Who completed "Eugene Onegin"?
A ceremonial meeting at the House of Writers in Moscow dedicated to the presentation Pushkin Prize for the best literary work of 2010.
Speaker: Laureate Literary Prize named after A.S. Pushkin,
Doctor philological sciences Elena Nikolaevna Sokolova.
She was leisurely
Not cold, not talkative,
Without an insolent look for everyone,
Without pretensions to success,
Without these little antics,
No imitative ideas...
Everything was quiet, it was just there,
She seemed like a sure shot
Du comme il faut... (Shishkov, forgive me:
I don't know how to translate.)
All the respected audience in this hall, of course, remembers the lines of the eighth chapter of “Eugene Onegin”
This is a description of the appearance of Tatiana, the princess, at the ball, which Onegin accidentally attended.
This entire passage does not cause anyone the slightest doubt about its understanding.
No riddles, sometimes found in the poetry and prose of A.S. Pushkin.
I, too, had no doubts about my understanding of this text for years.
And suddenly...
I accidentally came across an article about the first attempts at photography in the early 19th century.
Here she is:
The first ever photo of people has been found.
07.11 01:47 MIGnews.com
The world's first photographic subjects were an unknown Frenchman and a shoe shine boy.
These unknown people accidentally entered the history of world photography. The photograph of a man having his shoes shined by a boy was taken by photography pioneer Louis Daguerre in 1838 on the Boulevard du Temple in Paris.
The photograph was taken by Daguerre using daguerreotype, an early method of photography that requires painstaking processing of a silver-plated plate to form an image, the Daily Mail reports.
“This is a view of the Boulevard du Temple in Paris,” wrote blogger Gig Thurmond, who was the first to notice the human figures in the photo.
At the time the photo was taken, traffic on the boulevard must have been quite busy. Only the man and the boy were reflected in the photograph. After all, they were the only ones who stayed in place long enough.
"To achieve such an image (this was one of his first attempts), Daguerre opened a chemically treated metal plate for 10 minutes. Other people that day passed or rode in carriages, but since they were moving, they were not visible," explains blogger.
"This anonymous, dim figure is the first living thing to be photographed, and a very faint image of a cleaner bent over his work," he wrote.
This photograph was preceded by more primitive forms of photography. The first time-lapse photograph was taken in 1826 by Joseph Nicéphore Niepce using a mixture of silver and chalk that darkened when exposed to light.
Instead of chalk, Daguerre treated a silver-coated copper plate with iodine. To “develop” the image, he exposed it to mercury vapor and heat.
The image obtained through this method was much clearer, and therefore daguerreotype became the first popular method of photography.
"Eugene Onegin" was written by Pushkin in 1823 - 1831.
It is also known that Alexander Sergeevich wrote a “novel in verse” not chronologically, proceeding from beginning to end, but as the “free whim of inspiration” told him.
The first photographs, which were taken only in France, have not yet reached Russia. And those that achieved it were immediately called “daguerreotypes.”
The word “photography” simply did not exist in the Russian language at that time!
And the word “photograph” was also missing.
That's what puzzled me. For us, the words “It seemed like the right shot” are obvious TODAY:
Tatyana seemed to be a true photograph of “decency, integrity”, an antonym of vulgarity, which Pushkin writes about in the next stanza.
(I note that Pushkin should have written: “She seemed like the right shot,” and not “The right shot”)
Thus, the whole mystery is that Pushkin could not have heard about photographs in those years, and if he had heard, then, as I already said, they were called daguerreotypes!!!
It follows that some of the lines from the last eighth chapter were not written by Pushkin, but later!
By whom? So far I find it difficult to answer this question.
A photograph as a cast, a print (meaning a photograph) did not exist then.
But there is another meaning of the word “snapshot” - in Siberia this was the name for the top layer of cream on milk! “Skim the cream,” in Siberia this skimmed cream was called “snapshot or snapshots.”
That is, we can assume that it was Pushkin who wrote this chapter,
but the meaning of the word was different!
Tatyana was “the cream of integrity and decency”!
One more question: How did Pushkin know about the “Siberian” name for skim cream?
Let us not forget that many of his friends were exiled to Siberia. Decembrists!
They wrote letters to Pushkin, to which he, however, did not respond for obvious reasons of personal safety.
(His famous “In the depths of the Siberian ores...” was never sent to his friends!)
But from their letters he learned about the “snapshot” and described Tatyana this way!
Thank you for attention.
Stormy, prolonged applause.
Hello dears.
We continue to enjoy Pushkin’s wonderful lines with you. Last time we stopped here:
So...
Becoming the subject of noisy judgments,
Unbearable (agree with that)
Among prudent people
To be known as a pretend eccentric,
Or a sad madman,
Or even my Demon.
Onegin (I’ll take up him again),
Having killed a friend in a duel,
Having lived without a goal, without work
Until twenty-six years old,
Languishing in idle leisure
Without work, without wife, without business,
I didn't know how to do anything.
Still, how time changes. Then, at the age of 26, you already had to think about singing, but now most people are just emerging from childhood :-) That’s how things are...
He was overcome with anxiety
Wanderlust
(A very painful property,
Few voluntary cross).
He left his village
Forests and fields solitude,
Where is the bloody shadow
Appeared to him every day
And began wandering without a goal,
Available to the senses alone;
And travel for him,
Like everything else in the world, I’m tired of it;
He returned and hit
Like Chatsky, from the ship to the ball.
And yet, Pushkin did not give up on Onegin. His reference to Chatsky (the character in “Woe from Wit,” in case you forgot) tells us that the author sympathizes with his hero, and did not put a final cross on him. And there is sympathy something torment conscience cannot be dispelled either by travel or entertainment. Again, still this boredom...
But the crowd hesitated
A whisper ran through the hall...
The lady was approaching the hostess,
Behind her is an important general.
She was leisurely
Not cold, not talkative,
Without an insolent look for everyone,
Without pretensions to success,
Without these little antics,
No imitative ideas...
Everything was quiet, it was just there,
She seemed like a sure shot
Du comme il faut... (Shishkov, forgive me:
I don't know how to translate.)
Well, everything is clear with the last name. Shishkov Alexander Semenovich (1754-1841) - literary figure, admiral, president Russian Academy and the ideological leader of the “Conversations of Lovers of the Russian Word”, the author of “Reflections on the Old and New Syllables”. Therefore - no French :-))
By the way, Du comme il faut can be translated as the most correct one, what is needed, what should be. As they say, on topic :-)
The ladies moved closer to her;
The old women smiled at her;
The men bowed lower
They caught the gaze of her eyes;
The girls walked by more quietly
In front of her in the hall: and above everyone
And he raised his nose and shoulders
The general who came in with her.
No one could make her beautiful
Name; but from head to toe
No one could find it in it
That autocratic fashion
In high London circle
It's called vulgar. (I can not...
Well, in general, you, my dragees, have already understood that this is the appearance of our beloved heroine, Tatyana. Although she has changed... and a lot. She became a real star.
I love this word very much
But I can’t translate;
It’s still new to us,
And it is unlikely that he will be honored.
It would be suitable for an epigram...)
But I’m turning to our lady.
Sweet with carefree charm,
She was sitting at the table
With the brilliant Nina Voronskaya,
This Cleopatra of the Neva;
And you would truly agree,
That Nina is a marble beauty
I couldn’t outshine my neighbor,
At least she was dazzling.
Tanya is as dazzling as ever :-))) Just one question - I didn’t understand who Nina Vronskaya was... I couldn’t find it. Therefore, I turn to the saving Lotman and trust in him. Here is what Yuri Mikhailovich writes:
The question about the prototype of Nina Voronskaya caused controversy among commentators. V. Veresaev suggested that P meant Agrafena Fedorovna Zakrevskaya (1800-1879) - the wife of the Finnish Governor-General, from 1828 - the Minister of Internal Affairs, and after 1848 - the Moscow military Governor-General A.A. Zakrevsky (1786-1865). An extravagant beauty known for scandalous connections, A. F. Zakrevskaya repeatedly attracted the attention of poets. P wrote about her:
A. Zakrevskaya
With your burning soul,
With your stormy passions,
O wives of the North, between you
She appears sometimes
And past all the conditions of the world
Strives until he loses strength,
Like a lawless comet
In the circle of calculated luminaries
("Portrait", 1828 - III, 1, 112).
P's poem "Confidant" (III, 1, 113) is dedicated to her. Vyazemsky called her “copper Venus.” Baratynsky wrote about her:
How many are you in a few days
I managed to live and feel it!
In the rebellious flame of passions
How terribly you burned out!
Slave to a weary dream!
In the anguish of spiritual emptiness,
What else do you want with your soul?
Like Magdalene you cry,
And you laugh like a mermaid!
(“K...” - I, 49).
Zakrevskaya was the prototype of Princess Nina in Baratynsky’s poem “The Ball”. It was this latter that was decisive for V. Veresaev. This assumption, accepted by a number of commentators, was challenged in 1934 by P. E. Shchegolev, who pointed to the following passage in P. A. Vyazemsky’s letter to his wife, V. F. Vyazemskaya: Vyazemsky asks to send samples of materials for Nina Voronskaya and adds: "That's what Zavadovskaya is called in Onegin." Zavadovskaya Elena Mikhailovna (1807-1874), née Vlodek, was known for her exceptional beauty. Apparently, P’s poem “Beauty” (III, 1, 287) is dedicated to her; the mention in verse 12 of “marble beauty” is more suitable for Zavadovskaya (cf. Vyazemsky: “And the freshness of their faces, and the snow-whiteness of their shoulders, And the blue flame their virgin eyes"), both in appearance and in temperament, than to the dark, southern appearance and unbridled temperament of Zakrevskaya. However, Shchegolev's considerations were not accepted unanimously. According to a modern researcher, “the prototype is most likely A.F. Zakrevskaya” (Sidyakov L.S. Fiction A. S. Pushkin. Riga, 1973, p. 52).
E. Zavadovskaya
That's how things are.
To be continued...
Have a nice time of day.
(previous)
Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fare thee well, and if for ever
Still for ever fare well.
Goodbye, and if forever,
then goodbye forever.
Byron(English)
In those days when in the gardens of the Lyceum
I blossomed serenely
I read Apuleius willingly,
But I haven’t read Cicero,
In those days in the mysterious valleys,
In the spring, when the swan calls,
Near the waters shining in silence,
The muse began to appear to me.
My student cell
Suddenly it dawned on me: the muse is in her
Opened a feast of young ideas,
Sang children's joys,
And the glory of our antiquity,
And trembling dreams of hearts.
And the light greeted her with a smile;
Success first inspired us;
Old man Derzhavin noticed the pass
And, going into the grave, he blessed.
………………………………………
………………………………………
………………………………………
And I, making a law of myself
Passions are a single arbitrariness,
Sharing feelings with the crowd,
I brought a playful muse
To the noise of feasts and violent disputes,
Thunderstorms of the midnight watch;
And join them in crazy feasts
She carried her gifts
And how the bacchante frolicked,
Over the bowl she sang for the guests,
And the youth of days gone by
She was wildly dragged after her,
And I was proud among friends
My flighty friend.
But I fell behind their union
And he ran into the distance... She followed me.
How often a tender muse
I enjoyed the silent path
The magic of a secret story!
How often on the rocks of the Caucasus
She is Lenora, in the moonlight,
She rode a horse with me!
How often along the banks of Taurida
She me in the darkness of the night
Took me to listen to the sound of the sea,
The silent whisper of Nereid,
Deep, eternal chorus of shafts,
Hymn of praise to the father of the worlds.
And, forgetting the distant capitals
And the glitter and noisy feasts,
In the sad wilderness of Moldova
She is the humble tents
I visited wandering tribes,
And between them she became wild,
And I forgot the speech of the gods
For meager, strange tongues,
For the songs of the steppe, dear to her...
Suddenly everything around me changed,
And here she is in my garden
She appeared as a district young lady,
With a sad thought in my eyes,
With a French book in hand.
And now I'm a muse for the first time
I bring you to a social event;
The delights of her steppe
I look with jealous shyness.
Through the close row of aristocrats,
Military dandies, diplomats
And she glides over proud ladies;
So she sat down quietly and looked,
Admiring the noisy crowded space,
Flashing dresses and speeches,
The phenomenon of slow guests
Before the young mistress
And the dark frame of men
I'll give it around like around the paintings.
She likes order and slender
oligarchic conversations,
And the coldness of calm pride,
And this mixture of ranks and years.
But who is this in the chosen crowd?
Stands silent and foggy?
He seems alien to everyone.
Faces flash before him
Like a series of annoying ghosts.
What, spleen or suffering arrogance
In his face? Why is he here?
Who is he? Is it really Evgeniy?
Is it really him?.. Yes, it’s definitely him.
- How long has it been brought to us?
Is he still the same or has he pacified himself?
Or is he acting like an eccentric?
Tell me: how did he return?
What will he present to us so far?
What will it appear now? Melmoth,
Cosmopolitan, patriot,
Harold, the Quaker, the bigot,
Or someone else will flaunt a mask,
Or he will just be a kind fellow,
How are you and me, how is the whole world?
At least my advice:
Stay away from outdated fashion.
He's been fooling the world quite a bit...
-Do you know him? - Yes and no.
Why so unfavorable?
Do you respond to him?
Because we are restless
We work hard, we judge everything,
What imprudence of ardent souls
Proud insignificance
Or insults, or makes you laugh,
That the mind, loving space, crowds
That there are too many conversations
Pripyat we are happy for business,
That stupidity is flighty and evil,
What important people nonsense is important
And that mediocrity is one
We can handle it and isn’t it strange?
Blessed is he who was young from his youth,
Blessed is he who matures in time,
Who gradually life is cold
He knew how to endure over the years;
Who strange dreams didn't indulge
Who has not shunned the secular mob,
Who at twenty was a dandy or a smart guy,
And at thirty he is profitably married;
Who was freed at fifty
From private and other debts,
Who is fame, money and ranks
I got in line calmly,
About whom they have been repeating for a century:
N.N. is a wonderful person.
But it's sad to think that it's in vain
We were given youth
That they cheated on her all the time,
That she deceived us;
That our best wishes
What are our fresh dreams
Decayed in quick succession,
Like rotten leaves in autumn.
It's unbearable to see in front of you
There's a long row of dinners alone,
Look at life as a ritual
And after the decorous crowd
Go without sharing with her
No common opinions, no passions.
Becoming the subject of noisy judgments,
Unbearable (agree with that)
Among prudent people
To be known as a pretend eccentric,
Or a sad madman,
Or a satanic freak,
Or even my demon.
Onegin (I’ll take up him again),
Having killed a friend in a duel,
Having lived without a goal, without work
Until twenty-six years old,
Languishing in idle leisure
Without work, without wife, without business,
I didn't know how to do anything.
He was overcome with anxiety
Wanderlust
(A very painful property,
Few voluntary cross).
He left his village
Forests and fields solitude,
Where is the bloody shadow
Appeared to him every day
And began wandering without a goal,
Available to the senses alone;
And travel for him,
Like everything else in the world, I’m tired of it;
He returned and hit
Like Chatsky, from the ship to the ball.
But the crowd hesitated
A whisper ran through the hall...
The lady was approaching the hostess,
Behind her is an important general.
She was leisurely
Not cold, not talkative,
Without an insolent look for everyone,
Without pretensions to success,
Without these little antics,
No imitative ideas...
Everything was quiet, it was just there,
She seemed like a sure shot
Du sotte And jaut... (Shishkov, forgive me:
I don't know how to translate.)
The ladies moved closer to her;
The old women smiled at her;
The men bowed lower
They caught the gaze of her eyes;
The girls walked by more quietly
In front of her in the hall, and above everyone
And he raised his nose and shoulders
The general who came in with her.
No one could make her beautiful
Name; but from head to toe
No one could find it in it
That autocratic fashion
In high London circle
It's called vulgar. (I can not…
I love this word very much
But I can’t translate;
It’s still new to us,
And it is unlikely that he will be honored.
It would be suitable for an epigram...)
But I’m turning to our lady.
Sweet with carefree charm,
She was sitting at the table
With the brilliant Nina Voronena,
This Cleopatra of the Neva;
And you would truly agree,
That Nina is a marble beauty
I couldn’t outshine my neighbor,
At least she was dazzling.
“Really,” thinks Evgeniy: “
Is she really? But exactly... No...
How! from the wilderness of steppe villages..."
And the persistent lorgnette
He pays every minute
To the one whose appearance vaguely reminded
He has forgotten features.
“Tell me, prince, don’t you know
Who's there in the crimson beret?
Does he speak Spanish to the ambassador?
The prince looks at Onegin.
- Yeah! You haven't been in the world for a long time.
Wait, I’ll introduce you.-
“Who is she?” - My wife.-
“So you're married! I didn’t know before!
How long ago?” - About two years.-
"On whom?" - On Larina. - “Tatyana!”
- Do you know her? - “I’m their neighbor.”
- Oh, then let's go. - The prince comes up
To his wife and lets her down
Relatives and friends.
The princess looks at him...
And whatever troubled her soul,
No matter how strong she was
Surprised, amazed,
But nothing changed her:
It retained the same tone
Her bow was just as quiet.
Hey, hey! not that I shuddered
Or suddenly became pale, red...
Her eyebrow didn't move;
She didn't even press her lips together.
Although he couldn’t look more diligently,
But also traces of the former Tatyana
Onegin could not find it.
He wanted to start a conversation with her
And - and couldn't. She asked,
How long has he been here, where is he from?
And isn’t it from their side?
Then she turned to her husband
Tired look; slipped out...
And he remained motionless.
Is it really the same Tatyana?
which he is alone with,
At the beginning of our romance,
In the remote, distant side,
In the good heat of moralizing,
I once read instructions,
The one from whom he keeps
A letter where the heart speaks
Where everything is outside, everything is free,
That girl... is this a dream?..
The girl he
Neglected in humble fate,
Was she really with him now?
So indifferent, so brave?
He leaves the reception crowded,
He drives home thoughtfully;
A dream, sometimes sad, sometimes lovely
He is disturbed by the late sleep.
He woke up; they bring him
Letter: Prince N humbly asks
Its for the evening. "God! To her!..
Oh I will, I will!” and quickly
He spoils the polite answer.
What about him? what a strange dream he is in!
What moved in the depths
A cold and lazy soul?
Annoyance? vanity? or again
Is love the concern of youth?
Onegin counts the clock again
Again the day will not end.
But ten strikes; he's leaving
He flew, he's at the porch,
He enters the princess with trepidation;
He finds Tatiana alone,
And together for a few minutes
They are sitting. Words won't come
From the mouth of Onegin. Sullen,
Awkward, he barely
He answers her. Head
He is full of stubborn thoughts.
He looks stubbornly: she
She sits calm and free.
My husband comes. He interrupts
This unpleasant tete-a-tete;
He remembers Onegin
Pranks, jokes of previous years.
They are laughing. Guests enter.
Here is a coarse salt of secular anger
The conversation began to liven up;
Light nonsense before the hostess
Sparkled without stupid affectation,
And meanwhile interrupted him
Reasonable sense without vulgar topics,
Without eternal truths, more pedantry,
And didn't scare anyone's ears
With its free liveliness.
Here, however, was the color of the capital,
And know, and fashion samples,
Faces you meet everywhere
Necessary fools;
There were elderly ladies here
In caps and roses, looking angry;
There were several girls here
No smiling faces;
There was a messenger who said
On government affairs;
Here he was in fragrant gray hair
The old man joked in the old way:
Excellently subtle and clever,
Which is a little funny these days.
Here he was avid for epigrams,
Angry gentleman:
The owner's tea is too sweet,
To the flatness of ladies, to the tone of men,
The rumors about the novel are vague,
For the monogram given to two sisters,
To the lies of magazines, to war,
To the snow and to his wife.
………………………………
………………………………
………………………………
Prolasov was here, who deserved
Fame for the baseness of the soul,
Dulled in all albums,
St.-Priest, your pencils;
Another ballroom dictator is at the door
It stood like a magazine picture,
Blush like a pussy willow cherub,
Strapped, mute and motionless,
And a wandering traveler,
Overstarched impudent
Away brought a smile
With your caring posture,
And silently exchanged glances
He received a general sentence.
But my Onegin is a whole evening
I was busy with Tatyana alone,
Not this timid girl,
In love, poor and simple,
But an indifferent princess,
But an unapproachable goddess
Luxurious, royal Neva.
O people! you all look alike
To the ancestor Eva:
What is given to you does not entail
The serpent is constantly calling you
To yourself, to the mysterious tree;
Give me the forbidden fruit,
And without that, heaven is not heaven for you.
How Tatyana has changed!
How firmly she stepped into her role!
Like an oppressive rank
Accepted appointments soon!
Who would dare to look for a tender girl
In this majestic, in this careless
Legislator's hall?
And he touched her heart!
She talks about him in the darkness of the night,
Until Morpheus arrives,
It used to be that the virgin was sad,
The languid eyes lift to the moon,
Dreaming with him someday
Complete the humble path of life!
Love for all ages;
But to young, virgin hearts
Her impulses are beneficial,
Like spring storms across the fields:
In the rain of passions they become fresh,
And they renew themselves and mature -
And the mighty life gives
And lush color and sweet fruit.
But at a late and barren age,
At the turn of our years,
Sad is the passion of the dead trace:
So the storms of autumn are cold
A meadow is turned into a swamp
And they expose the forest around.
There is no doubt: alas! Eugene
In love with Tatyana like a child;
In the anguish of loving thoughts
He spends both day and night.
Without heeding the strict penalties,
To her porch, glass vestibule
He drives up every day;
He chases after her like a shadow;
He's happy if he throws it at her
Fluffy boa on the shoulder,
Or touches hotly
Her hands, or spread
Before her is a motley regiment of liveries,
Or he will lift the scarf for her.
She doesn't notice him
No matter how he fights, at least die.
Accepts freely at home,
When visiting him, he says three words,
Sometimes he will greet you with one bow,
Sometimes he won’t notice at all:
There is not a bit of coquetry in her -
High society does not tolerate him.
Onegin begins to turn pale:
She either doesn’t see it or isn’t sorry;
Onegin dries - and barely
He no longer suffers from consumption.
Everyone is sending Onegin to the doctors,
They send him to the waters in unison.
But he doesn’t go; he in advance
Ready to write to my great-grandfathers
About an upcoming meeting; and Tatyana
And it doesn’t matter (that’s their gender);
But he is stubborn, he doesn’t want to lag behind,
He still hopes, he works;
Be brave, healthy, sick,
To the princess with a weak hand
He writes a passionate message.
Although there is little point at all
He did not see in vain in the letters;
But, know, heartache
It has already become unbearable for him.
Here is his exact letter for you.
ONEGIN'S LETTER TO TATYANA
I foresee everything: you will be insulted
An explanation for the sad mystery.
What bitter contempt
Your proud look will portray!
What I want? for what purpose
Will I open my soul to you?
What evil fun
Perhaps I’m giving a reason!
Once I met you by chance,
Noticing a spark of tenderness in you,
I didn’t dare believe her:
I didn’t give in to my dear habit;
Your hateful freedom
I didn't want to lose.
One more thing separated us...
Lensky fell an unfortunate victim...
From everything that is dear to the heart,
Then I tore my heart out;
Stranger to everyone, not bound by anything,
I thought: freedom and peace
Substitute for happiness. My God!
How wrong I was, how I was punished.
No, I see you every minute
Follow you everywhere
A smile of the mouth, a movement of the eyes
To catch with loving eyes,
Listen to you for a long time, understand
Your soul is all your perfection,
To freeze in agony before you,
To turn pale and fade away... what bliss!
And I am deprived of this: for you
I wander everywhere at random;
The day is dear to me, the hour is dear to me:
And I spend it in vain boredom
Days counted down by fate.
And they are so painful.
I know: my life has already been measured;
But so that my life may last,
I have to be sure in the morning
That I will see you this afternoon...
I'm afraid: in my humble prayer
Your stern gaze will see
The undertakings of despicable cunning -
And I hear your angry reproach.
If only you knew how terrible
To yearn for love,
Blaze - and mind all the time
To subdue the excitement in the blood;
Want to hug your knees
And burst into tears at your feet
Pour out prayers, confessions, penalties,
Everything, everything that I could express,
Meanwhile, with feigned coldness
Arm both speech and gaze,
Have a calm conversation
Look at you with a cheerful look!
But so be it: I’m on my own
I can no longer resist;
Everything is decided: I am in your will
And I surrender to my fate.
No answer. He sends another message:
Second, third letter
No answer. In one meeting
He is driving; just walked in... him
She's coming towards you. How harsh!
They don’t see him, not a word is spoken to him;
Uh! how surrounded you are now
She is Epiphany cold!
How to keep your anger at bay
Stubborn lips want!
Onegin fixed his keen gaze:
Where, where is the confusion, the compassion?
Where are the stains of tears?.. They are not there, they are not there!
There is only a trace of anger on this face...
Yes, maybe fear of a secret,
So that the husband or the world does not guess
Mischief, random weakness...
Everything that my Onegin knew...
There is no hope! He is leaving,
He curses his madness -
And, deeply immersed in it,
He again renounced the light.
And in a silent office
He remembered the time
When the blues are cruel
She was chasing him in the noisy light,
Caught me, took me by the collar
And locked me in a dark corner.
He began to read again indiscriminately.
He read Gibbon, Rousseau,
Manzoni, Herdera, Chamfort,
Madame do Staël, Bichat, Tissot,
I read the skeptical Bel,
I read the works of Fontenelle,
I read some of our
Without rejecting anything:
And almanacs and magazines,
Where they tell us lessons,
Where do they scold me so much these days?
Where are these madrigals?
I sometimes met myself:
E sempre bene gentlemen.
So what? His eyes read
But my thoughts were far away;
Dreams, desires, sorrows
They pressed deep into the soul.
It's between the printed lines
Read with spiritual eyes
Other lines. He's in them
Was completely deep.
Those were secret legends
Heartfelt, dark antiquity,
Unrelated dreams
Threats, rumors, predictions,
Il long tale living nonsense
Or letters from a young maiden.
And gradually into a sleep
And he falls into feelings and thoughts,
And before him is imagination
The motley pharaoh sweeps his mosque.
That's what he sees: on the melted snow,
As if sleeping for the night,
The young man lies motionless,
And he hears a voice: what? killed.
Then he sees forgotten enemies,
Slanderers and evil cowards,
And a swarm of young traitors,
And the circle of despised comrades,
That's a rural house - and at the window
She sits... and that's it!..
He's so used to getting lost in this
That almost drove me crazy
Or he didn’t become a poet.
Frankly, I could borrow something!
And exactly: by the power of magnetism
Poems of Russian mechanism
I almost realized at that time
My stupid student.
How he looked like a poet,
When I was sitting alone in the corner,
And the fireplace was blazing in front of him,
And he purred: Benedetta
Il Idol mio and dropped
Into the fire is either a shoe or a magazine.
The days rushed by; in heated air
Winter was already permitted;
And he did not become a poet,
He didn't die, he didn't go crazy.
Spring lives him: for the first time
Your chambers are locked,
Where did he spend the winter like a groundhog?
Double windows, fireplace
He leaves on a clear morning,
Rushing along the Neva in a sleigh.
On blue, scarred ice
The sun is playing; dirty melts
The streets are covered in snow.
Where should you run fast along it?
Is Onegin rushing? you in advance
You guessed it right; exactly:
He rushed to her, to his Tatyana
My uncorrected weirdo.
He walks, looking like a dead man.
There is not a single soul in the hallway.
He's in the hall; further: no one.
He opened the door. What about him
Does it strike with such force?
The princess is in front of him, alone,
Sits, not dressed, pale,
He's reading some letter
And quietly tears flow like a river,
Leaning your cheek on your hand.
Oh, who would silence her suffering
I didn’t read it in this quick moment!
Who is the old Tanya, poor Tanya
Now I wouldn’t recognize the princess!
In the anguish of insane regrets
Evgeniy fell at her feet;
She shuddered and remained silent;
And he looks at Onegin
Without surprise, without anger...
His sick, faded gaze,
A pleading look, a silent reproach,
She understands everything. Simple maiden
With dreams, the heart of former days,
Now she has risen again in her.
She doesn't pick him up
And, without taking my eyes off him,
Doesn't take away from greedy lips
Your insensitive hand...
What is her dream now?
A long silence passes,
And finally she quietly:
"Enough; stand up. I must
You need to explain yourself frankly.
Onegin, do you remember that hour,
When in the garden, in the alley we
Fate brought us together, and so humbly
Have I listened to your lesson?
Today it's my turn.
Onegin, I was younger then,
I think I was better
And I loved you; and what?
What did I find in your heart?
What answer? one severity.
Isn't it true? It wasn't news to you
Humble girl's love?
And now - God! - the blood runs cold,
As soon as I remember the cold look
And this sermon... But you
I don't blame: at that terrible hour
You acted nobly
You were right before me:
I am grateful with all my heart...
Then - isn't it true? - in a desert,
Far from vain rumors,
You didn’t like me... Well now
Are you following me?
Why are you keeping me in mind?
Is it not because in high society
Now I must appear;
That I am rich and noble,
That the husband was maimed in battle,
Why is the court caressing us?
Isn't it because it's my shame
Now everyone would notice
And I could bring it in society
Do you want a tempting honor?
I'm crying... if your Tanya
You haven't forgotten yet
Know this: the causticity of your abuse,
Cold, stern conversation
If only I had the power,
I would prefer offensive passion
And these letters and tears.
To my baby dreams
Then you had at least pity
At least respect for the years...
And now! - what's at my feet?
Brought you? what a small thing!
How about your heart and mind
To be a petty slave to feelings?
And to me, Onegin, this pomp,
Life's hateful tinsel,
My successes are in a whirlwind of light,
My fashionable house and evenings,
What's in them? Now I'm glad to give it away
All this rags of a masquerade,
All this shine, and noise, and fumes
For a shelf of books, for a wild garden,
For our poor home,
For those places where for the first time,
Onegin, I saw you,
Yes for the humble cemetery,
Where is the cross and the shadow of the branches today?
Above poor nanny my...
And happiness was so possible
So close!.. But my destiny
It's already decided. Carelessly
Perhaps I did:
me with tears of spells
The mother begged; for poor Tanya
All the lots were equal...
I got married. You must,
I ask you to leave me;
I know: in your heart there is
And pride and direct honor.
I love you (why lie?),
But I was given to another;
I will be faithful to him forever."
She left. Evgeniy stands,
As if struck by thunder.
What a storm of sensations
Now he's heartbroken!
But a sudden ringing sound rang out,
And Tatyana’s husband showed up,
And here is my hero,
In a moment that is evil for him,
Reader, we will now leave,
For a long time... forever. Behind him
Quite we are on the same path
Wandered around the world. Congratulations
Each other with the shore. Hooray!
It’s long overdue (isn’t it?)!
Whoever you are, oh my reader,
Friend, foe, I want to be with you
To part now as friends.
Sorry. Why would you follow me
Here I did not look in careless stanzas,
Are they rebellious memories?
Is it a rest from work,
Living pictures, or sharp words,
Or grammatical errors,
God grant that in this book you
For fun, for dreams,
For the heart, for magazine hits
Although I could find a grain.
We'll part for this, sorry!
Forgive me too, my strange companion,
And you, my true ideal,
And you, alive and constant,
At least a little work. I knew you
Everything that is enviable for a poet:
Oblivion of life in the storms of light,
Sweet conversation with friends.
Many, many days have passed
Since young Tatiana
And Onegin is with her in a vague dream
Appeared to me for the first time -
And the distance of a free romance
Me through a magic crystal;
I couldn't discern it clearly yet.
But those who in a friendly meeting
I read the first verses...
There are no others, and those are far away,
As Sadi once said.
Without them, Onegin is completed.
And the one with whom he was formed
Tatyana's sweet ideal...
Oh, fate has taken away a lot, a lot!
Blessed is he who celebrates life early
Left without drinking to the bottom
Glasses full of wine,
Who hasn't finished reading her novel?
And suddenly he knew how to part with him,
Like me and my Onegin.
What personality traits of Tatyana are revealed in this fragment?
XIV.
But the crowd hesitated
A whisper ran through the hall...
The lady was approaching the hostess,
Behind her is an important general.
She was leisurely
Not cold, not talkative,
Without an insolent look for everyone,
Without pretensions to success,
Without these little antics,
No imitative ideas...
Everything was quiet, it was just there,
She seemed like a sure shot
Du comme il faut... (Shishkov, forgive me:
I don't know how to translate.)
XV.
The ladies moved closer to her;
The old women smiled at her;
The men bowed lower
They caught the gaze of her eyes;
The girls walked by more quietly
In front of her in the hall: and above everyone
And he raised his nose and shoulders
The general who came in with her.
No one could make her beautiful
Name; but from head to toe
No one could find it in it
That autocratic fashion
In high London circle
It's called vulgar. (I can not...
XVI.
I love this word very much
But I can’t translate;
It’s still new to us,
And it is unlikely that he will be honored.
It would be suitable for an epigram...)
But I’m turning to our lady.
Sweet with carefree charm,
She was sitting at the table
With the brilliant Nina Voronskaya,
This Cleopatra of the Neva;
And you would truly agree,
That Nina is a marble beauty
I couldn’t outshine my neighbor,
At least she was dazzling.
XVII.
“Really,” thinks Evgeniy, “
Is she really? But exactly... No...
How! from the wilderness of steppe villages..."
And the persistent lorgnette
He pays every minute
To the one whose appearance vaguely reminded
He has forgotten features.
"Tell me, prince, don't you know
Who's there in the crimson beret?
Does he speak Spanish to the ambassador?"
The prince looks at Onegin.
- Yeah! You haven't been in the world for a long time.
Wait, I'll introduce you. -
"Who is she?" - My wife. -
XVIII.
“So you’re married! I didn’t know before!
How long ago?" - About two years. -
"On whom?" - On Larina. - "Tatyana!"
- Do you know her? - “I’m their neighbor.”
- Oh, then let's go. - The prince is coming
To his wife and lets her down
Relatives and friends.
The princess looks at him...
And what didn’t bother her soul,
No matter how strong she was
Surprised, amazed,
But nothing changed her:
It retained the same tone
Her bow was also quiet.
XIX.
Hey, hey! not that I shuddered,
Or suddenly became pale, red...
Her eyebrow didn't move;
She didn't even press her lips together.
Although he couldn’t look more diligently,
But also traces of the former Tatyana
Onegin could not find it.
He wanted to start a conversation with her
And - and couldn't. She asked,
How long has he been here, where is he from?
And isn’t it from their side?
Then she turned to her husband
Tired look; slipped out...
And he remained motionless.
Show full text
This fragment reveals such personality traits of Tatyana Larina as her simplicity, pride, and restraint.
So, if at the beginning of the novel in the verses of “Eugene Onegin” Tatyana was a timid, shy, dreamy girl who could not hide her feelings, then in this fragment the heroine appears in a different light: she grew up, became a married society lady, learned to restrain her feelings and emotions. Naivety and daydreaming were replaced by such qualities as pride and restraint. This is how A.S. Pushkin characterizes Tatyana:
"She was leisurely
Not cold, not talkative,
Without an insolent look for everyone,
Without pretensions to success,
Without these little antics,
No imitative
There are concepts in speech and in people’s ideas that are generated by life, but fixed in the language thanks to literature. Among them are not only “Plyushkin” or “Manilovism”, among them is “Turgenev’s girl”. Everyone has at least a vague idea of what it is, although in order to know this for sure, one must read not “Fathers and Sons”, which were taught in Soviet school, and the novels “The Noble Nest”, “Rudin”, “On the Eve”. Now Turgenev has been completely expelled from the program, but in vain.
This is what the author and characters of the novel say about Lisa Kalitina from “ Noble nest": "She's pretty too. A pale, fresh face and an honest, innocent look.” "She can only love one thing that is beautiful." “She listened to him so sweetly, so attentively. Her rare comments and objections were so simple and smart.” “From the concentrated expression on her face one could guess that she was praying intently and fervently.” “She greeted him with cheerful and affectionate importance.” “It never occurred to Lisa that she was a patriot, but she was happy with the Russian people.” “The word will not express what was happening in the girl’s pure soul: it was a secret to herself.” “She hesitated until she understood herself, but now she could no longer hesitate; she knew what she loved, and she fell in love honestly, without joking, and became deeply attached for the rest of her life.”
Those who have not read Turgenev, but know Pushkin, have already correctly understood: “Yes, this is the same as Tatyana Larina!” It’s absolutely true, the same as Pushkin’s Tatyana Larina, and Tolstoy’s Princess Marya, and the wives of the Decembrists from Nekrasov’s poem “Russian Women,” and Yaroslavna from “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign,” and the girls from Boris Vasiliev’s story “The Dawns Here Are Quiet.” It's that Russian female character, which is happily and fully represented not only in literature, but also in life, and is an indispensable component of such concepts as people, mentality, and main life guidelines.
She was leisurely
Not cold, not talkative,
Without an insolent look for everyone,
Without pretensions to success,
Without these little antics,
No imitative ideas...
Everything was quiet, it was just there...
This is Tatyana Larina, as Onegin saw her already in St. Petersburg.
And here are Lermontov’s poems about Varenka Lopukhina, whom he loved:
She is not proud of her beauty
Seduces the living youths,
She doesn't lead
A crowd of silent admirers.
And her camp is not that of a goddess,
And the chest does not rise in waves,
And in it no one has his shrine,
Having crouched to the ground, he does not recognize.
However, all her movements
Smiles, speeches and features
So full of life, inspiration,
So full of wonderful simplicity.
And here are excerpts from Pushkin’s letters to his wife, proving that literature and life are one.
“Yesterday, my friend, I received two letters from you, thank you, but I want to scold you a little. You seem to have gone the wrong way. Look: it’s not for nothing that coquetry is not in fashion and is considered a sign of bad taste. It's of little use. You are glad that male dogs are running after you like a bitch... There is something to be happy about! It’s easy not only for you, but also for Praskovya Petrovna to teach unmarried ballers to run after you; It’s worth revealing that I’m a big hunter. This is the whole secret of coquetry. There would be a trough, but there would be pigs...
Now, my Angel, I kiss you as if nothing had happened and thank you for describing your dissolute life to me in detail and openly. Walk, wifey; just don’t go on a spree and don’t forget me... Yes, my Angel, please don’t be flirtatious. I’m not jealous, and I know that you won’t go to all troubles; but you know how much I don’t like everything that smells like a Moscow young lady, everything that is not comme il faut, everything that is vulgar... If upon my return I find that your sweet, simple, aristocratic tone has changed, I’ll get a divorce, that’s Christ , and I will become a soldier out of grief.”
And in next letter Pushkin writes to his wife:
“My friend wife, at the last post I don’t really remember what I wrote to you. I remember I was a little angry - and it seems the letter is a little harsh. “I’ll repeat to you more gently that coquetry does not lead to anything good; and although it has its pleasures, nothing so quickly deprives a young woman of that without which there is neither family well-being nor peace in relations with the world: respect. You have nothing to be happy about your victories. It is written on the heart of every man: “The most accessible.” After that, please be proud of the kidnapping of men's hearts. Think about it carefully and don’t bother me unnecessarily.”
Pushkin’s teachings sound all the more meaningful because he paid with his life for his wife’s completely innocent coquetry.