EUGENE ONEGIN Novel in verse Translated by Kozlov S.N.
I don’t mean to please grand people.
With love friends’ notions I’d rate
And give you all that 1 could scribble
As pawn that’s worth of dear mate.
Its worth of fine and charming soul,
Of saint fulfilled generous dreams,
Of lively lucid verse’s glow,
Of lofty thoughts, of simple things.
All right, by hand unfair own
You take my set of florid rhymes
Which are half-funny and half-mournful,
Of common thinking, somewhat thoughtful,
Slipshod result of my pastimes,
Of sleepless nights, of inspirations,
Of years young but whithered hard,
Of mind some cold observations,
Of grievous notes of the heart.
CHAPTER ONE
He hurries up to live, As well as he does to feel.
K. Vyasemsky.
I
‘My uncle keeps to honest systems: By falling ill yet not in jest,
He made me love him with insistence And couldn’t find some better test.
Well, his example gives a lesson; But, goodness me, it’s quite distressing
To sit with him all day and night, Not stepping out of his sight.
And what insidiousness you show, When you amuse a man half dead
Arrange the pillows in bed Then give him drugs in sadness, though
You sigh not speaking of your will: When will the devil come for him!’
II
The young scapegrace was so deeming, When he by post-chaise in dust
Was shaking. Due to Zues he’s being The heir of all relatives in trust.
Ruslan’s, Lyudmila’s friends!
Somehow, Without prefaces, just now, For hero of my book Let me attract attentive look:
Onegin, friend of mine for years, Was born on Neva-river’s banks.
May be, you rose from the clans In those places, or have dears,
Somewhere you could look at me, But harmful is the North for me, {1}
III
His father served for many years, And fell in debt, such big and vast,
That, giving balls three times a year, He squandered all he had at last.
But Eugene’s fate for him was fair: At first by Madame he was cared,
But then a frenchman took her place.
The boy was frisky but with grace.
Monsieur l’Abbe, a Frenchman mere, To give the boy some chance to rest,
Was teaching him with ready jest, With morals never was severe,
For pranks reproved with gentle talks, To Summer Garden took for walks.
IV
Insurgent youth is not yet endless. When Eugene was to change his sort
In times of hopes, tender sadness, Monsieur was driven from the court.
Onegin’s now free from care. In fashion has he cut his hair,