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-
XIV
EVERY DAY at that same hour, Bianka walks along the park avenue with her governess. What can I say about Bianka — how can I describe her? I only know that she is wonderfully in harmony with herself, that she fulfils her programme, leaving nothing left over. My heart seized with profound joy, I see her anew each time as she merges with her essence, step by step, as nimble as a dancer, as she unwittingly hits the target dead centre with every movement.
She walks with a very ordinary, moderate grace, but with a simplicity that seizes the heart; and my heart contracts with happiness that she is so simply able — without any artfulness and without any effort — to be Bianka.
Once, she slowly raised her eyes to me, and the wisdom of that look penetrated me to the core, pierced me through and through like an arrow. From that time on I have known that nothing is a secret to her; that she has known all my thoughts from the outset. Since that moment I have placed myself unrestrictedly and absolutely at her disposal. She accepted with a barely visible lowering of the eyelids. It happened without discussion, in passing, in one glance.
When I try to summon an image of her, I can only see a single detail, nothing significant — the chapped skin of her knees, like a boy’s — which is deeply moving and leads my thoughts into agonising defiles of contradiction, between thrilling antinomies. Everything else, above and below, is transcendental and inconceivable.
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