{"product_id":"yevgeny-onegin-isbn-9781805332015","title":"Yevgeny Onegin","description":"\u003cb\u003eTHE GREATEST WORK OF MODERN RUSSIAN LITERATURE: A transcendent story of vanity and love, in a startlingly modern translation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What makes \u003ci\u003eOnegin\u003c\/i\u003e great is its timeless insight into the human heart: its vanities, its follies, its disasters.” — \u003ci\u003eGuardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Arguably the jewel in the crown of Russia’s greatest writer, \u003ci\u003eYevgeny Onegin\u003c\/i\u003e is Alexander Pushkin’s sublime masterpiece of love, death, dueling, rivalry, identity and the search for happiness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe aristocratic Yevgeny Onegin has come into his inheritance, leaving the glamour of St Petersburg's social life to take up residence at his uncle's large country estate. Master of the nonchalant bow, the aristocratic and aloof Onegin is the very model of a social butterfly – a fickle dandy, liked by all for his quick wit and easy ways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the shy and passionate Tatyana becomes hopelessly infatuated with him, Onegin rejects her with brutal condescension. Swiftly moving on, he carelessly diverts himself by flirting with her sister, Olga, sowing the seeds for future disaster and heartbreak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy turns playful, philosophical, sardonic and mournful, brimming with rich descriptions of Russian life, from drinking and dancing to crisp wintry landscapes, \u003ci\u003eYevgeny Onegin \u003c\/i\u003eis a work of thrilling energy. This deft and vibrant translation by Anthony Briggs, acclaimed translator of Tolstoy’s \u003ci\u003eWar and Peace\u003c\/i\u003e, brilliantly conveys this vitality, capturing all the supple lightness and humour, as well as the depth, of Pushkin’s luminous verse novel.Introduction 9\u003cbr\u003eTranslator’s Note 19\u003cbr\u003ePrevious English Translations of Yevgeny Onegin 45\u003cbr\u003eYevgeny Onegin 47\u003cbr\u003eChapter One 53\u003cbr\u003eChapter Two 81\u003cbr\u003eChapter Three 103\u003cbr\u003eChapter Four 129\u003cbr\u003eChapter Five 151\u003cbr\u003eChapter Six 173\u003cbr\u003eChapter Seven 195\u003cbr\u003eChapter Eight 223\u003cb\u003eAlexander Pushkin\u003c\/b\u003e was born in 1799. He published his first poem when he was a teenager, and in 1820 his first long poem - Ruslan and Lyudmila - made him famous. His work, including the novel-in-verse Yevgeny Onegin, the poem 'The Bronze Horseman' and the short story 'The Queen of Spades', has secured his place as one of the greatest writers, in any language, ever to have lived. He died aged just 37, having been wounded in a duel - Pushkin's 29th - by his brother-in-law.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnthony Briggs \u003c\/b\u003eis one of the world's leading authorities on the work of Pushkin. He is the author of \u003ci\u003eAlexander Pushkin: A Critical Study \u003c\/i\u003eand editor of \u003ci\u003eAlexander Pushkin: A Celebration of Russia's Best-Loved Writer\u003c\/i\u003e. He is an acclaimed translator from Russian, whose translations include Tolstoy's \u003ci\u003eWar and Peace\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Queen of Spades\u003c\/i\u003e, a collection of Pushkin's writings published by Pushkin Press.1\u003cbr\u003e“Uncle, a man of purest probity,\u003cbr\u003eHas fallen ill, beyond a joke.\u003cbr\u003eRespected now, and scorned by nobody,\u003cbr\u003eHe has achieved his masterstroke\u003cbr\u003eWith this exemplary behaviour,\u003cbr\u003eBut it would try the Holy Saviour\u003cbr\u003eTo tend a sickbed night and day,\u003cbr\u003eAnd never stir a step away,\u003cbr\u003eEmploying shameful histrionics\u003cbr\u003eTo bring a half-dead man some cheer,\u003cbr\u003ePlump pillows and draw sadly near,\u003cbr\u003eIndulging him with pills and tonics,\u003cbr\u003eHeaving deep sighs, but thinking, ‘Ooh!\u003cbr\u003eWhen \u003ci\u003ewill \u003c\/i\u003ethe devil come for you?’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003eThese were the thoughts of a young gállant,\u003cbr\u003eLodged in his dust-blown chaise, whom chance\u003cbr\u003e(Or mighty Zeus) had willed the talent\u003cbr\u003eOf family inheritance.\u003cbr\u003eFriends of Ruslán, friends of Lyudmíla,\u003cbr\u003eAllow me forthwith to reveal a\u003cbr\u003eNew hero, for this novel, who\u003cbr\u003eComes thus unintroduced to you:\u003cbr\u003eOnégin (we were friends for ages)\u003cbr\u003eWas born by the Nevá, where you,\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps, dear reader, were born too,\u003cbr\u003eOr maybe ran around rampageous.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve also had some good times there—\u003cbr\u003eBut I can’t breathe that northern air.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003eWith worthy service now behind him,\u003cbr\u003eHis father lived from debt to debt.\u003cbr\u003eThree balls a year soon undermined him.\u003cbr\u003eHe was as poor as you can get.\u003cbr\u003eFate saved the boy, who was aware of\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMadame\u003c\/i\u003e, and being taken care of, \u003cbr\u003eAnd her replacement, a \u003ci\u003eMonsieur.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe child was frisky, though demure.\u003cbr\u003eMonsieur l’Abbé, a Catholic father,\u003cbr\u003eNot keen to weigh Yevgeny down, \u003cbr\u003eTaught him by acting like a clown.\u003cbr\u003eMorals seemed irksome; he would rather\u003cbr\u003eChide him for the odd naughty lark,\u003cbr\u003eAnd walk him in the Summer Park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4\u003cbr\u003eRebellious youth came in due season—\u003cbr\u003eA season full of hopeful dreams\u003cbr\u003eAnd gentle sadness—ample reason\u003cbr\u003eTo give \u003ci\u003eMonsieur \u003c\/i\u003ethe sack, it seems.\u003cbr\u003eOnegin now, devil-may-care-style,\u003cbr\u003eCopied the very latest hairstyle\u003cbr\u003eAnd came out like a London fop\u003cbr\u003eTo see society. Tip-top\u003cbr\u003eIn spoken French (no less proficient\u003cbr\u003eIn speech and writing), he could dance,\u003cbr\u003eAnd with the utmost nonchalance\u003cbr\u003ePerform a bow, which was sufficient\u003cbr\u003eTo show him in a pleasing light\u003cbr\u003eAs a nice lad, and very bright.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5\u003cbr\u003eWe’ve all of us been taught in smatters\u003cbr\u003eOf this and that, done bit by bit.\u003cbr\u003eNot that our education matters:\u003cbr\u003eWe shine despite the lack of it.\u003cbr\u003eOnegin was esteemed by many (Judges as hard and strict as any)\u003cbr\u003eAs an enlightened clever dick.\u003cbr\u003eHe had evolved the happy trick\u003cbr\u003eOf butting in on French or Russian\u003cbr\u003eWith flippant comments here and there\u003cbr\u003eDelivered with an expert air,\u003cbr\u003eWhile dodging any deep discussion.\u003cbr\u003eHe could bring smiles to ladies’ lips\u003cbr\u003eWith epigrams and fiery quips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6\u003cbr\u003eAlthough we’ve lost the taste for Latin,\u003cbr\u003eHe knew enough of it to read\u003cbr\u003eAn epitaph and render that in\u003cbr\u003eSome Russian form, we must concede, \u003cbr\u003eTo mention Juvenal, and, better, \u003cbr\u003eWrite \u003ci\u003eVale\u003c\/i\u003e, signing off a letter.\u003cbr\u003eHe knew by heart—or sort of did—\u003cbr\u003eThe odd line from the \u003ci\u003eAeneid\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t know—having no patience\u003cbr\u003eTo learn in any deep degree—\u003cbr\u003eThe world’s historiography,\u003cbr\u003eYet he remembered, from the Ancients,\u003cbr\u003eA fund of jokes and tales for us\u003cbr\u003eFrom our times back to Romulus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e7\u003cbr\u003eLacking high passion, too prosaic\u003cbr\u003eTo deem sounds more than life, he read\u003cbr\u003eWhat was iambic as trochaic—\u003cbr\u003eI couldn’t get it through his head.\u003cbr\u003eHomer, Theocritus he slated,\u003cbr\u003eBut Adam Smith was highly rated\u003cbr\u003eBy this self-styled economist, \u003cbr\u003eWho knew it all: how states exist,\u003cbr\u003eHow to transform them, make them wealthy, \u003cbr\u003eAnd why they have no need of gold\u003cbr\u003eIf they have things that can be sold—\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eproduct \u003c\/i\u003eis what keeps them healthy.\u003cbr\u003eHis father couldn’t understand,\u003cbr\u003eAnd went on mortgaging his land.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e8\u003cbr\u003eI cannot run through this man’s learning\u003cbr\u003eIn full, but there’s one field in which\u003cbr\u003eHe had a genius so discerning\u003cbr\u003eIt was incomparably rich.\u003cbr\u003eThis, since his youth, had proved so serious\u003cbr\u003eIt brought him toil and joys delirious,\u003cbr\u003eIntruding with daylong distress\u003cbr\u003eInto his anguished idleness:\u003cbr\u003eYes, tender passion, that same science\u003cbr\u003eWhich Ovid sang and suffered for,\u003cbr\u003eLanguishing sadly more and more,\u003cbr\u003eAfter such bright days of defiance,\u003cbr\u003eOn a Moldavian plain, where he\u003cbr\u003ePined for his long-lost Italy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e[9] 10\u003cbr\u003eEarly he learnt to sow confusion,\u003cbr\u003eTo hide his hopes, show jealous spite,\u003cbr\u003eTo build trust, then to disillusion,\u003cbr\u003eTo brood and droop with all his might,\u003cbr\u003eTo spurn with pride, or turn obedient,\u003cbr\u003eCold or attentive, as expedient.\u003cbr\u003eHe could be silent, malcontent\u003cbr\u003eOr passionately eloquent;\u003cbr\u003eIn missives of the heart, off-handed.\u003cbr\u003eWhile yearning with a single dream,\u003cbr\u003eHow self-dismissive he could seem! \u003cbr\u003eHis glances could be fond or candid, \u003cbr\u003eReserved or forthright—or appear \u003cbr\u003eTo gleam with an obedient tear!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e11\u003cbr\u003eChanging at will, today, tomorrow,\u003cbr\u003eHe could fool innocence by jest,\u003cbr\u003eAlarm with artificial sorrow,\u003cbr\u003eFlatter the easily impressed,\u003cbr\u003ePick up the early signs of ardour,\u003cbr\u003ePress pure young creatures ever harder\u003cbr\u003eWith passion, and use all his wit\u003cbr\u003eTo foil reluctant girls with it. \u003cbr\u003eUrging commitment by entreaty,\u003cbr\u003eCatching at heartbeats, he would thrill \u003cbr\u003eAnd harass them with love until\u003cbr\u003eHe winkled out a secret meeting, \u003cbr\u003eAnd when he got the girl alone \u003cbr\u003eWhat silent lessons was she shown!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e12 \u003cbr\u003eEarly he taught himself to ravage \u003cbr\u003eThe feelings of accomplished flirts, '\u003cbr\u003eAnd when he felt the need to savage \u003cbr\u003eHis rivals in pursuit of skirts\u003cbr\u003eHis vicious language was appalling. \u003cbr\u003eWhat traps he set for them to fall in! \u003cbr\u003eBut you, good husbands, did not tend \u003cbr\u003eTo spurn him. He was your close friend, \u003cbr\u003eAs was the foxy spouse, whose story \u003cbr\u003eHad had its Casanova days,\u003cbr\u003eAnd codgers with their snooping ways, \u003cbr\u003eAnd the fine cuckold in his glory,\u003cbr\u003eSo smug, so satisfied with life,\u003cbr\u003eleased with his table and his wife.","brand":"Pushkin Press Classics","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233872294117,"sku":"NP9781805332015","price":17.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781805332015.jpg?v=1767744684","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/yevgeny-onegin-isbn-9781805332015","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}