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 very 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 by profound joy, I see her anew each time as she merges step after step, as nimble as a dancer, with her essence, as she unwittingly hits the target, dead centre, with her 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 artfulness or 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 onward, I have known that nothing is a secret to her, that she has known all of my thoughts from the outset. From that moment onward, I have placed myself absolutely and unrestrictedly at her disposal. This she accepted, with a barely perceptible lowering of the eyelids. It happened without discussion, in passing, in a single glance.
When I try to summon an image of her, all I can see is 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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