To be honest, the best-known translations of Anna Karenina do not vary greatly in their broad sweeps. Switch editions and you're unlikely to get a whole new view of what Leo Tolstoy was generally getting at.

But your understanding of the great book's nuances, not to mention your simple reading enjoyment, can depend to some degree on finding the translation that matches your preferred style.

For example, one of the first acclaimed Tolstoy translators, Constance Garnett, was known to critics as being a fast worker, skimming nuance, skipping difficult passages, and even making minor mistakes. But there's a reason her 1901 translation of Anna Karenina was many readers' introduction to Tolstoy and is still still being read after more than a century. Her writing flows smoothly (more than Tolstoy's Russian?) and is heartfelt, making for engaging literature.

Translations of a passage compared △

The death of Anna Karenina in four English translations.

Garnett (1901)

And all at once she thought of the man crushed by the train the day she had first met Vronsky, and she knew what she had to do. With a rapid, light step she went down the steps that led from the tank to the rails and stopped quite near the approaching train.

She looked at the lower part of the carriages, at the screws and chains and the tall cast-iron wheel of the first carriage slowly moving up, and trying to measure the middle between the front and back wheels, and the very minute when that middle point would be opposite her.

"There," she said to herself, looking into the shadow of the carriage, at the sand and coal dust which covered the sleepers—"there, in the very middle, and I will punish him and escape from everyone and from myself."

She tried to fling herself below the wheels of the first carriage as it reached her; but the red bag which she tried to drop out of her hand delayed her, and she was too late; she missed the moment. She had to wait for the next carriage. A feeling such as she had known when about to take the first plunge in bathing came upon her, and she crossed herself. That familiar gesture brought back into her soul a whole series of girlish and childish memories, and suddenly the darkness that had covered everything for her was torn apart, and life rose up before her for an instant with all its bright past joys. But she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the second carriage. And exactly at the moment when the space between the wheels came opposite her, she dropped the red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her hands under the carriage, and lightly, as though she would rise again at once, dropped on to her knees. And at the same instant she was terror-stricken at what she was doing. "Where am I? What am I doing? What for?" She tried to get up, to drop backwards; but something huge and merciless struck her on the head and rolled her on her back. "Lord, forgive me all!" she said, feeling it impossible to struggle. A peasant muttering something was working at the iron above her. And the light by which she had read the book filled with troubles, falsehoods, sorrow, and evil, flared up more brightly than ever before, lighted up for her all that had been in darkness, flickered, began to grow dim, and was quenched forever.

Maude (1918)

Suddenly remembering the man who had been run over the day she first met Vronsky, she realized what she had to do. Quickly and lightly descending the steps that led from the water-tank to the rails, she stopped close to the passing train. She looked at the bottom of the trucks, at the bolts and chains and large iron wheels of the slowly-moving front truck, and tried to estimate the middle point between the front and back wheels, and the moment when that point would be opposite her.

"There!" she said to herself, looking at the shadow of the truck on the mingled sand and coal dust which covered the sleepers. "There, into the very middle, and I shall punish him and escape from everybody and from myself!"

She wanted to fall half-way between the wheels of the front truck, which was drawing level with her, but the little red handbag which she began to take off her arm delayed her, and then it was too late. The middle had passed her. She was obliged to wait for the next truck. A feeling seized her like that she had experienced when preparing to enter the water in bathing, and she crossed' herself. The familiar gesture of making the sign of the cross called up a whole series of girlish and childish memories, and suddenly the darkness, that obscured everything for her, broke, and life showed itself to her for an instant with all its bright past joys. But she did not take her eyes off the wheels of the approaching second truck, and at the very moment when the midway point between the wheels drew level, she threw away her red bag, and drawing her head down between her shoulders threw herself forward on her hands under the truck, and with a light movement as if preparing to rise again, immediately dropped on her knees. And at the same moment she was horror-struck at what she was doing. "Where am I? What am I doing? Why?" She wished to rise, to throw herself back, but something huge and relentless struck her on the head and dragged her down. "God forgive me everything!" she said, feeling the impossibility of struggling. ... A little peasant muttering something was working at the rails. The candle, by the light of which she had been reading that book filled with anxieties, deceptions, grief and evil, flared up with a brighter light, lit up for her all that had before been dark, crackled, began to flicker, and went out for ever.

Edmonds (1954)

In a flash she remembered the man crushed by the train on the day she had first met Vronsky, and she knew what she must do. Quickly, with a light step, she went down the steps leading from the water-tank to the line and stopped close beside the passing train. She looked at the bottom of the trucks, at the screws and chains and the great iron wheels of the slowly moving first truck, and with her eye tried to measure the distance between the front and back wheels, and the exact moment when the midpoint would be opposite her.

"There," she said to herself, looking in the shadow of the truck, at the mixture of sand and coal dust which covered the sleepers. "There, in the very middle, and I shall punish him and escape from them all and from myself."

She wanted to fall half-way between the wheels of the front truck which was drawing level with her. But the red bag which she began to pull from her arm delayed her, and it was too late: the truck had passed. She must wait for the next. A sensation similar to the feeling she always had when bathing, before she took the first plunge, seized her and she crossed herself. The familiar gesture brought back a whole series of memories of when she was a girl, and of her childhood, and suddenly the darkness that had enveloped everything for her lifted, and for an instant life glowed before her with all its past joys. But she did not take her eyes off the wheels of the approaching second truck. And exactly at the moment when the space between the wheels drew level with her she drew aside the red bag and drawing her head down between her shoulders dropped on her hands under the truck, and with a slight movement, as though she would rise again at once, sank on her knees. At that same instant she became horror-struck at what she was dong. "Where am I? What am I doing? Why" She tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and relentless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back. "God forgive me everything!"" she murmured, feeling the impossibility of struggling. A little peasant muttering something was working at the rails. And the candle by which she had been reading the book filled with trouble and despair, sorrow or evil, flared up with a brighter light, illuminating for her everything that before had been enshrouded in darkness, flickered, grew dim and went out forever.

Pevear and Volokhonsky (2000)

And suddenly, recalling the man who had been run down by the train the day she first met Vronsky, she realized what she had to do. Quickly and lightly she descended the steps that led from the water-tank to the rails, and stopped close to the passing train. She looked at the lower part of the trucks, at the bolts and chains and the tall iron wheels of the first truck slowly moving up, and tried to measure the point midway between the front and back wheels, and the exact moment when it would be opposite her.

"There!" she said to herself, looking into the shadow of the car, at the sand and coal dust mixed on the sleepers. "There, to the midpoint, and I will punish him and escape from everyone and from myself."

She wanted to fall under the first car, which had drawn even with her. But the red bag, which she began to take off her arm, delayed her, and it was too late: the midpoint had passed her by. She had to wait for the next car. A feeling came over her like the one she experienced when preparing to go into the water while bathing, and she crossed herself. The familiar gesture of the sign of the cross called up in her soul a whole series of girlish and childhood memories, and suddenly the darkness that covered everything for her broke, and life appeared to her for a moment with all its bright past joys. But she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the approaching second car. And exactly at the moment when the midpoint between the wheels came opposite her, she threw aside the red bag and, drawing her head into her shoulders, fell under the car on her hands and with a light movement, as if preparing to get up at once, sank to her knees. And at the same moment she was horrified at what she was doing. "Where am I? What am I doing? Why?" She wanted to rise, to throw herself back, but something huge and implacable struck her on the head and dragged her over. "Lord, forgive me all!" she said, feeling the impossibility of struggling. A little muzhik, muttering something, was working at the iron. And the candle by which she had been reading the book filled with anxieties, deceptions, grief, and evil flared up with a brighter light than ever, lit up for her all that had once been in darkness, sputtered, grew dim, and went out forever.

One drawback of her work though is that she falls into Victorian-era phrasing. However, some modern Garnett editions update her language while keeping her fluid style.

On the other hand the 1918 translation by Louise and Aylmer Maude has long been praised for its precision and attention to detail. The Maudes were friends of Tolstoy who discussed translation with them. The result is one of the most respected English translations of Anna Karenina (and my own choice). You may find it in the Oxford World's Classics series.

Both critically and popularly acclaimed is the 1954 translation of Rosemary Edmonds which aims for a balance between Garnett's readability and the Maude's accuracy. Most prominently featured in Penguin Classics editions (the version I cut my Tolstoyan teeth on), its faithfulness to the original work combined with a certain flair of the translator's own made Edmonds's translation widely read in the mid to late twentieth century—and it still has its admirers.

More recently the American and Russian-born couple of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky won the PEN Translation Prize for their 2000 translation of Anna Karenina. I haven't done more than dip a toe into it but the work's been praised for its unstinting accuracy. However, their overly-literal approach can also result in a certain flat tone, missing the author's implications, some reviewers have claimed.

— Eric

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