Мод на мечи за спиной для skyrim

Дек - 25 2017 | By


Мод на мечи за спиной для skyrim Скачать

Откройте консоль и напишите help dspsob. Если архив размещен на dfiles и не скачивается, то также сообщите администрации в ЛС (http://gamer-mods. История изменений:. Он позволит любоваться своим любимым одноручным клинком или же кинжалом, и даже колчаном, которые, отныне, будут всегда находится за спиной. Установка:. Работает только для всего ванильного оружия, мечи, кинжалы, топоры, кинжалы, щиты.

Проверял на версии игры 1. Чтобы вы смогли нести их оба. Если не отображается оружие в паре на спине,то ищите проблемы в скелете ГГ. Поставьте DSpSoB в конец загрузки. Внутри этих папок (выберете только то, что у вас стоит. Если скачивается архив мода с несоответствующей версией, сделайте очистку кеша в браузере и сообщите администрации. В папке Optional вы найдете патч совместимости с положением колчана из мода на правильное положение колчана. Мод полностью совместим с :.

Скайрим мод меч за спиной

Так же есть (опционально) файл перемещающий положение кинжала с бедра сбоку на бедра назад. Данный мод переносит положение меча с бедер на спину, а так же регулирует положение двуручного меча на спине. Если Вы хотите носить оружие за спиной,тогда скиньте туда же файлы из папки «Оружие на спине». Выберите то, что вам нужно и скиньте в папку Data. Эбонитовые мечи из морровинда идут в разрешении текстур 4к, если у вас слабый компьютер и ваш скайрим вылетает при установки подобных текстур, просто оставьте свой комментарий, и по вашей заявке я смогу перегенерировать текстуры и предоставить их вам в меньшем разрешении. На данном этапе клинки не обладают какой либо уникальной магией, но вы сможете их сковать в любой кузнице раздобыв ‘письмо от друга’ на корабле Катария рядом с городом Солитьюд, ‘письмо от друга’ на ковку эбонитовых мечей будет ждать вас в каюте императора на борту корабля Катария, смотрите скриншоты и видео отрывки что бы узнать точное месторасположение новых предметов. Удалите следующие файлы:. Обновление:1. Описание:. Если оружие или щит лежат на земле. Поместить папку Data в папку в корень игры,активировать в лаунчере.

Метки: ,

8 thoughts on “Мод на мечи за спиной для skyrim

  1. Hюpoк:

    Мистер_Х-| Теги: рхл 14. Что ЕА Sports безжалостно закрыла проект EA NHL на ПК и.

  2. Aзaзeль:

    Плагины, дополнения » Скачать торрент [Mods] RHL 14 ( NHL 09) [1. 0] перезагружать комп и ставить.

  3. KaкaяPaзницa:

    Все начинается с того как в закрытой зоне отчуждения, появляются новая форма мутации, которая грозиться вырваться наружу и поразить все человечество. Агенту Прибой, точнее вам, ведь вам предстоит играть в его роли, нужно выяснить причину мутации, а главное источник и устранить его. Рекомендую скачать Stalker история прибоя 2, тем более это можно сделать бесплатно. Прибой возвратившись в зону был крайне удивлен, если раньше главной силой являлась группировка Свобода, то сейчас её потеснила новая группировка, которая начала набирать силу, после таинственного падения неизвестного объекта. Как стало известно, мутация началась после того как неопознанный объект, либо метеорит упал в зоне. Сталкер история прибоя 2 скачать 2011 (Stalker Priboi Story)Если вам понравился предыдущей мод, про агента разведки с кодовом именем Прибой, то вторая, часть вас уж точно не разочарует. Этот мод, сочетает в себе не только продуманный сюжет, но в нем вы увидите новые локации, вооружение, нпс и торговцев, в целом привычная игра Сталкер обрела атмосферу, которой раньше не хватало.

  4. Meнт_в_зaкoнe:

    Для того чтобы сохранить (и увеличить) «семейное положение», Карл должен регулярно встречаться с девушкой, в противном случае симпатия девушки будет уменьшаться. Например, пока Карл остаётся за пределами Лос-Сантоса, он не имеет никаких обязательств по отношению к Дениз, и их отношения остаются неизменными, пока он снова не приедет в город; как только он это сделает, он может понадобиться Дениз сегодня же, или по крайней мере один раз, прежде чем игрок покинет город снова, чтобы сохранить свои отношения с ней. Однако, это не происходит, если Карл остается за пределами географической зоны подруги.

  5. ЛoЛиTa:

    Коды на GTA Vice. Чтобы установить мод для GTA San Andreas, скачайте архив этого мода и запустите.

  6. Xaгpид:

    My latest newly-born creation,
    And earn me fame and glory’s fee:
    False rumours, fuss, and curses free. He gave three balls a year most soberly,
    And squandered all, with all was quits. Soon disappeared youth’s happy spark,
    As on the meadows your dainty mark. XXXII

    Red cheek of Flora, breast of Diana,
    They’re charming, my delightful friends. And then I’ll start to write, to strive
    For a poem of cantos, say, twenty-five. L

    When comes my hour of liberation. You loved the carpet’s soft embrace,
    And their luxurious titillation. VI

    Latin has now gone out of fashion,
    So, if you want me to spill the gaff. XLVI

    The one who lives and minks can hardly
    Not scorn some people in his heart;
    The one who feels finds most alarming
    The spectre of days which for aye depart;
    For him there’s no more fascination,
    For him is memory a snake’s undulation,
    For him repentance gnaws inside. Becozened in Eastern blissful rapture,
    Or in sad Northern snows still captured,
    You have not left a single trace. For one thing living, all else on the shelf,
    How he could quite forget himself. To others his pattern was a lesson,
    But, God above, what boredom pressing,
    To sit with the sick by day and night,
    Not going a step out of his sight. LII

    And suddenly, true, by post came flying
    From the steward’s hand, a report to tell
    That his uncle, on his death-bed lying,
    Would like to bid him last farewell. And I’m awakened every mom
    For freedom and for sweetest pleasure:
    I read but little, and long I sleep,
    And flying fame I do not seek. XV

    Sometimes, when he was still half-sleepy,
    Some little notes to his bed they brought. Onegin hurriedly enters,
    Between the seats on toes he treads. Besides, they are so pure and viceless,
    So truly magnificent, so wise,
    So full of nobility besides,
    So prudent, so scrupulous, so priceless,
    So out of reach for us men, I mean,
    That the sight of them gives birth to the spleen. But fate was our Eugene’s protector. And soothed his heart, by torments troubled,
    And captured glory, not slow to come —
    But loving, I was dim and dumb. Though yet more charming, in its manner,
    Terpsichore’s foot for me extends. He had no wish to go a-digging
    Deep in the chronological dust
    Of earth’s old archives, full of must,
    But ancient anecdotes, beginning
    With Romulus, up to the present day
    He kept in memory tucked away. The fruits of all my toil I give. And by the highest will of Zeus
    The heir to all, his nearest kin. Set straight the pillows beneath his head,
    And with his medicine come running,
    To sigh, and think to yourself at each cough:
    Oh, when will the Devil carry you off. His lorgnette, with a sweep, he centres
    On boxes and unknown ladies’ heads. The golden night-time of Italy
    With delight I shall enjoy at freedom,
    With a young and lively Venetian girl,
    Here dumb, there talking with head awhirl,
    Afloat in a secret gondola hidden;
    From her my lips will learn to move
    In Petrarch’s language, the language of love. The boxes glittering,
    The pit, the stalls with people seethe. To kiss those sweet feet, like that wave then,
    How my insatiate lips were craving. Eugene has left you, taken your measure,
    Apostate of such stormy pleasure. And Comet champagne fizzed, every drop. Around him, see, the vultures gather,
    The money-lenders’ greedy crew. Tired, unsteady,
    From the ball to bed he drives off home,
    While Peterburgh, disturbed already,
    Is wakened by the drubbing drum. Go, then, to Neva’s shores and live. He knew about enough of Latin
    To just make out an epigraph,
    To interpret Juvenal, though hardly,
    To place at the end of his letters — «vale»,
    Remembered, though, with slips but few,
    From the «Aeneid» a verse or two. But I must say,
    You’ll scarcely find in the whole of Russia
    Three pairs of shapely feminine feet. But enough of praising feet so haughty
    Upon my garrulous loving lyre;
    They are not worth my passion’s fire,
    Nor songs where they the inspiring cause be;
    The words and looks of those witches sweet
    Are deceptive. Now wakens the pleasant noise of morning,
    The shutters are open. As to green forests a convict might
    Be carried in sleep, his fetters leaving,
    So we were carried away by dreams
    To the start of youthful life it seemed. Was Eugene happy in any measure,
    So free, and in his youth’s full flower,
    Mid brilliant conquests of the hour,
    Mid everyday delight and pleasure. XLIV

    To idleness he again paid service,
    And languished in spiritual vacuum then,
    He settled down with a laudable purpose:
    To imbibe the minds of other men. And soon, and soon, the tracks of storm
    Within my soul will all grow placid. The youngster was capricious, but nice. VIII

    All which was known by our Onegin
    I have not here the time to tell. The defender of liberties so long,
    On this occasion entirely wrong. XXI

    All clap. All was quiet, only the midnight sentries
    Answered each other from the entries,
    And the noise of a coach’s distant track
    From Milyonna suddenly echoed back;
    Only a boat with blades a-sweeping
    On the dreaming waters floated down,
    And we were caught by a far-off sound:
    A horn and a bold song rang in greeting. What biting slanders he was airing,
    What secret snares for them preparing. XVI

    Already dark: the sledge is harnessed —
    «Make way, make way. And blessed is he, who with love combined
    The fever of rhyme. Once order’s foe, a wasteful pagan,
    Now very glad that his previous paths
    Had changed for something else at last. And on the Baltic’s billows thus
    For lard and timber, brings to us;
    And all which Paris makes hungry fashion,
    And chooses as a useful trade,
    For our amusement too has made,
    For luxury, and for modern passion —
    All that adorning the study was seen,
    Of our philosopher of eighteen. Where you too, maybe, first saw mom,
    And later shone yourself, dear reader. Before all others he quitted you. (With that my novel began indeed);
    But when he reached his uncle’s manor,
    He found him on the table laid —
    Earth’s tribute was prepared and paid. XXIII

    Shall I give you, then, a faithful picture
    Of the isolated cabinet
    Where my good pupil, who knew no strictures
    Got dressed, undressed, and is dressing yet. XLIII

    And you, young beauties under cover,
    Whom late at night, ere dawn is due,
    The dashing cabs bear off from a lover,
    Along the Peterburg avenue. Ah, friends, nobody, by God Almighty. In the gods impatient clapping pattering,
    And rising, the rustling curtains weave. It’s time, it’s time. XXXVI

    But tired out by the ball so noisy,
    And turning morning into night,
    In the blessed shade sleeps free and easy
    The child of luxury and delight. He shut himself up at home, and then
    With a gaping yawn took up the pen,
    And wished to write — but stubborn labour
    For him was sickening — nothing came
    From ‘neath his pen — and who’s to blame. All that quite often will provide
    A wondrous charm in conversation. To innocent leisure I’m devoted,
    I wander round the lake deserted,
    And «far niente» is my norm. XLIX

    O waves of the sunny Adriatic. He showed real genius in his way in
    What he knew better than science as well,
    What was for him, from boyhood’s station,
    His toil, his torment and consolation,
    Which occupied his live-long day,
    In his lazily longing and yearning way —
    That was the art offender passion,
    Which Ovid has so nobly sung,
    For which his life, by suffering stung,
    He spent in rebel incarceration
    In steppe-Moldavia’s obscurity,
    Far from his native Italy. XVIII

    О magic land. The mad alarms of love, told rightly,
    I experienced cheerless and unkind. And sown with small lamps round about
    There glitters that magnificent house;
    Full window-length there move the shadows,
    And profiles of heads flit to and fro
    Of dazzling dame, and modish beau. A second Chadayev, my Onegin
    Fearful of jealous blame and nagging,
    Was most pedantic in his dress,
    A so-called dandy, nothing less. But sweeter, mid night-time fun again
    Are Torquato’s octaves, with fine refrain. Did change not spare you,
    And other maidens not take your place. No, never mid all the passionate days
    Of seething youth, and weaving ways. ‘» the cry rings out. Meanwhile, in the morning dress, at leisure,
    Donning his broad-brimmed Bolivar,
    Onegin rides down the boulevard,
    And there he strolls, and takes his pleasure,
    Till his Breguet’s unsleeping chime
    Tells him that it is dinner-time. At first Onegin’s tongue confused,
    Embarrassed me, but I got used
    To his most acrid altercation,
    And to his jokes, half fun, half bite,
    And to his epigram’s dark spite. Monsieur l’ Abbe, a Frenchman, poorish,
    In order not to torment the child,
    At all his lessons joked and smiled,
    And with strict morals was never boring,
    And lightly scolded each mischievous whim,
    In the Summer Gardens, strolling with him. VII

    He had not any noble passion
    To give his life for rhythm, or rhyme,
    Iambus from trochee, in no fashion
    However we struggled, could he define. On the third, the groves and hills and meadows
    To him were simply empty shadows,
    And later even made him tired. No longer will blaze the fading ashes;
    I still feel sad, but tears don’t form. XLV

    Society’s strictures throwing over,
    Like him, from boredom feeling tired,
    I then became his friend and brother,
    His traits of character I admired;
    His quite involuntary love of dreaming,
    Originality, awkward-seeming,
    His sharp, cool mind too, brought us close. And though an ardent pleasure-seeker,
    He tired at last, it must be said. «Ruslan and Lyudmila» met your approval –
    And so the hero of my new novel,
    No foreword, and ere this hour is through,
    Allow me to introduce to you:
    My friend Onegin — a kindly creature,
    Who on the Neva’s banks was born. The deceased was then with full rites buried,
    The priests and people feasted unhurried,
    Then pompously parted, one by one,
    As if some business deal they’d done. ХLVIII

    With all his soul, and fully regretting,
    And leant on the granite embankment bare,
    Eugene was standing and meditating,
    As the poet himself has pictured there. He stood the books on the shelf in succession,
    He read and read, without comprehension —
    Here boredom, there ravings or deceit;
    No conscience, nor no sense could meet. XXXVII

    No, soon his feelings started cooling,
    Society’s noise he found a bore,
    And beautiful women began to fool him
    As subjects of usual thoughts no more. XXXI

    And when, and where, and in what desert
    You madman, will you then forget. As if we found it impossible plainly
    To write a poem about someone else,
    But only one about oneself. XI

    How he could seem so new, enlightened,
    And joking, innocence could amaze,
    Ready with his despair to frighten,
    Or with his pleasant charms amuse,
    Could catch the moment of emotion
    And innocent years’ old prejudiced notion
    With mind and passion could defeat,
    Caresses involuntary could await,
    Confession demand, or meek-beseeching,
    Could hear the heart-beat fluttering free,
    Could love pursue, and suddenly
    Could then achieve a secret meting. These at one time I too roamed free,
    But the north was injurious for me. Did I desire with such deep torment
    Armida’s youthful lips to seek,
    Or kiss the rose of her flaming cheek,
    Or her bosom, full of languid ferment. The hero’s name is decided on. How languidly silent he could be,
    How ardently eloquent was he,
    In careless letters sincerely moving. Like women, the books he also quitted,
    O’er the shelf and its dusty family too
    The funereal taffeta he drew. To that I call;
    By the sea I roam, wait evacuation,
    And beckon a sailing-vessel tall. It is known to me, it is dear to me. And what a low-down form of cunning
    To amuse one half-alive, half-dead. Of course, it would be over-bold,
    Though it’s my business, if all were told:
    But trousers, dress-shirt, waistcoat, tails, —
    For all of these the Russian fails. Reading the sorrowful information,
    Onegin, for the visitation
    Headlong by post-chaise galloped that day,
    Already yawning on the way,
    Prepared then, for the sake of the money,
    For sighs, and boredom, and deceit. You too, dear mama, still more strictly
    Keep a sharp eye on your daughter yet,
    And hold up straight your gold lorgnette. In French he was at home completely,
    And could explain himself and write,
    He danced the mazurka with step so light,
    And bowed most naturally, free and easy;
    What more do you wish. XXXV

    What of Onegin. »

    II

    So thought the youthful pleasure-seeker
    On the postal coach in the dust and din. Of quarrels, sabres, and flying lead. 1 write, my heart no longer gnawing,
    The pen, forgetting, no longer drawing
    Hear verses lying unfinished, instead
    A feminine foot, a profile head. To whom among maidens jealous, vain,
    Did you devote your lyre’s refrain. V

    We all learned something, little by little,
    Somehow or other, at some time
    So, glory to God, at learning’s riddle
    It is no wonder that we can shine. XXIV

    From Tsargrad — pipes with amber gleaming,
    Here’s china and bronze of the highest class,
    And, the delight of effeminate feeling,
    Here’s perfume in bottles of fine cut glass;
    Nail-files, and combs all purposes serving,
    And scissors sharp, both straight and curving,
    And brushes here of thirty sorts,
    For nails, and teeth, and hair of course. With tender caresses did reward
    Your pensive song, and your narration,
    And whom did you deify, whom adored. To that live workshop he was a stranger,
    To people whom I do not condemn,
    Since I myself belong to them. XIX

    My goddesses. In years of wisdom
    That master of satire, brisk and bold,
    Shone there Fonvizin, friend of freedom,
    And imitative Knyazhnin of old;
    There Ozerov, the involuntary homage
    Of people’s tears, applause and honours
    With youthful Semenova shared:
    There our Katenin life restored
    To the genius of Cornelius’ story;
    There stinging Shakhovskoy brought out
    His noisy comedies’ merry rout. And still there is no end to stamping,
    To sniffing, coughing, sneezing, clapping,
    And still inside and out, in line,
    Are lanterns everywhere a-shine;
    And still, a-shivering, stamp the horses,
    Bored in their harness, they too tire;
    And coachmen standing round the fire
    Beat hands, on masters pour out curses —
    Onegin has gone already, I guess,
    Back home to change once more his dress. XXIX

    In days of fun, and youthful wishes,
    I was just mad about the ball;
    No truer place for vows and kisses,
    And passing secret notes withal. Meanwhile, concerning my new novel,
    The opening chapter now is done. XXVI

    In the taste of latest modes of dressing
    Having engaged your inquisitive glance,
    I could, before the wise digressing,
    Describe to you his garb and stance. Three hours on end (this is between us)
    Before the mirror at toilet spent,
    And from his dressing-room out he went
    As if it were some flighty Venus,
    When, dressed as a man, at a ball parade
    The goddess goes to the masquerade. XXVII

    No nicer theme can we now manage,
    So rather let us haste to the ball,
    Where headlong in a coachman’s carriage
    Onegin has galloped to make his call. There too Didelot was crowned with glory. But you, dear husbands, full of bliss,
    You still remained good friends of his;
    Long since Faublas’ devoted pupil,
    The cunning spouse his hand caressed,
    The suspicious old husband set at rest,
    And the majestic horn-crowned cuckold,
    Was satisfied throughout his life
    With himself, his dinner, and his wife. XXVIII

    Our hero now has reached the entry,
    And past the door-keeper he darts,
    He flies straight up the middle stairway,
    And with his hand his hair he parts. LVII

    I notice, by the way, all poets
    Are also friends of dreaming love. May God forbid me. XXX

    Alas, on various amusements
    I wasted much of my life away,
    But if my morals didn’t refuse them,
    I’d still love balls until this day. There, there, beneath the curtain’s shade,
    My youthful days so swift did fade. He swore at Homer and Theocritus,
    Instead read Adam Smith’s doctrinals:
    A great economist was he,
    That is, was able to judge, you see,
    How a nation could increase its wealth,
    And what it lived on, and just why
    It needs no gold at all to buy,
    If it has the «simple product» itself
    His father could never understand,
    And raised a mortgage on his land. And charming subjects, I let you know it,
    Appeared in dreams, my soul to move. XX

    Theatre’s full. IV

    When youth with its rebellious madness
    In its due time came to Eugene,
    The time of hopes, and tender sadness,
    They packed Monsieur off from the scene. Their secret images I preserved then. He had the happy knack, it’s true,
    With no compulsion in conversation
    Of lightly touching on all; what’s more,
    With the learned look of a connoisseur,
    Kept silent in serious altercation,
    And raised a smile among mesdames
    With the fire of ex-prompt epigrams. For it foretells to eager glances
    Untold rewards, the while it dances;
    With its secret token beauty fires
    A swarm of warm self-willed desires. I love it so, dear friend Elvina
    Beneath the lengthy table-cloth,
    In spring, upon the meadow’s growth,
    On the warm cast-iron stove in winter,
    On the glassy parquet of the hall,
    By the sea on high cliffs granite wall. Onegin was, according to many,
    (Judges decisive and strict as any)
    A well-learned fellow, but pedant too. And uttered: «It is time to change them. Each man has his own mind and view;
    Onegin, hating litigation,
    And satisfied with his own fate,
    His inheritance to the creditors paid,
    Seeing there no great deprivation,
    Or feeling somehow, from far away,
    His ailing uncle’s dying day. The merchant’s up, the pedlar wanders,
    To the stand the cab-man’s coach meanders,
    With a jug the kitchen-maid hastens so,
    That beneath her crunches the morning snow. Which did he start with. XII

    How early already he could awaken
    The hearts of those convinced coquettes. In vain at feasts did he find himself
    So careless, in the bloom of health. XXV

    One can be of the business-like gentry
    And think of the beauty of one’s nails;
    Why should one quarrel with the century. It’s all the same,
    To visit them all is an easy game. First-off Madame was his instructor,
    And then Monsieur took her place. And later on my Muse revived them,
    So I, light-hearted, in verse reveal
    The maid of the mountains, my ideal,
    And a prisoner-girl by Salgir a-lying. Past rows of houses darkened already
    In sleeping streets, where snow falls steady,
    The coach’s double lanterns bright
    Pour out their merry dancing light,
    And on the snowflakes raise their rainbows. Grown cool, not younger,
    I still recall, and when dreams start
    They still disturb my saddened heart. »

    XXII

    And still come Cupids, devils, serpents,
    With cries across the scene they sweep;
    And still the tired lackeys and servants
    In fur cloaks wrapped, in the entrance sleep. Ah, long in memory one may keep
    Two little feet. Past noon he wakes, though feeling heady,
    Until next morn for life is ready,
    A motley and monotonous game,
    Tomorrow and yesterday the same. When he fell helpless, seriously ill,
    Respect exacted from all others,
    Could think of nothing better still. The violins, wailing for their lives,
    Drown jealous whispers of modish wives. I see you and so rejoice,
    And full of inspiration dramatic,
    I hear again your bewitching voice. Was it long since, I forgot for you
    The thirst for fame and praises too,
    My native parts, and incarceration. And later on, alone with her,
    In the silence lessons would confer. He thus then doubled
    The sacred delirium of poetry. Onegin had just lost his father. But Breguet’s chime his hearing teaches
    That the new ballet will soon begin. LI

    With me Onegin then was ready
    To travel and see some foreign clime;
    But soon we were, by fate unsteady,
    Divided for some lengthy time. Old chains and fetters all tomes befitted,
    Old times grow nearer still to their graves,
    And of those old times novelty raves. To the censor I will pay my debt,
    To journalists, for their mastication. The hall is crammed with people;
    The noisy music grows slightly feeble;
    The crowd in the mad mazurka rush;
    All round is noise and bustle and crush;
    The cavalier-guard’s sharp spurs go jingling;
    The charming feminine feet fly by,
    In their captivating tracks the eye
    With ardent longing looks goes winging. And shall we hear again your chorus,
    And see Terpsichore before us,
    Her Russian soul’s accomplished flight. LIII

    The court was crammed with servants and gentry;
    To the deceased, from every side,
    Had travelled friends, and the not so friendly,
    All those who loved it when someone died. LVIII

    Whose glance, arousing inspiration. Before him raw beef-steaks were lying,
    Youth’s luxury, truffles there were seen,
    The finest flower of French cuisine,
    And Strasbourg’s finest pies undying,
    Between the lively Limburg cheese
    And golden pineapples, if you please. XLVII

    How often in the summer season,
    When so translucent, clear, and light
    Are midnight skies above the Neva,
    And the merry mirror of waters bright
    In which Diana casts no glances;
    Remembering earlier romances,
    Remembering earlier love and pain,
    So sensitive, carefree once again,
    The long white night’s benevolent breathing
    In silence we absorbed with delight. All which for manifold whims and fancies
    Trades scrupulous London, for the dandies. In the still, the lyre resounds more gleeful,
    Creative dreams are there revived. LX

    The plan I’ve started to unravel. I write in general, as it were,
    I long ago have ceased to err. The stage’s strictest legislator,
    And the inconstant adorer-hater
    Of charming actresses, proud as queens,
    And an honoured guest behind the scenes,
    Onegin flew off to the theatre,
    Where each with liberty breathing deep
    Would clap a ballerina’s leap,
    Or whistle at Phedra or Cleopatra,
    Call Moena back (and just because
    They wished to be heard well in the pause). Where, so pleasant,
    Do you crash the springtime flowers yet. In society’s view
    He was very clever, and charming too. XXXIX, XL, XLI

    XLII

    Oh, whimsical women of high society. On life he coldly looked, as a riddle,
    But to shoot himself, thank God on high,
    He hadn’t the slightest wish to try. Ethereal, brilliant, and immediate,
    To the magic violin obedient,
    Surrounded by a crowd of nymphs,
    There Istomina’s form we glimpse
    On one leg, on the stage before us —
    With other outstretched she slowly turns,
    Then a sudden leap, on tip-toe she runs,
    She flies like down, blown by Aeolus,
    She twists her figure, untwists, repeats,
    One little foot on the other leg beats. I offer my service — it’s no trouble —
    I beg you, listen to my speech:
    I want to warn you, each watch each. How swift and tender his glance, how loving,
    Shame-faced and bold, and there or here
    Gleaming with an obedient tear. XXXIV

    Another occasion I remember:
    Sometimes in cherished dreams I stand,
    The happy stirrup to her I tender. In Petrarch’s loving tracks marched he. And later still he saw, clear-eyed,
    That boredom’s just the same in the country,
    Though there are neither streets, nor courts
    Nor poetry, nor balls, nor cards;
    The spleen awaits him, like a sentry,
    Pursues him still, to plague his life,
    Like a spectre, or a faithful wife. For long the ballet I’ve sat through,
    But now I’m tired of Didelot too. And when he sought the annihilation
    Of rivals, how he paid off old debts. XVII

    A few more goblets thirst beseeches
    To quench hot cutlet fat within. I love fresh youth, and all its madness,
    The crush, the glitter, and the gladness,
    The ladies’ well-thought-out array;
    I love neat feet. LIV

    Two days to him this all seemed novel;
    The isolation of the fields,
    The coolness of the oak-tree forest,
    The murmur which the streamlet yields. Custom, as despot, never fails. Or will our sorry glance alight
    On faces known in dull scenes later,
    Shall I an alien world to me
    Through disillusioned lorgnette see,
    Amusement’s indifferent spectator,
    And shall I silently yawn at last,
    When I remember all the past. We both knew well the play of passion,
    And life tormented both of us,
    Both hearts had lost their ardour thus,
    Both victims of evil, in some fashion,
    From blind-fold fate, end people’s ways,
    In the early morning of our days. And now, my reader friends not few,
    I often hear a query from you:
    «For whom, then, is your lyre still sighing. LIX

    When love had passed, appeared the Muse then,
    And lit my mind, in gloom profound,
    And free again I seek a union
    Of feelings, thoughts, and magic sound. XXXVIII

    The sickness, of which the cause and fashion
    We long since should have sought and seen,
    To put it short «khandra» in Russian,
    Was similar to the English «spleen»,
    And overcame him, little by little. So like Childe-Harold, gloomy, languid,
    In drawing-rooms he then appeared;
    No boston, no gossip, however wierd,
    No charming glance, no sigh of anguish,
    No one his frozen feelings fired,
    Nothing he noticed nor desired. And so I come with my confession
    That my already impoverished phrase
    Could be less gaudy in many ways
    With alien-origin expressions,
    Although I looked long ago, you see,
    In the Academic Dictionary. Besilvered soon by powdery hoar-frost
    Is the beaver collar of his coat. The chimney-smoke too
    Goes up in vertical columns of blue,
    And the baker, that most punctual German,
    hi his cotton conic cap like snow,
    Already opens his grating below. ‘Neath the surplice of storm, with wild waves striving,
    On the free flood water’s salt sea riding,
    Say, when shall I run free once more. Like their pretty feet. LV

    But I was born for life so peaceful,
    For the quiet of the countryside. A looking-over it’s had, a strict one:
    Though there is many a contradiction,
    I have no wish to put that right. Rousseau (I mention this in passing)
    Could not make out why pompous Grimm
    Dared clean his nails in front of him,
    The eloquent madcap everlasting. No, never did passion, full and whole,
    So explosively torment my soul. It’s sacred for grandsons of Apollo;
    Through Albion’s proud lyre, which I follow. In the countryside see our Onegin,
    Full owner now, on every hand,
    Of workshops, lakes, and forests, and land. III

    Having served excellently and nobly,
    His father lived upon his debts. And believe me,
    Three homes with parties his company sought —
    A ball, a children’s fete — no stopping
    And where did my mischievous lad go hopping. I was embittered, he morose. LVI

    The flowers, and love, and country indolence •
    О fields, my soul just dotes on you. Oh you, my much respected couple. IX

    X

    How soon he learned dissimulation,
    To hide his hopes, and jealousy nurse,
    To use conviction, and dissuasion,
    To look so gloomy and morose,
    To appear so proud, and so obedient,
    How attentive he, and how indifferent. I’m always glad to note the difference
    Between Eugene and me, it’s true. I feel her small foot in my hand;
    Again seethes up imagination,
    Again its touch and agitation
    Fires in my fading heart the blood,
    Again that yearning, again such love. Did I not so in years of leisure,
    Passed idly in the shady ways
    Of past and happiest of days. See, my Onegin, now at freedom,
    With hair out in the latest fashion,
    And like a London dandy dressed —
    And high society met at last. So that the mocking, sneering reader,
    Or maybe some publisher, or repeater
    Of intricate slanders about my ways,
    Comparing here my various traits,
    Should not repeat again profanely
    That I have sullied my portrait quite,
    As Byron did, that poet of pride. To Talon’s restaurant he went hasting,
    Quite sure Kaverin would be waiting,
    He entered: corks struck the ceiling — pop. (Translated by Walter May). Now, in these present days of piety,
    Bon-ton is rather a bore, it’s true
    Although, perhaps, here and there, some lady
    Would speak of Say or Bentham, maybe,
    In general though, their talk as such
    Though innocent nonsense, is just too much. I

    «My uncle, of most honest customs. It’s time to leave this boring shore,
    And these elements with their hostile pressure,
    And where the southern ripples lie
    Beneath my native African sky,
    To sigh at the thought of gloomy Russia,
    Where once I loved, where I felt the smart,
    Where once I buried my wouded heart. On every row he cast his glances,
    Saw all: with faces dresses, flounces,
    Was terribly dissatisfied;
    To gentlemen on every side
    He slowly bowed, and on the stage then
    With deep distraction swiftly glanced,
    Then turned around and yawned askance. O, listen to my mournful voice:
    Are you the same. Deceptions managed to torment him,
    And friends and friendship no pleasure lent him;
    He later learned it was not always wise
    To wash down beef-steaks and Strasbourg pies
    With champagne so, beaker after beaker;
    That he couldn’t scatter such witty words
    When his head was aching fit to burst. XXXIII

    I recall the sea, when skies were storming,
    And how I envied then the wave
    Which in its turn ashore came swarming,
    With love her feet began to lave.

  7. злaя_вoлшeбницa:

    НАШИ КОНТАКТЫ: 181370, Россия, Псковская область, Пушкиногорский район, р.

  8. Taнцылy:

    7 и City Car Driving (CCD). Только лучшие моды для таких игр как 3d инструктор 2.

Comments are closed.