At dawn, when the clouds are red, a great star shines, the beautiful morning star. Her beams tremble on the white wall, as if she would like to write there the story of all she has seen during the thousands of years she has watched our revolving earth.
Listen to one of her stories.
A little while ago - a few centuries ago, which, though a long time to you men, is just a little while to me - my beams watched a young artist. He lived in the papal state, in one of the world's great cities, Rome. Many things there have changed since those days, but they haven't changed as quickly as the human being changes from childhood to old age. The eternal city was then, as it is now, a city of ruins. The fig tree and the laurel tree grew among the overturned marble columns and over the destroyed baths, their walls still inlaid with gold. The Coliseum was a ruin. Church bells rang, and fragrant incense filled the air, while processions with magnificent canopies and lighted candles passed through the streets. It was a beautiful church service honoring the great and inspired arts. The world's greatest painter, Raphael, and the greatest sculptor of his time, Michelangelo, lived in Rome then. The Pope himself admired them both and honored them with his visits. Indeed, art was acknowledged, honored, and rewarded; but not all great and noble things were known and seen in those days, any more than they are now.
In a little, narrow street stood and old house that had formerly been a temple, and here lived a young artist; he was poor, and he was unknown. Of course, he had plenty of friends, other artists, young in mind and thought, who kept telling him he was blessed with ability and talent and that he was a fool for having no more self-confidence. Anything he formed out of clay he always broke into pieces; he was never satisfied with what he did; nor did he ever finish anything, which, of course, one must do to become known, acclaimed, and to earn money.
"You're a dreamer!" his friends said. "And that's your misfortune. That is because you haven't enjoyed life the way life should be enjoyed. Youth and life go hand in hand. Look at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors - does he live the way you do?"
Yes, they had much to say, all of them, aroused by their youth and outlook. They wanted the young artist to join them in riotous pleasures, and sometimes he would succumb to a moment of desire; his blood would become warm; he would join in the lively talk and laugh loudly with the others. But the thought of the "life that Raphael lived," as they called it, disappeared like morning dew when he saw that master's great pictures before him and felt the power of God's holy and divine gift. And when he stood in the Vatican among the noble and beautiful figures that great masters had shaped from marble so very long ago, his breast would heave with joy and longing. He could feel some power stirring within him, great, good, holy, and uplifting, and he longed to create such forms, to carve them out of marble. He wanted to create an image of what he felt in his heart - but how, and in what shape? The soft clay molded easily under his fingers, but the next day he would always break his work to pieces.
One day he happened to pass by one of the rich palaces, of which Rome has so many; he paused at the large open gates and inside saw colonnades adorned with statues, surrounding a little garden that was filled with the loveliest roses. Large calla lilies with rich green leaves grew about a fountain in a marble basin, where clear water splashed. A young girl, daughter of that princely house, glided through the garden and past the fountain. How beautiful, how graceful and delicate she was! He had never seen such a beautiful woman before. Yes, once! He had seen one painted by Raphael, painted as Psyche, in one of Rome's palaces. Yes, her portrait was there - and here she was alive!
He carried her image away in his heart and thoughts; and when he had returned to his humble room he molded a Psyche in clay. The figure was the rich, noble young daughter of Rome, and for the first time he was satisfied with his work. It had expression and feeling; no longer was his ideal vague and shadowy. And when his friends saw his work they were delighted. Here was the work of a true genius, they knew, and the world would acknowledge.
Clay is lifelike, but it has not the whiteness or durability of marble; Psyche must receive her life from the precious block. This would not be too costly for the young artist, since a large block had been lying in the yard for many years; it had belonged to his parents. Broken glass, stalks of cabbage, and pieces of artichoke had been flung over it, soiling its purity; but inside it was still as white as the mountain snow. From this block Psyche would lift her wings.
Now, it happened one day - the morning star didn't tell me this, for she never saw it, but I know it, anyway - that a party of Roman nobles visited the narrow, humble street. The carriage stopped a little way off, and the visitors came to inspect the young artist's work, having heard of it by accident. And who were these distinguished strangers? Poor young man! Or should we say happy young man? The young maiden herself stood in his room, and how she smiled when her father said, "Why, it's you, to the life!" That smile, that strange look she gave the young artist! It cannot be described; it was a look that uplifted, ennobled, but at the same time crushed him!
"Psyche must be completed in marble," said the rich gentleman. These were words of life for the heavy marble block, and in a sense for the dead clay, just as they were words of life for the young man. "When you have finished it I shall buy it," added the noble gentleman.