Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

  
FRAGMENTS OF ONEGIN'S JOURNEY
 
The last [Eighth] Chapter of Eugene Onegin was published [1832] separately with the following foreword:
“The dropped stanzas gave rise more than once to reprehension and gibes (no doubt most just and witty). The author candidly confesses that he omitted from his novel a whole chapter in which Onegin's journey across Russia was described. It depended upon him to designate this omitted chapter by means of dots or a numeral; but to avoid ambiguity he decided it would be better to mark as number eight, instead of nine, the last chapter of Eugene Onegin, and to sacrifice one of its closing stanzas [Eight: XLVIIIa]:
 
 
   'Tis time: the pen for peace is asking
 
   nine cantos I have written;
 
   my boat upon the joyful shore
 
 4 by the ninth billow is brought out.
 
   Praise be to you, O nine Camenae, etc.
 
 
“P[avel] A[leksandrovich] Katenin (whom a fine poetic talent does not prevent from being also a subtle critic) observed to us that this exclusion, though perhaps advantageous to readers, is, however, detrimental to the plan of the entire work since, through this, the transition from Tatiana the provincial miss to Tatiana the grande dame becomes too unexpected and unexplained: an observation revealing the experienced artist. The author himself felt the justice of this but decided to leave out the chapter for reasons important to him but not to the public. Some fragments [XVI–XIX, l–10] have been published [Jan. 1, 1830, Lit. Gaz.] ; we insert them here, subjoining to them several other stanzas.”
E. [sic] Onegin drives from Moscow to Nizhni Novgorod:
 
 
 
[IX]
 
 
   . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
 
   . . . . . . . . . . . . before him
 
   Makariev bustlingly bestirs itself,
 
 4 with its abundance seethes.
 
   Here the Hindu brought pearls,
 
   the European, spurious wines,
 
   the breeder from the steppes
 
 8 drove a herd of cast steeds,
 
   the gamester brought his decks,
 
   fistful of complaisant dice,
 
   the landowner ripe daughters,
 
12 and daughterlings, the fashions of last year;
 
   each bustles, lies enough for two,
 
   and everywhere there's a mercantile spirit.
 
 
 
 
[X]
 
 
   Ennui!...
 
 
Onegin fares to Astrahan [XI], and from there to the[Caucasus:
 
 
 
[XII]
 
 
   He sees the wayward Térek
 
   eroding its steep banks;
 
   before him soars a stately eagle,
 
 4 a deer stands, with bent horns;
 
   the camel lies in the cliff's shade;
 
   in meadows courses the Circassian's steed,
 
   and round nomadic tents
 
 8 the sheep of Kalmuks graze.
 
   Afar [loom] the Caucasian masses.
 
   The way to them is clear. War penetrated
 
   beyond their natural divide,
 
12 across their perilous barriers.
 
   The banks of the Arágva and Kurá
 
   saw Russian tents.
 
 
 
 
[XIII]
  
 
   Now, the eternal watchman of the waste,
 
   Beshtú, compressed around by hills,
 
   stands up, sharp-peaked,
 
 4 and, showing green, Mashúk,
 
   Mashúk, of healing streams dispenser;
 
   around its magic brooks
 
   a pallid swarm of patients presses,
 
 8 the victims, some of martial honor,
 
   some of the Piles, and some of Cypris.
 
   In waves miraculous the sufferer
 
   plans to make firm the thread of life.
 
12 To leave the wicked years' offenses at the bottom
 
   [plans] the coquette, and the old man
 
   [plans] to grow young — if only for a moment.
 
 
 
 
[XIV]
 
 
   Onegin, nursing bitter meditations,
 
   among their sorry tribe,
 
   with a gaze of regret
 
 4 looks at the smoking streams and muses,
 
   bedimmed with rue: Why in the breast
 
   am I not wounded by a bullet?
 
   Why am I not a feeble oldster
 
 8 like that poor farmer-general?
 
   Why like a councilman from Tula
 
   am I not lying paralyzed?
 
   Why in the shoulder do I not
 
12 at least feel rheumatism? Ah, Lord,
 
   I'm young, life is robust in me,
 
   what have I to expect? Ennui, ennui!...
 
 
Onegin then visits the Tauris [Crimea]:
 
 
 
[XV]
 
 
   land sacred unto the imagination:
 
   there with Orestes argued Pylades;
 
   there Mithridates stabbed himself;
 
12 there sang inspired Mickiéwicz
 
   and in the midst of coastal cliffs
 
   recalled his Lithuania.
 
 
 
 
[XVI]
 
 
   Beauteous are you, shores of the Tauris,
 
   when from the ship one sees you by the light
 
   of morning Cypris, as I saw you
 
 4 for the first time.
 
   You showed yourselves to me in nuptial splendor.
 
   Against a blue and limpid sky
 
   shone the amassments of your mountains.
 
 8 The pattern of valleys, trees, villages
 
   was spread before me.
 
   And there, among the small huts of the Tatars...
 
   What ardency awoke in me!
 
12 With what magical yearnfulness
 
   my flaming bosom was compressed!
 
   But, Muse, forget the past!
 
 
 
 
[XVII]
 
 
   Whatever feelings then lay hidden
 
   within me — now they are no more:
 
   they went or changed....
 
 4 Peace unto you, turmoils of former years!
 
   To me seemed needful at the time
 
   deserts, the pearly rims of waves,
 
   and the sea's rote, and piles of rocks,
 
 8 and the ideal of “proud maid,”
 
   and nameless pangs.
 
   Other days, other dreams;
 
   you have become subdued,
 
12 my springtime's high-flung fancies,
 
   and unto my poetic goblet
 
   I have admixed a lot of water.
 
 
 
 
[XVIII]
 
 
   Needful to me are other pictures:
 
   I like a sandy hillside slope,
 
   before a small isba two rowans,
 
 4 a wicket gate, a broken fence,
 
   up in the sky gray clouds,
 
   before the thrash barn heaps of straw,
 
   and in the shelter of dense willows
 
 8 a pond — the franchise of young ducks.
 
   I'm fond now of the balalaika
 
   and of the trepak's drunken stomping
 
   before the threshold of the tavern;
 
12 now my ideal is a housewife,
 
   my wishes, peace
 
   and “pot of shchi but big myself.”
 
 
 
 
[XIX]
 
 
   The other day, during a rainy spell,
 
   as I had dropped into the cattle yard —
 
   Fie! Prosy divagations,
 
 4 the Flemish School's variegated dross!
 
   Was I like that when I was blooming?
 
   Say, Fountain of Bahchisaray!
 
   Were such the thoughts that to my mind
 
 8 your endless purl suggested
 
   when silently in front of you
 
   Zaréma I imagined?...
 
   Midst the sumptuous deserted halls
 
12 after the lapse of three years, in my tracks
 
   in the same region wandering, Onegin
 
   remembered me.
 
 
 
 
[XX]
 
 
   I lived then in dusty Odessa....
 
   There for a long time skies are clear.
 
   There, stirring, an abundant trade
 
 4 sets up its sails.
 
   There all exhales, diffuses Europe,
 
   all glitters with the South, and brindles
 
   with live variety.
 
 8 The tongue of golden Italy
 
   resounds along the gay street where
 
   walks the proud Slav,
 
   Frenchman, Spaniard, Armenian,
 
12 and Greek, and the heavy Moldavian,
 
   and the son of Egyptian soil,
 
   the retired Corsair, Moralí.
 
 
 
 
[XXI]
 
 
   Odessa in sonorous verses
 
   our friend Tumanski has described,
 
   but at the time with partial eyes
 
 4 he gazed at it.
 
   Upon arriving, he, like a true poet,
 
   went off to roam with his lorgnette
 
   alone above the sea; and then
 
 8 with an enchanting pen
 
   he glorified the gardens of Odessa.
 
   All right — but there, in point of fact,
 
   is a bare steppe around;
 
12 in a few places recent labor
 
   has forced young boughs on sultry days
 
   to give compulsory shade.
 
 
 
 
[XXII]
 
 
   But where, pray, was my rambling tale? “In dusty
 
   Odessa,” I had said.
 
   I might have said “in muddy
 
 4 Odessa” — and indeed would not have lied there either.
 
   For five-six weeks a year
 
   Odessa, by the will of stormy Zeus,
 
   is flooded, is stopped up,
 
 8 is in thick mud immersed.
 
   Some two feet deep all houses are embedded.
 
   Only on stilts does a pedestrian
 
   dare ford the street. Chariots and people
 
12 sink in, get stuck; and hitched to droshkies
 
   the ox, horns bent, replaces
 
   the debile steed.
 
 
 
 
[XXIII]
 
 
   But the sledge-hammer breaks up stones already,
 
   and with a ringing pavement soon
 
   the salvaged city will be covered
 
 4 as with an armor of forged steel.
 
   However, in this moist Odessa
 
   there is another grave deficiency,
 
   of — what would you think? Water.
 
 8 Grievous exertions are required....
 
   So what? This is not a great sorrow!
 
   Particularly since wine is
 
   imported free of duty.
 
12 But then the Southern sun, but then the sea...
 
   What more, friends, could you want?
 
   Blest climes!
 
 
 
 
[XXIV]
 
 
   Time was, no sooner did the sunrise gun
 
   roar from the ship
 
   than, down the steep shore running,
 
 4 I would be on my way toward the sea.
 
   Then, sitting with a glowing pipe,
 
   enlivened by the briny wave,
 
   like in his paradise a Moslem, coffee
 
 8 with Oriental grounds I quaff.
 
   I go out for a stroll. Already the benevolent
 
   Casino's open: the clatter of cups
 
   resounds there; on the balcony
 
12 the marker, half asleep, emerges
 
   with a broom in his hands, and at the porch
 
   two merchants have converged already.
 
 
 
 
[XXV]
 
 
   Anon the square grows freaked [with people].
 
   All is alive now; here and there
 
   they run, on business or not busy;
 
 4 however, more on businesses.
 
   The child of Calculation and of Venture,
 
   the merchant goes to glance at ensigns,
 
   to find out — are the skies
 
 8 sending to him known sails?
 
   What new wares have
 
   entered today in quarantine?
 
   Have the casks of expected wines arrived?
 
12> And how's the plague, and where the conflagrations,
 
   and is not there some famine, war,
 
   or novelty of a like kind?
 
 
 
 
[XXVI]
 
 
   But we, fellows without a sorrow,
 
   among the careful merchants,
 
   expected only oysters
 
 4 from Tsargrad's shores.
 
   What news of oysters? They have come. O glee!
 
   Off flies gluttonous juventy
 
   to swallow from their sea shells
 
 8 the plump, live cloisterers,
 
   slightly asperged with lemon.
 
   Noise, arguments; light wine
 
   onto the table from the cellars
 
12 by complaisant Automne [2] is brought.
 
   The hours fly by, and the grim bill
 
   meantime invisibly augments.
 
 
 
 
[XXVII]
 
 
   But the blue evening grows already darker.
 
   Time to the opera we sped:
 
   there 'tis the ravishing Rossini,
 
 4 darling of Europe, Orpheus.
 
   To severe criticism not harking, he
 
   is ever selfsame, ever new;
 
   he pours out melodies, they effervesce,
 
 8 they flow, they burn
 
   like youthful kisses, all
 
   in mollitude, in flames of love,
 
   like the stream and the golden spurtles of Ay
 
12 starting to fizz; but, gentlemen,
 
   is it permitted to compare
 
   do-re-mi-sol to wine?
 
 
 
 
[XXVIII]
 
 
   And does that sum up the enchantments there?
 
   And what about the explorative lorgnette?
 
   And the assignments in the wings?
 
 4 The prima donna? The ballet?
 
   And the loge where, in beauty shining,
 
   a trader's young wife, vain
 
   and languorous,
 
 8 is by a crowd of thralls surrounded?
 
   She lists and does not list
 
   the cavatina, the entreaties,
 
   the banter blent halfwise with flattery,
 
12 while in a corner naps behind her
 
   her husband; wakes up to cry “Fuora!”; yawns,
 
   and snores again.
 
 
 
 
[XXIX]
 
 
   There thunders the finale. The house empties;
 
   with noise the outfall hastes;
 
   the crowd onto the square
 
 4 runs by the gleam of lamps and stars.
 
   The sons of fortunate Ausonia hum
 
   a playful tune
 
   involuntarily retained  —
 
 8 while we roar the recitative.
 
   But it is late. Sleeps quietly
 
   Odessa; and breathless and warm
 
   is the mute night. The moon has risen,
 
12 a veil, diaphanously light,
 
   enfolds the sky. All's silent;
 
   only the Black Sea sounds.
 
 
 
 
[XXX]
 
 
   And so I lived then in Odessa.