Кокетке - To coquette - пер. А. С. Пушкина

And you believed me, ain't you,
As the ingenuous Anyesa?
What novel can tell and true,
How playboy had died, etcetera?
Please hear: you are thirty years,
Yes, thirty years old - more,
I am also much more then twenty;
I've seen society for long.
I've circled there much, the oaths
And tears don't bother me;
I'm tired all with tricks and jokes;
From your side the betrayal's fee
May cause sometimes the weariness great;
Becoming older, grown cold,
That's unimportant to learn again;
We know - the eternal love
Lasts only one - three weeks although;
Af first we were the friends,
But with a boredom we'd faced,
With a case, and with a jealous husband...
Then I pretended to be mad,
You acted diffident,
We'd sworn... but then ... alas!...
We had forgotten our oath;
You falled in love with Kleon far,
Natasha - was my sweetheart, so
We had departed; hitherto
All were such decent, good in manners,
Without any quarrels could
We live together, easy-tempered;
But, what's today! In this good morn
You has, as in the tragic heat,
Revived the antique times of old
And you again trying to preach
The love of old knights, deceased,
The courtesy, the jealousy and grief.
And pardon me,
I'm not a baby, I'm a poet.
When we are turning to decline,
We should avoid the passions young -
Let leave that for your older daughter,
I'll leave this to my younger brother.
They are allowed yet to trick
With their life and burst in tears;
Still they can love, but not so we...
It's time for us to like intrigue...

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И вы поверить мне могли,
Как простодушная Аньеса?
В каком романе вы нашли,
Чтоб умер от любви повеса?
Послушайте: вам тридцать лет,
Да, тридцать лет — не многим боле.
Мне за двадцать; я видел свет,
Кружился долго в нем на воле;
Уж клятвы, слезы мне смешны;
Проказы утомить успели;
Вам также с вашей стороны
Измены верно надоели;
Остепенясь, мы охладели,
Некстати нам учиться вновь.
Мы знаем: вечная любовь
Живет едва ли три недели.
Сначала были мы друзья,
Но скука, случай, муж ревнивый...
Безумным притворился я,
И притворились вы стыдливой,
Мы поклялись... потом... увы!
Потом забыли клятву нашу;
Клеона полюбили вы,
А я наперсницу Наташу.
Мы разошлись; до этих пор
Всё хорошо, благопристойно.
Могли б мы жить без дальних ссор
Опять и дружно и спокойно;
Но нет! сегодня поутру
Вы вдруг в трагическом жару
Седую воскресили древность —
Вы проповедуете вновь
Покойных рыцарей любовь,
Учтивый жар и грусть и ревность.
Помилуйте — нет, право нет.
Я не дитя, хоть и поэт.
Когда мы клонимся к закату,
Оставим юный пыл страстей —
Вы старшей дочери своей,
Я своему меньшому брату:
Им можно с жизнию шалить
И слезы впредь себе готовить;
Еще пристало им любить,
А нам уже пора злословить.


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см. также
Евгения Смаркисьянц

To a coquette

And you believed the words I said
Like Agnes, foolishly, unduly?
Please tell me in which book you read
Of a lothario loving truly?
Look: you are thirty years old,
Yes, thirty – over but a little.
I am past twenty; the beau monde
I’ve seen in all its careless glitter;
Tears, vows I ridicule at will;
From play I am already burning;
And, madam, equally you feel
Tired of adultery, all concerning;
Well-grounded, we have lost the yearning.
Forever after, as we know,
Lasts for three weeks, if that; and so
We’re ill-befit to start new learning.
First we were friends; but then the grind,
Your jealous spouse, a fluke... Pretender,
I acted like I lost my mind,
You acted diffident and tender;
We vowed our mutual love – and then
We both – alas! – forgot it fleetly;
I fell for Natalie, dear friend,
You fell for Cleon just as sweetly.
We separated; and for long
Till recently, we did not bother;
We could still nicely get along
Respectable to one another...
But no! Quite suddenly, today,
In fever of a tragic play,
You have revived the age-old story –
I hear you preach to me again
Of courteous passion, jealous pain,
And love worth of a knightly glory.
Have mercy – no, but really, no,
I am no child, a poet though.
As we are nearing dusk, we’d rather
Forget the passion’s youthful swirl -
You leave it to your older girl,
I’ll leave it to my younger brother:
To play with life is now their turn,
For future heartbreaks getting ready;
They are still fit to love and burn,
We should start gossiping already.