the Psyche普賽克
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！
