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VI

   And now my Muse for the first time    I'm taking to a high-life rout;44    at her steppe charms  4 with jealous apprehensiveness I look.    Through a dense series of aristocrats,    of military fops, of diplomats    and haughty dames, she glides; now quietly  8 she has sat down and looks, admiring    the noisy crush,    the flickering of dress and speech,    the apparition of slow guests 12 in front of the young hostess,    and the dark frame of men    around ladies, as about pictures.

VII

   She likes the stately order    of oligarchic colloquies,    and the chill of calm pride,  4 and this mixture of ranks and years.    But who's that standing in the chosen throng,    silent and nebulous?    To everyone he seems a stranger.  8 Before him faces come and go    like a series of tedious specters.    What is it — spleen or smarting morgue    upon his face? Why is he here? 12 Who is he? Is it really — Eugene?    He, really? So, 'tis he, indeed.    —  Since when has he been blown our way?

VIII

   Is he the same, or grown more peaceful?    Or does he still play the eccentric?    Say, in what guise has he returned?  4 What will he stage for us meanwhile?    As what will he appear now? As a Melmoth?    a cosmopolitan? a patriot?    a Harold? a Quaker? a bigot?  8 Or will he sport some other mask?    Or else be simply a good fellow    like you and me, like the whole world?    At least here's my advice: 12 to drop an antiquated fashion.    Sufficiently he's gulled the world...    —  You know him?  — Yes and no.

IX

   —  Why so unfavorably then    do you report on him?    Because we indefatigably  4 fuss, judge of everything?    Because of fiery souls the rashness    to smug nonentity is either    insulting or absurd?  8 Because, by liking room, wit cramps?    Because too often conversations    we're glad to take for deeds,    because stupidity is volatile and wicked? 12 Because to grave men grave are trifles,    and mediocrity alone    is to our measure and not odd?

X

   Blest who was youthful in his youth;    blest who matured at the right time;    who, with the years, the chill of life  4 was gradually able to withstand;    who never was addicted to strange dreams;    who did not shun the fashionable rabble;    who was at twenty fop or dasher,  8 and then at thirty, profitably married;    who rid himself at fifty    of private and of other debts;    who gained repute, money, and rank 12 calmly in turn;    about whom lifelong one kept saying:    N. N. is an excellent man.

XI

   But it is sad to think that youth    was given us in vain,    that we betrayed it every hour,  4 that it duped us;    that our best aspirations,    that our fresh dreamings,    in quick succession have decayed  8 like leaves in putrid autumn.    It is unbearable to see before one    only of dinners a long series,    to look on life as on a rite, 12 and in the wake of the decorous crowd    to go, not sharing with it either    the general opinions or the passions.

XII

   When one becomes the subject    of noisy comments, it's unbearable    (you will agree) to pass among  4 sensible people for a feigned eccentric    or a sad crackbrain,    or a satanic monster,    or even for my Demon.  8 Onegin (let me take him up again),    having in single combat killed his friend,    having without a goal, without exertions,    lived to the age of twenty-six, 12 irked by the inactivity of leisure,    without employment, wife, or occupation,    could think of nothing to take up.