Владимир Набоков - Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина

• Название: Комментарии к «Евгению Онегину» Александра Пушкина
• Автор: Владимир Набоков
• Издательство: «Интелвак»
• Жанр: Критика
• Год: 1999
• ISBN: 5-93264-001-4

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.

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XLVI

   Let me glance back. Farewell now, coverts
   where in the backwoods flowed my days,
   fulfilled with passions and with indolence
 4 and with the dreamings of a pensive soul.
   And you, young inspiration,
   stir my imagination,
   the slumber of the heart enliven,
 8 into my nook more often fly,
   let not a poet's soul grow cold,
   callous, crust-dry,
   and finally be turned to stone
12 in the World's deadening intoxication
   in that slough where with you
   I bathe, dear friends!40

CHAPTER SEVEN

Moscow! Russia's favorite daughter!
Where is your equal to be found?

Dmitriev

How not to love one's native Moscow?

Baratïnski

“Reviling Moscow! This is what
comes from seeing the world! Where is it better, then?”
“Where we are not.”

Griboedov

I

   Chased by the vernal beams,
   down the surrounding hills the snows already
   have run in turbid streams
 4 onto the inundated fields.
   With a serene smile, nature
   greets through her sleep the morning of the year.
   Bluing, the heavens shine.
 8 The yet transparent woods
   as if with down are greening.
   The bee flies from her waxen cell
   after the tribute of the field.
12 The dales grow dry and varicolored.
   The herds are noisy, and the nightingale
   has sung already in the hush of nights.

II

   How sad your apparition is to me,
   spring, spring, season of love!
   What a dark stir there is
 4 in my soul, in my blood!
   With what oppressive tenderness
   I revel in the whiff
   of spring fanning my face
 8 in the lap of the rural stillness!
   Or is enjoyment strange to me,
   and all that gladdens, animates,
   all that exults and gleams,
12 casts spleen and languishment
   upon a soul long dead
   and all looks dark to it?

III

   Or gladdened not by the return
   of leaves that perished in the autumn,
   a bitter loss we recollect,
 4 harking to the new murmur of the woods;
   or with reanimated nature we
   compare in troubled thought
   the withering of our years,
 8 for which there is no renovation?
   Perhaps there comes into our thoughts,
   midst a poetical reverie,
   some other ancient spring,
12 which sets our heart aquiver
   with the dream of a distant clime,
   a marvelous night, a moon....

IV

   Now is the time: good lazybones,
   epicurean sages; you,
   equanimous fortunates;
 4 you, fledglings of the Lyóvshin41 school;
   you, country Priams;
   and sentimental ladies, you;
   spring calls you to the country,
 8 season of warmth, of flowers, of labors,
   of inspired rambles,
   and of seductive nights.
   Friends! to the fields, quick, quick;
12 in heavy loaden chariots;
   with your own horses or with posters;
   out of the towngates start to trek!

V

   And you, indulgent reader,
   in your imported calash, leave
   the indefatigable city
 4 where in the winter you caroused;
   let's go with my capricious Muse
   to hear the murmur of a park
   above a nameless river, in the country place,
 8 where my Eugene, an idle and despondent
   recluse, but recently
   dwelt in the winter, in the neighborhood
   of youthful Tanya,
12 of my dear dreamer;
   but where he is no longer now...
   where a sad trace he left.

VI

   'Mid hills disposed in a half circle,
   let us go thither where a rill,
   winding, by way of a green meadow,
 4 runs to the river through a linden bosquet.
   The nightingale, spring's lover,
   sings there all night; the cinnamon rose
   blooms, and the babble of the fount is heard.
 8 There a tombstone is seen
   in the shade of two ancient pines.
   The scripture to the stranger says:
   “Here lies Vladimir Lenski,
12 who early died the death of the courageous,
   in such a year, at such an age.
   Repose, boy poet!”

VII

   On the inclined bough of a pine,
   time was, the early breeze
   above that humble urn
 4 swayed a mysterious wreath;
   time was, during late leisures,
   two girl companions hither used to come;
   and, by the moon, upon the grave,
 8 embraced, they wept;
   but now... the drear memorial is
   forgot. The wonted trail to it,
   weed-choked. No wreath is on the bough.
12 Alone, beneath it, gray and feeble,
   the herdsman as before keeps singing
   and plaiting his poor footgear.

X

   My poor Lenski! Pining away,
   she did not weep for long.
   Alas! The young fiancée
 4 is to her woe untrue.
   Another ravished her attention,
   another managed with love's flattery
   to lull to sleep her suffering:
 8 an uhlan knew how to enthrall her,
   an uhlan by her soul is loved;
   and lo! with him already at the altar
   she modestly beneath the bridal crown
12 stands with bent head,
   fire in her lowered eyes,
   a light smile on her lips.

XI

   My poor Lenski! Beyond the grave,
   in the confines of deaf eternity,
   was the despondent bard perturbed
 4 by the fell news of the betrayal?
   Or on the Lethe lulled to sleep,
   blest with insensibility, the poet
   no longer is perturbed by anything,
 8 and closed and mute is earth to him?...
   'Tis so! Indifferent oblivion
   beyond the sepulcher awaits us.
   The voice of foes, of friends, of loves abruptly
12 falls silent. Only over the estate
   the angry chorus of the heirs
   starts an indecent squabble.

XII

   And soon the ringing voice of Olya
   was in the Larin family stilled.
   A captive of his lot, the uhlan
 4 had to rejoin his regiment with her.
   Bitterly shedding floods of tears,
   the old dame, as she took leave of her daughter,
   seemed scarce alive,
 8 but Tanya could not cry;
   only a deadly pallor covered
   her melancholy face.
   When everybody came out on the porch,
12 and one and all, taking leave, bustled
   around the chariot of the newly wed,
   Tatiana saw them off.

XIII

   And long did she, as through a mist,
   gaze after them...
   And now Tatiana is alone, alone!
 4 Alas! Companion of so many years,
   her youthful doveling,
   her own dear bosom friend,
   has been by fate borne far away,
 8 has been from her forever separated.
   She, like a shade, roams aimlessly;
   now into the deserted garden looks.
   Nowhere, in nothing, are there joys for her,
12 and she finds no relief
   for tears suppressed,
   and torn asunder is her heart.

XIV

   And in the cruel solitude
   stronger her passion burns,
   and louder does her heart of distant
 4 Onegin speak to her.
   She will not see him;
   she must abhor in him
   the slayer of her brother;
 8 the poet perished... but already none
   remembers him, already to another
   his promised bride has given herself.
   The poet's memory has sped by
12 as smoke across an azure sky;
   perhaps there are two hearts that yet
   grieve for him.... Wherefore grieve?

XV

   'Twas evening. The sky darkened. Waters
   streamed quietly. The beetle churred.
   The choral throngs already were dispersing.
 4 Across the river, smoking, glowed already
   the fire of fishermen. In open country
   by the moon's silvery light,
   sunk in her dreams,
 8 long did Tatiana walk alone. She walked,
   she walked. And suddenly before her from a hill
   she sees a manor house, a village,
   a grove below hill, and a garden
12 above a luminous river.
   She gazes, and the heart in her
   faster and harder has begun to beat.

XVI

   Doubts trouble her:
   “Shall I go on? Shall I go back?... He is not here.
   They do not know me.... I shall glance
 4 at the house, at that garden.”
   And so downhill Tatiana walks,
   scarce breathing; casts around
   a gaze full of perplexity...
 8 and enters a deserted courtyard.
   Dogs toward her
   dash, barking… At her frightened cry
   a household brood of serf boys
12 has noisily converged. Not without fighting
   the boys dispersed the hounds,
   taking the lady under their protection.

XVII