А.С.Пушкин "Евгений Онегин". Перевод первой главы на английский язык Чудновской Р.Б. Санкт-Петербург, 2016г.
статья на тему

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

EUGENE ONEGIN

Translated by Rosita Chudnovskaya

Chapter One

My uncle utmostly honest

When taken morbidly infirm

Had made respectful, which's in earnest

The best result by one's life term.

His life could be a perfect sample

For others following his example.

But Lord! How boring, mean and bad's

To play the company to the half-dead,

When you must bedsit day and night

And never leave the sick man's sight,

To fix his pillows with a sad look,

To give him drugs or read a book,

And sigh, and think to belfry toll,

"When will the devil take your soul?"

II

Those were the young rake's expectations

(The only heir to his clan)

While rushing in a dusty van

And changing horses at all stations.

LUDMILA and RUSLAN 's true friends,

Admirers from other lands!

Without a preface right away

Please meet a hero of my day!

A pal of mine Eugene Onegin

Came from the Neva marshy banks;

So might you friends, or made a leg

At routs of the higher ranks.

I used to stroll there though not long

As North can impact me too wrong.

III

The service faultlessly completed,

His father had to live in debt.

Three balls a year! Though nicely seated,

He was to face a bankrupt threat.

Eugene was luckier a bit;

First came Madame to babysit,

Monsieur came then to substitute.

The child was naughty, but quite cute.

Monsieur L'Abbet, a poor tutor,

Would teach the boy all things en route.

Was seldom strict or moralizing,

Would never let his temper rising,

Would take the boy to Letniy Sahd

To have his daily promenade.

IV

When Eugene 's youth as if per-chance

Had brought sweet grief and hopes abundant

Monsieur L'Abbe was made redundant

And had to go back to France.

Eugene 's at large. Dressed like a dandy,

His haircut and quiff are smart,

He can afford a pipe and brandy,

And made his debut for a start.

He spoke perfect French and wrote

In French a letter or a note.

At balls he easily could dance

And bowed gracefully by chance.

What else? With not a single vice,

They found him witty and quite nice.

 V

We all learned something in some way

Which makes us equal for today.

So no wonder nor a trick

To show off and be some brick.

In the opinion of many

(the judges resolute and strict)

Onegin was a learned prig,

Not many had his gift (if any)

Of keeping silent at debates

Of some importance for his mates

And touch a topic or a book

With quite an expert's learned look.

His fiery epigrams in style

Were smart and made the ladies smile.

 VI

Though Latin's out of fashion now

And no longer in demand,

Onegin poorly taught somehow

Could boast of its fair command.

He knew of Latin quite enough

As to make out an epigraph,

Or talk of Juvenal with friends,

Put VALE at the letters' ends

And could recite though not too fine

From AENEID a hackneyed line.

He never felt like taking notes

From chronologic dusty maze,

But kept in mind some anecdotes

From Romulus to our days.

 VII

He had no wish to make life sweeter

With music, poetry or art,

And failed to tell a poem's meter

In which he wasn't very smart.

He scolded Homer,  Theocrith,

But read a lot by Adam Smith

Whose works formed an impressive list,

And made a keen economist

Who knew a lot about states,

And their taxes, laws and rates,

With natural products feeling bold

To do quite well without gold.

His father wouldn't take advice,

For mogage was his biggest vice.

 VIII

About all Onegin's talents

I won't tell for lack of time,

But one worth mentioning was gallant

And quite delusive and sublime

And since his years of discretion

Would entertain his idle spleen

His art of rousing sweet passion

Where he was genius andkeen.

. The art was glorified by Nasson,

 Who dwelt as lonely as a mason

And suffered in his rebel's cage

to die and end his brilliant age

In some remote Moldavian place

Far from his Italy for grace.

 IX

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 X

He early made a hypocrite,

A hopeful and jealous sham.

He could dissuade or lie a bit,

Seem gloomy or a naive lamb.

He could appear proud or meek,

Attentive or indifferent so,

Keep silent languidly or speak

With ardent eloquence for show.

How careless was he in love letters!

And for the sake of this or that

He could neglect important matters.

His sight was tender, quick and set.

At times he sounded bold and dry.

At times tears showed in his eye.

 XI

How well he could be new and fair

And make the innocent amaze

Or frighten by his fake despair,

Or please with flattery and praise,

And catch an instant admiration

Or fight the prejudice and lies

With reasons passionate and wise,

Or crave for true love declaration

And overhear the first heartbeat,

And beg for love knelt at her feet,

And chase the love and get his way

And have a secret date some day

And afterward, in private, grave

Would teach her how she should behave.

 XII

How often could he fasten heartbeat

Of an inveterate coquette!

When wanting rivals to defeat

His talk was venomously set.

What wicked ambush he prepared

For them, and none was ever spared!

As for the blessed married men,

They were his pals, and now and then

He was affectionately treated

By some old rogue, and warmly greeted

By a mistrustful jealous crank,

Or a cuckold of higher rank

Enjoying everything: his life,

His dinner and his own wife.

 XIII

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 XIV

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 XV

Quite often, when he's still in bed

"Your morning mail, sir!", he is said.

What? Invitations! Let us read!

Here's quite a list of them, indeed:

A matinee, a rout, a ball.

Which will be first for him to call?

It doesn't matter where to go

Unless he is a bit too slow.

A white suit on, a Bolivar,

Onegin rides to the boulevard

There in expanse, under blue skies

Enjoying thus his exercise

Until his watch by loud chime

Reminds him that it is lunch-time.

 XVI

It's dark already, He is sleighing,

His sledge is flying like a bird.

"Look out! Look out!" a cry is heard,

The snow-dust on his coat is laying.

He's making for the Le TALON

His boons are being waited on.

Indeed, the moment he was in,

The cork popped up, there came a din.

A rare roast-beef 's served at once

With truffles, luxury from France,

Imperishable Strasburg pie

Fresh always in its every ply,

And for dessert all tastes to please

Pine-apples and live Limbourg cheese.

 XVII

The empty glasses still demanding

More wine to quench the thirst of meat,

While chiming watches are demanding:

"Go to ballet and take your seat! "

A vehement Opera House-goer,

An ingenues' inconstant fan,

Behind the wings an honored rover

Onegin's rushing in a van

To show where everyone at will

May boo an entrechat poor skill

Or Cleopatra's, Fedra's flop

With angry raps be made to stop.

To make Moina curtain call

( Just to be only heard by all )

 XVIII

Oh magic land! In older time

Dennis Fonvizin in his prime,

A friend of freedom, satire lord

Was blazing there, and a hord

Of imitations by Kniazhnin;

And famous Ozerov was in

And shared tears and applause

With young Semionova. Long pause

In staging "Sid" by great Cornell

Was by Katenin filled quite well;

And stingy Shakhovskoy's din swarm

Of comedies. Didlau's applomb.. .  

There, there, alas, already gone,

My younger days were passing on.

 XIX

My goddesses for whom I care!

I wonder how you are and where?

Do listen to my grievous call!

I hope you haven't changed an all,

But just gave way to other maids

Who fail to change your higher grades.

When shall I hear your blessed chorus

Or watch the Russian Terpsychore's

Inspired airy skillful flight?

Or shall I watch watch with boring sight

The boring stage? And having set

My disappointed lorgnette

At strange society and cast,

Just yawn and recollect the past?

 XX

The house is full. Anticipation

In shinig boxes, stalls and pit

Is boiling. And the gods can't sit

And start applauding with impatience.

The curtain's up, the stage is lit

And great Istohmina's on it

All shining and half-airy, quick,

Obedient to a fiddlestick,

Is touching floor with a tiptoe

And with the other spinning so.

A leap! She's flying in the air

As light as Aeolian hair.

Her torso's bent and straightens back,

She beats her feet in a rapid track.

 XXI

Amid applause Onegin enters.

He's trampling people's feet and hails

Some friendly men and then he centers

His theater glasses from the aisles

At unfamiliar ladies' boxes

In diamonds, feathers, Polar foxes, -

All that he hardly could abide,

Observed the tiers from every side

And cast an absent-minded glance

At the performance, and at once

Looked back and yawned, then said at last,

"I think it's time to change the cast

I'm sick and tired of all! To hell

May go ballets! Didlau as well!"

 XXII

The show's in progress. Cupids, snakes

And devils act without breaks.

Outside the servants are asleep

On their masters' fur-coats heaps.

Insides the most ardent fans

Are tramping, booing, clapping hands.

The outer and inner lights

Are still ablaze and please all sights.

The chilled and tired of waiting horses

Are beating to regain their forces

The coachmen by fires tapping,

Curse masters and keep warm by clapping

Onegin leaves the show and all

To change for the forthcoming ball.

 XXIII

Shall I be able to portray

The private room where day by day

A vogue's model,  diligent ward

Would dress and keep the needful store?

All that from London traders bring

To Russia, many a subtle thing

Of luxury which they arranged

For lard and timber in exchange,

All that in Paris is devised

By hungry tastes and highly priced

Adorned the study of a sage

And keen philosopher of age.

 XXIV

The amber on the Turkish pipes,

The bronze and porcelain of all kinds

And for delightful users meant

A crystal flask of dainty scents.

Combs, scissors and steel piles

And various brushes in big piles

Made of pig hair, wood and whales

For cleaning teeth and doing nails.

Rousseau, matter offactedly, once told

Of pompous Grimm who was so bold

As dared to do his finger-nails

In front of him, who never failed

For rights and liberty to fight.. .  

But in this case he isn't quite right

 XXV

One may be a successful dealer

As well as quite a great nail-healer.

But what's the use disputing ageing?

The habit is the despot raging

Among the people. My Eugene

Like Chaadaev was quite keen

On dressing, just a regular prig,

A dandy, so to say, quite big.

For fear of jealous condemnation

It took him hours and great patience

To dress and do his hair and all

To leave for the awaited ball

Like flippant goddess Venus when

She leaves for balls dressed like a man.

 XXVI

Just to engage your curious glance

I could describe his evening dress

Before the learned board by chance.

It's not my part I must confess.

Of course it would be rather bold

Of me to criticize or scold,

But to depict his toilette

His pantalons, his fraque, jilette

I lack the Russian words to show

My poor style. I need them so

I beg your pardon! I should pile

Much less of borrowings for style.

I had to look up terms to seek,

Le Dictionnaire Academique.

 XXVII

Let's change the topic for another

Eugene, according to his plan.

Went to the current ball, or rather

Rushed headlong in a hired van.

Along the sleepy street, past quite

Dark houses. A double row

Of carriages are pouring light

And making rainbows on the snow.

A splendid mansion's richly lit

With lots of lampions to fit.

Through whole-glass windows large and clean

The glimps of shadows are seen

With profiles of all kinds and ranks

Both ladies' and style-crazy cranks.

 XXVIII

Here is he at the destination.

He stroked his hair with a hand,

Set straight his quiff in stylish trend,

Then past the liveried footman's station

He flew upstairs and came in.

The hall is crammed and full of din.

The music has got rather tired.

Masurka's being in full swing.

The cavaleryman's spurs ring,

The dancing ladies are admired,

Their small charming footsies' flights

Are followed with ardent sights

While stylish ladies' jealous crooning

Is deafened with the violins tuning.

 XXIX

Just on my days of lots of wishes

And merry-making as my main persuit

I was ball-crazy, careless and acute

In love affairs though quite judicious.

I think there isn't a place much better

For love declaring and handing in a letter

Oh men respectful and assured!

The spouses who'd much endured!

I'd like to warn you. Mark my words!

Please keep an eye on your fledged birds!

As for your mummies :Don't get rid

Of your lorgnettes! Or God forbid!

I've done away with sinning long before

With love affairs as well.. .  No more!

 XXX

Alas! My pastimes made me waste

Much time. The balls were to my taste.

I'd still prefer them now, unless

The modern morals would depress

I like the frenzy of young age,

A cram, a shine, a joy-all blended,

The ladies' toilets engage

All sights, but mine is turned to splendid

And shapely legs. Let's take a bet:

You'll fail to find throughout Russia

Tree pairs of slender legs. I'll usher

A pair of legs I can't forget.

For even in my dreams so smart

They come to me and agitate my heart,

 XXXI

He must be mad who'd try and find

A place they would be out of mind.

Oh sweet small feet! Where do you tramp?

Where are the flowers that you stamp?

You were brought up in oriental

Luxurious comfort physical and mental,

You haven't left sad snowy traces

As you preferred rugs -covered places.

Not long ago I gave up my roam

And lust for fame and love for home,

And my confinement, joys so few,

All that I cherished -just for you!

Alas! The youthful bliss is gone

Like your light traces on the lawn.

 XXXII

Diana's breast, rouge cheeks of Flora's

And charms of ladies under skies,

Yet still a leg of Terpsychora's

Is more appealing to my eyes.

It's charming shape and pace so smart

Is dear to my willful heart

While promising with all its sight

Long wished reward and sweet delight.

My dear friends! I like its grace

Under a table-cloth long space,

In springtime on the young green sward,

In winter on the fire-guard board.

On the parqueted mirror floor

And on the granite rocky shore.

 XXXIII

I recollect the sea before a storm

When running waves were making form

I envied when they strove to meet

And lay with love down at her feet.

I wished I were a little wave!

I still can't stop and fail to crave

For joining trails of foamy tips

And touch the dear feet with my lips!

Nay, never in my younger days

Of passionate and boiling ways

I had desired young Armids'

Sweet lips and their rosy lids,

And suffered such an aching languish

And such a keen and painful anguish!

Nay, never in my life before

Had passion made my soul so sore!

 XXXIV

I recollect still other times.. .  

I sometimes dream of riding climbs,

A lucky stirrup in my hand,

A touch of legs above the land,

And once again imagination

Recovers former fascination,

Ignites the fire in my blood

And pine and love come back in flood.

Enough of praising with my lyre

The arrogant beauties' charms and fire

They aren't worth to be admired

Nor songs and passions they inspired.

The fairies' words, their legs and eyes

Are as mendacious as their lies.

 XXXV

How's Eugene? Sleepy and ball-fed

He leaves for home and goes to bed

While restless Petersburg drums-waken

Quite soon has gotten labour-taken.

A merchant's up and full of care,

A vendor's offerings his ware,

A cabman's making for Exchange,

The morning noise is in full range.

An Okhta maid's in haste with a pitcher

Makes snow crunch and noise still richer;

A German baker neat and wan

A paper cap and apron on

Had opened several times for us

His window a la wasisdas.

 XXXVI

But tired with the ball and din

Quite blissful, feeling no sin

And having turned day into night

He's fast asleep in broad daylight.

He wakes up late in afternoon

And follows his routines and soon

His life as usual goes on

Monotonous and mixed till dawn.

I wonder whether he was happy,

The winner brilliant and rapid,

Quite free indeed and in his prime

And always having best of time

Amid his never ending leisure

And daily and incessant pleasure?

 XXXVII

Nay, rather soon his feelings cooled,

Society just bored, not ruled,

The beauties stopped being on his mind

With the betrayals of all kind.

He'd done away with boons because

He often had to take a pause:

He couldn't let his income drain

By daily beefstakes and Champaigne

Or crack the jokes sharp and bold

While having headaches or a cold;

He gave up their daily feasts.

An ardent rake he also ceaced

To love fights, pistols, sabres - all

That had for him its glamorous call.

XXXVIII

The ailment that had gripped Eugene

Was known as an English spleen 

And meant a pining of a sort,

Khandra in Russian for a short.

It didn't seize him just by chance,

But gradually, not at once.

Thank God, he didn't feel like trying

To shoot himself and soon be dying,

 With a Child-Harold's look of Doom

He wood turn up in a drawing room,

But neither gossip, nor Boston,

Nor candid glances and so on

Attracted him both big or small,

He didn't care for life at all.

 XXXIX

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 XL

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 XLI

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 XLII

The ladies with a bee in bonnets!

You've stopped being topics of his sonnets

Long time before and it's quite true

That high society gets boring, too.

Some ladies make their conversation

On Sey or Benton foundation.

It's true their philosophizing

Is nonsence though not jeopardizing.

Alongwith that, they are so chaste,

So pious, stately, never haste,

So careful, accurate and clever

As can't be compromised. No! Never!

Their thinking's so neat and clean

That their very looks arouse spleen.

 XLIII

Apart from them Eugene got cool

To pretty maids who as a rule

Along the roadway, late at night

Rushed off in cabs both fast and light.

The apostle of stormy pleasures

Confined himself like guarded treasures.
He tried to put his pen to paper,

But failed with senses full of vapor.

His feather felt a heavy pick:

Hard labor nearly made him sick.

He didn't join the healthy shop

Of people yielding certain crop.

I'm not a judge to them because

I'm one of them and take a pause.

 XLIV

His empty soul pined and again

He made a real idler. Then

He took to reading odds and bits

To gain from other people's wits.

A shelf was set with a laudable aim

Lined up with authors of good fame..  

He had been reading on and on

Untill his ardour had been gone,

But what he read wasn't in his line

And only added to his pine:

Delirious thoughts, a shameless fraud,

A senseless boring thrash... Oh, Lord!

He gave up reading, and the shelf

Was drawn with curtains by himself.

 XLV

We got befriended at the time

When I, like him, being in my prime

Gave up the bondage of conventions

Of high society, fuss, tension.

I liked his good and dreamy look

And some strange steps he undertook

In his inimitable manner,

His sharp cold mind and human tenor

I was embittered, he was frowned,

Both of us knew the passions' bound.

Life had been racking both of us,

The heat of our hearts had passed.

We had been doomed to wander in a maze

Just at the break of our days.

 XLVI

He who had lived a life and thought

Despises people quite a lot.

He who had feelings is alarmed

By spectral days that made him charmed.

Another's tortured with repentance

As if he's serving a life sentence.

Another lacks quite new sensations;

All make quite piquant conversations.

At first Onegin's talk with mates,

His caustic manner in debates

Would often make me feel confused.

But with the time I've gotten used

To jokes as bitter as his bile

And peevish epigrams in style.

 XLVII

How often at the summer night

When the transparent sky is light

And in the Neva water glass

Diana's look isn't seen inface,

We would recall the former loves

And love affairs, our doves,

Two sentimental, free again

And quite romantic careless men,

Who would enjoy the ghostly sights

And breathe the breath of magic nights

Like sleepy prisoners in stocks

From the confinement iron locks

We'd been transferred to a green wood

Of our younger days so good.

 XLVIII

His heart was full of sweet regret.

And leaning on the parapet

Eugene was standing deep in thought, -

The very portrait of Torqaut.

The night was silent but the guards

Who were roll-calling like night bards

Or sudden noise of horses spurred

From Millionnaya street was heard.

A lonely boat with waving oars

Along the drowsy river past stores

Was floating and a song forlorn

Amused us to the tuneful horn.

I'd rather listen to a gondolier's singing

Accompanied by a lute ringing.

 XLIX

Oh, Adriatic waves! Oh, Brenta!

From tiny nooks up to the center

Some day, quite free and having a choice

I'll hear the clear magic voice

So sacred for Appolo's grandsons

And proud Albion's lire ones

With nature passionate and stormy

Familiar and kindred for me.

And I'll enjoy the blissful nights,

Admiring Venice ghostly sights

By gondola with a Venice maid

Now talkatiive now dumb. Her aid

Will teach my mouth very soon

Petrarka's tongue and gold love tune.

 L

I wonder if I see the time

Of blessed liberty sublime.

It's time to answer my appeal

By sea I wander a great deal

And wait the weather change for sails

To fight the waves and flea from dales

And cheerless shores of the unfriendly sea.

When shall I start? I can't forsee.

And when I'm under African blue skies

Of my sweet homeland, I'll begin to sigh

And miss my Russia murky and forlorn

Where I was destined to be born

And loved, and suffered, and got married

And where my poor heart lies buried.

 LI

Onegin was about to go

With me to see the foreign lands,

But soon we had to part. The blow

Of fate upset the friends' grand plans:

His father passed away just then.

The creditors, a hord of greedy men

Produced the bills by lawsuits made

Which Eugene's father had not paid.

Onegin hating litigations

To save his time, and health, and patience

Paid by his legacy. The loss

Wasn't too big for him, of course:

His lot was neat, or he might tend

To think of his old uncle's end.

 LII

Indeed, in a period quite short

There came his steward' sad report:

His uncle's morbidly unwell

And sent for him to bid farewell

Eugene rushed headlong by post van,

But being a pragmatic man

Got ready for the money's sake

For sighs and tears, fraud and fake.

It's here that my novel started

And he and I, we two had parted.

But getting from the destination

Into the yard right from the station

He found the uncle on the table

And bid farewell to him unable.

 LIII

The funeral-lovers, friends and foes

Had filled the yard in mournful rows.

As soon as the deceased was carried

To the grave-yard and duly buried,

All had the funeral repast

And afterward had left at last

In a quite important -looking mob

As if they'd done some needful job..  

Onegin's now a country- dweller,

But not a common product seller;

He'd concentrated in his hands

Mills, waters, forests, ample lands.

The foe of order, lover of waste

Was glad to change his former tastes.

 LIV

It took him two days to get used

To lonely fields. No more amused

By coolness of the oak wood

And rippling of the brook so good

Just on the third day he was tired

Of the oak growth, fields and hills,

The rippling brook and daffodils,

They made him sleepy, not admired.

And very soon he was aware

Of boredom same as everywhere:

Downtown streets with haughty mansions,

Balls, poems, cards and good intentions.

Spleen had been chasing him all life

Like shadow or faithful wife.

 LV

As I was born to live my lifetime

Amidst the peaceful country schemes

Where churches' sonorous toll and chime

Add much to lyre voice and dreams

I'd dedicated time and leisure

To my quite innocent pastimes.

While wandering by the lake I treasure

My law -FAR NIENTE- least of crimes

Each morning I wake up and plot

A blissful day with no aim

I don't read much and sleep a lot

And don't feel like chasing fame.

I think those were my happiest days.

I've glorified them in my lays.

 LVI

Love, flowers, village, l easure,

Oh fields! You are my constant pleasure!

I'm glad to mark my difference from

Onegin with his great aplomb.

I would not like a mocking reader,

A godless publisher or header

Of slander, all of them to claim

And lie ascribing to my name

A daubed self- portrait of a kind

Of Byron proud and refined

As if we aren't skilled or able

To write a poem or a fable

Of none but ourselves. I'm sure

Their claims are vain and rather poor.

 LVII

I find all poets by the way

Are true friends of so to say

A dreamy love. I used to dream

Of dear objects that would stream

Their secret image from my soul

The muse revived them on the whole;

So I would sing at the same time

Of a mountain maid, an ideal of mine,

And captives of Salgier far shores

Who weren't allowed to walk outdoors.. .  

Now I'm inquired by my friends,

"Of whom the lyre in your hands

Is singing? Which one of the jealous crowd

With dedication may be proud?

 LVIII

Whose glances full of admiration

Reward your thoughtful admiration

With loving, sweet and tender fire?

Who was that worshiped by your fire?"

Why, friends, by God I swear,

There's no one I really care! 

He's blessed who managed to combine

The feverish impulses sublime

And doubled sacred crazy rhyme

Inherent to Petrarka's time.

I healed my poor aching heart

And caught my fame not great, but smart.

But when in love I'd had a spell

Of being dumb and fool as well.

 LIX

The love has passed. The muse appeared.

The dark mind finally got cleared.

I'm free and once again in search

Of senses, thoughts and magic sounds

All well-combined and closely bound,

I'm busy writing; My heart is perched.

My feather doesn't draw by chance

A lady's legs nor ladies' heads.

Next to unfinished poems beds.

The ashes won't ignite perchance.

I'm still in a melancholy mood,

Though tears have dried and now I should

Get rid of the passed tempest trace

And start a twenty-five stanza based

 LX

New poem. I have got a plan

For hero's name and characters' clans.

So far I'm through with Chapter One.

A strict inspection having done

I've found a lot of contradictions;

I think they aren't a crime in fiction.

I won't correct them, not at all.

I'll rather pay my debt to censors

And let the editors like fencers

Attack my work and make it fall;

So off you go to the Neva banks

My newly born creation. Thanks!

Please win for me whatever fame:

Abuse, false rumors, a bad name.

Отзыв о переводе первой главы романа А. С. Пушкина

«Евгений Онегин», выполненном педагогом

Музыкально-педагогического училища

Р. Б. Чудновской (С.-Петербург)

На сегодняшний день известно 43 (сорок три!!!) перевода великого романа А. С. Пушкина. Первый из них, сделанный в 1881 г., принадлежит английскому полковнику Генри Сполдингу (Н. Spalding), а недавний 2011 год дал сразу три перевода – Дональда Михаэля Томаса (D. M. Thomas), Мэри Хобсон (M. Hobson) и Роджера Кларка (R. Clarke).  В числе переводов «Онегина» особняком стоит труд В. В. Набокова, издавшего в 1964 г. точный и высокохудожественный прозаический перевод романа, а также  подробнейшие комментарии к нему объёмом в  1100 (!!!) страниц.

Стихотворный перевод романа Пушкина представляет для взявшегося за него целую серию серьёзнейших затруднений. Первое. Чтобы англоязычный читатель представлял совершенство пушкинского стиха, желательно сохранить так называемую «онегинскую строфу», а именно чередование трёх четверостиший с перекрёстной –парной–опоясывающей рифмами и дополнительное двустишие. Второе. На протяжении всего романа Пушкин строго чередует мужские и женские рифмы, что тоже желательно соблюсти в переводе. Третье. Роман написан четырехстопным ямбом – метром, для русского уха привычным, но для английского читателя звучащим достаточно необычно. Следовательно, перед переводчиком стоит серьёзная дилемма: пожертвовать оригинальным метром, либо же, сохранив его, рисковать вызовом читательского неудовольствия и даже полного неприятия. А ещё есть проблема перевода неведомых для большинства англоязычных переводчиков намеренно «неумелых» пушкинских галлицизмов (типа «он уважать себя заставил», которое часто определяют как «он умер», хотя на деле это не так), а ещё есть проблема иносказаний, которые надо сходу понимать (как, например, описание статуэтки Наполеона, имя которого не  названо – «Столбик с куклою чугунной,/Под шляпой, с пасмурным челом,/С руками, сжатыми крестом»), а ещё есть скрытые отсылки автора к стихам современников и несовременников, а ещё есть эвфемизмы, и прочая, прочая, прочая…

     Словом, каждого переводчика «Онегина» можно, без преувеличения, назвать героем своего времени. Чтобы понять качество некоторых вариантов, сравним несколько поэтических переводов с подстрочником.

Владимир Владимирович Набоков (Nabokov; 1964)

My uncle has most honest principles:
when taken ill in earnest,
he has made one respect him
and nothing better could invent.
To others his example is a lesson;
but, good God, what a bore
to sit by a sick man day and night,
without moving a step away!
What base perfidiousness
The half-alive one to amuse,
adjust for him the pillows,
sadly present him the medicine,
sigh—and think inwardly
when will the devil take you?”

Мой дядя имеет  честные принципы:

Когда он заболел всерьез,
Он заставил себя уважать
И ничего лучше не мог изобрести.
Для других его пример – урок;
Но, боже, какая скука
Сидеть с больным день и ночь,
Не перемещаясь  на шаг!
Что за вероломство

Развлекать наполовину живого

Взбивать для него подушки,
С сожалением подавать лекарство,
Вздыхать и думать про себя:
«Когда же заберёт тебя дьявол?»

Чарлз Хепбёрн-Джонстон (Hepburn-Johnston; 1977)

My uncle -- high ideals inspire him;

but when past joking he fell sick,

he really forced one to admire him –

and never played a shrewder trick.

Let thers learn from his example!

But God, how deadly dull to sample

sickroom attendance night and day

and never stir a foot away!

And the sly baseness, fit to throttle,

of entertaining the half-dead:

one smoothes the pillows down in bed,

and glumly serves the medicine bottle,

and sighs, and asks oneself all through:

When will the devil come for you?"

Мой дядя-высокие идеалы его вдохновляли;
Но когда он не на шутку заболел,
Он впрямь заставил собою восхищаться -
И никогда не сыграл хитроумнее шутки.

Пусть другие учатся на его примере!
Но Боже, как смертельно скучно
Проводить в комнате больного день и ночь
И никогда не сделать ни шага прочь!
И с тихой подлостью, желая скорее задушить,
Чем развлекать полумертвого:
Разглаживать подушки в постели,
И хмуро подавать пузырек с лекарством
И вздыхать, и спрашивать про себя:

«Когда дьявол придёт за тобой?»

Роджер Кларк (Clarke; 2011)

Man of highest principles, my uncle...
When he fell ill in earnest,
he won respect — he couldn’t
have thought of a better way.
His example’s a lesson to others...
But, God! — what a bore
to sit with an invalid day and night,
never moving one step away!
What base hypocrisy
to try to amuse a man half-dead,
straighten his pillows,
solemnly administer medicine,
keep sighing — and think to oneself,
‘Will the Devil never take you?’!”

Человек высоких принципов, мой дядя…
Когда он заболел всерьез, то
Завоевал уважение - и не мог придумать лучшего способа.
Его пример – урок другим ...
Но, Боже! Какая скука
Сидеть с больным день и ночь,
Никогда не двигаясь ни на шаг!
Что за лицемерие
Пробовать развлечь полумертвого –
Расправлять его подушки,
Торжественно подавать лекарство,
Вздыхать и думать про себя:
"Никогда дьявол тебя не заберёт?»

Как видим, все приведённые (равно как и не приведённые) примеры  вполне точно передают и содержание, и собственно стихотворные особенности пушкинского текста. Однако очарование романа Пушкина привлекает к нему всё новых и новых переводчиков. Пример тому – работа преподавателя С.-Петербургского Музыкально-педагогического колледжа Розиты Бенециановны Чудновской. Принципиально не знакомясь с текстами предшественников, она начала работу над пушкинским романом, и её перевод первой главы свидетельствует как о глубоком знании английского языка (которым она владеет на уровне англоязычных авторов), так и о глубоком понимании оригинала. Этот перевод может вполне конкурировать с приведёнными выше текстами: автору удалось и сохранить в почти точном виде «онегинскую строфу», и добиться максимального приближения к оригиналу.  Для подтверждения приведём тот же фрагмент романа в сравнении с подстрочником в переводе Р. Б. Чудновской.

Билингвальные издания русских классических текстов, помимо собственно художественного назначения (ознакомить англоязычных читателей с русской литературой) имеют ещё и несомненную методическую направленность: с одной стороны, они являются ценным методическим материалом для русскоязычных читателей, желающих углубить свои знания английского языка, с другой –  столь же интересны и для иностранных студентов-филологов, лингвистов и просто любителей русской литературы. Ввиду этого появление любого нового перевода, пусть и уже известного сочинения, важно для читателей с одной и другой стороны.

Автор этих строк от души надеется на продолжение так счастливо начатой работы и на её признание не только в России, но и за рубежом.

Кандидат искусствоведения

Л. М. Золотницкая

4.02.2016.