Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

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Комментарии В. В. Набокова освещают многообразие исторических, литературных и бытовых сторон романа. Книга является оригинальным произведением писателя в жанре научно-исторического комментария. Набоков обращается к «потаенным слоям» романа, прослеживает литературные влияния, связи «Евгения Онегина» с другими произведениями поэта, увлекательно повествует о тайнописи Пушкина.
Предназначена для широкого круга читателей и в первую очередь — для преподавателей и студентов гуманитарных вузов, а также для учителей и учащихся средней школы.
XXXI
Not madrigals does Lenskiwrite in the album of young Olga;
his pen breathes love —
4 it does not glitter frigidly with wit.
Whatever he notes, whatever he hears
concerning Olga, this he writes about;
and full of vivid truth
8 flow, riverlike, his elegies.
Thus you, inspired Yazïkov,
sing, in the surgings of your heart,
God knows whom, and the precious code
12 of elegies
will represent for you someday
the entire story of your fate.
XXXII
commands us to throw off
the sorry wreath of elegies;
4 and to our brotherhood of rhymesters
cries: “Do stop whimpering
and croaking always the same thing,
regretting 'the foregone, the past';
8 enough! Sing about something else!” —
You're right, and surely you'll point out
to us the trumpet, mask, and dagger,
and everywhence a dead stock of ideas
12 bid us revive.
Thus friend? — “Nowise!
Far from it! Write odes, gentlemen,
XXXIII
as was in times of yore established.”
Nothing but solemn odes?
4 Oh, come, friend; what's this to the purpose?
Recall what said the satirist!
Does the shrewd lyrist in “As Others See It”
seem more endurable to you
8 than our glum rhymesters? —
“But in the elegy all is so null;
its empty aim is pitiful;
whilst the aim of the ode is lofty
12 and noble.” Here I might
argue with you, but I keep still:
I do not want to make two ages quarrel.
XXXIV
in the excitement of his stormy thoughts,
Vladimir might have written odes,
4 only that Olga did not read them.
Have ever chanced larmoyant poets
to read their works before the eyes
of their beloved ones? It is said, no higher
8 rewards are in the world.
And, verily, blest is the modest lover
reading his daydreams to the object
of songs and love,
12 a pleasantly languorous belle!
Blest — though perhaps by something
quite different she is diverted.
XXXV
and of harmonious device
read but to an old nurse,
4 companion of my youth;
or after a dull dinner, when a neighbor
strays in to see me — having caught
him by a coat skirt unexpectedly —
8 I choke him in a corner with a tragedy,
or else (but that's apart from jesting),
haunted by yearnings and by rhymes,
roaming along my lake,
12 I scare a flock of wild ducks; they, on heeding
the chant of sweet-toned strophes,
fly off the banks.
XXXVII
brothers! I beg your patience:
his daily occupations in detail
4 I shall describe to you.
Onegin anchoretically lived;
he rose in summer between six and seven
and, lightly clad, proceeded to the river
8 that ran under the hillside. Imitating
the songster of Gulnare,
across this Hellespont he swam,
then drank his coffee, while he flipped
12 through some wretched review,
and dressed
XXXIX
the sylvan shade, the purl of streams,
sometimes a white-skinned, dark-eyed girl's
4 young and fresh kiss,
a horse of mettle, bridle-true,
a rather fancy dinner,
a bottle of bright wine,
8 seclusion, quiet —
this was Onegin's saintly life;
and he insensibly to it
surrendered, the fair summer days
12 in carefree mollitude not counting,
oblivious of both town and friends
and of the boredom of festive devices.
XL
of Southern winters;
it will glance by and vanish: this is known,
4 though to admit it we don't wish.
The sky already breathed of autumn,
the sun already shone more seldom,
the day was growing shorter,
8 the woods' mysterious canopy
with a sad murmur bared itself,
mist settled on the fields,
the caravan of clamorous geese
12 was tending southward; there drew near
a rather tedious period;
November stood already at the door.
XLI
stilled in the grainfields is the noise of labors;
with his hungry female, the wolf
4 comes out upon the road;
the road horse, sensing him,
snorts, and the wary traveler
goes tearing uphill at top speed;
8 no longer does the herdsman drive at sunrise
the cows out of the shippon,
and at the hour of midday in a circle
his horn does not call them together;
12 in her small hut singing, the maiden23
spins and, the friend of winter nights,
in front of her the splintlight crackles.
XLII
and silver 'mid the fields
(the reader now expects the rhyme “froze-rose” —
4 here, take it quick!).
Neater than modish parquetry,
the ice-clad river shines.
The gladsome crew of boys24
8 cut with their skates resoundingly the ice;
a heavy goose with red feet, planning
to swim upon the bosom of the waters,
steps carefully upon the ice,
12 slidders, and falls. The gay
first snow flicks, whirls,
falling in stars upon the bank.
XLIII
Walk? But the country at that time
is an involuntary eyesore
4 in its unbroken nakedness.
Go galloping in the harsh prairie?
But, catching with a blunted shoe
the treacherous ice, one's mount
8 is likely any moment to come down.
Stay under your desolate roof,
read; here is Pradt, here's Walter Scott!
Don't want to? Verify expenses,
12 grumble or drink, and the long evening
somehow will pass; and next day the same thing,
and famously you'll spend the winter.
XLIV
lapsed into pensive indolence:
right after sleep he takes a bath with ice,
4 and then, at home all day,
alone, absorbed in calculations, armed
with a blunt cue,
using two balls,
8 ever since morn plays billiards.
The country evening comes; abandoned
are billiards, the cue is forgot.
Before the fireplace the table is laid;
12 Eugene waits; here comes Lenski,
borne by a troika of roan horses;
quick, let's have dinner!
XLV
the blesséd wine
in a chilled bottle for the poet
4 is brought at once upon the table.
It sparkles Hippocrenelike;25
with its briskness and froth
(a simile of this and that)
8 it used to captivate me: for its sake
my last poor lepton I was wont
to give away — remember, friends?
Its magic stream engendered
12 no dearth of foolishness,
but also lots of jokes, and verses,
and arguments, and merry dreams!
XLVI
it plays false to my stomach,
and nowadays sedate Bordeaux
4 already I've preferred to it.
For Ay I'm no longer fit,
Ay is like
a mistress, brilliant, volatile, vivacious,
8 and whimsical, and shallow.
But you, Bordeaux, are like a friend
who in grief and misfortune
is always, everywhere, a comrade,
12 ready to render us a service
or share our quiet leisure.
Long live Bordeaux, our friend!
XLVII
is filmed the golden coal;
in a barely distinguishable stream
4 the vapor weaves, and the grate faintly
exhales some warmth. The smoke of pipes
goes up the chimney. The bright goblet
amid the table fizzes yet.
8 The evening gloam comes on
(I'm fond of friendly prate
and of a friendly bowl of wine
at that time which is called
12 time between wolf and dog —
though why, I do not see).
Now the two friends converse.
XLVIII
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