The morning pleasant noise arose.
Each shutter’s open, and dry
Blue smoke rises to the sky, And thorough German baker goes
In paper cap for each of us To open his wasistdas.
XXXVI
Of ballet’s noises being tired, Transforming morning into night,
He calmly sleeps in bed, retired From pastimes, flourishing big child.
The afternoon he passes, ready Again to waste his day already.
His life’s monotonous and is mixed, The same for many days is fixed,
But was my Eugene satisfying By being free in prime of life,
Among his victories to thrive, And his amusements gratifying?
May be, in vain he was at feasts Such careless and fine at least?
XXXVII
His passions were too quickly cold, And he was bored by worldly noise;
Not very long he could behold The girls as object of his choice;
Adulteries were not adonng; His friends and freindship made him boring,
As now not at any time He could bear-steaks and Strassburg pie
With fizz by bottle wine be pouring While saying clever pncky word -
Because of ache of own head. And, though staying rake adoring,
He ceased to like (with them was led) Invectives, sables and the lead.
XXXVIII
His illness never was distinguished From illness, known so far,
Which they are calling spleen in English, In Russian known as khandra.
It caught him now and for ever; But yet to kill himself he never,
Thanks God, had any wish to try; But at the life his look was wry.
Child-Harold’s copy, grim, morose To inner rooms and halls he came;
The boston, gossips were in vain, Or dear looks or sighs - all those
Did never touch hire as before, He caught the sight of nothing more.
XXXIX, XL, XLI ………………….. ………………….. …………………..
XLII
Of higher world the queer ladies!
The first he made - he left you all;
It’s true, that all we live in ages, When rather boring is high call.
Arid though ladies can be talking Of Say and Bentham at the walking,
But as a whole their talk Is harmless, but unpleasant mock.
Besides, they all are so pure, Magestic, for the love unfit,
Are full of piety, of wit, Such cautious, that we can’t endure,
And always turned, from us - I mean. That their looks give rise for spleen.
XLIII
And you, the girls all young, good looking, Whom droshkies quickly take away
In late of evening, such amusing, Along the Petersburg high-way,
By him were left at your employments.
Apostate of wild enjoyments,
At home did he shut himself And yawning, tried to write of self.
He tried, but of the work persistent He felt yet sickness. Nothing good
Could come of such a lazy mood. He didn’t join the guild existent
Of men, whom I can’t judge for long, As I myself to them belong.
XLIV
Devoted to lazy feeling, With void in soul, he resstrains
His temper, in his chair sitting, And aims to own each other’s brains;