Making the Most of One's Mind/Chapter 9
CONSTRUCTIVE STUDY IN TRANSLATION AND ESSAY-WRITING
ΟNE of the best examples of the working of constructive study is to be found in the translation into English of passages from a foreign language. This always presupposes a great deal of acquired knowledge and skill, and exemplifies their application to a specific problem. If the pupil bad to find out afresh the meaning of all the words in such a passage, he would have little chance of ever making sense out of it. At the same time, the ordinary student always does find in the work of translation some words with which he is not familiar or which he has never seen before; and the looking up of these in the dictionary gives that supply of new matter that nearly always accompanies constructive work. Each new passage is necessarily a problem, sometimes easy of solution, sometimes very difficult; occasionally, indeed, with the student's limited knowledge, insoluble.
One of the most useful forms in which constructive exercise occurs in school and college, and particularly at examinations, is the translation of what are usually called "unseens." This means that a passage that the student has not seen before is set for translation under conditions that prevent him from consulting a dictionary or any other book that might give him help in the process. Sometimes this exercise is called translation "at sight." As almost every student, at some time or other in his progress, has to face a paper of this kind, it is well to give a few hints on the whole matter, and to supply an illustration of how these hints may be applied.
To begin with, you must start with the assumption that the passage has a meaning: a quite definite meaning. Accordingly, if what you make of it does not seem sense, then you may be quite sure that you are wrong. There may be a possibility of making more than one meaning out of the passage, and you may not be always sure which meaning is the true one, but if you find that what you have written has no meaning at all, then you may rest assured that you have failed. Your first principle, then, must be to make a meaning out of what is presented to you. When you have a choice of meanings, you must see to it that you take into account the whole passage. You must do your best to give to each word the meaning that you have learnt it usually bears, but you ought to make it a principle that the general consistency of the whole passage is a more important indication of the meaning of a word or phrase than what you can remember from your dictionary or your grammar book.
The question is sometimes asked, which is to be preferred, a free translation or a literal one? By a free translation is usually meant a rendering into good, flowing, idiomatic English of the meaning of the person who wrote the passage. The aim is to convey to the English reader the same impression as the foreign writer conveyed to his original readers. Thus we would not render the Latin words quisque optimus miles by the literal every best soldier, but by the ordinary English all the best soldiers. In his orations Cicero addresses certain persons whom he calls judices; this being literally interpreted would read judges, but this word would convey a wrong meaning to an ordinary English reader, accordingly many scholars would prefer to render it "gentlemen of the jury," though the system of trial by jury was not known among the Romans in the form it has taken among us. Er steht unter dem Pantoffel, in German, means literally he stands under the slipper: but this is meaningless to an English reader, who quite understands it, however, when it is rendered he is henpecked.
Generally speaking, then, the free translation is to be preferred where there is no doubt whatever as to the exact meaning that the original author desired to convey. Sometimes, however, there may be a difficulty in determining whether the author meant what he appears to mean, and in these cases the passage is usually translated literally. When. you find a foreign author quoted in translation in the course of an article in English, you will sometimes find that some particular English expression is followed within brackets by the very words of the foreign language. The meaning of this is that the English author wants to give his readers the assurance that he is not unfairly representing the meaning of the author he is quoting in translation.
But in translating as an exercise other points have to be kept in view. Sometimes a teacher insists upon a rigidly literal rendering of a passage, in order to make quite sure that the student really does know word by word what the author wrote. For a clever writer of English it is not very difficult to gather the general sense of a passage and then turn out an elegant English paragraph or two expressing in a broad way what the author meant. The result is rather a paraphrase of the original than a translation of it. So long as you really know pretty accurately the exact meaning of the passage, you are entitled to take a certain amount of liberty in the interests of good English. Speaking generally, younger students are encouraged to give a fairly literal rendering of a passage, while more advanced students are allowed greater freedom.
It may help you to understand the proper point of view to remember the instructions of a distinguished classical scholar to the assistant who was to mark the class examination papers. "Mark the scholarship papers first, and when a candidate shows an accurate knowledge of the details of the language, allow him great scope in his translation. If he is weak in his scholarship, do not give him the benefit of the doubt where his translation is free." If at an examination you are in doubt whether the examiner will give you credit for a particularly free translation, it is an excellent plan to put in now and again, within brackets, the literal rendering of a phrase that you have taken liberties with. If one had time, an absolutely literal translation followed by a free English rendering would remove all doubt, but in most examinations time permits of only a compromise.
Some general considerations may be suggested in the matter of translation at sight, particularly at examinations.
(1) Make the sentence, not the word, the unit of your translations. Do not try to remember specifically all the meanings of individual words as found in the dictionary. Let the context decide the meaning to be borne in a particular passage.
(2) When you have discovered the general meaning of a sentence, you may still be unaware of the exact meaning of some of the words. In this case adopt the most general meaning that will safely fill in the sense. If, for example, you gather that a man moved from one place to another, but you do not know from the verb whether he walked, or ran, or drove, or rode, or rowed, or sailed, or swam, say simply that he proceeded there. If we give Cæsar proceeded to Rome as a translation for Romam Cæsar properavit, we do not get such high marks as if we had known that propero implies haste; but we would get more than if we had particularized and said he sailed. He may or he may not have sailed, he certainly did proceed.
(3) On the other hand, wherever you are sure about any detail, do not generalize unless the genius of the language demands it. You are aware that Latin, as a whole, prefers the concrete, and English the abstract. But while in translating English into Latin it is essential to keep this in view in order to give the proper colouring to your Latin version, it is not so necessary to make the English abstract. We know from our own experience whether our translation reads like English or not, so we need not follow abstract rules in the matter; and in point of fact, a concrete expression in English where an abstract one is more usual, really adds piquancy to the style, and at the same time guarantees your acquaintance with the literal meaning of the word translated. By a comforting law of compensation, you will find that the tendency to generalize arising out of your ignorance of the meaning of specific terms, will always supply your English version with its proper bias towards the abstract.
(4) Sometimes you will come across technical expressions and peculiar turns indicated by little words. If these are marked off by commas, and convey to you no sense, while you can make sense quite well without them, your plan is to ignore them altogether. Take such a case as bien entendu in French, or 'mal in German. They do give a flavour to the sentence in which they occur, and in a fine translation that flavour must be rendered, but in an ordinary translation they may be left out without materially altering the meaning. If you remember that mal in German means time in the sense of repetition, as in zweimal meaning two times, you will be very ill advised to thrust in the word time, where the word 'mal occurs. Unless you know the exact flavour it ought to give to the sentence, your only safe plan is to take no notice of it.
To give point to what we have said about translation at sight as a constructive study I submit an example. The passage is in French, as that seems to be the language within the range of the greatest number of readers. The principles can be as well illustrated by one language as by another, so those who do not happen to have studied French will at anyrate have the satisfaction that fewer people will be disappointed than if any other language had been chosen.
I have set the passage that follows to several large classes of students, so that I have had several hundred versions submitted by pupils at different stages of advancement. In the comments that I make upon it, I have, therefore, had the advantage of the actual experience of those who have faced it as an unscen. Some of the mistakes the students made seem to mark a very low grade of knowledge and even intelligence. Yet no one who has had much experience in marking unseens will be greatly surprised at anything that occurs in such papers. Resides, the more glaring the blunders, the more strikingly will they serve as beacons of warning.
M. Jolivet est l'homme habitué à fouler l'asphalte du boulevard. Vous le voyez campé d'un air crâne, comme s'il devait tout subjuguer. Au fond, c'est un bon enfant. Il se fourre toujours dans des aventures hasardeuses dont, heureusement pour lui, son esprit et sa bonne humeur parviennent toujours à le tirer. L'autre, M. Blount, le reporter anglais, juché gravement sur son âne, également armé jusqu'aux dents, empressé à devancer son rival en cancans politiques, lui tend des pièges pour empêcher d'arriver bon premier.
La chance les favorise tour à tour, ainsi que vous pourrez en juger par vous-mêmes, mes chers amis, du moins je l'espère pour quelques uns d'entre vous. Vous décrire les ballets, les retraites aux flambeaux, les panoramas qui se succèdent, me serait impossible, ce sont des merveilles qu'il faut voir et qui tiennent si peu à l'action qu'on pourrait les montrer à part.
After reading the whole passage rapidly you gather that it is about two men whose names are Blount and Jolivet, the first being an English reporter, and though nothing is said about Jolivet's profession, we are entitled to infer that he too is a reporter, since he is Blount's rival. The second paragraph is obviously about wonderful sights that the two reporters have had to do with, but probably the most characteristic point about this paragraph at the first glance is its unintelligibility.
Going back to the first paragraph we may assume that the average student does not know the meaning of the infinite fouler. Assuming that you are the average student, you would certainly know the meaning of asphalte, and you would have the idea that boulevard was some sort of street, and this is confirmed by the connexion between asphalte and boulevard. Jolivet is accustomed to do something to the asphalt of the street. Had we not known his profession we might have been much in doubt about fouler, for there are a great many things that workmen can do to the asphalt. But in the case of a reporter, it is a perfectly legitimate guess that tread is the meaning of fouler, since that is about the only thing a reporter habitually does to asphalt. In the second sentence the words campé and crâne are the only two that are a little unfriendly. A man does something with a certain kind of air, and since he looks as if he ought to conquer everything, we may make a fair guess that it was a haughty air; the intelligent student might even pass from crâne=cranium or skull to the notion of swelled head, and translate it by swaggering: then taking the literal meaning of campé as camped, we may change it into the more general form placed or planted. You see him placed with haughty air is not very far from the truth, and would get some marks, though you see him standing there with a swaggering air might get more. Au fond means at bottom and is one of those isolated phrases that are unsafe to guess. If you do not know it, therefore, you had better leave it out altogether. Since it stands by itself it gets no help from the context, but as a compensation it can be omitted without attracting undue attention. In writing out your translation, give no indication that a word has been omitted. Some teachers insist upon their pupils always leaving a blank in every case where a word has not been translated. This is an excellent plan to help the teacher in his marking of exercises, but it is not to be recommended when you are working an examination paper.
In the next sentence, aventures hasardeuses indicates that he got into trouble, but heureusement and bonne humeur suggest that things ended well, which is precisely the meaning of the sentence. He always got into perilous adventures would do, though he is continually thrusting himself into is more true to the original. Juché is the first trouble in the next sentence; it is something passive, as we learn from its form. Now the most likely thing for an Englishman to do gravely on the back of an ass is to sit. Seated would therefore do, though perched is better. The rest is complicated. You have to consider what you think an English reporter armed to the teeth and perched on an ass is likely to do to a rival. There is a natural tendency to translate empressé by pressed, and though this is not the true meaning, it gives a certain amount of sense. It is best rendered eager: then the next problem is what he was eager to do to his rival. Obviously not to help. Devancer suggests getting in front of, and therefore anticipating the rival, in the matter of cancans. From the context this last word may be fairly guessed to be news, since that is what reporters are most keen to anticipate each other in. As a matter of fact, the word is contemptuous, and is best rendered by tittle-tattle, but the more general word will carry you through. You may not remember that the word piège means a snare or a trap, but you easily guess that it is something to prevent his rival from making a good first. The sentence presents no difficulties in making a literal translation; the last clause might run at least I hope it for some among you, though it would run better at least I hope so in the case of some of you.
The last sentence of all is one of those in which the student is sometimes able to give the literal meaning of every word, and yet unable to make sense of the whole. It is difficult to believe how often such a sentence is rendered unintelligible by the remarkable blunder of making the first vous the subject of the verb describe. Once the student begins the sentence with "You describe" no sense can be made out of all that follows. In an apparently meaningless sentence like this it is often advisable to write out the whole in bald English as a mere literal rendering of the words. Thus we would have "You to describe the ballets, the retreats to the torches, the panoramas that succeed themselves me would be impossible; they are of the marvels which it is necessary to see, and which hold so little to the action that one could show them apart." By applying common sense to this hash of clumsy English it is possible to get a meaning that is not very far from the original: "It would be impossible for me to describe to you the ballets, the torchlight processions, the panoramas succeeding each other; they are wonders that must be seen [to be believed or to be realized], and have so little to do with the action that they might be shown by themselves." This implies that they have so little to do with the action of the story being told by the author, that they might be presented as things by themselves.
Essay-Writing.
To know is one thing, to express our knowledge is another. Yet the two are inseparably connected. We never really know what we cannot in some way or other express. In fact, psychologists have a way of saying that there is no impression without expression. You experience the truth of the intimate connexion between knowledge and its expression every time that you seek to put down on paper what you think you know. So long as the matter was left merely floating about in the mind we could satisfy ourselves that we knew it, but so soon as we proceed to write it down we find certain gaps of which we were before unconscious. But not only does writing discover these disconcerting gaps, but it makes us realize that we have not any carefully arranged plan of relating our ideas to one another. Before we can set out our knowledge clearly on paper we must have first arranged it carefully in our minds. It is for this reason that essay-writing justly occupies such an important place in school and college work. Nowhere can we find a better example of constructive study than in the case of a student sitting down to write an essay. For every essay to be written involves a problem, and a two-fold problem at that. Given the subject, the student has to set about finding things to say about it, and at the same time he has to consider how best to say them.
You are likely to find the double problem of the essay very discouraging. It is always difficult to do two things at once. You are so apt to become absorbed in one at the expense of the other. The tendency of teachers at school is to emphasize the composition side at the cost of the subject matter. On the other hand, the pupils who have the actual essay to write nearly always feel the pinch mainly in connexion with the matter. They are apt to think that if only they knew what to say they would have no difficulty in saying it. In school essay writing the pupil is too frequently put in the worst possible position for doing his work. A very wise and experienced teacher once made the suggestive remark, "There is a world of difference between having to say something, and having something to say." Too frequently the pupil in school is put into the position of having to say something. This is a distressing position and is apt to paralyse him. The skilful teacher will do everything in his power to put matters in such a way that the pupil knows certain things, and is expected to give his views on them. If this is accomplished the pupil is put in the enviable position of having something that he wants to say.
You will see, then, that it is a mistake to separate matter from its expression. There is nothing more dreary than writing merely for the sake of writing. The mere word-monger is apt to become dull and pedantic, while the mere fact-monger is apt to lose the power of clear and accurate expression. This is curiously illustrated by a quarrel that is going on in America as I write, among the teachers of the secondary and technical schools. The teachers are divided into the two camps, the teachers of English on the one hand, and the teachers of all the remaining subjects on the other. It appears that the non-English teachers, especially the teachers of science, are finding that their pupils are unable to express themselves. These pupils have stopped their English course at an early stage, and have given all their time to their other studies, and now it is complained that they have lost their power of expression. The remedy the non-English teachers propose is that all exercises in every subject shall be treated also as exercises in English composition, and marked accordingly by the teachers of English. The plan is regarded by the English teachers as an excellent one, if only the other teachers will do the marking: they decline to be made the mere assistants of the non-English teachers. Thus the quarrel stands for us the lesson is obvious. We must not separate subject matter from its expression, and the essay is the best form in which the two may be usefully combined.
Some essays require very little preparation in the way of supplying subject matter. They demand nothing more than the writer's personal reaction to certain suggested particulars. If you are asked to write on such a subject as "My Favourite Poem," all you have to do is to make up your mind rapidly which poem you like best, and then describe it and explain as well as you can why it is that you do like it. You have all the materials, as it were, on the premises, and your work lies in making a wise choice among them. Such essays as those of Lamb belong to this class. No doubt many of them contain a fair amount of rather peculiar knowledge used by way of illustration; but we feel that Lamb did not go out of his way to acquire this knowledge for the special purpose of his essay. He draws upon the stores of his memory and experience, but the main value of his work is his personal reaction to the matters he is dealing with. The same is true of practically all the work of those who are known collectively as the English Essayists—Addison, Stecle, Goldsmith, Johnson, Foster, and the rest.
But in school and college work there is a sort of didactic essay frequently prescribed, the purpose of which is partly to give practice in composition and partly to encourage the pupil to acquire general knowledge, and consolidate by revision knowledge he has already acquired. For example, junior pupils may be called upon to write upon Money Orders. This means that they have to acquire somehow or other a knowledge of what a money order is, how it is used, and any other particulars they think it worth while to learn and communicate. In higher classes subjects of a more complicated kind are set. The Origin of the Cabinet is really an exercise in History, The Panama Canal in Geography, The Fools of Shakespeare in Literature, The Fertilization of Plants in Botany.
In all these cases there is no mystery in the matter. Everything is plain and straightforward. You know exactly where to go for the information you require. You are told how long the essay is to be, and all you have to do is to proceed to grind out the required amount. Your personality does not count for very much in such subjects, but it is never negligible. In dealing with Shakespeare's Fools, for example, you cannot avoid giving your personal reactions, even though you may find all the essential points of orthodox opinion ready-made in your text book. But in the other subjects mentioned there is less room for your personality. The Cabinet and the Canal certainly give a little opening for your political views, but the Fertilization of Plants is rather damping to personal reaction. Essays of this kind are merely class exercises of a somewhat elaborate nature. They are more like formal accounts of acquired knowledge, and it is interesting to find that in the American universities professors and students are beginning to speak of reports where we would speak of essays. These reports are always understood to imply a certain amount of definite reading, the results of which are incorporated: in some cases, indeed, the report takes the specific form of a synopsis of the student's reading.
Obviously certain subjects lend themselves to treatment on either the personal or the report method. Suppose, for example, the subject of Dreams is set. You may fairly fall back entirely upon your own experience, describe the dreams you and your friends have had, give your memories of classical dreams, and your impressions of what they are all worth. You may bring in Joseph, Scipio, and as many more as you can remember, and yet your essay is purely your personal reaction to the subject. On the other hand, you may make a preliminary investigation into the matter, finding out what scientific writers have said on the subject, quoting your authorities and coming to some general conclusion about the nature and meaning of dreams. Of the first kind, Robert Louis Stevenson's essay on the subject may be taken as an example. Of the other kind, there is no short example, since people do not publish essays of the report type. They are mere exercises, valuable for the training they give, not for the work produced.
A third kind of essay to some extent combines the elements of the first two. This may be called the dialectic or argumentative kind. It consists in the discussion of a question to which there are two opposing answers. Stock subjects of this kind are: Was the English Conquest of India Justifiable? Should Women have the Vote? Is Mars Inhabited? Sometimes the problem is not stated in the form of a question, but the question is implied all the same. If we have the subject of The Character of Cromwell, or The Political Work of Abraham Lincoln submitted for treatment, we know that there is the implied challenge of another side, whichever view we take up. In all essays of the dialectic type the personal clement enters largely, but the research element is not to be eliminated. Whichever view we adopt, we have to collect arguments in favour of it and against its opposite. It is curious to note how students naturally divide themselves into two classes according as the research element or the personal predominates. The great majority are under the influence of the personal element. The common case is that of the student who looks at the question for a few minutes, makes up his mind which side he is on, and then proceeds to hunt for arguments for that side. This is quite a good way of going to work so far as the mere exercise in composition and writing is concerned. It is further an excellent training in advocacy. From this point of view it is not infrequent for teachers to prescribe a particular side to be maintained by a student whether he is really on that side or not. The justification of this is that it is often a means of getting a student to see with greater clearness the "other side."
The research method, on the other hand, would have the student start on the debatable question with a perfectly unbiassed mind, seek out all the arguments available on both sides, and ponder these carefully. When every available source of evidence has been exhausted, the student balances all the facts, and decides on the one side or the other. It should be a point of honour to come to a definite conclusion. This last consideration is of importance to only a small class of students. Most of us are only too prone to come to a definite conclusion. very early in the investigation, and cling to that conclusion, even against a considerable amount of hostile evidence. But, on the other hand, there are people with such a tendency to hesitate between two opinions that they can hardly ever make up their minds on a really debatable point. On a purely academic matter, such as the saneness of Hamlet, a man may hold suspended judgment throughout his life without sin. But there are other matters, say Woman's Suffrage, on which we must make up our minds one way or the other because we have to take some sort of action. In order that we may be able to make up our minds definitely in cases where a decision is imperative, it is well to acquire the habit of bringing all discussions to a definite positive conclusion.
You must not be misled by the plea of the creditable desire to see both sides of the question. You are entitled to a sight of all there is to be seen; but you are not entitled to sit down and contemplate both sides indefinitely. Among the old Greeks there was a law that made it imperative for the voter to take sides: he was expected to give both sides full consideration, but he was compelled to decide for one or the other at last. Our advice here is to apply in a practical way the law of the excluded middle. Put yourself in the place of a juryman: he must make the prisoner out to be either guilty or not guilty. No doubt if he has the good fortune to be a Scotsman and at home the juryman has a loophole. He may bring in a verdict of Not Proven. But this loophole is only the result of Scots caution, and Scots love of logic. The Scotsmen know that the prisoner is either guilty or not guilty, but they don't know which. In certain cases they do know that the charge against him has not been proved satisfactorily, so they give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt. Wherever anybody else's interest is involved it is an excellent plan to adopt the Scots subterfuge. But where it is a matter of intellectual decision, have the courage to determine one way or the other. It is an excellent tonic to have to make up your mind definitely: it gives all the arguments a certain sharpness when a point is reached at which they are to produce a definite decision. So long as you are not dealing with other people's money, rights or feelings, you must be prepared to risk a little by coming to a conclusion. You may be wrong, no doubt, but a wrong conclusion honestly reached after careful inquiry is better than a wobbly halting between two opinions. Let your dialectic essay then finish with a summing up and a verdict. There is no harm in keeping an open mind so far as future evidence may be concerned, but at the end of your essay you ought to have the courage of your conviction.
Very often, however, the so-called research method leads to a mechanical result. The problem is stated in the form of a question, and the working out is largely a matter of statistics. Suppose, for example, the problem is set Whether does the American boy or the German boy spend more time in school during the year? As a matter of fact we all know perfectly well, before we start our investigation, that the German boy will come out ahead. Still, when a research has been instituted, and by a comparison of time-tables and school schedules it is found that the American boy spends from 900 to 1,000 hours in school each year, as against the German's 1,400 hours, and 185 to 200 school days as against the German's 270 school days,[1] we feel that we have made an advance.
Research, however, should risk a little more than this. It should include not only the collection of statistics, but the discovery of the meaning underlying the statistics. Suppose, for instance, that you have an essay prescribed to you on The Influence of School on Men who attain Distinction. You could, no doubt, make up your mind on the subject, and give a few examples that you happen to remember, so as to back up what you say. But here you have an excellent opportunity for a little bit of research. First of all you will look up all the books you happen to have of your own, dealing with the biographies of men of distinction. You will not re-read them, but merely glance at the introductory part in each case, to see what reference is made to their schools. After noting the results, you will next go to whatever reference library you have access to and consult many more books in this desultory way. Probably this will be all that you are able to do if the essay is an ordinary part of your work. You cannot afford more time. The results of even this small research will probably rather disquiet you, for you will likely find much less about the schools than you had expected. The effect of this should be to make you cautious in laying too much stress upon the influence of the school, for absence of evidence may in itself indicate a fact that you had not anticipated.
If now you had time and wanted to make a genuine research, you might arrange with some of your class-mates to go through a systematic search of the lives of great men. This could be done comparatively easily, since there is an important work, The Dictionary of National Biography that runs to twenty-two[2] volumes and contains over 30,000 biographies. If you and your friends divided up the volumes, you could arrange that each should be responsible for one volume. All that would be necessary is to examine the beginning of each of the biographies and note all those cases in which there is a direct reference to the school, noting further whether the reference is favourable to the school or not. In this way you would find the number of cases in which there is no reference to school at all, and the number in which there is such a reference as shows that the school has exercised either little influence, a good influence, or an evil influence on the great men. Such an investigation has not yet been made, so there is an opening to your hand for a cooperative research, that might lead to useful results.
At the present time there is a tendency to overrate research for its own sake. It is quite possible, with a good deal of patience, to discover the exact number of times the letter e is used in Hamlet. This is research: it is also waste of time. It is not justifiable even as an exercise, for the same practice could have been obtained in carrying out a research that, even if it does not reveal anything new, at least confirms what is already known, and makes the researcher realize what he knew before only in a vague way, and on the evidence of others. We all know in a general way that Milton uses a higher percentage of Latinized words than does Defoe. But if we take the trouble to select two thousand words consecutively from any part of the Areopagitica, and two thousand words consecutively from any part of Robinson Crusoe, and classify the words as (1) Latinized, (2) Saxon, and (3) those neither Latin nor Saxon in origin, we get a quantitative result from which we can say with greater exactness how the two vocabularies stand to one another. Results of this kind very often surprise the investigators: nearly always they suggest facts that had not before been suspected.
A particularly useful exercise at the early stages of your practice in research is the verification or testing of results obtained by others. The advantage of this exercise is that you have a sort of standard by which to judge whether you are keeping fairly near the truth. If your results are widely different from those of your predecessor, you have the alluring hunt for the big error you have made, with, of course, just the delightful possibility that the error was made by the other fellow.