Alexander Pushkin Quotes

I want to understand you, I study your obscure language.

I have outlasted all desire, My dreams and I have grown apart; My grief alone is left entire, The gleamings of an empty heart. The storms of ruthless dispensation Have struck my flowery garland numb, I live in lonely desolation And wonder when my end will come. Thus on a naked tree-limb, blasted By tardy winter's whistling chill, A single leaf which has outlasted Its season will be trembling still.

My whole life has been pledged to this meeting with you...

I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul The former love has never gone away, But let it not recall to you my dole; I wish not sadden you in any way. I loved you silently, without hope, fully, In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain; I loved you so tenderly and truly, As let you else be loved by any man.

If you but knew the flames that burn in me which I attempt to beat down with my reason.

My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?

Moral maxims are surprisingly useful on occasions when we can invent little else to justify our actions.

..depression still kept guard on him, and chased after him like a shadow - or like a faithful wife.

I was not born to amuse the Tsars.

It's a lucky man, a very lucky man, who is committed to what he believes, who has stifled intellectual detachment and can relax in the luxury of his emotions - like a tipsy traveller resting for the night at wayside inn.

But whom to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end? And who’ll be kind enough to measure Our words and deeds as we intend?

Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.

He filled a shelf with a small army of books and read and read; but none of it made sense. .. They were all subject to various cramping limitations: those of the past were outdated, and those of the present were obsessed with the past.

Thus people--so it seems to me-- Become good friends from sheer ennui.

اذا وقعت مذكراتي هذه بين يدي شاب فليتذكر أن أحسن التغييرات وأبقاها هي التي ترجع الى تحسن  الأخلاق والعادات لا الى هزة عنيفة أو ثورة جامحة.

People are so like their first mother Eve: what they are given doesn't take their fancy. The serpent is forever enticing them to come to him, to the tree of mystery. They must have the forbidden fruit, or paradise will not be paradise for them.

Ecstasy is a glass full of tea and a piece of sugar in the mouth." [From: 19 Lessons On Tea]

The less we love her when we woo her, The more we draw a woman in,

Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world.

But flaming youth in all it's madness Keeps nothing of its heart concealed: It's loves and hates, its joys and sadness, Are babbled out and soon revealed.

Чем меньше женщину мы любим, Тем легче нравимся мы ей, И тем ее вернее губим Средь обольстительных сетей.

печаль моя светла..

It's a lucky man who leaves early from life's banquet, before he's drained to the dregs his goblet - full of wine; yes, it's a lucky man who has not read life's novel to the end, but has been wise enough to part with it abruptly - like me with my Onegin.

We still, alas, cannot forestall it- This dreadful ailment's heavy toll; The spleen is what the English call it, We call it simply, Russian soul.

We’ve got to have forbidden fruit, Or Eden’s joys for us are moot.

I love a friendly chat and a friendly glass of wine during the evening - the time they call, for some accountable reason, 'between dog and wolf'.

The wondrous moment of our meeting... Still I remember you appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear. In hopeless ennui surrounding The worldly bustle, to my ear For long your tender voice kept sounding, For long in dreams came features dear. Time passed. Unruly storms confounded Old dreams, and I from year to year Forgot how tender you had sounded, Your heavenly features once so dear. My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet -- Dull fence around, dark vault above -- Devoid of God and uninspired, Devoid of tears, of fire, of love. Sleep from my soul began retreating, And here you once again appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear. In ecstasy my heart is beating, Old joys for it anew revive; Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting The fire, and tears, and love alive.

Любви все возрасты покорны; Но юным, девственным сердцам Ее порывы благотворны, Как бури вешние полям

Thus heaven's gift to us is this: That habit takes the place of bliss.

But even friendship like our heroes' Exist no more; for we've outgrown All sentiments and deem men zeroes-- Except of course ourselves alone. We all take on Napoleon's features, And millions of our fellow creatures Are nothing more to us than tools... Since feelings are for freaks and fools. Eugene, of course, had keen perceptions And on the whole despised mankind, Yet wasn't, like so many, blind; And since each rule permits exceptions, He did respect a noble few, And, cold himself, gave warmth its due.

Want of courage is the last thing to be pardoned by young men, who usually look upon bravery as the chief of all human virtues, and the excuse for every possible fault.

Young man! If my notes should fall into your hands, remember that the best and most enduring changes are those which stem from an improvement in moral behaviour, without any violent upheaval.

Мечты, мечты! где ваша сладость?

Онегин, я тогда моложе, Я лучше, кажется, была, И я любила вас; и что же? Что в сердце вашем я нашла? Какой ответ? одну суровость. Не правда ль? Вам была не новость Смиренной девочки любовь? И нынче — боже — стынет кровь, Как только вспомню взгляд холодный И эту проповедь… Но вас Я не виню: в тот страшный час Вы поступили благородно. Вы были правы предо мной: Я благодарна всей душой…

Bound for your distant home" Bound for your distant home you were leaving alien lands. In an hour as sad as I’ve known I wept over your hands. My hands were numb and cold, still trying to restrain you, whom my hurt told never to end this pain. But you snatched your lips away from our bitterest kiss. You invoked another place than the dismal exile of this. You said, ‘When we meet again, in the shadow of olive-trees, we shall kiss, in a love without pain, under cloudless infinities.’ But there, alas, where the sky shines with blue radiance, where olive-tree shadows lie on the waters glittering dance, your beauty, your suffering, are lost in eternity. But the sweet kiss of our meeting ...... I wait for it: you owe it me .......

I gaze forward without fear.

Как грустно мне твое явленье, Весна, весна! пора любви! Какое томное волненье В моей душе, в моей крови! С каким тяжелым умиленьем Я наслаждаюсь дуновеньем В лицо мне веющей весны На лоне сельской тишины!

Ever peaceful be you slumber Though your days were few in number On this earth-spite took its toll- Yet shall heaven have your soul With pure love we did regard you For your loved one did we guard you But you came not to the groom Only to a chill dark tomb

وسيكرمنى الشعب مع ذلك طويلا لأن قيثارتى مضبوطة على حب المودة وفى عصر قاس،غنيت بالحرية وتسولت الرحمة من العدالة فى عماها.. هكذا، بلا مبالاة بالمديح أو الملام لا يعنينى، يا ربة الشعر، سوى الصوت الإلهى بلا خوف من الأذى ،بلا سعى إلى الشهرة، ولا نثر الدر على الخنازير..

Москва… как много в этом звуке Для сердца русского слилось! Как много в нем отозвалось!

Tell him that riches will not procure for you a single moment of happiness. Luxury consoles poverty alone, and at that only for a short time, until one becomes accustomed to it.

In alien lands I keep the body Of ancient native rites and things: I gladly free a little birdie At celebration of the spring. I'm now free for consolation, And thankful to almighty Lord: At least, to one of his creations I've given freedom in this world!

У лукоморья дуб зеленый; Златая цепь на дубе том: И днем и ночью кот ученый Всё ходит по цепи кругом; Идет направо — песнь заводит, Налево — сказку говорит.

To love all ages yield surrender; But to the young it's raptures bring A blessing bountiful and tender- As storms refresh the fields of spring.

في كل يوم .. في كل ساعة صار عادة لي أن أقتفي أفكاري أحصي عددها ومنه أخمن أي سنة يأتي معها موتي وفي أي مكان سوف يرسله القدر لي هل في معركة .. أفي أسفاري أم في البحار ؟ أو لعله الوادي القريب .. سيحتضن رماد جسدي البارد ؟ لا فرق لجسد هامد في أي أرض فناؤه سيكون لكن رغم ذاك .. الى جوار بلادي الحبيبة أحب ان ارقد ولتمرح الحياة اليانعة على الدوام بالقرب من مرقدي ولتشرق الطبيعة التي لاتمييز عندها بين البشر بالجمال السرمدي

لم تكن لديه رغبة فى الكد سعياً وراء عظمة عميقاً فى قذارة الأيام

For one can live in friendship With verses and with cards, with Plato and with wine, And hide beneath the gentle cover of our playful pranks A noble heart and mind.

I rode to meet you: dreams like living beings swarmed around me and the moon on my right side followed me, burning. I rode back: everything changed. My soul in love was sad and the moon on my left side trailed me without hope. To such endless impressions we poets give ourselves absolutely, making, in silence, omen of mere event, until the world reflects the deepest needs of the soul.

I've lived to see my longings die" I've lived to se my longings die: My dreams and I have grown apart; Now only sorrow haunts my eye, The wages of a bitter heart. Beneath the storms of hostile fate, My flowery wreath has faded fast; I live alone and sadly wait To see when death will come at last. Just so, when the winds in winter moan And snow descends in frigid flakes, Upon a naked branch, alone, The final leaf of summer shakes!

what is renoun?more false than hope by dreams engendered.

Сказка ложь, да в ней намек! Добрым молодцам урок.

Habit is heaven's gift to us: a substitute for happiness.

Уж небо осенью дышало, Уж реже солнышко блистало, Короче становился день, Лесов таинственная сень С печальным шумом обнажалась, Ложился на поля туман, Гусей крикливых караван Тянулся к югу: приближалась Довольно скучная пора; Стоял ноябрь уж у двора.

Татьяна (русская душою, Сама не зная, почему) С ее холодною красою Любила русскую зиму, На солнце иней в день морозный, И сани, и зарею поздной Сиянье розовых снегов, И мглу крещенских вечеров.

Пора, мой друг, пора! покоя сердце просит — Летят за днями дни, и каждый час уносит Частичку бытия, а мы с тобой вдвоем Предполагаем жить... И глядь — как раз —умрем. На свете счастья нет, но есть покой и воля. Давно завидная мечтается мне доля — Давно, усталый раб, замыслил я побег В обитель дальную трудов и чистых нег.

.. and these days I've come to prefer the more steady Bordeaux. I am no longer up to champagne from Ay: it's like a mistress: sparkling, flighty, vivacious, wayward - and not to be trusted. But Bordeaux is like a friend who in time of trouble and misfortune stands by us always, anywhere, ready to give us help, or just to share our quiet leisure. So raise your glasses - to our friend Bordeaux!

Я помню чудное мгновенье: Передо мной явилась ты, Как мимолётное виденье, Как гений чистой красоты... I still recall the wondrous moment When you appeared before my eyes, Just like a fleeting apparition, Just like pure beauty's distillation...

Days when I came to flower serenely in Lycée gardens long ago, and read my Apuleius keenly, but spared no glance for Cicero.

Блажен, кто праздник жизни рано Оставил, не допив до дна Бокала полного вина, Кто не дочел ее романа И вдруг умел расстаться с ним, Как я с Онегиным моим.

Напрасно ждал Наполеон, Последним счастьем упоенный, Москвы коленопреклоненной С ключами старого Кремля: Нет, не пошла Москва моя К нему с повинной головою.

Moral commonplaces are amazingly useful when we can find little in ourselves with which to justify our actions.

Enough! Clear-souled and far from wasted, I start upon an untrod way To take my rest from yesterday.

He's happy now, he's almost sane.

Habit to us is given from above: it is a substitute for happiness.

It’s hard to say something about Pushkin to a person who doesn’t know anything about him. Pushkin is a great poet. Napoleon is not as great as Pushkin. Bismarck compared to Pushkin is a nobody. And the Alexanders, First, Second and Third, are just little kids compared to Pushkin. In fact, compared to Pushkin, all people are little kids, except Gogol. Compared to him, Pushkin is a little kid. And so, instead of writing about Pushkin, I would rather write about Gogol. Although, Gogol is so great that not a thing can be written about him, so I'll write about Pushkin after all. Yet, after Gogol, it’s a shame to have to write about Pushkin. But you can’t write anything about Gogol. So I’d rather not write anything about anyone.

قال بوشكين فى قصيدته "إلى شادَييف"ـ ومادامت شعلة الحرية تحيا فينا، وما دمنا قد سرنا وراء صوت الشرف. فلنمنح روسيا ،يا رفاق، أرواحنا كاملة بلا نقصان. أيها الصديق المخلص: السماء الساهرة تبشر بفجر المعجزة لسوف تنهض روسيا من نومها الطويل، وفيما تحطم الطغيان،نافدة الصبر، ستحفر اسماءنا على أنقاضه!ـ

Не мысля гордый свет забавить, Вниманье дружбы возлюбя, Хотел бы я тебе представить Залог достойнее тебя, Достойнее души прекрасной, Святой исполненной мечты, Поэзии живой и ясной, Высоких дум и простоты; Но так и быть — рукой пристрастной Прими собранье пестрых глав, Полусмешных, полупечальных, Простонародных, идеальных, Небрежный плод моих забав, Бессонниц, легких вдохновений, Незрелых и увядших лет, Ума холодных наблюдений И сердца горестных замет.

God save us from seeing a Russian revolt, senseless and merciless. Those who plot impossible upheavals among us, are either young and do not know our people, or are hard-hearted men who do not care a straw either about their own lives or those of others.

Я к вам пишу – чего же боле? Что я могу еще сказать? Теперь, я знаю, в вашей воле Меня презреньем наказать. Но вы, к моей несчастной доле Хоть каплю жалости храня, Вы не оставите меня. Сначала я молчать хотела; Поверьте: моего стыда Вы не узнали б никогда, Когда б надежду я имела Хоть редко, хоть в неделю раз В деревне нашей видеть вас, Чтоб только слышать ваши речи, Вам слово молвить, и потом Все думать, думать об одном И день и ночь до новой встречи. Но говорят, вы нелюдим; В глуши, в деревне всё вам скучно, А мы… ничем мы не блестим, Хоть вам и рады простодушно. Зачем вы посетили нас? В глуши забытого селенья Я никогда не знала б вас, Не знала б горького мученья. Души неопытной волненья Смирив со временем (как знать?), По сердцу я нашла бы друга, Была бы верная супруга И добродетельная мать.

I was born for the peaceful life, for rural quiet: the lyre's voice in the wild is more resounding, creative dreams are more alive. To harmless leisures consecrated, I wander by a wasteful lake and far niente is my rule. By every morn I am awakened unto sweet mollitude and freedom; little I read, a lot I sleep, fugitive fame do not pursue. Was it not thus in former years, that I spent in inaction, in the shade, my happiest days?

У ночи много звезд прелестных, Красавиц много на Москве. Но ярче всех подруг небесных Луна в воздушной синеве.

Light-minded society mercilessly persecutes in reality what it allows in theory

Imagination seethes, excited, Once more its contact has ignited The blood within my withered heart, Once more I love, once more I smart!...

Upon the brink of the wild stream / He stood, and dreamt a mighty dream.

Я вас любил.../I loved you once... Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может В душе моей угасла не совсем; Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит; Я не хочу печалить вас ничем. Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно, То робостью, то ревностью томим; Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно, Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим. I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet To die down thoroughly within my soul; But let it not dismay you any longer; I have no wish to cause you any sorrow. I loved you wordlessly, without a hope, By shyness tortured, or by jealousy. I loved you with such tenderness and candor And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

Я пережил свои желанья / I've lived to bury my desires Я пережил свои желанья, Я разлюбил свои мечты; Остались мне одни страданья, Плоды сердечной пустоты. I've lived to bury my desires and see my dreams corrode with rust now all that's left are fruitless fires that burn my empty heart to dust.

Such a beginning presaged nothing good. However, I lost neither courage nor hope. I turned to the consolation of all those in distress, and for the first time tasted the sweetness of prayer, poured forth from a pure but riven heart. I fell asleep serenely, unworried as to what was to become of me.

Paissez, bons peuples, L'appel de l'honneur ne vous réveillera pas. Les cadeaux de la liberté Ne sont rien pour des troupeaux. Ils doivent être abattus ou tondus.

It’s now the British Muse’s fables That lie on maidens’ bedside tables And haunt their dreams. They worship now The Vampire with his pensive brow,

Зима!.. Крестьянин, торжествуя, На дровнях обновляет путь; Его лошадка, снег почуя, Плетется рысью как-нибудь; Бразды пушистые взрывая, Летит кибитка удалая; Ямщик сидит на облучке В тулупе, в красном кушаке. Вот бегает дворовый мальчик, В салазки жучку посадив, Себя в коня преобразив; Шалун уж заморозил пальчик: Ему и больно и смешно, А мать грозит ему в окно…

How sad, however, if we're given Our youth as something to betray, And what if youth in turn is driven To cheat on us, each hour, each day, If our most precious aspirations, Our freshest dreams, imaginations In fast succession have decayed, As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade. It is too much to see before one Nothing but dinners in a row, Behind the seemly crowd to go, Regarding life as mere decorum, Having no common views to share, Nor passions that one might declare.

Between the ages of ten and fifteen in St. Petersburg, I must have read more fiction and poetry—English, Russian and French—than in any other five-year period of my life. I relished especially the works of Wells, Poe, Browning, Keats, Flaubert, Verlaine, Rimbaud, Chekhov, Tolstoy, and Alexander Blok. On another level, my heroes were the Scarlet Pimpernel, Phileas Fogg, and Sherlock Holmes. In other words, I was a perfectly normal trilingual child in a family with a large library. At a later period, in Western Europe, between the ages of 20 and 40, my favorites were Housman, Rupert Brooke, Norman Douglas, Bergson, Joyce, Proust, and Pushkin. Of these top favorites, several—Poe, Jules Verne, Emmuska Orezy, Conan Doyle, and Rupert Brooke—have lost the glamour and thrill they held for me. The others remain intact and by now are probably beyond change as far as I am concerned.

He knew this place, where once in sport/The flood had played and waves had bubbled,/Defiant in their fierce despair;/He knew these lions, and this square,/And him whose bronze head dominated/The darkness from its lofty height –/Whose fateful head will had on this site/Decreed a city be created.

Thou and You and A Love Letter She substituted, by a chance, For empty ‘you’ – the gentle ‘thou'; And all my happy dreams, at once, In loving heart again resound. In bliss and silence do I stay, Unable to maintain my role: ‘Oh, how sweet you are!’ I say – ‘How I love thee!’ says my soul.

He who has lived and thought can never Help in his soul despising men, He who has felt will be forever Haunted by days he can’t regain. For him there are no more enchantments, Him does the serpent of remembrance, Him does repentance always gnaw. All this will frequently afford A great delight to conversations.

X Блажен, кто смолоду был молод, Блажен, кто вовремя созрел, Кто постепенно жизни холод С летами вытерпеть умел; Кто странным снам не предавался, Кто черни светской не чуждался, Кто в двадцать лет был франт иль хват, А в тридцать выгодно женат; Кто в пятьдесят освободился От частных и других долгов, Кто славы, денег и чинов Спокойно в очередь добился, О ком твердили целый век: N. N. прекрасный человек. XI Но грустно думать, что напрасно Была нам молодость дана, Что изменяли ей всечасно, Что обманула нас она; Что наши лучшие желанья, Что наши свежие мечтанья Истлели быстрой чередой, Как листья осенью гнилой. Несносно видеть пред собою Одних обедов длинный ряд, Глядеть на жизнь, как на обряд, И вслед за чинною толпою Идти, не разделяя с ней Ни общих мнений, ни страстей.

Whom, then, to love? Whom to believe? Who is the only one that won't betray us? Who measures all deeds, all speeches obligingly by our own foot rule? Who does not sow slander about us? Who coddles us with care? To whom our vice is not so bad? Who never bores us? Unlike a futile phantom-seeker who wastes effort in vain- love your own self, my honorworthy reader. A worthy object! Nothing more amiable surely exists.

Гонимы вешними лучами, С окрестных гор уже снега Сбежали мутными ручьями На потопленные луга. Улыбкой ясною природа Сквозь сон встречает утро года; Синея блещут небеса. Еще прозрачные, леса Как будто пухом зеленеют. Пчела за данью полевой Летит из кельи восковой. Долины сохнут и пестреют; Стада шумят, и соловей Уж пел в безмолвии ночей.

This, then, is the fate of your sons, Oh Rome, oh celebrated power! Singer of love, singer of the gods, Tell me, what is glory? A hollow rumbling from the grave, a praising voice, A sound speeding from generation to generation? Or under the shade of a smoky shelter The tale of a wild gypsy?

I saw Derzhavin only once in my life but shall never forget that occasion. It was in 1815 at a public examination in the Lyceum. When we boys learned Derzhavin was coming, all of us grew excited. Delvig went out on the stairs to wait for him and kiss his hand, the hand that had written 'The Waterfall.' Derzhavin arrived. Derzhavin entered the vestibule, and Delvig heard him ask the janitor: 'Where is the privy here, my good fellow?' This prosaic question disenchanted Delvig, who canceled his intent and returned to the reception hall. Delvig told me the story with wonderful bonhomie and good humor.

And once more given to inaction, Empty in spirit and alone, He settled down – to the distraction Of making other minds his own; Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful, Read, read, not even one was helpful: Here, there was dullness, there pretence; This one lacked conscience, that one sense; All were by different shackles fettered; And, past times having lost their hold, The new still raved about the old. Like women, books he now deserted, And mourning taffeta he drew Across the bookshelf’s dusty crew.

Whoever you be, O my reader- friend, foe- I wish with you to part at present as a pal. Farewell. Whatever you in my wake sought in these careless strophes- tumultuous recollections, relief from labors, live pictures or bons mots, or faults of grammar- God grant that you, in this book, for recreation, for the daydream, for the heart, for jousts in journals, may find at least a crumb. Upon which, let us part, farewell!

I've lived to see my longings die I've lived to see my longings die: My dreams and I have grown apart; Now only sorrow haunts my eye, The wages of a bitter heart. Beneath the storms of hostile fate, My flowery wreath has faded fast; I live alone and sadly wait To see when death will come at last. Just so, when the winds in winter moan And snow descends in frigid flakes, Upon a naked branch, alone, The final leaf of summer shakes!...

55 But I was born for peaceful roaming, For country calm and lack of strife; My lyre sings! And in the gloaming My fertile fancies spring to life. I give myself to harmless pleasures And far niente rules my leisures: Each morning early I’m awake To wander by the lonely lake Or seek some other sweet employment: I read a little, often sleep, For fleeting fame I do not weep. And was it not in past enjoyment Of shaded, idle times like this, I spent my days of deepest bliss?

Our northern summers, though, are versions Of southern winters, this is clear; And though we’re loath to cast aspersions, They seem to go before they’re here! The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled; The friendly sun less often sparkled; The days grew short and as they sped, The wood with mournful murmur shed Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered; The fields all lay in misty peace; The caravan of cackling geese Turned south; and all around there hovered The sombre season near at hand; November marched across the land.

Perhaps you'd like, you gentle fellow, To hear what I'm prepared to say On "kinfolk" and their implications? Well, here's my view of close relations: They're people whom we're bound to prize, To honor, love, and idolize, And following the old tradition, To visit come the Christmas feast, Or send a wish by mail at least; All other days they've our permission, To quite forget us if they please- So grant them, God, long life and ease!

Confession I love you – I love you, e’en as I Rage at myself for this obsession, And as I make my shamed confession, Despairing at your feet I lie. I know, I know – It ill becomes me, I am too old, time to be wise … But how? … This love – it overcomes me, A sickness this in passion’s guise. When you are near I’m filled with sadness, When far, I yawn, for life’s a bore. I must pour out this love, this madness, There’s nothing that I long for more! When your shirts rustle, when, my angel, Your girlish voice I hear, when your Light step sounds in the parlour – strangely, I turn confused, perturbed, unsure. Your frown – and I’m in pain, I languish; You smile – and joy defeats distress; My one reward for a day’s anguish Comes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss. When you sit, bent over your sewing, Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing. About your face, with tenderness I like childlike watch, my heart o’erflowing With love, in my gaze a caress. Shall I my jealousy and yearning Describe, my bitterness and woe When by yourself on some bleak morning Off on a distant walk you go, Or with another spend the evening And, with him near, the piano play, Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving Weep and in silence, pass the day? Alina! Pray relent have mercy! I dare not ask for love – with all My many sins, both great and small, I am perhaps of love unworthy! But if feigned love, if you would Pretend, you’d easily deceive me, For happily would I, believe me, Deceive myself if but I could!

You wrote to me. Do not deny it. I’ve read your words and they evoke My deep respect for your emotion, Your trusting soul… and sweet devotion. Your candour has a great appeal And stirs in me, I won’t conceal, Long dormant feelings, scarce remembered. But I’ve no wish to praise you now; Let me repay you with a vow As artless as the one you tendered; Hear my confession too, I plead, And judge me both by word and deed. 13 ’Had I in any way desired To bind with family ties my life; Or had a happy fate required That I turn father, take a wife; Had pictures of domestication For but one moment held temptation- Then, surely, none but you alone Would be the bride I’d make my own. I’ll say without wrought-up insistence That, finding my ideal in you, I would have asked you—yes, it’s true— To share my baneful, sad existence, In pledge of beauty and of good, And been as happy … as I could! 14 ’But I’m not made for exaltation: My soul’s a stranger to its call; Your virtues are a vain temptation, For I’m not worthy of them all. Believe me (conscience be your token): In wedlock we would both be broken. However much I loved you, dear, Once used to you … I’d cease, I fear; You’d start to weep, but all your crying Would fail to touch my heart at all, Your tears in fact would only gall. So judge yourself what we’d be buying, What roses Hymen means to send— Quite possibly for years on end! 15 ’In all this world what’s more perverted Than homes in which the wretched wife Bemoans her worthless mate, deserted— Alone both day and night through life; Or where the husband, knowing truly Her worth (yet cursing fate unduly) Is always angry, sullen, mute— A coldly jealous, selfish brute! Well, thus am I. And was it merely For this your ardent spirit pined When you, with so much strength of mind, Unsealed your heart to me so clearly? Can Fate indeed be so unkind? Is this the lot you’ve been assigned? 16 ’For dreams and youth there’s no returning; I cannot resurrect my soul. I love you with a tender yearning, But mine must be a brother’s role. So hear me through without vexation: Young maidens find quick consolation— From dream to dream a passage brief; Just so a sapling sheds its leaf To bud anew each vernal season. Thus heaven wills the world to turn. You’ll fall in love again; but learn … To exercise restraint and reason, For few will understand you so, And innocence can lead to woe.

Tatyana’s Letter to Onegin I’m writing you this declaration— What more can I in candour say? It may be now your inclination To scorn me and to turn away; But if my hapless situation Evokes some pity for my woe, You won’t abandon me, I know. I first tried silence and evasion; Believe me, you‘d have never learned My secret shame, had I discerned The slightest hope that on occasion— But once a week—I’d see your face, Behold you at our country place, Might hear you speak a friendly greeting, Could say a word to you; and then, Could dream both day and night again Of but one thing, till our next meeting. They say you like to be alone And find the country unappealing; We lack, I know, a worldly tone, But still, we welcome you with feeling. Why did you ever come to call? In this forgotten country dwelling I’d not have known you then at all, Nor known this bitter heartache’s swelling. Perhaps, when time had helped in quelling The girlish hopes on which I fed, I might have found (who knows?) another And been a faithful wife and mother, Contented with the life I led. Another! No! In all creation There’s no one else whom I’d adore; The heavens chose my destination And made me thine for evermore! My life till now has been a token In pledge of meeting you, my friend; And in your coming, God has spoken, You‘ll be my guardian till the end…. You filled my dreams and sweetest trances; As yet unseen, and yet so dear, You stirred me with your wondrous glances, Your voice within my soul rang clear…. And then the dream came true for me! When you came in, I seemed to waken, I turned to flame, I felt all shaken, And in my heart I cried: It’s he! And was it you I heard replying Amid the stillness of the night, Or when I helped the poor and dying, Or turned to heaven, softly crying, And said a prayer to soothe my plight? And even now, my dearest vision, Did I not see your apparition Flit softly through this lucent night? Was it not you who seemed to hover Above my bed, a gentle lover, To whisper hope and sweet delight? Are you my angel of salvation Or hell’s own demon of temptation? Be kind and send my doubts away; For this may all be mere illusion, The things a simple girl would say, While Fate intends no grand conclusion…. So be it then! Henceforth I place My faith in you and your affection; I plead with tears upon my face And beg you for your kind protection. You cannot know: I’m so alone, There’s no one here to whom I’ve spoken, My mind and will are almost broken, And I must die without a moan. I wait for you … and your decision: Revive my hopes with but a sign, Or halt this heavy dream of mine— Alas, with well-deserved derision! I close. I dare not now reread…. I shrink with shame and fear. But surely, Your honour’s all the pledge I need, And I submit to it securely.

Предвижу все: вас оскорбит Печальной тайны объясненье. Какое горькое презренье Ваш гордый взгляд изобразит! Чего хочу? с какою целью Открою душу вам свою? Какому злобному веселью, Быть может, повод подаю! Случайно вас когда-то встретя, В вас искру нежности заметя, Я ей поверить не посмел: Привычке милой не дал ходу; Свою постылую свободу Я потерять не захотел. Еще одно нас разлучило... Несчастной жертвой Ленский пал... Ото всего, что сердцу мило, Тогда я сердце оторвал; Чужой для всех, ничем не связан, Я думал: вольность и покой Замена счастью. Боже мой! Как я ошибся, как наказан. Нет, поминутно видеть вас, Повсюду следовать за вами, Улыбку уст, движенье глаз Ловить влюбленными глазами, Внимать вам долго, понимать Душой все ваше совершенство, Пред вами в муках замирать, Бледнеть и гаснуть... вот блаженство! И я лишен того: для вас Тащусь повсюду наудачу; Мне дорог день, мне дорог час: А я в напрасной скуке трачу Судьбой отсчитанные дни. И так уж тягостны они. Я знаю: век уж мой измерен; Но чтоб продлилась жизнь моя, Я утром должен быть уверен, Что с вами днем увижусь я... Боюсь: в мольбе моей смиренной Увидит ваш суровый взор Затеи хитрости презренной — И слышу гневный ваш укор. Когда б вы знали, как ужасно Томиться жаждою любви, Пылать — и разумом всечасно Смирять волнение в крови; Желать обнять у вас колени И, зарыдав, у ваших ног Излить мольбы, признанья, пени, Все, все, что выразить бы мог, А между тем притворным хладом Вооружать и речь и взор, Вести спокойный разговор, Глядеть на вас веселым взглядом!.. Но так и быть: я сам себе Противиться не в силах боле; Все решено: я в вашей воле И предаюсь моей судьбе.