Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse Read Free Book Online

they’re never quite right, the full fragrance has to be there, it has to be as if she herself had made it. She didn’t like white yarrow for instance, she only took the fine rare variety with a dash of violet in it; she would spend half the afternoon choosing among a thousand blades of grass before selecting one … Oh, it’s no use, you don’t understand.”
    Burkhardt nodded. “I do understand.”
    â€œYes, sometimes I think of that bouquet for hours on end. I know exactly how the picture ought to be. Not your famous excerpt of nature seen by a good observer and simplified by a skillful energetic painter, and not sweet and sentimental either, as a painter-of-the-native-scene would do it. This picture must be perfectly naive, as seen through the eyes of a gifted child, unstylized and full of simplicity. The painting in my studio of the fish and the morning fog is the exact opposite—but a painter must be able to do both … Oh, I have much more to paint, much more!”
    He turned off into a narrow path leading across the meadows, rising gently to a little rounded knoll.
    â€œNow keep your eyes open,” he said eagerly, peering ahead like a hunter. “You’ll see it from up there! That’s what I’m going to paint this fall.”
    They reached the top. On the far side, a leafy copse traversed by a slanting evening light halted the eye, which, made lazy by the clear open meadow, was slow to find its way through the trees. A path led to a group of tall beech trees with a mossy stone bench under them. Following the path, the eye found an opening; passing the bench, it made its way through a dark passage between treetops into the fresh luminous distance, a valley lined with willow and scrub, the twining river glittering blue-green, and still farther on, chains of hills reaching out to infinity.
    Veraguth pointed down. “I’m going to paint that as soon as the beeches take color. I shall sit Pierre down on the bench in the shade so as to look past his head down into the valley.”
    Burkhardt said nothing. His heart was full of compassion as he listened to his friend. How hard he tries to lie to me, Burkhardt thought with a secret smile. How he speaks of plans and work! He had never done that before. He seemed to be carefully listing the things in which he still took pleasure, that still reconciled him to life. His friend knew him and made no attempt to meet him halfway. He knew that it could not be long before Johann broke a silence that had become unbearable and unburdened himself of everything that had been accumulating over the years. And so he walked along beside him, waiting with apparent serenity, yet inwardly sad, surprised that so superior a man should become such a child in misfortune, as though seeking his way blindfold and with tied hands through brambles.
    When on their return to Rosshalde they asked after Pierre, they were told that he had gone to town with Frau Veraguth to meet Herr Albert.

Chapter Four
    A NGRILY, ALBERT VERAGUTH PACED THE FLOOR of his mother’s music room. At first sight he resembled his father, for he had the same eyes, but in reality he looked far more like his mother, who stood leaning against the piano, following him with affectionate, attentive eyes. When he came close to her, she took him by the shoulders and turned his face to hers. A lock of blond hair hung down over his broad pale forehead, his eyes gleamed with boyish agitation, and his full handsome mouth was twisted with anger.
    â€œNo, Mother,” he cried, freeing himself from her clasp, “you know I can’t go over to see him. That would be sheer comedy. He knows I hate him, and you can say what you like, he hates me too.”
    â€œHate!” she said with gentle severity. “Don’t use such words, they distort everything. He is your father and there was a time when he loved you very dearly. I forbid you to speak like