Here you are waiting for the Beautiful Lady, and you don’t know that her beauty is fatal. Two years you’ve lived in my room, and never before have you stared out the window in this way, lost in thought. Apparently your turn has come. Come away from the window before it is too late, don’t breath in the evil breath of these insidious flowers, and don’t wait for the Beautiful Lady to arrive under your window and enchant you. She will come, She will enchant you, and you will follow whither you’d not want to go.
Her bare arms were raised to the crown of black braids encircling her head, for just at that moment she was pinning a bright vermillion flower to her hair. Her thin, short tunic was fastened at her shoulders with a golden clasp. Her legs, lightly tanned and bare to the knee, were as shapely as the legs of a resurrected goddess. The youth’s heart began to pound, and forgetting all caution and modesty, he rushed back to the window and gazed greedily at the lovely vision. The Beautiful Lady threw a quick, fiery glance in his direction – her eyes flashed a dark blue from beneath black, even brows – and her smile was tender and arch.
But there were women among the pedestrians and riders, and their presence gave the picture a cryptic, anxious meaning. They were going about their errands and to all appearances were absolutely ordinary and unremarkable, but Pavel saw their strange and terrifying particularity: they were different, alien from the rest of the crowd and did not blend into it, but were like sparks in the midst of darkness. And everything was for them: the streets, houses and people, everything gravitated towards them, thirsted for them – without understanding them.
If there are happy people; if there are times when the mad sun of joyousness shines on them, carrying them off in a sweet whirl of ecstasy to undreamt of lands – then where are the words to tell about it? And if there is such a thing as truly bewitching beauty, how can one describe it?
– Fyodor Sologub