A life in the day: Mary Hobson, translator
by Caroline Scott
You’ve got only one opportunity to be alive: for goodness’ sake don’t waste it waiting for an afterlife. Mary Hobson
Mary Hobson – (ur. 1926) uzyskała tytuł magistra filologii rosyjskiej kiedy była po 60 a doktorat kiedy miała 74 lata. W 1999 r. zdobyła złoty medal Puszkina za tłumaczenia. „Miałam 40 lat kiedy napisałam swoją pierwszą powieść, w wieku 62 lat poszłam na uniwerystet…”
W wywiadzie dla The Sunday Times z 2003 r. zatytułowanym „A life in the day” Mary Hobson opowiada historię swojego życia:
„I’ve started to learn ancient Greek. What a marvellous language for when you’re too old to go jumping across the world! It doesn’t urge you to communicate, only to learn, and I find the early hours of the morning the perfect time for that. I love ritual and routine. I suspect it’s an attempt to counterbalance the chaos in my head. I wait until 6am to have tea; at 7am I phone my youngest daughter and we start the day with a chat. At 7.30 I make breakfast — All-Bran, wholemeal toast and a pot of black coffee — and I take it back to bed along with the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius.
I am a dedicated atheist. I regard religion as complete lunacy. You’ve got one opportunity to be alive: for goodness’ sake don’t waste it waiting for an afterlife. It’s the single thing which drives me. I read Marcus Aurelius every day; it was his philosophy that got me through my son Matthew’s death four years ago in a motorcycle accident. Aurelius said: „What we cannot bear removes us from life; what lasts can be borne.” I hate waste of any sort, and Matthew’s death was such a waste. At first I would rather have been dead too, but then I thought: „No. I mustn’t do less. I must do more!”
I have almost nothing to wear because I throw away madly — I have to in my tiny flat. After a bath I spend the morning translating. A special committee was convened to organise the translation of the works of Pushkin for his centenary in 1999. Unpaid, of course. I’m an expert at working for nothing. Poor old Pushkin: some of his letters were scandalous. Really very rude indeed. How was he to know that, 200 years later, some old bat would be poring over every line?
I am what you might call a late developer. I was 40 before I wrote my first novel, 62 when I went to university. I brought the children up in a sort of „lifeboat situation”. My husband, Neil, was a talented set-designer and jazz musician, but at 25 he developed a cerebral abscess, losing his speech and the use of the right side of his body. It was hell for him and a nightmare for us. We were so broke, we lived on national assistance for ages and did everything that was free. The children and I used to swim in Brockwell Park Lido before 8am and go home via the free library. When things got really bad, I’d collect up old china and give it to them to smash out their frustrations on the wall outside.
I wrote my first novel while Neil had his weekly music therapy. That 50-minute session was all I had. I used to sit in the ABC cafe in Earls Court and write and write while couples had life-and-death quarrels around me. Neil was terribly difficult. None of it was his fault, of course, but after 28 years I thought: „It’s not my fault either.” I was going down with him. I left, and Matthew stayed with him for a whole year to stop me going back. I was so grateful for that.
Having snatched a bit of life back, I had to do something with it. My daughter Emma gave me War and Peace, and I loved it so much. Then it hit me: I hadn’t read it at all, I’d only read a translation, and I so longed to read the actual words. A marvellous elderly Russian lady taught me the basics and I enrolled on the Russian-language degree course at the University of London. People talk about „the time of their lives”. Well, that was mine. Don’t let anyone tell you your memory goes with age. It’s there if you want it enough. Gradually I forced it into action — it was such an exhilarating experience. Oh, the joy of learning!
I have such good friends. After a late lunch, I might go and play Scrabble with a Russian lady. I write poetry en route, on buses and trains. I love London. Give me the town over the country any day. I try to go to Moscow every year in the coldest weather. My Russian friends think I’m mad; it hits minus 40 and they find it hellish. I think I must have Russian blood after all. I adore lying in bed listening to snow being scraped from the pavements.
I have an overpowering feeling that I don’t want to waste any time. I’m sure it’s to do with atheism and acceptance of death, but it’s more than that. There’s so much out there. I won’t be able to get about for ever, so when I can’t stagger down my front steps I’ll perfect my Greek. I order my groceries on the internet, so I could have everything sent. As long as I have my books I’ll be happy.
If I’m not going out, I make supper and get into bed, simply because my feet are awful. Then I phone everyone I can think of. I can’t bear TV — it makes me feel as if everyone else is living and I’m only watching. I don’t have a newspaper; I get my news through Radio 4. I sleep rottenly, so I have it on all night. Dreams are horrendous. Mine are all about anxiety and loss; I’ve never had one I’m not glad to wake from. I much prefer the day — at least you know you’re in charge.”
źródło: „The Sunday Times”, November 30, 2003
