Александр Пушкин – Eugene Onegin / Евгений Онегин (страница 8)

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 leftyou 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 inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen.[17] And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meets Urging your droshkies swift as air Along Saint Petersburg's paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen. He thought to write, but labour long Inspired him with disgust and so Nought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell among