будто нам уж невозможно
Писать поэмы о другом,
Как только о себе самом.
LV
I was conceived for peaceful being,
For country fascinating calm,
The more in thickets, better hearing
Of lyre’s creative tongue and charm.
I stroll by a deserted lake
By naïve pastime entertained,
And far niente[13] is my law.
Each morning I am waking for
The honey bliss and freedom moments:
I read not much and sleep for long
And like I did in days of old
Don’t hunt for glory’s fake adornments.
My best and happiest young days
I spent in idleness in shades.
LVI
The country, flowers, field spaces,
Love, idleness – I adore those!
I’m glad to note the variations,
Which differ my and Eugene’s souls.
I do not want a mocking reader
Or other literature figure
Composing intricate blackwash
Collate Onegin with me, gosh,
Forgetting shame claim it wherever
That a self-portrait I did write,
Like Byron, poet of the pride,
And am not able, never ever,
To write the poems more or less,
But of myself and nothing else.
LVII
Замечу кстати: все поэты –
Любви мечтательной друзья.
Бывало, милые предметы
Мне снились, и душа моя
Их образ тайный сохранила;
Их после Муза оживила:
Так я, беспечен, воспевал
И деву гор, мой идеал,
И пленниц берегов Салгира.
Теперь от вас, мои друзья,
Вопрос нередко слышу я:
«O ком твоя вздыхает лира?
Кому, в толпе ревнивых дев,
Ты посвятил ее напев?
LVIII
Чей взор, волнуя вдохновенье,
Умильной лаской наградил
Твое задумчивое пенье?
Кого твой стих боготворил?»
И, други, никого, ей-богу!
Любви безумную тревогу
Я безотрадно испытал.
Блажен, кто с нею сочетал
Горячку рифм: он тем удвоил
Поэзии священный бред,
Петрарке шествуя вослед,
А муки сердца успокоил,
Поймал и славу между тем;
Но я, любя, был глуп и нем.
LVII
And by the way, the poet’s mind
Reveres the dreamy love, that’s why
The lovely things, I used to find,
Appeared to me in dreams, and I
These covert images retained,
And let my Muse to animate:
Thus, highland virgin I did praise,
Who drew me to a great amaze,
And captives of the Salgir[14] river…
And nowadays from you, my dear,
A frequent question I do hear:
“Who now arouses your lyre’s fever?
To whom of all these jealous lasses
You dedicated your lyre’s graces?
LVIII
Whose gaze, exiting inspiration,
By sweet caress had made a prize
For your poetic meditation?
Whom did your verses idolize? ”
No, friends, by Heaven, no one, yet!
And all my reckless love attempts
Were all in vain with no delight.
These poets blissful, who combined
Both,
Doing nothing.
River in Crimea
