Pictor's Metamorphoses by Hermann Hesse

disappear down a dark street.
    My father is the King,
    The King called Sorrowless …
    Karl Hamelt quietly hummed to himself as he made his way home to the village of Wendlingen.
    6
    L ATER THAT SAME EVENING , Erich Tänzer bided his time in the Crown, waiting until Lauscher took his night light and went up to his room and he alone remained in the tavern. Alone, that is, with Lulu, who was still sitting at his table. All of a sudden, Erich shoved his beer glass aside, grabbed the fair maiden’s hand, looked into her eyes, cleared his throat, and addressed his subject: “Fräulein Lulu, I must speak to you. The future public prosecutor in me prompts me to do so. And I must lodge a complaint. You are so beautiful, more beautiful than is permissible by law, that you make yourself and others unhappy. Don’t try to speak in your own defense. Where is my good appetite? And my splendid thirst? Where the compendium of Corpus Juris Civilis I so laboriously crammed into my head with the help of Meisel’s crib? And the Pandects? And the penal code? And civil procedures? Yes, where are they? In my head, only one paragraph remains, and its rubric reads ‘Lulu.’ And the footnote: ‘O you lovely lady, O most lovely of them all!’”
    Erich’s eyes bulged even more than usual, his left hand furiously kneaded his fashionable new silk hat to tatters, his right hand clamped down on Lulu’s cool hand. She, meanwhile, was on the lookout for an opportunity to escape. Herr Müller was snoring away in the buffet; she could not call out for help.
    Then, fortuitously, someone opened the door a crack; a hand and part of a white flannel shirtsleeve pushed through the narrow opening. Something white fell from the hand and fluttered to the ground; then the door closed as quickly as it had opened. Lulu managed to free herself; she bounded toward the door and retrieved the fallen piece of stationery, on which there was writing. Erich sat in vexed silence. But Lulu burst out laughing and read aloud what was on the paper:
    Lady, must you laugh at me?
    See, this burning poet’s head
    You once trusted—so you said—
    Now lies shamefaced at your feet.
    And this heart which had come to know
    Joy most high and Suffering most low
    Trembles shyly in your dainty hand.
    I, the wanderer, plucked red roses, and
    I, the singer, sang red songs for you,
    Now they languish, wilt, and bid adieu,
    Lie, poor wretches, at your feet—
    Must you laugh at me?
    â€œLauscher!” the provoked Erich cried out. “That contemptible scoundrel! You can’t possibly believe that thoughtless windbag takes his writing seriously. Those damned verses. Verses!—he writes them to a new heartthrob every three weeks!”
    Lulu made no reply to Erich’s outburst; she walked over to the open window and stood there listening. From outside came jangling guitar sounds, accompanied by a bass voice singing:
    Under an impatient star
    I stand and play my guitar …
    Oh, do not stay and linger,
    But come and love your singer!
    A gust of wind set the window banging shut. At this, the innkeeper awakened in the buffet and came peevishly through the door to the main room. Erich threw his money down on the table beside his untouched beer and left the tavern without saying goodbye. Taking a leaping bound down the stairs, he went crashing into the back of the guitarist, who turned out to be none other than junior barrister Ripplein. He and Erich went off toward the chestnut-tree-lined embankment, angry and quarreling.
    The lovely Lulu extinguished the gaslights in the parlor and vestibule, and went upstairs to her own room. When she passed by Lauscher’s door, she could hear agitated footsteps and frequent deep, long sighs. Shaking her head, she came to her own room and lay down on her bed. Since she could not fall asleep, she mulled over the evening’s events. But she no longer laughed about them; on the