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Evgeny Onegin

Novel in verse

Petri de vanite il avait encore plus de cette espece d"orgueil qui fait avouer avec la meme indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d"un sentiment de superiorite, peut-etre imaginaire.

Tire d'une lettre particuliere

Without thinking of amusing the proud world, Loving the attention of friendship, I would like to present to you a Pledge more worthy of you, More worthy of a beautiful soul, A holy dream fulfilled, Poetry alive and clear, High thoughts and simplicity; But so be it - with a partial hand, accept the collection of motley chapters, Half funny, half sad, Common people, ideal, The careless fruit of my amusements, Insomnia, light inspirations, Immature and withered years, The mind of cold observations And the heart of sorrowful notes.

CHAPTER ONE

And he’s in a hurry to live and he’s in a hurry to feel.

Book Vyazemsky.

I. “My uncle had the most honest rules, When he seriously fell ill, He forced himself to be respected And could not have come up with a better idea. His example to others is science; But, my God, what a bore it is to sit with a sick person day and night, Without leaving a single step away ! What low deceit to amuse a half-living person, to straighten his pillows, to sadly offer medicine, to sigh and think to himself: When will the devil take you! II. So thought the young rake, Flying in the dust on the postal mail, By the Almighty will of Zeus Heir to all his relatives. Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan! With the hero of my novel Without preamble, this very hour Let me introduce you: Onegin, my good friend, Was born on the banks of the Neva, Where, perhaps, you were born Or shone, my reader; I once walked there too: But the north is harmful to me (). III. Having served excellently and nobly, his father lived in debt, gave three balls every year, and finally squandered it. Eugene's fate kept: First Madame followed him, Then Monsieur replaced her. The child was harsh, but sweet. Monsieur l "Abbe, a wretched Frenchman, So that the child would not be tormented, Taught him everything in jest, Didn't bother him with strict morals, Scolded him slightly for pranks And took him for a walk in the Summer Garden. IV. When the time came for Eugene's rebellious youth, The time for hopes and tender sadness, Monsieur was driven out of the yard. Here is my Onegin, dressed in the latest fashion; And at last he saw the light of day. He could speak perfectly in French, and danced the mazurka easily; What more do you need? The world decided that he was smart and very nice. V. We all learned a little Something and somehow, So, thanks to God, Onegin was, in the opinion of many, a learned fellow. but a pedant: He had the lucky talent to touch everything lightly without compulsion, with the learned air of an expert, to remain silent in an important dispute, and to arouse the smile of ladies with the fire of unexpected epigrams. Latin has now gone out of fashion: So, if I tell you the truth, He knew. enough in Latin, To parse the epigraphs, To talk about Juvenal, To put vale at the end of the letter, Yes, I remembered, although not without sin, Two verses from the Aeneid. He had no desire to rummage In the chronological dust of the Genesis of the earth; But he kept in his memory the anecdotes of bygone days From Romulus to the present day. VII. Having no high passion for the sounds of life, he could not distinguish iambic from trochee, no matter how hard we fought. Scolded Homer, Theocritus; But he read Adam Smith, And he was a deep economist, That is, he knew how to judge how the state grows rich, And how it lives, and why He doesn’t need gold, When he has a simple product. His father could not understand him and gave the land as collateral. VIII. Everything that Evgeniy still knew, I have no time to retell; But what was his true genius, What he knew more firmly than all the sciences, What was for him from childhood And labor and torment and joy, What occupied His yearning laziness all day - Was the science of tender passion, Which Nazon sang, For which he ended up a sufferer Its brilliant and rebellious century In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes, Far away in Italy. IX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . X. How early could he be a hypocrite, harbor hope, be jealous, dissuade, force to believe, seem gloomy, languish, appear proud and obedient, attentive or indifferent! How languidly silent he was, How fieryly eloquent, How careless in his heartfelt letters! Breathing alone, loving alone, How he knew how to forget himself! How quick and tender his gaze was, Shy and daring, and at times Shining with an obedient tear! XI. How he knew how to appear new, Jokingly amaze innocence, Frighten with ready despair, Amuse with pleasant flattery, Catch a moment of tenderness, Innocent years of prejudice With intelligence and passion to conquer, Expect involuntary affection, Beg and demand recognition, Eavesdrop on the first sound of the heart, Pursue love, and suddenly Achieve secret meeting... And then give her lessons alone in silence! XII. How early could he disturb the hearts of the coquettes! When He wanted to destroy His rivals, How he sarcastically slandered! What networks I prepared for them! But you, blessed husbands, You remained with him as friends: He was caressed by the wicked husband, Phoblas’s longtime student, And the incredulous old man, And the stately cuckold, Always pleased with himself, His dinner and his wife. XIII. XIV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XV. Sometimes he would still be in bed: They would bring notes to him. What? Invitations? In fact, Three Houses are calling for the evening: There will be a ball, there will be a children's party. Where will my prankster ride? Who will he start with? All the same: It’s no wonder to keep up everywhere. While in morning attire, putting on wide bolivar(), Onegin goes to the boulevard And there he walks in the open space, Until the vigilant Breget rings for him dinner. XVI. It’s already dark: he gets into the sled. “Fall, fall!” - there was a cry; His beaver collar is silvered with frosty dust. He rushed to Talon (): he was sure that Kaverin was waiting for him there. He entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling, A current of comet wine splashed, Before him there was bloody roast-beef, And truffles,

Pétri de vanité il avait encore plus de cette espè ce d'orgueil qui fait avouer avec la même indifférence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de supériorité, peut-être imaginaire.

Not thinking of amusing the proud world,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I would like to introduce you
The pledge is more worthy than you,
More worthy than a beautiful soul,
Saint of a dream come true,
Poetry alive and clear,
High thoughts and simplicity;
But so be it - with a biased hand
Accept the collection of colorful heads,
Half funny, half sad,
Common people, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years,
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sorrowful notes.

Chapter One

And he’s in a hurry to live and he’s in a hurry to feel.

Book Vyazemsky

I

“My uncle has the most honest rules,
When I seriously fell ill,
He forced himself to respect
And I couldn't think of anything better.
His example to others is science;
But, my God, what a bore
To sit with the patient day and night,
Without leaving a single step!
What low deceit
To amuse the half-dead,
Adjust his pillows
It's sad to bring medicine,
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you!”

II

So thought the young rake,
Flying in the dust on postage,
By the Almighty will of Zeus
Heir to all his relatives.
Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!
With the hero of my novel
Without preamble, right now
Let me introduce you:
Onegin, my good friend,
Born on the banks of the Neva,
Where might you have been born?
Or shone, my reader;
I once walked there too:
But the north is bad for me.

III

Having served excellently and nobly,
His father lived in debt
Gave three balls annually
And finally squandered it.
Eugene's fate kept:
First Madame I followed him
After Monsieur replaced her.
The child was harsh, but sweet.
Monsieur l'Abbé, poor Frenchman,
So that the child does not get tired,
I taught him everything jokingly,
I didn’t bother you with strict morals,
Lightly scolded for pranks
And he took me for a walk in the Summer Garden.

IV

When will the rebellious youth
The time has come for Evgeniy
It's time for hope and tender sadness,
Monsieur kicked out of the yard.
Here is my Onegin free;
Haircut in the latest fashion;
How dandy London dressed -
And finally saw the light.
He's completely French
He could express himself and wrote;
I danced the mazurka easily
And he bowed casually;
What do you want more? The light has decided
That he is smart and very nice.

V

We all learned a little bit
Something and somehow
So upbringing, thank God,
It’s no wonder for us to shine.
Onegin was, according to many
(decisive and strict judges),
A small scientist, but a pedant,
He had a lucky talent
No coercion in conversation
Touch everything lightly
With the learned air of an expert
Remain silent in an important dispute
And make the ladies smile
Fire of unexpected epigrams.

VI

Latin is now out of fashion:
So, if I tell you the truth,
He knew quite a bit of Latin,
To understand the epigraphs,
Talk about Juvenal,
At the end of the letter put vale ,
Yes, I remembered, although not without sin,
Two verses from the Aeneid.
He had no desire to rummage
In chronological dust
History of the earth;
But jokes of days gone by
From Romulus to the present day
He kept it in his memory.

VII

Having no high passion
No mercy for the sounds of life,
He could not iambic from trochee,
No matter how hard we fought, we could tell the difference.
Scolded Homer, Theocritus;
But I read Adam Smith
And there was a deep economy,
That is, he knew how to judge
How does the state get rich?
And what does he live on, and why?
He doesn't need gold
When simple product has.
His father couldn't understand him
And he gave the lands as collateral.

VIII

Everything that Evgeniy still knew,
Tell me about your lack of time;
But what was his true genius?
What he knew more firmly than all sciences,
What happened to him from childhood
And labor, and torment, and joy,
What took the whole day
His melancholy laziness, -
There was a science of tender passion,
Which Nazon sang,
Why did he end up a sufferer?
Its age is brilliant and rebellious
In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,
Far away from Italy.

IX

…………………………………
…………………………………
…………………………………

X

How early could he be a hypocrite?
To harbor hope, to be jealous,
To dissuade, to make believe,
Seem gloomy, languish,
Be proud and obedient
Attentive or indifferent!
How languidly silent he was,
How fieryly eloquent
How careless in heartfelt letters!
Breathing alone, loving alone,
How he knew how to forget himself!
How quick and gentle his gaze was,
Shy and impudent, and sometimes
Shined with an obedient tear!

XI

How he knew how to seem new,
Jokingly amaze innocence,
To frighten with despair,
To amuse with pleasant flattery,
Catch a moment of tenderness,
Innocent years of prejudice
Win with intelligence and passion,
Expect involuntary affection
Beg and demand recognition
Listen to the first sound of the heart,
Pursue love and suddenly
Achieve a secret date...
And then she's alone
Give lessons in silence!

XII

How early could he have disturbed
Hearts of coquettes!
When did you want to destroy
He has his rivals,
How he sarcastically slandered!
What networks I prepared for them!
But you, blessed men,
You stayed with him as friends:
The wicked husband caressed him,
Foblas is a long-time student,
And the distrustful old man
And the majestic cuckold,
Always happy with yourself
With your lunch and your wife.

XIII. XIV

……………………………………
……………………………………
……………………………………
……………………………………

XV

Sometimes he was still in bed:
They bring notes to him.
What? Invitations? In fact,
Three houses for the evening call:
There will be a ball, there will be a children's party.
Where will my prankster ride?
Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:
It’s no wonder it’s easy to keep up with everything.
While in morning dress,
Putting on wide bolivar,
Onegin goes to the boulevard
And there he walks in the open space,
While the watchful Breget
Dinner won't ring his bell.

XVI

It’s already dark: he gets into the sled.
“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;
Silvery with frosty dust
His beaver collar.
TO Talon rushed: he was sure
What is Kaverin waiting for him there?
Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,
The current flowed from the comet's fault,
In front of him roast beef bloody,
And truffles, the luxury of youth,
French cuisine has the best color,
And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable
Between live Limburg cheese
And a golden pineapple.

XVII

Thirst asks for more glasses
Pour hot fat over cutlets,
But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,
That a new ballet has begun.
The theater is an evil legislator,
Fickle Adorer
Charming actresses
Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,
Onegin flew to the theater,
Where everyone, breathing freedom,
Ready to clap entrechat,
To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,
Call Moina (in order to
Just so they can hear him).

XVIII

Magic land! there in the old days,
Satire is a brave ruler,
Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,
And the overbearing Prince;
There Ozerov involuntary tributes
People's tears, applause
Shared with young Semyonova;
There our Katenin was resurrected
Corneille is a majestic genius;
There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out
A noisy swarm of their comedies,
There Didelot was crowned with glory,
There, there under the canopy of the scenes
My younger days were rushing by.

XIX

My goddesses! what do you? where are you?
Hear my sad voice:
Are you still the same? other maidens,
Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?
Will I hear your choirs again?
Will I see the Russian Terpsichore
Soul filled flight?
Or the sad gaze will not find
Familiar faces on a boring stage,
And, looking towards the alien light
Disappointed lorgnette
An indifferent spectator of fun,
I will yawn silently
And remember the past?

XX

The theater is already full; the boxes shine;
The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;
In paradise they splash impatiently,
And, rising, the curtain makes noise.
Brilliant, half-airy,
I obey the magic bow,
Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,
Worth Istomin; she,
One foot touching the floor,
The other slowly circles,
And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,
Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;
Now the camp will form, now it will develop,
And with a quick foot he hits the leg.

XXI

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters
Walks between the chairs along the legs,
The double lorgnette points sideways
To the boxes of unknown ladies;
I looked at all the tiers,
I saw everything: faces, clothes
He is terribly unhappy;
With men on all sides
He bowed, then went on stage.
He looked in great absentmindedness,
He turned away and yawned,
And he said: “It’s time for everyone to change;
I endured ballets for a long time,
But I’m tired of Didelot too.”

XXII

More cupids, devils, snakes
They jump and make noise on stage;
Still tired lackeys
They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;
They haven't stopped stomping yet,
Blow your nose, cough, shush, clap;
Also outside and inside
Lanterns are shining everywhere;
Still frozen, the horses fight,
Bored with my harness,
And the coachmen, around the lights,
They scold the gentlemen and beat them in the palm of their hands:
And Onegin went out;
He goes home to get dressed.

XXIII

Will I portray the truth in the picture?
Secluded office
Where is the mod pupil exemplary
Dressed, undressed and dressed again?
Everything for a plentiful whim
London trades scrupulously
And on the Baltic waves
He brings us lard and timber,
Everything in Paris tastes hungry,
Having chosen a useful trade,
Invents for fun
For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -
Everything decorated the office
Philosopher at eighteen years old.

XXIV

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,
Porcelain and bronze on the table,
And, a joy to pampered feelings,
Perfume in cut crystal;
Combs, steel files,
Straight scissors, curved scissors,
And brushes of thirty kinds
For both nails and teeth.
Rousseau (note in passing)
Couldn't understand how important Grim was
Dare to brush your nails in front of him,
An eloquent madman.
Defender of Liberty and Rights
In this case, completely wrong.

XXV

You can be a smart person
And think about the beauty of nails:
Why argue fruitlessly with the century?
The custom is despot between people.
Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,
Fearing jealous judgments,
There was a pedant in his clothes
And what we called dandy.
He's at least three o'clock
He spent in front of the mirrors
And he came out of the restroom
Like windy Venus,
When, wearing a man's outfit,
The goddess goes to a masquerade.

XXVI

In the last taste of the toilet
Taking your curious glance,
I could before the learned light
Here to describe his outfit;
Of course it would be brave
Describe my business:
But trousers, tailcoat, vest,
All these words are not in Russian;
And I see, I apologize to you,
Well, my poor syllable is already
I could have been much less colorful
Foreign words
Even though I looked in the old days
In Academic Dictionary.

XXVII

Now we have something wrong in the subject:
We better hurry to the ball,
Where to headlong in a Yamsk carriage
My Onegin has already galloped.
In front of the faded houses
Along the sleepy street in rows
Double carriage lights
Cheerful shed light
And they bring rainbows to the snow;
Dotted with bowls all around,
The magnificent house glitters;
Shadows walk across the solid windows,
Profiles of heads flash
And ladies and fashionable weirdos.

XXVIII

Here our hero drove up to the entryway;
He passes the doorman with an arrow
He flew up the marble steps,
I straightened my hair with my hand,
Entered. The hall is full of people;
The music is already tired of thundering;
The crowd is busy with the mazurka;
There is noise and crowding all around;
The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And drowned out by the roar of violins
Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

XXIX

On days of fun and desires
I was crazy about balls:
Or rather, there is no room for confessions
And for delivering a letter.
O you, honorable spouses!
I will offer you my services;
Please notice my speech:
I want to warn you.
You, mamas, are also stricter
Follow your daughters:
Hold your lorgnette straight!
Not that... not that, God forbid!
That's why I'm writing this
That I haven’t sinned for a long time.

XXX

Alas, for different fun
I've ruined a lot of lives!
But if morals had not suffered,
I would still love balls.
I love mad youth
And tightness, and shine, and joy,
And I’ll give you a thoughtful outfit;
I love their legs; but it's unlikely
You will find in Russia whole
Three pairs of slender female legs.
Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time
Two legs... Sad, cold,
I remember them all, even in my dreams
They trouble my heart.

XXXI

When and where, in what desert,
Madman, will you forget them?
Oh, legs, legs! where are you now?
Where do you pick up spring flowers?
Nurtured in eastern bliss,
On the northern, sad snow
You left no traces:
You loved soft carpets
A luxurious touch.
How long have I forgotten for you?
And I thirst for fame and praise,
And the land of the fathers, and imprisonment?
The happiness of youth has disappeared -
Like your light footprint in the meadows.

XXXII

Diana's breasts, Flora's cheeks
Lovely, dear friends!
However, Terpsichore's leg
Something more charming for me.
She, prophesying with a glance
An invaluable reward
Attracts with conventional beauty
A willful swarm of desires.
I love her, my friend Elvina,
Under the long tablecloth of the tables,
In the spring on the grassy meadows,
In winter on a cast iron fireplace,
There is a hall on the mirrored parquet floor,
By the sea on granite rocks.

XXXIII

I remember the sea before the storm:
How I envied the waves
Running in a stormy line
Lay down with love at her feet!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch your lovely feet with your lips!
No, never on hot days
Of my boiling youth
I did not wish with such torment
Kiss the lips of the young Armids,
Or fiery roses touch the cheeks,
Or hearts full of languor;
No, never a rush of passion
Never tormented my soul like that!

XXXIV

I remember another time!
In sometimes cherished dreams
I hold the happy stirrup...
And I feel the leg in my hands;
The imagination is running wild again
Her touch again
The blood ignited in the withered heart,
Again longing, again love!..
But it is enough to glorify the arrogant
With his chatty lyre;
They are not worth any passions
No songs inspired by them:
The words and gaze of these sorceresses
Deceptive... like their legs.

XXXV

What about my Onegin? Half asleep
He goes to bed from the ball:
And St. Petersburg is restless
Already awakened by the drum.
The merchant gets up, the peddler comes,
A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,
Okhtinka is in a hurry with the jug,
The morning snow crunches under it.
I woke up in the morning with a pleasant sound.
The shutters are open; pipe smoke
Rising like a pillar of blue,
And the baker, a neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
Already opened his vasisdas.

XXXVI

But, tired of the noise of the ball
And the morning turns to midnight,
Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade
Fun and luxury child.
Wake up at noon, and again
Until the morning his life is ready,
Monotonous and colorful.
And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.
But was my Eugene happy?
Free, in the color of the best years,
Among the brilliant victories,
Among everyday pleasures?
Was he in vain among the feasts?
Careless and healthy?

XXXVII

No: his feelings cooled down early;
He was tired of the noise of the world;
The beauties didn't last long
The subject of his usual thoughts;
The betrayals have become tiresome;
Friends and friendship are tired,
Because I couldn’t always
Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie
Pouring a bottle of champagne
And pour out sharp words,
When you had a headache;
And although he was an ardent rake,
But he finally fell out of love
And scolding, and saber, and lead.

XXXVIII

The disease whose cause
It's time to find it long ago,
Similar to English spleen,
In short: Russian blues
I mastered it little by little;
He will shoot himself, thank God,
I didn't want to try
But he completely lost interest in life.
How Child-Harold, gloomy, languid
He appeared in living rooms;
Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,
Not a sweet look, not a sigh
immodest,
Nothing touched him
He didn't notice anything.

XXXIX. XL. XLI

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……………………………………
……………………………………

XLII

Quirky girls big world!
He left everyone before you;
And the truth is that in our summer
The higher tone is rather boring;
At least maybe another lady
Interprets Say and Bentham,
But in general their conversation
Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;
Besides, they are so immaculate,
So majestic, so smart,
So full of piety,
So careful, so precise,
So unapproachable for men,
That the sight gives birth to them spleen.

XLIII

And you, young beauties,
Which sometimes later
The daring droshky carries away
Along the St. Petersburg pavement,
And my Eugene left you.
Renegade of stormy pleasures,
Onegin locked himself at home,
Yawning, he took up the pen,
I wanted to write - but hard work
He felt sick; Nothing
It did not come from his pen,
And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop
People I don't judge
Because I belong to them.

XLIV

And again, betrayed by idleness,
Languishing with spiritual emptiness,
He sat down - with a laudable purpose
Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;
He lined the shelf with a group of books,
I read and read, but to no avail:
There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;
There is no conscience in that, there is no meaning in that;
Everyone is wearing different chains;
And the old thing is outdated,
And the old are delirious of the newness.
Like women, he left books,
And a shelf with their dusty family,
Covered it with mourning taffeta.

XLV

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,
How does he, having fallen behind the bustle,
I became friends with him at that time.
I liked his features
Involuntary devotion to dreams,
Inimitable strangeness
And a sharp, cool mind.
I was embittered, he was gloomy;
We both knew the passion game:
Life tormented both of us;
The heat died down in both hearts;
Anger awaited both
Blind Fortune and People
In the very morning of our days.

XLVI

He who lived and thought cannot
Do not despise people in your heart;
Whoever felt it is worried
The ghost of irrevocable days:
There is no charm for that.
That serpent of memories
He is gnawing at remorse.
All this often gives
Great pleasure to the conversation.
First Onegin's language
I was embarrassed; but I'm used to it
To his caustic argument,
And to a joke with bile in half,
And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

XLVII

How often in the summer,
When it's clear and light
Night sky over the Neva
And the waters are cheerful glass
Diana's face does not reflect
Remembering the former years of novels,
Remembering my old love,
Sensitive, careless again,
Breath of the favorable night
We reveled silently!
Like entering a green forest from prison
The sleepy convict has been transferred,
So we were carried away by the dream
Young at the start of life.

XLVIII

With a soul full of regrets,
And leaning on granite,
Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,
How Piit described himself.
Everything was quiet; only at night
The sentries called to each other,
Yes, the distant sound of the droshky
With Millonna it suddenly rang out;
Just a boat, waving its oars,
Floated along the dormant river:
And we were captivated in the distance
The horn and the song are daring...
But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,
The chant of the Torquat octaves!

XLIX

Adriatic waves,
Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you
And, full of inspiration again,
I will hear your magical voice!
He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;
By the proud lyre of Albion
He is familiar to me, he is dear to me.
Golden nights of Italy
I will enjoy the bliss in freedom,
With the young Venetian,
Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,
Floating in a mysterious gondola;
With her my lips will find
The language of Petrarch and love.

L

Will the hour of my freedom come?
It's time, it's time! - I appeal to her;
I'm wandering over the sea, waiting for the weather,
Manyu sailed the ships.
Under the robe of storms, arguing with the waves,
Along the free crossroads of the sea
When will I start free running?
It's time to leave the boring beach
Elements that are hostile to me,
And among the midday swells,
Under my African sky,
Sigh about gloomy Russia,
Where I suffered, where I loved,
Where I buried my heart.

LI

Onegin was ready with me
See foreign countries;
But soon we were destined
Divorced for a long time.
His father then died.
Gathered in front of Onegin
Lenders are a greedy regiment.
Everyone has their own mind and sense:
Evgeny, hating litigation,
Satisfied with my lot,
He gave them the inheritance
Not seeing a big loss
Or foreknowledge from afar
The death of my old uncle.

LII

Suddenly he really got
Report from the manager
That uncle is dying in bed
And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.
After reading the sad message,
Evgeniy on a date right away
Swiftly galloped through the mail
And I already yawned in advance,
Getting ready, for the sake of money,
For sighs, boredom and deception
(And thus I began my novel);
But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,
I found it already on the table,
As a tribute to the ready land.

LIII

He found the yard full of services;
To the dead man from all sides
Enemies and friends gathered,
Hunters before the funeral.
The deceased was buried.
The priests and guests ate and drank
And then we parted important ways,
It's as if they were busy.
Here is our Onegin, a villager,
Factories, waters, forests, lands
The owner is complete, and until now
An enemy of order and a spendthrift,
And I’m very glad that the old path
Changed it to something.

LIV

Two days seemed new to him
Lonely fields
The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,
The babbling of a quiet stream;
On the third grove, hill and field
He was no longer occupied;
Then they induced sleep;
Then he saw clearly
That in the village the boredom is the same,
Although there are no streets or palaces,
No cards, no balls, no poems.
Handra was waiting for him on guard,
And she ran after him,
Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

LV

I was born for peaceful life,
For village silence:
In the wilderness the lyrical voice is louder,
More vivid creative dreams.
Dedicating yourself to the leisure of the innocent,
I wander over a deserted lake,
AND far away my law.
I wake up every morning
For sweet bliss and freedom:
I read little, I sleep for a long time,
I don’t catch flying glory.
Isn't that how I was in years past?
Spent in inaction, in the shadows
My happiest days?

LVI

Flowers, love, village, idleness,
Fields! I am devoted to you with my soul.
I'm always happy to notice the difference
Between Onegin and me,
To the mocking reader
Or some publisher
Intricate slander
Comparing my features here,
Didn’t repeat it shamelessly later,
Why did I smear my portrait?
Like Byron, the poet of pride,
As if it's impossible for us
Write poems about others
As soon as about yourself.

LVII

Let me note by the way: all poets -
Love dreamy friends.
Sometimes there were cute things
I dreamed, and my soul
I kept their image secret;
Afterwards the muse revived them:
So I, careless, sang
And the maiden of the mountains, my ideal,
And captives of the shores of Salgir.
Now from you, my friends,
I often hear the question:
“For whom does your lyre sigh?
To whom, in the crowd of jealous maidens,
Did you dedicate the chant to her?

LVIII

Whose gaze, stirring inspiration,
He rewarded me with a touching caress
Your thoughtful singing?
Who did your poem idolize?”
And, guys, no one, by God!
Love's crazy anxiety
I experienced it bleakly.
Blessed is he who combined with her
The fever of rhymes: he doubled it
Poetry is sacred nonsense,
Following Petrarch,
And calmed the torment of the heart,
In the meantime, I also caught fame;
But I, loving, was stupid and dumb.

LIX

Love has passed, the muse has appeared,
And the dark mind cleared up.
Free, looking for union again
Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;
I write, and my heart does not grieve,
The pen, having forgotten itself, does not draw,
Near unfinished poems,
No women's legs, no heads;
The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,
I'm still sad; but there are no more tears,
And soon, soon the storm's trail
My soul will completely calm down:
Then I'll start writing
Poem of songs in twenty-five.

LX

I was already thinking about the form of the plan,
And as a hero I will call him;
For now, in my novel
I finished the first chapter;
I reviewed all of this strictly:
There are a lot of contradictions
But I don’t want to fix them.
I will pay my debt to censorship,
And for journalists to eat
I will give the fruits of my labors:
Go to the banks of the Neva,
Newborn creation
And earn me a tribute of glory:
Crooked talk, noise and swearing!

Imbued with vanity, he also possessed a special pride, which prompts him to admit with equal indifference both his good and bad deeds - due to a sense of superiority, perhaps imaginary. From a private letter (French)

The novel “Eugene Onegin” is a must-read for all connoisseurs of Pushkin’s work. This great work plays one of the key roles in the poet’s work. This work had an incredible influence on all Russian fiction. An important fact from the history of writing the novel is that Pushkin worked on it for about 8 years. It was during these years that the poet reached his creative maturity. The book, completed in 1831, was published only in 1833. The events described in the work cover the period between 1819 and 1825. It was then, after the defeat of Napoleon, that the campaigns of the Russian army took place. The reader is presented with situations that took place in society during the reign of Tsar Alexander I. Interweaving in the novel historical facts and realities important to the poet, made him truly interesting and lively. Based on this poem, many have been written scientific works. And interest in it does not fade even after almost 2 hundred years.

It is difficult to find a person who is not familiar with the plot of Pushkin’s work “Eugene Onegin”. The central line of the novel is a love story. Feelings, duty, honor - all this is main problem creations, because combining them is so difficult. Two couples appear before the reader: Evgeny Onegin with Tatyana Larina and Vladimir Lensky with Olga. Each of them dreams of happiness and love. But this is not destined to happen. Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin was a master of describing unrequited feelings. Tatyana, who falls madly in love with Onegin, does not receive the desired answer from him. He understands that he loves her only after strong shocks that melt his stone heart. And now, it would seem, the happy ending is so close. But the heroes of this novel in verse are not destined to be together. The bitter thing is that the characters cannot blame fate or others for this. From the very beginning of Eugene Onegin, you understand that only their mistakes influenced this sad outcome. The search for the right path was unsuccessful. The content of such deep philosophical moments in the work makes the reader think about the reasons for the actions of the heroes. In addition to a simple love story, the poem is filled with living stories, descriptions, pictures and colorful characters with difficult destinies. Through the chapters of the novel, step by step, you can trace the most incredible details of that era.

The main idea of ​​the text of “Eugene Onegin” is not easy to identify. This book gives an understanding that true happiness is not available to everyone. Only people who are not burdened with spiritual development and aspirations for the highest can truly enjoy life. Simple things that anyone can achieve are enough for them. Sensitive and thinking individuals, according to the author, suffer more often. They will face inevitable death, like Lensky, “empty inaction,” like Onegin, or silent sadness, like Tatyana. This pattern is frightening and causes a feeling of melancholy. Moreover, Pushkin, in no case, directly accuses his heroes. He emphasizes that it was the environment around that made the characters this way. After all, every respectable, intelligent and noble person will change under the influence of the heavy burden of the serfdom and hard labor. The emergence of this abnormal system in society has made hundreds of thousands of people unhappy. It is the sadness from such events that is expressed in the last lines of the work. Alexander Sergeevich managed to skillfully combine the problems of society with the hardships of individual destinies. This combination makes you re-read the novel again and again, marveling at the suffering of the characters, sympathizing with them and empathizing. The novel “Eugene Onegin” can be read online or downloaded for free on our website.

And he’s in a hurry to live, and he’s in a hurry to feel.

Prince Vyazemsky The epigraph is taken from the poem “First Snow” by P. A. Vyazemsky.

“My uncle has the most honest rules,

When I seriously fell ill,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of anything better.

His example to others is science;

But, my God, what a bore

To sit with the patient day and night,

Without leaving a single step!

What low deceit

To amuse the half-dead,

Adjust his pillows

It's sad to bring medicine,

Sigh and think to yourself:

When will the devil take you!”

So thought the young rake,

Flying in the dust on postage,

By the Almighty will of Zeus

Heir to all his relatives. -

Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!

With the hero of my novel

Without preamble, right now

Let me introduce you:

Onegin, my good friend,

Born on the banks of the Neva,

Where might you have been born?

Or shone, my reader;

I once walked there too:

But the north is bad for me Written in Bessarabia..

Having served excellently and nobly,

His father lived in debt

Gave three balls annually

And finally squandered it.

Eugene's fate kept:

At first Madame followed him,

Then Monsieur replaced her;

The child was harsh, but sweet.

Monsieur l'Abbe€, poor Frenchman,

So that the child does not get tired,

I taught him everything jokingly,

I didn’t bother you with strict morals,

Lightly scolded for pranks

And he took me for a walk in the Summer Garden.

When will the rebellious youth

The time has come for Evgeniy

It's time for hope and tender sadness,

Monsieur was driven out of the yard.

Here is my Onegin free;

Haircut in the latest fashion;

Like dandy Dandy, dandy. London dressed -

And finally saw the light.

He's completely French

He could express himself and wrote;

I danced the mazurka easily

And he bowed casually;

What do you want more? The light has decided

That he is smart and very nice.

We all learned a little bit

Something and somehow

So upbringing, thank God,

It’s no wonder for us to shine.

Onegin was, according to many

(decisive and strict judges),

A small scientist, but a pedant Pedant - here: “a person who flaunts his knowledge, his learning, with aplomb, judging everything.” (Dictionary of the language of A. S. Pushkin.).

He had a lucky talent

No coercion in conversation

Touch everything lightly

With the learned air of a connoisseur

Remain silent in an important dispute

And make the ladies smile

Fire of unexpected epigrams.

Latin is now out of fashion:

So, if I tell you the truth,

He knew quite a bit of Latin,

To understand the epigraphs,

Talk about Juvenal,

At the end of the letter put vale Vale - be healthy (lat.). ,

Yes, I remembered, although not without sin,

Two verses from the Aeneid.

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

History of the earth;

But the jokes of days gone by

From Romulus to the present day,

He kept it in his memory.

Having no high passion

No mercy for the sounds of life,

He could not iambic from trochee,

No matter how hard we fought, we could tell the difference.

Scolded Homer, Theocritus;

But I read Adam Smith

And there was a deep economy,

That is, he knew how to judge

How does the state get rich?

And how does he live, and why?

He doesn't need gold

When simple product has.

His father couldn't understand him

And he gave the lands as collateral.

Everything that Evgeniy still knew,

Tell me about your lack of time;

But what was his true genius?

What he knew more firmly than all sciences,

What happened to him from childhood

And labor, and torment, and joy,

What took the whole day

His melancholy laziness, -

There was a science of tender passion,

Which Nazon sang,

Why did he end up a sufferer?

Its age is brilliant and rebellious

In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,

Far away from Italy.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

How early could he be a hypocrite?

To harbor hope, to be jealous,

To dissuade, to make believe,

Seem gloomy, languish,

Be proud and obedient

Attentive or indifferent!

How languidly silent he was,

How fieryly eloquent

How careless in heartfelt letters!

Breathing alone, loving alone,

How he knew how to forget himself!

How quick and gentle his gaze was,

Shy and impudent, and sometimes

Shined with an obedient tear!

How he knew how to seem new,

Jokingly amaze innocence,

To frighten with despair,

To amuse with pleasant flattery,

Catch a moment of tenderness,

Innocent years of prejudice

Win with intelligence and passion,

Expect involuntary affection

Beg and demand recognition

Listen to the first sound of the heart,

Pursue love and suddenly

Achieve a secret date...

And then she's alone

Give lessons in silence!

How early could he have disturbed

Hearts of coquettes!

When did you want to destroy

He has his rivals,

How he sarcastically slandered!

What networks I prepared for them!

But you, blessed men,

You stayed with him as friends:

The wicked husband caressed him,

Foblas is a long-time student,

And the distrustful old man

And the majestic cuckold,

Always happy with yourself

With your lunch and your wife.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Sometimes he was still in bed:

They bring notes to him.

What? Invitations? In fact,

Three houses for the evening call:

There will be a ball, there will be a children's party.

Where will my prankster ride?

Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:

It’s no wonder it’s easy to keep up with everything.

While in morning dress,

Wearing a wide bolivar Hat a la Bolivar. ,

Onegin goes to the boulevard,

And there he walks in the open space,

While the watchful Breget

Dinner won't ring his bell.

It’s already dark: he gets into the sled.

“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;

Silvery with frosty dust

His beaver collar.

To Talon Famous restaurateur. rushed: he was sure

What is Kaverin waiting for him there?

Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,

The comet's fault flowed with current;

In front of him is roast-beef Roast-beef (roast beef) – meat dish English cuisine. bloody

And truffles, the luxury of youth,

French cuisine has the best color,

And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable

Between live Limburg cheese

And a golden pineapple.

Thirst asks for more glasses

Pour hot fat over cutlets,

But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,

That a new ballet has begun.

The theater is an evil legislator,

Fickle Adorer

Charming actresses

Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,

Onegin flew to the theater,

Where everyone, breathing freedom,

Ready to clap entrechat entrechat (entrechat) - a figure in ballet (French). ,

To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,

Call Moina (in order to

Just so they can hear him).

Magic land! there in the old days,

Satire is a brave ruler,

Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,

And the overbearing Prince;

There Ozerov involuntary tributes

People's tears, applause

Shared with young Semyonova;

There our Katenin was resurrected

Corneille is a majestic genius;

There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out

A noisy swarm of their comedies,

There's Didelot A trait of chilled feeling worthy of Chald Harold. Mr. Didelot's ballets are filled with vivid imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic writers found much more poetry in them than in all French literature. crowned with glory

There, there under the canopy of the scenes

My younger days were rushing by.

My goddesses! what do you? where are you?

Hear my sad voice:

Are you still the same? other maidens,

Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?

Will I hear your choirs again?

Will I see the Russian Terpsichore

Soul-filled flight?

Or a sad look will not find

Familiar faces on a boring stage,

And, looking towards the alien light

Disappointed lorgnette

An indifferent spectator of fun,

I will yawn silently

And remember the past?

The theater is already full; the boxes shine;

The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;

In paradise they splash impatiently,

And, rising, the curtain makes noise.

Brilliant, half-airy,

I obey the magic bow,

Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,

Worth Istomin; she,

One foot touching the floor,

The other slowly circles,

And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,

Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;

Now the camp will sow, then it will develop,

And with a quick foot he hits the leg.

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters

Walks between the chairs along the legs,

The double lorgnette points sideways

To the boxes of unknown ladies;

I looked at all the tiers,

I saw everything: faces, clothes

He is terribly unhappy;

With men on all sides

He bowed, then went on stage.

He looked in great absentmindedness,

He turned away and yawned,

And he said: “It’s time for everyone to change;

I endured ballets for a long time,

But I’m tired of Didelot5) too.”

More cupids, devils, snakes

They jump and make noise on stage;

Still tired lackeys

They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;

They haven't stopped stomping yet,

Blow your nose, cough, shush, clap;

Still outside and inside

Lanterns are shining everywhere;

Still frozen, the horses fight,

Bored with my harness,

And the coachmen, around the lights,

They scold the gentlemen and beat them in the palm of their hands:

And Onegin went out;

He goes home to get dressed.

Will I portray the truth in the picture?

Secluded office

Where is the mod pupil exemplary

Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Everything for a plentiful whim

London trades scrupulously

And on the Baltic waves

He brings us lard and timber,

Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

Having chosen a useful trade,

Invents for fun

For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

Everything decorated the office

Philosopher at eighteen years old.

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,

Porcelain and bronze on the table,

And, a joy to pampered feelings,

Perfume in cut crystal;

Combs, steel files,

Straight scissors, curved scissors,

And brushes of thirty kinds

For both nails and teeth.

Rousseau (note in passing)

Couldn't understand how important Grim was

Dare to brush your nails in front of him,

An eloquent madman

Tout le monde sut qu'il mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyais rien, je commenzai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint et pour avoir trouve€ des tasses de blanc sur sa toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvai brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expris, ouvrage qu'il continua fiirement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles, peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau.

Confessions J. J. Rousseau

Everyone knew that he used whitewash; and I, who did not believe this at all, began to guess about it, not only from the improvement in the color of his face or because I found jars of whitewash on his toilet, but because, going into his room one morning, I found him cleaning nails with a special brush; he proudly continued this activity in my presence. I decided that a person who spends two hours every morning cleaning his nails could take a few minutes to cover up imperfections with white.

(“Confession” by J.-J. Rousseau) (French).

Make-up was ahead of its time: now all over enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush.

.

Defender of Liberty and Rights

In this case, completely wrong.

You can be a smart person

And think about the beauty of nails:

Why argue fruitlessly with the century?

The custom is despot between people.

Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,

Fearing jealous judgments,

There was a pedant in his clothes

And what we called dandy.

He's at least three o'clock

He spent in front of the mirrors

And he came out of the restroom

Like windy Venus,

When, wearing a man's outfit,

The goddess goes to a masquerade.

In the last taste of the toilet

Taking your curious glance,

I could before the learned light

Here to describe his outfit;

Of course it would be brave

Describe my business:

But trousers, tailcoat, vest,

All these words are not in Russian;

And I see, I apologize to you,

Well, my poor syllable is already

I could have been much less colorful

Foreign words

Even though I looked in the old days

In Academic Dictionary.

Now we have something wrong in the subject:

We better hurry to the ball,

Where to headlong in a Yamsk carriage

My Onegin has already galloped.

In front of the faded houses

Along the sleepy street in rows

Double carriage lights

Cheerful shed light

And they bring rainbows to the snow;

Dotted with bowls all around,

The magnificent house glitters;

Shadows walk across the solid windows,

Profiles of heads flash

And ladies and fashionable weirdos.

Here our hero drove up to the entryway;

He passes the doorman with an arrow

He flew up the marble steps,

I straightened my hair with my hand,

Entered. The hall is full of people;

The music is already tired of thundering;

The crowd is busy with the mazurka;

There is noise and crowding all around;

The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;

The legs of lovely ladies are flying;

In their captivating footsteps

Fiery eyes fly

And drowned out by the roar of violins

Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

On days of fun and desires

I was crazy about balls:

Or rather, there is no room for confessions

And for delivering a letter.

O you, honorable spouses!

I will offer you my services;

Please notice my speech:

I want to warn you.

You, mamas, are also stricter

Follow your daughters:

Hold your lorgnette straight!

Not that... not that, God forbid!

That's why I'm writing this

That I haven’t sinned for a long time.

Alas, for different fun

I've ruined a lot of lives!

But if morals had not suffered,

I would still love balls.

I love mad youth

And tightness, and shine, and joy,

And I’ll give you a thoughtful outfit;

I love their legs; but it's unlikely

You will find in Russia a whole

Three pairs of slender female legs.

Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time

Two legs... Sad, cold,

I remember them all, even in my dreams

They trouble my heart.

When and where, in what desert,

Madman, will you forget them?

Oh, legs, legs! where are you now?

Where do you crush spring flowers?

Nurtured in eastern bliss,

On the northern, sad snow

You left no traces:

You loved soft carpets

A luxurious touch.

How long have I forgotten for you?

And I thirst for fame and praise,

And the land of the fathers, and imprisonment?

The happiness of youth has disappeared,

Like your light trail in the meadows.

Diana's chest, cheeks Lanits - cheeks (obsolete). Flora

Lovely, dear friends!

However, Terpsichore's leg

Something more charming for me.

She, prophesying with a glance

An unappreciated reward

Attracts with conventional beauty

A willful swarm of desires.

I love her, my friend Elvina,

Under the long tablecloth of the tables,

In the spring on the grassy meadows,

In winter on a cast iron fireplace,

On the mirrored parquet hall,

By the sea on granite rocks.

I remember the sea before the storm:

How I envied the waves

Running in a stormy line

Lay down with love at her feet!

How I wished then with the waves

Touch your lovely feet with your lips!

No, never on hot days

Of my boiling youth

I did not wish with such torment

Kiss the lips of the young Armids,

Or fiery roses touch the cheeks,

Or hearts full of languor;

No, never a rush of passion

Never tormented my soul like that!

I remember another time!

In sometimes cherished dreams

I hold the happy stirrup...

And I feel the leg in my hands;

The imagination is running wild again

Her touch again

The blood ignited in the withered heart,

Again longing, again love!..

But it is enough to glorify the arrogant

With his chatty lyre;

They are not worth any passions

No songs inspired by them:

The words and gaze of these sorceresses

Deceptive... like their legs.

What about my Onegin? Half asleep

He goes to bed from the ball:

And St. Petersburg is restless

Already awakened by the drum.

The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,

The morning snow crunches under it.

I woke up in the morning with a pleasant sound.

The shutters are open; pipe smoke

Rising like a pillar of blue,

And the baker, a neat German,

In a paper cap, more than once

Already opened his vasisdas Vasisdas is a play on words: in French it means a window, in German it means the question “vas ist das?” - “what is this?”, used by Russians to designate Germans. Trade in small shops was carried out through the window. That is, the German baker managed to sell more than one loaf of bread. .

But, tired of the noise of the ball,

And the morning turns to midnight,

Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade

Fun and luxury child.

Will wake up at noon, and again

Until the morning his life is ready,

Monotonous and colorful

And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.

But was my Eugene happy?

Free, in the color of the best years,

Among the brilliant victories,

Among everyday pleasures?

Was he in vain among the feasts?

Careless and healthy?

No: his feelings cooled down early;

He was tired of the noise of the world;

The beauties didn't last long

The subject of his usual thoughts;

The betrayals have become tiresome;

Friends and friendship are tired,

Because I couldn’t always

Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie

Pouring a bottle of champagne

And pour out sharp words,

When you had a headache;

And although he was an ardent rake,

But he finally fell out of love

And scolding, and saber, and lead.

The disease whose cause

It's time to find it long ago,

Similar to the English spleen,

In short: Russian blues

I mastered it little by little;

He will shoot himself, thank God,

I didn't want to try

But he completely lost interest in life.

Like Child-Harold, gloomy, languid

He appeared in living rooms;

Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,

Not a sweet look, not an immodest sigh,

Nothing touched him

He didn't notice anything.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Freakies of the big world!

He left everyone before you;

And the truth is that in our summer

The higher tone is rather boring;

At least maybe another lady

Interprets Say and Bentham,

But in general their conversation

Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;

Besides, they are so immaculate,

So majestic, so smart,

So full of piety,

So careful, so precise,

So unapproachable for men,

That the sight of them already gives rise to spleen This entire ironic stanza is nothing more than subtle praise for our beautiful compatriots. So Boileau, under the guise of reproach, praises Louis XIV. Our ladies combine enlightenment with courtesy and strict purity of morals with this oriental charm, which so captivated Madame Stael (see Dix anne€es d'exil / “Ten Years of Exile” (French)). .

And you, young beauties,

Which sometimes later

The daring droshky carries away

Along the St. Petersburg pavement,

And my Eugene left you.

Renegade of stormy pleasures,

Onegin locked himself at home,

Yawning, he took up the pen,

I wanted to write - but hard work

He felt sick; Nothing

It did not come from his pen,

And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop

People I don't judge

Because I belong to them.

And again, betrayed by idleness,

Languishing with spiritual emptiness,

He sat down - with a laudable purpose

Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;

He lined the shelf with a group of books,

I read and read, but to no avail:

There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;

There is no conscience in that, there is no meaning in that;

Everyone is wearing different chains;

And the old thing is outdated,

And the old are delirious of the newness.

Like women, he left books,

And a shelf with their dusty family,

Covered it with mourning taffeta.

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,

How does he, having fallen behind the bustle,

I became friends with him at that time.

I liked his features

Involuntary devotion to dreams,

Inimitable strangeness

And a sharp, chilled mind.

I was embittered, he was gloomy;

We both knew the game of passion;

Life tormented both of us;

The heat died down in both hearts;

Anger awaited both

Blind Fortune and People

In the very morning of our days.

He who lived and thought cannot

Do not despise people in your heart;

Whoever felt it is worried

Ghost of irrevocable days:

There's no charm for that

That serpent of memories

He is gnawing at remorse.

All this often gives

Great pleasure to the conversation.

First Onegin's language

I was embarrassed; but I'm used to it

To his caustic argument,

And as a joke, with bile in half,

And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

How often in the summer,

When it's clear and light

Night sky over the Neva Readers will remember the charming description of the St. Petersburg night in Gnedich’s idyll:

Here is the night; but the golden stripes of clouds are fading.

Without stars and without a month, the entire distance is illuminated.

On the distant seaside silvery sails are visible

Slightly visible ships, as if sailing across the blue sky.

The night sky shines with a gloomless radiance,

And the purple of the sunset merges with the gold of the east:

It’s as if the morning star follows you out in the evening

Ruddy morning. - It was a golden time.

How summer days steal the dominion of the night;

How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky captivates

The magical radiance of shadow and sweet light,

How the noon sky is never adorned;

That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden,

Whose eyes are blue and cheeks are scarlet

The light brown curls are barely set off by the waves.

Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see

Evening without twilight fast nights without shadow;

Then Philomela will only end her midnight songs

And the songs start, welcoming the rising day.

But it's too late; freshness breathed on the Neva tundra;

The dew has dropped; ………………………

Here is midnight: rustling in the evening with a thousand oars,

The Neva will not sway; the city guests have left;

Not a voice on the shore, not a ripple on the moisture, everything is quiet;

Only occasionally the hum from the bridges will run over the water;

Only an extended scream will rush from the distance

Where in the night the military guards call out to the guards.

Everyone is asleep. ………………………

And the waters are cheerful glass

Diana's face does not reflect

Remembering the novels of previous years,

Remembering my old love,

Sensitive, careless again,

Breath of the favorable night

We reveled silently!

Like a green forest from prison

The sleepy convict has been transferred,

So we were carried away by the dream

Young at the start of life.

With a soul full of regrets,

And leaning on granite,

Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,

How did he describe himself?

Show favor to the goddess

He sees an enthusiastic drink,

Who spends the night sleepless,

Leaning on granite.

(Muravyev. Goddess of the Neva)

.

Everything was quiet; only at night

The sentries called to each other;

Yes, the distant sound of the droshky

With Millonna Milyonnaya is the name of a street in St. Petersburg. was heard suddenly;

Just a boat, waving its oars,

Floated along the dormant river:

And we were captivated in the distance

The horn and the song are daring...

But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,

The chant of the Torquat octaves! Torquat octaves- poems by the Italian Renaissance poet Torquato Tasso (1544-1595).

Adriatic waves,

Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you

And, full of inspiration again,

I will hear your magical voice!

He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;

By the proud lyre of Albion Albion's proud lyre A. S. Pushkin names the work of the English poet Byron.

He is familiar to me, he is dear to me.

Golden nights of Italy

I will enjoy the bliss in freedom

With the young Venetian,

Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,

Floating in a mysterious gondola;

With her my lips will find

Everyone has their own mind and sense:

Evgeny, hating litigation,

Satisfied with my lot,

He gave them the inheritance

Not seeing a big loss

Or foreknowledge from afar

The death of the old man's uncle.

Suddenly he really got

Report from the manager

That uncle is dying in bed

And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.

After reading the sad message,

Evgeniy on a date right away

Swiftly galloped through the mail

And I already yawned in advance,

Getting ready, for the sake of money,

For sighs, boredom and deception

(And thus I began my novel);

But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,

I found it already on the table,

Like a tribute ready to the earth.

He found the yard full of services;

To the dead man from all sides

Enemies and friends gathered,

Hunters before the funeral.

The deceased was buried.

The priests and guests ate and drank

And then we parted important ways,

It's as if they were busy.

Here is our Onegin - a villager,

Factories, waters, forests, lands

The owner is complete, and until now

An enemy of order and a spendthrift,

And I’m very glad that the old path

Changed it to something.

Two days seemed new to him

Lonely fields

The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,

The babbling of a quiet stream;

On the third grove, hill and field

He was no longer occupied;

Then they induced sleep;

Then he saw clearly

That in the village the boredom is the same,

Although there are no streets or palaces,

No cards, no balls, no poems.

Handra was waiting for him on guard,

And she ran after him,

Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

I was born for a peaceful life

For village silence:

More vivid creative dreams.

Dedicating yourself to the leisure of the innocent,

I wander over a deserted lake,

And far away Far niente - idleness (it.). my law.

I wake up every morning

For sweet bliss and freedom:

I read little, I sleep for a long time,

I don’t catch flying glory.

Isn't that how I was in years past?

Spent inactive, in the shadows

My happiest days?

Flowers, love, village, idleness,

Fields! I am devoted to you with my soul.

I'm always happy to notice the difference

Between Onegin and me,

To the mocking reader

Or some publisher

Intricate slander

Comparing my features here,

Didn’t repeat it shamelessly later,

Why did I smear my portrait?

Like Byron, the poet of pride,

As if it's impossible for us

Write poems about others

Poetry is sacred nonsense,

Following Petrarch,

And calmed the torment of the heart,

In the meantime, I also caught fame;

But I, loving, was stupid and dumb.

Love has passed, the muse has appeared,

And the dark mind became clear.

Free, looking for union again

Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;

I write, and my heart does not grieve,

The pen, having forgotten itself, does not draw

Near unfinished poems

No women's legs, no heads;

The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,

I'm still sad; but there are no more tears,

And soon, soon the storm's trail

My soul will completely calm down:

Then I'll start writing

Poem of songs in twenty-five.

I was already thinking about the form of the plan

And as a hero I will call him;

For now, in my novel

I finished the first chapter;

I reviewed it all strictly;

There are a lot of contradictions

But I don’t want to correct them;

I will pay my debt to censorship

And for journalists to eat

I will give the fruits of my labors;

Go to the banks of the Neva,

Newborn creation

And earn me a tribute of glory:

Crooked talk, noise and swearing!

Pétri de vanité il avait encore plus de cette espèce d'orgueil qui fait avouer avec la même indifférence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de supériorité, peut-être imaginaire.

Not thinking of amusing the proud world,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I would like to introduce you
The pledge is more worthy than you,
More worthy than a beautiful soul,
Saint of a dream come true,
Poetry alive and clear,
High thoughts and simplicity;
But so be it - with a biased hand
Accept the collection of motley heads,
Half funny, half sad,
Common people, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years,
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sorrowful notes.

Chapter One

And he’s in a hurry to live, and he’s in a hurry to feel.

I

“My uncle has the most honest rules,
When I seriously fell ill,
He forced himself to respect
And I couldn't think of anything better.
His example to others is science;
But, my God, what a bore
To sit with the patient day and night,
Without leaving a single step!
What low deceit
To amuse the half-dead,
Adjust his pillows
It's sad to bring medicine,
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you!”

II

So thought the young rake,
Flying in the dust on postage,
By the Almighty will of Zeus
Heir to all his relatives. -
Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!
With the hero of my novel
Without preamble, right now
Let me introduce you:
Onegin, my good friend,
Born on the banks of the Neva,
Where might you have been born?
Or shone, my reader;
I once walked there too:
But the north is bad for me.

III

Having served excellently and nobly,
His father lived in debt
Gave three balls annually
And finally squandered it.
Eugene's fate kept:
First Madame I followed him
After Monsieur replaced her;
The child was harsh, but sweet.
Monsieur l'Abbé, poor Frenchman
So that the child does not get tired,
I taught him everything jokingly,
I didn’t bother you with strict morals,
Lightly scolded for pranks
And he took me for a walk in the Summer Garden.

IV

When will the rebellious youth
The time has come for Evgeniy
It's time for hope and tender sadness,
Monsieur kicked out of the yard.
Here is my Onegin free;
Haircut in the latest fashion;
How dandy London dressed -
And finally saw the light.
He's completely French
He could express himself and wrote;
I danced the mazurka easily
And he bowed casually;
What do you want more? The light has decided
That he is smart and very nice.

V

We all learned a little bit
Something and somehow
So upbringing, thank God,
It’s no wonder for us to shine.
Onegin was, according to many
(decisive and strict judges),
A small scientist, but a pedant.
He had a lucky talent
No coercion in conversation
Touch everything lightly
With the learned air of a connoisseur
Remain silent in an important dispute
And make the ladies smile
Fire of unexpected epigrams.

VI

Latin is now out of fashion:
So, if I tell you the truth,
He knew quite a bit of Latin,
To understand the epigraphs,
Talk about Juvenal,
At the end of the letter put vale,
Yes, I remembered, although not without sin,
Two verses from the Aeneid.
He had no desire to rummage
In chronological dust
History of the earth;
But the jokes of days gone by
From Romulus to the present day,
He kept it in his memory.

VII

Having no high passion
No mercy for the sounds of life,
He could not iambic from trochee,
No matter how hard we fought, we could tell the difference.
Scolded Homer, Theocritus;
But I read Adam Smith
And there was a deep economy,
That is, he knew how to judge
How does the state get rich?
And how does he live, and why?
He doesn't need gold
When simple product has.
His father couldn't understand him
And he gave the lands as collateral.

VIII

Everything that Evgeniy still knew,
Tell me about your lack of time;
But what was his true genius?
What he knew more firmly than all sciences,
What happened to him from childhood
And labor, and torment, and joy,
What took the whole day
His melancholy laziness, -
There was a science of tender passion,
Which Nazon sang,
Why did he end up a sufferer?
Its age is brilliant and rebellious
In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,
Far away from Italy.

IX

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X

How early could he be a hypocrite?
To harbor hope, to be jealous,
To dissuade, to make believe,
Seem gloomy, languish,
Be proud and obedient
Attentive or indifferent!
How languidly silent he was,
How fieryly eloquent
How careless in heartfelt letters!
Breathing alone, loving alone,
How he knew how to forget himself!
How quick and gentle his gaze was,
Shy and impudent, and sometimes
Shined with an obedient tear!

XI

How he knew how to seem new,
Jokingly amaze innocence,
To frighten with despair,
To amuse with pleasant flattery,
Catch a moment of tenderness,
Innocent years of prejudice
Win with intelligence and passion,
Expect involuntary affection
Beg and demand recognition
Listen to the first sound of the heart,
Pursue love and suddenly
Achieve a secret date...
And then she's alone
Give lessons in silence!

XII

How early could he have disturbed
Hearts of coquettes!
When did you want to destroy
He has his rivals,
How he sarcastically slandered!
What networks I prepared for them!
But you, blessed men,
You stayed with him as friends:
The wicked husband caressed him,
Foblas is a long-time student,
And the distrustful old man
And the majestic cuckold,
Always happy with yourself
With your lunch and your wife.

XIII. XIV

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XV

Sometimes he was still in bed:
They bring notes to him.
What? Invitations? In fact,
Three houses for the evening call:
There will be a ball, there will be a children's party.
Where will my prankster ride?
Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:
It’s no wonder it’s easy to keep up with everything.
While in morning dress,
Putting on wide bolivar,
Onegin goes to the boulevard,
And there he walks in the open space,
While the watchful Breget
Dinner won't ring his bell.

XVI

It’s already dark: he gets into the sled.
“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;
Silvery with frosty dust
His beaver collar.
TO Talon rushed: he was sure
What is Kaverin waiting for him there?
Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,
The comet's fault flowed with current;
In front of him roast beef bloody
And truffles, the luxury of youth,
French cuisine has the best color,
And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable
Between live Limburg cheese
And a golden pineapple.

XVII

Thirst asks for more glasses
Pour hot fat over cutlets,
But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,
That a new ballet has begun.
The theater is an evil legislator,
Fickle Adorer
Charming actresses
Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,
Onegin flew to the theater,
Where everyone, breathing freedom,
Ready to clap entrechat,
To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,
Call Moina (in order to
Just so they can hear him).

XVIII

Magic land! there in the old days,
Satire is a brave ruler,
Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,
And the overbearing Prince;
There Ozerov involuntary tributes
People's tears, applause
Shared with young Semyonova;
There our Katenin was resurrected
Corneille is a majestic genius;
There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out
A noisy swarm of their comedies,
There Didelot was crowned with glory,
There, there under the canopy of the scenes
My younger days were rushing by.

XIX

My goddesses! what do you? where are you?
Hear my sad voice:
Are you still the same? other maidens,
Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?
Will I hear your choirs again?
Will I see the Russian Terpsichore
Soul-filled flight?
Or a sad look will not find
Familiar faces on a boring stage,
And, looking towards the alien light
Disappointed lorgnette
An indifferent spectator of fun,
I will yawn silently
And remember the past?

XX

The theater is already full; the boxes shine;
The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;
In paradise they splash impatiently,
And, rising, the curtain makes noise.
Brilliant, half-airy,
I obey the magic bow,
Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,
Worth Istomin; she,
One foot touching the floor,
The other slowly circles,
And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,
Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;
Now the camp will sow, then it will develop,
And with a quick foot he hits the leg.

XXI

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters
Walks between the chairs along the legs,
The double lorgnette points sideways
To the boxes of unknown ladies;
I looked at all the tiers,
I saw everything: faces, clothes
He is terribly unhappy;
With men on all sides
He bowed, then went on stage.
He looked in great absentmindedness,
He turned away and yawned,
And he said: “It’s time for everyone to change;
I endured ballets for a long time,
But I’m tired of Didelot too.”

XXII

More cupids, devils, snakes
They jump and make noise on stage;
Still tired lackeys
They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;
They haven't stopped stomping yet,
Blow your nose, cough, shush, clap;
Still outside and inside
Lanterns are shining everywhere;
Still frozen, the horses fight,
Bored with my harness,
And the coachmen, around the lights,
They scold the gentlemen and beat them in the palm of their hands:
And Onegin went out;
He goes home to get dressed.

XXIII

Will I portray the truth in the picture?
Secluded office
Where is the mod pupil exemplary
Dressed, undressed and dressed again?
Everything for a plentiful whim
London trades scrupulously
And on the Baltic waves
He brings us lard and timber,
Everything in Paris tastes hungry,
Having chosen a useful trade,
Invents for fun
For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -
Everything decorated the office
Philosopher at eighteen years old.

XXIV

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,
Porcelain and bronze on the table,
And, a joy to pampered feelings,
Perfume in cut crystal;
Combs, steel files,
Straight scissors, curved scissors,
And brushes of thirty kinds
For both nails and teeth.
Rousseau (note in passing)
Couldn't understand how important Grim was
Dare to brush your nails in front of him,
An eloquent madman.
Defender of Liberty and Rights
In this case, completely wrong.

XXV

You can be a smart person
And think about the beauty of nails:
Why argue fruitlessly with the century?
The custom is despot between people.
Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,
Fearing jealous judgments,
There was a pedant in his clothes
And what we called dandy.
He's at least three o'clock
He spent in front of the mirrors
And he came out of the restroom
Like windy Venus,
When, wearing a man's outfit,
The goddess goes to a masquerade.

XXVI

In the last taste of the toilet
Taking your curious glance,
I could before the learned light
Here to describe his outfit;
Of course it would be brave
Describe my business:
But trousers, tailcoat, vest,
All these words are not in Russian;
And I see, I apologize to you,
Well, my poor syllable is already
I could have been much less colorful
Foreign words
Even though I looked in the old days
In Academic Dictionary.

XXVII

Now we have something wrong in the subject:
We better hurry to the ball,
Where to headlong in a Yamsk carriage
My Onegin has already galloped.
In front of the faded houses
Along the sleepy street in rows
Double carriage lights
Cheerful shed light
And they bring rainbows to the snow;
Dotted with bowls all around,
The magnificent house glitters;
Shadows walk across the solid windows,
Profiles of heads flash
And ladies and fashionable weirdos.

XXVIII

Here our hero drove up to the entryway;
He passes the doorman with an arrow
He flew up the marble steps,
I straightened my hair with my hand,
Entered. The hall is full of people;
The music is already tired of thundering;
The crowd is busy with the mazurka;
There is noise and crowding all around;
The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And drowned out by the roar of violins
Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

XXIX

On days of fun and desires
I was crazy about balls:
Or rather, there is no room for confessions
And for delivering a letter.
O you, honorable spouses!
I will offer you my services;
Please notice my speech:
I want to warn you.
You, mamas, are also stricter
Follow your daughters:
Hold your lorgnette straight!
Not that... not that, God forbid!
That's why I'm writing this
That I haven’t sinned for a long time.

XXX

Alas, for different fun
I've ruined a lot of lives!
But if morals had not suffered,
I would still love balls.
I love mad youth
And tightness, and shine, and joy,
And I’ll give you a thoughtful outfit;
I love their legs; but it's unlikely
You will find in Russia a whole
Three pairs of slender female legs.
Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time
Two legs... Sad, cold,
I remember them all, even in my dreams
They trouble my heart.

XXXI

When and where, in what desert,
Madman, will you forget them?
Oh, legs, legs! where are you now?
Where do you crush spring flowers?
Nurtured in eastern bliss,
On the northern, sad snow
You left no traces:
You loved soft carpets
A luxurious touch.
How long have I forgotten for you?
And I thirst for fame and praise,
And the land of the fathers, and imprisonment?
The happiness of youth has disappeared,
Like your light trail in the meadows.

XXXII

Diana's breasts, Flora's cheeks
Lovely, dear friends!
However, Terpsichore's leg
Something more charming for me.
She, prophesying with a glance
An unappreciated reward
Attracts with conventional beauty
A willful swarm of desires.
I love her, my friend Elvina,
Under the long tablecloth of the tables,
In the spring on the grassy meadows,
In winter on a cast iron fireplace,
On the mirrored parquet hall,
By the sea on granite rocks.

XXXIII

I remember the sea before the storm:
How I envied the waves
Running in a stormy line
Lay down with love at her feet!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch your lovely feet with your lips!
No, never on hot days
Of my boiling youth
I did not wish with such torment
Kiss the lips of the young Armids,
Or fiery roses touch the cheeks,
Or hearts full of languor;
No, never a rush of passion
Never tormented my soul like that!

XXXIV

I remember another time!
In sometimes cherished dreams
I hold the happy stirrup...
And I feel the leg in my hands;
The imagination is running wild again
Her touch again
The blood ignited in the withered heart,
Again longing, again love!..
But it is enough to glorify the arrogant
With his chatty lyre;
They are not worth any passions
No songs inspired by them:
The words and gaze of these sorceresses
Deceptive... like their legs.

XXXV

What about my Onegin? Half asleep
He goes to bed from the ball:
And St. Petersburg is restless
Already awakened by the drum.
The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,
A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,
The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,
The morning snow crunches under it.
I woke up in the morning with a pleasant sound.
The shutters are open; pipe smoke
Rising like a pillar of blue,
And the baker, a neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
Already opened his vasisdas.

XXXVI

But, tired of the noise of the ball,
And the morning turns to midnight,
Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade
Fun and luxury child.
Will wake up at noon, and again
Until the morning his life is ready,
Monotonous and colorful
And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.
But was my Eugene happy?
Free, in the color of the best years,
Among the brilliant victories,
Among everyday pleasures?
Was he in vain among the feasts?
Careless and healthy?

XXXVII

No: his feelings cooled down early;
He was tired of the noise of the world;
The beauties didn't last long
The subject of his usual thoughts;
The betrayals have become tiresome;
Friends and friendship are tired,
Because I couldn’t always
Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie
Pouring a bottle of champagne
And pour out sharp words,
When you had a headache;
And although he was an ardent rake,
But he finally fell out of love
And scolding, and saber, and lead.

XXXVIII

The disease whose cause
It's time to find it long ago,
Similar to English spleen,
In short: Russian blues
I mastered it little by little;
He will shoot himself, thank God,
I didn't want to try
But he completely lost interest in life.
How Child-Harold, gloomy, languid
He appeared in living rooms;
Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,
Not a sweet look, not an immodest sigh,
Nothing touched him
He didn't notice anything.

XXXIX. XL. XLI

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XLII

Freakies of the big world!
He left everyone before you;
And the truth is that in our summer
The higher tone is rather boring;
At least maybe another lady
Interprets Say and Bentham,
But in general their conversation
Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;
Besides, they are so immaculate,
So majestic, so smart,
So full of piety,
So careful, so precise,
So unapproachable for men,
That the sight gives birth to them spleen.

XLIII

And you, young beauties,
Which sometimes later
The daring droshky carries away
Along the St. Petersburg pavement,
And my Eugene left you.
Renegade of stormy pleasures,
Onegin locked himself at home,
Yawning, he took up the pen,
I wanted to write - but hard work
He felt sick; Nothing
It did not come from his pen,
And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop
People I don't judge
Because I belong to them.

XLIV

And again, betrayed by idleness,
Languishing with spiritual emptiness,
He sat down - with a laudable purpose
Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;
He lined the shelf with a group of books,
I read and read, but to no avail:
There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;
There is no conscience in that, there is no meaning in that;
Everyone is wearing different chains;
And the old thing is outdated,
And the old are delirious of the newness.
Like women, he left books,
And a shelf with their dusty family,
Covered it with mourning taffeta.

XLV

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,
How does he, having fallen behind the bustle,
I became friends with him at that time.
I liked his features
Involuntary devotion to dreams,
Inimitable strangeness
And a sharp, chilled mind.
I was embittered, he was gloomy;
We both knew the game of passion;
Life tormented both of us;
The heat died down in both hearts;
Anger awaited both
Blind Fortune and People
In the very morning of our days.

XLVI

He who lived and thought cannot
Do not despise people in your heart;
Whoever felt it is worried
Ghost of irrevocable days:
There's no charm for that
That serpent of memories
He is gnawing at remorse.
All this often gives
Great pleasure to the conversation.
First Onegin's language
I was embarrassed; but I'm used to it
To his caustic argument,
And as a joke, with bile in half,
And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

XLVII

How often in the summer,
When it's clear and light
Night sky over the Neva
And the waters are cheerful glass
Diana's face does not reflect
Remembering the novels of previous years,
Remembering my old love,
Sensitive, careless again,
Breath of the favorable night
We reveled silently!
Like a green forest from prison
The sleepy convict has been transferred,
So we were carried away by the dream
Young at the start of life.

XLVIII

With a soul full of regrets,
And leaning on granite,
Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,
How Piit described himself.
Everything was quiet; only at night
The sentries called to each other;
Yes, the distant sound of the droshky
With Millonna it suddenly rang out;
Just a boat, waving its oars,
Floated along the dormant river:
And we were captivated in the distance
The horn and the song are daring...
But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,
The chant of the Torquat octaves!

XLIX

Adriatic waves,
Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you
And, full of inspiration again,
I will hear your magical voice!
He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;
By the proud lyre of Albion
He is familiar to me, he is dear to me.
Golden nights of Italy
I will enjoy the bliss in freedom
With the young Venetian,
Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,
Floating in a mysterious gondola;
With her my lips will find
The language of Petrarch and love.

L

Will the hour of my freedom come?
It's time, it's time! - I appeal to her;
I'm wandering over the sea, waiting for the weather,
Manyu sailed the ships.
Under the robe of storms, arguing with the waves,
Along the free crossroads of the sea
When will I start free running?
It's time to leave the boring beach
Elements that are hostile to me,
And among the midday swells,
Under my African sky,
Sigh about gloomy Russia,
Where I suffered, where I loved,
Where I buried my heart.

LI

Onegin was ready with me
See foreign countries;
But soon we were destined
Divorced for a long time.
His father then died.
Gathered in front of Onegin
Lenders are a greedy regiment.
Everyone has their own mind and sense:
Evgeny, hating litigation,
Satisfied with my lot,
He gave them the inheritance
Not seeing a big loss
Or foreknowledge from afar
The death of the old man's uncle.

LII

Suddenly he really got
Report from the manager
That uncle is dying in bed
And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.
After reading the sad message,
Evgeniy on a date right away
Swiftly galloped through the mail
And I already yawned in advance,
Getting ready, for the sake of money,
For sighs, boredom and deception
(And thus I began my novel);
But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,
I found it already on the table,
Like a tribute ready to the earth.

LIII

He found the yard full of services;
To the dead man from all sides
Enemies and friends gathered,
Hunters before the funeral.
The deceased was buried.
The priests and guests ate and drank
And then we parted important ways,
It's as if they were busy.
Here is our Onegin - a villager,
Factories, waters, forests, lands
The owner is complete, and until now
An enemy of order and a spendthrift,
And I’m very glad that the old path
Changed it to something.

LIV

Two days seemed new to him
Lonely fields
The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,
The babbling of a quiet stream;
On the third grove, hill and field
He was no longer occupied;
Then they induced sleep;
Then he saw clearly
That in the village the boredom is the same,
Although there are no streets or palaces,
No cards, no balls, no poems.
Handra was waiting for him on guard,
And she ran after him,
Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

LV

I was born for a peaceful life
For village silence:
In the wilderness the lyrical voice is louder,
More vivid creative dreams.
Dedicating yourself to the leisure of the innocent,
I wander over a deserted lake,
AND far away my law.
I wake up every morning
For sweet bliss and freedom:
I read little, I sleep for a long time,
I don’t catch flying glory.
Isn't that how I was in years past?
Spent inactive, in the shadows
My happiest days?

LVI

Flowers, love, village, idleness,
Fields! I am devoted to you with my soul.
I'm always happy to notice the difference
Between Onegin and me,
To the mocking reader
Or some publisher
Intricate slander
Comparing my features here,
Didn’t repeat it shamelessly later,
Why did I smear my portrait?
Like Byron, the poet of pride,
As if it's impossible for us
Write poems about others
As soon as about yourself.

Imbued with vanity, he also possessed a special pride, which prompts him to admit with equal indifference both his good and bad deeds - a consequence of a sense of superiority, perhaps imaginary. From a private letter (French).

A trait of chilled feeling worthy of Chald Harold. Mr. Didelot's ballets are filled with vivid imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic writers found much more poetry in them than in all French literature.

Tout le monde sut qu'il mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyais rien, je commençai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint et pour avoir trouvé des tasses de blanc sur sa toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvai brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite exprés, ouvrage qu'il continua fièrement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles, peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau. Confessions of J. J. Rousseau Everyone knew that he used whitewash; and I, who did not believe this at all, began to guess about it, not only from the improvement in the color of his face or because I found jars of whitewash on his toilet, but because, going into his room one morning, I found him cleaning nails with a special brush; he proudly continued this activity in my presence. I decided that a person who spends two hours every morning cleaning his nails could take a few minutes to cover up imperfections with white. (“Confession” by J.-J. Rousseau) (French). Make-up was ahead of its time: now all over enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush.

Vasisdas is a play on words: in French it means a window, in German it means the question “vas ist das?” - “what is this?”, used by Russians to designate Germans. Trade in small shops was carried out through the window. That is, the German baker managed to sell more than one loaf of bread.

This entire ironic stanza is nothing more than subtle praise for our beautiful compatriots. So Boileau, under the guise of reproach, praises Louis XIV. Our ladies combine enlightenment with courtesy and strict purity of morals with this oriental charm, which so captivated Madame Stael (see Dix années d'exil / “Ten Years of Exile” (French)).

Readers will remember the charming description of the St. Petersburg night in Gnedich’s idyll: Here is the night; but the golden stripes of clouds fade. Without stars and without a month, the whole distance is illuminated. On the distant seaside, silvery sails are visible, barely visible ships, as if sailing across the blue sky. The night sky shines with a gloomless radiance, And the purple of the sunset merges with the gold of the east: As if the morning star follows the evening displays Ruddy morning. - That was a golden time. How summer days steal the dominion of the night; How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky is captivated by the magical radiance of shadow and sweet light, Such as the sky of noon is never adorned; That clarity, similar to the charms of a northern maiden, Whose blue eyes and scarlet cheeks are barely shaded by blond curls waves. Then over the Neva and over the lush Petropol they see the evening without twilight and the fast nights without shadow; Then Philomela will only finish the midnight songs And start the songs, welcoming the rising day. But it’s too late; freshness blew across the Neva tundra; the dew fell; ………………………Here is midnight: noisy in the evening with a thousand oars, the Neva does not sway; The city guests have departed; Not a voice on the shore, not a ripple in the moisture, everything is quiet; Only occasionally a roar from the bridges will run over the water; Only a long cry from a distant village will rush past, Where the military guards call out into the night. Everyone is asleep. ………………………

Show your favor to the goddess He sees an enthusiastic drinker, who spends the night sleepless, leaning on granite. (Muravyov. To the Goddess of the Neva)