https://www.thefp.com/p/douglas-murray-tatiana-gnedich?utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email
Here I am going to break one of my own rules, and dedicate a column to a translator of a poet, rather than an actual poet. I cannot stop myself from doing so. For it is necessary to pause and to say the name of Tatiana Gnedich.
I started this series talking about the significance of one act of memory—that of Boris Pasternak and the thousands of Russian writers in 1937 who knew Pasternak’s translation of Shakespeare by heart. Pasternak was then, as now, a famous writer. His own act of translation and memory cannot be diminished. But if it could ever have been superseded, then it is by a woman who almost nobody in the English-speaking world has heard of.
One of Gnedich’s ancestors had translated The Iliad into Russian, and in the 1930s she looked set to follow in his footsteps. She was studying seventeenth-century English literature at Leningrad State University when the purges began, and the universities were among the institutions trying to oust all enemies of Marxist-Leninist-Stalinism for crimes that shifted by the day.
At a meeting at the university (which she was not at), Gnedich was denounced for having noble ancestry and, what is more, of hiding it. She was indignant at the claim—indignant that she should be shamed into hiding ancestors of whom she was proud.
So she was thrown out of the university for “boasting about her noble ancestry.” The madness of those days was such that even someone who simply wanted to study the Elizabethan poets could not avoid politics.
At some point, Gnedich was allowed back into the university. With her mother, she moved into a small wooden house in Leningrad. During the siege of the city, from late 1941 to early 1944, her mother died and their house burned down.
In December 1944, she got it in her head that even entertaining a desire to go to Britain was an act of sedition. She confessed to this, was duly put on trial, and sentenced to ten years in the Gulag.
While in jail awaiting transfer to a faraway Gulag camp, an interrogator asked her why she didn’t use any of the books that she was entitled to in the holding cell. She replied: “I’m busy. I don’t have the time.”
Busy with what, the interrogator asked.
“I’m translating Byron’s ‘Don Juan,’ ” she told him.
The interrogator realized that she was doing it from memory.
“But how do you remember your final version?” he asked her.
Gnedich agreed that this was the hardest part, “especially now that I’m approaching the end. My head is too full to remember anything new.”