stirring within the young man, and could read the meaning of the
changing color of his cheek, of the light that flashed from his eye,
as he stood busily working, reproducing what had been put into his
soul from above.
"Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient Greeks,"
exclaimed his delighted friends; "soon shall the whole world admire
thy Psyche."
"My Psyche!" he repeated. "Yes, mine. She must be mine. I, too, am
an artist, like those great men who are gone. Providence has granted
me the boon, and has made me the equal of that lady of noble birth."
And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss to
Heaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake- for the sake of her
picture in stone- for her Psyche which stood there as if formed of
snow, blushing in the morning dawn.
He was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche, whose
words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry the news into
the rich palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He betook himself
thither, strode through the open courtyard where the waters ran
splashing from the dolphin's jaws into the marble basins, where the
snowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into
the great lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding
and bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men,
adorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro, and some
reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as if they were
the masters of the house. He told them what had brought him to the
palace, and was conducted up the shining marble staircase, covered
with soft carpets and adorned with many a statue. Then he went on
through richly-furnished chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous
pictures. All this pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he
felt relieved, for the princely old master of the house received him
most graciously,, almost heartily; and when he took his leave he was
requested to step into the Signora's apartment, for she, too, wished
to see him. The servants led him through more luxurious halls and
chambers into her room, where she appeared the chief and leading
ornament.
She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant, could
melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her hand and lifted
it to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire thrilled through him
from this rose- a feeling of power came upon him, and words poured
from his tongue- he knew not what he said. Does the crater of the
volcano know that the glowing lava is pouring from it? He confessed
what he felt for her. She stood before him astonished, offended,
proud, with contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if
she had suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks
reddened, her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though
they were dark as the blackness of night.
"Madman!" she cried, "away! begone!"
And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore an
expression like that of the stony countenance with the snaky locks.
Like a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the staircase
and out into the street. Like a man walking in his sleep, he found his
way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up to madness and agony, and
seized his hammer, swung it high in the air, and rushed forward to
shatter the beautiful marble image. But, in his pain, he had not
noticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held
back his arm with a strong grasp, crying,
"Are you mad? What are you about?"
They struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and, with a deep
sigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself into a chair.
"What has happened?" asked Angelo. "Command yourself. Speak!"
But what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo could
make no sense of his friend's incoherent words, he forbore to question
him further, and merely said,
"Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a man, as
all others are, and don't go on living in ideals, for that is what
drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you sleep quietly and
happily. Believe me, the time will come when you will be old, and your
sinews will shrink, and then, on some fine sunshiny day, when
everything is laughing and rejoicing, you will lie there a faded
plant, that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams, but in
reality. Come with me. Be a man!"
And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he was able
to do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor; a
change had taken place in his soul; he felt a longing to tear from the
old, the accustomed- to forget, if possible, his own individuality;
and therefore it was that he followed Angelo.
In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by
artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths. The great
yellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves, and covered
a part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a
vaulted chamber, almost like a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned
there before the picture of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the
hearth, and roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under
the citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.
The two artists were received by their friends with shouts of
welcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the spirits of
the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were played on the
guitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and the merry dance began.
Two young Roman girls, who sat as models to the artists, took part
in the dance and in the festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were
they; certainly not Psyches- not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh,
hearty, glowing carnations.
How hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot. There
was fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire everywhere. The
air gleamed with gold and roses, and life seemed like gold and roses.
"At last you have joined us, for once," said his friends. "Now let
yourself be carried by the waves within and around you."
"Never yet have I felt so well, so merry!" cried the young artist.
"You are right- you are all of you right. I was a fool- a dreamer. Man
belongs to reality, and not to fancy."
With songs and with sounding guitars the young people returned
that evening from the tavern, through the narrow streets; the two
glowing carnations, daughters of the Campagna, went with them.
In Angelo's room, among a litter of colored sketches (studies) and
glowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower, but not less merrily.
On the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the
Campagna, in their fresh, hearty comeliness, but the two originals
were far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the
six-armed lamp flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within,
and appeared in the glare as if it were divine.
"Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven- to your
glory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding itself in my
veins at this moment!"
Yes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell, and
an evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading astray the
fancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it became dark.
He was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed and
collected his thoughts.
"Fie on thee!" these were the words that sounded out of his
mouth from the depths of his heart. "Wretched man, go, begone!" And
a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.
"Away! begone!" These, her words, the words of the living
Psyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He buried his
head in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused, and he fell asleep.
In the morning dawn he started up, and collected his thoughts
anew. What had happened? Had all the past been a dream? The visit to
her, the feast at the tavern, the evening with the purple carnations
of the Campagna? No, it was all real- a reality he had never before
experienced.
In the purple air gleamed the bright Star, and its beams fell upon
him and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that
picture of immortality, and his glance seemed impure to him. He
threw the cloth over the statue, and then touched it once more to
unveil the form- but he was not able to look again at his own work.
Gloomy, quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, he sat there
through the long day; he heard nothing of what was going on around
him, and no man guessed what was passing in this human soul.
And days and weeks went by, but the nights passed more slowly than
the days. The flashing Star beheld him one morning as he rose, pale
and trembling with fever, from his sad couch; then he stepped
towards the statue, threw back the covering, took one long,
sorrowful gaze at his work, and then, almost sinking beneath the
burden, he dragged the statue out into the garden. In that place was
an old dry well, now nothing but a hole. Into this he cast the Psyche,
threw earth in above her, and covered up the spot with twigs and
nettles.
"Away! begone!" Such was the short epitaph he spoke.
The Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky, and its beam
trembled upon two great tears upon the pale feverish cheeks of the
young man; and soon it was said that he was sick unto death, and he
lay stretched upon a bed of pain.
The convent Brother Ignatius visited him as a physician and a
friend, and brought him words of comfort, of religion, and spoke to
him of the peace and happiness of the church, of the sinfulness of
man, of rest and mercy to be found in heaven.
And the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil. The
soil smoked and sent up clouds of mist, fantastic pictures, pictures
in which there was reality; and from these floating islands he
looked across at human life. He found it vanity and delusion- and
vanity and delusion it had been to him. They told him that art was a
sorcerer, betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are
false to ourselves, unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards
Heaven; and that the serpent was always repeating within us, "Eat, and
thou shalt become as God."
And it appeared to him as if now, for the first time, he knew
himself, and had found the way that leads to truth and to peace. In
the church was the light and the brightness of God- in the monk's cell
he should find the rest through which the tree of human life might
grow on into eternity.
Brother Ignatius strengthened his longings, and the
determination became firm within him. A child of the world became a
servant of the church- the young artist renounced the world, and
retired into the cloister.
The brothers came forward affectionately to welcome him, and his
inauguration was as a Sunday feast. Heaven seemed to him to dwell in
the sunshine of the church, and to beam upon him from the holy
pictures and from the cross. And when, in the evening, at the sunset
hour, he stood in his little cell, and, opening the window, looked out
upon old Rome, upon the desolated temples, and the great dead
Coliseum- when he saw all this in its spring garb, when the acacias
bloomed, and the ivy was fresh, and roses burst forth everywhere,
and the citron and orange were in the height of their beauty, and
the palm trees waved their branches- then he felt a deeper emotion
than had ever yet thrilled through him. The quiet open Campagna spread
itself forth towards the blue snow-covered mountains, which seemed
to be painted in the air; all the outlines melting into each other,
breathing peace and beauty, floating, dreaming- and all appearing like
a dream!
Yes, this world was a dream, and the dream lasts for hours, and
may return for hours; but convent life is a life of years- long years,
and many years.
From within comes much that renders men sinful and impure. He
fully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in him at
times! What a source of evil, of that which we would not, welled up
continually! He mortified his body, but the evil came from within.
One day, after the lapse of many years, he met Angelo, who
recognized him.
"Man!" exclaimed Angelo. "Yes, it is thou! Art thou happy now?
Thou hast sinned against God, and cast away His boon from thee- hast
neglected thy mission in this world! Read the parable of the intrusted
talent! The MASTER, who spoke that parable, spoke the truth! What hast
thou gained? What hast thou found? Dost thou not fashion for thyself a
religion and a dreamy life after thine own idea, as almost all do?
Suppose all this is a dream, a fair delusion!"
"Get thee away from me, Satan!" said the monk; and he quitted
Angelo.
"There is a devil, a personal devil! This day I have seen him!"
said the monk to himself. "Once I extended a finger to him, and he
took my whole hand. But now," he sighed, "the evil is within me, and
it is in yonder man; but it does not bow him down; he goes abroad with
head erect, and enjoys his comfort; and I grasped at comfort in the
consolations of religion. If it were nothing but a consolation?
Supposing everything here were, like the world I have quitted, only
a beautiful fancy, a delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds,
like the misty blue of the distant hills!- when you approach them,
they are very different! O eternity! Thou actest like the great calm
ocean, that beckons us, and fills us with expectation- and when we
embark upon thee, we sink, disappear, and cease to be. Delusion!
away with it! begone!"
And tearless, but sunk in bitter reflection, he sat upon his
hard couch, and then knelt down- before whom? Before the stone cross
fastened to the wall? No, it was only habit that made him take this
