ner writing a sentimental letter (I think the fourth) to his friend on the subject of his platonic love, all the time stealthily eyeing a seductive brunette. In another place Bohdan, a landed proprietor from Šumava, who had had bad luck with his country-women, threw himself at once upon the slippery path of life, and to all appearances was better off here: with one arm he embraced the neck of a black-eyed bayadere, while with the other he smilingly carried a glass to her lips. There again gloomy Ronovský made a desperate attempt to rival Onyegin’s frosty calm.
(I have a long poem on Ronovský, I think some ten thousand verses, all in rhyme, put away in my desk. Like all poets I at one time wrote a Faust, but a higher Providence has watched over him: my Ronovský is forever buried in my desk, labelled: antiqua.)
A few more men, some older, others younger, whom I do not care to mention specially, were passing their time with the
