At Elisaveta Bagryana's

For the second time I was going to Bagryana's house. On the way, I struggled in vain to recall anything from the order in her reception room and office. Was there nothing distinctive and alluring in what surrounded the poetess, and nothing in particular attracted my feminine gaze? It seemed that the conversation about Bagryana's celebration in Rome had completely absorbed us. Everything else had disappeared on that rainy autumn afternoon. Only she remained, in whose eyes the delight of the "eternal city" was constantly lurking and flashing. And ah, yes... Like a gentle veil, light sycamore curtains had been drawn over all the windows. They covered the objects, created intimacy, and eliminated any curiosity that would otherwise be natural. And now... Now it's spring, I'll wait for the lights to come on so I can see everything. e Bagryana welcomes me warmly. She drives away the fatigue from the long work on her proofs, who knows where. She imperceptibly quickly prepares tea: "Let's wake up a little." Both the tea and the tulle curtains disarm me. But I feel an insatiable thirst to talk, to marvel at the naturalness, simplicity and beauty. The enchantress of Bulgarian verse was sitting next to me in a blouse with purple tones and smiling at me. I could look and ask whatever I wanted!