The Frenchwoman Marie Vrinat-Nikolov, Bulgarian language scholar, translated Academician Vera Mutafchieva’s historical novel, ‘I, Anna Comnena’. It was the author’s last novel written before ‘the changes’ and was published in 1991.
To mark the 95th anniversary of the birth of the eminent Bulgarian writer and historian, Vera Mutafchieva, NEF ‘13 Centuries of Bulgaria’ invited Ms Vrinat-Nikolov to the literary evening it organised in the Prof. Vasil Gerov Hall on 28 March 2024.
Ms Vrinat was unable to attend, but kindly offered recollections of her first meeting with Vera Mutafchieva, memories of their long-standing friendship, and shared moments of her work on the translation and publishing of the novel.
Vera: ‘Inhabited by History’
I distinctly remember my first meeting with Vera in the summer of 1985. I was 25 years old. I was probably sent to her by Prof. Roger Bernard—they had been friends for years. I didn’t know then that I had met Vera a few months after the death of her daughter, Yana. Because I couldn’t easily find my way around the Iztok quarter (Latinka is a peculiar, confusing, street!), I arrived 10 minutes late. Vera, frowning slightly, remarked that a person who has an appointment, and in a foreign country at that, must always be on time… I said to myself, ‘Well, this acquaintance is off to a bad start.’ But after that we became close very quickly. I keep a photo of her that she gave me; on the back, it says: ‘To Marie—for our long and wonderful friendship. 26.12.2004, Vera’.
I often called in at her place, both while living in Bulgaria and whenever I came for a few days or weeks from Paris or Budapest. We used to sit in the kitchen, she would make me tea, and we talked for a long time. She used to address me as ‘Dushko’ [Dearie]. Naturally, we talked about literature, history… but also about politics. When it was not quite clear to me what was happening in Bulgarian political life, or when I wanted to understand issues relating to Bulgarian literature of the 1960s, I asked her first… it was fascinating to listen to her. Many words, rarer, outside colloquial language—I studied with her.
We also talked about the Ottoman heritage on the Bulgarian lands and about the clichéd and simplified way in which the five centuries of Ottoman rule were taught and passed on in Bulgaria. As an Ottomanist, she showed and maintained what the Balkans owed to the Ottoman Empire.
Of her books, I best like the novels ‘The Cem Case’, ‘Chronicle of the Time of Unrest’, and ‘I, Anna Comnena’. ‘The Cem Case’ was not her first novel, but it was the first written in an narrative form that was innovative for the time; published in 1966, it was, in my opinion, the first Bulgarian work to make a decisive break with Socialist Realism—the only ‘creative method’ recognised at the time, despite the winds of certain thawing. It largely reflects the thoughts of historian Vera Mutafchieva on history itself and the relationship between the person and history. The innovativeness of this book lies in the approach she took to conducting the narration and in the message, [which was] new for that time. The novel’s construct is that of a tribunal of history, before which more than ten direct witnesses of the case are summoned—minor characters from Cem’s close circle, such as the poet Saadi, whom he patronised, or his aunt; but also historical figures including Grand Vizier Nishanji Mehmed Pasha, and d’Aubusson, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller in Rhodes. We observe a genuine narrative polyphony where each recounter contributes his own voice, register, even language specificities, as in the case of Cem’s aunt. In fact, although Cem is the main character of the novel, present in the stories of all the narrators, he himself does not appear as a witness, which imparts a certain mysterious appeal to him. This structure also allows for a constant juxtaposition between past and present insofar as the summoned witnesses, long deceased, present to the reader their opinion of history, while their point of view (behind which stands the author) becomes contemporary with that of the reader (disguised behind [the formal mode of] addressing ‘you’, and having assumed the role of a panel of judges in the imaginary court). In this way, a true dialogue is established between past and present, and historical boundaries are erased.
Vera spoke of the obstacles that accompanied its publication; as often occurred before 1989, ‘The Cem Case’ was published thanks to the courage of the editor, Esto Vezenkov. Rejected by the official publishing house Balgarski pisatel [Bulgarian Writer], the manuscript was recommended by Esto Vezenkov to the Publishing House of the NC of FF [National Council of the Fatherland Front], which published it. Curiously, complications did not arise among the critics, who had become pretty cautious following the literary and political scandal in 1952–53 surrounding Dimitar Dimov’s novel, ‘Tobacco’, but from the university circles of historian-Ottomanists, to which Vera Mutafchieva herself also belonged. In fact, a rumour was spread among foreign (and mostly Western) scholars that the author had indulged in plagiarism. In 1967, the Commission refused to award her the Dimitrov Prize—a high honour given to a handful of artists. However, the rumours did not damage her prestige as a historian, nor did they harm the success of the book, which in a short time had been translated into Romanian, Russian, Czech, Polish, Italian, German, French; even now, in 2023, into English.
Curiously, there were also ‘peripeteias’ at work in the publication of my French translation of her last novel, ‘I, Anna Comnena’.
It is extremely rare for publishers to contact me to do a translation. Usually, I like a book and then the ordeal of finding publishers begins. But, in 1990, at a reception at the Bulgarian Embassy in Paris, the then ambassador Simeon Angelov and his wife (the late historian Zina Markova) introduced me to a publisher from Switzerland. She had already published two books—by Zhelyu Zhelev and Blaga Dimitrova. She wanted to publish ‘I, Anna Comnena’ in French; we even signed a contract. Unfortunately, the publishing house went bankrupt shortly after. However, I had begun working on the translation. I have very vivid recollections of this translation. When I was translating, I had the feeling that Vera was thinking in French when she wrote the book. At that time, there was still no Internet and I had to do much digging because, even though I had graduated in classical philology, I had to refresh my knowledge of Byzantine ranks, titles, the terminology of the 12th century, the infighting in Bulgarian history—and this is not my favourite period in Bulgarian history! Still, I could not find a publisher in France. Then Vera offered to publish it here, in Bulgaria. It was released by Anubis. Nevertheless, I hope that a publisher will still be found in France to print it.
‘I, Anna Comnena’ (1991) is also a historical novel that stands out from the rest of literary production since the beginnings of [Bulgarian] democracy, when in the euphoria of the only just rediscovered freedom of thought and speech, some Bulgarian writers, temporarily or permanently, abandoned fiction for opinion journalism or even for a high political post. As in ‘The Cem Case’, here too the structure is polyphonic and very ‘feminine’: the narrators are five women (Anna Comnena; her mother, Irina Doukaina; grandmother Anna Dalassene; her wet nurse, Zoe; and her maternal grandmother, Maria of Bulgaria, who only speaks once). Each of the narrators has her own language and register, which evolve as the plot itself develops (quite a big challenge for the translator): this is especially true of Zoe, a woman of the common people who, communicating with her mistress, enriches her language grammatically and lexically.
Both in ‘I, Anna Comnena’ and ‘The Cem Case’, historical boundaries are erased (the narrators often address the potential reader, establishing a dialogue between the living and the dead, the past and present; they even conduct a fictitious dialogue between themselves since they know exactly what each has said or will say later). It comes down to a playing with history: more than once, the fictitious Anna Comnena allows herself a critical, then ironic, then approving look at the work of the real Anna Comnena, the ‘Alexiad’, initiating a strange dialogue between the two. The text is interspersed with quotations from the ‘Alexiad’, commented by the narrator Anna Comnena. In my translation, in order to clearly separate the two interpenetrating texts, I used quotations from the French edition of the ‘Alexiad’.
Vera’s last undertaking, if I am not mistaken, was the compilation and publication of the volumes, ‘History Inhabited by People’. People interested her keenly; she was surrounded by many friends. She herself was inhabited by so much history, and stories…
Marie Vrinat-Nikolov
8.03.2024
Translation from Bulgarian by Nigrita Davies