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!
The Snail and the Rose-Tree.
A hedge of hazel-nut bushes encircled the garden; without was field
and meadow, with cows and sheep; but in the centre of the garden stood
a rose-tree, and under it sat a snail--she had much within her, she
had herself.
"Wait, until my time comes," said she, "I shall accomplish something
more than putting forth roses, bearing nuts, or giving milk, like the
cows and sheep!"
"I expect something fearfully grand," said the rose-tree, "may I ask
when it will take place?"
"I shall take my time," said the snail, "you are in too great a hurry,
and when this is the case, how can one's expectations be fulfilled?"
The next year the snail lay in about the same spot under the
rose-tree, which put forth buds and developed roses, ever fresh, ever
new. The snail half crept forth, stretched out its feelers and drew
itself in again.
"Everything looks as it did a year ago! No progress has been made; the
rose-tree still bears roses; it does not get along any farther!"
The summer faded away, the autumn passed, the rose-tree constantly
bore flowers and buds, until the snow fell, and the weather was raw
and damp. The rose-tree bent itself towards the earth, the snail crept
in the earth.
A new year commenced; the roses came out, and the snail came out.
"Now you are an old rose bush," said the snail, "you will soon die
away. You have given the world everything that you had in you; whether
that be much or little is a question, upon which I have not time to
reflect. But it is quite evident, that you have not done the slightest
thing towards your inward developement; otherwise I suppose that
something different would have sprung from you. Can you answer this?
You will soon be nothing but a stick! Can you understand what I say?"
"You startle me," said the rose-tree, "I have never thought upon
that!"
"No, I suppose that you have never meddled much with thinking! Can you
tell me why you blossom? And how it comes to pass? How? Why?"
"No," said the rose-tree, "I blossom with pleasure because I could
not do otherwise. The sun was so warm, the air so refreshing, I drank
the clear dew and the fortifying rain; I breathed, I lived! A strength
came to me from the earth, a strength came from above, I felt a
happiness, ever new, ever great and therefore I must blossom ever,
that was my life, I could not do otherwise!"
"You have led a very easy life!" said the snail.
"Certainly, everything has been given to me," said the rose-tree, "but
still more has been given to you. You are one of those meditative,
pensive, profound natures, one of the highly gifted, that astound the
whole world!"
"I have assuredly no such thought in my mind," said the snail, "the
world is nothing to me! What have I to do with the world? I have
enough with myself, and enough in myself!"
"But should we not all, here on earth, give the best part of us to
others? Offer what we can!--It is true, that I have only given
roses--but you? You who have received so much, what have you given to
the world? What do you give her?"
"What I have given? What I give? I spit upon her! She is good for
nothing! I have nought to do with her. Put forth roses, you can do no
more! Let the hazel bushes bear nuts! Let the cows and sheep give
milk; they have each their public, I have mine within myself! I retire
within myself, and there I remain. The world is nothing to me!"
And thereupon the snail withdrew into her house and closed it.
"That is so sad," said the rose-tree, "with the best will, I cannot
creep in, I must ever spring out, spring forth in roses. The leaves
drop off and are blown away by the wind. Yet, I saw one of the roses
laid in the hymn-book of the mother of the family; one of my roses was
placed upon the breast of a charming young girl, and one was kissed
with joy by a child's mouth. This did me so much good, it was a real
blessing! That is my recollection, my life!"
And the rose-tree flowered in innocence, and the snail sat
indifferently in her house. The world was nothing to her.
And years passed away. The snail became earth to earth and the
rose-tree became earth to earth; the remembrances in the hymn-book
were also blown away--but new rose-trees bloomed in the garden, new
snails grew in the garden; they crept in their houses and spat.--The
world is nothing to them.
Shall we read the story of the past again? It will not be different.
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