The Psyche

Translated by Fanny Fuller.

(1863)

~

A large star beams in the dawn of morning in the red sky--the clearest star of the morning--its rays tremble upon the white wall, as if they wished to write down and relate, the scenes which they had witnessed during many centuries.

Listen to one of these stories!

A short time ago--(this not long ago is with us men--centuries)--my rays followed a young artist; it was in the realm of the Pope, in the city of the world, in Rome. Many changes have been made, but the imperial palace, was, as it is to-day, a ruin; between the overthrown marble columns and over the ruined bath-rooms, whose walls were still decorated with gold, grew fig and laurel trees. The Colosseum was a ruin; the church bells rang, the incense arose and processions passed through the streets with tapers and gorgeous canopies. The Church was holy, and art was lofty and holy also. In Rome dwelt Raphael, the greatest painter of the world, here also dwelt Michael Angelo, the greatest sculptor of the age; even the Pope did homage to them both, and honoured them with his visits. Art was recognized, honoured and rewarded. All greatness and excellence is not seen and recognized.

In a little narrow street, stood an old house, which had once been a temple; here dwelt a young artist; he was poor, he was unknown; it is true that he had young friends, artists also, young in feelings, in hopes, and in thoughts. They told him, that he was rich in talents and excellence but that he needed confidence in himself. He was never satisfied with his work and either destroyed all that he modeled or left it unfinished; this is not the proper course to adopt, if one would be known, appreciated and live.

"You are a dreamer," said they, "this is your misfortune! You have not yet lived, you have not inhaled life in large healthy draughts, you have not yet enjoyed it. One should do this in youth and become a man! Look at the great master Raphael whom the Pope honours and the world admires,--he takes wine and bread with him."

"He dines with the baker's wife, the pretty Fornarina!" said Angelo, one of the merry young friends.

Yes, they all appealed to his good sense and to his youth.

They wished to have the young artist join them in their merry-makings, in their extravagances and in their mad tricks; he would do so for a short time, for his blood was warm, his imagination strong; he could take his part in their merry conversation, and laugh as loudly as the others; and yet "the merry life of Raphael," as they named it, vanished from him like the morning mist, when he saw the godlike lustre which shone forth from the paintings of the great masters, or when he stood in the Vatican and beheld the forms of beauty, which the old sculptors had fashioned from blocks of marble, centuries ago. His breast swelled, he felt something so