Pictor's Metamorphoses by Hermann Hesse Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œYou, 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
    A N HOUR LATER , when the two friends came out of the woods, they caught sight of Ludwig Ugel, Erich Tänzer, 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.
    â€œI 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 grass and become part of the gentle tenderness of the golden hour.”
    â€œYes,” 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