Read the text and translate it into Russian

It was time to go. Francis Woburn put on his enormous hat, started talking about himself again, and they walked down to the Coliseum. He was much taller than she had supposed him to be — though perhaps it was the absurd hat — and she felt a little dumpy thing, though a nice sensi­ble little dumpy thing, as she trotted along by his side, pre­tending to listen, but busy all the time telling herself that here she was, Rose Salter, going to the Russian Ballet at the Coliseum, with a tall, superfine, very Londonish young man. It was all very strange indeed.

They climbed to one of the balconies of the gigantic the­atre, which seemed to Rose the most splendid and exciting place she had ever seen. Dozens of players down below were tuning up. All round them, superfine persons, not unlike Francis Woburn, were studying their programmes. Then the lights died away, except those that illuminated the curtain so beautifully. The music began, and Francis Woburn stopped talking. Rose instantly forgot his very existence. The music was very strange, not like any she had heard be­fore, and not at all comfortable and friendly and sweet. Rose did not know whether she liked it or not; she could not keep it at a distance to decide about it; she was simply carried away and half drowned by the colossal waves of sound; she was overwhelmed by its insistent beat and clang. The curtain was magically swept away, and the stage blazed at her. She was staring at a new country, a new world. It was as if the last great wave of music had taken her and flung her over the boundaries of this world. The little people[1] in these new countries lived their lives only in movement. Sometimes they were dull. Sometimes they were silly. But at other times they were so beautiful in their energy and grace, so obviously the creatures of another and better world than this, a world all of music and colour, that Rose choked and ached at the sight of them.

People clapped. Francis Woburn clapped. But Rose did not clap. Just putting her hands together, making a silly noise, was not good enough for them. She gave them her heart.

(From "They Walk in the City" by J. B.Priestley)

[1] little people:(here) fairies, elves, and gnomes of folklore