"Eugene Onegin"(1823-1831) - a novel in verse by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin, one of the most significant works of Russian literature.
History of creation
Pushkin worked on the novel for over seven years. The novel was, according to Pushkin, "the fruit of the mind of cold observations and the heart of sad remarks." Pushkin called the work on it a feat - of all his creative heritage, only Boris Godunov he described with the same word. Against the broad background of pictures of Russian life, the dramatic fate of the best people of the noble intelligentsia is shown.
Pushkin began work on Onegin in 1823, during his southern exile. The author abandoned romanticism as the leading creative method and began to write a realistic novel in verse, although the influence of romanticism is still noticeable in the first chapters. Initially, it was assumed that the novel in verse would consist of 9 chapters, but later Pushkin reworked its structure, leaving only 8 chapters. He excluded from the work the chapter "Onegin's Journey", which he included as an appendix. After that, the tenth chapter of the novel was written, which is an encrypted chronicle from the life of future Decembrists.
The novel was published in verse in separate chapters, and the release of each chapter became a big event in modern literature. In 1831 the novel in verse was finished and in 1833 it was published. It covers events from 1819 to 1825: from the foreign campaigns of the Russian army after the defeat of Napoleon to the Decembrist uprising. These were the years of the development of Russian society, during the reign of Tsar Alexander I. The plot of the novel is simple and well known. At the center of the novel is a love affair. And the main problem is the eternal problem of feeling and duty. The novel "Eugene Onegin" reflected the events of the first quarter of the 19th century, that is, the time of creation and the time of the novel approximately coincide. Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin created a novel in verse like Byron's poem Don Juan. Having defined the novel as a “collection of motley chapters”, Pushkin emphasizes one of the features of this work: the novel is, as it were, “opened” in time, each chapter could be the last, but it can also have a continuation. And thus the reader draws attention to the independence of each chapter of the novel. The novel has become an encyclopedia of Russian life in the 20s of the century before last, since the breadth of the novel shows readers the whole reality of Russian life, as well as the multi-plot and description of different eras. This is what gave grounds to V. G. Belinsky in his article "Eugene Onegin" to conclude:
“Onegin can be called an encyclopedia of Russian life and an eminently folk work.”
In the novel, as in the encyclopedia, you can learn everything about the era: about how they dressed, and what was in fashion, what people valued most, what they talked about, what interests they lived. "Eugene Onegin" reflected the whole of Russian life. Briefly, but quite clearly, the author showed the serf village, lordly Moscow, secular Petersburg. Pushkin truthfully portrayed the environment in which the main characters of his novel live - Tatyana Larina and Eugene Onegin. The author reproduced the atmosphere of the city noble salons, in which Onegin spent his youth.
Plot
The novel begins with a squeamish speech by the young nobleman Eugene Onegin, dedicated to the illness of his uncle, which forced him to leave St. Petersburg and go to the patient's bed in the hope of becoming the heir to the dying. The narrative itself is conducted on behalf of the nameless author, who introduced himself as a good friend of Onegin. Having marked the plot in this way, the author devotes the first chapter to the story of the origin, family, life of his hero before receiving news of the illness of a relative.
Eugene was born "on the banks of the Neva", that is, in St. Petersburg, in the family of a typical nobleman of his time -
“Having served excellently - nobly, His father lived with debts. Gave three balls annually And finally squandered. The son of such a father received a typical upbringing - first the governess Madame, then the French tutor, who did not bother his pupil with an abundance of sciences. Here Pushkin emphasizes that the upbringing of Yevgeny from childhood was carried out by strangers for him, besides foreigners.
Onegin's life in St. Petersburg was full of love affairs and secular amusements, but now he will be bored in the countryside. Upon arrival, it turns out that the uncle has died, and Eugene has become his heir. Onegin settles in the village, and soon the blues really take possession of him.
Onegin's neighbor turns out to be eighteen-year-old Vladimir Lensky, a romantic poet, who came from Germany. Lensky and Onegin converge. Lensky is in love with Olga Larina, the daughter of a landowner. Her thoughtful sister Tatyana does not look like the always cheerful Olga. Having met Onegin, Tatyana falls in love with him and writes him a letter. However, Onegin rejects her: he is not looking for a quiet family life. Lensky and Onegin are invited to the Larins. Onegin is not happy about this invitation, but Lensky persuades him to go.
"[...] He pouted and, indignantly, swore to infuriate Lensky, And to take revenge in order." At a dinner at the Larins', Onegin, in order to make Lensky jealous, suddenly begins courting Olga. Lensky challenges him to a duel. The duel ends with the death of Lensky, and Onegin leaves the village.
Two years later, he appears in St. Petersburg and meets Tatyana. She is an important lady, the wife of a prince. Onegin burned with love for her, but this time he was already rejected, despite the fact that Tatyana also loves him, but wants to remain faithful to her husband.
Storylines
- Onegin and Tatyana:
- Acquaintance with Tatyana
- Conversation with the nanny
- Tatyana's letter to Onegin
- Explanation in the garden
- Dream of Tatyana. name day
- Visit to Onegin's house
- Departure for Moscow
- Meeting at a ball in St. Petersburg in 2 years
- Letter to Tatiana (explanation)
- Evening at Tatyana's
- Onegin and Lensky:
- Acquaintance in the village
- Conversation after the evening at the Larins
- Lensky's visit to Onegin
- Tatyana's name day
- Duel (Death of Lensky)
Characters
- Eugene Onegin- the prototype Pyotr Chaadaev, a friend of Pushkin, is named by Pushkin himself in the first chapter. Onegin's story is reminiscent of Chaadaev's life. An important influence on the image of Onegin had Lord Byron and his "Byron Heroes", Don Juan and Childe Harold, who are also mentioned more than once by Pushkin himself.
- Tatyana Larina- the prototype of Avdotya (Dunya) Norova, Chaadaev's girlfriend. Dunya herself is mentioned in the second chapter, and at the end of the last chapter, Pushkin expresses his grief over her untimely death. Due to the death of Dunya at the end of the novel, Anna Kern, Pushkin's lover, acts as the prototype of the princess, the matured and transformed Tatyana. She, Anna Kern, was the prototype of Anna Kerenina. Although Leo Tolstoy wrote off the appearance of Anna Karenina from Pushkin's eldest daughter, Maria Hartung, the name and history are very close to Anna Kern. So, through the story of Anna Kern, Tolstoy's novel "Anna Karenina" is a continuation of the novel "Eugene Onegin".
- Olga Larina, her sister is a generalized image of a typical heroine of a popular novel; beautiful in appearance, but devoid of deep content.
- Vladimir Lensky- Pushkin himself, or rather his idealized image.
- nanny Tatiana- probable prototype - Yakovleva Arina Rodionovna, Pushkin's nanny
- Zaretsky, duelist - among the prototypes they called Fyodor Tolstoy-American
- Tatyana Larina's husband, not named in the novel, "important general", General Kern, Anna Kern's husband.
- Author of the work- Pushkin himself. He constantly intervenes in the course of the story, reminds of himself, makes friends with Onegin, in his lyrical digressions shares with the reader his reflections on a variety of life issues, and expresses his ideological position.
The novel also mentions the father - Dmitry Larin - and the mother of Tatyana and Olga; "Princess Alina" - the Moscow cousin of Tatyana Larina's mother; uncle Onegin; a number of comical images of provincial landowners (Gvozdin, Flyanov, "Skotinins, a gray-haired couple", "fat Pustyakov", etc.); Petersburg and Moscow light.
The images of provincial landlords are mainly of literary origin. So, the image of the Skotinins refers to Fonvizin's comedy "Undergrowth", Buyanov is the hero of the poem "Dangerous Neighbor" (1810-1811) by V. L. Pushkin. “Among the guests, there were also “important Kirin”, “Lazorkina - a widow-vostrushka”, “fat Pustyakov” was replaced by “fat Tumakov”, Pustyakov was called “skinny”, Petushkov was a “retired clerk”.
Poetic Features
The novel is written in a special "Onegin stanza". Each such stanza consists of 14 lines of iambic tetrameter.
The first four lines rhyme crosswise, the lines from the fifth to the eighth - in pairs, the lines from the ninth to the twelfth are connected by a ring rhyme. The remaining 2 lines of the stanza rhyme with each other.
Eugene Onegin
Novel in verse
Petri de vanite il avait encore plus de cette espece d "orgueil qui fait avouer avec la meme indifference les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d" un sentiment de superiorite, peut-etre imaginaire.
Tire d "une lettre particulière
Not thinking of diverting the proud world, Loving the attention of friendship, I would like to present to you a Pledge worthy of you, Worthy of a beautiful soul, Holy dreams fulfilled, Poetry alive and clear, High thoughts and simplicity; But so be it - with a biased hand Accept a collection of colorful chapters, Half funny, half sad, Folkish, ideal, The negligent fruit of my amusements, Insomnia, light inspirations, Immature and withered years, The mind of cold observations And the heart of sad notes.
CHAPTER FIRST
And to live in a hurry and to feel in a hurry.
Book. Vyazemsky.
I. "My uncle of the most honest rules, When he fell seriously ill, He forced himself to respect And could not invent better. His example to others is science; But, my God, what a bore To sit with the sick day and night, Without moving a single step away What low treachery to amuse the Half-living, to straighten his pillows, sadly to bring medicine, to sigh and think to himself: When will the devil take you! II. So thought the young rake, Flying in the dust on the mail, By the will of Zeus, the Heir of all his relatives. Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan! With the hero of my novel Without prefaces, this very hour Let me introduce you: Onegin, my good friend, Was born on the banks of the Neva, Where, perhaps, you were born Or shone, my reader; I once walked there too: But the north is harmful for me (). III. Serving excellently, nobly, His father lived with debts, Gave three balls annually And finally squandered. The fate of Eugene kept: First Madame followed him, Then Monsieur replaced her. The child was sharp, but sweet. Monsieur l "Abbe, a miserable Frenchman, So that the child would not be exhausted, Taught him everything jokingly, Did not bother with strict morality, Slightly scolded for pranks And took him for a walk in the Summer Garden. IV. When it was time for Eugene's rebellious youth, It was time for hope and tender sadness, Monsieur was driven out of the yard Here is my Onegin at large, Shaved in the latest fashion, Like a dandy () dressed in London - And at last he saw the light, He could speak and write in French perfectly, He danced the mazurka easily And bowed naturally, What else do you want? The world decided That he was smart and very nice. V. We all learned a little Something and somehow, So bring up, thank God, It is not surprising for us to shine. Onegin was, in the opinion of many (Resolute and strict judges) A learned fellow, but a pedant: He had a happy talent Without coercion in conversation Touching everything lightly, With a learned look of a connoisseur To remain silent in an important dispute And excite the smile of ladies With the fire of unexpected epigrams. pretty latin not, To parse the epigraphs, Talk about Juvenal, Put vale at the end of the letter, Yes, I remembered, though not without sin, Two verses from the Aeneid. He had no desire to rummage In the chronological dust of the Genesis of the earth; But the days of the past anecdotes From Romulus to the present day He kept in his memory. VII. Having no high passion For the sounds of life, he could not spare, He could not distinguish the iambic from the chorea, No matter how hard we fought, to distinguish. Branil Homer, Theocritus; But he read Adam Smith, And he was a deep economy, That is, he knew how to judge How the state is getting richer, And what it lives on, and why It doesn’t need gold When it has a simple product. His father could not understand him And gave the land as a pledge. VIII. Everything that Yevgeny still knew, I don’t have time to retell; But in what he was a true genius, What he knew more firmly than all sciences, What was for him from childhood And labor and torment and joy, What occupied the whole day His yearning laziness - There was a science of tender passion, Which Nazon sang, For which he ended up a sufferer His age is brilliant and rebellious In Moldavia, in the wilderness of the steppes, Away from his Italy. IX. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . X. How early could he be hypocritical, Hold hope, be jealous, Dissuade, make believe, Seem gloomy, languish, Be proud and obedient, Attentive or indifferent! How languidly he was silent, How ardently eloquent, How careless in heartfelt letters! Breathing alone, loving alone, How he knew how to forget himself! How quick and gentle his gaze was, Bashful and impudent, and at times Shined with an obedient tear! XI. How he knew how to appear new, Joking innocence to amaze, Frighten with ready despair, Amuse with pleasant flattery, Catch a moment of tenderness, Win innocent years of prejudice with intelligence and passion, Expect involuntary caresses, Pray and demand recognition, Overhear the first sound of the heart, Pursue love, and suddenly achieve secret rendezvous ... And after her alone To give lessons in silence! XII. How early he could have disturbed the hearts of note coquettes! When did He want to destroy His rivals, How caustically he slandered! What nets he prepared for them! But you, blessed husbands, You remained friends with him: He was caressed by the crafty husband, Phoblas's longtime disciple, And the incredulous old man, And the majestic cuckold, Always pleased with himself, With his dinner and wife. XIII. XIV. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . XV. Sometimes he was still in bed: They carried notes to him. What? Invitations? In fact, Three houses are calling for the evening: There will be a ball, there is a children's party. Where will my prankster go? Who will he start with? It's all the same: It's no wonder to be in time everywhere. For the time being, in his morning dress, Putting on a wide bolivar (), Onegin goes to the boulevard And there he walks in the open, Until the dormant breguet Dinner rings out for him. XVI. It's already dark: he sits in the sled. "Drop, drop!" - there was a cry; Frosty dust silver His beaver collar. To Talon () rushed: he is sure That Kaverin is already waiting for him there. He entered: and a cork in the ceiling, The fault of a comet splashed a current, Before him a bloodied roast-beef, And truffles,
The novel "Eugene Onegin" was written by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin in 1823-1831. The work is one of the most significant creations of Russian literature - according to Belinsky, it is an "encyclopedia of Russian life" of the early 19th century.
The novel in Pushkin's verse "Eugene Onegin" belongs to the literary direction of realism, although in the first chapters the influence of the traditions of romanticism on the author is still noticeable. There are two storylines in the work: the central one is the tragic love story of Eugene Onegin and Tatiana Larina, and the secondary one is the friendship of Onegin and Lensky.
main characters
Eugene Onegin- a prominent young man of eighteen years old, a native of a noble family, who received a French "home education, a secular dandy who knows a lot about fashion, is very eloquent and knows how to present himself in society, a" philosopher ".
Tatyana Larina- the eldest daughter of the Larins, a quiet, calm, serious girl of seventeen who loved to read books and spend a lot of time alone.
Vladimir Lensky- a young landowner who was "nearly eighteen years old", a poet, a dreamy person. At the beginning of the novel, Vladimir returns to his native village from Germany, where he studied.
Olga Larina- the youngest daughter of the Larins, the beloved and bride of Vladimir Lensky, always cheerful and sweet, she was the complete opposite of her older sister.
Other characters
Princess Polina (Praskovya) Larina- mother of Olga and Tatyana Larin.
Filipyevna- Tatiana's nanny.
Princess Alina- Tatyana and Olga's aunt, Praskovya's sister.
Zaretsky- a neighbor of Onegin and Larin, Vladimir's second in a duel with Eugene, a former gambler who became a "peaceful" landowner.
Prince N.- Tatyana's husband, "an important general", a friend of Onegin's youth.
The novel in verse "Eugene Onegin" begins with a brief author's address to the reader, in which Pushkin characterizes his work:
“Accept a collection of colorful heads,
Half funny, half sad
vulgar, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements.
Chapter first
In the first chapter, the author introduces the reader to the hero of the novel - Eugene Onegin, the heir to a wealthy family, who hurries to his dying uncle. The young man was “born on the banks of the Neva”, his father lived in debt, often arranged balls, which is why he completely lost his fortune.
When Onegin was old enough to go out into the world, the young man was well received by high society, as he was fluent in French, easily danced the mazurka and was able to talk at ease on any topic. However, it was not science or brilliance in society that interested Evgeny the most - he was a “true genius” in “science of tender passion” - Onegin could turn the head of any lady, while remaining on friendly terms with her husband and admirers.
Eugene lived an idle life, walking along the boulevard during the day, and in the evening visiting luxurious salons, where famous people of St. Petersburg invited him. The author emphasizes that Onegin, "afraid of jealous condemnations", was very careful about his appearance, so he could be in front of the mirror for three hours, bringing his image to perfection. Yevgeny returned from the balls in the morning, when the rest of the inhabitants of St. Petersburg rush to work. By noon, the young man woke up and again
"Until the morning his life is ready,
Monotonous and motley ".
However, is Onegin happy?
“No: early the feelings in him cooled down;
He was tired of the noise of the world.
Gradually, the “Russian melancholy” took possession of the hero, and he, like Chaid-Harold, appeared gloomy and languid in the world - “nothing touched him, he did not notice anything.”
Eugene closes himself off from society, locks himself at home and tries to write on his own, but the young man does not succeed, because "he was sick of hard work." After that, the hero begins to read a lot, but understands that literature will not save him either: "like women, he left books." Eugene from a sociable, secular person becomes a closed young man, prone to a "caustic dispute" and "a joke with bile in half."
Onegin and the narrator (according to the author, it was at this time that they met the main character) were going to leave St. Petersburg abroad, but their plans were changed by the death of their father Eugene. The young man had to give up all his inheritance to pay his father's debts, so the hero remained in St. Petersburg. Soon Onegin received news that his uncle was dying and wanted to say goodbye to his nephew. When the hero arrived, the uncle had already died. As it turned out, the deceased bequeathed to Eugene a huge estate: land, forests, factories.
Chapter Two
Eugene lived in a picturesque village, his house was by the river, surrounded by a garden. Wanting to somehow entertain himself, Onegin decided to introduce new orders in his possessions: he replaced the corvée with "easy dues". Because of this, the neighbors began to be wary of the hero, believing that "he is the most dangerous eccentric." At the same time, Eugene himself shunned his neighbors, avoiding getting to know them in every possible way.
At the same time, a young landowner Vladimir Lensky returned to one of the nearest villages from Germany. Vladimir was a romantic nature,
"With a soul straight from Goettingen,
Handsome, in full bloom of years,
Kant's admirer and poet".
Lensky wrote his poems about love, was a dreamer and hoped to unravel the mystery of the purpose of life. In the village, Lensky, "according to custom", was mistaken for a profitable groom.
However, among the villagers, the figure of Onegin attracted Lensky's special attention, and Vladimir and Eugene gradually became friends:
“They got along. Wave and stone
Poems and prose, ice and fire".
Vladimir read his works to Yevgeny, talked about philosophical things. Onegin listened with a smile to Lensky's ardent speeches, but refrained from trying to reason with his friend, realizing that life itself would do this for him. Gradually, Eugene notices that Vladimir is in love. Lensky's lover turned out to be Olga Larina, with whom the young man had known since childhood, and his parents predicted their wedding in the future.
"Always modest, always obedient,
Always as cheerful as the morning
How simple is the life of a poet,
How sweet is the kiss of love."
The complete opposite of Olga was her older sister, Tatyana:
"Dika, sad, silent,
Like a doe forest is timid.
The girl did not find the usual girlish amusements cheerful, she loved to read the novels of Richardson and Rousseau,
And often all day alone
Sitting silently by the window.
The mother of Tatyana and Olga, Princess Polina, in her youth was in love with another - with a sergeant of the guard, a dandy and a player, but without asking her parents married her to Larin. The woman was sad at first, and then she took up housekeeping, “she got used to it and became satisfied,” and gradually peace reigned in their family. Having lived a quiet life, Larin grew old and died.
Chapter Three
Lensky begins to spend all his evenings with the Larins. Eugene is surprised that he found a friend in the society of a "simple, Russian family", where all conversations come down to a discussion of the economy. Lensky explains that he is more pleased with home society than a secular circle. Onegin asks if he can see Lensky's beloved and a friend calls him to go to the Larins.
Returning from the Larins, Onegin tells Vladimir that he was pleased to meet them, but his attention was more attracted not by Olga, who "has no life in features", but by her sister Tatyana "who is sad and silent, like Svetlana". The appearance of Onegin at the Larins caused gossip that, perhaps, Tatyana and Evgeny were already engaged. Tatyana realizes that she has fallen in love with Onegin. The girl begins to see Eugene in the heroes of novels, dreaming about a young man, walking in the "silence of the forests" with books about love.
One sleepless night, Tatyana, sitting in the garden, asks the nanny to tell her about her youth, about whether the woman was in love. The nanny reveals that she was given an arranged marriage at the age of 13 to a guy younger than her, so the old lady doesn't know what love is. Gazing at the moon, Tatyana decides to write a letter to Onegin with a declaration of love in French, since at that time it was customary to write letters exclusively in French.
In the message, the girl writes that she would be silent about her feelings if she was sure that she could at least sometimes see Eugene. Tatyana argues that if Onegin had not settled in their village, perhaps her fate would have been different. But he immediately denies this possibility:
“That is the will of heaven: I am yours;
My whole life has been a pledge
Faithful goodbye to you.
Tatyana writes that it was Onegin who appeared to her in her dreams and that she dreamed about him. At the end of the letter, the girl “gives” Onegin her fate:
"I'm waiting for you: with a single look
Revive the hopes of your heart
Or break a heavy dream,
Alas, a well-deserved reproach!”
In the morning, Tatyana asks Filipyevna to give Evgeny a letter. For two days there was no answer from Onegin. Lensky assures that Yevgeny promised to visit the Larins. Finally Onegin arrives. Tatyana, frightened, runs into the garden. Having calmed down a little, he goes out into the alley and sees Evgeny standing “like a formidable shadow” right in front of him.
Chapter Four
Eugene, who was disappointed with relationships with women even in his youth, was touched by Tatyana's letter, and that is why he did not want to deceive the gullible, innocent girl.
Meeting Tatyana in the garden, Evgeny spoke first. The young man said that he was very touched by her sincerity, so he wants to "repay" the girl with his "confession". Onegin tells Tatyana that if a “pleasant lot ordered” him to become a father and husband, then he would not look for another bride, choosing Tatyana as a “friend of sad days”. However, Eugene "is not created for bliss." Onegin says that he loves Tatyana like a brother, and at the end of his "confession" turns into a sermon to the girl:
“Learn to rule yourself;
Not everyone will understand you like me;
Inexperience leads to trouble."
Speaking about Onegin's act, the narrator writes that Eugene acted very nobly with the girl.
After the date in the garden, Tatyana became even sadder, worrying about unhappy love. There is talk among the neighbors that it is time for the girl to get married. At this time, the relationship between Lensky and Olga is developing, young people are spending more and more time together.
Onegin lived as a hermit, walking and reading. One winter evening, Lensky comes to see him. Eugene asks a friend about Tatyana and Olga. Vladimir says that their wedding with Olga is scheduled in two weeks, which Lensky is very happy about. In addition, Vladimir recalls that the Larins invited Onegin to visit Tatiana's name day.
Chapter Five
Tatyana was very fond of the Russian winter, including Epiphany evenings, when the girls were guessing. She believed in dreams, omens and divination. One of the Epiphany evenings, Tatyana went to bed, putting a girl's mirror under her pillow.
The girl dreamed that she was walking through the snow in the darkness, and in front of her the river rustled, through which a “trembling, fatal bridge” was thrown. Tatyana does not know how to cross it, but then a bear appears from the other side of the stream and helps her to cross. The girl tries to run away from the bear, but the "shaggy footman" followed her. Tatyana, unable to run any longer, falls into the snow. The bear picks her up and brings her into a "wretched" hut that has appeared between the trees, telling the girl that his godfather is here. Coming to her senses, Tatyana saw that she was in the hallway, and behind the door one could hear “a scream and the clinking of a glass, like at a big funeral.” The girl looked through the crack: monsters were sitting at the table, among which she saw Onegin, the owner of the feast. Out of curiosity, the girl opens the door, all the monsters begin to reach out to her, but Eugene drives them away. The monsters disappear, Onegin and Tatyana sit down on a bench, the young man puts his head on the girl's shoulder. Then Olga and Lensky appear, Evgeny begins to scold the uninvited guests, suddenly pulls out a long knife and kills Vladimir. Terrified, Tatyana wakes up and tries to interpret the dream according to the book of Martyn Zadeki (fortune teller, interpreter of dreams).
Tatyana's birthday, the house is full of guests, everyone is laughing, crowding, greeting. Lensky and Onegin arrive. Yevgeny is seated opposite Tatyana. The girl is embarrassed, afraid to raise her eyes to Onegin, she is ready to burst into tears. Eugene, noticing Tatyana's excitement, got angry and decided to take revenge on Lensky, who brought him to the feast. When the dancing began, Onegin invites only Olga, without leaving the girl even in between dances. Lensky, seeing this, "flares up in jealous indignation." Even when Vladimir wants to invite the bride to dance, it turns out that she has already promised Onegin.
“Lenskaya is unable to bear the blow” - Vladimir leaves the holiday, thinking that only a duel can solve the current situation.
Chapter Six
Noticing that Vladimir had left, Onegin lost all interest in Olga and returned home at the end of the evening. In the morning, Zaretsky comes to Onegin and gives him a note from Lensky with a challenge to a duel. Eugene agrees to a duel, but, left alone, blames himself for joking about his friend's love in vain. According to the terms of the duel, the heroes had to meet at the mill before dawn.
Before the duel, Lensky stopped by Olga, thinking to embarrass her, but the girl joyfully met him, which dispelled the jealousy and annoyance of her beloved. All evening Lensky was distracted. Arriving home from Olga, Vladimir examined the pistols and, thinking about Olga, writes poems in which he asks the girl to come to his grave in case of his death.
In the morning, Eugene overslept, so he was late for the duel. Zaretsky was Vladimir's second, Monsieur Guillot was Onegin's second. At the command of Zaretsky, the young men met, and the duel began. Evgeny is the first to raise his pistol - when Lensky just started aiming, Onegin is already shooting and killing Vladimir. Lensky dies instantly. Eugene looks at the body of a friend in horror.
Chapter Seven
Olga did not cry for Lensky for a long time, soon fell in love with a lancer and married him. After the wedding, the girl left for the regiment with her husband.
Tatyana still could not forget Onegin. One day, walking around the field at night, the girl accidentally came to the house of Eugene. The yard family greets the girl in a friendly way and Tatyana is let into Onegin's house. The girl, examining the rooms, “for a long time in a fashionable cell stands as enchanted.” Tatyana begins to constantly visit Yevgeny's house. The girl reads the books of her lover, trying to understand from the notes in the margins what kind of person Onegin is.
At this time, the Larins begin to talk about the fact that it is high time for Tatyana to marry. Princess Polina is worried that her daughter is refusing everyone. Larina is advised to take the girl to the “bride fair” in Moscow.
In winter, Larins, having collected everything they need, leave for Moscow. They stopped at an old aunt, Princess Alina. Larins begin to travel around to numerous acquaintances and relatives, but the girl is bored and uninteresting everywhere. Finally, Tatyana is brought to the “Meeting”, where many brides, dandies, and hussars have gathered. While everyone is having fun and dancing, the girl, "unnoticed by anyone" stands at the column, recalling life in the village. Here one of the aunts drew Tanya's attention to the "fat general".
Chapter Eight
The narrator meets again with the already 26-year-old Onegin at one of the social events. Evgeniy
"languishing in the idleness of leisure
No service, no wife, no business,
Couldn't do anything."
Before that, Onegin traveled for a long time, but he got tired of it, and now, "he returned and, like Chatsky, got from the ship to the ball."
At the party, a lady appears with the general, who attracts the general attention of the public. This woman looked "quiet" and "simple". Evgeny recognizes Tatyana in a secular lady. Asking a familiar prince who this woman is, Onegin learns that she is the wife of this prince and is really Tatyana Larina. When the prince brings Onegin to the woman, Tatyana does not betray her excitement at all, while Eugene is speechless. Onegin cannot believe that this is the same girl who once wrote him a letter.
In the morning, Evgeny was brought an invitation from Prince N., Tatyana's wife. Onegin, alarmed by memories, eagerly goes to visit, but the “stately”, “careless legislator of the hall” does not seem to notice him. Unable to stand it, Eugene writes a letter to the woman, in which he confesses his love for her, ending the message with the lines:
“Everything is decided: I am in your will,
And surrender to my fate."
However, no answer comes. The man sends the second, third letter. Onegin was again “caught” by the “cruel blues”, he again locked himself in his office and began to read a lot, constantly thinking and dreaming about “secret legends, heartfelt, dark antiquity”.
One spring day, Onegin goes to Tatiana without an invitation. Eugene finds a woman weeping bitterly over his letter. The man falls at her feet. Tatyana asks him to get up and reminds Evgeny how in the garden, in the alley, she humbly listened to his lesson, now it's her turn. She tells Onegin that she was in love with him then, but found only severity in his heart, although she does not blame him, considering the man's act noble. The woman understands that now she is in many ways interesting to Eugene precisely because she has become a prominent secular lady. In parting, Tatyana says:
“I love you (why lie?),
But I am given to another;
I will be faithful to him forever"
And leaves. Eugene is "as if struck by a thunder" by Tatyana's words.
"But the spurs suddenly rang out,
And Tatyana's husband showed up,
And here is my hero
In a minute, evil for him,
Reader, we will now leave,
For a long time ... forever ... ".
conclusions
The novel in verse "Eugene Onegin" is striking in its depth of thought, the volume of the described events, phenomena and characters. Depicting in the work the customs and life of cold, "European" St. Petersburg, patriarchal Moscow and the village - the center of folk culture, the author shows the reader Russian life in general. A brief retelling of "Eugene Onegin" allows you to get acquainted only with the central episodes of the novel in verse, therefore, for a better understanding of the work, we recommend that you familiarize yourself with the full version of the masterpiece of Russian literature.
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Current page: 1 (total book has 9 pages)
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.
Tire d'une lettre particulière
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.
Prince Vyazemsky
"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,
Not leaving a single step away!
What low deceit
Amuse the half-dead
Fix his pillows
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 postage,
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.
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.
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.
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 air 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
At the end of the letter put 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.
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 the 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 swift and gentle his gaze was,
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 note coquettes!
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 carry 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.
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 bloody
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 sound of a breguet informs 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 be heard).
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
Noisy swarm of their comedies,
There Didlo was crowned with glory,
There, there under the shadow of the wings
My young days flew by.
My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?
Hear 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."
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;
Still 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,
Inventing 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, curves,
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.
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 is going 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 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.
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;
Loop and noise and tightness;
The spurs of the cavalry guard jingle;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And drowned out by the roar of violins
Jealous whisper of fashionable wives.
In the days of fun and desires
I was crazy about balls:
There is no place for confessions
And for delivering 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, 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.
I remember the sea before the storm:
How I envied the waves
Running in a stormy line
Lie down at her feet with love!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch 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
Already opened his wasisdas.
But, exhausted by the noise of the ball,
And turning the morning at midnight
Sleeps peacefully in the shadow 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 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.
Illness 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 the gossip of the world, nor Boston,
Neither a sweet look, nor an immodest sigh,
Nothing touched him
He did not 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 birth spleen.
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,
I 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
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,
As piit described himself.
Everything was quiet; only night
Sentinels called to one another;
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!
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 nights of Italy
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.
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 freestyle 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.
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.
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 so 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 waster,
And I am very glad that the old way
Changed to something.
Two days seemed new to him
solitary 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:
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.
Isn't it me 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
As soon as about himself.
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:
“About whom does your lyre sigh?
To whom, in the crowd of jealous maidens,
Did you dedicate a chant to her?
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.
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.
Font: Smaller Ah More Ah
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 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,
Not leaving a single step away!
What low deceit
Amuse the half-dead
Fix his pillows
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 postage,
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 air 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
At the end of the letter put 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 the 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 swift and gentle his gaze was,
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 note coquettes!
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 carry 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 bloody
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 sound of a breguet informs 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 be heard).
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
Noisy swarm of their comedies,
There Didlo was crowned with glory,
There, there under the shadow of the wings
My young days flew by.
XIX
My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?
Hear 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;
Still 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,
Inventing 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, curves,
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 is going 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 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;
Loop and noise and tightness;
The spurs of the cavalry guard jingle;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And drowned out by the roar of violins
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 for delivering 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
Lie down at her feet with love!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch 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 shadow 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 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
Illness 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 the gossip of the world, nor Boston,
Neither a sweet look, nor an immodest sigh,
Nothing touched him
He did not 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,
I 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
Sentinels called to one another;
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 nights of Italy
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 freestyle 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 so 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 waster,
And I am very glad that the old way
Changed to something.
LIV
Two days seemed new to him
solitary 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.
Isn't it me 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 decided that a person who spends two hours every morning brushing his nails could spend a few minutes whitewashing imperfections in his skin. (“Confession” by J.-J. Rousseau) (fr.). Grim was ahead of his time: now in all 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 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 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 is sleeping. ………………………
Reveal a benevolent goddess Sees an enthusiastic piit, What spends the night sleepless, Leaning on granite. (Ants. Goddess of the Neva)
