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He sank, weeping, on his knees and offered up his thanks to God–but
forgot him again for her, for her portrait in marble, for the Psyche
form, that stood before him, as though cut out of snow, blushing, in
the morning sun.

He should see her, the living, floating one, in reality; she, whose
words sounded like music. He would himself carry the tidings, that the
marble Psyche was completed, to the rich palace. He arrived, passed
through the open court-yard, where the water splashed from dolphin’s
mouths into marble shells, where callas bloomed and fresh roses
blossomed. He stepped into the large, lofty hall, whose walls and
ceilings were gorgeous with brilliant colours, with paintings and
armorial bearings. Well dressed and haughty servants, holding up their
heads, (like sleigh horses with their bells,) were pacing up and down;
some of them had even stretched themselves out comfortably and
insolently on the carved wooden benches; they appeared to be the
masters of the house. He named his business, and was conducted up the
marble steps, which were covered with soft carpets. On each side stood
statues. Then he came to richly decorated apartments, hung with
paintings and with mosaic floors.

This pomp, this splendour made him breathe a little heavily, but he
soon felt reassured; for the old prince, received him kindly, almost
cordially. After they had spoken, as he was taking leave, he begged
him to visit the young Signora, for she also wished to see him. The
servants led him through magnificent chambers and corridors to her
apartments, of which she was the glory and splendour.

She spoke with him! No Miserere, no church song could have melted the
heart more, or have more elevated the soul, than did the music of her
voice. He seized her hand and pressed it to his lips–no rose is so
soft, but a fire proceeds from this rose–a fire streams through him
and his breast heaves; words streamed from his lips, but he knew not
what he said. Does the crater know that it throws forth burning lava?
He told her his love. She stood there, surprised, insulted, proud,
yes, scornful; with an expression on her face as though a damp,
clammy frog had suddenly touched her. Her cheeks coloured, her lips
grew pale, her eyes were on fire, and still black as the darkness of
night.

“Frantic creature! Away, away!” said she, as she turned her back upon
him. Her face of beauty seemed turned to stone, like unto the Medusa’s
head with its serpent locks. He descended to the street, a weak,
lifeless thing; he entered his room like a night-walker, and in the
rage of his grief, he seized his hammer, brandished it high in the air
and sought to destroy the beautiful marble form. He did not
observe–so excited was he–that Angelo, his friend, stood near him,
and arrested his arm with a firm grasp.

“Have you become mad? What would you do?” They struggled with each
other. Angelo was the stronger, and with a deep drawn breath, he
threw the young artist on a chair.

“What has occurred?” asked Angelo, “Collect yourself! Speak!”

What could he say? What could he tell? As Angelo could not seize the
thread of his discourse, he let it drop.

“Your blood grows thick with this eternal dreaming! Be human, like
others and live not in the clouds! Drink, until you become slightly
intoxicated, then you will sleep well! The young girl from the
Campagna, is as beautiful as the princess in the marble palace, they
are both daughters of Eve, and can not be distinguished one from the
other in Paradise! Follow your Angelo! I am your good angel, the angel
of your life! A time will come when you are old, when the body will
dwindle and some beautiful sunshiny day, when everything laughs and
rejoices, you will lie like a withered straw! I do not believe what
the priests say, that there is a life beyond the grave! It is a pretty
fancy, a fairy tale for children, delightful to think upon. I do not
live in imagination, but in reality! Come with me! Become a man!”