Spring: -I- -II- -III-
The Stamp Album: (IV) -V- -VI- -VII- -VIII- -IX- -X- -XI- -XII-
In the Municipal Park: -XIII- -XIV- -XV- -XVI-
Springtime Twilight: -XVII-
The Villa: -XVIII- -XIX- -XX- -XXI- -XXII- -XXIII- -XXIV- -XXV- -XXVI- -XXVII-
Bianka’s Lineage: -XXVIII- -XXIX- -XXX- -XXXI- -XXXII- -XXXIII-
Hiatus: -XXXIV- -XXXV- -XXXVI- -XXXVII-
Finale: -XXXVIII- -XXXIX- -XL-
IV
THEN I understood why that spring had so far been so empty, hollow and exhausted. Without realising it, spring had grown introspective and silent, withdrawing into its own depths. It had been making room, opening out completely into pure space, into empty azure without notions or definition, an astonished bare shape ready for the acceptance of new and unknown content. Hence that blue neutrality, as if awoken from a dream, that great and, as it were, nonchalant readiness for everything. That spring held everything in readiness. Uninhabited and spacious, it was placed entirely at our disposal. Breathless and without memories, it awaited, in a word, Revelation. Who could have foreseen that it would emerge in complete readiness, fully equipped and dazzling, from Rudolf’s stamp collection?
They were astonishing abbreviations and formulæ, recipes for civilisations, handy amulets, in which the essence of climates and provinces could be held between finger and thumb. They were remittances on empires and republics, archipelagos and continents. What more could emperors and usurpers, conquerors and dictators take possession of? I suddenly recognised the sweetness of authority over lands, that prick of hunger only to be appeased by dominion. Along with Alexander of Macedonia, I now desired the whole world. And not an inch of ground less than the world.
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