THE PSYCHE [3]
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
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