XXII
And my Tattiana now began
To understand by slow degrees
More clearly, God be praised, the man,
Whom autocratic fate’s decrees
Had bid her sigh for without hope—
A dangerous, gloomy misanthrope,
Being from hell or heaven sent,
Angel or fiend malevolent.
Which is he? or an imitation,
A bogey conjured up in joke,
A Russian in Childe Harold’s cloak,
Of foreign whims the impersonation—
Handbook of fashionable phrase
Or parody of modern ways?