Eugene Onegin / Евгений Онегин. Александр ПушкинЧитать онлайн книгу.

      And in reality one day

      The steward sent a note to tell

      How sick to death his uncle lay

      And wished to say to him farewell.

      Having this mournful document

      Perused, Eugene in postchaise went

      And hastened to his uncle's side,

      But in his heart dissatisfied,

      Having for money's sake alone

      Sorrow to counterfeit and wail —

      Thus we began our little tale —

      But, to his uncle's mansion flown,

      He found him on the table laid,

      A due which must to earth be paid.

      The courtyard full of serfs he sees,

      And from the country all around

      Had come both friends and enemies —

      Funeral amateurs abound!

      The body they consigned to rest,

      And then made merry pope and guest,

      With serious air then went away

      As men who much had done that day.

      Lo! my Onéguine rural lord!

      Of mines and meadows, woods and lakes,

      He now a full possession takes,

      He who economy abhorred,

      Delighted much his former ways

      To vary for a few brief days.

      For two whole days it seemed a change

      To wander through the meadows still,

      The cool dark oaken grove to range,

      To listen to the rippling rill.

      But on the third of grove and mead

      He took no more the slightest heed;

      They made him feel inclined to doze;

      And the conviction soon arose,

      Ennui can in the country dwell

      Though without palaces and streets,

      Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fêtes;

      On him spleen mounted sentinel

      And like his shadow dogged his life,

      Or better, – like a faithful wife.

      I was for calm existence made,

      For rural solitude and dreams,

      My lyre sings sweeter in the shade

      And more imagination teems.

      On innocent delights I dote,

      Upon my lake I love to float,

      For law I far niente take

      And every morning I awake

      The child of sloth and liberty.

      I slumber much, a little read,

      Of fleeting glory take no heed.

      In former years thus did not I

      In idleness and tranquil joy

      The happiest days of life employ?

      Love, flowers, the country, idleness

      And fields my joys have ever been;

      I like the difference to express

      Between myself and my Eugene,

      Lest the malicious reader or

      Some one or other editor

      Of keen sarcastic intellect

      Herein my portrait should detect,

      And impiously should declare,

      To sketch myself that I have tried

      Like Byron, bard of scorn and pride,

      As if impossible it were

      To write of any other elf

      Than one's own fascinating self.

      Here I remark all poets are

      Love to idealize inclined;

      I have dreamed many a vision fair

      And the recesses of my mind

      Retained the image, though short-lived,

      Which afterwards the muse revived.

      Thus carelessly I once portrayed

      Mine own ideal, the mountain maid,

      The captives of the Salguir's shore.[23]

      But now a question in this wise

      Oft upon friendly lips doth rise:

      Whom doth thy plaintive Muse adore?

      To whom amongst the jealous throng

      Of maids dost thou inscribe thy song?

      Whose glance reflecting inspiration

      With tenderness hath recognized

      Thy meditative incantation —

      Whom hath thy strain immortalized?

      None, be my witness Heaven above!

      The malady of hopeless love

      I have endured without respite.

      Happy who thereto can unite

      Poetic transport. They impart

      A double force unto their song

      Who following Petrarch move along

      And ease the tortures of the heart —

      Perchance they laurels also cull —

      But I, in love, was mute and dull.

      The Muse appeared, when love passed by

      And my dark soul to light was brought;

      Free, I renewed the idolatry

      Of harmony enshrining thought.

      I write, and anguish flies away,

      Nor doth my absent pen portray

      Around my stanzas incomplete

      Young ladies' faces and their feet.

      Extinguished ashes do not blaze —

      I mourn, but tears I cannot shed —

      Soon, of the tempest which hath fled

      Time will the ravages efface —

      When that time comes, a poem I'll strive

      To write in cantos twenty-five.

      I've thought well o'er the general plan,

      The hero's name too in advance,

      Meantime I'll finish whilst I can

      Canto the First of this romance.

      I've scanned it with a jealous eye,

      Discovered much absurdity,

      But will not modify a tittle —

      I owe the censorship