Onegin is my uncle with the most honest rules. My uncle has the most honest rules
The book includes a novel in verse by A.S. Pushkin (1799–1837) “Eugene Onegin,” which is required reading and study in secondary schools.
The novel in verse “Eugene Onegin” became the central event in the literary life of Pushkin’s era. And since then, A.S. Pushkin’s masterpiece has not lost its popularity; it is still loved and revered by millions of readers.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
Eugene Onegin
Novel in verse
Pétri de vanité il avait encore plus de cette espèce d'orgueil qui fait avouer avec la même indifférence les bonnes comme les mauvaises actions, suite d'un sentiment de supériorité, peut-être imaginaire.
Not thinking of amusing the proud world,
Loving the attention of friendship,
I'd like to introduce you
The pledge is more worthy than you,
More worthy than a beautiful soul,
Saint of a dream come true,
Poetry alive and clear,
High thoughts and simplicity;
But so be it - with a biased hand
Accept the collection of motley heads,
Half funny, half sad,
Common people, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Immature and withered years,
Crazy cold observations
And hearts of sorrowful notes.
XLIII
And you, young beauties,
Which sometimes later
The daring droshky carries away
Along the St. Petersburg pavement,
And he’s in a hurry to live, and he’s in a hurry to feel.
Prince Vyazemsky The epigraph is taken from the poem “First Snow” by P. A. Vyazemsky.
“My uncle has the most honest rules,
When I seriously fell ill,
He forced himself to respect
And I couldn't think of anything better.
His example to others is science;
But, my God, what a bore
To sit with the patient day and night,
Without leaving a single step!
What low deceit
To amuse the half-dead,
Adjust his pillows
It's sad to bring medicine,
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you!”
So thought the young rake,
Flying in the dust on postage,
By the Almighty will of Zeus
Heir to all his relatives. -
Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!
With the hero of my novel
Without preamble, right now
Let me introduce you:
Onegin, my good friend,
Born on the banks of the Neva,
Where might you have been born?
Or shone, my reader;
I once walked there too:
But the north is bad for me Written in Bessarabia..
Having served excellently and nobly,
His father lived in debt
Gave three balls annually
And finally squandered it.
Eugene's fate kept:
At first Madame followed him,
Then Monsieur replaced her;
The child was harsh, but sweet.
Monsieur l'Abbe€, poor Frenchman,
So that the child does not get tired,
I taught him everything jokingly,
I didn’t bother you with strict morals,
Lightly scolded for pranks
And he took me for a walk 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?
He doesn't need gold
When simple product It has.
His father couldn't understand him
And he gave the lands as collateral.
Everything that Evgeniy still knew,
Tell me about your lack of time;
But what was his true genius?
What he knew more firmly than all sciences,
What happened to him from childhood
And labor, and torment, and joy,
What took the whole day
His melancholy laziness, -
There was a science of tender passion,
Which Nazon sang,
Why did he end up a sufferer?
Its age is brilliant and rebellious
In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,
Far away from Italy.
……………………………………
……………………………………
……………………………………
How early could he be a hypocrite?
To harbor hope, to be jealous,
To dissuade, to make believe,
Seem gloomy, languish,
Be proud and obedient
Attentive or indifferent!
How languidly silent he was,
How fieryly eloquent
How careless in heartfelt letters!
Breathing alone, loving alone,
How he knew how to forget himself!
How quick and gentle his gaze was,
Shy and impudent, and sometimes
Shined with an obedient tear!
How he knew how to seem new,
Jokingly amaze innocence,
To frighten with despair,
To amuse with pleasant flattery,
Catch a moment of tenderness,
Innocent years of prejudice
Win with intelligence and passion,
Expect involuntary affection
Beg and demand recognition
Listen to the first sound of the heart,
Pursue love and suddenly
Achieve a secret date...
And then she's alone
Give lessons in silence!
How early could he have disturbed
Hearts of coquettes!
When did you want to destroy
He has his rivals,
How he sarcastically slandered!
What networks I prepared for them!
But you, blessed men,
You stayed with him as friends:
The wicked husband caressed him,
Foblas is a long-time student,
And the distrustful old man
And the majestic cuckold,
Always happy with yourself
With his lunch and his wife.
……………………………………
……………………………………
……………………………………
Sometimes he was still in bed:
They bring notes to him.
What? Invitations? Indeed,
Three houses for the evening call:
There will be a ball, there will be a children's party.
Where will my prankster ride?
Who will he start with? Doesn't matter:
It’s no wonder to keep up everywhere.
While in morning dress,
Wearing a wide bolivar Hat a la Bolivar. ,
Onegin goes to the boulevard,
And there he walks in the open space,
While the watchful Breget
Dinner won't ring his bell.
It’s already dark: he gets into the sled.
“Fall, fall!” - there was a cry;
Silvery with frosty dust
His beaver collar.
To Talon Famous restaurateur. rushed: he was sure
What is Kaverin waiting for him there?
Entered: and there was a cork in the ceiling,
The comet's fault flowed with current;
In front of him is roast-beef Roast-beef is a meat dish of English cuisine. bloody
And truffles, the luxury of youth,
French cuisine has the best color,
And Strasbourg's pie is imperishable
Between live Limburg cheese
And a golden pineapple.
Thirst asks for more glasses
Pour hot fat over cutlets,
But the ringing of the Breguet reaches them,
That a new ballet has begun.
The theater is an evil legislator,
Fickle Adorer
Charming actresses
Honorary Citizen of the Backstage,
Onegin flew to the theater,
Where everyone, breathing freedom,
Ready to clap entrechat entrechat (entrechat) - a figure in ballet (French). ,
To flog Phaedra, Cleopatra,
Call Moina (in order to
Just so they can hear him).
Magic land! there in the old days,
Satire is a brave ruler,
Fonvizin, friend of freedom, shone,
And the overbearing Prince;
There Ozerov involuntary tributes
People's tears, applause
Shared with young Semyonova;
There our Katenin was resurrected
Corneille is a majestic genius;
There the prickly Shakhovskoy brought out
A noisy swarm of their comedies,
There's Didelot A trait of chilled feeling worthy of Chald Harold. Mr. Didelot's ballets are filled with vivid imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic writers found much more poetry in them than in all French literature. crowned with glory
There, there under the canopy of the scenes
My younger days were rushing by.
My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?
Hear my sad voice:
Are you still the same? other maidens,
Having replaced you, they didn’t replace you?
Will I hear your choirs again?
Will I see the Russian Terpsichore
Soul-filled flight?
Or a sad look will not find
Familiar faces on a boring stage,
And, looking towards the alien light
Disappointed lorgnette
An indifferent spectator of fun,
I will yawn silently
And remember the past?
The theater is already full; the boxes shine;
The stalls and the chairs, everything is boiling;
In paradise they splash impatiently,
And, rising, the curtain makes noise.
Brilliant, half-airy,
I obey the magic bow,
Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,
Worth Istomin; she,
One foot touching the floor,
The other slowly circles,
And suddenly he jumps, and suddenly he flies,
Flies like feathers from the lips of Aeolus;
Now the camp will sow, then it will develop,
And with a quick foot he hits the leg.
Everything is clapping. Onegin enters
Walks between the chairs along the legs,
The double lorgnette points sideways
To the boxes of 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 (I note in passing)
Couldn't understand how important Grim was
Dare to brush 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 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,
I straightened my hair with my hand,
Has entered. The hall is full of people;
The music is already tired of thundering;
The crowd is busy with the mazurka;
There is noise and crowding all around;
The cavalry guard's spurs are jingling;
The legs of lovely ladies are flying;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And drowned out by the roar of violins
Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.
On days of 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,
There is a hall on the mirrored parquet floor,
By the sea on granite rocks.
I remember the sea before the storm:
How I envied the waves
Running in a stormy line
Lay down with love at her feet!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch your lovely feet with your lips!
No, never on hot days
My boiling youth
I did not wish with such torment
Kiss the lips of the young Armids,
Or fiery roses kiss their cheeks,
Or hearts full of languor;
No, never a rush of passion
Never tormented my soul like that!
I remember another time!
In sometimes cherished dreams
I hold the happy stirrup...
And I feel the leg in my hands;
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 sound.
The shutters are open; pipe smoke
Rising like a pillar of blue,
And the baker, a neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
Already opened his vasisdas Vasisdas is a play on words: in French it means a window, in German it means the question “vas ist das?” - “what is this?”, used by Russians to designate Germans. Trade in small shops was carried out through the window. That is, the German baker managed to sell more than one loaf of bread. .
But, tired of the noise of the ball,
And the morning turns to midnight,
Sleeps peacefully in the blessed shade
Fun and luxury child.
Will wake up at noon, and again
Until the morning his life is ready,
Monotonous and colorful
And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.
But was my Eugene happy?
Free, in the color of the best years,
Among the brilliant victories,
Among everyday pleasures?
Was he in vain among the feasts?
Careless and healthy?
No: his feelings cooled down early;
He was tired of the noise of the world;
The beauties didn't last long
The subject of his usual thoughts;
The betrayals have become tiresome;
Friends and friendship are tired,
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.
……………………………………
……………………………………
……………………………………
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. As summer days steal the dominion of the night; How the gaze of a foreigner in the northern sky captivates The magical radiance of shadow and sweet light, How the noon sky is never adorned; That clarity, like the charms of a northern maiden, Whose eyes are blue and cheeks are scarlet The light brown curls are barely set off by the waves. Then over the Neva and over the magnificent Petropolis they see Evening without twilight and fast nights without shadow; Then Philomela will only end her midnight songs And the songs start, welcoming the rising day. But it's too late; freshness breathed on the Neva tundra; The dew has dropped; ……………………… Here is midnight: rustling in the evening with a thousand oars, The Neva will not sway; the city guests have left; Not a voice on the shore, not a swell on the moisture, everything is quiet; Only occasionally the hum from the bridges will run over the water; Only an extended scream will rush from the distance Where in the night the military guards call out to the guards. Everyone is asleep. ………………………
And the waters are cheerful glass
Diana's face does not reflect
Remembering the novels of previous years,
Remembering my old love,
Sensitive, careless again,
Breath of the favorable night
We reveled silently!
Like a green forest from prison
The sleepy convict has been transferred,
So we were carried away by the dream
Young at the start of life.
With a soul full of regrets,
And leaning on granite,
Evgeniy stood thoughtfully,
How did he describe himself?
Show favor to the goddess He sees an enthusiastic drink, Who spends the night sleepless, Leaning on granite.
(Muravyev. Goddess of the Neva)
.Everything was quiet; only at night
The sentries called to each other;
Yes, the distant sound of the droshky
With Millonna Milyonnaya is the name of a street in St. Petersburg. was heard suddenly;
Just a boat, waving its oars,
Floated along the dormant river:
And we were captivated in the distance
The horn and the song are daring...
But sweeter, in the midst of nightly fun,
The chant of the Torquat octaves! Torquat octaves- poems by the Italian Renaissance poet Torquato Tasso (1544-1595).
Adriatic waves,
Oh Brenta! no, I'll see you
And, full of inspiration again,
I will hear your magical voice!
He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;
By the proud lyre of Albion Albion's proud lyre A. S. Pushkin names the work of the English poet Byron.
He is familiar to me, he is dear to me.
Golden nights of Italy
I will enjoy the bliss in freedom
With the young Venetian,
Sometimes talkative, sometimes dumb,
Floating in a mysterious gondola;
With her my lips will find
Everyone has their own mind and sense:
Evgeny, hating litigation,
Satisfied with my lot,
He gave them the inheritance
Not seeing a big loss
Or foreknowledge from afar
The death of the old man's uncle.
Suddenly he really got
Report from the manager
That uncle is dying in bed
And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.
After reading the sad message,
Evgeniy on a date right away
Swiftly galloped through the mail
And I already yawned in advance,
Getting ready, for the sake of money,
For sighs, boredom and deception
(And thus I began my novel);
But, having arrived at my uncle’s village,
I found it already on the table,
Like a tribute ready to the earth.
He found the yard full of services;
To the dead man from all sides
Enemies and friends gathered,
Hunters before the funeral.
The deceased was buried.
The priests and guests ate and drank
And then we parted important ways,
It's as if they were busy.
Here is our Onegin - a villager,
Factories, waters, forests, lands
The owner is complete, and until now
An enemy of order and a spendthrift,
And I’m very glad that the old path
Changed it to something.
Two days seemed new to him
Lonely fields
The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,
The babbling of a quiet stream;
On the third grove, hill and field
He was no longer 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!
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 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, this could be interpreted as “Be healthy, boyar” :-) And if you, my dear readers, at the end of your written monologue, in the course of clarifying the most important question of existence, “who is wrong on the Internet,” pose 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 satirical poet, contemporary of the emperors Vespasian and Trajan. In some places it gets annoying :-) Although one expression associated with this Roman is certainly familiar to any of you. This is “A healthy mind in a healthy body.” 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.
An excerpt from the novel in verse Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin.
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!
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. He took the phrase “the most honest rules” from Krylov’s fable “The Donkey and the Man.” 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 of high society in Russia have 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 “fair 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.
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 might you have been 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 will not say ,
What does the imagination say? .
Having skipped enough years shown in the biography, let us 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" « not 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 ( foster 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, notfoster 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 ancestress 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 "the 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
