FullReads

“Get thee from behind me, Satan!” said the monk, and forsook Angelo.

“It is a devil, a devil personified! I saw him to-day,” murmured the
monk, “I reached him but a finger, and he took my whole hand! No,”
sighed he, “the wickedness is in myself; it is also in this man, but
he is not tormented by it; he walks with elevated brow, he has his
enjoyment; I but clutch at the consolation of the church for my
welfare! But if this is only consolation! If all here consists of
beautiful thoughts and but resemble those which beguiled me in the
world? Is it but a deception like unto the beauty of the red evening
clouds and like unto the blue wave-like beauty of the distant
mountains! Seen near, how changed! Eternity, art thou like unto the
great infinite, calm ocean, which beckons to us, calls us, fills us
with presentiments, and if we venture upon it, we sink, we
vanish–die–cease to be?–

“Deceit! away! away!”

He sat tearless on his hard couch, desolate, kneeling–before whom?
Before the stone cross which was placed in the wall? No, habit alone
caused his body to bend.

The deeper he read within himself, the darker all appeared to him.
“Nothing within, nothing without! Life thrown away!” This thought,
crushed him–expunged him.

“I dare confide to none the doubts which consume me! My prisoner is my
secret and if it escape I am lost!”

The power of God, wrestled within him.

“Lord! Lord!” he exclaimed in his despair, “be merciful, give me
faith! I cast thy gifts of mercy from me and my vocation for this
world! I prayed for strength and thou hast not given it to me.
Immortality! The Psyche in my breast–away! away!–Must it be buried
like yon Psyche, the light of my life? Never to arise from the grave!”

The star beamed in the rosy red atmosphere, the star which will be
lost and will vanish, whilst the soul lives and emits light. Its
trembling ray fell upon the white wall, but it spoke not of the glory
of God, of the grace, the eternal love which beams in the breast of
every believer.

“Can the Psyche never die?–Can one live with consciousness?–Can the
impossible take place?–Yes! Yes! My being is inexplicable.
Inconceivable art thou, oh Lord! A wonder of might, glory and love!”

His eyes beamed, his eyes closed. The peal of the church bells passed
over the dead one. He was laid in holy ground and his ashes mingled
with the dust of strangers.

Years afterwards, his bones were exhumed and stood in a niche in the
cloisters, as had stood those of the dead monks before him; they were
dressed in the brown cowl, a rosary of beads placed in his hand, the
sun shone without, incense perfumed within, and mass was read.–

Years rolled by.

The bones and legs fell asunder. They stood up the skulls, and with
them, formed the whole outside wall of a church. There he stood in the
burning sunshine; there were so many, many dead, they did not know
their names, much less his.

See, something living moved in the sunshine in the two eye sockets;
what was that? A brilliant lizard was running about in the hollow
skull, slipping in and out of the large, empty sockets. This was now
the life in the head, where once elevated thoughts, brilliant dreams,
love for art and the magnificent had been rife; from which hot tears
had rolled and where the hope of immortality had lived. The lizard
leaped out and disappeared; the skull crumbled away and became dust to
dust.–

Centuries passed. Unchanged, the star, clear and large, beamed on as
it had done for centuries. The atmosphere shone with a red rosy hue,
fresh as roses, flaming as blood.

Where there had once been a little street with the remains of an old
temple, now stood a convent; a grave was dug in the garden, for a
young nun had died, and she was to be lowered in the earth at this
early hour of the morning. The spade struck against a stone which
appeared of a dazzling whiteness–the white marble came forth–it
rounded into a shoulder;–they used the spade with care, and a female
head became visible–butterfly wings. They raised from the grave, in
which the young nun was to be laid on this rosy morning, a gloriously
beautiful Psyche-form, chiseled from white marble.

“How magnificent! How perfect a master work!” they said. “Who can the
artist be?” He was unknown. None knew him, save the clear star, which
had been beaming for centuries; it knew the course of his earthly
life, his trials, his failings; it knew that he was: “but a man!” But
he was dead, dispersed as dust must and shall be; but the result of
his best efforts, the glory which pointed out the divine within him,
the Psyche, which never dies, which surpasses in brightness, all
earthly renown, this remained, was seen, acknowledged, admired and
beloved.

The clear morning star in the rosy tinted sky, cast its most radiant
beams upon the Psyche, and upon the smile of happiness about the mouth
and eyes of the admiring ones, who beheld the soul, chiseled in the
marble block.

That which is earthly passes away, and is forgotten; only the star in
the infinite knows of it. That which is heavenly surpasses renown; for
renown, fame and earthly glory die away, but–the Psyche lives
forever!