No More Learning

We need not for
that forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting in her capital hen-house, in
our own time. Marie Grubbe sat down in her times, but not with the
same spirit that old Poultry Meg showed.

The winter passed away, and the spring and the summer passed away,
and the autumn came again, with the damp, cold sea-fog. It was a
lonely, desolate life in the old manor house. Marie Grubbe took her
gun in her hand and went out to the heath, and shot hares and foxes,
and whatever birds she could hit. More than once she met the noble Sir
Palle Dyre, of Norrebak, who was also wandering about with his gun and
his dogs. He was tall and strong, and boasted of this when they talked
together. He could have measured himself against the deceased Mr.
Brockenhuus, of Egeskov, of whom the people still talked. Palle Dyre
had, after the example of Brockenhuus, caused an iron chain with a
hunting-horn to be hung in his gateway; and when he came riding
home, he used to seize the chain, and lift himself and his horse
from the ground, and blow the horn.

"Come yourself, and see me do that, Dame Marie," he said. 'One can
breathe fresh and free at Norrebak.

When she went to his castle is not known, but on the altar
candlestick in the church of Norrebak it was inscribed that they
were the gift of Palle Dyre and Marie Grubbe, of Norrebak Castle.

A great stout man was Palle Dyre. He drank like a sponge. He was
like a tub that could never get full; he snored like a whole sty of
pigs, and he looked red and bloated.

"He is treacherous and malicious," said Dame Pally Dyre,
Grubbe's daughter. Soon she was weary of her life with him, but that
did not make it better.

One day the table was spread, and the dishes grew cold. Palle Dyre
was out hunting foxes, and the gracious lady was nowhere to be
found. Towards midnight Palle Dyre came home, but Dame Dyre came
neither at midnight, nor next morning. She had turned her back upon
Norrebak, and had ridden away without saying good-bye.

It was gray, wet weather; the wind grew cold, and a flight of
black screaming birds flew over her head. They were not so homeless as
she.

First she journeyed southward, quite down into the German land.
A couple of golden rings with costly stones were turned into money;
and then she turned to the east, and then she turned again and went
towards the west. She had no food before her eyes, and murmured
against everything, even against the good God himself, so wretched was
her soul. Soon her body became wretched too, and she was scarcely able
to move a foot. The peewit flew up as she stumbled over the mound of
earth where it had built its nest. The bird cried, as it always cried,
"You thief! you thief! " She had never stolen her neighbor's goods; but
as a little girl she had caused eggs and young birds to be taken
from the trees, and she thought of that now.

From where she lay she could see the sand-dunes. By the seashore
lived fishermen; but she could not get so far, she was so ill. The
great white sea-mews flew over her head, and screamed as the crows and
daws screamed at home in the garden of the manor house. The birds flew
quite close to her, and at last it seemed to her as if they became
black as crows, and then all was night before her eyes.

When she opened her eyes again, she was being lifted and
carried. A great strong man had taken her up in his arms, and she
was looking straight into his bearded face. He had a scar over one
eye, which seemed to divide the eyebrow into two parts. Weak as she
was, he carried her to the ship, where he got a rating for it from the
captain.

The next day the ship sailed away. Madame Grubbe had not been
put ashore, so she sailed away with it. But she will return, will
she not? Yes, but where, and when?

The clerk could tell about this too, and it was not a story
which he patched together himself. He had the whole strange history
out of an old authentic book, which we ourselves can take out and
read. The Danish historian, Ludwig Holberg, who has written so many
useful books and merry comedies, from which we can get such a good
idea of his times and their people, tells in his letters of Marie
Grubbe, where and how he met her. It is well worth hearing; but for
all that, we don't at all forget Poultry Meg, who is sitting
cheerful and comfortable in the charming fowl-house.

The ship sailed away with Marie Grubbe. That's where we left off.

Long years went by.

The plague was raging at Copenhagen; it was in the year 1711.
The Queen of Denmark went away to her German home, the King quitted
the capital, and everybody who could do so hurried away. The students,
even those who had board and lodging gratis, left the city. One of
these students, the last who had remained in the free college, at last
went away too. It was two o'clock in the morning. He was carrying
his knapsack, which was better stacked with books and writings than
with clothes. A damp mist hung over the town; not a person was to be
seen in the streets; the street-doors around were marked with crosses,
as a sign that the plague was within, or that all the inmates were
dead. A great wagon rattled past him; the coachman brandished his
whip, and the horses flew by at a gallop. The wagon was filled with
corpses. The young student kept his hand before his face, and smelt at
some strong spirits that he had with him on a sponge in a little brass
scent-case. Out of a small tavern in one of the streets there were
sounds of singing and of unhallowed laughter, from people who drank
the night through to forget that the plague was at their doors, and
that they might be put into the wagon as the others had been. The
student turned his steps towards the canal at the castle bridge, where
a couple of small ships were lying; one of these was weighing
anchor, to get away from the plague-stricken city.

"If God spares our lives and grants us a fair wind, we are going
to Gronmud, near Falster," said the captain; and he asked the name
of the student who wished to go with him.

"Ludwig Holberg," answered the student; and the name sounded
like any other. But now there sounds in it one of the proudest names
of Denmark; then it was the name of a young, unknown student.

The ship glided past the castle. It was not yet bright day when it
was in the open sea. A light wind filled the sails, and the young
student sat down with his face turned towards the fresh wind, and went
to sleep, which was not exactly the most prudent thing he could have
done.

Already on the third day the ship lay by the island of Falster.

"Do you know any one here with whom I could lodge cheaply? "
Holberg asked the captain.

"I should think you would do well to go to the ferry-woman in
Borrehaus," answered the captain. "If you want to be very civil to
her, her name is Mother Soren Sorensen Muller. But it may happen
that she may fly into a fury if you are too polite to her. The man
is in custody for a crime, and that's why she manages the ferry-boat
herself--she has fists of her own. "

The student took his knapsack and betook himself to the
ferry-house. The house door was not locked--it opened, and he went
into a room with a brick floor, where a bench, with a great coverlet
of leather, formed the chief article of furniture. A white hen, who
had a brood of chickens, was fastened to the bench, and had overturned
the pipkin of water, so that the wet ran across the floor. There
were no people either here or in the adjoining room; only a cradle
stood there, in which was a child. The ferry-boat came back with
only one person in it. Whether that person was a man or a woman was
not an easy matter to determine. The person in question was wrapped in
a great cloak, and wore a kind of hood. Presently the boat lay to.

It was a woman who got out of it and came into the room. She
looked very stately when she straightened her back; two proud eyes
looked forth from beneath her black eyebrows. It was Mother Soren, the
ferry-wife. The crows and daws might have called out another name
for her, which we know better.

She looked morose, and did not seem to care to talk; but this much
was settled, that the student should board in her house for an
indefinite time, while things looked so bad in Copenhagen.

This or that honest citizen would often come to the ferry-house
from the neighboring little town. There came Frank the cutler, and
Sivert the exciseman. They drank a mug of beer in the ferry-house, and
used to converse with the student, for he was a clever young man,
who knew his "Practica," as they called it; he could read Greek and
Latin, and was well up in learned subjects.

"The less one knows, the less it presses upon one," said Mother
Soren.

"You have to work hard," said Holberg one day, when she was
dipping clothes in the strong soapy water, and was obliged herself
to split the logs for the fire.

"That's my affair," she replied.

"Have you been obliged to toil in this way from your childhood? "

"You can read that from my hands," she replied, and held out her
hands, that were small indeed, but hard and strong, with bitten nails.
"You are learned, and can read. "

At Christmas-time it began to snow heavily. The cold came on,
the wind blue sharp, as if there were vitriol in it to wash the
people's faces. Mother Soren did not let that disturb her; she threw
her cloak around her, and drew her hood over her head. Early in the
afternoon--it was already dark in the house--she laid wood and turf on
the hearth, and then she sat down to darn her stockings, for there was
no one to do it for her. Towards evening she spoke more words to the
student than it was customary with her to use; she spoke of her
husband.

"He killed a sailor of Dragor by mischance, and for that he has to
work for three years in irons. He's only a common sailor, and
therefore the law must take its course. "

"The law is there for people of high rank, too," said Holberg.

"Do you think so? " said Mother Soren; then she looked into the
fire for a while; but after a time she began to speak again. "Have you
heard of Kai Lykke, who caused a church to be pulled down, and when
the clergyman, Master Martin, thundered from the pulpit about it, he
had him put in irons, and sat in judgment upon him, and condemned
him to death? Yes, and the clergyman was obliged to bow his head to
the stroke. And yet Kai Lykke went scot-free. "

"He had a right to do as he did in those times," said Holberg;
"but now we have left those times behind us. "

"You may get a fool to believe that," cried Mother Soren; and
she got up and went into the room where the child lay. She lifted up
the child, and laid it down more comfortably. Then she arranged the
bed-place of the student. He had the green coverlet, for he felt the
cold more than she, though he was born in Norway.

On New Year's morning it was a bright sunshiny day. The frost
had been so strong, and was still so strong, that the fallen snow
had become a hard mass, and one could walk upon it. The bells of the
little town were tolling for church. Student Holberg wrapped himself
up in his woollen cloak, and wanted to go to the town.

Over the ferry-house the crows and daws were flying with loud
cries; one could hardly hear the church bells for their screaming.
Mother Soren stood in front of the house, filling a brass pot with
snow, which she was going to put on the fire to get drinking water.
She looked up to the crowd of birds, and thought her own thoughts.

Student Holberg went to church. On his way there and on his return
he passed by the house of tax-collector Sivert, by the town-gate. Here
he was invited to take a mug of brown beer with treacle and sugar. The
discourse fell upon Mother Soren, but the tax collector did not know
much about her, and, indeed, few knew much about her. She did not
belong to the island of Falster, he said; she had a little property of
her own at one time. Her husband was a common sailor, a fellow of a
very hot temper, and had killed a sailor of Dragor; and he beat his
wife, and yet she defended him.

"I should not endure such treatment," said the tax-collector's
wife. "I am come of more respectable people. My father was
stocking-weaver to the Court. "

"And consequently you have married a governmental official,"
said Holberg, and made a bow to her and to the collector.

It was on Twelfth Night, the evening of the festival of the
Three Kings, Mother Soren lit up for Holberg a three-king candle, that
is, a tallow candle with three wicks, which she had herself prepared.

"A light for each man," said Holberg.

"For each man? " repeated the woman, looking sharply at him.

"For each of the wise men from the East," said Holberg.

"You mean it that way," said she, and then she was silent for a
long time. But on this evening he learned more about her than he had
yet known.

"You speak very affectionately of your husband," observed Holberg,
"and yet the people say that he ill-uses you every day. "

"That's no one's business but mine," she replied. "The blows might
have done me good when I was a child; now, I suppose, I get them for
my sins. But I know what good he has done me," and she rose up.
"When I lay sick upon the desolate heath, and no one would have pity
on me, and no one would have anything to do with me, except the
crows and daws, which came to peck me to bits, he carried me in his
arms, and had to bear hard words because of the burden he brought on
board ship. It's not in my nature to be sick, and so I got well. Every
man has his own way, and Soren has his; but the horse must not be
judged by the halter. Taking one thing with another, I have lived more
agreeably with him than with the man whom they called the most noble
and gallant of the King's subjects. I have had the Stadtholder
Gyldenlowe, the King's half-brother, for my husband; and afterwards
I took Palle Dyre. One is as good as another, each in his own way, and
I in mine. That was a long gossip, but now you know all about me. "

And with those words she left the room.


It was Marie Grubbe! so strangely had fate played with her. She
did not live to see many anniversaries of the festival of the Three
Kings; Holberg has recorded that she died in June, 1716; but he has
not written down, for he did not know, that a number of great black
birds circled over the ferry-house, when Mother Soren, as she was
called, was lying there a corpse. They did not scream, as if they knew
that at a burial silence should be observed. So soon as she lay in the
earth, the birds disappeared; but on the same evening in Jutland, at
the old manor house, an enormous number of crows and choughs were
seen; they all cried as loud as they could, as if they had some
announcement to make. Perhaps they talked of him who, as a little boy,
had taken away their eggs and their young; of the peasant's son, who
had to wear an iron garter, and of the noble young lady, who ended
by being a ferryman's wife.

"Brave! brave! " they cried.

And the whole family cried, "Brave! brave! " when the old house was
pulled down.

"They are still crying, and yet there's nothing to cry about,"
said the clerk, when he told the story. "The family is extinct, the
house has been pulled down, and where it stood is now the stately
poultry-house, with gilded weathercocks, and the old Poultry Meg.
She rejoices greatly in her beautiful dwelling. If she had not come
here," the old clerk added, "she would have had to go into the
work-house. "

The pigeons cooed over her, the turkey-cocks gobbled, and the
ducks quacked.

"Nobody knew her," they said; "she belongs to no family. It's pure
charity that she is here at all. She has neither a drake father nor
a hen mother, and has no descendants. "

She came of a great family, for all that; but she did not know it,
and the old clerk did not know it, though he had so much written down;
but one of the old crows knew about it, and told about it. She had
heard from her own mother and grandmother about Poultry Meg's mother
and grandmother. And we know the grandmother too. We saw her ride,
as child, over the bridge, looking proudly around her, as if the whole
world belonged to her, and all the birds' nests in it; and we saw
her on the heath, by the sand-dunes; and, last of all, in the
ferry-house. The granddaughter, the last of her race, had come back to
the old home, where the old castle had stood, where the black wild
birds were screaming; but she sat among the tame birds, and these knew
her and were fond of her. Poultry Meg had nothing left to wish for;
she looked forward with pleasure to her death, and she was old
enough to die.

"Grave, grave! " cried the crows.

And Poultry Meg has a good grave, which nobody knew except the old
crow, if the old crow is not dead already.

And now we know the story of the old manor house, of its old
proprietors, and of all Poultry Meg's family.




THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a
princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all
over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted.
There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether
they were real ones. There was always something about them that was
not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would
have liked very much to have a real princess.

One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and
lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking
was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.

It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But,
good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look.
The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the
toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that
she was a real princess.

"Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old queen. But she
said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the
bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty
mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds
on top of the mattresses.

On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she
was asked how she had slept.

"Oh, very badly! " said she.
"I have scarcely closed my eyes all
night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on
something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's
horrible! "

Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt
the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty
eider-down beds.

Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.

So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a
real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still
be seen, if no one has stolen it.

There, that is a true story.




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.