CHAPTER 7. THE EASTERN HYACINTH.

January 7, 1719.

With a peculiar caution, as if ashamed of something or even afraid of something, Mr. Ruben de Vries slowly opened the completely frosted window of his surprisingly spacious living room—the exceptionally fresh, frosty, winter air immediately rushed into the very exquisite living room of the truly extremely respectable citizen of Oegstgeest, thereby, in an instant, significantly illuminating his relatively young, if it is possible to call the face of the very man who, quite variegately, had crossed the mark of thirty-two years in his life, appearance with a truly nothing more and nothing less than a burning chill: a truly exceptionally charming crimson blush appeared on his absolutely smooth and, importantly, unusually attractive cheeks in the blink of an eye—it was nothing more than a very peculiar consequence of an unusually ardent kiss of the early January morning.

However, it is also necessary to mention that this unusually ardent kiss left its mark not only on the appearance of the aforementioned citizen of Oegstgeest, but also, which is very remarkable, on the face of the no less peculiar than Mr. Ruben de Vries, eastern hyacinth—on the face of that very eastern hyacinth who first saw this sublunary world among the very original, pristine, uncultivated by human hands expanses of Central Dalmatia: its young blue double flowers immediately trembled, thereby resembling, of course, in fateful moments, in moments of death, that very Spartan king with whose name the present mark of the flower was most directly connected—a kind of Apollonian disk, in this case, was none other than the wind!

The eastern hyacinth! What was this flower and what was its story? Long before it ended up in the depths of that clay vessel, which was completely filled with all kinds of images, it grew on the exceptionally fertile land of the currently living descendants of the Dalmatians, where, in turn, it absorbed into its essence with unspeakable thirst nothing more and nothing less than the natural purity of the freshest healing air, which for some reason, or rather for something, completely reigned over the reality surrounding this blue-eyed flower—it must be noted that this wonderful flower did not grow in solitude: it was surrounded from all thirty-two rhumbs with no less carefree light-eyed brothers, who were in absolute degree similar to that aforementioned plant—it was one of many, it was no better and no more beautiful than its other brothers... among the countless charming ones, it was nothing more and nothing less than an ordinary one, however, like all the flowers mentioned a little earlier. It was, it was only a small atom, a small molecule, an insignificant drop of that very wonderful sea, which was called the hyacinth field—it was only a star, an unremarkable star among... no, not among a myriad of similar ones!... but among the dark, cloudless, immense sky!

But was it, was it such in relation to everyone? Of course not! For it, as for all its completely similar brothers, everything changed on that very day when it was extracted, when for some reason its umbilical cord was cut, which in the most natural way connected its life with the life of its blood, its native land—at this hour it felt the most unspeakable kind of pain, not at all, truly not at all realizing that it was that very day, that very hour that was the starting, key point in its life, which after a certain amount of time was able to give it not only considerable attention and admiration from people, but also, importantly, a distinctness, a designation, a definiteness, and an individuality. Continuously sobbing and hourly cursing this moment, the moment of an in no way irreparable separation from its native home, that flower did not even suspect, did not at all suspect, that it was precisely because of the aforementioned separation that it became nothing more and nothing less than a personality, nothing more and nothing less than an eastern hyacinth—ah, but if, if it had known the fate of others, fed with it from a single breast, the fate of other light-faced brothers, would it have, would it have allowed itself to curse that day and that hour? Most of them were doomed to a speedy death—their short life was to a certain extent dedicated to joy or even all kinds of sorrows: some of them were at wedding celebrations, while others were at funeral ceremonies; some of them, not differing from their brothers, in the most natural way symbolized life, while others of those brothers were a symbol, a mark of death; some of them did nothing more and nothing less than burn extraordinarily colorfully, while others of them only smoldered slowly... and each, each of them, regardless of their joyful or sorrowful purpose, performance, or even existence, was doomed, incurably and hopelessly doomed to a speedy death. A smaller part of them was doomed to a relatively long life—a life in a clay or some other material vessel: it was a completely dependent life—completely dependent on the will of man! A few of them, to whom, it must be noted, the aforementioned eastern hyacinth also belonged, were destined for eternal life... but more on that a little later! But never, never, not a single one of the blue-eyed flowers mentioned before, never again for them, of course, in that physical life and in that physical formation, and not with the help of descendants, never again for them to exist, never again for them to live, never again for them to live among the immensely nourishing and extremely hospitable expanses of that nothing more and nothing less than a motionless, unchanging, of course, in its nature, original, and also having seen countless similar hyacinths in its time, field.

“The frosty air is pure, peace reigns all around, and seeing all this, my eyes shine!”—Mr. Ruben de Vries said along with the words of that truly very remarkable poem by Monsieur de Saint-Amant and immediately continued—“Indeed! This frosty air is unusually pure, and in addition... extremely fresh! Relative peace reigns in my house... my eyes, seeing not only the very peculiar charm of winter, but also, importantly, the charm of that eastern hyacinth—are shining! But for how long?”