CHAPTER 13. A BURNING QUESTION.

January 13, 1842.

Unable to restrain myself any longer, I looked at her impatiently—she was uncommonly charming: in those moments, I sincerely, unreservedly admired her not only for her physical but also for her spiritual beauty—I was enchanted by her, I was in love with her, I was happy... happy because of her appearance, because of her being! Outwardly, she seemed no older than sixteen, but in reality, she had just recently passed the eighteen-year mark. Ah! How lovely she was! Her caramel-colored hair fell smoothly, like waves in calm weather, onto her small, exceptionally fragile shoulders. At that very moment, her wondrous eyebrows brought to my mind the thought of the perfectly shaped, lanceolate leaves of a very elegant and, what's more, charming peach tree: their base was impeccably widened—and they were no less perfectly tapered towards the end. Eyebrows! Ah, what eyebrows they were! Being indescribably inspired, I believed, like the well-known Strato, I was utterly convinced at that moment, that her soul, her purest soul, was most naturally located between her most wondrously formed eyebrows—and it was there, by my current conviction, that the focus of her subtle consciousness, her fresh thinking, was also located: it was in this marvelous place that very peculiar and unique thoughts were hidden about how in every truly human home, along with the Bible, there should also be, if not as weighty as the aforementioned book, but still, still, a volume of Voltaire.

Nevertheless, in those moments, I could not but admit that her being, which was the possessor of truly exquisite thoughts, despite that, did not strive for knowledge so much as to immediately, recklessly and thoughtlessly, rush off in search of the Library of Ashurbanipal—it was significantly deeper in its understanding of this world than those who strove for such things: it was sensitive, and therefore more refined and more gentle—it was the embodiment of nature itself... for nature is not a colossal mind, but a colossal feeling! Eyebrows! Wondrous eyebrows! It seemed that for a kiss of that uncommonly enchanting space of her flesh, which was the focus of her consciousness and her thought, countless men would be ready right now, at this very moment, to go, for the sake of glory, for the sake of love, for the sake of greatness, and for the sake of jealousy, to destroy entire nations and entire states—in that wondrous focus of consciousness and thought, such thoughts were incapable of forming, for she was too virtuous to create them in any way: for a gentle kiss of her, men were ready to destroy each other—but she did not wish to destroy anyone! And her eyes... ah, these eyes were no less sacred to me than the appearance of the Avesta in the Zoroastrian teachings! Eyes... ah, beholding them, I truly, involuntarily plunged into that very state that theurgists intentionally invoked in order to, for one reason or another, summon spirits! Her almond-shaped eyes seemed to contain all the magic, all the singularity, all the fairy-tale quality of the emerald hue of the sea—no, they, being moderately mobile, were, in truth, nothing more and nothing less than two indescribably gentle repositories of emerald moisture! In these eyes, a feeling resided—a tender, genuine, and sincere feeling! It was feeling that was the main, key, and cornerstone initiator of all the actions, all the movements, all the deeds of this being, so unique in its singularity—feelings in it were entirely dominant over its mind, and this was testified to most clearly by her furiously, continuously shining eyes. Wondrous eyes! Her gaze was sensitive and at the same time, it seemed, unshakeable by anyone or anything—unshakeable, like the Wall of Derbent! It combined charm and majesty—and there was a considerable, very significant reason for that: she was the blood daughter of one who had created with his own hands and likewise cultivated his own garden, destined for him by fate itself—and the Lord God commanded the man, saying, "You may eat freely from every tree of the garden." [1]

Her nose, in turn, truly and perfectly resembled one of the neat, well-formed, and faultless, uncommonly gentle hills of Tuscany, whose snowy whiteness at that moment was completely similar to the whiteness of Lilium candidum [2]—her wondrous, neat nose continuously, constantly granted that sublunary world the indescribable freshness of the sweet breath of this seemingly flawless being. It ennobled her essence and at the same time was uncommonly attractive—it was the crown of her extremely lovely face, a kind of cornerstone of her charm: it was on it that her greatness and her fascination were based—it was it, being a smooth, correct elevation, that determined the very peak from which her truly exceptional beauty emanated. It stood out, in its charm, among others like it, just as the Ottoneum in Kassel differs from other structures and buildings in the aforementioned city—and besides, it was beautiful not only externally but also contained within its depths an untold, indescribable, priceless treasure: her breath! Looking at her at that moment, I, truly, being like some cloud, for some reason wandering within the confines of this world, continuously, incessantly absorbing the amazing charm of her wondrous physical appearance into my essence, into my being, like a kind of celestial moisture, intended, having become completely saturated with it, if it was at all possible to become saturated, to fill every day she lived with unrestrained, indescribable tenderness, and with an indescribable frenzy, with a gentle warmth that was in no way depleted within my essence.

I studied her, I watched her closely—I comprehended her with the same diligence with which every truly honest and conscientious lawyer comprehends the norms of not only the current legislation but also the norms of the law, which is the most significant thing! I contemplated her, I revered her—I contemplated and revered her as a true botanist, as a true follower of Linnaeus, contemplates and reveres an uncommonly charming flower unknown to his being! I loved her, I truly loved her! I loved her as the glorious Belisarius loved war! I loved her, I truly loved her, even if this love substantially constrained my freedom! I loved, I truly loved the one whose education, in accordance with the three principles of Nicholas of Gedeon, was considered complete! I loved, I truly loved the one whose University of Padua was the fiabe of Carlo Gozzi, whose University of Coimbra was the poems of Gil Vicente, whose University of Valladolid was the plays of Lope de Vega, whose Sorbonne University was the comedies of Jean-Baptiste Molière, whose University of Oxford was the treatises of Mandeville, whose University of Heidelberg was the works of Goethe! I loved, I truly loved the one who differed from other women to the same extent that love differs from pleasure—I loved, I truly loved the one who was uncommonly pure and no less virtuous! Could I, could I, having once met her with my gaze, look at others? Other women no longer held any interest for me—having experienced the true female nature, when I met them, I immediately assigned each of them to a specific class, species, and subspecies! But she was not among them! She was positioned separately in my worldview! I could not comprehend her, and therefore I could not define her—it was for this very reason that she was exceptional to me! Her cheeks, entirely, with the help of nature, but by no means with the help of various human tricks, decorated in living, strawberry tones that were pleasant to any man's gaze, with indescribable magic beckoned my gaze, which was incapable of being anything other than genuinely tender, and which was furiously admiring her wondrous nature—it seemed that they were purposefully created by the uncommonly skillful chisel of nature so that they would be... no, not kissed!... but glorified! Her uncommonly soft, sweet lips of Tyrian purple were incapable of emitting any other sound than a sound with the most tender hint of amoroso—such a designation must be used to define that very tempo that most directly characterized all the words, without a doubt, without the slightest exception, flowing from her lips! Ah, wondrous words! They could testify to only one thing—her heart, like the Sea of Marmara, never grew cold!