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-
XXI
BIANKA, wonderful Bianka is a riddle to me. I study her insistently, obstinately — and desperately — on the basis of the stamp album. How is this possible? Is the stamp album also a treastise on psychology? A naïve question! The stamp album is the universal book, a compendium of knowledge of every kind concerning humanity. In allusions and hints, naturally, in insinuations. A particular perspicacity is needed, a certain courage of the heart and a certain imaginativeness in order to find the thread, that fiery trace, that flash of lightning running through the pages of the book.
One must beware one thing in these matters: narrow-mindedness, pedantry — dull literalness. All things are interrelated; all the threads lead to a single reel. Have you ever noticed that flocks of swallows fly past between the lines of certain books, whole verses of trembling, pointed swallows? The flight of those birds must be interpreted...
But I shall return to Bianka. How touchingly beautiful are her movements. Each one is performed with deliberation decided upon centuries ago, undertaken with resignation as if she has known in advance all the courses, the unalterable sequence of her fate. Sitting opposite her on the park avenue, I happen to want to ask her something with a glance, to request something I have in my mind, and I try to formulate my petition. And before it comes to me, she has already replied, replied with a single sad, deep and terse look.
Why does she keep her head bowed? Into what are her eyes so intently and pensively gazing? Are the depths of her fate so abysmally sad? Does she not, however, despite everything, bear that resignation with dignity, with pride, as if it must be exactly so, as if that knowledge, depriving her of joy, has in exchange bestowed a kind of inviolability, some higher freedom found at the bottom of voluntary submission? This confers the charm of triumph to her submissivenesses, and thus she vanquishes it.
She is sitting opposite me on the bench, beside her governess, and they are both reading. Her white dress — I have never seen her in any other colour — lies on the bench like an open flower. Her slender legs with their dusky complexion are crossed before her with unutterable grace. The touch of her body must actually be painful, from the concentrated holiness of the contact.
Then they both get up, closing their books. In one fleeting look, Bianka receives and returns my fervent respects, and she walks away as if unconcerned, the meandering alternation of her legs falling melodiously into rhythm with the great elastic strides of her governess.
> -XXII- >