With throng by passions deeply fusing, I brought my playful muse to fit
For hot discussions of the gentry, The terror of the midnight sentry;
To them, to their senseless feasts She brought her fine and dear gifts,
And like the Beccant could she gamble, With bowl sang she for the guests,
And youth of those vanished days All after her could wildly dangle;
And I was proud among friends Of new she-friend with windy trends.
IV
I lagged behind as their member And ran away...
She’s after me.
And how often muse my tender Delighted silent route for me
By sorcery of story’s secrets!
At rocks of the Caucasian districts
Like young Lenore under noon {32} With me was riding like a loom.
And often at Taurida’s beaches She brought me in the have of night
At sea to hear for a while Of nereid unceasing whispers,
Eternal choir or the waves, To lord of world the hymn of praise.
V
She capital forgot at distance, Its lustre, all its noisy feasts;
Among Moldavian dismal thickets She visited marquees in peace
Nomadic life to better know, Herself with them could wild she go,
And she forgot the speech of gods For scant and queer lots and lots
Of words for songs of prairie districts...
But suddenly was changed it all:
And now in my garden small She came at once as district mistress,
In eyes with dismal thought of brains, Arid with a book in French in hands.
VI
First time indeed my muse just now To worldly rout I can lead;
In all her charms, to steppes yet bound, I can with jealous shyness poop.
Through tight a row of the grandeurs, Of diplomats, of army dandies,
Of proud ladies yet she slips, She now looks, but stilly sits,
Admires all the noisy tightness, The flash of dresses and of words,
Arrival slow of the guests In front of hostess young brightness,
Around ladies dark a frame Of gaping, like at pictures, men.
VII
She likes the order, well-composed, Of oligarchial the chats,
The cool of humble pride composed, Of ages medley and of ranks.
But who is that, in throng selected, Is standing mute and unaffected?
To all he seems to be some strange; In front of him the faces range
Like tiresome a rank of ghosts, In face has loftiness or spleen?
What for yet here has he been?
Who’s he?
Not Eugene he’s at most?
But really?
Yes, It is he...
For long has chance with us to be?
VIII
Is he the same or quiet now?
Or, as before, he plays the crank?
What kind’s he now anyhow?
And what for is can now lurid?