THE JUMPING FROG [written about 1865]
IN ENGLISH.THEN IN FRENCH.THEN CLAWED BACK INTO A CIVILIZED LANGUAGEONCE MORE BY PATIENT, UNREMUNERATED TOIL.
Even a criminal is entitled to fair play; and certainly when a man who has done no harm has been unjustly treated, he is privileged to do his best to right himself.My attention has just beep called to an article some three years old in a French Magazine entitled, 'Revue des Deux Mondes' (Review of Some Two Worlds), wherein the writer treats of "Les Humoristes Americaines" (These Humorist Americans).I am one of these humorists American dissected by him, and hence the complaint I am making.
This gentleman's article is an able one (as articles go, in the French, where they always tangle up everything to that degree that when you start into a sentence you never know whether you are going to come out alive or not).It is a very good article and the writer says all manner of kind and complimentary things about me--for which I am sure thank him with all my heart; but then why should he go and spoil all his praise by one unlucky experiment? What I refer to is this: he says my jumping Frog is a funny story, but still he can't see why it should ever really convulse any one with laughter--and straightway proceeds to translate it into French in order to prove to his nation that there is nothing so very extravagantly funny about it.Just there is where my complaint originates.He has not translated it at all; he has simply mixed it all up; it is no more like the jumping Frog when he gets through with it than I am like a meridian of longitude.But my mere assertion is not proof;wherefore I print the French version, that all may see that I do not speak falsely; furthermore, in order that even the unlettered may know my injury and give me their compassion, I have been at infinite pains and trouble to retranslate this French version back into English; and to tell the truth I have well-nigh worn myself out at it, having scarcely rested from my work during five days and nights.I cannot speak the French language, but I can translate very well, though not fast, I being self-educated.I ask the reader to run his eye over the original English version of the jumping Frog, and then read the French or my retranslation, and kindly take notice how the Frenchman has riddled the grammar.I think it is the worst I ever saw; and yet the French are called a polished nation.If I had a boy that put sentences together as they do, I would polish him to some purpose.Without further introduction, the jumping Frog, as I originally wrote it, was as follows [after it will be found the French version --(French version is deleted from this edition)--, and after the latter my retranslation from the French]
THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY [Pronounced Cal-e-va-ras]
In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W.Smiley, as requested to do, and Ihereunto append the result.I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W.
Smiley is a myth that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he on conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating reminiscence him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to me.If that was the design, it succeeded.
I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp Angel's, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance.He roused up, and gave me good day.I told him that a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W.Smiley--Rev.Leonidas W.Smiley, a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time resident of Angel's Camp.I added that if Mr.Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev.Leonidas W.Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him.
Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph.He never smiled he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle flowing key to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in 'finesse.' I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.
