A. E. IZMAILOV

<«Евгений Онегин», глава I>

We hasten, although we are a little late, to inform lovers of Russian poetry that A. S. Pushkin’s new poem, or, as the title of the book says, novel in verse, or the first chapter of the novel “Eugene Onegin” was printed and sold in the bookstore of I.V. Slenin, near the Kazansky Bridge, for 5 rubles, and with postage for 6 rubles.

It is impossible to judge the whole novel, especially its plan and the character of the persons depicted in it, from one chapter. So, let's just talk about the syllable. The story is excellent: ease, gaiety, feeling and pictorial poetry are visible everywhere * 1. The versification is excellent: young Pushkin has long occupied an honorable place among our best versifiers, the number of which, unfortunately and surprisingly, is still not so great.

Taking advantage with moderation right of a journalist-bibliographer 3, let us present here a small (however, not the best) example of a syllable, or story, from “Eugene Onegin”.

Having served excellently, 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.

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 a dandy Londoner is dressed;

And finally saw the light.

He's completely French

He could express himself and wrote;

I danced the mazurka easily

And he bowed casually;

What do you want more? The light has decided,

That he is smart and very nice.

We all learned a little bit

Something and somehow

So by upbringing, God bless,

It's no wonder for us to shine.

Onegin was, according to many

(decisive and strict judges),

A small scientist, but a pedant.

He had a lucky talent

No coercion in conversation

Touch everything lightly

WITH scientific-looking connoisseur

Remain silent in an important dispute

And make the ladies smile

Fire of unexpected epigrams.

What is the portrait of a fashionable Russian nobleman? Almost every verse has a striking, characteristic feature. As mentioned here by the way Madame, Monsieur!.. A wretched- it could not have been more successful to tidy up the epithet for the important French mentor, who jokingly taught everything to the frisky darling little one, even in Summer Garden. - But alas! it's time And driven out of Monsieur l'Abbé's courtyard. O ingratitude! Wasn’t it he who taught Evgeniy? everything, i.e. absolutely speak French and... write! - But Evgeny had another mentor, and it's true that he's French, who taught him to bow at ease and dance the mazurka easily, as easily and deftly as they dance it in Poland... What do you need more?? - Strict, decisive judges Evgeniy was recognized not only as a scientist, but even... pedant. Here's what it means:

No coercion in conversation

Touch everything slightly,

With the learned air of a connoisseur

Remain silent in an important dispute.

Enough in this book picture descriptions; but the most complete and most brilliant of them is, without a doubt, a description of the theater. It is also wonderful to praise beautiful women's legs. We do not agree, however, with the kind writer, as if it is hardly possible to find in Russia there are three pairs of slender female legs.

Well, how could he say that?

How slender the legs are, how small

At Euphrosyne, Miloliki,

At Lydia's, at Angelika's!

So I counted four pairs.

Or maybe all over Russia there is

At least five or six pars! 4

In the “Preface” to “Eugene Onegin” the following words are remarkable: “May we be allowed to draw the attention of readers to virtues rare in a satirical writer: the absence of an offensive personality and the observation of strict decency in a comic description of morals.” - In fact, these two virtues have always been rare in satirical writers, especially rare in the present time. “Pre-Notice” is followed by “Conversation between a Bookseller and a Poet.” It would be desirable for us to always speak as intelligently as here, not only booksellers, but also poets, even in their advanced years.

Footnotes

* “It’s my job to describe” 2, says the writer in 21 countries. And it’s true: he is a master, and a great master, of this matter. His paintings are distinguished not only by the delicacy of the brush and the freshness of the colors, but often by strong, bold, sharp and characteristic, so to speak, features, which shows an extraordinary talent, that is, a happy imagination and an observant spirit.

Notes

A. E. IZMAILOV
<« Евгений Онегин». Глава I>

Good. 1825. Part 29 No. 9 (published on March 5). pp. 323-328. From the “Book News” section. Signature: I.

1 Chapter I of “Eugene Onegin” was published on February 16, 1825. Izmailov wrote to P. L. Yakovlev on February 19: “These days a new poem by Pushkin, or a novel, or only the first chapter of the novel “Eugene Onegin” was published. There is no plan at all, but the story is delightful” (LN. T. 58. pp. 47-48).

2 Ch. I, stanza XXVI.

3 The section “News about new books”, in which this article is published, is of a critical and bibliographic nature.

4 Wed. also the poem “Angelike” signed Lardem, published in “Blagonamerenny” with the following note: “The author was inspired to write these poems by the wonderful appeal to the legs in Eugene Onegin” (1825. Part 29. No. 12. P. 479).

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 !”

He knew that during his lifetime he would not see Europe retire, but how he wanted to see with his own eyes the revival of Rus'. He knew his destiny, and therefore every day he opened the Gospel of Matthew and read about himself. How should Ev be reflected? from Matthew for 2 weeks from 2/23/17 and read chapter 15:26: “He answered: It's not good to take bread from children and throw it to the dogs." This is what the heir, the son of God, who was previously called Zeus, thought: 341

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 were you perhaps born?

Or shone, my reader;

I once walked there too :

But the north is bad for me.

That's why Europeans don't need "dogs" give bread, taking it away from the Russians "children" that this is spiritual bread and is intended in this circle only for the Russian people, for this bread contains thoughts and feelings inherent only in the Russian way of life. Dostoevsky wrote: “Now in all the land there is only onepeople- ” God-bearer ”, coming to renew and save the world in the name ofnew God and to whom alone are giventhe keys of life and new words ...it's the peopleRussian ». 342

Europe will no longer be able to accept this "bread", this "beads": Not only will it not chew with its toothless “mouth,” but it will also not accept it with its diseased “stomach.” Pushkin’s knowledge will then be accepted by the Russian people when it will be possible to say:

The Russian Spirit is there, it smells of Russia! 343

Then they will understand his “Impromptu on A” (the words of science) 344, written at this time:

In silence I'm sitting in front of you.

In vain feel torment,

In vain at youI look :

That's trueI won't tell ,

What does the imagination say? .

Having skipped enough years shown in the biography, let’s pay attention to the important milestones of Pushkin’s life, reflected in “ Evgenia Onegin" and in Gospel from Matthew.

The Gospel reflected the 2 weeks of the prophet from May 2, 1829 in chapter 24:20: "Pray that it doesn't happenescape yoursin winter or on Saturday ». That time was Wednesday in the spring on the night of May 1–2, 1829, when he secretly escaped from the surveillance of Benckendorff and his “Masonic brethren.” Pushkin , « impatient hero" « couldn't wait" recognition as a scientist and Prophet from his contemporaries. And day after day from 9.5 to 10.5.1829, the Cossacks accepted his scientific manuscript ( adoptive gift ) for 150-year storage on the Don, with closed for reading (but with keys for the initiated) an exposition of the ring science.

In “Eugene Onegin” this is reflected in chapter 7, stanza XXXVII as follows:

Here, surrounded by my own oak grove,

Petrovsky Castle. He's gloomy

Recentproud of the glory .

I waited in vain Napoleon,

Intoxicated with the last happiness,

Moscow kneeling

With keys old Kremlin:

No,my Moscow did not go

To him with a guilty head .

Not a holiday, notadoptive gift ,

She was preparing a fire

To the impatient hero .

From now on, immersed in thought,

He looked at the menacing flame.

An important event in Pushkin’s life was his marriage with Natalya Goncharova. 10.2.30 Pushkin, in a letter to Krivtsov, wanted to reflect verses from the Gospel of Matthew 345, showing exactly these 2 weeks: "IN For 30 years people usually get married -I act like people , and I probably won’t regret it.” The God-man, son of Zeus, acts like people - gets married.

This is how Pushkin played on this image in “Eugene Onegin”, chapter 8, stanza XXVII:

But my Onegin is a whole evening

I was busy with Tatyana alone,

Not this timid girl,

In love, poor and simple,

But an indifferent princess ,

But an unapproachable goddess

Luxurious, royal Neva.

O people! you all look alike

To the ancestor Eve :

What is given to you does not attract ;

The serpent is constantly calling you

To yourself, to the mysterious tree:

Give me the forbidden fruit ,

And without that, heaven is not heaven for you.

Alexander Sergeevich even predicted that he would not be Natalya "attract" soul, and her "forbidden fruit give it to me».

Then the verse of the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 25:15, where it says: “And he gave to one five talents, to another two, to another one,to each according to his strength ; and immediately set off" the events from February 6, 1831 on the eve of the wedding are described. In chapter 8-XXVIII of “Eugene Onegin” Pushkin described Natalya Goncharova as follows:

How Tatyana has changed!

How firmly she entered into her role !

Accepted appointments soon!

Who would dare to look for a tender girl

In this majestic, in this careless

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 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 the aesthetics of appearance and behavior, as well as 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 taken to a new level by 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.

Hello dears.
Not so long ago I asked your opinion about whether you and I should analyze together one of my most favorite poetic works, not only “Our Everything” (c), but in general in principle, and by and large I received a satisfactory answer: And this that means you should, at a minimum, at least try :-) And, although, as aptly noted in his commentary by a very intelligent and respected person eulampij I can’t even compare closely with Nabokov, much less with Yuri Lotman (whose work I consider excellent), but I will try to tell you at least a little about those things that may not be entirely clear, which we can find in the lines immortal work. I would like to note right away that I will not analyze the impulses, essence, system of relationships and psychological nuances of the characters. Theoretically, I could, but I’m not a literary critic or a psychologist. My hobby is history, and for me a great work is also a great opportunity to plunge into an era.

Well, most importantly, we’ll read it again together, and maybe for someone I’ll even discover the clarity, beauty and greatness of this novel, written, by the way, in a special language - “Onegin stanza” - which was invented by Pushkin himself, mixing the style of classical English and Italian sonnet. The same 14 lines, but with its own rhythm and rhyme system. Literally it looks like this: AbAb CCdd EffE gg (uppercase letters indicate feminine rhyme, lowercase letters indicate masculine rhyme). For me, the design is openwork, making it easy to read and pleasant to digest. But it’s extremely difficult. And you understand why it took Pushkin so much time to create the entire novel (almost 8 years)
In general, if anything, don’t judge strictly :-)

Well, or so...

Let's start with the epigraph. You know, during my school years, I didn’t pay much attention to epigraphs, considering them an unnecessary show off. However, time has passed, and for me this is not only an inextricable part of the work itself, but sometimes even its concentrated essence. Maybe I’m getting old, but now I myself am not averse to using the epigraph toolkit even in my posts. It brings me a certain pleasure :-)
In Eugene Onegin, the epigraph appears before the work itself. Plus there’s also a dedication there. Well, and separate epigraphs before each chapter. Sometimes we will sort it out, sometimes we won’t.
The first epigraph is written in French and can be translated something like this: “ Imbued with vanity, he possessed, moreover, a special pride, which prompts him to admit with equal indifference both his good and bad deeds - a consequence of a sense of superiority, perhaps imaginary" It is supposedly taken from a private letter, and serves to make the reader believe that the author and Eugene Onegin are good friends, that the author is, as it were, directly involved in the events.

drawing of the luminary of Russian literature

The dedication is more multi-line, its meaning is not fully given, but it was made to Pyotr Aleksandrovich Pletnev. The rector of the literature department of my Alma mater, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, had a sensitive and gentle character, wrote poetry and was a critic. But he criticized so courteously and delicately that he managed to be a friend of almost all the literary “stars” of that time. Including Pushkin.

P. Pletnev

The epigraph before the first chapter consists of one line: “ And live in a hurry and feel in a hurry" And the signature of Prince. Vyazemsky. This is part of the work of Pyotr Andreevich Vyazemsky, a brilliant and most interesting friend of Alexander Sergeevich. The work is called “The First Snow” and I don’t see the point of citing it here in full - if you wish, you can find it yourself. Vyazemsky himself was also a poet, but a unique one - he wrote only one collection of poems, even towards the end of his life.

P. Vyazemsky

But at the same time, he was a real “Renaissance man” (that’s what I call multifaceted personalities), for he was involved in many things, from translator to government affairs. The real “golden fund of the nation.” It's a pity that few people remember him these days. He was a very interesting and witty person. Book - this is short for prince. The Vyazemskys are actually Rurikovichs, and received their surname from their inheritance - the city of Vyazma. And the city’s coat of arms, by the way, is taken from their family coat of arms.

coat of arms of the princes Vyazemsky

Well, the meaning of the epigraph...Here - at your discretion. Moreover, I think it’s better to draw conclusions after you read the entire first chapter :-)
Perhaps it's time to move on to the text itself.
« My uncle is the most fair 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!»

This piece is probably remembered by everyone who went to Soviet, Russian, Ukrainian, and other schools in the post-Soviet space. For most, this is literally all they know and remember about the novel :-) In general, it’s recognizable.
For me, the main lines in the above passage are these:
What low deceit
To amuse the half-dead,
I think they should be used as a motto by opponents of the use of drugs against male erectile dysfunction like Viagra :-))))

But let's move on.
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 were you perhaps born?
Or shone, my reader;
I once walked there too:
But the north is bad for me.

Postal, they are also “transport” - this is a government, state carriage, essentially a taxi. It was not very profitable to keep your own carriage, and the carriage and horses were generally ruinous. Therefore, they used “transferable” ones. Moreover, the procedure for use was very carefully regulated and a special official monitored this - stationmaster. Since Onegin did not serve, he stood quite low in the Table of Ranks, so Eugene had a small number of horses for the entire trip, namely only 3. He rode in a troika. Therefore, he cannot “fly in the dust” in any way, since he could not change horses at every postal station, which means he was forced to take care of them and give them a rest. Moreover, there might not be any free horses, which means the trip could be significantly delayed. By the way, the time period of the trip can be approximately calculated. His uncle's estate was in the Pskov region, Evgeniy lived in St. Petersburg. From St. Petersburg to, let’s say, Mikhailovsky, it’s about 400 kilometers. Let's convert it to versts and get about 375 versts. In the summer, horses walked at a speed of 10 versts per hour, and covered about 100 versts per day. Evgeny was forced to take care of his horses and I think he covered no more than 70 miles a day. This means, even if he didn’t wait for the horses when he changed, and rode almost non-stop, he would get somewhere around 4-5 days one way, either way. And even more.

Postal station

By the way, as you understand, you had to pay for such a “taxi”. Evgeniy was driving, most likely along the Vitebsk highway. In Pushkin’s times, the tax (running fee) on this highway was 5 kopecks per mile, which means the trip cost about 19 rubles one way. Not a lot (a stagecoach to Moscow cost 70 rubles, and renting a box in a theater for a year was 500), but not a little, because for 10-15 rubles you could buy a serf.

Ruble 1825.

About the line " But the north is bad for me", I think everyone knows everything :-) So subtly Pushkin trolled the authorities about his exile.
Well, let's end here today.
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 were you perhaps 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 everywhere.

While in morning dress,

Wearing a wide bolivar Hat a la Bolivar. ,

Onegin goes to the boulevard,

And there he walks in the open space,

While the watchful Breget

Dinner won't ring his bell.

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

“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;

Silvery with frosty dust

His beaver collar.

To Talon Famous restaurateur. rushed: he was sure

What is Kaverin waiting for him there?

Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,

The comet's fault flowed with current;

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

And truffles, luxury 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 at 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 with their palms:

And Onegin went out;

He goes home to get dressed.

Will I portray the truth in the picture?

Secluded office

Where is the mod pupil exemplary

Dressed, undressed and dressed again?

Everything for a plentiful whim

London trades scrupulously

And on the Baltic waves

He brings us lard and timber,

Everything in Paris tastes hungry,

Having chosen a useful trade,

Invents for fun

For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -

Everything decorated the office

Philosopher at eighteen years old.

Amber on the pipes of Constantinople,

Porcelain and bronze on the table,

And, a joy to pampered feelings,

Perfume in cut crystal;

Combs, steel files,

Straight scissors, curved scissors,

And brushes of thirty kinds

For both nails and teeth.

Rousseau (I note in passing)

Couldn't understand how important Grim was

Dare to clean your nails in front of him,

An eloquent madman

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

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;

The imagination is running wild again

Her touch again

The blood ignited in the withered heart,

Again longing, again love!..

But it is enough to glorify the arrogant

With his chatty lyre;

They are not worth any passions

No songs inspired by them:

The words and gaze of these sorceresses

Deceptive... like their legs.

What about my Onegin? Half asleep

He goes to bed from the ball:

And St. Petersburg is restless

Already awakened by the drum.

The merchant gets up, the peddler goes,

A cabman pulls to the stock exchange,

The okhtenka is in a hurry with the jug,

The morning snow crunches under it.

I woke up in the morning with a pleasant 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 – play on words: in French- window, in German - the question “wast 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 shade of the blessed

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 color 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 will shoot himself, thank God,

I didn't want to try

But he completely lost interest in life.

Like Child-Harold, gloomy, languid

He appeared in living rooms;

Neither the gossip of the world, nor Boston,

Not a sweet look, not an immodest sigh,

Nothing touched him

He didn't notice anything.

……………………………………

……………………………………

……………………………………

Freaky women of the big world!

He left everyone before you;

And the truth is that in our summer

The higher tone is rather boring;

At least maybe another lady

Interprets Say and Bentham,

But in general their conversation

Unbearable, though innocent, nonsense;

Besides, they are so immaculate,

So majestic, so smart,

So full of piety,

So careful, so precise,

So unapproachable for men,

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

And you, young beauties,

Which sometimes later

The daring droshky carries away

Along the St. Petersburg pavement,

And my Eugene left you.

Renegade of stormy pleasures,

Onegin locked himself at home,

Yawning, he took up the pen,

I wanted to write - but hard work

He felt sick; Nothing

It did not come from his pen,

And he didn’t end up in the perky workshop

People I don't judge

Because I belong to them.

And again, betrayed by idleness,

Languishing with spiritual emptiness,

He sat down - with a laudable purpose

Appropriating someone else's mind for yourself;

He lined the shelf with a group of books,

I read and read, but to no avail:

There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;

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

Everyone is wearing different chains;

And the old thing is outdated,

And the old are delirious of the newness.

Like women, he left books,

And a shelf with their dusty family,

Covered it with mourning taffeta.

Having overthrown the burden of the conditions of light,

How he, behind the fuss,

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 seashore 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 former years of novels,

Remembering my old love,

Sensitive, careless again,

Breath of the favorable night

We reveled silently!

Like a green forest from prison

The sleepy convict has been transferred,

So we were carried away by the dream

Young at the start of life.

With a soul full of regrets,

And leaning on granite,

Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,

How did he describe himself?

Show favor to the goddess

He sees an enthusiastic drink,

Who spends the night sleepless,

Leaning on granite.

(Muravyev. Goddess of the Neva)

.

Everything was quiet; only at night

The sentries called to each other;

Yes, the distant sound of the droshky

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

Just a boat, waving its oars,

Floated along the dormant river:

And we were captivated in the distance

The horn and the song are daring...

But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,

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

Adriatic waves,

Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you

And, full of inspiration again,

I will hear your magical voice!

He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;

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

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

Golden nights of Italy

I will enjoy the bliss in freedom

With the young Venetian,

Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,

Floating in a mysterious gondola;

With her my lips will find

Everyone has their own mind and sense:

Evgeny, hating litigation,

Satisfied with my lot,

He gave them the inheritance

Not seeing a big loss

Or foreknowledge from afar

The death of the old man's uncle.

Suddenly he really got

Report from the manager

That uncle is dying in bed

And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.

After reading the sad message,

Evgeniy on a date right away

Swiftly galloped through the mail

And I already yawned in advance,

Getting ready, for the sake of money,

For sighs, boredom and deception

(And thus I began my novel);

But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,

I found it already on the table,

Like a tribute ready to the earth.

He found the yard full of services;

To the dead man from all sides

Enemies and friends gathered,

Hunters before the funeral.

The deceased was buried.

The priests and guests ate and drank

And then we parted important ways,

It's as if they were busy.

Here is our Onegin - a villager,

Factories, waters, forests, lands

The owner is complete, and until now

An enemy of order and a spendthrift,

And I’m very glad that the old path

Changed it to something.

Two days seemed new to him

Lonely fields

The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,

The babbling of a quiet stream;

On the third grove, hill and field

He was no longer 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, I 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!