Caesar is mortal...

Probably the most famous, most quoted extended passage from Ivan. And probably the most powerful. My translation maintains the parallel constructions better than the Maudes', and it also preserves Ivan's inner dialog's almost petulant, certainly childish, tone -- the "it's not fair" attitude.

That example of a syllogism that he’d learned in Kiesewetter’s Logic: Caesar is a man, people are mortal, therefore Caesar is mortal—had seemed to him his entire life to be correct only in relation to Caesar, but not at all to him. That was Caesar-man, general man, but Ivan had always been a being quite, quite distinctive from all others: He was Vanya with mommy and daddy, with Mitya and Volodya, with the toys, the coachman, the nanny, then with little Katya, with all the happiness, adversities, and delights of childhood, boyhood and youth. Could it have been for Caesar, the smell of the leather striped ball that Vanya had so loved? Could Caesar have kissed his mother’s hand that way, and could the silk of the folds of mother’s dress have rustled so for Caesar? Could he have rioted about the pastries at Law School? Could Caesar have been so in love? Could Caesar conduct a session that way?

And Caesar is certainly mortal, and it’s all right for him to die, but for Vanya, for Ivan Ilych, with all of my emotions and feelings, for me it’s an entirely different thing. And could not be that that I ought to die. That would be too awful.

Four translations...

Tolstoy's style is really inimitable. It is deceptively simple, not relying on eloquence but instead on very carefully chosen words. His similes are often long and awkward. His metaphors (as in this passage below) rely less on similarity and more on emotive impact. (Dying is like being thrust in a dark sack, and death is like breaking through the bottom of the sack into a new place. This passage is one of my favorites because it so effectively conveys terror before death.)

Tolstoy hardly ever writes "poetically" -- he's repetitious, for instance, intentionally using the same word or derivatives over and over again in the same sentence and paragraph. Most translators "dress him up," substituting synonyms for repeated words, or by making his sentences more complex than they are in the original. Sometimes Tolstoy is just plain awkward or blunt or even rude, and one must resist the temptation to bowdlerize him or smooth the rough edges.

Since all translations are approximations and capitulations, it's easy to pick apart others' work. The ones I give below (Maudes, Solotaroff, Wiener) are all fine, but they contain (in my view) errors major and minor: They all fail, for instance, to preserve the tense shift (from past to present and back to past). None (save Wiener's) captures the full meaning of the verb просунуть, a highly specific verb that means thrust through to the other side (совать насквозь: он с трудом просунул руку в отверстие). Solotaroff gets it really wrong: It's not the bag he fears and desires, but ripping through the bag into... into whatever is on the other side of the bag. None of the translations convey very effectively Ivan's reaction, upon awakening, to the fact that things haven't changed, that his being-near-to-death has had no effect on the world.

I've given the Russian, followed by my translation, and then others'.
***
Original Russian: Часов до трех он был в мучительном забытьи. Ему казалось, что его с болью суют куда-то в узкий черный мешок и глубокий, и все дальше просовывают, и не могут просунуть. И это ужасное для него дело совершается с страданием. И он и боится, и хочет провалиться туда, и борется, и помогает. И вот вдруг он оборвался и упал, и очнулся. Все тот же Герасим сидит в ногах на постели, дремлет спокойно, терпеливо. А он лежит, подняв ему на плечи исхудалые ноги в чулках; свеча та же с абажуром, и та же непрекращающаяся боль.

- Уйди, Герасим, - прошептал он.

- Ничего, посижу-с.

- Нет. Уйди.

Он снял ноги, лег боком на руку, и ему стало жалко себя. Он подождал только того, чтоб Герасим вышел в соседнюю комнату, и не стал больше удерживаться и заплакал, как дитя. Он плакал о беспомощности своей, о своем ужасном одиночестве, о жестокости людей, о жестокости Бога, об отсутствии Бога.
***

My translation: Until three o’clock he was in tortuous oblivion. It seemed to him that something is thrusting him and his pain somewhere into a narrow black bag, a deep one, and no matter how deeply it pushes, it cannot push all the way through. And this situation, awful for him, is accompanied by agony. And he both fears and desires falling through to there, he both struggles and helps. And suddenly he recoiled, fell, and awoke. And still Gerasim sits at the foot of the bed, dozing peacefully and patiently, while he lies with his emaciated legs in stockings resting upon Gerasim’s shoulders. And still the same candle with a shade and still the same unceasing pain.

“Go, Gerasim,” he whispered.

“It’s no trouble. I’ll sit for a while, sir.”

“No, go.”

He removed his legs, lay on his side, and began to pity himself. He waited until Gerasim had left into the next room, and then lost restraint and cried like a babe. He cried about his helplessness, about his terrible loneliness, about the cruelty of people, about the cruelty of God, about the absence of God.
***

Louise and Aylmer Maude: Till about three in the morning he was in a state of stupefied misery. It seemed to him that he and his pain were being thrust into a narrow, deep black sack, but though they were pushed further and further in they could not be pushed to the bottom. And this, terrible enough in itself, was accompanied by suffering. He was frightened yet wanted to fall through the sack, he struggled but yet co-operated. And suddenly he recoiled, fell, and regained consciousness. Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the bed dozing quietly and patiently, while he himself lay with his emaciated stockinged legs resting on Gerasim’s shoulders; the same shaded candle was there and the same unceasing pain.

“Go away, Gerasim,” he whispered.

“It’s all right, sir. I’ll stay a while.”

“No. Go away.”

He removed his legs from Gerasim’s shoulders, turned sideways onto his arm, and felt sorry for himself. He only waited till Gerasim had gone into the next room and then restrained himself no longer but wept like a child. He wept on account of his helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of man, the cruelty of God, and the absence of God.

***

Lynee Solotaroff: Until about three in the morning he was in an agonizing delirium. It seemed to him that he and his pain were being thrust into a narrow black sack—a deep one—were thrust farther and farther in but could not be pushed to the bottom. And this dreadful business was causing him suffering. He was afraid of that sack, yet wanted to fall through; struggled, yet cooperated. And then suddenly he lost his grip and fell—and regained consciousness. Gerasim was still sitting at the foot of the bed, dozing quietly, patiently, while Ivan Ilyich lay with his emaciated, stockinged feet on his shoulders. The same shaded candle was there and the same incessant pain.

“Go, Gerasim,” he whispered.

“It’s all right, sir. I’ll stay awhile.”

“No, go.”

He lowered his legs, turned sideways with his arm nestled under his cheek, and began to feel terribly sorry for himself. He waited until Gerasim had gone into the next room, and then, no longer able to restrain himself, cried like a baby. He cried about his helplessness, about his terrible loneliness, about the cruelty of people, about the cruelty of God, about the absence of God.

Wiener: Until about three o’clock he was in agonizing oblivion It seemed to him that he with his pain was being shoved somewhere into a narrow, black, and deep bag, and shoved farther and farther, without coming out of it. And this terrible act was accompanied by suffering. And he was afraid, and wanted to go through the bag, and fought, and helped along. And suddenly he tore away, and fell, and woke up. The same Geráaim was sitting at his feet on the bed, drowsing calmly and patiently. But Ivan Ilich was lying his emaciated, stockinged feet resting on Gerásim’s shoulders, and there was the same candle with the shade, and the same uninterrupted pain.

“Go away, Gersim,” he whispered.

“Never mind, sir, I will sit up.”

No, go.”

He took off his feet, and lay down sidewise on his arm and began to feel pity for himself. He just waited for Gerasim to go to the adjoining room, and no longer restrained himself, but burst out into tears, like a child.

He wept on account of his helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of men, the cruelty of God, the absence of God.