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 hisfriend'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， anddon't go on living in ideals， for that is what drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make yousleep quietly and happily. Believe me， the time will come when you will be old， and your sinewswill shrink， and then， on some fine sunshiny day， when everything is laughing andrejoicing， you will lie there a faded plant， that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams， butin 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 ranin the blood of the young sculptor; a change had taken place in his soul; he felt a longing totear from the old， the accustomed—to forget， if possible， his own individuality; andtherefore 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 onthe ruins of some ancient baths. The GREat yellow citrons hung down among the dark shiningleaves， and covered a part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a vaultedchamber， almost like a cavern， in the ruins. A lamp burned there before the picture of theMadonna. 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， butmuch was drunk， and the spirits of the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties wereplayed on the guitar; presently the Salterello sounded， and the merry dance began. Twoyoung Roman girls， who sat as models to the artists， took part in the dance and in thefestivity. Two charming Bacchantes were they; certainly not Psyches—not delicate， beautifulroses， 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 seemedlike gold and roses.
“At last you have joined us， for once，” said his friends. “Now let yourself be carried by thewaves within and around you.”
“Never yet have I felt so well， so merry!” cried the young artist. “You are right—you are allof 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 thetavern， through the narrow streets; the two glowing carnations， daughters of theCampagna， 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 thatresembled the daughters of the Campagna， in their fresh， hearty comeliness， but the twooriginals were far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the six-armed lamp flaredand flamed; and the human flamed up from within， and appeared in the glare as if it weredivine.
“Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven—to your glory! I feel as if theblossom 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 fromit， blinding the sight， leading astray the fancy; the firework of the senses went out， and itbecame 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 hisheart. “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 throughhis heart， escaped from his lips. He buried his head in the pillows， his thoughts GREwconfused， and he fell asleep.
In the morning dawn he started up， and collected his thoughts anew. What had happenedHad all the past been a dream The visit to her， the feast at the tavern， the evening with thepurple carnations of the Campagna No， it was all real—a reality he had never beforeexperienced.
In the purple air gleamed the bright Star， and its beams fell upon him and upon themarble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that picture of immortality， and his glanceseemed impure to him. He threw the cloth over the statue， and then touched it once more tounveil 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; heheard nothing of what was going on around him， and no man guessed what was passing inthis human soul.