8 March 2010. Natasha in yellow chair, curled up in one dark ball. The queen of fur, lifting her head for a furtive caress... Her small pink tongue...
Alexander Sergeevich, in exile at Mikhailovskoe, where Arina Rodionova, his old nurse, will of an evening share fairly tales and legends in her own Russian tongue (the poet had heard them before, of course, but only in courtly French), thereby (as he phrased it) "making up for the defects in his accursed education..."
Last night: Sergey standing at Tatiana's shoulder, his every gesture defining the cadence of a song. Count Sheremetov's setting for a poem, also from Pushkin--one of the most seemingly simple--Ya Vas Lyubil...
I loved you once, love still perhaps...
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