XLI
The dawn rises in a cold haze;
On the fields, the noise of work ceased;
With her hungry wolf
A wolf comes out on the road;
Feeling him, road horse
Snoring - and a cautious traveler
Rushing uphill at full speed;
Shepherd at dawn
Doesn't drive the cows out of the barn,
And at midday in a circle
They are not called by his horn;
Singing in the hut, maiden23
Spins, and, winter friend of nights,
A splinter crackles in front of her.
XLII
And now the frosts are cracking
And silver in the fields...
(The reader is already waiting for the rhyme of the rose;
Here, take it quickly!)
Neater than fashionable parquet
The river shines, dressed in ice.
Boys joyful people24
Skates cut the ice loudly;
On red paws a goose is heavy,
Having thought to swim in the bosom of the waters,
Steps carefully on the ice
Slides and falls; funny
Flickering, winding the first snow,
Stars falling on the shore.
XLIII
In the wilderness what to do at this time?
Walk? The village at that time
Involuntarily bothers the eye
Monotonous nakedness.
Riding in the harsh steppe?
But the horse, blunted horseshoe
Infidel hooking on ice
Wait for what will fall.
Sit under the desert roof
Read: here is Pradt, here is W. Scott.
Do not want? - check the flow,
Get angry or drink, and the evening is long
Somehow it will pass, and tomorrow, too,
And have a good winter.
XLIV
Straight Child Harold
I fell into thoughtful laziness:
From sleep sits in an ice bath,
And after, at home all day,
One, immersed in calculations,
Armed with a blunt cue,
He's on a two-ball billiard
Playing since morning.
Village evening will come:
Billiards left, cue forgotten,
The table is laid in front of the fireplace,
Eugene is waiting: here comes Lensky
On a trio of roan horses;
Let's have lunch soon!
XLV
Widow Clicquot or Moet
blessed wine
In a frozen bottle for a poet
It was brought to the table immediately.
It sparkles with Hypocrene;25
It is with its play and foam
(Like this and that)
I was captivated: for him
The last poor mite used to be
I gave. Do you remember, friends?
His magic jet
She gave birth to a lot of stupid things,
How many jokes and poems
And disputes, and cheerful dreams!
XLVI
But changes foam noisy
It is to my stomach
And I'm sensible Bordeaux
Already preferred it to him.
I am no longer capable of Au;
Au mistress is like
Shiny, windy, lively,
Both wayward and empty...
But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend,
Who, in grief and trouble,
Comrade forever, everywhere,
Ready to serve us
Ile quiet to share leisure.
Long live Bordeaux, our friend!
XLVII
The fire went out; barely ashes
The coal is covered with gold;
Barely visible stream
Steam wafts, and warmth
The fireplace breathes a little. smoke from pipes
It goes down the pipe. light goblet
Still hissing among the table.
Evening finds darkness...
(I love friendly lies
And a friendly glass of wine
Sometimes the one that is named
It's time between the wolf and the dog,
Why, I don't see.
Now friends are talking: Read the work of Eugene Onegin from Pushkin A.S., in the original format and in full. If you appreciated the work of Pushkin A.S..ru
But what about Onegin? By the way, brothers!
I beg your patience:
His daily activities
I will describe to you in detail.
Onegin lived as an anchorite;
At the seventh hour he got up in the summer
And went light
To the river running under the mountain;
Imitating the singer Gulnara,
This Hellespont swam across,
Then I drank my coffee
Going through a bad magazine
And dressed...
XXXVIII. XXXIX.
Walking, reading, deep sleep,
Forest shadow, murmur of jets,
Sometimes black-eyed whites
A young and fresh kiss
Bridle obedient zealous horse,
Dinner is quite whimsical,
bottle of light wine,
Solitude, silence:
Here is Onegin's holy life;
And he is insensitive to her
Surrendered, red summer days
In careless bliss, not counting
Forgetting the city and friends
And the boredom of festive undertakings.
XL.
But our northern summer
southern winters cartoon,
Flickers and no: it is known,
Even if we don't want to admit it.
Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less
The day was getting shorter
Forests mysterious canopy
With a sad noise she was naked,
Fog fell on the fields
Noisy geese caravan
Stretched to the south: approaching
Pretty boring time;
November was already at the yard.
XLI.
The dawn rises in a cold haze;
On the fields, the noise of work ceased;
With her hungry wolf
A wolf comes out on the road;
Feeling him, road horse
Snoring - and a cautious traveler
Rushing uphill at full speed;
Shepherd at dawn
Doesn't drive the cows out of the barn,
And at midday in a circle
They are not called by his horn;
Singing in the hut, maiden
Spins, and, winter friend of nights,
A splinter crackles in front of her.
XLII.
And now the frosts are cracking
And silver among the fields ...
(The reader is already waiting for the rhyme of the rose;
Here, take it quickly!)
Neater than fashionable parquet
The river shines, dressed in ice.
Boys joyful people
Skates cut the ice loudly;
On red paws a goose is heavy,
Having thought to swim in the bosom of the waters,
Steps carefully on the ice
Slides and falls; funny
Flickering, winding the first snow,
Stars falling on the shore.
XLIII.
In the wilderness what to do at this time?
Walk? The village at that time
Involuntarily bothers the eye
Monotonous nakedness.
Riding in the harsh steppe?
But the horse, blunted horseshoe
Infidel hooking on ice
Wait for what will fall.
Sit under the desert roof
Read: here is Pradt, here is Walter Scott.
Do not want? - check the flow,
Get angry or drink, and the evening is long
Somehow it will pass, but tomorrow, well,
And have a good winter.
XLIV.
Straight Onegin Child Harold
I fell into thoughtful laziness:
From sleep sits in an ice bath,
And after, at home all day,
One, immersed in calculations,
Armed with a blunt cue,
He's on a two-ball billiard
Playing since morning.
Village evening will come:
Billiards left, cue forgotten,
The table is laid in front of the fireplace,
Eugene is waiting: here comes Lensky
On a trio of roan horses;
Let's have lunch soon!
XLV.
Widow Clicquot or Moet
blessed wine
In a frozen bottle for a poet
It was brought to the table immediately.
It sparkles with Ipocrena;
It is with its play and foam
(Like this and that)
I was captivated: for him
The last poor mite used to be
I gave. Do you remember, friends?
His magic jet
She gave birth to a lot of stupid things,
How many jokes and poems
And disputes, and cheerful dreams!
XLVI.
But changes foam noisy
It is to my stomach
And I'm sensible Bordeaux
Already preferred it to him.
I am no longer capable of Au;
Au mistress is like
Shiny, windy, lively,
And wayward, and empty ...
But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend,
Who, in grief and trouble,
Comrade forever, everywhere,
Ready to serve us
Ile quiet to share leisure.
Long live Bordeaux, our friend!
XLVII.
The fire went out; barely ashes
The coal is covered with gold;
Barely visible stream
Steam wafts, and warmth
The fireplace breathes a little. smoke from pipes
It goes down the pipe. light goblet
Still hissing among the table.
Evening finds darkness ...
(I love friendly lies
And a friendly glass of wine
Sometimes the one that is named
It's time between the wolf and the dog,
Why, I don't see.
Now friends are talking:
XLVIII.
"Well, what about the neighbors? What about Tatyana?
What is your frisky Olga?
- Pour me another half glass...
Enough, honey ... The whole family
Healthy; ordered to bow.
Oh, dear, how prettier
Olga has shoulders, what a chest!
What a soul!.. Someday
Let's go to them; you oblige them;
And then, my friend, judge for yourself:
Looked twice and there
You won't even show your nose to them.
Yes, that's ... what a blockhead I am!
You are called to them this week. -
XLIX.
"I?" - "Yes, Tatyana's name day
On Saturday. Deer and mother
They ordered to call, and there is no reason
You do not come to the call. "-
"But there will be a lot of people there
And all that rabble…”
"And no one, I'm sure!
Who will be there? own family.
Let's go, do me a favor!
Well, what then?" - "I agree." - "How nice you are!"
At these words he drained
A glass, an offering to a neighbor,
Then he spoke again
About Olga: such is love!
L.
He was cheerful. In two weeks
A happy date was set.
And the mystery of the marriage bed
And sweet love wreath
His enthusiasm was expected.
Hymen of trouble, sorrow,
Yawns cold line
He never dreamed.
While we, the enemies of Hymen,
In home life we see one
A series of tedious pictures
A novel in the style of La Fontaine...
My poor Lensky, with his heart
For this life was born.
L.I.
He was loved... at least
So he thought, and he was happy.
A hundred times blessed, who is devoted to the faith,
Who, calming the cold mind,
Resting in heartfelt bliss,
Like a drunken traveler at a lodging for the night,
Or, more tenderly, like a moth,
In the spring sunken flower;
But pitiful is the one who foresees everything,
Whose head is not spinning
Who are all movements, all words
In their translation hates
Whose heart experience has cooled
And forget forbidden!
Chapter Five
I.
That year the autumn weather
Stood in the yard for a long time
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting.
Snow fell only in January
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatyana saw through the window
Whitewashed yard in the morning,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
Light patterns on glass
Trees in winter silver
Forty merry in the yard
And softly padded mountains
Winters are a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything is white around.
II.
Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant,
On firewood, updates the path;
His horse, smelling snow,
Trotting somehow;
Reins fluffy exploding,
A remote wagon flies;
The coachman sits on the irradiation
In a sheepskin coat, in a red sash.
Here is a yard boy running,
Planting a bug in a sled,
Transforming himself into a horse;
The scoundrel already froze his finger:
It hurts and it's funny
And his mother threatens him through the window ...
III.
But maybe this kind
Pictures will not attract you:
All this is low nature;
Not much beauty here.
Warmed by God's inspiration,
Another poet with a luxurious style
He painted us the first snow
And all shades of winter bliss;
He will captivate you, I'm sure
Drawing in fiery verses
Secret walks in a sleigh;
But I don't want to fight
Not with him for the time being, not with you,
Young Finnish singer!
IV.
Tatyana (Russian soul,
I don't know why.)
With her cold beauty
I loved Russian winter
Frost in the sun on a frosty day,
And the sleigh, and the late dawn
Shine of pink snows,
And the darkness of Epiphany evenings.
Celebrated in the old days
In their house these evenings:
Servants from all over the court
They wondered about their young ladies
And they were promised every year
Husbands of the military and campaign.
CHAPTER FOUR
But our northern summer
southern winters cartoon,
Flickers and no: it is known,
Even if we don't want to admit it.
Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less
The day was getting shorter
Forests mysterious canopy
With a sad noise she was naked,
Fog fell on the fields
Noisy geese caravan
Stretched to the south: approaching
Pretty boring time;
November was already at the yard.The dawn rises in a cold haze;
On the fields, the noise of work ceased;
With his hungry she-wolf A wolf comes out on the road;
Feeling him, road horse
Snoring - and a cautious traveler
Rushing uphill at full speed;
Shepherd at dawn
Doesn't drive the cows out of the barn,
And at midday in a circle
They are not called by his horn;
Singing in the hut, maiden
Spins, and, winter friend of nights,
A torch crackles in front of her.And now the frosts are cracking
CHAPTER FIVE
And silver in the fields...
(The reader is already waiting for the rhyme of the rose;
Here, take it quickly!)
Neater than fashionable parquet
The river shines, dressed in ice.
Boys joyful people
Skates cut the ice loudly;
On red paws a goose is heavy,
Having thought to swim in the bosom of the waters,
Steps carefully on the ice
Slides and falls; funny
Flashes, curls the first snow,
Stars falling on the shore.This year's autumn weather
Stood in the yard for a long time
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting,
Snow fell only in January,
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatyana saw through the window
Whitewashed yard in the morning,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
Light patterns on the glass
Trees in winter silver
Forty merry in the yard
And softly padded mountains
Winters are a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything is white around.Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant,
On firewood, updates the path;
His horse, smelling snow,
Trotting somehow,
Reins fluffy exploding,
A remote wagon flies;
The coachman sits on the irradiation
In a sheepskin coat, in a red sash.
Here is a yard boy running,
Planting a bug in a sled,
Transforming himself into a horse;
The scoundrel already froze his finger:
It hurts and it's funny
And his mother threatens him through the window...CHAPTER SEVEN
Chased by spring rays,
There is already snow from the surrounding mountains
Escaped by muddy streams
To flooded meadows.
Nature's clear smile
Through a dream meets the morning of the year;
The skies are shining blue.
Still transparent, the forests seem to turn green like fluff.
A bee flies from a wax cell for tribute in the field.
The valleys dry and dazzle;
The herds are noisy, and the nightingale
Already sang in the silence of the nights.How sad is your appearance to me,
Spring, spring! it's time for love!
What a languid excitement
In my soul, in my blood!
With what heavy tenderness
I enjoy the breath
In my face blowing spring
In the bosom of rural silence!
Or is pleasure alien to me,
And everything that pleases, lives,
All that shines and shines
Brings boredom and languor
For a long time dead soul
Does everything seem dark to her?Or, not rejoicing in the return
Leaves that died in autumn
We remember the bitter loss
Listening to the new noise of the forests;
Or with nature animated
Bringing together the confused thought
We are the fading of our years,
Which revival is not?
Perhaps it comes to our mind
In the midst of poetic sleep
Another, old spring
And the heart trembles us
Dream of the far side
About a wonderful night, about the moon ...
