Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin. Александр Пушкин

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      Shouts of applause! Onegin passes

      Between the stalls, along the toes;

      Seated, a curious look with glasses

      On unknown female forms he throws.

      Free scope he yields unto his glance,

      Reviews both dress and countenance,

      With all dissatisfaction shows.

      To male acquaintances he bows,

      And finally he deigns let fall

      Upon the stage his weary glance.

      He yawns, averts his countenance,

      Exclaiming, “We must change ’em all!

      I long by ballets have been bored,

      Now Didelot scarce can be endured!”

      Snakes, satyrs, loves with many a shout

      Across the stage still madly sweep,

      Whilst the tired serving-men without

      Wrapped in their sheepskins soundly sleep.

      Still the loud stamping doth not cease,

      Still they blow noses, cough, and sneeze,

      Still everywhere, without, within,

      The lamps illuminating shine;

      The steed benumbed still pawing stands

      And of the irksome harness tires,

      And still the coachmen round the fires[11]

      Abuse their masters, rub their hands:

      But Eugene long hath left the press

      To array himself in evening dress.

      Faithfully shall I now depict,

      Portray the solitary den

      Wherein the child of fashion strict

      Dressed him, undressed, and dressed again?

      All that industrial London brings

      For tallow, wood and other things

      Across the Baltic’s salt sea waves,

      All which caprice and affluence craves,

      All which in Paris eager taste,

      Choosing a profitable trade,

      For our amusement ever made

      And ease and fashionable waste, —

      Adorned the apartment of Eugene,

      Philosopher just turned eighteen.

      China and bronze the tables weight,

      Amber on pipes from Stamboul glows,

      And, joy of souls effeminate,

      Phials of crystal scents enclose.

      Combs of all sizes, files of steel,

      Scissors both straight and curved as well,

      Of thirty different sorts, lo! brushes

      Both for the nails and for the tushes.

      Rousseau, I would remark in passing,[12]

      Could not conceive how serious Grimm

      Dared calmly cleanse his nails ’fore him,

      Eloquent raver all-surpassing, —

      The friend of liberty and laws

      In this case quite mistaken was.

      The most industrious man alive

      May yet be studious of his nails;

      What boots it with the age to strive?

      Custom the despot soon prevails.

      A new Kaverine Eugene mine,

      Dreading the world’s remarks malign,

      Was that which we are wont to call

      A fop, in dress pedantical.

      Three mortal hours per diem he

      Would loiter by the looking-glass,

      And from his dressing-room would pass

      Like Venus when, capriciously,

      The goddess would a masquerade

      Attend in male attire arrayed.

      On this artistical retreat

      Having once fixed your interest,

      I might to connoisseurs repeat

      The style in which my hero dressed;

      Though I confess I hardly dare

      Describe in detail the affair,

      Since words like pantaloons, vest, coat,

      To Russ indigenous are not;

      And also that my feeble verse —

      Pardon I ask for such a sin —

      With words of foreign origin

      Too much I’m given to intersperse,

      Though to the Academy I come

      And oft its Dictionary thumb.[13]

      But such is not my project now,

      So let us to the ball-room haste,

      Whither at headlong speed doth go

      Eugene in hackney carriage placed.

      Past darkened windows and long streets

      Of slumbering citizens he fleets,

      Till carriage lamps, a double row,

      Cast a gay lustre on the snow,

      Which shines with iridescent hues.

      He nears a spacious mansion’s gate,

      By many a lamp illuminate,

      And through the lofty windows views

      Profiles of lovely dames he knows

      And also fashionable beaux.

      Our hero stops and doth alight,

      Flies past the porter to the stair,

      But, ere he mounts СКАЧАТЬ