The Remaining Works of Benedict de Spinoza

...would agree in the 19th century to be called Plenira, Temira, Selena, or Uslad. I soon rebelled against this classical naming, advising her, to the spite of Boileau original: "Boileau" (*) And to change, without respect for the ear or the sound,

Lycidas into Pierrot, and Philis into Toinon. Art Poétique., to call herself Toinon; and when the second book of "Onegin" came out, I advised her decisively to remain Tatyana, as the priest had christened her. The change of name helped little: Tanya, as always, at every meeting with the "pale friend of the globe," made a lyrical appeal to her, as before, compared her life to flowers thrown into the "turbulent waves" of the Klyazma; in her leisure hours, she loved to weep over her bitter fate, over the persecutions of destiny (which, by the way, pursued her very modestly, so that from the outside its blows were entirely unnoticeable), and over the fact that "no one in the world understands her." This is the La Fontaine element; the Genlis-moral element was no better: she, who read God-knows-what, begged me not to touch Werther, recommended moral books, and so on. Now all this seems ridiculous to me, but back then Tanya was a valkyrie to me: I obediently followed her prophecies. She knew authority very well, and therefore she oppressed me; when I became indignant, and she saw the danger of losing her power, tears flowed from her eyes, friendly, warm reproaches from her lips; I felt sorry for her; I seemed guilty to myself, and her throne stood unshakable once again. It should be noted that girls around 18 generally love to school a boy who falls into their hands and upon whom they test weapons prepared for more important conquests; but then, how they are schooled by boys afterwards, for eighteen years in a row, and the further it goes, the worse it gets! And so, I obeyed Tanya, I was sentimental, and sometimes moral maxims, pale and gaunt, served as the finale of my speeches. I imagine that in those moments I was very ridiculous; it was difficult to wrap my lively character in the candy-wrapper of false sensitivity, and it did not suit me at all to throw around moral maxims made of treacle without the ginger of Genlis’s morality. But what could I do! I passed through this, and, perhaps, it was not so bad.