XXII

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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?