Pictor's Metamorphoses (7 page)

“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 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.

“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 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.'”

“Poppycock!” 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…”

“That's quite enough,” Lauscher interrupted him, flaring up. “Why the devil should other people's love affairs be your concern!”

“Calm 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.”

“Please 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 Personal Volition. They are an immeasurably important element of that which we call Fate. It so happens that the proper and actual benefits of such a bond can only be reaped at the moment of separation and renunciation; these being subject to our Will, over which this affinity has no power.”

“I do understand you,” said Lauscher in a completely different tone. “It seems you are my friend, Herr Turnabout!”

“Did you ever doubt it?” The other smiled merrily.

“You must come to my farewell party tonight at the Crown!”

“So we shall see, Herr Lauscher. According to certain calculations, tonight an old problem of mine should be resolved, an old dream be fulfilled … But perhaps this can be combined with your party.
Auf Wiedersehen!
” He jumped to his feet, waved goodbye, and quickly disappeared on the road leading to the valley.

The friends stayed in the woods until noon, both of them thinking about Lauscher's departure, each one filled with his love and a host of conflicting emotions. They arrived late for the midday meal at the Crown. But they found Lulu in a gay mood, wearing a bright, new dress. She cheerfully accepted the flowers and put them in a vase on the corner table at which she served them their meal. Her lovely figure moved about, happy and industrious, bringing and taking away plates, bowls, and bottles. After the meal, she joined them for a glass of wine; plans for Lauscher's farewell party were the topic of conversation.

“We must get everything ready for the party; this room needs decorating,” said Lulu. “As you can see, I've taken the first step myself, putting on this brand-new dress. We could use some flowers…”

“We'll see to that right away,” Ugel interrupted.

“Good,” she said, smiling. “A few Chinese lanterns, and some colored ribbons would be nice as well.”

“As many as you like!” Ugel called out again. Lauscher nodded in silence.

“You're awfully quiet, Herr Lauscher,” Lulu said, annoyed. “Have you any objections?”

Lauscher made no reply. While his gaze hung on her slender figure and lovely countenance, all he could say was: “How beautiful you are today, Lulu.” And again: “How beautiful you are!”

He was insatiable, he had to look again and again at her breathtaking image. Watching her and his friend make arrangements for his departure pained him beyond description and made him silent and gloomy. Every moment, a bitter and tormenting thought repeatedly occurred to him: that his renunciation and departure were not to be. He had to throw himself at her feet, to encircle her with all the burning flames of his passion, to woo and win her, to take her by force and ravish her. To do something, anything but sit idly by in her presence, while one blessed moment after another of his last hours in it hastily and irretrievably ran out. Nonetheless, he fought bitterly to gain control over his emotions, and in these last moments he concentrated on one thing: to impress her beautiful image deep into his soul, until it was branded there, glowing and painful, as desire never to be forgotten.

Finally, when the three were alone in the room and Ugel was pressing to leave, Lauscher got up, walked up to Lulu, and clasped her hand in his own hot, trembling hand. Then he said softly, in a forced, festively comic tone: “My beautiful Princess, may it please Your Majesty graciously to accept my offer of service! Regard me, I beg of you, as your knight, your slave, your dog, your fool; your wish is my command…”

“Good, my knight,” Lulu broke in, smiling. “I do require a service of you. Tonight I need a glad-hearted companion and buffoon, one who can help me make a certain party entertaining and pleasant. Will you accept this task?”

Lauscher turned very white. Then he let out a harsh laugh and with comic exaggeration got down on his knees and spoke with pompous solemnity: “I do so promise, most noble lady!”

Then he and Ludwig Ugel hurried off. First they went to the horticulturist near the cemetery, and raged with merciless shears through the proprietor's rose garden. Lauscher especially was not to be restrained. “I must have a huge basket full of white roses,” he cried repeatedly, leaving no branch untrimmed, shearing off dozens and dozens of his favorite flower for the lovely Lulu. Then he paid the gardener, told him to bring the roses to the Crown that evening, and sauntered off through the town with Ugel. Whenever they saw something bright or colorful in a shop window, they stormed in and made their purchases: fans, scarfs, silk ribbons, paper lanterns, and finally some small fireworks that would still make a fine display. Back at the Crown, the lovely Lulu had her hands full with receiving and arranging all these effects. But, unknown to anyone, the good Turnabout helped her until evening.

8

L
ULU WAS EVEN
more beautiful and more gay than ever. Lauscher and Ugel had finished their supper; one after another, their friends arrived at the inn. When they had all gathered together, following Lauscher—who gracefully led Lulu on his arm—they proceeded into the back room. Its walls were covered with scarfs, ribbons, and garlands. From the ceiling hung row upon row of colorful lanterns, every one of them lit. The large table was spread with a white cloth, set with champagne glasses, and strewn with fresh roses. The poet presented his lady with the philosopher's lily, put a half-opened tea rose in her hair, and escorted her to the place of honor. Everyone was in good cheer and sat down with some commotion; the evening was inaugurated with a choral song. Now the corks flew from the bottles; frothing over, the bright noble wine flowed into the fragile glasses, and Erich Tänzer made the champagne toast. Jokes were answered with laughter; Turnabout's late arrival was hailed with thunderous applause; Ugel and Lauscher each recited a few charming verses. Then the lovely Lulu sang this song:

A King once lay in prison

In deep and dark distress—

But now he is arisen

The King called Sorrowless.

And now bright lights are gleaming

Throughout the happy land,

And now glad poems are streaming

From every poet's hand.

More white and red than ever

Lilies and roses bloom;

Silversong's harpstrings quiver

With its most sacred song.

When the song ended, Lauscher dug deep into the basket of roses, and applauding the singer, he threw handful after handful of white roses her way. Then a merry war was declared: roses flew from seat to seat, in dozens, in hundreds, white roses, red roses; old Turnabout's hair and gray beard were completely covered with them. It was nearly midnight; Turnabout stood up and made a speech:

“Dear Friends and Beautiful Lulu! We can all see that the reign of King Sorrowless has begun anew. Even I must say farewell today, but not without the hope that I may see you all again; for my King, into whose service I return, is a friend to the young and to poets. Were you philosophers, I would tell you all a mystical allegory about the Rebirth of the Beautiful, and especially about the Salvation of the Poetic Principle through the ironic Metamorphosis of Mythos, the happy ending of which you will soon come to know. But, as things are, I shall present the denouement of this Askian tale in pleasing pictures before your very eyes. Let the play go on!”

All eyes followed his index finger to a huge, embroidered curtain that closed off one corner of the room. The curtain was suddenly illuminated from within, revealing a weft of innumerable silver lilies framing the marble basin of a gushing fountainhead. The art of the textile and of the lighting was so fine that the lilies could be seen growing, swaying, interlacing, and the spring plashing and gushing; yes, one could definitely hear the cool rush of its noble waters.

All eyes were fixed on the splendid curtain, so no one noticed that every lantern in the room, one after another, quickly went out. Everyone was deeply engrossed in the magical play of the artificial lilies; only the poet paid it no mind. Through the darkness he raised his glowing eyes and turned them beseechingly on the lovely Lulu. Her face was bathed in a solemnly beautiful and delicate light; in her magnificent dark hair the white rose shimmered with an unearthly sheen.