De Animalibus Insectis Libri Septem

— 16 —
A relative from Melenki was a kind, dreamy soul; young ladies in general are incomparably more expansive than our own kind. There is a warmth in them that always glows, a sympathy always ready to love; their feelings are rarely suppressed by egoism, and they lack the calculating mind of men. During one of her visits, she petted and pampered me. She felt sorry that I was so lonely, so neglected. She began to treat me, a thirteen-year-old boy, as if I were a grown-up. I loved her with all my soul for this; I reached out my little hand to her with fervor, swore a vow of friendship and love, and now, thirteen years later, I am ready to reach out my hand again—yet how many circumstances, people, and miles have crowded between us! She flew in like a bright apparition from the banks of the Klyazma and disappeared for a long time afterward. Then I wrote letters to Melenki every week, and in those letters all the dreams and beliefs of that time were preserved. She did not remain in my debt; she answered every letter and squandered with extreme generosity nouns and adjectives to describe the outskirts of Melenki, her room with green window curtains and lilac stocks on the windowsills. But I was little satisfied by letters and waited impatiently for her arrival. It was decided that she would come to us for a full six months; I counted the days on my fingers. And so, one winter evening, I am sitting with Vasily Evdokimovich; he talks about the four types of poetry and washes down each type with kvass. Suddenly, noise, kisses, loud exclamations of joy, her voice. I opened the door; bundles and hatboxes were being dragged through the hall; my cheeks flushed with joy, and I no longer listened to what Vasily Evdokimovich was saying about didactic poetry (perhaps that is why I still do not understand it, even though since then I have had occasion to read Petrosilius’s poem "On Porcelain"). A few minutes later, she came into my little room, and after the offensive "Oh, how you have grown!" she asked what we were doing. I answered proudly: "analyzing poetic works." I even remember the red merino dress in which she appeared before me then. But, alas! Times have changed: she had braided her hair; this offended me, me with my à l'enfant in the style of a child collars—the new hairstyle was so...