A.Pushkin, E.Onegin - Chapter 1, Stanzas I -X - Translation(Rus) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

A.S.Pushkin
Eugene Onegin

Translation of Chapter One, Stanzas I - X

Without any thought till now
To entertain the world with love in heart,
I wish present as a show
One pledge, which's worth for you, in part
Of your magnanimous soul,
Of your embodied holy dream,
Of your such living fair poetry,
Your highest thoughts, so simple been.
But well, please take the pages, piled
With steady hand, and you will see
A collection of the motley files
Half-joyful and half-woeful, indeed,
With simple speech, idealistic,
The sudden fruit of all my playings,
My sleeplessness, my inspirations
Of my unripe and faded years,
My cold-minded observations,
And marks of heart, objective, sadful.

-
I
My uncle, being honoured so,
When he'd become too serious sick,
He thus persuaded him to hallow -
The better way for such a trick.

And his example would be science
For all the others. Oh, God's might!
How tiresome to sit fixed silent
Before the patient day and night!

It seems to be a great perfidy -
The half-dead person to amuse,
Good state of pads for him to choose,
To bring a medicine looking giddy,
With hopeless sigh by thought in mind:
'When will the devil take you, guy? ! '
-
II
So thought the young playboy, while going
In dust on the mail-horses quickly,
He recently by grace of the God Zeus
Became the successor of his relatives.
So, friends, the amateurs of poem
'Ruslan and Lyudmila'! Hear to this
New hero of my new novel
Without foreword and now
Let's be asquainted all with him:
Onegin, my good friend and old,
Was born on the banks of the Neva-river.
May you were also born here,
Or may be shining brightly, dear,
My reader; and where I was walking also,
But north is harmful for me so...
By survice excellent and noble
His father lived all in the debts,
He gived the three dance-routs a year,
All income wasted to the end.
The fate was luckily to Eugine:
At first one Madam was him bringing,
Then one Monsieur had changed her place.
The child was quick, but nice in base.

Monsieur l'Abbe - the poor frenchman
In order not to tire baby,
Was teaching him through mere playing,
With no morals for the pranks,
Only slight scolding him for that,
And to the Summer Garden taking.

IV

When restless youth had come in real
For Eugene, with the time of hopes,
And little sadness, then the teacher
Was driven out of the court.
And thus, Eugene has got the freedom.
With fashioned haircut and image
Of London's dendy dresscode, he,
At last, in the high court appeared.
He was quiet perfect in French language,
In speaking and in writing, too,
Mazurka-dancing took no efforts,
His easy bows were well looking.
What's more? The high court decised,
That he enough was clever, nice.

V

We all in life were learning something,
And somewhere, and at some state,
Hence, the behaviour, as in common,
There's no problem to display.
Onegin was (by thought of many
A strict and thoroughful lady) ,
The learned fellow, but a pedant.
Though he had one happy talent
Without effort in his speech
To touch the themes on everything
With wise look of the expert feel,
And in discussion silent been.
But rising smiles of the ladies
With sudden epigrammas flaming.

VI

The Latin's now out of fashion.
So, frankly speaking, he could read
In Latin much enough to make out
The sense of epigraphs on sheet,
To talk the Uvenal's about,
To write at end of the letter 'vale',
And kept in mind, though not so good,
From the 'Aeneid' one-two lines, too.
He didn't have any desire
To dig chronology of Earth,
The history of human being,
But anecdotes all, and rather
The newest ones and old as Rome,
Inside his mind was firmly keeping.

VII

And never having the high passion
For sounds to devote life,
To allocate he was not able
In verses both 'trochee' and 'iamb'.
He scolded Homer, Pheokritus,
But knew works of Adam Smith, and
Was a deep that way the 'econ'om',
Because he could consider so,
As the state's growing its wealth,
How it does live, what reasons has
For lack of gold, if it borrows
'The common product', so on...
But father his that couldn't catch,
And pawned the lands into mortgage.

VIII

All, what Eugene had known, rather,
I shan't tell, due to lack of time.
But in the matter he was genius,
Which he knew better than all science,
Which was to him delight and labour,
And torture, comfort at the same time,
Which took the whole day of his
Melancholy and laziness, -
That was the science of the passion,
Which was sung out by Nazon,
He suffered then for this a lot
And finished excellent his way
In the moladavian barren steppes,
Far from italian native land.

X
Since early times he was a liar,
Hiding his hope, being jealous.
He dissuaded, forced to trust far,
Looked gloomy, languishing in manners.
He was once proud, then obedient,
One time attentive, then indifferent!
How reasonably he was silent,
How flammable was his speech style,
How careless were the heart letters!
The only one he breathed and loved,
He could forget his self this time!
How looks of him were fast and tender,
Sometimes- were modest, then- impudent,
Sometimes - flashed with a tear dutiful!