The Collected 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 nomenclature and advised her, to spite Boileau original: "Et changer, sans respect de l'oreille et du son / Lycidas en Pierrot, et Philis en Toinon. Art Poétique.", to call herself Toinon. When the second volume of "Onegin" was released, I strongly advised her to remain Tatyana, just as the priest had christened her. The name change did little: as before, whenever Tatyana met her "pale friend of the globe," she would address her with a lyrical plea, still comparing her life to flowers cast into the "wild waves" of the Klyazma River. In her idle hours, she loved to weep over her bitter lot and the persecutions of fate, which, in truth, pursued her so modestly that its blows were entirely invisible to outsiders, and to lament that "no one in the world understands her." This was the La Fontaine element. No better than that was the Genlisian moralistic streak; she, who read God knows what, begged me not to touch "Werther" and recommended moralizing books, and so on. Now all this seems ridiculous to me, but back then, Tatyana was a Valkyrie, and I submissively obeyed her prophecies. She understood authority very well and therefore oppressed me. When I would grow indignant and she sensed the danger of losing her power, tears would flow from her eyes, followed by friendly, warm reproaches from her lips. I would feel sorry for her, I would find myself at fault, and her throne would stand unshaken once again. It should be noted that girls around eighteen generally love to school the boy who falls into their hands, testing on him the weapons they prepare for more important conquests. But later, how boys school them in return, for eighteen years in a row, and the further it goes, the worse it gets! And so, I obeyed Tatyana, played the sentimentalist, and at times, moralistic sentences—pale and emaciated—served as the finale to my speeches. I imagine I was very ridiculous in those moments. It was hard to bind my lively character with the confectionary ribbon of false sensitivity, and it was certainly not becoming of me to roll out moralizing sentences made of treacle without the ginger of Genlisian morality. But what was to be done! I went through it, and perhaps it was not entirely bad: