Eugene Onegin

Alexander Pushkin, Mary Hobson

Description

Russian classic in translation

A powerful love story set in the class-conscious Tsarist Russia of the early 19th century. It embraces every level of that society – serf, provincial, aristocrat – in verse which is by turns beautiful, witty, wickedly perceptive and always readable.

It traces the lives of two young people from childhood to maturity. Yevgeny, the fashionably disillusioned young man who knows everything about love except the most important thing; Tatiana, whose only experience of love comes from romantic novels but who knows how to love till the end.

This is essential reading for anyone with a love of Russian literature, because this is where it all began. There is little pre-history to that golden age of 19th century novels. Lomonosov, a fisherman’s son turned scholar, took church Slavonic, peasant Russian, mixed in a few ‘Loan translations’ and gave a French-speaking aristocracy a literary language; Pushkin was the first truly great poet to use it; Eugene Onegin is his greatest work.

Sujets

• General officer
• Poetry
• General
• Sagas
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Anthem Press
• Date de parution: 28 juin 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783084593
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

EUGENE ONEGIN
Eugene Onegin
ANTHEM PRESS
An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC)
First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by
ANTHEM PRESS
75-76 Blackfriars Road
London SE1 8HA
www.anthempress.com
Originally published in 2011 by The Russian School, Moscow English translation copyright Mary Hobson, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Права по Договору передаются Издателю на срок действия авторских прав на Произведение и распространяются на территорию Российской Федерации
The Russian publishers right to the work - Mary Hobson s translation of Eugene Onegin - are effective throughout The Russian Federation.
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-78308-458-6
This title is also available as an ebook.
EUGENE ONEGIN
A Novel in Verse
A LEXANDER P USHKIN
Translated by Mary Hobson
Not for the proud world, I assure you,
But valuing my friends esteem,
I would have wished to place before you
Some splendid offering, that would seem
More worthy of one dedicated
To sacred dreams. Verse that would be
Alive and clear and elevated
In all its pure simplicity.
But there it is - please tolerate it,
This many-coloured clutch of rhymes,
Half-humorous, half-sad, now real
Plain homely language, now ideal.
The casual fruit of carefree times,
Of sleepless nights, chance inspirations,
Of all my green and faded years,
Culled from the mind s cold observations,
The heart s heap of discarded tears.
1
He hurries to live, he hastens to feel.
Prince Viazemskii
I
My uncle, honest fellow, seeing
That he was now a dying man,
Required my last respects, this being
His best, indeed, his only plan.
The plan may be worth imitating;
The boredom is excruciating.
Sit by a sick-bed night and day
And never move a step away.
With what low cunning one tries madly
To amuse a man who s half alive,
Adjust his pillows, and contrive
To bring his medicine to him sadly,
Then sigh, while proffering the spoon,
Let s hope the devil takes you soon.
II
Thus thought the young rake, flying there
By dusty post-chaise, to the fate
Willed by the Most-High Zeus; sole heir
To all his family estate.
Friends of Liudmila, you who glory
In Ruslan, here s another story.
Without delay, without excuse
Permit me, please, to introduce
Onegin, my good friend from Peter,
Conceived and born on Neva s shore,
Where you, perhaps, were born too, or
Shone in the service, my dear reader.
I lived and loved there once, you see:
But our North is not good for me.
III
His father made a fine career
And lived in debt - as nobles can.
He always gave three balls a year
And was, at last, a ruined man.
Fate saved Evgenii in this drama.
First he was spoiled by his Madame ,
Then by Monsieur . It would appear
The boy was lively, but a dear.
Poor lame Monsieur l Abb thought teaching
Should not torment a little child;
His style was humorous and mild,
Unburdened by stern moral preaching.
He d gently scold, as gently pardon,
Then take him to the Summer Garden.
IV
But when the time came for the folly
Of youth s rebellion, time to play
At hope and tender melancholy,
The good Monsieur was sent away.
So - here s Onegin, full of passion,
His hair cut in the latest fashion,
Dressed like a London dandy. Free
To enter high society.
His French required no improvement;
Evgenii could converse and write.
He d dance mazurkas half the night
And bow with easy grace of movement.
What more d you want? - T was seen at once
That he was charming - and no dunce.
V
We all acquire, in moderation,
Something, somehow - the general line,
So that, thank God, in education
It isn t hard for us to shine.
And many thought Onegin clever.
(Some of the sternest judges ever)
But he s a pedant, they would say.
He had a very happy way
Of touching on each subject lightly,
Without constraint, which made him seem
An expert. On a hard-fought theme
He d stand in silence, most politely,
Then fire off epigrams in style,
A knack which made the ladies smile.
VI
We leave our Latin to the crammer:
To tell the truth, he knew enough
Of Latin verse and Latin grammar
To make sense of an epigraph,
Quote Juvenal - and to his betters -
Put vale at the end of letters,
Recalled the Aenid, could recite
A couplet - sometimes got it right.
He would have thought it most unpleasant
To burrow in the dusty ground
Of dry chronology; but found
That stories of the past and present,
From Romulus to our own day,
He could remember and relay.
VII
His ear was a touch prosaic
For verse. He regularly failed
To tell iambic from trochaic
No matter how we poets railed.
Homer, Theocritus were slated,
But Adam Smith was highly rated.
Evgenii the economist
Interpreted the points we missed,
Knew how a nation could be wealthy
And why it had no need of gold;
The simple product , we were told,
Would keep the economy quite healthy.
His father failed to understand
And was obliged to mortgage land.
VIII
What else he knew - quite as ingenious -
I ve not the leisure to recall.
But where he was in truth a genius,
The science that he knew best of all,
What constituted, from his boyhood,
His work, his pain, his source of joy, would
Absorb each hour of every day
Spent in his yearning, idle way,
Was that science of the tender passion
Sung by Ovid, who paid at last
For his rebellious, brilliant past,
Exiled by Rome in cruel fashion,
Deprived of land and liberty,
Far from his native Italy.
IX, X
How soon he learned to feign confusion,
To hide his hopes, show jealousy,
Inspire belief or disillusion,
Seem gloomy, pine and languish, be
Now fiercely proud and now obedient,
Attentive, cold - as was expedient.
What smouldering, sensuous silences,
What passionate eloquence were his.
In love letters how he took chances!
He breathed by, loved one thing alone;
To turn a head or lose his own.
How swift and tender were his glances,
How shy or bold. His eyes could fill
With tears, summoned up at will.
XI
How he assumed the latest air,
Made jokes that shocked young innocents,
Quite frightened them with his despair,
Amused them with his compliments,
Or seized the moment of emotion.
How he d oppose each na f notion
With passion and intelligence,
Expect unwilling sentiments,
Beseech - demand - a declaration,
Then, hearing how her heart beat fast,
Pursue his love, until at last
He d win a secret assignation
And, quietly drawing her apart,
Give lessons in the gentle art.
XII
How soon he could disturb the heart of
The most inveterate coquette!
How he employed the wounding art of
Malicious words. What traps he set,
What cunning pitfalls he prepared
To see his hapless rivals snared.
But husbands, you most blest of men,
Remained his good friends, even then.
The crafty spouse received him kindly,
He d learned from Faublas, as one can,
And the suspicious older man,
And he who wore his horns more blindly,
Pleased with himself, his way of life,
His own good dinner - and his wife.
XIII, XIV, XV
As usual, he will still be resting
When notes are brought with morning tea.
What? Invitations? Three - requesting
The pleasure of his company.
A ball, perhaps? A children s soir e?
To which one will my scapegrace hurry?
Where should he start? It makes no odds.
Lord, punctuality s for clods.
Meanwhile, dressed for a morning s pleasure,
Wearing his broad-brimmed Bolivar,
Onegin strolls to the Boulevard,
And there he saunters at his leisure
Till, ever watchful, his Br guet
Reminds him he must dine today.
XVI
It s dark: he takes the sleigh. Get going!
Giddyup! the cry rings out. Now just
His beaver collar, softly glowing,
Is silvered with a frosty dust.
Off to Talon: the night s before him.
Kaverin will be waiting for him.
He enters. The champagne corks fly,
A stream of wine spurts comet-high.
Roast beef is served, l 9 anglaise , rare,
With truffles, which for young men mean
The finest flower of French cuisine.
The eternal Strasburg pie is there,
The Limburg cheese, a touch mature,
The golden pineapple s allure.
XVII
Their thirst requires a few more glasses
To cool hot cutlets, crisply done,
But Br guet chimes, the hour passes,
The new ballet has just begun.
Malicious arbiter of drama
And faithless worshipper - a charmer
Of charming actresses, which means
An honoured guest behind the scenes,
Onegin flies to the theatre
Where all young freedom-loving men
Applaud an entrechat, and then
Hiss Ph d