Have I become blind? Has the inner eye of the soul lost its power?
I have seen her, but it is as if I had seen a heavenly revelation—so completely has her image vanished again for me.
In vain do I summon all the powers of my soul in order to conjure up this image?
If I ever see her again, I shall be able to recognize her instantly, even though she stands among a thousand other beautiful goddesses.
Now she has fled, and the eye of my soul tries in vain to overtake her with its longing.
I was walking along Langelinie, seemingly nonchalantly and without paying attention to my surroundings, although my reconnoitering glance left nothing unobserved—and then my eyes fell upon her.
My eyes fixed unswervingly upon her. They no longer obeyed their master’s will; it was impossible for me to shift my gaze and thus overlook the object I wanted to see—I did not look, I stared.
As a fencer freezes in his lunge, so my eyes were fixed, petrified in the direction initially taken. It was impossible to look down, impossible to withdraw my glance, impossible to see, because I saw far too much.
The only thing I have retained is that she had on a green cloak, that is all—one could call it capturing the cloud instead of Juno; she has escaped me . . . and left only her cloak behind. . . .
The girl made an impression on me.
I feel no impatience, for she must live here in the city, and at this moment that is enough for me.
This possibility is the condition for the proper appearance of her image— everything will be enjoyed in slow drafts.
Cordelia, that is her name!
Cordelia! It is a beautiful name, and that, too, is important, since it can often be very disturbing to have to name an ugly name together with the tenderest adjectives.