安徒生童話:the Psyche普賽克

the Psyche

by Hans Christian Andersen（1861）

IN the fresh morning dawn， in the rosy air gleams a GREat Star， the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall， as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell， what he has seen there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world. Let us hear one of his stories.

“A short time ago”—the Star's “short time ago” is called among men “centuries ago”—“my rays followed a young artist. It was in the city of the Popes， in the world-city， Rome. Much has been changed there in the course of time， but the changes have not come so quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace of the Caesars was a ruin， as it is now； fig trees and laurels GREw among the fallen marble columns， and in the desolate bathing-halls， where the gilding still clings to the wall； the Coliseum was a gigantic ruin； the church bells sounded， the incense sent up its fragrant cloud， and through the streets marched processions with flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there， and art was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest painter in the world， Raphael； there also dwelt the first of sculptors， Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two， and honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored， and was rewarded also. But， for all that， everything great and splendid was not seen and known.

“In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple； a young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He certainly had friends， young artists， like himself， young in spirit， young in hopes and thoughts； they told him he was rich in talent， and an artist， but that he was foolish for having no faith in his own power； for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay， and never completed anything； and a work must be completed if it is to be seen and to bring money.

“'You are a dreamer，' they went on to say to him， 'and that's your misfortune. But the reason of this is， that you have never lived， you have never tasted life， you have never enjoyed it in GREat wholesome draughts， as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must mingle one's own personality with life， that they may become one. Look at the great master Raphael， whom the Pope honors and the world admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'

“'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter， the pretty Fornarina，' added Angelo， one of the merriest of the young friends.

“Yes， they said a good many things of the kind， according to their age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with them into the merry wild life， the mad life as it might also be called； and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had warm blood， a strong imagination， and could take part in the merry chat， and laugh aloud with the rest； but what they called 'Raphael's merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the GREat master； and when he stood in the Vatican， before the forms of beauty which the masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since， his breast swelled， and he felt within himself something high， something holy， something elevating， great and good， and he wished that he could produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a picture of that which was within him， stirring upward from his heart to the realms of the Infinite； but how， and in what form The soft clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty， but the next day he broke what he had fashioned， according to his wont.

“One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome has many to show. He stopped before the GREat open portal， and beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green juicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear water was splashing； and a form glided past， the daughter of the princely house， graceful， delicate， and wonderfully fair. Such a form of female loveliness he had never before beheld—yet stay： he had seen it， painted by Raphael， painted as a Psyche， in one of the Roman palaces. Yes， there it had been painted； but here it passed by him in living reality.

“the remembrance lived in his thoughts， in his heart. He went home to his humble room， and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich young Roman girl， the noble maiden； and for the first time he looked at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him， for it was she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy； they declared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power， of which they had long been aware， and that now the world should be made aware of it too.

“the clay figure was lifelike and beautiful， but it had not the whiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly block of that stone. It had been lying for years， the property of his parents， in the courtyard. Fragments of glass， climbing weeds， and remains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity； but under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow； and from this block the Psyche was to arise.”

Now， it happened one morning—the bright Star tells nothing about this， but we know it occurred—that a noble Roman company came into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane， and the company proceeded on foot towards the house， to inspect the young sculptor's work， for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And who were these distinguished guests Poor young man！ or fortunate young man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room and smiled radiantly when her father said to her， “It is your living image.” That smile could not be copied， any more than the look could be reproduced， the wonderful look which she cast upon the young artist. It was a fiery look， that seemed at once to elevate and to crush him.

“the Psyche must be executed in marble，” said the wealthy patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the heavy block of marble， and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved artist. “When the work is finished I will purchase it，” continued the rich noble.

A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and cheerfulness gleamed there， and busy industry plied its work. The beaming Morning Star beheld how the work proGREssed. The clay itself seemed inspired since she had been there， and moulded itself， in heightened beauty， to a likeness of the well-known features.

“Now I know what life is，” cried the artist rejoicingly； “it is Love！ It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the beautiful in the soul！ What my friends call life and enjoyment is a passing shadow； it is like bubbles among seething dregs， not the pure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life.”

the marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck GREat fragments from it； the measurements were taken， points and lines were made， the mechanical part was executed， till gradually the stone assumed a human female form， a shape of beauty， and became converted into the Psyche， fair and glorious—a divine being in human shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding， dancing， airy Psyche， with the heavenly innocent smile—the smile that had mirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.

the Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was stirring within the young man， and could read the meaning of the changing color of his cheek， of the light that FLASHed from his eye， as he stood busily working， reproducing what had been put into his soul from above.

“Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient GREeks，” exclaimed his delighted friends； “soon shall the whole world admire thy Psyche.”

“My Psyche！” he repeated. “Yes， mine. She must be mine. I， too， am an artist， like those GREat men who are gone. Providence has granted me the boon， and has made me the equal of that lady of noble birth.”

And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss to Heaven， and then he forgot Heaven for her sake—for the sake of her picture in stone—for her Psyche which stood there as if formed of snow， blushing in the morning dawn.

He was to see her in reality， the living， graceful Psyche， whose words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry the news into the rich palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He betook himself thither， strode through the open courtyard where the waters ran splashing from the dolphin's jaws into the marble basins， where the snowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into the GREat lofty hall， whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding and bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men， adorned with trappings like sleigh horses， walked to and fro， and some reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats， as if they were the masters of the house. He told them what had brought him to the palace， and was conducted up the shining marble staircase， covered with soft carpets and adorned with many a statue. Then he went on through richly-furnished chambers， over mosaic floors， amid gorgeous pictures. All this pomp and luxury seemed to weary him； but soon he felt relieved， for the princely old master of the house received him most graciously，， almost heartily； and when he took his leave he was requested to step into the Signora's apartment， for she， too， wished to see him. The servants led him through more luxurious halls and chambers into her room， where she appeared the chief and leading ornament.

She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication， no holy chant， could melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. No rose was softer， but a fire thrilled through him from this rose—a feeling of power came upon him， and words poured from his tongue—he knew not what he said. Does the crater of the volcano know that the glowing lava is pouring from it He confessed what he felt for her. She stood before him astonished， offended， proud， with contempt in her face， an expression of disgust， as if she had suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks reddened， her lips GREw white， and her eyes FLASHed fire， though they were dark as the blackness of night.

“Madman！” she cried， “away！ begone！”

And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore an expression like that of the stony countenance with the snaky locks.

Like a stricken， fainting man， he tottered down the staircase and out into the street. Like a man walking in his sleep， he found his way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up to madness and agony， and seized his hammer， swung it high in the air， and rushed forward to shatter the beautiful marble image. But， in his pain， he had not noticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him； and Angelo held back his arm with a strong grasp， crying，

“Are you mad What are you about”

they struggled together. Angelo was the stronger； and， with a deep sigh of exhaustion， the young artist threw himself into a chair.

“What has happened” asked Angelo. “Command yourself. Speak！”

But what could he say How could he explain And as Angelo could make no sense of his friend's incoherent words， he forbore to question him further， and merely said，

“Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a man， as all others are， and don't go on living in ideals， for that is what drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you sleep quietly and happily. Believe me， the time will come when you will be old， and your sinews will shrink， and then， on some fine sunshiny day， when everything is laughing and rejoicing， you will lie there a faded plant， that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams， but in reality. Come with me. Be a man！”

And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he was able to do so， for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor； a change had taken place in his soul； he felt a longing to tear from the old， the accustomed—to forget， if possible， his own individuality； and therefore it was that he followed Angelo.

In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths. The GREat yellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves， and covered a part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a vaulted chamber， almost like a cavern， in the ruins. A lamp burned there before the picture of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the hearth， and roasting and boiling was going on there； without， under the citron trees and laurels， stood a few covered tables.

the two artists were received by their friends with shouts of welcome. Little was eaten， but much was drunk， and the spirits of the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were played on the guitar； presently the Salterello sounded， and the merry dance began. Two young Roman girls， who sat as models to the artists， took part in the dance and in the festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were they； certainly not Psyches—not delicate， beautiful roses， but fresh， hearty， glowing carnations.

How hot it was on that day！ Even after sundown it was hot. there was fire in the blood， fire in every glance， fire everywhere. The air gleamed with gold and roses， and life seemed like gold and roses.

“At last you have joined us， for once，” said his friends. “Now let yourself be carried by the waves within and around you.”

“Never yet have I felt so well， so merry！” cried the young artist. “You are right—you are all of you right. I was a fool—a dreamer. Man belongs to reality， and not to fancy.”

With songs and with sounding guitars the young people returned that evening from the tavern， through the narrow streets； the two glowing carnations， daughters of the Campagna， went with them.

In Angelo's room， among a litter of colored sketches （studies） and glowing pictures， the voices sounded mellower， but not less merrily. On the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the Campagna， in their fresh， hearty comeliness， but the two originals were far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the six-armed lamp flared and flamed； and the human flamed up from within， and appeared in the glare as if it were divine.

“Apollo！ Jupiter！ I feel myself raised to our heaven—to your glory！ I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding itself in my veins at this moment！”

Yes， the blossom unfolded itself， and then burst and fell， and an evil vapor arose from it， blinding the sight， leading astray the fancy； the firework of the senses went out， and it became dark.

He was again in his own room. there he sat down on his bed and collected his thoughts.

“Fie on thee！” these were the words that sounded out of his mouth from the depths of his heart. “Wretched man， go， begone！” And a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.

“Away！ begone！” these， her words， the words of the living Psyche， echoed through his heart， escaped from his lips. He buried his head in the pillows， his thoughts GREw confused， and he fell asleep.

In the morning dawn he started up， and collected his thoughts anew. What had happened Had all the past been a dream The visit to her， the feast at the tavern， the evening with the purple carnations of the Campagna No， it was all real—a reality he had never before experienced.

In the purple air gleamed the bright Star， and its beams fell upon him and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that picture of immortality， and his glance seemed impure to him. He threw the cloth over the statue， and then touched it once more to unveil the form—but he was not able to look again at his own work.

Gloomy， quiet， absorbed in his own thoughts， he sat there through the long day； he heard nothing of what was going on around him， and no man guessed what was passing in this human soul.

And days and weeks went by， but the nights passed more slowly than the days. The FLASHing Star beheld him one morning as he rose， pale and trembling with fever， from his sad couch； then he stepped towards the statue， threw back the covering， took one long， sorrowful gaze at his work， and then， almost sinking beneath the burden， he dragged the statue out into the garden. In that place was an old dry well， now nothing but a hole. Into this he cast the Psyche， threw earth in above her， and covered up the spot with twigs and nettles.

“Away！ begone！” Such was the short epitaph he spoke.

the Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky， and its beam trembled upon two GREat tears upon the pale feverish cheeks of the young man； and soon it was said that he was sick unto death， and he lay stretched upon a bed of pain.

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！

黎明時分，在腥紅的天空中，有一顆很大的星在閃閃發光；這是清晨最明亮的星。它的光在白色的牆上搖晃着，好像要在上面寫下它要想說的，寫下它在千萬年間在我們這個旋轉着的地球上這裏那裏看到的東西一般。

這裏是其中的一個故事！

不久前——它的不久前對我們人類來說可就是幾百年前——我的光線跟隨着一位年輕的藝術家走着。那是在教皇之都，在世界大都羅馬城裏。隨着時間的推移，那裏許多情景都變了。但這種變化，並不及人的體形從兒童到暮年的變化那麼快。皇帝的宮殿變成了廢墟，成了今天的那種情形；在倒塌的大理石柱子之間，在牆壁仍閃着金光的浴室1的縫裏，生長着榕樹和月桂；圓形劇場2也是一片廢墟；教堂的鐘在鳴響着，焚燒着的香散發出好聞的氣味；大隊的人羣拿着燭和閃亮的天篷走過大街。大家都虔誠信教，藝術很崇高也很神聖。在羅馬生活着世界最偉大的畫家拉菲爾3；這裏還生活着時代最早的雕刻家米開朗基羅4；連教皇本人都崇敬這兩位，曾去拜訪過他們；藝術得到公認，受到尊敬和獎掖！但是，並不是所有偉大和傑出的東西都被人看到、被人認識的。

在一條窄小的街上有一所舊屋，它曾是一座廟宇。這裏住着一位年輕的藝術家，他很窮，不爲人所知。是的，可是要知道，他有年輕朋友，也都是藝術家，心靈年輕，理想時髦，觀念新穎。他們對他說，他有極高的天賦和足夠的才幹。但是他很傻，他自己從來不相信這個。要知道，他總是把他用泥塑的東西摔碎。他從來不滿足，從來沒有完成過甚麼作品；應該完成，這樣纔有人看得見，被承認，才能掙到錢。“你是一個幻想家！”他們說道，“這便是你的不幸！這都由於你還沒有生活過，沒有嘗過生活的滋味；還沒有像應該有的那樣更多地實實在在地去體驗生活。正是年輕時候，一個人才能夠，才最應該這樣做，把自己和生活融爲一體！看大師拉菲爾，教皇崇敬他，全世界羨慕他；他能喝酒，能吃麵包。”“他把麵包房的女主人，那位可愛的福爾納林娜5都一塊兒吃掉了！”安吉羅，一位最無憂無慮的年輕朋友說道。是啊，他們講了許多許多，都是他們這樣年齡和智力能講出的話。他們想帶這位年輕藝術家一道去玩樂，也可以叫做出去狂一陣，出去瘋一陣；他也覺得要有片刻的歡樂，他的血是熱的，想像力是豐富的；他可以去參加那些輕佻的調侃，和大家一塊兒放聲大笑。然而，他們那種所謂的“拉菲爾式的歡快生活”，在他面前像晨霧一樣散掉了，他看到的是從那偉大的大師的雕塑中射出的上帝的光輝。他站在梵蒂岡城裏，站在千百年來的大師們用大理石塊雕出來的那些精美的作品前的時候，他的心胸中有某種恢宏的東西在醞釀着，他感到某種十分高尚、十分神聖的東西在升起，十分偉大、十分美好。他希望從大理石創作出、雕刻出這樣的作品。他希望能把他心中朝上、往無窮盡的蒼穹升起的那種情感化成一件作品。但是怎麼塑，塑甚麼形象！柔軟的泥在他的指下變成美麗的形象，但是第二天，像往常那樣，他把他創作的東西又摔碎了。

有一天，他走過一座美麗的宮殿，這樣的宮殿羅馬有許多。他在那敞開着的宏大的進口大門前站住了，看看那裏的一個由圖畫裝點起來的拱形走廊環繞着的小小花園，花園裏開滿了最美麗的玫瑰。大朵大朵的馬蹄蓮由綠色水靈的葉子襯托着從大理石水池中冒出來，水池中清澈的水往四面濺晃着。一位年輕姑娘，這個爵府的女兒，緩步從這裏走過；多麼秀麗，多麼俊美，多麼輕盈！這樣的婦女他從未見過。啊，見過，那是拉菲爾畫出來的，是作爲普賽克畫出來的，在羅馬的一個爵府裏。是的，她是被畫在那裏的，她在那裏活生生地走着。

她活生生地存留在他的想像中、他的心中。他回到他那簡陋的屋子裏，用泥塑出了普賽克；就是那個富有的年輕羅馬女人，那位出生於貴族家庭的婦女；他頭一回滿意地看着自己的作品。作品有它的意義，是她。看到過它的朋友們都喝采不已，高興之至。這件作品宣露了他的藝術高才，他們早已預見到的高才，現在該讓世界見識它了。

泥塑誠然可以說是有血有肉，栩栩如生。但是它沒有大理石的那種白皙和可以永久保存的性質，普賽克應該在大理石中得到生命。價值昂貴的大理石塊他是有的，已經在院子裏擱了許多年了，是父親的財產。碎玻璃瓶兒、茴香頭和飛廉的殘葉爛稈都堆在它的上面，弄得它滿是污漬，但是它的內裏仍然像高山白雪。普賽克便要從這裏誕生。

一天，出現了這樣的事。是啊，那顆明亮的星一點兒沒有講到過它。它沒有看見，但是我們知道這件事；一羣顯赫的羅馬人走進這條窄狹的微不足道的小街。車子在遠處停着，這羣人是來看這位年輕藝術家的作品的，他們偶然聽說到它。這些來訪的顯要都是些甚麼人可憐的年輕人！極幸運的人。那位年輕的姑娘自己來到了這間屋子裏。當她的父親說“這簡直是活生生的你呀”的時候，她臉上綻出的是怎麼樣的一種微笑！那微笑是塑不出來的，那一閃的目光是無法再塑出的。她用來望那年輕的藝術家的目光很奇妙，那目光讓人感情昇華、讓人感到高貴，也——有一種摧毀的力量。“普賽克應該用大理石雕塑完成！”那位富有的先生說道。對於無生命的泥和沉重的大理石，這些都是產生生命的話語，就像對那位被迷住的青年是一種產生生命的話語一樣。“作品完成以後，我買下它！”那位爵爺說道。

那簡陋的工作室就像開始了一個新的時期一樣。工作室裏充滿了活力和歡欣，裏面一片忙碌。那明亮的晨星看到工作是怎麼一步步地進行着的。在她來到這裏之後，泥自身就像有了生命的氣息，它一步步變成更高的美，變成了那大家所見到的體形。“現在我知道生活是甚麼了！”他興高彩烈地說道，“它就是愛情！就是向輝煌的昇華，是在美的感受中得到的歡樂！朋友們所謂的生活和享受是一種墮落，是發酵變質的糟粕中的泡沫，不是純正、聖潔的祭壇上的美酒，不是對生命的奉獻！”大理石塊被豎起來了，鑿子把石片大塊地敲掉；量過尺寸，定好點，作好記號，手工的勞作一點點地做完，大理石一點點地現出體形，美的形象，普賽克，這個年輕婦女的形象中有上帝圖像的那種美。沉重的大理石塊飄逸起來，像在跳舞一樣，輕盈得如空氣一般，帶着一種天真無邪的微笑，印在這位年輕的雕塑家心中的那絲微笑。

玫瑰色清晨的那顆星看到了它，顯然也懂得這個年輕人在創造和再現上帝所賦予的種種特質時心中有甚麼東西在涌動，瞭解他臉上交替出現的那些顏色，明白他眼中射出來的那目光。“你是一位大師，就像當年希臘時代的那些大師一樣！”他那些興高彩烈的朋友說道。“不要多久全世界都會羨慕你的普賽克了。”“我的普賽克！”他重複道。“我的！她應該是我的！我也和那些逝去的大師一樣是藝術家！上帝給了我仁慈的禮贈，提高了我，就像那些出生高貴的人一樣。”

他跪下來，對上帝流出了感激之淚——接着又忘掉他，心中想起了她，想起了她那大理石的形象，普賽克的形象。這形象站在那裏，像用雪雕出，像清晨的太陽一樣泛出紅暈。事實上他應該看她，活生生的、輕盈的她，她的聲音就像音樂一樣。他可以把大理石普賽克已經完成的信息，帶到那座輝煌的爵府去。他進到了裏面，走過那寬敞的庭院。那裏水從大理石水池裏海豚的口裏噴出，那裏盛開着馬蹄蓮，鮮嫩的玫瑰一朵又一朵地綻放着。他走進高大寬敞的前廳，廳四周的牆壁上、天花板上繪着族徽和人像彩畫。身穿華麗衣裳的僕傭，像身上繫着鈴鐺拉雪橇的馬一樣，昂首闊步地走上走下。有幾個還舒舒服服地、神氣十足地躺在雕花木凳上，他們以爲自己就是這家的主人。他講明瞭他的來意，被領着順着大理石臺階上柔和的地毯往上走去。臺階兩旁都是雕像，他穿過華麗的陳設着畫像和鋪着拼花地板的廳室。那種豪華和輝煌使他喘息急促，但不久又恢復了輕快。那位老爵爺和藹地接待了他，幾乎是誠摯的。他們講完之後，他在告別的時候請他過去看看那位年輕小姐，她也想見見他。僕人帶領着他走過絢麗的廳堂到了她的居室，在那裏她就是最大的榮華富貴。

她對他講話；任何讚美詩篇，任何頌揚的聖歌都不能如此融化他的心靈，使他的心靈得到這般昇華。他握住她的手，把手貼到自己的脣上。沒有任何玫瑰紅得這樣鮮豔，但這玫瑰中冒出了一種火，一種燒透了他全身的火，使他超越了自我。從他的舌端流出了許多語言，他對此竟然毫不自知。是在火山口旁，噴出火紅的岩漿嗎他對她講了他對她的愛。她驚惶地站在那裏，感到被侮辱了。她很高傲，臉上露出不屑的輕蔑，是啊，一種就像是突然觸碰到一隻溼糊糊的醜陋的青蛙一樣的表情；她的臉紅了，脣白了；眼在冒火，但卻是黑的，像夜一樣地漆黑。“瘋子！”她說道。“走開！下去！”她把背轉朝向他，她美麗的臉上有一種以蛇爲長髮、石化了的臉那樣的表情。他像一個沒有生命的人跌跌撞撞地走到了街上，他像一個夢遊人一樣回到了家裏。他在憤怒和痛苦中醒覺過來，拿了一把錘子，把它高高舉起，要把那座美麗的大理石像擊碎。但是，在當時那種情緒下，他沒有覺察到，他的朋友安吉羅正站在他的身旁，使勁地拽住了他的手腕。“你瘋了嗎你要幹甚麼”

他們兩人爭了起來。安吉羅更強壯一些，在深深的歎息中年輕的藝術家坐到了椅子上。“出了甚麼事”安吉羅問道。“振作起來！說！”可是，他能說甚麼他能講甚麼安吉羅無法從他的話中聽出甚麼線索，他便不再問下去了。“你終日在做夢，血都稠了！像我們這些人一樣做人吧！別生活在理想之中，那樣人要垮掉的！用酒稍微醉上那麼一回，那樣你可以好好睡上一覺！找個漂亮的姑娘給你當大夫！平原姑娘很漂亮，和大理石宮殿裏的公主一個樣，他們都是夏娃，到天堂裏你是分辨不出她們的！跟上你的安吉羅6吧！你的天使便是我，生命的天使！將來會有那麼一天，你老了，腰彎背駝了，在那麼一個風和日麗的日子裏，萬物都尋歡作樂，你會像一根不再生長的枯草一樣躺倒。我不相信牧師們說的墳墓背後還有一個生命，那是一種美麗的想像，是給孩子們講的童話。如果你幻想一下的話，那的確是很美的。但是我不生活在夢幻中，我生活在現實中。跟我來！做個人吧！”他拉他走了，此刻他能把他拉走。這位年輕的藝術家的血液像火一樣，他的心靈起了變化。他有一種擺脫過去，擺脫他習慣了的一切，從舊的自我中掙脫出來的渴望，今天他跟着安吉羅走了。

羅馬城外某個地方有一個藝術家們光顧的酒館，建築在一座古代浴室的廢墟上。金黃色的桔柑掛在墨綠色光澤的葉子中間，擋住了那古老的深澄色的牆的一部分。酒店是一個極深的拱室，很像是廢墟上的一個大洞。裏面聖母像前燃着一盞燈；壁爐裏燃着熊熊的火，這裏在烤着、燒着、煮着肉食；外面，在桔柑和月桂樹下有兩張鋪了檯布擺了杯盤的桌子。

朋友們歡欣愉快地迎接了這兩個人。他們吃的不多，喝的不少，氣氛熱烈歡快起來；唱着歌，奏着吉他；薩塔賴羅7舞曲響起來，歡樂的舞蹈開始了。兩個羅馬姑娘，年輕藝術家的模特兒，跳起舞來，參加進他們的歡樂中；巴克司8的兩個可愛的信徒！是的，她們沒有普賽克的體形，不是美麗嬌秀的玫瑰，但都是鮮嫩、健壯和泛出紅色的石竹花。

這一天天氣是多麼地熱啊，就連日落時分也還是熱的！血在燃燒，空氣在燃燒，每一瞥眼光也在燃燒！空氣在金黃色、玫瑰色中浮動，生命就像是金子，就像是玫瑰。“你總算來參加一次了！讓你周圍，讓你體內的水流載起你吧！”“我從來沒有這麼暢快、這麼高興過！”這位年輕的藝術家說道。“你是對的，你們都是對的。我是個傻瓜，是個幻想家。人是屬於現實的，而不是屬於想像的。”

這夥年輕人隨着歌聲彈着吉他在晴朗、滿天繁星的夜裏走出酒店，走過窄街。那兩朵鮮紅的石竹花，平原女兒也走在行列中。

在安吉羅的屋子裏，在亂堆着速寫稿、酒杯和豐富多彩的圖畫之中，聲音略爲低了一些，但火熱的情緒卻絲毫未減弱。地板上散落了許多頁畫，和平原女兒一樣動人、一樣健壯，但是她們本人卻更加美麗得多。那盞六個枝的燈臺的每一枝都在燃燒和閃光。在燈光裏，人的形體顯現爲神。“阿波羅！朱庇特！9我升到你們的天上、你們的盛景中了！此刻就好像生命之花在我心中綻開了。”

是啊，綻開了——被摔碎了、破落了，旋飛出一陣迷惑人的、醜惡的氣味，眼光繚亂，神智不清，理智火花熄滅了，眼前黑了下來。

他回到自己的家，躺到自己的牀上，振作了一下。“呸！”從他自己的嘴裏，從他的心底發出了這樣的聲音。“可憐蟲！走開！下去——！”他歎了一口氣，是那麼地痛苦。“走開！下去！”她的這些話——一個活普賽克的話，在他的心中迴旋着，由他的嘴脣講了出來。他把頭靠在枕頭上，思想變得不清晰，他睡了。

天亮的時候，他跳了起來，又清理了一下自己的思想。是怎麼回事那一切都是在做夢嗎他在夢中聽到了她的那些話嗎，他去酒店，和那紫紅的石竹花在一起消磨夜晚，都是夢嗎——不是的，都是真的，都是他以前不知道的。

在紫紅的天空中，那顆明亮的星在閃耀，它的光射到了他和大理石普賽克身上。看到這尊不可冒犯的雕像的時候，他顫抖起來，他覺得他的目光不潔淨。他擲一塊布把它蓋住，他又觸摸到了它，要把布揭掉。但是，他不能再看自己的作品了。

無言，黑沉沉的，內心在翻動，他整天坐在那裏，對身外的事沒有絲毫感覺。沒有人知道，這個人心裏有甚麼東西在翻涌。

一天天，一個星期一個星期地過去了；夜很漫長。那顆閃閃發光的星一天清早看見他面色蒼白，渾身滾燙，抖着從牀上爬下來，走到了大理石像邊，把蓋布揭開，用一種極痛苦、極真誠的眼光望了望自己的作品。之後，幾乎在被壓得寸步難移的狀態下，把雕像拖到了院子裏。那裏有一口廢掉了的、乾涸了的井，也可以說是一個大洞，他把普賽克擱到裏面，掀土把它埋掉，再用些枝枝條條和蕁麻蓋在這個新的土塚上面。“走開！下去！”是簡單的送它入葬的一句話。

那星在玫瑰色的天空中看着，在這個年輕人的蒼白的面頰上的兩大滴淚中顫抖。他，這位在發高燒的他，——病得快要死了，他們在他病危躺在牀上時這麼說他。

修道師兄伊格納蒂烏斯十作爲朋友，作爲醫生，來看望他，帶着宗教慰人的語言來看望他，對他講了教堂的和平和幸福，人類的罪惡，上帝的仁慈和祥和。

他的話像溫暖的陽光照射着溼潤的沃土，從土地上升起一陣水氣、一陣霧靄，成了一幅思想的圖畫，真實的圖畫。從這些浮動的島上，他往下看人類生活：盡是錯誤和失望，他自己的生活就是如此。藝術是一個魔女人，她把我們引入虛榮、引入塵世的歡欲之中。我們對自己虛僞，對朋友虛僞，對上帝也虛僞。毒蛇總在我們心中說：“嚐嚐吧，你會變得和上帝一樣！”

現在他覺得第一次認識了自己，找到了到達真與和平的道路。教堂裏有上帝的光和清純——修道士的修行室裏有寧靜，在那裏人的樹可以永恆地生長。

修道士支持他的思想，決心不再動搖。一個塵世的孩子成了教堂的僕人，這位年輕的藝術家辭棄了塵世，進了修道院。

衆修道士師兄誠摯高興地歡迎他！他正式從事修練的日子過得像節日一樣。他覺得上帝在教堂的陽光裏，陽光從神聖的畫像和閃亮的十字架上射出。現在在黃昏的時分，在日落的時刻，他站在自己的修室裏，推開窗子，望着古羅馬，那些塌廢了的廟宇，那宏偉但已死掉的圓形劇場。在春天時節，在金合歡花盛開的時節看到它，那些長春樹木很清新，玫瑰繁盛地開着，柑橙和桔子閃閃發光，棕櫚葉子在搧動，他感到了從未感到過的投入和完滿。那廣闊安詳的大平原一直伸到了被雪覆蓋的藍色山巒，這些山巒好像被畫在天空中一般。一切都融匯在一起，精神的自由和美是那麼地流暢，如夢一般。——這一切就是夢！

是的，這時的世界是一個夢。夢可以在許多鐘點裏延續不斷，可以在許多個鐘點裏再現。但修道生活是長年的，許多許多年。

從人的內心中產生許多使人不潔的東西，他不得不承認這樣的事實！那偶然燒透他全身的火焰是甚麼樣的一種火焰那種違心的不斷在心中涌現的又是甚麼樣的邪惡的泉水他懲罰他的肢體，但是邪惡產生在體內。那像蛇一般狡黠地曲捲着的，用博愛僞裝起來的，用聖人在爲我們祈禱，聖母爲我們祈禱，耶蘇把自己的血給了我們這樣的話來安慰我們的，又是我們精神中甚麼樣的一個部分。是不是幼稚或者年輕的輕浮使得他皈依上帝的仁慈，使自己覺得這樣他得到了超脫，高於許多人。因爲他超離了塵世的虛榮，他是一個教會的兒子。

許多年後的一天，他遇到安吉羅，他認得他。“你這傢伙！”他說道，“不錯，是你！你現在幸福嗎你對上帝犯了罪，拋棄了他那仁慈地賜給你的禮贈，置你在這個世界上的使命於不顧。去讀一讀那個藏錢的寓言！那個講了這個寓言的大師，他講了實話！你贏得了甚麼，找到了甚麼！你不是在過一種做夢的生活嗎！用你自己的頭腦給自己編制一種宗教，像他們肯定都是這樣乾的那樣。就像這一切都只不過是一個夢、一種幻想、一些美好的念頭罷了！”“撒旦退去吧！”修道士說道，從安吉羅身邊走開了。“有魔鬼，一個親身出現的魔鬼！我今天看到他了！”修道士喃喃說道。“我若是伸一根指頭給他，他便會抓住我的整隻手——！不對！”他歎息道，“惡在我體內，惡在這人的體內。但是他並沒有被它擊垮，他昂首走着，過着自己的美滿的日子；——我在宗教的慰藉中去找我的美滿——！哪怕它只是一種安慰！哪怕這裏的一切，就像我拋棄的那個世界一樣，都只是美麗的思想！騙人，就像腥紅的晚霞盛景一樣，就像那飄忽的蔚藍色的美麗的遠山一樣，走近到它們跟前，一切都是另一回事！永恆啊，你就如同那遼闊無際的寧靜的大海一般，向我們招手，向我們呼喚，讓我們滿懷嚮往之情。然而，若是我們向你奔去的時候，我們卻沉沒，消失了，——死了，——再也不存在了！——欺騙！走開！下去！”

沒有淚，頹喪，他坐在自己的硬牀上，跪着——爲誰牆上的那石十字架不，習慣促使他這樣曲身下來。

他越是深入地看自己，他就越覺得黑暗。“體內空虛，體外也是空的！這一生浪費了！”這個思想的雪球滾動着，越滾越大，擊垮了他——消滅了他。“我不敢把我體內的那在吞噬我的蛇對任何人講！我的祕密是我的囚徒，要是我放掉了它，我便成了它的囚徒！”上帝的力量在他的體內遭受痛苦、在掙扎。“主啊！主啊！”他在絕望中喊道，“發慈悲吧，給我信心吧！——你仁慈的賜予被我拋棄掉了，我丟掉了我在這個世界上的使命！我缺乏力量，你沒有給我力量。不朽，我胸中的普賽克，——走開，下去！——它將像我生命之晶的普賽克一樣要被埋葬掉，永不讓它從墓裏再現到世上！”

那顆星在玫瑰紅色的天空中閃亮發光，那星終有一天要熄滅消失，而魂靈卻永生，永遠放射光芒。它的顫抖的光落到白牆上，但是它卻沒有寫下上帝的輝煌，沒有寫下上帝的仁慈，沒有寫下在信徒胸中迴響的博愛。“這裏面的普賽克永遠也不會死！——生活在意識中——不可思議的事會發生嗎——是的！是的！我這個自我便是不可思議的。不可思議的你，啊，主啊！你的整個世界都是不可思議的；是力量、輝煌——愛的奇異的作品！”——他的眼明亮了，他的眼爆裂了。教堂的鐘聲是鋪向他這個死者的最後的聲音；他入土了，從耶路撒冷帶回的土，摻和着其他虔誠的死者的灰燼的土，掩埋了他。

許多許多年後，他的骨骸被挖出來，就像他之前的許多逝去的修道士一樣，給骨骸穿上了棕色的僧衣，遞給他的手一串珠子，骨骸被裝進了一個用修道院裏挖出的其他人骨做的骨龕裏。外面充滿了陽光，裏面香菸繚繞，一片做彌撒的聲音。

許多年過去了。

骨骸脫開了，散做一堆；死者的頭骨被堆了起來，形成了一整道教堂的外牆，他的頭也在熾熱的陽光中。死者很多，太多了，現在已經沒有人知道他們的名字，也不知道他的名字。瞧！在陽光中那兩個眼窟窿裏有一個活的東西在蠕動。那是甚麼！一隻花色蜥蜴跳進了頭蓋骨裏，在兩個空洞的大眼窟窿裏鑽出鑽進。這個頭骨裏現在有生命了。從這個頭骨裏一度產生過偉大的思想、光明的夢，對藝術的愛和美好的東西，從這裏流出了熱淚，這裏產生過對不朽的希望。蜥蜴跳着，不見了。頭蓋骨碎了，化成了塵土中的塵土。

幾百年過去了。那顆明亮的星照樣閃着光亮，又大又明亮，和以往幾千年一樣，天空泛出紅光，清新得猶如玫瑰，紅得似鮮血。

在那一度曾有一座廢廟宇的那條窄街上，現在建起一座修女庵。在這裏的院子裏要挖一個墳坑，一個年輕的修女死了，這天早晨她將入土。鐵釽碰到了一塊石頭；石頭白晃晃的，可以看出是大理石，露出了圓圓的肩部，露出的越來越多。鐵釽小心地挖着，露出了一個婦女的頭，——蝴蝶翅膀，在這塊要把年輕修女埋進去的地方，在玫瑰紅色的晨曦中，挖出了一個美麗的普賽克的雕像，用白色大理石刻成的。“多漂亮啊！多完美啊！是黃金時代的藝術品！”人們都這麼說。大師會是誰呢沒有人知道。除去天上那顆幾千年以來一直在閃爍着的明星之外，沒有人知道他。這顆星知道他在人世間的道路、他經歷的考驗、他的弱點，他的：“只是人！”——但是人已死去，飛散掉了，像塵土必定也必須飛散掉一樣。然而他那最好的努力成果，那反映他的內心最高尚的輝煌成就——普賽克，則是永生的。它的光輝蓋過了他的名聲，遺留在世上的這點光輝，永世長存，被人看到，受到承認、羨慕和喜愛。

玫瑰紅的天上的那顆明亮的晨星，一閃一閃地將它的光芒投到普賽克上，投到她嘴角的幸福微笑之上，投到仰慕者的眼裏，他們在觀看這個用大理石雕成的魂靈。

屬於塵世的那一點點兒，消逝了，被遺忘了，只有存在於永恆之中的那顆星知道它。屬於天界的則在遺下的名聲中閃閃發光，而當這遺下的名聲也消逝的時候——普賽克還長存。

題註：普賽克在希臘神話中是人的魂靈的化身，通常被描繪成帶蝴蝶翅膀的少女。這個形像在公元前五世紀時開始出現。古羅馬諷刺文學家阿普列烏斯（約公元125年至180年）曾寫過十一卷巨着《變形記》（或《金驢》）。在這部巨着中，他出色地寫了希臘愛神厄洛斯與普賽克（一個國王的美貌女兒）的悲歡離合的故事。普賽克一直吸引着歐洲的雕塑家、畫家、戲劇家、詩人和作曲家，成了許多藝術家創作的主題。

1指羅馬奧古斯都大帝的王后莉維亞的浴室。

2羅馬圓形劇場是當年露天演劇的場所，建於公元75年。今日只遺下廢墟了。

3意大利文藝復興時期的偉大畫家和建築藝術家（1483-1520）。

4見《銅豬》注1. 5福爾納林娜在意大利文中爲烤麵包的女人。拉菲爾的畫《烤麵包的女人》陳列在羅馬烏菲紫宮。這幅畫的模特據傳是拉菲爾的情人。但此模特並不真是烤麵包的女人，而可能是烤麵包師的女兒或女傭人。關於拉菲爾的許多情人，世上有各種傳說，可是都不十分可信。

6安吉羅在意大利文中是天使的意思。

7關於這種舞，安徒生自己在《即興詩人》中寫道：“一種羅馬民間舞，樂曲很單調。一個人獨舞或是兩個女人或者兩個男人對舞。對舞的人都互不接觸，只是足在跳，越來越快，跳的是半圓圈，胳臂的動作也同樣猛烈。

8羅馬神話中的酒神。

9阿波羅是希臘神話中的太陽神。朱庇特則是羅馬神話中的光明之神。

十伊格納蒂烏斯實有其人，但是是安徒生同時代的人，是一位天主教神父。1861年安徒生在羅馬旅行時去拜訪過他。此前他曾讀過安徒生的《即興詩人》。指伊甸園中誘夏娃吃知善惡樹果實的蛇。聖經新約《馬太福音》第25章第14至30句講耶蘇論對人應當按才幹授責任時講了一個譬喻，說主人分別給三個僕人五千、二千和一千銀子往外國去。那領五千的用這些錢又賺了五千，領二千的賺了二千，那領一千的僕人卻把銀子埋入土中。三人回來時，帶回來的分別是一萬、四千和埋在地下的一千。主人於是按他們的才幹給前兩人以重任；但奪回了給第三個人的一千銀子，並把這個無用的僕人丟在外面黑暗裏。聖經新約《馬太福音》第4章說，耶蘇受洗後，被聖靈引到曠野，受魔鬼的試探，看他是否忠誠和有悟性。經多次試驗後，耶蘇說了此話。據安徒生的筆記，這是一句希伯萊的諺語。安徒生這裏寫的是他在羅馬參觀一個教堂後的印象。埋在那裏的修士，在被埋8年後要重被挖出，若是他的屍骨仍是完整的，便得以再披上僧衣，放入龕中。否則便被扔掉。即普賽克的翅膀，見本篇題注。