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She lived in his thoughts and in his heart; he went home to his poor
lodgings and formed a Psyche out of clay; it was the rich, young Roman
girl, the princely woman, and he gazed at his work with satisfaction,
for the first time. This had a signification–it was She. When his
friends looked upon it, they exclaimed with joy, that this work was a
revelation of his artistic greatness, which they had always
recognized, but which now should be recognized by the whole world.

Clay is natural, flesh like, but it has not the whiteness, the
durability of marble; the Psyche must obtain life from the block of
marble–and he had the most precious piece of marble. It had been the
property of his parents, and had been lying many years, in the court
yard; bits of broken bottles, remains of artichokes were heaped over
it and it was soiled, but its interior was white as the mountain snow;
the Psyche should rise forth from it.

One day, it so happened–it is true, that the clear stars do not
relate it, for they did not see it, but we know it–that a
distinguished Roman party, came to view the young artist’s work, of
which they had casually heard. Who were the distinguished visitors?
Poor young man! All too happy young man, one may call him also. Here
in his room stood the young girl herself–with what a smile–when her
father said: “You are that, living!” One cannot picture the look, one
cannot render the look, the strange look with which she glanced at the
young artist; it was a look which elevated, ennobled and–destroyed.

“The Psyche must be executed in marble!” said the rich man. This was a
word of life, for the dead clay and for the heavy block of marble; it
was also a word of life for the young man who was overcome by emotion.
“I will buy it, as soon as the work is completed!” said the princely
man.

It seemed as though a new era had dawned in the poor work-room;
occupation, life and gayety, lighted it up. The beaming morning star
saw how the work progressed. Even the clay had been endowed with a
soul, since she had been there, and he bent entranced over the well
known features.

“Now I know what life is,” he exclaimed with delight, “it is love! it
is the elevation of the heart to the divine, it is rapture for the
beautiful! What my friends call life and enjoyment, is perishable,
like bubbles in the fermenting lees, not the pure, heavenly wine of
the altar, the consecration of life!”

The marble block was erected, the chisel hewed away large pieces; the
labourer’s part was done, marks and points placed, until little by
little, the stone became a body, a shape of beauty–the Psyche–as
charming as was the woman made by God. The massive stone became a
soaring, dancing, airy, light and graceful Psyche, with a heavenly,
innocent smile, the smile that had been mirrored in the young
sculptor’s heart.

The star, in the rosy-tinted morning saw, and partly understood what
was agitating the mind of the young man; it understood as well, the
varying colour of his checks and the glance of his eye, whilst he
created, as though inspired by God.

“You are a master like those in the days of the Greeks,” said his
enchanted friends, “the world will soon admire your Psyche!”

“My Psyche,” he repeated, “mine, yes, that she must be! I am also an
artist like the great departed ones! God has granted gifts of mercy to
me, and has elevated me to the highly born!”