CHAPTER 20. THE COLD OF AN ICEBERG.

February 20, 1856.

"Sylphide".

O, Phryne of silken tenderness!

Recall that meeting in the places,

Where Athena found her refuge,

And next to her—Hephaestus, the creator!

Recall the manifestation of those feelings—

There was only sincerity there:

My mind, as if in intoxication,

From the tart wine of your eyes,

And my soul—under the blow,

Of sacred meekness… Your lips,

Possess the salt of the Qaidam deserts,

And the dryness of Taklamakan places!

One glance from you—and into the abyss the speeches,

Of Voltaire, Locke, and Rousseau!

Your smile! Your shoulders!

The grace of your cheeks—a true lasso!

And your eyes—the heavens' corals,

Shone brighter than the golden lions,

That in the ancient world adorned,

Part of Solomon's palaces…

You instantly conquered me,

As Rome once conquered,

Those who until then lived peacefully,

Under a fragile, good banner…

However, earthly blessings,

With which your garden is filled,

Riches, like all others,

Alas, do not belong to you:

You borrow them from God,

To use for a time, and then,

If you are a little lucky,

Someone will erect a temple for you,

In the name of these transient charms:

I hardly became one of them—

In the stream of bubbling rivers of blood,

In the struggle for myself,

I withdrew. Was it in vain?!

If death came, it would be like this!

Having accomplished what is beyond the power,

Of the movement of reason, of the mind,

I was inflamed in my soul—

Appearing, like one of the dreams,

Humbly, gently before you,

In the guise of Ecuadorian roses.

Lips—shades of tamarisk,

With their great caress,

Will grace with whiteness what is near,

That remains before them,

Perhaps, or the movement of eyelashes—

The fluttering of jasmine branches—

Will give me a touch,

And I will soar, like a cherub,

Perhaps… A bright comet,

Carrying the light of ethereal affection,

Without changing earthly plots,

Left its mark for a moment,

Striving somewhere into the universe,

Which is called Kosme!

Is it really, my dear, a date,

Many times more criminal than schemes,

Whose spirit is imbued with inattention?!

O, willful one, know this,

Without knowing my suffering,

That even paradise would bore me,

With its good pleasures,

In tender embraces, but not those,

That are called native—

I would rather choose sin,

If your embraces were called that,

Forever…

With the meager creations of the pen,

The soul sings at the hour when,

My mind asserts soundly:

The struggle with you—is like trying,

To eat without teeth: little effect!

But I am ready even for this!

On the yellowness of a piece of shagreen,

Having written "Sylphide" with a tremor,

I directed my feelings at the targets,

But I myself became that target,

Burning invincibly and fervently,

Like the most revered of bushes—

More pleasant and sweeter than bait,

The catch is that much heavier…

See me in a single word,

When you sometimes get bored,

With the tender feelings, that were seen,

And which now separate us from everyone,

When the soul yearns for happiness,