Eugene Onegin: Stanzas 1-17(Translation)

Yevegeny Onegin (Stanzas 1-10) By: Alexander Pushkin Translated By: Gene Language of Origin: Russian Yevgeney Onegin is a book written in verse, composed of roughly 400 plus stanzas. The Onegin stanza (in which the book is written) is an invention of Pushkin’s, the stanza is 14 lines long, iambic tetrameter with a unique rhyme scheme as well as alternating masculine/feminine rhymes aBaBccDDeFFeGG - lower case representing feminine and upper case masculine rhymes. The original text can be read here- http://www.rvb.ru/pushkin/01text/04onegin/01onegin/0836.htm?start=0&length=all S1 My uncle-honest and upstanding When jokes aside, an illness struck, Of our respect he was demanding and such a ploy could not construct. Let it be lesson to another, But what a bore, oh Holy Father To sit with patients day and night, Take not a step away from sight And oh what cunning deprivation To entertain the nearly dead Fixing the pillows for his head, then fetch his meds in desolation. While thinking to myself exhale, “When to the devil will you sail!” S2 So thought the rascal, young and callow, On postal coaches whirling dust, To him, as if by Zeus’s bellow His kin’s inheritance was thrust. Friends of Ludmilla and Ruslan! The hero poised in my roman, And now without further adieu Allow to introduce to you My friend Onegin; kind and caring. His birthplace was the Neva shore, Perhaps you too were closely bore, Or maybe in your youth were glaring. I too had been there in my past But northern climates ail me fast S3 After a principled career His father lived on debts alone He gave three balls but once a year And soon his savings were all blown By fate, Yevgeniy was protected, First by Madame he was directed, And then Mousier took on the deed, A rowdy child, yet very sweet. Monsieur L’abbe – a poor French lamer, Made sure the young lad wouldn’t tire, In jest his teachings would transpire Of morals too he was no framer. His mischief rarely sparked remarks, Instead they’d stroll through summer parks. S4 When in the gales of efflorescence, For young Yevgeniy it came time, The time for hopes, sweet sorrow’s essence, Monsieur was fired on the dime. Now my Onegin, free and roaming, In latest trends his hair was combing, Like London dandies primly dressed, And got to see the world at last. He spoke and skillfully attained, Full mastery in the tongue of France With ease performed Mazurka dance, And bowed to ladies, unconstrained. What more can someone want? Indeed, He’s smart and dear - the world agreed. S5 We lumbered through our education By morsels learned, few things, some way, But thanks to god, at toils summation Emblazoned pabulum could bray. Onegin, via views abounding, (Of judges, stringent and propounding) Was quite pedantic, hardly learned, But blissful talents in him churned, Without committing to discussion To brush the subject’s outer guise And play didactics, looking wise, Quite in debates as a percussion. And charming smiles on many femmes Through sharp and fiery epigrams. S6 From neo-fashions Latin faded, But if for you the truth be told, He knew the language unabated, At least so epigraphs unfold. Brought Juvenal to disquisitions Added vales to compositions And could recite, through flaws amid, Two verses from the Anneid Had not the passion to contest Or dig in chronologic dust, And break through history’s thick crust, But anecdotes from days gone past From Romulus until today Kept in his memory stored away. S7 He lacked the yearning to relinquish, His life for resonance and sound, Trochee from iambs could not distinguish, Regardless how he’d pout or pound. Theocritus and Homer faded, But Adam Smith he read unaided, Was an economist immersed And onto this at length conversed On what a country needs to flourish How it sustains, why it is so, Supplies of gold it need not stow, When its production could well nourish. His father couldn’t catch the gist Thus pawned his lands just to subsist S8 All of the things that knew Yevgeney, evade my means to be described, but his true brilliance, uncanny, which he above all science imbibed, which with his essence seemed to capture and was his toil, his pain, his rapture that had consumed all of his days the wistful longing in his laze, was passion’s science of gentle ardor which Ovid’s madrigals unveiled for which his life became assailed, and made his grand career much harder Moldova’s silent steppes he’d roam, So far from Italy, his home. S9 ………………………………. ………………………………. S10 From youth, a malleable deceiver, his hopes and jealousies could veil, could break beliefs or make believer, conceal with gloom or pine in bale, he could be proud or unassuming, blasé or with the facts consuming, languorous silence he could reach, or spark infernos with his speech, his love notes carelessly could render! But what he loved, what made him breath, He could forget himself beneath! His gaze so turbulent yet tender, coated in shame or in a fleer, at times would glaze a timid tear. S11 How skilled he was at acting novel, With jesting innocence enthrall, With desperation made all grovel, Through lovely fibs could flatter all, He reveled in the flash of weakness, The callow years of coyish meekness With mind and passion could abate, Await caress as firm as fate To beg or to demand confession And hear a yearning heart’s first sound, enamored trails of love he’d hound then suddenly, a secret session… into the privacy they’d rush where he gave lessons in the hush. S12 So early he could spark ignition, in hearts of certified coquettes! Onto destroying competition all fervent energy he sets, how trenchant were his verbal thrashings how coarse the webbings of his lashings but you, the husbands null to fact, with him your friendships kept intact, from guileful grooms he got affection Faublas, student of the past, The geezer of suspicious cast, the cuckold of the top election who fancied that his life’s ideal, glad with his wife and with his meal. S13 & S14 ……………………………………… ……………………………………… S15 At times, while in his bed still lying, Into his hands a note is brought, What’s this? An invite? No denying, inside three homes tonight he’s sought, there will be balls, a celebration, what is my rascal’s destination? It matters little where to start, To visit all is mastered art, Appareled still in dawn’s attire his brimming bolivar he’ll don, and to the boulevard for fun and strolling at the heart’s desire until bre`guet – always awake, chimes aide-me`moire for dinner’s sake. S16 His sled descends as daylight dwindles, “away, away!” is heard the stir, the freezing icy frost rekindles a sparkle through his collar’s fur he’s off to Talon’s, no debating his friend Kaverin is awaiting a cork shoots up as he arrives a glass, with comet wine revives, then roast beef, rare, in blood still spattered and truffles – luxury of youth, with French cuisine of highest couth and Stratsbourg pie - fame never shattered amongst the Limburg cheese, so fresh and ananas of golden flesh. S17 More glasses brought to sate the thirsting And douse hot fat from the fillet, But now the breguet’s ring is bursting with news – there starts a new ballet, the theater’s stringent legislator, and seldom but beguiled spectator to actresses of sweet allure, fans privy to the backstage tour, Onegin to the theater dashing where everyone, at whims command for entrechant may clap or chant while Cleo, Phaedra get a trashing, encore Moëna(merely so that one’s own voice may steal the show).

gene16180

My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...

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