belongs to reality and not to fancy!"

The young man left the osteria, in the clear starry evening, with song
and tinkling guitars, and passed through the narrow streets. The
daughters of the Campagna, the two flaming pinks, were in their train.

In Angelo's room, the voices sounded more suppressed but not less
fiery, amongst the scattered sketches, the outlines, the glowing,
voluptuous paintings; amongst the drawings on the floor there was many
a sketch of vigorous beauty, like unto the daughters of the Campagna,
yet they themselves were much more beautiful. The six-armed lamp
glowed brightly, and the human forms warmed and shone like gods.

"Apollo! Jupiter! I elevate myself to your heaven, to your glory!
Methinks, that the flower of my life has unfolded within my heart!"
Yes, it did unfold--it withered and fell to pieces; a stunning,
loathsome vapour arose, dazzling the sight, benumbing the thoughts,
extinguishing his sensual, fiery emotions, and all was dark. He went
home, sat down on his bed, and thought. "Fie!" sounded from his lips,
from the bottom of his heart. "Miserable wretch! away! away!"--and he
sighed sorrowfully.

"Away! Away!" These, her words, the words of the living Psyche,
weighed upon him, and flowed from his lips. He bowed his head upon
the pillows, his thoughts became confused and he slept.

At the dawn of day he started up.--What was this? Was it a dream? Were
her words, the visit to the osteria, the evening with the purple red
pinks of the Campagna but a dream?--No, all was reality; he had not
known this before.