Eugene Onegin - Pushkin E-Book

Alexander Pushkin

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 170

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Eugene Onegin   is a seminal work that blends poetic elegance with a deep exploration of societal norms, unfulfilled aspirations, and the complexities of human emotion. Alexander Pushkin  presents a sharp critique of the aristocratic world of early 19th-century Russia, illustrating the tension between personal desires and social conventions. Through the story of Eugene Onegin, a disillusioned and aloof nobleman, and Tatyana Larina, a sincere and introspective young woman, the novel in verse examines themes of love, regret, and the consequences of missed opportunities. Since its publication, Eugene Onegin has been celebrated for its lyrical beauty, psychological depth, and masterful use of language. Its exploration of fate, free will, and the constraints imposed by society has cemented its status as a cornerstone of Russian literature. The richly developed characters and their intricate relationships continue to captivate readers, offering a poignant reflection on human nature and the passage of time. The novel's enduring relevance lies in its ability to convey the universal struggles of love, identity, and self-awareness. By intertwining personal emotions with broader societal themes, Eugene Onegin invites readers to contemplate the delicate balance between passion and restraint, choice and destiny, and the inexorable passage of life's defining moments.

Leseprobe

Alexander Pushkin

EUGENE ONEGIN

Original Title:

“Александр Сергеевич Пушкин”

Contents

INTRODUCTION

EUGENE ONÉGUINE

CANTO THE FIRST

CANTO THE SECOND

CANTO THE THIRD

CANTO THE FOURTH

CANTO THE FIFTH

CANTO THE SIXTH

CANTO THE SEVENTH

CANTO THE EIGHTH

INTRODUCTION

Alexander Pushkin

1799 – 1837

Alexander Pushkin was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist, widely regarded as the founder of modern Russian literature. His works combined classical influences with vernacular language, pioneering a uniquely Russian literary identity. Pushkin’s mastery of multiple genres and his innovative use of language have made him one of the most influential figures in Russian cultural history. His legacy continues to shape Russian literature and inspire generations of writers.

Early Life and Education

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin was born into a noble family in Moscow. From an early age, he showed an exceptional talent for poetry, influenced by French literature and Russian folklore. He studied at the Imperial Lyceum in Tsarskoye Selo, where he developed his literary skills and wrote some of his first significant poems. His early works, infused with Romantic ideals and a spirit of freedom, quickly gained him recognition among literary circles.

Career and Contributions

Pushkin’s writing evolved from Romantic poetry to socially critical works, incorporating elements of realism that would later define Russian literature. His verse novel Eugene Onegin (1833) is considered his masterpiece, blending poetry with a keen analysis of Russian society. Other major works include the historical drama Boris Godunov (1831) and the narrative poem The Bronze Horseman (1837), which reflect his deep engagement with Russian history and politics.

Pushkin’s prose works, such as The Queen of Spades (1834) and The Captain’s Daughter (1836), showcased his storytelling prowess and psychological depth, influencing later Russian novelists like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. His ability to capture human emotions and societal contradictions made his writing timeless.

Impact and Legacy

Pushkin revolutionized Russian literature by introducing a more natural and expressive language, breaking away from rigid classical forms. His work laid the foundation for the great Russian novelists of the 19th century, and his influence extends beyond literature into Russian identity and culture. He is often compared to Shakespeare in terms of his impact on national literature.

His themes of love, fate, and political repression resonated deeply with Russian society, and his rebellious spirit made him a symbol of artistic freedom. Despite facing censorship and exile due to his political views, he continued to shape the intellectual landscape of Russia.

Pushkin died at the age of 37 in 1837 after being mortally wounded in a duel defending his honor. His untimely death cemented his status as a tragic literary figure, and his influence only grew in the years following. Today, he is celebrated as Russia’s greatest poet, and his works remain central to Russian literary education and cultural heritage.

Pushkin’s legacy is immortalized not only in literature but also in numerous monuments, institutions, and artistic adaptations. His ability to capture the soul of Russia in his writing ensures that his influence endures, making him a defining figure in world literature.

About the work

Eugene Onegin is a seminal work that blends poetic elegance with a deep exploration of societal norms, unfulfilled aspirations, and the complexities of human emotion. Alexander Pushkin presents a sharp critique of the aristocratic world of early 19th-century Russia, illustrating the tension between personal desires and social conventions. Through the story of Eugene Onegin, a disillusioned and aloof nobleman, and Tatyana Larina, a sincere and introspective young woman, the novel in verse examines themes of love, regret, and the consequences of missed opportunities.

Since its publication, Eugene Onegin has been celebrated for its lyrical beauty, psychological depth, and masterful use of language. Its exploration of fate, free will, and the constraints imposed by society has cemented its status as a cornerstone of Russian literature. The richly developed characters and their intricate relationships continue to captivate readers, offering a poignant reflection on human nature and the passage of time.

The novel’s enduring relevance lies in its ability to convey the universal struggles of love, identity, and self-awareness. By intertwining personal emotions with broader societal themes, Eugene Onegin invites readers to contemplate the delicate balance between passion and restraint, choice and destiny, and the inexorable passage of life’s defining moments.

EUGENE ONEGIN

CANTO THE FIRST

The Spleen’

‘He rushes at life and exhausts the passions.’

Prince Viazemski

I

“My uncle’s goodness is extreme,

If seriously he hath disease;

He hath acquired the world’s esteem

And nothing more important sees;

A paragon of virtue he!

But what a nuisance it will be,

Chained to his bedside night and day

Without a chance to slip away.

Ye need dissimulation base

A dying man with art to soothe,

Beneath his head the pillow smooth,

And physic bring with mournful face,

To sigh and meditate alone:

When will the devil take his own!”

II

Thus mused a madcap young, who drove

Through clouds of dust at postal pace,

By the decree of Mighty Jove,

Inheritor of all his race.

Friends of Liudmila and Ruslan,1

Let me present ye to the man,

Who without more prevarication

The hero is of my narration!

Onéguine, O my gentle readers,

Was born beside the Neva, where

It may be ye were born, or there

Have shone as one of fashion’s leaders.

I also wandered there of old,

But cannot stand the northern cold.2

III

Having performed his service truly,

Deep into debt his father ran;

Three balls a year he gave ye duly,

At last became a ruined man.

But Eugene was by fate preserved,

For first “madame” his wants observed,

And then “monsieur” supplied her place;3

The boy was wild but full of grace.

“Monsieur l’Abbé” a starving Gaul,

Fearing his pupil to annoy,

Instructed jestingly the boy,

Morality taught scarce at all;

Gently for pranks he would reprove

And in the Summer Garden rove.

IV

When youth’s rebellious hour drew near

And my Eugene the path must trace —

The path of hope and tender fear —

Monsieur clean out of doors they chase.

Lo! my Onéguine free as air,

Cropped in the latest style his hair,

Dressed like a London dandy he

The giddy world at last shall see.

He wrote and spoke, so all allowed,

In the French language perfectly,

Danced the mazurka gracefully,

Without the least constraint he bowed.

What more’s required? The world replies,

He is a charming youth and wise.

V

We all of us of education

A something somehow have obtained,

Thus, praised be God! a reputation

With us is easily attained.

Onéguine was — so many deemed

[Unerring critics self-esteemed],

Pedantic although scholar like,

In truth he had the happy trick

Without constraint in conversation

Of touching lightly every theme.

Silent, oracular ye’d see him

Amid a serious disputation,

Then suddenly discharge a joke

The ladies’ laughter to provoke.

VI

Latin is just now not in vogue,

But if the truth I must relate,

Onéguine knew enough, the rogue

A mild quotation to translate,

A little Juvenal to spout,

With “vale” finish off a note;

Two verses he could recollect

Of the Æneid, but incorrect.

In history he took no pleasure,

The dusty chronicles of earth

For him were but of little worth,

Yet still of anecdotes a treasure

Within his memory there lay,

From Romulus unto our day.

VII

For empty sound the rascal swore he

Existence would not make a curse,

Knew not an iamb from a choree,

Although we read him heaps of verse.

Homer, Theocritus, he jeered,

But Adam Smith to read appeared,

And at economy was great;

That is, he could elucidate

How empires store of wealth unfold,

How flourish, why and wherefore less

If the raw product they possess

The medium is required of gold.

The father scarcely understands

His son and mortgages his lands.

VIII

But upon all that Eugene knew

I have no leisure here to dwell,

But say he was a genius who

In one thing really did excel.

It occupied him from a boy,

A labor, torment, yet a joy,

It whiled his idle hours away

And wholly occupied his day —

The amatory science warm,

Which Ovid once immortalized,

For which the poet agonized

Laid down his life of sun and storm

On the steppes of Moldavia lone,

Far from his Italy — his own.4

IX

How soon he learnt deception’s art,

Hope to conceal and jealousy,

False confidence or doubt to impart,

Sombre or glad in turn to be,

Haughty appear, subservient,

Obsequious or indifferent!

What languor would his silence show,

How full of fire his speech would glow!

How artless was the note which spoke

Of love again, and yet again;

How deftly could he transport feign!

How bright and tender was his look,

Modest yet daring! And a tear

Would at the proper time appear.

X

How well he played the greenhorn’s part

To cheat the inexperienced fair,

Sometimes by pleasing flattery’s art,

Sometimes by ready-made despair;

The feeble moment would espy

Of tender years the modesty

Conquer by passion and address,

Await the long-delayed caress.

Avowal then ’twas time to pray,

Attentive to the heart’s first beating,

Follow up love — a secret meeting

Arrange without the least delay —

Then, then — well, in some solitude

Lessons to give he understood!

XI

How soon he learnt to titillate

The heart of the inveterate flirt!

Desirous to annihilate

His own antagonists expert,

How bitterly he would malign,

With many a snare their pathway line!

But ye, O happy husbands, ye

With him were friends eternally:

The crafty spouse caressed him, who

By Faublas in his youth was schooled,5

And the suspicious veteran old,

The pompous, swaggering cuckold too,

Who floats contentedly through life,

Proud of his dinners and his wife!

XII

One morn whilst yet in bed he lay,

His valet brings him letters three.

What, invitations? The same day

As many entertainments be!

A ball here, there a children’s treat,

Whither shall my rapscallion flit?

Whither shall he go first? He’ll see,

Perchance he will to all the three.

Meantime in matutinal dress

And hat surnamed a “Bolivar”6

He hies unto the “Boulevard,”

To loiter there in idleness

Until the sleepless Bréguet chime7

Announcing to him dinner-time.

XIII

’Tis dark. He seats him in a sleigh,

“Drive on!” the cheerful cry goes forth,

His furs are powdered on the way

By the fine silver of the north.

He bends his course to Talon’s, where8

He knows Kaverine will repair.9

He enters. High the cork arose

And Comet champagne foaming flows.

Before him red roast beef is seen

And truffles, dear to youthful eyes,

Flanked by immortal Strasbourg pies,

The choicest flowers of French cuisine,

And Limburg cheese alive and old

Is seen next pine-apples of gold.

XIV

Still thirst fresh draughts of wine compels

To cool the cutlets’ seething grease,

When the sonorous Bréguet tells

Of the commencement of the piece.

A critic of the stage malicious,

A slave of actresses capricious,

Onéguine was a citizen

Of the domains of the side-scene.

To the theater he repairs

Where each young critic ready stands,

Capers applauds with clap of hands,

With hisses Cleopatra scares,

Moina recalls for this alone

That all may hear his voice’s tone.

XV

Thou fairy-land! Where formerly

Shone pungent Satire’s dauntless king,

Von Wisine, friend of liberty,

And Kniajnine, apt at copying.

The young Simeonova too there

With Ozeroff was wont to share

Applause, the people’s donative.

There our Katènine did revive

Corneille’s majestic genius,

Sarcastic Shakhovskoi brought out

His comedies, a noisy rout,

There Didelot became glorious,

There, there, beneath the side-scene’s shade

The drama of my youth was played.10

XVI

My goddesses, where are your shades?

Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?

Are ye replaced by other maids

Who cannot conjure former joys?

Shall I your chorus hear anew,

Russia’s Terpsichore review

Again in her ethereal dance?

Or will my melancholy glance

On the dull stage find all things changed,

The disenchanted glass direct

Where I can no more recollect? —

A careless looker-on estranged

In silence shall I sit and yawn

And dream of life’s delightful dawn?

XVII

The house is crammed. A thousand lamps

On pit, stalls, boxes, brightly blaze,

Impatiently the gallery stamps,

The curtain now they slowly raise.

Obedient to the magic strings,

Brilliant, ethereal, there springs

Forth from the crowd of nymphs surrounding

Istomina11 the nimbly-bounding;

With one foot resting on its tip

Slow circling round its fellow swings

And now she skips and now she springs

Like down from Aeolus’s lip,

Now her lithe form she arches o’er

And beats with rapid foot the floor.

XVIII

Shouts of applause! Onéguine passes

Between the stalls, along the toes;

Seated, a curious look with glasses

On unknown female forms he throws.

Free scope he yields unto his glance,

Reviews both dress and countenance,

With all dissatisfaction shows.

To male acquaintances he bows,

And finally he deigns let fall

Upon the stage his weary glance.

He yawns, averts his countenance,

Exclaiming, “We must change ’em all!

I long by ballets have been bored,

Now Didelot scarce can be endured!”

XIX

Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout

Across the stage still madly sweep,

Whilst the tired serving-men without

Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep.

Still the loud stamping doth not cease,

Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze,

Still everywhere, without, within,

The lamps illuminating shine;

The steed benumbed still pawing stands

And of the irksome harness tires,

And still the coachmen round the fires12

Abuse their masters, rub their hands:

But Eugene long hath left the press

To array himself in evening dress.

XX

Faithfully shall I now depict,

Portray the solitary den

Wherein the child of fashion strict

Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again?

All that industrial London brings

For tallow, wood and other things

Across the Baltic’s salt sea waves,

All which caprice and affluence craves,

All which in Paris eager taste,

Choosing a profitable trade,

For our amusement ever made

And ease and fashionable waste, —

Adorned the apartment of Eugene,

Philosopher just turned eighteen.

XXI

China and bronze the tables weight,

Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows,

And, joy of souls effeminate,

Phials of crystal scents enclose.

Combs of all sizes, files of steel,

Scissors both straight and curved as well,

Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes

Both for the nails and for the tushes.

Rousseau, I would remark in passing,13

Could not conceive how serious Grimm

Dared calmly cleanse his nails ’fore him,

Eloquent raver all-surpassing, —

The friend of liberty and laws

In this case quite mistaken was.

XXII

The most industrious man alive

May yet be studious of his nails;

What boots it with the age to strive?

Custom the despot soon prevails.

A new Kaverine Eugene mine,

Dreading the world’s remarks malign,

Was that which we are wont to call

A fop, in dress pedantical.

Three mortal hours per diem he

Would loiter by the looking-glass,

And from his dressing-room would pass

Like Venus when, capriciously,

The goddess would a masquerade

Attend in male attire arrayed.

XXIII

On this artistical retreat

Having once fixed your interest,

I might to connoisseurs repeat

The style in which my hero dressed;

Though I confess I hardly dare

Describe in detail the affair,

Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat,

To Russ indigenous are not;

And also that my feeble verse —

Pardon I ask for such a sin —

With words of foreign origin

Too much I’m given to intersperse,

Though to the Academy I come

And oft its Dictionary thumb.14

XXIV

But such is not my project now,

So let us to the ball-room haste,

Whither at headlong speed doth go

Eugene in hackney carriage placed.

Past darkened windows and long streets

Of slumbering citizens he fleets,

Till carriage lamps, a double row,

Cast a gay lustre on the snow,

Which shines with iridescent hues.

He nears a spacious mansion’s gate,

By many a lamp illuminate,

And through the lofty windows views

Profiles of lovely dames he knows

And also fashionable beaux.

XXV

Our hero stops and doth alight,

Flies past the porter to the stair,

But, ere he mounts the marble flight,

With hurried hand smooths down his hair.

He enters: in the hall a crowd,

No more the music thunders loud,

Some a mazurka occupies,

Crushing and a confusing noise;

Spurs of the Cavalier Guard clash,

The feet of graceful ladies fly,

And following them ye might espy

Full many a glance like lightning flash,

And by the fiddle’s rushing sound

The voice of jealousy is drowned.

XXVI

In my young days of wild delight

On balls I madly used to dote,

Fond declarations they invite

Or the delivery of a note.

So hearken, every worthy spouse,

I would your vigilance arouse,

Attentive be unto my rhymes

And due precautions take betimes.

Ye mothers also, caution use,

Upon your daughters keep an eye,

Employ your glasses constantly,

For otherwise — God only knows!

I lift a warning voice because

I long have ceased to offend the laws.

XXVII

Alas! life’s hours which swiftly fly

I’ve wasted in amusements vain,

But were it not immoral I

Should dearly like a dance again.

I love its furious delight,

The crowd and merriment and light,

The ladies, their fantastic dress,

Also their feet — yet ne’ertheless

Scarcely in Russia can ye find

Three pairs of handsome female feet;

Ah! I still struggle to forget

A pair; though desolate my mind,

Their memory lingers still and seems

To agitate me in my dreams.

XXVIII

When, where, and in what desert land,

Madman, wilt thou from memory raze

Those feet? Alas! on what far strand

Do ye of spring the blossoms graze?

Lapped in your Eastern luxury,

No trace ye left in passing by

Upon the dreary northern snows,

But better loved the soft repose

Of splendid carpets richly wrought.

I once forgot for your sweet cause

The thirst for fame and man’s applause,

My country and an exile’s lot;

My joy in youth was fleeting e’en

As your light footprints on the green.

XXIX

Diana’s bosom, Flora’s cheeks,

Are admirable, my dear friend,

But yet Terpsichore bespeaks

Charms more enduring in the end.

For promises her feet reveal

Of untold gain she must conceal,

Their privileged allurements fire

A hidden train of wild desire.

I love them, O my dear Elvine,15

Beneath the table-cloth of white,

In winter on the fender bright,

In springtime on the meadows green,

Upon the ball-room’s glassy floor

Or by the ocean’s rocky shore.

XXX

Beside the stormy sea one day

I envied sore the billows tall,

Which rushed in eager dense array

Enamoured at her feet to fall.

How like the billow I desired

To kiss the feet which I admired!

No, never in the early blaze

Of fiery youth’s untutored days

So ardently did I desire

A young Armida’s lips to press,

Her cheek of rosy loveliness

Or bosom full of languid fire, —

A gust of passion never tore

My spirit with such pangs before.

XXXI

Another time, so willed it Fate,

Immersed in secret thought I stand

And grasp a stirrup fortunate —

Her foot was in my other hand.

Again imagination blazed,

The contact of the foot I raised

Rekindled in my withered heart

The fires of passion and its smart —

Away! and cease to ring their praise

For ever with thy tattling lyre,

The proud ones are not worth the fire

Of passion they so often raise.

The words and looks of charmers sweet

Are oft deceptive — like their feet.

XXXII

Where is Onéguine? Half asleep,

Straight from the ball to bed he goes,

Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep

The drum already doth arouse.

The shopman and the pedlar rise

And to the Bourse the cabman plies;

The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,16

Crunching the morning snow she treads;

Morning awakes with joyous sound;

The shutters open; to the skies

In column blue the smoke doth rise;

The German baker looks around

His shop, a night-cap on his head,

And pauses oft to serve out bread.

XXXIII

But turning morning into night,

Tired by the ball’s incessant noise,

The votary of vain delight

Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,

Late in the afternoon to rise,

When the same life before him lies

Till morn — life uniform but gay,

To-morrow just like yesterday.

But was our friend Eugene content,

Free, in the blossom of his spring,

Amidst successes flattering

And pleasure’s daily blandishment,

Or vainly ’mid luxurious fare

Was he in health and void of care? —

XXXIV

Even so! His passions soon abated,

Hateful the hollow world became,

Nor long his mind was agitated

By love’s inevitable flame.

For treachery had done its worst;

Friendship and friends he likewise curst,

Because he could not gourmandise

Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies

And irrigate them with champagne;

Nor slander viciously could spread

Whene’er he had an aching head;

And, though a plucky scatterbrain,

He finally lost all delight

In bullets, sabres, and in fight.

XXXV

His malady, whose cause I ween