THE PSYCHE [0]
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PSYCHE
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,
the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,
as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen
there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.
Let us hear one of his stories.
"A short time ago"- the Star's "short time ago" is called among
men "centuries ago"- "my rays followed a young artist. It was in the
city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed
there in the course of time, but the changes have not come so
quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace
of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew
among the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,
where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a
gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its
fragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art
was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest
painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of
sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and
honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was
rewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was
not seen and known.
"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a
young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He
certainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,
young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,
and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his
own power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,
and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to
be seen and to bring money.
"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's your
misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,
you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great
wholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must
mingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Look
at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world
admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'
"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.
"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their
age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with
them into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be
called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had
warm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry
chat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's
merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;
and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the
masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast
swelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,
something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could
produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a
picture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart
to the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the
next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.
"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome
has many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and
beheld a garden
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PSYCHE
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,
the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,
as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen
there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.
Let us hear one of his stories.
"A short time ago"- the Star's "short time ago" is called among
men "centuries ago"- "my rays followed a young artist. It was in the
city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed
there in the course of time, but the changes have not come so
quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace
of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew
among the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,
where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a
gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its
fragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art
was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest
painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of
sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and
honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was
rewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was
not seen and known.
"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a
young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He
certainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,
young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,
and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his
own power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,
and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to
be seen and to bring money.
"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's your
misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,
you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great
wholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must
mingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Look
at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world
admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'
"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.
"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their
age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with
them into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be
called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had
warm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry
chat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's
merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;
and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the
masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast
swelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,
something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could
produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a
picture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart
to the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the
next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.
"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome
has many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and
beheld a garden