Translation from English

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Pushkin Stanzas Translated by A Z Foreman (from Russian)- Poems Found In Translation

Poems Found In Translation: “Pushkin: Stanzas from Eugene Onegin (From Russian)”

Link to Poems Found in Translation

Posted: 03 Feb 2015 01:35 PM PST
Below are translations of a few individual stanzas from from Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. I dream of someday creating a complete translation of the whole book, but I lack the time and sustained energy to do so. For now, I have the first handful of stanzas from Canto 1, plus some others parts that I had a mind to translate, too. As I translate more from Onegin, the stanzas in question will be added in their proper place on this page, and the page itself bumped back up to the most recent entry slot with a note below this paragraph as to what has been added. And of course if there's a particular passage from Onegin (or anything else for that matter) that you would especially like to see me translate, by all means please make a donation and request it.

Updates:
2/3/15: Added stanzas 8.I and 8.II, major revisions to 1.II and 1.VI.

Stanzas From Eugene Onegin
By Alexander Pushkin
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

1.I
"My uncle, man of true conviction...
By falling genuinely sick
He's won respect in his affliction
And could have planned no better trick.  
His model is worth replicating;
But Christ is it excruciating
To attend a patient night and day
And never move a step away!
And oh, what shameful machination
To humor one so nearly dead,
Fluff out the pillows for his head,
Morosely bring his medication
And think, with every practiced sigh,
'Get on with it already. Die!'"
«Мой дядя самых честных правил,
Когда не в шутку занемог,
Он уважать себя заставил
И лучше выдумать не мог.
Его пример другим наука;
Но, боже мой, какая скука
С больным сидеть и день и ночь,
Не отходя ни шагу прочь!
Какое низкое коварство
Полуживого забавлять,
Ему подушки поправлять,
Печально подносить лекарство,
Вздыхать и думать про себя:
Когда же черт возьмет тебя!»

1.II
Thus mused a rakehell in reflection    
Riding by post through dust and din.
He was, through natural selection
By Jove, sole heir to all his kin.
Friends of Ruslan from my last story*,
Let me spare you all prefatory
Delay, and introduce this new
Protagonist of mine to you:
Onegin, my good friend and brother,
Was born beside the Neva's** swell,
Where maybe, reader, you as well
Were born, or shone some way or other.
There I myself once played and strolled
Until I caught that northern cold***.
Так думал молодой повеса,
Летя в пыли на почтовых,
Всевышней волею Зевеса
Наследник всех своих родных.
Друзья Людмилы и Руслана!
С героем моего романа
Без предисловий, сей же час
Позвольте познакомить вас:
Онегин, добрый мой приятель,
Родился на брегах Невы,
Где, может быть, родились вы
Или блистали, мой читатель;
Там некогда гулял и я:
Но вреден север для меня.

Notes: *"Ruslan and Ludmila", a previous and wildly successful verse tale of Pushkin's
** Neva. i.e. along the Neva river, which is to say in St. Petersburg.
*** i.e. a reference to Pushkin's banishment

1.III

A noble man who'd served sincerely,
His father lived by borrowing,
He entertained with three balls yearly
And finally squandered everything.
Fate handled my Onegin gently
Madame first cared for him intently
Till someone else took on from her
The nice, if boisterous, boy: Monsieur      
L'Abbée, a feckless wretch from Paris
Taught the boy everything in jest,
Kept moral strictures slight at best
Lest he should bother or embarrass.
He'd punish pranks with one remark
And then a stroll in Summer Park*
Служив отлично благородно,
Долгами жил его отец,
Давал три бала ежегодно
И промотался наконец.
Судьба Евгения хранила:
Сперва Madame за ним ходила,
Потом Monsieur ее сменил.
Ребенок был резов, но мил.
Monsieur l’Abbé, француз убогой,
Чтоб не измучилось дитя,
Учил его всему шутя,
Не докучал моралью строгой,
Слегка за шалости бранил
И в Летний сад гулять водил.

* "Summer Park" - the Royal "Létny Sad" built near the imperial Palace.

1.IV

But when our young man reached the morrow    
Of adolescence and ado,
The time of hope and tender sorrow,
Monsieur was made to say Adieu.
Eugene's at large now. Taking care to
Display the latest voguish hairdo,
And dressed like a London Dandy, he
At last saw high society.
In French which he had quite perfected
He could express himself and write,
And when he danced, his step was light
His bow completely unaffected.
What's more to want? The verdict ran:
A witty, charming, gentle man.
Когда же юности мятежной
Пришла Евгению пора,
Пора надежд и грусти нежной,
Monsieur прогнали со двора.
Вот мой Онегин на свободе;
Острижен по последней моде,
Как dandy лондонский одет —
И наконец увидел свет.
Он по-французски совершенно
Мог изъясняться и писал;
Легко мазурку танцевал
И кланялся непринужденно;
Чего ж вам больше? Свет решил,
Что он умен и очень мил.

1. V

We've all received some education
In something, somehow, have we not?    
So thank the Lord that in our nation
Playing the thinker takes no thought.
Eugene was in the view of many
(Judges as strict and fair as any)
Learnèd, if prone to pedantry.
He had the happy ability
For free and easy conversation,
For handling any grave dispute
With an air of learning and astute
Silence in lieu of confrontation,
And lighting up a lady's gaze
With sudden fiery turns of phrase.
Мы все учились понемногу
Чему-нибудь и как-нибудь,
Так воспитаньем, слава богу,
У нас немудрено блеснуть.
Онегин был по мненью многих
(Судей решительных и строгих)
Ученый малый, но педант:
Имел он счастливый талант
Без принужденья в разговоре
Коснуться до всего слегка,
С ученым видом знатока
Хранить молчанье в важном споре
И возбуждать улыбку дам
Огнем нежданных эпиграмм.

1. VI

Latin's gone out of fashion for us.
But he had learned, be in no doubt,
Enough of the great tongue of Horace
To figure Latin phrases out,
Cite Juvenal from French translations,
Add "vale" in his salutations.
There was a line (on good days, two)
By Virgil that he nearly knew.
He had no scholar's predilection
To delve through diachronic dust
Of the world's histories caked with must.
There was, though, quite a large collection    
Of anecdotes he could recite
From Troy's destruction to last night.
Латынь из моды вышла ныне:
Так, если правду вам сказать,
Он знал довольно по-латыне,
Чтоб эпиграфы разбирать,
Потолковать об Ювенале,
В конце письма поставить vale1),
Да помнил, хоть не без греха,
Из Энеиды два стиха.
Он рыться не имел охоты
В хронологической пыли
Бытописания земли:
Но дней минувших анекдоты
От Ромула до наших дней
Хранил он в памяти своей.
.........
1.XLVI

He who has lived and thought can never  
Look on mankind without disgust,
He who has felt is plagued forever
By ghosts of days forever lost.
Gone are enchantment and affection.
In him the snake of recollection
And sick repentance eats the heart.
All this will oftentimes impart
A savory charm to conversations.
Though first unsettled and confused  
By Eugene's tongue, I did get used
To his abrasive disputations,
His blend of bile and comedy,
His somber, vicious repartee.
Кто жил и мыслил, тот не может
В душе не презирать людей;
Кто чувствовал, того тревожит
Призрак невозвратимых дней:
Тому уж нет очарований,
Того змия воспоминаний,
Того раскаянье грызет.
Все это часто придает
Большую прелесть разговору.
Сперва Онегина язык
Меня смущал; но я привык
К его язвительному спору,
И к шутке, с желчью пополам,
И злости мрачных эпиграмм.
..........
8.I

In those days when I bloomed serenely    
In Lycée gardens, long ago,
I'd read my Apuleius keenly
But ne'er a word of Cicero -
In those spring days, in secret dales
Where swans called out along the trails
By lakes in stilly air agleam,
The Muse first came to bid me dream.
My student cell filled with enchanted
And sudden light. The Muse spread there
A feast of youthful fancies fair.
She sang of childhood cheers, and chanted  
The glory of our lays of old,
The tremulous reveries hearts can hold.
В те дни, когда в садах Лицея
Я безмятежно расцветал,
Читал охотно Апулея,
А Цицерона не читал,
В те дни в таинственных долинах,
Весной, при кликах лебединых,
Близ вод, сиявших в тишине,
Являться муза стала мне.
Моя студенческая келья
Вдруг озарилась: муза в ней
Открыла пир младых затей,
Воспела детские веселья,
И славу нашей старины,
И сердца трепетные сны.

8.II

And with a smile my Muse was greeted.
What wings our first successes gave!
By Old Derzhávin we were heeded
And blessed before he reached the grave.....
И свет ее с улыбкой встретил;
Успех нас первый окрылил;
Старик Державин нас заметил
И в гроб сходя, благословил.
...........
8.XXIX

To love all ages must surrender.
But to young hearts its tumults bring
A gale as plentiful and tender
As tempests to the fields of spring
They freshen under passion's shower
Renew themselves, and come to flower,
As potent life takes fertile root
To bring rich blooms and yield sweet fruit.    
But when our age has left us older,
That barren turning of our years,
Dead passion's traces just bear tears-
So autumn stormwinds just blow colder,
Make swamps of meadows everywhere
And leave the forests stripped and bare.
Любви все возрасты покорны;
Но юным, девственным сердцам
Ее порывы благотворны,
Как бури вешние полям:
В дожде страстей они свежеют,
И обновляются, и зреют —
И жизнь могущая дает
И пышный цвет и сладкий плод.
Но в возраст поздний и бесплодный,
На повороте наших лет,
Печален страсти мертвой след:
Так бури осени холодной
В болото обращают луг
И обнажают лес вокруг.



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