the psyche-第2部分

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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！〃