on her neck

Seeing her safe, sound and merry, he ceased to worry. He could well see she did not get soaked at all. His cape was very thick and although it seemed rather short on himself, it covered her so neatly that the rainy dampness got only her dress deep. Her wet hair, however, now twice as heavy, were falling on her neck. She shook her head; her bun, loose and even more disheveled after the storm, got unwinded and swathed her back in a black, drenched wave. Perhaps she was not aware of this beauty of hers. But he clung with his glowing eyes to the falling, curvy hair and standing just a step behind, he held out his hand to her head, then withdrew it and reached again, and finally touched it fearfully, this soft, shiny mass of her hair. [E. Orzeszkowa, On the Niemen 1888, translation mine]
Finally, I've found this piece, the only one I remember that well from the novel. I recalled it a few days ago, when I told someone I had a crush on Justyna Orzelska throughout the book, just like Czesław Miłosz said he had had. I read On the Niemen at some point in this two year and a half period when I was living in the countryside with my parents. It was when I thought in the language of intense colors, the smell of cows and low evening sun -- a kind of narration totally different to what I have now inside of me. In the late afternoons in full summer I used to sit on the stairs behind the house, the sky was something between blue and violet, there were the pulsating lights of the only house I could see from where I was sitting. Crickets, soft bread and suntan. Květa Legátová, Goran Bregović and Tomasz Tomaszewski. And yet instead of sanity it gave me yearning and anxiety. But at least I was writing.
Now I'm here for two days only, watching the trees and snow not closer than from behind the window. 'Cause I'm in a totally different place right now. I don't write any more. I don't like having things in excess, I don't like feeling sorry for myself and I don't like misery. I like work. I'm getting heartless and conceited – that's how some would like to see it. I'm calmer.
So I'm here and it's been smooth and peaceful so far. My father picked me up from the R. town yesterday and it was a piece of cake 'cause he doesn't nurse any grudge for my rare visits like my mother does. I managed to divert her attention as well, giving both of them a bottle of choya for their twenty-ninth wedding anniversary right away. Then I baked two roasting tins of oat cookies, which will probably guarantee my safety till my happy departure on Monday morning [if not, I'll bake some more]. Then I basically nodded off in a chair the whole evening. In that Japanese restaurant Higashi I slept over my tofu soup, tempura vegetables and tirasake. Finally, I woke up for a moment to tell a naughty joke and make a remark on Japanese moshi moshi sounding just like German Muschi, but then I had to say what Muschi means and my family wasn't particularly happy to hear this one. Apart from my father, who was in a very good shape yesterday, especially when he held the sushi menu under his arm and was trying in despair to learn how to use the chopsticks, and his concentration and clumsiness made him look quite autistic, an effect enhanced by his statement that he really doesn't like changes, which he mumbled over and over again. Got me weeping for joy.
I'm glad I've got so much to do back in Warsaw, but it's harder and harder to get around to preparing the private lessons. Gotta break it. Work's good. Know it.
One of the female strangers gave up the Riga trip; at the same time, my favorite concubine decided to go. The hostel is booked, so nothing can stop us now, unless our plane crashes, but it's not really in my schedule.
I feel like going to the theater and to an exhibition; I want to see the Heartbeats movie. I want to bake a fruitcake and make some dumplings. And I want to drink a lot of wine. The Israeli Shell Segal.