Eugene Onegin. Book I Stanzas 36

The Russian text is printed both in image format, and as plain Russian script. Errors in the Image version I hope have been corrected in the plain text below. Two or three stanzas are printed on each page, with the English translation alongside.

Part of The Hermitage. See below for enlargement.

Но, шумом бала утомленный,
И утро в полночь обратя,
Спокойно спит в тени блаженной
Забав и роскоши дитя.
Проснется за-полдень, и снова
До утра жизнь его готова,
Однообразна и пестра.
И завтра то же, что вчера.
Но был ли счастлив мой Евгений,
Свободный, в цвете лучших лет,
Среди блистательных побед,
Среди вседневных наслаждений?
Вотще ли был он средь пиров
Неосторожен и здоров?

XXXVI

But, by the noise of the ball worn out,
And turning the morning into midnight,
Peacefully sleeps in blissful shades
The child of luxury and delight.
He wakes at noon, or even later,
And once more his life till morning is planned,
His life both monotonous and various,
Tomorrow the same as yesterday's course.
But was my dear Yevgeny contented,
In freedom, in the prime of his best years,
Among his shining, glittering conquests,
Among his amusements oft repeated?
Was it in vain that among these feasts
He pretended good health and a carefree breast?

Нет: рано чувства в нем остыли;
Ему наскучил света шум;
Красавицы не долго были
Предмет его привычных дум;
Измены утомить успели;
Друзья и дружба надоели,
Затем, что не всегда же мог
Beef-steaks и стразбургский пирог
Шампанской обливать бутылкой
И сыпать острые слова,
Когда болела голова;
И хоть он был повеса пылкой,
Но разлюбил он наконец
И брань, и саблю, и свинец.

XXXVII

No: for early had his feelings withered,
Society's bustle only bored him stiff,
And not for long were beautiful women
The subject of his constant adoring.
Betrayals only served to weary him,
While friends and friendship turned him rigid,
Because he could not every time
Drown hot beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie
With frequent bottles of sparkling wine,
And scatter abroad a witty lie,
Especially when his head was frigid.
And though a womaniser fierce and ardent
In the end he could no longer pine
For duels, and sabres and the bullet's whine.

Недуг, которого причину
Давно бы отыскать пора,
Подобный английскому сплину,
Короче: русская хандра
Им овладела понемногу;
Он застрелиться, слава богу,
Попробовать не захотел,
Но к жизни вовсе охладел.
Как Child-Harold, угрюмый, томный
В гостиных появлялся он;
Ни сплетни света, ни бостон,
Ни милый взгляд, ни вздох нескромный,
Ничто не трогало его,
Не замечал он ничего.

XXXVIII

The discontentment and disenchantment
Of which the cause it is time to seek
Most like what is spleen to Englishmen,
Or more simply 'the blues' in Russian,
Had gradually sunk and overwhelmed him;
At least to shoot himself, thank God,
He had no wish to make an attempt
But yet his life grew cold and unkempt.
Like Byron's Childe Harold, gloomy, mournful,
He often appeared in dining rooms.
But neither gossip, nor sighs, nor Boston,
Nor tender looks moved him; for all was lost on
Him, nothing could touch his feeling,
He noticed nothing that was appealing.

Shakespeare's Sonnets

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Но, шумом бала утомленный, И утро в полночь обратя, Спокойно спит в тени блаженной Забав и роскоши дитя. Проснется за-полдень, и снова До утра жизнь его готова, Однообразна и пестра. И завтра то же, что вчера. Но был ли счастлив мой Евгений, Свободный, в цвете лучших лет, Среди блистательных побед, Среди вседневных наслаждений? Вотще ли был он средь пиров Неосторожен и здоров?		XXXVI But, by the noise of the ball worn out, And turning the morning into midnight, Peacefully sleeps in blissful shades The child of luxury and delight. He wakes at noon, or even later, And once more his life till morning is planned, His life both monotonous and various, Tomorrow the same as yesterday's course. But was my dear Yevgeny contented, In freedom, in the prime of his best years, Among his shining, glittering conquests, Among his amusements oft repeated? Was it in vain that among these feasts He pretended good health and a carefree breast?
Нет: рано чувства в нем остыли; Ему наскучил света шум; Красавицы не долго были Предмет его привычных дум; Измены утомить успели; Друзья и дружба надоели, Затем, что не всегда же мог Beef-steaks и стразбургский пирог Шампанской обливать бутылкой И сыпать острые слова, Когда болела голова; И хоть он был повеса пылкой, Но разлюбил он наконец И брань, и саблю, и свинец.		XXXVII No: for early had his feelings withered, Society's bustle only bored him stiff, And not for long were beautiful women The subject of his constant adoring. Betrayals only served to weary him, While friends and friendship turned him rigid, Because he could not every time Drown hot beef-steaks and Strasbourg pie With frequent bottles of sparkling wine, And scatter abroad a witty lie, Especially when his head was frigid. And though a womaniser fierce and ardent In the end he could no longer pine For duels, and sabres and the bullet's whine.
Недуг, которого причину Давно бы отыскать пора, Подобный английскому сплину, Короче: русская хандра Им овладела понемногу; Он застрелиться, слава богу, Попробовать не захотел, Но к жизни вовсе охладел. Как Child-Harold, угрюмый, томный В гостиных появлялся он; Ни сплетни света, ни бостон, Ни милый взгляд, ни вздох нескромный, Ничто не трогало его, Не замечал он ничего.		XXXVIII The discontentment and disenchantment Of which the cause it is time to seek Most like what is spleen to Englishmen, Or more simply 'the blues' in Russian, Had gradually sunk and overwhelmed him; At least to shoot himself, thank God, He had no wish to make an attempt But yet his life grew cold and unkempt. Like Byron's Childe Harold, gloomy, mournful, He often appeared in dining rooms. But neither gossip, nor sighs, nor Boston, Nor tender looks moved him; for all was lost on Him, nothing could touch his feeling, He noticed nothing that was appealing.