His malady, whose cause I ween It now to investigate is time, Was nothing but the British spleen Transported to our Russian clime. It gradually possessed his mind; Though, God be praised! he ne’er designed To slay himself with blade or ball, Indifferent he became to all, And like Childe Harold gloomily He to the festival repairs, Nor boston nor the world’s affairs Nor tender glance nor amorous sigh Impressed him in the least degree,— Callous to all he seemed to be. XXXVI Ye miracles of courtly grace, He left _you_ first, and I must own The manners of the highest class Have latterly vexatious grown; And though perchance a lady may Discourse of Bentham or of Say, Yet as a rule their talk I call Harmless, but quite nonsensical. Then they’re so innocent of vice, So full of piety, correct, So prudent, and so circumspect Stately, devoid of prejudice, So inaccessible to men, Their looks alone produce the spleen.(16) [Note 16: Apropos of this somewhat ungallant sentiment, a Russian scholiast remarks:—“The whole of this ironical stanza is but a _refined eulogy_ of the excellent qualities of our countrywomen. Thus Boileau, in the guise of invective, eulogizes Louis XIV. Russian ladies unite in their persons great acquirements, combined with amiability and strict morality; also a species of Oriental charm which so much captivated Madame de Stael.” It will occur to most that the apologist of the Russian fair “doth protest too much.” The poet in all probability wrote the offending stanza in a fit of Byronic “spleen,” as he would most likely himself have called it. Indeed, since Byron, poets of his school seem to assume this virtue if they have it not, and we take their utterances under its influence for what they are worth.] XXXVII And you, my youthful damsels fair, Whom latterly one often meets Urging your droshkies swift as air Along Saint Petersburg’s paved streets, From you too Eugene took to flight, Abandoning insane delight, And isolated from all men, Yawning betook him to a pen. He thought to write, but labour long Inspired him with disgust and so Nought from his pen did ever flow, And thus he never fell among That vicious set whom I don’t blame— Because a member I became. XXXVIII Once more to idleness consigned, He felt the laudable desire From mere vacuity of mind The wit of others to acquire. A case of books he doth obtain— He reads at random, reads in vain. This nonsense, that dishonest seems, This wicked, that absurd he deems, All are constrained and fetters bear, Antiquity no pleasure gave, The moderns of the ancients rave— Books he abandoned like the fair, His book-shelf instantly doth drape With taffety instead of crape. XXXIX