Horace left a less noble posterity, and I see one of his descendants
in the person of that tavern poet, who at this moment is serving
out wine in cups under the epicurean motto of his sign.

And yet life decides in favour of friend Flaccus, and his philosophy
is the only one which adapts itself to the course of events. There
is a fellow leaning against that trellis-work covered with vine-
leaves, and eating an ice, while watching the stars. He would not
stoop even to pick up the old manuscript I am going to seek with so
much trouble and fatigue. And in truth man is made rather to eat
ices than to pore over old texts.

I continued to wander about among the drinkers and the singers.
There were lovers biting into beautiful fruit, each with an arm
about the other's waist. Man must be naturally bad; for all this
strange joy only evoked in me a feeling of uttermost despondency.
That thronging populace displayed such artless delight in the simple
act of living, that all the shynesses begotten by my old habits as
an author awoke and intensified into something like fright.
Furthermore, I found myself much discouraged by my inability to
understand a word of all the storm of chatter about me. It was a
humiliating experience for a philologist. Thus I had begun to feel
quite sulky, when I was startled to hear someone behind me observe:

"Dimitri, that old man is certainly a Frenchman. He looks so
bewildered that I really fell sorry for him. Shall I speak to him?
...He has such a goo-natured look, with that round back of his--do
you not think so, Dimitri?"

It was said in French by a woman's voice. For the moment it was