Miss Elizabeth Bennet was looking as proper as ever (if somewhat vexed) as she stood in front of the class. The first person to ask her about a brain specialist would most likely receive detention.

"I am pleased to see that all of you have survived our brush with danger, last week," she said solemnly. "For those of you who missed class, rest assured there was nothing terribly important. In the future, if we are under siege, please know that you have my express permission to skip class for your own personal safety."

"Two weeks ago," Miss Bennet continued, folding her hands behind her, "we read three different works and compared the influences working on each of them. Although, more properly, we only read the latter two works, and a small excerpt from the first. To refresh your memories, those were Canto XXVII of Dante's Inferno, T.S. Eliot's Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, and Octavio Paz's Blue Bouquet. Two poems and a short story. Although it may not be precise to say that we did read Canto XXVII. At least, not as it was written.

"In actuality, what we read was James Finn Cotter's translation of Dante's Inferno, as the work was written in Dante's native language, Italian. James Finn Cotter is hardly the only person to have translated Dante; in choosing which text to use in class, I might have selected Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's version, or the Reverend H. F. Cary's. I chose Cotter largely because his rendition seemed the clearest. It was possibly the least artistic, however, and I will confess, I've no real notion which would hew the closest to Dante's intent. Let us take a moment, then, to compare them.

"If you'll remember, the first six lines Cotter's translation went as such:

By this time the flame stood straight and still
With no more words and by now took its leave
With the permission of the gentle poet

When another, coming right behind it,
Forced us to turn our eyes toward its tip
Because of the scrambled sound it sputtered out.

"If you are wondering why the flame is standing and conversing with the narrator, the explanation was given in the previous Canto; I apologize for placing you mid-narrative in such a confusing manner. They are in the Eighth Circle of Hell, and these sinners are walking flames. That explained, the verse becomes quite clear: this particular flame has finished its tale -- one, no doubt, related in Canto XXVI -- and takes his leave, only to be replaced by another soul, hoping to confess his sins to Dante. The Inferno carries on in this manner: Dante and his guide, Virgil, proceed through Hell, meeting damned souls and hearing their transgressions.

"The summary for this initial part of Canto XXVII will stay the same for all versions of the work. The essential details will not change. But a summary isn't the same as a translation. Here we move on to Longfellow.

Already was the flame erect and quiet,
To speak no more, and now departed from us
With the permission of the gentle Poet;

When yet another, which behind it came,
Caused us to turn our eyes upon its top
By a confused sound that issued from it.

"The differences here are subtle. Longfellow and Cotter are expressing much the same sentiments, but with synonymous wording. 'Forced' against 'Caused.' 'Took its leave' as compared to 'departed from us.' And yet we are already seeing some small discrepancies. 'Scrambled' is not the same as 'confused,' and 'sputtered' has picturesque connotations that 'issued' does not carry. Translators, in taking a work to a new language, must make these decisions continuously. Is something 'large,' 'great,' 'grand,' or 'enormous'? Is the narrator 'happy,' 'content,' 'delighted,' 'ecstatic,' or 'glad'? Each word contains its own subtle shading. Furthermore, one needs to look at context. The scrambled sound it sputtered out has a bit of alliteration -- 'alliteration' is when several words all start with the same letter or sound -- and 'sound' and 'out' have similar vowel sounds, which makes for a far more pleasing result.

"And now we turn to Cary.

NOW upward rose the flame, and still’d its light
To speak no more, and now pass’d on with leave
From the mild poet gain’d, when following came
Another, from whose top a sound confus’d,
Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look.

"The essential actions have not changed; the current flame departs, and a new one arrives. But this new flame 'draws' our eyes, not 'forces.' The poet is no longer 'gentle' -- he is 'mild'. More striking is the fact that Cary has compressed those six lines to five. Longfellow and Cotter both keep the Cantos in three-line stanzas, throughout; for Cary, Canto XXVII begins as five lines, then twelve, then eleven, four, ten, three, seven, and so forth, with no discernible pattern. Cary appears to have placed the breaks where he felt they worked the best, narratively, as opposed to following Dante's lead.

"Translating a work is an arduous task at the simplest of times. This is to say nothing of the difficulties one finds when one language contains words or concepts that another simply does not possess. The German word schadenfreude means the pleasure one feels in the suffering or misfortune of others. It has largely been adopted in English because we have no concise equivalent. Many other words have not made this transition.

"Lastly, Dante's work is poetry, and one must wonder if poetry -- which emphasizes the lyrical choice of words, the flow and lilt, the art to the visual presentation as well as the sound when spoken aloud -- can ever truly retain its impact when translated. By necessity, the result cannot be the same. Whereas prose can largely keep its essence in another form, poetry is far more ephemeral. Having said that, if one believes that poetry can never cross linguistic boundaries, then one may not experience any poetry which did not originate in one's native tongue. Unless one intends to devote many years to mastering all known languages."

"One final note," she said, "not related to Dante, translations, or poetry at all: I would like for us to meet in the library next week, and not here."