ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻗﻭﻯ‬al-Qawī’), that is, the ‘All-powerful’ – a Qur’ānic term, serving as one of Allāh’s ‘ninety-nine beautiful names’ within Muslim scripture.31 Immediately following this sacred idiom, ‘Abbās’ hymn concludes with additional Muslim reference; embellishing the English ‘mercy’, ‘Abbās provides an entire Arabic clause (‘He whose mercy encompasses all things’), a phrase that also adapts a verse of the Qur’ān, recalling Allāh’s declaration that His ‘mercy encompasses all things’ (7: 156).32 Exchanging Muslim doxology for Christian song, this stylised translation of the opening to ‘The Sermon’ anticipates ‘Abbās’ approach to the chapter’s body as well, with his rendition also serving to revise Father Mapple’s paraphrase of the Jonah story: Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never reached. (47)

This simple plot summary offered by Melville’s preacher is subtly altered in ‘Abbās’ rendition, as he again extends his source through incorporating Islamic terminology; the penultimate clause in the above (‘But God is everywhere’) is replaced in Arabic with ‘‫’ﻠﻜﻦ ﺤﻴﺜﻤﺎ ﻮﻠﻰ ﺍﻟﻤﺮﺀ ﻭﺠﻬﻪ فثم وجه هللا‬, ‘But wherever a man turns his countenance, there is the countenance of God’ (76). This translation complicates its original, conveying its core meaning, but also introducing extraneous conceits, invoking the ‘countenance’ (‘wajh’) of both ‘man’ and ‘God’. Although foreign to the original Moby-Dick passage, this addition enriches the religious fervor of Mapple’s address, clearly echoing the second chapter of the Qur’ān, which lauds Allāh’s omnipresence by asserting that ‘wherever you turn, there is the countenance of God’ – a declaration concluding with the very words that conclude ‘Abbās’ above rendition (‘‫)’فثم وجه هللا‬.33 Although seamlessly embedded within the fabric of his Arabic translation, ‘Abbās’ interpolations into both the hymn and the sermon of Chapter 9 serve to transform Methodist oratory into Muslim discourse, redrawing the lines of Melville’s Father Mapple, presenting Arabic readers with a speech more reminiscent of a muftī than a minister from New Bedford. A similar conversion of religious discourse may also be found much later in Moby-Dick, at the conclusion of its ninety-third chapter, ‘The Castaway’; in this case, readers find ‘Abbās not only rewriting Melville’s scriptural language through Muslim reference, but interpolating an

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entire verse quotation from Islamic scripture into the American epic. The celebrated climax to Chapter 93 comprises the revelatory vision experienced by Pip when abandoned at sea, exploring the resultant ‘madness’ that afflicts the cabin-boy; Ishmael explains that, after such trauma, one ‘wander[s] from all mortal reason’ and ‘feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God’ (414). To translate this latter phrase, ‘Abbās once again significantly extends Melville’s text:



‫ﻓﺈﻧﻪ ﻴﺷﻌﺭ ﺃﻧﻪ ﻜﺎﻹﻠﻪ ﻻ ﻴﺒﺎﻠﻲ ﻮﻻ ﻴﺴﺄﻞ ﻋﻤﺎ ﻴﻔﻌﻞ ﻮﻫﻢ ﻴﺴﺄﻠﻮﻦ‬ [And he feels himself to be as God, indifferent, and he is not asked of what he does, but they are asked] (498)

To those unfamiliar with Muslim religious traditions, this Arabic rendition may seem not only a peculiar but perhaps even an unintelligible substitution for the English original. While the initial segment of ‘Abbās’ rendition adequately conveys the meaning of its source, the latter half seems to introduce wholly foreign words and concepts into this Moby-Dick passage. As a translation for Ishmael’s adjective ‘uncompromised’ (as his God), ‘Abbās offers an entire phrase ‘‫’ﻻ ﻴﺴﺄﻞ ﻋﻤﺎ ﻴﻔﻌﻞ ﻮﻫﻢ ﻴﺴﺄﻠﻮﻦ‬, that is, ‘he is not asked of what he does, but they are asked’ – a replacement which not only seems needlessly to augment the English original, but also to imperfectly express its significance. Such discrepancy between source text and translation, however, becomes somewhat more comprehensible when it is recognised that this phrase is not original to ‘Abbās, but rather a direct quotation from the Qur’ān (21: 23): ‫ﻻ ﻴﺴﺄﻞ ﻋﻤﺎ ﻴﻔﻌﻞ ﻮﻫﻢ ﻴﺴﺄﻠﻮﻦ‬ [He is not asked of what He does, but they are asked]

This verse from the Muslim scripture juxtaposes divine transcendence with human contingency; it is not God (‘He’) who is subject to question and judgement, but rather mankind (‘they’). Considering its original context, this quotation thus seems a fitting, although very loose, rendition for Melville’s characterisation of Pip; the young castaway comes to feel ‘uncompromised [. . .] as his God’, wholly beyond the exigency of human questioning and ‘mortal reason’. However, while this Qur’ānic formula may succeed in communicating the general sense of its textual source, it also serves to dilate the cultural circumference of Moby-Dick, ‘expand[ing]’ the ‘ringed horizon’ of the novel’s own scriptural reference. Interpolating a complete verse from the holy book of Islam, ‘Abbās covertly revises the allusive parameters of Melville’s passage, producing a Moby-Dick which

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demonstrates a surprising facility with Muslim diction and expression. This process of sacred accommodation ultimately serves to modulate the narrative voice of Melville’s novel; interweaving his own religious vernacular into the fabric of his source, ‘Abbās presents his readers with a classic US novel endowed with Islamic fluency, introducing them to an American storyteller who enriches his fiction through reciting the Qur’ān.

♦♦♦ Such acts of translatory domestication have the potential to alter significantly the assumed identity of Melville’s speaker, with the revision of Moby-Dick’s religious language revising also the personality, character and confessional position of its narrator. This problem of defining religious identity through translation, however, confronts ‘Abbās from the very outset of the novel, first posing difficulties in his rendition of Melville’s character names. Typological and allegorical in significance, the biblical genealogy of Moby-Dick’s protagonists, for example, poses a particular difficulty for the novel’s translation into language cultures which are not grounded in Judaeo-Christian traditions. How is the rich significance implied by Melville’s scriptural names to be expressed for readers largely unfamiliar with Moby-Dick’s biblical precedents? Such a question is complicated further when translating the novel for a predominately Muslim audience. Due to its Abrahamic origins, Islam acknowledges many of the same scriptural figures and narratives which are central to the Hebrew Bible and Greek Testament; the common historical roots of Christianity and Islam ensure that these traditions share a mutual heritage of sacred reference, with correspondence in character, image and story. However, within this approximate mutuality between Qur’ānic and biblical canons, there also exist important discrepancies in the specifics of Christian and Muslim understanding; while the Bible and the Qur’ān incorporate many of the same patriarchs and prophets, for example, their respective portraits of these figures differ in crucial respects. In attempting to render a biblically informed text – such as Moby-Dick – for a Muslim audience, it is this simultaneity of correspondence and divergence between scriptural traditions which gives rise to unique difficulties. The renowned opening of Moby-Dick introduces readers to ‘Ishmael’, a name which exemplifies well the subtle translation difficulties engendered by the imperfect parallelism between biblical and Qur’ānic legacies. As both Christianity and Islam trace their lineage through Abrahamic patriarchy, it is not surprising to find that ‘Ishmael’ plays a prominent role in both Christian and Islamic sacred writings; both traditions identify Ishmael

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as Abraham’s first son, the child of Hagar and Isaac’s elder half-brother. Although agreeing upon this broad biographical outline, Christians and Muslims differ significantly concerning the precise role which Ishmael plays in sacred history. While the biblical text privileges Isaac over Ishmael, depicting the former as Abraham’s beloved son of promise and the latter as an outcast from the Abrahamic household, Islamic traditions overturn this dichotomy, characterising Ishmael as one of the most prominent figures within Muslim prophecy. According to the majority of Muslim exegetes, it is Ishmael – not Isaac – who is the beloved son nearly sacrificed by Abraham; it is Ishmael who also becomes the lineal ancestor of the founder of Islam himself, the prophet Muhammad.34 Such disparity between biblical and Islamic appraisals of Ishmael functions to shift the typological nuance of Melville’s first sentence within Arabic translation. Opening the first chapter of Moby-Dick, ‘Abbās’ readers encounter ‘Ismā‘īl’ (‘‫ )’ﺍﺴﻤﺎﻋﻳﻞ‬as their narrator, a name which simultaneously concords with, as well as potentially diverges from, Melville’s ‘Ishmael’ (3). Akin to MobyDick’s original audience, ‘Abbās’ Muslim readers identify this introductory name as a scriptural allusion to Abraham’s first son. Unlike Melville’s original audience, however, many of ‘Abbās’ readers may not immediately associate this name with a disfavoured exile of the Bible, but rather with a ‘forbearing’ prophet of the Qur’ān – a crucial substitution considering the importance of Ishmael’s biblical identity as ‘outcast’ to traditional readings of Melville’s novel and his ‘orphan’ narrator.35 In simply exchanging this English name for its Arabic equivalent, ‘Abbās’ translation preserves the scriptural identity of the novel’s narrator but simultaneously threatens to alter the semantic contours of this identity, replacing the (ostracised) ‘Ishmael’ with the (venerable) ‘Ismā‘īl’. While rendering Melville’s names into Arabic may serve to trace alternative genealogies for the characters of Moby-Dick, it also has the capacity to reveal their genuine etymological origins. As the novel’s characters frequently bear names derived from Semitic roots, the process of Arabic translation has the remarkable effect of returning Melville’s names back into their ‘original’ form. A simple example of such linguistic restoration may be seen in the translation of Melville’s antagonist: ‘Ahab’. This term is an English transliteration of the Hebrew ‘‫‘( ’אחאב‬Āhāv’), a name which ˙ has its source in 1 Kings and which literally signifies ‘brother [of the] father’ (‘‫ ’אח‬/ ‘brother’; ‘‫ ’אב‬/ ‘father’).36 The Arabic rendition of this name found throughout Moby-Dick strongly recalls this Hebrew precedent, rather than conforming to Melville’s English; for all occurrences of ‘Ahab’, ‘Abbās provides the Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺁﺨﺎﺐ‬Ākhāb’) – a word which not only aurally echoes the Hebrew ‘Āhāv’, but which also comprises the same lexical ˙

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components, literally signifying ‘brother [of the] father’ (‘‫ ’ﺍﺥ‬/ ‘brother’; ‘‫ ’ﺍﺐ‬/ ‘father’).37 This Arabic rendition of ‘Ahab’ functions not merely to transliterate Melville’s English usage, but rather to ‘translate’ the name back into its original lexical form, suggesting a significance in Arabic that becomes increasingly relevant as Melville’s novel unfolds. Questions of ‘paternity’, ‘genealogy’ and ‘fatherhood’ acquire prominence throughout the climactic chapters of Moby-Dick; many of Ahab’s tortured monologues interrogate his forbearers and lineage, as well as lament his own failures as a father.38 Assuming the role of Pip’s surrogate parent by Chapter 128, this episode of Moby-Dick also features Ahab’s refusal to aid the Rachel in searching for her captain’s lost son, rejecting the impassioned plea of Captain Gardiner: ‘For you too have a boy, Captain Ahab – though but a child, and nestling safely at home now – a child of your old age too’ (532). In Arabic translation, the poignancy of this scene is heightened merely through ‘Abbās’ transliteration of Ahab’s name, with Gardiner’s opening words appearing as:



‫ﻔﺈﻦ ﻟﻚ ﺃﻨﺖ ﺃﻴﻀﺎ ﺍﺑﻨﺎ ﻴﺎ ﺁﺨﺎﺐ‬ [For you, you also have a son, O Ākhāb! (i.e. Brother [of the] Father!)]

(639)

The irony of this exchange between captains is amplified in Arabic, with Ahab’s rejection of familial duty juxtaposed with his explicitly familial name, ‘Ākhāb’ (‘Brother [of the] Father’). Unlike Melville’s original, ‘Abbās’ rendition makes obvious the ‘paternity’ implied within the very name of Moby-Dick’s antagonist, intensifying allusions to Ahab’s fatherhood throughout the concluding chapters of the novel – a substitution which modifies, as well as enriches, the ‘Ahab’ encountered by readers of Mūbī Dīk. Such potential revision and amplification of character identity are to be seen not only in the Arabic translation of Melville’s biblical names but also in the Arabic translation of Melville’s most prominent ‘Oriental’ appellation, ‘Fedallah’. Although not readily apparent to many of Melville’s own English-speaking readers, this name is itself etymologically Arabic, consisting of two distinct Arabic words – ‘‫‘( ’ﻓﻴﺾ ﷲ‬Faid Allāh’) – which together ˙ literally signify ‘Effusion of God’.39 As this name has its origins in Arabic usage, ‘Fedallah’ again presents ‘Abbās with the opportunity merely to transliterate his source, with readers of Mūbī Dīk encountering Ahab’s harpooneer denominated as ‘‫‘( ’ﻓﻴﺾ ﷲ‬Faid Allāh’).40 However, while this ˙ simple rendition conveys the sound of Melville’s chosen name, it also conveys a significance which is wholly absent from the English source text;

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paradoxically, by merely retaining Melville’s original term, ‘Abbās again introduces ‘new’ meaning into Moby-Dick. Although Melville’s readers become acquainted with the ‘inscrutable Parsee’ through a foreign name evocative of the mysterious Orient (‘Fedallah’), ‘Abbās’ readers become acquainted with this very same character through a name which is neither foreign nor ‘Oriental’ – indeed, through familiar words which connote divine bounty (‘Faid Allāh’; ‘Effusion of God’). This disparity between the ˙ ‘Fedallah’ of Melville’s original novel and the ‘Faid Allāh’ of ‘Abbās’ trans˙ lation consequently demands that the respective audiences of these two versions read this character name somewhat differently. While the exotic name ‘Fedallah’ matches well the ‘shadow[y]’ personage which Melville delineates for his reader in Moby-Dick, the Arabic name ‘Faid Allāh’, with its ˙ suggestion of the holy, is diametrically opposed to Melville’s ‘devilish’ and ‘ghostly’ character.41 As a result, readers of Mūbī Dīk must understand this appellation not as a fitting cognomen for Melville’s antagonist, but rather as an ironic misnomer – a name that is entirely contrary to the character which it designates.42 However, such nominal irony also allows ‘Abbās to extend and enhance allusions to ‘Fedallah’ throughout his translation; for example, when this character is anxiously discussed by Stubb and Flask in Chapter 73, the former opines: ‘Flask, I take that Fedallah to be the devil in disguise’ (325), an assertion rendered for Arabic readers as:



‫ﺍﻨﺎ ﺍﺮﻯ ﻓﻴﺾ ﷲ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺸﻴﻂﺎﻨﺎ ﻤﺘﻨﻜﺮﺍ‬ [I perceive this Faid Allāh (i.e. ‘Effusion of God’) ˙ to be a devil disguised]

(395)

Although rendering Melville’s source with no embellishment, this translation suggests significances wholly absent from Moby-Dick, transforming Stubb’s plain statement into a clever play on words. Arabic readers here find an ironic juxtaposition of the diabolic and the divine, with Stubb pairing two antitheses together, conjoining the ‘devil’ and the ‘Effusion of God’ (‘Faid Allāh’). Moreover, this process of Arabic transliteration endows ˙ Stubb’s claim that ‘Fedallah’ is ‘in disguise’ with an entirely new, and more complex, meaning; not only does this character seek to conceal his diabolism from Stubb and the crew, but his very name acts as a ‘disguise’ for his evil nature, implying the exact inverse of the truth – namely, that he is a godly character, an ‘Effusion of God’. In returning Melville’s ‘Fedallah’ to its Arabic origins, ‘Abbās thereby adds a nominal veil to this already veiled character, allowing the name itself to exhibit Fedallah’s tendency to mislead and misguide, deepening the meaning and mystery of this MobyDick antagonist.

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Occasionally, ‘Abbās’ translation of character names also provides him with the opportunity to establish the non-Islamic origins of Moby-Dick’s scriptural allusions – the opportunity to differentiate between the biblical genealogies of Melville’s characters and the Qur’ānic genealogies with which many readers of Arabic would be most familiar. For example, in rendering Melville’s English names which possess two or more Arabic equivalents – with one original to the Qur’ān and the other non-Qur’ānic – ‘Abbās regularly opts to use the latter, a translation choice which reflects his attempt to demarcate the original religious and cultural context of Melville’s novel. In rendering references to ‘Jonah’ throughout Moby-Dick, for example, ‘Abbās customarily refuses to provide the Qur’ānic names for this prophet, either ‘‫‘( ’ﻴﻮﻧﺲ‬Yūnus’), or ‘‫‘( ’ﺬﻮ ﺍﻟﻧﻮﻥ‬Dhū an-Nūn’). Instead, ‘Abbās’ translation denominates Jonah according to the name regularly assumed by him within Christian Arabic texts, using the prophetic appellation which appears within Arabic Bibles, that is, ‘‫‘( ’ﻴﻮﻧﺎﻦ‬Yūnān’).43 Although many of his Middle Eastern readers would be more accustomed to the Qur’ānic names for Jonah, ‘Abbās elects to employ the Arabic name more consistent with biblical usage, thereby reinforcing the original historical source for Melville’s scriptural identities. ‘Abbās not only elects to supply biblical, rather than Qur’ānic, Arabic names for Melville’s prophetic references, but also finds it necessary to interpolate such names into his Moby-Dick translation even when they are wholly absent from the original novel. Melville entitles his nineteenth chapter ‘The Prophet’ – a somewhat ironic label for ‘Elijah’, the ‘ragged old sailor’ who accosts Ishmael and Queequeg before they board the Pequod (93). The most direct translation of this chapter title available to ‘Abbās would be ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻨﺒﻲ‬an-nabī’) – an Arabic term which simply means ‘the prophet’. The problem, however, in using such a direct rendition is that the expression ‘an-nabī’ also customarily functions as an honorific title for Muhammad, the prophet of Islam; as such, this term would perhaps seem an inappropriate epithet for the ‘beggar-like stranger’ described in Melville’s nineteenth chapter (93). And perhaps for this reason, ‘Abbās here elects not to render his source material literally; instead, he chooses to entitle Melville’s chapter with a phrase entirely his own: ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻴﻠﻴﺎ ﺍﻠﻣﺘﻨﺒﺊ‬Īliyyā al-Mutanabbī’), that is, ‘Elijah, the (Would-Be) Prophet’ (127). This extended translation differs from the original Moby-Dick chapter title in comprising a non-Qur’ānic prophetic name (i.e. ‘Īliyyā’; ‘Elijah’), followed by a term which potentially belies this character’s prophethood; the second word of ‘Abbās’ titular rendition – ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻣﺘﻨﺒﺊ‬al-Mutanabbī’) – may signify not merely a ‘prophet’, but rather a prophetic pretender, one who claims the office of prophet.44 In this way, ‘Abbās here avoids providing a chapter heading

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which is suggestive of authentic Islamic prophecy (‘an-nabī’), interpolating into Melville’s title a prophetic name not included within Muslim scripture (‘Īliyyā’), as well as an equivocal prophetic epithet (‘al-Mutanabbī’) – an interpolation which also necessarily functions to substantially alter the significance of the original title for Melville’s nineteenth chapter. Perhaps the most intricate revision carried out by ‘Abbās upon character names and identities can be found in his rendition of the sole passage in Moby-Dick which mentions the prophet of Islam himself. At the conclusion of Chapter 104 – ‘The Fossil Whale’ – Ishmael quotes from a certain ‘John Leo, the old Barbary traveler’, citing this explorer’s account of a ‘Temple [. . .] made of Whale-Bones’: Their Historians affirm, that a Prophet who prophesy’d of Mahomet, came from this Temple, and some do not stand to assert, that the Prophet Jonas was cast forth by the Whale at the Base of the Temple. (458)

The initial challenge which faces the Arabic translator in rendering this passage is its explicit intertextuality; these sentences are ascribed not to Moby-Dick’s fictional narrator, but rather to a historical figure – ‘the venerable John Leo’. Furthermore, although unspecified within Melville’s own text, this ‘old Barbary traveler’ was himself born a Muslim; the authority here invoked was a native of Andalucía whose given name was not ‘John Leo’ but rather Hassan ibn Muhammad al-Wazzān (c. 1494–1550).45 As ˙ ˙ a leading scholar of Middle Eastern history, and an authority on Muslim Spain in particular, ‘Abbās would have been familiar with the complex genealogy of Melville’s ‘John Leo’, and thus also aware that this Moby-Dick passage recruits a voice whose identity spans both Christian West and Islamic East.46 Turning to his Arabic rendition of the above passage, we find ‘Abbās’ awareness of Melville’s textual source subtly informing his translation of this chapter conclusion: ٬ ‫ﻮﻴﺆﻜﺪ ﻣﺆﺭﺨﻮﻫﻢ ﺍﻦ ﻨﺒﻴﺎ ً ﺒﺸﺭ ﺒﻇﻬﻮﺭ ﻣﺤﻣﺪ ﺨﺭﺝ ﻤﻥ ﺬﻠﻚ ﺍﻠﻬﻴﻜﻞ‬ ‫ﻮﺒﻌﺿﻬﻢ ﻻ ﻴﺘﻮﺭﻉ ﻋﻦ ﺍﻦ ﻴﺆﻜﺪ ﺒﺄﻦ ﺍﻠﻨﺒﻲ ﻴﻮﻧﺎﻦ ﴿ﺬﺍ ﺍﻠﻨﻮﻥ﴾ ﻗﺪ ﺃﻠﻘﻰ ﺒﻪ‬ ‫ﺍﻟﺤﻮﺖ ﻋﻨﺪ ﻗﺎﻋﺪﺓ ﺬﻠﻚ ﺍﻠﻬﻴﻜﻞ‬ [Their historians assert that a prophet, who preached the advent of Muhammad, came out from this temple; and some of them do not refrain from asserting that the prophet Jonah (Dhā an-Nūn) was cast by the whale at the base of this temple.]  (550)

‘Abbās’ rendition here slightly modifies both the colour and constitution of his American source text. Replacing Melville’s identification of a ‘Prophet

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who prophesy’d of Mahomet’, ‘Abbās’ readers find ‘‫’ﻨﺒﻴﺎ ً ﺒﺸﺭ ﺒﻇﻬﻮﺭ ﻣﺤﻣﺪ‬ (‘a prophet, who preached the advent of Muhammad’) – a phrase with Qur’ānic nuance, featuring a term characteristic of prophetic descriptions within Islamic scripture, that is, ‘‫‘( ’ﺒﺸﺭ‬bashshar’; ‘preach’ or ‘announce [good news]’).47 More significant, however, is ‘Abbās’ unique treatment of this passage’s scriptural identities. Comparing American source with Arabic translation, we are perhaps not surprised to find Melville’s transliteration of the Islamic prophet’s name restored to its authentic form, with English ‘Mahomet’ here switched for Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﻣﺤﻣﺪ‬Muhammad’).48 We ˙ may, though, be surprised to encounter not one but rather two Arabic appellations replacing the single occurrence of the name ‘Jonas’ within Melville’s passage; substituted for this one term, ‘Abbās offers a twofold translation: ‘﴾‫‘ – ’ﻴﻮﻧﺎﻦ ﴿ﺬﺍ ﺍﻠﻨﻮﻥ‬Yūnān (Dhā an-Nūn)’. Within Arabic translation, this single prophet is ascribed two different names – the former being the biblical name for Jonah, mentioned previously (i.e. ‘Yūnān’), and the latter the Qur’ānic name for this same scriptural figure (i.e. ‘Dhā an-Nūn’).49 Such parenthetical inclusion of an Islamic name alongside its biblical counterpart constitutes not only ‘Abbās’ own interpolation into Melville’s text but also a shift in his approach to translating prophetic identities throughout Moby-Dick. Although otherwise consistent in rendering references to Jonah with ‘Yūnān’, ‘Abbās selects this quotation from ‘John Leo’ to infuse his translation with both biblical and Qur’ānic terminology. This exception in translation practice grants ‘Abbās the opportunity to inscribe into the very text of Melville’s novel the cultural and religious duality implied by this American quotation from a Muslim source; in supplying both biblical and Qur’ānic names, ‘Abbās here suggests the twofold identity which this passage itself embodies, simultaneously acknowledging both the ‘Eastern’ background of its original speaker – Hassan al-Wazzān – as well as the ˙ ‘Western’ context within which it is quoted – Melville’s Moby-Dick. This double rendition could, moreover, be thought a fitting exemplum of the tense ‘counterpoise’ maintained throughout ‘Abbās’ Mūbī Dīk, exhibiting his translation’s ‘sorely strained’ efforts to maintain ‘even keel’ as it balances between fidelity to its American source and the demands of reshaping this source for readers of Arabic. The inclusion of Qur’ānic diction within this particular passage also demonstrates, however, the capacity of ‘Abbās’ edition to impart a certain buoyancy to submerged elements within Moby-Dick itself, allowing sunken ideas and identities to breach the textual surface. It is a Muslim Jonah who emerges here from the belly of The Whale, the Islamic ‘Dhā an-Nūn’ ejected onto the shores of the Arabic page, witnessing to the cultural origins of Melville’s original citation. Cutting-in to the enveloping layers of Moby-Dick, ‘Abbās thus

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succeeds in uncovering sources and semantic possibilities hidden beneath the narrative blanket of Melville’s English, enabling Hassan al-Wazzān ˙ to speak from beneath the façade of ‘John Leo’. Such revision to this ‘old Barbary traveler’ serves, furthermore, to gauge the wide transatlantic expanse navigated by the entirety of ‘Abbās’ rendition, charting the cultural, linguistic and geographic distance traversed between American origins and Arabic destination. In his diverse interpolations and innovations, we recognise ‘Abbās’ efforts to re-orient Melville’s novel, not only importing Moby-Dick into Middle Eastern lands and language, but also amplifying and amending the Middle Eastern sources which shape Moby-Dick’s protagonists, structures and allusions. Anticipating current critical emphasis upon American literary ‘circulation and evolution’ on a ‘planetary’ scale, ‘Abbās propels his US source forward to new vernacular and cultural spheres, while also excavating the novel’s own transnational origins.50 In piloting Melville’s novel to new havens within the Arab world, ‘Abbās could thus be understood not only as steering this text from West to East, but also as mapping a more complex, circuitous route, allowing Moby-Dick to complete its global circumnavigation, directing it back to regions of Middle Eastern language, identity and reference from which elements of the novel originally embarked.

♦♦♦ In Amman we reminisced about the early days in Cairo. [‘Abbās] told me about his only venture into translation, when he accomplished the not inconsiderable task of translating Moby Dick into Arabic, and how ever since then he has had people telling him what an excellent translation it was, but wouldn’t it have been better if, on page so-and-so, he had rendered this particular word or phrase by such-and-such?! It is one of the ways – of which there are all too many – in which the translator’s task is a pretty thankless one. ( JohnsonDavies, Memories in Translation, 2006)51

Translated editions – no less than their original sources – inhabit specific times and places, intersecting particular moments and movements in literary history. Mūbī Dīk’s first appearance in 1965, for example, holds a resonance and historical significance that potentially differs from those of its 1998 reprint, despite the continuity of text between these two editions. Produced in Beirut, by an unmistakably Arab press, Dār al-Kitāb al-‘Arabī, ‘Abbās’ initial edition also confesses support in its opening pages from the New York-based ‘Franklin Foundation for Printing and Publishing’ (‘‫ – )’ﻤﺆﺴﺴﺔ ﻓﺮﻨﻜﻠﻴﻦ ﻠﻠﻄﺒﺎﻋﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﻨﺷﺮ‬not only a US publisher, but an

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organ of the US government, dedicated to promoting American values through rendition, translating national classics for audiences abroad.52 Acknowledging its debt to an American publisher, the 1965 Mūbī Dīk also acknowledges the role of an American novelist, admitting that its ‘publication [. . .] has been aided by a gift from the family of the late John Rogers Shuman’. Author of neglected novels – Cairo Concerto (1947), Angry Young Men (1953), No Comment (1956) – Shuman is described in the preliminaries to ‘Abbās’ first edition as a ‘novelist, connoisseur and patron of the arts, and an understanding friend of the Arab World’.53 This explicit transnational support for ‘Abbās’ 1965 translation balances with its implicit participation in domestic literary movements as well. Published during an era of kinetic innovation in Arab fiction, the initial appearance of Mūbī Dīk heralds broader advances among ‘Abbās’ artistic contemporaries, including, most famously, his friend and Nobel Prize winner, Naguib Mahfouz. Recalling Dāneshvar’s own progress from translation to creation – her Dāgh-e Nang serving as foreground to Sūvashūn (see Chapter 3) – ‘Abbās’ translation of classic US fiction also seems to overlap, and perhaps even anticipate, contemporary developments in the Arabic novel. New freedoms and flexibility in narration – exemplified, for instance, in Mahfouz’ own Miramar (1967), which features multiple and shifting first-person voices – seems predicted in ‘Abbās’ 1965 Mūbī Dīk, inviting comparison between the experiments of American Romance and those of Arab (Post)Modernism, a century later.54 With Mūbī Dīk’s re-release in 1998, Melville’s significance to Arab readers on the verge of the twenty-first century seems less easy to define. Dining with Denys Johnson-Davies near the time of this republication, ‘Abbās himself reflected this uncertainty, remarking on the ambivalent reception of his translation. While his ‘excellent’ Mūbī Dīk continues to be welcomed by Arab audiences, it also attracts finicky criticism, his readers showing interest merely in ‘page so-and-so’ and ‘phrase [. . .] such-andsuch’. At the very least, these anecdotal reviews seem to suggest a continued life for Moby-Dick in Arabic, with ‘Abbās’ rendition still provoking and perturbing readers more than three decades after its first publication. In lamenting the ‘pretty thankless [. . .] task’ of translation, it is perhaps no accident, however, that ‘Abbās complained to none other than JohnsonDavies – the preeminent English translator of Arabic fiction, Western representative of authors such as Naguib Mahfouz, Tayeb Salih, Mahmud Darwish and Zakaria Tamer, who records ‘Abbās’ reflections in his aptly entitled autobiography, Memories in Translation: A Life between the Lines of Arabic Literature. Remembering their ‘early days in Cairo’, even while meeting again towards the end of their careers in 1990s Amman, Melville’s novel becomes a subject of exchange between ‘Abbās and Johnson-Davies,

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agents of reciprocal literary trade; poised on the brink of distinct languages, genres, nations and centuries, Moby-Dick again oscillates between Arabic and English, negotiating fictional creation and creative translation. If ‘Abbās’ choice to include ‘this particular word or phrase’ in Mūbī Dīk reflects his own personal preferences – frequently rejected by fussy readers – ‘Abbās’ initial and most basic choice – his choice to undertake ‘the not inconsiderable task of translating Moby Dick’ in the first place – also appears to reflect his own personal history. Although it is Moby-Dick’s status as a ‘classic’ that ‘Abbās identifies as his motive for translation, Melville’s novel – which powerfully expresses a ‘modern feeling of “exile,” of abandonment’, as noted by Alfred Kazin – also seems to mirror ‘Abbās’ own biography.55 Born in Palestine in 1920, during the same year that initiated British civil rule, and sparked the Jerusalem riots, ‘Abbās would himself know the ‘modern feeling of “exile”’ from an early age. Forced to navigate from nation to nation throughout his life, ‘Abbās’ experience and expertise are marked by nomadic progress, by recurrent dispossession and drift. Eulogising ‘Abbās in the pages of the journals Der Islam (in 2004) and al-Qantara (in 2005), Lawrence Conrad observed that although he ‘lived most of his adult life outside of Palestine [‘Abbās] remained a Palestinian at heart’ – an alienation that was ‘not known to many people’ and that was publicly expressed only near the end of his life, in his autobiography.56 Published in 1996, just two years before the republication of Mūbī Dīk, ‘Abbās would choose to entitle his memoir ‘‫( ’غربة الراعي‬Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī; The Exile of the Shepherd) electing to inscribe ‘exile’, or ‘alienation’ (‘ghurbat’), into the very label of his life.57 A selective and wandering account, stretching from boyhood in rural Palestine to university posts in Cairo, Khartoum, Beirut and Amman, Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī offers an intimate portrait of itinerancy and interiority, filtering ‘Abbās’ national orphanhood through vignettes of family and portraits of friends. By the time this memoir of alienation appeared, ‘Abbās had spent the majority of his life away from his Palestinian homeland – a homeland which had been remapped in the intervening decades. Sketching an exilic identity that finds parallels in Melville’s own novel ‘of abandonment’, Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī helps account for ‘Abbās’ attraction to Moby-Dick. His autobiography is also helpful, however, in exposing the exilic conditions that shaped the tangible production of his Arabic translation. Traversing countries and continents, ‘Abbās’ encounter with Melville was a transnational event, unfolding through the migratory years of the early 1960s – a period vividly memorialised in the fifteenth chapter of Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī. Alluding to the ‘alienation’ inscribed in his autobiography’s title, ‘Abbās’ Chapter 15 opens with his departure from Khartoum

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in 1961, bidding farewell to this adopted home, leaving to begin a new life in Lebanon: ‫ ﻮﻜﺎﻧﺖ ﺘﺘﺭﺪﺪ ﻓﻲ‬٬‫[ ﻮ ﻨﺤﻥ ﻨﻨﺘﻇﺮ ﻓﻲ ﻣﻄﺎﺮ ﺍﻠﺧﺮﻄﻮﻢ ﻠﻠﻤﻐﺎﺪﺮﺓ ﻣﺜﻴﺮﺍ ﻠﻸﺳﻰ‬. . .] ‫خاطري كلمات بيرﻢ التونسي » وشبعت يارب غربة « ﻮﻜﻨﺖ ﺍﻨﺎ ﻮ ﺰﻮﺠﺘﻲ ﻨﺒﻜﻲ ﻓﻲ ﺻﻣﺖ‬ [(. . . while) we were sorrowfully waiting in the Khartoum airport to depart, there echoed in my mind the words of Bayram at-Tūnisī ‘and I am satiated, O Lord, of exile (i.e. ghurbat)’, while I, and my wife, wept in silence]58

Reconstructing this scene of farewell – leaving Sudan, his home for more than a decade – ‘Abbās ‘waits’ and ‘weeps’ on the verge of removal, his ‘sorrow’ finding expression only through quotation. Citing a verse from Bayram at-Tūnisī, ‘Abbās conceives his departure as intertextual, explicitly borrowing the voice of another to express his own ‘satiation’ of exile.59 This scene at the ‘Khartoum airport’ is intertextual also in ways more implicit, however, quietly mapping the beginnings of ‘Abbās’ Melville translation. Departing Khartoum in 1961, ‘Abbās here begins a journey that will lead to Beirut and its American University – the site of Mūbī Dīk’s completion and publication, ‘Abbās rendering this nomadic novel only in the wake of his own latest migration. The cross-continental, and intertextual, origins of Mūbī Dīk are, moreover, faintly evident in ‘Abbās’ translation itself, his itinerancy receiving tangible expression in rendition. For example, in approaching Melville’s character Queequeg, and in translating his idiosyncratic speech, ‘Abbās decides to adopt a distinctly Sudanese patois, endowing this protagonist with ‘broken Arabic’ reminiscent of ‘southern Sudan’, as he later acknowledged in interview (‘‫[ ﺠﻨﻮﺒﻲ ﺍﻠﺴﻮﺩﺍﻥ‬. . .] ‫)’ﺍﻠﻌﺮﺒﻲ ﺍﻠﻤﻜﺴّﺮ‬.60 Fresh from his own Sudanese departure, ‘Abbās retains echoes from his vanished home in translation, prompting the Queequeg of Mūbī Dīk to speak an Arabic dialect that is both fractured and familiar, reverberating with splintered sounds from ‘Abbās’ most recent departure. An index of his own multifaceted nostalgia, Mūbī Dīk could even be read as covert elegy for homelands lost, with Queequeg’s own fated death at sea representing a bereavement that poignantly touches not only fictional Ishmael, but extends also to historical ‘Abbas, the translator who himself ‘wept in silence’ as he prepared to leave behind his beloved Sudan, propelled forward to other exilic lands. If Mūbī Dīk deepens in significance when read against ‘Abbās’ autobiography, the autobiography may itself be susceptible to Melvillian readings. Echoing a global uprootedness that would be familiar to MobyDick readers, Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī also features specific moments that invite

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c­ omparison between ‘Abbās’ historical Life and his translated fiction. For example, ‘Abbās opens his autobiography with a first chapter entitled ‘Intimations of Fear’ (‘‫ – )’ﺮﻤﻮﺰ ﺍﻠﺨﻮﻒ‬an ominous and plural title that seems to parallel Moby-Dick’s ominous and plural title for its own first chapter: ‘Loomings’.61 And as Ishmael seems eager to mask essential details from the outset of his tale – his famous ‘Call me’ opening followed with the evasive ‘[s]ome years ago – never mind how long precisely’ (3) – ‘Abbās, too, confesses his own masking of details at the beginning of Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī, admitting that ‘I am unable to assume responsibility for [such] openness’ in relating his own first-person tale (‘‫)’ﻻ ﺃﺳﺘﻄﻴﻊ ﺃﻥ ﺍﺘﺤﻤﻝ ﻤﺴﺆﻭﻠﻴﺔ ﺗﻠﻚ ﺍﻠﺼﺮﺍﺤﺔ‬.62 It is not Moby-Dick’s celebrated beginning, however, but its more muted Epilogue that perhaps stands as the most fitting precedent for ‘Abbās’ impulse to remember and memorialise. Rescued by ‘the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan’, Ishmael’s farewell reasserts his incurable homelessness; however, this Epilogue also gives literary purpose to his ‘survival’, assuring his readers that, in the words of Job, ‘And I only am escaped alone to tell thee’ (573). This imperative to share exilic experience – to ‘tell’ the story of the one who ‘escaped alone’ – is most clearly seen in ‘Abbās’ 1996 autobiography, but also seems refracted more obliquely in his choice to produce Mūbī Dīk, endowing this translation’s 1998 republication, near the end of ‘Abbas’ life, with a more poignant significance. Paralleling the geopolitical discontents that attracted fellow Palestinian, Edward Said, to Melville’s novel – who included his introduction to Moby-Dick in his 2000 Reflections on Exile and Other Essays, nearing the end of Said’s own life – ‘Abbās’ personal and national ‘escape’, and his mournful duty ‘to tell’, seem aptly embodied in Mūbī Dīk.63 And while it is perhaps too strong to suggest that ‘Abbas’ act of translation becomes his ‘civilized form of autobiography’,64 the lasting significance of Mūbī Dīk may not merely be its conveying of American fiction into Arabic arenas, but its translation of a personal ‘deviouscruising’ representative of Palestinian experience in the twentieth century, becoming vehicle for a Middle Eastern ‘orphanhood’ dramatised in the ‘retracing search’ of American Romance.

chapter 5

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin

The Great Construction of the New Bible Not to be diverted from the principal object – the main life work – the Three Hundred & Sixty five – (it ought to be read in 1859. – ( June ’57)1

It is perhaps unsurprising that the above – an entry from Whitman’s 1857 journals – has become a favourite with his scholarly readers. Twenty-five years ago, Herbert J. Levine could describe these cryptic jottings as ‘often quoted’, a description inevitably more accurate now than it was in 1987.2 Projecting his third edition of Leaves of Grass, Whitman identifies his collection’s expansion and evolution as his ‘main life work’. However, it is the poet’s audacity and ambition that give this entry its primary appeal, Whitman claiming the mantle of an American sacred, his Leaves proposed as a ‘New Bible’, which is projected ‘to be read in 1859’. Reconsidered in light of the complex transmissions that are our focus, Whitman’s creative bravado seems especially significant, as well as especially suspect. How novel, how ‘new’, is Whitman’s ‘New Bible’, exactly? To what extent is his ‘great construction’ of Leaves merely an act of reconstruction – a modern translation of scriptural precedents, rather than an original American genesis? These questions – interrogating Whitman’s biblical debts – may not be the ones motivating most twenty-first-century readings of Leaves of Grass; they are, however, precisely the questions that helped launch Whitman studies in the twentieth. Tracing his career’s roots in a 1991 retrospective – ‘History of My Whitman Studies’ – the pioneering Whitmanian Gay Wilson Allen recalls that Leaves first occupied his sustained attention during

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

an undergraduate ‘course in the Bible’.3 Hearing echoes of Hebraic parallelism in the American’s verse, Allen eventually devoted his first scholarly effort to exposing this influence, publishing his ‘Biblical Analogies for Walt Whitman’s Prosody’ in a 1934 issue of American Literature. Unfolding through his long career, Allen’s scriptural approach to Leaves would become a prevalent trend in Whitman criticism, with a host of his Americanist successors grounding Leaves in distinctly Hebraic soil.4 Justifying Allen’s biblical concerns, Whitman’s 1857 journal entry is instructive also in revealing the poet’s own revisionary impulse, obsessively writing and rewriting his Leaves – an impulse that leads to no less than six editions during Whitman’s lifetime, not including his so-called ‘deathbed’ edition, published in 1892. Equally implied in this ‘often quoted’ entry, however, is the twofold direction of Whitman’s revisions, reaching both internally and externally. While Whitman’s ‘main life work’ is clearly one of interior self-revision – always producing a fresh version of his own Leaves of Grass – Whitman’s modern verse also reaches out to revise a verse tradition both ancient and foreign, rewriting the Bible itself. Although recast as secular poetry, Whitman’s ‘New Bible’ nevertheless seems to retain a sacred performativity; arranged as a sort of liturgical calendar – as ‘the Three Hundred & Sixty five’ – Whitman’s new Leaves become an annular cycle, offering a distinctly American ‘book of hours’. This devotional function of Whitman’s ‘great construction’ harmonises well with the psalmic form of his verse, the American’s debt to Hebrew poetry recognised not first by Gay Wilson Allen in the 1930s, but by Whitman’s original readers; reviewing this third edition of Leaves in August 1860, the Boston Cosmopolite opines that Whitman’s ‘Leaves more resemble the Hebrew Scriptures than do any other modern writings’.5 Evident from his very first published poems – for example, ‘The Love That Is Hereafter’, published in the Long Island Democrat in 1840 – Whitman’s psalmody also helps identify his verse within a long tradition of New World poetics, reaching back to the continent’s bibliographical beginnings.6 Exactly two centuries before Whitman would publish biblical poems in the Long Island Democrat, the first book in North America would be printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts – a book also dedicated to translating Middle Eastern songs for New England audiences. Appearing in 1640, the Bay Psalm Book comprised a fresh translation of the Hebrew hymns, launching the history of American publishing with Psalm rendition. Featuring a learned introduction, authored most likely by the famed Richard Mather, the Bay Psalm Book opens with an apology and argumentative defence, debating the aesthetic merits and communal need for (re)making Hebraic poems for Massachusetts readers – a debate that seems strangely anticipatory of

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The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 127

the issues raised by Whitman’s own ambitious ‘great construction’ two centuries later.7 Situating Whitman in an American tradition of biblical reception emphasises the ‘deep’ genealogy of Middle Eastern domestication in New World poetics. The Hebraic roots of Leaves may, however, ironically be clarified best not by looking back to American precedents, but by looking forward to Whitman’s own global afterlives, identifying – as did Gay Wilson Allen himself – the recurrent reception of Leaves by Jewish writers since the nineteenth century. As noted by Ezra Greenspan in his contribution to Allen’s Walt Whitman and the World (1995), the American poet has ‘long been a particular favorite among Jewish writers and intellectuals’, the Hebraic ethos of his Leaves attracting a range of Hebrew translators – an ethos which also raises ironic problems, however, precisely for such translation.8 This irony of Whitman’s reception in Hebrew has received its most memorable expression in an often quoted reflection by the Israeli poet, translator and journalist Shin Shalom; speaking in a 1950 interview published in the New York Herald Tribune, Shalom would observe that ‘Whitman’s pioneering is very close to us, and so are his Biblical rhythms. To translate him into Hebrew is like translating a writer back into his own language.’9 Mirroring the twofold revision implied by Whitman’s 1857 journal entry, Shalom’s paradoxical comment fuses a seemingly external act of ­revision (translating American poetry into Hebrew) with an internal act of revision (carrying material ‘back into [its] own’). These concentric circles of revision – from Whitman’s rewriting the Bible to his own modern reception in Hebrew – would achieve their most potent embodiment in the translation of Leaves produced by one of the leading Hebrew poets and poetry critics of the twentieth century: Simon Halkin (1899–1987). Published first in 1952, Halkin’s ‘‫‘( ’עלי עשב‬Alē ‘Ēsev) comprises a generous selection from Leaves of Grass, rendering the majority of Whitman’s 1881–2 edition. This Hebrew version would also come equipped with four critical appendices, introducing Israeli readers to ‘the problem’ posed by Whitman’s poetry, sketching his biography, outlining the ‘basic foundations’ of Leaves, and describing the role of ‘America’ itself ‘in Whitman’s works’.10 Capitalising on the Hebraic flavour of both Whitman’s ‘pioneering’ and his ‘Biblical rhythms’, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev would win immediate attention in Israel; Halkin’s 1952 edition not only ‘sold out in one day’ but would also receive the Tchernichovsky Prize for Translation in 1953 – a prize aptly named for Saul Tchernichovsky, seminal Israeli poet, but also Hebrew translator of Longfellow, producing renditions of Hiawatha and Evangeline in the decades following Joseph Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī.11

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

Still regarded as the definitive Hebrew edition of Leaves even six decades after its first publication, Halkin’s translation has succeeded in rehearsing Whitman’s own private musings in 1857, ‘construct[ing]’ a ‘new’ Leaves for modern Israeli readers, even while echoing an antiquity that is ‘biblical’, producing a Hebrew Whitman that bridges disparities – national, religious, historical – through ironically conveying this American author ‘back into his own’.

♦♦♦ Opening his ‘Alē ‘Ēsev in 1952, Halkin would implicitly recall Whitman’s own 1857 appeal to ‘new[ness]’, emphasising the uniqueness, and the priority, of this first Israeli edition. Prefacing his translation with a brief ­introduction – entitled ‘To the Reader’ (‘‫ – )’אל הקורא‬Halkin’s opening sentence heralds ‘Alē ‘Ēsev as ‘the first attempt in Hebrew literature’ to produce a book-length edition of Whitman’s works (‘‫)’נסיון ראשון הוא בספרות העברית‬ (9). Defined in terms of its literary precedence, the introduction of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev would conclude by hinting also at its own political timeliness, the edition self-consciously intersecting a pivotal moment in Jewish nationality. In the final paragraph of his ‘To the Reader’, Halkin notes plainly that it is ‘in days that are not easy’ that ‘Whitman’s poetry is appearing in Hebrew translation’ (‘‫( )’בימים לא־קלים מופיעה שירת ויטמן בתרגומה העברי‬13). This ominous climate for the ‘appearance’ of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev is balanced by its optimistic future, however, with Halkin closing his introduction by emphasising Leaves as an agent for healing contemporary ills: .‫אבל דומה׃ יש בה כדי לחזק את האמונה באדם ובערך החיים עלי אדמות‬ ‫יש בה כמו כן כדי לחזק ידי משוררים צעיריםˏ המבקשים דרך לשילוב חייהם‬ ‫ יהיה‬− ‫ אם יתגשם משהו משתי התקוות האלה‬.‫האישיים בחיי העם בארצו‬ .‫רב שכרו של המתרגם̗ שעסק בהכנת הספר הזה שנים לא־מעטות‬ [But I think: that (Leaves) has the capacity to strengthen faith in mankind and in the value of life on earth. It also has the capacity to strengthen the forces of young poets, who are seeking a way to integrate their personal lives with the life of their people in its homeland. If ought of these two hopes is realised – it would be great recompense to the translator, who spent not a few years preparing this book.]12  (13)

Endowed with the potential to ‘strengthen’ (‘‫)’חזק‬, Whitman’s poetry is framed initially in general and generic terms, his Leaves having the capacity to promote ‘faith’ in both ‘mankind’ and ‘life on earth’. However, Halkin’s focus soon narrows, targeting his own reader and nation specifically,

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The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 129

addressing ‘young poets’ who must bridge the individual and the national, seeking to reconcile their own ‘lives’ with the ‘life of their people in its homeland’ (‘‫’‘ ;’ארץ‬āretz’) – a common label for Israel in particular. Equally political and personal, ‘To the Reader’ pivots again in its last sentence, deepening in its intimacy, reaching ‘the translator’ himself, with Halkin expressing his own ‘hopes’ for his Israeli edition, even while emphasising the ‘years’ that were consumed in its fashioning. It would not be the private ‘years’ of its translation but the turbulent ‘days’ of its ‘appearance’ that would be first highlighted by ‘Alē ‘Ēsev’s critical readers. Reviewing Halkin’s edition in the March 1952 edition of Scopus – a periodical published by Jerusalem’s Hebrew University – Sholom Kahn extols this ‘Masterly Translation’, lauding its capacity to ‘capture the letter and nuance of Whitman in over 400 pages’. However, Kahn’s review opens not with the aesthetic merits of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, but with its political timeliness, selectively quoting from the end of Halkin’s own ‘To the Reader’, highlighting the ‘difficult days’ of its publication.13 Appearing in the wake of Israel’s formation, and coinciding with ensuing crises of immigration, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev intersects the very crux of Jewish national upheaval at the twentieth century’s mid-point.14 As Kahn would recognise, however, the potential significance of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev is due not only to its public context but also to the private person behind its production. By 1952, Halkin had already emerged as a formative influence in Israeli cultural life, both a leading critic and an experimental practitioner of contemporary Hebrew letters. Published two years before ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, Halkin’s Modern Hebrew Literature was quickly to become a standard in the emergent field, even while his creative works – poetry, fiction, literary translations – would continue to gain recognition.15 For Sholom Kahn, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev represents a ‘labour of love’, culminating a central ‘theme’ of ‘Professor Halkin’s career as poet and critic’, embodying his role as ‘literary mediator between the two cultures’: American and Israeli. In translating Whitman in particular, Halkin’s transnational biography, as much as his literary credentials, seems relevant, his repeated migrations between America and Israel anticipating the cross-cultural span of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev. Born in White Russia at the very end of the nineteenth century, Halkin emigrated to the US in 1914, spending his formative years in New York and Chicago. After moving to Tel Aviv in 1932, Halkin returned to New York in 1939 to teach, but would again reverse direction in 1949, settling in Israel during this critical era of national foundation. Accepting the Modern Hebrew Literature professorship at the Hebrew University, Halkin would stay in the ‘homeland’ until his death in 1984, performing the very task he assigns to ‘young poets’, endeavouring to ‘integrate’ his own ‘personal life’ with the ‘life of [his] people’ in Israel.16

130 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

Intersecting a seminal moment in Israeli self-definition, and reflecting the oscillating identity of its translator, the ‘Alē ‘Ēsev of 1952 would also include renditions from Whitman that clearly gesture to issues of political independence and personal relocation – issues of contemporary relevance to Halkin, and much of his readership, in the early 1950s. Whitman’s capacity to speak forward, gesturing to future audiences with urgent currency, is a ‘strength’ that has long been associated with his poetry, his Leaves identified as ‘prophetic’ from the very beginning of Whitman studies. Consider, for example, one of the earliest monographs devoted to the poet, John Burroughs’ romantic overview, Whitman: A Study, published in 1896: [Whitman’s] method is indirect, allegorical, and elliptical to an unusual degree; often a curious suspension and withholding in a statement, a suggestive incompleteness, both ends of his thought, as it were, left in the air; sometimes the substantive, sometimes the nominative, is wanting, and all for a purpose. The poet somewhere speaks of his utterance as ‘prophetic screams’. The prophetic element is rarely absent, the voice of one crying in the wilderness, only it is a more jocund and reassuring cry than we are used to in prophecy. The forthrightness of utterance, the projectile force of expression, the constant appeal to unseen laws and powers of the great prophetic souls, is here.17

In light of Burroughs’ idealistic appraisal, it is perhaps tempting to forecast a seamless correspondence between Whitman’s poetry and the Hebrew language – a language which is similarly known for its ‘elliptical’ and ‘allegorical’ qualities, not only the original idiom of ‘prophecy’ but the very language of the ‘one crying in the wilderness’. This supposed match between Whitman and the prophetic idiom has even been promoted by the most prominent of Hebrew authors themselves. Writing three decades after Burroughs, a pioneer of early Hebrew poetry, Uri Zvi Greenberg, would hyperbolically suggest in 1929 that ‘Whitman should have written in Hebrew’, explaining that ‘he is moulded from the same substance as a Hebraic prophet’.18 While flawless in abstract, such twinning of source text and target language is rather more complicated to effect in practice, as Halkin’s own ‘Alē ‘Ēsev makes clear. In his Scopus review of the translation, for instance, Kahn notes that Halkin ‘occasionally “improved” the punctuation’ of his American source; seeking to convey the Whitmanian ‘suspension’ celebrated by Burroughs, Halkin introduces dashes into his Hebrew translations which are entirely absent from his English originals, expressing the

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 131 ­

‘up in the air’ style of Leaves with innovated punctuation more reminiscent of Whitman’s great contemporary, Emily Dickinson.19 The prophetic and elliptical urgency of Leaves is more frequently communicated by Halkin, however, merely through sensitive reproduction of Whitman’s compact syntax and verse form. For example, in an early and famed pericope of Leaves, Whitman is at his most temporally insistent, anxious to collapse the distance between ‘here’ and ‘hereafter’, explicitly in the content of his verses, as well as implicitly in their form: There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. (I, 3)

Stressed through repetition and word order, Whitman’s emphatic present emerges through both sound and meaning, this quatrain featuring not only a recurrent ‘now’, but also propelling readers forward to this linefinal word through rhythmic monosyllables. The urgency of the above is effectively reproduced by Halkin, his Hebrew replicating not only the repetitions of Whitman’s original, but also the alternating A/B/A/B of its line openings: ̗‫ׁשו‬ ָ ‫ּׁשּי ֵׁש ַע ְכ‬ ֶ ‫מֵעֹולָם ֹלא ָהי ְתָ ה ּתְ ִחּלָה י ְתֵ ָרה ִמ‬ ̗‫ׁשו‬ ָ ‫ּׁשּי ֵׁש ַע ְכ‬ ֶ ‫ְעּורים אֹו זְקּונִים י ְתֵ ִרים ִמ‬ ִ ‫ַאף ֹלא נ‬ ̗‫ׁשו‬ ָ ‫ּׁשּי ֵׁש ַע ְכ‬ ֶ ‫ׁשלֵמּות י ְתֵ ָרה ִמ‬ ְ ‫ּולְעֹולָם ֹלא ּתִ ְהי ֶה‬ .‫ּׁשּי ֵׁש ַע ְכׁשָו‬ ֶ ‫ַאף ֹלא ּגַן־עֵדֶ ן אֹו ּגֵיהִּנ ֹם י ְתֵ ִרים ִמ‬ (55)

Tightening this quatrain’s already succinct structure, Halkin strengthens the line-initial symmetries in Hebrew. Rather than the slightly divergent opening to Whitman’s first and third verses (‘There was never’ / ‘And will never be’), Halkin’s initial words for his first and third lines – ‘‫’מֵעֹולָם‬ (‘mē‘ōlām’) and ‘‫‘( ’ּולְעֹולָם‬ūl‘ōlām’) – offer a mirroring that is both more terse and more exact. Taking advantage of Hebrew’s economic grammar and concise morphology, Halkin is able to suggest the temporal ellipses of Whitman’s lines in an even more elliptical manner, exceeding the synchronicity which is featured in Whitman’s English. Complementing this quatrain’s enhanced form is its amplified meaning, Halkin’s diction working to expose new connotations in this quatrain, and to propose new connections between this brief selection from Leaves and Whitman’s project as a whole. In the final line of the above, Halkin offers

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

a sensible and faithful rendition, but also subtly shifts the topography of his US source; rather than Whitman’s original – ‘Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now’ – ‘Alē ‘Ēsev instead provides: .‫ּׁשּי ֵׁש ַע ְכׁשָו‬ ֶ ‫ַאף ֹלא ּגַן־עֵדֶ ן אֹו ּגֵיהִּנ ֹם י ְתֵ ִרים ִמ‬ [There is no more Garden of Eden or Valley of Hinnom than there is now.]

Replacing ‘heaven’ and ‘hell’ with biblical equivalents – with ‘Garden of Eden’ (‘‫ )’ּגַן־עֵדֶ ן‬and ‘Valley of Hinnom’ (‘‫ – )’ּגֵיהִּנ ֹם‬Halkin recruits equivalents native to his target language, innovating dynamic substitutes for his English sources.20 Allowing Whitman to speak in biblical idiom, Halkin seems to heighten the primordial character of the American’s original ‘now’, collapsing distance between the scriptural antique and secular modernity. However, in recruiting biblical terminology, Halkin also refigures Whitman’s sacred polarities as specific, if intangible, places, inclining towards particular settings (‘garden’, ‘valley’) and away from metaphysical ideals (‘heaven’, ‘hell’). This situating and solidifying of American reference, although unique to Hebrew translation, is entirely Whitmanian, recalling the natural landscapes that pervade his verse collection. Replacing generic and abstract ‘heaven’ with a verdant ‘edenic garden’, for instance, Halkin innovates a substitution that echoes the cultivated lushness that is the object and setting of Whitman’s collection from its opening, allowing this single quatrain from ‘Song of Myself’ to embody elements that are innate to the entirety of Leaves of Grass. Such Hebrew amplification of Whitman’s biblicism operates not only in specific pericopes but refigures the verse collection more broadly, evident in Halkin’s approach to the primary tropes and titles of Leaves. The collection’s very name in Hebrew, for example, seems involuntarily to suggest a broad field of scriptural precedents. Organic symbol for his democratic aims, Whitman’s title – Leaves of Grass – balances unity and diversity, implying both personal uniqueness and political equality. In Hebrew, however, this same title also assumes primordial significance, gesturing to creative and sacred beginnings. Entitling his translation ‘Alē ‘Ēsev – ‘‫‘( ’עלי עשב‬leaves of grass’) – Halkin supplies a phrase that also exactly coincides in its unvowelled state with a phrase common to the Hebrew Bible, ‘‫‘( ’עלי עשב‬upon the grass’). Occurring in prominent passages of scriptural poetry, this usage may be found, for instance, in the opening lines of Moses’ valedictory song in Deuteronomy 32, where ‘‫’עלי עשב‬ appears in the dramatic and lyric conclusion to the Torah.21 This inadvertent surfacing of biblical echoes through Halkin’s ‘grass’ bleed through to

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 133 ­

his translation as well. Consider, for instance, this line from section 17 of ‘Song of Myself’ – a verse which emphasises the ubiquity of ‘grass’, clarifying the unifying potential of Whitman’s titular trope: This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is. 

(I, 22)

In Halkin’s translation, this line is rendered literally, communicating the content without ornament or addition. However, merely through providing simple Hebrew equivalents, Halkin’s line gestures to the biblical precedents that seem to inform Whitman’s creative imagery, employing vocabulary that overlaps with the Hebrew Bible. Compare, for example, Halkin’s translation of Whitman’s line with Genesis 2: 5, which includes the first allusion to ‘grass’ in the Bible:

[land]

[rain] [grow]

[grass]

   Genesis 2: 5: ‫ְָאדם ַ֔אי ִן לַ ֽע ֲ֖ב ֹד אֶת־הָ ֽאֲדָ מָ ֽה‬ ָ ‫ש ֶ ׂ֖דה ֶ ֣ט ֶרם יִצ ָ ְ֑מח ִ ּכ ֩י ֹ֨לא ִה ְמ ִ֜טיר י‬ ּ ָ ‫שׂב ַה‬ ֶ ‫ָל־ע‬ ֣ ָ ‫ְהו֤ה אֱֹלהִים֙ עַל־ ָה ָ֔א ֶרץ ו‬ ֥ ֵ ‫ְוכ‬     Halkin (p. 73):

‫זֶהּו ָה ֵעׂשֶב ׁשֶּצֹו ֵמ ַח ְּבכָל אְ ַׁשֶר הָאְ ַדָ מָה ׁשָם הִיא ְו ַה ַּמי ִם ׁשָם הֵם‬

 

[water]

[land]

[grow] [grass]

Although these lines are distinct in significance – Genesis 2: 5 recounts a time ‘before grass grew’, while Whitman emphasises the universality of grass – these fragments include a number of agreements in core diction. Coincident due to shared themes of creation and fertility, Whitman’s original English line already possesses a distinct biblical resonance. However, in its translation into Hebrew, Whitman’s verse becomes endowed with language that directly coincides with terminology from the Bible, including ‘grass’ (‘‫‘ ;)’ ֵעׂשֶב‬land’ (‘‫‘ ;)’הָאְ ַדָ מָה‬grow’ (verbal root ‘‫ – )’צמח‬terminological overlaps that allow Halkin to resuscitate Genesis vocabulary through the vehicle of American poetry.22 Such enhanced biblicism in Hebrew translation could represent a mere fortuitous match between the source text and target language, Halkin’s biblical vocabulary inadvertently harmonising with the biblical imagery of Whitman’s poetry. It is occasionally clear, however, that Halkin deliberately intervenes in ‘Alē ‘Ēsev to gesture to biblical precedents – an intervention which emerges, for instance, in surveying Halkin’s approach to other Whitmanian titles. Progressing from the collection’s overall title to its subtitles, Whitman’s primary Grass is most conspicuously aligned with his section entitled ‘Calamus’ – a word that implies the natural herb Acorus calamus,

134 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

but which gestures also to the mythic demigod Kalamos (‘κάλαμος’), a tragic lover who ultimately ‘threw himself into a river and turned into the reed named for him’.23 In Hebrew rendition, Whitman’s etymologically Greek ‘Calamus’ undergoes a surprising biblical renovation, translated as ‘‫‘( ’קנה ּב ֹׂשם‬qǝnēh bosem’) – literally ‘reed of sweet spice’ (157). Original to Torah passages such as Exodus 30: 23, where this ‘reed of sweet spice’ is listed as an ingredient for ‘sacred anointing oil’, this new Hebrew title serves to undermine the allusive precedent for Whitman’s section, his ‘Calamus’ no longer gesturing to the tragedy of pagan mythology but to the consecration of Israeli cultus.24 Domesticating this foreign reference for his Hebrew readers, Halkin’s sacralising adjustment is particularly ironic in reconfiguring this section of Leaves – a section traditionally understood as daring in its sexuality, challenging nineteenth-century heterosexual norms.25 It is the section that precedes ‘Calamus’, however, that highlights ‘Alē ‘Ēsev’s capacity to biblically revise not only the organic, but also the personal, identities of Whitman’s poetry, shifting its human characters, as well as its natural elements. Equally bold in its sexual content, Whitman’s ‘Children of Adam’ section includes a Hebrew name – ‘Adam’ – in its very title, allowing Halkin merely to retain this term in translation, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev offering the simple equivalent ‘‫( ’ ְּבנֵי ָאדָ ם‬i.e. ‘Bǝnē ’Ādām’; ‘Children of Adam’) (129).26 Although rendered transparently, Halkin’s title acquires new complexity in ‘Alē ‘Ēsev through appearing in a few unexpected passages. In the same section of ‘Song of Myself’ quoted above (section 17), Whitman seeks to universalise his deeply personal verse, contending: These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands (I, 22)

Although translating again without intervention or revision, Halkin does recast Whitman’s designation for humanity’s collective identity: ‫ֵאּלֵה ּבֶאְ ֶמֶת ַמ ְחׁשְבֹותֵ יהֶם הֵן ׁשֶל ּכָל ְּבנֵי־הָָאדָ ם ְּבכָל הַּדֹורֹות‬ [These are truly their thoughts, those of all mankind (i.e. Bǝnē hā-’Ādām) in all generations] 

(73)

Replacing English generics with Hebrew specifics, Halkin rewrites Whitman’s ‘all men’ as ‘‫( ’ּכָל ְּבנֵי־הָָאדָ ם‬literally, ‘all the children of the Adam’, i.e. ‘all mankind’) – a rendition that not only faintly gestures back to a scriptural commonplace and primordial human beginnings, but also gestures forward, to the section that follows ‘Song of Myself’, anticipating Whitman’s ‘The Children of Adam’ (‘‫ – )’ ְּבנֵי ָאדָ ם‬an interior self-reference that is unique to Halkin’s Hebrew translation.

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 135 ­

In addition to interjecting ‘‫‘( ’ָאדָ ם‬Adam’) into his American source, Halkin occasionally finds it necessary to temper Whitman’s own Adamic references, clarifying this identity in Hebrew in order to avoid confusion. For instance, in approaching the American title ‘As Adam Early in the Morning’ (II, 364), Halkin is prompted to add a qualifier to Whitman’s name:

‫ׁשּכִים עִם ּבֹקֶר‬ ְ ‫ּכְָאדָ ם ה ִָראׁשֹון ַמ‬ [As the First Adam Rising Early in the Morning]

(156)

Inserting ‘the first’ into Whitman’s line (‘‫)’ה ִָראׁשֹון‬, Halkin avoids reader misunderstanding, emphasising that this occurrence of ‘Adam’ implies not simply ‘human being’ – as ‘‫’‘( ’ָאדָ ם‬Ādām’) may in Hebrew – but, instead, the scriptural identity, the nominal first ‘Adam’ of Genesis. This insertion of fresh Hebrew terms in order to contextualise Whitman’s ‘Adam’ occurs also in Halkin’s treatment of ‘Spontaneous Me’, with Halkin emphasising the biblical ethos from which the American ‘Adam’ emerges. Near to the conclusion of his English original, Whitman includes: The oath of procreation I have sworn, my Adamic and fresh daughters (I, 259)

This line is replaced by Halkin with an innovative Hebrew equivalent:



;‫ׁש ַּבעְּתִ י̗ ּבְנֹותַ י̗ ּבְנֹות הָָאדָ ם ה ַָרעְ ַנָנֹות‬ ְ ִ‫ׁשּנ‬ ֶ ‫ׁשְבּועַת ַהּפ ְִרּי ָה־ ְוה ְָר ִבּי ָה‬ [The oath of fertility-and-multiplication I have sworn, my daughters, fresh daughters of Adam]

(149)

Whitman’s line clearly suggests a biblical precedent, not only mentioning the ‘Adamic’, but also the ‘oath of procreation’, gesturing to God’s commandment to reproduce in Genesis 2. However, Halkin deepens this link between ‘Adam’ and the reproductive imperative, recruiting the very verbs which first occur in the Hebrew Bible account. Rather than Whitman’s ‘procreation’, Halkin innovates a Hebrew idiom, generating a new phrase by fusing the original lexical components of the Genesis command – ‘be fruitful, and multiply’ – giving rise to the hyphenated ‘‫‘( ’ ַהּפ ְִרּי ָה־ ְוה ְָר ִבּי ָה‬fertility-and-multiplication’).27 Performing himself an act of linguistic procreation, Halkin’s translation produces a compound phrase that is pregnant with significance, finding in Whitman’s Leaves the generative context to formulate a modern coinage from scriptural roots. Both contemporary and traditional, this Hebrew novelty finds its genesis in

136 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

‘Alē ‘Ēsev – a textual ‘third position’ that allows the fusion of Whitmanian experimentalism and biblical beginnings. Offering Hebrew readers the opportunity to see ‘Adam’ – the primordial man – refracted throughout Whitman’s verse, Halkin not only heightens the biblicism of Leaves but also deepens its American Renaissance credentials, emphasising a thematic strain essential to the poem’s original period and era. Appearing just three years after ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, R.W.B. Lewis’ The American Adam was to become a defining contribution to American literary studies, illuminating the Adamic motifs of ‘innocence, tragedy, and tradition’ that span the nineteenth century, from Ralph Waldo Emerson to Henry James.28 Associating the ‘new Adam’ with the poetry and fiction of this classic period of US canonicity, Lewis’ approach is perhaps most obviously applicable to Whitman himself, whose ‘Children of Adam’ marks one of the most memorable additions to the later editions of Leaves of Grass. However, years before the appearance of Lewis’ The American Adam, Halkin himself helped to bring this Adamic identity to the surface of Whitman’s American verse, not through the vehicle of criticism, but rather through creative translation. Clarifying Whitman’s abstract ‘man’ with a concrete identity, as well as strengthening the Adamic contexts for Whitman’s own biblical references, Halkin offers entirely faithful renditions of Leaves passages, but also accents the poem’s Adamic colouring, weaving a more explicit, connecting thread between distinct areas of the poem. In clarifying this identity throughout Whitman’s poetry – ‘multiplying’ references to the ‘American Adam’ through ‘fertile’ rendition – Halkin also implicitly links Leaves of Grass more broadly to its American Renaissance period, accomplishing in verse the very task that Lewis will undertake in critical prose just three years later.

♦♦♦ This implicit gesture to Leaves’ critical context – with Halkin’s translation seeming to reflect broader academic trends – receives explicit expression in Halkin’s Preface to ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, which concludes with the specific ‘mention of two books’ (‫( )להזכיר שני ספרים‬13). In addition to Frederik Schylberg’s comprehensive study Walt Whitman (1951), Halkin cites none other than Gay Wilson Allen, referencing his 1946 Walt Whitman Handbook – a reference which is strangely circular, Halkin’s Hebrew Leaves building upon research which itself springs from Leaves’ Hebraic roots. An objective observer of Whitman’s Jewish receptions, Gay Wilson Allen himself now becomes a received subject within this reception tradition, inscribed into the opening pages of an Israeli edition of Whitman. While confessing his

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 137 ­

debts, Halkin’s own translatory efforts seem also, however, to transcend the scholarly efforts of Allen; rather than merely parse Whitman’s ‘biblical analogies’, Halkin performs and enacts these analogies, not comparing Leaves to scriptural models, but collapsing distinctions and distance between the two in translation. As first recognised by Allen, it is the form of Leaves, rather than its content, that seems most richly Hebraic, Whitman’s style, his ‘prosody’, rather than his persons and places. The verse parallelism of Leaves, as well as the poem’s ‘projectile force of expression’, its proclamations and invocations, are elements that have most insistently inspired biblical readings of Whitman – and are also the elements which seem to invite Halkin’s biblical rendition. Consider, for instance, this stanza opening from ‘Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking’, where Whitman voices an urgent and extemporaneous appeal: Hither my love! Here I am! here! (II, 348)

This kerygmatic call, apostrophising the beloved, receives definitively biblical treatment in ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, Halkin providing: ‫« ִהּנֵה̗ אְ ַהּובַת־נַ ְפׁשִי‬ !‫ִהנְנִי̗ ִהּנֵנִי‬ (311)

Reproducing Whitman’s repetitious and evocative cry, Halkin replaces the American’s final ‘here!’ with ‘‫‘( ’ ִהּנֵנִי‬hinnēnī’) – a Hebrew interjection with an ancient genealogy, recalling multiple precedents in the Bible. Common throughout Genesis, for instance, this exclamation is the very same that Abraham uses to respond to God when called to sacrifice his son in Genesis 22 – ‘Here I am!’ (‘‫’ ִהּנֵנִי‬, ‘hinnēnī’).29 Although an accurate translation, Halkin’s substitution also revoices Whitman’s simple statement through scriptural precedent, the American’s romantic call echoing the accents of patriarchs and prophets. Whitman’s invocatory style, so characteristic of Leaves, also receives biblical amplification in Hebrew that seems more deliberate and extensive. Returning to his celebration of the organic and the primordial, Whitman proclaims a cosmic call in section 49 of ‘Song of Myself’: I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns – O grass of graves – O perpetual transfers and promotions! (I, 80)

138 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

This moment of ecstatic audition – in which Whitman’s speaker listens to the music of the spheres – is delicately revised by Halkin: ̗ ִ ‫ׁש ַמי‬ ‫ם‬ ָ ‫ׁשם̗ הֹו! ּכֹו ְכבֵי‬ ָ ‫ׁשמַע אֶתְ כֶם לֹוחְ ַׁשִים‬ ְ ‫ׁשָמ ֹ ַע ֶא‬ !‫ׁשמָׁשֹות! הֹו̗ ֵעׂשֶב ׁשֶל ְקב ִָרים! הֹו̗ ּתְ מּורֹות ְוהִתְ ַעּלֻּיֹות מַתְ מִידֹות‬ ְ ̗‫הֹו‬ [Verily I hear you, whispering there, Oh! stars of heavens, Oh, suns! Oh, grass of graves! Oh, transfers and promotions, perpetual!] (124)

As with many of his renditions, Halkin’s substitutions here serve not to dilute but to intensify his American source. In this passage, however, Halkin’s intensifications are literal and linguistic as well as literary, using a uniquely Hebrew idiom to repeat and grammatically intensify the initial verb of the passage; opening with two verbs, rather than one, Halkin provides an infinitive followed by the first-person imperfect: ‘‫ׁשמַע‬ ְ ‫ – ’ׁשָמ ֹ ַע ֶא‬a 30 An exact reproduction of Exodus 22: usage that signifies ‘verily I hear’. 23 – in which God Himself promises: ‘I will certainly hear [i.e. ‘‫ׁשמַע‬ ְ ‫]’ׁשָמ ֹ ַע ֶא‬ the cry [of the widow and the orphan]’ – Halkin’s doubling of Whitman’s ‘hearing’ launches two lines of translation that also intensify his poetic ornaments, introducing alliteration and rhyme into this Hebrew passage; transliterated, and highlighted to indicate its euphonies, Halkin’s two-line translation sounds as follows: shāmoa‘ eshma‘ etkhem lōhashīm shām, hō! kōkǝvē shāmaym, ˙ hō, shǝmāshōt! hō, ‘ēsev shel qǝvārīm! hō, tǝmūrōt vǝhit‘alluyyōt matmīdōt!

Most conspicuous here is the repetition of the consonants ‘sh-m’, this sonic cluster occurring in a variety of patterns through the first line and bleeding into the first words of the second. Valuable as aesthetic decoration, this formal innovation also serves to reinforce the content of these lines, drawing a link between Whitman’s primary action of ‘hearing’ and the entities that are ‘heard’, helping to harmonise verb and object. While Halkin’s ‘verily I hear’ prominently features this sound combination – ‘shāmoa‘ eshma’ – so too does his ‘[stars of] heaven’ (‘shāmaym’), as well as his ‘suns’ (‘shǝmāshōt’). Completing this couplet, Halkin takes advantage of the rhyming potential innate to Hebrew morphology, introducing no less than four feminine plurals into his final line. Forming a steady catalogue of ‘ōt’ rhymes – shǝmāshōt / tǝmūrōt / vǝhit‘alluyyōt / matmīdōt – Halkin establishes a euphonic succession that gives this rendered couplet a fresh sense of formal coherence, seeking to advance Whitman’s own style in translation, improving his lines through this new series of Hebrew ‘transfers and promotions’.31

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 139 ­

Perhaps more than any other formal feature, it is the ‘syntactic parallelism’ of Leaves that marks its Hebraic character, Whitman’s symmetrical, balanced lines unmistakably echoing ‘Biblical rhythms’. Defining attribute of the psalms and prophetic poetry, Whitman’s parallelism has long invited comparison with scriptural style, even prompting Gay Wilson Allen to parse the American’s prosody through models adapted from biblical form criticism.32 Structured through repetition, antithesis and synthesis, Whitman’s counterpoised verses offer Halkin a source that is ripe for stylistic Hebrew translation – as well as Hebraic development. For instance, in the opening of ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’, Whitman’s celebrated Civil War anthem, Halkin is presented with a vigorous example of syntactic parallelism: Beat! beat! drums – blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows – through doors – burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Into the school where the scholar is studying; (II, 486–7)

Featuring both inter-line and intra-line balances and parallels, Whitman’s symmetrical introduction undergoes a dynamic recontouring in Hebrew: !‫ַהּכּו̗ ַהּכּו̗ הַּתֻ ּפִים‬ !‫ּתִ קְעּו̗ הַּׁשֹופָרֹות̗ ּתְ קָעּו‬ ̵ ‫ע־רחֵם‬ ַ ַ‫ְּבעַד ַהחַּלֹונֹות̗ ְּבעַד הַּדְ לָתֹות̗ ּפ ְִרצּו ּבְכ ֹ ַח ֹלא־י ֵד‬ ̗‫אֶל ּבֵית־ ַה ְּכנֵ ִסּיָה̗ ּכֻּלֹו אֹומֵר ּכָבֹוד̗ ְו ָהפִיצּו ַה ָּק ָהל‬ ;‫אֶל ּבֵית־ ַהּמִדְ ָרׁש̗ ׁשָם ּתַ ְלמִיד־ ָחכָם עֹוסֵק ּבְתַ לְמּודֹו‬ (336)

Halkin begins to reshape ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ first by cutting Whitman’s initial line in half, breaking apart his opening onomatopoeia, generating two distinct verses from a single original. Heightening the poem’s opening symmetry, Halkin’s line break helps to emphasise the parallel of Whitman’s imperatives (‘beat’ / ‘blow’) and his instruments (‘drums’ / ‘bugles’), these contrasted elements distinguished through separate lines. Halkin’s dissected version also accents, however, an element that is unique to his own translation: the inverse gender acquired by these imperatives and instruments in Hebrew. In Halkin’s rendition, Whitman’s ‘Beat! beat! drums!’ becomes entirely masculine (‘!‫)’ ַהּכּו̗ ַהּכּו̗ הַּתֻ ּפִים‬, while his ‘blow! bugles! blow!’ becomes entirely feminine (‘!‫)’ּתִ קְעּו̗ הַּׁשֹופָרֹות̗ ּתְ קָעּו‬, these two lines mirroring and balancing each other in morphology as well as meaning.

140 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

This symmetric enhancement – effected through divisions of line and gender – continues as Halkin’s rendition unfolds, but is expressed instead through his choice of diction. For instance, the opening to Whitman’s third and fourth lines (‘Into the solemn church [. . .]’ / ‘Into the school [. . .]’), establishes a simple semantic balance; this balance is tightened by Halkin, however, who opens his corresponding Hebrew lines with: [Into the house of congregation] [Into the house of learning]

‫אֶל ּבֵית־ ַה ְּכנֵ ִסּי ָה‬ ‫אֶל ּבֵית־ ַהּמִדְ ָרׁש‬

Further aligning Whitman’s two locales, Halkin opens his Hebrew verses not only with the same preposition (‘‫’אֶל‬, ‘into’), but also with the same object and article (‘ַ‫’ּבֵית־ה‬, ‘house of the’), these two line-initial phrases diverging only in their final element (‘‫ ’ ְּכנֵ ִסּי ָה‬/ ‘‫‘ ;’ּמִדְ ָרׁש‬congregation’ / ‘learning’). This cosmetic shift also initiates a shift in content, however, with the meaning of Whitman’s original slightly recalibrated to suit its new form. Paralleled in diction, these Hebrew lines also introduce a new parallel in denomination as well, the two ‘houses’ of Halkin’s translation seeming to suggest not only a contrast between sacred and scholarly (‘church’/ ‘school’) but also between religions: Christian and Jewish. While Halkin’s first line appears a reasonable substitute for his Whitmanian source, retaining its ecclesiastical connotation – ‘house of congregation’ – his second line leans instead towards a rather more Judaic reading:



;‫אֶל ּבֵית־ ַהּמִדְ ָרׁש̗ ׁשָם ּתַ ְלמִיד־ ָחכָם עֹוסֵק ּבְתַ לְמּודֹו‬ [Into the house of learning (midrāsh), where the wise student (talmīd-hāchām) is engaged in his study (talmūd)](336) ˙

Signifying ‘the house of learning’, Halkin’s first words – ‘‫’ּבֵית־ ַהּמִדְ ָרׁש‬, ‘house of midrāsh’ – also comprise a phrase that implies a specifically Jewish place of study, seeming more suggestive of a Yeshiva, than a generic American ‘school’. This subtle shift is buttressed in the second half of Halkin’s Hebrew line, which offers a rabbinically resonant translation for Whitman’s neutral original. Replacing ‘scholar’ and ‘studying’ are Halkin’s ‘talmīd-hāchām’ ˙ (‘‫ )’ּתַ ְלמִיד־ ָחכָם‬and ‘talmūd’ (‘‫)’תַ לְמּוד‬, terms which broadly communicate their English sources, but which are also cognate with, and specifically recall, the revered source of Jewish oral law – the Talmūd. Inscribing midrashic and talmudic hints into this verse, Whitman’s ‘school’ now becomes the Judaic balance to his Christian ‘church’ in the previous line, Halkin innovating a new parallelism grounded not only in form and setting but also in denomination.33

­

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 141

These Judaic revisions to ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ are themselves anticipated by Halkin’s very first amendment to the poem, his initial Hebrew lines serving to modulate Whitman’s opening refrain. Retreating back up to these introductory verses – ‘Beat! beat! drums! – blow! bugles! blow!’ – readers find Whitman’s jingoistic exclamation reorchestrated in Hebrew: !‫ַהּכּו̗ ַהּכּו̗ הַּתֻ ּפִים‬ !‫ּתִ קְעּו̗ הַּׁשֹופָרֹות̗ ּתְ קָעּו‬ [Beat, Beat, Tambourines! Blow, Shofars, Blow!]

Shifting the percussive and melodic timbre of his US source, Halkin’s translation features a ‘beating’ and a ‘sounding’ that would hold specific resonance for his Jewish readers. Replacing the military heralds of nineteenth-century America – ‘drums’ and ‘bugles’ – Halkin supplies the Hebrew ‘tambourines’ and ‘shofars’, instruments that not only have rich biblical genealogies but which also echo specific passages of sacred warfare, recalling the musical accompaniment to Jewish struggle in the Holy Land.34 Recomposing ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’, Halkin’s translation allows Whitman to gesture not merely to an American Civil War, but rather to warfare grounded in a context and country that seem specifically Jewish, singing a patriotic hymn that equally echoes biblical antiquity as well as anticipates Israeli modernity. The reorchestration of nation and politics in this Whitman translation seems all the more significant when its publication history is also considered. The inclusion of Halkin’s rendition of ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ in his 1952 ‘Alē ‘Ēsev would not represent its initial publication, but rather its republication, a reprinting from a New York magazine six years earlier. First published in May 1946, Halkin’s Hebrew poem would initially appear during the brief interval between World War II and Israel’s War of Independence – an interval in which Whitman’s battle-cry would hold especial Judaic relevance. It is not the year, but the venue, of this rendition’s first appearance that seems most significant, however. Printed in the New York Bitzaron – a periodical founded in 1939, billing itself as ‘The Hebrew Monthly of America’ – Halkin’s ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ would first target an audience whose complex identity matches his own translation, inhabiting New World space while speaking the idiom of ancestral homelands. Even the title of this wartime American magazine – Bitzaron, ‘‫’ ִּבּצָרֹון‬, literally ‘Stronghold’ – harmonises with Halkin’s translation. Original to Zechariah 9: 12, this journal’s title refers to the ‘Stronghold’ of Israel that defends against Gentile invasion – a biblical episode in which God Himself

142 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

is described as ‘blowing the shōfār’ in combat, using the very same language that re-occurs in the first lines of Halkin’s own ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’35 Returning in Judaic guise to be published in Whitman’s hometown, this post-war renovation of a Civil War anthem not only resonates with the composite nationality of its fresh Hebrew readership, but also harmonises with the biblical militarism of its renovated site and ‘stronghold’ of Hebrew publication.

♦♦♦ Tuned to a distinctly Judaic range and register, Halkin’s ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ typifies his Hebrew domestication of Whitman’s poetic nationalism. The revisionary efforts of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev are perhaps most overt, however, when it grapples with Whitman’s own references to Jewish issues and identities. Most global of all his Leaves, Whitman’s iconic poem ‘Salut au Monde!’ offers an extended catalogue of nations and societies, celebrating human diversity through surveying world cultures and communities. Already implying transnational movement and change, this poem seems a fit source for transatlantic translation; however, Halkin not only produces an Israeli rendition of ‘Salut au Monde!’, but offers an Israeli response to Whitman’s American greeting, speaking back to his original salut with a refracted Hebrew echo. This ricochet dialogue emerges, in particular, as the poem considers Jewish experience in its third section; after listening to a range of foreign sounds, such as the ‘chirp of the Mexican muleteer’ and the ‘cry of the Cossack’, Whitman adds that: I hear the Hebrew reading his records and psalms (I, 164)

An intimate act of American (over)hearing, Whitman’s act also directly overlaps with Halkin’s own readership – an overlap that leads the Hebrew translator to embellish his source slightly:



;‫ְמֹורי ּתְ הִּלֹותָ יו‬ ֵ ‫קֹורא ְּב ֵספֶר ּתֹולְדֹותָ יו ּו ִמז‬ ֵ ‫אְ ַנִי ׁשֹו ֵמ ַע אֶת ָה ִעב ְִרי‬ [I hear the Hebrew reading in his book of chronicles and psalms of praise]

(192)

Extending Whitman’s general ‘records and psalms’, Halkin provides ‘book of chronicles and psalms of praise’ – an expansion of the English line, recruiting genre-specific vocabulary that seems to target Jewish religious life in particular, both its genealogical ‘history’ (‘‫ )’ּתֹולְדֹותָ יו‬and its divine ‘worship’ (‘‫)’ּתְ הִּלֹותָ יו‬.36 Perhaps more crucially, however, Halkin’s

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 143 ­

verse – merely in rendering into Hebrew Whitman’s reference to ‘the Hebrew’ (‘‫ – )’ ָה ִעב ְִרי‬inadvertently alters its original implications, generating a line that reads very differently in twentieth-century Israel than it did in nineteenth-century New England. While designed in English to evoke the exoticism that pervades Whitman’s ‘Salut’, this line in Hebrew becomes entirely domestic, its reporting of a foreign act collapsed into an act most familiar; for the readers of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, nothing alien remains in ‘hearing’ a ‘Hebrew reading’, with Whitman’s imaginary audition transformed simply by the vantage from which it is spoken and the language in which it speaks. Such interventions into Whitman’s Jewish references deepen as ‘Salut’ unfolds, Halkin revising not only the American’s ‘Hebrew’ in general, but his portrait of Hebrew nationality and residency more specifically; reflecting Jewish yearnings in his own age, Whitman reports, in his poem’s eleventh section, that he ‘sees’: You Jew journeying in your old age through every risk to stand once on Syrian ground! You other Jews waiting in all lands for your Messiah! (I, 173)

Envisioning differing trajectories of Jewish expectation in the nineteenth century – both Zionism and Messianism – this passage is historically revised and modernised in Hebrew, Halkin recasting Whitman’s lines as follows: ̗‫אַּתָ ה̗ ַהּי ְהּודִ י̗ ַהּׂשָם נַפְׁשֹו ְּבכַּפֹו וְיֹוצֵא לַּדֶ ֶרְך ְלעֵת זִ ְקנָה‬ !‫ׁשנִית עַל ַאדְ מַת הַּק ֹדֶ ׁש‬ ֵ ‫ִל ַמעַן ַהּצֵג ּכַף ֵרגְלְָך‬ !‫אַּתֶ ם̗ ּכָל ׁשְָאר ַהּי ְהּודִ ים̗ ַה ְמ ַחּכִים ְּבכָל הָאְ ַרצֹות ִל ְמׁשִיחְ ַכֶם‬ [O you, Jew, the one risking his life, and going forth in old age, in order to set your foot again on holy land! you, all other Jews, waiting in every land for your Messiah!] (201)

Most obvious among Halkin’s targeted adjustments are the geographic parameters of this section, altering Whitman’s ‘Syrian ground’ to the Hebrew ‘holy land’ (‘‫)’ַאדְ מַת הַּק ֹדֶ ׁש‬. Updating the anticipatory and incomplete Zionism of the last half of the nineteenth century, Whitman’s ‘Jew’ – originally envisioned as traversing ‘Syrian’ landscapes – is now translated in both language and space, carried beyond categories of modern nation states, permitted to reach the sacred homeland itself. Accompanying this geographic advance, the pilgrim’s body and identity are likewise advanced, Halkin adding significant material to Whitman’s terse line, envisioning his Jewish traveller as ‘setting’ his ‘foot again on holy land’. A qualification

144 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

with consecrated resonance, Halkin re-imagines the actual Jewish limb that will ‘again’ touch the ‘land’, refiguring Whitman’s pilgrimage in terms of corporeal return and sacred repetition (‘‫ׁשנִית‬ ֵ ’), rather than as a generic journey that is singular and ‘once’. The second of Whitman’s lines, addressed to the ‘other Jews waiting’, is rendered reasonably by Halkin. However, in reproducing the ‘Messiah’ of this line – transliterated back simply into Hebrew as ‘‫‘( ’ ִל ְמׁשִיחְ ַכֶם‬for their Māshīah’) – Halkin grapples with nomenclature that will elsewhere elicit ˙ his revisionary efforts. Amending the national parameters of Whitman’s ‘Salut’, Halkin also amends this poem’s religious boundaries, revising its Christian overtones in particular. Soon after ‘hearing’ the ‘Hebrew reading his records and psalms’ in the third section of his ‘Salut’, Whitman includes another religious witnessing, reporting: I hear the tale of the divine life and bloody death of the beautiful God the Christ (I, 164)

Theologically vivid, this line receives an equally vibrant Hebrew rendition: ‫ׂשּי ָה ַה ְמ ַסּפ ֶֶרת ְּב ַחּי ָיו הָאְ ֶֹל ִהּי ִים ּו ְבמִיתָ תֹו זָבַת־הַּדָ ם‬ ִ ַ ְ‫אְ ַנִי ׁשֹו ֵמ ַע אֶת ַהּמַע‬ ;‫ׁשֶל אֹותֹו אֵל נָ ֶאה̗ הַּנֹצ ְִרי‬ [I hear the story recounting the godly life and the death, flowing with blood, of that handsome god, the Nazarene;] (193)

The central axioms of Christianity – its founder’s ‘divine life and bloody death’ – are conveyed not only clearly, but indeed graphically, in Hebrew. It is the label of ‘Christ’, however, which itself fails to survive translation; rather than reproduce this term’s literal meaning – ‘Messiah’, or ‘anointed one’ – Halkin instead replaces ‘Christ’ with ‘‫‘ – ’הַּנֹצ ְִרי‬the Nazarene’.37 Nuancing the sacred history implied by his loaded English source, Halkin’s Hebrew defers the messianic value of Whitman’s ‘Christ’; it also, however, geographically domesticates Whitman’s figure for a new target audience, grounding the American ‘Christ’ now in Israeli soil, emphasising his local proximity, original to the town of Nazareth. Such reluctance to render the messianic etymology of Whitman’s ‘Christ’ is common throughout ‘Alē ‘Ēsev; grappling with this term in translating ‘Base of all Metaphysics’, for instance, Halkin refuses translation altogether, replacing Whitman’s ‘Christ’ not with ‘Nazarene’ but with mere transliteration, substituting the Hebrew ’‫‘( ’ּכ ְִריסְטֹוס‬Krīst ōs’) (168). Eliding the distance between source text ˙˙ ˙ and target language – merging them in sound, if not in meaning (‘Christ’ / ‘Krīst ōs’) – Halkin also makes obvious the barrier between Israeli audience ˙˙ ˙

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 145 ­

and US original, with a term from the latter resisting literal translation for the former. Evading translation perhaps due to religious sensitivities, Halkin resorts to transliteration in the case of ‘Christ’. However, when faced with diction in Leaves even more sensitive – indeed, perhaps the most sensitive of all diction – Halkin retreats from both direct translation and transliteration, innovating alternative means of conveying Whitman’s content. In the forty-first section of ‘Song of Myself’, Whitman provides another global catalogue, focused not on the diversity of humankind, but rather on a divine diversity. Paralleling his sketch of multiple cultures in ‘Salut’, Whitman lists a range of deities in ‘Song of Myself’, including the Jewish, which precedes all others: Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters, Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson, Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha, In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved, With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image, Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more, (I, 63–4)

Although ascribed priority in this catalogue, the inclusion of ‘Jehovah’ in this pantheon is problematic. Not only listing this monotheistic God within a polytheistic inventory, Whitman also presumes to measure Him, ‘taking [. . .] the exact dimensions’ of the biblical deity. In approaching this passage’s Hebrew translation, however, it is simply its use of ‘Jehovah’ that raises difficulties, Halkin confronted with this sacred and ineffable name, unpronounced among the orthodox. Rendering Whitman’s celestial directory, Halkin elects to transliterate its identities, closely matching the English originals of ‘Song of Myself’. Replacing ‘Kronos’, for example, the Hebrew simply provides ‘‫‘( ’ּכְרֹונֹוס‬Krōnōs’); Whitman’s ‘Zeus’ becomes ˙ Halkin’s ‘ְ‫‘( ’זֵ ְבס‬Zēvǝs’); ‘Hercules’ becomes ‘‫‘( ’ה ְֶרקּולֵס‬Herqūlēs’); ‘Osiris’ ˙ ˙ becomes ‘‫‘( ’אֹוזִיריס‬Ōzīrīs’). However, it is the first name of this index – the ˙ only one native to Halkin’s target language – that resists transliteration. Replacing Whitman’s ‘Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah’, Halkin offers:



;‫ִעּורי־קֹומָתֹו ׁשֶל אֵל ׁשַּדַ י‬ ֵ ‫מְדַ קְּדֵ ק וְקֹו ֵב ַע ְ ּב ַע ְצמִי ׁש‬ [Carefully examining and establishing for myself the stature-dimensions of God Almighty;]

(109)

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

As Massel before him (Chapter 1), Halkin refuses to render his American source as it alludes to the Hebrew Tetragrammaton – the inviolable name ‘Jehovah’. Rather than excise any hint of this taboo, however, Halkin offers a compromised replacement, providing instead ‘‫‘( ’אֵל ׁשַּדַ י‬Ēl Shaddai’, ‘God Almighty’) – a substitute that seems to acknowledge Whitman’s Hebraic inclusion in his divine catalogue, providing a name that occurs frequently in the Bible, from Genesis to the Book of Job. In avoiding the articulation of ‘Jehovah’, however, Halkin also potentially avoids, too, the inclusion of the specifically Judaic in Whitman’s irreverent pantheon. An enigmatic phrase with a dubious etymology, ‘‫‘( ’אֵל ׁשַּדַ י‬Ēl Shaddai’) has long been identified as a biblical borrowing from the pagan Near East, an Israeli domestication of a name original to ancient Semitic polytheism. Retaining the biblical flavour of Whitman’s original, Halkin’s revision of his divine index not only mutes the American naming of the ineffable Almighty, but also suggests a substitution that fits the index of gods in ‘Song of Myself’, choosing a divine epithet that bridges Judaic and pagan – an epithet that is both foreign and yet highly appropriate to Whitman’s pantheon.38

♦♦♦ While comprising his most sustained engagement with Whitman, Halkin’s 1952 Leaves would not, however, conclude his efforts to expose Hebrew readers to the American’s verse. Eight years following ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, three of its translations would reappear in a New York periodical – Israel Argosy – Halkin’s versions in Hebrew paired with their English originals on facing pages. Together with ‘There was a Child Went Forth’ and ‘The Last Invocation’, this 1960 issue of Israel Argosy would publish also Halkin’s rendition of the famous Lincoln elegy ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ – a poetic memorial that reads differently, but aptly, in modern Hebrew, seeming now to voice an embattled people at the heart of the twentieth-century Middle East, rather than nineteenth-century America. This semantic flexibility of ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ – fluidly crossing centuries and ­continents – is aided by the context for Halkin’s reprinted translations. An organ of the ‘Youth and Hechalutz Department of the Zionist Organisation’, Israel Argosy represented a political as much as a literary venue, publishing selections from Halkin’s translations in aid of the magazine’s nationalist agenda. Building a periodic and patriotic narrative of Leaves in Hebrew, Halkin’s Israeli ‘Alē ‘Ēsev in 1952 is straddled by New York publications from Whitman’s Civil War canon – a narrative that helps also to index the shifting prospects of Zionism during this period, from the zealous post-war

­

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 147

‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ in the 1946 Bitzaron to the mournful ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ in the 1960 Israel Argosy.39 The reappearance of Halkin’s Whitman in 1960 hints also at the widening impact and influence of his translations on fellow Hebrew literati. Prefacing Halkin’s three pieces in the pages of Israel Argosy is another version of Whitman, a Hebrew translation of his ‘I think I could turn and live with animals’, a poem rendered not by Halkin but by Miriam YalanShteklis (1900–84) – a prominent Israeli author, known, in particular, for her writings for children. Accompanied by an additional Hebrew incarnation of Leaves in Israel Argosy, Halkin’s translations seem now to inhabit a broader context of reception, building a shared Israeli Whitman.40 This unfolding life of Halkin’s Whitman would culminate and redouble in 1984 with the publication of his second edition of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev – his ‘expanded edition’, as Halkin designates this revised translation )’‫(‘מהדורה מורחבת‬ )13(. Comprising one of his final literary exertions, and appearing just three years before his death in 1987, Halkin’s second ‘Alē ‘Ēsev would add to its 1952 materials, including generous selections from the ‘Annexes’, Whitman’s late verse supplements to Leaves (479–508). Pivoting from the 1881–2 edition, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev makes a chronologic leap in 1984, rendering now from Whitman’s 1891–2 ‘death-bed’ Leaves – a fitting transition, considering Halkin’s own approaching death even as he completed his expanded ‘Alē ‘Ēsev. Appending a new, brief introduction to this 1984 Leaves, Halkin strikes a nostalgic tone, reflecting back on his previous efforts to preview and contextualise Whitman for his Israeli audience. Opening this ‘expanded edition’, Halkin refers back to his 1952 preface – his ‘To the Reader’ (‘‫ – )’אל הקורא‬acknowledging that there is little use now in adding additional paratexts; anyone who reviews his original preface, Halkin suggests, will ‘understand why I see no need’ to add further discussion in introducing ‘Alē ‘Ēsev (‘‫( )’יבין מדוע איני רואה צורך‬13).41 Openly pursuing Halkin to the close of his life in the 1980s, more covert traces of Leaves are also discernible at the opposite end of his career, with Whitman helping to launch Halkin’s very first efforts in the 1930s and 1940s. Even before the 1946 appearance of ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ in Bitzaron, for example, Halkin would publish rendered selections from Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’, printing individual pieces in the Yearbook of American Jewry in 1942 and, even earlier, in the Israeli magazine The Land, in the late 1930s.42 These translations are themselves anticipated, however, by Whitmanian echoes audible in Halkin’s own early compositions, his Hebrew verse featuring suggestive overlaps with themes and diction characteristic of Leaves. Published initially in 1935, Halkin’s ‘To Tarshish’ (‘‫’ּתַ ְרׁשִיׁשָה‬, ‘Tarshīshāh’) has become one of his most ­anthologised

148 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

and scrutinised poems, but also a poem that seems most prescient of Halkin’s later Whitmanian engagements.43 Reviewing ‘To Tarshish’ in The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself, Abraham Huss – while not mentioning Leaves specifically – provides an overview that would be entirely familiar to Whitman readers. Describing the speaker of Halkin’s poem as ‘swallowed up by the eternal eroticism of nature’, Huss finds ‘To Tarshish’ offering ‘a somewhat pantheistic conception of pure sensation and pure “being” rooted in nature, such nature being conceived as both private and universal’.44 Balancing the poem’s mysticism and naturalism, Halkin’s ‘To Tarshish’ is equally concerned, however, with anxieties and yearnings of exile; forced to flee his native land, Halkin’s speaker grapples with duties to both his forefathers and his descendants, contemplating the bleak prospects for his abandoned and ‘lovely daughter’ (‘‫[ נָאוָה‬. . .] ‫( )’ּבת‬153), even while he also deserts his ancestral ‘motherland’ (‘‫( )’הַּמֹולֶדֶ ת‬153). Although framed through biblical precedent – its setting borrowed from the story of Jonah, who flees ‘to Tarshish’ to evade his prophetic calling – Halkin’s poem recalls Whitman as well in modernising a scriptural aesthetic, offering a highly sensual, progressive revision of Hebraic themes, boldly fusing sacred and profane. Announcing its genre from its opening word – ‘Elēgiyyah’ (‘‫( )’אְ ֶ ֵלגִּי ָה‬145) – ‘To Tarshish’ also echoes Leaves in redefining literary convention, naming itself as ‘elegy’ even while developing a poetics of affirmation, saying ‘yes’ to the darkest of human possibilities, celebrating even decay and death. As suggested from Huss’ review, however, it is the poem’s organic mysticism that seems to echo most insistently a Whitmanian ethos, giving rise to specific passages that invite comparison with Leaves. Consider, for example, Halkin’s sixth stanza (lines 36–42), which are addressed to the land of ‘Tarshish’ itself: ̗‫ְרעַב־ ַחּי ִים ּגֹונֵז ק ְִרּבְֵך ּכָל ֶרגַע מ ְֻר ָּכז‬ ‫ּפֹורר הָאְ ֶֹלהִים ּבְָך ִלפ ְָרדִ ים‬ ֵ ְ‫ְּכ ִאּלּו הִת‬ .‫ו ְֶרגַע ֶרגַע י ְ ַעּלַע אֶת יִי ִן גּופֹו ֻמּקָן‬ ̗‫ָקצַר קֵיצְֵך ּומְאֹוד ָחכְמּו זְבּו ַבי ְִך ְמנֻּקָדִ ים‬ .‫ׁשכְרֹונָם‬ ִ ‫ׂשעַר־י ָדִ י ְ ּבחֶתֵ ף‬ ְ ‫ַה ִּמזְדַ ּ ְּוגִים ִּב‬ ‫עַם ַה ְּצפ ְַרּדֵ ַע יֹום ּתָ מִים יְי ַחְ ַמּו אֹונָם‬ .‫ְוׁשָבּו ַאט ּפ ְָרדֵ י־ ָהאֵל ִלהְיֹות לַאְ ַחָדִ ים‬ [Hunger for life stores within you each moment’s essence, As if in you the God himself crumbled to atoms And moment after moment gulps the wine-lettings of his body. Your summer is short; your spotted flies have grown so wise Coupling in the hair of my arm in a seizure of intoxication;

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 149 ­

Frog folk heat their virility all day; And slowly returned atoms of the God become unities.]45

It is the number and variety of Whitmanian tropes pervading this short selection that is striking. The stanza’s temporal urgency, stressing ‘each moment’s essence’; its celebration of the body sublime, with ‘intoxication’ grounded in the corporeal; the evolutionary and anthropomorphic touches, discovering ‘spotted flies’ to have gained ‘wisdom’, and ‘frog folk’ endowed with ‘virility’; the stanza’s recurrent use of intimate address for a natural landscape, ‘Tarshish’ directly referenced through the second person ‘thou’ – all overlap with strategies that inform Leaves of Grass. These broad similarities are punctuated, too, by Hebrew phrases that seem to intersect specific lines in ‘Song of Myself’ in particular. For readers of Whitman, verses such as the following may sound especially familiar: ‫ׁשכְרֹונָם‬ ִ ‫ׂשעַר־י ָדִ י ְ ּבחֶתֵ ף‬ ְ ‫ַה ִּמזְדַ ּ ְּוגִים ִּב‬ [Coupling in the hair of my arm in a seizure of intoxication]

Specifying a member of the speaker’s body as a site of transcendence and ecstasy, Halkin offers a potent reminder of a well known Leaves verse: The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer (I, 33)

While certainly not an exact match – Halkin’s ‘hair of my arm’ contrasts with Whitman’s ‘arm-pits’, the former’s ‘intoxication’ with the latter’s ‘prayer’ – the imagery of these two verses seems continuous, if not directly coincident.46 Equally suggestive is the ‘atomic’ language of Halkin’s stanza, with his final line appearing also to claim a ‘Song of Myself’ precedent. Closing his sixth stanza, Halkin’s ‘And slowly returned atoms of the God become unities’ seems to gesture back to the original opening of Leaves, where Whitman memorably insists: For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you (I, 1)

Overlapping not merely in their appeal to ‘atoms’, these lines, Hebrew and English, recruit this image to imply a sense of radical ‘unity’ – a mystic oneness that pervades both Leaves of Grass and ‘To Tarshish’. Perhaps more importantly, however, this lexical bridge between Halkin’s and Whitman’s compositions offers a preview of their translatory encounter in ‘Alē ‘Ēsev. Invoked first in 1935, the Hebrew ‘atoms’ of Halkin’s ‘To Tarshish’ – that is, his pǝrādīm (‘‫ – )’פ ְָרדִ ים‬seem to return at the beginning

150 ]

‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

of his 1952 translation of ‘Song of Myself’, Whitman’s third line rendered as:



.‫ׁשּי ְָך לְָך ּכְמֹו כֵן‬ ַ ‫ּׁשּי ְָך לִי‬ ַ ‫ׁשּכֵן ּכָל ּפ ְָרד ַה‬ ֶ [For every atom (pǝrād) that belongs to me, also belongs to you as well]

(53)

Previewing in poetry his own Leaves translation, Halkin’s use of ‘atoms’ (‘pǝrādīm’) in the 1935 ‘To Tarshish’ seems to anticipate his 1952 ‘Song of Myself’ – an anticipation that reverses the expected chronology of influence between Halkin and Whitman, switching the priority between Hebrew translator and American author.47 Forging a modernist Hebrew vocabulary in the 1930s – itself likely influenced by Whitman – Halkin’s poetic diction from ‘To Tarshish’ becomes (re)incorporated into Leaves through 1950s translation, Whitman both giving and receiving the Hebrew ‘pǝrād’ (‘atom’), his Leaves participating in this word’s circular transmission through Halkin’s writings. The irony of such annular vocabulary is heightened when it is recognised that ‘To Tarshish’ has been traditionally read autobiographically, understood to symbolise Halkin’s own exilic urge to flee to the US – a yearning that is fulfilled, in part, by his residing in diverse acts of American translation, investing the borders of his life in rendition of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, covertly through poetic allusion in his early years, and overtly through decades of language translation, concluding only in the final years of his life.48

♦♦♦ First published in 2002, Amos Oz’ A Tale of Love and Darkness (‘‫ )’סיפור על אהבה וחושך‬recounts his coming of age in Jerusalem during the middle years of the twentieth century. Leading Israeli novelist, Oz’ autobiography is narratively complex, shifting forward and back in time, his sporadic memories orbiting around experiences of love, literature and language, as well as domestic tragedy and trauma. Approaching its conclusion, A Tale of Love and Darkness reaches an episode from Oz’ early manhood, recollecting his infatuation with an older, more experienced woman – the school teacher ‘Orna’. Together in her room, Oz recalls how he and Orna discussed music and art, developing an intimacy through aesthetic exchange: When she stood between me and the lamp, the outline of her thighs and her underpants showed through the cloth of her dress. This time she had Grieg’s

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 151 ­

Peer Gynt on the gramophone. She sat down next to me on the bed with its Middle Eastern bedspread and explained to me the feelings evoked by each of the movements. As for me, I read to her from Leaves of Grass and launched into a conjecture about the influence of Walt Whitman on the poetry of O. Hillel.49

Seeking to impress his beloved, Oz chooses none other than Whitman and his Leaves, offering a poetic response to Orna’s musical overture. This sensual dialogue is itself distinctly Whitmanian, the two lovers not only trafficking in Leaves of Grass, but sitting together and listening to one another, echoing the ‘leaning and loafing’ that opens Whitman’s own original collection. Rather than reclining in American landscapes, however, it is a Jerusalem bedroom that now houses Whitman’s words, his Leaves planted no longer on Massachusetts turf, but on a ‘Middle Eastern bedspread’. A vehicle of romance in Israel’s new capital, Whitman is also ‘conjecture[d]’ as literary ‘influence’, identified as informing the verse of the early Israeli poet O. Hillel. Compounding the ironies of translation implied in this scene, Oz links his American favourite with a Hebrew poet who is himself deeply biblical in style and diction, Hillel’s scriptural verse claimed as Whitman’s offspring – a positioning that makes the latter’s hyperbolic claims in 1857, aspiring towards his ‘Great Construction of the New Bible’, seem somewhat more realised.50 The precise setting for this encounter is also of interest, Oz remembering that Whitman helped to promote his romantic prospects in 1950s Jerusalem – in the years immediately following the appearance of Halkin’s own Israeli ‘Alē ‘Ēsev. This coincidence of date and place is, of course, no coincidence at all. In a brief passage that closely precedes the above vignette – a passage in which Oz prepares to meet Orna – the young man is portrayed as embarking for his visit: I summoned up the courage to arm myself with Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass in Halkin’s translation (which I had told her about on the first evening) and knocked on her door in the evening – alone this time.51

Not Leaves of Grass merely, but ‘Leaves of Grass in Halkin’s translation’, becomes the vehicle for Oz’ ‘courage’, giving him the nerve to pursue his romantic fling. Catalyst in his quest for Orna, Oz notes parenthetically that ‘Alē ‘Ēsev even precedes their ‘evening’ together; Oz ‘had told [Orna] about’ Halkin’s Leaves ‘on the first evening’ they met. And even though Oz arrives at his sweetheart’s ‘door’ without anyone to support him – he is ‘alone this time’ – the young man is not, of course, defenceless; instead, he is ‘arm[ed]’ with ‘Whitman’, his bravery sustained by ‘Halkin’s t­ ranslation’.

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This moment of private exchange, a personal moment from Oz’ own life, has now attained a wide and very public circulation, appearing in the pages of his ‘wildly popular’ memoir. Not only an Israeli best-seller, but a work that has attracted a ‘worldwide’ readership with over ‘a million copies sold’, the Whitmanian affair between Oz and Orna has reached a vast audience simply due to its inclusion in A Tale of Love and Darkness. Translated into twenty-eight languages, not counting a ‘bootleg Kurdish translation’ which Oz’ publisher was surprised to find on sale in ‘northern Iraq’ in 2011, A Tale of Love and Darkness has succeeded in casting ‘Alē ‘Ēsev onto a global, twenty-first-century stage, with Oz’ allusion to Halkin and his Leaves now rendered and remembered in a myriad of languages.52 While it is the ‘love’ of Oz’ title that most clearly pertains to Whitman’s translated appearance in Orna’s bedroom, it is this autobiography’s titular ‘darkness’ – hinting at the dangers and distresses of mid-century Jerusalem – that best recalls where Halkin himself begins his Hebrew edition in 1952, recording the ‘difficult days’ of its initial appearance. Referencing ‘Alē ‘Ēsev in his autobiography, blending personal and national, trauma and intimacy, Oz himself rehearses the polarities that inform Halkin’s own translation – a translation that balances Whitmanian eros with the ‘darkness’ of contemporary Jewish dislocation. Only three years after Oz’ A Tale of Love and Darkness, Hillel Halkin – Simon’s Halkin’s nephew – would publish another memorial that reflects on ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, a memorial which situates Simon Halkin as its focal centre, rather than on its peripheral margins. Published in Commentary magazine, Hillel’s 2005 article ‘My Uncle Simon’ offers a poignant overview of the latter’s pivotal role in Israeli literary culture, but also accounts for his later disillusionment with Zionism and its divisive factions. Nearing his article’s conclusion, Hillel Halkin recalls how his uncle became weary of rifts between religious and secular; speculating that Simon would perhaps have been happier in returning to his adopted home in America, Hillel is led to offer an inevitably Whitmanian summary: He [Simon Halkin] should have gone back out West instead of taking Klausner’s job in Jerusalem [the Professorship of Modern Hebrew], vanished there with his beloved Whitman:    A California song,    A prophecy and indirection, a thought     impalpable to breathe as air,    A chorus of dryads, fading, departing, or    hamadryads departing,    A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the    earth and sky,

­

The New Bible in Hebrew: Whitman and Simon Halkin [ 153    Voice of a mighty dying tree in the redwood    forest dense!53

Recruiting Leaves to commemorate his uncle, Hillel’s concluding quotation from ‘A California Song’ seems to perform another chronological inversion, allowing Walt Whitman to translate Simon Halkin, not only supplying the Hebrew translator with an American epitaph, but also carrying him transnationally ‘back’ to American shores, evaporating together in a ‘forest dense’. Perhaps most striking in this family memorial is simply its ghostly intimacy, Simon Halkin pictured by his nephew as ‘vanish[ing]’ with his ‘beloved’, whisked away to the ‘West’, disappearing with ‘Whitman’ amidst the ethereal ‘dryads’ and ‘redwood[s]’. As Halkin had chased Whitman through his life, from the beginning of his career to its end, Hillel Halkin pictures his uncle still chasing the American poet, melting now in an unfulfilled ‘prophecy’ – in a ‘fading, departing’ Californian afterlife. This exilic dream remains in the subjunctive mood merely, projecting only what ‘should have [been]’ according to Hillel Halkin. However, in imagining his uncle’s pursuit of Whitman to Pacific coasts, Hillel does seem to illuminate where Simon Halkin elects to conclude his own 1952 ‘Alē ‘Ēsev. Anticipating his nephew’s 2005 ending to ‘My Uncle Simon’, Halkin chooses to end his first edition of Leaves a half-century before also with a dreamy maritime quest, selecting Whitman’s ‘Now finalè to the Shore’ as its final translation (‘‫)’ ַע ְכׁשָו נְגִינַח־ ַהּנְעִילָה לַחֹוף‬: Now finalè to the shore, Now land and life finalè and farewell, Now Voyager depart, (much, much for thee is yet in store,) Often enough has thou adventur’d o’er the seas, Cautiously cruising, studying the charts, Duly again to port and hawser’s tie returning; But now obey thy cherish’d secret wish, Embrace thy friends, leave all in order, To port and hawser’s tie no more returning, Depart upon thy endless cruise old Sailor. ̗‫ַע ְכׁשָו נְגִינַח־ ַהּנְעִילָה לַחֹוף‬ ̗‫ָָארץ ְו ַל ַחּי ִים‬ ֶ ‫ַע ְכׁשָו נְגִינַח־ ַהּנְעִילָה ּוב ְִרכַת ַהּׁשָלֹום ל‬ ;)‫ַע ְכׁשָו ַה ְפ ֵלג̗ ַּבעַל ַה ַּמּסָעֹות̗ (ה ְַרּבֵה ה ְַרּבֵה לְָך עֹוד צָפּון‬ ̗‫ְלעִּתִ ים קְרֹובֹות ְלמַּדַ י ּתַ ְרּתָ ַאחְ ֵַרי ְל ָבבְָך עַל ְּפנֵי ַהּיַּמִים‬ ̗‫ׁשָט זָהִיר̗ ְמ ַעּי ֵן ַּבּמַּפֹות‬ ̗‫וְׁשּוב חֹוזֵר ּכַּדָ ת אֶל ַהּנָמֵל ְואֶל מַעְ ַנַב הָעְ ַבֹות‬

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves ;‫ׁשּמ ֶָרת‬ ֻ ‫ׁש ֶאלֶת־ ִל ְבָּך ַה ְמסֻּתָ ָרה̗ ַה ְמ‬ ְ ‫ּׁשמַע ְל ִמ‬ ָ ‫ְואִּלּו ַע ְכׁשָו ִה‬ ̶ ‫ַחּבֵק אֶת י ְדִ ידֶ יָך̗ ַהּנַח הַּכ ֹל עָרּוְך ּו ְמסֻּדָ ר‬ ̗‫לְֹלא ּתָ ׁשּוב עֹוד אֶל ַהּנָמֵל ְואֶל מַעְ ַנַב הָעְ ַבֹות‬ 54 .‫צֵא ְלׁשֵיטְָך ֹלא־י ִּתַ ם̗ ַה ַּמּלָח ַהּזָקֵן‬ (III, 608)

A rather deliberate and self-conscious conclusion to ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, these wistful verses offer both an apt and an ironic ‘farewell’, reflecting on shores and margins, but also charting a ‘cruise’ that is without limits. Although representing the very end to his edition, Halkin’s ‘finalè’ itself closes with the idea of ‘no-ending’ (‘‫)’ֹלא־י ִּתַ ם‬, offering a suitably open conclusion to his Hebrew Leaves – an edition whose own ‘adventure’ will continue to unfold through the twentieth century and into the twenty-first, with ‘much, much [. . .] yet in store’. Reinforcing exilic and maritime imagery that reaches back, too, through his own career, the last rendered words of the 1952 ‘Alē ‘Ēsev – ‘‫‘( ’ ַה ַּמּלָח ַהּזָקֵן‬old Sailor’) – seems to recall the personal voyage at the centre of Halkin’s 1935 ‘To Tarshish’, his autobiographical poem that also envisages transatlantic futures from the vantage of an aged and ancestral past. In concluding with intimate frontiers – with a ‘cherish’d secret wish’ – Halkin also seems to gesture back to the very opening of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, the final margins of his 1952 edition mirroring its marginal beginnings. In the pages prior to its first rendition, even before its preface emphasising the ‘difficult days’ of its Israeli ‘appearance’, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev includes a dedication that inclines decisively instead toward the domestic, opening with two informal lines: ‫לבתי לצפירה‬ ‫התרגום מוקדש‬ [To my daughter, to Zephyra The translation is dedicated]55

While it is Whitman’s ‘old Sailor’ who occupies the concluding shores of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, its fluid opening is reserved for Halkin’s own child. Reminiscent again of his ‘To Tarshish’, Halkin’s Leaves becomes a vessel for intimate memory, not only reflecting back on his nation’s ‘motherland’, but dedicated forward, devoted to his individual ‘daughter’. Ironically more personal than his own composition, Halkin distinguishes his American translation by inscribing the very name of his child into its façade, his ‘Zephyra’ perennially paired with Whitman in the opening of the Hebrew Leaves. A poignant exchange between father and daughter, this epigraph also refracts the broader cycles of generational memory that surround and

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circumscribe ‘Alē ‘Ēsev. Fashioned in the crucible of war, published in the wake of the Holocaust, Halkin’s translation reaches forward in dedication during a time when Jewish memory itself has become most urgent and most fragile, committing Whitman to his own descendants, despite recent traumas of genealogy and ancestry. Speaking ahead to Israel’s literary futures, Halkin’s family memorial accrues particular significance and prophetic resonance, however, when it is recognised that his daughter – Zephyra Halkin (now Zephyra Porat) – has become one of the premier American Renaissance scholars in Israel. Specialist on Melville, writing criticism in both Hebrew and English, Professor Porat has played a pivotal role in introducing antebellum US classics to Israeli audiences, even authoring an ‘afterword’ to the classic Hebrew translation of Moby-Dick, providing an epilogue to Aharon Amir’s celebrated ‘‫( ’מובי דיק‬Mōbī Dīq), first published in 1981.56 Crossing nation and generation, Simon Halkin’s efforts in American translation now seem a ‘cruise’ without limits; halting not with his ‘finalè’ to ‘Alē ‘Ēsev in 1952, nor with the edition’s expansion in 1984, the dedication of Halkin’s Leaves blossoms in his daughter’s own prolific career, the name ‘Zephyra’ inscribed at the opening of Whitman’s collection in Hebrew, but equally at the end of the Hebrew Moby-Dick, enveloping these US epics of land and sea, straddling both the Grass and The Whale. Unfolding its ‘endless’ and opposing margins, the origins of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev are anchored in ‘difficult days’ and national ‘darkness’; however, it is ‘love’ that wafts its advancing memorial, Halkin’s pursuit of his ‘beloved Whitman’ remembered in romantic ‘courage’ and family ‘dedication’, his ‘labour of love’ in Hebrew bearing fruit through new generations of Israeli translation.

chapter 6

American ‘Song’ of Iraqi Exile: Whitman and Saadi Youssef

Concluding the introduction to his Arabic translation of Leaves of Grass – his 1976 Awrāq al-‘Ushb (‘‫ – )’ﺍﻮﺮﺍﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﺐ‬Saadi Youssef poses a simple question: ‫ ﻭﺍﻟﺸﻌﺮ ﺍﻟﻌﺭﺒﻲ ؟‬٬ ‫ﻤﺎ ﺃﻫﻤﻴﺔ ﻭﺍﻠﺕ ﻭﻴﺗﻣﺎﻥ ﻠﻠﻘﺎﺮﻯﺀ ﺍﻟﻌﺭﺒﻲ‬ [What is the significance of Walt Whitman to the Arab reader, and to Arabic poetry?]1

Equally striking in scope and specificity, Youssef’s question invokes expansive categories – ‘Arab reader’, ‘Arabic poetry’ – while also implying Whitman’s own particularity, his poetry holding ‘significance’ for precisely these identities and traditions, ethnic and artistic. Balanced, too, in this query is individual and history, pairing together the contemporary Arab reader and the ancient Arabic canon, both depicted as prospective recipients of American poetry. Such polarities of Youssef’s question are fit reflections of the questioner himself. Luminary of modern Arabic verse, whose prolific career stretches from the mid-twentieth century to the beginnings of the twenty-first, Youssef is known for his interiority and subjectivity, but also for his candid politics and ‘Marxist orientation’. As Khaled Mattawa observed in 2002, Saadi Youssef ‘never claimed to speak for anyone, even as he addressed the most public of concerns’.2 Although an icon of poetic modernity – indeed, ‘a towering figure in Iraqi modernist poetry’ – Youssef has also maintained a continuous dialogue with the poetic past, reaching back to the storied history of Arabic verse, even while becoming a model for poetic futures in the Arab world.3 Mapping national and ethnic contexts for the reception of Whitman in 1976, Youssef’s appeal to the ‘Arab reader’ and ‘Arabic poetry’ seems

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American ‘Song’ of Iraqi Exile: Whitman and Saadi Youssef

[ 157

especially insistent in light of his own complex citizenship. An Iraqi, whose career is marked by cycles of revolution and war, Youssef has spent his most productive years oscillating within and without the Arab world, his home precariously balanced between East and West. Born near Basra in 1934, Youssef was to begin what he calls his ‘trail of exile and return’ in 1957, suffering successive removals from Iraq, permanently fleeing his homeland – and Saddam Hussein’s increasingly powerful Ba‘th party – in 1978.4 Sojourning through North Africa, the Middle East and Europe, Saadi Youssef has now settled in England, making his home in London. It was during a critical intermission in these migrations – in 1976, intersecting Youssef’s 1972 return to Iraq from Algeria, and his final exile in 1978 – that he would publish his ‘‫( ’ﺍﻮﺮﺍﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﺐ‬Awrāq al-‘Ushb): the first substantive translation of Leaves of Grass in the Arab world.5 Printed in Baghdad, this edition transplants a poetic icon of American democracy within the soil of the ancient Iraqi capital – an act that now seems laden with irony, raising questions for twenty-first-century readers that extend beyond the literary concerns of Youssef’s own introductory query in 1976. In its uneasy fusion of national and literary identities, Awrāq al-‘Ushb not only reflects the exilic ‘trail’ that envelops its production, however, but also the fraught future of its place of publication, predicting the upheavals and circulations that shape current prospects in the Arab world, reaching from revolutions in Middle Eastern verse to revolutions in Tahrīr Square. ˙

♦♦♦ Interrogating the Arab ‘significance’ of Leaves of Grass, Youssef openly addresses Whitman’s potential in his homeland and his home culture; this introductory question also obliquely hints, however, at the American’s ‘long foreground’ in the modern Middle East. Although a pioneering work of translation, Awrāq al-‘Ushb would not be the first Arabic reception of Leaves, joining instead an Arab dialogue on Whitman reaching back to the very first years of the twentieth century.6 Revered by leading modernisers from Beirut to Cairo, Whitman plays a surprisingly pivotal role in Arab poetic reform, helping authors revise and abandon rules of traditional prosody. ’Amīn al-Rīhānī – Lebanese critic and poet, and later American ˙ émigré (d.1940) – would self-consciously adopt Whitman as a model at the turn of the century; experimenting with Arabic ‘free verse’, al-Rīhānī ˙ defended this new genre in 1910, identifying its distinctly American origins: This type of new verse is called in French ‘Vers Libres’ and in English ‘Free Verse’, that is ash-Shi‘r al-Hurr at -Talīq. It is the latest stage at which poetic ˙ ˙ ˙

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

development has arrived among the Europeans, especially among the English and the Americans. Shakespeare liberated English poetry from the chains of rhyme. The American Walt Whitman liberated it from the chains of prosody, such as conventional measures and the common metres. Nevertheless, this free verse has a new and special measure and the poem may come in numerous and different metres.7

Tracing a genealogy of ‘liberation’, al-Rīhānī identifies Whitman as ˙ heralding the latest epoch of artistic freedom, breaking both the ‘chains’ and ‘conventions’ of traditional poetics. Marked by its ‘new’ and ‘special’ character, Arabic free verse – ‘ash-shi‘r al-hurr’ – is both diverse and dis˙ tinct, giving rise to metres that are as ‘different’ as they are ‘numerous’. Apologising for verse reform through this ‘liberal’ appeal, al-Rīhānī seems ˙ to advocate a poetics that has both societal as well as artistic implications, anticipating a progressive portrait of Whitman – both aesthetic and ­political – that recurs through the coming century. The celebrated ‘difference’ of Whitman, suggested by al-Rīhānī in his ˙ prose criticism, would find expression again two years later in the fiction of the pioneering Egyptian novelist Muhammad Lut fī Jum‘ah. Published in ˙ ˙ 1912, Jum‘ah’s novel The Nights of the Bewildered Spirit dramatises the celestial ascent of its spiritual protagonist, who hears the ‘poetry’ of ‘Whitman’ recited in ‘Heaven’, the American’s verse sounding ‘as sweet as honey and as true as truth’.8 By mid-century, this Whitmanian transcendence is given a paternal twist in the scholarship of Mikhail Naimy; published in the Beirut journal al-Ādāb, Naimy’s 1953 article ‘Wālt Whitman, Abū ash-Shi‘r al-Munsarih’ identifies ‘Whitman’ in its very title as ‘The Father of Free ˙ Verse’.9 Concluding the decade, Jabrā Ibrāhīm Jabrā would adopt, but slightly revise, Naimy’s categories, suggesting another name for Arabic free verse – ‘shi‘r mursal’ – while still identifying its origins with Whitman, as Shmuel Moreh notes.10 Just two years later, in 1962, James E. Miller’s classic study – Walt Whitman – would appear in Arabic translation, suggesting a growing appetite and audience for secondary studies on the American.11 This Arab Whitmania builds a partial foreground for Youssef’s own Leaves of Grass in 1976. However, his Awrāq al-‘Ushb also seems to reflect broader movements of Whitman translation in the twentieth century, anticipated most visibly in the Middle East by Halkin’s Hebrew version, his 1952 ‘Alē ‘Ēsev (see Chapter 5). Viewed together, the Israeli and Iraqi Leaves appear a dissonant pair, their translated texts opposing in context, divergent in nation, religion, culture, politics. Echoes between these editions do emerge, however, due to a kinship in their target vernaculars:

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[ 159

Hebrew and Arabic. Siblings in a family of Semitic language, the very titles of Halkin and Youssef offer a lexical mirror, with Whitman’s Grass rendered by a shared root in both languages, ‘ayn-shin-bā’, leading to the Hebrew and Arabic cognates: ‘‘Ēsev’ (‘‫ )’עשב‬and ‘‘Ushb’ (‘‫)’ﻋﺸﺐ‬.12 Grown from the same verbal soil, the ‘grass’ of these sister idioms is both equivalent and inverse – cognate in core alphabet, but discrete in sound and script. An accident of the translation act itself, Whitman’s Grass expresses both identity and diversity in rendition, this titular word in Hebrew and Arabic sharing the same root, but germinating in distinct lexical branches – a linguistic parallel to the dialectical unity at the heart of Leaves of Grass itself. Complementing this similarity, the disparity between these binary titles seems equally instructive, offering a key to the distinct strengths of the dual editions. Aligned in their translation of Grass, these editions differ in their approach to Whitman’s Leaves. In Hebrew, this initial term of Whitman’s title is rendered sensibly by Halkin as ‘Alē (‘‫)’עלי‬, a word that most immediately suggests ‘leaves’ in the organic, or arborous, sense. In Arabic, Whitman’s Leaves are rendered by Youssef as Awrāq (‘‫ – )’ﺍﻮﺮﺍﻕ‬a word that signifies the ‘leaves’ of a plant, but equally implies textual ‘leaves’, insistently maintaining the pun of Whitman’s original title, balancing foliage and folio.13 This question of translatory retention in Arabic and Hebrew becomes more urgent when comparison moves beyond their cover pages and reaches their content, with these two versions differing dramatically in size and scope. Unlike Halkin’s ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, which translates most of Whitman’s 1881–2 Leaves, even adding his ‘Annexes’ in 1984, Youssef’s Awrāq al-‘Ushb is a slim volume, including only a fraction of Whitman’s 1881–2 edition – an abridgement that Youssef highlights, offering as a subtitle to his edition ‘‫‘( ’ﻤﺧﺘﺎﺮﺍﺖ‬mukhtārāt’, ‘selections’). Not only ‘selectively’ translating, Youssef also rearranges the order of Leaves, editing Whitman’s sequence to forge a new path through his verse. The following poems are collected in Awrāq, in the following order, Youssef’s rendered titles appearing on the right, paired with Whitman’s originals on the left:14 [Shut not Your Doors] [Thou Reader] [To a Stranger] [To The States] [Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City] [For You, O Democracy] [To a Western Boy] [O You Whom I Often and Silently Come]

‫ﻻ ﺘﻐﻠﻗﻲ ﺃﺒﻮﺍﺑﻚ‬ ‫ﺃﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﻗﺎﺮﻱﺀ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻰ ﻏﺮﻴﺐ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻰ ﺍﻠﻮﻻﻴﺎﺖ‬ ‫ﻤﺭﺓً ﻤﺮﺮﺖ ﺒﻤﺩﻴﻨﺔ ﻤﺰﺩﺤﻤﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻴﻚ ﺍﻴﺘﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﺩﻴﻣﻗﺮﺍﻄﻴﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻰ ﻓﺘﻰ ﻏﺮﺒﻲ‬ ً ‫ﻴﺎ ﻣﻦ ﺁﺘﻴﺘﻚ ﻏﺎﻠﺒﺎ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻠﺼﻤﺖ‬

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves

[As Adam Early in the Morning] [The Torch] [A Clear Midnight] [Mother and Babe] [One Hour to Madness and Joy] [Roaming in Thought] [To Old Age] [To a Common Prostitute] [Poets to Come] [What Place Is Besieged?] [The Ship Starting] [Beginning My Studies] [To a Certain Cantatrice] [Me Imperturbe] [To You] [I Hear It Was Charged Against Me] [The Base of All Metaphysics] [What Am I After All] [Miracles]  [I Sit and Look Out]  [Starting from Paumanok] [Song of Myself]

‫ﻣﺜﻞ ﺁﺪﻡ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻠﺼﺒﺎﺡ ﺍﻠﺒﺎﻜﺮ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻣﺸﻌﻞ‬ ‫ﻣﻧﺗﺻﻒ ﻟﻴﻝ ﺻﺎﻑ‬ ‫ﺍﻷﻢ ﻮﺍﻠﻄﻔﻞ‬ ‫ﺴﺎﻋﺔ ﻮﺍﺤﺩﺓ للجنون ﻮﺍﻠﻓﺮﺡ‬ ‫ﻣﻃﻮﻓﺎ ً ﻓﻲ ﺍﻠﻓﻜﺮ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻰ ﺍﻠﺸﻴﺧﻮﺧﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻰ ﻋﺎﻫﺮﺓ ﻋﺎﺪﻴﺔ‬ ‫ﺃﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﺸﻌﺮﺍﺀ ﺍﻵﺘﻮﻦ‬ ‫ﺃﻱ ﺍﻷﻣﺎﻜﻦ ﻤﺤﺎﺼﺮ؟‬ ‫ﺍﻠﺳﻓﻴﻧﺔ ﺘﻗﻠﻊ‬ ‫ﻤﺒﺗﺪﺌﺎ ً ﺪﺮﺍﺴﺘﻲ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻰ ﻤﻐﻨﻴﺔ ﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﺃﻧﺎ ﺍﻠﺮﺍﺒﻄ ﺍﻠﺠﺄﺵ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﻴﻚ‬ ‫ﺳﻤﻌﺖ ﺒﺄﻥ ﺘﻬﻤﺔ ﻮﺠﻬﺕ ﺿﺪﻱ‬ ‫ﻗﺎﻋﺪﺓ ﻜﻞ ﺍﻠﻣﻴﺘﺎﻓﻴﺰﻴﻗﺎ‬ ً‫ﻣﻥ ﺃﻜﻭﻦ ﺃﺧﻴﺮﺍ‬ ‫ﻤﻌﺠﺰﺍﺕ‬ ‫ﺃﺟﻠﺱ ﻭﺃﺣﺪﻕ‬ ‫ﺍﻠﺮﺣﻴﻞ ﻤﻦ ﺒﻮﻤﺎ ﻨﻮﻚ‬ ‫ﺃﻏﻨﻴﺔ ﻨﻓﺴﻲ‬

Producing a fresh plot of Leaves merely through pruning and rearranging, Youssef defines a new Whitman for the Arabic reader, fashioning a unique archive of the American’s verse specific to this Baghdad edition. Abridgement and editing are, of course, common practices in literary translation. Youssef’s own revision of Leaves, however, seems especially resonant, recalling this poem’s revisionary origins, rehearsing its complex history of composition and correction. Cultivated and recultivated through Whitman’s life, its revisions ceasing only with his ‘death-bed’ edition, Leaves now continues to enjoy an afterlife of Arabic amendment, its revisionary trajectory resuscitated by Awrāq – a translation that not only conveys Whitman’s poem into new regions of language, but also recycles its old tendency towards continual change. If appropriate to his revisionary source, the specific revisions offered by Youssef give rise to some unexpected results. In reviewing Awrāq’s above contents, readers familiar with Whitman’s original poem may be surprised, for instance, to find ‘Song of Myself’ – the iconic introduction to Leaves – situated at the very close of the Arabic edition.15 Electing to conclude with his most extended and eminent source, Youssef ends his trans-

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lation in climactic fashion; however, more significantly, this re-ordering allows Awrāq to conclude with Whitman’s most celebrated valediction: the oft-quoted final line to ‘Song of Myself’. Addressing his reader intimately and urgently, Whitman concludes his poem by promising ‘I stop somewhere waiting for you’ (I, 83) – a line which, due to Youssef’s re-ordering, becomes the very last words of his Arabic version. A verse of suspension and anticipation, Whitman’s line originally encouraged his American readers to continue through the rest of Leaves, enticing them to read the poems that follow ‘Song of Myself’. However, this verse works equally well as a finale and culmination for Leaves, Youssef ending his Awrāq by inviting readers to extend their poetic pursuit, searching for the speaker beyond the final page of his own book. Ending with the translated line ‘‫‘( ’ﻮﻠﺗﺠ ِﺪﻨَﻨﻲ ﺍﻨﺗﻇﺮﻚ ﻓﻲ ﻤﻜﺎﻥ ﻤﺎ‬And you will find me awaiting you some where’) (146), Awrāq concludes with an Arabic invitation to search for the persona of Leaves ‘some where’ else, Baghdadi readers prompted to continue their quest for Whitman ‘in a place other’ (‘‫)’ﻓﻲ ﻤﻜﺎﻥ ﻤﺎ‬, seeking his voice in the words and works, perhaps, of other contemporary Arab poets, or even the writings of Youssef himself. It is not where Youssef concludes his Awrāq but where he begins that best reflects the richness of Leaves, opening his edition by translating Whitman’s ‘Shut not Your Doors’ (‘‫( )’ﻻ ﺘﻐﻠﻗﻲ ﺃﺒﻮﺍﺑﻚ‬21). Echoing ideas first broached in its prose introduction, Awrāq’s poetic launch seems heavily self-referential, gesturing to the very process of reading and rendering Whitman in Arabic. First published in the 1865 Drum Taps, and later revised for Leaves in 1871 and 1881, Whitman’s ‘Shut not Your Doors’ offers an appeal for critical openness; this appeal acquires new urgency in Arabic, however, with Awrāq’s primary placement of ‘Shut not Your Doors’ allowing this poem to imply and implore Whitman’s own entrée into the Arab world: Shut not your doors to me proud libraries, For that which was lacking on all your well-fill’d shelves, yet needed most, I bring, Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing, A book separate, not link’d with the rest nor felt by the intellect, But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page. (II, 456)

Reflecting authorial anxieties and audience expectations, Whitman’s poem argues for its own canonisation, addressing not the reader specifically, but rather ‘libraries’, invoking these ‘proud’ repositories of literary history. The metatextual implications of ‘Shut not Your Doors’ are

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innate to Whitman’s original. However, it is Youssef’s decision to open with this poem that amplifies its self-reference, positioning ‘Shut not Your Doors’ as the very gateway to Leaves in Arabic. Translated across cultures and canons, Arab readers open Awrāq to find a plea for literary openness – a plea that also seems highly applicable to their own literary tradition. Although the ‘shelves’ of Arabic letters are indeed ‘well-fill’d’ – crowded with a rich, ancient tradition of verse – the ‘proud libraries’ of Baghdad and Cairo yet lack Whitman’s modern voice, ‘need[ing] most’ that which Awrāq now boasts ‘I bring’. While Youssef’s introduction had queried the Arab ‘significance’ of Whitman, Youssef’s first translation recruits Whitman himself to argue for such significance, the American now demanding – in Arabic – that libraries ‘shut not’ their ‘doors’ to him (‘‫)’ﻻ ﺘﻐﻠﻗﻲ ﺃﺒﻮﺍﺑﻚ‬, echoing through this poetic imperative what Youssef had previously queried in prose. Reading ‘Shut not Your Doors’ as a plea for Whitman’s welcome in the Arab world is also encouraged by overlaps between this American poem and its translated place and time. The opening of Whitman’s third line, for instance – ‘Forth from the war emerging’ – clearly refers to the US Civil War, gesturing to the poem’s original authorship in 1860s America. Replanted in 1976 Baghdad, however, this allusive line seems equally relevant; fashioned during the first months of Civil War in nearby Lebanon, and published in the wake of Kurdish rebellion in the Iraqi north, Youssef’s Awrāq, too, is a book ‘from the war emerging’, shaped in contexts of civil strife and national conflict, with the violence of the Arab present refracted through language from America’s past.16 Minor adjustments to ‘Shut not Your Doors’ aid this domestication, acclimatising the poem to its new target language. Repetitions and restructured verses in Arabic, for example, amplify the urgency of Youssef’s own ‘Shut not Your Doors’; lines 6 and 7 in his version, for example, terminate in tandem, ending with ‘‫‘( ’ﻻ ﺸﻲﺀ‬nothing’) and ‘‫‘( ’ﻜﻞ ﺸﻲﺀ‬every thing’), respectively – a parallel that divides, and fortifies, Whitman’s own parellistic third line (21; emphasis added).17 Complementing formal shifts, Youssef also shifts Whitman’s content, strengthening his hyperbolic claims. Rather than depicting his ‘book’ merely as ‘not link’d with the rest’, for instance, Youssef’s fifth line strengthens the American’s bravado, suggesting categorically that ‘[the book] is not like the other books’ (‘‫( )’ﻠﻴﺱ ﻜﺎﻠﻜﺘﺐ ﺍﻷﺨﺮﻯ‬21). This intensification culminates in Arabic as the translation concludes, Youssef’s final lines sounding more Whitmanian than Whitman himself. The penultimate verse of this translation deviates from its original by inserting an intra-line ellipsis – ‘‫ﺃﻧﺖ‬. . .‫‘( ’ﻠﻜﻧﻚ‬but you . . . you’) (21) – adding punctuation highly distinctive of Whitman’s own early style, but punctuation which is entirely

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absent from Whitman’s original poem. Positioned as his inaugural plea for Whitman’s reception in the Arab world, Youssef’s ‘Shut not Your Doors’ also performs an instance and model of this poetic reception, domesticating the American in Arabic verse, even surpassing the originality of his original source. In the self-referential significance of Youssef’s ‘Shut not Your Doors’, there seems to be more at stake than Whitman’s own canonisation merely, however. Intersecting broader debates on Arabic poetry and aesthetics, this rendition’s championing of Whitman’s ‘book’ appears an apology, too, for his avant-garde style, the Whitmanian school of ‘free verse’ – a school embraced by Youssef himself. Conservative at his career’s beginning, with his first major work in 1952 utilising Arabic’s traditional ‘two-hemistich, rhymed line’, Youssef would soon take an experimental turn, writing verse by 1955 that adopts ‘the single metrical foot as the rhythmic unit instead of a set number of feet’ and ‘eliminat[ing] rhymes or us[ing] irregular ones’, as Mattawa notes.18 The Whitmanian appeal that opens Awrāq in 1976 – an appeal against ‘shutting’ the ‘doors’ on a ‘book [. . .] not link’d with the rest’ – could be seen as reflecting not only this poem’s original speaker (Whitman) but also its intermediate speaker (Youssef ) – the Arabic translator whose own artistic voice merges, and emerges, in this American petition for acceptance. Long recognised as a poet who counts Whitman as ‘a principal source of influence’, Youssef’s ‘Shut not Your Doors’ seems to balance self-referentiality with artistic self-interest, the Iraqi petitioning the ‘proud libraries’ of his own homeland in the surrogate guise of translation.19 A fitting place to launch its rendition of Whitman, Awrāq defends not only Leaves’ author, but also its translator, Youssef appropriating the American’s own voice in a way that seems to recall, and reverse, the declaration that had opened Whitman’s own original collection: ‘[everything] belonging to me as good belongs to you’ (I, 1).

♦♦♦ The conscious shaping of readerly experience through Youssef’s editing and selection is confined neither to the beginning of his edition (with ‘Shut not Your Doors’) nor to its end (with the valedictory ‘Song of Myself’). Instead, much of Awrāq hints at Youssef’s efforts to foster new meaning from Whitman’s greenery that targets his Arab readership specifically. This awareness of audience is suggested, for instance, by the pieces that accompany ‘Shut not Your Doors’ at the opening of Awrāq – a triad of Whitman’s brief ‘Inscription’ poems, each framed through direct, secondperson address (21–2). Following the apostrophe to ‘proud libraries’ in

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‘Shut not Your Doors’, Youssef turns next to Whitman’s short poem ‘Thou Reader’, moving from literary repository to literate recipient. This second of Awrāq’s poems is then followed by another poem which again switches the addressee; transitioning from familiar to foreign, Youssef chooses for his third rendition Whitman’s invocatory ‘To a Stranger’. Poems of call and invitation, this initial grouping epitomises the informal and intimate style of Leaves, the collection’s attempt to erase barriers between author and audience – a strategy which has been recognised by Western critics as distinctively ‘Whitmanian’.20 Youssef’s first translations not only supply Arab readers with representative Whitman verses, however, but with verses which feature conventions that are native to their own literary tradition. Direct, second-person address has long been a mainstay of Arabic prosody and rhetoric; a defining trope of the Qur’ān, for instance, the apostrophising of ‘you’ – singular and plural – repeatedly occurs in the Arabic scripture, urgently inviting reader engagement.21 Launching Awrāq with a triad of invocations, Youssef highlights a strategy characteristic of American experimentalism, but one also innate to Arab antiquity – an innateness which is also further stressed in Youssef’s stylised translations. For instance, the Arabic particle of invocation – ‘‫( ’ﺃﻴﻬﺎ‬ayyuhā) – emerges in Youssef’s translations even when its English equivalent (e.g. ‘O!’) is either absent or merely implied. In Arabic, Whitman’s title, ‘Thou Reader’ (III, 684), for instance, becomes ‘‫‘( ’ﺃﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﻗﺎﺮﻱﺀ‬O Reader!’) (21; emphasis added), while the opening of Whitman’s ‘To a Stranger’ – ‘Passing Stranger!’ (II, 392) – becomes ‘‫‘( ’ﺃﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﻐﺮﻴﺐ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺑﺭ‬O Passing Stranger!’) (22; emphasis added). Recurring in each of Awrāq’s first three poems, this particle of invocation not only acclimatises Whitman to Arab poetics, but also endows Youssef’s re-ordered Leaves with a sense of coherency, his newly established sequence now seeming to possess an innate, formal consistency. The opening line of Awrāq’s third translation just quoted – ‘‫‘( ’ﺃﻴﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﻐﺮﻴﺐ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﺑﺭ‬O Passing Stranger!’) – exemplifies not only the invocatory voice of Youssef’s initial translations, but also the assonance and word play that typify all his renditions. Introducing a lexical coincidence between Whitman’s noun and adjective, Youssef here juxtaposes words with roots that faintly overlap, pairing together ‘stranger’ (its root: ghaynrā’-bā’; ‫ )ﻏﺮﺐ‬and ‘passing’ (its root: ‘ayn-bā’-rā’; ‫)ﻋﺒﺮ‬.22 Much of Awrāq’s poeticity is constituted in such subtle correlations and innovations, Youssef taking advantage of the paronomasia and euphonies that are native to Arabic, bequeathing Leaves with new assonance that is exclusive to his target reader. Consider, for example, the fourth line of this same poem, a line in which Whitman’s speaker describes the intimacy between himself and the ‘Stranger’ of his poem:

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[. . .] we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured (II, 392)

The catalogue of adjectives that concludes this American line is subtly refashioned in translation, Youssef providing four Arabic replacements which all share the exact same ending, underlined below for emphasis:

‫ ﻨﺎﺿﺟﻴﻥ‬٬ ‫ ﻂﺎﻫﺮﻴﻦ‬٬ ‫ ﺤﻨﻮﻨﻴﻦ‬٬ ‫ﻃﺮﻴﻴﻦ‬ [fresh, affectionate, chaste, mature]

(22)

Terminating identically, these Arabic adjectives establish a formal consistency completely absent from their English originals, innovating repetition and rhyme through their common ending (‘‫)’ﻴﻥ‬. This formal homogenisation is also attended, however, by a potential amplification in meaning. While Whitman’s English adjectives refer simply back to the plural ‘we’ who ‘flit by each other’, Youssef’s adjectives feature a grammatical ending that may instead suggest a duality, implying the exclusive two-ness of this poem’s speaker and ‘stranger’. Unlike English, Arabic possesses a dual form for its nouns, pronouns, adjectives and verbs, allowing Youssef the option to suggest a more restricted intimacy in translation than is available in his source, adjusting Whitman’s generic plural (‘we’) to denote a simple binary (‘we two’).23 Magnifying the private togetherness that is the focus of Whitman’s original, the growing familiarity between these dual identities is amplified through Arabic morphology that is also potentially dual, Youssef’s adjectives not only repetitive and assonant, but also having the capacity to suggest the closeness and confidence implied by his American source. This short poem exemplifies yet another innovative feature of Awrāq: its charting alternative, geopolitical contexts for Leaves. Although suggesting an intimate duality, Youssef’s ‘To a Stranger’ also ironically hints at national discontents, infusing Whitman’s poem with a pivotal ambiguity. Labelling his version ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻰ ﻏﺮﻴﺐ‬Ilā Gharīb’), Youssef supplies a title that does indeed signify ‘To a Stranger’, but one which could also imply ‘To an Exile’, the Arabic replacement for ‘stranger’ – that is, ‘gharīb’ – connoting also ‘alien’ or ‘émigré’ (22).24 Introducing a subtle pun within the title and body of this translation, Whitman’s ‘Stranger’ is domesticated in Baghdadi rendition, this poem’s newly acquired ‘foreignness’ seeming especially relevant to its Arabic translator, reflecting obliquely the ‘trail of exile’ pursued by Youssef himself. This political currency of Awrāq is promoted also by its selective editing, Youssef electing to follow ‘To a Stranger’ (or ‘To an Exile’) with poems that reflect climates of conflict and upheaval, offering a potential bridge between Civil War America and inter-war

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Iraq. For instance, immediately after ‘Ilā Gharīb’, Youssef continues by rendering ‘To The States’ (‘‫( )’ﺍﻠﻰ ﺍﻠﻮﻻﻴﺎﺖ‬23) – Whitman’s lyric critique of ‘enslave[ment]’ (II, 416), whose translation into Arabic seems to gesture beyond American shores, this poem no longer targeting oppression within the United ‘States’ merely, but rather the tyranny of nation ‘states’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﻮﻻﻴﺎﺖ‬ more broadly. It is Youssef’s next two translations, however – his fifth and sixth – that demonstrate the suggestive power of his re-ordering Leaves, generating fresh meaning through linking familiar poems. On facing pages, the 1976 Awrāq pairs Whitman’s ‘Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City’ (II, 360) and his ‘For You O Democracy’ (II, 375) – two poems that appear in succession nowhere in the American’s own editions of Leaves.25 Indeed, there initially seems no reason for these poems to share proximity; the former (‘Once I Pass’d’) is a story of seduction, both delicate and discreet, while the latter (‘Democracy’) is polemical and bombastic, overtly political in its rhetoric. Juxtaposing these divergent poems, however, Awrāq constructs an allusive matrix, revealing a lexical overlap between the two which reciprocally enriches them both. Below are Youssef’s translations as they appear in Awrāq, his rendition of ‘Once I Pass’d’ on the right and his Arabic ‘Democracy’ on the left: [Awrāq Page 25]    ‫  ﺍﻠﻴﻚ ﺍﻴﺘﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﺩﻴﻣﻗﺮﺍﻄﻴﺔ‬ ِ ‫ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻮﺍ‬ ‫ﺴﺄﺠﻌﻞ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻟﻘﺎﺮﺓ ﺨﺎﻟﺪﺓ‬ ‫ﺴﺄﺧﻠﻕ ﻋﻠﻴﻬﺎ ﺃﺳﻤﻰ ﺠﻨﺱ ﻄﻠﻌﺖ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﺷﻤﺲ‬ ‫ﺴﺄﺧﻠﻕ ﺃﺮَﺿﻴﻦَ ﺳﻤﺎﻮﻴﺔ ﺮﺍﺌﻌﺔ‬ ‫ﺒﺤﺐ ﺍﻠﺮﻓﺎﻕ‬ ‫ﺒﺤﺐ ﺍﻠﺮﻓﺎﻕ ﺍﻠﺪﺍﺌﻢ ﻤﺪﻯ ﺍﻠﺣﻴﺎﺓ‬ َ‫ﺳﺄﺰﺮﻉ ﺍﻠﺮﻓﻘﺔ‬ ‫ﻜﺜﻴﻔﺔً ﻜﺎﻷﺸﺠﺎﺮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺃﻨﻬﺎﺮ ﺃﻤﻴﺮﻜﺎ‬ ‫ﻭﻋﻠﻰ ﺿﻓﺎﻑ ﺍﻠﺒﺤﻴﺮﺍﺖ ﺍﻠﻌﻈﻤﻰ‬ ‫ﻭﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻤﺘﺪﺍﺪ ﺍﻠﺴﻬﻮﺐ‬ ‫ﺳﺄﺒﻨﻲ ﻤﺪﻨﺎ ً ﻤﺘﻌﺎﻧﻘﺔ ﺒﺎﻷﺬﺭﻉ‬ ‫ﺒﺤﺐ ﺍﻠﺮﻓﺎﻕ‬ ۰‫ﺒﺤﺐ ﺍﻠﺮﻓﺎﻕ ﺍﻠﺮﺠﻮﻠﻲ‬ ‫ ﺃﻴﺘﻬﺎ ﺍﻠﺩﻴﻣﻗﺮﺍﻄﻴﺔ‬٬ ‫ﻠﻙ ﻤﻨﻲ ﻫﺫﺍ‬ ِ ۰۰۰‫ﺃﺠﻟﻚ ﻴﺎ ﺍﻤﺮﺃﺗﻲ‬ ‫ﻤﻦ‬ ِ ‫ﻠﻙ‬ ِ ‫ﻠﻙ ﺃﻏﻨﻲ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻷﻏﺎﻨﻲ‬ 

[Awrāq Page 24]    ‫   ﻤﺭﺓً ﻤﺮﺮﺖ ﺒﻤﺩﻴﻨﺔ ﻤﺰﺩﺤﻤﺔ‬ ُ ‫ﻤﺮﺮﺖ ﺒﻤﺩﻴﻨﺔ ﻤﺰﺩﺤﻤﺔ‬ ٬ ً‫ﻤﺭﺓ‬ ً ‫ ﻤﻦ ﺃﺟﻞ ﺍﻠﻣﺴﺘﻘﺒﻞ‬٬ ‫ﻏﺎﺮﺰﺍ ﻓﻲ ﺬﻫﻨﻲ‬ ۰ ‫ ﻮﻋﺎﺪﺍﺘﻬﺎ‬٬ ‫ ﻮﺒﻨﺎ ﻴﺎﺗﻬﺎ‬٬ ‫ﺿﻬﺎ‬ َ ‫ﻤﻌﺎﺮ‬ ‫ﻠﻜﻧﻲ ﺍﻵﻥ‬ ‫ﻻ ﺃﺘﺬﻜﺮ ﻣﻥ ﺘﻠﻚ ﺍﻠﻤﺪﻴﻨﺔ‬ ‫ﺍﻻ ﺍﻤﺮﺃﺓ ﺍﻠﺘﻘﻴﺘُﻬﺎ ﺼﺪﻔﺔ‬ ۰ ‫ﻭﺍﺴﺘﺒْﻘﺘﻲ ﻷﻧﻬﺎ ﺃﺣﺒﺗﻨﻲ‬ ً ‫ﻜﻨﺎ ﻣﻌﺎ‬ ‫ﻠﻴﻠﺔ ﺒﻌﺪ ﻠﻴﻠﺔ‬ ۰ ‫ﻮﻧﻬﺎﺮﺍً ﺘﻠﻭ ﻧﻬﺎﺮ‬ ً ‫ ﻜﻞ ﻤﺎ ﺴﻮﺍﻫﺎ‬۰ ۰ ۰ ‫ﻄﻮﻴﻼ‬ ‫ﻠﻘﺪ ﻨﻴﺴﺖ‬ ‫ ﺍﻨﻨﻲ ﻻ ﺃﺘﺬﻜﺮ ﺳﻮﻯ ﺘﻠﻚ ﺍﻠﻤﺮﺃﺓ‬: ‫ﺃﻗﻭﻞ‬ ۰ ً‫ﺍﻠﺘﻲ ﺗﻌﻠﻘﺕ ﺒﻲ ﻋﺎﺸﻘﺔ‬ ‫ﻤﺭﺓً ﺃﺧﺮﻯ‬ ُ‫ﻧﻄ ّﻭﻑ‬ ‫ﻭﻧﺤﺐ‬ ۰ ‫ﻭﻧﻔﺗﺮﻕ ﻣﺮﺓ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ‬ ! ‫ ﻻ ﺘﻤﺽ‬: ‫ ﺘﺘﺷﺒﺚ ﺒﻴﺪﻱ‬٬ ‫ﻭ ﻣﺮﺓ ﺃﺧﺮﻯ‬

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‫ﺃﺮﺍﻫﺎ ﻠﺼﻴﻘﺔ ﺒﻲ‬ ‫ﺷﻔﺘﺎﻫﺎ ﺼﺎﻣﺗﺗﺎﻦ‬ ‫ﺤﺰﻴﻧﺘﺎﻦ‬ ‫ﻤﺮﺘﺠﻔﺘﺎﻦ‬

Even before reading these renditions closely, their shared poetic techniques are evident. Line-initial repetitions, for instance, are conspicuous in each; the first word of Youssef’s ‘Populous City’ – ‘ً‫‘( ’ﻤﺭﺓ‬marratan’, ‘once’) – recurs at the beginning of his poem’s fourteenth line and its eighteenth as well. In ‘Democracy’, this practice is more pronounced, featuring four distinct repeated beginnings: ‘‫‘( ’ﺴﺄ‬sa-’a’) opening lines 2, 3, 4, 7, 11; ‘‫’ﺒﺣﺐ‬ (‘bi-hubb’) for lines 5, 6, 12, 13; ‘‫‘( ’ﻭﻋﻟﻰ‬wa ‘alā’) for lines 9, 10; and ‘‫‘( ’ﻠﻚ‬la-ki’) ˙ for lines 14, 16, 17. These two translations also share a tendency to break Whitman’s verses into shorter units, highlighting one specific word or phrase through its isolation, reserving an entire line for a single fragment. In ‘Populous City’, for example, pivotal terms such as ‘‫‘( ’ﻧﻄﻭّﻑ‬we wander’; line 15); ‘‫‘( ’ﻭﻧﺤﺐ‬and we love’; line 16); ‘‫‘( ’ﺤﺰﻴﻧﺘﺎﻦ‬sad’; line 21); ‘‫’ﻤﺮﺘﺠﻔﺘﺎﻦ‬ (‘tremulous’; line 22) become whole verses. In ‘Democracy’, the most obvious use of this technique is found in the translation’s first word, which comprises also its first complete line: ‘‫‘( ’ﺗﻌﺎﻟﻮﺍ‬Come!’) – an imperative that emphatically stands alone. More important than this stylistic mirroring, however, is the unlikely mirroring of content that surfaces between these facing poems. Reading Youssef’s translation of ‘Populous City’ immediately before his ‘Democracy’, there emerges a crucial link between the two, the latter seeming to explain and parse the former. ‘Populous City’ recounts a rendezvous with an anonymous ‘woman’ – Youssef’s ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻤﺮﺃﺓ‬imra’a’; line 6) – who escorts the poem’s speaker as they wander through an equally nameless city. This clandestine romance is transformed and enriched, however, when we move on to Youssef’s ‘Democracy’, a poem whose speaker again professes love for ‘my woman’ – ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻤﺮﺃﺘﻲ‬imra’atī’; line 15) – but a ‘woman’ who is no longer a nameless romantic ideal, but rather a political reality, identified as ‘Democracy’ herself. This direct overlap in vocabulary is, moreover, exclusive to Arabic translation, being absent from the English source; while a ‘woman’ is the subject of Whitman’s original ‘Populous City’, the darling of his ‘Democracy’ is invoked instead as ‘ma femme!’, recalling, perhaps, her French revolutionary origins. Standardised in translation, these varying females (‘woman’/ ‘femme’) are collapsed together in Arabic, both becoming ‘imra’a’ – a rendered uniformity that enables Youssef’s own two renditions to seem allied, his ‘Populous City’ on page 24 becoming an allegorical twin of his ‘Democracy’ on page 25, the

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former’s speaker chasing a nameless ‘woman’ who is subsequently identified on the facing page, emerging in the latter as political freedom herself. While such a figurative reading of these two poems is not inconsistent with Whitman’s own originals, this interpretation surfaces only through the twinning of these poems in Arabic, with Youssef homogenising not only their poetic techniques but also their subject of feminine address (‘imra’a’). The very conclusion to these parallel poems, the last verses of the Arabic ‘Democracy’, also helps to justify such a comparative reading. In his final three lines, Youssef again severs Whitman’s longer lines to form emphatic units, addressing ‘Democracy’ with the following verses: ۰۰۰‫ﺃﺠﻟﻚ ﻴﺎ ﺍﻤﺮﺃﺗﻲ‬ ‫ﻤﻦ‬ ِ ‫ﻠﻙ‬ ِ ‫ﻠﻙ ﺃﻏﻨﻲ ﻫﺬﻩ ﺍﻷﻏﺎﻨﻲ‬ [on your behalf, O my woman . . . for you for you, I sing these songs]

Identifying the ‘woman’ now as the motive for authorship, these concluding lines of Youssef’s rendition position the feminine ‘you’ as the cause not only for the present poem (‘Democracy’), but also for a plurality of poems, the source for many ‘songs’ which the poet ‘sings’ – a plurality especially resonant in Arabic, helping to justify the appearance of the ‘woman’ (‘imra’a’) not only in ‘Democracy’ but also in ‘Populous City’, these final verses seeming to apply not only to the former but also to the latter.26

♦♦♦ Unfolding from its opening cluster of translations, the political implications of Whitman’s poetry continue to surface through Awrāq, still persistent within the final pieces included in Youssef’s collection. In one of his last selected poems – ‘I Sit and Look Out’ – Youssef once more magnifies Whitman’s social commentary, recruiting again a distinctly feminine lens. Rather than celebrating the public freedom of ‘Democracy’, however, ‘I Sit and Look Out’ emphasises domestic cruelty, lamenting the suffering of women inflicted by ‘young men [. . .] remorseful after deeds done’ (II, 328), specifying not only ‘the wife misused by her husband’ but also ‘the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate’ (II, 329). Again severing Whitman’s lines to generate terse and abrupt verses, Youssef accentuates the suffering of Whitman’s ‘mother’ in par-

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ticular, characterising her through lone adjectives on three distinct lines. Amplifying her anguish, Youssef’s ‘mother’ is distinguished not only with these discrete verses, but also with emphatic rhyme, her adjectives sharing a single grammatical ending, producing lines with a repeated, final sound, ‘tan’:27 [munsiyatan, ‘forgotten’] [yā’isatan, ‘desperate’] [wāhina(tan), ‘enervated’]

ً‫ﻤﻧﺴﻴﺔ‬ ً‫ﻴﺎﺌﺴﺔ‬ ‫ﻮﺍﻫﻧﺔ‬

Acquiring new prominence in rhyming Arabic, Youssef’s tragic ‘mother’ also continues to haunt the very climax of his rendition. In Whitman’s original poem, after ‘sitting’ to ‘look out upon’ all the ‘meanness and agony’, his speaker concludes with an understated and muted line, reporting finally in the first person that I: See, hear, and am silent. (II, 329)

This poignant farewell is again broken into three separate lines in Arabic, Youssef’s translation concluding (42): [I see] [and I hear] [silently….]

‫ﺃﺮﻯ‬ ‫ﻮﺃﺳﻣﻊ‬ ۰۰۰۰ ً ‫ﺻﺎﻤﺘﺎ‬

Adding a suggestive ellipsis to its very close, Youssef’s rendition concludes with a dramatic single word, his culminating verse comprised of isolated ‘silence’ (‘ً ‫)’ﺻﺎﻤﺘﺎ‬. This finale invites attention not merely for its distinct appearance on the page, however, but also for its distinct sound, sharing the very same rhyme that occurred in the adjectival trio that characterises Youssef’s ‘mother’. The ‘tan’ rhyme that previously emphasised maternal ‘desperat[ion]’ here returns, serving as the concluding sound to the entire poem, sealing the participle that describes the speaker himself, that is ‘sāmitan’ (‘ً ‫’ﺻﺎﻤﺘﺎ‬, ‘silently’).28 Bridging the poem’s ‘mother’ and its ‘I’, its ˙ object and its subject, pairing the feminine and Whitmanian, Youssef develops techniques of shared emphasis – single-word verses and echoing rhyme – to merge these distinct identities, correlating them in a new poetic sympathy. Advancing a fresh reading of ‘I Sit and Look Out’, Whitman’s concluding ‘silence’ resounds yet louder in Youssef’s translation, the hush of his American original announced in new Arabic decibels, vibrating in assonant fragments that link the suffering mother with Whitman’s soundless witness.

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Immediately following ‘I Sit and Look Out’, Awrāq reaches its penultimate translation, rendering a poem that reveals an opposite tendency of Whitman’s Leaves: its capacity to defy easy transplantation abroad, refusing to surrender its own distinct locality. Resisting facile efforts to domesticate his verse, Whitman is often self-consciously regional, his titles boasting specific settings in the New World. It is only near the very end of his collection, however, that Youssef includes such a poem, the second last selection of Awrāq offering a translation of ‘Starting from Paumanok’ (II, 273–89), rendered into Arabic as ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﺮﺣﻴﻞ ﻤﻦ ﭙﻮﻤﺎ ﻨﻮﻚ‬The Departure from Pawmānūk’) (43). Grounded in a distinctly New York experience, Whitman’s title recalls no clear precedent or equivalent in Arabic, its Native American name – Paumanok – prompting Youssef to invent his own transliteration, ‘Pawmānūk’ (‘‫)’ﭙﻮﻤﺎ ﻨﻮﻚ‬.29 This poem of geographical specificity, which seems to resist easy domestication, is included by the translator’s choice; however, Leaves occasionally resists domestication merely through its own linguistic flexibility, Awrāq’s Arabic failing to reproduce the semantic range implied by Whitman’s English originals. For example, in tackling ‘O You Whom I Often and Silently Come’, Youssef is impelled to restrict, rather than amplify, the significant potential of his source. In English, Whitman’s amorous poem features a gender-ambiguous addressee; although pregnant with innuendo, his opening line is also thin on personal detail, neglecting to stipulate its ‘you’ as male or female: O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you  (II, 406)

In Arabic rendition, Whitman’s questionable gender is decided and determined by Youssef, his decision revealed from the very first syllables of his translation. Opening this poem with another dramatic, single-word verse, Youssef emphasises Whitman’s second-person address, reserving the Arabic’s first line solely for ‘you’ – but a ‘you’ who is decidedly female (26): [anti, ‘you’ (f.)]

‫ﻧﺖ‬ ِ ‫ﺃ‬

This determination of pronoun gender is subsequently reinforced by Youssef through his verb forms. The third line of Whitman’s original, for instance, addresses the beloved ambiguously, asserting merely ‘Little you know the subtle electric fire [. . .]’ (II, 406; emphasis added) – a phrase again resolved in rendition, Youssef revealing a specifically female subject for this ‘know(ing)’, providing the Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺗﻌﺮﻔﻴﻦ‬you know’ [f. sg.]; 26). Prompted to conjugate Leaves, Youssef flattens his source’s suspended

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gender, Whitman’s original verbs and pronouns now specified as male or female. Again proving pivotal in Awrāq, the feminine here reveals not Youssef’s ability to dilate new meaning in translation, but rather his necessary denial of prospective meaning, excluding alternative readings of Leaves’ eroticism – alternative readings which have become essential to contemporary Whitman reception in the West.30

♦♦♦ In their accommodations and evasions, Youssef’s translations provide only partial and ambivalent answers to his own original query regarding Whitman’s ‘significance’ ‘to the Arab reader, and to Arabic poetry’. Concluding his introduction to Awrāq in 1976, Youssef would himself propose multiple answers to his singular question, suggesting that Whitman should indeed be regarded by Arabic poets as a precedent of ‘great significance’ (‘‫( )’ﺃﻫﻤﻴﺔ ﻜﺒﺭﻯ‬19). Representative of a ‘poetic revolution’ (‘‫ )’ﺛﻮﺭﺓ ﺸﻌﺮﻴﺔ‬and a ‘poet of sensuality, of living reality, of current expression’ (‘‫)’ﺸﺎﻋﺭ ﺍﻠﻣﺤﺴﻮﺱ ﻮﺍﻠﻭﺍﻗﻊ ﺍﻠﻣﻌﺎﺵ ﻭﺍﻠﻣﻔﺮﺪﺓ ﺍﻠﺴﺎﺌﺮﺓ‬, Youssef regards Whitman as a ‘sublime example’ for his home culture (‘ً ‫)’ﺃﻨﻣﻮﺬﺠﺎ ً ﻋﺎﻟﻴﺎ‬, offering a model of artistic revival and ‘advancement’ (‘‫( )’ﻨﻬﻮﺽ‬19–20).31 A vigorous defence of his American source, this prosaic and theoretical response to Whitman’s potential is perhaps less satisfactory, however, than the poetic and practical responses supplied by Youssef’s own writings in the years that follow Awrāq. Revealing the formative impact of translating Whitman, the Iraqi continues to echo Leaves of Grass in his own compositions, Youssef inscribing the ‘significance’ of Whitman in concrete lines of original ‘Arabic poetry’, targeting his actual ‘Arab readers’. Attracting an increasing global readership, Youssef has developed into an internationally recognised poet, his verse inspiring multiple English renditions and US publications, transitioning him from a translator of American sources to a source for American translation. Appearing in 2002, Khaled Mattawa’s Without an Alphabet, Without a Face renders widely from Youssef’s corpus, spanning his career and countries of residence, reaching back to 1950s Iraq and up to the 1990s West. More recent is the forthcoming Nostalgia, My Enemy: Poems, a collection of English translations by Sinan Antoon and Peter Money, concentrating on Youssef’s most current writings.32 This American evolution of Youssef’s career is still haunted, however, by his own evolving engagement with America’s poet, innovating new means and methods to translate Whitman. Confined no longer to mere language rendition, Youssef’s reworking of Leaves now transcends the margins dividing translation and composition, as well as the margins of the

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printed page, migrating to alternative media and markets, with online sites, both periodical and personal, hosting the Iraqi’s translatory experiments. While diverse, Youssef’s appeals to Whitman after the 1976 Awrāq seem to share a climate of invasion and inversion, with surprising reversals and intrusions characterising their unfolding relationship. Consider, for instance, the 1986 ‘‫‘( ’ﺜﻼﺜﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎﺡ‬Thulāthiyyat as-Sabāh’) Youssef’s auto˙ ˙ ˙ biographical and lyric ‘Morning Trilogy’. Cataloguing his own influences, Youssef dramatises the literal ‘entrance’ of poetic predecessors into his consciousness, with global icons materialising in the foreground of his Arabic verse. Preceded by ‘Lorca’, and trailed by ‘Baudelaire’, ‘Whitman’ emerges at the beginning of the second section of ‘Morning Trilogy’, even as Youssef’s own imagery approaches distinctly Whitmanian terrain: ‫ﻓﻲ‬ ُ‫ﺐ ﺴﺄﻨﻬﺾ‬ ٍ ‫ﺻﺒﺎﺡ ﻗﺭﻳ‬ ٍ ً (!ُ‫)ﻮﻴﺘﻣﺎﻥ ﻴﺪﺨﻝ‬ ‫ﻢ‬ ‫ﺁﺪ‬ ‫ﻝ‬ ‫ﻣﺛ‬ ٬ ‫ﻠﻌﺎ‬ ‫ﻣﺴﺘﻄ‬ َ ِ َ ‫ﺍﻠﻘﺭﻴﺐ ﺳﺄﻣﻀﻲ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺴﺮﻭ ٍﺓ ﻣﺎ‬ ‫ﻚ ﺍﻠﺼﺒﺎ َﺡ‬ َ ‫ﺬﺍ‬ َ ُ ‫ﺐ ﺿ ﱠﺞ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ‬ ٍ ‫ﻭﺃﺑﺤﺙ ﻋﻥ ﺠُﻨﺪ‬ [In a soon-to-come morning I will get up surveying, as Adam (Whitman enters!) In this soon-to-come morning I will go to a cypress and look for a buzzing grasshopper]33

Conjured up by motifs that recall his Leaves – such as ‘Adam [in the] morning’ – Whitman parenthetically invades Youssef’s own poetry, the Iraqi’s prospects and perspective interrupted by the American, surprising Youssef even as he ‘surveys’ the impending break of day. No longer mere historical influence, Whitman is translated into living presence, entering a poem whose stylistic features – repetition, invocation, informality – seem also to recall his own Leaves of Grass, with Youssef inscribing the American into his verse’s content and form, borrowing from Whitman’s persona as well as his poetics. This dramatic entrance into ‘Morning Trilogy’ recalls the very opening of Youssef’s Awrāq, seeming to heed Whitman’s own ‘shut not your doors’ imperative, the Iraqi obeying this admonition by unlocking his verse to admit the American. In its balance of poetry and personality, however, ‘Morning Trilogy’ also reaches forward, anticipating Youssef’s twentyfirst-century engagements with Whitman. Marking the publication of the thirty-sixth volume of his writings, for instance, Youssef would post a Whitmanian diary entry on his website in May 2006. Entitled simply ‘The Thirty-Sixth’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺴﺎﺪﺱ ﻭﺍﻠﺜﻼﺜﻮﻥ‬, Youssef concludes his entry wistfully, lamenting that there is ‘no one to celebrate’ this achievement ‘with me’

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(‘‫)’لم يحتفلْ أح ٌد معي‬. This solitude is mitigated, however, by Youssef’s decision to echo ‘Walt Whitman’, electing to return to the American’s example, and to ‘celebrate myself!’ (‘!‫ أحتفي بنفســي‬/ :‫)’سأرد ُد مع والت ويتمان‬. Appealing to Whitman as sole companion in his authorial achievement, Youssef also recruits the American’s voice to bolster his own autobiographical reflections in Arabic. Reviving a fragment of published translation to mark this personal moment, Youssef’s concluding phrase – ‘!‫‘( ’أحتفي بنفســي‬I celebrate myself’) – duplicates the opening of his ‘Song of Myself’, the final rendition provided in Awrāq al-‘Ushb. Appearing first in print exactly three decades earlier, this 2006 blog resurrects not just Whitman, but also Youssef’s own 1976 translation, his early rendition still haunting poetic triumphs thirty years later.34 This welcome invasion of Whitman into Youssef’s life and work was dramatically inverted the following year, culminating in his New York Qasīdas (‘‫)’قصــائ ُد نـيـويـورك‬. Initiating a dizzying act of circular translation, ˙ Youssef travels to Whitman’s own hometown in 2007, composing this extended poetic sequence, chronicling his New York residence and tours – a sequence that unavoidably transforms into a dialogue between the two poets, Iraqi and American. Self-consciously situated in the wake of 9/11 and the ensuing ‘war on terror’, Youssef’s exilic sojourn performs a stunning and sophisticated return, no longer translating an Arabic Whitman in Baghdad, but composing a new Arabic Whitman in Brooklyn. Comprising more than 200 lines, and more than twenty subtitled sections, the New York Qasīdas unfold a wandering narrative, infused throughout by Whitmanian ˙ echoes; it is, however, only near the end of this sequence that Whitman explicitly emerges, invoked and invited to accompany Youssef as he navigates urban streets and sites.35 Traversing Manhattan landmarks – including Hamilton Fish Park; Little Italy; New York University; Harlem; the Rockefeller Center – Youssef’s circuitous route leads him finally to the Brooklyn Bridge, a locale where Whitman’s precedent is irrepressible, erupting onto the surface of Youssef’s poetry. Updating the American’s iconic poem ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’, Youssef himself crosses the East River, navigating its waters no longer on a boat, but a bridge. Rehearsing 1860 experience through 2007 architecture, this trans-historical commute launches a Whitmanian subseries near the end of the New York Qasīdas. ˙ Structured into nine sections – discrete, yet interlocking – Youssef’s drifting dialogue with Whitman may be plotted as follows: • Section 1. Arabic translation from Whitman’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’, rendering eight selected lines, (re)titled as ‘‫جســر بْـرو ْكــلِ ْن‬ ‫( ’عُــبو ُر‬i.e. ِ ‘Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge’).

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• Section 2. English original of the selected lines from Whitman’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’. • Section 3. Arabic poem in six stanzas, together comprising thirty-eight lines, initiating Youssef’s imagined tour and dialogue with Whitman. • Section 4. Arabic translation of Whitman’s ‘To a Stranger’ (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﻰ ﻏﺮﻴﺐ‬. • Section 5. English original of Whitman’s ‘To a Stranger’. • Section 6. Arabic poem in six lines, continuing Youssef’s dialogue with Whitman. • Section 7. Arabic translation of Whitman’s ‘A Sight in Camp’ (‘‫المخيَّم‬ ‫)’مشه ٌد في‬. ِ • Section 8. English original of Whitman’s ‘A Sight in Camp’. • Section 9. Arabic poem in nine lines, closing the series and bidding farewell to Whitman, concluding with the date of composition, ‘16.8.2007’, and its place, ‘‫‘( ’نيويورك‬New York’).36 Surveying simply its outline, this sequence clearly involves a complex set of ‘crossings’, suspended between languages (English, Arabic), genres (translation, composition) and poets (Whitman, Youssef ). Incorporating translations first published in Awrāq (‘To a Stranger’ in section 4), as well as fresh translations not included in the 1976 edition (‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ and ‘A Sight in Camp’ in sections 1 and 7), Youssef’s sequence merges old and new, infusing his own creative efforts with renditions that span 1976 and 2007. Embedding Leaves into his own poetry, Youssef juxtaposes English sources and Arabic translations through six of his sections, with Whitman’s originals paired together with Iraqi renditions in sections 1 and 2; sections 4 and 5; and sections 7 and 8. However, these paired sections reverse expected order, placing Arabic translations first, with American sources following. Resisting his own belatedness and revising the chronology of influence, Youssef ensures that his translated Whitman precedes the source Whitman, with US original relegated to mere respondent, an echo in a dialogue built from its own words. This inversion of priority is anticipated by the very opening of Youssef’s entire sequence – an opening that translates not language merely, but also time and space, editing and renaming Whitman’s source poem and his source experience. Section 1 offers a highly selective rendition of eight lines, or line fragments, from Whitman’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’; it is the title of this rendition, however, that seems most audacious, revising Whitman’s original to read instead ‘‫جســر بْـرو ْكــلِ ْن‬ ‫‘( ’عُــبو ُر‬Crossing the ِ Brooklyn Bridge’; emphasis added). Transferring ownership, this translation rewrites ‘ferry’ as ‘bridge’, the poem renamed to fit Youssef’s own crossing from Manhattan Island to the mainland. This ironic borrowing

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is particularly potent due to the content of the poem itself; selecting the following lines to translate into Arabic and quote in English, Youssef highlights the predictive reach of Whitman’s original: Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east; Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high; A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide. . . . I too lived – Brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine; I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters around it. . . . I was Manhattanese, friendly and proud! . . .37

Translating these lines of future prospect – gazing ‘fifty’ and a ‘hundred years hence’ – Youssef both answers, and inhabits, the momentum of Whitman’s original, updating his classic American vantage to address Arabic futures unknown. Although seeming to be one of the modern ‘others’ forecast by Whitman, Youssef also casts himself forward, becoming an ‘I too’ who gazes ahead, speaking new language and life into his source’s personality and prophecy. Looking back to Whitman, even as Whitman looks forward to him, Youssef constructs a ‘crossing over’ equally physical, historical and linguistic, his ‘Crossing Brooklyn Bridge’ performing a trans-latio that is actual and ideal, renewing Whitman’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ through (re)visionary Arabic, addressing a fresh audience of foreign ‘Manhattanese’. Prophesying his own return, Whitman finds odd fulfilment in Youssef’s updated passage, the American’s experience offering foundations for a new Arabic suspension over the East River. However, as Youssef reaches the end of this ‘Bridge’ – reaching the end of his first two sections – he not only crosses into Brooklyn but also crosses genres as well, his third section shifting from translation to composition. No longer borrowing Whitman’s own language, Youssef now speaks to Whitman directly, authoring the first of three poetic dialogues, forming the third, sixth and ninth sections of his sequence. After emphasising their shared ‘crossing’ of the river, Youssef, in his section 3, turns to Whitman directly, making him both object and audience of his Arabic verse:

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‘I too am untranslatable’: Middle Eastern Leaves : ُ‫أقو ُل له‬ ْ ْ ‫وال‬ ! ‫ـت‬ . . .‫ أن نتأنّى هنــا‬، ‫جيب هنالك‬ ٍ ‫ليل ع‬ ٍ ‫ بعد‬، ‫خي ٌر لنا‬ ‫الرصيف‬ ‫ق قهوتَنا في‬ َ ‫نتذ ّو‬ ِ . ‫مة‬ ‫تقبل‬ ُ ‫ونس‬ َ ِ ‫الناس بالبس‬

[I say to him: Walt! It is good for us, after a wondrous night there, that we bide our time here . . . tasting our coffee in the sidewalk and greeting the people with a smile.]

Launching with a familiar and direct appeal – ‘I say to him: / Walt!’ – Youssef here performs an act of ontological translation, carrying Whitman across an existential threshold, from dead to living. Resurrected and returned home to New York through Arabic poetry, the American now inhabits verses that also emulate his own tropes, Youssef’s informal voice again reminiscent of Leaves, emphasising life’s sanctity (‘it is good’), its sensuality (‘tasting’) and its common spaces (‘sidewalk’). Recomposing the American’s corpus – both body and text – this opening to section 3 launches a tour of Brooklyn and beyond, with Youssef and Whitman imagined together, discovering the boroughs as they appear in 2007: . ‫ لكني أسكـنُ غي َر بعي ٍد عن ســـوهو‬. ‫أنا وأنت في بروكلِن اآلن‬ ‫أخبارها ؟‬ ‫ أتري ُد أن أحكي لك عنها ؟ عن آخر‬. َ‫ســوهو التي أحببت‬ ِ . . .‫عام وأكثر‬ ‫أنت لم تذهبْ إلى هناك منذ‬ ٍ ‫ منذ مائ ِة‬. ‫زمن‬ ٍ [. . .]‫ ﻠﻗﺪ غاد َرها الشعرا ُء والفنانون‬: ‫ أيها الـ ُمـ َعـلِّـ ُم‬، ً ‫حسنا‬ [Me and you are in Brooklyn now. But I live not far from SoHo SoHo which you loved. Do you wish me to tell you of it? Of its latest news? You have not gone there for some time. For a hundred years and more . . . Well, O my teacher: the poets and artists have left it (. . .)]

Mapping disparity between urban eras and areas – between Youssef’s New York and Whitman’s – these lines transport the poets back across the river, reflecting on ‘SoHo’ and its artistic decline from modern Brooklyn shores. First emphasising the timeliness of their journey together – with ‘me’ and ‘you’ coupled in the ‘now’ – Youssef’s ‘latest news’ of New York also magnifies Whitman’s long absence; inverting the prophetic ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’, Whitman no longer reaches forward a ‘hundred years

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hence’ but is recognised as himself outdated, having missed ‘a hundred years and more’. Despite confessing ‘Walt’ to be his ‘teacher’ (‘‫)’الـ ُمـ َعـلِّـ ُم‬, Youssef also inverts this pedagogic relationship, identifying Whitman not as a tour guide but rather as a tourist, in his own hometown. Recalling the surprising reversal witnessed in sections 1 and 2, with Arabic translation preceding English original, the American is now escorted through New York streets by the Iraqi, the latter freshly oriented to this city’s landscapes, the former relegated to a mere ghostly stranger. Further exploring this expanse between American pasts and America’s present, section 3 concludes by ending its fanciful tour by teasing out more severe implications of Youssef’s New York appeal to Whitman: ْ ‫ لكن الجنو َد السو َد الذين‬. ‫والت ِويتمان‬ ‫ يا‬، ‫الحرب األهلية انتهت‬ ‫ هؤالء الذين‬، ‫ وعبي َد مزارع القطن العاطلين‬. ‫قاتلوا في سبيل الحرية‬ …‫ ومانهاتِن‬، ‫ وبرونكس‬، ‫ وبروكلِن‬، ‫يسكنون هارلم‬ ‫ ال يزالون‬، ‫ وغنَّــوا لك‬، ‫ وغنّيتَ لهم‬، ‫هؤالء الذينَ أحببتَهم‬ ‫ ويأكلون من القُــمامــة‬، ‫ينامون في الحدائق العامة‬ [The Civil War ended, O Walt Whitman. But the black soldiers who Fought in the way of freedom, and the out-of-work cotton plantation slaves, these are they That live in Harlem, and Brooklyn, and the Bronx, and Manhattan . . . These are they whom you loved, and for whom you sung, and who sung for you, they still Sleep in the public parks, and eat from the garbage]

Re-visioning the homeless of the city as Civil War ‘soldiers’ and antebellum ‘slaves’, Youssef translates not only America’s poet but also America’s past, finding historical precedents for modern scenes of human suffering. While realising Whitman’s promise to reach up ‘a hundred years hence’, Youssef’s poetic tour emphasises, too, political promises that remain unrealised, recognising a continuity in African-American dispossession, with ‘plantations’ (‘‫ )’مزارع‬merely replaced by ‘public parks’ (‘‫)’الحدائق العامة‬. Again resurrecting identities from the nineteenth-century US, Youssef’s elision between the Civil War and post-9/11 offers, too, a national complement for Whitman’s own ghostly strangeness, his eerie revival in 2007 New York heralding the return of other American dead, resurrecting ‘black soldiers’ and ‘slaves’ who Whitman himself had ‘sung for’ and ‘loved’. It is this complex matrix of alienation that seems to suggest the theme for Youssef’s next two sections, his sequence returning to translation in sections 4 and 5, providing his Arabic version of Whitman’s ‘To a Stranger’, followed by this poem’s English original. Although published first in 1976,

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Youssef’s translation of ‘To a Stranger’ – his ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻰ ﻏﺮﻴﺐ‬Ilā Gharīb’) – acquires new meaning in 2007, its significance amplified merely through finding a new home in the New York Qasīdas. Seeming now to reflect the ˙ social injustices just highlighted in his section 3, Youssef’s translation – with its ambiguous title, signifying both ‘Stranger’ and ‘Exile’ (‘Gharīb’) – continues a narrative of vagrancy, recalling the estrangement and dispossession witnessed by Youssef in Brooklyn’s ‘public parks’. Pairing his Arabic translation with English original, Youssef’s implied dialogue between the two versions of ‘To a Stranger’ in sections 4 and 5 leads him back to composition, with his section 6 resuming a direct dialogue with Whitman. Briefer than his imagined tour in section 3, this new appeal to Whitman nevertheless seems more potent, Youssef interrogating his American icon on contemporary geopolitics: ‫الغريبُ الذي أنتَ غـنّـيـتَـه‬ … ِّ‫والغريبُ الذي لم تُـغَــن‬ َّ‫والغريبُ الذي ظل‬ …‫أقرب مني‬ َ ْ ‫ يا صاحبي‬، ُ‫ نبأ ٌ منه‬، ‫ هنا‬، ‫ك‬ ْ ‫وال‬ ‫ت ِو ْيتمان ؟‬ َ ‫هل أتا‬ ‫ ؟‬ʽ ‫ك جنو ُد ‘ أبو ْغـ َريب‬ َ ‫هل أتا‬ ‫هل ح ّدثوك ؟‬ [The gharīb (i.e. ‘stranger’) which you sang And the gharīb (or Ghraib) which you didn’t sing . . . and the gharīb (or Ghraib) which lies yet closer than me . . . Has there reached you, here, news of it, O my comrade, Walt Whitman? Has there reached you the soldiers of ‘Abū Ghraib’? Have they informed you?]

Opening with the very title and subject of Whitman’s preceding poem – ‘al-Gharīb’ (i.e. ‘the stranger’) – Youssef pivots in his following lines, teasing out an unexpected and timely allusion that he finds implied in this American title, that is, to ‘Abū Ghraib’, the notorious Iraqi prison. Detecting the scandal of the modern US military anticipated in Leaves of Grass, Youssef recognises new possibilities in his old translation of Whitman’s ‘To a Stranger’, this poem no longer situated in New York ‘public parks’, but also in a jail on the outskirts of Baghdad, reflecting not only on US dispossession but also Iraqi captivity. Shifting significance after its first mention in line 1, two alternative meanings of ‘‫ ’غريب‬emerge in these verses, implying not only the ‘stranger’ of Whitman’s poetic title – Ilā Gharīb – but also the name of an Arab prison – Abū Ghraib (emphasis added).38 Exchanging Civil War for Iraqi War, Youssef’s pun on Whitman’s title recalls invasions both foreign and domestic, submitting Whitman’s own diction to

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interrogation and rendition, abducting it from familiar contexts in Leaves, and applying it to foreign crimes and conflicts. Reversing direction in history and geography, these lines from the New York Qasīdas jump sud˙ denly from Brooklyn to Baghdad, trading the cities and soils which are native to American poet and his Arabic translator. Although the catalyst for Youssef’s complex meditation, Whitman also becomes its recipient and addressee, resurrected back to American space, but also prompted to hear his nation’s overseas ‘news’, Youssef concluding with a series of rhetorical challenges to his ‘comrade, Walt Whitman’, voicing the haunting query ‘Have they informed you?’ This martial climate and political critique extends through sections 7 and 8, the sequence’s final pairing of translation and source, with Youssef offering his Arabic translation, and then English original, of Whitman’s ‘A Sight in Camp’ – a Civil War poem which surveys the dead and dying, witnessing their wounded final moments.39 Returning to America, and to the 1860s, Youssef’s inclusion of ‘A Sight in Camp’ closes a circle of geography and chronology, while also deepening the themes of his entire Whitmanian sequence, emphasising again naked suffering and fatal slumber. Recalling his experiences as a field hospital nurse, Whitman’s poem describes soldiers as they lie prone and exposed after battle – a vista that overlaps powerfully with the vagrants who ‘sleep’ in the park in Youssef’s section 3, as well as the dark exposures implied by his allusions to Abū Ghraib in section 6. Merging battlefield triage with public spaces, Youssef’s inclusion of ‘A Sight in Camp’ also extends his dialogue with the American dead. Framed as an intimate address to the fallen, Whitman’s poem moves from corpse to corpse, concluding with an invocation to a ‘young man’ who seems familiar: Young man, I think I know you – I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ himself; Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies.40

Suspended on the threshold between life and death, implying both mortality and resurrection – both ‘Dead and divine’ – Whitman’s poem seems a fitting source for Youssef’s translation and inclusion, expressing an idea essential to his entire sequence: historical repetition and recurrence. Concluding with ‘here again he lies’ (emphasis added), Whitman’s lines recall the ghostly rehearsals that pervade the New York Qasīdas, embodying ˙ the revival of past echoes throughout Youssef’s sequence, linking distinct poets, cities, wars and nations. Itself repeated in sections 7 and 8 – first in Arabic translation and then in English original – ‘A Sight in Camp’

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is redoubled in its eerie re-vision, witnessing ‘again’ the ‘face’ of the past (‘Christ’), even as it returns as the ‘face’ of the present (‘young man’), a poignant parallel to Whitman’s own resurrection in the personal expressions of Youssef’s poetry. The motifs of sleeping and waking, living and dead, in ‘A Sight in Camp’ persist as Youssef composes the final, brief section to his Whitman sequence. Before continuing his tour of New York, eventually returning downtown and to Washington Square, Youssef bids a dramatic farewell to Whitman, devoting a ninth section solely to this valediction. Opening with a simple ‘I bid farewell to you now’ (‘. . . َ‫ك اآلن‬ َ ‫)’أ َو ِّد ُع‬, Youssef regrets that he and Whitman no longer have ‘time’ for one another (‘‫)’ﻭﻗﺕ‬, leading to his final words in the series: .َ‫بي لن يسمعوا صوتَك‬ ُ ‫والجنو ُد الذين َمـهَــمَّ ـتُهُم‬ َ ‫قتل شع‬ ‫العشبُ نَضْ ـــ ٌر‬ :‫يقي‬ َ ‫رف‬ ً ‫نَ ْم هانئا‬ !‫ـر ْك لي مفازةَ هذا الطـــريق‬ ِ َّ‫وات‬ [And the soldiers whose mission is the killing of my people will never listen to your voice. The grass is verdant My comrade: Sleep wholesomely And leave to me the desert of this path!]

Contrasting sound and silence, violence and repose, pasture and desert, Youssef concludes his sequence again with tense paradox, reading modern warfare and ‘killing’ through imagery and tropes that are native to Leaves of Grass. Testament to the endurance of Whitman’s voice, Youssef ends his sequence with verses that are still highly reminiscent of the American, offering a simple declarative and intimate invocation: ‘The grass is verdant / my comrade’. Ironically, however, Youssef opens this conclusion by bearing witness to Whitman’s own muteness, his speech itself proving ineffective, his nation’s ‘soldiers’ destined to remain deaf to his ‘voice’. Reversed here too is the parity between the two poets, Iraqi and American, hinting at their irreconcilable differences. Commanded to return to his ‘wholesome slumber’ (‘ً ‫)’نَ ْم هانئا‬, Whitman is encouraged to merge again with his ‘grass’, sinking below the ground, while also fading into the background of Youssef’s own verse. Emergent at this conclusion is Youssef, unaccompanied and unaided, alone committed to travelling ‘this path’ (‘‫)’هذا الطـــريق‬. Resonant with motifs of slumber and internment

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that pervade the entire sequence, Whitman is relegated now to his ghostly ‘sleep’, buried again in subterranean shadow – a diurnal culmination from dawn to darkness that itself seems anticipated in the prophetic selections from Whitman’s introductory ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’, whose vision had first stretched from ‘sun half an hour high’ to ‘the sunset’.41 A return of national identity is implied by this final farewell as well, reflecting Youssef’s straddling of spheres – private and public – that animates the entirety of his New York Qasīdas. While emphasising his per˙ sonality and perspective throughout, it is in these last lines that Youssef’s first-person pronoun emerges with lethal weight, lamenting the ‘killing of my people’ – ‘‫بي‬ ُ ’ (emphasis added) – a vigorous affirmation of his َ ‫قتل شع‬ allegiances, both ethnic and political. This national turn in Youssef’s New York Qasīdas is reflected, too, in the venues of its publication. Appearing ˙ on Youssef’s own website, selections from this verse sequence have gained wider circulations as well, published online by Arabic newspapers and news sites – arenas that suggest the timely relevance, as well as the regional currency, of this Whitmanian series. Recalling Halkin’s own unfolding engagements with America’s poet, Youssef’s translation efforts not only extend beyond his initial edition of Leaves, but also become periodical in appearance, punctuating different phases of his career, and published in public outlets. While Halkin’s translations were to appear in Zionist journals such as Bitzaron and Israel Argosy, Youssef’s fresh renditions receive attention from newspapers such as As-Safīr, one of Lebanon’s leading dailies, whose origins and agenda are expressly political.42 Polarised at opposite ends of communal aspiration, these distinct Whitmanian afterlives advance and splinter in duelling, polemical contexts, with Leaves itself forming a suspended bridge, linking discrete camps of national struggle.

♦♦♦ Appearing first in his 1881 Leaves, Whitman’s ‘Facing West from California’s Shores’ allows the American poet to reach continental margins, and beyond. Approaching his nation’s Pacific edge, Whitman’s perspective stretches still further ‘West’, surveying distant shores, even as his own life approaches its Western limits: Facing west from California’s shores, Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound, I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar, Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;

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For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere, From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero, From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands, Long having wander’d since, round the earth having wander’d, Now I face home again, very pleas’d and joyous, (But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?) (II, 361)

A ‘child’, though ‘very old’, Whitman advances and returns in surveying his ageing prospects, still ‘tireless’ in yearning, endlessly ‘starting’, ‘seeking’, ‘inquiring’, ‘wandering’ as he ‘look[s] afar’. Rehearsing the motif of ‘crossing’ essential to his ‘Brooklyn Ferry’ – echoing, on a universal scale, its urban navigation – Whitman’s ‘Facing West’ also exposes the circularity of his pursuit ‘over waves’. Recalling his contemporary, H.D. Thoreau, who observed that ‘there is an orientalism in the most restless pioneer, and the farthest west is but the farthest east’, Whitman translates manifest destiny into a global project, his ‘westward’ urge reaching not only to Asia, but further still, attaining even the opposite shores of America itself, returning home after ‘round the earth having wander’d’.43 Unsatisfied with national frontiers, still ‘tireless’ having realised ‘California’s shores’, Whitman confronts the perpetual imperfection of his quest, his longing for ‘the house of maternity’ forever suspended, the ‘circle’ always ‘almost circled’, his original place and purpose ‘yet unfound’. It is this continental breadth, articulated so vigorously in Whitman’s poetry, that Youssef himself would highlight as he reflected on the American’s formative influence in a recent interview. Nearly three decades after opening Awrāq al-‘Ushb with querying Whitman’s Arab ‘significance’, Youssef found himself still pondering this question in 2004. Asked for his ‘favorite poets’, Youssef unsurprisingly includes Whitman in his list, grouping him together with other modernist pioneers and global innovators, including Nazim Hikmet, García Lorca, Yiannis Ritsos and Constantine Cavafy. However, Whitman stands out among Youssef’s favourites, meriting a brief qualification, distinguished in the Iraqi’s list by the following explanation: And Walt Whitman, he also has that abundance of life. He presents a continent that opens up to me.44

Aligning Whitman first with vitality, with ‘abundance of life’, Youssef here provides an ironic anticipation of his New York Qasīdas in 2007 – his ˙ poetic sequence that will first exhume Whitman, and then inter him

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again, in American soil. Shifting from ‘abundance of life’ to spatial abundance, Youssef next celebrates Whitman as ‘present[ing] a continent’, associating the author of Leaves with terrain ‘that opens up’. Recalling again the first translation included in Youssef’s Awrāq – ‘Shut not Your Doors’ – it is Whitman’s capacity to unlock space that is here foregrounded, his hemispheric ‘amplitude’. However, as Awrāq itself demonstrates, the topography between Youssef and Whitman is one that opens reciprocally. As Whitman unlocks an America of space and style for Youssef, so too does Youssef unlock an Arab world of readership for Whitman’s poetry, allowing his Leaves to attain new ‘land[s] of migrations’. Still ‘tireless’ after its initial appearance in 1976, Awrāq continues to ‘open up’ terrain for Whitman through the twenty-first century, this translated edition meriting subsequent republications, appearing again not only in 1979 and 1998, but even more recently, in 2010.45 Flourishing again, thirty years after first breaking ground, Youssef’s Leaves has also helped cultivate other Arabic editions of Whitman translation. Most conspicuous is the rendition produced by the contemporary translator and poet ‘Ābid Ismā‘īl, whose ‘‫( ’ﺃﻏﻨﻴﺔ ﻧﻔﺴﻲ‬Song of Myself) appeared in 2006, issued by the same Damascene publisher that has also been responsible for publishing some of Youssef’s own most recent writings.46 Opening spaces in literary history, Youssef’s grappling with Leaves has also signified an opening of space in his own biography, marking the beginnings of his ‘westward’ journey, emigrating from the Arab world, to continental Europe and, finally, to England. ‘Facing west’ from the ‘shores’ of his native soil, Youssef has now settled in London, escaping political coercion and military conflict, and resigning himself to an uneasy exile. Finding a home in Europe – and England in particular – Youssef occupies a geographic mid-point, residing between the native origins of his Arabic Leaves and the place where the American Leaves first appeared, suspended between Baghdad and Boston. Recalling the exilic cycles first treated in Chapter 1 – those expressed in Massel’s Yehūdāh ha-Makābī – Youssef’s residence in London sketches a surprising circuit, allowing our own present study to ‘face home again’ itself, after ‘round the earth having wander’d’. Returning to Britain, the wide breach between Joseph Massel (Russian Zionist) and Saadi Youssef (Iraqi progressive) seems now to extend only as far as Manchester to London, suggesting a curious coincidence in their opposing political commitments. As Massel was prevented from returning to his ancient Middle Eastern homeland in the nineteenth century, the modern Middle East has also been lost to Youssef in the twentieth and twenty-first, both translators enduring exile in a shared transatlantic centre, Britain intersecting their mutual and rival concerns

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with American texts and Middle Eastern contexts, unfolding between 1900 and 2012.47 The common British residence of this unlikely pair gestures biographically to the ‘westward’ urge implied in their joint appeal to US sources. However, as Whitman himself recognises in his ‘Facing West’, the process of global ‘wander[ing]’ inexorably leads ‘home again’, with American translations in Hebrew, Persian and Arabic ineluctably gesturing back to ‘maternal lands’, refracting Middle Eastern mother-nations through a New World lens. Most recently informing his 2007 New York Qasīdas, Youssef’s ˙ (re)vision of America as Iraqi reflection was expressed most famously in his ‘America, America’ – a poem that has attracted significant critical notice, meriting attention from both translators and anthology editors. Authored in 1995 during his residence in Damascus, Youssef’s poem responds ‘to hardships faced by the Iraqi people under US-led sanctions’.48 It also, however, offers a striking act of Whitmanian ‘translation’, featured in the following stanza which Youssef includes as his poem nears conclusion: ‫ﺧﺬﻱ ﺍﻠﻠﺤﻴﺔ ﺍﻷﻓﻐﺎﻧﻴﺔ‬ « ‫ﻮﺃﻋﻄﻴﻨﺎ » ﻠﺤﻴﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﺖ ﻭﻴﺘﻤﺎﻥ ﺍﻟﻣﻸﻯ ﺒﺎﻟﻓﺮﺍﺷﺎﺖ‬ ‫ﺧﺬﻱ ﺻ ّﺪﺍﻡ ﺣﺴﻴﻥ‬ !‫ﻮﺃﻋﻄﻴﻨﺎ ﺍﺑﺮﺍﻫﺎﻡ ﻠﻨﻜﻮﻟﻥ‬ .ً‫ﺃﻮ ﻻ ﺘﻌﻃﻴﻨﺎ ﺃﺤﺩا‬ [Take the Afghani beard and give us ‘Walt Whitman’s beard filled with butterflies’. Take Saddam Hussein and give us Abraham Lincoln! or give us no one.]49

Inverting and converting icons of US nationality, this stanza implies a complex series of translatory replacements, personal and political. Situating Whitman at their crux, Youssef juxtaposes a range of familiar polarities: violence and peace; religion and art; fanatic and dynamic; tyranny and democracy. Switching ‘beard’ for ‘beard’, Whitman is mirrored in the ‘Afghani’, their passions both aligned and contrasted; while the former seems here associated with ‘jihād’, the latter is characterised by delicate beauty, allied with the organic ‘butterfly’.50 Appealing to Whitman as a foil for militancy, these lines inevitably turn towards ‘Lincoln’, martyr of the Civil War and Whitman’s elegiac subject in his famous ‘When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d’. Intervening between this American pair is ‘Saddam Hussein’, invoked as the inverse to these icons of US liberty. Representative of Youssef’s own afflicted homeland, Hussein is enveloped

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between two American ideals, Lincoln positioned as political embodiment of Whitmanian freedom, offering a historic substitute for Iraq’s dark national present. It is the understated final line of the above stanza, however, that seems now most relevant. Quiet and slight, Youssef’s concluding words – ‘or give us no one’ (‘ً‫ – )’ﺃﻮ ﻻ ﺘﻌﻃﻴﻨﺎ ﺃﺤﺩا‬seem to capture best the moment and momentum of popular reform in the Arab world. As his substitute for dictatorship, Youssef turns from an idealised American past to an undefined future, where ‘no one’ occupies political supremacy. This hushed turn in 1995 becomes roaring revolution in 2011, with Youssef championing the eruption of protests and demonstrations across North Africa, heralding the first moments of ‘Arab spring’ from his adopted home in London. Responding poetically during the pivotal closing days of January 2011, Youssef would publish his ‘‫ جاءت إلى الساح ْة‬، ‫ أ ّمـنا‬، ُ‫‘ – ’مص ُر البهيّة‬Splendid Egypt, our mother, has come to the square’ – a rousing, exultant anthem, promoting the fledgling, popular revolt centred in Tahrīr Square.51 Composed in England and ˙ targeting Egypt, Youssef’s poem nevertheless exhibits indirect hints of his own American genealogy, with Whitmanian echoes faintly audible in the exclamatory, free lines of ‘Splendid Egypt’. Championing the Arab spring, heralding its season of reform, Youssef implicitly recalls a verdant liberation that has its precedent in his own translation of Leaves, again recruiting stylistic features – repetition, refrain, second-person address, superlative interjections – that overlap with Whitman’s collection. Dedicated and addressed to the Egyptian vernacular poet Ahmad Fu’ād Najm, the 2011 ˙ ‘Splendid Egypt’ even features a line that coincides with the 1976 Awrāq, invoking Najm directly in the verse ‘I see you there’ (‘َ‫ك هناك‬ َ ‫ – )’إني أرا‬a line that inadvertently matches one of the most daring moments in ‘Song of Myself’, Whitman addressing the ‘lonesome lady’ in his ‘twenty-eight bathers’ episode, calling out to her ‘I see you’ (I, 12).52 Fusing cycles of exile and revolution, poems such as ‘America, America’ and its triumphant successor ‘Splendid Egypt’ recall Whitman both overtly and covertly, merging explicit reference and formal coincidence to form new chapters in his advancing afterlife. It is, however, neither the poetics of political criticism (‘America, America’), nor political celebration (‘Splendid Egypt’), but rather the poetics of anticipation and deferral – so characteristic of the later Whitman – that perhaps best expresses the potential currency of Leaves for the present-day Middle East. With the fading and frustration of the Arab spring through 2011, its initial promise still unfulfilled, Youssef’s ‘Splendid Egypt, our mother’ seems closer and closer to a postponed ‘house of maternity’, echoing the haunting suspensions of Whitman’s ‘Facing West from California’s Shores’ rather than

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his celebratory ‘Song of Myself’. In the turn and return of protesters to Tahrīr Square through 2012, however, a predictive force emerges also in ˙ Whitman’s assertion that ‘the circle’ remains always ‘almost circled’, with political revolution, and its attendant literary circulations, forever continuing their orbits, yet still remaining incomplete.53 But, in concluding with rounded questions, rather than flat answers – closing with ‘why is it yet unfound?’ – ‘Facing West’ seems also to guarantee a global significance in its perpetual ‘seeking’, interrogating from ‘afar’ Whitman’s yet opening prospects and promise in the Middle East, the Leaves of an ample Arab spring always on the verge of full bloom.

Notes

Introduction 1. Göske, ‘There’s another rendering now’, pp. 255–6. 2. Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility, pp. 42, 17–18. 3. Eco, Mouse or Rat?, p. 102. 4. For early, although superficial, recognition of the importance of American Orientalism, see Octavius Brooks Frothingham’s 1880 Transcendentalism in New England, p. 251. For the ‘openness toward the Orient’ exhibited by the Transcendentalists in particular, see Yu, The Great Circle, p. 22. 5. Dimock, Through Other Continents, pp. 3, 20. 6. Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, pp. 149 and 155. 7. Halmi, The Genealogy of the Romantic Symbol, p. 99. 8. Said, Humanism and Democratic Criticism, p. 75. 9. Wirth-Nesher, ‘The Counterlife’, p. 135. 10. Ashcroft, On Post-Colonial Futures, p. 1. 11. For such a dialectical model of ‘Occidentalism’, see Carrier, ed., Occidentalism, especially pp. 2–3. 12. Dimock, Through Other Continents, p. 29. 13. Basmenji, ed., Afsaneh: Short Stories by Iranian Women, p. 11. 14. ‘Eight Scholars From Around World To Be Awarded Honorary Degrees’, University of Chicago Chronicle. 15. Conrad, ‘Ihsan Abbas: Custodian of Arabic Heritage and Culture’. 16. I invoke here both Walter Benjamin’s claim that a ‘real translation is transparent’, as well as Lawrence Venuti’s potent critique of such a model (see ‘The Task of the Translator’, in Benjamin, Illuminations, p. 79; and Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility, p. 61, respectively). While identifying my own complicity in the very processes of translation I critique, I am unable, however, to wholly relinquish notions of translatory ‘accuracy’ – a concept which, despite

188 ]

Notes

its problematic assumption of ‘equivalence’, nevertheless endures within studies which challenge norms of ‘domesticating’ renditions (see Venuti, The Translator’s Invisibility, pp. 38, 200). Chapter 1 1. Joseph Massel’s 1900 ‘‫( ’יהודה המכבי‬Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, i.e. Judas Maccabæus) was ‘published by the Translator’ in Manchester, as announced on its English title page; subsequent in-text references to this edition are to page numbers. 2. For contemporary Hebrew usage of ‘shīr hizzāyōn’ to subtitle a biblical ˙ ‘‫ שיבת ציון‬,‫( ’עזרא; או‬Ezra; or, ‘drama’, see Judah Leib Gamzu’s 1898 theatrical the Return to Zion). For occurrences of ‘‫‘( ’חזיון‬hizzāyōn’) in the Hebrew Bible, ˙ or even ‘divine communication signifying a ‘vision’, a ‘vision, in the ecstatic state’, in a vision, oracle, prophecy’, see Gesenius, A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament, p. 303 – a standard reference work which informs my translation of biblical terminology below. For English Bible quotations, I use the 1611 Authorised Version (King James), unless otherwise noted. 3. For Jewish calendrical reckoning, including the category of anno mundi, see Carlebach, Palaces of Time, pp. 189–91. For American literature’s implication in ‘deep time’, see Dimock, Through Other Continents, especially p. 3. 4. Considering this design for Massel’s ‘banner’, it is perhaps not a coincidence that ‘[b]y 1897, the year that the first Zionist congress took place in Basel, the Zionists had made the Shield of David into a worldwide sign of hope: a blue Star on a white background, on the upper and lower side surrounded by blue stripes [. . .]’; see Oegema, The History of the Shield of David, p. 115. 5. For Massel’s biography, see: Shaftesley, ‘Nineteenth-Century Jewish Colonies in Cyprus’, especially p. 97, as well as Shaftesley, ‘Jewish Colonies in Cyprus – Further Information’, p. 183; Williams, The Making of Manchester Jewry, p. 333; and The National Archives, ‘Documents and Photographs Related to Joseph Massel’ (www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/a2a/records. aspx?cat=124-3070&cid=0#0) (webpage dedicated to material held by the Greater Manchester County Record Office). Massel’s 1897 ‘‫’מכנף הארץ זמרות‬ (Songs from the Ends of the Earth) would include an ‘Ode in Honour of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, on Completion of Her Sixty Years Reign’. The efforts of Massel, and later, his son – Symon Massel – helped Manchester become an early centre of British Zionism; as W.D. Rubinstein notes, a ‘“Manchester School of Zionism” emerged early’, which included the publication of ‘the first continuing English Zionist journal, The Zionist Banner, from Manchester in 1910’. Rubinstein, A History of the Jews, p. 169. 6. See Tucker, ‘References in Longfellow’s “Journals”’, p. 321. 7. Arvin, Longfellow, p. 279. 8. Abrahams, By-paths in Hebraic Bookland, p. 291. 9. Arvin, Longfellow, p. 80. See also Robert Gale’s A Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Companion, which characterises Judas as ‘disappointing’, noting that ‘It took

­

Notes [ 189

Longfellow only 12 days to write’ this ‘play, the theme of which is unprepossessing to begin with’ (p. 125). 10. See Hilen, ed., The Diary of Clara Crowninshield, pp. 243–4. Reviewing the Crowninshield Diary in Modern Language Notes, Wilbert Snow suggests that this concert was possibly ‘the germ of one of [Longfellow’s] lesser known but interesting dramatic poems written late in his career’, i.e. Judas Maccabaeus (p. 368). I thank Shane Winterhalter for first bringing the Diary, and Snow’s review, to my notice. 11. See Tucker, ‘References in Longfellow’s “Journals”’, pp. 336–8. 12. Longfellow, Letters, vol. 5, p. 497. In his January 1872 letter, Longfellow ‘add[s]’ that his drama ‘is still in manuscript’ (p. 497). For Judas’ musical genealogy, and Longfellow’s interest in Handel, even attending concerts hosted by Boston’s Handel and Haydn Society, see Giles, The Global Remapping of American Literature, p. 80. 13. For the surviving Greek text of the First Book of the Maccabees as seeming ‘itself a translation from the original Hebrew version (which no longer exists)’, see Bartlett, The First and Second Books of the Maccabees, p. 14. While ‘2 Maccabees was originally written in Greek’, Bartlett notes that ‘Some scholars claim that the author of 2 Maccabees knew 1 Maccabees and wrote to convey a different interpretation’ (p. 215). 14. See Weinstock, Handel, pp. 271–4; this quotation concerning Handel’s Judas as ‘a compliment to the Duke of Cumberland’ derives from a letter by Thomas Morell, who authored the oratorio’s text (p. 271). 15. For the impact of the US Civil War and reconstruction on Longfellow’s poetic and translations efforts, see Irmscher, Longfellow Redux, pp. 258–60, and Calhoun, Longfellow, pp. 246–7. 16. See The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, vol. 3, pp. 33–4. 17. On the founding of Newport’s cemetery and synagogue, see Gutstein, To Bigotry No Sanction, especially pp. 26 and 52–3. 18. For Zvi Gershuni, ‘who arrived in New York in 1869’, and his Hebrew translation ‘around 1870’ of Longfellow’s ‘Excelsior’, see Weingrad, American Hebrew Literature, p. 77. 19. See Tchernichovsky’s 1912 ‘‫( ’שירת היאותה‬Song of Hiawatha) and 1923 ‘‫’אבנג׳לינה‬ (Evangeline). 20. Beilinson separates his secondary title (‘‫חנכה‬-‫ ;’נס‬The Hanukkah Miracle) from his primary title (‘‫ ;’גבורות יהודא מכבי‬The Mighty Deeds of Judas Maccabæus) merely with ‘‫‘( ’אדער‬or’), seeming to suggest the primary importance of this holiday observance (i.e. Hanukkah) to his publication. 21. See Schor, Emma Lazarus, pp. 35–40, for Lazarus’ relationship with Emerson, and Zeiger, ‘Emma Lazarus and Pre-Herzlian Zionism’, for Lazarus’ intermediary position ‘between the first and second generations of political Zionists’ (p. 99). 22. For Lazarus’ literary dialogue with Longfellow on Newport’s Judaic legacy, see Schor, Emma Lazarus, pp. 15–20.

190 ]

Notes

23. For these quotations from Lazarus’ Longfellow eulogy, see Schappes, ed., Emma Lazarus, pp. 97–8. 24. As was his 1900 Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, Joseph Massel’s 1897 ‘‫’מכנף הארץ זמרות‬ (Songs from the Ends of the Earth) was published in Manchester at 2, Park Place, Cheetham; subsequent in-text references will be to page numbers. Massel’s title reproduces the first words of Isaiah 24: 16, which the 1611 King James Bible renders as ‘from the uttermost part of the earth [. . .] songs’. 25. For the biblical origins of Massel’s ‘renewing its youth as an eagle’, see Psalm 103: 5, which describes the ‘LORD’ as He ‘Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s’. 26. For the contents pages of Massel’s Songs from the Ends of the Earth, which list translation titles in Hebrew, and parenthetically include author names in English, see pp. 140–1. 27. The full title of ‘Rabbi Ben Levi’ is ‘The Spanish Jew’s Tale. The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi’, which first appeared on pp. 49–52 of Longfellow’s original 1863 Tales of a Wayside Inn. 28. For Massel’s translation, see Songs from the Ends of the Earth, pp. 22–4. The Hebrew title and truncated subtitle appear on p. 22. For biblical occurrences of the terms ‘‫‘( ’מזמור‬psalm’) and ‘‫‘( ’שיר‬song’) used in succession – giving rise to the composite title ‘A Psalm, a Song [. . .]’ – see, for example, Psalm 30: 1 and Pslam 68: 1. 29. For this quote from ‘A Psalm of Life’, see The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, vol. 1, pp. 20–1. These stanzas from Massel’s translation appear on p. 22 of Songs from the Ends of the Earth. 30. For biblical occurrence of ‘‫‘( ’בֶּן־ָאדָ ם‬son of man’, or ‘son of Adam’), see, for example, Ezekiel 2: 1 and ff.; and Daniel 8: 16–17. The Hebrew ‘‫ ’ָאדָ ם‬may signify ‘Adam’ or ‘man’, as well as ‘humankind’. 31. See Ecclesiastes 1: 2: ‘Vanity of vanities [‘‫]’ ֲהבֵל ֲה ָבלִים‬, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity’. 32. The initial words of Ecclesiastes 8: 4 differs slightly from Massel’s phrase, reading ‘‫ׁשלְט ֹון‬ ִ ‫’ ַּב ֲאׁשֶר ּדְ בַר־ ֶמלְֶך‬, which is translated by the 1611 King James as ‘Where the word of the king is, there is power’. 33. See the very final words of Psalm 107: 30 – ‘‫‘( ’מְח ֹוז ֶח ְפצָם‬their desired haven’) – which seem to provide the source for Massel’s ‘‫‘( ’מְחֹוז ֵחפֶץ‬desired haven’) in his sixth line. 34. Although classical Hebrew verse does occasionally feature end-line rhyme, quatrains structured through consistent rhyme are not traditional. Instead, semantic ‘parallelism’ is ‘universally recognized as the characteristic feature of biblical Hebrew poetry’. Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 114. 35. While the Hebrew verb in Genesis 3: 19 – ‘tāshūv’ (‘‫ – )’ּתָ ׁשּוב‬is a second-person singular imperfect (‘you [will] return’), Massel’s verb – ‘shūvāh’ (‘‫ – )’ׁשּובָה‬is an imperative (‘return!’) – an imperative that also happens to rhyme with the final term of Massel’s second line, ‘nisgāvāh’ (‘‫ׂש ָּגבָה‬ ְ ִ‫)’נ‬, both words concluding with ‘‫‘( ’בָה‬vāh’).

­

Notes [ 191

36. See Weizmann, Trial and Error, p. 95. I have previously noted this connection between Massel and Weizmann in my ‘Towards a Judaic Milton’, pp. 135 and 148. 37. For fleeting recognition of Massel in Weizmann studies, see, for example: Rose, Chaim Weizmann, p. 90; Reinharz, Chaim Weizmann, pp. 227, 239–42, 349; and Weisgal and Carmichael, eds, Chaim Weizmann: A Biography by Several Hands, p. 99. 38. See my ‘Towards a Judaic Milton’, pp. 135–50, for Massel’s translation of Samson, and his efforts to revive ‘Hebrew as a medium of “modern ideas”’ in particular (pp. 135–6). 39. Massel dubs his prefatory poem ‘‫ירה‬ ָ ִ‫‘( ’סַתּ‬Satīrāh’; c.f. the Yiddish ‘stireh’, and ˙ the modern Hebrew ‘‫’סתירה‬, i.e. ‘contradiction’). 40. Massel’s prefatory poem occupies four unpaginated pages in advance of his Judas translation. The refrain is repeated five times through the poem (‘Maccabees’ occasionally appears in the construct state, i.e. ‘‫)’ ַמ ַּכּבֵי‬. The Hebrew ‘‫ ’גֵאיוֹנִים‬is highly distinctive, comprising a biblical hapax legomenon, quoting Psalm 123: 4. Although typically rendered as the ‘proud’, or ‘haughty’, ‘‫ ’גֵאיוֹנִים‬has also been interpreted as ‘oppressors’, with Psalm 123 itself seen as possibly a ‘Maccabaean Psalm’ – two reasons why the unique ‘‫ ’גֵאיוֹנִים‬may have been chosen by Massel in this context (see Delitzsch, Biblical Commentary on the Psalms, p. 281). 41. This final title page faces the last page of Massel’s prefatory poem and precedes his dramatis personæ, which appears on p. 3 of Yehūdāh. 42. Massel’s idiomatic ‘‫ ’די בכל אתר ואתר‬literally signifies ‘who [is] in all place and place’. The alliterative ‘‫‘( ’מֻקטר מֻגש‬muqt ār muggāsh’) is a biblical phrase, deriv˙ ing from Malachi 1: 11, where the ‘incense offered’ is for the ‘name’ of the ‘LORD’. 43. Citations from Judas Maccabæus are from its first publication, namely Longfellow’s 1872 Three Books of Song – published in Boston by James R. Osgood and Company – pp. 111–74. Subsequent in-text references are to this edition. 44. As Gershon Shaked recognises, ‘though there were dramatic elements in the Bible, no [Hebraic] theatrical tradition had been developed by the time of the First or the Second Temple, nor did one emerge in much of the Diaspora’. Shaked, ‘Introduction’, p. 1. However, as Shaked also notes, ‘Hebrew drama’ did begin ‘to emerge’ in ‘the eighteenth, and, especially, the nineteenth centuries’ (p. 1). 45. Yēshū‘a is an abbreviated form of the Hebrew name for Joshua, ‘‫’יהושע‬, deriving from a verbal root that signifies ‘to deliver’ (‘‫ ;)’ישע‬it is also the Hebrew name that gives rise to ‘Jesus’ in English. 46. See Exodus 32: 9, where the ‘LORD’ designates the Israelites as ‘stiff-necked’ (‘‫)’ ְקׁשֵה־ע ֶֹרף‬. 47. It is clear that Longfellow’s original three lines closely follow 2 Maccabees 7: 6, which records the mutual ‘exhort[ations]’ of the ‘seven brethren’ as they

192 ]

Notes

are tortured by Antiochus: ‘The Lord God looketh upon us, and in truth hath comfort in us, as Moses in his song, which witnessed to their faces, declared, saying, And he shall be comforted in his servants’ – a passage that recalls not only Deuteronomy 32: 36, but also Psalm 135: 14, which Massel reproduces in his third line, only substituting ‘‫‘( ’אֵל‬God’) for the sacred Hebrew name ‘‫’יהוה‬ (‘Yahweh’). I follow the 1611 King James Bible in rendering Massel’s biblical quotations back into English; however, a lexical overlap exists in his Hebrew that is missing in the provided English, with the last word of the first and third lines comprising cognates, namely, ‘‫‘( ’נֹחַם‬noham’, ‘compassion’) and ‘‫’י ִתְ נֶחָם‬ ˙ (‘yitnehām’, ‘repent Himself’). ˙ 48. For the Hebrew text and an English translation of the Yigdāl, see Singer, trans., The Standard Prayer Book, p. 3; my translation diverges slightly from Singer’s English. In his 1993 Blessed Are You, Jeffrey Cohen notes the Yigdāl’s frequent performance (‘recited at the beginning of the daily morning service, and at the end of the Sabbath and festival evening services’), but also its doctrinal prominence, comprising a ‘succinct catechism of basic Jewish beliefs, based upon Maimonides’ famous Thirteen Principles of Faith’ (p. 46). 49. For Longfellow’s ‘curious’ use of ‘Be Elohim Yehovah!’, see Abrahams, By-paths in Hebraic Bookland, p. 293, who translates this phrase as ‘Among the gods, O Lord’. However, Longfellow’s ‘Be Elohim’ could also be rendered as ‘in God’ or ‘by the means of God’, as Massel implies in his revisionary Hebrew translation, discussed further on. 50. Both Psalm 60: 12 and Psalm 108: 13 open with the words ‘‫’ּבֵאֹלהִים נַעְ ַׂשֶה ָחי ִל‬, translated in the 1611 King James Bible as ‘Through God we shall do valiantly’, which I follow in translating Massel’s Hebrew. For the ineffability of ‘‫( ’יהוה‬i.e. ‘Yehovah’), see, for example, Heschel, God in Search of Man, p. 64: ‘Throughout the ages the Jews shrank from uttering, and, to some degree even from writing out in full the four-lettered Holy Name of God (the Tetragrammaton). Except in the Bible, the name is usually not written out in full. Even when the portion of the Pentateuch is read during the service, the Name is never pronounced as written.’ 51. The name ‘Maccabi’ has been understood as being derived from Exodus 15: 11 by a host of ‘commentators’, who ‘explained the name as consisting of the initial letters of the words ‫“( מי כמכה באלם יהוה‬who is like unto thee among the gods, Yahweh,” Exod. XV. II)’; see Charles, The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, vol. 1, p. 59. 52. For the name ‘Maccabee’ as being ‘derived, most probably’ from ‘“hammer”’ see Charles, The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, vol. 1, p. 59. Massel’s rendition of Longfellow’s ‘hammers of hail’ – ‘‫‘( ’וְַא ְבנֵי ָה ֶא ְל ָּגבִיׁש‬stones of hail’) – has its precedent in Ezekiel, where this Hebrew phrase occurs three times (13: 11, 13: 13 and 38: 22) and is translated in the 1611 King James Bible as ‘great hailstones’. 53. See Job 37: 6 for the phrase ‘‫’ ִמטְר ֹות עֻז ֹו‬, signifying ‘mighty rain’, or ‘great rain of strength’. Massel includes other, less dramatic, biblical touches, in

Notes [ 193 ­

his rendition as well; for example, the phrase that opens his second line – ‘‫שׁק ׇָפה‬ ְ ִ‫ – ’כִּי ָר ׇעה נ‬closely resembles a phrase from Jeremiah 6: 1. 54. For the importance of the ‘envelope figure’ to Hebrew poetry, see Watson, Classical Hebrew Poetry, p. 282–3. The Hebrew verb ‘‫‘( ’עּוב‬to cloud’) – which appears at both the beginning and the end of Massel’s passage, forming the verbs ‘‫ ’יָעִיבוּ‬and ‘‫ – ’יָעִיב‬is a biblical rarity, occurring only once in the scriptural canon (i.e. Lamentations 2: 1). 55. Longfellow, The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, vol. 3, p. 278. Chapter 2 1. Longfellow, Poems and Other Writings, p. 801. Chapter 2 features, and expands on, my research which first appeared in Translation and Literature, published in 2009 as ‘Washington Irving in Muslim Translation: Revising the American Mahomet’ (18.1: 43–62). 2. Longfellow, Poems and Other Writings, p. 800. 3. Longfellow, Poems and Other Writings, pp. 800–1. 4. Quotations from Mahomet are cited from Washington Irving, Mahomet and His Successors, ed. Henry Pochmann and E.N. Feltskog. (Appearing initially in two volumes, it is the first volume of the 1850 Mahomet and His Successors that has most frequently been published subsequently, variously retitled as Mahomet or Life of Mahomet.) For these quotations from Irving’s Preface, see Mahomet, pp. 3–4. 5. For Mahomet’s origins as a supplement to Irving’s Spanish romances, and its decades of publication delay, see Bowden, Washington Irving, pp. 170–6, and Jones, Washington Irving, pp. 281–7. 6. See my ‘The Early American Qur’an’ for Irving’s Spanish years, and his ‘reimagining this region as a crucial bridge of culture, linking East and West; Asian and European; Islam and Christianity’ (p. 3). 7. Quotations from Tales of the Alhambra derive from the 1991 Library of America edition presented with two other of Irving’s works, entitled Bracebridge Hall; Tales of a Traveller; The Alhambra (henceforth cited as Irving, The Alhambra); see pp. 1026 and 762. 8. Irving, The Alhambra, p. 1026. 9. For this quote from Mahomet’s Preface, see p. 3. 10. Unlike his fictional works, Irving’s 1832 Alhambra, for example, has merited a variety of Arabic, Persian and Urdu editions; for translations within each language group, see respectively the 1984 Beirut edition (Qasr al-Hamrā’; Palace ˙ Lahore ˙ of the Alhambra), the 1962 Tabriz edition (Alhambra) and 1968 edition (Qisas Alhamra; Tales of the Alhambra) in the bibliography. 11. Irving, Tārīkh-e Muqaddas, trans. Ibrāhīm Khān Shīrāzī (Tehran, 1925). 12. Irving, Hayāt Muhammad, trans. ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī (Cairo: Dār al-Ma‘ārif, ˙ Irving, ˙ Muhammad wa Khulafā’, ˙ 1966); and trans. Hānī˙ Yahyā Nasrī (Beirut: al˙ ˙ ˙ Markaz al-Thaqāfī al-‘Arabī, 1999).

194 ]

Notes

13. For Irving’s attitude towards the prophet as ‘temperate’ within the context of nineteenth-century America see, in particular, Bowden, Washington Irving, p. 172. 14. The legal issues which attend prophetic defamation within Islam, and their applicability to The Satanic Verses in particular, are treated by Slaughter, ‘The Salman Rushdie Affair’, especially pp. 177–82. 15. For ‘Alī Husnī al-Kharbūtlī’s activities as Arab nationalist, Islamic historian ˙ and critic˙ of Western Orientalism see Von Grunebaum, ‘Nationalism and Cultural Trends in the Arab Near East’, pp. 121–53 (pp. 122–3); and Varisco, Reading Orientalism, p. 151. This chapter references al-Kharbūtlī’s second edition of Hayāt Muhammad (1966), cited subsequently in the text.˙ For previ˙ Irving ˙in translation, and the Spanish rendition of Mahomet in ous study of particular, see Prieto, Washington Irving en España, pp. 279–94. 16. See the back cover of Hayāt (1966) for both quotations. ˙ 17. For these prefatory apologies, see Mahomet, p. 3. In his Preface, Irving cites in particular Gustav Weil’s Mohammed der Prophet, sein Leben und seine Lehre (Stuttgart, 1843) and Jean Gagnier’s ‘translation of the Arabian historian Abulfeda’, namely, Ismael Abu‘l-feda de vita et rebus gestis Mohamedis (Oxford, 1723). 18. Layla Al-Farsy has authored the most sustained consideration of Mahomet’s ‘romantic’ use of sources, delineating both Irving’s reliance upon European Orientalists, as well as the way in which his historiography offers an ‘imaginative’ and distinct picture of the prophet. Al-Farsy, ‘Washington Irving’s Mahomet’, pp. 66–105. 19. In characterising his translatory ‘duty’ (‘‫)’ﻮﺍﺠﺒﻨﺎ‬, al-Kharbūtlī also mentions ˙ ‘perfecting the deficiency’ of Irving’s text (‘‫)’ﺇﻜﻤﺎﻝ ﺍﻟﻧﻗﺺ‬, as well as ‘elucidating that which is encased by obscurity’ (‘‫)’ﺘﻓﺴﻴﺭ ﻤﺎ ﺍﻜﺘﻧﻓﻪ ﺍﻠﻐﻣﻮﺽ‬. See Hayāt, ˙ pp. 16–17. 20. For Mahomet’s original table of contents, see pp. vii–viii. 21. For ‘Cadijah’ and ‘‫‘( ’ﺨﺪﻴﺠﺔ‬Khadījah’), see Mahomet, p. vii and Hayāt, p. 5; for ˙ p. 6. ‘Orkham’ and ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻷﺭﻗﻢ‬al-’Arqam’), see Mahomet, p. vii and Hayāt, ˙ 22. For ‘Abdallah’ and ‘‫‘‘( ’ﻋﺒﺪ ﷲ‬Abd Allāh’) see Mahomet, p. viii and Hayāt, p. 7. ˙ is entitled 23. The most celebrated exposition of Islamic creed, for example, al-‘Aqīdah at -Tahāwiyyah (The Creed of Imam at -Tahāwī; see Yusuf, trans., ˙ ˙ ˙ al-‘Aqīdah at˙-T˙ah˙āwiyyah). ˙ ˙ ˙ 24. The Qur’ān, for example, commonly refers to Muhammad as ‘ar-rasūl’ (‘‫‘ ;’ﺍﻠﺭﺴﻮﻝ‬the Messenger’); see Rippin, ed., The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’ān, pp. 190–1, 240–1. This prophetic title also features prominently within the second half of the Muslim profession of faith, ‘’ashhadu ’anna Muhammad ˙ rasūl Allāh’ (‘I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of God’). 25. Bonney, Jihād, From Qur’ān to bin Laden, pp. xxii, 4–5. 26. For the occurrence of this precise phrase (‘‫ )’ﺍﻟﺠﻬﺎﺪ ﻓﻰ ﺴﺒﻳﻝ هللا‬within hadīth litera˙ ture see al-Hajjāj, Sahīh Muslim, p. 826. The Qur’ān also features verses which ˙ ˙ ˙ ˙ characterise jihād in terms of ‘‫‘( ’ﻓﻰ ﺴﺒﻳﻝ هللا‬fī sabīl Allāh’); see, for example, the Qur’ān 5: 54.

­

Notes [ 195

27. In his Mahomet Preface, Irving himself laments his ‘ignorance of the oriental languages’, noting that it ‘has obliged him to take his materials at secondhand, where he could have wished to read them in the original’ (223). For disparities between Mahomet and Islamic sources due to the intervention of European sources, see al-Farsy, ‘Washington Irving’s Mahomet’, pp. 74, 80–1. However, also see my ‘The Early American Qur’an’ for Irving’s rudimentary knowledge of Arabic, as witnessed to by his manuscript ‘Arabic Language’ notebook (pp. 5–6). 28. In exchange for Irving’s original, al-Kharbūtlī here provides verses 1–8 of ˙ my English translations of the Qur’ān’s twentieth chapter. In fashioning al-Kharbūtlī’s Qur’ān citations, I have consulted previous English renditions of the˙ Qur’ān, and particularly those produced by A.J. Arberry and Muhammad Abdel Haleem. 29. In his Arabic Preface (Hayāt, p. 16), al-Kharbūtlī himself admits this ˙ ˙ practice of ‘restoring [Qur’ānic] verses [.  .  .] back to their source’ (‘‫[ ﺇﻟﻰ ﺃﺻﻠﻬﺎ‬. . .] ‫)’ﺇﻋﺎﺪﺓ ﺍﻵﻴﺎﺕ‬. 30. Like two other chapters within the Qur’ān, its twentieth is entitled simply with letters from the Arabic alphabet, ‘‫‘( ’ﻄ‬Ta’) and ‘‫‘( ’ﻩ‬Ha’). 31. For a slightly extended expression of this˙ prophetic imperative, see ‘Abd al-Lat īf, ed., Sahīh al-Bukhārī, p. 61. The source for Irving’s New Testament ˙ ˙ ˙˙ quotation is Matthew 7: 12. 32. For the Qur’ān’s ‘numerous references’ to ‘the Torah and the Gospels’ see Rippin, ed., The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’ān, p. 6. For a mention of these scriptures together, see, for example, the Qur’ān 3: 3. 33. Rather than belonging to ‘the Jewish faith’, Muslim traditions identify the prophet’s mother as ’Āminah bint Wahb, from the Arabian tribe Banū Zuhrah of the Quraysh (see Watt, Muhammad at Mecca, p. 32). 34. For these positive characterisations of the prophet, see the beginning of Irving’s sixth chapter (Mahomet, p. 29). 35. For scriptural occurrence of this Islamic idiom see, for example, the Qur’ān 6: 14. 36. For this well known hadīth, and its prominent role within Sufi writings, see ˙ pp. 188–9. Murata, The Tao of Islam, 37. In addition to comprising prophetic virtues, these three Arabic terms – ‘‫‘( ’ﺭﺤﻴﻢ‘ ;’ﺤﻠﻴﻢ‘ ;’ﺼﺒﻮﺭ‬Sabūr’, ‘Halīm’, ‘Rahīm’) – are also used as names of God ˙ (see˙al-Ghazali,˙ The Ninety-Nine Beautiful Names of God, within Islamic traditions pp. 49–50). 38. The cover page of al-Kharbūtlī’s 1959 Tārīkh al-‘Irāq fī zill al-hukm al-Umawī ˙ ˙ ˙ notes its submission for a humanities doctorate at Cairo University. For reference to Irving’s Mahomet, see p. 296; the American is also included in al-Kharbūtlī’s bibliography, where he cites the Paris 1850 edition of Mahomet (p. 447). ˙ 39. For these al-Kharbūtlī studies – al-Hadārah al-‘Arabīyah al-Islāmīyah; al-Islām ˙ ˙ wa Ahl adh-Dhimmah;˙ ar-Rasūl fī al-Madīnah; Tārīkh al-Ka‘bah – see the

196 ]

Notes

­ ibliography; for specific instances of Irving citation in al-Kharbūtlī’s scholarb ˙ ship, see below. 40. See al-Kharbūtlī, ar-Rasūl wa al-Harb an-Nafsīyah, p. 20. ˙ al-Kharbūtlī, ar-Rasūl ˙ 41. See, for example, fī al-Madīnah, pp. 25, 32, 35, 36, 39, 71, ˙ 99, 103, 129, 146, 149, 150, 157, 190, 210, 230, 232, 235. 42. See al-Kharbūtlī, ar-Rasūl fī Ramadān, p. 110; in his footnote citing Mahomet, ˙ al-Kharbūtlī remarks that this ˙ quotation is ‘from the author’s [i.e. ˙ al-Kharbūtlī’s] translation of this book [i.e. Mahomet]’ (‘‫)’ﻤﻥ ﺘﺮﺠﻤﺔ ﻤﺆﻠﻑ ﻫﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﻜﺘﺎﺐ‬. 43. See p. 161˙ of al-Kharbūtlī’s Hayāt for the initial occurrence of this Arabic ˙ did not include the blessing on the prophet. translation from Mahomet,˙ which 44. Al-Kharbūtlī, ar-Rasūl fī Ramadān, p. 154. 45. Al-Kharbūt˙lī, Tārīkh al-Ka‘bah,˙ p. 144. ˙ Chapter 3 1. For the data on the wide circulation of Sūvashūn, see the Encyclopædia Iranica article on Dāneshvar’s novel (www.iranicaonline.org/articles/suvashun). For Sūvashūn as an Iranian best-seller, see Talattof, ‘Iranian Women’s Literature’, pp. 534–7. Chapter 3 features, and expands on, my research which first appeared in the Nathaniel Hawthorne Review, published in 2008 as ‘Composing a Persian Letter: Sīmīn Dāneshvar’s Rendition of Hawthorne’ (34.2: 81–102). 2. This edition of Twice-Told Tales appeared from the Heritage Press, featuring a critical introduction authored by Stegner (see pp. vii–xv). Dāneshvar would herself identify Stegner as a pivotal influence, writing in 1989: ‘Thanks to Dr. Wallace Stegner [. . .] I learned to improve my technique by using fewer adjectives and adverbs, to make my style more powerful with nouns and verbs. He also taught me to show events instead of narrating them’ (see Dāneshvar, Daneshvar’s Playhouse, p. 159). 3. The Scarlet Letter first appeared in Persian as Dāgh-e Nang, translated by Sīmīn Dāneshvar (Tehran: Nil, 1955). For previous studies of Hawthorne in translation see the spring 1989 edition of the Nathaniel Hawthorne Review, which featured considerations of Hawthornean rendition into German (Hans-Joachim Lang) and Chinese (Howard Sage). 4. For The Scarlet Letter’s interpretive ‘intractability’ see, in particular, Bryson, ‘Hawthorne’s Illegible Letter’, pp. 81–95; and Bercovitch, The Office of The Scarlet Letter, pp. 1–31. This definition of the ‘romance’ derives from the Preface to Hawthorne’s 1852 The Blithedale Romance, p. 2. 5. For this ‘task’ of literary translation, see Lefevere, Translating Literature, p. 19. 6. For Turkish, Hebrew and Arabic renditions of The Scarlet Letter see respectively the 1963 Kizil Damga, trans. H. Aydin; the 1984 ’Ōt ha-Shanī, trans. Avivah Goren; and the 1958 ash-Shārat al-Qirmuzīyah, trans. Jadhibiyah Sidqi. 7. This characterisation of Dāneshvar appears in Basmenji, ed., Afsaneh: Short Stories by Iranian Women, p. 11. Following its initial 1955 publication, Dāgh-e Nang reappeared in 1967, 1978, 1990 and 2010.

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Notes [ 197

8. Dāneshvar’s 1978 preface (‘‫ )’ﺣﺮﻑ ﺁﺧﺭ‬to Dāgh-e Nang is cited from the translation’s 1990 edition, pp. 5–7. 9. This discussion of the ‘Westernized’ influences in Iranian intellectual life (‘‫ )’غربزده‬seems to echo the polemic against ‘westoxification’ (‘‫)’غرﻴﺒﺰﺪﮔﻰ‬ voiced by Dāneshvar’s husband, Jalal Al-e-Ahmad (d. 1969); see Al-e-Ahmad, Occidentosis (first published in 1962). 10. Dāneshvar would translate, for instance, Shaw’s Arms and the Man; Saroyan’s Human Comedy; Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard and The Enemies; and Schnitzler’s Beatrice. See Milani, Veils and Words, p. 264. 11. These quotations are from p. 7 of Dāneshvar’s Dāgh-e Nang preface. 12. Quotations from Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter will be from The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, vol. 1; for these selections from the ‘Custom-House’, see p. 3. Subsequent references to the novel will be from this edition, cited in text hereafter. 13. For the body text of Dāgh-e Nang, this chapter will reference Dāneshvar’s original 1955 edition, regularly cited hereafter in the text. Dāneshvar’s choice of the phrase ‘‫( ’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﮒ‬Dāgh-e Nang) to render Hawthorne’s title is discussed further below. 14. The 1958 ash-Shārat al-Qirmuzīyah, translated by Jadhibiyah Sidqi, appeared from the Cairene press Maktabat al-Anjlu al-Misriyah. ˙ 15. For an early observation of these nominal connotations see Waggoner, Hawthorne, p. 145. 16. For the first appearances of ‘‫ ’ﺩﻴﻤﺴﺪﻴﻞ‬and ‘‫’ﭼﻴﻠﻴﻨﻚ ﻮﺭﺙ‬, see Dāgh-e Nang, pp. 13 and 33, respectively. 17. See the Gospel of Matthew, 13: 45–6. 18. The association between Pearl’s identification as ‘elf-child’ and her moral ambivalence has long been recognised; see, for example, Bercovitch, The Office of The Scarlet Letter, pp. 9–10, and Marks, ‘The Scarlet Letter and Tieck’s “The Elves”’, pp. 1, 3–5. 19. For the association of owls with ‘misfortune’ see Talebinejad and Dastjerdi, ‘A Cross-Cultural Study of Animal Metaphors’, p. 144. In his contribution to Hedāyat’s ‘The Blind Owl’ Forty Years After, Mohammad Ghanoonparvar also notes that ‘the owl is still considered a messenger of death in Iran’ (‘Buf-e Kur as a Title’, p. 69). 20. For example, ‘‫‘( ’ﻜﺸﻴﺵ‬kashīsh’; ‘Christian minister’) appears in Dāgh-e Nang, p. 71, while ‘‫‘( ’ﻜﻠﻴﺴﺎ‬kalīsā’; ‘church’) occurs in Dāgh-e Nang, p. 23. 21. For the definition of these terms see Mojaddedi, ‘Legitimizing Sufism in alQushayri’s “Risala”’, p. 50. 22. For the importance of the Book of Revelation to the ‘theme and structure’ of The Scarlet Letter see Smith, ‘Re-Figuring Revelations’, p. 91. 23. For these Arabic terms (‘‫’ﺭﺤﻴﻢ‬, ‘‫’ﺭﺤﻤﺎﻦ‬, ‘‫‘ ;’ﻗﻬﺎﺭ‬Rahīm’, ‘Rahmān’, ‘Qahhār’) as ˙ ˙ al-Ghazali, The three of the sacred names for God in Islamic traditions see Ninety-Nine Beautiful Names of God, pp. 49–50. 24. For instance, these names appear within the Muslim doxology which p­refaces

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Islamic prayers and Qur’ānic chapters: ‘‫‘( ’ﺑﺴﻡ ﷲ ﺍﻠﺭﺤﻤﺎﻦ ﺍﻠﺭﺤﻴﻢ‬bism Allāh ar-Rahmān ar-Rahīm, ‘In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Compassionate’). ˙ definition ˙ of Chillingworth’s Arabic epithet (‘‫’ﺍﻠﺧﻨﺎﺱ‬, ‘al-khannās’) as 25. For the ‘one who slinks away’ and its appearance in the Qur’ān as a name for Satan, see Awn, Satan’s Tragedy and Redemption, p. 59. 26. This satanic and Qur’ānic characterisation of Chillingworth is anticipated in the preface to Dāgh-e Nang, where Dāneshvar associates Hawthorne’s villain not only with ‘‫‘( ’ﺸﻴﻄﺎﻦ‬satan’), but also with ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﺴﻓﻝ ﺍﻟﺴﺎﻔﻠﻴﻦ‬the lowest of the low’) – a phrase echoing the Muslim scripture (Qur’ān 95: 5). 27. This English translation is Mohammad Ghanooparvar’s, excerpted from Dāneshvar, Savushun: A Novel About Modern Iran, p. 126. 28. See p. 94 of Dāneshvar’s Persian Sūvashūn, where Ezzatoddowleh declares ‘‫’ﺪﺨﺗﺭﻩ ﺮﺍ ﺪﺍﻍ ﻜﺮﺪﻡ‬, literally ‘I made a dāgh on the girl’, that is, ‘I branded the girl’. 29. See Mas‘ūd Kayānpūr’s translation of Erving Goffman’s Stigma – ‘‫’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻨﻨﮒ‬ (‘Dāgh-e Nang’) – published by the Tehran press Markaz in 2007. 30. This quotation is from Hamid Dabashi’s 2007 Masters and Masterpieces of Iranian Cinema, p. 56. 31. For Zarineh Khūshvaqt’s article on the ‘The Fate of Abused Women in Rasht Valley’ that uses ‘Dāgh-e Nang’ in its title, see ‘‫ ﺴﺮﻧﻮﺷﺖ ﺯﻧﺎﻦ ﺁﺯﺍﺪﻴﺪﻩ ﺪﺮ ﻮﺍﺪﻯ ﺮﺸﺖ‬:‫’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻧﻧﮒ ﻴﺎ ﺪﺍﻍ ﺠﻧﮒ‬, published online by BBC Persian, www.bbc.co.uk/persian/world/2012/07/ 120704_rh_zkh_tjk_ women_peace_war.shtml. 32. For the Persian original of Farrokhzād’s ‘A Poem For You’ (‘‫)’ﺸﻌﺮﻯ ﺒﺮﺍﻯ ﺘﻮ‬, and this English translation, see Another Birth and Other Poems, trans. Hasan Javadi and Susan Sallée, pp. 14–17. The first line of this stanza ‘‫’ﺁﻦ ﺪﺍﻍ ﻧﻧﮓ ﺧﻮﺮﺪﻩ ﻜﻪ ﻣﻴﺧﻧﺪﻴﺪ‬ literally signifies: ‘That one, branded by the mark of shame (i.e. ‘dāgh-e nang’), who laughed’. 33. For Hester perceiving her own ‘desperate, defiant mood’ as ‘perpetuated in Pearl’, see The Scarlet Letter, p. 91. 34. See Dabashi, Masters and Masterpieces, p. 56, where he also adds that ‘Forrokhzad’s own face was already marked by this cultural dagh-e nang before she went to the leprosarium in Tarbriz to shoot The House Is Black’ (p. 57). 35. Obituaries for Dāneshvar were published, for example, by the Tehran Times (print and online; ‘Author Simin Daneshvar Passes Away At 90’); Al Jazeera English (online; Dabashi, ‘Simin Daneshvar’); the Guardian (online; Rezakhanlou, ‘Simin Daneshvar Obituary’); the Boston Globe (print and online; Kinzer, ‘Simin Daneshvar, 90’); see bibliography. 36. For a Persian-language obituary for Dāneshvar, which mentions ‘‫’ﻧﺎﺘﺎﻧﻴﻝ ﻫﺎﺛﻮﺭﻥ‬ (‘Nathaniel Hawthorne’) and her translation of ‘‫‘( ’ﺪﺍﻍ ﻧﻧﮒ‬Dāgh-e Nang’), see ‘‫ ﺩﺭ ﮔﺬﺷﺖ‬٬ ‫ ﺩﺍﺳﺘﺎﻥ ﻧﻮﻳﺲ ﻭﻣﺘﺮﺟﻡ ﺑﺮﺟﺴﺘﻪ ﺍﻳﺮﺍﻧﻰ‬٬ ‫‘( ’ﺳﻴﻤﻴﻦ ﺩﺍﻧﺸﻮﺮ‬Sīmīn Dāneshvar, Prominent Iranian Novelist and Translator, Has Died’) at www.bbc.co.uk/ persian/arts/2012/03/ 120308_l41_simin_daneshvar_obituary.shtml.

Notes [ 199 ­

37. ‘THE LETTER A, GULES’ are the concluding words to Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, p. 264. Chapter 4 1. This entry has been published in Journal of a Visit to Europe and the Levant, October 11, 1856–May 6, 1857, ed. Howard Horsford, p. 70. I am grateful to the staff of Berkshire Athenaeum’s ‘Herman Melville Memorial Room’ for their assistance during my research visit in June 2010. For Melville’s acquisition of ‘Persian tile’ during his travel in ‘the Middle East in 1856–7’, see also Wallace, ‘Melville’s Prints: David Metcalf’s Prints and Tile’ (p. 3). Chapter 4 features, and expands on, research which first appeared in Leviathan: A Journal of Melville Studies, published as my 2010 ‘“Call me Ismā‘īl”: The Arabic Moby-Dick of Ihsān ‘Abbās’ (12.1: 3–19); in particular, the present chapter ˙ provides additional context for ‘Abbās’ translation, with an extended conclusion ­identifiying his Arabic Moby-Dick as a fit reflection of his own itinerant ­biography. 2. Finkelstein, Melville’s Orienda, pp. 189–260; Yohannan, Persian Poetry in England and America, pp. 150–4; Bakhsh, ‘Melville and Islam’; and Marr, The Cultural Roots of American Islamicism. 3. Göske, ‘“There’s another rendering now”’, pp. 255–73; and Hirsch, ‘The Brazilian Whale’, pp. 274–90. 4. For the ‘Melville Revival’ – which began with ‘his centennial in 1919’ and led to ‘the publication of the Moby-Dick Centennial Essays in 1953’ – see Marovitz, ‘The Melville Revival’ (pp. 515ff.). For the Urdu, Persian, Arabic and Turkish translations of Melville, see below and the bibliography. 5. See Beyaz Balina, trans. Sabahattin Eyuboglu and Mina Urgan (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayıncılık, 1999), and Mūbī Dīk (Beirut: Dār al-Bihār, 2006). ˙ 6. Mūbī Dīk, trans. Ihsān ‘Abbās (Beirut: Dār al-Kitāb al-‘Arabī, 1965). ˙ 7. Conrad, ‘Ihsan Abbas: Hüter des arabischen Kulturerbes’; see also the 2005 al-Qantara English version of Conrad’s article – ‘Ihsan Abbas: Custodian of Arabic Heritage and Culture’, pp. 5–17 – where Conrad notes this ‘astonishing total’ of ‘Abbās’ prolific publishing (p. 17). 8. Baker, Hemingway; Matthiessen, The Achievement of T.S. Eliot. In interview, ‘Abbās himself identified his translations of these works as preliminary to his Moby-Dick translation; see ‘Abbās, Hiwārāt Ihsān ‘Abbās, p. 211. ˙ Arabic˙ Heritage and Culture’, p. 13. 9. Conrad, ‘Ihsan Abbas: Custodian of 10. See ‘2 Translation Prizes, Wilder Award Given’, New York Times (1982); and ‘Eight Scholars From Around World To Be Awarded Honorary Degrees’, University of Chicago Chronicle (1993). 11. ‘Abbās, ‘al-’Athar al-Islāmī fī Qissat Mūbī Dīk’ [‘Islamic Influence on the Narrative Moby-Dick’]. 12. For ‘Abbās’ consideration of Moby-Dick’s reliance upon the Hebrew Bible (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺗﻮﺭﺍﺓ‬, as well as the ‘general Oriental influences’ upon the novel

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(‘‫)’ﻣﺅﺜﺭﺍﺕ ﺷﺭﻗﻴﺔ ﻋﺎﻤﺔ‬, see ‘al-’Athar al-Islāmī fī Qissat Mūbī Dīk’, pp. 2 and 4, respectively. 13. ‘Abbās, Hiwārāt Ihsān ‘Abbās, p. 210. ˙ ˙ 14. For ‘Abbās’ discussion of the Arabic language’s relative poverty (‘‫ )’ﻓﻗﻴﺭﺓ‬in nautical expressions (‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺗﻌﺒﻴﺭﺍﺕ ﺍﻠﺘﻲ ﺗﺗﻌﻠﻕ ﺒﺎﻠﻨﻮﺗﻴﻜﻞ‬, see ‘Abbās, Hiwārāt Ihsān ˙ ˙ ‘Abbās, p. 210. 15. See ‘Abbās, Hiwārāt Ihsān ‘Abbās, p. 210, where ‘Abbās describes his ˙ terms˙ [which] the reader [would] not find difficult’ ‘fashioning new (‘‫)’ﻧﺤﺙ ﻣﺻﻄﻠﺤﺎﺕ ﺠﺪﻴﺪﺓ ﻻ ﻴﺠﺪﻫﺎ ﺍﻟﻗﺎﺭﺉ ﺼﻌﺒﺔ‬. 16. This catalogue of ‘whale’ in a dozen different languages appears on p. 10 of ‘Abbās’ 1965 Mūbī Dīk, and p. 6 of his 1998 Arabic edition. It will be this later edition – that is, ‘Abbās’ 1998 Mūbī Dīk – that will be cited subsequently, unless otherwise noted. 17. ‘Abbās’ footnote (p. 6) records how these synonyms for ‘whale’ entered the Arabic language (‘‫ ﻓﻲ ﺍﻠﻠﻐﺔ ﺍﻠﻌﺭﺒﻴﺔ‬. . . ‫)’ﺪﺧﻠﺕ‬, tracing their appearance in the works of the Andalusians (‘‫)’ﺍﻷﻧﺩﻠﺴﻴﻮﻥ‬, for example. 18. For ‘‫‘( ’ﺤﻮّﺍﺕ‬hawwāt’) and ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻟﺗﺤﻮﻴﺕ‬at-tahwīt’) in ‘Abbās’ translation, see Mūbī ˙ Dīk, pp. 101 ˙and 147 respectively; in interview, ‘Abbās himself acknowledges developing these new Arabic derivations (‘Abbās, Hiwārāt Ihsān ‘Abbās, p. 210). ˙ 19. Göske, ‘“There’s another rendering now”’, p. 256.˙ 20. This translatory dichotomy has gained currency through the scholarship of Lawrence Venuti; see, in particular, his The Translator’s Invisibility, pp. 23–5. 21. Herman Melville, Moby-Dick or The Whale, ed. Hayford, Parker and Tanselle (Northwestern University Press and Newberry Library, 1988), p. 149; subsequent in-text citations are to this edition. 22. This reverse transliteration of Melville’s ‘Emir’ in phrases such as ‘first Emir’, for example, gives rise to ‘Abbās’ idiosyncratic Arabic ‘‫’ﺍﻷﻣﻳﺭ ﺍﻷﻭﻝ‬ (‘al-’amīr al-’awwal’); see p. 193 of Mūbī Dīk. For the Arabic etymology of these English terms, see ‘Emir’ and ‘Sultan’ in the Oxford English Dictionary, for example. 23. In the original, ‘‫‘ ;’ﺍﺸﺎﺭﺍﺕ ﻤﺗﻨﺎﺜﺭﺓ ﻣﺴﺗﻣﺪﺓ ﻤﻦ ﺍﻟﺷﺭﻕ ﺍﻻﺴﻼﻤﻲ‬Abbās, ‘al-’Athar al-Islāmī fī Qissat Mūbī Dīk’, p. 2. 24. ‘Abbās, ‘al-’Athar al-Islāmī fī Qissat Mūbī Dīk’, p. 3. 25. ‘Yojo’ – Queequeg’s ‘wooden idol’ – is designated his ‘black little god’ (68); Muslims are commanded to worship Allāh alone, and forbidden from venerating idols (Qur’ān 3: 64; 4: 116). 26. The Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﺻﻮﻢ‬as-sawm’) is used to designate not only Muslim fasts ˙ Christians. For example, ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﺼﻮﻢ ﺍﻠﻜﺒﻴﺭ‬as-Sawm but also those of Jews˙ and ˙ ˙ al-Kabīr’) signifies ‘Lent’. 27. For this Arabic etymology see the entry for ‘Salaam’, in the Oxford English Dictionary. 28. For Qur’ānic occurrences of ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻟﺼﺎﻠﺣﻳﻦ‬as-sālihīn’) see, for example, 2: 130, 3: ˙˙ ˙ 39, 3: 46 and 3: 114. 29. ‘Abbās’ two terms – ‘mu’adhdhin’ (i.e. ‘muezzin’) and ‘mi’dhana’ (‘minaret’) –

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Notes [ 201

are both derived from the same triliteral Arabic root (i.e. ‘‫)’ﺍﺬﻦ‬, also shared by ‘adhān’ (i.e. ‘call to prayer’). 30. ‘Wahdat al-wujūd’ is so defined by Walbridge, ‘A Sufi Scientist of the Thirteenth ˙ Century’, p. 338. For the problematic equivalence between ‘pantheism’ and ‘‫‘( ’ﻮﺣﺪﺓ ﺍﻠﻮﺠﻮﺩ‬wahdat al-wujūd’) – the phrase which ‘Abbās chooses in order to ˙ ‘pantheists’ – see Netton, Allāh Transcendent, p. 272. render Melville’s 31. For ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻠﻗﻭﻯ‬al-Qawī’) as one of the ninety-nine divine names in Islam, see alGhazali, The Ninety-Nine Beautiful Names of God, p. 127. 32. See the Qur’ān 7: 156 for God’s declaration ‘‫‘( ’ﺭﺤﻤﺘﻰ وسعت كل شيء‬My mercy encompasses all things’). 33. See the Qur’ān 2: 115: ‘‫( ’ﻓﺎﻴﻨﻤﺎ ﺘﻮﻠﻮﺍ فثم وجه هللا‬i.e. ‘whithersoever you turn, there is the countenance of God’). 34. For the Islamic view that Ishmael was the son Abraham nearly sacrificed, see Rippin, ed., The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’ān, p. 7. Although the name of Abraham’s son is not mentioned, the Qur’ān recounts this episode in 37: 100ff.; Abraham’s son is consulted regarding the impending sacrifice and is identified as ‘forbearing’ and ‘patient’ (i.e. ‘‫ ’ﺣﻠﻴﻢ‬and ‘‫)’ﻣﻥ ﺍﻠﺻﺎﺒﺭﻴﻦ‬. 35. See, for example, Baird, Ishmael, p. 93 and Duban, Melville’s Major Fiction, pp. 130–1. 36. The biblical Ahab (‘‫ )’אחאב‬first appears in 1 Kings 16: 28. 37. For the initial occurrence of ‘Ahab’ in Melville’s novel, and its translation as ‘‫‘( ’ﺁﺨﺎﺐ‬Ākhāb’) see Moby-Dick, p. 71, and Mūbī Dīk, p. 107. 38. See Chapters 114 and 119 for Ahabian monologues that interrogate his ontological paternity, questioning ‘Where is the foundling’s father hidden’ in the former, and apostrophising the ‘clear spirit of clear fire’ as his ‘fiery father’ in the latter; see Moby-Dick, pp. 492 and 507, respectively. 39. For other possible Arabic etymologies of ‘Fedallah’ – including ‘‫’ﻓﻀﻞ ﷲ‬ (‘Favour of God’) – see Finkelstein, ‘A Note on the Origin of Fedallah in Moby-Dick’, and Ali Isani, ‘The Naming of Fedallah in Moby-Dick’. 40. For the initial occurrence of ‘Fedallah’ in Melville’s novel, and its translation as ‘‫‘( ’ﻓﻴﺾ ﷲ‬Faid Allāh’) see Moby-Dick, p. 217 and Mūbī Dīk, p. 271. ‘Abbās ˙ appends a footnote to this first appearance, suggesting the possibility that Melville’s source for this name was the ‘Persian story’ of ‘Fadl Allāh’ (i.e. ˙ Mūbī Dīk, ‘Favour of God’) – a theory first proposed by Luther Mansfield (see p. 271, and Finkelstein, ‘A Note on the Origin of Fedallah’, p. 397). 41. Fedallah is customarily associated with Ahab’s ‘shadow’ (e.g. Moby-Dick, p. 328), as well as with matters ‘devilish’ and ‘ghostly’ (pp. 325, 231). For Fedallah as an embodiment of the exotic Orient, see Baird, Ishmael, pp. 281–2. 42. Recognising the misleading disparity between the religiously positive name (‘Faid Allāh’) and Melville’s Parsee (‘Fedallah’), ‘Abbās uses a footnote on p. ˙ inform his audience that this character will function as ‘the evil spirit 271 to [‘‫ ]’ﺍﻠﺭﻮﺡ ﺍﻠﺸﺭﻴﺭﺓ‬who gains mastery over Ahab’. 43. For the initial occurrence of ‘Jonah’ in Melville’s novel, and its translation as ‘‫‘( ’ﻴﻮﻧﺎﻦ‬Yūnān’), see Moby-Dick, p. 14, and Mūbī Dīk, p. 35. For Arabic Bible

202 ]

Notes

usage of ‘Yūnān’ (rather than ‘Yūnus’ or ‘Dhū an-Nūn’) see Van Dyke, Van Dyke Arabic Bible, and the more recent Arabic Life Application Bible. The Islamic names for Jonah (‘‫ )’ﺫﻮ ﺍﻠﻧﻮﻦ‘ ;’ﻴﻮﻧﺲ‬are to be found in the Qur’ān, 4: 163 and 21: 87, respectively. 44. The Qur’ānic name for ‘Elijah’ is ‘‫‘( ’ﺇﻠﻴﺎﺱ‬Iliyās’; Qur’ān 6: 85); ‘Abbās’ own ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻴﻠﻴﺎ‬Īliyyā’) is typical of Arabic Bible usage, appearing within both the Van Dyke Arabic Bible and the Arabic Life Application Bible. The term ‘‫’ﻣﺘﻨﺒﺊ‬ (‘mutanabbī’) is an active participle derived from the fifth form of the Arabic root ‘‫‘( ’ﻨﺒﺄ‬naba’a’) – a form which can signify either ‘to predict’ or ‘to pose as a prophet’. 45. Melville’s quotation from John Leo has its source in an eighteenth-century anthology of travel writings compiled by John Harris (Navigantium atque itinerantium bibliotheca [London, 1705]); see Finkelstein, Melville’s Orienda, p. 168, and Bercaw, Melville’s Sources, p. 87. 46. Born a Muslim in Granada and raised in Morocco, al-Wazzān travelled much of the Islamic world until he was captured by Spanish corsairs in 1518. During his time in Christian lands, al-Wazzān converted to Christianity, taking the name ‘Johannes Leo’. It is now thought, however, that al-Wazzān returned to North Africa in 1528 and reverted to Islam. See Masonen, ‘Leo Africanus’, pp. 115–43. 47. The occurrence of ‘‫ ’ﺒﺸﺭ‬in this Moby-Dick context recalls, in particular, the Qur’ān 61: 6, where this same verb is used by a prophet (‘Īsa) who ‘announces’ the coming of Muhammad. This verb is also used to denominate prophecy more generally; see, for example, the Qur’ānic idiom of describing prophets as ‘‫‘( ’ﻤﺒﺸﺭ‬mubashshir’; ‘announcer’, ‘messenger’; 17: 105, 25: 56, 33: 45, 48: 8). 48. Despite ‘Abbās’ Qur’ānic translation of his Melvillean source, he does not go so far as to interpolate the customary Islamic benediction after the prophet’s name (‘‫‘ ;’ﺼﻠﻰ ﷲ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ ﻮ ﺴﻟﻡ‬May God bless him and grant him peace’). 49. That is, ‘‫( ’ﺫﺍ ﺍﻠﻧﻮﻦ‬nominative: ‘‫’ﺫﻮ ﺍﻠﻧﻮﻦ‬, literally, ‘the one of the whale’). 50. Dimock, Through Other Continents, p. 79. 51. Johnson-Davies, Memories in Translation, p. 109. Denys Johnson-Davies does not provide a precise date for this Amman encounter with ‘Abbās; however, he does mention that ‘it was no less than fifty years since we had last met’, suggesting that their reunion took place in the late 1990s, as Johnson-Davies had first come to know ‘Abbās at Cairo University in the late 1940s (pp. 26–7). 52. On the page which faces its cover page, ‘Abbās’ 1965 Mūbī Dīk confesses this ‘collaboration’ (‘‫ )’ﺍﻻﺸﺘﺭﺍﻚ‬with the ‘Franklin Foundation’. 53. For this recognition of John Rogers Shuman, see the unpaginated preliminaries to ‘Abbās’ 1965 Mūbī Dīk. For the origins of ‘Franklin Publications (later Franklin Book Programs)’, and its Cold War project to ‘make available in the Middle East, in local languages, books on American culture, politics, and history’, see Barnhisel and Turner’s introduction to their 2010 edited volume Pressing the Fight, p. 14.

Notes [ 203 ­

54. For ‘Abbās’ familiarity with Mahfouz, including his ‘attending Mahfouz’s café gatherings’ while in Cairo, see Rakha, ‘Ours, Theirs’. Stefan G. Meyer suggests that Miramar and its ‘experimental’ style are indeed indebted to American fiction, ‘clearly influenced’ by Mahfouz’ reading of Faulkner in Arabic translation. Meyer, The Experimental Arabic Novel, pp. 22–6. 55. See Kazin, ‘“Introduction” to Moby-Dick’, p. 42. 56. Conrad, ‘Ihsan Abbas: Custodian of Arabic Heritage and Culture’, p. 16. 57. ‘Abbās’ 1996 memoir appeared under the full title Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī: Sīrah Dhātīyah (i.e. The Exile of the Shepherd: Autobiography), and was published in Amman by Dār al-Shurūq. 58. ‘Abbās, Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī, p. 223. 59. ‘Abbās quotes this verse from the opening of Bayram at-Tūnisī’s ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻟﻌﻭﺩﻩ‬The Return’); see the latter’s Dīwān Bayram at-Tūnisī, pp. 133–4. 60. ‘Abbās, Hiwārāt Ihsān ‘Abbās, p. 210. ˙ ˙ 61. ‘Abbās, Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī, p. 9. 62. ‘Abbās, Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī, p. 6. For previous translation and treatment of this passage, and ‘Abbās’ ‘readiness to omit [. . .] private confession’ from his autobiography, see Enderwitz, ‘From Curriculum Vitae to Self-Narration’, p. 14. 63. In his overview of Melville’s novel, Said unsurprisingly emphasises its ‘imperial motif’ and Ishmael’s identity as ‘an outcast orphan, and “isolato”’. Said, ‘Introduction to Moby-Dick’, p. 364. 64. I here adapt the definition of literary criticism as ‘the only civilized form of autobiography’ which appears in Oscar Wilde’s ‘The Critic as Artist’, p. 261. Chapter 5 1. Whitman, Notebooks and Unpublished Prose Manuscripts, vol. 1, p. 353. Quotations from Whitman’s poetry in Chapters 5 and 6 derive from Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1980, unless otherwise noted. In-text references will be to volume and page. 2. Levine, ‘“Song of Myself” as Whitman’s American Bible’, p. 145. For more recent citations of Whitman’s ‘New Bible’ journal entry, see, for instance, Robertson, Worshipping Walt, p. 16. Robertson, as do many citers of this quotation, includes a bracketed ‘y’ after Whitman’s ‘read’, to suggest that his quote should be understood as ‘it ought to be read[y] in 1859’. 3. Allen, ‘A Backward Glance’, especially p. 91. 4. For Allen’s influence on the succeeding generation of Whitmanians, see Folsom, ‘In Memoriam’, which includes remembrance not only by Folsom himself but also Roger Asselineau (p. 101) and Jerome Loving (pp. 102–3), critics who have also written on Whitman’s biblical interests. 5. Anonymous review, ‘“the Leaves . . . resemble the Hebrew Scriptures”’, Cosmopolite, August 1860. See Hindus, ed., Walt Whitman, p. 104. 6. For ‘The Love That Is Hereafter’ – a poem featuring the psalmic opening,

204 ]

Notes

‘O, beauteous is the earth! and fair / The splendors of Creation are’ – see Whitman, The Early Poems and the Fiction, pp. 8–9. 7. The Preface to the 1640 Bay Psalm Book grapples with canon formation and poetic translation, considering the legitimacy of singing ‘the psalms invented by the gifts of godly men in every age of the church’, in tandem with ‘Davids and other scripture psalms’. The Preface also queries whether psalms should be rendered into ‘such meter as english poetry is wont to run in’ (The Bay Psalm Book, p. 1). 8. Ezra Greenspan, ‘Whitman in Israel’, p. 387. 9. For Sholom’s interview in the New York Herald Tribune Book Review, 26 March 1950, see Allen, ed., Walt Whitman Abroad, p. 235. 10. For these voluminous, critical appendices, see pp. 435–550 of the first edition of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev (1952; pagination according to the 1956 reprint). Subsequent quotations from Halkin’s Hebrew Whitman will be taken from the final edition of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev published in Halkin’s lifetime, namely the 1984 Jerusalem edition, unless otherwise noted; references will be provided parenthetically in the text. 11. For ‘Alē ‘Ēsev selling ‘out in one day’, see Allen, ed., Walt Whitman Abroad, p. 235. For Halkin’s translation winning the 1953 Tchernichovsky Prize (‘‫)’פרס טשרניחובסקי‬, see Shahevitz, ‘Ya‘arōt Metōhamīm’ [‘Abyssed Forests’], p. 92, and Waldinger, ‘Decoding Self’, p. 149. 12. The first two sentences of this passage from Halkin’s ‘To the Reader’ were initially translated by Sholom Kahn, appearing in his review of ‘Alē ‘Ēsev in Scopus (Khan, ‘Walt Whitman in Hebrew’, p. 6). The English translation here largely follows, but also slightly adjusts and extends beyond, Khan’s rendition. 13. Kahn, ‘Walt Whitman in Hebrew’, pp. 6–7. 14. For the Israeli immigration crisis during the first years of the 1950s, see Hakohen, Immigrants in Turmoil, pp. 232ff. 15. For Halkin’s literary output – including his Hebrew translations of Shakespeare, Lucian, Isaac Schreyer and Romain Rolland – see Waldinger, ‘Decoding Self’, pp. 149–51. 16. For an outline of Halkin’s itinerant biography, see Waldinger, ‘Decoding Self’, p. 150, and Shahevitz, ‘Ya‘arōt Metōhamīm’, pp. 90–2. 17. Burroughs, Whitman, pp. 128–9. 18. This statement from Greenberg is quoted in Greenspan, ‘Whitman in Israel’, p. 388. 19. Kahn, ‘Walt Whitman in Hebrew’, p. 7. For instances of inserted dashes in ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, see Halkin’s rendition of ‘One’s-Self I Sing’, in the 1984 ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, p. 19. 20. For the first biblical occurrence of the phrase ‘‫‘( ’ּגַן־עֵדֶ ן‬Garden of Eden’) see Genesis 2: 8. The ‘Valley of Hinnom’ (‘‫)’ּגֵיהִּנ ֹם‬, regularly known as ‘Gehenna’, occurs frequently in the New Testament as the name for ‘hell’ (e.g. Matthew 5: 22); this phrase derives from the Hebrew Bible (e.g. Joshua 15: 18), designating a valley south-west of Jerusalem, the site of child sacrifice to Molech

Notes [ 205 ­

( Jeremiah 32: 35). Previous mention of Halkin’s use of biblical terminology in his Whitman translation, and brief analysis of specific translation mechanics, is provided by Waldinger in his ‘Decoding Self’, especially p. 154, where he notes a borrowing from ‘The Song of Songs’ in Halkin’s rendition of Whitman’s ‘Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking’. 21. For ‘‫‘( ’עְ ַלֵי־ ֵעׂשֶב‬upon the grass’), see Deuteronomy 32: 2, ‘My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew, as the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon the grass’. 22. This quotation from Genesis 2: 5 is rendered by the 1611 King James Bible as: ‘and every herb of the field before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth’. 23. See Price, To Walt Whitman, America, p. 58. 24. Exodus 30: 22–31 catalogues the ingredients for the ‘holy anointing oil’ that is designed to ‘consecrate’ those ‘in the priest’s office’. The 1611 King James Bible renders the phrase in question – ‘‫ – ’קנה ּב ֹׂשם‬as ‘sweet calamus’, which may have encouraged Halkin in his choice to translate Whitman’s ‘Calamus’ as ‘‫’קנה ּב ֹׂשם‬. 25. Whitman’s ‘Calamus’ poems have long been understood as homoerotic; for instance, see Price, To Walt Whitman, America, for ‘Calamus’ as belonging to ‘the elegiac tradition of homoerotic texts’ (p. 59). 26. This Leaves section was first called ‘Enfans d’Adam’ in the 1860 edition; subsequently it was entitled ‘Children of Adam’ (see I, lxi). The Hebrew ‘‫‘( ’ ְּבנֵי‬bǝnē’) may signify ‘sons’, as well as ‘children’. 27. For the biblical imperatives that are cognate with Halkin’s ‘‫ ’ ַהּפ ְִרּי ָה‬and ‘‫’ה ְָר ִבּי ָה‬, see, for example, Genesis 1: 22, ‘‫ּורבּו‬ ְ ‫‘( ’ּפְרּו‬be fruitful, and multiply’). 28. For discussion, in particular, of ‘the new Adam’ and Whitman, see Lewis, The American Adam, pp. 28ff. 29. For biblical instances of ‘‫‘( ’ ִהּנֵנִי‬hinnēnī’; ‘Here I am!’), see Genesis 22: 1, 11; 27: 1; 31: 11; 37: 13; 46: 2; and Exodus 3: 4. 30. For the archaic roots of this construction – the ‘infinitive absolute’ – see Scott Callaham’s recent Modality and the Biblical Hebrew Infinitive Absolute. 31. The feminine plural (‘-ōt’) occurs as the concluding sound of Halkin’s terms translating Whitman’s three nouns (‘suns’, ‘transfers’, ‘promotions’), as well as his adjective ‘perpetual’. 32. For Allen’s appeal to the critical ‘scheme’ that was first formulated by ‘Bishop Lowth in a Latin speech given at Oxford in 1753’, positing the ‘single line as [verse] unit’, in order to parse the poetic forms of Leaves of Grass, see his The New Walt Whitman Handbook, pp. 215–23. 33. For ‘‫‘( ’ּבֵית־ ַהּמִדְ ָרׁש‬house of midrāsh’) as ‘a place for the study of religious Jewish texts, primarily the Mishnah, Talmud, codes and responsa’, see Berlin and Grossman, eds, Oxford Dictionary of the Jewish Religion, p. 115. The Hebrew ‘‫‘( ’תַ לְמּוד‬talmūd’) signifies literally ‘instruction’, but is also used to refer specifically to the Jewish collection of oral law. 34. For biblical occurrence of tambourines (‘‫ )’ּתֻ ּפִים‬as an instrument to celebrate

206 ]

Notes

victory in battle, see Judges 11: 34. For the use of shofars (‘‫ )’ּׁשֹופָרֹות‬in a military context, see Joshua 6: 4; this verse also shares with Halkin’s translation the word for ‘blow’, using the same root for this verb as it appears in ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, that is, ‘‫’תקע‬. 35. Halkin’s Hebrew translation of Whitman appears in the Iyar, 5706 (May 1946) issue of Bitzaron (14:8), pp. 118–19. The journal includes this poem under the historically significant title ‘‫ִירי ַה ִּמ ְל ָחמָה לְוֹולְט ְהוִי ְטמַן‬ ֵ ‫‘( ’ ִמּׁש‬From the War Poetry of Walt Whitman’). See Zechariah 9: 14 for the promise that God Himself will ‘blow the shōfār’ (‘‫)’ּבַּׁשֹופָר י ִתְ קָע‬. 36. Halkin’s ‘‫‘( ’ ִמזְמֹור‬mizmōr’) is the standard Hebrew term for ‘psalm’, appearing, for example, in the stock phrase ‘A Psalm of David’ that opens dozens of psalms (i.e. ‘‫’ ִמזְמֹור לְדָ וִד‬, ‘mizmōr lǝ-Dāvid’). However, Halkin’s ‘‫‘( ’ּתְ הִּלֹות‬tǝhillōt’) – literally ‘praises’ – is cognate with the very name of the Book of Psalms in the Hebrew Bible, ‘‫‘( ’ּתְ ִהּלִים‬Tǝhillīm’, ‘praises’). 37. The English term ‘Christ’ is etymologically Greek (‘Χριστός’) and literally signifies ‘Messiah’, that is, ‘anointed one’. 38. ‘Ēl Shaddai’ (‘‫ )’אֵל ׁשַּדַ י‬appears, for example, in Genesis 17: 1, 28: 3, 35: 11, and is rendered by the 1611 King James Bible as ‘Almighty God’. For the pagan, and specifically Amorite origins, of ‘Ēl Shaddai’, as well as competing theories regarding the etymology of this name, see Mendenhall, Ancient Israel’s Faith and History, pp. 117–18. Considering his reluctance to reproduce Whitman’s ‘Jehovah’, it is significant that Halkin’s youth included his deep engagement with Hasidism, leading him to grow, as Waldinger asserts, ‘to maturity as a poet and translator for whom the Hebrew language was an emanation of divine reality’ (Waldinger, ‘Decoding Self’, p. 153); this early absorption of Jewish spirituality could also be suggested by Halkin’s choice to render Whitman’s ‘dimensions’ as ‘‫ִעּורי־קֹומָתֹו‬ ֵ ‫ – ’ׁש‬a phrase that, considering its application to divinity in this context, recalls the cognate title of a celebrated Kabbalistic treatment, ‘‫( ’ספר שיעור קומה‬Book of the Measure of the Height) authored by the prominent sixteenth-century mystic Moses ben Jacob Cordovero. 39. For Halkin’s Israel Argosy translations, see vol. 7 of this periodical (1960), ed. Isaac Halevy-Levin, pp. 122–30. The ‘Hechalutz’ movement of Zionism (i.e. ‘‫’החלוץ‬, ‘the pioneer’) targeted diasporic communities throughout the twentieth century, aiming to ‘bring young Jews to Israel [. . .] in order to practically and physically work to redeem the land and build the nation’ (see the renewed movement’s website, www.hechalutz.org/3.0/index.php/about-us/ history-of-hechalutz). 40. The Yalan-Shteklis translation of ‘I think I could turn and live with animals’ appears on p. 121 of Israel Argosy, vol. 7 (1960), with Whitman’s English original appearing on p. 120. 41. For Halkin’s transition to the later Leaves of Grass as the source for his expanded edition, see Greenspan, who notes that ‘Halkin followed the text and format of the 1881–2 edition [for his 1952 ‘Alē ‘Ēsev], a decision that in his

­

Notes [ 207

later years, he would regret and correct in the expanded translation he published in 1984, which concluded with selections taken from the two annexes’. Greenspan, ‘Whitman in Israel’, p. 389. 42. For Halkin’s publication of Whitman translations in advance of Bitzaron’s 1946 ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’ – in both the 1942 Yearbook of American Jewry and The Land in ‘the late Thirties’ – see Waldinger, ‘Decoding Self’, p. 152. Halkin would also proceed to publish other Whitman pieces in Bitzaron after 1946; see volume 20, issue 8 (1949), which features Halkin’s Hebrew version of ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ (pp. 163–9), and volume 23, issue 2 (1950), which includes Halkin’s rendition of ‘A Song of Joys’ (pp. 92–100). 43. For the 1935 publication of Halkin’s ‘To Tarshish’, and this poem’s status as ‘one of his finest and better-known poems’, see Weingrad, American Hebrew Literature, p. 190. This poem is republished and translated in, for example, Mintz, ed. and trans., Modern Hebrew Poetry, pp. 144–57; my subsequent references to Halkin’s Hebrew original, and its English translation, will be to Mintz’ edition and translation. 44. See Huss, ‘Simon Halkin’, pp. 80–1. 45. This English translation and Hebrew source of the sixth stanza of ‘To Tarshish’ appear on pp. 148 and 149 respectively of Mintz’ Modern Hebrew Poetry. 46. Halkin’s original is ‘‫ׂשעַר־י ָדִ י‬ ְ ‫’ ִּב‬, which Mintz renders as ‘hair of my arm’; however, ‘‫ ’י ָדִ י‬could be conceivably rendered as ‘my hand’. 47. The Hebrew root that forms Halkin’s ‘atom(s)’ in both his ‘To Tarshish’ and ‘Alē ‘Ēsev – that is, ‘‫ – ’פרד‬also has biblical precedents, forming a verb that means to ‘separate’ or ‘divide’ (e.g. Genesis 2: 10). 48. For the autobiographical character of ‘To Tarshish’, see Weingrad, who claims that in ‘the poem, Halkin compares himself to the prophet Jonah’ and asserts that ‘Halkin’s Tarshish is a figure for America [. . .] and for the forces pulling Halkin there’. Weingrad, American Hebrew Literature, p. 190. However, Alan Mintz disapproves of ‘giv[ing]’ Halkin’s poem ‘a biographical reading’ despite acknowledging that it ‘has often been done’. Mintz, Sanctuary in the Wilderness, p. 291. 49. Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness, p. 497. 50. For ‘O. Hillel’s Noonday Land’ mentioned as one of the volumes on the ‘bookshelf at the head of Orna’s bed’, see Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness, p. 496. For the biblicism of O. Hillel – the nom de plume of Ayin Hillel – see Ezra Spicehandler’s contribution to The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself, which notes that ‘European influences in Hillel’s writings are minimal. He rarely follows their verse forms or metrical devices, turning instead to biblical prosody.’ Spicehandler, ‘Ayin Hillel’, p. 182. 51. Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness, pp. 496–7. For the Hebrew original of this passage – including Oz’ reference to ’‫’״עלי עשב״ מאת וולט ויטמן בתרגום הלקין‬ (‘‘Alē ‘Ēsev by Walt Whitman, in the translation of Halkin’) – see the first Hebrew edition of ‘‫[ ’סיפור על אהבה וחושך‬A Tale of Love and Darkness], p. 551.

208 ]

Notes

52. For these descriptions, and sales figures, for A Tale of Love and Darkness, and for Oz’ ‘Arabic publisher’ finding the novel in a ‘bootleg Kurdish translation’, see Blass, ‘Israeli Author Amos Oz’. 53. Hillel Halkin’s ‘My Uncle Simon’ appeared in the May 2005 issue of Commentary Magazine, pp. 60–7; this selection appears on p. 67. Hillel Halkin’s article also opens by noting Oz’ repeated references to Simon Halkin in his A Tale of Love and Darkness (p. 60). 54. This translation of ‘Now finalè to the Shore’ – ‘‫– ’ ַע ְכׁשָו נְגִינַח־ ַהּנְעִילָה לַחֹוף‬ appears on p. 423 of Halkin’s first ‘Alē ‘Ēsev (1952) and p. 473 of his second edition (1984). 55. This dedication appears on an unpaginated page that precedes the preface in the first edition of Halkin’s translation (1952); it also survives in the expanded ‘Alē ‘Ēsev (1984). 56. Zephyra Porat (née Halkin) was a member of the faculty, and the occasional Head, of the Department of English, University of Tel Aviv. Aharon Amir’s 1981 Hebrew translation of Moby-Dick (‘‫)’מובי דיק‬, with Zephyra Porat’s ‘afterword’ (‘‫)’אחרית דבר‬, was reprinted in 2004. Professor Porat’s most substantive contribution to American literature has been her 1976 book ‘‫( ’פרומתוס בין הקניבלים‬Prometheus Amongst the Cannibals). The third chapter of that monograph – the chapter that addresses Whitman – directly refers back to her father, Simon Halkin; wittily entitled ‘‫‘( ’מה שלך שלי הואˏ אבי‬What’s Yours Is Mine, My Father’), the chapter opens with an extended quotation from Halkin’s ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, spanning nearly three pages (see pp. 46–8). Chapter 6 1. See p. 19 of Saadi Youssef’s Leaves of Grass translation – his 1976 ‘‫’ﺍﻮﺮﺍﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺸﺐ‬ (Awrāq al-‘Ushb); subsequent references to this edition will be provided parenthetically in the text. I use the traditional transliteration of the Iraqi’s name into English – ‘Saadi Youssef’ – which the poet himself regularly uses. However, more exact is ‘Sa‘dī Yūsuf’ – a transliteration which is gaining currency (e.g. Yair Huri’s 2006 The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf: Between Homeland and Exile). 2. Khaled Mattawa, in Youssef, Without an Alphabet, Without a Face, p. xi. See also the ‘Preface and Acknowledgements’ in Huri, The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf, where Yair Huri attributes his ‘fascination with Yūsuf’s poetry’ partly to the Iraqi’s ‘unmatched ability to establish the long-desired equilibrium between the Personal and the Political in poetry’. 3. For this characterisation of Youssef as a ‘pioneer’ of ‘Iraqi modernist poetry’, see Simawe, ‘The Politics and the Poetics of Sa’di Yusuf’, p. 174. 4. For Youssef’s autobiographical reflections, including his ‘trail of exile and return’, see Youssef, ‘Tonight We Rest Here’. Youssef recalls in this interview that he was forced ‘to quit’ Iraq in 1978, ‘when Saddam took control’, adding that it ‘was impossible to keep independent because they wanted me to join

­

Notes [ 209 the Ba‘ath party’. See also Huri, The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf, p. 62, however, who records that Youssef stayed in Iraq ‘until 1979’. 5. As discussed below, however, Awrāq al-‘Ushb would itself include only ‘selections’ from Leaves of Grass, and also be anticipated by an extensive tradition of Whitman reception in the Arab world. As the front matter of Awrāq al-‘Ushb records, Youssef’s edition was itself a nationally sanctioned production, published in Baghdad under the auspices of the ‘Iraqi Republic’ and its ‘Ministry of Information’ (‘‫ ’ﻮﺰﺍﺮﺓ ﺍﻻﻋﻼﻡ‬/ ‘‫)’ﺍﻠﺠﻤﻬﻮﺮﻴﺔ ﺍﻠﻌﺮﺍﻗﻴﺔ‬. Youssef’s own itinerant biography is suggested most insistently by Huri, who structures his The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf chronologically, emphasising Youssef’s oscillation between ‘homeland’ and ‘exile’. 6. For Whitman’s reception in the Arab world, see Moreh, Modern Arabic Poetry 1800–1970, especially pp. 292–6 and 302–3; my own following discussion of this reception is especially indebted to Moreh’s illuminating study. Despite the attention devoted to Whitman’s global receptions by recent American literary studies, however, the poet’s influence in Arab arenas has been regularly overlooked by Whitmanian scholars. See, for example, the exclusion of the Arab world altogether from the otherwise comprehensive Walt Whitman and the World (1995), and the surprising and erroneous statement in this collection’s ‘Introduction’ that ‘selections of Whitman’s poetry have appeared in every major language except Arabic’. Allen and Folsom, Walt Whitman and the World, p. 2. 7. For this paragraph’s Arabic original, see al-Rīhānī, Hutāf al-’Awdiyah, p. 16, ˙ appearing under the title ‘‫‘( ’ﺗﻌﺮﻴﻒ ﺍﻠﺷﻌﺮ ﺍﻠﻣﻧﺜﻮﺭ‬Definition of Free Verse’). A version of al-Rīhānī’s ‘definition’ has been translated by Moreh, Modern Arabic ˙ p. 293, which I closely follow in the above, adapting his Poetry 1800–1970, translation only slightly to better reflect al-Rīhānī’s Arabic as printed in his ˙ Hutāf al-’Awdiyah. 8. For Whitman’s role in Muhammad Lut fī Jum‘ah’s The Nights of the Bewildered Spirit (‘‫)’ﻠﻴﺎﻠﻰ ﺍﻠﺮﻭﺡ ﺍﻠﺤﺎﻴﺭ‬, see˙ Brugman, ˙An Introduction to the History of Modern Arabic Literature in Egypt, pp. 75–6. These quotes from the novel derive from p. 59 of Moreh’s Studies in Modern Arabic Prose and Poetry, which also discusses The Nights of the Bewildered Spirit and its reception of Whitman, who is connected with ‘Verlaine’ in Jum‘ah’s novel. 9. This article by Naimy is cited in Moreh’s Modern Arabic Poetry 1800–1970, p. 302. 10. Moreh, Modern Arabic Poetry 1800–1970, p. 302. 11. This Arabic edition of James E. Miller’s study would appear in Libya, translated by Muhammad Fathi Shaniti. 12. In Arabic transliteration‘ayn-shin-bā’, or in Hebrew ‘ayin-sin-bet’. The shared triconsonantal root for ‘grass’ in Hebrew and Arabic (‘‫ ’עשב‬and ‘‫ )’ﻋﺸﺐ‬is, of course, just one instance of the regular lexical mirroring between these sibling Semitic languages. 13. For Whitman’s ‘literary pun’ on ‘leaves’, see Reynolds, Walt Whitman’s

210 ]

Notes

America, p. 241. The Arabic ‘‫‘( ’ﺍﻮﺮﺍﻕ‬awrāq’, singular ‘‫)’ﻮﺮﻕ‬, neatly balances the bibliographic, and organic, meanings of Whitman’s Leaves, equally denoting a leaf of a tree and a leaf of a book; see also the cognate Arabic noun of occupation – ‘‫‘( ’ﻮﺮﺍﻕ‬warrāq’) – which signifies a ‘papermaker’. The Hebrew ‘‫’עלי‬ (‘‘alē’, singular ‘‫ )’עלה‬most obviously implies the ‘leaves’ of a plant, with ‘page’ or ‘sheet [of paper]’ regularly expressed instead as ‘‫’דף‬. There is, however, a less insistent bibliographic connotation to Halkin’s ‘‫’עלי‬, secondarily suggesting literary ‘leaves’ (see, for instance, the cognate verb ‘‫’עלעל‬, signifying ‘to leaf [through a book]’). 14. Awrāq’s Contents Page appears at its very conclusion, on p. 150. Youssef’s Contents are in Arabic solely; I provide the corresponding Whitman titles. 15. The poem that Whitman would ultimately entitle ‘Song of Myself’ formed the opening to his 1855 Leaves. In later editions – such as the 1881–2 from which Youssef works – ‘Song of Myself’ is preceded by Whitman’s ‘Inscriptions’ and his ‘Starting from Paumanok’; however, it still retains a position very near the beginning of Leaves. 16. For the Kurdish Revolution and its 1975 climax, see Stansfield, Iraqi Kurdistan, pp. 69ff. 17. As discussed further below, Youssef frequently breaks Whitman’s longer verses into shorter units. Here, the American’s ‘The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing’ becomes separate lines in Awrāq, emphasising thereby Whitman’s repetition of ‘thing’, situating its Arabic equivalent (‘‫ )’ﺸﻲﺀ‬at the conclusion of two consecutive verses (see Awrāq, p. 21). 18. For the conventional character of Youssef’s first book-length poem – his ‘‫( ’ﺍﻠﻗﺮﺼﺎﻥ‬The Pirate), and his subsequent break from these conventions (i.e. ‘set number of feet’, regular ‘rhymes’), see Mattawa, in Youssef, Without an Alphabet, Without a Face, p. xii. 19. For this characterisation of Whitman as ‘a principal source of influence’ on Youssef, see Huri, The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf, p. 25. Even brief critical appraisals of Youssef’s poetry regularly recognise his Whitman translation; see, for example, Simawe, ‘The Politics and the Poetics of Sa’di Yusuf’, p. 174. 20. A survey of Whitman’s ‘awareness of and address to the reader’ is presented by Stephen Railton, who records the various means of denominating this literary strategy, including Greenspan’s ‘“vocative technique”’ and Hollis’ ‘“illocutionary” stance’. Railton, ‘“As If I Were With You” – The Performance of Whitman’s Poetry’, p. 7. See also Howard Waskow’s exposition of Whitman’s ‘poems of reader engagement’ in his Whitman, pp. 213ff. 21. See Neal Robinson’s recognition that ‘In the Qur’an, the implied speaker frequently addresses an individual “thou” – the implied privileged addressee’. Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an, p. 241, and pp. 240–3 more broadly. 22. Overlapping in two of their radical letters (rā’ and bā’) and manifesting kinship in their initial letters (ghayn and‘ayn), the roots of the Arabic ‘stranger’ and ‘passing’ (‘‫ ’ﻏﺮﺐ‬and ‘‫ )’ﻋﺒﺮ‬represent a common Arabic trope (jinās, i.e. ‘paronomasia’); for this trope, and ‘the use of cognates’ as ‘important rhetori-

­

Notes [ 211

cal devices in Arabic and the Semitic languages’ more broadly, see Stewart, ‘Root-Echo Responses in Egyptian Arabic Politeness Formulae’, p. 171. 23. As Youssef’s line is unvowelled, there is potential ambiguity in morphology; active participles such as ‘‫‘( ’ﻂﺎﻫﺮﻴﻦ‬chaste’), for example, could be vocalised equally as plural or dual (‘t āhirīna’ or ‘t āhiraini’). ˙ ˙ 24. For this rich spectrum of meanings implied by the Arabic ‘gharīb’ – including ‘exile and strangeness’ – and its use in another Iraqi’s modern verse (that of Zuhur Dixon), see Ferial Ghazoul, ‘Iraq’, p. 188. 25. In the 1881–2 edition, from which Youssef is translating, for example, these two poems belong to entirely different sections, with ‘Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City’ appearing in Whitman’s ‘Children of Adam’ section, and ‘For You O Democracy’ forming part of his ‘Calamus’. 26. In his rendition of the second-person ‘you’ in Whitman’s ‘For You O Democracy’, Youssef offers a specifically feminine singular ‘you’ (see, for example, Youssef’s penultimate line above, where the enclitic ‘‫’ﻙ‬ ِ is vocalised as feminine). This gendering of Whitman’s poem seems to bolster the feminine connection between Whitman’s two poems. 27. The first two of Youssef’s adjectives feature a final tā’ marbūt a that is vocalised ˙ (‘ً‫)’ﺔ‬. The third adjective, however, is left unvocalised altogether, hence my parenthetical transliteration of ‘(tan)’. See Awrāq, p. 41. 28. While assonance emerges between the mother’s adjectives (e.g. ‘munsiyatan’) and the participle referring to the speaker (i.e. ‘sāmitan’), the shared ‘tan’ sound ˙ is effected somewhat differently, with the mother’s arising from tanwīn, which is added to a tā’ marbūt a (‘ً‫)’ﺔ‬, while the speaker’s ‘tan’ is derived from tanwīn, ˙ which is added to a participle whose triliteral root concludes with ‘tā’’ (‘ً ‫)’ﺘﺎ‬. 29. For Whitman’s Native American usage – ‘Paumanok’ – see Folsom, Walt Whitman’s Native Representations, pp. 85–7. 30. For example, ‘O You Whom I Often and Silently Come’ has been anthologised by Fone, ed., The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature, p. 557. 31. Youssef completes his introduction by also hoping that the ‘entirety of Leaves’ ‘‫ ’))ﺍﻷﻮﺮﺍﻕ(( ﻜﺎﻣﻠﺔ‬will eventually be rendered into Arabic (p. 20). 32. It is the Minnesotan press Graywolf that has been largely responsible for Youssef’s American afterlife, publishing both Mattawa’s translation, Without an Alphabet, as well as Nostalgia, My Enemy: Poems. However, Youssef has also established a fulsome presence for himself in online environments, both English and Arabic, as detailed below. 33. For the Arabic original of ‘‫‘( ’ﺜﻼﺜﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎﺡ‬Thulāthiyyat as-Sabāh’), see Youssef’s ˙ ˙ ˙ this quotation Man Ya‘rif al-Waradah? [Who Knows the Rose?], pp. 410–13; derives from p. 411. The English translation is provided by Huri in his The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf, p. 280. 34. For this blog post – that is, ‘The Thirty-Sixth’ (‘‫ – )’ﺍﻠﺴﺎﺪﺱ ﻭﺍﻠﺜﻼﺜﻮﻥ‬see Youssef’s website, www.saadiyousif.com/home/index.php?option=com_content&task =view&id=511&Itemid=28. For the occurrence of ‘!‫‘( ’أحتفي بنفســي‬I celebrate myself’) in Awrāq, see p. 62.

212 ]

Notes

35. For Youssef’s ‘‫( ’قصــائ ُد نـيـويـورك‬New York Qasīdas), which he dates to 2008, and ˙ in London and New York, see notes its authorship between 2006 and 2007 his website www.saadiyousif.com/home/index.php?option=com_content& task=view&id=682&Itemid=44. All subsequent quotations from Youssef’s sequence will be derived from this online source. In directly appealing to Whitman in his hometown, Youssef’s New York Qasīdas also seem to recall the ˙ mad Sa‘īd) – another dra1971 ‘A Grave for New York’ by Adonis (i.e. Alī Ah ˙ and resurrects Whitman matic poetic sequence in Arabic that tours New York and his ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’; an English translation of ‘A Grave for New York’ has been produced by Lena Jayyusi and Alan Brownjohn – see Sa‘īd, ‘A Grave for New York’. 36. These section divisions and descriptions are my own, and are not as clearly demarcated in the Arabic original; however, these boundaries are suggested by shifts in language (English/Arabic) and genre (composition/translation). The Whitman sections in the entirety of the New York Qasīdas are clearly ˙ ‘16.8.2007’). grouped together, as they are all listed under a single date (i.e. 37. In analysing Youssef’s quotation from ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ – and particularly its punctuation – it is apparent that he is citing the 1871 edition of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass; compare his quoted lines to Whitman’s Variorum of the Printed Poems, I, 217–25, especially 218 and 221. 38. In their unvocalised state, these two Arabic words – ‘gharīb’ and ‘ghraib’ – are indistinguishable, both appearing as ‘‫’غريب‬, being derived from the same root (‫)ﻏﺮﺐ‬, which allows for this poignant pun. Youssef’s invocation of Abu Ghraib also contributes to a broader tradition of recent poetic reference to the Iraqi prison. See Philip Metres’ 2008 ‘Remaking/Unmaking: Abu Ghraib and Poetry’ for this trend; Metres’ PMLA article even mentions Youssef in passing (p. 1600), without recognising that the Iraqi himself alludes to Abu Ghraib in his New York Qasīdas. ˙ title in his New York Qasīdas, providing ‘A Sight 39. Youssef truncates Whitman’s in Camp’ rather than the original ‘A Sight in Camp˙ in the Daybreak Gray and Dim’ (see II, 495–6). 40. This quotation derives from Youssef’s webpage; for Whitman’s original, see II, 496. 41. Youssef’s New York Qasīdas does progress further, however, continuing on after ˙ series, featuring five additional sections, ending with concluding its Whitman the final date ‘29.8.2007’. 42. For the online publication of the Whitman series from Youssef’s New York Qasīdas, in particular, see the website of As-Safīr (‘The Ambassador’), www. ˙ assafir.com/Windows/ArticlePrintFriendly.aspx?EditionId=728&Channe lId=3576 &WeeklyArticleId=26639. For the ‘political motives’ evident in the pages of As-Safīr, see Fisk, Pity the Nation, pp. 319ff. The Whitman series from Youssef’s New York Qasīdas were also published online by al-Quds al-‘Arabī – a London-based Arabic˙daily: www.alquds.co.uk/data/2007/10/10-12/09m12. htm.

Notes [ 213 ­

43. Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, p. 157. 44. This statement derives from ‘I Have Trained Myself Hard To Be Free’, a 2004 interview with Youssef published by Banipal: Magazine of Modern Arab Literature (online as www.banipal.co.uk/selections/29/73/saadi-youssef, and in print, vol. 20, pp. 2–14). 45. The 1998 edition of Youssef’s Awrāq appeared from the Damascene press Dār al-Madā, while his 2010 edition was published by Manshūrāt al-Jamal in Baghdad. Fathī an-Nasrī notes, too, a 1979 edition published in Beirut by Dār ˙ an-Nas˙rī, Shi‘rīyat at-Takhyīl, p. 29). Ibn Rushd (see ˙ 46. ‘Ābid Ismā‘īl’s 2006 translation, ‘‫( ’ﺃﻏﻨﻴﺔ ﻧﻔﺴﻲ‬Song of Myself) was published by Dār at-Takwīn in Damascus, as was Youssef’s Maqālāt ghair ‘Ābirah (Intransient Essays) in 2010. 47. For Youssef’s choice to settle in London, England – ‘where he was recognized as a political refugee’ – see Huri, The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf, p. 67. 48. For this description, see Mattawa, in Youssef, Without an Alphabet, p. xviii, which also includes an English translation of ‘America, America’ (pp. 173–6). Huri also opens the ‘Preface and Acknowledgments’ to his The Poetry of Sa‘dī Yūsuf with a quotation from Mattawa’s translation of ‘America, America’ and observes that ‘the poem has been much quoted and cited by both Arab and Western anti-American activists’. 49. The Arabic original of ‘America, America’ may be found in Youssef’s Qasā’id Sādhijah [Naive Poems], pp. 99–112; this selection appears on p. 106. ˙ English translation provided here follows Mattawa in Youssef, Without The an Alphabet, p. 175, but adapts his version slightly to align more closely with Youssef’s Arabic. Unlike Mattawa, I indicate here that ‘Walt Whitman’s beard filled with butterflies’ appears in quotation marks in Youssef’s original; these words derive from Frederico Garcia Lorca and his ‘Ode to Walt Whitman’ (for this ‘Ode’, see Laguardia, ‘The Butterflies in Walt Whitman’s Beard’, p. 546). 50. While Youssef’s original does not explicitly align the ‘Afghani’ with jihād, this interpretation has been offered, and has gained prominence, through Mattawa’s translation, who renders the verse ‘‫ ’ﺧﺬﻱ ﺍﻠﻠﺤﻴﺔ ﺍﻷﻓﻐﺎﻧﻴﺔ‬as ‘Take the Afghani mujahideen beard’ (p. 175) rather than more literally as ‘Take the Afghani beard’. 51. The Arabic original, and an English translation, may be found on Youssef’s website, at www.saadiyousif.com/home/index.php?option=com_content &task=view&id=1123&Itemid=1, and www.saadiyousif.com/home/index. php?option=com_content&task =view&id=1125&Itemid=39, respectively. 52. The Arabic original of Youssef’s ‘Splendid Egypt’ opens with a brief dedication, ‘‫‘( ’ﺇﻠﻰ ﺃﺤﻣﺪ ﻓﺅﺍﺪ ﻧﺠﻢ‬To Ahmad Fu’ād Najm’); its third stanza begins with ˙ the line ‘َ‫ك هناك‬ َ ‫‘( ’إني أرا‬I see you there’) and also names ‘Najm’ in its fifth line. 53. For 2012 protests in Tahrīr Square, see Abdel-Rahman Hussein’s Guardian ˙ article from 5 June, ‘Tahrir Square Protests Resume Over Mubarak and Presidential Election’.

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index

‘Abbās, Ihsān, 3, 7, 100–22, 199n, 200n, 202n, 203n ˙ American literary interests, 101, 199n awards, 101 death and tributes, 101, 120, 199n exile, 120–2 interviews, 101, 199n, 200n productivity, 100–1 works Ghurbat ar-Rā‘ī, 120–2 ‘Islamic Influence on the Narrative Moby-Dick’, 101, 199n, 200n Mūbī Dīk, 7, 100–22 characters, translation of, 111–18 coinages, 102 editions, 100, 118–19, 122 Orientalist lexica, translation of, 101–4 paratexts, 102, 105, 200n, 201n preliminaries, 118–19 Qur’ānic language, 107–11, 115–17, 200n, 201n, 202n receptions of, 118–20 religious references, translation of, 104–11 Sudanese dialect in, 121 ‘Ābid, Ismā‘īl, 183, 213n Abrahams, Israel, 18, 192n Abu Ghraib, 178–9, 212n acorus calamus, 133–4, 205n Adam, 28, 134–6, 160, 172, 190n Adonis, 212n Ahab, 41, 103, 112–13, 201n etymology, 112–13 Al-e-Ahmad, Jalal, 197n Alhambra, 47–8, 50 Al-Kharbūtlī, ‘Alī Husnī, 6, 49–72, 194n, 195n ˙ ˙ approach to translation, 51; see also Hayāt ˙ Muhammad ˙ attitude towards Irving, 50, 67, 70 doctorate, 68, 195n works Arab-Islamic Civilization, 68

Hayāt Muhammad, 6, 49–72 ˙ ˙ contents pages, 51–4 cover and preface, 49, 50–1 editions, 49, 68, 194n paratexts, 51, 62 quotation in later works, 68–72 restoration of Qur’ānic citations, 55–6, 195n revision of Irving’s portrait of Muhammad’s character, 60–7 The History of Iraq under Umayyad Rule, 68 The History of the Ka‘ba, 68, 70–1 Islam and the People of Dhimmah, 68 The Messenger and Psychological Warfare, 69 The Messenger in Medina, 68, 69 The Messenger in Ramadan, 69, 70 Allen, Gay Wilson, 125–7, 136–7, 139, 203n, 205n ‘History of My Whitman Studies’, 125–6 Walt Whitman Handbook, 136 Al-Rīhānī, ’Amīn, 157–8 ˙ America Civil War, 20, 22, 139, 141–2, 146, 162, 165, 177, 178, 179, 184 literary exceptionalism, 5 literary globalism, 1–2; see also literary circulation Renaissance, 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 136, 155 Romance see The Scarlet Letter; Moby-Dick Amir, Aharon, 155 Amman, 118, 119, 120, 202n Amorite, 37, 206n Andalucía, 47–8, 116 Antiochus, 18, 33–5, 37, 38–42, 43 Antoon, Sinan, 171 Arab spring, 185–6 Arabic bibles, 115, 201n, 202n divine names, 93, 201n dual form, 165, 211n fiction, 119–20, 203n gender, 168, 169, 170–1, 211n Hebrew sibling roots, 158–9, 209n

228 ]

Index

Arabic (cont.) inscriptions, 47–8 loan words, 103–4, 106, 107 modern poetry, 156–8, 163, 209n paronomasia and punning, 159, 164, 165, 178, 210n second-person address, 164, 185, 210n tanwīn, 169, 211n translation see ‘Abbās, Mubi Dik; Al-Kharbūtlī, ˙ Hayāt Muhammad; Youssef, Awrāq al-‘Ushb ˙ ˙ transliteration, 52, 113, 114, 117, 170, 208n Arvin, Newton, 18 As-Safīr, 181, 212n At-Tūnisī, Bayram, 121, 203n atom, 148–50, 207n Baghdad, 157, 160, 161, 162, 165, 173, 178, 179, 183 Bakhsh, Jalaluddin, 100 Baudelaire, Charles, 172 Bay Psalm Book, 126, 204n BBC Persian, 96, 198n Beilinson, Moses Eliezer, 22–3, 189n Beirut, 100, 101, 118, 120, 121, 157, 158 Benjamin, Walter, 187n Berkshire Athenaeum, 99, 199n Berlin, 22 Bhagavad Gita, 4 Bible, 15, 19, 22, 24, 25, 26, 28–9, 35–42, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61–2, 86, 92, 101, 109, 111–12, 113, 115, 117, 125–7, 128, 132, 133, 134, 135–6, 137, 139, 141–2, 145–6, 148, 151, 188n, 190n, 191n, 192n, 193n, 199n, 201n, 202n, 203n, 204n, 205n, 206n, 207n 1611, King James, 42, 188n, 190n, 192n, 205n, 206n Daniel, 28, 190n Deuteronomy, 36, 132, 192n, 205n Ecclesiastes, 28, 190n Exodus, 35, 38, 40, 41, 42, 134, 138, 191n, 192n, 205n Ezekiel, 28, 190n, 192n Genesis, 29, 133, 135, 137, 146, 190n, 204n, 205n, 206n, 207n Isaiah, 24, 40, 41, 190n Jeremiah, 15, 24, 193n, 205n Job, 40, 41, 42, 122, 146, 192n Jonah, 108–10, 115–17, 148, 201n, 202n, 207n Joshua, 204n, 206n Judges, 206n I Kings, 39, 40, 41, 42, 112, 201n Lamentations, 193n Maccabean books, 19, 20, 22, 36, 44, 189n, 191n Malachi, 191n Matthew, 62, 195n, 197n, 204n Psalms, 20, 25–9, 37, 126, 139, 142, 144, 190n, 191n, 192n, 203n, 204n, 206n Revelation, 197n Song of Songs, 205n Zechariah, 141, 206n Bitzaron, 141, 147, 181, 206n, 207n Boston, 17, 22, 46, 77, 89, 95, 97, 108, 126, 183 Britain, 17, 183 Brooklyn, 173–7, 178, 179 Buell, Lawrence, 2 Burroughs, John, 130 Byron, Lord George, 27

Cairo, 77, 100, 118, 119, 120, 157, 162, 203n University, 68, 120, 202n Cambridge, MA, 24, 126 Captain Gardiner, 113 Cavafy, Constantine, 182 Chicago, 101, 129 Chillingworth, 84, 85, 87–9, 93–4, 198n as leech, 87–9 name, 85 Christ, 57–9, 61–2, 144–5, 179–80, 191n, 206n Columbus, 46–7 Conrad, Lawrence, 120 Cordovero, Moses ben Jacob, 206n Cosmopolite, 126 Crowninshield, Clara, 18, 189n Cushman, Charlotte Saunders, 19 Cyprus, 17, 188n Dabashi, Hamid, 97 Dāneshvar, Sīmīn, 3, 75–98, 119, 196n, 197n, 198n death and obituaries, 97–8 literary prominence, 3, 75, 97 study in America, 75, 78 translation, attitude towards, 77–8; see also Dāgh-e Nang works Dāgh-e Nang, 7, 76–95, 119 character, translation of, 84–9 editions, 77, 97, 196n paratexts, 83–4 preface, 77–9 punning, 88–9 religious references, translation of, 89–95 ‘scarlet letter’, translation of, 79–84 Sūvashūn, 7, 75, 95–6, 119 as best seller, 7, 75, 96, 196n Hawthornean echoes in, 95–6 Darwish, Mahmud, 119 de Quincey, Thomas, 104 Dickinson, Emily, 131 Dimmesdale, 81, 82, 83, 84–5, 87–9, 90–1, 92–3 death and last words, 92–4 Dimock, Wai Chee, 2, 4, 6, 188n Eco, Umberto, 3 Eden, 132, 204n Edinburgh, 17 Egypt, 48, 49, 185, 213n Eliot, T. S., 101 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 23, 136, 189n Europe, 20, 23, 24, 31, 79, 157, 158, 183 American travel in, 18, 20, 46, 99 intermediary between America and Middle East, 6, 21, 49, 50, 55, 65, 67, 194n, 195n exile, 8, 112, 120–2, 148, 157, 165, 178, 183, 185 Farrokhzād, Forugh, 96–7 Father Mapple, 108–9 Faulkner, William, 203n Fedallah, 113–14, 201n Finkelstein, Dorothee, 100 Firdaws, 95–6 Flask, 103, 114 Frankfurt, 18

Index[ 229 ­ Franklin Books, 118, 202n free verse, 157–8, 163, 209n Frothingham, Octavius Brooks, 187n Gagnier, Jean, 50, 194n Gamzu, Judah Leib, 188n Gandhi, Mahatma, 4 Germany, 18 Gershuni, Zvi, 22, 189n Giles, Paul, 2 Goffman, Erving, 96 Göske, Daniel, 100, 102 Gospel, 59, 60, 61–2, 86, 195n; see also Bible Gould, Jean, 100 Greece, 99 Greek, 19, 20, 22, 33, 35, 43, 99, 111, 134, 189n, 206n Greenberg, Uri Zvi, 130 Greene, George Washington, 18 Greenspan, Ezra, 127

hadīth, 54, 59, 63–4 ˙ Hāfiz, Muhammad Shamsuddīn, viii ˙ ˙ ˙ Halkin, Hillel, ‘My Uncle Simon’, 152–3, 208n Halkin, Simon, 8, 127–55, 158–9, 181 death and memorials of, 147, 151–3 literary Zionism, 146–7, 181 Modern Hebrew professorship, 129, 152 prominence, 127 religiosity, 206n transnationalism, 129, 152–3 works ‘Alē ‘Ēsev, 8, 127–55, 158–9 Adam in, 134–6 afterlife in Israeli literature, 151–2 appendices, 127 assonance, 138 biblical allusions, 132–6, 138, 141–2, 146, 205n, 206n concluding translation, 153–4 dedication, 154–5, 208n editions, 147, 204n gendered rendition, 139 parallelism, 137, 139–40 political implications of, 128–9, 141–2, 146–7 preface, 128–9, 136–7, 147 public recognition of, 127 punctuation, 130–1, 204n religious references, 140, 142–6 review of, 129 self-reference, 134 title, 132, 159 and ‘To Tarshish’, 147–50 versification, 131, 137 Modern Hebrew Literature, 129 ‘To Tarshish’, 147–50, 154, 207n see also Bitzaron; Israel Argosy Halmi, Nicholas, 5 Handel, Judas Maccabæus, 18–19, 20, 22, 189n harem, 103–4 Harvard University, 18 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 1, 3, 7, 75–98, 196n ambiguity, 76 Custom House tenure, 78–9 definition of ‘American Romance’, 76

influence in Iran, 95–6; see also Dāneshvar, Sīmīn works The Scarlet Letter, 7, 75–98 Arabic translation, 79–80, 196n characterisation, 84–9; see also Chillingworth; Dimmesdale; Hester; Pearl Christian terminology, 89–93 ‘Custom-House’ Introductory, 78–9 Hebrew translation, 196n Persian translation see Dāneshvar, Dāgh-e Nang scarlet letter (‘A’), 79–84 Turkish translation, 196n Twice-Told Tales, 75 Hebrew Arabic sibling roots, 158–9, 209n biblical, 8, 24, 25–6, 28–9, 35–8, 40–2, 132–6, 138, 141–2, 146, 191n, 192n, 193n, 205n, 206n calendrical reckoning, 15, 188 divine names, 37, 145, 146, 192n, 206n drama, 14–15, 34, 191n gender, 138–9, 205n ineffability, 37–8, 145–6, 192n infinitive absolute, 138, 205n language revival, 25–6, 30, 31, 43, 150, 191n parallelism and prosody, 29, 41, 126, 131, 137–41, 190n translation see Halkin, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev; Massel, Songs from the End of the Earth; Massel, Yehūdāh ha-Makābī transliteration, 144, 145 Hebrew University, 129 Hemingway, Ernest, 101 Hercules, 145 Hester, 80, 81, 84, 90–1, 92–3, 206n and Persian literature, 96–7 Hikmet, Nazim, 182 Hillel, O., 151, 207n Hirsch, Irene, 100 Holocaust, 155 Holy Land, 17, 30, 141, 143; see also Israel Howard, Leon, 100 Huss, Abraham, 148 Hussein, Saddam, 157, 184, 208n India, 4, 182 Iran, 3, 7, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 96–8 Iraq, 8, 68, 152, 157, 162, 165–6, 171, 178, 185, 208n, 209n, 211n Irving, Washington, 1, 3, 4, 6, 45–72, 193n, 194n, 195n afterlife in Islamic scholarship, 68–72 Arabic knowledge, 47, 195n death and American legacy, 45–6 literary receptions in Muslim world, 48–50, 193n Spanish travels, 46–8 works Conquest of Granada, 48 A History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus, 46–7 Life of Mahomet, 6, 46, 48–72 Arabic translation, 48; see also Al-Kharbūtlī, ˙ Hayāt Muhammad ˙ ˙ contents pages, 51–4 juxtaposition of Jesus and Muhammad, 57–9, 61–2

230 ]

Index

Irving, Washington (cont.) Muhammad’s character, treatment of, 60–7, 194n Persian translation, 48 quotation of Islamic sources, 54–60 revision of Orientalist sources, 50–1, 65–7 Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, 45–6, 48, 68 Tales of the Alhambra, 47, 48 Ishmael, 104, 106–8, 110, 111–12, 121, 122 dispossession, 122, 203n divergent identities in Bible and Qur’ān, 111–12, 201n Israel, 8, 30, 31, 35, 128–9, 130, 141, 142–3, 144, 146–7, 150–2, 154–5, 158, 206n War of Independence, 141 Israel Argosy, 146–7, 181 Jabrā, Jabrā Ibrāhīm, 158 Jackson, E. D., 27 Jacobite Rising, 20, 22 James, Henry, 136 Jason, High Priest, 33–5, 39, 43, 44 Jerusalem, 120, 129, 150, 151, 152, 204n jihād, 54, 62, 184, 213n Johnson-Davies, Denys, 118, 119, 202n Jones, William, 104 Jum‘ah, Muhammad Lutfī, 158 ˙ ˙ Ka‘ba, 68 Kahn, 129, 130, 204n Kalamos, 134 Kazin, Alfred, 120 Khartoum, 120–1 Klausner, Joseph, 152 Kronos, 145 Kurdish rebellion, 162 Land, The, 147, 207n Lazarus, Emma, 23–4, 189n Lebanon, 48, 121, 162, 181 Lent, 105, 200n Leo, John, 116–18, 202n Levine, Herbert J., 125 Lewis, R. W. B., 136 Lincoln, Abraham, 146, 184–5 literary circulation, 3–5, 6, 8, 41, 67, 96–8, 117–18, 127, 149–50, 157, 173, 181–6 London, 31, 157, 183, 185, 213n Long Island Democrat, 126 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 1, 3, 4, 6, 8, 13, 18–48, 51, 68, 70–1, 127, 189n, 192n and Civil War, 22, 189n death, 23 European travels, 18, 189n Irving’s influence on, 45–6 Judaic interests, 18–22, 42–3 Newport visit, 21 works ‘Address on the Death of Washington Irving’, 45–7, 48, 69 Book of Suggestions, 18–19 ‘Baron Castine’, 18 ‘Elegiac Verse’, 42, 44 Evangeline, 22, 127 ‘Excelsior’, 22, 189n

Hiawatha, 22, 127 ‘The Jewish Cemetery at Newport’, 21, 23, 24, 27 Judas Maccabæus, 6, 13–22, 31–44, 51, 191n biblical allusions, 35, 36–8, 39–42 composition, 17–20, 22 critical reception, 17–18 dramatic conventions, 34 Hebrew translation see Massel, Yehūdāh ha-Makābī Hebrew usage, 37 Hellenic versus Hebraic, 17–18, 19–20, 22, 33, 35, 38, 43 Yiddish translation, 22–3 see also Antiochus; Jason; Maccabaeus, Judas ‘The Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi’, 21, 27 ‘A Psalm of Life’, 20, 27–9 Hebrew translation, 27–9 Lorca, García, 172, 182, 213n Maccabaeus, Judas, 18, 37–8, 43 name, 38, 192n Maccabean revolt and account, 13, 18, 22, 31 Mahfouz, Naguib, 119, 203n Manchester, 6, 13, 17, 22, 30, 31, 32, 44, 183, 188n, 190n Marr, Timothy, 100 Massachusetts, 126, 151 Historical Society, 45–6 Massel, Joseph, 3, 6, 8, 13–17, 21–44, 51, 127, 146, 183–4, 188n, 191n Cyprus colony, 17 Hebrew revival, 25–6, 30, 43 in Manchester, 13, 17, 22, 30, 31, 32, 44, 188n, 189n theory of translation, 25–6 transnationalism, 17, 31, 188n Zionism, 15–17, 21–2, 30, 43–4, 191n works Samson Agonistes, 13, 30 Songs from the End of the Earth, 13, 24–9, 30, 33, 190n contents, 24, 27 preface, 24–7 revisionary translation of Longfellow, 27–9 Yehūdāh ha-Makābī, 6, 8, 13–17, 21–2, 24, 27, 29–44, 51, 127, 183, 192n biblical references, 15, 35, 36, 37, 38, 40–2, 191n, 192n, 193n character, translation of, 34, 37–8, 40–2 excision of Longfellow’s Hebrew, 37–8 genre, 14–15, 34, 191n political implications, 15–17, 31–2, 33–4, 41–2 prefatory poem, 31–2, 191n title-pages, 13–16, 32 Mather, Richard, 126 Mattawa, Khaled, 156, 163, 213n Matthiessen, F. O., 5 Mecca, 70, 71 Melville, Herman, 1, 2, 3, 4, 99–122, 155, 199n, 200n, 201n Orientalism, 100, 103 receptions in Middle East, 100 revival, 100, 199n travels in Greece and Middle East, 99 works Billy Budd, 100

Index[ 231 ­

Moby-Dick, 2, 7, 100–22, 155 Arabic translation, 100; see also ‘Abbās, Mubi Dik character, 111–18; see also Ahab; Fedallah; Ishmael; Queequeg Hebrew translation, 155, 208n Orientalist lexica, 101–4 receptions in Middle East, 100, 155, 199n religious allusions, 104–11 Turkish translation, 100 Typee, 100 Messiah, 143–4 Middle East languages see Arabic; Hebrew; Persian nations see Egypt; Iran; Iraq; Israel; Lebanon; Syria Miller, James E., 158 Milton, John, 30 Mishna, 59–60, 205n Money, Peter, 171 Moreh, Shmuel, 158, 209n Moses, 35–6, 132, 192n Mt. Hirā’, 66 ˙ Muhammad, 46, 49–72, 112, 115–17, 194n, 202n; see ˙ also Al-Kharbūtlī, Hayāt Muhammad ˙ ˙ ˙ Naimy, Mikhail, 158 Najm, Ahmad Fu’ād, 185, 213n ˙ Native American, 170 Nazareth, 144 New Bedford, 109 New Orleans, 21 New York, 22, 46, 118, 129, 141, 146, 170, 173, 174, 176–80, 189n New York Herald Tribune, 127 Newport, 21, 23, 24, 27, 189n Niobe, 19, 20 Occidentalism, 5, 187n Odessa, 22 Orientalism, 3, 5, 6, 49, 50, 53, 57, 62, 63, 65, 72, 103–4, 182, 187n, 194n Osiris, 145 Oz, Amos, A Tale of Love and Darkness, 150–2, 207n, 208n Pacific coast, 153, 181 Palestine, 17, 31, 120, 122 Pearl, 81, 82, 84, 85–7, 97 biblical name, 86 moral ambiguity, 87, 197n Pequod, 103, 115 Persian alphabet, 79–81 Arabic etymologies and phrases in, 90, 93 literature, 75, 95–7 punning, 77, 79, 88–9 translation see Dāneshvar, Dāgh-e Nang transliteration, 85 Pip, 110, 113 Poe, Edgar Allan, 78 Porat, Zephyra, 154–5, 208n Portuguese, 21 postcolonialism, 5 Puritan, 7, 89, 90–1, 93, 94, 95, 97

Queen Victoria, 17, 188n Queequeg, 104, 105, 106, 115, 121, 200n religiosity, 104–6 Qur’ān, 54–60, 65–7, 90, 93–5, 107, 109–12, 115, 117, 164, 194n, 195n, 198n, 200n, 201n, 202n, 210n Ragg, Thomas, 27 Ramadan, 69, 70, 104–5 Ritsos, Yiannis, 182 Rushdie, Salman, The Satanic Verses, 49, 194n Russia, 6, 17, 24, 31, 78, 129, 183 Said, Edward, 5, 122 Salem, 95 Salih, Tayeb, 119 Schylberg, Frederik, Walt Whitman, 136 Scopus, 129, 130, 204n Seven sons, 19, 35–6, 191n Shakespeare, 158 Shalom, Shin, 127 Shiraz, 95, 96 Shuman, John Rogers, 119, 202n SoHo, 176 Stanford University, 75 Star of David, 15, 188n Stegner, Wallace, 75, 196n Stubb, 103, 114 Sudan, 121 Sufism, 91, 108, 195n Syria, 143 Tahrīr Square, 157, 185–6, 213n ˙ Talmud, 59, 60, 140, 205n Tamer, Zakaria, 119 Tashtego, 106–7 Taylor, Edward, 108 Tchernichovsky, Saul, 22, 127 Tehran, 48, 76, 77, 97 Tel Aviv, 77, 129, 208n Tennyson, Lord Alfred, 27 Thessalonica, 99 Thoreau, Henry David, viii, 4, 182 Torah, 36, 39, 41, 60, 132, 134, 195n; see also Bible transatlanticism, 2, 4, 6, 13, 20, 46, 67, 99, 100, 118, 142, 154, 183 translation amplification and enhancement of source, 7, 35, 39, 84, 91, 113, 114, 131, 132, 137, 139–40, 162, 165, 175 attenuation and editing of source, 29, 37–8, 52, 57–8, 60, 62–4, 66, 71, 87, 92, 105, 106–7, 145–6, 159, 163 as crossing over, 15, 175 domesticating, 52, 103, 107, 108, 111, 134, 142, 144, 162, 163, 165, 170, 188n equivalence, 4, 25, 188n, 201n expansion and extension of source, 37, 55–6, 90, 93–4, 107–8, 109–10, 115, 142 foreignising, 102, 104 and identity, 31, 34–5, 40–2, 44, 65, 67, 70, 72, 95, 111–18, 130, 135–6, 142–3, 145, 156–7, 169 paratexts, 51, 62, 83–4, 102, 105, 200n, 201n as revenge, 26–7, 42

232 ]

Index

translation (cont.) and transliteration, 37, 52, 85, 113, 114, 117, 144, 145, 170, 208n see also Arabic; Hebrew; Persian ‘Umar, 55–6 Valley of Hinnom, 132, 204n Venuti, Lawrence, 187n, 200n war on terror, 173 Weil, Gustav, 50, 194n Weizmann, Chaim, 30, 191n Whitman, Walt, 1, 7, 8, 125–86 Arab receptions of, 156–8, 161–2, 171, 209n, 212n; see also Youssef, Saadi biblicism, 125–8, 132, 133, 135–7, 139, 145–6, 151, 203n and Civil War, 139, 141, 142, 146, 162, 165, 177, 178, 179–80, 184 and free verse, 157–8, 163, 209n Jewish and Israeli receptions of, 127, 136, 150–5; see also Halkin, Simon journal writing, 125–6, 203n politics and social commentary, 132, 139, 142, 157, 158, 166–7, 168–9, 177 and the prophetic, 130–1, 139, 152–3, 175, 176, 181 punctuation of, 130–1, 162–3, 212n revisionary poet, 126, 127, 160 works ‘Base of all Metaphysics’, 144, 160 ‘Beat! Beat! Drums!’, 139–42, 147, 207n ‘A California Song’, 152–3 ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’, 173–5, 176, 181, 182, 207n, 212n Drum Taps, 161 ‘Facing West from California’s Shores’, 181–2, 183, 185 ‘For You O Democracy’, 159, 166–8, 211n ‘I Sit and Look Out’, 160, 168–70 ‘I think I could turn and live with animals’, 147, 206n ‘The Last Invocation’, 146 Leaves of Grass, 8, 125–76, 178–81, 183, 185–6 Annexes, 147, 159, 207n Arabic translation see Youssef, Awrāq al-‘Ushb ‘Calamus’ section, 133–4, 205n, 211n ‘Children of Adam’ section, 134, 136, 205n, 211n editions, 125, 126, 136, 166, 205n, 210n gender ambiguity, 170–1 Hebrew translation see Halkin, ‘Alē ‘Ēsev invocation, 137, 164, 172, 179 Judaic allusions, 142–4, 145 as New Bible, 125–6, 151 parallelism, 137, 139, 162, 190n repetition, 131, 139, 172, 185, 210n self-reference, 161–2 sexuality, 134 title as pun, 159, 209n ‘The Love That Is Hereafter’, 126, 203n ‘Now finalè to the Shore’, 153–4 ‘O Captain! My Captain!’, 146–7 ‘O You Whom I Often and Silently Come’, 159, 170–1, 211n

‘Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City’, 159, 166–8, 211n ‘Salut au Monde!’, 142–5 ‘Shut not Your Doors’, 159, 161–4, 172, 183 ‘A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim’, 174, 179–80, 212n ‘A Song of Joys’, 207n ‘Song of Myself’, 132, 133, 134, 137, 145–6, 147, 149–50, 160–1, 163, 173, 183, 185, 186, 210n placement in Leaves, 160–1, 210n valediction, 161, 163 ‘Starting from Paumanok’, 160, 170, 210n ‘There was a Child Went Forth’, 146 ‘Thou Reader’, 159, 164 ‘To a Stranger’, 159, 164–5, 174, 177–8 ‘To the States’, 159, 166 ‘When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d’, 184 Wirth-Nesher, Hana, 5 World War II, 75, 141 Yalan-Shteklis, Miriam, 147 Yearbook of American Jewry, 147, 207n Yiddish, 22–3, 191 Yigdāl, 36, 192n Yohannan, John D., 100 Youssef, Saadi, 8, 156–85, 208n, 209n, 210n, 211n, 212n, 213n early career, 163 exile, 157, 165, 178, 183, 185, 208n in New York, 173–81 politics, 156, 157–8, 177–81, 184–6 prominence, 156, 171–2 works ‘America, America’, 184–5 Awrāq al-‘Ushb, 8, 156–74, 182–3, 185 contents, 159–60 dual form in, 165, 211n editions, 183, 213n feminine emphasis, 167–8, 169–71, 211n gendered translation, 170–1, 211n introduction, 156–7, 161, 162, 171 paronomasia and punning, 159, 164, 165, 178, 210n punctuation, 162, 169 re-ordering Leaves, 159–61, 164, 166–7 rhyme, 165, 169, 211n second-person address, 164, 170 self-reference, 162–3 transliteration, 170 Intransient Essays, 213n ‘Morning Trilogy’, 172 Naive Poems, 213n New York Qasīdas, 173–81, 182, 184 ˙ Nostalgia, My Enemy: Poems, 171, 211n ‘Splendid Egypt, our mother, has come to the square’, 185–6, 213n ‘The Thirty-Sixth’, 172–3 Who Knows the Rose?, 211n Without an Alphabet, Without a Face, 171, 213n Zari, 75, 95–6 Zeus, 145 Zionism, 6, 15, 17, 21, 22, 23, 30, 33, 41, 43, 44, 143, 146, 152, 181, 183, 188n, 189n, 206n Zionist Congresses, 17, 30, 188