Читать книгу Евгений Онегин / Eugene Onegin - Александр Сергеевич Пушкин, Александр Пушкин, Pushkin Aleksandr - Страница 37

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.