Some years ago, a reader wrote me and said, “I canceled my subscription to National Review when there was too much untranslated French.” He added that, after a decent interval, he re-upped. My main thought was: What about all the untranslated Latin? (There is less of that, sadly, now.)
I thought of that reader the other day when I received a note — a note from a different reader complaining about some untranslated French. I had a Corner item (here) about the weather and our memories of it. There is a psychological element to our global-warming discussions and fears. And I quoted the poetical line, “. . . où sont les neiges d’antan?”
When to translate and when not to translate? It is always a matter of judgment, instinct, taste. You don’t want to befuddle the reader; at the same time, you don’t want to condescend to him. There are some words and phrases that are common and ingrained enough not to need translation or explanation. (The line quoted above means “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” and comes from the medieval balladeer Villon.) Those unfamiliar with these expressions can easily look them up. The very fact of non-translation signals, “This is something one ought to know. It is part of our cultural inheritance.” Certainly that is how I learned, from WFB and a thousand others.
I once had an editor who would not let you say “Beethoven.” He would rewrite, “Ludwig van Beethoven, a German composer of music who lived from 1770 to 1827 . . .” (I exaggerate just a little.)
Again, judgment. I would not translate “Autres temps, autres moeurs,” or “Que será será,” or “Gesundheit!” (Just kidding on that last one.) How about a call the other way? Depending on the publication, I might translate “il dolce far niente” (the fine art of doing nothing).
Auf wiedersehen (or, as a woman I used to know would say, “Our feet are the same”).