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 full of burning reverence, I accepted that cortège of creation, the marching countries, the glistening processions 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 — full of zeal and perplexity, he dismissed the parade. It seemed that he, the owner of the album, was voluntarily downgrading himself to the role of adjutant; very earnest, enthralled and disorientated in his unclear and ambiguous role, he solemnly filed his report like an oath. At last, in exultation, in a surge of some passionate magnanimity, he fastened 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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