I am a man of the most honest rules. Evgeny Onegin text. Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin Evgeny Onegin Novel in verse

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

Eugene Onegin

Novel in verse

Pe€tri de vanite€ il avait encore plus de cette espe`ce d'orgueil qui fait avouer avec la me^me indiffe€rence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de supe€riorite€, peut-e ^tre imagine.

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

Chapter first

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eugene Onegin

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

List of school literature 9th grade

The book includes a novel in verse by A.S. Pushkin (1799–1837) “Eugene Onegin,” which is required reading and study in secondary schools.

The novel in verse “Eugene Onegin” became the central event in the literary life of Pushkin’s era. And since then, A.S. Pushkin’s masterpiece has not lost its popularity; it is still loved and revered by millions of readers.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

Eugene Onegin

Novel in verse

Pétri de vanite il avait encore plus de cette esp?ce d'orgueil qui fait avouer avec la m?me indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de supériorite, peut-?tre imaginaire.

Tire d'une lettre particuli?re

Not thinking of amusing the proud world,

Loving the attention of friendship,

I'd like to introduce you

The pledge is more worthy than you,

More worthy than a beautiful soul,

Saint of a dream come true,

Poetry alive and clear,

High thoughts and simplicity;

But so be it - with a biased hand

Accept the collection of motley heads,

Half funny, half sad,

Common people, ideal,

The careless fruit of my amusements,

Insomnia, light inspirations,

Immature and withered years,

Crazy cold observations

And hearts of sorrowful notes.

Chapter first

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

Prince Vyazemsky

“My uncle has the most honest rules,

When I seriously fell ill,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of anything better.

His example to others is science;

But, my God, what a bore

To sit with the patient day and night,

Without leaving a single step!

What low deceit

To amuse the half-dead,

Adjust his pillows

It's sad to bring medicine,

Sigh and think to yourself:

When will the devil take you!”

So thought the young rake,

Flying in the dust on postage,

By the Almighty will of Zeus

Heir to all his relatives. -

Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!

With the hero of my novel

Without preamble, right now

Let me introduce you:

Onegin, my good friend,

Born on the banks of the Neva,

Where might you have been born?

Or shone, my reader;

I once walked there too:

But the north is bad for me.

Having served excellently and nobly,

His father lived in debt

Gave three balls annually

And finally squandered it.

Eugene's fate kept:

At first Madame followed him,

Then Monsieur replaced her;

The child was harsh, but sweet.

Monsieur l'Abbe, poor Frenchman,

So that the child does not get tired,

I taught him everything jokingly,

I didn’t bother you with strict morals,

Lightly scolded for pranks

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

When will the rebellious youth

The time has come for Evgeniy

It's time for hope and tender sadness,

Monsieur was driven out of the yard.

Here is my Onegin free;

Haircut in the latest fashion;

How the dandy Londoner is dressed -

And finally saw the light.

He's completely French

He could express himself and wrote;

I danced the mazurka easily

And he bowed casually;

What do you want more? The light has decided

That he is smart and very nice.

We all learned a little bit

Something and somehow

So upbringing, thank God,

It's no wonder for us to shine.

Onegin was, according to many

(decisive and strict judges),

A small scientist, but a pedant.

He had a lucky talent

No coercion in conversation

Touch everything lightly

With the learned air of a connoisseur

Remain silent in an important dispute

And make the ladies smile

Fire of unexpected epigrams.

Latin is now out of fashion:

So, if I tell you the truth,

He knew quite a bit of Latin,

To understand the epigraphs,

Talk about Juvenal,

At the end of the letter put vale,

Yes, I remembered, although not without sin,

Two verses from the Aeneid.

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

History of the earth;

But the jokes of days gone by

From Romulus to the present day,

He kept it in his memory.

Having no high passion

No mercy for the sounds of life,

He could not iambic from trochee,

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

Scolded Homer, Theocritus;

But I read Adam Smith

And there was a deep economy,

That is, he knew how to judge

How does the state get rich?

And how does he live, and why?

He doesn't need gold

When a simple product has.

His father couldn't understand him

And he gave the lands as collateral.

Everything that Evgeniy still knew,

Tell me about your lack of time;

But what was his true genius?

What he knew more firmly than all sciences,

What happened to him from childhood

And labor, and torment, and joy,

What took the whole day

His melancholy laziness, -

There was a science of tender passion,

Which Nazon sang,

Why did he end up a sufferer?

Its age is brilliant and rebellious

In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,

Far away from Italy.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

How early could he be a hypocrite?

To harbor hope, to be jealous,

To dissuade, to make believe,

Seem gloomy, languish,

Be proud and obedient

Attentive or indifferent!

How languidly silent he was,

How fieryly eloquent

How careless in heartfelt letters!

Breathing alone, loving alone,

How he knew how to forget himself!

How quick and gentle his gaze was,

Shy and impudent, and sometimes

Shined with an obedient tear!

How he knew how to seem new,

Jokingly amaze innocence,

To frighten with despair,

To amuse with pleasant flattery,

Catch a moment of tenderness,

Innocent years of prejudice

Win with intelligence and passion,

Expect involuntary affection

Beg and demand recognition

Listen to the first sound of the heart,

Pursue love and suddenly

Achieve a secret date...

And then she's alone

Give lessons in silence!

How early could he have disturbed

Hearts of coquettes!

When did you want to destroy

He has his rivals,

How he sarcastically slandered!

What networks I prepared for them!

But you, blessed men,

You stayed with him as friends:

The wicked husband caressed him,

Foblas is a long-time student,

And the distrustful old man

And the majestic cuckold,

Always happy with yourself

With his lunch and his wife.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Sometimes he was still in bed:

They bring notes to him.

What? Invitations? Indeed,

Three houses for the evening call:

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

Where will my prankster ride?

Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:

It’s no wonder to keep up everywhere.

While in morning dress,

Putting on a wide bolivar,

Onegin goes to the boulevard,

And there he walks in the open space,

While the watchful Breget

Dinner won't ring his bell.

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

“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;

Silvery with frosty dust

His beaver collar.

He rushed to Talon: he is sure

What is Kaverin waiting for him there?

Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,

The comet's fault flowed with current;

Before him roast-beef is bloody

And truffles, luxury youth,

French cuisine is the best color,

And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable

Between live Limburg cheese

And pineapple

Page 2 of 8

Thirst asks for more glasses

Pour hot fat over cutlets,

But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,

That a new ballet has begun.

The theater is an evil legislator,

Fickle Adorer

Charming actresses

Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,

Onegin flew to the theater,

Where everyone, breathing freedom,

Ready to clap entrechat,

To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,

Call Moina (in order to

Just so they can hear him).

Magic land! there in the old days,

Satire is a brave ruler,

Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,

And the overbearing Prince;

There Ozerov involuntary tributes

People's tears, applause

Shared with young Semyonova;

There our Katenin was resurrected

Corneille is a majestic genius;

There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out

A noisy swarm of their comedies,

There Didelot was crowned with glory,

There, there under the canopy of the scenes

My younger days were rushing by.

My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?

Hear my sad voice:

Are you still the same? other maidens,

Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?

Will I hear your choirs again?

Will I see the Russian Terpsichore

Soul-filled flight?

Or a sad look will not find

Familiar faces on a boring stage,

And, looking towards the alien light

Disappointed lorgnette

An indifferent spectator of fun,

I will yawn silently

And remember the past?

The theater is already full; the boxes shine;

The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;

In paradise they splash impatiently,

And, rising, the curtain makes noise.

Brilliant, half-airy,

I obey the magic bow,

Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,

Worth Istomin; she,

One foot touching the floor,

The other slowly circles,

And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,

Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;

Now the camp will sow, then it will develop,

And with a quick foot he hits the leg.

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters

Walks between the chairs along the legs,

The double lorgnette points sideways

To the boxes of unfamiliar ladies;

I looked around all the tiers,

I saw everything: faces, clothes

He is terribly unhappy;

With men on all sides

He bowed, then went on stage.

He looked in great absentmindedness,

He turned away and yawned,

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

I endured ballets for a long time,

But I’m tired of Didelot too.”

More cupids, devils, snakes

They jump and make noise on stage;

Still tired lackeys

They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;

They haven't stopped stomping yet,

Blow your nose, cough, shush, clap;

Still outside and inside

Lanterns are shining everywhere;

Still frozen, the horses fight,

Bored with my harness,

And the coachmen, around the lights,

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

And Onegin went out;

He goes home to get dressed.

Will I portray the truth in the picture?

Secluded office

Where is the mod pupil exemplary

Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Everything for a plentiful whim

London trades scrupulously

And on the Baltic waves

He brings us lard and timber,

Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

Having chosen a useful trade,

Invents for fun

For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

Everything decorated the office

Philosopher at eighteen years old.

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,

Porcelain and bronze on the table,

And, a joy to pampered feelings,

Perfume in cut crystal;

Combs, steel files,

Straight scissors, curved scissors,

And brushes of thirty kinds

For both nails and teeth.

Rousseau (I note in passing)

Couldn't understand how important Grim was

I dared to brush my nails in front of him,

An eloquent madman.

Defender of Liberty and Rights

In this case, completely wrong.

You can be a smart person

And think about the beauty of nails:

Why argue fruitlessly with the century?

The custom is despot between people.

Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,

Fearing jealous judgments,

There was a pedant in his clothes

And what we called dandy.

He's three o'clock at least

He spent in front of the mirrors

And he came out of the restroom

Like windy Venus,

When, wearing a man's outfit,

The goddess goes to a masquerade.

In the last taste of the toilet

Taking your curious glance,

I could before the learned light

Here to describe his outfit;

Of course it would be brave

Describe my business:

But trousers, a tailcoat, a vest,

All these words are not in Russian;

And I see, I apologize to you,

Well, my poor syllable is already

I could have been much less colorful

Foreign words

Even though I looked in the old days

In Academic Dictionary.

Now we have something wrong in the subject:

We better hurry to the ball,

Where to headlong in a Yamsk carriage

My Onegin has already galloped.

In front of the faded houses

Along the sleepy street in rows

Double carriage lights

Cheerful shed light

And they bring rainbows to the snow;

Dotted with bowls all around,

The magnificent house glitters;

Shadows walk across the solid windows,

Profiles of heads flash

And ladies and fashionable weirdos.

Here our hero drove up to the entryway;

He passes the doorman with an arrow

He flew up the marble steps,

I straightened my hair with my hand,

Has entered. The hall is full of people;

The music is already tired of thundering;

The crowd is busy with the mazurka;

There is noise and crowding all around;

The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;

The legs of lovely ladies are flying;

In their captivating footsteps

Fiery eyes fly

And drowned out by the roar of violins

Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

On days of joy and desires

I was crazy about balls:

Or rather, there is no room for confessions

And for delivering a letter.

O you, honorable spouses!

I will offer you my services;

Please notice my speech:

I want to warn you.

You, mamas, are also stricter

Follow your daughters:

Hold your lorgnette straight!

Not that... not that, God forbid!

That's why I'm writing this

That I haven’t sinned for a long time.

Alas, for different fun

I've ruined a lot of lives!

But if morals had not suffered,

I would still love balls.

I love mad youth

And tightness, and shine, and joy,

And I’ll give you a thoughtful outfit;

I love their legs; but it's unlikely

You will find in Russia a whole

Three pairs of slender female legs.

Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time

Two legs... Sad, cold,

I remember them all, even in my dreams

They trouble my heart.

When and where, in what desert,

Madman, will you forget them?

Oh, legs, legs! where are you now?

Where do you crush spring flowers?

Nurtured in eastern bliss,

On the northern, sad snow

You left no traces:

You loved soft carpets

A luxurious touch.

How long have I forgotten for you?

And I thirst for fame and praise,

Page 3 of 8

land of fathers, and imprisonment?

The happiness of youth has disappeared,

Like your light trail in the meadows.

Diana's breasts, Flora's cheeks

Lovely, dear friends!

However, Terpsichore's leg

Something more charming for me.

She, prophesying with a glance

An unappreciated reward

Attracts with conventional beauty

A willful swarm of desires.

I love her, my friend Elvina,

Under the long tablecloth of the tables,

In the spring on the grassy meadows,

In winter on a cast iron fireplace,

There is a hall on the mirrored parquet floor,

By the sea on granite rocks.

I remember the sea before the storm:

How I envied the waves

Running in a stormy line

Lay down with love at her feet!

How I wished then with the waves

Touch your lovely feet with your lips!

No, never on hot days

My boiling youth

I did not wish with such torment

Kiss the lips of the young Armids,

Or fiery roses kiss their cheeks,

Or hearts full of languor;

No, never a rush of passion

Never tormented my soul like that!

I remember another time!

In sometimes cherished dreams

I hold the happy stirrup...

And I feel the leg in my hands;

The imagination is running wild again

Her touch again

The blood ignited in the withered heart,

Again longing, again love!..

But it is enough to glorify the arrogant

With his chatty lyre;

They are not worth any passions

No songs inspired by them:

The words and gaze of these sorceresses

Deceptive... like their legs.

What about my Onegin? Half asleep

He goes to bed from the ball:

And St. Petersburg is restless

Already awakened by the drum.

The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,

The morning snow crunches under it.

I woke up in the morning with a pleasant sound.

The shutters are open; pipe smoke

Rising like a pillar of blue,

And the baker, a neat German,

In a paper cap, more than once

He was already opening his vasisdas.

But, tired of the noise of the ball,

And the morning turns to midnight,

Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade

Fun and luxury child.

Wake up at noon, and again

Until the morning his life is ready,

Monotonous and colorful

And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.

But was my Eugene happy?

Free, in the color of the best years,

Among the brilliant victories,

Among everyday pleasures?

Was he in vain among the feasts?

Careless and healthy?

No: his feelings cooled down early;

He was tired of the noise of the world;

The beauties didn't last long

The subject of his usual thoughts;

The betrayals have become tiresome;

Friends and friendship are tired,

Then, I couldn’t always

Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie

Pouring a bottle of champagne

And pour out sharp words,

When you had a headache;

And although he was an ardent rake,

But he finally fell out of love

And scolding, and saber, and lead.

The disease whose cause

It's time to find it long ago,

Similar to the English spleen,

In short: Russian blues

I mastered it little by little;

He will shoot himself, thank God,

I didn't want to try

But he completely lost interest in life.

Like Child-Harold, gloomy, languid

He appeared in living rooms;

Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,

Not a sweet look, not an immodest sigh,

Nothing touched him

He didn't notice anything.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Freaky women of the big world!

He left everyone before you;

And the truth is that in our summer

The higher tone is rather boring;

At least maybe another lady

Interprets Say and Bentham,

But in general their conversation

Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;

Besides, they are so immaculate,

So majestic, so smart,

So full of piety,

So careful, so precise,

So unapproachable for men,

That the sight of them already gives rise to spleen.

And you, young beauties,

Which sometimes later

The daring droshky carries away

Along the St. Petersburg pavement,

And my Eugene left you.

Renegade of stormy pleasures,

Onegin locked himself at home,

Yawning, he took up the pen,

I wanted to write - but hard work

He felt sick; Nothing

It did not come from his pen,

And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop

People I don't judge

Because I belong to them.

And again, betrayed by idleness,

Languishing with spiritual emptiness,

He sat down - with a laudable purpose

Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;

He lined the shelf with a group of books,

I read and read, but to no avail:

There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;

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

Everyone is wearing different chains;

And the old thing is outdated,

And the old are delirious of the newness.

Like women, he left books,

And a shelf with their dusty family,

Covered it with mourning taffeta.

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,

How does he, having fallen behind the bustle,

I became friends with him at that time.

I liked his features

Involuntary devotion to dreams,

Inimitable strangeness

And a sharp, chilled mind.

I was embittered, he was gloomy;

We both knew the game of passion;

Life tormented both of us;

The heat died down in both hearts;

Anger awaited both

Blind Fortune and People

In the very morning of our days.

He who lived and thought cannot

Do not despise people in your heart;

Who felt it, is worried

Ghost of irrevocable days:

There's no charm for that

That serpent of memories

He is gnawing at remorse.

All this often gives

Great pleasure to the conversation.

First Onegin's language

I was embarrassed; but I'm used to it

To his caustic argument,

And as a joke, with bile in half,

And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

How often in the summer time,

When it's clear and light

Night sky over the Neva

And the waters are cheerful glass

Diana's face does not reflect

Remembering the novels of previous years,

Remembering my old love,

Sensitive, careless again,

Breath of the favorable night

We reveled silently!

Like a green forest

Page 4 of 8

from prison

The sleepy convict has been transferred,

So we were carried away by the dream

Young at the start of life.

With a soul full of regrets,

And leaning on granite,

Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,

How Piit described himself.

Everything was quiet; only at night

The sentries called to each other;

Yes, the distant sound of the droshky

With Millonna it suddenly rang out;

Just a boat, waving its oars,

Floated along the dormant river:

And we were captivated in the distance

The horn and the song are daring...

But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,

The chant of the Torquat octaves!

Adriatic waves,

Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you

And, full of inspiration again,

I will hear your magical voice!

He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;

By the proud lyre of Albion

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

Golden nights of Italy

I will enjoy the bliss in freedom

With the young Venetian,

Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,

Floating in a mysterious gondola;

With her my lips will find

The language of Petrarch and love.

Will the hour of my freedom come?

It's time, it's time! - I appeal to her;

I'm wandering over the sea, waiting for the weather,

Manyu sailed the ships.

Under the robe of storms, arguing with the waves,

Along the free crossroads of the sea

When will I start free running?

It's time to leave the boring beach

Elements that are hostile to me,

And among the midday swells,

Under my African sky,

Sigh about gloomy Russia,

Where I suffered, where I loved,

Where I buried my heart.

Onegin was ready with me

See foreign countries;

But soon we were destined

Divorced for a long time.

His father then died.

Gathered in front of Onegin

Lenders are a greedy regiment.

Everyone has their own mind and sense:

Evgeny, hating litigation,

Satisfied with my lot,

He gave them the inheritance

Not seeing a big loss

Or foreknowledge from afar

The death of the old man's uncle.

Suddenly he really got

Report from the manager

That uncle is dying in bed

And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.

After reading the sad message,

Evgeniy on a date right away

Swiftly galloped through the mail

And I already yawned in advance,

Getting ready, for the sake of money,

For sighs, boredom and deception

(And thus I began my novel);

But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,

I found it already on the table,

Like a tribute ready to the earth.

He found the yard full of services;

To the dead man from all sides

Enemies and friends gathered,

Hunters before the funeral.

The deceased was buried.

The priests and guests ate and drank

And then we parted important ways,

It's as if they were busy.

Here is our Onegin - a villager,

Factories, waters, forests, lands

The owner is complete, and until now

An enemy of order and a spendthrift,

And I’m very glad that the old path

Changed it to something.

Two days seemed new to him

Lonely fields

The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,

The babbling of a quiet stream;

On the third grove, hill and field

He was no longer interested;

Then they induced sleep;

Then he saw clearly

That in the village the boredom is the same,

Although there are no streets or palaces,

No cards, no balls, no poems.

Handra was waiting for him on guard,

And she ran after him,

Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

I was born for peaceful life,

For village silence:

More vivid creative dreams.

Dedicating yourself to the leisure of the innocent,

I wander over a deserted lake,

And far niente is my law.

I wake up every morning

For sweet bliss and freedom:

I read little, sleep for a long time,

I don’t catch flying glory.

Isn't that how I was in years past?

Spent inactive, in the shadows

My happiest days?

Flowers, love, village, idleness,

Fields! I am devoted to you with my soul.

I'm always happy to notice the difference

Between Onegin and me,

To the mocking reader

Or some publisher

Intricate slander

Comparing my features here,

Didn’t repeat it shamelessly later,

Why did I smear my portrait?

Like Byron, the poet of pride,

As if it's impossible for us

Write poems about others

As soon as about yourself.

Let me note by the way: all poets -

Love dreamy friends.

Sometimes there were cute things

I dreamed, and my soul

I kept their image secret;

Afterwards the muse revived them:

So I, careless, sang

And the maiden of the mountains, my ideal,

And captives of the shores of Salgir.

Now from you, my friends,

I often hear the question:

“For whom does your lyre sigh?

To whom, in the crowd of jealous maidens,

Did you dedicate the chant to her?

Whose gaze, stirring inspiration,

Rewarded with touching affection

Your thoughtful singing?

Who did your poem idolize?”

And, guys, no one, by God!

Love's crazy anxiety

I experienced it bleakly.

Blessed is he who combined with her

The fever of rhymes: he doubled it

Poetry is sacred nonsense,

Following Petrarch,

And calmed the torment of the heart,

In the meantime, I also caught fame;

But I, loving, was stupid and dumb.

Love has passed, the muse has appeared,

And the dark mind became clear.

Free, looking for union again

Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;

I write, and my heart does not grieve,

The pen, having forgotten itself, does not draw

Near unfinished poems

No women's legs, no heads;

The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,

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

And soon, soon the storm's trail

My soul will completely calm down:

Then I'll start writing

Poem of songs in twenty-five.

I was already thinking about the form of the plan

And I’ll call him a hero;

For now, in my novel

I finished the first chapter;

I reviewed it all strictly;

There are a lot of contradictions

But I don’t want to correct them;

I will pay my debt to censorship

And for journalists to eat

I will give the fruits of my labors;

Go to the banks of the Neva,

Newborn creation

And earn me a tribute of glory:

Crooked talk, noise and swearing!

Chapter two

The village where Evgeniy was bored,

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,

He stood over the river. In the distance

Before him they dazzled and bloomed

Golden meadows and fields,

Villages flashed by; here and there

The herds roamed the meadows,

And the canopy expanded thick

Huge, neglected garden,

Shelter of brooding dryads.

The venerable castle was built

How castles should be built:

Extremely durable and calm

In the taste of smart antiquity.

There are lofty chambers everywhere,

There is damask wallpaper in the living room,

Portraits of kings on the walls,

And stoves with colorful tiles.

All this is now dilapidated,

I don’t really know why;

Yes, however, my friend

There was very little need for that,

Then he yawned

Among fashionable and ancient halls.

He settled in that peace,

Where is the village old-timer?

For about forty years he was quarreling with the housekeeper,

I looked out the window and squashed flies.

Everything was simple: the floor was oak,

Two wardrobes, a table, a down sofa,

Not a speck of ink anywhere.

Onegin opened the cabinets;

In one I found an expense notebook,

In another there is a whole line of liqueurs,

Jugs of apple water

And the calendar for the eighth year:

An old man with a lot to do

I didn’t look at other books.

Alone among his possessions,

Just to pass the time,

Our Evgeniy first conceived

Establish a new order.

In his wilderness the desert sage,

He is the yoke of the ancient corvée

I replaced it with easy quitrent;

Page 5 of 8

blessed fate.

But in his corner he sulked,

Seeing this as terrible harm,

His calculating neighbor;

That he is a most dangerous weirdo.

At first everyone went to see him;

But since from the back porch

Usually served

He wants a Don stallion,

Only along the main road

Their household noises will be heard, -

Offended by such an act,

Everyone ended their friendship with him.

“Our neighbor is ignorant; crazy;

He is a pharmacist; he drinks one

A glass of red wine;

He doesn't suit ladies' arms;

It's all yes and no; won't say yes

Or no, sir.” That was the general voice.

To my village at the same time

The new landowner galloped up

And equally strict analysis

The neighborhood provided a reason.

Named Vladimir Lenskoy,

With a soul straight from Göttingen,

Handsome man, in full bloom,

Kant's admirer and poet.

He's from foggy Germany

He brought the fruits of learning:

Freedom-loving dreams

The spirit is ardent and rather strange,

Always an enthusiastic speech

And shoulder-length black curls.

From the cold depravity of the world

Before you even have time to fade,

His soul was warmed

Greetings from a friend, caress from the maidens;

He was a dear ignoramus at heart,

He was cherished by hope,

And the world has a new shine and noise

Still captivated the young mind.

He amused me with a sweet dream

Doubts of your heart;

The purpose of our life is for him

Was a tempting mystery

He puzzled over her

And he suspected miracles.

He believed that his soul was dear

Must connect with him

That, despairingly languishing,

She waits for him every day;

He believed that his friends were ready

For his honor to accept the shackles

And that their hand will not tremble

Break the slanderer's vessel;

That there are those chosen by fate,

People's sacred friends;

That their immortal family

Irresistible rays

Someday it will dawn on us

And the world will be blessed.

Indignation, regret,

For good, pure love

And glory is sweet torment

His blood was stirred early.

He traveled the world with a lyre;

Under the sky of Schiller and Goethe

Their poetic fire

The soul ignited in him;

And muses of sublime art,

Lucky, he was not ashamed:

He proudly preserved in his songs

Always high feelings

Gusts of a virgin dream

And the beauty of important simplicity.

He sang love, obedient to love,

And his song was clear,

Like the thoughts of a simple-minded maiden,

Like a baby's dream, like the moon

In the deserts of the serene sky,

Goddess of secrets and tender sighs;

He sang separation and sadness,

And something, and the 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

Almost eighteen years old.

In the desert, where Eugene is alone

Could appreciate his gifts,

Lords of neighboring villages

He didn't like feasts;

He ran away from their noisy conversation,

Their conversation is sensible

About haymaking, about wine,

About the kennel, about my relatives,

Of course, he didn’t shine with any feeling,

Not with poetic fire,

Neither sharpness nor intelligence,

No hostel art;

But the conversation of their lovely wives

He was much less intelligent.

Rich, good-looking, Lensky

Everywhere he was accepted as a groom;

This is the village custom;

All daughters were destined for their own

For the half-Russian neighbor;

Will he come up, immediately the conversation

Turns the word around

About the boredom of single life;

They call a neighbor to the samovar,

And Dunya is pouring tea,

They whisper to her: “Dunya, take note!”

Then they bring the guitar;

And she squeaks (My God!):

Come to my golden palace!..

But Lensky, without having, of course,

There is no desire to marry,

With Onegin I wished cordially

Let's make the acquaintance shorter.

They got along. Wave and stone

Poetry and prose, ice and fire

Not so different from each other.

First by mutual difference

They were boring to each other;

Then I liked it; Then

We came together every day on horseback

And soon they became inseparable.

So people (I am the first to repent)

There's nothing to do, friends.

But there is no friendship between us either.

Having destroyed all prejudices,

We respect everyone as zeros,

And in units - yourself.

We all look at Napoleons;

There are millions of two-legged creatures

For us there is only one weapon,

It feels wild and funny to us.

Evgeniy was more tolerable than many;

Although he knew people, of course

And in general he despised them, -

But (there are no rules without exceptions)

He distinguished others very much

And I respected someone else’s feelings.

He listened to Lensky with a smile.

The poet's passionate conversation,

And the mind, still unsteady in judgment,

And an eternally inspired gaze, -

Everything was new to Onegin;

He's a cooling word

I tried to keep it in my mouth

And I thought: it’s stupid to bother me

His momentary bliss;

And without me the time will come,

Let him live for now

Let the world believe in perfection;

Forgive the fever of youth

And youthful heat and youthful delirium.

Everything gave rise to disputes between them

And it led me to think:

Tribes of past treaties,

The fruits of science, good and evil,

And age-old prejudices,

And the grave secrets are fatal,

Fate and life in their turn, -

Everything was subject to their judgment.

The poet in the heat of his judgments

I read, having forgotten myself, meanwhile

Excerpts from northern poems,

And indulgent Evgeniy,

Although I didn’t understand them much,

He listened diligently to the young man.

But more often they were occupied by passions

The minds of my hermits.

Having left their rebellious power,

Onegin spoke about them

With an involuntary sigh of regret;

Blessed is he who knew their worries

And finally he left them behind;

Blessed is he who did not know them,

Who cooled love with separation,

Enmity - slander; sometimes

Yawned with friends and with my wife,

Jealous, not bothered by torment,

And grandfathers' faithful capital

I didn’t trust the insidious two.

When we come running under the banner

Prudent silence

When the flame of passions goes out

And we start to laugh

Their willfulness or impulses

And belated reviews, -

The humble, not without difficulty,

We love to listen sometimes

The passions of strangers are a rebellious language,

And he moves our hearts.

That's right, an old disabled person

The diligent ear willingly inclines

The stories of young mustaches,

Forgotten in his hut.

But also fiery youth

Can't hide anything.

Enmity, love, sadness and joy

She's ready to talk.

In love, considered disabled,

Onegin listened with an important look,

How, loving confession of the heart,

The poet expressed himself;

Your trusting conscience

He innocently exposed.

Evgeniy found out without difficulty

A young story of his love,

A story full of feelings,

Not new to us for a long time.

Oh, he loved like in our summer

They no longer love; as one

The Mad Soul of the Poet

Still condemned to love:

Always, everywhere one dream,

One common desire

One familiar sadness.

Nor the cooling distance,

Nor long summers of separation,

This watch is not given to the muses,

Nor foreign beauties,

No noise of fun, no science

The souls in him have not changed,

Warmed by virgin fire.

A little boy, captivated by Olga,

Having not yet known heartache,

He was a touched witness

Her infant amusements;

In the shadow of a guardian oak grove

He shared her fun

And crowns were predicted for the children

Friends and neighbors, their fathers.

In the wilderness, under a humble canopy,

Full of innocent charm

In the eyes of her parents, she

Bloomed like a secret lily of the valley,

Unknown in the grass, deaf

Neither moths nor bees.

She gave the poet

The first dream of youthful delights,

And the thought of her inspired

His horses are the first

Page 6 of 8

Sorry, the games are golden!

He fell in love with dense groves,

Solitude, silence,

And the night, and the stars, and the moon,

The moon, the heavenly lamp,

To which we dedicated

Walking in the evening darkness

And tears, secret torments will bring joy...

But now we see only in her

Replacing dim lights.

Always modest, always obedient,

Always cheerful like the morning,

How a poet's life is simple-minded,

How sweet is love's kiss,

Eyes like the sky blue;

Everything in Olga... but any novel

Take it and you will find it, right,

Her portrait: he is very cute,

I used to love him myself,

But he bored me immensely.

Allow me, my reader,

Take care of your older sister.

Her sister's name was Tatyana...

For the first time with such a name

Tender pages of the novel

We willfully sanctify.

So what? it is pleasant, sonorous;

But with him, I know, it’s inseparable

Memories of antiquity

Or girlish! We all should

Frankly: there is very little taste

In us and in our names

(We're not talking about poetry);

Enlightenment is not suitable for us,

And we got it from him

Pretense, nothing more.

So, she was called Tatyana.

Not your sister's beauty,

Nor the freshness of her ruddy

She wouldn't attract anyone's attention.

Dick, sad, silent,

Like a forest deer, timid,

She is in her own family

The girl seemed like a stranger.

She didn't know how to caress

To your father, nor to your mother;

Child herself, in a crowd of children

I didn’t want to play or jump

And often alone all day

She sat silently by the window.

Thoughtfulness, her friend

From the most lullabies of days,

The flow of rural leisure

Decorated her with dreams.

Her pampered fingers

They didn't know needles; leaning on the embroidery frame,

She has a silk pattern

Didn't bring the canvas to life.

A sign of the desire to rule,

With an obedient doll child

Prepared in jest

To decency, the law of light,

And it’s important to repeat to her

Lessons from your mother.

But dolls even in these years

Tatyana didn’t take it in her hands;

About city news, about fashion

I didn’t have any conversations with her.

And there were children's pranks

Alien to her: scary stories

In winter in the dark of nights

They captivated her heart more.

When did the nanny collect

For Olga on a wide meadow

All her little friends,

She didn't play with burners,

She was bored and the ringing laughter,

And the noise of their windy pleasures.

She loved on the balcony

Warn the dawn,

When on a pale sky

The round dance of the stars disappears,

And quietly the edge of the earth brightens,

And, the harbinger of the morning, the wind blows,

And the day gradually rises.

In winter, when the night shadow

Has half the world's share,

And share in idle silence,

Under the foggy moon,

The lazy East rests,

Awakened at the usual hour

She got up by candlelight.

She liked novels early on;

They replaced everything for her;

She fell in love with deceptions

And Richardson and Russo.

Her father was a kind fellow,

Belated in the past century;

But I saw no harm in the books;

He never reads

I considered them an empty toy

And didn't care

What is my daughter's secret volume?

I dozed under my pillow until morning.

His wife was herself

Richardson is crazy.

She loved Richardson

Not because I read it

Not because Grandison

She preferred Lovelace;

But in the old days, Princess Alina,

Her Moscow cousin,

She often told her about them.

There was still a groom at that time

Her husband, but in captivity;

She sighed about something else

Who with heart and mind

She liked it much more:

This Grandison was a nice dandy,

Player and Guard Sgt.

Like him, she was dressed

Always in fashion and becoming;

But without asking her advice,

The girl was taken to the crown.

And, to dispel her grief,

The wise husband left soon

To her village, where she is

God knows who I'm surrounded by

I tore and cried at first,

I almost divorced my husband;

Then I took up housekeeping,

I got used to it and was satisfied.

This habit has been given to us from above:

She is a substitute for happiness.

Habit sweetened the sorrow,

Not reflected by anything;

Big opening soon

She was completely consoled:

She is between business and leisure

Revealed the secret as a husband

Rule autocratically

And then everything went smoothly.

She went to work

Salted mushrooms for the winter,

She kept expenses, shaved her foreheads,

I went to the bathhouse on Saturdays,

She beat the maids in anger -

All this without asking my husband.

Sometimes I peed in blood

She is in the albums of gentle maidens,

Called Polina Praskovya

And she spoke in a sing-song voice,

She wore a very narrow corset,

And Russian N is like N French,

She knew how to pronounce through her nose;

But soon everything changed;

Corset, album, Princess Alina,

Sensitive poems notebook

She forgot; started calling

Shark like the old Selina

And finally updated

There is cotton wool on the robe and cap.

But her husband loved her heartily,

Was not part of her plans

I believed her in everything blithely,

And he ate and drank in his dressing gown;

His life rolled on calmly;

In the evening I sometimes came together

A good family of neighbors,

Unceremonious friends

And push, and slander,

And laugh about something.

Time passes; meanwhile

They will order Olga to prepare tea,

There's dinner, it's time to sleep there,

And the guests are coming from the yard.

They kept life peaceful

Habits of a dear old man;

At their Shrovetide

There were Russian pancakes;

Twice a year they fasted;

Loved the round swing

Podblyudny songs, round dance;

On Trinity Day, when people

Yawning, he listens to the prayer service,

Touchingly on the beam of dawn

They shed three tears;

They needed kvass like air,

And at their table there are guests

They carried dishes according to rank.

And so they both grew old.

And finally they opened

In front of the husband are the doors of the coffin,

And he received a new crown.

He died an hour before lunch

Mourned by his neighbor,

Children and faithful wife

More sincere than anyone else.

He was a simple and kind gentleman,

And where his ashes lie,

The tombstone reads:

Humble Sinner, Dmitry Larin,

The Lord's servant and foreman,

Under this stone he tastes peace.

Returned to his penates,

Vladimir Lensky visited

Neighbor's humble monument,

And he dedicated his sigh to the ashes;

And my heart was sad for a long time.

"Poor Yorick! - he said sadly, -

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

His funeral madrigal.

And there is also a sad inscription

Father and mother, in tears,

He honored the patriarchal ashes...

Alas! on the reins of life

An instant harvest of a generation,

By the secret will of providence,

They rise, mature and fall;

Others are following them...

So our windy tribe

Growing, worried, seething

And he presses towards the grave of his great-grandfathers.

Our time will come, our time will come,

And our grandchildren in good time

They will push us out of the world too!

For now, revel in it,

Enjoy this easy life, friends!

I understand her insignificance

And I am little attached to her;

I closed my eyelids for ghosts;

But distant hopes

Sometimes the heart is disturbed:

Without an inconspicuous trace

I would be sad to leave the world.

I live, I write not for

Page 7 of 8

But I think I would like

To glorify your sad lot,

So that about me, like a faithful friend,

I remembered at least a single sound.

And he will touch someone's heart;

And, preserved by fate,

Perhaps it won't drown in Lethe

A stanza composed by me;

Perhaps (a flattering hope!)

The future ignorant will point out

To my illustrious portrait

And he says: he was a poet!

Please accept my thanks

Fan of peaceful aonides,

O you, whose memory will preserve

My flying creations

Whose benevolent hand

Shall ruffle the old man's laurels!

Chapter Three

Elle etait fille, elle etait amoureuse.

Malfil?tre

"Where? These are poets for me!”

- Goodbye, Onegin, I have to go.

"I do not hold you; but where are you

Are you spending your evenings?

- At the Larins'. - “This is wonderful.

Have mercy! and it's not difficult for you

Kill there every evening?”

- Not at all. - "Can not understand.

Now I see what it is:

First of all (listen, am I right?),

A simple Russian family,

There is great zeal for guests,

Jam, eternal conversation

About the rain, about the flax, about barnyard…»

“I don’t see any trouble here yet.”

“Yes, boredom, that’s the problem, my friend.”

- I hate your fashionable world;

My home circle is dearer to me,

Where can I... - “An eclogue again!

Yes, that's enough, honey, for God's sake.

Well? you're going: it's a pity.

Oh, listen, Lensky; yes it is impossible

I want to see this Phyllida,

The subject of both thoughts and pen,

And tears, and rhymes et cetera?..

Imagine me." - "Are you kidding". - "No".

- I'm glad. - “When?” - Right now

They will gladly accept us.

Others galloped

Appeared; they are lavished

Sometimes difficult services

Hospitable old times.

Ritual of famous treats:

They carry jam on saucers,

They put a waxed one on the table

Jug with lingonberry water.

……………………………………

They are dear to the shortest

They fly home at full speed.

Now let's listen secretly

Our heroes conversation:

- Well, Onegin? you are yawning. -

“Habit, Lensky.” - But you miss

You're somehow bigger. - “No, it’s the same.

However, it is already dark in the field;

Hurry! go, go, Andryushka!

What stupid places!

By the way: Larina is simple,

But a very sweet old lady;

I'm afraid: lingonberry water

It wouldn't harm me.

Tell me: which one is Tatyana?” -

"Yes, the one who is sad

And silent, like Svetlana,

She came in and sat by the window.” -

“Are you really in love with the smaller one?” -

"And what?" - “I would choose another one,

If only I were like you, a poet.

Olga has no life in her features,

Exactly like Vandice's Madonna:

She's round and red-faced,

Like this stupid moon

On this stupid horizon."

Vladimir answered dryly

And then he was silent the whole way.

Meanwhile, Onegin's phenomenon

The Larins produced

Everyone is very impressed

And all the neighbors were entertained.

Guess after guess went on.

Everyone began to interpret furtively,

It is not without sin to joke and judge,

Tatiana predicts a groom;

Others even claimed

That the wedding is completely coordinated,

But then stopped

That they didn’t get any fashionable rings.

About Lensky's wedding for a long time

They had already decided.

Tatyana listened with annoyance

Such gossip; but secretly

With inexplicable joy

I couldn’t help but think about it;

And a thought sank into my heart;

The time has come, she fell in love.

So the grain fell into the ground

Spring is animated by fire.

Her imagination has long been

Burning with bliss and melancholy,

Hungry for fatal food;

Long-time heartache

Her young breasts were tight;

The soul was waiting... for someone,

And she waited... The eyes opened;

She said: it's him!

Alas! now both days and nights,

And a hot lonely dream,

Everything is full of it; everything to the sweet girl

Incessantly magical power

Talks about him. Annoying to her

And the sounds of gentle speeches,

And the gaze of a caring servant.

I am plunged into despondency,

She doesn't listen to guests

And curses their leisure time,

Their unexpected arrival

And a long squat.

Now with what attention she pays

Read this book in its entirety by purchasing the full legal version (http://www.litres.ru/aleksandr-pushkin/evgeniy-onegin/?lfrom=279785000) on liters.

Notes

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

From a private letter (French).

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

Written in Bessarabia.

Dandy, dandy.

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

Vale – be healthy (lat.).

Hat a la Bolivar.

Famous restaurateur.

Roast-beef is a meat dish of English cuisine.

entrechat (entrechat) - a figure in ballet (French).

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

Tout le monde sut qu'il mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyais rien, je commençai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint et pour avoir 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 exprés, ouvrage qu'il continua fièrement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles, peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau.

Confessions J. J. Rousseau

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

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

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

Lanits - cheeks (obsolete).

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

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

Page 8 of 8

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

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

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

On the distant seaside silvery sails are visible

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

The night sky shines with a gloomless radiance,

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

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

Ruddy morning. - It was a golden time.

As summer days steal the dominion of the night;

How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky captivates

The magical radiance of shadow and sweet light,

How the noon sky is never adorned;

That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden,

Whose eyes are blue and cheeks are scarlet

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

Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see

Evening without twilight fast nights without shadow;

Then Philomela will only end her midnight songs

And the songs start, welcoming the rising day.

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

The dew has dropped; ………………………

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

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

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

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

Only an extended scream will rush from the distance

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

Everyone is asleep. ………………………

Show favor to the goddess

He sees an enthusiastic drink,

Who spends the night sleepless,

Leaning on granite.

(Muravyev. Goddess of the Neva)

Milyonnaya is the name of a street in St. Petersburg.

Torquato octaves are poems by the Italian Renaissance poet Torquato Tasso (1544–1595).

A. S. Pushkin calls the work of the English poet Byron the proud lyre of Albion.

Written in Odessa.

See the first edition of Eugene Onegin.

Far niente - idleness (it.).

Salgir is a river in Crimea.

O village!

Horace (lat.)

Dryads are forest spirits, nymphs of trees.

With a soul straight from Göttingen - the University of Göttingen in Germany was one of the most liberal universities in Europe.

From the first part of the Dnieper mermaid.

The most sweet-sounding Greek names, such as, for example: Agathon, Filat, Fedora, Thekla, etc., are used among us only among common people.

Grandison and Lovelace, heroes of two glorious novels.

Si j'avais la folie de croire encore au bonheur, je le chercherais dans l'habitude (Chateaubriand)

If I had the temerity to still believe in happiness, I would look for it in habit (French).

Poor Yorick! – Hamlet’s exclamation over the jester’s skull. (See Shakespeare and Sterne.)

She was a girl, she was in love.

Malfilatre (French)

The epigraph is taken from the poem by S. L. Malfilatre “Narcissus, or “The Island of Venus”.

Eclogue is a genre of idyllic poetry with shepherd content.

In the previous edition, instead of flying home, it was mistakenly printed as flying in winter (which made no sense). Critics, without understanding it, found anachronism in the following stanzas. We dare to assure you that in our novel time is calculated according to the calendar.

End of introductory fragment.

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The book includes a novel in verse by A.S. Pushkin (1799–1837) “Eugene Onegin,” which is required reading and study in secondary schools.

The novel in verse “Eugene Onegin” became the central event in the literary life of Pushkin’s era. And since then, A.S. Pushkin’s masterpiece has not lost its popularity; it 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 of amusing the proud world,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I'd like to introduce you
The pledge is more worthy than you,
More worthy than a beautiful soul,
Saint of a dream come true,
Poetry alive and clear,
High thoughts and simplicity;
But so be it - with a biased hand
Accept the collection of motley heads,
Half funny, half sad,
Common people, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years,
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sorrowful notes.

XLIII

And you, young beauties,
Which sometimes later
The daring droshky carries away
Along the St. Petersburg pavement,

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

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

“My uncle has the most honest rules,

When I seriously fell ill,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of anything better.

His example to others is science;

But, my God, what a bore

To sit with the patient day and night,

Without leaving a single step!

What low deceit

To amuse the half-dead,

Adjust his pillows

It's sad to bring medicine,

Sigh and think to yourself:

When will the devil take you!”

So thought the young rake,

Flying in the dust on postage,

By the Almighty will of Zeus

Heir to all his relatives. -

Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!

With the hero of my novel

Without preamble, right now

Let me introduce you:

Onegin, my good friend,

Born on the banks of the Neva,

Where might you have been born?

Or shone, my reader;

I once walked there too:

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

Having served excellently and nobly,

His father lived in debt

Gave three balls annually

And finally squandered it.

Eugene's fate kept:

At first Madame followed him,

Then Monsieur replaced her;

The child was harsh, but sweet.

Monsieur l'Abbe€, poor Frenchman,

So that the child does not get tired,

I taught him everything jokingly,

I didn’t bother you with strict morals,

Lightly scolded for pranks

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

When will the rebellious youth

The time has come for Evgeniy

It's time for hope and tender sadness,

Monsieur was driven out of the yard.

Here is my Onegin free;

Haircut in the latest fashion;

Like dandy Dandy, dandy. London dressed -

And finally saw the light.

He's completely French

He could express himself and wrote;

I danced the mazurka easily

And he bowed casually;

What do you want more? The light has decided

That he is smart and very nice.

We all learned a little bit

Something and somehow

So upbringing, thank God,

It's no wonder for us to shine.

Onegin was, according to many

(decisive and strict judges),

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

He had a lucky talent

No coercion in conversation

Touch everything lightly

With the learned air of a connoisseur

Remain silent in an important dispute

And make the ladies smile

Fire of unexpected epigrams.

Latin is now out of fashion:

So, if I tell you the truth,

He knew quite a bit of Latin,

To understand the epigraphs,

Talk about Juvenal,

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

Yes, I remembered, although not without sin,

Two verses from the Aeneid.

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

History of the earth;

But the jokes of days gone by

From Romulus to the present day,

He kept it in his memory.

Having no high passion

No mercy for the sounds of life,

He could not iambic from trochee,

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

Scolded Homer, Theocritus;

But I read Adam Smith

And there was a deep economy,

That is, he knew how to judge

How does the state get rich?

And how does he live, and why?

He doesn't need gold

When simple product It has.

His father couldn't understand him

And he gave the lands as collateral.

Everything that Evgeniy still knew,

Tell me about your lack of time;

But what was his true genius?

What he knew more firmly than all sciences,

What happened to him from childhood

And labor, and torment, and joy,

What took the whole day

His melancholy laziness, -

There was a science of tender passion,

Which Nazon sang,

Why did he end up a sufferer?

Its age is brilliant and rebellious

In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,

Far away from Italy.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

How early could he be a hypocrite?

To harbor hope, to be jealous,

To dissuade, to make believe,

Seem gloomy, languish,

Be proud and obedient

Attentive or indifferent!

How languidly silent he was,

How fieryly eloquent

How careless in heartfelt letters!

Breathing alone, loving alone,

How he knew how to forget himself!

How quick and gentle his gaze was,

Shy and impudent, and sometimes

Shined with an obedient tear!

How he knew how to seem new,

Jokingly amaze innocence,

To frighten with despair,

To amuse with pleasant flattery,

Catch a moment of tenderness,

Innocent years of prejudice

Win with intelligence and passion,

Expect involuntary affection

Beg and demand recognition

Listen to the first sound of the heart,

Pursue love and suddenly

Achieve a secret date...

And then she's alone

Give lessons in silence!

How early could he have disturbed

Hearts of coquettes!

When did you want to destroy

He has his rivals,

How he sarcastically slandered!

What networks I prepared for them!

But you, blessed men,

You stayed with him as friends:

The wicked husband caressed him,

Foblas is a long-time student,

And the distrustful old man

And the majestic cuckold,

Always happy with yourself

With his lunch and his wife.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Sometimes he was still in bed:

They bring notes to him.

What? Invitations? Indeed,

Three houses for the evening call:

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

Where will my prankster ride?

Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:

It’s no wonder to keep up everywhere.

While in morning dress,

Wearing a wide bolivar Hat a la Bolivar. ,

Onegin goes to the boulevard,

And there he walks in the open space,

While the watchful Breget

Dinner won't ring his bell.

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

“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;

Silvery with frosty dust

His beaver collar.

To Talon Famous restaurateur. rushed: he was sure

What is Kaverin waiting for him there?

Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,

The comet's fault flowed with current;

In front of him is roast-beef Roast-beef is a meat dish of English cuisine. bloodied

And truffles, the luxury of youth,

French cuisine is the best color,

And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable

Between live Limburg cheese

And a golden pineapple.

Thirst asks for more glasses

Pour hot fat over cutlets,

But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,

That a new ballet has begun.

The theater is an evil legislator,

Fickle Adorer

Charming actresses

Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,

Onegin flew to the theater,

Where everyone, breathing freedom,

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

To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,

Call Moina (in order to

Just so they can hear him).

Magic land! there in the old days,

Satire is a brave ruler,

Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,

And the overbearing Prince;

There Ozerov involuntary tributes

People's tears, applause

Shared with young Semyonova;

There our Katenin was resurrected

Corneille is a majestic genius;

There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out

A noisy swarm of their comedies,

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

There, there under the canopy of the scenes

My younger days were rushing by.

My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?

Hear my sad voice:

Are you still the same? other maidens,

Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?

Will I hear your choirs again?

Will I see the Russian Terpsichore

Soul-filled flight?

Or a sad look will not find

Familiar faces on a boring stage,

And, looking towards the alien light

Disappointed lorgnette

An indifferent spectator of fun,

I will yawn silently

And remember the past?

The theater is already full; the boxes shine;

The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;

In paradise they splash impatiently,

And, rising, the curtain makes noise.

Brilliant, half-airy,

I obey the magic bow,

Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,

Worth Istomin; she,

One foot touching the floor,

The other slowly circles,

And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,

Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;

Now the camp will sow, then it will develop,

And with a quick foot he hits the leg.

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters

Walks between the chairs along the legs,

The double lorgnette points sideways

To the boxes of unfamiliar ladies;

I looked around all the tiers,

I saw everything: faces, clothes

He is terribly unhappy;

With men on all sides

He bowed, then went on stage.

He looked in great absentmindedness,

He turned away and yawned,

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

I endured ballets for a long time,

But I’m tired of Didelot5) too.”

More cupids, devils, snakes

They jump and make noise on stage;

Still tired lackeys

They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;

They haven't stopped stomping yet,

Blow your nose, cough, shush, clap;

Still outside and inside

Lanterns are shining everywhere;

Still frozen, the horses fight,

Bored with my harness,

And the coachmen, around the lights,

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

And Onegin went out;

He goes home to get dressed.

Will I portray the truth in the picture?

Secluded office

Where is the mod pupil exemplary

Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Everything for a plentiful whim

London trades scrupulously

And on the Baltic waves

He brings us lard and timber,

Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

Having chosen a useful trade,

Invents for fun

For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

Everything decorated the office

Philosopher at eighteen years old.

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,

Porcelain and bronze on the table,

And, a joy to pampered feelings,

Perfume in cut crystal;

Combs, steel files,

Straight scissors, curved scissors,

And brushes of thirty kinds

For both nails and teeth.

Rousseau (I note in passing)

Couldn't understand how important Grim was

I dared to brush 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 commenzai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint et pour avoir trouve€ des tasses de blanc sur sa toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvai brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expris, ouvrage qu'il continua 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 this at all, began to guess about it, not only from the improvement in the color of his face or because I found jars of whitewash on his toilet, but because, going into his room one morning, I found him cleaning nails with a special brush; he proudly continued this activity in my presence. I decided that a person who spends two hours every morning cleaning his nails could take a few minutes to cover up imperfections with white.

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

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

Defender of Liberty and Rights

In this case, completely wrong.

You can be a smart person

And think about the beauty of nails:

Why argue fruitlessly with the century?

The custom is despot between people.

Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,

Fearing jealous judgments,

There was a pedant in his clothes

And what we called dandy.

He's at least three o'clock

He spent in front of the mirrors

And he came out of the restroom

Like windy Venus,

When, wearing a man's outfit,

The goddess goes to a masquerade.

In the last taste of the toilet

Taking your curious glance,

I could before the learned light

Here to describe his outfit;

Of course it would be brave

Describe my business:

But trousers, tailcoat, vest,

All these words are not in Russian;

And I see, I apologize to you,

Well, my poor syllable is already

I could have been much less colorful

Foreign words

Even though I looked in the old days

In Academic Dictionary.

Now we have something wrong in the subject:

We better hurry to the ball,

Where to headlong in a Yamsk carriage

My Onegin has already galloped.

In front of the faded houses

Along the sleepy street in rows

Double carriage lights

Cheerful shed light

And they bring rainbows to the snow;

Dotted with bowls all around,

The magnificent house glitters;

Shadows walk across the solid windows,

Profiles of heads flash

And ladies and fashionable weirdos.

Here our hero drove up to the entryway;

He passes the doorman with an arrow

He flew up the marble steps,

I straightened my hair with my hand,

Has entered. The hall is full of people;

The music is already tired of thundering;

The crowd is busy with the mazurka;

There is noise and crowding all around;

The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;

The legs of lovely ladies are flying;

In their captivating footsteps

Fiery eyes fly

And drowned out by the roar of violins

Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

On days of joy and desires

I was crazy about balls:

Or rather, there is no room for confessions

And for delivering a letter.

O you, honorable spouses!

I will offer you my services;

Please notice my speech:

I want to warn you.

You, mamas, are also stricter

Follow your daughters:

Hold your lorgnette straight!

Not that... not that, God forbid!

That's why I'm writing this

That I haven’t sinned for a long time.

Alas, for different fun

I've ruined a lot of lives!

But if morals had not suffered,

I would still love balls.

I love mad youth

And tightness, and shine, and joy,

And I’ll give you a thoughtful outfit;

I love their legs; but it's unlikely

You will find in Russia a whole

Three pairs of slender female legs.

Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time

Two legs... Sad, cold,

I remember them all, even in my dreams

They trouble my heart.

When and where, in what desert,

Madman, will you forget them?

Oh, legs, legs! where are you now?

Where do you crush spring flowers?

Nurtured in eastern bliss,

On the northern, sad snow

You left no traces:

You loved soft carpets

A luxurious touch.

How long have I forgotten for you?

And I thirst for fame and praise,

And the land of fathers, and imprisonment?

The happiness of youth has disappeared,

Like your light trail in the meadows.

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

Lovely, dear friends!

However, Terpsichore's leg

Something more charming for me.

She, prophesying with a glance

An unappreciated reward

Attracts with conventional beauty

A willful swarm of desires.

I love her, my friend Elvina,

Under the long tablecloth of the tables,

In the spring on the grassy meadows,

In winter on a cast iron fireplace,

There is a hall on the mirrored parquet floor,

By the sea on granite rocks.

I remember the sea before the storm:

How I envied the waves

Running in a stormy line

Lay down with love at her feet!

How I wished then with the waves

Touch your lovely feet with your lips!

No, never on hot days

My boiling youth

I did not wish with such torment

Kiss the lips of the young Armids,

Or fiery roses kiss their cheeks,

Or hearts full of languor;

No, never a rush of passion

Never tormented my soul like that!

I remember another time!

In sometimes cherished dreams

I hold the happy stirrup...

And I feel the leg in my hands;

The imagination is running wild again

Her touch again

The blood ignited in the withered heart,

Again longing, again love!..

But it is enough to glorify the arrogant

With his chatty lyre;

They are not worth any passions

No songs inspired by them:

The words and gaze of these sorceresses

Deceptive... like their legs.

What about my Onegin? Half asleep

He goes to bed from the ball:

And St. Petersburg is restless

Already awakened by the drum.

The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,

The morning snow crunches under it.

I woke up in the morning with a pleasant sound.

The shutters are open; pipe smoke

Rising like a pillar of blue,

And the baker, a neat German,

In a paper cap, more than once

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

But, tired of the noise of the ball,

And the morning turns to midnight,

Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade

Fun and luxury child.

Will wake up at noon, and again

Until the morning his life is ready,

Monotonous and colorful

And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.

But was my Eugene happy?

Free, in the color of the best years,

Among the brilliant victories,

Among everyday pleasures?

Was he in vain among the feasts?

Careless and healthy?

No: his feelings cooled down early;

He was tired of the noise of the world;

The beauties didn't last long

The subject of his usual thoughts;

The betrayals have become tiresome;

Friends and friendship are tired,

Then, I couldn’t always

Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie

Pouring a bottle of champagne

And pour out sharp words,

When you had a headache;

And although he was an ardent rake,

But he finally fell out of love

And scolding, and saber, and lead.

The disease whose cause

It's time to find it long ago,

Similar to the English spleen,

In short: Russian blues

I mastered it little by little;

He will shoot himself, thank God,

I didn't want to try

But he completely lost interest in life.

Like Child-Harold, gloomy, languid

He appeared in living rooms;

Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,

Not a sweet look, not an immodest sigh,

Nothing touched him

He didn't notice anything.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Freaky women of the big world!

He left everyone before you;

And the truth is that in our summer

The higher tone is rather boring;

At least maybe another lady

Interprets Say and Bentham,

But in general their conversation

Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;

Besides, they are so immaculate,

So majestic, so smart,

So full of piety,

So careful, so precise,

So unapproachable for men,

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

And you, young beauties,

Which sometimes later

The daring droshky carries away

Along the St. Petersburg pavement,

And my Eugene left you.

Renegade of stormy pleasures,

Onegin locked himself at home,

Yawning, he took up the pen,

I wanted to write - but hard work

He felt sick; Nothing

It did not come from his pen,

And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop

People I don't judge

Because I belong to them.

And again, betrayed by idleness,

Languishing with spiritual emptiness,

He sat down - with a laudable purpose

Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;

He lined the shelf with a group of books,

I read and read, but to no avail:

There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;

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

Everyone is wearing different chains;

And the old thing is outdated,

And the old are delirious of the newness.

Like women, he left books,

And a shelf with their dusty family,

Covered it with mourning taffeta.

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,

How does he, having fallen behind the bustle,

I became friends with him at that time.

I liked his features

Involuntary devotion to dreams,

Inimitable strangeness

And a sharp, chilled mind.

I was embittered, he was gloomy;

We both knew the game of passion;

Life tormented both of us;

The heat died down in both hearts;

Anger awaited both

Blind Fortune and People

In the very morning of our days.

He who lived and thought cannot

Do not despise people in your heart;

Who felt it, is worried

Ghost of irrevocable days:

There's no charm for that

That serpent of memories

He is gnawing at remorse.

All this often gives

Great pleasure to the conversation.

First Onegin's language

I was embarrassed; but I'm used to it

To his caustic argument,

And as a joke, with bile in half,

And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

How often in the summer,

When it's clear and light

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

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

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

On the distant seaside silvery sails are visible

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

The night sky shines with a gloomless radiance,

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

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

Ruddy morning. - It was a golden time.

As summer days steal the dominion of the night;

How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky captivates

The magical radiance of shadow and sweet light,

How the noon sky is never adorned;

That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden,

Whose eyes are blue and cheeks are scarlet

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

Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see

Evening without twilight and fast nights without shadow;

Then Philomela will only end her midnight songs

And the songs start, welcoming the rising day.

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

The dew has dropped; ………………………

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

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

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

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

Only an extended scream will rush from the distance

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

Everyone is asleep. ………………………

And the waters are cheerful glass

Diana's face does not reflect

Remembering the novels of previous years,

Remembering my old love,

Sensitive, careless again,

Breath of the favorable night

We reveled silently!

Like a green forest from prison

The sleepy convict has been transferred,

So we were carried away by the dream

Young at the start of life.

With a soul full of regrets,

And leaning on granite,

Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,

How did he describe himself?

Show favor to the goddess

He sees an enthusiastic drink,

Who spends the night sleepless,

Leaning on granite.

(Muravyev. Goddess of the Neva)

Everything was quiet; only at night

The sentries called to each other;

Yes, the distant sound of the droshky

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

Just a boat, waving its oars,

Floated along the dormant river:

And we were captivated in the distance

The horn and the song are daring...

But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,

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

Adriatic waves,

Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you

And, full of inspiration again,

I will hear your magical voice!

He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;

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

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

Golden nights of Italy

I will enjoy the bliss in freedom

With the young Venetian,

Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,

Floating in a mysterious gondola;

With her my lips will find

Everyone has their own mind and sense:

Evgeny, hating litigation,

Satisfied with my lot,

He gave them the inheritance

Not seeing a big loss

Or foreknowledge from afar

The death of the old man's uncle.

Suddenly he really got

Report from the manager

That uncle is dying in bed

And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.

After reading the sad message,

Evgeniy on a date right away

Swiftly galloped through the mail

And I already yawned in advance,

Getting ready, for the sake of money,

For sighs, boredom and deception

(And thus I began my novel);

But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,

I found it already on the table,

Like a tribute ready to the earth.

He found the yard full of services;

To the dead man from all sides

Enemies and friends gathered,

Hunters before the funeral.

The deceased was buried.

The priests and guests ate and drank

And then we parted important ways,

It's as if they were busy.

Here is our Onegin - a villager,

Factories, waters, forests, lands

The owner is complete, and until now

An enemy of order and a spendthrift,

And I’m very glad that the old path

Changed it to something.

Two days seemed new to him

Lonely fields

The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,

The babbling of a quiet stream;

On the third grove, hill and field

He was no longer interested;

Then they induced sleep;

Then he saw clearly

That in the village the boredom is the same,

Although there are no streets or palaces,

No cards, no balls, no poems.

Handra was waiting for him on guard,

And she ran after him,

Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

I was born for a peaceful life,

For village silence:

More vivid creative dreams.

Dedicating yourself to the leisure of the innocent,

I wander over a deserted lake,

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

I wake up every morning

For sweet bliss and freedom:

I read little, sleep for a long time,

I don’t catch flying glory.

Isn't that how I was in years past?

Spent inactive, in the shadows

My happiest days?

Flowers, love, village, idleness,

Fields! I am devoted to you with my soul.

I'm always happy to notice the difference

Between Onegin and me,

To the mocking reader

Or some publisher

Intricate slander

Comparing my features here,

Didn’t repeat it shamelessly later,

Why did I smear my portrait?

Like Byron, the poet of pride,

As if it's impossible for us

Write poems about others

Poetry is sacred nonsense,

Following Petrarch,

And calmed the torment of the heart,

In the meantime, I also caught fame;

But I, loving, was stupid and dumb.

Love has passed, the muse has appeared,

And the dark mind became clear.

Free, looking for union again

Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;

I write, and my heart does not grieve,

The pen, having forgotten itself, does not draw

Near unfinished poems

No women's legs, no heads;

The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,

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

And soon, soon the storm's trail

My soul will completely calm down:

Then I'll start writing

Poem of songs in twenty-five.

I was already thinking about the form of the plan

And I’ll call him a hero;

For now, in my novel

I finished the first chapter;

I reviewed it all strictly;

There are a lot of contradictions

But I don’t want to correct them;

I will pay my debt to censorship

And for journalists to eat

I will give the fruits of my labors;

Go to the banks of the Neva,

Newborn creation

And earn me a tribute of glory:

Crooked talk, noise and swearing!