the word’s worth: English trembles less than Russian

By Michele A. Berdy

Published: September 12, 2012 (Issue # 1726)

Ñòðàõ è òðåïåò: fear and trembling

I have a love-hate relationship with the word òðåïåò (trembling, quivering).

I love that the word catches and magnifies the smallest tremble or quiver in nature, like òðåïåò ëèñòüåâ (the trembling of leaves), òðåïåò çàíàâåñêè (the rustling of the curtains), or the old-fashioned òðåïåò ðåñíèö (flutter of eyelashes). When it is used to describe a person’s reaction to something, I love that it brings to the surface the most subtle emotions. It’s as if the language is so attuned to the world that it notices the passing of the slightest breeze and almost imperceptible human reactions. Or it’s as if Russians experience the most subtle emotions so intensely that they express them physically. Great stuff.

But I hate the word’s ambiguity. People can tremble out of fear, awe, reverence, joy or tenderness. Sometimes it’s clear what kind of trembling is going on because it’s spelled out: ß èñïûòûâàë ðàäîñòíûé òðåïåò (I trembled with joy.) But often I can’t figure out why someone is quivering, quaking, trembling or shuddering. Russians always seem to know. Is it because they understand the linguistic context better than I do, or they have broader historical knowledge, or they know more about the writer? I don’t know, but it drives me nuts.

In any case, because English speakers tremble and quiver a lot less than Russian speakers, òðåïåò is often translated by the emotion that causes it. ß âèäåëà, êàê ìîé òðèíàäöàòèëåòíèé ñûí ñïîêîéíî è áåçî âñÿêîãî òðåïåòà îáðàùàåòñÿ ñ ýòîé ìàøèíîé (I saw how my 13-year-old son dealt with the car calmly, without a hint of trepidation.) Ýòîò õóäîæíèê íå âûçûâàåò âî ìíå òðåïåòà (I’m not at all awed by that artist’s work.) Ìû ïîêëîíÿåìñÿ ñ òðåïåòîì è áëàãîäàðíîñòüþ Êðåñòó Ãîñïîäíþ (We bow down with reverence and gratitude before the holy cross.) Ïðåêðàñíî ïîìíþ, ñ êàêèì òðåïåòîì ÿ ïîñìîòðåëà ýòîò ìóëüòôèëüì â ïåðâûé ðàç (I remember how thrilled I was the first time I saw that animated film.) Ýòè ñîëäàòû âûçûâàëè òðåïåò ó ïðîòèâíèêà (Those soldiers made the enemy quake in horror.) Ñòàðóøêà ñ òðåïåòîì îòíîñèëàñü ê ýòîé ìàëåíüêîé, íåêðàñèâîé ñîáà÷êå (The old woman was so tender with that ugly little dog.)

But what about this: Íå èñïûòûâàÿ íèêàêîãî îñîáîãî òðåïåòà, ÿ ïðèø¸ë â óíèâåðñèòåò íà Ìîõîâîé. I came to the university on Mokhovaya Ulitsa without any particular … what? Fear? Excitement? Awe? Intimidation? Delight? Apprehension? Beats me. If I couldn’t get clarification from the rest of the text or an omniscient Russian speaker, I’d probably fudge it: I was pretty calm when I got into the university on Mokhovaya.

The verb to describe trembling is òðåïåòàòü. ß òðåïåòàëà ïðè ìûñëè î âñòðå÷å ñ íèì (I trembled at the thought of seeing him.) This shouldn’t be confused with the verb òðåïàòü (and its perfective forms ïîòðåïàòü, èñòðåïàòü), which has a variety of standard and slangy meanings. It can mean “cause something to tremble”: Âåòåð òðåïàë ëèñòüÿ (the wind fluttered the leaves). Or “bring disarray”: Îí ïîòðåïàë å¸ âîëîñû (He tousled her hair). Or “wear out”: Îí çà òðè ìåñÿöà èñòðåïàë íîâûå áîòèíêè (He wore out his new boots in three months.) Æèçíü åãî ïîòðåïàëà (Life wore him down.)

Òðåïàòü íåðâû is to get on someone’s nerves. Òðåïàòü ÿçûêîì is to blab. Ïîòðåïàòü ÷åëîâåêà is to beat someone up — what I want to do whenever I see òðåïåò in a text.

Michele A. Berdy, a Moscow-based translator and interpreter, is author of “The Russian Word’s Worth” (Glas), a collection of her columns.