Read Online Pictor's Metamorphoses by Hermann Hesse - Free Book Online

of roses, smooth and frail,
    Rose petals white, rose petals pale,
    Rimmed with evening’s shimmering 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 recumbent friends looked up to see him emerge from the bushes.
    â€œGood 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.
    â€œTell us, Sorcerer,” Lauscher addressed him, “since you seem both ubiquitous and omniscient, tell us who the lovely Lulu really is.”
    â€œThat’s quite a question!” the graybeard smirked. “She herself does not know. That she’s the stepsister of that accursed Frau Müller 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.’”
    â€œPoppycock!” Ugel snapped.
    â€œHow 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…”
    â€œThat’s quite enough,” Lauscher interrupted him, flaring up. “Why the devil should other people’s love affairs be your concern!”
    â€œCalm yourself,” the philosopher replied, with a pacifying smile. “My esteemed fellow, I had no intention of speaking of such affairs. That I concern myself with the intricacies of certain peculiar fates, and especially with the fates of poets, is entirely natural; it’s part and parcel of my science. I have absolutely no doubt that some very subtile, magical ties that bind you to our Lulu have arisen; even if, as I surmise, at the present time certain insuperable obstacles prevent a favorable outcome.”
    â€œPlease do explain yourself a bit more clearly,” the poet replied, standoffish, but still curious.
    The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Well now,” he said, “each and every human Soul that exists on a higher plane instinctively strives for that Harmony which inheres in the happy balance of the Conscious and the Unconscious. However, as long as the Cognitive Self takes, as its life principle, a destructive Dualism, these striving temperaments tend to ally themselves—through only half-understood instinct—with temperaments whose striving directly opposes their own. Now understand me. Such bonds can be formed without words or knowledge; like affinities, they can arise unrecognized and have their life and effect solely through the Emotions. In any case, they are predetermined and stand outside the sphere of