MihaElla > Recent Status Updates

Iubirea. Sigur, iubirea. Foc si flacari pentru un an, cenusa pentru treizeci. Stia el ce insemna iubirea...

— Sambata veti avea de marturisit doua pacate, Excelenta: unul de ieri, al trupului, celalalt de azi, al spiritului. Sa nu uitati!

Alas, and a-lack! Conventionally, today is Tuesday 😁 Let’s live till Saturday and then we’ll reckon the final numbers: hopefully the verdict won’t lead to guillotine

Sunt un biet om slab — se gandea, in timp ce pasii sai puternici calcau pe caldaramul murdar — sunt slab si nimeni nu ma ajuta. Stella! Usor de spus! Martor mi-e Dumnezeu ca am iubit-o, ne-am casatorit la douazeci de ani. Dar acum e prea artagoasa. Si prea batrana.
Sentimentul de slabiciune ii trecuse...

Cand intra in sufragerie erau cu totii acolo, doar Principesa statea jos, ceilalti in picioare in spatele scaunelor. In fata locului sau, flancate de o coloana de farfurii se rotunjeau soldurile de argint ale enormei supiere acoperite cu un capac pe care dansa Ghepardul. Principele servea el insusi supa, un gest placut, simbol al indatoririlor proteguitoare ale unui pater familias.

Era o gradina pentru orbi: vazul era iritat incontinuu, dar mirosul putea sa gaseasca aici o placere intensa, chiar daca nu prea delicata. [...] Principele isi duse unul la nas (*trandafir) si avu senzatia ca miroase coapsa unei balerine de la Opera. Pana si Bendico (*cainele), cand ii fu oferit, se retrase ingretosat si se grabi sa caute mirosuri mai salubre prin balegar si printre niste soparlite moarte.

Divine!!

I seized her hand and for a long time could not utter a single word. We both kept silent from fullness of heart. We remained all alone. The whole world was forgotten.

Is this my land, this wretched land,
this land I do not know?
I did not come here of my own free will;
is was not my brave horse that brought me here.
What brought me here, a fine young lad and brave,
was recklessness, a youngster's boisterousness,
and a small sip of tavern liquor.
-- An old song

“Do you see now, Petr' Andréjïtch," said he, "what it is to commit follies? You have a headache; you won't take anything. A man who gets drunk is good for nothing. Do take a little pickled cucumber with honey or half a glass of brandy to sober you. What do you think?”

“Avdotia Vassiliéva," said he (father), sharply addressing my mother, "how old is Petróusha?"

"His seventeenth year has just begun," replied my mother. "Petróusha was born the same year our Aunt Anastasia Garasimofna lost an eye, and that—"

"All right," resumed my father; "it is time he should serve. 'Tis time he should cease running in and out of the maids' rooms and climbing into the dovecote.”

“It seems to me, thank heaven, the child was washed, combed, and fed. What was the good of spending money and hiring a 'moussié,' as if there were not enough servants in the house?"

Beaupré, in his native country, had been a hairdresser,then a soldier in Prussia,& then had come to Russia to be "outchitel," without very well knowing the meaning of this word. His greatest weakness was a love of the fair sex.”

Take care of honour while you're young.
-- An old proverb

At length Tatyana gave a sigh,
arose from her bench
and began to walk; but she'd no sooner
turned into the avenue than straight ahead
she saw Eugene, eyes flashing,
standing like a looming thundercloud.
Tatyana, as though scorched by fire,
stopped dead.

Tatyana's letter lies before me.
I've guarded it religiously,
To read it fills me with inner sadness
but I can never read it enough.
Who can have taught her to write so tenderly,
so casually, and so endearingly?
Who can have put into her mind such touching nonsense,
such reckless openness about her feelings -
winsome indeed, but dangerous too?
It's beyond my comprehension. Anyhow,
here's my translation...

How was Tatyana guiltier than these?
Was it that in her fond simplicity
she'd never thought of being deceitful
but believed in her cherished dream?
Was it that her love was uncontrived
and answered to nothing beyond her true feelings?
Was she too trusting?
Or was it that Heaven had endowed her
with too free an imagination
with intelligence and a will of her own
with an impulsive mind
and a warm and tender heart?
No!

Tatyana, sweet Tatyana!
You're often in tears -- and so am I.
You've now surrendered your future
to the mercy of a socialite used to getting his way.
Your tender heart will surely get broken
For now, though, you are impatient for the darkness
that, dazzled by hope, you mistake for bliss
You are tasting life's headiest pleasure
and drinking the magic poison of desire.
Your dreams pursue you constantly
wherever you

She was a girl -- a girl in love.

It was Olga who gave the poet
the first of his youthful dreams of love;
and it was the thought of her
that inspired his first poetical effusions.
Goodbye to childhood's golden pastimes!
Instead, he came to love dense woodlands
and solitude and quiet
the night, the stars, the moon.
(It was to the moon, Heaven's icon lamp
that we too used to consecrate
those strolls we took through the evening twilight,
those tears...

Rich, and in his way good-looking, Lensky
was welcomed everywhere as prospective bridegroom
(such is the country way!)
Everyone marked their daughters out
for the "half-Russian neighbour"
As soon as he dropped in
the talk would stray
to the tedium of bachelor life.
He's summoned to the samovar-
where Dunya's pouring tea.
They whisper, "Dunya, here's your chance."
Then out the mandolin comes too,
and (heaven help us!)

He wrote of love, himself love's willing victim
and his poetry was as serene
as the thoughts of an innocent girl
as an infant's slumber, or as the moon
in the tranquil deserts of the sky
that goddess of mysteries and tender sighs.
He wrote of parting and of sorrow
of a vague "something", of the "misty distance"
and of roses (those romantic flowers!)
He wrote of "yonder far-off lands"
where "his living tears had long

For my part, I was born for a life of peace
and rural quietude
Poetry has more resonance in the wilds
creative dreams more vividness
I dedicate myself to harmless pastimes
I roam by the deserted lake
far niente is my law
Each morning I awaken
to pleasant self-indulgence and to freedom
I don’t read much; I sleep a lot
I don’t pursue elusive fame
Isn’t that how in years gone by
I spent my happiest days-

In my days of fun and flirting
I used to be madly fond of balls.
there’s nowhere safer to declare your love
or slip a letter into someone’s hand.
respected husbands,
I offer you my services:
I beg you, mark well what I say;
I want to warn you in advance.
And you too, fond mamas,
keep stricter watch over your daughters;
hold your lorgnettes up straight!
or else...or else, God help you!
(why do I write this? well

Latin's gone out of fashion nowadays.
Yet, to do Onegin justice,
he knew enough of it
to make out an inscription,
expatiate on Juvernal,
and end a letter with vale;
and he could quote (not faultlessly, it's true)
two lines from the Aeneid.
For him there was no urge to delve
deep in the dusty archives
of world historiography;
but anecdotes of earlier days,
from Romulus to now,
he memorized with ease.

In a hurry to live, in haste for experience
- Prince Vyazemsky

[...] but happiness in this world cannot or does not, in any situation, exist without alloy.

The peace of mind and fortitude of Emily were fated to receive a blow, as unlooked for to herself as it was unexpected to the world. Bonaparte appeared in France, and Europe became in motion.

“Oh! Peter Johnson; they are young, and rich, and beloved; but, after all, it avails but little if they be not good."

"Good!" cried the steward in astonishment; "they are as good as angels."

The master's ideas of human excellence had suffered a heavy blow in the view of his viscountess, but he answered mildly,
"As good as mankind can well be.”

“Well, Denbigh, when do you mean to have the young couple spliced?"

"Why, the better way is to bring the young people together, in order that they may become acquainted, you know."

"Acquainted—together—" cried his companion, in a little surprise, "what better way is there to bring them together, than to have them up before a priest, or to make them acquainted by letting them swing in the same hammock?”

[...] But, although a Christian, and an humble and devout one, Emily Moseley was a woman, and had loved ardently, confidingly, and gratefully. Marriage is the business of life with her sex,—with all, next to a preparation for a better world,—and it cannot be supposed that a first passion in a bosom like that of our heroine was to be suddenly erased and to leave no vestiges of its existence.

You know the Moseleys, Caroline? said Jarvis...

Yes, replied the lady, what fine arms those of the Duke's are—and the coronet, it is so noble—so rich—I am sure if I were a man, laying great emphasis on the word— I would be a Lord.

If you could, you mean, cried the captain.

Could—why money will buy a title, you know—only most people are fonder of their cash than of honor

“Taste is a poor criterion, I am afraid," said Mrs. Wilson, gravely, "on which to found matrimonial felicity."

"To what would you refer the decision, my dear madam?" inquired the Lady Laura.

"Judgment."

Lady Laura shook her hear doubtingly.

"You remind me so much of Lord Pendennyss! Everything he wishes to bring under the subjection of judgment and principles."

In fact,my child,our natures are guilty of the grossest inconsistencies.Long & tried friendships are those only which can be trusted,& these oftentimes fail.Marriage is a fearful step in a woman,& one she is compelled,in some measure,to adventure her happiness on,without fitting opportunities of judging of the merit of the man she confides in.Jane is an instance in point,but I devoutly hope you are not to be aother