De Piscibus Libri V et De Cetis Liber Unus

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The female relative from Melenki was a kind, dreamy soul: young women are generally infinitely more expansive than our own brother; they possess a warmth that always glows, a sympathy always ready to love; their feelings are rarely stifled by egoism, and they lack the calculating, masculine mind. During one of her visits, she fondled and caressed me; she felt sorry that I was so lonely, so without a greeting; she began to treat me, a thirteen-year-old boy, as if I were a grown-up; I fell in love with her with all my heart for this; I gave her my small hand with fervor, swore friendship and love, and now, 13 years later, I am ready to reach out my hand again—but how many circumstances, people, and miles have crowded between us! She flew in like a bright ghost from the banks of the Klyazma and disappeared for a long time afterward; back then I wrote epistles to Melenki every week, and in those epistles all the dreams and beliefs of that time were preserved. She did not remain in my debt, answering every letter and scattering with extraordinary generosity the nouns and adjectives to describe the surroundings of Melenki, her room with its green curtains and purple gillyflowers on the windows. But I was little satisfied with letters and waited impatiently for her herself; it was decided that she would come to us for a full half-year; I counted the days on my fingers... And so, one winter evening, I am sitting with Vasily Evdokimovich; he is discoursing on the four types of poetry and washing down each type with kvass. Suddenly there is noise, kisses, loud sounds of joy, her voice... I opened the door; bundles and hatboxes are being dragged through the hall; my cheeks flushed with joy, I no longer listened to what Vasily Evdokimovich was saying about didactic poetry (perhaps that is why I still do not understand it, although I have since had occasion to read Petrozilius's poem "On Porcelain"); after a few minutes, she came to my little room and, after the insulting "Oh, how you have grown!", she asked what we were doing. I proudly answered: "Analyzing poetic compositions." I even remember the red merino dress in which she appeared before me then. But, alas! Times had changed: she had braided her hair; this insulted me, me with my collars à l'enfant child-style—the new hairstyle was so...