*Life's rich tapestry. Thanks for that.*

In this role I feel at ease too. . .
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*My shalow heart's the only thing that's beating*
I read the book Brideshead Revisited more than once, but not in English which was my great mistake, because if only I read at least one book by Evelyn Waugh in original, then I could speak and write English much better than I can now--yet, unfortunately, I never did it because after reading Brideshead Revisited, I started my own projects, and never had much free time to read somebody else’s writings.
Nina Berberova (1901-1993), Russian-born writer from St. Petersburg wrote the book "Moura: The Dangerous Life of the Baroness Budberg" (1981), non-fiction biography, in Russian translation entitled “Iron Lady”. Countess, later Baroness, Moura (Maria Zakrevskaya Benckendorff) Budberg (c.1891-Nov.1974), was the Ukrainian-born wife of Count Djon (Johann) Benckendorff, a high-ranking Czarist diplomat whom she married in 1911. They owned the mansion called Yendel in Janeda, Estonia where he was shot dead in 1919. Later she was briefly married to Baron Nikolai von Budberg-Bonningshausen, and was at various times the mistress of Sir R. H. Bruce Lockhart, Russian writer Maxim Gorky, and at the end of her dangerous adventures she settled at the household of historian and science fiction writer H.G. Wells, as his secretary. Wells proposed to marry him several times, but she preferred to be his secretary. Being an authoress in a small way, she translated and wrote in English, French and her native Russian--being weak in all the three languages. Knowing of this distinctive peculiarity of her writings, at times I think that I am an authoress like she.
According to Wikidedia, Moura Budberg was the great-great aunt of Nick Clegg, the British Member of Parliament for Sheffield Hallam and, since 18 December 2007, leader of the Liberal Democrats.
Perhaps, at times I seem to be one of the big women, who care about many things and persons, and I seem to do it in my blog, but in fact my heart is small, it can’t hold much, only the small circle of interests and only one man.
“Iron Lady” is the term that Nina Berberova invented in her book--but in the opinion of her biographers, this term becomes her personally as nobody else.

"I had learnt to seek intensity…more of life, a concentrated sense of life.” (Nina Berberova, O Magazine, September 2003)
“A concentrated sense of life is pleasure. Our desires vary our life--desire to love, desire to revenge, desire to possess, desire to bestow. To exist with intensity equal to discovery.” (Anthony Blanche)
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*An Instant*
(lyric)
He is a poet and a poem.
He is a question and reply.
Blindfold, benighted, o I fear…
A glint over the sword.
Insanity. He scores.
And I’m at a loss.
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*Melodious Everything *
(story)
“This coupe was created for each other. She lived for him, and he lived to give light to people. As they were together, people admired the beauty and harmony, which the couple emitted. Their relationship was like music that spread, enfolding all around, both time and space; their touches were like a hypnotic slumber that calmed down and at the same time invigorated with energy of an unearthly magic, which helped the blind men to recover sight, the madmen to get sane, and the desperate ones to find hope--the hope for something like a miracle, the time when everyone would agree with each other: the grief-stricken and the jubilant, the enamored and the unfortunate, the satisfied and the thirsty. It would be the happiest story in the world if it were not for one circumstance: devoting to him, she melted slowly but inevitably, diminishing till she got smallish and then disappeared. And he disappeared along with her, leaving a tiny light as edification to those who did not appreciate life when it was here, and as a reproach to those who appreciated it when it was not more. Sad story? May be. In the story, like in many other matters and incidents, there is no alternative, because… she is a usual wax candle, and he is but a little tongue of flame trembling above his beloved one”--in this way the great composer mused, contemplating the melting candle, three hours before his death.
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*Story of Tomcats*
(reminiscence)
One summer day, at leisure, the handsome tomcat of the name of Innokentius decided to become the king of cats of the courtyard. The point is that the courtyard cats had a king; it was the handsome tomcat of the name of Basil, my good friend who visited my apartment for the purpose of having a snack, milk and having a rest till twilight. I called Basil Super Tomcat because he astonished me showing his wit, doing some amazing tricks with supernatural skillfulness, and being at ease everywhere, at my place as well as outdoors. He enjoyed astonishing me; I enjoyed seeing his wit; so we lived enjoying each other. But one day Basil returned neither to me nor to our courtyard after his outside adventures. Two weeks passed, and it was clear to some of cat lovers that Basil was no more. Personally I felt uncertain or rather I did not want to believe in his death, for it was so painful to me; I hoped that Basil was simply stolen and kept at somebody’s home. But as soon as I saw the black tomcat Innokentius show his intention to become the king, it was clear to me: Basil was no more, for cats felt all the invisible better than we, humans, knowing of it for certain. I missed Basil, but there was no help for it. And so, Innokentius or Kent, as his master called him, decided to become the king of the courtyard.
This is how it came about. Kent approached to every tomcat in turn and began to force his authority upon his victim. However, he did not do it too cruelly, for he was not a wicked cat by his nature; he just bared his teeth, lifted his right forepaw, enforcing his vis-à-vis to notice and remember what the tomcat could see at the moment, that is the bare teeth and the mighty black forepaw, and he as though asked what the tomcat preferred: surrender or duel. Our block of flats was adjacent to the barracks of the high military school, and all the tomcats enjoyed this adjacency, for they loved to watch the life of the young military cadets, being those young men at heart. Kitties never walked in our courtyard--true, there were several kitties in our block of flats, but all of them were kept in apartments without allowing to go outdoors--so, only tomcats walked around and outside the courtyard. And the black tomcat Kent seemed to be toughest of them, and he had a master, the man who was supposedly tougher and mightier than the masters of all the rest tomcats--and some of the tomcats had no a master at all. Therefore very soon, all the tomcats gradually, in turn, submitted to Kent. And there, in the courtyard, walked one more tomcat, whom far in the day I settled at my place, making sure that he was if not stray then homeless at present. I named him Barrwick, which could be translated as a ‘little snow leopard’--lovely name for the loveliest young thing in the world--he was beautiful, truly beautiful, looking clean and healthy, calm and comely, and he had a very special temper and frame of mind, which one could say about every cat, in my opinion. That day, looking out of the window I could see the king Kent walking around, other tomcats lying in the sun, and at a distance my future new tomcat, young Barrwick approaching to the territory of the new king. Barrwick was not alone--one more tomcat accompanied him or rather Barrwick led the tomcat to our courtyard. The unknown tomcat looked confused, and one could guess that his master first let him go out for a walk only recently, may be yesterday. Now, my Barrwick led the tomcat who looked young, confused, timid and very nice. Here, all of a sudden, the king Kent turned up before the two, which should be expected, and the unknown tomcat saw the bare teeth and the lifted black forepaw right before his nose. The king’s authority looked impressive. Feeling betrayed, in the whirl of senses, the poor young thing could manage nothing but lifting his head and crying “Help! Help! Mammy! Daddy! Help!” in his native feline language, which sounded like “Miaow! Miaow! Miaow! Miaow!” And the young cunning Barrwick left his friend alone but he did not run away--pretending to be deaf to the desperate cries, he turned away gracefully, his lifted up tail to the two, who were immersed in the dispute, then he got his nose closer to one of the few flowerets and sniffed its aroma as though nothing had happened. As I think, it was his intention: being the youngest of the tomcats, he brought the unknown young tomcat from the neighbouring yard purposely, in order to distract the new king’s attention from his own person, giving the nice-looking and unsophisticated new comer as the next victim to Kent.
I saw all the described with my own eyes, looking out of the window of my kitchen. Delighted with Barrwick’s wit, I went out to the courtyard and invited him to live with me. The next day, appreciating the good food and the best of care, he had nothing against living with me and settled at my place for ever.
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