The fools one never once forgets;
The aged ladies, decked in roses,
In bonnets and malignant poses;
And several maidens, far from gay
Unsmiling faces on display;
And here's an envoy speaking slyly
Of some most solemn state affair;
A greybeard too . . . with scented hair,
Who joked both cleverly and wryly
In quite a keen, old-fashioned way,
Which seems a touch absurd today!
25
And here's a chap whose words are biting,
Who's cross with everything about:
With tea too sweet to be inviting,
With banal ladies, men who shout,
That foggy book they're all debating,
The badge on those two maids-in-waiting,*
The falsehoods in reviews, the war,
The snow, his wife, and much, much more.
26
And here's Prolzov,* celebrated
For loathesomeness of soula clown,
As you, Saint-Priest,* have demonstrated
In album drawings all through town.
Another ballroom king on station
(Like fashion's very illustration)
Beside the door stood tightly laced,
Immobile, mute, and cherub-faced;
A traveller home from distant faring,
A brazen chap all starched and proud,
Provoked amusement in the crowd
By his pretentious, studied bearing:
A mere exchange of looks conveyed
The sorry sight the fellow made.
27
But my Eugene all evening heeded
Tatyana . . . only her alone:
But not the timid maid who'd pleaded,
That poor enamoured girl he'd known
But this cool princess so resplendent,
This distant goddess so transcendent,
Who ruled the queenly Neva's shore.
Alas! We humans all ignore
Our Mother Eve's disastrous history:
What's given to us ever palls,
Incessantly the serpent calls
And lures us to the tree of mystery:
We've got to have forbidden fruit,
