PUSHKIN'S POEMS

This is the web site of Pushkin's poems

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 44 - 47.

 

XLIV


Onegin as a true Childe Harolde
Gave in to pensive idleness:
In the morning he sits in an icy bath,
And afterwards all day inside
Alone, in serious calculation,
He arms himself with a billiard cue,
And then with two balls upon the table
He plays at billiards from first light.
Evening descends on the countryside,
Billiards is forgotten, the cue set aside,
Beside the hearth the table is laid,
Yevgeny waits: and here is Lensky
Driving a troika of roan horses,
Bring in the dinner with four courses!

   

XLV


Moet et Chandon, or Cliquot
That heavenly beverage of Champagne
In a chilled bottle for the poet
Is brought and set upon the table.
It sparkles as true Hippocrene,
And by its froth and foam and bubble
(Like this and that, or seeing double)
I was held captive: to obtain it,
Often I gave my final copper.
Do you remember friends? For with it,
From its enchanting stream of fun
Were born full many a string of puns
So many jokes, and verses in reams
And strife, and sleep and happy dreams

 

XLVI


But with its noisy, frothy ways
To my stomach now it is a traitor,
And Bordeaux, reasonable and staid
Is my preferred drink nowadays.
I cannot take a glass of bubbly,
Champagne to me is like a mistress,
Sparkling, heedless and vivacious,
Headstrong, but full of emptiness …
But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend
Through grief and through calamity
A steady comrade, to the end
Ready to do us faithful service
And share our hours of quiet leisure.
Long live Bordeaux, our friend, our treasure!

   

XLVII


The fire died down; thinly through ash
The glowing coal was sparsely seen;
In a scarcely noticeable stream
The heat twirls round, and the warm hearth
Is barely alive. Smoke from their pipes
In the chimney rises. A bright glass
On the table bubbles with champagne.
And now descends the evening mist…
(I love the chat of friends together,
And the amiable glass of wine
About that time which the French call
'Between a dog and wolf' (how droll),
Yet why I love it I cannot tell.)
Now our friends are chatting under its spell.

Lermontov

Other Pushkin

Eugene Onegin Book I

Book II

Book III

Book IV

Book IV

Book V

BookVI

BookVII

BookVIII

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