artly understood what
was agitating the mind of the young man; it understood as well, the
varying colour of his checks and the glance of his eye, whilst he
created, as though inspired by God.

"You are a master like those in the days of the Greeks," said his
enchanted friends, "the world will soon admire your Psyche!"

"My Psyche," he repeated, "mine, yes, that she must be! I am also an
artist like the great departed ones! God has granted gifts of mercy to
me, and has elevated me to the highly born!"

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