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安徒生童話故事第113篇：素琪The Psyche
引導語：《素琪》這篇故事發表在1862年哥本哈根出版的《新的童話和故事集》第二卷第二部里，是著名作家安徒生童話選其中之一作品，下面是小編整理的中英文版本，歡迎大家閱讀!
天亮的時分，有一顆星——一顆最明亮的晨星——在玫瑰色的空中發出閃耀的光彩。它的光線在白色的墻上顫動著，好像要把它所知道的東西和數千年來在我們這個轉動著的地球上各處看到的東西，都在那墻上寫下來。
我們現在來聽它講的一個故事吧：
不久以前，——這顆星兒所謂的“不久以前”就等于我們人間的“幾個世紀以前”——我的光輝跟著一個藝術家走。
那是在教皇住的城里②，在世界的城市羅馬里面。在時間的過程中，那兒有許多東西改變了，可是這些改變并沒有像童年到老年這段時間的改變來得那么快。那時羅馬皇帝們的宮殿，像現在一樣，已經是一堆廢墟。在倒下的大理石圓柱之間，在殘破的、但是墻上的涂金仍然沒有完全褪色的浴室之間，生長著無花果樹和月桂樹。“訶里生”③也是一堆廢墟。教堂的鐘聲響著;四處彌漫著的香煙，高舉著明亮的蠟燭和華蓋的信徒的行列，在大街上游行過去。人們都虔誠地信仰宗教，藝術受到尊崇和敬仰。在羅馬住著世界上最偉大的畫家拉斐爾④;這兒也住著雕刻家的始祖米開朗琪羅⑤。甚至教皇都推崇這兩個人而特別去拜訪他們一次;人們理解藝術，尊崇藝術，同時也給它物質的獎勵!不過，雖然如此，并不是每件偉大和成熟的東西都會被人看見和知道的。
在一條狹小的巷子里有一幢古老的房子。它曾經是一座神廟;這里面現在住著一個年輕的藝術家。他很貧窮，也沒有什么名氣。當然他也有些藝術家的朋友。他們都很年輕——在精神方面，在希望和思想方面，都很年輕。他們都告訴他，說他有很高的才氣和能力，但也說他很傻，對于自己的才能沒有信心。他老是把自己用粘土雕塑出來的東西打得粉碎，他老是不滿意，從來不曾完成一件作品;而他卻應該完成他的作品，假如他希望他的作品能被人看見和換取錢財的話。
“你是一個夢想家!”他們對他說，“而這正是你的不幸!這里面的原因是：你還沒有生活過，沒有嘗到過生活，沒有狼吞虎咽地去享受過生活——而生活卻是應該這樣去享受的。一個人在年輕的時候，可以，而且應該投身到生活中去，和生活融成一片。請看那位偉大的工匠拉斐爾吧。教皇尊崇他，世人景仰他;他既能吃面包，也能喝酒。”
“甚至面包店的老板娘——那位美麗的艾爾納莉娜——他都津津有味地把她畫下來呢!”一個最愉快的年輕的朋友安吉羅說。
是的，他們講了許多這類與他們的年齡和知識相稱的話語。他們想把這個年輕的藝術家一道拉到快樂的生活中去——也可以說是拉到放蕩的瘋狂的生活中去吧。有些時候，他也想陪陪他們。他的血是熱的，想象是強烈的。他也能參加愉快的聊天，跟大家一樣大聲地狂笑。不過他們所謂的“拉斐爾的歡樂的生活”在他面前像一層蒸氣似的消散了;他只看到這位偉大的工匠的作品散射出來的光芒。他站在梵蒂岡城內，站在數千年來許多大師雕刻的那些大理石像的面前。他胸中起了一種雄渾的感覺，感到身體里有某種崇高、神圣、高超、偉大和善良的東西。于是他也希望能從大理石中創造出和雕刻出同樣的形象。他希望能從自己心中所感覺著的、向那永恒無際的空間飛躍著的那種感覺，創造出一種形象來。不過怎么樣的一種形象呢?柔軟的粘土被他的手指塑成了美的形象;不過第二天他照例又把他所創造的東西毀掉了。
有一天他走過一個華麗的宮殿——這樣的建筑物在羅馬是很多的。他在一個敞開的大門面前停下來，看到了一個掛滿了美麗畫幅的長廊。這個長廊圍繞著一個小小的花園。花園里面開滿了最美麗的玫瑰花。大朵的、雪白的、長著水汪汪的綠葉子的百合花從噴著清泉的大理石池子里開出來。這時有一個人影在旁邊輕盈地走過去了。這是一個年輕的姑娘，這座王府家里的女兒。她是那么優雅，那么嬌柔，那么美麗!的確，他從來沒有見到過這樣一個女性，——她是拉斐爾畫出來的，作為普賽克的形象繪在羅馬的一個宮殿里的。是的，她是繪在那里;但是她現在卻在這兒活生生地走過。
她在他的思想和心中活下來了。他回到他那座簡陋的房間里去，用粘土塑造了一個普賽克的形象。這就是那位華麗的、年輕的羅馬姑娘，那位高貴的小姐。這也是他第一次對自己的作品感到滿意。這件作品對他具有一種意義，因為它代表她。他所有的朋友，一看到這件作品，就快樂地歡呼起來。這件作品顯示出他的藝術天才。他們早就看出了這一點，現在全世界也要看到它了。
這個粘土的塑像真是栩栩如生，但是它沒有大理石所具有的那種潔白和持久性。這個普賽克的生命應該用大理石雕刻出來，而且他已經有一塊貴重的大理石。那是他的父母的財產，擱在院子里已經有許多年了。玻璃瓶碎片、茴香梢子和朝鮮薊的殘莖堆在它的四周，玷污了它的潔白;不過它的內部仍然潔白得像山上的積雪。普賽克將要從這塊石頭中獲得生命。
這樣的事情就在某一天發生了——那顆明亮的星兒一點也沒有講出來，也沒有看到，但是我們卻看到了。一群羅馬的貴客走進這個狹小而寒磣的巷子。他們的車子在一個不遠的地方停下來，然后這群客人就來參觀這個年輕藝術家的作品，因為他們曾經偶然聽到別人談起他。這些高貴的拜訪者是誰呢?可憐的年輕人!他也可以說是一個非常不幸的年輕人吧。那位年輕的姑娘現在就親自站在他的房間里。當她的父親對她說“這簡直是你的一個縮影”的時候，她笑得多么美啊!這個微笑是無法模擬出來的，正如她的視線是無法模擬的一樣——那道朝這青年藝術家一瞥的、奇異的視線。這是一個崇高、高貴、同時也具有摧毀力的視線。
“這個普賽克一定要用大理石雕刻出來!”那位富有的貴族說。
這對于那沒有生命的粘土和沉重的大理石說來，是一句富有生命的話，對于這位神往的青年藝術家說來，也是一句富有生命的話。
“這件作品一完成，我就要把它買去。”這位貴族說。
一個新的時代似乎在這間簡陋的工作室里開始了。生命和快樂在這兒發出光輝，辛勤的勞動在這兒進行著。那顆明亮的晨星看到了這件工作的進展。粘土也似乎自從她到這兒來過以后就獲得了靈感;它以高度的美感把自己變成一個難忘的面貌。
“現在我知道生命是什么了!”這位藝術家快樂地高呼著，“生命就是愛!生命就是‘壯麗’的升華，‘美’的陶醉!朋友們所謂的生命和享受不過是稍縱即逝的幻影，發酵的渣滓中所冒出的沫沫，而不是那賦予生命的神圣的祭壇上的純酒。”
大理石立起來了。鏨子從它上面鑿下大片的碎塊。它被量過了，點和線都被劃出來了，技術的部分都完成了，直到這塊石頭漸漸成為一個軀體，一個“美”的形態，最后變成普賽克——美麗得像一個反映出上帝的形象的少女。這塊沉重的石頭現在成了一個活潑、輕盈、縹緲、迷人的普賽克;她的嘴唇上飄著一絲神圣的、天真無邪的微笑——那個深深地映在這位年輕的雕刻家心里的微笑。
當他正在忙著工作、把上帝給他的靈感變成具體的形象的時候，那顆晨星在玫瑰色的晨曦中看到了這情景，也了解到這年輕人心里的激動，同時也認出了他臉上的顏色的變幻，以及在他眼睛中閃耀著的光彩的意義。
“你是一個大師，像古希臘的那些大師一樣!”他的高興的朋友們說，“不久全世界就要對你的普賽克感到驚奇了。”
“我的普賽克!”他重復著這個名詞，“我的!是的，她應該是我的!像過去的那些偉大的巨匠一樣，我也是一個藝術家!
上天賜給我這種恩典，把我提高到與貴人同等的地位。”
于是他跪下來，向上帝流出感謝的眼淚，接著由于她——那座用石頭雕出的她的形象，那座像是用雪花砌成的、在晨曦中泛出紅光的普賽克的形象——他又忘記了上帝。
事實上，他應該看看她——那個活著的、輕盈的聲音像音樂似的她。他可以送一個消息到那個豪華的公館里去，說那個大理石的普賽克已經完工了。他現在就向那兒走去;走過寬廣的庭院——這兒，在大理石的池子里，有海豚在噴著水，百合在開著花，新鮮的玫瑰花苞在開放。他走進一間高闊的大廳——墻上和天花板上涂著的彩色、紋章和圖案射出燦爛的光輝。穿著華麗服裝的仆人——他們像拉雪橇的馬兒似的戴著許多丁當的小鈴——在高視闊步地走來走去。有幾位還安全地、傲慢地躺在木雕的凳子上，好像他們就是這家的主人似的。
他把他的來意告訴他們。于是他就被帶到一個大理石砌的樓梯上去;樓梯上鋪有柔軟的地毯，兩邊有許多石像。他走過許多富麗的房間;墻上掛著許多圖畫，地上鑲著由種種不同顏色的石塊拼成的花紋。這種琳瑯滿目的景象使他感到呼吸沉重;但是不一會兒他就感到一陣輕松，因為這家的高貴的老主人對他非常謙和，幾乎可說是很熱烈。他們談完話以后，他在告別時還叫他去看一看小姐，因為她也希望看到他。仆人們領著他走過富麗的大廳和小室一直到她的房間里去——這里最華貴的東西就是她。
她和他談話。任何贊美歌、任何禮神頌，都不能像她那樣能融化他的心，超升他的靈魂。他提起她的手來吻著。沒有什么玫瑰花比這更柔和;而且這朵玫瑰花還發出火，火透進他的全身。他感到了超升。話語從他的舌尖上涌出來——他不知道自己在講什么東西�；鹕蕉纯谀苤浪趪姵鰺霟岬娜蹘r嗎?他對她表示了自己的愛情。她立在他面前，驚呆，憤怒，驕傲。她臉上露出一種藐視，一種好像忽然摸過了一只粘濕的青蛙時的那種表情。她的雙頰紅起來了，嘴唇發白，眼睛冒火——雖然這對眼睛像黑夜一般烏黑。
“你瘋了!”她說。“走開吧!滾開吧!”
于是她就掉轉身不理他。她美麗的面孔所現出的表情，跟那個滿頭盤著蛇的、臉像石頭一般的表情⑥差不多。
像一個失掉了知覺的人一樣，他搖搖欲倒地走到街上來。
像一個夢游者一樣，他摸到自己的家里來。這時他忽然驚醒，陷入一種瘋狂和痛苦中。他拿起錘子，高高地舉向空中，要把這尊大理石像打得粉碎�？墒窃谕纯嘀�，他沒有注意到，他的朋友安吉羅就在他的旁邊。安吉羅一把抓住他的手臂，說：“你瘋了嗎?你在做什么?”
他們兩人扭作一團。安吉羅的氣力比他大。這位年輕的藝術家，深深地嘆了一口氣，就倒到椅子上去了。
“出了什么事情呢?”安吉羅問。“放鎮定些吧。說呀!”
可是他能夠說什么呢?他怎么能夠解釋呢?安吉羅在他的話里找不到什么線索，所以也就不再問了。
“你天天在做夢，弄得你的血液都要停滯了。像我們大家一樣，做一個現實的人吧，不要老是生活在想象中，弄得理智失常呀!好好地醉一次，那么你就可以舒服地睡一覺!讓
一位漂亮的姑娘來做你的醫生吧!平原上⑦的姑娘也是很美麗的，并不亞于大理石宮里的公主。她們都是夏娃的女兒，在天國里沒有絲毫分別。跟著你的安吉羅來吧!我就是你的安琪兒，活生生的安琪兒!有一天你會衰老，你的筋骨會萎縮;于是在某個晴朗的日子你就會躺下來，當一切在歡笑和快樂的時候，你就會像凋零的草兒一樣，再也生長不了。我不相信牧師說的話，認為在墳墓的后面還有一種生活——這只不過是一種美麗的想象，一種講給孩子聽的童話罷了;只有當你能夠想象它的時候，它才能引起興趣。我不是在夢中生活，我是在現實中生活。跟我一塊兒來吧，做一個現實的人吧!”
于是他就把他拉走了。在此時此刻，他能做到這一點，因為這個年輕藝術家的血液里正燃著火，他的靈魂在起變化。他有一種迫切的要求，要把自己從陳舊的、惰性的生活中解脫出來，要把自己從舊我中解脫出來。因此這一天他就跟著安吉羅走出去。
在羅馬郊區有一個酒店;藝術家們常常到那兒去。它是建筑在古代浴池的一些廢墟中間的。金黃色的大佛手柑在深厚的、有光澤的葉子間懸著，同時掩蓋了那些古老的、深褐色的墻壁的一部分。這個酒店是由一個高大的拱道形成的，在廢墟中間差不多像一個洞。這兒有一盞燈在圣母馬利亞的像前點著。一股熊熊的大火正在爐里焚燒，上面還烤著和煮著東西。在外邊的圓佛手柑樹和月桂花樹下，陳列著幾張鋪好臺布的桌子。
朋友們歡呼著把這兩個藝術家迎接進去。他們吃得很少，可是酒喝得很多;這造成一種歡樂的氣氛。他們唱著歌，彈著吉他琴;“薩爾塔萊洛”⑧奏起來了，歡樂的跳舞也開始了。經常為這些藝術家做模特兒的兩個年輕的羅馬姑娘也參加他們的跳舞，參加他們的歡樂。她們是兩個迷人的巴克斯⑨的信徒!是的，她們沒有普賽克的形態，不是嬌柔美麗的玫瑰花，但她們卻是新鮮的、熱情的、通紅的荷蘭石竹花。
那天是多么熱啊!甚至在太陽落下去了以后，天還是熱的!血液里流著火，空氣中燃著火，視線里射出火!空中浮著金子和玫瑰，生命也是金子和玫瑰。
“你到底跟我們在一起了!現在讓你內在的和周圍的波濤把你托起來吧!”
“我從來沒有感到像現在這樣健康和愉快過!”這位年輕的藝術家說。“你們是對的，你們都是對的。我是一個傻瓜，一個夢想家——人是屬于現實的，不是屬于幻想的。”
在這天星光照著的晚上，這群年輕人在歌聲和吉他琴聲中，通過那些狹小的街道，從酒店里回到家里來;那兩朵通紅的荷蘭石竹花——坎帕尼亞地區的兩個女兒——同他們一道回來了。
在安吉羅的房間里面，在一些雜亂的速寫、隨意的練習和鮮艷奪目的畫幅中，他們的聲音變得柔和了一些，但是并沒有減低火熱的情緒。地上攤著許多畫頁;這些畫頁里的素描，在生動而有力的美方面很像坎帕尼亞的那兩個姑娘，不過真人還是比她們的畫像要美麗得多。一盞有六個燈口的燈，從每個燈口上吐出火焰和閃光;在這些燈光中，形形色色的人形，像神祇似的，也顯露出來了。
“阿波羅!丘比特!⑩我超升到了你們的天國，到你們光華燦爛的境界!我覺得生命的花這時在我的心中開放了。”
是的，花兒開了，裂了，又謝了。一股麻醉性的邪氣從那里面升起來，蒙住了視線，毒害了思想，滅掉了感官的火花，四周是一片黑暗。
他回到了他自己家里來，坐在自己的床上，整理自己的思想。
“呸!”這是從他心的深處，通過他的嘴發出的字眼。“可憐的人啊，走開吧，滾開吧!”于是他發出一種痛苦的嘆息。
“走開吧!滾開吧!”這是她的話，一個活著的普賽克的話。這話在他的心里縈繞著，終于從他的嘴里沖出來。他把頭埋在枕頭里，他的思想很混亂，于是就睡去了。
天亮的時候，他跳下床來。他重新整理他的思想。發生過什么事情呢?難道這全都是一場夢嗎?到她家去的拜訪，在酒店里的狂歡，那天晚上跟坎帕尼亞的那對紫紅色的荷蘭石竹花的集會——難道這都是夢嗎?不，這一切都是真事——是他從來沒有體驗過的真實生活。
那顆明亮的星在紫紅色的空中閃耀著;它的光輝照在他身上，照在那尊大理石雕的普賽克身上。當他看到這個不朽的形象的時候，就顫抖起來，他似乎覺得自己的視線不純潔。他用布把她蓋起來。在他要揭開的時候，他摸了她一次，但是再也沒有氣力看自己的作品了。
他坐在那兒愁眉不展，一言不發，墮入深思中去;他坐了一整天;他聽不見周圍發生的一切事情。誰也猜不出這個人的心里究竟在想著什么東西。
許多日子、許多星期過去了。黑夜是最長的。有一天早晨，那顆閃亮的星兒看見他，他的面孔發白，全身因為發熱而顫抖，他走向那座大理石像，把那塊覆蓋著的布拉向一邊，以悲痛的眼光，把他的作品凝望了好久。最后他把這座石像拖向花園里去;它的重量幾乎把他壓倒了。這兒有一口頹敗的枯井;它除了一個洞口以外什么也沒有。他就把這個普賽克推到了里面去，然后用土把她蓋上，最后他用枝條和蕁麻掩住了這個洞口。
“走開吧，滾開吧!”這是他的簡短的送葬辭。
那顆星兒在清晨的玫瑰色的天空中看到了這幅情景;它的光在這年輕人慘白的面孔上的兩顆沉重的眼淚里顫動著。
他在發燒，病得要死，人們說他快要斷氣了。
修道士依洛納提烏斯作為一個朋友和醫生來看他，帶給他宗教上的安慰的話語，談起宗教中的和平與快樂、人類的罪過，和從上帝所能得到的慈悲與安息。
這番話像溫暖的太陽光，照在肥沃的土壤上。土壤冒著水蒸氣，升起一層霧，形成一系列的思想圖畫，而這些圖畫是有現實的基礎的。從這些浮著的島上，他遙望下邊人類的生活：這生活充滿了錯誤和失望——而他自己的生活也是如此。藝術是一個女術士，把我們帶進虛榮和人世間的情欲中去。我們對自己虛偽，對朋友虛偽，對上帝也虛偽。那條蛇老是不停地在我們的心里講：“吃吧，你將會像上帝一樣⑾。”
他覺得他現在第一次認識了自己，找到了真理和和平的道路。教會就是上帝的光和光明——在修道士的靜修室內他將找到安靜，在安靜中人生的樹將可以永恒地生長下去。
師兄依洛納提烏斯支持他的信心;他的決心變得更加堅定。人間的兒子現在變成了教會的一個仆人——這個年輕藝術家舍棄了人世，到修道院里去隱居起來了。
師兄師弟們是多么熱情地歡迎他啊!他加入教會，成了一個節日。在他看來，上帝就生活在教會的太陽光里，從那些神圣的畫像和明亮的十字架上對他射出光來。在黃昏，當太陽落下去的時候，他在他的靜修室里打開窗子，向古老的羅馬，向那些殘破的廟宇和那莊嚴的、毀滅了的“訶里生”眺望。他在春天里看到這一切;這時槐樹正開滿了花，長春藤在現出新鮮的綠色，玫瑰花在遍地舒展著花瓣，圓佛手柑和橙子在發著光，棕櫚樹在搖動著枝葉;這時他感到一種他從來沒有感到過的、激動著他的感覺。那片廣闊的、安靜的坎帕尼亞向那藍色的、蓋滿積雪的高山展開去，好像它是被繪在空中似的。它們都相互融成一個整體，呈現出和平和美的氣息;它們在一種夢境中飄浮著，這全部都是一個夢!
是的，這個世界是一個夢。這個夢可以一連做許多鐘頭，做完了又繼續做下去。但是修道院的生活是經年累月的生活——是無窮盡的歲月的生活。
內心可以產生許多不潔的東西。他得承認這個事實!在他心里有時偶爾燃燒起來的那種火焰究竟是什么呢?那種違反他的志愿的、不停地流著的罪惡的泉水，究竟是什么呢?他責備著他的軀體，但是罪惡卻是從他的內心里流出來的。他的精神里有一部分東西，像蛇一樣柔軟，卷做一團，和他的良心一道在博愛的外衣下隱藏起來，同時這樣來安慰自己：那些圣者在為我們祈禱，圣母也在為我們祈禱，耶穌甚至還在為我們流血——這究竟是什么呢?難道這是孩子氣或青年人的輕浮習氣在作怪，把自己置于上帝仁慈之下，以為自己就因此得到超升，高出一切世人之上嗎?
許多年以后，有一天他遇到了還能認出他的安吉羅。
“人!”他說，“不錯，就是你，你現在很快樂嗎?你違反了上帝的意志而犯了罪，你舍棄了他賜給你的才能——你忽略了你在人世間要完成的任務!請你讀讀關于那個藏錢的寓言吧!大師作的這個寓言，就是真理呀!你得到了什么呢?你找到了什么呢?你不是在創造一個夢的生活嗎?你不是也像大多數人一樣，根據你自己的一套想法，為你自己創造了一個宗教嗎?好像一切就是一個夢、一個幻想似的!多荒唐的思想呀!”
“魔鬼啊，請你走開吧!”這位修道士說。于是他就從安吉羅那里走開。
“這是一個魔鬼，一個現身說法的魔鬼!今天我算是親眼看到他了!”這位修道士低聲說。“只要我向他伸出一個手指，他就會抓住我整個的手。但是不成，”他嘆了一口氣，“罪惡是在我自己的身體里面，罪惡也是在這個人的身體里面。但是他卻沒有被罪惡壓倒;他昂起頭，自由自在地，享受著自己的快樂，而我卻在宗教的安慰中去追求我的愉快。假如說這只不過是一個安慰而已呢?假如說，這兒的一切，像我舍棄了的人世那樣，只不過是些美麗的夢想罷了?只不過像紅色的暮云那樣美的、像遠山那樣淡藍的幻覺，而當你一走進這些東西的時候，他們卻完全不是那么一回事呢?永恒啊!你像一個龐大的、無邊的風平浪靜的海洋，你向我們招手，向我們呼喊，使我們充滿了期望——而當我們向你追求的時候，我們就下沉、消逝、滅亡，失去了存在!幻想啊!走開吧!滾開吧!”
他坐在堅硬的臥榻上沒有眼淚可流，他沉浸在苦思之中;他跪下來——跪在誰的面前呢?跪在墻邊那個石雕的十字架面前嗎?——不是的，是習慣使身軀這樣彎下來。
他越陷入深思，就越感到黑暗。“內心是空的，外面也是空的!這一生算是浪費掉了!”這個思想的雪球在滾動著，越滾越大，把他壓碎——把他消滅了。
“我無法把那個咬噬著我的內心的毛蟲講給任何人聽!我的秘密就是在我手中的囚徒。如果我釋放他，那么我就會被他所掌握!”
上帝的力量在他身體內笑著，斗爭著。
“上帝啊!上帝啊!”他在失望中呼號著，“請發慈悲，給我信心吧!你的賜予，我已經舍棄掉了;我放棄了我在世界上應該完成的任務。我缺乏力量，而你并沒有賜給我力量。
‘不朽’啊——我胸中的普賽克……走開吧!滾開吧!……它將像我生命中最好的一顆珠寶——那另一個普賽克一樣，要被埋葬掉了。它將永遠也不能再從墳墓里升起來了!”
那顆星在玫瑰色的空中亮著;那顆星總有一天會熄滅，會消逝的;但人類的靈魂將會活下來，發出光輝。它的顫抖著的光輝照在白色的墻上，但是它沒有寫下上帝的榮光、慈悲、博愛和在這個信徒的心里所激動著的東西。
“我心里的普賽克是永遠不會死亡的……她在意識中存在嗎?世上會有不可測度的存在嗎?是的，是的，我自己就是不可測度的。啊，上帝啊!你也是不可測度的。你的整個世界是不可測度的……是一個具有力量的奇異的作品，是光榮，是愛!”
他的眼睛閃出光來，他的眼睛破裂了。教堂的喪鐘是在他身上、他這個死人的身上的一個最后的聲音。人們把他埋葬了，用從耶路撒冷帶來的土把他蓋住了——土中混雜著虔誠圣者的骨灰。
許多年以后，像在他以前逝世的僧人一樣，他的骸骨也被挖了出來;它被穿上了棕色的僧衣，手上掛了一串念珠。他的遺骨——在這修道院的墳墓里所能找到的遺骨——全都被陳列在遺骨龕里。太陽在外面照著，香煙在里面飄蕩，人們正在念彌撒。
許多年過去了。
那些骸骨都倒下來了，混雜在一起。骷髏堆積起來，沿著教堂形成一座外墻。他的頭也躺在灼熱的太陽光中。這兒的死者真是不知有多少。誰也不知道他們的姓名;也沒有人知道他的姓名�？窗�，在太陽光中，那兩只空洞的眼窩里有某種東西在轉動!這是什么呢?有一條雜色的蜥蜴在這個骷髏的洞里活動，在那兩個空洞的大眼窩里滑溜。這個腦袋里現在有了生命——這個腦袋，在某個時候，曾經產生過偉大的思想、光明的夢、對于藝術和“美”的愛;曾經流過兩行熱淚，曾經作過“不朽”的希望。蜥蜴逃走了，不見了;骷髏跌成了碎片，成了塵土中的塵土。
許多世紀過去了，那顆明亮的星仍然在照著，又大又亮，一點也沒有改變，像它數千年以前照著的一樣�？諝馍⑸涑黾t光，像玫瑰一樣鮮艷，像血一樣深紅。
在那塊曾經是一條狹窄的小巷和一個神廟的廢墟的地方，面對著一個廣場，現在建立起了一個修女庵。
在修女庵的花園里，人們挖了一個墳坑，因為有一個年輕的修女死了，要在這天早晨下葬。鏟子觸到了一塊石頭，它發著雪亮的光。不一會兒，一塊大理石雕的肩膀出現了，接著更多的部分露出來。這時人們就更當心地使著鏟子;一個女子的頭露出來了，接著是一對蝴蝶的翅膀⑿。在這個要埋葬一位年輕的修女的墳坑里，人們在一個粉紅色的早晨，取出了一個用雪白的大理石雕刻的普賽克的形象。
“它是多美，多完整啊!它是一件最興盛的時代的藝術品!”人們說。
它的雕刻師可能是誰呢?誰也不知道，除了那顆照耀了數千年的星兒以外，誰也記不起他。只有這顆星看到過他在人間一生的經歷，他的考驗，他的弱點，他的概念：“只是一個人!……不過這個人已經死了，消滅了，正如灰塵是要消滅的一樣。但是他最高尚的斗爭和最光榮的勞作的成果表現出他生存的神圣的一面——這個永遠不滅的、比他具有更悠久的生命的普賽克。這個凡人所發出的光輝，這個他所遺下的成果，現在被人觀看、欣賞、景仰和愛慕。”
那顆明亮的晨星在玫瑰色的空中對這普賽克灑下它的光輝——也對觀眾的愉快的面孔灑下它的光輝。這些觀眾正在用驚奇的眼光瞻仰這尊大理石雕刻的靈魂的形象。
�、倨召惪�(Psychen)原是希臘神話里一個國王的美麗的女兒。美和愛情之女神阿芙羅狄蒂(Aphrodite)嫉妒她非凡的美貌，特別令愛神丘比特(請參看《頑皮孩子》)在普賽克心中注入一種愛情，使她只愛最下賤的男人。丘比特一見她，卻自己愛上了她。他每夜在黑暗中偷偷地來看她。她嫉妒的姊妹們告訴她，說她每天晚上所擁抱的那個戀人是一個怪物。因此有一天晚上，當丘比特正熟睡的時候，她偷偷地點起燈來看他。一滴燈油落到他的臉上，把他驚醒。他責備她，說她不應該不信任他。然后他就失蹤了。她走遍天涯去找他，經過不知多少苦難和考驗，終于使丘比特回心轉意，與她結成夫婦。她因此從一個凡人的女兒變成了神。這故事代表古代的人對于人類的靈魂的一種看法，認為靈魂通過受難和痛苦的洗煉以后，才能達到極樂的境界。(按：普賽克，葉先生在有些版本中譯為“素琪”，按名從主人的原則，這里仍用“普賽克”。)
�、谥歌蟮賹�。
�、圻@是古代羅馬一個有名的大戲院。它是公元75年韋斯巴薌(Titus Elav Bius Vespassianus, 9-79)大帝時開工，80年狄托(一譯第度，Titus Ves-pasianus, 39-81)大帝時完成的。
④拉斐爾(Santi Raphael，1483—1520)是意大利羅馬學派的一個偉大畫家，他的作品在歐洲一直到現在還影響著許多畫家。
�、菝组_朗琪羅(Michelangelo Buonarroti，1475—1564)是意大利的名雕刻師，畫家，建筑師和詩人。他的雕刻散見于意大利的許多偉大的建筑物中，陳列在歐洲的大博物館內。
⑥大概是指美杜莎(Medusa)。據希臘神話，她本來是一個凡人的女兒，因為與海神波塞東(Poseidon)私通，女神雅典娜(Athenae)就把她變成一個怪物：她的頭發是一堆盤著的蛇，誰看見她就會變成石頭。后來藝術家常把她當做一個美麗的女怪而作為創作的主題。
�、咧噶_馬附近的坎帕尼亞(Campagnadiroma)地區�？才聊醽喸谝獯罄喜�，多山地、丘陵與山間盆地。沿海平原是主要農業區。
�、噙@是古代流行于羅馬附近坎帕尼亞地區的一種舞曲Saltarello，意思是“跳躍”。后來許多作曲家用這種舞的節奏寫成音樂，如德國作曲家門德爾松(Eelix Mendelssohn，1809—1847)的《意大利交響樂》第九十號最后一章。
�、岚涂怂�(Bacchus)是古代羅馬神話中的酒神和快樂神。這兒是“及時行樂者”的意思。
⑩阿波羅(Apollo)是希臘神話中藝術和一切藝術活動之神;丘比特(Jupiter)是希臘神話中的上帝。
⑾指《圣經·舊約全書·創世記》第三章，第四、五節中蛇對夏娃說的一段話：“蛇對女人說……因為神知道，你們吃的日子眼睛就明亮了，你們便如神能知道善惡。”
�、袚畔ＥD人的想象，普賽克長著一對蝴蝶的翅膀。古人認為靈魂會飛，因此對于代表靈魂的普賽克，有了這樣的假想。
素琪英文版：
The Psyche
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 surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green juicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear water was splashing; and a form glided past, the daughter of the princely house, graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a form of female loveliness he had never before beheld—yet stay: he had seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of the Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it passed by him in living reality.
“The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He went home to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for the first time he looked at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him, for it was she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they declared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power, of which they had long been aware, and that now the world should be made aware of it too.
“The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had not the whiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly block of that stone. It had been lying for years, the property of his parents, in the courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and remains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity; but under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow; and from this block the Psyche was to arise.”
Now, it happened one morning—the bright Star tells nothing about this, but we know it occurred—that a noble Roman company came into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane, and the company proceeded on foot towards the house, to inspect the young sculptor’s work, for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And who were these distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate young man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room and smiled radiantly when her father said to her, “It is your living image.” That smile could not be copied, any more than the look could be reproduced, the wonderful look which she cast upon the young artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed at once to elevate and to crush him.
“The Psyche must be executed in marble,” said the wealthy patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved artist. “When the work is finished I will purchase it,” continued the rich noble.
A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its work. The beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed. The clay itself seemed inspired since she had been there, and moulded itself, in heightened beauty, to a likeness of the well-known features.
“Now I know what life is,” cried the artist rejoicingly; “it is Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the beautiful in the soul! What my friends call life and enjoyment is a passing shadow; it is like bubbles among seething dregs, not the pure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life.”
The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck great fragments from it; the measurements were taken, points and lines were made, the mechanical part was executed, till gradually the stone assumed a human female form, a shape of beauty, and became converted into the Psyche, fair and glorious—a divine being in human shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy Psyche, with the heavenly innocent smile—the smile that had mirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.
The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was 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 position.
The more deeply he looked into his own heart, the blacker did the darkness seem.—“Nothing within, nothing without—this life squanderied and cast away!” And this thought rolled and grew like a snowball, until it seemed to crush him.
“I can confide my griefs to none. I may speak to none of the gnawing worm within. My secret is my prisoner; if I let the captive escape, I shall be his!”
And the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and strove.
“O Lord, my Lord!” he cried, in his despair, “be merciful and grant me faith. I threw away the gift thou hadst vouchsafed to me, I left my mission unfulfilled. I lacked strength, and strength thou didst not give me. Immortality—the Psyche in my breast—away with it!—it shall be buried like that Psyche, the best gleam of my life; never will it arise out of its grave!”
The Star glowed in the roseate air, the Star that shall surely be extinguished and pass away while the soul still lives on; its trembling beam fell upon the white wall, but it wrote nothing there upon being made perfect in God, nothing of the hope of mercy, of the reliance on the divine love that thrills through the heart of the believer.
“The Psyche within can never die. Shall it live in consciousness? Can the incomprehensible happen? Yes, yes. My being is incomprehensible. Thou art unfathomable, O Lord. Thy whole world is incomprehensible—a wonder-work of power, of glory and of love.”
His eyes gleamed, and then closed in death. The tolling of the church bell was the last sound that echoed above him, above the dead man; and they buried him, covering him with earth that had been brought from Jerusalem, and in which was mingled the dust of many of the pious dead.
When years had gone by his skeleton was dug up, as the skeletons of the monks who had died before him had been; it was clad in a brown frock, a rosary was put into the bony hand, and the form was placed among the ranks of other skeletons in the cloisters of the convent. And the sun shone without, while within the censers were waved and the Mass was celebrated.
And years rolled by.
The bones fell asunder and became mingled with others. Skulls were piled up till they formed an outer wall around the church; and there lay also his head in the burning sun, for many dead were there, and no one knew their names, and his name was forgotten also. And see, something was moving in the sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes! What might that be? A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull, gliding in and out through the sightless holes. The lizard now represented all the life left in that head, in which once great thoughts, bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had arisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and immortality had had their being. The lizard sprang away and disappeared, and the skull itself crumbled to pieces and became dust among dust.
Centuries passed away. The bright Star gleamed unaltered, radiant and large, as it had gleamed for thousands of years, and the air glowed red with tints fresh as roses, crimson like blood.
There, where once had stood the narrow lane containing the ruins of the temple, a nunnery was now built. A grave was being dug in the convent garden for a young nun who had died, and was to be laid in the earth this morning. The spade struck against a hard substance; it was a stone, that shone dazzling white. A block of marble soon appeared, a rounded shoulder was laid bare; and now the spade was plied with a more careful hand, and presently a female head was seen, and butterflies’ wings. Out of the grave in which the young nun was to be laid they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful statue of a Psyche carved in white marble.
“How beautiful, how perfect it is!” cried the spectators. “A relic of the best period of art.”
And who could the sculptor have been? No one knew; no one remembered him, except the bright star that had gleamed for thousands of years. The star had seen the course of that life on earth, and knew of the man’s trials, of his weakness—in fact, that he had been but human. The man’s life had passed away, his dust had been scattered abroad as dust is destined to be; but the result of his noblest striving, the glorious work that gave token of the divine element within him—the Psyche that never dies, that lives beyond posterity—the brightness even of this earthly Psyche remained here after him, and was seen and acknowledged and appreciated.
The bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw its glancing ray downward upon the Psyche, and upon the radiant countenances of the admiring spectators, who here beheld the image of the soul portrayed in marble.
What is earthly will pass away and be forgotten, and the Star in the vast firmament knows it. What is heavenly will shine brightly through posterity; and when the ages of posterity are past, the Psyche—the soul—will still live on!
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