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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 proud light to amuse,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I would like to introduce you
A pledge worthy of you
Worthy of a beautiful soul,
Holy 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
vulgar, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sad notes.

Chapter first

And he is in a hurry to live, and he is in a hurry to feel.

I

"My uncle is the most honest rules,
When I fell ill in earnest,
He forced himself to respect
And I couldn't think of a better one.
His example to others is science;
But my god, what a bore
With the sick to sit day and night,
Without leaving a single step!
Which low deceit
Amuse the half-dead
Fix his pillows
It's sad to give medicine
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you!

II

So thought the young rake,
Flying in the dust on postal
By the will of Zeus
Heir of 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,
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

Serving excellently, nobly,
His father lived in debt
Gave three balls annually
And finally screwed up.
The fate of Eugene kept:
First Madame followed him
Then Monsieur replaced her;
The child was sharp, but sweet.
Monsieur l'Abbe, poor french,
So that the child is not exhausted,
Taught him everything jokingly
I did not bother with strict morality,
Slightly scolded for pranks
And he took me for a walk in the Summer Garden.

IV

When will the rebellious youth
It's time for Eugene
It's time for hope and tender sadness,
Monsieur kicked out of the yard.
Here is my Onegin at large;
Cut in the latest fashion;
How dandy London dressed -
And finally saw the light.
He's completely French
Could speak and write;
Easily danced the mazurka
And bowed at ease;
What do you want more? The world decided
That he is smart and very nice.

V

We all learned a little
Something and somehow
So education, thank God,
It's easy for us to shine.
Onegin was, according to many
(Judges resolute and strict),
A small scientist, but a pedant.
He had a lucky talent
No compulsion to speak
Touch everything lightly
With a learned look of a connoisseur
Keep silent in an important dispute
And make the ladies smile
The fire of unexpected epigrams.

VI

Latin is out of fashion now:
So, if you tell the truth,
He knew enough Latin
To parse epigraphs,
Talk about Juvenal
Put at the end of the letter vale,
Yes, I remember, though not without sin,
Two verses from the Aeneid.
He had no desire to rummage
In chronological dust
Genesis of the earth;
But the days of the past are jokes,
From Romulus to the present day,
He kept it in his memory.

VII

No high passion
For the sounds of life do not spare
He could not iambic from a chorea,
No matter how we fought, to distinguish.
Branil Homer, Theocritus;
But read Adam Smith
And there was a deep economy,
That is, he was able to judge
How does the state grow rich?
And what lives, and why
He doesn't need gold
When simple product It has.
Father could not understand him
And gave land as a pledge.

VIII

Everything that Eugene knew,
Retell me lack of time;
But in what he was a true genius,
What he knew more firmly than all sciences,
What was madness for him
And labor, and flour, and joy,
What took all day
His melancholy laziness, -
There was a science of tender passion,
Which Nazon sang,
Why did he end up a sufferer
Your 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 hypocritical,
Hold hope, be jealous
disbelieve, make believe
To seem gloomy, to languish,
Be proud and obedient
Attentive or indifferent!
How languidly he was silent,
How eloquently eloquent
How careless in heartfelt letters!
One breathing, one loving,
How could he forget himself!
How his gaze was quick and gentle,
Shameful and impudent, and sometimes
He shone with an obedient tear!

XI

How could he be new?
Joking innocence to amaze
To frighten with despair ready,
To amuse with pleasant flattery,
Catch a moment of tenderness
Innocent years of prejudice
Mind and passion to win,
Expect involuntary affection
Pray and demand recognition
Listen to the first sound of the heart
Chase love and suddenly
Get a secret date...
And after her alone
Give lessons in silence!

XII

How early could he disturb
Hearts of coquettes note!
When did you want to destroy
Him his rivals,
How vehemently he cursed!
What nets he prepared for them!
But you, blessed husbands,
You were friends with him:
He was caressed by the crafty husband,
Foblas is an old student,
And the distrustful old man
And the majestic cuckold
Always happy with myself
With my dinner and my wife.

XIII. XIV

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XV

He used to be in bed:
They bring notes to him.
What? Invitations? Indeed,
Three houses for the evening call:
There will be a ball, there is a children's party.
Where will my prankster go?
Who will he start with? Does not matter:
It is no wonder to be in time everywhere.
While in the morning dress,
Wearing wide bolivar,
Onegin goes to the boulevard
And there he walks in the open,
Until the dormant breguet
Lunch will not ring for him.

XVI

It's already dark: he gets into the sled.
"Drop, drop!" - there was a cry;
Frost dust silver
His beaver collar.
To Talon rushed: he is sure
What is Kaverin waiting for him there.
Entered: and a cork in the ceiling,
The fault of the comet spurted current;
before him roast-beef bloodied
And truffles, luxury young years,
french cuisine best color,
And Strasbourg's imperishable pie
Between live Limburg cheese
And golden pineapple.

XVII

More glasses of thirst asks
Pour hot fat cutlets,
But the ringing of the breguet conveys to them,
That a new ballet has begun.
The theater is an evil legislator,
fickle admirer
charming actresses,
Honorary citizen backstage,
Onegin flew to the theater
Where everyone, breathing freely,
Ready to clap entrechat,
Sheath Phaedra, Cleopatra,
call Moina (in order
just to hear it).

XVIII

Magic edge! there in the old days,
Satyrs are a bold ruler,
Fonvizin shone, friend of freedom,
And the capricious Knyazhnin;
There Ozerov involuntary tribute
People's tears, applause
I shared with the young Semyonova;
There our Katenin resurrected
Corneille is a majestic genius;
There he brought out the sharp Shakhovskoy
A noisy swarm of their comedies,
There Didlo was crowned with glory,
There, there under the shadow of the wings
My youthful days flew by.

XIX

My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?
Listen to my sad voice:
Are you all the same? other le maidens,
Replacing, did not replace you?
Will I hear your choruses again?
Will I see the Russian Terpsichore
Soul filled flight?
Or a dull look will not find
Familiar faces on a boring stage
And, aiming at an alien light
Disappointed lorgnette,
Fun indifferent spectator,
Silently I will yawn
And remember the past?

XX

The theater is already full; lodges shine;
Parterre and chairs, everything is in full swing;
In heaven they splash impatiently,
And, having risen, the curtain rustles.
Brilliant, half-air,
obedient to the magic bow,
Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs
Worth Istomin; she is,
One foot touching the floor
Another slowly circles
And suddenly a jump, and suddenly it flies,
It flies like fluff from the mouth of Eol;
Now the camp will soviet, then it will develop,
And he beats his leg with a quick leg.

XXI

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters,
Walks between the chairs on the legs,
Double lorgnette slanting induces
On the lodges of unfamiliar ladies;
I looked at all the tiers,
I saw everything: faces, headwear
He is terribly dissatisfied;
With men from all sides
Bowed, then on stage
I looked in great confusion,
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 Didlo."

XXII

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

XXIII

Will I portray in a true picture
secluded office,
Where is the mod pupil exemplary
Dressed, undressed and dressed again?
Everything than for a plentiful whim
Trades London scrupulous
And along the Baltic waves
For the forest and fat carries us,
Everything in Paris tastes hungry,
Having chosen a useful trade,
Invents for fun
For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -
Everything decorates the office.
Philosopher at the age of eighteen.

XXIV

Amber on the pipes of Tsaregrad,
Porcelain and bronze on the table
And, feelings of pampered joy,
Perfume in cut crystal;
Combs, steel files,
Straight scissors, curved,
And brushes of thirty kinds
For both nails and teeth.
Rousseau (notice in passing)
Could not understand how important Grim
I dared to clean my nails in front of him,
An eloquent lunatic.
Defender of Liberty and Rights
In this case, it's completely wrong.

XXV

You can be a good person
And think about the beauty of nails:
Why fruitlessly argue with the century?
Custom despot among people.
The second Chadaev, my Eugene,
Fearing jealous judgments
There was a pedant in his clothes
And what we called a dandy.
It's three hours at least
Spent in front of the mirrors
And came out of the restroom
Like windy Venus
When, wearing a man's outfit,
The goddess goes to the masquerade.

XXVI

In the last taste of the toilet
Taking your curious gaze,
I could before the learned light
Here describe his attire;
Of course b, it was bold,
Describe my case:
But pantaloons, tailcoat, vest,
All these words are not in Russian;
And I see, I blame you,
What is it, my poor syllable
I could dazzle much less
In foreign words,
Even though I looked in the old days
In the Academic Dictionary.

XXVII

We now have something wrong in the subject:
We'd better hurry to the ball
Where headlong in a pit carriage
My Onegin has already galloped.
Before the faded houses
Along a sleepy street in rows
Double carriage lights
Merry pour out light
And they cast rainbows on the snow;
Dotted with bowls all around,
A splendid house shines;
Shadows walk through solid windows,
Flashing head profiles
And ladies and fashionable eccentrics.

XXVIII

Here our hero drove up to the entrance;
Doorman past he's an arrow
Climbing up the marble steps
I straightened my hair with my hand,
Has entered. The hall is full of people;
The music is already tired of thundering;
The crowd is busy with the mazurka;
Around and noise and crampedness;
The spurs of the cavalry guard jingle;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And the roar of violins is muffled
Jealous whisper of fashionable wives.

XXIX

In the days of fun and desires
I was crazy about balls:
There is no place for confessions
And to deliver a letter.
O you venerable spouses!
I will offer you my services;
I ask you to notice my speech:
I want to warn you.
You also, mothers, are stricter
Look after your daughters
Keep your lorgnette straight!
Not that…not that, God forbid!
That's why I'm writing this
That I have not sinned for a long time.

XXX

Alas, for different fun
I lost a lot of life!
But if morals had not suffered,
I would still love balls.
I love crazy youth
And tightness, and brilliance, and joy,
And I will give a thoughtful outfit;
I love their legs; only hardly
You will find in Russia a whole
Three pairs of slender female legs.
Oh! for a long time I could not forget
Two legs ... Sad, cold,
I remember them all, and in a dream
They trouble my heart.

XXXI

When and where, in what desert,
Fool, will you forget them?
Ah, legs, legs! where are you now?
Where do you crumple spring flowers?
Cherished in eastern bliss,
On the northern, sad snow
You left no trace
You loved soft carpets
Luxurious touch.
How long have I forgotten for you
And I crave glory and praise
And the land of fathers, and imprisonment?
The happiness of youth is gone
As in the meadows your light footprint.

XXXII

Diana's chest, Flora's cheeks
Adorable, dear friends!
However, Terpsichore's leg
Prettier than something for me.
She, prophesying the look
An invaluable reward
Attracts by conditional beauty
Desires masterful swarm.
I love her, my friend Elvina,
Under the long tablecloth
In the spring on the ants of the meadows,
In winter, on a cast-iron fireplace,
On the mirror 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 at her feet with love!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch the cute feet with your mouth!
No, never in hot days
Boiling my youth
I did not want with such torment
To kiss the lips of the young Armides,
Or roses of fiery cheeks,
Ile percy, full of languor;
No, never a rush of passion
So did not torment my soul!

XXXIV

I remember another time!
In cherished dreams sometimes
I hold a happy stirrup...
And I feel the leg in my hands;
Again the imagination boils
Again her touch
Ignite the blood in the withered heart,
Again longing, again love! ..
But full of praise for the haughty
With his chatty lyre;
They are not worth the passion
No songs inspired by them:
The words and gaze of these sorceresses
Deceptive ... like their legs.

XXXV

What about my Onegin? half asleep
In bed from the ball he rides:
And Petersburg is restless
Already awakened by the drum.
The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,
A cabman is pulling to the stock exchange,
The okhtenka is in a hurry with a jug,
Beneath it, the morning snow crunches.
I woke up in the morning with a pleasant noise.
The shutters are open; pipe smoke
A column rises blue,
And a baker, a neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
Already opened his wasisdas.

XXXVI

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

XXXVII

No: early feelings in him cooled down;
He was tired of the light noise;
The beauties didn't last long
The subject of his habitual thoughts;
Treason managed to tire;
Friends and friendship are tired,
Then, which could not always
Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie
Pouring champagne in a bottle
And pour sharp words
When the head hurt;
And though he was an ardent rake,
But he fell out of love at last
And abuse, and a saber, and lead.

XXXVIII

A disease whose cause
It's high time to find
similar to English back,
In short: Russian blues
She took possession of him little by little;
He shoot himself, thank God,
Didn't want to try
But life has completely cooled off.
How child harold, gloomy, gloomy
He appeared in drawing rooms;
Neither gossip of the world, nor Boston,
Neither a sweet look, nor an immodest sigh,
Nothing touched him
He didn't notice anything.

XXXIX. XL. XLI

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XLII

Freaks of the big world!
He left you all before;
And the truth is that in our summer
The higher tone is rather boring;
Though maybe a different lady
Interprets Sey and Bentham,
But in general their conversation
Unbearable, though innocent nonsense;
And besides, they are so innocent.
So majestic, so smart
So full of piety
So careful, so precise
So impregnable for men
That the sight of them already gives birth spleen.

XLIII

And you, young beauties,
Which later sometimes
Carry away the droshky
Petersburg bridge,
And my Eugene left you.
Renegade of violent pleasures,
Onegin locked himself at home,
Yawning, took up the pen,
Wanted to write - but hard work
He was sick; nothing
did not come out of his pen,
And he did not get into the fervent shop
People I don't judge
Then, that I belong to them.

XLIV

And again, devoted to idleness,
languishing in spiritual emptiness,
He sat down - with a laudable purpose
Assign someone else's mind to yourself;
He set up a shelf with a detachment of books,
I read and read, but to no avail:
There is boredom, there is deceit or delirium;
In that conscience, in that there is no sense;
On all different chains;
And outdated old
And the old is delirious with novelty.
Like women, he left books
And the shelf, with their dusty family,
Draped with mourning taffeta.

XLV

The conditions of light overthrowing the burden,
How he, lagging behind the hustle and bustle,
I became friends with him at that time.
I liked his features
Dreams involuntary devotion
Inimitable strangeness
And a sharp, chilled mind.
I was embittered, he is sullen;
We both knew the passion game;
The life tormented both of us;
In both hearts the heat died down;
Anger awaited both
Blind fortune and people
In the very morning of our days.

XLVI

Who lived and thought, he cannot
In the soul do not despise people;
Who felt, that worries
The ghost of the irretrievable days:
There are no more charms
That serpent of memories
That repentance gnaws.
All this often gives
Great charm of conversation.
First Onegin's language
Confused me; but I'm used to
To his caustic argument,
And for a joke, with bile in half,
And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

XLVII

How often in the summer
When transparent and light
Night sky over the Neva
And waters cheerful glass
Does not reflect the face of Diana,
Remembering past years novels,
Remembering the old love
Sensitive, careless again
With the breath of a supportive night
We silently drank!
Like a green forest from prison
The sleepy convict has been moved,
So we were carried away by a dream
By the beginning of life young.

XLVIII

With a heart full of regrets
And leaning on granite
Yevgeny stood thoughtfully,
As piit described himself.
Everything was quiet; only night
The sentries called to each other;
Yes, a distant knock
With Millionne it suddenly resounded;
Only a boat, waving oars,
Floated on a dormant river:
And we were captivated in the distance
The horn and the song are remote ...
But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,
The chant of Torquat octaves!

XLIX

Adriatic waves,
Oh Brent! no, I see you
And, full of inspiration again,
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 Italy nights
I will enjoy the bliss at will
With a young Venetian
Now talkative, then dumb,
Floating in a mysterious gondola;
With her my mouth will find
The language of Petrarch and love.

L

Will the hour of my freedom come?
It's time, it's time! - I call to her;
Wandering over the sea, waiting for the weather,
Manyu sails ships.
Under the robe of storms, arguing with the waves,
Along the freeway of the sea
When will I start free running?
It's time to leave the boring beach
I hostile elements,
And among the midday swells,
Under the sky of my Africa,
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 fate
Divorced for a long time.
His father then died.
Gathered before Onegin
Lenders greedy regiment.
Everyone has their own mind and sense:
Eugene, hating litigation,
Satisfied with his lot,
gave them an inheritance,
Big loss in not seeing
Ile foretelling from afar
The death of the old uncle.

LII

Suddenly got it really
From the manager's report,
That uncle is dying in bed
And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.
Reading the sad message
Eugene immediately on a date
Rushed through the mail
And already yawned in advance,
Getting ready for the money
On sighs, boredom and deceit
(And thus I began my novel);
But, having arrived in the uncle's village,
I found it on the table
As a tribute ready to the earth.

LIII

He found the yard full of services;
To the dead from all sides
Enemies and friends gathered
Funeral hunters.
The deceased was buried.
Priests and guests ate and drank
And after importantly parted,
As if they were doing business.
Here is our Onegin - a villager,
Factories, waters, forests, lands
The owner is complete, but hitherto
The order of the enemy and the squanderer,
And I am very glad that the old way
Changed to something.

LIV

Two days seemed new to him
secluded fields,
The coolness of the gloomy oak,
The murmur of a quiet stream;
On the third grove, hill and field
He was no longer interested;
Then they would induce sleep;
Then he saw clearly
As in the village boredom is the same,
Although there are no streets, no palaces,
No cards, no balls, no poetry.
The blues 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 rural silence:
In the wilderness, the lyrical voice is louder,
Live creative dreams.
Leisure devotion to the innocent,
Wandering over the desert lake
And far niente my law.
I wake up every morning
For sweet bliss and freedom:
I read little, I sleep a lot,
I do not catch flying glory.
Didn't I in the old days
Spent in inaction, in the shadows
My happiest days?

LVI

Flowers, love, village, idleness,
Fields! I am devoted to you in soul.
I'm always glad to see the difference
Between Onegin and me,
To the mocking reader
Or any publisher
Intricate slander,
Matching here my features,
I did not repeat later shamelessly,
That I smeared my portrait,
Like Byron, poet of pride,
As if we can't
Write poems about others
As soon as about himself.

Imbued with vanity, he possessed, moreover, a special pride, which prompts him to confess with equal indifference to his good and bad deeds - a consequence of a feeling of superiority, perhaps imaginary. From a private letter (fr.).

A trait of chilled feeling worthy of a Child Harold. The ballets of Mr. Didlo are full of liveliness of imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic writers found in them much more poetry 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 expris, 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 J. J. Rousseau Everyone knew that he used whitewash; and I, who did not believe it at all, began to guess not only from the improvement in the complexion 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; this occupation he proudly continued in my presence. I figured that a person who spends two hours every morning brushing their nails could spend a few minutes whitewashing imperfections in their skin. (“Confession” by J.-J. Rousseau) (fr.). Grim was ahead of his time: now in all of enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush.

Vasisdas - a play on words: in French - a window, in German - the question "you ist das?" - “what is this?”, Used by Russians to refer to the Germans. Trade in small shops was conducted through the window. That is, the German baker managed to sell more than one roll.

This whole ironic stanza is nothing but subtle praise for our beautiful compatriots. So Boileau, under the guise of reproach, praises Louis XIV. Our ladies combine enlightenment with courtesy and strict morals with that Oriental charm that so captivated Madame Stael (see Dix années d'exil / "Ten years of exile" (French)).

Readers remember the charming description of the St. Petersburg night in Gnedich's idyll: Here is the night; but the golden streaks of clouds fade. Without stars and without a moon, the entire distance is illuminated. On the distant, silvery seashore sails are visible Barely visible ships, as if sailing across the blue sky. displays Ruddy morning. - It was a golden year. Like summer days steal the dominion of the night; Like a foreigner’s gaze in the northern sky captivates The radiance of the magical shadow and sweet light, How the sky of noon is never adorned; That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden, Whose eyes are blue and scarlet cheeks Barely shaded by fair-haired curls Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see Evening without dusk and fast nights without a shadow; breathed freshness on the Neva tundra; Dew fell; ……………………… It’s midnight: noisy in the evening with a thousand oars, the Neva does not sway; the guests of the city have parted; Not a voice on the shore, not a swell in the moisture, everything is quiet; Only occasionally the rumble from the bridges will run over the water; Only a long cry from the distant village will rush, Where the military guard with guards calls out into the night. Everything sleeps. ………………………

Reveal a benevolent goddess Sees an enthusiastic piit, What spends the night sleepless, Leaning on granite. (Ants. Goddess of the Neva)

And he is in a hurry to live, and he is in a hurry to feel.

Prince Vyazemsky The epigraph is taken from P. A. Vyazemsky's poem "The First Snow".

"My uncle of the most honest rules,

When I fell ill in earnest,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of a better one.

His example to others is science;

But my god, what a bore

With the sick to sit day and night,

Without leaving a single step!

What low deceit

Amuse the half-dead

Fix his pillows

It's sad to give medicine

Sigh and think to yourself:

When will the devil take you!

So thought the young rake,

Flying in the dust on postal

By the will of Zeus

Heir of 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,

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..

Serving excellently, nobly,

His father lived in debt

Gave three balls annually

And finally screwed up.

The fate of Eugene kept:

At first Madame followed him,

Then Monsieur replaced her;

The child was sharp, but sweet.

Monsieur l'Abbe€, poor Frenchman,

So that the child is not exhausted,

Taught him everything jokingly

I did not bother with strict morality,

Slightly scolded for pranks

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

When will the rebellious youth

It's time for Eugene

It's time for hope and tender sadness,

Monsieur was driven out of the yard.

Here is my Onegin at large;

Cut in the latest fashion;

Like dandy Dandy, dandy. London dressed -

And finally saw the light.

He's completely French

Could speak and write;

Easily danced the mazurka

And bowed at ease;

What do you want more? The world decided

That he is smart and very nice.

We all learned a little

Something and somehow

So education, thank God,

It's easy for us to shine.

Onegin was, according to many

(Judges resolute and strict),

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

He had a lucky talent

No compulsion to speak

Touch everything lightly

With a learned look of a connoisseur

Keep silent in an important dispute

And make the ladies smile

The fire of unexpected epigrams.

Latin is out of fashion now:

So, if you tell the truth,

He knew enough Latin

To parse epigraphs,

Talk about Juvenal

Put vale at the end of the letter Vale - be healthy (lat.). ,

Yes, I remember, though not without sin,

Two verses from the Aeneid.

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

Genesis of the earth;

But the days of the past are jokes,

From Romulus to the present day,

He kept it in his memory.

No high passion

For the sounds of life do not spare

He could not iambic from a chorea,

No matter how we fought, to distinguish.

Branil Homer, Theocritus;

But read Adam Smith

And there was a deep economy,

That is, he was able to judge

How does the state grow rich?

And what lives, and why

He doesn't need gold

When simple product It has.

Father could not understand him

And gave land as a pledge.

Everything that Eugene knew,

Retell me lack of time;

But in what he was a true genius,

What he knew more firmly than all sciences,

What was madness for him

And labor, and flour, and joy,

What took all day

His melancholy laziness, -

There was a science of tender passion,

Which Nazon sang,

Why did he end up a sufferer

Your age is brilliant and rebellious

In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,

Far away from Italy.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

How early could he be hypocritical,

Hold hope, be jealous

disbelieve, make believe

To seem gloomy, to languish,

Be proud and obedient

Attentive or indifferent!

How languidly he was silent,

How eloquently eloquent

How careless in heartfelt letters!

One breathing, one loving,

How could he forget himself!

How his gaze was quick and gentle,

Shameful and impudent, and sometimes

He shone with an obedient tear!

How could he be new?

Joking innocence to amaze

To frighten with despair ready,

To amuse with pleasant flattery,

Catch a moment of tenderness

Innocent years of prejudice

Mind and passion to win,

Expect involuntary affection

Pray and demand recognition

Listen to the first sound of the heart

Chase love and suddenly

Get a secret date...

And after her alone

Give lessons in silence!

How early could he disturb

Hearts of coquettes note!

When did you want to destroy

Him his rivals,

How vehemently he cursed!

What nets he prepared for them!

But you, blessed husbands,

You were friends with him:

He was caressed by the crafty husband,

Foblas is an old student,

And the distrustful old man

And the majestic cuckold

Always happy with myself

With my dinner and my wife.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

He used to be in bed:

They bring notes to him.

What? Invitations? Indeed,

Three houses for the evening call:

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

Where will my prankster go?

Who will he start with? Does not matter:

It is no wonder to be in time everywhere.

While in the morning dress,

Wearing a wide bolivar Hat a la Bolivar. ,

Onegin goes to the boulevard

And there he walks in the open,

Until the dormant breguet

Lunch will not ring for him.

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

"Drop, drop!" - there was a cry;

Frost dust silver

His beaver collar.

To Talon Renowned restaurateur. rushed: he is sure

What is Kaverin waiting for him there.

Entered: and a cork in the ceiling,

The fault of the comet spurted current;

Before him roast-beef Roast-beef (roast beef) - meat dish English cuisine. bloodied

And truffles, the luxury of youth,

French cuisine best color,

And Strasbourg's imperishable pie

Between live Limburg cheese

And golden pineapple.

More glasses of thirst asks

Pour hot fat cutlets,

But the ringing of the breguet conveys to them,

That a new ballet has begun.

The theater is an evil legislator,

fickle admirer

charming actresses,

Honorary citizen backstage,

Onegin flew to the theater

Where everyone, breathing freely,

Ready to slam entrechat entrechat (entrechat) - a figure in ballet (fr.). ,

Sheath Phaedra, Cleopatra,

call Moina (in order

just to hear it).

Magic edge! there in the old days,

Satyrs are a bold ruler,

Fonvizin shone, friend of freedom,

And the capricious Knyazhnin;

There Ozerov involuntary tribute

People's tears, applause

I shared with the young Semyonova;

There our Katenin resurrected

Corneille is a majestic genius;

There he brought out the sharp Shakhovskoy

A noisy swarm of their comedies,

There and Didlo A trait of chilled feeling worthy of a Child Harold. The ballets of Mr. Didlo are full of liveliness of imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic writers found in them much more poetry than in all French literature. married with glory

There, there under the shadow of the wings

My youthful days flew by.

My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?

Listen to my sad voice:

Are you all the same? other le maidens,

Replacing, did not replace you?

Will I hear your choruses again?

Will I see the Russian Terpsichore

Soul filled flight?

Or a dull look will not find

Familiar faces on a boring stage

And, aiming at an alien light

Disappointed lorgnette,

Fun indifferent spectator,

Silently I will yawn

And remember the past?

The theater is already full; lodges shine;

Parterre and chairs, everything is in full swing;

In heaven they splash impatiently,

And, having risen, the curtain rustles.

Brilliant, half-air,

obedient to the magic bow,

Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs

Worth Istomin; she is,

One foot touching the floor

Another slowly circles

And suddenly a jump, and suddenly it flies,

It flies like fluff from the mouth of Eol;

Now the camp will soviet, then it will develop,

And he beats his leg with a quick leg.

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters,

Walks between the chairs on the legs,

Double lorgnette slanting induces

On the lodges of unfamiliar ladies;

I looked at all the tiers,

I saw everything: faces, headwear

He is terribly dissatisfied;

With men from all sides

Bowed, then on stage

I looked in great confusion,

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 Didlo too."

More cupids, devils, snakes

They jump and make noise on the stage;

More tired lackeys

They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;

Haven't stopped stomping yet

Blow your nose, cough, hiss, clap;

More outside and inside

Lanterns are shining everywhere;

Still, vegetating, the horses are fighting,

Bored with your harness,

And the coachmen, around the lights,

Scold the gentlemen and beat in the palm of your hand:

And Onegin went out;

He goes home to get dressed.

Will I portray in a true picture

secluded office,

Where is the mod pupil exemplary

Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Everything than for a plentiful whim

Trades London scrupulous

And along the Baltic waves

For the forest and fat carries us,

Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

Having chosen a useful trade,

Invents for fun

For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

Everything decorates the office.

Philosopher at the age of eighteen.

Amber on the pipes of Tsaregrad,

Porcelain and bronze on the table

And, feelings of pampered joy,

Perfume in cut crystal;

Combs, steel files,

Straight scissors, curved,

And brushes of thirty kinds

For both nails and teeth.

Rousseau (notice in passing)

Could not understand how important Grim

I dared to clean my 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 commençai 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 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 J. J. Rousseau

Everyone knew that he used whitewash; and I, who did not believe it at all, began to guess not only from the improvement in the complexion 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; this occupation he proudly continued in my presence. I figured that a person who spends two hours every morning brushing their nails could spend a few minutes whitewashing imperfections in their skin.

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

Grim was ahead of his time: now in all of enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush.

.

Defender of Liberty and Rights

In this case, it's completely wrong.

You can be a good person

And think about the beauty of nails:

Why fruitlessly argue with the century?

Custom despot among people.

The second Chadaev, my Eugene,

Fearing jealous judgments

There was a pedant in his clothes

And what we called a dandy.

It's three hours at least

Spent in front of the mirrors

And came out of the restroom

Like windy Venus

When, wearing a man's outfit,

The goddess goes to the masquerade.

In the last taste of the toilet

Taking your curious gaze,

I could before the learned light

Here describe his attire;

Of course b, it was bold,

Describe my case:

But pantaloons, tailcoat, vest,

All these words are not in Russian;

And I see, I blame you,

What is it, my poor syllable

I could dazzle much less

In foreign words,

Even though I looked in the old days

In the Academic Dictionary.

We now have something wrong in the subject:

We'd better hurry to the ball

Where headlong in a pit carriage

My Onegin has already galloped.

Before the faded houses

Along a sleepy street in rows

Double carriage lights

Merry pour out light

And they cast rainbows on the snow;

Dotted with bowls all around,

A splendid house shines;

Shadows walk through solid windows,

Flashing head profiles

And ladies and fashionable eccentrics.

Here our hero drove up to the entrance;

Doorman past he's an arrow

Climbing up the marble steps

I straightened my hair with my hand,

Has entered. The hall is full of people;

The music is already tired of thundering;

The crowd is busy with the mazurka;

Around and noise and crampedness;

The spurs of the cavalry guard jingle;

The legs of lovely ladies are flying;

In their captivating footsteps

Fiery eyes fly

And the roar of violins is muffled

Jealous whisper of fashionable wives.

In the days of fun and desires

I was crazy about balls:

There is no place for confessions

And to deliver a letter.

O you venerable spouses!

I will offer you my services;

I ask you to notice my speech:

I want to warn you.

You also, mothers, are stricter

Look after your daughters

Keep your lorgnette straight!

Not that…not that, God forbid!

That's why I'm writing this

That I have not sinned for a long time.

Alas, for different fun

I lost a lot of life!

But if morals had not suffered,

I would still love balls.

I love crazy youth

And tightness, and brilliance, and joy,

And I will give a thoughtful outfit;

I love their legs; only hardly

You will find in Russia a whole

Three pairs of slender female legs.

Oh! for a long time I could not forget

Two legs ... Sad, cold,

I remember them all, and in a dream

They trouble my heart.

When and where, in what desert,

Fool, will you forget them?

Ah, legs, legs! where are you now?

Where do you crumple spring flowers?

Cherished in eastern bliss,

On the northern, sad snow

You left no trace

You loved soft carpets

Luxurious touch.

How long have I forgotten for you

And I crave glory and praise

And the land of fathers, and imprisonment?

The happiness of youth is gone

As in the meadows your light footprint.

Diana's chest, cheeks Lanites - cheeks (obsolete). flora

Adorable, dear friends!

However, Terpsichore's leg

Prettier than something for me.

She, prophesying the look

An invaluable reward

Attracts by conditional beauty

Desires masterful swarm.

I love her, my friend Elvina,

Under the long tablecloth

In the spring on the ants of the meadows,

In winter, on a cast-iron fireplace,

On the mirror 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 at her feet with love!

How I wished then with the waves

Touch the cute feet with your mouth!

No, never in hot days

Boiling my youth

I did not want with such torment

To kiss the lips of the young Armides,

Or roses of fiery cheeks,

Ile percy, full of languor;

No, never a rush of passion

So did not torment my soul!

I remember another time!

In cherished dreams sometimes

I hold a happy stirrup...

And I feel the leg in my hands;

Again the imagination boils

Again her touch

Ignite the blood in the withered heart,

Again longing, again love! ..

But full of praise for the haughty

With his chatty lyre;

They are not worth the passion

No songs inspired by them:

The words and gaze of these sorceresses

Deceptive ... like their legs.

What about my Onegin? half asleep

In bed from the ball he rides:

And Petersburg is restless

Already awakened by the drum.

The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman is pulling to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with a jug,

Beneath it, the morning snow crunches.

I woke up in the morning with a pleasant noise.

The shutters are open; pipe smoke

A column rises blue,

And a baker, a neat German,

In a paper cap, more than once

I have already opened my vasisdas Vasisdas - a play on words: in French - a window, in German - the question "you ist das?" - “what is this?”, Used by Russians to refer to the Germans. Trade in small shops was conducted through the window. That is, the German baker managed to sell more than one roll. .

But, exhausted by the noise of the ball,

And turning the morning at midnight

Sleeps peacefully in the shade of the blissful

Fun and luxury child.

Will wake up for € noon, and again

Until the morning his life is ready,

Monotonous and variegated

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 really among the feasts

Careless and healthy?

No: early feelings in him cooled down;

He was tired of the light noise;

The beauties didn't last long

The subject of his habitual thoughts;

Treason managed to tire;

Friends and friendship are tired,

Then, which could not always

Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie

Pouring champagne in a bottle

And pour sharp words

When the head hurt;

And though he was an ardent rake,

But he fell out of love at last

And abuse, and a saber, and lead.

A disease whose cause

It's high time to find

Like an English spin

In short: Russian melancholy

She took possession of him little by little;

He shoot himself, thank God,

Didn't want to try

But life has completely cooled off.

Like Child-Harold, sullen, languid

He appeared in drawing rooms;

Neither gossip of the world, nor Boston,

Neither a sweet look, nor an immodest sigh,

Nothing touched him

He didn't notice anything.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Freaks of the big world!

He left you all before;

And the truth is that in our summer

The higher tone is rather boring;

Though maybe a different lady

Interprets Sey and Bentham,

But in general their conversation

Unbearable, though innocent nonsense;

And besides, they are so innocent.

So majestic, so smart

So full of piety

So careful, so precise

So impregnable for men

That the sight of them already gives rise to spleen This whole ironic stanza is nothing but 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 that so captivated Madame Stael (see Dix anne € es d'exil / "Ten years of exile" (fr.)). .

And you, young beauties,

Which later sometimes

Carry away the droshky

Petersburg bridge,

And my Eugene left you.

Renegade of violent pleasures,

Onegin locked himself at home,

Yawning, took up the pen,

Wanted to write - but hard work

He was sick; nothing

did not come out of his pen,

And he did not get into the fervent shop

People I don't judge

Then, that I belong to them.

And again, devoted to idleness,

languishing in spiritual emptiness,

He sat down - with a laudable purpose

Assign someone else's mind to yourself;

He set up a shelf with a detachment of books,

I read and read, but to no avail:

There is boredom, there is deceit or delirium;

In that conscience, in that there is no sense;

On all different chains;

And outdated old

And the old is delirious with novelty.

Like women, he left books

And the shelf, with their dusty family,

Draped with mourning taffeta.

The conditions of light overthrowing the burden,

How he, lagging behind the hustle and bustle,

I became friends with him at that time.

I liked his features

Dreams involuntary devotion

Inimitable strangeness

And a sharp, chilled mind.

I was embittered, he is sullen;

We both knew the passion game;

The life tormented both of us;

In both hearts the heat died down;

Anger awaited both

Blind fortune and people

In the very morning of our days.

Who lived and thought, he cannot

In the soul do not despise people;

Who felt, that worries

The ghost of the irretrievable days:

There are no more charms

That serpent of memories

That repentance gnaws.

All this often gives

Great charm of conversation.

First Onegin's language

Confused me; but I'm used to

To his caustic argument,

And for a joke, with bile in half,

And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

How often in the summer

When transparent and light

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

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

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

On the distant seashore, the silvery sails are visible

Slightly prominent ships, as if floating in 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 daylighter brings out after the evening

Ruddy morning. - It was a golden age.

How summer days steal the dominion of the night;

How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky captivates

The radiance of magical shadow and sweet light,

How the noonday sky is never adorned;

That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden,

Whose blue eyes and scarlet cheeks

Barely shaded by blond curl waves.

Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see

Evening without twilight and quick nights without a shadow;

Then Philomela midnight songs will only end

And he starts songs, welcoming the rising day.

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

The dew has fallen; ………………………

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

The Neva does not sway; the city guests departed;

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

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

Only a long cry from the far will rush

Where in the night the military guard with guards calls out.

Everyone is sleeping. ………………………

And waters cheerful glass

Does not reflect the face of Diana,

Remembering past years novels,

Remembering the old love

Sensitive, careless again

With the breath of a supportive night

We silently drank!

Like a green forest from prison

The sleepy convict has been moved,

So we were carried away by a dream

By the beginning of life young.

With a heart full of regrets

And leaning on granite

Yevgeny stood thoughtfully,

How piit described himself

Reveal the goddess of grace

Sees an enthusiastic piit,

That spends the night insomnia

Leaning on granite.

(Ants. Goddess of the Neva)

.

Everything was quiet; only night

The sentries called to each other;

Yes, a distant knock

With Millonna Millionnaya is the name of a street in St. Petersburg. resounded suddenly;

Only a boat, waving oars,

Floated on a dormant river:

And we were captivated in the distance

The horn and the song are remote ...

But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,

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

Adriatic waves,

Oh Brent! no, I see you

And, full of inspiration again,

Hear your magical voice!

He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;

By the proud lyre of Albion The proud lyre of Albion A. S. Pushkin calls creativity English poet Byron.

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

Golden Italy nights

I will enjoy the bliss at will

With a young Venetian

Now talkative, then dumb,

Floating in a mysterious gondola;

With her my mouth will find

Everyone has their own mind and sense:

Eugene, hating litigation,

Satisfied with his lot,

gave them an inheritance,

Big loss in not seeing

Ile foretelling from afar

The death of the old uncle.

Suddenly got it really

From the manager's report,

That uncle is dying in bed

And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.

Reading the sad message

Eugene immediately on a date

Rushed through the mail

And already yawned in advance,

Getting ready for the money

On sighs, boredom and deceit

(And thus I began my novel);

But, having arrived in the uncle's village,

I found it on the table

As a tribute ready to the earth.

He found the yard full of services;

To the dead from all sides

Enemies and friends gathered

Funeral hunters.

The deceased was buried.

Priests and guests ate and drank

And after importantly parted,

As if they were doing business.

Here is our Onegin - a villager,

Factories, waters, forests, lands

The owner is complete, but hitherto

The order of the enemy and the squanderer,

And I am very glad that the old way

Changed to something.

Two days seemed new to him

secluded fields,

The coolness of the gloomy oak,

The murmur of a quiet stream;

On the third grove, hill and field

He was no longer interested;

Then they would induce sleep;

Then he saw clearly

As in the village boredom is the same,

Although there are no streets, no palaces,

No cards, no balls, no poetry.

The blues 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 rural silence:

Live creative dreams.

Leisure devotion to the innocent,

Wandering over the desert lake

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

I wake up every morning

For sweet bliss and freedom:

I read little, I sleep a lot,

I do not catch flying glory.

Didn't I in the old days

Spent in inaction, in the shadows

My happiest days?

Flowers, love, village, idleness,

Fields! I am devoted to you in soul.

I'm always glad to see the difference

Between Onegin and me,

To the mocking reader

Or any publisher

Intricate slander,

Matching here my features,

I did not repeat later shamelessly,

That I smeared my portrait,

Like Byron, poet of pride,

As if we can't

Write poems about others

Poetry sacred nonsense,

Petrarch walking after

And calmed the torment of the heart,

Caught and fame meanwhile;

But I, loving, was stupid and mute.

Passed love, the muse appeared,

And the dark mind cleared.

Free, again looking for an alliance

Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;

I write, and my heart does not yearn,

The pen, forgetting, does not draw

Close to unfinished verses

No women's legs, no heads;

The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,

I'm sad; but there are no more tears

And soon, soon the storm will follow

In my soul it will completely subside:

Then I'll start writing

A poem of twenty-five songs.

I was already thinking about the shape of the plan

And as a hero I will name;

While my romance

I finished the first chapter;

Reviewed all this strictly;

There are a lot of contradictions

But I don't want to fix them;

I will pay my debt to censorship

And journalists to eat

I will give the fruits of my labors;

Go to the Neva shores

newborn creation,

And earn me glory tribute:

Crooked talk, noise and abuse!

Eugene Onegin
Novel in verse
1823-1831
P?tri de vanit? il avait encore plus de cette esp?ce d "orgueil qui fait avouer avec la m?me indiff?rence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d"un sentiment de sup?riorit?, peut-?tre imaginaire.
Tir? d"une lettre particuli?re

Not thinking proud light to amuse,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I would like to introduce you
A pledge worthy of you
Worthy of a beautiful soul,
Holy 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
vulgar, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sad notes.

CHAPTER FIRST
And to live in a hurry and to feel in a hurry.
Book. Vyazemsky.

I.
"My uncle has the most honest rules,
When I fell ill in earnest,
He forced himself to respect
And I couldn't think of a better one.
His example to others is science;
But my god, what a bore
With the sick to sit day and night,
Without leaving a single step!
What low deceit
To amuse the half-alive,
Fix his pillows
It's sad to give medicine
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you!"

II.
So thought the young rake,
Flying in the dust on postal
By the will of Zeus
Heir of 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,
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 for me ().

III.
Serving excellently, nobly,
His father lived in debt
Gave three balls annually
And finally screwed up.
The fate of Eugene kept:
At first Madame followed him,
Then Monsieur replaced her.
The child was sharp, but sweet.
Monsieur l "Abb?, poor Frenchman,
So that the child is not exhausted,
Taught him everything jokingly
I did not bother with strict morality,
Slightly scolded for pranks
And he took me for a walk in the Summer Garden.

IV.
When will the rebellious youth
It's time for Eugene
It's time for hope and tender sadness,
Monsieur was driven out of the yard.
Here is my Onegin at large;
Cut in the latest fashion;
Like a dandy () london dressed -
And finally saw the light.
He's completely French
Could speak and write;
Easily danced the mazurka
And bowed at ease;
What do you want more? The world decided
That he is smart and very nice.

v.
We all learned a little
Something and somehow
So education, thank God,
It's easy for us to shine.
Onegin was, according to many
(Judges decisive and strict)
A small scientist, but a pedant:
He had a lucky talent
No compulsion to speak
Touch everything lightly
With a learned look of a connoisseur
Keep silent in an important dispute
And make the ladies smile
The fire of unexpected epigrams.

VI.
Latin is out of fashion now:
So, if you tell the truth,
He knew enough Latin
To parse epigraphs,
Talk about Juvenal
Put vale at the end of the letter
Yes, I remember, though not without sin,
Two verses from the Aeneid.
He had no desire to rummage
In chronological dust
Genesis of the earth;
But the days of the past are jokes
From Romulus to the present day
He kept it in his memory.

VII.
No high passion
For the sounds of life do not spare
He could not iambic from a chorea,
No matter how we fought, to distinguish.
Branil Homer, Theocritus;
But read Adam Smith,
And there was a deep economy,
That is, he was able to judge
How does the state grow rich?
And what lives, and why
He doesn't need gold
When a simple product has.
Father could not understand him
And gave land as a pledge.

VIII.
Everything that Eugene knew,
Retell me lack of time;
But in what he was a true genius,
What he knew more firmly than all sciences,
What was madness for him
And labor and flour and joy,
What took all day
His melancholy laziness, -
There was a science of tender passion,
Which Nazon sang,
Why did he end up a sufferer
Your age is brilliant and rebellious
In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,
Far away from Italy.

IX.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

x.
How early could he be hypocritical,
Hold hope, be jealous
disbelieve, make believe
To seem gloomy, to languish,
Be proud and obedient
Attentive or indifferent!
How languidly he was silent,
How eloquently eloquent
How careless in heartfelt letters!
One breathing, one loving,
How could he forget himself!
How his gaze was quick and gentle,
Shameful and impudent, and sometimes
He shone with an obedient tear!

XI.
How could he be new?
Joking innocence to amaze
To frighten with despair ready,
To amuse with pleasant flattery,
Catch a moment of tenderness
Innocent years of prejudice
Mind and passion to win,
Expect involuntary affection
Pray and demand recognition
Listen to the first sound of the heart
Chase love, and suddenly
Get a secret date...
And after her alone
Give lessons in silence!

XII.
How early could he disturb
Hearts of coquettes note!
When did you want to destroy
Him his rivals,
How vehemently he cursed!
What nets he prepared for them!
But you, blessed husbands,
You were friends with him:
He was caressed by the crafty husband,
Foblas is an old student,
And the distrustful old man
And the majestic cuckold
Always happy with myself
With my dinner and my wife.

XIII. XIV.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XV.
He used to be in bed:
They bring notes to him.
What? Invitations? Indeed,
Three houses for the evening call:
There will be a ball, there is a children's party.
Where will my prankster go?
Who will he start with? Does not matter:
It is no wonder to be in time everywhere.
While in the morning dress,
Wearing a wide bolivar (),
Onegin goes to the boulevard
And there he walks in the open,
Until the dormant breguet
Lunch will not ring for him.

XVI.
It's already dark: he sits in the sled.
"Drop, drop!" - there was a cry;
Frost dust silver
His beaver collar.
To Talon () rushed: he is sure
What is Kaverin waiting for him there.
Entered: and a cork in the ceiling,
The fault of the comet splashed current,
Before him roast-beef bloodied,
And truffles, the luxury of youth,
French cuisine best color,
And Strasbourg's imperishable pie
Between live Limburg cheese
And golden pineapple.

XVII.
More glasses of thirst asks
Pour hot fat cutlets,
But the ringing of the breguet conveys to them,
That a new ballet has begun.
The theater is an evil legislator,
fickle admirer
charming actresses,
Honorary citizen backstage,
Onegin flew to the theater
Where everyone, breathing freely,
Ready to slam entrechat,
Sheath Phaedra, Cleopatra,
call Moina (in order
just to hear it).

XVIII.
Magic edge! there in the old days,
Satyrs are a bold ruler,
Fonvizin shone, friend of freedom,
And the capricious Knyazhnin;
There Ozerov involuntary tribute
People's tears, applause
I shared with the young Semyonova;
There our Katenin resurrected
Corneille is a majestic genius;
There he brought out the sharp Shakhovskoy
A noisy swarm of their comedies,
There Didlo was crowned with glory,
There, there under the shadow of the wings
My youthful days flew by.

XIX.
My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?
Listen to my sad voice:
Are you all the same? other le maidens,
Replacing, did not replace you?
Will I hear your choruses again?
Will I see the Russian Terpsichore
Soul filled flight?
Or a dull look will not find
Familiar faces on a boring stage
And, aiming at an alien light
Disappointed lorgnette,
Fun indifferent spectator,
Silently I will yawn
And remember the past?

XX.
The theater is already full; lodges shine;
Parterre and armchairs, everything is in full swing;
In heaven they splash impatiently,
And, having risen, the curtain rustles.
Brilliant, half-air,
obedient to the magic bow,
Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs
Worth Istomin; she is,
One foot touching the floor
Another slowly circles
And suddenly a jump, and suddenly it flies,
It flies like fluff from the mouth of Eol;
Now the camp will soviet, then it will develop,
And he beats his leg with a quick leg.

XXI.
Everything is clapping. Onegin enters,
Walks between the chairs on the legs,
Double lorgnette slanting induces
On the lodges of unfamiliar ladies;
I looked at all the tiers,
I saw everything: faces, headwear
He is terribly dissatisfied;
With men from all sides
Bowed, then on stage
I looked in great confusion,
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 Didlo" ().

XXII.
More cupids, devils, snakes
They jump and make noise on the stage;
More tired lackeys
They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;
Haven't stopped stomping yet
Blow your nose, cough, hiss, clap;
More outside and inside
Lanterns are shining everywhere;
Still, vegetating, the horses are fighting,
Bored with your harness,
And the coachmen, around the lights,
Scold the gentlemen and beat in the palm of your hand:
And Onegin went out;
He goes home to get dressed.

XXIII.
Will I portray in a true picture
secluded office,
Where is the mod pupil exemplary
Dressed, undressed and dressed again?
All than for a plentiful whim
Trades London scrupulous
And along the Baltic waves
For the forest and fat carries us,
Everything in Paris tastes hungry,
Having chosen a useful trade,
Invents for fun
For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -
Everything decorates the office.
Philosopher at the age of eighteen.

XXIV.
Amber on the pipes of Tsaregrad,
Porcelain and bronze on the table
And, feelings of pampered joy,
Perfume in cut crystal;
Combs, steel files,
Straight scissors, curved,
And brushes of thirty kinds
For both nails and teeth.
Rousseau (notice in passing)
Could not understand how important Grim
I dared to clean my nails in front of him,
An eloquent madman ().
Defender of Liberty and Rights
In this case, it's completely wrong.

XXV.
You can be a good person
And think about the beauty of nails:
Why fruitlessly argue with the century?
Custom despot among people.
The second Chadaev, my Eugene,
Fearing jealous judgments
There was a pedant in his clothes
And what we called a dandy.
It's three hours at least
Spent in front of the mirrors
And came out of the restroom
Like windy Venus
When, wearing a man's outfit,
The goddess goes to the masquerade.

XXVI.
In the last taste of the toilet
Taking your curious gaze,
I could before the learned light
Here describe his attire;
Of course it would be bold
Describe my case:
But pantaloons, tailcoat, vest,
All these words are not in Russian;
And I see, I blame you,
What is it, my poor syllable
I could dazzle much less
In foreign words,
Even though I looked in the old days
In the Academic Dictionary.

XXVII.
We now have something wrong in the subject:
We'd better hurry to the ball
Where headlong in a pit carriage
My Onegin has already galloped.
Before the faded houses
Along a sleepy street in rows
Double carriage lights
Merry pour out light
And rainbows on the snow suggest:
Dotted with bowls all around,
A splendid house shines;
Shadows walk through solid windows,
Flashing head profiles
And ladies and fashionable eccentrics.

XXVIII.
Here our hero drove up to the entrance;
Doorman past he's an arrow
Climbing up the marble steps
I straightened my hair with my hand,
Has entered. The hall is full of people;
The music is already tired of thundering;
The crowd is busy with the mazurka;
Around and noise and crampedness;
The spurs of the cavalry guard jingle;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And the roar of violins is muffled
Jealous whisper of fashionable wives.

XXIX.
In the days of fun and desires
I was crazy about balls:
There is no place for confessions
And to deliver a letter.
O you venerable spouses!
I will offer you my services;
I ask you to notice my speech:
I want to warn you.
You also, mothers, are stricter
Look after your daughters
Keep your lorgnette straight!
Not that...not that, God forbid!
That's why I'm writing this
That I have not sinned for a long time.

XXX.
Alas, for different fun
I lost a lot of life!
But if morals had not suffered,
I would still love balls.
I love crazy youth
And tightness, and brilliance, and joy,
And I will give a thoughtful outfit;
I love their legs; only hardly
You will find in Russia a whole
Three pairs of slender female legs.
Oh! for a long time I could not forget
Two legs ... Sad, cold,
I remember them all, and in a dream
They trouble my heart.

XXXI.
When, and where, in what desert,
Fool, will you forget them?
Ah, legs, legs! where are you now?
Where do you crumple spring flowers?
Cherished in eastern bliss,
On the northern, sad snow
You left no trace
You loved soft carpets
Luxurious touch.
How long have I forgotten for you
And I crave glory and praise
And the land of fathers, and imprisonment?
The happiness of youth has disappeared -
As in the meadows your light footprint.

XXXII.
Diana's chest, Flora's cheeks
Adorable, dear friends!
However, Terpsichore's leg
Prettier than something for me.
She, prophesying the look
An invaluable reward
Attracts by conditional beauty
Desires masterful swarm.
I love her, my friend Elvina,
Under the long tablecloth
In the spring on the ants of the meadows,
In winter, on a cast-iron fireplace,
On the mirror 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 at her feet with love!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch the cute feet with your mouth!
No, never in hot days
Boiling my youth
I did not want with such torment
To kiss the lips of the young Armides,
Or roses of fiery cheeks,
Ile percy, full of languor;
No, never a rush of passion
So did not torment my soul!

XXXIV.
I remember another time!
In cherished dreams sometimes
I hold a happy stirrup...
And I feel the leg in my hands;
Again the imagination boils
Again her touch
Ignite the blood in the withered heart,
Again longing, again love! ..
But full of praise for the haughty
With his chatty lyre;
They are not worth the passion
No songs inspired by them:
The words and gaze of these sorceresses
Deceptive ... like their legs.

XXXV.
What about my Onegin? half asleep
In bed from the ball he rides:
And Petersburg is restless
Already awakened by the drum.
The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,
A cabman is pulling to the stock exchange,
The okhtenka is in a hurry with a jug,
Beneath it, the morning snow crunches.
I woke up in the morning with a pleasant noise.
The shutters are open; pipe smoke
A column rises blue,
And a baker, a neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
I have already opened my vasisdas.

XXXVI.
But, exhausted by the noise of the ball,
And turning the morning at midnight
Sleeps peacefully in the shade of the blissful
Fun and luxury child.
Wakes up after noon, and again
Until the morning his life is ready,
Monotonous and variegated.
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 really among the feasts
Careless and healthy?

XXXVII.
No: early feelings in him cooled down;
He was tired of the light noise;
The beauties didn't last long
The subject of his habitual thoughts;
Treason managed to tire;
Friends and friendship are tired,
Then, which could not always
Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie
Pouring champagne in a bottle
And pour sharp words
When the head hurt;
And though he was an ardent rake,
But he fell out of love at last
And abuse, and a saber, and lead.

XXXVIII.
A disease whose cause
It's high time to find
Like an English spin
In short: Russian melancholy
She took possession of him little by little;
He shoot himself, thank God,
Didn't want to try
But life has completely cooled off.
Like Child-Harold, sullen, languid
He appeared in drawing rooms;
Neither gossip of the world, nor Boston,
Neither a sweet look, nor an immodest sigh,
Nothing touched him
He didn't notice anything.

XXXIX. XL. XLI.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XLII.
Freaks of the big world!
He left you all before;
And the truth is that in our summer
The higher tone is rather boring;
Though maybe a different lady
Interprets Sey and Bentham,
But in general their conversation
Unbearable, though innocent nonsense;
And besides, they are so innocent.
So majestic, so smart
So full of piety
So careful, so precise
So impregnable for men
That their appearance already gives rise to spleen ().

XLIII.
And you, young beauties,
Which later sometimes
Carry away the droshky
Petersburg bridge,
And my Eugene left you.
Renegade of violent pleasures,
Onegin locked himself at home,
Yawning, took up the pen,
Wanted to write - but hard work
He was sick; nothing
did not come out of his pen,
And he did not get into the fervent shop
People I don't judge
Then, that I belong to them.

XLIV.
And again, devoted to idleness,
languishing in spiritual emptiness,
He sat down - with a laudable purpose
Assign someone else's mind to yourself;
He set up a shelf with a detachment of books,
I read and read, but to no avail:
There is boredom, there is deceit or delirium;
In that conscience, in that there is no sense;
On all different chains;
And outdated old
And the old is delirious with novelty.
Like women, he left books
And the shelf, with their dusty family,
Draped with mourning taffeta.

XLV.
The conditions of light overthrowing the burden,
How he, lagging behind the hustle and bustle,
I became friends with him at that time.
I liked his features
Dreams involuntary devotion
Inimitable strangeness
And a sharp, chilled mind.
I was embittered, he is sullen;
We both knew the passion game:
The life tormented both of us;
In both hearts the heat died down;
Anger awaited both
Blind fortune and people
In the very morning of our days.

XLVI.
Who lived and thought, he cannot
In the soul do not despise people;
Who felt, that worries
The ghost of the irretrievable days:
So there is no charm.
That serpent of memories
That repentance gnaws.
All this often gives
Great charm of conversation.
First Onegin's language
Confused me; but I'm used to
To his caustic argument,
And to the joke with bile in half,
And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

XLVII.
How often in the summer
When transparent and light
Night sky over the Neva (),
And waters cheerful glass
Does not reflect the face of Diana,
Remembering past years novels,
Remembering the old love
Sensitive, careless again
With the breath of a supportive night
We silently drank!
Like a green forest from prison
The sleepy convict has been moved,
So we were carried away by a dream
By the beginning of life young.

XLVIII.
With a heart full of regrets
And leaning on granite
Yevgeny stood thoughtfully,
How Piit () described himself.
Everything was quiet; only night
The sentries called to each other;
Yes, a distant knock
With Millionne it suddenly resounded;
Only a boat, waving oars,
Floated on a dormant river:
And we were captivated in the distance
The horn and the song are remote ...
But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,
The chant of Torquat octaves!

XLIX.
Adriatic waves,
Oh Brent! no, I see you
And full of inspiration again
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 Italy nights
I will enjoy the bliss in the wild,
With a young Venetian
Now talkative, then dumb,
Floating in a mysterious gondola;
With her my mouth will find
The language of Petrarch and love.

L.
Will the hour of my freedom come?
It's time, it's time! - I call to her;
Wandering over the sea (), waiting for the weather,
Manyu sails ships.
Under the robe of storms, arguing with the waves,
Along the freeway of the sea
When will I start free running?
It's time to leave the boring beach
I hostile elements,
And among the midday swells,
Under the sky of my Africa (),
Sigh about gloomy Russia,
Where I suffered, where I loved
Where I buried my heart.

L.I.
Onegin was ready with me
See foreign countries;
But soon we were fate
Divorced for a long time.
His father then died.
Gathered before Onegin
Lenders greedy regiment.
Everyone has their own mind and sense:
Eugene, hating litigation,
Satisfied with his lot,
gave them an inheritance,
Big loss in not seeing
Ile foretelling from afar
The death of an old uncle.

LII.
Suddenly got it really
From the manager's report,
That uncle is dying in bed
And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.
Reading the sad message
Eugene immediately on a date
Rushed through the mail
And already yawned in advance,
Getting ready for the money
On sighs, boredom and deceit
(And thus I began my novel);
But, having arrived in the uncle's village,
I found it on the table
As a tribute to the ready land.

III.
He found the yard full of services;
To the dead from all sides
Enemies and friends gathered
Funeral hunters.
The deceased was buried.
Priests and guests ate, drank,
And after importantly parted,
As if they were doing business.
Here is our Onegin villager,
Factories, waters, forests, lands
The owner is complete, but hitherto
The order of the enemy and the squanderer,
And I am very glad that the old way
Changed to something.

LIV.
Two days seemed new to him
secluded fields,
The coolness of the gloomy oak,
The murmur of a quiet stream;
On the third grove, hill and field
He was no longer interested;
Then they would induce sleep;
Then he saw clearly
As in the village boredom is the same,
Although there are no streets, no palaces,
No cards, no balls, no poetry.
The blues 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 rural silence:
In the wilderness, the lyrical voice is louder,
Live creative dreams.
Leisure devotion to the innocent,
Wandering over the desert lake
And far niente is my law.
I wake up every morning
For sweet bliss and freedom:
I read little, I sleep a lot,
I do not catch flying glory.
Didn't I in the old days
Spent in inaction, in the shadows
My happiest days?

LVI.
Flowers, love, village, idleness,
Fields! I am devoted to you in soul.
I'm always glad to see the difference
Between Onegin and me,
To the mocking reader
Or any publisher
Intricate slander,
Matching here my features,
I did not repeat later shamelessly,
That I smeared my portrait,
Like Byron, poet of pride,
As if we can't
Write poems about others
As soon as about himself.

LVII.
I note by the way: all poets -
Love dreamy friends.
Used to be cute things
I dreamed and my soul
She kept their secret image;
After the Muse revived them:
So I, careless, chanted
And the girl of the mountains, my ideal,
And the captives of the banks of the Salgir.
Now from you my friends
I often hear the question:
"O whom does your lyre sigh?
To whom, in the crowd of jealous maidens,
Did you dedicate a chant to her?

LVIII.
Whose gaze, exciting inspiration,
He rewarded with touching affection
Your thoughtful singing?
Whom did your verse idolize?"
And, others, no one, by God!
Love crazy anxiety
I have experienced it remorselessly.
Blessed is he who combined with her
The fever of rhymes: he doubled that
Poetry sacred nonsense,
Petrarch walking after
And calmed the torment of the heart,
Caught and fame meanwhile;
But I, loving, was stupid and mute.

LIX.
Love passed, the Muse appeared,
And the dark mind cleared.
Free, again looking for an alliance
Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;
I write, and my heart does not yearn,
The pen, forgetting, does not draw,
Close to unfinished verses
No women's legs, no heads;
The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,
I'm sad; but there are no more tears
And soon, soon the storm will follow
In my soul it will completely subside:
Then I'll start writing
A poem of twenty-five songs.

LX.
I was already thinking about the form of the plan,
And as a hero I will name;
While my romance
I finished the first chapter;
Revisited it all rigorously:
There are a lot of contradictions
But I don't want to fix them.
I will pay my debt to censorship,
And journalists to eat
I will give the fruits of my labors:
Go to the Neva shores
newborn creation,
And earn me glory tribute:
Crooked talk, noise and abuse!

CHAPTER TWO
O rus!...
Hor.
Oh Rus!

I.
The village where Eugene missed,
There was a lovely corner;
There's a friend of innocent pleasures
I could bless the sky.
The master's house is secluded,
Protected from the winds by a mountain,
Stood over the river. away
Before him were full of flowers and blossomed
Meadows and fields of gold,
Villages flashed; here and there
The herds roamed the meadows,
And the canopy expanded thick
Huge, neglected garden,
Shelter of pensive Dryads.

II.
The venerable castle was built,
How castles should be built:
Excellently durable and calm
In the taste of smart antiquity.
Everywhere high chambers,
In the living room damask wallpaper,
Kings portraits on the walls,
And stoves in colorful tiles.
All this is now dilapidated,
I don't know why;
Yes, however, my friend
There was very little need
Then that he yawned equally
Among fashionable and vintage halls.

III.
He settled in that peace,
Where is the village old-timer
For forty years I fought with the housekeeper,
He looked out the window and crushed flies.
Everything was simple: the floor is oak,
Two wardrobes, a table, a downy sofa,
Not a speck of ink anywhere.
Onegin opened the cupboards:
In one I found an expense notebook,
In another liquor, a whole system,
Jugs of apple water
And the calendar of the eighth year;
An old man with a lot to do
Haven't looked at other books.

IV.
Alone among his possessions,
Just to pass the time
First conceived our Eugene
Establish a new order.
In his wilderness, the desert sage,
Yarem he is an old corvée
I replaced the quitrent with a light one;
And the slave blessed fate.
But in his corner pouted,
Seeing this terrible harm,
His prudent neighbor.
The other smiled slyly,
And in a voice everyone decided so,
That he is the most dangerous eccentric.

v.
At first everyone went to him;
But since from the back porch
usually served
Him don stallion,
Only along the main road
Will hear them at home, -
With such an insulting act,
All friendships ended with him.
"Our neighbor is ignorant, crazy,
He is a pharmacist; he drinks one
A glass of red wine;
He does not fit the ladies' hands;
All yes yes no; won't say yes
Or no, sir." Such was the general voice.

VI.
To your village at the same time
The new landowner galloped
And equally rigorous analysis
In the neighborhood, he gave a reason.
By the name of Vladimir Lenskoy,
With a soul straight from Goettingen,
Handsome, in full bloom of years,
Kant's admirer and poet.
He is from foggy Germany
Bring the fruits of learning:
freedom dreams,
The spirit is ardent and rather strange,
Always an enthusiastic speech
And shoulder-length black curls.

VII.
From the cold debauchery of the world
Haven't faded yet
His soul was warmed
Hello friend, caress maidens.
He had a sweet heart, an ignorant one,
He was cherished by hope
And the world's new shine and noise
Still captivated the young mind.
He amused with a sweet dream
Doubts of his heart;
The purpose of our life for him
Was a tempting mystery
He broke his head over her
And I suspected miracles.

VIII.
He believed that the soul is dear
Must connect with him
What, hopelessly languishing,
She is waiting for him every day;
He believed that friends were ready
For his honor to accept shackles,
And that their hand will not tremble
Break the slanderer's vessel;
What is chosen by fate,
People sacred friends;
That their immortal family
irresistible beams,
Someday, we will be enlightened
And the world will give bliss.

IX.
Resentment, regret
Good for pure love
And glory sweet torment
It was early on that blood was agitated in him.
He traveled the world with a lyre;
Under the skies of Schiller and Goethe
Their poetic fire
The soul ignited in him.
And the Muses of sublime art,
Lucky, he did not shame;
He proudly preserved in songs
Always high feelings
Gusts of a virgin dream
And the beauty of important simplicity.

x.
He sang love, obedient to love,
And his song was clear
Like the thoughts of an innocent maiden,
Like a baby's dream, like the moon
In the deserts of the serene sky,
Goddess of secrets and gentle sighs.
He sang separation and sadness,
And something, and foggy distance,
And romantic roses;
He sang those distant countries
Where long in the bosom of silence
His living tears flowed;
He sang the faded color of life
Nearly eighteen years old.

XI.
In the desert, where one Eugene
Could appreciate his gifts,
Lords of neighboring villages
He did not like feasts;
He ran their noisy conversation.
Their conversation is prudent
About haymaking, about wine,
About the kennel, about your family,
Of course, did not shine with any feeling,
No poetic fire
Neither sharpness nor intelligence,
No dorm arts;
But the conversation of their lovely wives
Much less intelligent.

XII.
Rich, good-looking, Lenskoy
Everywhere he was accepted as a bridegroom;
Such is the custom of the village;
All daughters read their
For a semi-Russian neighbor;
Will he ascend, immediately conversation
Turns the word around
About the boredom of single life;
They call a neighbor to the samovar,
And Dunya pours tea,
They whisper to her: “Dunya, note!”
Then they bring the guitar:
And she will squeak (my God!).
Come to my golden chamber! .. ()

XIII.
But Lensky, not having, of course,
There is no hunting bond of marriage,
With Onegin I wished cordially
Acquaintance shorter to reduce.
They agreed. Wave and stone
Poetry and prose, ice and fire
Not so different from each other.
First, mutual differences
They were boring to each other;
Then they liked it; after
Riding every day
And soon they became inseparable.
So people (I repent first)
Nothing to do friends.

XIV.
But there is no friendship even between us.
Destroy all prejudices
We honor all zeros,
And units - themselves.
We all look at Napoleons;
There are millions of bipedal creatures
For us, there is only one tool;
We feel wild and funny.
Eugene was more tolerable than many;
Although he certainly knew people
And in general he despised them, -
But (there are no rules without exceptions)
He was very different from others.
And he respected the feeling of others.

XV.
He listened to Lensky with a smile.
The poet's passionate conversation,
And the mind, still in unsteady judgments,
And eternally inspired look, -
Everything was new to Onegin;
He is a cool word
I tried to keep in my mouth
And I thought: it's stupid to disturb me
His momentary bliss;
And without me the time will come;
Let him live for now
May the world believe in perfection;
Forgive the fever of youth
And youthful fever and youthful delirium.

XVI.
Between them everything gave rise to disputes
And it got me thinking:
Tribes of past treaties,
The fruits of science, good and evil,
And age-old prejudices
And fatal secrets of the coffin,
Fate and life in turn
Everything was judged by them.
The poet in the heat of his judgments
Reading, forgetting, meanwhile
Fragments of northern poems,
And indulgent Eugene,
Though I didn't understand them much
Diligently listened to the young man.

XVII.
But more often occupied by passions
The minds of my hermits.
Away from their rebellious power,
Onegin spoke about them
With an involuntary sigh of regret.
Blessed is he who knew their worries
And finally lagged behind them;
Blessed is he who did not know them,
Who cooled love - separation,
Enmity - slander; sometimes
Yawned with friends and wife
Jealous without worrying flour,
And grandfathers faithful capital
I did not trust the insidious deuce.

XVIII.
When we run under the banner
prudent silence,
When passions go out the flame
And we become funny
Their self-will or impulses
And belated comments, -
The humble are not without difficulty,
We like to listen sometimes
Rebellious language of foreign passions,
And he stirs our hearts.
Just like an old invalid
Willingly tends to hear diligently
I will tell the stories of young mustaches,
Forgotten in his hut.

XIX.
But fiery youth
Can't hide anything.
Enmity, love, sadness and joy
She's ready to chat.
In love, being considered a disabled person,
Onegin listened with an air of importance,
How, loving confession hearts,
The poet expressed himself;
Your trusting conscience
He casually exposed.
Eugene easily recognized
His love is a young story,
Emotional story,
Not new to us for a long time.

XX.
Ah, he loved, as in our summers
They no longer love; as one
The mad soul of a poet
Still condemned to love:
Always, everywhere one dream,
One habitual wish
One familiar sadness.
Nor the cooling distance
Not long years of separation
Nor to the muses this watch,
Nor foreign beauty,
Neither the noise of fun, nor Science
Souls have not changed in him,
Warmed by virgin fire.

XXI.
A little boy, captivated by Olga,
I don't know the pain of the heart yet,
He was a touching witness
Her infantile amusements;
In the shadow of the protective oak forest
He shared her fun
And crowns were read to the children
Friends, neighbors, their fathers.
In the wilderness, under the shadow of the humble,
Full of innocent beauty
In the eyes of her parents, she
Bloomed like a hidden lily of the valley,
Unknown in the grass deaf
No moths, no bees.

XXII.
She gave the poet
Young delights first dream,
And the thought of her inspired
His tarsals first groan.
Sorry, the games are golden!
He loved thick groves,
solitude, silence,
And the night, and the stars, and the moon,
Moon, sky lamp,
to which we dedicated
Walking in the darkness of the evening
And tears, secret torments of joy ...
But now we see only in it
Replacement of dim lights.

XXIII.
Always humble, always obedient,
Always as cheerful as the morning
How simple is the life of a poet,
Like a kiss of love, sweet
Eyes as blue as the sky;
Smile, linen curls,
Movement, voice, light camp,
Everything in Olga ... but any novel
Take it and find it right
Her portrait: he is very sweet,
I used to love him myself
But he bored me to no end.
Allow me, my reader,
Take care of your big sister.

XXIV.
Her sister's name was Tatyana ... ()
For the first time with such a name
Gentle pages of a novel
We will sanctify.
So what? it is pleasant, sonorous;
But with him, I know, inseparable
Remembrance of old
Or girlish! We should all
To admit: the taste is very little
With us and in our names
(Let's not talk about poetry);
We don't get enlightenment
And we got from him
Pretense, nothing more.

XXV.
So, she was called Tatyana.
Nor the beauty of his sister,
Nor the freshness of her ruddy
She would not attract eyes.
Dika, sad, silent,
Like a forest doe is timid,
She is in her family
Seemed like a stranger girl.
She couldn't caress
To my father, not to my mother;
A child by herself, in a crowd of children
Didn't want to play and jump
And often all day alone
She sat silently by the window.

XXVI.
Thought, her friend
From the most lullaby days
Rural Leisure Current
Decorated her with dreams.
Her pampered fingers
Didn't know needles; leaning on the hoop,
She is a silk pattern
Did not revive the canvas.
The desire to rule is a sign
With an obedient doll child
Cooking jokingly
To decency, the law of light,
And importantly repeats to her
Lessons from my mother.

XXVII.
But dolls even in these years
Tatyana did not take it in her hands;
About the news of the city, about fashion
Didn't have a conversation with her.
And there were childish pranks
She is alien; 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 sonorous laughter,
And the noise of their windy joys.

XXVIII.
She loved on the balcony
Warn dawn dawn
When in the pale sky
Stars disappears round dance,
And quietly the edge of the earth brightens,
And, the messenger of the morning, the wind blows,
And gradually the day rises.
In winter, when the night shadow
Possesses half the world,
And share in idle silence,
Under the foggy moon
The lazy East rests
Awakened at the usual hour
She got up by candlelight.

XXIX.
She liked novels early on;
They replaced everything for her;
She fell in love with deceptions
And Richardson and Rousseau.
Her father was a good fellow
Belated in the last century;
But I saw no harm in books;
He never reads
They were considered an empty toy
And didn't care about
What is my daughter's secret volume
Slept until morning under the pillow.
His wife was herself
Mad about Richardson.

XXX.
She loved Richardson
Not because I read
Not because Grandison
She preferred Lovlas ();
But in the old days, Princess Alina,
Her Moscow cousin
She often told her about them.
At that time there was still a groom
Her husband, but by captivity;
She sighed for another
Who in heart and mind
She liked much more:
This Grandison was a glorious dandy,
Player and Guard Sgt.

XXXI.
Like him, she was dressed
Always in fashion and to the face;
But without asking her advice,
The girl was taken to the crown.
And to dispel her grief,
A sensible husband left soon
To her village where she is
God knows who surrounded
I broke down and cried at first
Almost divorced her husband;
Then she took up housekeeping
I'm used to it and I'm satisfied.
The habit from above is given to us:
She is a replacement for happiness ().

XXXII.
Habit soothed sorrow
Irresistible nothing;
Big opening soon
She was completely comforted.
She is between business and leisure
Revealed the secret as a spouse
Autocratically manage,
And then everything went to become.
She traveled to work
Salted mushrooms for the winter,
Conducted expenses, shaved foreheads,
I went to the bathhouse on Saturdays
The maids beat angry -
All this without asking the husband.

XXXIII.
Used to pee in blood
She is in the albums of tender maidens,
Called Polina Praskovya
And spoke in a singsong voice
The corset was very tight
And Russian N like N French
She knew how to pronounce it through her nose;
But soon everything was translated;
Corset, Album, Princess Alina,
Rhymes sensitive notebook
She forgot; began to call
Shark old Selina
And finally updated
On cotton wool is a dressing gown and a cap.

XXXIV.
But her husband loved her heartily,
Did not enter into her inventions,
In everything she believed carelessly,
And he himself ate and drank in a dressing gown;
Quietly his life rolled;
In the evening sometimes converged
Good family of neighbors
unceremonious friends,
And push and curse
And laugh about something.
Time passes; meanwhile
They will order Olga to cook tea,
Dinner is there, it's time to sleep there,
And the guests are coming from the yard.

XXXV.
They kept in a peaceful life
Sweet old habits;
They have oily Shrovetide
There were Russian pancakes;
Twice a year they fasted;
Loved the round swing
Podblyudny songs, round dance;
On Trinity Day, when people
Yawning listens to a prayer,
Tenderly on a beam of dawn
They shed three tears;
They needed kvass like air,
And at the table they have guests
They carried dishes according to their ranks.

XXXVI.
And so they both grew old.
And finally opened
Before the spouse of the door of the coffin,
And he received a new crown.
He died an hour before dinner
Mourned by his neighbor
Children and faithful wife
More sincere than others.
He was a simple and kind gentleman,
And where his ashes lie,
The headstone reads:
Humble sinner, Dmitry Larin,
Lord's servant and foreman
Under the stone, Sim eats the world.

XXXVII.
Returned to his penates,
Vladimir Lensky visited
The neighbor's monument is humble,
And he dedicated his breath to the ashes;
And for a long time my heart was sad.
"Poor Yorick! () - he said dejectedly, -
He held me in his arms.
How often did I play as a child
His Ochakov medal!
He read Olga for me,
He said: will I wait for the day? .. "
And, full of sincere sadness,
Vladimir immediately drew
He has a funeral madrigal.

XXXVIII.
And there is a sad inscription
Father and mother, in tears,
He honored the ashes of the patriarchal...
Alas! on the reins of life
The instant harvest of a generation,
By the secret will of Providence,
Rise, mature and fall;
Others follow...
So our windy tribe
Grows, worries, boils
And to the grave of great-grandfathers crowds.
Come, our time will come,
And our grandchildren in a good hour
We will be driven out of the world!

The book includes a novel in verse by A.S. Pushkin (1799-1837) "Eugene Onegin", which is mandatory for reading and studying in a secondary school.

The novel in verse "Eugene Onegin" became a central event in the literary life of Pushkin's time. And since then, Pushkin's masterpiece has not lost its popularity, is still loved and revered by millions of readers.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
Eugene Onegin
Novel in verse

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 proud light to amuse,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I would like to introduce you
A pledge worthy of you
Worthy of a beautiful soul,
Holy 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
vulgar, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sad notes.

XLIII

And you, young beauties,
Which later sometimes
Carry away the droshky
Petersburg bridge,

The novel "Eugene Onegin" must be read in full by 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 impact 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. The interweaving of historical facts and realities important for the poet in the novel made it really interesting and alive. Based on this poem, many scientific works. And interest in it does not fade even after almost 200 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 it is so difficult to combine them. Two couples appear before the reader: Eugene Onegin with Tatyana Larina and Vladimir Lensky with Olga. Each of them dreams of happiness and love. But this is not destined to come true. Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin was a master of describing unrequited feelings. Tatyana, who falls in love with Onegin without memory, does not receive the desired answer from him. He understands that he loves her only after strong shocks that melt the stone heart. And now, it would seem, a 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 not crowned with success. The content of such deep philosophical moments in the work makes the reader think about the reasons for the actions of the characters. In addition to a simple love story, the poem is filled with living stories, descriptions, paintings and bright characters with difficult fates. The most incredible details of that era can be traced step by step through the chapters of the novel.

The main idea of ​​the text "Eugene Onegin" is not easy to single out. This book gives an understanding that true happiness is not available to everyone. Sincerely enjoy life can only people who are not burdened with spiritual development and striving for the high. They have enough simple things that anyone can achieve. Sensitive and thinking individuals, according to the author, suffer more often. They will face imminent death, like Lensky, “empty inaction,” like Onegin, or silent sadness, like Tatyana. This pattern is frightening and causes a feeling of longing. Moreover, Pushkin, in no case, does not blame his heroes directly. He emphasizes that it was the environment that made the characters so. After all, every respectable, intelligent and noble person will change under the influence of the heavy burden of the feudal system and hard work. The formation of this abnormal system in society has made more than one hundred thousand 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.