Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. Book IV. Stanzas 1, (2-7), 8.

PUSHKIN'S POEMS

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EUGENE ONEGIN

(In this edition he is called Yevgeny Onegin).

For ease of access the text is printed in image format, to avoid the problems of decoding Russian script. This unfortunately results in some loss of clarity. Three or four stanzas are printed on each page, with the English translation alongside.

BOOK IV Stanzas 1, (2-7), 8.

Chapter Four

Morality is part of the nature of things.
Necker.

I. (II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. )

The less we show our love to a woman,
Or please her less, and neglect our duty,
The more we trap and ruin her surely
In the flattering toils of philandery.
For, as usual, cold blooded, lechery
Obtains its fame from the science of love,
Always trumpeting to the skies above,
Enjoying itself without a heart.
But this most solemn, serious pastime,
Was fit for baboons of long ago,
Such as were praised in grandad's time:
The fame of Lovelace is withered now,
Along with the fame of scarlet shoes
And wigs which up to the ceiling rose.

VII

Who is not bored with acting a part,
Repeating with variation the same old thing,
Striving solemnly to assert
A fact known to all from long ago,
To listen to the same tedious objections,
Do battle with rooted convictions,
Such as never were and never have been
Even in a young girl who's just thirteen!
Who is not exhausted by threats,
Cajollings, swearings, pretended passion,
Notes six pages long (all the fashion),
Deceits, back biting, slanders, tears,
The supervision of aunts and mother,
And the heavy friendship of the husband of one's lover!

IX

Such were the thoughts of my Yevgeny.
For, from the days of his first youth
He was the victim of wildest fancy,
Unbridled passions for him were truth.
Spoiled by life's usual encounters,
For a time some girl would enchant his heart,
But then another would be disenchanting,
How wearisome the slow pain of desire,
But how wearisome too the successful fire;
He heard in the tumult and in silence too
The unending protests in his soul,
And stifled a yawn with an idle laugh:
And so he slaughtered eight years at least
Life's best flowers squandering at a barren feast.

X

From lovely beauties he already felt distant,
But dragged after them for routine's sake.
A refusal - he was consoled in an instant,
A betrayal - he was glad his thirst to slake.
He sought them all with no sign of rapture,
And, without regret, evaded capture,
Scarcely remembering their love or hate.
In the same way an indifferent guest
Arrives for an evening game of whist,
Sits down, and plays till the game is done,
Then from the courtyard he hurries home,
And easily in his chair he snoozes,
Yet in the morning he knows not whose is
The house he will visit in the evening gloom.

Lermontov

Other Pushkin

Eugene Onegin Book I

Book II

Book III

Book IV

Book V

BookVI

BookVII

BookVIII

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		Chapter Four Morality is part of the nature of things. Necker. I. (II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. ) The less we show our love to a woman, Or please her less, and neglect our duty, The more we trap and ruin her surely In the flattering toils of philandery. For, as usual, cold blooded, lechery Obtains its fame from the science of love, Always trumpeting to the skies above, Enjoying itself without a heart. But this most solemn, serious pastime, Was fit for baboons of long ago, Such as were praised in grandad's time: The fame of Lovelace is withered now, Along with the fame of scarlet shoes And wigs which up to the ceiling rose.
		VII Who is not bored with acting a part, Repeating with variation the same old thing, Striving solemnly to assert A fact known to all from long ago, To listen to the same tedious objections, Do battle with rooted convictions, Such as never were and never have been Even in a young girl who's just thirteen! Who is not exhausted by threats, Cajollings, swearings, pretended passion, Notes six pages long (all the fashion), Deceits, back biting, slanders, tears, The supervision of aunts and mother, And the heavy friendship of the husband of one's lover!
		IX Such were the thoughts of my Yevgeny. For, from the days of his first youth He was the victim of wildest fancy, Unbridled passions for him were truth. Spoiled by life's usual encounters, For a time some girl would enchant his heart, But then another would be disenchanting, How wearisome the slow pain of desire, But how wearisome too the successful fire; He heard in the tumult and in silence too The unending protests in his soul, And stifled a yawn with an idle laugh: And so he slaughtered eight years at least Life's best flowers squandering at a barren feast.
		X From lovely beauties he already felt distant, But dragged after them for routine's sake. A refusal - he was consoled in an instant, A betrayal - he was glad his thirst to slake. He sought them all with no sign of rapture, And, without regret, evaded capture, Scarcely remembering their love or hate. In the same way an indifferent guest Arrives for an evening game of whist, Sits down, and plays till the game is done, Then from the courtyard he hurries home, And easily in his chair he snoozes, Yet in the morning he knows not whose is The house he will visit in the evening gloom.