Eugene Onegin / Евгений Онегин. Александр ПушкинЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks,

      Are admirable, my dear friend,

      But yet Terpsichore bespeaks

      Charms more enduring in the end.

      For promises her feet reveal

      Of untold gain she must conceal,

      Their privileged allurements fire

      A hidden train of wild desire.

      I love them, O my dear Elvine,[15]

      Beneath the table-cloth of white,

      In winter on the fender bright,

      In springtime on the meadows green,

      Upon the ball-room's glassy floor

      Or by the ocean's rocky shore.

      Beside the stormy sea one day

      I envied sore the billows tall,

      Which rushed in eager dense array

      Enamoured at her feet to fall.

      How like the billow I desired

      To kiss the feet which I admired!

      No, never in the early blaze

      Of fiery youth's untutored days

      So ardently did I desire

      A young Armida's lips to press,

      Her cheek of rosy loveliness

      Or bosom full of languid fire, —

      A gust of passion never tore

      My spirit with such pangs before.

      Another time, so willed it Fate,

      Immersed in secret thought I stand

      And grasp a stirrup fortunate —

      Her foot was in my other hand.

      Again imagination blazed,

      The contact of the foot I raised

      Rekindled in my withered heart

      The fires of passion and its smart —

      Away! and cease to ring their praise

      For ever with thy tattling lyre,

      The proud ones are not worth the fire

      Of passion they so often raise.

      The words and looks of charmers sweet

      Are oft deceptive – like their feet.

      Where is Onéguine? Half asleep,

      Straight from the ball to bed he goes,

      Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep

      The drum already doth arouse.

      The shopman and the pedlar rise

      And to the Bourse the cabman plies;

      The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,[16]

      Crunching the morning snow she treads;

      Morning awakes with joyous sound;

      The shutters open; to the skies

      In column blue the smoke doth rise;

      The German baker looks around

      His shop, a night-cap on his head,

      And pauses oft to serve out bread.

      But turning morning into night,

      Tired by the ball's incessant noise,

      The votary of vain delight

      Sleep in the shadowy couch enjoys,

      Late in the afternoon to rise,

      When the same life before him lies

      Till morn – life uniform but gay,

      To-morrow just like yesterday.

      But was our friend Eugene content,

      Free, in the blossom of his spring,

      Amidst successes flattering

      And pleasure's daily blandishment,

      Or vainly 'mid luxurious fare

      Was he in health and void of care? —

      Even so! His passions soon abated,

      Hateful the hollow world became,

      Nor long his mind was agitated

      By love's inevitable flame.

      For treachery had done its worst;

      Friendship and friends he likewise curst,

      Because he could not gourmandise

      Daily beefsteaks and Strasbourg pies

      And irrigate them with champagne;

      Nor slander viciously could spread

      Whene'er he had an aching head;

      And, though a plucky scatterbrain,

      He finally lost all delight

      In bullets, sabres, and in fight.

      His malady, whose cause I ween

      It now to investigate is time,

      Was nothing but the British spleen

      Transported to our Russian clime.

      It gradually possessed his mind;

      Though, God be praised! he ne'er designed

      To slay himself with blade or ball,

      Indifferent he became to all,

      And like Childe Harold gloomily

      He to the festival repairs,

      Nor boston nor the world's affairs

      Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh

      Impressed him in the least degree, —

      Callous to all he seemed to be.

      Ye miracles of courtly grace,

      He left you first, and I must own

      The manners of the highest class

      Have latterly vexatious grown;

      And though perchance a lady may

      Discourse of Bentham or of Say,

      Yet as a rule their talk I call

      Harmless, but quite nonsensical.

      Then they're so innocent of vice,

      So full of piety, correct,

      So prudent, and so circumspect

      Stately, devoid of prejudice,

      So