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| Ernst, me, art and the history
of the world |
Caroline Mustill recalls the honour she felt
in being asked to help renowned historian Ernst Gombrich to translate
his children’s world history
A Little History of the World by Ernst Gombrich
Yale University Press, £14.99
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Caroline Mustill working with Ernst Gombrich at his home
A woodcut from the book of an early steamboat
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IN the summer of 1998, two black cabs drew up outside a unremarkable
small suburban house in Hampstead, north London.
Out stepped a delegation from the Italian city of Mantua, which,
led by the mayor, had come to bestow its laurels on the great art
historian, Professor Sir Ernst Gombrich, in recognition of his long
association with their city and as a tribute to his scholarly eminence.
The 89-year-old Gombrich was by then too frail to travel, and received
them in a room half-filled by his wife Ilse’s grand piano.
Ilse served tea from a small trolley; the mayor made his formal
presentation, cameras flashed and, to the delight of the delegation,
Sir Ernst responded in Italian, with an elegant and witty speech.
The legendary intellect and charm showed not a trace of age.
Three years earlier I had just completed a master’s degree
in Renaissance history when a friend rang me out of the blue to
ask if I would like to be Sir Ernst’s assistant.
My first reaction was one of surprise that the great man was still
alive. Naturally, I was honoured and delighted at the suggestion,
but I was also apprehensive: although I had read some of his writings,
back in the 1960s, I knew very little about art history.
What use could I be to him? I had heard that he didn’t suffer
fools gladly, and was afraid that I would be exposed as one in no
time. However, when I met him at his house, after eyeing me sharply,
he explained his predicament: for more than 30 years he had been
gathering material for a book about the changing nature of artistic
styles in Western art. Now time was running out, and this vast mass
of documents and papers needed organising. My computer offered a
way forward.
I soon discovered that, contrary to my fears, anyone who worked
for the Gombrich household was welcomed, just as they had been in
his parents’ home in Vienna.
At 86 Gombrich’s extraordinary intellect was still supported
by a memory which retrieved all information without effort. His
senses were similarly unimpaired.
Gombrich’s eye could still accurately compare an illustration
in a book with the remembered original. One of my first tasks was
to take a colour photograph to the Wallace Collection to check against
a painting: the green seemed to him a shade too yellow, as indeed
it was.
Four years later, in 2000, the completed manuscript of The Preference
for the Primitive went off to the publisher, and in between visits
to the Warburg Library for footnotes and illustrations there was
time at last for relaxation.
Gombrich’s earliest published work Eine Kurze Weltgeschichte
für Junge Leser (literally: A Brief World History for Young
Readers), written in the space of six weeks shortly after his graduation
in 1935, had never been translated into English, despite repeated
requests from its publisher; other work was always more pressing.
Now he decided the moment had come to write an English version,
with new chapters of interest to today’s young readers and
minor updates.
He explained to me how he had been commissioned to translate from
English a world history for children that was “unbelievably
awful”, and had accepted the publisher’s challenge to
produce something much better himself.
“To memorise a list of names and dates is hard and irksome;
remembering a story needs little effort,” he says in his preface
to the 16th-edition of The Story of Art. And so his history was
planned as a collection of stories that would be written in an entirely
new language, one far removed from the ponderous prose of school
history books of his day.
The new version began to take shape as he read the book, translating
into English and altering passages as he went to produce a rough
first draft. It was entertaining work with much discussion of “false
friends” (words which appear the same in two languages, but
in fact have different meanings) and other traps for the unwary.
He would try out each new chapter on the nurse who had now become
part of the Gombrich household, and was delighted by her genuine
enthusiasm.
“I think it’s really not bad!” he said as I arrived
one day for our session.
However, with the need for further work coinciding with a sudden
decline in his health it became clear that he would not finish the
translation. When he asked me if I would complete it I was deeply
moved, and honoured that he felt able to entrust it to me. Not long
afterwards, he died.
Further work on The Preference for the Primitive, which was published
posthumously, occupied me for some months. I worked together with
Gombrich’s much-loved granddaughter and literary executor.
Later, Leonie’s determination and commitment spurred me on
with the translation, and I was glad of her sure ear for her grandfather’s
vocabulary and turn of phrase. In the process I learnt a lot about
translation, and even more about world history and the art of the
historian.
But, above all, I was struck by how Gombrich at 26 was already the
man I had come to know at the end of his life; how deeply the principles
of tolerance and reason were engrained in him, how well he already
understood human nature, and how, despite all the horrors he was
to witness in his lifetime, he never allowed himself to lose hope.
I count it the greatest privilege to have known him. In my copy
of the Weltgeschichte he wrote: “For Caroline and children”.
Its English version will enable many more children, and adults too,
to enjoy these stories from history and draw comfort and inspiration
from the wisdom and humanity of this extraordinary man.
• Caroline Mustill is a historian who lives in Dartmouth
Park. |
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