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-
V
DARK, ZEALOUS, and filled with burning reverence, I received that cortège of creation, the marching countries, the glistening processions that I saw at intervals, through crimson eclipses, stunned by the pounding of my blood, the beating of my heart to the tempo of that universal march of all of nations. Rudolf allowed those battalions and regiments to pass before my eyes. Empassioned and perplexed, he dismissed the parade. It seemed that he, the owner of the album, had voluntarily downgraded himself to the role of adjutant. Solemnly, like an oath, he filed his report — earnest, enthralled and disorientated in his unclear and ambiguous role. At last, in exultation, in a surge of some kind of passionate magnanimity, he fastened to me, like medals to my chest, a pink Tasmania as bright as May, and a Hyderabad, swarming with a gypsy babble of tangled alphabets.
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