When seriously ill,

He made himself respect

And I could not think of a better one.

His example to others is science;

This is how the novel Eugene Onegin, written by Pushkin, begins. The phrase for the first line Pushkin borrowed from Krylov's fable "The Donkey and the Man". The fable was published in 1819, and was still heard by readers. The phrase "most fair rules”Was expressed with clear implications. Uncle served in good faith, fulfilled his duties, but, hiding behind "honest rules" during the service, did not forget about himself. He knew how to steal unnoticed, and made a decent fortune, which was getting now. This ability to make a fortune is another science.

Pushkin, through the lips of Onegin, sneers at his uncle and his life. What remains after it? What did he do for the fatherland? What mark did you leave behind? He acquired a small estate and made others respect himself. But this respect was not always genuine. In our blessed state, ranks and merit were not always earned by righteous labors. The ability to present oneself in a favorable light in front of superiors, the ability to make profitable acquaintances both then, in the time of Pushkin and now, in our days, work flawlessly.

Onegin goes to his uncle and imagines that now he will have to portray a loving nephew in front of him, be a little hypocritical, and in his heart think about when the devil will clean up the patient.

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

When analyzing Pushkin's poems, literary critics still argue over the meaning of each line. Opinions are expressed that "he forced himself to respect" means - he died. This statement does not stand up to criticism, since, according to Onegin, the uncle is still alive. We must not forget that a letter from the manager has been riding horses for weeks. And the road itself took Onegin no less time. And so it happened that Onegin got "from the ship to the funeral."

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

EUGENE ONEGIN
NOVEL IN VERSES

1823-1831

Epigraph and dedication	5
Chapter one	10
Chapter two	36
Chapter three	54
Chapter four	76
Chapter five	94
Chapter six	112
Chapter Seven	131
Chapter Eight	156
Notes to Eugene Onegin	179
Excerpts from Onegin's journey	184
Chapter Ten	193
Full text

About the work

The first Russian novel in verse. New model literature as an easy conversation about everything. Gallery of eternal Russian characters. A revolutionary love story for its era, which became the archetype of romantic relationships for many generations to come. Encyclopedia of Russian life. Our everything.

A young, but already fed up with life, St. Petersburg rake (Onegin) leaves for the village. There he meets the poet Lensky, who is preparing for the wedding with his neighbor Olga. Her older sister Tatiana falls in love with Onegin, but he does not reciprocate her feelings. Lensky, jealous of the bride to a friend, challenges Onegin to a duel and dies. Tatiana marries a general and becomes a St. Petersburg high society lady, whom Yevgeny falls in love with after returning from his wanderings in Russia. Although Tatiana still loves him, she prefers to remain faithful to her husband. How does the book end? Unknown: the author simply interrupts the narration (as Belinsky wrote, “the novel ends in nothing”).

Reviews

In his poem, he knew how to touch on so many things, to hint at so many things that he belongs exclusively to the world of Russian nature, to the world of Russian society. Onegin can be called an encyclopedia of Russian life and in the highest degree folk work.

V.G.Belinsky. Works by Alexander Pushkin. Article Nine (1845)

We made sure ... that the sequence of semantic-stylistic breakdowns creates not a focused, but a scattered, multiple point of view, which becomes the center of the supersystem, perceived as an illusion of reality itself. At the same time, essential precisely for the realistic style, which seeks to go beyond the subjectivity of semantic and stylistic "points of view" and to recreate objective reality, is the specific ratio of these multiple centers, various (adjacent or mutually overlapping) structures: each of them does not cancel the others, but correlates with them. As a result, the text means not only what it means, but also something else. The new meaning does not cancel the old one, but correlates with it. As a result, the artistic model reproduces such an important aspect of reality as its inexhaustibility in any final interpretation.

Although the plot of Eugene Onegin is not rich in events, the novel had a tremendous impact on Russian literature. Pushkin brought social and psychological types to the literary proscenium, which will occupy readers and writers of several subsequent generations. This is a "superfluous person", (anti) hero of his time, hiding his true face behind the mask of a cold egoist (Onegin); a naive provincial girl, honest and open, ready for self-sacrifice (Tatiana at the beginning of the novel); the poet-dreamer, dying at the first encounter with reality (Lensky); Russian woman, the embodiment of grace, intelligence and aristocratic dignity (Tatiana at the end of the novel). Finally, there is a whole gallery of characterological portraits representing the Russian noble society in all its diversity (the cynic Zaretsky, the "old men" Larins, provincial landowners, Moscow bars, metropolitan dandies and many, many others).<...>

"Eugene Onegin" concentrates the main thematic and stylistic finds of the previous creative decade: the type of a disappointed hero reminds of romantic elegies and the poem "Prisoner of the Caucasus", a fragmentary plot - about her and other "southern" ("Byronic") poems of Pushkin, stylistic contrasts and the author's irony - about the poem "Ruslan and Lyudmila", colloquial intonation - about the friendly poetic messages of the Arzamas poets.

For all that, the novel is absolutely anti-traditional. The text has neither a beginning (the ironic "introduction" is at the end of the seventh chapter), nor an end: the open ending is followed by excerpts from Onegin's Travels, returning the reader first to the middle of the plot, and then, in the last line, to the moment of the beginning of work the author over the text ("So I lived then in Odessa ..."). The novel lacks the traditional features of the novel's plot and the usual heroes: "All types and forms of literature are naked, openly revealed to the reader and ironically compared with each other, the conventionality of any way of expression is mockingly demonstrated by the author." The question "how to write?" Pushkin worries no less than the question "what to write about?" Eugene Onegin is the answer to both questions. This is not only a novel, but also a metaromaniac (a novel about how a novel is written).<...>

Pushkin's text is characterized by a plurality of points of view expressed by the author-narrator and characters, and a stereoscopic combination of contradictions arising from the collision of different views on the same subject. Is Eugene original or imitative? What future awaited Lensky - great or ordinary? All these questions in the novel are given different, and mutually exclusive answers.<...>

Onegin is a radically innovative work not only in terms of composition, but also in style.<...> The novelty and uniqueness of Pushkin's style amazed contemporaries - and we got used to it from childhood and often do not feel stylistic contrasts, let alone stylistic nuances. Rejecting the a priori division of stylistic registers into "low" and "high", Pushkin not only created a fundamentally new aesthetics, but also solved the most important cultural task - the synthesis of linguistic styles and the creation of a new national literary language.<...>

“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
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,
The big loss is not seeing
Or foreseeing from afar
The demise of the 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 with business.
Here is our Onegin villager,
Plants, waters, forests, lands
The owner is full, but until now
Enemy and wasteful of order,
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
Even though 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!
Of 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 and glory meanwhile;
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 keep feeling sad; 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. 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 is going to the Admiralteisky 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 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 in all enlightened Europe they clean their nails with a special brush. (Approx. A.S. Pushkin).
“Everyone knew that he used white; and I, who did not believe it 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, having entered his room one morning, 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 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.

Hello dear.
Let's continue reading Eugene Onegin together. Last time we stopped here:

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 he 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.

The fact that Eugene could not distinguish iambic from chorea suggests that there were gaps in his education, and most importantly, he was alien to versification, and everything connected with it. Both iambic and trochee are poetic meters. Yamb is the simplest size that is widely and in every possible way. This is a two-syllable poetic foot with an accent on the second syllable. Here is an example of iambic pentameter:
You are a wolf! I despise you!
To Ptiburdukov you are leaving me!
Chorea has the stress on the first syllable. Example:
The clouds are melting in the sky
And, radiant in the heat,
The river is rolling in sparks
Like a steel mirror

metric feet

Who Homer is, I think, there is no need to explain (His name is not Simpson - I say right away), but I think that few are familiar with Theocritus. Also a Greek, also a poet, who became famous for his idylls. I learned about him in more detail when I was on the beautiful Greek island of Kos, where this poet worked at the temple of Asclepius. And you know, I got into it. The place is right there ...

Theocritus on Kos

Adam Smith is actually the prophet and apostle of modern economic theory. If you had economics in college, you read the works of this Scotsman. Well, at least the work "On the Wealth of Nations", which was extremely popular in those days. Eugene, read it (and naturally in French, for English was not in honor) - and began to consider himself a prominent expert and teach his father.

Adam Smith

By the way, apparently, Pushkin played the title of this book on purpose “he could judge how the state is getting richer.” A simple product is land, and this is already the theory of French economists of that time. Here Pushkin apparently shows us a kind of conflict between a more erudite son and a more patriarchal father.But in fact, there is no conflict, because the author is ironic, calling Eugene a “deep” connoisseur. And could a young man who superficially picked up knowledge in the basics of economics help his father avoid ruin? Of course not, only in theory.
But let's quote the last part for today.

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.

Ovid.

In general, Onegin was not only a sybarite and a lazy white-handed, but also an insidious seducer. What we will see later. Not only an amateur, but also a real pro :-)
Not everyone knows who Nazon is, but they certainly heard the name Ovid at least once. They are one and the same person. The full name is Publius Ovidius Nazon. Ancient Roman poet and wit, one of the most famous and popular, who lived at the turn of the 1st century A.D. If you haven't read his metamorphoses, I highly recommend it. And it's interesting, and they served as role models for a bunch of authors. The same Pushkin, as far as I know, loved and appreciated Ovid very much. He glorified the science of tender passion, most likely, in his other well-known major work, "The Science of Love." Or maybe in love elegies.

I discovered this while reading "The Science of Love" in the book of the Publishing House "Amber Skaz", Kaliningrad, 2002

Under Emperor Augustus, he knows why, an extremely popular poet was exiled to the Black Sea region in the city of Toma (now Constanta). The trick is. That this is not Moldova, but Dobrudzha, and moreover, this city is on the seashore, not in the steppes. Pushkin, who was in exile in Chisinau, knows this absolutely clearly. Why he made a deliberate mistake is unclear. Although, looking at his grades in geography at the Lyceum, there may have been an unconscious mistake :-)

To be continued…
Have a nice time of day