Eugene Onegin / Евгений Онегин. Александр ПушкинЧитать онлайн книгу.

      And in addition youth is flame

      And cannot anything conceal,

      Is ever ready to proclaim

      The love, hate, sorrow, joy, we feel.

      Deeming himself a veteran scarred

      In love's campaigns Onéguine heard

      With quite a lachrymose expression

      The youthful poet's fond confession.

      He with an innocence extreme

      His inner consciousness laid bare,

      And Eugene soon discovered there

      The story of his young love's dream,

      Where plentifully feelings flow

      Which we experienced long ago.

      Alas! he loved as in our times

      Men love no more, as only the

      Mad spirit of the man who rhymes

      Is still condemned in love to be;

      One image occupied his mind,

      Constant affection intertwined

      And an habitual sense of pain;

      And distance interposed in vain,

      Nor years of separation all

      Nor homage which the Muse demands

      Nor beauties of far distant lands

      Nor study, banquet, rout nor ball

      His constant soul could ever tire,

      Which glowed with virginal desire.

      When but a boy he Olga loved

      Unknown as yet the aching heart,

      He witnessed tenderly and moved

      Her girlish gaiety and sport.

      Beneath the sheltering oak tree's shade

      He with his little maiden played,

      Whilst the fond parents, friends thro' life,

      Dreamed in the future man and wife.

      And full of innocent delight,

      As in a thicket's humble shade,

      Beneath her parents' eyes the maid

      Grew like a lily pure and white,

      Unseen in thick and tangled grass

      By bee and butterfly which pass.

      'Twas she who first within his breast

      Poetic transport did infuse,

      And thoughts of Olga first impressed

      A mournful temper on his Muse.

      Farewell! thou golden days of love!

      'Twas then he loved the tangled grove

      And solitude and calm delight,

      The moon, the stars, and shining night —

      The moon, the lamp of heaven above,

      To whom we used to consecrate

      A promenade in twilight late

      With tears which secret sufferers love —

      But now in her effulgence pale

      A substitute for lamps we hail!

      Obedient she had ever been

      And modest, cheerful as the morn,

      As a poetic life serene,

      Sweet as the kiss of lovers sworn.

      Her eyes were of cerulean blue,

      Her locks were of a golden hue,

      Her movements, voice and figure slight,

      All about Olga – to a light

      Romance of love I pray refer,

      You'll find her portrait there, I vouch;

      I formerly admired her much

      But finally grew bored by her.

      But with her elder sister I

      Must now my stanzas occupy.

      Tattiana was her appellation.

      We are the first who such a name

      In pages of a love narration

      With such a perversity proclaim.

      But wherefore not? – 'Tis pleasant, nice,

      Euphonious, though I know a spice

      It carries of antiquity

      And of the attic. Honestly,

      We must admit but little taste

      Doth in us or our names appear[27]

      (I speak not of our poems here),

      And education runs to waste,

      Endowing us from out her store

      With affectation, – nothing more.

      And so Tattiana was her name,

      Nor by her sister's brilliancy

      Nor by her beauty she became

      The cynosure of every eye.

      Shy, silent did the maid appear

      As in the timid forest deer,

      Even beneath her parents' roof

      Stood as estranged from all aloof,

      Nearest and dearest knew not how

      To fawn upon and love express;

      A child devoid of childishness

      To romp and play she ne'er would go:

      Oft staring through the window pane

      Would she in silence long remain.

      Contemplativeness, her delight,

      E'en from her cradle's earliest dream,

      Adorned with many a vision bright

      Of rural life the sluggish stream;

      Ne'er touched her fingers indolent

      The needle nor, o'er framework bent,

      Would she the canvas tight enrich

      With gay design and silken stitch.

      Desire to rule ye may observe

      When the obedient doll in sport

      An infant maiden doth exhort

      Polite demeanour to preserve,

      Gravely repeating to another

      Recent instructions of its mother.

      But