My uncle has the most honest rules when. Verse my uncle of the most honest rules

"My uncle is the most fair rules ,
When seriously ill,
He made himself respect
And I could not think of a better one.
His example to others is science;
But oh my god what a boredom
Sitting with a sick person day and night,
Without leaving a single step away!
What a base deceit
To amuse half-dead
To correct his pillows,
It's sad to bring medicine
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you! "

II.

So the young rake thought,
Flying in the dust on the postage
By the Most High will of Zeus
Heir to all his relatives.
Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan!
With the hero of my novel
Without preamble, this very hour
Let me introduce you:
Onegin, my good friend,
Born on the banks of the Neva,
Where maybe you were born
Or shone, my reader;
I once walked there too:
But the north is bad for me (1).

III.

Serving excellently, nobly,
His father lived in debt,
Gave three balls annually
And he skipped at last.
Evgeny's fate kept:
First Madame followed him,
Then Monsieur replaced her.
The child was cut, but sweet.
Monsieur l'Abbé, poor Frenchman,
So that the child is not exhausted,
I taught him everything in jest,
I did not bother with strict morality,
Slightly scolded for pranks
And he took him for a walk to the Summer Garden.

IV.

When rebellious youth
It's time for Eugene,
It's time for hopes and tender sadness
Monsieur was driven out of the yard.
Here is my Onegin at large;
Cut in the latest fashion;
How dandy (2) London is dressed -
And finally saw the light.
He is in French perfectly
I could express myself and write;
Easy mazurka danced
And bowed at ease;
What is more to you? The light decided
That he is smart and very nice.

V.

We all learned a little
Something and somehow
So education, thank God,
It's no wonder we shine.
Onegin was, according to many
(Judges decisive and strict)
Small scientist, but a pedant:
He had a lucky talent
Without coercion in conversation
Touch everything lightly
With a learned air of connoisseur
Keep silent on an important dispute
And excite the smile of the ladies
By the fire of unexpected epigrams.

Vi.

Latin is out of fashion now:
So if I tell you the truth,
He knew pretty much Latin,
To disassemble the epigraphs,
Talk about Juvenal
Put vale at the end of the letter,
Yes, I remembered, though not without sin,
Two verses from the Aeneid.
He had no desire to rummage
In chronological dust
Description of the earth;
But days gone by jokes
From Romulus to the present day
He kept it in his memory.

Vii.

Having no high passion
Do not spare for the sounds of life,
He couldn't have iamba from a chorea,
No matter how we fought, to distinguish.
Scolded Homer, Theocritus;
But I read Adam Smith,
And there was a deep economy,
That is, he knew how to judge
As the state gets richer
And how he lives, and why
He doesn't need gold
When a simple product has.
Father could not understand him
And he pledged the land.

VIII.

Everything that Eugene still knew,
To retell me the lack of time;
But in what he was a true genius,
What he knew more firmly than all sciences,
What was izmlad for him
And labor and torment and joy,
What took a whole day
His yearning laziness, -
There was a science of tender passion,
Which Nazon sang,
Why did he end up as a sufferer
Its age is brilliant and rebellious
In Moldova, in the wilderness of the steppes,
Away from his Italy.

IX.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

X.

How early could he be a hypocrite
Conceal hope, be jealous
Reassure, make you believe
To seem gloomy, to languish,
Be proud and obedient
Attentive il indifferent!
How languid he was silent,
How ardently eloquent
How careless in letters of heart!
Breathing one, loving one,
How he knew how to forget himself!
How quick and gentle his gaze was,
Shy and impudent, and sometimes
Shone with an obedient tear!

XI.

How he knew how to seem new,
Joking innocence to amaze,
To frighten with despair,
To amuse with pleasant flattery,
Catch a moment of emotion
Innocent years of prejudice
To win with mind and passion,
An involuntary caress to expect
Pray and demand recognition
Eavesdrop on the first sound of hearts
Chase love, and suddenly
Get a secret meeting ...
And after her alone
Give lessons in silence!

XII.

How early could he disturb
Note coquette hearts!
When did I want to destroy
His rivals,
How sarcastically he spoke!
What nets he prepared for them!
But you blessed husbands
You were friends with him:
His wicked husband caressed him,
Foblas is a longtime student,
And an incredulous old man
And a stately cuckold
Always happy with myself
With my lunch and my wife.

XIII. XIV.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XV.

Sometimes he was still in bed:
They carry notes to him.
What? Invitations? Indeed,
Three houses for the evening are called:
There will be a ball, there will be a children's party.
Where will my prankster jump?
Who will he start with? Does not matter:
It's no wonder to keep up everywhere.
While in the morning dress,
Wearing a wide bolivar (3)
Onegin goes to the boulevard
And there he walks in the open,
Until the awake Breget
Dinner won't ring him.

XVI.

It's already dark: he sits on the sled.
"Fall down, fall down!" - there was a cry;
It glistens with frosty dust
His beaver collar.
To Talon (4) rushed: he is sure
That there is already waiting for him Kaverin.
Entered: and a cork in the ceiling,
The comet's fault spurted the current
Before him is a bloody roast-beef,
And truffles, the luxury of a young age,
French food is the best color,
And Strasbourg is an imperishable pie
Between Limburgskiy cheese live
And golden pineapple.

XVII.

Thirst asks for more glasses
Pour the hot fat over the cutlets,
But the ringing of the Breguet brings them,
That a new ballet has begun.
The theater is an evil legislator
Fickle adorer
Charming actresses
Honorary Citizen of the wings,
Onegin flew to the theater,
Where everyone, breathing freedom,
Ready to clap entrechat,
Pound Phaedra, Cleopatra,
Call Moina (in order
Just to hear him).

Xviii.

Magic land! there in old years,
Satyrs are the brave lord
Shone Fonvizin, friend of freedom,
And the perceptive Prince;
There Ozerov unwitting tributes
People's tears, applause
I shared with young Semyonova;
There our Katenin resurrected
Corneille is a stately genius;
There he brought the prickly Shakhovskoy
Noisy swarm of comedies
There, Didlo was crowned with glory,
There, under the canopy of the wings
My youthful days rushed by.

XIX.

My goddesses! what do you? Where are you?
Hear my sad voice:
Are you still the same? other virgins,
Having replaced, did they replace you?
Will I hear your choirs again?
Will I see the Russian Terpsichore
Soul-filled flight?
Or the gloomy gaze will not find
Familiar faces on a boring stage
And, directing to an alien light
Disappointed lorgnette
The viewer is indifferent to fun,
Silently I will yawn
And remember the past?

XX.

The theater is already full; the lodges shine;
Parterre and chairs, everything is boiling;
In the paradise they splash impatiently,
And, flying up, the curtain makes a noise.
Brilliant, semi-airy,
The bow to the magic is obedient,
A crowd of nymphs is surrounded,
Istomin stands; it,
One foot touching the floor
The other is slowly circling
And suddenly a jump, and suddenly it flies,
Flies like fluff from the mouth of Aeolus;
Now the camp will advise, then it will develop,
And he hits the leg with a quick foot.

XXI.

Everything claps. Onegin enters,
Goes between the chairs on the legs,
Double lorgnette obliquely directs
On the lodges of unknown ladies;
I looked around all the tiers,
I saw everything: faces, headdress
He is terribly displeased;
With men from all sides
Bowed, then on stage
In great distraction he looked,
Turned away - and yawned,
And he said: “It's time to replace everyone;
I endured ballets for a long time
But I am tired of Didlo ”(5)).

XXII.

More cupids, devils, snakes
They jump and make noise on the stage;
Still tired footmen
They sleep on fur coats at the entrance;
Have not stopped stomping yet
Blow your nose, cough, boo, clap;
Still outside and inside
Lanterns shine everywhere;
Still, frozen, horses are beating,
Bored with your harness,
And the coachman, around the lights,
They scold the gentlemen and beat them in the palms:
And Onegin went out;
He goes home to get dressed.

XXIII.

I will portray in a true picture
A secluded office
Where is the mod pupil exemplary
Dressed, undressed and dressed again?
Anything for a plentiful whim
Scrupulous London trades
And along the Baltic waves
Carries us for the forest and lard,
Everything in Paris tastes hungry
Choosing a useful trade,
Invents for fun
For luxury, for fashionable bliss, -
Everything decorated the study
A philosopher at the age of eighteen.

XXIV.

Amber on the tubes of Constantinople,
Porcelain and bronze on the table
And, feelings of pampered joy,
Perfume in faceted crystal;
Combs, steel files,
Straight scissors, curves
And brushes of thirty kinds
And for nails and teeth.
Russo (note in passing)
Couldn't understand how important Grim was
Dare to brush my nails in front of him,
An eloquent madcap (6).
Defender of liberty and rights
In this case, it is not at all right.

XXV.

You can be a smart person
And think about the beauty of nails:
Why is it fruitless to argue with the century?
The custom is a despot among people.
Second Chadayev, my Eugene,
Afraid of jealous judgments
There was a pedant in his clothes
And what we called dandy.
He's three hours at least
I spent in front of the mirrors
And came out of the restroom
Like windy Venus
When, putting on a man's outfit,
The goddess goes to the masquerade.

XXVI.

In the last taste of the toilet
Taking your curious gaze,
I could be before the learned light
Describe his outfit here;
Of course it would be bold
To describe my own business:
But pantaloons, tailcoat, vest,
All these words are not in Russian;
And I see, I blame you,
That already my poor syllable
It could be much less colorful
Foreign words
Even though I looked in the old days
To the Academic Dictionary.

XXVII.

We now have something wrong with the subject:
We'd better hurry to the ball
Where headlong in the pit carriage
Already my Onegin galloped.
Before the faded houses
Along the sleepy street in rows
Double carriage lights
Merry light is pouring out
And rainbows lead to the snow:
Littered with bowls all around
The magnificent house shines;
Shadows walk on solid windows,
Head profiles flash
And ladies and fashionable cranks.

XXVIII.

Here our hero drove up to the entrance;
The doorman by he arrow
Soared up the marble steps
Spread my hair with my hand
Has entered. The hall is full of people;
The music is tired of thundering;
The crowd is busy with the mazurka;
All around and noise and cramped;
The spurs of the cavalry guard strum;
Legs of lovely ladies fly;
In their captivating footsteps
Fiery eyes fly
And the roar of the violins is drowned out
Jealous whispers of fashionable wives.

XXIX.

During the days of joy and desire
I was crazy about balls:
Rather, there is no room for confessions
And for the delivery of the letter.
O you honorable spouses!
I will offer you my services;
Please note my speech:
I want to warn you.
You too mamas are stricter
Look after your daughters:
Keep your lorgnette straight!
Not that ... not that, God forbid!
That's why I'm writing this,
That I have not sinned for a long time.

XXX.

Alas, for different fun
I've ruined a lot of life!
But if morals did not suffer,
I would still love balls.
I love frantic youth
And tightness, and shine, and joy,
And I will give a thoughtful outfit;
I love their legs; only hardly
You will find a whole in Russia
Three pairs of slender female legs.
Oh! I couldn't forget for a long time
Two legs ... Sad, cold,
I remember them all, and in a dream
They disturb my heart.

XXXI.

When, and where, in what desert,
Madman, will you forget them?
Ah, legs, legs! where are you now?
Where do you crumple spring flowers?
Cherished in eastern bliss
In the northern, sad snow
You left no trace:
Loved the soft carpet you
A luxurious touch.
How long have I forgotten for you
And thirst for fame and praise,
And the land of the fathers, and confinement?
The happiness of young years has disappeared -
Like your easy trail in the meadows.

XXXII.

Diana's chest, Lanita Flora
Lovely, dear friends!
However, the leg of Terpsichore
Something more charming for me.
She prophesying to the sight
An invaluable reward
Attracts conditional beauty
A willful swarm of desires.
I love her, my friend Elvina,
Under the long tablecloth of tables
In the spring on the ant of the meadows,
In winter, on a cast iron fireplace,
Hall on the mirrored floor
By the sea on the granite rocks.

XXXIII.

I remember the sea before the storm:
How I envied the waves
Running in a stormy line
Lie down at her feet with love!
How I wished then with the waves
Touch the cute feet with your lips!
No, never in the midst of hot days
My boiling youth
I did not wish with such anguish
Kiss the lips of the young Armids,
Or fiery roses,
Or percy, full of languor;
No, never a rush of passion
So did not torment my soul!

XXXIV.

I remember another time!
Sometimes cherished dreams
I am holding a happy stirrup ...
And I feel the leg in my hands;
Imagination is boiling again
Again her touch
Burned blood in a withered heart
Again longing, again love! ..
But full of glorification of the haughty
With her chatty lyre;
They are not worth any passion
No songs inspired by them:
The words and gaze of these sorceresses
Deceiving ... like their legs.

XXXV.

What is my Onegin? Half asleep
He goes to bed from the ball:
And Petersburg is restless
Already awakened by the drum.
A merchant gets up, a peddler walks,
A cabman stretches to the exchange,
Okhtenka is in a hurry with a jug,
Under it, the morning snow crunches.
A pleasant noise woke up in the morning.
The shutters are open; chimney smoke
The pillar rises blue
And the baker, neat German,
In a paper cap, more than once
I already opened my vasisdas.

XXXVI.

But, tired of the noise of the ball,
And turning the morning into midnight,
Sleeps quietly in the shadow of the blissful
Having fun and luxury child.
Wakes up at noon, and again
His life is ready until morning,
Monotonous and variegated.
And tomorrow is the same as yesterday.
But was my Eugene happy,
Free, in the color of the best years,
Among the brilliant victories
Among everyday pleasures?
Was he in vain among the feasts
Careless and healthy?

XXXVII.

No: early feelings in him cooled down;
He was bored with the noise of the light;
The beauties were not long
The subject of his usual thoughts;
They managed to tire of treason;
Friends and friendship are tired
Then, that he could not always
Beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie
Pour a bottle of champagne
And sprinkle sharp words
When my head hurts;
And although he was an ardent rake,
But he finally fell out of love
And abuse, and saber, and lead.

XXXVIII.

The disease which the cause
It would be high time to find
Like an English spleen
In short: Russian blues
Has mastered him little by little;
He shot himself, thank God
I didn't want to try
But he completely lost interest in life.
Like Child-Harold, sullen, languid
He appeared in the drawing-rooms;
No gossip of the world, no boston,
Neither a sweet look, nor an immodest sigh,
Nothing touched him
He did not notice anything.

XXXIX. XL. XLI.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

XLII.

Freaks of the big world!
He left all of you before you;
And the truth is that in our summers
The higher tone is rather boring;
Maybe a different lady
Interprets Sei and Bentham,
But in general their conversation
Obnoxious, though innocent, nonsense;
Moreover, they are so pure
So dignified, so smart
So full of piety
So discreet, so precise
So unapproachable for men
That the sight of them already gives birth to spleen (7).

XLIII.

And you young beauties
Which sometimes
Carry away droshky daring
On the St. Petersburg pavement,
And my Eugene has left you.
Apostate of stormy pleasures
Onegin locked himself at home,
Yawning, he took up the pen,
I wanted to write - but hard work
He was sick; nothing
It did not come out of his pen,
And he did not get into the perky workshop
The people I am not judging about
Then, that I belong to them.

XLIV.

And again, betrayed by idleness,
Languishing in spiritual emptiness
He sat down - with a laudable purpose
To take over the mind of someone else;
I set a shelf with a detachment of books,
I read, read, but everything is useless:
There is boredom, there is deception or delirium;
There is no sense in that conscience;
On all different chains;
And the old days are outdated,
And the old is raving about novelty.
As women, he left books
And the shelf, with their dusty family,
I pulled it up with mourning taffeta.

XLV.

The conditions of light overthrowing the burden,
As he, behind the vanity,
I became friends with him at that time.
I liked his features
Unwitting devotion to dreams
Inimitable oddity
And a sharp, chilled mind.
I was embittered, he is gloomy;
We both knew the passion of the game:
Weighed down the life of both of us;
In both hearts, the heat died away;
Anger awaited both of them
Blind Fortune and People
In the very morning of our days.

XLVI.

He who lived and thought cannot
In my heart, do not despise people;
He who felt worries
The ghost of unrecoverable days:
There are no charms for that.
That snake of memories
That one gnaws at repentance.
All this often gives
Great delight in conversation.
First Onegin's tongue
Confused me; but I'm used to
To his stinging argument,
And for a joke with bile in half,
And the anger of gloomy epigrams.

XLVII.

How often summertime
When transparent and light
Night sky over the Neva (8),
And the waters are cheerful glass
Doesn't reflect Diana's face
Remembering past years of novels,
Remembering the old love
Sensitive, careless again
By the breath of the benevolent night
We revel in silence!
Like a green forest from prison
The sleepy convict has been moved,
So we were carried away by a dream
By the beginning of life young.

XLVIII.

With a soul full of regrets
And leaning on granite
Eugene stood pensively,
As Piit described himself (9).
Everything was quiet; only at night
The sentries called out;
Yes droshky distant knock
From Millionnaya I suddenly heard;
Only a boat, waving oars,
Swam along the slumbering river:
And we were captivated in the distance
Horn and daring song ...
But sweeter in the midst of nighttime fun
Chanting Torquat Octaves!

XLIX

Adriatic waves
Oh Brenta! no, I will see you,
And full of inspiration again,
I will hear your magic voice!
He is holy to the grandchildren of Apollo;
By the proud lyre of Albion
He is familiar to me, he is dear to me.
Italy's golden nights
I will enjoy bliss in freedom,
With a young Venetian,
Now talkative, now dumb,
Sailing in a mysterious gondola;
With her will my lips find
The language of Petrarch and love.

L

Will the hour of my freedom come?
It's time, it's time! - I appeal to her;
I wander over the sea (10), waiting for the weather
Manyu sailing ships.
Under the robe of storms, arguing with the waves,
By the free crossroads of the sea
When will I start freestyle?
It's time to leave boring Breg
I hate the elements
And amid the midday swell,
Under the sky of my Africa (11),
Sigh for gloomy Russia,
Where I suffered, where I loved
Where I buried my heart.

LI

Onegin was ready with me
See foreign countries;
But soon we were destiny
Divorced for a long time.
His father then died.
Before Onegin he gathered
A greedy regiment of creditors.
Everyone has their own mind and sense:
Eugene, hating litigation,
Satisfied with his lot,
I gave them an inheritance,
Big loss in not seeing
Or foreseeing from afar
The death of an old uncle.

LII.

Suddenly he really got
Report from the steward,
That uncle is dying in bed
And I would be glad to say goodbye to him.
After reading the sad message,
Eugene immediately on a date
The headlong galloped by mail
And he yawned in advance
Getting ready, for the sake of money,
For sighs, boredom and deceit
(And so I began my novel);
But, having arrived in the uncle's village,
I found him already on the table,
As a tribute to the finished land.

LIII.

He found a yard full of services;
To the deceased from all sides
Foes and friends came together,
Hunters before the funeral.
The deceased was buried.
Priests and guests ate and drank
And then they parted importantly,
As if they were busy.
Here is our Onegin villager,
Plants, waters, forests, lands
The owner is full, but until now
Order is an enemy and waster,
And I'm very glad that the old way
Changed to something.

LIV.

Two days seemed new to him
Secluded fields
The coolness of the gloomy oak tree,
The murmur of a quiet stream;
To the third grove, hill and field
He was no longer occupied;
Then they made me sleep;
Then he saw clearly
That in the village the same boredom
Although there are no streets or palaces,
No cards, no balls, no poems.
The blues were waiting for him on guard,
And she ran after him,
Like a shadow or a faithful wife.

LV.

I was born for a peaceful life
For village silence:
In the wilderness, the lyre voice is louder,
More vivid creative dreams.
Leisure dedicated to the innocent,
I wander over a desert lake,
And far niente is my law.
I'm awake every morning
For sweet bliss and freedom:
I read a little, I sleep for a long time,
I don't catch flying glory.
Wasn't I in the old days
Spent in inaction, in the shadows
My happiest days?

LVI.

Flowers, love, village, idleness,
Fields! I am devoted to you in my soul.
I'm always glad to notice the difference
Between Onegin and me,
To the mocking reader
Or some publisher
Intricate slander
Comparing my features here,
I did not repeat then shamelessly,
That I have smeared my portrait
Like Byron, the poet of pride,
As if it's impossible for us
Write poems about something else
As soon as about yourself.

LVII.

I will note by the way: all poets -
Love dreamy friends.
Used to be cute items
I dreamed and my soul
She kept their image secret;
After the Muse revived them:
So I, carelessly, chanted
And the maiden of the mountains, my ideal,
And the captives of the shores of Salgir.
Now from you my friends
I often hear the question:
“For whom does your lyre sigh?
Who, in a crowd of jealous virgins,
Did you chant her?

LVIII.

Whose gaze, exciting inspiration,
He rewarded with sweet affection
Your brooding singing?
Whom did your verse idolize? "
And, friends, no one, by God!
Love mad anxiety
I felt bleak.
Blessed is he who combined with her
The fever of rhymes: he doubled
Poetry is a sacred delirium,
Petrarch walking after,
And calmed the torment of the heart,
Caught the glory in the meantime;
But I, loving, was stupid and dumb.

LIX.

Love has passed, Muse has appeared,
And the dark mind cleared up.
Free, looking for union again
Magic sounds, feelings and thoughts;
I write, and my heart does not yearn
The pen, forgotten, does not draw,
Near unfinished verses
No female legs, no heads;
The extinguished ash will not flare up,
I'm sad all the time; but there are no more tears,
And soon, soon there will be a storm
It will completely subside in my soul:
Then I'll start writing
Poem of songs at twenty-five.

LX.

I thought about the shape of the plan
And as a hero I will name;
While my novel
I finished the first chapter;
Revised it all strictly:
There are a lot of contradictions
But I don’t want to fix them.
I will pay my debt to censorship,
And for journalists to eat
I will give the fruits of my labors:
Go to the Neva banks
Newborn creation
And earn me a tribute to glory:
Crooked talk, noise and abuse!

Epigraph from the Poems of P. A. Vyazemsky (1792-1878) "First Snow". See the fable of I. A. Krylov "The Donkey and the Man", line 4. (1) Written in Bessarabia (Note by A.S. Pushkin). Madame, teacher, governess. Monsieur Abbot (French). (2) Dandy, dandy (Approx. A.S. Pushkin). Be healthy (lat.). See the missing stanza. See the missing stanzas. (3) Hat à la Bolivar (Approx. A.S. Pushkin). Hat style. Bolivar Simon (1783-1830) - the leader of the national liberation. movement in Latin America. It is established that Pushkin Onegin goes to the Admiralteysky Boulevard that existed in St. Petersburg (4) A well-known restaurateur (Approx. A. S. Pushkin). Antrasha - jump, ballet step (French). (5) A trait of chilled sentiment worthy of Chad-Harold. The ballets of Mr. Didlot are full of wondrous imagination and extraordinary charm. One of our romantic pistols found in them much more poetry than in all of French literature (Approx. A. S. Pushkin). (6) Tout le monde sut qu'il mettait du blanc; et moi, qui n'en croyais rien, je commençais de le croir, non seulement par l'embellissement de son teint et pour avoir trouvé des tasses de blanc sur sa toilette, mais sur ce qu'entrant un matin dans sa chambre, je le trouvai brossant ses ongles avec une petite vergette faite exprès, ouvrage qu'il continua fièrement devant moi. Je jugeai qu'un homme qui passe deux heures tous les matins à brosser ses onlges, peut bien passer quelques instants à remplir de blanc les creux de sa peau. (Confessions de J.J. Rousseau)
Grim defined his age: nowadays all over enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush. (Comment by A.S. Pushkin).
“Everyone knew that he used white; and I, who did not believe this at all, began to guess that not only because of the improvement in the color of his face or because I found jars of white on his toilet, but because, one morning, having entered his room, I found him behind cleaning nails with a special brush; this occupation he proudly continued in my presence. I decided that a person who spends two hours every morning cleaning their nails can spend a few minutes to cover up the skin imperfections with white. " (French). Boston is a card game. Stanzas XXXIX, XL and XLI are marked by Pushkin as missing. In Pushkin's manuscripts, however, there is no trace of any pass in this place. Probably, Pushkin did not write these stanzas. Vladimir Nabokov considered the pass "fictitious, having a certain musical meaning - a pause in thoughtfulness, an imitation of a missed heart beat, an apparent horizon of feelings, false asterisks to denote a false unknown" (V. Nabokov. Comments on Eugene Onegin. Moscow 1999, p. 179. (7) This entire ironic stanza is nothing more than a subtle praise to our beautiful compatriots. So Boileau, under the guise of reproach, praises Ludovik XIV. Our ladies combine enlightenment with courtesy and strict purity of morals with this oriental charm that captivated Madame Steel so much (See Dix anées d "exil). (Approx. A. S. Pushkin). (8) Readers remember the charming description of the St. Petersburg night in the idyll of Gnedich. Self-portrait with Onegin on the embankment of the Neva: auto illustration for Ch. 1 novel "Eugene Onegin". Litter under the picture: “1 is good. 2 should be leaning against granite. 3. boat, 4. Fortress Peter and Paul ". In a letter to L.S.Pushkin. PD, No. 1261, fol. 34. Neg. No. 7612. 1824, early November. Bibliographic notes, 1858, v. 1, No. 4 (the figure is reproduced on a sheet without pagination, after column 128; publication by S. A. Sobolevsky); Librovich, 1890, p. 37 (play), 35, 36, 38; Efros, 1945, p. 57 (play), 98, 100; Tomashevsky, 1962, p. 324, note. 2; Tsiavlovskaya, 1980, p. 352 (rep.), 351, 355, 441. (9) Show the goddess in favor
An enthusiastic drink sees
Spending the night sleepless
Leaning on granite.
(Muravyov. To the Goddess of the Neva). (Approx. A.S. Pushkin). (10) Written in Odessa. (Approx. A.S. Pushkin). (11) See the first edition of Eugene Onegin. (Approx. A.S. Pushkin). Far niente - idleness, idleness (Italian)

"My uncle of the most honest rules" A.S. Pushkin.
analysis of 1 stanza "Eugene Onegin"

Again, "Not thinking to amuse the proud light / Attention to love friendship"

And on the poet's birthday
a gift to those who love stanzas
and knows.

One of the most famous stanzas in the world is the beginning of Eugene Onegin.
The first stanza of "Onegin" worried many literary critics. They say that S. Bondi could talk about her for several hours. Sparks of wit, the greatness of reason, the grandeur of erudition - we cannot compete with all this.
But I'm a director by profession.
And to talk about this mysterious stanza, about which so many critical copies have been broken, I will take our director's theatrical method - the method of effective analysis.
Is it allowed to judge literature by the methods of theater? But let's see.

First, let's find out what is understandable for us in stanza 1, and what, as it was said at the time of the ASP, is shrouded in mystery.

My uncle has the most honest rules;
When seriously ill,
He made himself respect
And I could not think of a better one.
His example is science to others;
But oh my god what a boredom
Sitting with a sick person day and night,
Without leaving a step away! ...

So, main character jumping somewhere, simultaneously washing the bones of his uncle, who made him hastily dash off and rush to his estate.
I wonder if EO condemns his uncle or praises him?
"The most honest rules" - ie acts as is customary, as expected (a stable expression in Pushkin's times). Grinev is also a hero of "fair rules", i.e. keeping his honor. Many authors quote the well-known phrase of I. Krylov "The donkey was the most honest rules." But she is hardly related to the character: Onegin's uncle is not a donkey at all, but a direct object for imitation (the opinion of Eugene himself).
“His example is science to others”; "I could not have imagined better" - that is, everyone should act like an uncle. (Let's take it for the time being).
What was so extraordinary that uncle did? What is it that a representative of the younger generation values \u200b\u200bso highly in him?
He "forced himself to respect." This phrase is so blurred that we stubbornly see in it only the beautiful verb "respect", not seeing the semantic link with another verb - "forced." Made! Here it is!
How can a freedom-loving, independent EO have a positive attitude to the idea of \u200b\u200b“forcing” someone ?! Was he himself ever forced to do something in his life? Can the very fact of coercion exist in the system of his moral values?
Let's see, what did the uncle make his niece?
Just come to his village to say goodbye.
Is there a spiritual connection between them?
Does EO want to rush to his uncle?
Why does he do this?
The answer for the 19th century is obvious: because in case of disobedience it can be disinherited. Inheritance holders know how to do the wrong tricks. I would refer to the well-known chapters from "War and Peace" telling about the death of the old Count Bezukhov, but nowadays we know more abruptly than stories.
EO, who had recently lost his father - and his inheritance along with him - is forced to accept his uncle's conditions. He has no other sources for life. Do not serve, in fact! This polished dandy, secular lion EO does not know how. Not so brought up.
But EO also condemns the pressure that his uncle is putting on him. And, not feeling any kindred feelings towards him, EO longingly thinks about the boredom that lies in wait for him there, calling the forced sucking up to a dying rich relative "low cunning."
Whatever the EO, but low cunning is not characteristic of it in the least. Pushkin spares the hero. Arriving in the village, EO finds his uncle "on the table / As a tribute to the finished land." Suckers are dropped. You don't have to bend over and do not cheat, but boldly enter into the inheritance of the estate ...

TO BE CONTINUED.

My uncle has the most honest rules
When seriously ill,
He made himself respect
And I could not think of a better one.
His example to others is science;
But oh my god what a boredom
Sitting with a sick person day and night,
Without leaving a single step away!
What a base deceit
To amuse half-dead
Correct his pillows,
It's sad to bring medicine
Sigh and think to yourself:
When will the devil take you!

Analysis of "My uncle of the most honest rules" - the first stanza of Eugene Onegin

In the first lines of the novel, Pushkin describes Onegin's uncle. The phrase "the most honest rules" is taken from. Comparing his uncle with a character from a fable, the poet hints that his "honesty" was only a cover for cunning and resourcefulness. Uncle knew how to skillfully adapt to public opinion and, without arousing any suspicion, turn their dark deeds. Thus, he earned a good name and respect.

Uncle's serious illness became another reason to attract attention. The line “I couldn't have imagined it better” reveals the idea that even from an illness that can cause death, Onegin's uncle is trying (and he succeeds) to derive practical benefit. Others are sure that he fell ill due to a neglect of his health for the good of his neighbors. This seemingly selfless service to the people becomes the cause of even greater respect. But he is unable to deceive his nephew, who knows the whole story. Therefore, there is irony in the words of Eugene Onegin about the disease.

In the line "his example to other science" Pushkin again uses irony. Representatives of high society in Russia have always made a sensation out of their illness. This was mainly related to inheritance issues. A crowd of heirs gathered around the dying relatives. They did their best to win the patient's favor in the hope of reward. The merits of the dying man and his supposed virtue were loudly proclaimed. This is the situation the author sets as an example.

Onegin is the heir to his uncle. By right of close kinship, he is obliged to spend "both day and night" at the patient's bedside and provide him with any help. 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 indicated by the phrase "base deceit". And he, and his uncle, and everyone around him understands why his nephew does not leave the bed of the dying man. But the real meaning is covered with a false veneer of virtue. Onegin is incredibly bored and disgusted. A single phrase constantly revolves in his language: "When will the devil take you!"

The mention of the devil, and not God, further emphasizes the unnaturalness of Onegin's experiences. In fact, uncle's "fair rules" do not deserve a heavenly life. All those around, led by Onegin, are looking forward to his death. Only by this will he render the society a real invaluable merit.

From school I remember the first stanza from "Eugene Onegin" by A.S. Pushkin.
The novel is written extremely simply, with impeccable rhyme, classic iambic tetrameter. Moreover, each stanza of this novel is a sonnet. You, of course, know that the stanza with which this work of Pushkin is written is called "Oneginskaya". But the first stanza seemed to me so classic and, as it were, applicable to the presentation of almost any topic, that I tried to write a poem using the rhyme of this stanza, i.e. last words each line, keeping the same rhythm.
To remind the reader, first I quote the specified stanza of Pushkin, and then my poem.

My uncle has the most honest rules
When seriously ill,
He made himself respect
And I could not think of a better one.
His example to others is science,
But oh my god what a boredom
To sit with the sick day and night
Without leaving a single step.
What a base deceit
To amuse half-dead
To correct his pillows,
It's sad to bring medicine
Sigh and think to yourself
When the devil takes you

Love has no special rules
You just took it and got sick.
Suddenly, someone's eyes made me hurt,
Or a kiss could force.
Love is a hard science
And this is joy, not boredom,
Harrowing day and night
Without leaving the heart.
Love is capable of deceit
The game is able to amuse
And to correct the outcomes of wars,
Or your medicine to be blues.
To search for this, do not waste yourself,
She will find you herself.
April 07, 2010

Somehow, long ago, I found an entertaining game on the Internet - the collective writing of a sonnet. Very funny. And, after writing the above mentioned poem, I got the idea to offer you, dear readers, a poetic game - to write sonnets using the last words of the lines of the first stanza of "Eugene Onegin"
Good brain exercise.
But I was tormented by doubts whether it can be done? That is, there is a framework of specific words that limit the topic.
I again wrote down the last words in a column and, after rereading them, for some reason recalled “At the last line” by V. Pikul. Probably because of the words: forced, deceit, medicine. I thought a little and wrote this:

Rasputin Grishka lived without rules,
Has been ill with hypnosis since childhood
And made me go to bed
Half Peter and more could.
I didn't like this science
Husbands whose wives were bored.
They decided in one night
Let the spirit out of the elder.
After all, he invented, a scoundrel, deceit
Amuse yourself with debauchery:
To improve the health of the ladies,
By giving fleshly medicine.
Know, if you let yourself into fornication,
Then the poison in Madeira is waiting for you.
April 14, 2010

But even after that I had my doubts - the feeling that it was impossible to describe any topic. And with a laugh, I asked myself: Here, for example, how to present a simple nursery rhyme "Geese are my geese." I wrote out the last words again. It turned out that verbs are masculine nouns. Well, well, to say about the grandmother, I introduced a new character - grandfather. And here's what happened:

Reading the list of village rules,
My grandfather fell ill with poultry farming.
He made grandma buy
Two geese. But he himself could.
Grazing geese is a science
He was tormented like boredom
And, taking advantage of the darker night,
The geese swam away in a puddle.
Grandma moans - that's treachery
Geese will not amuse
And correct the mood
After all, their cackle is a medicine for the soul.
Remember the moral - you suck yourself
Only by what makes you happy.
April 21, 2010

Putting aside the idea of \u200b\u200bplacing these verses, I somehow thought about our fleeting life, that in an effort to make money, people often lose their souls and decided to write a poem, but remembering his idea, without a shadow of a doubt, set out his thoughts with the same rhyme. And this is what happened:

One of the rules dictates life:
Are you healthy, or ill,
The pragmatic century made everyone
Run so that everyone can survive.
Science rushes in development
And, forgetting what boredom means,
Pushes business day and night
Away from old technologies.
But there is deceit in this running:
Success will only start to amuse -
Toughness will correct you,
That medicine for Mephistopheles.
He will give good luck, but for himself,
He will take the soul out of you.
June 09, 2010

So, I invite everyone to take part in writing poetry with Pushkin's rhyme from the specified stanza "Eugene Onegin". The first condition is any topic; second - strict adherence to Pushkin's rhythm and line length: third - of course, decent eroticism is allowed, but please, without vulgarity.
For ease of reading, with your consent, I will copy your verses below with a link to your page.
Unregistered readers can also participate. On my first page at this address: there is a line: "send a letter to the author". Write from your mail and I will definitely answer you. And, with your consent, I can also place your verse below, under your name.
The end point of our game is the publication of a book for the anniversary of A.S. Pushkin, entitled "My uncle of the most honest rules." This can be done within the framework of almanacs published by the site owners, or it can be done separately. I can take over the organization.
The minimum is to collect fifty verses, one per page. The result is a collection of 60 pages.

Respectfully all.
Yuri Bashara

P.S. Below I publish the participants in the game:

God wrote us 10 rules
But if you feel sick,
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And I could not think of a better one.

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