living his best days,
Amidst the victories that paved his pace,
Amidst the fun and leisure
Was there happiness to measure?
Was there a thing that caused unrest
In Onegin's life's ongoing fest?
No shumom bala utomlennyj
I utro v polnoch' obratya,
Spokojno spit v teni blazhennoj
Zabav i roskoshi ditya.
Prosnetsya zapolden', i snova
Do utra zhizn' ego gotova,
Olnoobrazna i pestra.
I zavtra to zhe, chto vchera,
No byl li schastliv moj Evgenij,
Svobodnyj, v cvete luchshih let,
Sredi blistatel'nyh pobed,
Sredi vsednevnyh naslazhdenij?
Votshche li by on sred' pirov
Neostorozhen i zdorov?
XXXVII
No. His sences were blunted early,
The world's smalltalk has wearied him,
The beuties are no longer storming
His mind and cause his heart to steam.
The infidelity and cheeting... Bore.
His friends are dull, and friendship sore
For he wasn't able all the time
To pour champaigne on strassbourg pie
And joke with sharp and acid words
When headache so much hurts.
Though he's a playboy, he came to disguise
His old days habits - swords and whist.
Net, rano chuvstva v nem ostyli,
Emu naskuchilsveta shum;
Krasavicy na dolgo byli
Predmet ego privychnyh dum;
Izmeny utomit' uspeli;
Druz'ya i druzhba nadoeli,
Zatem, chto ne vsegda zhe mog
Beef-steaks i strassburgskij pirog
SHampanskoj oblivat' butylkoj
I sypat' kolkie slova,
Kogda bolela golova;
I hot' on byl povesa pylkij,
No razlyubil on nakonec
I bran', i sablyu, i venec.
XXXVIII
The cause of this decease's unseen
The diagnosis - always solid:
The English word for that is spleen,
Khandrah is what the Russans call it.
And step by step the spleen took over,
But, praise the Lord, his mind was sober
Not to let him shoot himself at head
But he lost intest in life, as Byron said
Did Child-Harold so languid and morose,
Evgeniy came to salons, balls
And neither ladies' passion calls
Nor gossips, cardgames, poetry or prose
Was touching him enough
He didn't care `bout the stuff.
Nedug, kotorogo prichinu
Davno by otyskat' pora,
Podobnyj anglijskomu splinu,
Koroche: russkaya handra
Im ovladela ponemnogu;
On zastrelit'sya, slava Bogu,
Poprobovat' ne zahotel,
No k zhizni vovse ohladel.
Kak Child-Harold, ugryumyj, tomnyj,
V gostinnyh poyavlyalsya on;
Ni spletnti sveta, ni boston,
Ni milyj vzglyad, ni vzdoh neskromnyj,
Nichto ne trogalo ego,
Ne zamechal on nichego.
XXXIX.XL. XLII.
*******
****......
**************....
XLII
Oh those chic ladies of the world!
He could not take you any more
And hid from noones chained in gold
Sophisticated chitchat's such a bore!
Though there could be some dame
Interpreting Say and Bent*m,
But as a rule what they discuss
Is aggrivating, but innocent nonsence, alas!
Besides, they are so chaste and pure,
Majestic, full of intellect,
So pious, so politically correct,
So thoughtful that no man can lure
Them. When I look at them I grim -
Seeing those causes severe spleen.
Prichudnicy bol'shogo sveta!
Vseh prezhde vas ostavil on;
I pravda to, chto v nashi leta
Dovol'no skuchen vysshij ton;
Hot', mozhet byt', inaya dama
Tolkuet Seya i Bentama,
No voobshche iz razgovor nesnosnyj,
Hot' nevinnyj vzdor;
K tomu zh oni tak neporochny,
Tak velichavy, tak umny,
Tak blagochestiya polny,
Tak osmotritel'ny, tak tochny,
Tak nepristupny dlya muzhchin,
CHto vid ih uzh rozhdaet splin.
XLIII
And you, so beatiful young women
Who disappear late in night
On Petersburg's streets gleaming
In a midnight carriage ride -
Evgeniy left you just as well.
And lonely decieded he to dwell
Without pleasures in a hermit den.
Once, yawning, he took up a pen,
Up to tryouts did some writing,
But working hard has made him sick -
The born was shallow, very weak,
And thus he didn't join the mighty
And roaring guild of those whom I shall judge no way
For I belong to it, and there I should stay.
I vy, krasotki molodye,
Kotoryh pozdneyu poroj
Knosyat drozhki udalye
Po peterburgskoj mostovoj,
I vas pokinul moj Evgenij..
Otstupnik burnyh naslazhenij,
Onegin doma zapersya,
Zevaya, za pero vzyalsya,
Hotel pisat' - no trud upornyj
Emu byl toshen; nechego
Ne vyshlo iz pera ego,
I ne popal on v ceh zadornyj
Lyudej, o koih ne suzhu,
Zatem, chto k nim prinadlezhu.
XLIV
Again, devouted to the bore,
Was restless with emptiness of soul,
He started with a loudable goal
Assuming other's wisdom as his own.
A bunch of books he seated on the shelf,
And read them avidly outloud, to himself,
And thought - this one is dull, the other is deceiving,
That one is dellusion with no meaning.
It seemed the authors were feeding
The old ideas as out-dated,
And new ones as very much belated.
As well as women, he gave up on reading,
And covered then the shelf with cloth,
Thus hid the books to feed the moth.
I snova, predannyj bezdel'yu,
Tomyas' dushevnoj pustotoj,
Uselsya on s pohval'noj cel'yu
Sebe prisvoit' um chuzhoj.
Otryadom knig ustavil polku,
CHital, chital, no vse bez tolku:
Tam skuka, tam obman, tam bred;
V tom sovesti, v tom smysla net;
Na vseh razlichnye verigi;
I ustarela starina
I starym bredit novizna.
Kak zhenshchin, on ostavil knigi,
I knigi s pyl'noj ih sem'ej,
Zadernul traurnoj taftoj.
XLV
Have rioted against the social demands,
And like Onegin tired with the crowd,
I met Evgeniy, we made friends,
I liked him much without a doubt.
I liked his undeliberate allegiance to his dreams,
And that original eccentrity of his,
His cold and acid-sharpened mind.
My heart was angry, his also had no trace of light.
The game of vanities we both knew well,
And life itself was wearing us out,
No song was sang in our hearts outloud,
We both expected later on to smell
The spite of Fortune, for she's blind,
And the spite of the mankind.
Uslovij sveta skinuv bremya,
Kak on, ustav ot suety,
S nim podruzhilis' my v to vremya,
Mne nravilis' ego cherty,
Mechtam nevol'naya predannost',
Nepodrazhaemaya strannost'
I rezkij, ohlazhdennyj um.
YA byl ozloblen, on ugryum;
Starstej igru my znali oba:
Tomila zhizn' oboih nas;
V oboih serdcah zhar ugas;
Oboih ozhidala zloba
Slepoj Fortuny i lyudej,
Na samom utre nashih dnej.
XLVI
Who lived and thought, he cannot help
Despising men at heart in chest,
The one who pain and love had felt
Is haunted by the ghost of past.
He has no more of great illusions,
The memory brings him confusions,
And the remorse him tantalizes
These features add to dialog with him some spices.
At first, Onegin's manner to behave
Embarressed me, but later I got used
To caustic his remarks; I got amused
With how he joked with bile, and how he gave
Birth to many mordant epigrams
That caused some laughter and some damns.
Kto zhl i myslil, tot ne mozhet
V dushe ne prezirat' lyudej;
Kto chuvstvoval, togo trevozhit
Prizrak nevozvratimyh dnej:
Tomu uzh net ocharovanij,
Togo zmiya vospominanij,
Togo raskayan'e gryzet.
Vse eto chasto pridaet
Bol'shuyu prelest' razgovoru.
Sperva Onegina yazyk
Menya smushchal, noya privyk
K ego yazvitel'nomu sporu,
I k shutkes zhelch'yu popolam
I zlosti mrachnyh epigramm.
XLVII
How often in the summertime
The Niva night skies are so transperent and cyan,
The broken water glass does not reflect that fine
The Moon - the sole domain of Diane.
And we slipped into th'days that now are gone,
Recalling gone affairs with a mourn,
Recalling love, that struck the heart with joy and grief
And we became again more sencible and youthfully naive,
We saturated in the silence, being deaf and mute,
The viscous breath of night,
As if a prisoner who flies into the wood
When he's about to take to Morpheus a ride.
And so did we. We fled to the beginning of the youth
Led by the dream by which we were seduced.
Kak chasto letneyu poroyu,
Kogda prozrachno i svetlo
Nochnoe nebo nad Nevoyu
I vod veseloe steklo
Ne otrazhaet lik Diany,
Vospomnya prezhnie romany,
Vospomnya prezhnuyu lyubov',
CHuvstvitel'ny, bespechny vnov',
Dyhan'em nochi blagoklonnoj
Bezmolvno upivalis' my!
Kak v les zelenyj iz tyur'my
Perenesen kolodnik sonnyj,
Tak unosilis' my mechtoj
K nachalu zhizni molodoj.
XLVIII
And with his heart full of regrets,
Onegin leaned onto the bank's granite
`Through meditation guts he gets'-
As a poet once had rhymed.
It was so quiet. It was only heard
As the night guards were on the full alert,
And coaches' soft and distant rumble
From Millionannaya occasionaly mumbled.
And down the sleepy river a boat slid,
Flapping with her wooden oars,
She charmed us with a distant chorus
Of a clarion and song that meet...
But I prefer above those catchy rythms
The song and euphony of Torquato's hymns.
S dushoj, polnoj sozhalenij,
I opershisya na granit,
Stoyal zadumchivo Evgenij,
Kak opisal sebya piit.
Vse bylo tiho, lish' nochnye
Pereklikalis' chasovye;
Da drozhek otdalennyj stuk
S Mil'onnoj razdavalsya vdrug;
Lish' lodka, veslami mahaya,
Plyla po dremlyushchej reke:
I nas plenyali vdaleke
Rozhok i pesnya udalaya...
No slashche, sred' nochnyh zabav,
Napev Torkvatovyh oktav.
XLIX
The Adriatic sea, the Brenta,
Again I see you torquaise blaze.
My soul gets filled with inspiration
When their voice reaches my face.
The voice's sacred for Appolo's descendants,
I am familiar with it due to Byron's lyre crescendos,
I know it well as if we are related.
When daytime light in Italy has faded,
I will enjoy Italian nights' bliss
And a Venician beatiful young miss,
Who's talkative, then calm and taciturn
When we sail in a gondola. My lips then start to burn
With the language of Petrarca, tonge of love,
Noone knows it but the lovers and the dove.
Adriaticheskie volny,
O Brenta! net, uvizhu vas
I, vdohnovenij polnyj,
Uslyshu vash volshebnyj glas!
On svyat dlya vnukov Apollona;
Po gordoj lire Al'biona
On mne znakom, on mne rodnoj.
No chej Itali zlatoj
YA negoj naslazhus' na vole,
S veneciankoyu mladoj,
To govorlivoj, to nemoj,
Plyvya v tainstvennoj gondole;
S nej obretut usta moi
YAzyk Petrarki i lyubvi.
L
Will there be the day when I am free?
It is the time! - I call for it, I cry,
I wait for wind, I walk along the sea,
Allure the sails of vessels passing by.
When will I start my run, that's free and wild,
Arguing with billows during my glide
On the face of the restless sea? -
Away from the boring shore I need to flee
(And my dislike of it's on rise)
And be amidst African hot sands
In my forbears' native lands,
And there recall the murky Russian skies
Under which I suffered and I loved
And where I bured my broken heart.
Pridet li chas moej svobody?
Pora, pora! - vzyvayu k nej.
Brozhu nad morem, zhdu pogody,
Manyu vetrila korablej.
Pod rizoj bur', s volnami sporya,
Po vol'nomu rasput'yu morya
Kogda zh nachnu ya vol'nyj beg?
Pora pokinut' skuchnyj breg
Mne nepryaznennoj stihii,
I sred' poludennyh zybej,
Pod nebom Afriki moej,
Vzdyhat' o sumrachnoj Rssii,
Gde ya stradal, gde ya lyubil,
Gde serdce ya pohoronil.
LI
Onegin said that he was ready
With me to travel other lands,
But we by chance got separated
For long time though we had been friends.
His father died and left a desert:
In front of Evgeniy got gathered
A hungry regiment of lenders,
Who were there own's defenders.
Onegin, in disguise of suits and courts,
Gave them the legacy, preferring peace to swords,
Still kept on being happy with the state of things
Not seeing a big loss in it as winds
Had gossiped (and he overheard)
That his beloved uncle soon would see the Lord.
Onegin byl gotov so mnoyu
Uvidet' chuzhdye strany;
No skoro byli my sud'boyu
Na dolgij srok razvedeny.
Otec ego togda skonchalsya.
Pered Oneginym sobralsya
Zaimodavcev zhadnyj polk.
U kazhdogo svoj um i tolk:
Evgenij, tyazhby nenavidya,
Dovol'nyj zhrebiem svoim,
Nasledstvo predostavil im,
Bol'shoj poteri v tom ne vidya
Il' predugadav izdaleka
Konchinu dyadi-starika.
LII
Indeed, he got one day
From the manager a note:
The uncle soon will pass away,
His nephew's farewell then he sought.
At once, as soon as finished reading,
Evgeniy parted for the meeting,
He rushed headlong with the post-chaise,
And yawned, forseeing boring days,
And for the money got prepared
To sigh, deceive and worry
(With these I have begun the story)
But when arrived - no loger cared:
The uncle was already dead
And on the table he was laid.
Vdrug poluchil on v samom dele
Ot upravitelya doklad:
CHto dyadya pri smerti v postele
I s nim prostit'sya byl by rad.
Prochtya pechal'noe poslan'e,
Evgenij totchas na svidan'e
Stremglav po pochte poskakal
I uzh zaranee zeval,
Prigotovlyayas', deneg radi,
Na vzdohi, skuku i obman
( I tem ya nachal svoj roman).
No, priletev v derevnyu dyadi,
Ego nashel uzh na stole,
Kak dan' gotovuyu zemle.
LIII
He found the courtyard full of people
From all the places nearby,
Both friends and rivals were coming
To mourn a little and to dine,
Then left for home with dignity and grace
As have fullfilled their duty with all As.
Onegin now in countyside resides.
And woods, and rivers, factories and land
Belong to him, though he had been forehand
With any order in non-ending fights.
He welcomes changes in the way he lived:
At least there is a slightest drift.
Nashel on polon dvor uslugi;
K pokojniku so vseh storon
S®ezzhalis' nedrugi i drugi,
Ohotniki do pohoron.
Pokojnika pohoronili.
Popy i gosti eli, pili
I posle vazhno razoshlis',
Kak budto delom zanyalis'.
Vot nash Onegin sel'skij zhitel',
Zavodov , vod, lesov, zemel'
Hozyain polnyj, a dosel'
Poryadka vrag i rastochitel',
I ochen' rad, chto prezhnij put'
Peremenil na chto-nibud'.
LIV
For 2 seqvensive days secluded fields
Seemed new and fresh to him
As well as shady oak trees,
And murmur of a quiet spring.
But on the third, the field, the grove, the hill
Caused his heart not a thing to feel.
They made him sleepy later on,
He realized that he was wrong;
The countryside is boring just as well.
Though there - no palaces, no streets,
No balls, no poems with their wits.
The bore is guarding by his cell,
Or follows him as shadow does
Or a wive that too much loves.
Dva dnya emu kazalis' novy
Uedinennye polya,
Prohlada sumrachnoj dubrovy,
ZHurchan'e tihogo ruch'ya;
Na tretij roshcha, holm i pole
Ego ne zanimali bole;
Potom uzh navodili son;
Potom uvidel yasno on,
CHto i v derevne skuka ta zhe
Hot' net ni ulic, ni dvorcov,
Ni kart, ni balov, ni stihov.
Handra zhdala ego na strazhe,
I begala za nim ona,
Kak ten' il' vernaya zhena.
LV
Well, I was born for peaceful life,
For soft bucolic soundlessness,
Where my voice sounds stronger
And dreams are full of vividness.
And being fully into leisure,
I wander by the lake for pleasure,
And far niente as a law I'm taking.
And every morning I'm awaken
For feeling great, and free, and strong.
I read a little, sleep a lot,
I seek no fame I could have got.
And have I spent the years gone
In doing nothing, in the shade,
The days of mine, that were great?
YA byl rozhden dlya zhizni mirnoj,
Dlya derevenskoj tishiny:
V glushi zvuchnee golos lirnyj,
ZHivee tvorcheskie sny.
Dosugam posvetyas' nevinnym,
Brozhu nad ozerom pustynnym,
I far niente moj zakon.
YA kazhdym utrom probuzhden
Dlya sladkoj negi i svobody:
CHitayu malo, mnogo splyu,
Letuchej slavy ne lovlyu.
Ne tak li ya v bylye gody
Provel v bezdejstvii, v teni
Moi schastlivejshie dni..
LVI
Oh flowers, love, oh fields and leisure-
My heart is yours or even more so.
I'd like to note: the gap quite wide to measure
Exists between Ongin and the author.
For if it happens that a mocking avid reader,
Or a publisher of witty-crafted litter,
Compares then my features to Onegin's,
And will conclude and spread the word
That it's my portrait what I wrote
Like Byron did, as if we cannot ever since
Write poems 'bout all other things
Except for our precious ego
With which we have vertigo.
Cvety, lyubov', derevnya, prazdnost',
Polya! ya predan vam dushoj.
Vsegda ya rad zametit' raznost'
Mezhdu Oneginym i mnoj.
CHtoby nasmeshlivyj chitatel'
Ili kakoj-nibud' izdatel'
Zamyslovatoj klevety,
Slichaya zdes' moi cherty,
Ne povtoryal potom bezbozhno,
CHto namaral ya svoj portret,
K ak Bajron, gordosti poet,
Kak budto nam uzh nevozmozhno
Pisat' poemy o drugom,
Kak tol'ko o sebe samom.
LVII
All poets, by the way I note,
Are friends with love, that never is disturbed.
I dreamt `bout nice things quite a lot,
And their secret images my soul has preserved.
The muse refreshed the images in me,
And I (so careless) sang praise and plea
Both to the girl of mounts, who doesn't ever fear,
And to the beuties prisoned on the banks of the Salgir.
And nowadays I hear from you, friends,
A question asked quite often:
Who caused your lyre to sigh and heart to soften?
Who is the one you want to kiss in dance?
Who is the one among that jellous crowd,
Who has inspired you to play your lyre so loud?
Zamechu kstati: vse poety -
Lyubvi mechtitel'noj druz'ya.
Byvalo, milye predmety
Mne snilis', i dusha moya
Ih obraz tajnyj sohranila;
Ih posle muza ozhivila%
Tak ya, bespechen, vospeval,
I devu gor, moj ideal,
I plennic beregov Salgira.
Teper' ot vas, moi druz'ya,
Vopros neredko slyshu ya:
O kom tvoya vzdyhaet lira?
Komu, v tolpe revnivyh dev,
Ty posvyatil ee napev?
LVIII
Whose sights have caused your inspiration?
Who has awarded you with touch
For how you sang so thoughtfully with passion,
To whom your poetry's been worshiping so much?
She is noone, there isn't any one.
Love's madness, and distortion and the fun
I have experianced in vain.
Be blessed the one who managed to contain
Both loving and the fever of the rhyme:
He doubles the poetry's sacred dellusion
And is a Petrarka's follower with no confusion,
Thus he reduces pain in heart. This very time
He begets the fame. But I am not that kind of dude-
When I'm in love - I'm dumb and mute.
CHej vzor, volnuya vdohnoven'e,
Umil'noj laskoj nagradil
Tvoe zadumchivoe pen'e?
Kogo tvoj stih bogotvoril?
I, drugi, nikogo, ej-bogu!
Lyubvi bkzumnuyu trevogu
YA bezotradno ispytal.
Blazhen, kto s neyu sochetal
Goryachku rifm: ot tem udvoil
Poezii svyashchennyj bred,
Petrarke shestvuya vosled,
A muki serdca uspokoil,
Pojmal i slavu mezhdu tem;
No ya, lyubya, byl glu i nem.
LIX
When love was gone, the muse stood up in front,
The murky mind became more clear,
I'm free again and searching for concord
Of senses, thoughts, and sounds of magic that are dear.
The heart's not sad when I write,
The pen, half-consious, by the side
Of poems draws no more seducing eyes,
Or women legs, or their profiles.
Extingushed ashes will light up no more,
I am still sad, though tears aren't seen,
And very soon the storm will dim
Inside my soul - it shall not sore.
And there in writing I will strive
To craft some verses - maybe twenty five.
Proshla lyubov', yavilas' muza,
Proyasnilsya temnyj um.
Svoboden, vnov' ishchu soyuza
Volshebnyh zvukov, chuvstv i dum|;
Pishu, i serdce ne toskuet,
Pero, zabyvshis', ne risuet,
Bliz neokonchennyh stihov
Ni zhenskih nozhek, ni golov;
Pogasshij pepel uzh ne vspyhnet,
YA vse grushchu; no slez uzh net,
I skoro, skoro buri sled
V dushe moej sovsem utihnet:
Togda-to ya nachnu pisat'
Poemu pesen v dvadcat' pyat'.
LX
I've thought about the story's plot
And what will name the hero,
And now you see what I have wrote:
The chapter number one is here.
I looked it through, I was severe:
The contradiction are, but, well, I fear
I won't correct them - they amuse,
Thus paying sensors their dues.
And will give up my own creation
To journalists for humilation.
Now go, go to the Niva banks
And earn me fame, and earn me thanks,
And the rest of the hommage of glory:
Noise, gossips and eternal worry.
YA dumal uzh o forme plana,
I kak geroya nazovu;
Pokamest moeg romana
YA konchil pervuyu glavu;
Peresmotrel vse eto strogo:
Protivorechij ochen' mnogo,
No ih ispravit' ne hochu.
Cenzure dolg svoj zaplachu,
I zhurnalistam na s®eden'e
Plody trudov svoih otdam:
Idi zhe k nevskim beregam,
Novorozhdennoe tvoren'e,
I zasluzhi mne slavy dan':
Krivye tolki, shum i bran'!
I The country where Eugeniy lived in bore Was place of lavish, tranquil nature Its sky would bless the one who has a secret lore Of simple joy of its majestic stature. The master's mansion lonely, by river stood, Where not a wind it reach there could In front of it as far as one's eye sees, Spread meadows, framed with trees, And fields of many shades of gold, And villages; and here and there The cattle rambled everywhere, And orchard, though unkempt and old Grew by the mansion. Taciturn dryads Found in the orchard shelter for their heads.
|
I Derevnya, gde skuchal Evgenij, Byla prelestnyj ugolok; Tam drug nevinnyh naslazhdenij Blagoslovit' by nebo mog. Gospodskij dom uedinennyj, Goroj ot vetrov ograzhdennyj, Stoyal nad rechkoyu. Vdali Pred nim pestreli i cveli Luga i nivy zolotye, Mel'kali s£la; zdes' i tam Stada brodili po lugam, I seni rasshiryal gustye Ogromnyj, zapushch£nnyj sad, Priyut zadumchivyh driad.
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II The estate's mansion had been built The way such buildings are to be erected: Was mighty firm, with calmness filled, And by the good ol' fashion was effected. In every room high ceilings were, Wall papers from Damascus were there, And Royal portraits hang on walls, And motley tiles were decorating stoves. But everything has fallen now into decay, I don't know why that happened so. My friend didn't care `bout the house though I should take notice by the way For old-style fashioned rooms bored him As bad as modern ones he'd seen. |
II Pochtennyj zamok byl postroen, Kak zamki stroit'sya dolzhny: Otmenno prochen i spokoen Vo vkuse umnoj stariny. Veede vysokie pokoi, V gostinoj shtofnye oboi, Carej portrety na stenah, I pechi v pestryh izrazcah. Vs£ eto nyne obvetshalo, Ne znayu pravo pochemu; Da, vprochem, drugu moemu V tom nuzhdy bylo ochen' malo, Zatem chto on ravno zeval Sred' modnyh i starinnyh zal.
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III The country-side old-timer wrangled With housekeeper, mistress to all keys and spades, Looked at the window, flies he strangled. The furnishing was simple: on the oak floor Stood a bookcase, cupboard, sofa and bureau On them had not been smallest ink-spot left. Onegin opened bookcase not bereft: He found expenses-book recorded up-to-date, And in the cupboard - fruit moonshine, And row of jugs of apple wine, Expired calendar for year 18 and 08 As was too busy the old man now gone To be to other kinds of reading prone.
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III On v tom pokoe poselilsya, Gde derevenskij starozhil Let sorok s klyuchnicej branilsya, V okno smotrel i muh davil. Vse bylo prosto: pol dubovyj, Dva shkafa, stol, divan puhovyj, Nigde ni pyatnyshka chernil. Onegin shkafy otvoril: V odnom nashel tetrad' rashoda, V drugom nalivok celyj stroj, Kuvshiny s yablochnoj vodoj I kalendar' os'mogo goda; Starik, imeya mnogo del, V inye knigi ne glyadel.
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IV Amidst his vast domains alone, To pass his spear time, Eugeniy sought establishing new law, New order of some kind. A sage of place at back of the beyond, He substituted the corvee's old bond With quit-rent easy to be paid; The serf then started thanking fate. But in his home at once got pauted Perceiving awful harm in what Onegin did A thrifty neighbor. Another one just hid An archly smile observing what Eugeniy started. But out loud decision t'which they all agreed: Onegin's an eccentric, dang'rous kid.
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IV Odin sredi svoih vladenij, CHtob tol'ko vremya provodit', Sperva zadumal nash Evgenij Poryadok novyj uchredit'. V svoej glushi mudrec pustynnyj, YArem on barshchiny starinnoj Obrokom legkim zamenil; I rab sud'bu blagoslovil. Zato v uglu svoem nadulsya, Uvidya v etom strashnyj vred, Ego raschetlivyj sosed. Drugoj lukavo ulybnulsya, I v golos vse reshili tak, CHto on opasnejshij chudak.
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V At first all neighbours came to visit. But once hoofs clattered down the road Onegin had Don stallion exquisite Sent up to back porch and was gone. The neighbours soon got hurt, insulted Amicability was halted And word-to-mouth passed a notion (and many shared this emotion): Onegin's full of extravagance, He's ignoramus, un mason, With red wine has strong liason, And never kisses ladies' hands And never uses `nay' or `yes' As only `nope' and `yeah' he says. |
V Snachala vse k nemu ezzhali; No tak kak s zadnego kryl'ca Obyknovenno podavali Emu donskogo zherebca, Lish' tol'ko vdol' bol'shoj dorogi Zaslyshit ih domashni drogi,- Postupkom oskorbyas' takim, Vse druzhbu prekratili s nim. "Sosed nash neuch, sumasbrodit, On farmazon; on p'et odno Stakanom krasnoe vino; On damam k ruchke ne podhodit; Vse da da net; ne skazhet da-s Il' net-s". Takov byl obshchij glas.
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VI That very time to near-by estate Arrived its new land-lord. The neighbours rated him the same And put him on the spot. Vladimir Lensky was the name of man, His soul coined in that German Gettingen, Was handsome in the age of bloom Kant's devotee, a poet of the gloom, He brought from Germany a lot Fruits of enlighted education: Dreams vague about liberalization, L'esprit of passion, l'esprit odd, And burlesque manner of the speech And curly darkish hair that his shoulders reach
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VI V svoyu derevnyu v tu zhe poru Pomeshchik novyj priskakal I stol' zhe strogomu razboru V sosedstve povod podaval. Po imeni Vladimir Lenskij, S dushoyu pryamo gettingenskoj, Krasavec, v polnom cvete let, Poklonnik Kanta i poet. On iz Germanii tumannoj Privez uchenosti plody: Vol'nolyubivye mechty, Duh pylkij i dovol'no strannyj, Vsegda vostorzhennuyu rech' I kudri chernye do plech. |
VII He hasn't been yet burned and faded With world's hypocrisy and lies As soul was warmed and well protected By friends and young shy ladies' smiles; At heart he cutely knew a thing, As rose of hope there grew within, Yet captured was his avid mind By shine of world, its glitter side. With most enlighted visions, sweetest dreams He pacified all doubts of his soul; He searched for porpose of the life, its goal, And tried to hack enigma of the realms. In doing that he racked his brains, Suspecting miracles and saints. |
VII Ot hladnogo razvrata sveta Eshche uvyanut' ne uspev, Ego dusha byla sogreta Privetom druga, laskoj dev. On serdcem milyj byl nevezhda, Ego leleyala nadezhda, I mira novyj blesk i shum Eshche plenyali yunyj um. On zabavlyal mechtoyu sladkoj Somnen'ya serdca svoego; Cel' zhizni nashej dlya nego Byla zamanchivoj zagadkoj, Nad nej on golovu lomal I chudesa podozreval.
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VIII With all his heart Vladimir then believed There's a mate soul with which he is to join. Until that day the soul had to live Without joy and crawing for the moment. His friends, he thought, would go to prison If thus defend his honor they had reason And they would fight against insulting rumour That him defames the way does cancer tumor. He knew there were chosen guides, Some chosen friends of the mankind. One day, immortal, they, with brightest light That passes far to all the sides, Would gift the world salvation with its ray. He knew - there had to be such day. |
VIII On veril, chto dusha rodnaya Soedinit'sya s nim dolzhna, CHto, bezotradno iznyvaya, Ego vsednevno zhdet ona; On veril, chto druz'ya gotovy Za chest' ego priyat' okovy, I chto ne drognet ih ruka Razbit' sosud klevetnika; CHto est' izbrannye sud'bami, Lyudej svyashchennye druz'ya; CHto ih bessmertnaya sem'ya Neotrazimymi luchami, Kogda-nibud', nas ozarit I mir blazhenstvom odarit.
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IX From early days his blood was steaming With fury, passion and regret, He loved the good to which was leaning As was to glory, sweet and sad. He traveled world, rolled like a dice, Beneath the Schiller-Goethe skies, And with their poetic fire His soul flamed as did his lyre. He was no shame, -of lucky him! - To airy muses of creative In songs of his was pride of native Pure snow-white virgin dream, And songs to village versus city And that cute simpli-city.
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IX Negodovan'e, sozhalen'e, Ko blagu chistaya lyubov' I slavy sladkoe muchen'e V nem rano volnovali krov'. On s liroj stranstvoval na svete; Pod nebom SHillera i Gete Ih poeticheskim ognem Dusha vosplamenilas' v nem. I muz vozvyshennyh iskusstva, Schastlivec, on ne postydil; On v pesnyah gordo sohranil Vsegda vozvyshennye chuvstva, Poryvy devstvennoj mechty I prelest' vazhnoj prostoty. |
X Its humble slave, he sang to love His song - celestially clear Like thoughts of virgin ` |