FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN THE PSYCHE

                                       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 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!

                            THE END