My uncle had the darkest rules. My uncle's verse of the most honest rules

30.04.2019

Chapter one

Chapter One consists of fifty-four stanzas: I–VIII, X–XII, XV–XXXVIII and XLII–LX (gaps indicate missing stanzas, of which the existence of XXXIX–XLI was never known). The main characters are the author's “I” (a more or less stylized Pushkin) and Eugene Onegin. The center of the chapter, its bright and rapidly unwinding core, is contained in twelve stanzas (XV–XVII, XXI–XXV, XXVII–XXVIII, XXXV–XXXVI), describing sixteen hours of the city life of Onegin, a twenty-four-year-old dandy. Historical time - winter 1819, place - St. Petersburg, the capital of Russia. This is the eighth year of Onegin's social life, he still loves to dress smartly and dine luxuriously, but he is already tired of the theater, and he has left the stormy pleasures of love. The day of the St. Petersburg dandy, interrupted three times (XVIII–XX, XXVI, XXIX–XXXIV) by Pushkin’s memories and reflections, is introduced between the story of Onegin’s education and the description of his spleen. The story about education is preceded by a short sketch in which Onegin is depicted going by mail to his uncle’s estate (in May 1820), and the description of the spleen is followed by a story about Pushkin’s friendship with Onegin and the latter’s arrival in the village where his uncle had already died. The chapter ends with several stanzas (LV–LX), in which the author talks about himself.

Development of the themes of the first chapter

I: Onegin's internal monologue on the road from St. Petersburg to his uncle's estate.

II: Traditional transition: “So thought the young rake.” Pushkin introduces his hero (this “unofficial” introduction will later be supplemented by an “official”, parodic, belated “introduction” in the last stanza of the seventh chapter). Stanza II also contains some references to “professional” topics, namely: the mention of “Ruslan and Lyudmila” (1820) and the expression “the hero of my novel” (this expression will be repeated with some changes in chapters 5, XVII, 12, where Tatyana in excitement he sees in a dream “the hero of our novel” hosting a feast of ghosts). The autobiographical motive is presented in II, 13–14 with a humorous reminder of the author’s own expulsion from the capital.

III–VII: The description of Eugene's childhood and youth, permeated with the theme of superficial education, is given in a more or less continuous presentation. A philosophical note can be heard in various witty judgments about Onegin’s upbringing (V, 1–4: “we are all”; IV, 13: “What more do you need?”; VI, 2: “So, if I tell you the truth”), and “ The professional remark is introduced in the quatrain of stanza VII, where “we” could not teach Onegin the secrets of prosody. The theme of Onegin's indifference to poetry will be raised again in the six final verses of the stanza of Chapter XVI. 2 (when Lensky reads Ossian’s Onegin), and in ch. 8, XXXVIII, 5–8 Onegin will finally almost master the “mechanism of Russian poetry.” In his youth, Onegin appears as a Frenchized Russian in the dress of an English dandy, who began social life at the age of sixteen or seventeen. Before us is a salon doll. The fire of his epigrams is noted, but not a single one is quoted in the chapter, and later examples of his wit are also not worthy of description.

VIII, X–XII: The rhetorical transition from intellectual to sensual education is introduced by the conjunction “but” of the third verse of the VIII stanza. “The science of tender passion” in verse 9 leads to Ovid, and a clear autobiographical reminiscence arises in the form of an introductory digression about the Roman poet’s exile in Moldavia, which ends stanza VIII. Pushkin reduced Onegin’s red tape to three stanzas (X–XII).

XV–XXXVI: Here is the central part of the chapter, a story (interrupted by digressions) about one day in Onegin’s life in the capital. The absence of any formally expressed transition between the story of Onegin’s attitude towards women and the beginning of his day in XV is surprisingly compensated by the artificial pause that arises due to the absence of two stanzas between XII and XV. This circumstance leads to a proper change of topics in the narrative, when the story about the hero’s day is introduced with the word “happened.”

XV–XVII: Without interruption, the narrative flows on various topics (XV, 9-14 - morning walk; XVI - lunch; XVII - departure to the theater).

XVIII–XX: An element of Pushkin's participation. A nostalgic digression about the theater opens stanza XVIII, which ends with a lyrical recollection of the author’s time spent behind the scenes in the now forbidden city for him (“there, there ... my younger days rushed” - echoing the final couplet in II in a more melancholic vein). This is followed by the autobiographical stanza XIX with a nostalgic resurrection of the images of theatrical goddesses and a premonition of change and disappointment. In the XX stanza these theatrical memories seem to crystallize. Pushkin is ahead of Onegin and is the first to enter the theater, where he watches Istomina’s performance, which ends by the time Onegin appears in the next stanza. The “overtaking” technique is used here (it will be repeated in XXVII). The natural transition from Pushkin to Onegin receives an amazing temporal and intonation expression.

XXI–XXII: The enumeration of Onegin's actions continues. He was tired of the theater. French cupids and Franco-Chinese dragons are still jumping around the stage with all their might, and Onegin leaves and goes home to change clothes.

XXIII–XXVI: Pushkin, still in the form of an ethereal character, explores Onegin's office. This topic is formally introduced by the time-tested rhetorical question “Shall I depict...?” In the introductory part of the playful philosophizing in XXIV, 9-14, Rousseau is mentioned, then in the quatrain of the next stanza the same theme arises (“The custom of a despot among people,” a banality that breaks through in various formulations here and there as the novel progresses). Stanza XXVI contains a “professional” digression, which talks about the highly condemned use of foreign words in the Russian language. The poet’s conscious predilection for Gallicisms will be mentioned again in the remarks preceding “Tatiana’s Letter to Onegin”, in Chapter. 3 and in ch. 8, XIV, 13–14.

XXVII: The “overtaking” technique is repeated. Pushkin lingered too long in our dandy’s office, describing him to the reader, and Onegin goes before him to the mansion, where the ball is already in full swing. A rhetorical transition sounds: “We’d better hurry to the ball,” and Pushkin rushes there silently, like a bat, and, having overtaken his hero (XXVII, 5-14), he is the first to find himself in the illuminated house, just as he was recently the first to find himself in theater

XXVIII: Then Onegin appears. His presence at the ball is mentioned only here, and also - retrospectively - in stanza XXXVI.

XXIX–XXXIV: These six stanzas, full of stylized autobiography, contain the most striking digression of the first song. Let's call it a “digression on legs.” A natural transition leads to it from XXVIII, 10–14, where two themes are outlined. (1) fiery eyes following pretty legs, and (2) the whispers of fashionable wives. Pushkin in XXIX first addresses the second theme and develops it in a rather traditional sketch of a love affair in a ballroom. After nostalgic memories of St. Petersburg balls, the topic of legs itself is raised in XXX, 8 and can be traced to XXXIV, with references to oriental carpets (XXXI), Terpsichore’s legs (XXXII, 2–8), women’s legs in various settings (XXXII, 9–14) , with the famous description of the sea (XXXIII), the happy stirrup (XXXIV, 1–8) and the angry, ironic conclusion (XXXIV, 9–14).

XXXV: The digression on legs is closed. “What about my Onegin?” - an example of a typical rhetorical transition. Pushkin hurries after his hero returning home from the ball, but cannot help but stop to describe the beautiful frosty morning.

XXXVI: Meanwhile, Onegin got to bed and fell fast asleep. In 9-14 there follows a rhetorical and didactic question: “But was my Eugene happy?” The negative answer is given in the first line of the next stanza.

XXXVII–XLIV: A string of five stanzas (XXXIX–XLI are missing) describes Onegin’s spleen. The gap left by the missing stanzas XXXIX–XLI gives the impression of a long, melancholy yawn. Onegin lost interest in secular beauties (XLII) and courtesans (XLIII, 1–5). He has locked himself at home today and is trying to write (XLIII, 6-14) and read (XLIV) to no avail. Onegin, unable to write poetry, is not inclined towards prose, and therefore did not fall into the perky guild of people to which Pushkin belongs. The reading range of Onegin, outlined by several names in Chapter. 1, V and VI (Juvenal, two verses from the Aeneid, Adam Smith), characterized in ch. I, XLIV in general, without names and titles, attention will be drawn to it again in Chapter. 7, XXII and 8, XXXV.

XLV–XLVIII: More details of Onegin’s “blueness” are given here, but the main compositional meaning of these stanzas is the rapprochement of the two main characters of the first song. This is where (XLV) their friendship begins. Before this stanza, Pushkin only flashed through the novel as an ethereal shadow, but did not act as a character. Pushkin's voice was heard, his presence was felt as he flew from one stanza to another in a ghostly atmosphere of memories and nostalgia, but Onegin had no idea that his friend the rake was present both at the ballet and in the ballroom. From now on, Pushkin will be a full-fledged hero of the novel, and together with Onegin they, in fact, will appear as two characters in the space of four stanzas (XLV–XLVIII). Their common features are emphasized in XLV (the differences will be noted later - although we already know that Onegin is not a poet); Onegin's attractive sarcasm is described in XLVI, and in XLVII–XLVIII both heroes enjoy the transparent northern night on the Neva embankment. Nostalgic memories of former loves and the sounds of a horn from the Neva lead from here to a digression of two stanzas of rare beauty.

XLIX-L: This is the third extensive lyrical digression (see my comment on the Venetian allusions). In the verses that rush in like waves, it enhances the notes of nostalgia and exile in stanzas II, VIII and XIX. In addition, it re-emphasizes the difference between the two heroes - between the dry, prosaic hypochondria of the 18th century, inherent in the free Onegin, and the rich, romantic, inspired melancholy of the exiled Pushkin (his spiritual thirst, different from the dyspepsia of the hypochondriac rake). Particularly noteworthy is Pushkin’s impulse to rush off to an exotic free country, a fabulous land, fabulous Africa with the sole purpose of painfully regretting gloomy Russia there (the very country he left), thus combining new experience and preserved memories in the synthesis of artistic revaluation. In Odessa 1823, Pushkin (see his own note to L, 3) still dreams of visiting Venice (XLIX) and Africa (L), as he apparently dreamed before, during walks with Onegin in the first week of May 1820 g., judging by the very natural transition that opens LI: “Onegin was ready with me / To see foreign countries; But…"

LI–LIV: Now it's time to return to topic I-II. Pushkin and Onegin part, and we, enriched with information about Onegin’s childhood, youth and absent-minded life in St. Petersburg, again join him on the way from the capital to his uncle’s estate. “And with that I began my novel,” notes Pushkin in a “professional” remark “to the side” (LII, 11). Onegin arrives at the estate, where he learns about the death of the old man (LII, 12–14). Settles in the village (LIII, 9). At first, rural life occupies him, then boredom begins to overcome him again. Rural delights listed in LIV as the reason Onegin blues, provide a natural transition to an autobiographical and “professional” digression in the six stanzas that conclude the chapter (LV–LX).

LV–LVI: Pushkin contrasts his friend’s spleen with his own creative love for the village, which he extols as the best abode for his Muse. In LVI, the difference between the stylized Pushkin, blissfully dreaming in the idyllic oak forests, and Onegin, indulging in the melancholy in the village, is used to emphasize that our author does not share Byron's whim to identify himself with the hero. The reference to the “mocking reader” and the publisher of the “intricate slander” is another touch to the development of the “professional” theme in this stanza.

LVII–LIX, 1-12: A semi-lyrical, semi-literary digression, during which Pushkin explains how his inspiration creates. Stanza LVII (which will find a magnificent response and will be strengthened in Chapter 8, IV and in Onegin’s Travels, XIX) includes two more bibliographic references in the narrative - to “The Captive of the Caucasus” and “ Bakhchisarai fountain”, composed by Pushkin in the years between the creation of the poem “Ruslan and Lyudmila” (completed in 1820) and “Eugene Onegin” (begun in 1823).

LIX, 13–14 and LX, 1–2: A somewhat unexpected “professional” remark “to the side.” Pushkin promises to write a great poem not related to EO(a similar promise - this time to write a novel in prose - will be given in Chapter 3, XIII–XIV).

LX, 3-14: Meanwhile, the poet finished the first chapter of this novel and, to the pseudo-classical accompaniment of parting words and forebodings, sends it north, to the “Neva banks,” the remoteness of which was already mentioned in II. Thus the song ends elegantly.

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

Analysis of “My uncle has the most honest rules” - the first stanza of Eugene Onegin

In the first lines of the novel, Pushkin describes Uncle Onegin. The phrase “the most honest rules” was taken by him from. Comparing his uncle with a character from a fable, the poet hints that his “honesty” was only a cover for cunning and resourcefulness. Uncle knew how to skillfully adapt to public opinion and, without arousing any suspicion, carry out his shady deeds. Thus he earned a good name and respect.

My uncle's serious illness became another reason to attract attention. The line “I couldn’t have come up with a better idea” reveals the idea that even from an illness that can cause death, Onegin’s uncle tries (and succeeds) to derive practical benefit. Those around him are sure that he fell ill due to a neglectful attitude towards his health for the benefit of his neighbors. This apparent selfless service to people becomes a reason for even greater respect. But he is unable to deceive his nephew, who knows all the ins and outs. Therefore, there is irony in Eugene Onegin’s words about illness.

In the line “science is his example to others,” Pushkin again uses irony. Representatives high society in Russia they always made a sensation out of their illness. This was mainly due to issues of inheritance. A crowd of heirs gathered around the dying relatives. They tried in every possible way to gain the favor of the patient in the hope of reward. The dying man's merits and his supposed virtue were loudly proclaimed. This is the situation that the author uses as an example.

Onegin is the heir of his uncle. By right of close kinship, he is obliged to spend “day and night” at the patient’s bedside and provide him with any assistance. The young man understands that he must do this if he does not want to lose his inheritance. Do not forget that Onegin is just a “young rake.” In his sincere reflections, he expresses real feelings, which are aptly designated by the phrase “low deceit.” And he, and his uncle, and everyone around him understands why his nephew does not leave the dying man’s bed. But the real meaning is covered with a false veneer of virtue. Onegin is incredibly bored and disgusted. There is only one phrase constantly on his tongue: “When will the devil take you!”

The mention of the devil, and not God, further emphasizes the unnaturalness of Onegin’s experiences. In reality, the uncle’s “honest rules” do not deserve a heavenly life. Everyone around him, led by Onegin, is eagerly awaiting his death. Only by doing this will he render a real invaluable service to society.

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

The fact that first Madame and then Monsieur Abbot went to Eugene is the system of standard “noble” education of those years. French was the main, sometimes the first, language of the Russian aristocracy. For example, the famous Decembrist Mikhail Bestuzhev-Ryumin practically did not know Russian, and studied it before his death. Such are the things :-) It is clear that with such an education, it is important that the first nannies and teachers are native speakers of French. Everything is clear with Madame, but that’s why the second teacher was the Abbot. Initially, in my youth, I thought it was his last name.

M. Bestuzhev-Ryumin

But no - there is a hint here of his clerical, that is, church past. I think that he was forced to flee revolutionary France, where the ministers of the Church suffered greatly, and labored in Russia as a teacher. And as practice shows, he was not a bad teacher :-) By the way, the word wretched does not carry any negative meaning. Monsieur Abbot was simply poor, and Pushkin uses this term here precisely in in this context. He fed from the table of his student, and his father paid him a salary, albeit small.
By the way, the fact that they walked in the Summer Garden, which by that time had received its current boundaries, suggests that Evgeniy lived nearby.

Lattice of the Summer Garden.

Let's continue.

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

Real dandies :-)

As I said above, Monsieur Abbot turned out to be a good teacher and taught Eugene well. This can be seen in this stanza and in the following ones. The term dandy went down among the people, as they say, and has since come to mean a man who emphasizes aesthetics appearance and behavior, as well as the sophistication of speech and courtly behavior. This is a separate topic for conversation, and we will be happy to talk about it next time. The term itself comes from the Scottish verb “dander” (to walk) and denoted dandies and rich people. The first real dandy, so to speak, “style icon,” was George Brian Brummel, a friend and clothing adviser to the future King George IV.

D.B. Brummel

Mazurka is originally a Polish national fast dance, which received its name in honor of the Masurians or Mazovians - inhabitants of Mazovia (Masuria), part of central Poland. In the years described in the novel, the mazurka became an extremely popular dance at balls, and being able to dance it was a sign of “advancedness.” A little later the mazurka will be displayed on new level the great F. Chopin.

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

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

Learn Latin, really...:-)))

Knowing historical anecdotes is great. Yuri Vladimirovich Nikulin and Roman Trakhtenberg would approve of this :-) Putting vale at the end of the letter is not only beautiful, but also correct. After all, translated into completely original Russian it could be interpreted as “Be healthy, boyar” :-) And if you, my dear readers, are at the end of your written monologue during the clarification the most important issue of being “who is wrong on the Internet” put not only dixi, but also vale - it will be beautiful :-)
It’s not very possible to talk about Juvenal these days, because it’s not always with anyone, but in vain. Decimus Junius Juvenal is a Roman satirist poet, contemporary of the emperors Vespasian and Trajan. In some places it’s annoying :-) Although one expression associated with this Roman is certainly familiar to any of you. This is "B" healthy body- healthy mind." But we talked about it in more detail here:
(if you haven’t read it, I’ll take the liberty of recommending it)

We studied Virgil's Aeneid at the University. I don’t remember about the school, but in theory, it seemed like they could study it. This epic tells about the resettlement of the Trojan prince Aeneas to the Apennines and the founding of the city of Alba Longa, which later became the center of the Latin Union. What we also talked a little about here:

This is exactly the engraving of Virgil that Eugene could have seen :-)

I confess to you honestly, unlike Eugene, I don’t know a single verse from the Aeneid by heart. It is interesting that the Aeneid became a role model, and produced a bunch of alterations and variations. Including the rather funny “Aeneid” by Ivan Kotlyarevsky, if I’m not mistaken, almost the first work in the Ukrainian language.

To be continued...
Have a nice time of day.

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

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

“My uncle has the most honest rules,

When I seriously fell ill,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of anything better.

His example to others is science;

But, my God, what a bore

To sit with the patient day and night,

Without leaving a single step!

What low deceit

To amuse the half-dead,

Adjust his pillows

It's sad to bring medicine,

Sigh and think to yourself:

When will the devil take you!”

So thought the young rake,

Flying in the dust on postage,

By the Almighty will of Zeus

Heir to all his relatives. -

Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!

With the hero of my novel

Without preamble, right now

Let me introduce you:

Onegin, my good friend,

Born on the banks of the Neva,

Where might you have been born?

Or shone, my reader;

I once walked there too:

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

Having served excellently and nobly,

His father lived in debt

Gave three balls annually

And finally squandered it.

Eugene's fate kept:

At first Madame followed him,

Then Monsieur replaced her;

The child was harsh, but sweet.

Monsieur l'Abbe€, poor Frenchman,

So that the child does not get tired,

I taught him everything jokingly,

I didn’t bother you with strict morals,

Lightly scolded for pranks

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

When will the rebellious youth

The time has come for Evgeniy

It's time for hope and tender sadness,

Monsieur was driven out of the yard.

Here is my Onegin free;

Haircut in the latest fashion;

Like dandy Dandy, dandy. London dressed -

And finally saw the light.

He's completely French

He could express himself and wrote;

I danced the mazurka easily

And he bowed casually;

What do you want more? The light has decided

That he is smart and very nice.

We all learned a little bit

Something and somehow

So upbringing, thank God,

It's no wonder for us to shine.

Onegin was, according to many

(decisive and strict judges),

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

He had a lucky talent

No coercion in conversation

Touch everything lightly

With the learned air of a connoisseur

Remain silent in an important dispute

And make the ladies smile

Fire of unexpected epigrams.

Latin is now out of fashion:

So, if I tell you the truth,

He knew quite a bit of Latin,

To understand the epigraphs,

Talk about Juvenal,

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

Yes, I remembered, although not without sin,

Two verses from the Aeneid.

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

History of the earth;

But the jokes of days gone by

From Romulus to the present day,

He kept it in his memory.

Having no high passion

No mercy for the sounds of life,

He could not iambic from trochee,

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

Scolded Homer, Theocritus;

But I read Adam Smith

And there was a deep economy,

That is, he knew how to judge

How does the state get rich?

And how does he live, and why?

No need gold for him,

When simple product has.

His father couldn't understand him

And he gave the lands as collateral.

Everything that Evgeniy still knew,

Tell me about your lack of time;

But what was his true genius?

What he knew more firmly than all sciences,

What happened to him from childhood

And labor, and torment, and joy,

What took the whole day

His melancholy laziness, -

There was a science of tender passion,

Which Nazon sang,

Why did he end up a sufferer?

Its age is brilliant and rebellious

In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,

Far away from Italy.

……………………………………

How early could he be a hypocrite?

To harbor hope, to be jealous,

To dissuade, to make believe,

Seem gloomy, languish,

Be proud and obedient

Attentive or indifferent!

How languidly silent he was,

How fieryly eloquent

How careless in heartfelt letters!

Breathing alone, loving alone,

How he knew how to forget himself!

How quick and gentle his gaze was,

Shy and impudent, and sometimes

Shined with an obedient tear!

How he knew how to seem new,

Jokingly amaze innocence,

To frighten with despair,

To amuse with pleasant flattery,

Catch a moment of tenderness,

Innocent years of prejudice

Win with intelligence and passion,

Expect involuntary affection

Beg and demand recognition

Listen to the first sound of the heart,

Pursue love and suddenly

Achieve a secret date...

And then she's alone

Give lessons in silence!

How early could he have disturbed

Hearts of coquettes!

When did you want to destroy

He has his rivals,

How he sarcastically slandered!

What networks I prepared for them!

But you, blessed men,

You stayed with him as friends:

The wicked husband caressed him,

Foblas is a long-time student,

And the distrustful old man

And the majestic cuckold,

Always happy with yourself

With his lunch and his wife.

……………………………………

Sometimes he was still in bed:

They bring notes to him.

What? Invitations? In fact,

Three houses for the evening call:

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

Where will my prankster ride?

Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:

It’s no wonder it’s easy to keep up with everything.

While in morning dress,

Wearing a wide bolivar Hat a la Bolivar. ,

Onegin goes to the boulevard,

And there he walks in the open space,

While the watchful Breget

Dinner won't ring his bell.

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

“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;

Silvery with frosty dust

His beaver collar.

To Talon Famous restaurateur. rushed: he was sure

What is Kaverin waiting for him there?

Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,

The comet's fault flowed with current;

In front of him is roast-beef Roast-beef (roast beef) – meat dish English cuisine. bloody

And truffles, the luxury of youth,

French cuisine is the best color,

And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable

Between live Limburg cheese

And a golden pineapple.

Thirst asks for more glasses

Pour hot fat over cutlets,

But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,

That a new ballet has begun.

The theater is an evil legislator,

Fickle Adorer

Charming actresses

Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,

Onegin flew to the theater,

Where everyone, breathing freedom,

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

To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,

Call Moina (in order to

Just so they can hear him).

Magic land! there in the old days,

Satires brave ruler,

Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,

And the overbearing Prince;

There Ozerov involuntary tributes

People's tears, applause

Shared with young Semyonova;

There our Katenin was resurrected

Corneille is a majestic genius;

There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out

A noisy swarm of their comedies,

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

There, there under the canopy of the scenes

My younger days were rushing by.

My goddesses! what do you? where are you?

Hear my sad voice:

Are you still the same? other maidens,

Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?

Will I hear your choirs again?

Will I see the Russian Terpsichore

Soul filled flight?

Or a sad look will not find

Familiar faces on a boring stage,

And, looking towards the alien light

Disappointed lorgnette

An indifferent spectator of fun,

I will yawn silently

And remember the past?

The theater is already full; the boxes shine;

The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;

In paradise they splash impatiently,

And, rising, the curtain makes noise.

Brilliant, half-airy,

I obey the magic bow,

Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,

Worth Istomin; she,

One foot touching the floor,

The other slowly circles,

And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,

Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;

Now the camp will sow, then it will develop,

And with a quick foot he hits the leg.

Everything is clapping. Onegin enters

Walks between the chairs along the legs,

The double lorgnette points sideways

To the boxes of unknown ladies;

I looked around all the tiers,

I saw everything: faces, clothes

He is terribly unhappy;

With men on all sides

He bowed, then went on stage.

He looked in great absentmindedness,

He turned away and yawned,

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

I endured ballets for a long time,

But I’m tired of Didelot5) too.”

More cupids, devils, snakes

They jump and make noise on stage;

Still tired lackeys

They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;

They haven't stopped stomping yet,

Blow your nose, cough, shush, clap;

Still outside and inside

Lanterns are shining everywhere;

Still frozen, the horses fight,

Bored with my harness,

And the coachmen, around the lights,

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

And Onegin went out;

He goes home to get dressed.

Will I portray the truth in the picture?

Secluded office

Where is the mod pupil exemplary

Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Everything for a plentiful whim

London trades scrupulously

And on the Baltic waves

He brings us lard and timber,

Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

Having chosen a useful trade,

Invents for fun

For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

Everything decorated the office

Philosopher at eighteen years old.

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,

Porcelain and bronze on the table,

And, a joy to pampered feelings,

Perfume in cut crystal;

Combs, steel files,

Straight scissors, curved scissors,

And brushes of thirty kinds

For both nails and teeth.

Rousseau (note in passing)

Couldn't understand how important Grim was

I dared to brush my nails in front of him,

An eloquent madman

Tout le monde sut qu'il mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyais rien, je commenzai de le croire, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint et pour avoir trouve€ des tasses de blanc sur sa toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvai brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite expris, ouvrage qu'il continua fiirement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins a brosser ses ongles, peut bien passer quelques instants a remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau.

Confessions J. J. Rousseau

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

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

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

Defender of Liberty and Rights

In this case, completely wrong.

You can be a smart person

And think about the beauty of nails:

Why argue fruitlessly with the century?

The custom is despot between people.

Second Chadayev, my Evgeniy,

Fearing jealous judgments,

There was a pedant in his clothes

And what we called dandy.

He's at least three o'clock

He spent in front of the mirrors

And he came out of the restroom

Like windy Venus,

When, wearing a man's outfit,

The goddess goes to a masquerade.

In the last taste of the toilet

Taking your curious glance,

I could before the learned light

Here to describe his outfit;

Of course it would be brave

Describe my business:

But trousers, tailcoat, vest,

All these words are not in Russian;

And I see, I apologize to you,

Well, my poor syllable is already

I could have been much less colorful

Foreign words

Even though I looked in the old days

In Academic Dictionary.

Now we have something wrong in the subject:

We better hurry to the ball,

Where to headlong in a Yamsk carriage

My Onegin has already galloped.

In front of the faded houses

Along the sleepy street in rows

Double carriage lights

Cheerful shed light

And they bring rainbows to the snow;

Dotted with bowls all around,

The magnificent house glitters;

Shadows walk across the solid windows,

Profiles of heads flash

And ladies and fashionable weirdos.

Here our hero drove up to the entryway;

He passes the doorman with an arrow

He flew up the marble steps,

Straightened hair by hand,

Entered. The hall is full of people;

The music is already tired of thundering;

The crowd is busy with the mazurka;

There is noise and crowding all around;

The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;

The legs of lovely ladies are flying;

In their captivating footsteps

Fiery eyes fly

And drowned out by the roar of violins

Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

On days of fun and desires

I was crazy about balls:

Or rather, there is no room for confessions

And for delivering a letter.

O you, honorable spouses!

I will offer you my services;

Please notice my speech:

I want to warn you.

You, mamas, are also stricter

Follow your daughters:

Hold your lorgnette straight!

Not that... not that, God forbid!

That's why I'm writing this

That I haven’t sinned for a long time.

Alas, for different fun

I've ruined a lot of lives!

But if morals had not suffered,

I would still love balls.

I love mad youth

And tightness, and shine, and joy,

And I’ll give you a thoughtful outfit;

I love their legs; but it's unlikely

You will find in Russia a whole

Three pairs of slender female legs.

Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time

Two legs... Sad, cold,

I remember them all, even in my dreams

They trouble my heart.

When and where, in what desert,

Madman, will you forget them?

Oh, legs, legs! where are you now?

Where do you crush spring flowers?

Nurtured in eastern bliss,

On the northern, sad snow

You left no traces:

You loved soft carpets

A luxurious touch.

How long have I forgotten for you?

And I thirst for fame and praise,

And the land of the fathers, and imprisonment?

The happiness of youth has disappeared,

Like your light trail in the meadows.

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

Lovely, dear friends!

However, Terpsichore's leg

Something more charming for me.

She, prophesying with a glance

An unappreciated reward

Attracts with conventional beauty

A willful swarm of desires.

I love her, my friend Elvina,

Under long tablecloths,

In the spring on the grassy meadows,

In winter on a cast iron fireplace,

On the mirrored parquet hall,

By the sea on granite rocks.

I remember the sea before the storm:

How I envied the waves

Running in a stormy line

Lay down with love at her feet!

How I wished then with the waves

Touch your lovely feet with your lips!

No, never on hot days

My boiling youth

I didn't wish with such torment

Kiss the lips of the young Armids,

Or fiery roses kiss their cheeks,

Or hearts full of languor;

No, never a rush of passion

Never tormented my soul like that!

I remember another time!

In sometimes cherished dreams

I hold the happy stirrup...

And I feel the leg in my hands;

Imagination is in full swing again

Her touch again

The blood ignited in the withered heart,

Again longing, again love!..

But it is enough to glorify the arrogant

With his chatty lyre;

They are not worth any passions

No songs inspired by them:

The words and gaze of these sorceresses

Deceptive... like their legs.

What about my Onegin? Half asleep

He goes to bed from the ball:

And St. Petersburg is restless

Already awakened by the drum.

The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,

The morning snow crunches under it.

I woke up in the morning with a pleasant noise.

The shutters are open; pipe smoke

Rising like a pillar of blue,

And the baker, a neat German,

In a paper cap, more than once

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

But, tired of the noise of the ball,

And the morning turns to midnight,

Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade

Fun and luxury child.

Will wake up at noon, and again

Until the morning his life is ready,

Monotonous and colorful

And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.

But was my Eugene happy?

Free, in the color of the best years,

Among the brilliant victories,

Among everyday pleasures?

Was he in vain among the feasts?

Careless and healthy?

No: his feelings cooled down early;

He was tired of the noise of the world;

The beauties didn't last long

The subject of his usual thoughts;

The betrayals have become tiresome;

Friends and friendship are tired,

Because I couldn’t always

Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie

Pouring a bottle of champagne

And pour out sharp words,

When you had a headache;

And although he was an ardent rake,

But he finally fell out of love

And scolding, and saber, and lead.

The disease whose cause

It's time to find it long ago,

Similar to the English spleen,

In short: Russian blues

I mastered it little by little;

He'll shoot himself God bless,

I didn't want to try

But he completely lost interest in life.

Like Child-Harold, gloomy, languid

He appeared in living rooms;

Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,

Not a sweet look, not an immodest sigh,

Nothing touched him

He didn't notice anything.

……………………………………

Freakies of the big world!

He left everyone before you;

And the truth is that in our summer

The higher tone is rather boring;

At least maybe another lady

Interprets Say and Bentham,

But in general their conversation

Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;

Besides, they are so immaculate,

So majestic, so smart,

So full of piety,

So careful, so precise,

So unapproachable for men,

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

And you, young beauties,

Which sometimes later

The daring droshky carries away

Along the St. Petersburg pavement,

And my Eugene left you.

Renegade of stormy pleasures,

Onegin locked himself at home,

Yawning, he took up the pen,

I wanted to write - but hard work

He felt sick; Nothing

It did not come from his pen,

And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop

People I don't judge

Because I belong to them.

And again, betrayed by idleness,

Languishing with spiritual emptiness,

He sat down - with a laudable purpose

Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;

He lined the shelf with a group of books,

I read and read, but to no avail:

There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;

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

Everyone is wearing different chains;

And the old thing is outdated,

And the old are delirious of the newness.

Like women, he left books,

And a shelf with their dusty family,

Covered it with mourning taffeta.

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,

How does he, having fallen behind the bustle,

I became friends with him at that time.

I liked his features

Involuntary devotion to dreams,

Inimitable strangeness

And a sharp, chilled mind.

I was embittered, he was gloomy;

We both knew the game of passion;

Life tormented both of us;

The heat died down in both hearts;

Anger awaited both

Blind Fortune and People

In the very morning of our days.

He who lived and thought cannot

Do not despise people in your heart;

Whoever felt it is worried

Ghost of irrevocable days:

There's no charm for that

That serpent of memories

He is gnawing at remorse.

All this often gives

Great pleasure to the conversation.

First Onegin's language

I was embarrassed; but I'm used to it

To his caustic argument,

And as a joke, with bile in half,

And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

How often in the summer,

When it's clear and light

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

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

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

On the distant seaside silvery sails are visible

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

The night sky shines with a gloomless radiance,

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

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

Ruddy morning. - It was a golden time.

How summer days steal the dominion of the night;

How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky captivates

The magical radiance of shadow and sweet light,

How the noon sky is never adorned;

That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden,

Whose eyes are blue and cheeks are scarlet

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

Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see

Evening without twilight and fast nights without shadow;

Then Philomela will only end her midnight songs

And the songs start, welcoming the rising day.

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

The dew has dropped; ………………………

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

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

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

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

Only an extended scream will rush from the distance

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

Everyone is asleep. ………………………

And the waters are cheerful glass

Diana's face does not reflect

Remembering the novels of previous years,

Remembering my old love,

Sensitive, careless again,

Breath of the favorable night

We reveled silently!

Like a green forest from prison

The sleepy convict has been transferred,

So we were carried away by the dream

Young at the start of life.

With a soul full of regrets,

And leaning on granite,

Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,

How did he describe himself?

Show favor to the goddess

He sees an enthusiastic drink,

Who spends the night sleepless,

Leaning on granite.

(Muravyev. Goddess of the Neva)

Everything was quiet; only at night

The sentries called to each other;

Yes, the distant sound of the droshky

With Millonna Milyonnaya is the name of a street in St. Petersburg. suddenly rang out;

Just a boat, waving its oars,

Floated along the dormant river:

And we were captivated in the distance

The horn and the song are daring...

But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,

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

Adriatic waves,

Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you

And, full of inspiration again,

I will hear your magical voice!

He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;

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

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

Golden nights of Italy

I will enjoy the bliss in freedom

With the young Venetian,

Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,

Floating in a mysterious gondola;

With her my lips will find

Everyone has their own mind and sense:

Evgeny, hating litigation,

Satisfied with my lot,

He gave them the inheritance

Not seeing a big loss

Or foreknowledge from afar

The death of the old man's uncle.

Suddenly he really got

Report from the manager

That uncle is dying in bed

And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.

After reading the sad message,

Evgeniy on a date right away

Swiftly galloped through the mail

And I already yawned in advance,

Getting ready, for the sake of money,

For sighs, boredom and deception

(And thus I began my novel);

But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,

I found it already on the table,

Like a tribute ready to the earth.

He found the yard full of services;

To the dead man from all sides

Enemies and friends gathered,

Hunters before the funeral.

The deceased was buried.

The priests and guests ate and drank

And then we parted important ways,

It's as if they were busy.

Here is our Onegin - a villager,

Factories, waters, forests, lands

The owner is complete, and until now

An enemy of order and a spendthrift,

And I’m very glad that the old path

Changed it to something.

Two days seemed new to him

Lonely fields

The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,

The babbling of a quiet stream;

On the third grove, hill and field

He was no longer occupied;

Then they induced sleep;

Then he saw clearly

That in the village the boredom is the same,

Although there are no streets or palaces,

No cards, no balls, no poems.

Handra was waiting for him on guard,

And she ran after him,

Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

I was born for a peaceful life

For village silence:

More vivid creative dreams.

Dedicating yourself to the leisure of the innocent,

I wander over a deserted lake,

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

I wake up every morning

For sweet bliss and freedom:

I read little, sleep for a long time,

I don’t catch flying glory.

Isn't that how I was in years past?

Spent inactive, in the shadows

My happiest days?

Flowers, love, village, idleness,

Fields! I am devoted to you with my soul.

I'm always happy to notice the difference

Between Onegin and me,

To the mocking reader

Or some publisher

Intricate slander

Comparing my features here,

Didn’t repeat it shamelessly later,

Why did I smear my portrait?

Like Byron, the poet of pride,

As if it's impossible for us

Write poems about others

Poetry is sacred nonsense,

Following Petrarch,

And calmed the torment of the heart,

In the meantime, I also caught fame;

But I, loving, was stupid and dumb.

Love has passed, the muse has appeared,

And the dark mind became clear.

Free, looking for union again

Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;

I write, and my heart does not grieve,

The pen, having forgotten itself, does not draw

Near unfinished poems

No women's legs, no heads;

The extinguished ashes will no longer flare up,

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

And soon, soon the storm's trail

My soul will completely calm down:

Then I'll start writing

Poem of songs in twenty-five.

I was already thinking about the form of the plan

And I’ll call him a hero;

For now, in my novel

I finished the first chapter;

I reviewed it all strictly;

There are a lot of contradictions

But I don’t want to correct them;

I will pay my debt to censorship

And for journalists to eat

I will give the fruits of my labors;

Go to the banks of the Neva,

Newborn creation

And earn me a tribute of glory:

Crooked talk, noise and swearing!

When I seriously fell ill,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of anything better.

His example to others is science;

This is how the novel “Eugene Onegin”, written by Pushkin, begins. Pushkin borrowed the phrase for the first line from Krylov’s fable “The Donkey and the Peasant.” The fable was published in 1819, and was still popular among readers. The phrase “the fairest rules” was expressed with obvious subtext. My uncle served conscientiously, fulfilled his duties, but, hiding behind " fair rules“During the service, I did not forget about my beloved self. He knew how to steal unnoticed, and made a decent fortune, which he now received. This ability to make a fortune is another science.

Pushkin, through the mouth of Onegin, ironizes about his uncle and his life. What remains after it? What did he do for the fatherland? What mark did you leave with your deeds? He acquired a small estate and made others respect him. But this respect was not always sincere. In our blessed state, ranks and merits were not always earned through righteous labors. The ability to present oneself in a favorable light in front of superiors, the ability to make profitable acquaintances both then, in the time of Pushkin and now, in our days, work flawlessly.

Onegin goes to his uncle and imagines that he will now have to pretend to be a loving nephew in front of him, be a little hypocritical, and in his heart think about when the devil will take away the sick man.

But Onegin was incredibly lucky in this regard. When he entered the village, his uncle was already lying on the table, calm and tidied up.

When analyzing Pushkin's poems, literary critics still argue over the meaning of each line. Opinions are expressed that “he forced himself to be respected” means he died. This statement does not stand up to criticism, since, according to Onegin, his uncle is still alive. We must not forget that the letter from the manager had been riding horses for more than one week. And the journey itself took Onegin no less time. And so it happened that Onegin ended up “from the ship to the funeral.”

My uncle has the most honest rules,
When I seriously fell ill,

He forced himself to respect

And I couldn't think of anything better.

His example to others is science;

But, my God, what a bore