Pictor's Metamorphoses (14 page)

And their colors sang to him: this one a deep mauve lilac song, that one a dark blue lullaby. Oh, what huge blue eyes this one had, and how much that one resembled his first love. The scent of another sang in his mother's voice, made him recall how they'd walked in the gardens when Pictor was still a little boy. Yet another flower teased him, stuck out its tongue, long, arched, and red. He bent down, put his own tongue to it. The taste was wild and strong, like honey mixed with rosin, and yes, like a woman's kiss.

Pictor stood alone amid the flowers. Filled with longing and timid joy, he could feel his heart beating in his chest, now fast—in anticipation of something he could only surmise; now slow—in time with the rolling waves of the ocean of desire.

Just then, he saw a bird alight in the grass. The bird's feathers were ablaze with color, each plume a different color of the rainbow. And he drew nearer to the bird and asked, “Most lovely Bird, tell me, where can one find happiness?”

“Happiness,” the bird replied, its golden beak brimming with laughter, “Happiness, Friend, is in each thing, valley and mountain, flower and gem.”

Even as it spoke these words, the bird began to dance, ruffling its feathers, flapping its wings, turning its head, beating its tail on the ground, winking, laughing, spinning around in a whirl of color. When it came to a standstill, what had been a bird was now a many-colored flower: feathers to petals, claws to roots. The transformation was marvelous. But even as Pictor stood there blinking, it went on changing. Weary of being a flower, it pulled up its roots, set its anthers and filaments in motion. On petal-thin wings it slowly rose aloft and floated in mid-air, a weightless, shimmering butterfly. Pictor could scarcely believe his eyes.

And the new butterfly, the radiant bird-flower-butterfly, flew in circles around and around Pictor. More and more amazed, Pictor watched the sunlight glint off its wings. Soon it let itself glide down to the earth gently as a snow-flake. There it rested on the ground, close by Pictor's feet. The luminous wings trembled as it changed once again. It became a gemstone, out of whose facets a red light streamed.

But even as it lay there, radiant red in the dark green grass, the precious stone shrank smaller and smaller. As if its homeland, the center of the earth, called to it, the gem threatened to be swallowed up. Just as it was about to vanish, scarcely aware of what he was doing, Pictor reached for the stone, picked it up, and clasped it firmly in his hands. Gazing into it, transfixed by its magical light, Pictor could feel its red rays penetrate his heart, warming it with a radiance that promised eternal bliss.

Just then, slithering down from the bough of a withered tree, the Serpent hissed into Pictor's ear, “This crystal can change you into anything you want to be. Quickly tell it your wish, before it is too late. Swiftly, speak your command, before the stone vanishes.”

Without stopping to think, afraid of losing this one chance for happiness, Pictor rashly uttered his secret word to the stone, and was as soon transformed into a tree. Pictor had always wished to become a tree, because trees seemed so serene, so strong and dignified.

He felt himself strike root in the earth, felt his arms branch up into the sky, felt new limbs growing from his trunk, and from the limbs he felt new leaves sprout. Pictor was content. His thirsty roots drank deep in the earth. His leafy crown, so near to the clouds, rustled in the breeze. Birds nested in his branches, insects lived in his bark, hedgehogs and hares took shelter at his feet. For many years, he was happy. A long time passed before he felt something amiss; his happiness was incomplete. Slowly he learned to see with the eyes of a tree. Finally he could see, and grew sad.

Rooted to the spot, Pictor saw the other creatures in Paradise continually transform themselves. Flowers would turn into precious stones or fly away as dazzling hummingbirds. Trees that had stood beside him suddenly were gone: one turned into a running brook, another became a crocodile; still a third turned into a fish—full of life, it swam away joyfully. Elephants became massive rocks; giraffes became long-stemmed flowers. While all creation flowed into one magical stream of endless metamorphosis, Pictor could only look on.

He alone could not change. Once he knew this, all his happiness vanished. He began to grow old, taking on that tired, haggard look one can observe in many old trees. Not only in trees, but in horses, in birds, in human beings, in all life forms that no longer possess the gift of transformation. As time passes, they deteriorate and decline, their beauty is gone. To the end of their days, they know nothing but sorrow.

Time passed as before, until one day a young girl lost her way in Paradise. She had blond hair; she wore a blue dress. She sang happy songs; dancing, she wended her way among the trees. Carefree, the girl had never thought of wishing for the gift of transformation. Many of the creatures in Paradise took a keen interest in her. Animals smiled at her; bushes stretched their branches out to touch her; many of the trees tossed fruits, nuts, or flowers her way. But she paid them no mind.

The moment Pictor caught sight of her, he felt an intense longing, a firm resolve to recover his lost happiness. It was as if an inner voice, the voice of his own red blood commanded him to take hold of himself, to concentrate, to remember all the years of his life. And he obeyed the voice and became lost in thought, and his mind's eye summoned up images from his past, even from his distant past when he was a man on his way to Paradise. But most clearly he remembered the moment when he had held the magical stone in his hands, when every metamorphosis was open to him, when life had glowed in him more intensely than ever before. Then he remembered the laughing bird and the tree that was both the sun and the moon. And he began to understand all he had lost. The Serpent's advice had been treacherous.

Hearing a loud rustling in Pictor's leaves, the girl turned her gaze on the tree. She looked up at its crown, and felt strange new feelings, desires, and dreams welling up in her heart. What was this unknown force that made her sit down in the shade of the tree? To her, the tree seemed lonely and sad, and yet beautiful, touching, and noble in its mute sorrow. The song of its gently swaying crown held her captive. Leaning against its rough trunk, she could feel the tree shudder deep inside itself, and she felt the same passionate tremor in her own heart. Clouds flew across the sky of her soul, heavy tears fell from her eyes. Her heart hurt her so, beat so hard, she felt it would burst out of her bosom. Why did it want to cleave to him, melt into him, the beautiful loner?

Pictor, too, longed to become one with the girl. And so he gathered in all his life forces, focused them, directed them toward her. Even his roots trembled with the effort. And now he realized how blind he had been, how foolish, how little he had understood life's secret. That deceitful, that treacherous Serpent had had but one wish: to lock Pictor up inside a tree forever. And it was in an entirely different light—albeit tinged with sorrow—that he now saw the image of the tree that was Man and Wife together.

Just then, in an arc, a bird came flying, a bird red and green; lovely, daring, nearer it came. The girl saw it fly, saw something fall from its beak, something that shone blood-red, red as embers; and it fell in the green green grass, so promising; its deep red radiance called to her, courted her, sang out loud. The girl stooped down, picked up the bright red stone. Ruby-garnet-crystal gem, wherever it is, no darkness can come.

The moment the girl held the magical stone in her white hands, the single wish that filled her heart was answered. In a moment of rapture she became one with the tree, transformed as a strong, new bough that grew out of its trunk, higher and higher into the heavens.

Now everything was splendid, the world was in order. In that single moment Paradise had been found. The tired old tree named Pictor was no more. Now he sang out his new name: Pictoria, he sang out loud and clear: Pictoria, Victoria.

Out of a half he had become a whole. Fulfilled, complete, he had attained the true, eternal transformation. The stream of continuing creation flowed through his blood, and he could go on changing forever and ever.

He became deer, he became fish, he became human and Serpent, cloud and bird. In each new shape he was whole, was a pair, held moon and sun, man and wife inside him. He flowed as a twin river through the lands, shone as a double star in the firmament.

The Tourist City in the South

O
NE OF THE CLEVEREST
and most lucrative undertakings of the modern spirit, the founding and establishment of the Tourist City in the South, rests on an ingenious synthesis—a synthesis that could only have been conceived by the most penetrating psychologists of the mentality of city dwellers, if one does not want to see this as a direct emanation of the soul of the city itself, as its dream made real. For the city realizes, in ideal perfection, all the wishes and hopes the average city dweller could possibly hold out for his vacation and his enjoyment of the great outdoors. As we all know, the city dweller revels in nothing so much as nature, idyllic scenes, peace, and beauty. But, as we know only too well, all these lovely things his heart covets—and in which, until quite recently, the earth was still abundant—are indigestible and intolerable to him. Now that he's got the idea of nature in his head, there has been created for him—just like decaffeinated coffee and nicotine-free cigars—a nature-free, no-risk, hygienic, de-natured nature. Moreover, the supreme rule of the modern industry of applied arts has been strictly enforced: the requirement of absolute “authenticity.” And the modern arts trade is right to stress this requirement, one unknown in earlier times, when indeed every sheep was genuine and gave genuine wool, every cow was genuine and gave genuine milk, back in the days before the invention of artificial sheep and cows. Shortly after they had been invented, and had virtually driven out the authentic ones, the ideal of authenticity was born. Gone are the days when naïve princes built for their own enjoyment artificial ruins, a copy of the Hermitage, a small sham Switzerland, or an imitation Posilipo in this or that small German valley. The absurd thought of wanting to simulate for the urban connoisseur something like Italy in the vicinity of London, Switzerland near Chemnitz, or Sicily on Lake Constance lies far from the minds of today's entrepreneurs. The nature substitute that today's city dweller demands must be unconditionally genuine, genuine as the silver on his table, genuine as the pearls around his wife's neck, and genuine as the love for his countrymen and his republic which he cherishes in his bosom.

Making all this real was not easy. For spring and fall, the affluent city dweller demands a South that accords with his own preconceptions and needs, an authentic South replete with palm trees and lemons, blue lakes and picturesque villages; actually, all this was easy enough to achieve. However, that city dweller further demands society, he wants hygiene and cleanliness, a metropolitan atmosphere, music, technology, elegance; he expects his nature to be utterly subjugated and transformed by man, a nature that, to be sure, provides him with any number of alluring enticements, but one which is also tractable and demands nothing of him, one in which he can make himself comfortably at home with all his metropolitan habits and pretensions. Now, because Nature is the most implacable force we know, the fulfillment of such demands would seem virtually impossible; but, as we know, for human ingenuity, nothing is impossible. The dream has come true.

Of course, the Tourist City in the South could not be produced in only one unique specimen. Thirty or forty of these ideal cities were made; they have sprung up at each and every suitable site. And if I attempt to describe one of these cities, of course I won't have any one in particular in mind; it shall remain nameless—like a Ford, it is just one off the line, one of many.

Enclosed by a long, gently curved, reinforced embankment, lies a lake of blue water with quick little waves, at whose rim the enjoyment of nature takes place. Along the shore float numerous little rowboats with colorfully striped awnings and varicolored pennons, elegant, fine boats with neat little cushions, spotless as operating tables. Their owners walk up and down the quay, incessantly offering to charter out their sailing vessels to all passersby. These men are dressed like sailors, they go bare-chested and their bare arms are brown; they speak genuine Italian; nonetheless, they are capable of giving information in every other conceivable language; southern eyes aglow, they smoke long, thin cigars and look quite picturesque.

Along the shore the boats are docked; along the rim of the lake runs the esplanade, a two-lane road. The lake-ward lane, under neatly pruned trees, is reserved for pedestrians; the inland lane is a dazzling, hot thoroughfare, crowded with hotel buses, autos, tramways, and vehicles of every description. Fronting on this road is the Tourist City, which has one dimension fewer than other cities; it extends in height and width only, but not in depth. It consists of a thick, tight girdle of proud hotels. But behind this belt of hotels there's an attraction not to be missed: the genuine South. There, for all to see, stands an old Italian town, in whose narrow, strong-smelling marketplace vegetables, poultry, and fish are sold, where barefoot children play kickball with tin cans, and mothers—their hair flying—bellow out in powerful voices the euphonious classical names of their children. Here it smells of salami, of wine, of the latrine, of tobacco, of manual toil; here jovial men in shirtsleeves stand in the open doorways of their shops; shoemakers sit in the street pounding leather, all very genuine and very gay and original—on this set the first act of an opera could begin at any time. Here one can watch the intensely curious tourists make discoveries, and frequently one can hear the knowing pronouncements of the educated on the soul of the natives. Ice-cream venders convey small rattling carts through the narrow streets and bellow out the names of their sweets; here and there in a courtyard or a small square a hand organ begins to play. Each day the tourist spends an hour or two in this small, dirty, and interesting town, buying picture postcards and items of woven straw, trying to speak Italian, garnering his impressions of the South. Here, too, a lot of picture taking goes on.