Pictor's Metamorphoses Part 2

Karl and Hermann pursued the vanis.h.i.+ng smoke cloud into the woods. "What garbage!" growled the junior barrister, suddenly aware of an unpleasant feeling that he had fallen into dubious company. Erich and Ludwig had already made themselves scarce, and in the golden clarity of the late afternoon they strolled back toward Kirchheim and the Crown.

Karl and Hermann overtook the last fluttering wisps of tobacco smoke deep in the woods, and stood silent and perplexed before a large beech tree. They were about to sit down on a patch of moss, to catch their breath, when the voice of Turnabout spoke out from behind a tree. "Don't sit there, gentlemen, it's still damp! Come join me over here!"

They found the old man sitting on a huge, withered bough that sprawled on the ground like a shapeless dragon. "I'm glad you've come!" he said. "Please do take a seat near me! Your dream, Herr Hamelt, and your ma.n.u.script, Herr Lauscher, interest me."

"First," Hamelt stormed at him, "first, for heaven's sake, you must tell me how you managed to guess my dream!"

"And read my paper!" Lauscher added.

"Indeed!" said the old man. "What's to wonder about? You can guess anything if you ask the right questions. Besides, the story of Princess Lilia is so close to my heart it was only natural that I should recognize it."

"So that's it!" cried the student. "How do you happen to know this story, and how do you explain the sudden and conspicuous appearance of my dream-about which I had spoken to no one-in Lauscher's enigmatic song?"

The philosopher smiled and replied in a gentle voice: "When one has devoted oneself to the story of the Soul and its Salvation, as I have, one recognizes similar instances; they are innumerable. Of Princess Lilia's story there are many, highly divergent accounts. She wanders, displaced, like a ghost, through all the ages, taking on multiple guises, transforming herself; she particularly likes to manifest herself in the commodious form of the dream-vision. Only rarely does the Princess appear as herself, and only when the final stages of the purification process are near completion-only rarely, I say, does she take on human form, and she waits, unawares, for the moment of her salvation. I myself saw her not too long ago and attempted to talk to her. But she was as if in a dream, and when I ventured to ask her about the strings of the Harp Silversong, she burst into tears."

Wide-eyed, the young people listened to the philosopher. Admonitions and strange accords rose up in them; and yet Turnabout's oddly circuitous manner of speaking and his half-ironic facial expressions confused them, tying the threads of his story into one great Gordian knot.

"You, Herr Lauscher," he continued, "write on aesthetics and must know how enticing and dangerous it is to span the narrow, but deep, cleft between the Good and the Beautiful. We need not despair that this cleft signifies an absolute separation, for we know, on the contrary, that the fissure betokens an essential Unity; that the Good and the Beautiful are not two distinct principles; rather, they are the daughters of the one principle: Truth. The two only appear as separate, hostile mountaintops-deep in the womb of the earth, they are one and the same. But what good does this insight do us, when we're left standing on one of these summits with the yawning abyss always before our eyes? The spanning of the abyss and the salvation of Princess Lilia are one. She is the blue flower, the sight of which disburdens the Soul, the scent of which distills all harshness, all obstinacy from the Spirit. She is the child who apportions kingdoms, the fruit of the combined longing of all the great souls. On the day she ripens and is saved, the Harp Silversong will sound, the Laskian Spring will rustle and rush through the restored, blossoming lily garden. And he who sees and perceives this, to him it will seem that his previous life was but one long nightmare, and now for the first time he would awaken to the clear light and the fresh sounds of a new day ... But the Princess still languishes under the curse of the Witch Poisonbreath; the thunder of the evil hour still reverberates in the rubble-filled Opal Palace; and my King, shackled in leaden dream-chains, still lies in the devastated hall."

5.

AN HOUR LATER, when the two friends came out of the woods, they caught sight of Ludwig Ugel, Erich Tnzer, and the junior barrister with a woman in a bright dress coming from the pub, strolling toward them up the mountain. With joy they recognized the slender Lulu and hastened toward the foursome with all due speed. She was cheerful and her gentle, loving voice sweetly mingled in their conversation. Halfway up the mountain, they sat down on a long bench. Below them, the town lay bright and cheerful in the valley; on all sides, the golden vapors of evening glistened on the high meadows. August munificently extended its dreamy fullness; in the trees' thick foliage, green fruits swelled; on the road in the valley, gleaming harvest wagons decorated with garlands made their way toward the villages and farmsteads.

"I don't know what makes these August evenings so beautiful," said Ludwig Ugel. "Still, they don't make you feel happy, they make you want to lie down in the high gra.s.s and become part of the gentle tenderness of the golden hour."

"Yes," Lauscher said, gazing into the pure, dark eyes of the beautiful Lulu. "Because the season is drawing to a close, we feel mellow and sad. How gently and wearily the ripe sweetness of summer spills over into these last days of August. And we know that tomorrow or the day after, somewhere or other, leaves will have already turned red and lie on the roads. In these hours you silently watch the slow turning of the Wheel of Time, and you feel yourself slowly and sadly being carried along with it ... carried off somewhere ... to that place where the red leaves lie."

They all fell silent, listening now to the sounds of the golden evening sky and the colorful landscape. Lulu began to hum very softly; gradually the melody went from a half-whisper to full-voiced singing.

The young men listened in silent rapture. The soft, sweet tones of her n.o.ble voice seemed to come from the very depths of the blessed evening, like dreams from the bosom of the slumbering earth.

From the clear expanse of sky, Peace and harmony gently fall; As do joy and suffering, all Like sweet songs, sweetly die.

With this stanza the evening song was done. Then Ludwig Ugel, who lay on the gra.s.s at the feet of the others, began to sing: O fountain in the forest, O Silverspring most clear, Down to the white chapel, through secret channels, steer!

There on the mossy steps the Virgin Mary is.

Call to her softly, murmur, tell her of my distress.

Hush, speak gently, tell her, tell her of my need: My mouth is red with sin, and oh with singing red.

Carry to her this lily, a pure white offering So that she may forgive me my red life and my sins.

Perhaps her gracious smile will s.h.i.+ne upon your face, And from the pure white flower a sweet scent will arise: Drinking in love and sunlight be all the singer's sins, And only by her gracious kiss may Song's red mouth be cleansed.

And then Hermann Lauscher sang one of his songs: The summer nods its weary head, Sees its pale image in the lake.

Weary, dust-covered, still I tread The broad, shady road I must take.

Weary, dust-covered, onward I tread; Behind me my youth stands still.

Its shapely limbs, its lovely head Will not bend to my will.

Meantime, the sun had set, suffusing the sky with red hues. The overcautious junior barrister was about to remind everyone it was time to be getting home, when once again the lovely Lulu began to sing: Many a towering city, Many a stern fortress Stand in the realm of my father, The King called Sorrowless.

And should a knight of valor Pledge troth and deliver me, To half my father's kingdom Heir he would rightly be.

Now they all got up and slowly started back down the glowing mountain. On the other side of the summit of high Mount Teck, a late strip of sunlight gleamed and failed.

"Where did you learn that song?" Karl Hamelt asked the lovely Lulu.

"I really can't remember," she said. "I think it's a folksong." And she quickened her pace, suddenly seized by a fear of getting home too late and incurring the wrath of the innkeeper's wife.

"We won't let that happen," Erich Tnzer cried out. "In any event, I've been meaning to give Frau Mller a piece of my mind, to tell her exactly..."

"No, not that!" the lovely Lulu interrupted him. "Things will only get worse for me if you do! I'm just a poor orphan who must bear whatever burdens others place on me."

"Oh, Frulein Lulu," said the barrister, "I wish you were a princess and that I could save you."

"No," cried the aesthete Lauscher, "you really are a princess. It's we who are not 'knight' enough to save you. But what's preventing us? I'll do it today. I'll take that d.a.m.ned Frau Mller by the throat..."

"Hus.h.!.+ Hus.h.!.+" Lulu cried beseechingly. "Leave me to suffer my fate alone! I'm only sorry I'm not free to enjoy the rest of this lovely evening."

Little more was said as they quickly neared the town. There Lulu returned to the Crown alone; the others watched her disappear down a dark street.

My father is the King, The King called Sorrowless ...

Karl Hamelt quietly hummed to himself as he made his way home to the village of Wendlingen.

6.

LATER THAT SAME EVENING, Erich Tnzer bided his time in the Crown, waiting until Lauscher took his night light and went up to his room and he alone remained in the tavern. Alone, that is, with Lulu, who was still sitting at his table. All of a sudden, Erich shoved his beer gla.s.s aside, grabbed the fair maiden's hand, looked into her eyes, cleared his throat, and addressed his subject: "Frulein Lulu, I must speak to you. The future public prosecutor in me prompts me to do so. And I must lodge a complaint. You are so beautiful, more beautiful than is permissible by law, that you make yourself and others unhappy. Don't try to speak in your own defense. Where is my good appet.i.te? And my splendid thirst? Where the compendium of Corpus Juris Civilis I so laboriously crammed into my head with the help of Meisel's crib? And the Pandects? And the penal code? And civil procedures? Yes, where are they? In my head, only one paragraph remains, and its rubric reads 'Lulu.' And the footnote: 'O you lovely lady, O most lovely of them all!'"

Erich's eyes bulged even more than usual, his left hand furiously kneaded his fas.h.i.+onable new silk hat to tatters, his right hand clamped down on Lulu's cool hand. She, meanwhile, was on the lookout for an opportunity to escape. Herr Mller was snoring away in the buffet; she could not call out for help.

Then, fortuitously, someone opened the door a crack; a hand and part of a white flannel s.h.i.+rtsleeve pushed through the narrow opening. Something white fell from the hand and fluttered to the ground; then the door closed as quickly as it had opened. Lulu managed to free herself; she bounded toward the door and retrieved the fallen piece of stationery, on which there was writing. Erich sat in vexed silence. But Lulu burst out laughing and read aloud what was on the paper: Lady, must you laugh at me?

See, this burning poet's head You once trusted-so you said- Now lies shamefaced at your feet.

And this heart which had come to know Joy most high and Suffering most low Trembles shyly in your dainty hand.

I, the wanderer, plucked red roses, and I, the singer, sang red songs for you, Now they languish, wilt, and bid adieu, Lie, poor wretches, at your feet- Must you laugh at me?

"Lauscher!" the provoked Erich cried out. "That contemptible scoundrel! You can't possibly believe that thoughtless windbag takes his writing seriously. Those d.a.m.ned verses. Verses!-he writes them to a new heartthrob every three weeks!"

Lulu made no reply to Erich's outburst; she walked over to the open window and stood there listening. From outside came jangling guitar sounds, accompanied by a ba.s.s voice singing: Under an impatient star I stand and play my guitar ...

Oh, do not stay and linger, But come and love your singer!

A gust of wind set the window banging shut. At this, the innkeeper awakened in the buffet and came peevishly through the door to the main room. Erich threw his money down on the table beside his untouched beer and left the tavern without saying goodbye. Taking a leaping bound down the stairs, he went cras.h.i.+ng into the back of the guitarist, who turned out to be none other than junior barrister Ripplein. He and Erich went off toward the chestnut-tree-lined embankment, angry and quarreling.

The lovely Lulu extinguished the gaslights in the parlor and vestibule, and went upstairs to her own room. When she pa.s.sed by Lauscher's door, she could hear agitated footsteps and frequent deep, long sighs. Shaking her head, she came to her own room and lay down on her bed. Since she could not fall asleep, she mulled over the evening's events. But she no longer laughed about them; on the contrary, they made her very sad. It all now seemed like a badly played farce. Pure of heart, she wondered how all these people could be so narrow-minded and foolish, thinking only of themselves, esteeming and loving her only for her pretty face. These young men seemed like so many poor, misguided moths, reeling around a tiny flame, while she had important matters to discuss. How sad and ridiculous, all their talk about Beauty and Youth and Roses; they surrounded themselves with colorful stage sets, made entirely out of words, while the whole bitter truth of life strangely pa.s.sed them by. On her simple, girlish soul the truth was plainly and deeply inscribed: the art of living inheres in learning both sorrow and laughter.

The poet Lauscher lay on his bed only half-asleep. It was a sultry night. Rash, fragmentary, feverish thoughts boiled up in his forehead and vaporized into dreams that swiftly paled; still, the extreme sultriness of the August night and the stubborn, tormenting buzzing of a few crane flies did not escape his consciousness. The crane flies tormented him most. Now they seemed to sing: Perfection, Today you've peered in my direction ...

and now the Song of the Dream-harp. Suddenly he remembered that by now the lovely Lulu had held his poem in her hands and knew of his love. That Oscar Ripplein had serenaded her and that in all likelihood Erich, too, had confessed his love this evening was no secret to him. The poet's thoughts were filled with his beloved's enigmatic temperament, her strange unconscious tie to the philosopher Turnabout, to the Saga of Ask and to Hamelt's dream, her strangely soulful beauty and her gray, commonplace lot in life. That the whole narrow clique of the cenacle was drawn to her as to the lodestone, and that he himself-instead of taking his leave and traveling-with each pa.s.sing hour found himself more and more inextricably enmeshed in the web of this romance, all this made him feel as if he and the others were merely figments of some humorist's imagination, or characters in some grotesque fable. His aching head throbbed with the notion that he and Lulu and the whole tangle of events were all textual fragments from one of the old philosopher's ma.n.u.scripts, powerless and with no wills of their own; hypothetically, tentatively recombined elements in an ongoing experiment in aesthetics. And yet everything in him violently opposed such an unhappy cogito ergo sum; he pulled himself together, got up, and walked over to the open window. Thinking it over clearly, he recognized the hopeless absurdity of his lyrical declaration of love. He felt and understood that, at bottom, the lovely Lulu did not love him but found him laughable. Sadly he lay down on the ledge of the window; stars shone out between wisps of clouds, a breeze blew across the dark crowns of the chestnut trees. The poet decided that the next day would be his last in Kirchheim. The spirit of renunciation, both sad and uplifting, penetrated his tired, uneasy mind, which had been so befuddled with the dream of the previous day.

7.

WHEN LAUSCHER WENT DOWN to the tavern early the next morning, Lulu was already busy with her ch.o.r.es. The two of them sat down to drink a cup of steaming hot coffee. Lulu seemed remarkably changed. An almost queenly radiance illuminated her pure, sweet face, and a singular kindness and intelligence looked out of her lovely eyes, which had grown even deeper.

"Lulu, you have become even more beautiful overnight," Lauscher said admiringly. "I didn't think such a thing possible."

Smiling, she nodded. "Yes, I've had a dream, a dream..."

Across the table, the poet questioned her with a look of astonishment.

"No," she said, "I cannot tell it to you."

At this moment the morning sun came in the window and shone through Lulu's dark hair, proud and golden as a halo. Attentive with sad joy, the poet's gaze hung on the exquisite image. Lulu nodded at him, smiled again, and said: "I have yet to thank you, my dear Herr Lauscher, for the poem you sent me yesterday. It was a very pretty poem, though I must confess I could not entirely understand it."

"It was such an oppressively warm night," Lauscher said, looking straight into the beauty's eyes. "May I see the poem again?"

She gave it to him. After reading it over, he folded it up and hid it away in his pocket. The lovely Lulu looked on in silence, thoughtfully nodding her head. Now they could hear the innkeeper's footsteps on the stairs. Lulu got up with a start and went back to work.

The stout little innkeeper came in and greeted Lauscher.

"Good morning to you, Herr Mller!" Hermann Lauscher replied. "This will be the last day I enjoy your hospitality; I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

"But, Herr Lauscher, I thought..."

"No matter. I'd like you to put a couple of bottles of champagne on ice, and reserve the back room for tonight's farewell celebration."

"Whatever Herr Lauscher wishes."

Lauscher left the inn and set off to see Ludwig Ugel. He wanted to spend his last day in Kirchheim in the company of his best friend.

The sound of morning music already streamed from Ugel's lodgings on Steingaustra.s.se. His hair still uncombed, Ugel stood in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves at his coffee table. It was a pleasure to hear him play his fine violin. The little room was filled with sunlight.

"Is it true that you're leaving tomorrow?" Ugel asked the poet.

The latter was not a little surprised. "How do you know that?"

"Turnabout told me."

"Turnabout? The devil could learn a thing or two from him!"

"Yes, he's quite a droll companion. He spent half the night here, going on and on, quite colorfully, about some Princess, some story about a lily garden and the like. And he gave me to understand that I must rescue the Princess; he was disappointed in you, you're not the true Harp Silversong. Crazy, no? I didn't understand a word he said."

"I do," Lauscher said softly. "The old man's right."

For a while longer he listened as Ugel finished playing the interrupted sonata. As soon as he was done, the two friends left the city arm in arm and made for the Plochingen path that went through the woods. The thought of Lauscher's leaving made the two friends silent. Morning set the lovely mountains and pastures aglow with warmth. Soon the road turned and led into the deep woods; the two strollers lay down to one side of the road on a patch of cool moss.

"We ought to make a bouquet for the lovely Lulu," Ugel said, and, still lying down, began to pluck some ferns.

"Oh, yes," said the other softly, "a bouquet for the beautiful Lulu!" He uprooted a tall shrub that was covered with red blooms. "Add this to it! Red foxglove. I've nothing else to give her. Wild, fever-red, and poisonous..."

He said nothing more; something akin to a sob rose in his throat, bitter and sweet at the same time. Gloomily, he turned away. But Ugel put his arm around Lauscher's shoulder, turned over on his side, and with diverting gestures directed his friend's attention skyward, pointing out the wonderful play of sunlight through the bright green leaves. Each of them thought about his love, and they lay there a long time, under the sky and the treetops, in silence. A strong, cool breeze caressed their foreheads; the fateful blue sky of their carefree youth arched over their souls, perhaps for the last time. Ugel began to sing softly: The Princess, fair Elisabeth- Her name is sunlight, air, and breath.

Oh, that my own were such a name As would bow down to that fair dame, To Beauty, to Elisabeth, Whose own sweet scent is laden with Petals of roses, smooth and frail, Rose petals white, rose petals pale, Rimmed with evening's s.h.i.+mmering gold.

Whoso her moist red lips so bold, Whoso her forehead clear and high Would praise in song, in pain and joy, Happy he'd be of love to die!

The quiet sadness of the beautiful hour made his friend's bosom heave with pleasure and pain. He closed his eyes. From deep within his soul, the image of the lovely Lulu arose, just as he'd seen her that morning, transfigured by sunlight-mild, luminous, intelligent, and unapproachable. His heart throbbed in agitation and grief. Sighing, he ran his fingers over his brow; absently he tore at the foxglove, and sang: I would bow down before you As gentle suitor should, In songs I would adore you Red as roses and red as blood.

I wish to make obeisance, As knight be understood, And pledge you my allegiance, With roses red as blood.

To you, my saint, I offer This prayer, on bended knee, This song of love. Pray suffer To hear my solemn plea.

He had scarcely finished singing when, from deep in the woods, the philosopher Turnabout called out to them. The two rec.u.mbent friends looked up to see him emerge from the bushes.

"Good day," he called out as he approached. "Good day, my friends! Add this to your bouquet for the lovely Lulu!" So saying, he placed a huge, white lily in Lauscher's hand. Then he comfortably settled down on a mossy rock opposite the two friends.

"Tell us, Sorcerer," Lauscher addressed him, "since you seem both ubiquitous and omniscient, tell us who the lovely Lulu really is."

"That's quite a question!" the graybeard smirked. "She herself does not know. That she's the stepsister of that accursed Frau Mller you probably don't believe, nor do I. She knew neither her father nor her mother, and her only tie to home is a strophe of a remarkable song in which she calls a certain King Sorrowless 'Father.'"

"Poppyc.o.c.k!" Ugel snapped.

"How so, my dear sir?" the old man answered appeasingly. "Be that as it may, certain secrets are best left undisturbed ... I hear, Herr Lauscher, that you intend to leave us and go abroad tomorrow. What an enormous capacity people have for self-deception! I would have wagered you'd be staying around these parts longer, since, so it seems to me, you and Lulu..."