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Updated: June 14, 2025
She walked up to me as I was sitting on the couch I motioned to her to sit by me, but she stood before me with a stately air, fixing upon me her dark gazelle-like eyes. "`Do you, said she, in a slow and solemn tone of voice, `do you remember the conversation which we had upon our respective creeds?
"Who loves not swan-neck and gazelle-like eyes, * Yet claims to know Life's joys, I say he lies: In Love is mystery, none avail to learn * Save he who loveth in pure loving wise. Allah my heart ne'er lighten of this love, * Nor rob the wakefulness these eyelids prize." I learnt Love's mortal ill, wherein * Ibn Sina's recipe is fond and wrong."
A dark complexion, a prominent aquiline nose, a fine gazelle-like eye, and hard-looking features are overshadowed with a triste and melancholy expression, from the circumstance of her being continually an invalid. I saw the poor thing was so weak that she could not stand upright.
The correspondence between Gutel and Mendel, or rather between Kalimann and Saul, flourished for some time. If Kalimann addressed Mendel as "my cherished friend," "my turtle dove," Saul on his side would intersperse throughout his letters such expressions as "your gazelle-like eyes," "your fairy form," "your crimson lips," "your voice rivalling the music of the celestial spheres."
And, as she threw herself back in her chair with an expression of unchangeable determination in her dark, gazelle-like eyes, there suddenly came into her mind the memory of a day long ago, when, driving along the road from Maisons-Lafitte to Saint-Germain, she had met some wandering gipsies, two men and a woman, with copper-colored skins and black eyes, in which burned, like a live coal, the passionate melancholy of the race.
But this way was beset with women, whose sex impelled a yearning for this tall lithe boy with the gazelle-like eyes.
And, as she threw herself back in her chair with an expression of unchangeable determination in her dark, gazelle-like eyes, there suddenly came into her mind the memory of a day long ago, when, driving along the road from Maisons-Lafitte to Saint-Germain, she had met some wandering gipsies, two men and a woman, with copper-colored skins and black eyes, in which burned, like a live coal, the passionate melancholy of the race.
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