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PUSHKIN'S POEMS

HomeLermontov Other Pushkin Onegin Book I Book II Book III Book IV Book V BookVI BookVII BookVIII Next stanzas Previous stanzas

EUGENE ONEGIN

(In this edition he is called Yevgeny Onegin).


 

BOOK IV    Stanzas 1, (2-7), 8.

 

ГЛАВА ЧЕТВЕРТАЯ

La morale est dans la nature des choses.

Necker.

I. (II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. )

Чем меньше женщину мы любим,
Тем легче нравимся мы ей,
И тем ее вернее губим
Средь обольстительных сетей.
Разврат, бывало, хладнокровный
Наукой славился любовной,
Сам о себе везде трубя
И наслаждаясь не любя.
Но эта важная забава
Достойна старых обезьян
Хваленых дедовских времян:
Ловласов обветшала слава
Со славой красных каблуков
И величавых париков.

 

Chapter Four


Morality is part of the nature of things.
Necker.

I. (II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. )

The less we show our love to a woman,
Or please her less, and neglect our duty,
The more we trap and ruin her surely
In the flattering toils of philandery.
For, as usual, cold blooded, lechery
Obtains its fame from the science of love,
Always trumpeting to the skies above,
Enjoying itself without a heart.
But this most solemn, serious pastime,
Was fit for baboons of long ago,
Such as were praised in grandad's time:
The fame of Lovelace is withered now,
Along with the fame of scarlet shoes
And wigs which up to the ceiling rose.

 VII

Кому не скучно лицемерить,
Различно повторять одно,
Стараться важно в том уверить,
В чем все уверены давно,
Всё те же слышать возраженья,
Уничтожать предрассужденья,
Которых не было и нет
У девочки в тринадцать лет!
Кого не утомят угрозы,
Моленья, клятвы, мнимый страх,
Записки на шести листах,
Обманы, сплетни, кольца, слезы,
Надзоры теток, матерей,
И дружба тяжкая мужей!

 

 

VII


Who is not bored with acting a part,
Repeating with variation the same old thing,
Striving solemnly to assert
A fact known to all from long ago,
To listen to the same tedious objections,
Do battle with rooted convictions,
Such as never were and never have been
Even in a young girl who's just thirteen!
Who is not exhausted by threats,
Cajollings, swearings, pretended passion,
Notes six pages long (all the fashion),
Deceits, back biting, slanders, tears,
The supervision of aunts and mother,
And the heavy friendship of the husband of one's lover!

IX

Так точно думал мой Евгений.
Он в первой юности своей
Был жертвой бурных заблуждений
И необузданных страстей.
Привычкой жизни избалован,
Одним на время очарован,
Разочарованный другим,
Желаньем медленно томим,
Томим и ветреным успехом,
Внимая в шуме и в тиши
Роптанье вечное души,
Зевоту подавляя смехом:
Вот как убил он восемь лет,
Утратя жизни лучший цвет.


 
IX


Such were the thoughts of my Yevgeny.
For, from the days of his first youth
He was the victim of wildest fancy,
Unbridled passions for him were truth.
Spoiled by life's usual encounters,
For a time some girl would enchant his heart,
But then another would be disenchanting,
How wearisome the slow pain of desire,
But how wearisome too the successful fire;
He heard in the tumult and in silence too
The unending protests in his soul,
And stifled a yawn with an idle laugh:
And so he slaughtered eight years at least
Life's best flowers squandering at a barren feast.

 

X

В красавиц он уж не влюблялся,
А волочился как-нибудь;
Откажут - мигом утешался;
Изменят - рад был отдохнуть.
Он их искал без упоенья,
А оставлял без сожаленья,
Чуть помня их любовь и злость.
Так точно равнодушный гость
На вист вечерний приезжает,
Садится; кончилась игра:
Он уезжает со двора,
Спокойно дома засыпает
И сам не знает поутру,
Куда поедет ввечеру.

 

X


From lovely beauties he already felt distant,
But dragged after them for routine's sake.
A refusal - he was consoled in an instant,
A betrayal - he was glad his thirst to slake.
He sought them all with no sign of rapture,
And, without regret, evaded capture,
Scarcely remembering their love or hate.
In the same way an indifferent guest
Arrives for an evening game of whist,
Sits down, and plays till the game is done,
Then from the courtyard he hurries home,
And easily in his chair he snoozes,
Yet in the morning he knows not whose is
The house he will visit in the evening gloom.

 


 

Lermontov Other Pushkin Onegin Book I Book II Book III Book IV Book V BookVI BookVII BookVIII Next stanzas Previous stanzas
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