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PUSHKIN'S POEMS

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EUGENE ONEGIN

(In this edition he is called Yevgeny Onegin).

BOOK 1 STANZAS 54-56
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.

 



Два дня ему казались новы
Уединенные поля,
Прохлада сумрачной дубровы,
Журчанье тихого ручья;
На третий роща, холм и поле
Его не занимали боле;
Потом уж наводили сон;
Потом увидел ясно он,
Что и в деревне скука та же,
Хоть нет ни улиц, ни дворцов,
Ни карт, ни балов, ни стихов.
Хандра ждала его на страже,
И бегала за ним она,
Как тень иль верная жена.
 

LIV


For the first two days all seemed pleasantly new,
The isolation of the fields,
The gloomy dank of the oak wood thicket,
The gurgling sound of a quiet brooklet;
But on the third day woods, fields and hills
No longer occupied his thinking,
And even made him stifle a yawn.
Then he saw clearly, without blinking,
That in the country the same old tedium
Returned, although there were no streets,
Nor busy yards, poems, parties and cards.
While disillusion watched with a constant guard
And pursued him ever throughout his life
Like his own shadow, or a faithful wife.

 

Я был рождён для жизни мирной,
Для деревенской тишины:
В глуши звучнее голос лирный,
Живее творческие сны.
Досугам посвятясь невинным,
Брожу над озером пустынным,
И far niente мой закон.
Я каждым утром пробуждён
Для сладкой неги и свободы:
Читаю мало, долго сплю,
Летучей славы не ловлю.
Не так ли я в былые годы
Провёл в бездействии, в тени
Мои счастливейшие дни?
 

LV


I was born to enjoy the retired life,
For rural silences and peace:
The lyre's voice rings out more in the stillness,
And the creative spirit is more alive.
To innocent idleness devoted
I wander the lake's deserted shore
And far niente is my only law.
The returning morn awakens me
To sweetest leisure and liberty:
I read much, and I drowse at will,
While fleeting fame I do not chase.
Was it not thus, in the years gone by,
That I spent in shadow, in an idle haze
The happiest portion of my days?



Цветы, любовь, деревня, праздность,
Поля! я предан вам душой.
Всегда я рад заметить разность
Между Онегиным и мной,
Чтобы насмешливый читатель
Или какой-нибудь издатель
Замысловатой клеветы,
Сличая здесь мои черты,
Не повторял потом безбожно,
Что намарал я свой портрет,
Как Байрон, гордости поэт,
Как будто нам уж невозможно
Писать поэмы о другом,
Как только о себе самом.
 

LVI


Flowers, love, the country, idleness
And meadows on meadows! I adore you all.
As ever I am glad to notice
The difference between Onegin's and my own soul,
So that the haughty, sarcastic reader
Or some other gossip and inventer
Of over elaborate calumny,
Comparing Onegin's and my own features,
May not repeat ignominiously
That here I have daubed my own portrait,
Like Byron, of lofty pride the poet,
As if it were impossible for us to write
A poem on another, or a different tone,
But only about ourselves alone.

     


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