Peter Camenzind by Hermann Hesse Read Free Book Online Page A

you?”
    Oh, yes, I had all the time in the world and I quickly consented. Then I asked him to play something for me and we went downstairs into his large, well-furnished apartment. A few paintings in modern frames, a piano, a certain decorative disorder, and the smell of expensive cigarettes produced an atmosphere of comfortable and relaxing elegance that was quite new to me. Richard sat down at the piano and played a few bars.
    â€œYou know what that is, don’t you?” he said, nodding in my direction. He looked quite extraordinary, turning his head away from the keyboard, his eyes glowing.
    â€œNo,” I said, “I don’t know anything about music.”
    â€œIt’s Wagner,” he called back. “It’s from Die Meistersinger. ” And he continued playing. The music sounded light and vigorous, longing and exuberant, and I felt as though immersed in a warm, effervescent bath. Looking with secret joy at his neck, at the backs of his pale musician’s hands, I was overcome by the same feeling of tenderness and respect with which I had once looked at the dark-haired student from my schooldays, as well as by the shy premonition that this handsome, distinguished person might really become my friend and make my old but unforgotten wish for such a friendship come true.
    Next day I went to get him. Slowly, and talking all the way, we climbed to the top of a medium-sized hill and gained a view of the city, the lake, and the gardens and savored the rich beauty of early evening.
    â€œAnd now you can yodel,” said Richard. “If you’re still embarrassed, turn your back to me. But loud, if you please.”
    He should have been well satisfied. I yodeled madly, exultantly, with every possible break and variation, into the shimmering evening. When I stopped, he started to say something, then just cocked his ear in the direction of the mountains. From a distant peak there came a reply, soft and long-drawn-out and swelling gradually, a herdsman’s or a hiker’s answer, and we listened quietly and happily to it. As we stood there listening, I became aware for the first time in my life of the delight of standing alongside a friend, gazing together into the remote and hazy vistas of life. In the evening light, the lake came alive with a soft play of colors. Shortly before sunset I noticed a few stubborn, impudently jagged peaks jutting through the dissolving mist.
    â€œThat’s where my home is,” I said. “The peak in the middle is the Rote Fluh; on its right is the Geisshorn; and farther off to the left is the Sennalpstock, which is rounded on top. I was ten years and three weeks old the first time I stood on its top.”
    I strained my eyes to make out one of the peaks farther south. After a while Richard said something that I did not hear clearly.
    â€œWhat did you say?” I asked.
    â€œI said I now know your gift.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œYou’re a poet.”
    At this point I blushed and became angry. I was amazed that he had guessed.
    â€œNo,” I exclaimed. “I’m not a poet. I did in fact write a few verses when I was in school, but I haven’t written anything for a long time.”
    â€œWould you show them to me?”
    â€œI’ve burned them. But even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t show them to you.”
    â€œThey must have been very modern, with a lot of Nietzsche in them, I imagine.”
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œNietzsche? My God, here’s a fellow who doesn’t know Nietzsche!”
    â€œNo. How could I?”
    He was delighted that I did not know Nietzsche, and I became furious and asked him how many glaciers he had scaled. When he said he hadn’t scaled any, I teased him as much as he had teased me. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said in a very serious tone of voice: “You are touchy. But you’ve no idea how enviably unspoiled you are, and how few