XXIX





Since days of childhood she was into books,


They substituted her the life itself.


She fell in love with stories of two crooks,


Rousseau and Richardson, in novels on her shelf.


Her father was good man, a decent one,


Left in the century just passed, its son,


No harm in books he ever could perceive


As never touched a single printed leaf.


He thought them be a trifle, kind of toy,


He never slightest care took


What was his daughter secret book


Laid under pillow, calm and coy.


His wife was woman kind of such


That loved old Richardson so much



далее: XXIX >>
назад: XXVIII <<

A.S.PUSHKIN. EUGENY ONEGIN (1-3 CHAPTER)
   I
   II
   III
   IV
   V
   VI
   VII
   VIII
   IX
   X
   XI
   XII
   XIII. XIV
   XV
   XVI
   XVII
   XVIII
   XIX
   XX
   XXI
   XXII
   XXIII
   XXIV
   XXV
   XXVI
   XXVII
   XXVIII
   XXIX
   XXX
   XXXI
   XXXII
   XXXIII
   XXXIV
   XXXV
   XXXVI
   XXXVII
   XXXVIII
   XXXIX.XL. XLII.
   XLII
   XLIII
   XLIV
   XLV
   XLVI
   XLVII
   XLVIII
   XLIX
   L
   LI
   LII
   LIII
   LIV
   LV
   LVI
   LVII
   LVIII
   LIX
   LX
   I
   I
   II
   II
   III
   IV
   IV
   V
   V
   VI
   VI
   VII
   VII
   VIII
   VIII
   IX
   IX
   X
   X
   XI
   XI
   XII
   XII
   XIII
   XIII
   XIV
   XIV
   XV
   XV
   XVI
   XVI.
   XVII
   XVII.
   XVIII
   XVIII.
   XIX
   XIX.
   XX
   XX.
   XXI.
   XXI.
   XXII
   XXII.
   XXIII.
   XXIII.
   XXIV
   XXIV
   XXV
   XXV
   XXVI
   XXVI
   XXVII
   XXVII
   XXVIII
   XXVIII
   XXIX
   XXIX
   XXX
   XXX
   XXXI
   XXXI
   XXXII
   XXXII
   XXXIII
   XXXIII
   XXXIV
   XXXIV
   XXXV
   XXXV
   XXXVI
   XXXVI
   XXXVII
   XXXVII
   XXXVIII
   XXXVIII
   XXXIX
   XXXIX
   XL
   XL
   VII