Michele Berdy - October columns
Where oh where have I been?! I don't know!Где же я была?! Я не знаю!
Here are all of Michele's Moscow Times columns for the month of October....starting with the most recent, so that they will appear on the blog in the usual (backward) order.
Enjoy!
Friday, October 27, 2006. Issue 3528.
The Sounds of Silence -- German Style
By Michele A. Berdy
Немецкая слобода: the Foreign Quarter (a section of old Moscow)
One of the joys of Russian 101 is learning how to form nouns for people out of the names of their countries. Англия -- англичанин (England -- Englishman), Америка -- американец (America -- American), Франция -- француз (France -- Frenchman) ... Just when you think you've got the hang of it, the teacher says: Германия (Germany) and you cheerfully produce "германец," only to discover that, once again, you've been foiled by the Great and Powerful Wizard of Russian.
So how did Germans come to be called немцы in Russian? Simple: long, long ago, there was a word in old Russian that meant "unable to speak." When the first foreigners appeared, nattering away in their language and unable to speak a word of Russian, Russians logically applied this word to them.
Немцы was a kind of generic term that originally referred to all foreigners from Western Europe. Неметчина ("land of the Nemtsy") didn't really mean Germany; it meant "foreign lands to the West." Немецкое платье -- which sounds like "a German dress" -- meant Western European clothing (for men or women). And in Moscow немецкая слобода wasn't really the "German quarter" (although there were plenty of Germans who lived there), but more accurately "the foreign quarter."
Similarly, the expression что русскому здорово, то немцу смерть (today literally "what is healthy for a Russian is death to a German") first referred to foreigners in general. In English we usually say "one man's meat is another man's poison" -- which is what virtually all foreigners say in astonishment the first time they try a scalding hot баня, or steam bath. Well, maybe we aren't quite that polite or literate. Sometimes we say: Гены у них другие, что ли? (Do they have different genes or what?)
Over time the old word for немец got split into немец as foreigners/Germans and немой as "mute, unable to speak." The verb неметь can mean to lose the power of speech either literally -- больной немеет (the patient is losing the ability to speak) -- or figuratively from fear or horror: Я онемел от ужаса. (I was speechless with horror.)
The adjective немой can be used poetically in rather lovely phrases like немая ночь (silent night) or немая печаль (wordless sorrow). It can also be used less lyrically: Он глух и нем к просьбам, не хочет слышать и не отвечает. (He is deaf and mute to requests; he doesn't want to hear them and doesn't answer.) You also hear it in a little rhyme on table manners for children: Когда я ем, я глух и нем! (literally, "when I eat, I'm deaf and mute"). In the United States we hear a different dinner table litany: Don't talk with your mouth full!
Неметь is also the verb you use to describe something that has lost feeling or gone numb. In Russian, limbs lose the power of speech; in English, they take a snooze: Я отсидел ногу, и она онемела. (I sat on my leg too long and it fell asleep.)
Russia has always had a large German population, reflected in hundreds of depictions of Germans in Russian literature. Although the image of Germans is varied, the adjectives mostly frequently applied to them are честные (honest), основательные (thorough), and above all -- аккуратные (precise, exact). Несмотря на то, что сам человек русский, он хочет быть аккуратен, как немец. (Despite the fact that he's Russian, he wants to be as meticulous as a German.)
Today we like to think we are above such gross stereotypes as tidy Germans, sloppy Russians and mute foreigners. But before you get on a cultural high horse, you might recall the word that was once commonly used in English to describe a mute person: "dumb." People with speech impairments needed to point out that the inability to speak was not a sign of a lack of intelligence before that linguistic stereotype started to disappear.
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Friday, October 20, 2006. Issue 3523.
Talking About People From Over There
By Michele A. Berdy
Заморские гости: foreigners, visitors from beyond the seas
The very first time an ancient Slav looked out of his wooden hut and saw someone -- or a group of someones -- dressed differently and speaking a language he didn't understand, he needed to invent a new word. How else could he describe these newcomers to the gang at the local watering hole? Over the centuries, Russians have used a variety of words to describe foreigners and foreign lands.
Now, now, children; play nice. Most of these neutral words use either the prefix ино- (other) or за- (beyond). A good old adjective is заморский (literally, from beyond the seas), which today is used either to conjure up images of fairy tale or fantastical lands -- associated in the Russian imagination with Nikolai Roerich's lovely canvas "Заморские гости" ("Visitors from Beyond the Seas") -- or to describe neutrally a country's overseas territories. You know you are being hyped when a restaurant offers you заморские деликатесы (gourmet foods from lands beyond the seas) -- and you know you ought to check your cash supply before ordering. On the other hand, заморские владения Франции are simply the French Overseas Territories.
Sometimes journalists and PR folks play around with these associations and you can find humorous combinations, such as a firm that advertises itself as Заморские гости: аудит и консалтинг (Visitors From Beyond the Seas: Auditing and Consulting). Sometimes I like to joke around with this myself. When people ask me, Вы не гость из Прибалтики? (Are you a visitor from one of the Baltic states?) I tell them, Нет, я -- заморский гость. (No, I'm a visitor from beyond the seas.)
Other за- words have been made from рубеж and граница (both meaning border or boundary) to produce зарубежье and заграница and the adjectives зарубежный and заграничный. As adjectives they are usually translated as "foreign" and as nouns -- "abroad." Since the break up of the Soviet Union, the concept of "abroad" has been further defined as "ближнее и дальнее зарубежье," which translators have taken to rendering as "the near and far abroad." To which I respond: Say what? "The" abroad? Even my spell checker is having a heart attack.
Ближнее зарубежье simply means the former Soviet republics. So sayeth the Moscow State University Department of Geography, and that's gospel for me. Дальнее зарубежье is every place else. So наши представители в ближнем и дальнем зарубежье is quite simply "our representatives in the former Soviet republics and other foreign countries." Yes, I know this is a few more words, but come on, folks, it's at least English and comprehensible, two highly desirable qualities in a translation.
Now that I've gotten that off my chest, let's move on to the ино- foreigners. The old word инородец (literally, someone of another clan) was the word used in Tsarist times to describe ethnic minorities, especially from the East. Today this word can be used neutrally to describe non-Russians, but I have found it used pejoratively on web sites you don't want to read and I don't want to quote. I've mentally marked it as a word I should use with great care.
Another word for a foreigner is выходец (literally, someone who has come from): В центре Москвы убит выходец из Киргизии. (A man from Kyrgyzstan was killed in the center of Moscow.) It can be used to describe any kind of professional or personal origin: Он христианин, выходец из семьи арабских иммигрантов. (He's a Christian from a family of Arab immigrants.)
Иноземец (literally, someone from another land) is archaic and has been replaced by иностранец (literally, someone from another country). Kids call foreign countries за бугром (literally "beyond the hillock") -- something like the American reference to Europe as "on the other side of the pond." In their slang, people and things foreign are забугорные.
Which I guess makes me a hillbilly.
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Friday, October 13, 2006. Issue 3518.
It's Awkward in Everyone's Language
By Michele A. Berdy
Соболезнования: condolences
It is always hard to find words of sympathy. Everything seems heinously banal or inappropriately personal, overly formal or far too colloquial. You wish to commiserate but fear you are imposing; you want to offer support and comfort, but worry you may be causing more anguish. Regardless of nationality, we all struggle in our own languages to find the "right words." And it is even harder when we struggle to find the right words in a foreign language and culture, where we risk saying something that is inappropriate or even insulting.
In Russia, as in English-speaking countries, culture has given us a helping hand, providing us with a number of standard phrases and words. They may be somewhat ritualized, but at least we know they are culturally appropriate.
In Russian, as in English, one tactfully tries not to use the word смерть (death). Instead you might say or write: Я слышал, что у вас большое горе/несчастье (I heard that you have suffered a deep sorrow/misfortune.) Or: Вы понесли большую утрату. (I was sorry to hear of your great loss.) In a letter of condolence you might write formally: Вас постигла тяжёлая утрата. (I was sorry to hear of your terrible loss.) Or acknowledge that the loss was irreplaceable: Меня опечалила новость о вашей невосполнимой потере. (I was saddened to hear of your irreparable loss.)
The most common and appropriate expression of sympathy in Russian is an offer of your condolences: Примите мои глубокие соболезнования. (Please accept my deepest sympathy.) Or you could say: Я хотел бы выразить свои искренние соболезнования. (I would like to extend my sincere condolences.) There is also a verb, соболезновать (literally "to grieve together with"), but it is very rarely used, even in formal correspondence: Я вам соболезную. (I offer you my condolences.)
Unfortunately, you can't easily say in Russian what we most commonly say in English: I'm sorry. In English it conveys profound regret over what has happened and a sense of shared pain and grief. In English-language films badly translated into Russian, you can hear the travesty of "Извините" for "I'm sorry," which either sounds as if the person is apologizing for the death or asking to be excused from the room: -- В прошлом году мой муж умер. -- Извините. (-- Last year my husband died. -- Excuse me.) The closest way to express this in Russian is Я вам сочувствую от всей души (I want to say how sorry I am from the bottom of my heart, literally, "I sympathize with all my soul"). You could also say: Мне так жаль (I'm so regretful), but since you could use this in Russian for misfortunes of far less magnitude, it usually sounds woefully inadequate.
If you want to let someone know that you share their grief, you might say: Я очень переживаю за вас. (I'm so distressed for you.) Or the formal: Я разделяю вашу печаль. (I share your sorrow.) Or the very formal: Я скорблю вместе с вами. (I mourn with you.) Theoretically, you could also say: Я понимаю ваше горе (I understand your grief), but Russians -- like English-speakers -- hesitate to say this, recognizing that grief and loss cannot ever be truly shared or understood.
In Russian, it is appropriate to simply express horror or sadness. Какое горе! (What a tragedy.) Как печально! (This is so sad.) Какая ужасная потеря! (What a terrible loss.). Or you might commiserate by sharing your own feelings: Я не могу в это поверить. (I can't believe it.)
If you are sure this would be appropriate, you might say: Я молюсь за вас. (I pray for you.) Or you can simply confess that words fail you: Я не могу найти слов утешения. (I can't find words of comfort.)
Perhaps the most common Russian expression of commiseration, and the most welcome, is also the most simple: Чем я могу вам помочь? (How can I help you?)
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Friday, October 6, 2006. Issue 3513.
Moscow's Fall Is a Women's Summer
By Michele A. Berdy
Бабье лето: Indian summer
Judging by literature and poetry, Russians are of two minds about autumn (осень). Or maybe there are just two kinds of Russian autumn. There's the good kind, which is described as ясная (clear), яркая (bright), светлая (light) and золотая (golden). It's golden because the Russian forests are filled with birches and aspens, although for climatic or botanical reasons that elude me, even the maple leaves in Moscow usually turn yellow and not orange or red.
If you like the fall, you're in good company. The poet Alexander Pushkin famously preferred autumn to all the other seasons: Сказать вам откровенно/Из годовых времён я рад лишь ей одной (To tell you honestly/Of all the seasons this one alone brings me joy). Not to mention millions of Russian peasants: With the brutally hard work in the fields over and plenty of food, the fall was a bountiful and restful time of year, marked by particularly festive church holidays. Осень -- пора престольных праздников, и народ в это время прибран, доволен. (Autumn is a time of saint's days, and during this season people are tidy and content.)
But the bad kind of Russian autumn is very bad indeed, and citified Russian writers have found it profoundly depressing. The bad autumn is мокрая (wet), сырая (damp), унылая (dreary), туманная (foggy), грустная (sad), тоскливая (depressing), безжалостная (cruel) ... дожди студёные и грязь чуть не по колено (the rain is freezing and the mud is nearly up to your knees). Once Maxim Gorky dourly noted: Осень была ранняя, дождлива, холодна, богата болезнями и самоубийствами. (Autumn was early, rainy, and cold, rich in illness and suicides.)
Осень doesn't have such good associations with Russian city folk today. Осеннее настроение (an autumnal mood) is a feeling of melancholy and hopelessness. Or someone might sigh any time of the year: У меня осень в душе (There's autumn in my soul). Осеннее обострение (literally, "fall flare ups") refers to the purported tendency for the mentally unstable to get totally unhinged this time of year. Today, this phrase is used in newspaper stories describing a worsening of any kind of situation that happens to take place in the fall: Осеннее обострение в Тбилиси. Между Россией и Грузией разразился нешуточный скандал. (Autumn relapse in Tbilisi: A serious row has erupted between Russia and Georgia.)
This year, at least, Muscovites can't complain too much. So far we've had the good kind of autumn with one of the longest and warmest periods of бабье лето (Indian summer) on record. The phrase бабье лето (literally, "women's summer") is understood as any period of warm and sunny days after the first cold snap in the fall, or (less commonly) the time just before old age when a woman regains the vibrancy and beauty of youth.
Why it is called бабье лето seems to be a bit of a linguistic mystery. One source posits that it referred to the period of "women's work" after the harvest, when the village women spent relatively relaxed days and evenings preserving the harvest and weaving cloth. Another source cites the belief that women could magically change the weather, turning cold autumn days unseasonably warm. Yet a third etymologist -- with a lyrical nature -- notes that бабье лето is the fine spider's web that covers the fields and woods before a dry autumn and is reminiscent of a woman's first strands of gray hair. And a fourth states that the phrase came from the image of sun that could warm even a crone's bones, and notes that it originally referred to the hottest time of year in early June.
Today's folk and joke etymologists have a different explanation: Какие бабы, такое и лето. (With these kinds of women, we get this kind of summer.)
Well, that's a cheering thought. Apparently this year the women in Moscow are fabulous.
Michele A. Berdy is a Moscow-based translator and interpreter.
posted by Kate @ 11:55 AM
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