Alexander Pushkin - My uncle of the most honest rules: Verse. Let's read together! Fragments for reading from “Eugene Onegin My uncle has very honest rules”

04.07.2020

"My uncle is the most fair 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 harmful to me (1).

III.

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'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 was driven out of the yard.
Here is my Onegin free;
Haircut in the latest fashion;
How dandy(2) London is 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 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 a 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 his lunch and his 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 to keep up everywhere.
While in morning dress,
Putting on wide bolivar(3)
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 scream;
Silvery with frosty dust
His beaver collar.
He rushed to Talon(4): he is 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,
Before him roast-beef is bloody,
And truffles, luxury youth,
French cuisine is 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” (5)).

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 depict 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 (6).
Defender of Liberty and Rights
In this case, he is 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, a tailcoat, a 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 joy 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; just hardly
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 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,
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;
Imagination is in full swing 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
He was already opening 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 after 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 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.

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 of them already gives rise to spleen (7).

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 it’s 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 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 (8) ,
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 (9).
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 a young Venetian woman,
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 (10), 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 the sky of my Africa (11)
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
On long term divorced.
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, 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 niente is 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.

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,
Rewarded with touching affection
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 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.

LX.

I was already thinking about the form of the plan,
And I’ll call him a hero;
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!

Epigraph from the Poem of P. A. Vyazemsky (1792-1878) “The First Snow.” See I. A. Krylov’s fable “The Donkey and the Man,” line 4. (1) Written in Bessarabia (Note by A.S. Pushkin). Madame, teacher, governess. Monsieur Abbot (French). (2) Dandy, dandy (Note by A.S. Pushkin). Be healthy (lat.). See missing stanza. See missing stanzas. (3) Hat à la Bolivar (Note by A. S. Pushkin). Hat style. Bolivar Simon (1783-1830) - leader of the national liberation movement. movements in Latin America. It has been established that Pushkin's Onegin goes to the Admiralteysky Boulevard that existed in St. Petersburg (4) Famous restaurateur (Note by A.S. Pushkin). Entrechat - jump, ballet step (French). (5) A trait of chilled feeling worthy of Chald Harold. Mr. Didelot's ballets are filled with wonder of imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic writers found much more poetry in them than in all French literature (Note by A.S. Pushkin). (6) Tout le monde sut qu’il mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyais rien, je commençais de le croir, 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 exprès, ouvrage qu'il continua fièrement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins à brosser ses onlges, peut bien passer quelques instants à remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau. (Confessions de J.J.Rousseau)
Make-up defined its age: now throughout enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush. (Note by A.S. Pushkin).
“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.” (French). Boston is a card game. Stanzas XXXIX, XL and XLI are designated by Pushkin as omitted. In Pushkin's manuscripts, however, there is no trace of any omission in this place. Probably, Pushkin did not write these stanzas. Vladimir Nabokov considered the omission “fictitious, having a certain musical meaning - a pause of thoughtfulness, an imitation of a missed heartbeat, an apparent horizon of feelings, false asterisks to indicate false uncertainty” (V. Nabokov. Comments on “Eugene Onegin.” Moscow 1999, p. 179. (7) 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 Stahl (See Dix anées d "exil). (Note by A. S. Pushkin). (8) Readers remember the charming description of the St. Petersburg night in Gnedich’s idyll. Self-portrait with Onegin on the Neva embankment: self-illustration for ch. 1 novel "Eugene Onegin". Litter under the picture: “1 is good. 2 should be leaning on granite. 3. boat, 4. Peter and Paul Fortress.” In a letter to L. S. Pushkin. PD, No. 1261, l. 34. Neg. No. 7612. 1824, early November. Bibliographic Notes, 1858, vol. 1, no. 4 (the figure is reproduced on a sheet without pagination, after column 128; publication by S. A. Sobolevsky); Librovich, 1890, p. 37 (repro), 35, 36, 38; Efros, 1945, p. 57 (repro), 98, 100; Tomashevsky, 1962, p. 324, note. 2; Tsyavlovskaya, 1980, p. 352 (repro), 351, 355, 441. (9) Show favor to the goddess
He sees an enthusiastic drink,
Who spends the night sleepless,
Leaning on granite.
(Muravyov. Goddess of the Neva). (Note by A.S. Pushkin). (10) Written in Odessa. (Note by A.S. Pushkin). (11) See the first edition of Eugene Onegin. (Note by A.S. Pushkin). Far niente - idleness, idleness (Italian)

EVGENY ONEGIN
A NOVEL IN VERSE

1823-1831

Epigraph and dedication	5
Chapter One	10
Chapter two	36
Chapter Three	54
Chapter Four	76
Chapter Five	94
Chapter Six	112
Chapter Seven	131
Chapter Eight	156
Notes to Evgeniy Onegin	179
Excerpts from Onegin's journey	184
Chapter ten	193

Full text

About the product

The first Russian novel in verse. A new model of literature as an easy conversation about everything. Gallery of eternal Russian characters. A revolutionary love story for its era that has become an archetype romantic relationships for many generations to come. Encyclopedia of Russian life. Ours is everything.

A young, but already fed up with life, St. Petersburg rake (Onegin) leaves for the village. There he meets the poet Lensky, who is preparing for his wedding to his neighbor Olga. Her older sister Tatyana falls in love with Onegin, but he does not reciprocate her feelings. Lensky, jealous of the bride's friend, challenges Onegin to a duel and dies. Tatyana marries a general and becomes a St. Petersburg high society lady, with whom Evgeniy, having returned from his wanderings around Russia, falls in love. Although Tatyana still loves him, she prefers to remain faithful to her husband. How does the book end? It is unknown: the author simply interrupts the narrative (as Belinsky wrote, “the novel ends in nothing”).

Reviews

In his poem, he was able to touch on so much, hint at so many things that belong exclusively to the world of Russian nature, to the world of Russian society. "Onegin" can be called an encyclopedia of Russian life and in highest degree folk work.

V. G. Belinsky. Works of Alexander Pushkin. Article Nine (1845)

We are convinced... that the sequence of semantic-stylistic breakdowns creates not a focused, but a scattered, multiple point of view, which becomes the center of the supersystem, perceived as an illusion of reality itself. At the same time, it is essential precisely for the realistic style, which seeks to go beyond the subjectivity of semantic-stylistic “points of view” and recreate objective reality, is the specific relationship of these multiple centers, various (adjacent or overlapping) structures: each of them does not cancel the others, but correlates with them. As a result, the text means not only what it means, but also something else. The new value does not cancel the old one, but correlates with it. As a result of this art model reproduces such an important aspect of reality as its inexhaustibility in any finite interpretation.

Although the plot of Eugene Onegin is uneventful, the novel had a huge impact on Russian literature. Pushkin brought to the literary forefront socio-psychological types that would occupy readers and writers of several subsequent generations. This " extra person", (anti)hero of his time, hiding his true face behind the mask of a cold egoist (Onegin); a naive provincial girl, honest and open, ready for self-sacrifice (Tatyana at the beginning of the novel); a poet-dreamer who dies at the first collision with reality (Lensky); Russian woman, the embodiment of grace, intelligence and aristocratic dignity (Tatiana at the end of the novel). This is, finally, a whole gallery of character portraits representing Russian noble society in all its diversity (cynic Zaretsky, “old men” Larina, provincial landowners, Moscow bar, metropolitan dandies and many, many others).<...>

“Eugene Onegin” concentrates the main thematic and stylistic discoveries of the previous creative decade: the type of disappointed hero is reminiscent of romantic elegies and the poem “ Caucasian prisoner”, a fragmentary plot - about it and about other “southern” (“Byronic”) poems by Pushkin, stylistic contrasts and author’s irony - about the poem “Ruslan and Lyudmila”, conversational intonation - about the friendly poetic messages of the Arzamas poets.

For all that, the novel is absolutely anti-traditional. The text has neither a beginning (the ironic “introduction” is at the end of the seventh chapter) nor an end: for open ending followed by excerpts from Onegin’s Travels, returning the reader first to the middle of the plot, and then, in the last line, to the moment the author began working on the text (“So I lived then in Odessa...”). The novel lacks traditional signs of a novel plot and familiar characters: “All types and forms of literature are naked, openly revealed to the reader and ironically compared with each other, the conventionality of any method of expression is mockingly demonstrated by the author.” The question “how to write?” worries Pushkin no less than the question “what to write about?” The answer to both questions is “Eugene Onegin”. This is not only a novel, but also a meta-novel (a novel about how a novel is written).<...>

Pushkin's text is characterized by a multiplicity of points of view expressed by the author-narrator and characters, and a stereoscopic combination of contradictions that arise when different views on the same subject collide. Is Evgeniy original or imitative? What kind of future awaited Lensky - great or ordinary? All these questions are given different, and mutually exclusive, answers in the novel.<...>

Excerpts from "Eugene Onegin" for video recording - your choice

Detailed description project - .

CHAPTER ONE

1 reading fragment:

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:
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.

IV
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,
How the dandy Londoner is 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.

Reading fragment 2:

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.

CHAPTER TWO

3 reading fragment

Her sister's name was Tatyana...
For the first time with such a name
Tender pages of the novel
We willfully sanctify.
So what? it is pleasant, sonorous;
But with him, I know, it’s inseparable
Memories of antiquity
Or girlish! We all should
Frankly: there is very little taste
In us and in our names
(We're not talking about poetry);
Enlightenment is not suitable for us,
And we got it from him
Pretense, nothing more.

So, she was called Tatyana.
Not your sister's beauty,
Nor the freshness of her ruddy
She wouldn't attract anyone's attention.
Dick, sad, silent,
Like a forest deer is timid,
She is in her own family
The girl seemed like a stranger.
She didn't know how to caress
To your father, nor to your mother;
Child herself, in a crowd of children
I didn’t want to play or jump
And often alone all day
She sat silently by the window.

Thoughtfulness, her friend
From the most lullabies of days,
The flow of rural leisure
Decorated her with dreams.
Her pampered fingers
They didn't know needles; leaning on the embroidery frame,
She has a silk pattern
Didn't bring the canvas to life.
A sign of the desire to rule,
With an obedient doll child
Prepared in jest
To decency - the law of light,
And it’s important to repeat to her
Lessons from your mother.

But dolls even in these years
Tatyana didn’t take it in her hands;
About city news, about fashion
I didn’t have any conversations with her.
And there were children's pranks
Alien to her: scary stories
In winter in the dark of nights
They captivated her heart more.
When did the nanny collect
For Olga on a wide meadow
All her little friends,
She didn't play with burners,
She was bored and the ringing laughter
And the noise of their windy pleasures.

CHAPTER THREE

4 reading fragment

Tatiana, dear Tatiana!
With you now I shed tears;
You're in the hands of a fashionable tyrant
I've already given up my fate.
You will die, dear; but first
You are in blinding hope
You call for dark bliss,
You will know the bliss of life
You drink the magical poison of desires,
Dreams haunt you:
You imagine everywhere
Happy Date Shelters;
Everywhere, everywhere in front of you
Your tempter is fatal.

The melancholy of love drives Tatiana away,
And she goes to the garden to be sad,
And suddenly the eyes become motionless,
And she’s too lazy to move on.
The chest and cheeks rose
Covered in instant flames,
The breath froze in my mouth,
And there is noise in the ears, and a sparkle in the eyes...
Night will come; the moon goes around
Watch the distant vault of heaven,
And the nightingale in the darkness of the trees
Sonorous tunes turn you on.
Tatyana doesn't sleep in the dark
And quietly says to the nanny:

“I can’t sleep, nanny: it’s so stuffy here!
Open the window and sit with me.”
- What, Tanya, what’s wrong with you? - "I'm bored,
Let's talk about antiquity."
- About what, Tanya? I used to
I kept quite a bit in my memory
Ancient tales, fables
About evil spirits and maidens;
And now everything is dark to me, Tanya:
What I knew, I forgot. Yes,
A bad turn has come!
It's crazy... - “Tell me, nanny,
About your old years:
Were you in love then?

CHAPTER FOUR

5 reading fragment

Dawn rises in the cold darkness;
In the fields the noise of work fell silent;
With his hungry wolf
A wolf comes out onto the road;
Smelling him, the road horse
Snores - and the traveler is cautious
Rushes up the mountain at full speed;
At dawn the shepherd
He no longer drives the cows out of the barn,
And at midday in a circle
His horn does not call them;
A maiden singing in a hut
Spins, and winter friend nights
A splinter crackles in front of her.

And now the frost is crackling
And they shine silver among the fields...
(The reader is already waiting for the rhyme of the rose;
Here, take it quickly!)
Tidier than fashionable parquet
The river shines, covered in ice.
Boys are a joyful people (24)
Skates cut the ice noisily;
The goose is heavy on red legs,
Having decided to sail across the bosom of the waters,
Steps carefully onto the ice,
Slips and falls; funny
The first snow flashes and curls,
Stars falling on the shore.

What to do in the wilderness at this time?
Walk? The village at that time
Involuntarily bothers the eye
Monotonous nakedness.
Ride on horseback in the harsh steppe?
But a horse with a blunted horseshoe
Unfaithful catching the ice,
Just wait for it to fall.
Sit under a deserted roof,
Read: here is Pradt, here is W. Scott.
Don't you want to? - check the consumption
Be angry or drink, and the evening will be long
Somehow it will pass, and tomorrow too,
And you will have a wonderful winter.

CHAPTER FIVE

6 reading fragment

That year the weather was autumn
I stood in the yard for a long time,
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting.
Snow only fell in January
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatiana saw through the window
In the morning the yard turned white,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
There are light patterns on the glass,
Trees in winter silver,
Forty merry ones in the yard
And softly carpeted mountains
Winter is a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything is white all around.

Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant,
On the firewood he renews the path;
His horse smells the snow,
Trotting along somehow;
Fluffy reins exploding,
The daring carriage flies;
The coachman sits on the beam
In a sheepskin coat and a red sash.
Here is a yard boy running,
Having planted a bug in the sled,
Transforming himself into a horse;
The naughty man has already frozen his finger:
It's both painful and funny to him,
And his mother threatens him through the window...

But maybe this kind
Pictures will not attract you:
All this is low nature;
There's not much that's elegant here.
Warmed by inspiration from God,
Another poet with a luxurious style
The first snow painted for us
And all the shades of winter negativity;
He will captivate you, I'm sure of it
Drawing in fiery verses
Secret sleigh rides;
But I don't intend to fight
Neither with him for now, nor with you,
Young Finnish singer!

CHAPTER SIX

7 reading fragment

Poems have been preserved for the occasion;
I have them; here they are:
“Where, where have you gone,
Are the golden days of my spring?
What does the coming day have in store for me?
My gaze catches him in vain,
He lurks in the deep darkness.
No need; rights of fate law.
Will I fall, pierced by an arrow,
Or she will fly by,
All good: vigil and sleep
The certain hour comes;
Blessed is the day of worries,
Blessed is the coming of darkness!

The ray of the morning star will flash in the morning
And the bright day will begin to shine;
And I, perhaps I am the tomb
I'll go down into the mysterious canopy,
And the memory of the young poet
Slow Lethe will be swallowed up,
The world will forget me; but you
Will you come, maiden of beauty,
Shed a tear over the early urn
And think: he loved me,
He dedicated it to me alone
The sad dawn of a stormy life!..
Heart friend, desired friend,
Come, come: I am your husband!..”

So he wrote darkly and languidly
(What we call romanticism,
Although there is no romanticism here
I don't see; what's in it for us?)
And finally, before dawn,
Bowing my weary head,
On the buzzword, ideal
Lensky quietly dozed off;
But only with sleepy charm
He forgot, he's already a neighbor
The office enters silently
And he wakes up Lensky with a call:
“It’s time to get up: it’s past seven.
Onegin is surely waiting for us.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

8 reading fragment

My poor Lensky! languishing
She didn't cry for long.
Alas! young bride
Unfaithful to her sadness.
Another caught her attention
Another managed her suffering
To lull you to sleep with loving flattery,
Ulan knew how to captivate her,
Ulan loves her with all her soul...
And now with him before the altar
She's shyly down the aisle
Stands with his head bowed,
With fire in downcast eyes,
With a light smile on your lips.

My poor Lensky! behind the grave
Within eternity deaf
Is the sad singer embarrassed?
Treason with fatal news,
Or put to sleep over Lethe
Poet, blessed by insensibility,
No longer embarrassed by anything
And the world is closed to him and silent?..
So! indifferent oblivion
Behind the grave awaits us.
Enemies, friends, lovers voice
Suddenly it goes silent. About one estate
Heirs angry chorus
Starts an obscene argument.

And soon Olya’s ringing voice
The Larins family fell silent.
Ulan, his slave of his share,
I had to go with her to the regiment.
Bitterly shedding tears,
An old woman saying goodbye to her daughter,
It seemed that she was barely alive,
But Tanya could not cry;
Only covered with mortal pallor
Her sad face.
When everyone came out onto the porch,
And everyone, saying goodbye, fussed
Around the carriage of young people,
Tatyana saw them off.

CHAPTER EIGHT

9 reading fragment

“Really,” thinks Evgeny:
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 is coming
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.

10 reading fragment

All ages are submissive to love;
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! Evgeniy
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 sends 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 fall behind,
Still hoping, fussing;
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.

11 reading passage

CHAPTER EIGHT

III
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 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.

12 reading fragment

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.

13 reading fragment

Her doubts confuse her:
“Shall I go forward, shall I go back?..
He's not here. They don't know me...
I’ll look at the house, at this garden.”
And then Tatyana comes down from the hill,
Barely breathing; circles around
A look full of bewilderment...
And he enters the deserted courtyard.
The dogs rushed towards her, barking.
At her frightened cry
Guys, yard family
She came running noisily. Not without a fight
The boys scattered the dogs
Taking the young lady under his wing.

“Is it possible to see the manor’s house?” —
Tanya asked. Hurry up
The children ran to Anisya
Take the keys to the entryway from her;
Anisya immediately appeared to her,
And the door opened before them,
And Tanya enters the empty house,
Where did our hero recently live?
She looks: forgotten in the hall
The billiard cue was resting,
Lying on a crumpled sofa
Manege whip. Tanya is further away;
The old woman said to her: “Here is the fireplace;
Here the master sat alone.

I dined with him here in the winter
The late Lensky, our neighbor.
Come here, follow me.
This is the master's office;
Here he slept, ate coffee,
Listened to the clerk's reports
And I read a book in the morning...
And the old master lived here;
It happened to me on Sunday,
Here under the window, wearing glasses,
He deigned to play fools.
God bless his soul,
And his bones have peace
In the grave, in mother earth, raw!”

14 reading fragment

Moscow, Russia’s beloved daughter,
Where can I find someone equal to you?
Dmitriev

How can you not love your native Moscow?
Baratynsky

Persecution of Moscow! what does it mean to see the light!
Where is it better?
Where we are not.
Griboyedov

Driven by spring rays,
There is already snow from the surrounding mountains
Escaped through muddy streams
To the flooded meadows.
Nature's clear smile
Through a dream he greets the morning of the year;
The skies are shining blue.
Still transparent, forests
It's like they're turning green.
Bee for field tribute
Flies from a wax cell.
The valleys are dry and colorful;
The herds rustle and the nightingale
Already singing in the silence of the night.

How sad your appearance is to me,
Spring, spring! it's time for love!
What languid excitement
In my soul, in my blood!
With what heavy tenderness
I enjoy the breeze
Spring blowing in my face
In the lap of rural silence!
Or is pleasure alien to me,
And everything that pleases lives,
All that rejoices and glitters
Causes boredom and languor
For a long time dead soul
And everything seems dark to her?

Or, not happy about the return
Dead leaves in autumn,
We remember the bitter loss
Listening to the new noise of the forests;
Or with nature alive
We bring together the confused thought
We are the fading of our years,
Which cannot be reborn?
Perhaps it comes to our minds
In the midst of a poetic dream
Another, old spring
And it makes our hearts tremble
Dream of the far side
About a wonderful night, about the moon...

15 reading fragment

CHAPTER EIGHT

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 the entire 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 the main problem of creation, because it is so difficult to combine them. 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 sad thing is that the characters cannot blame fate or those around them for this. From the very beginning of Eugene Onegin, you understand that only their mistakes influenced this sad outcome. Search the right path was not successful. 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 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 a heavy burden serfdom and hard work. 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.

Font: Less Ahh More Ahh

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

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

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 his lunch and his 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 to keep up everywhere.
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 is 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 depict 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 joy 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; just hardly
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;
Imagination is in full swing 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

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

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 it’s 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. - It was a golden time. How summer days steal the dominion of the night; As 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 the waves of light brown curls. Then over the Neva and over the lush Petropol they see evenings without twilight and swift 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)

Alexander Pushkin - My uncle of the most honest rules: Verse. Let's read together! Fragments for reading from “Eugene Onegin My uncle has very honest rules”

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EVGENY ONEGIN A NOVEL IN VERSE

1823-1831

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Chapter One

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EVGENY ONEGIN
A NOVEL IN VERSE