32. It was quite a wedding! Ending like a fairy tale, with a wedding between the title character and a princess and the execution of a “villain,” the story also violates the conventions of the fairy tale in perverse ways, punishing the figure who seeks the good, the true, and the beautiful while rewarding the sinister character who uses deception to win the hand of a princess. “The Shadow” is a kind of anti–fairy tale, reversing the terms of the genre. Only a few of Andersen’s fairy tales end happily with marriages, and tales like “The Tinderbox” and “Thumbelina,” for example, are closer to anomalies than representative tales.
33. they had taken his life. The final sentence can be read as having a double meaning, for the shadow and the princess kill the scholar but also take their life from him—that is, they exist because of him. “The Shadow” can be read as a fable about how characters take their life from their authors and then, once they become “immortal,” also outlast their authors, putting them in the shade. Andersen had originally planned to have the learned man beheaded, but friends urged him to tone down the violence. Koelb notes that the conclusion takes us into morally troubled waters but also points to an artistic triumph: “Although the shadow has succeeded in wiping his master from the page, ‘The Shadow’ has effectively displaced another progenitor, Chamisso’s Peter Schlemihl. The defeat of the author, his absolute destruction in terms of the plot, is his great victory” (Koelb, 220). “The Shadow” is not at all about a “once-upon-a-time” existence in which a character emerges from a position of subordination to defeat villains and live happily ever after. It stages the struggles of a self divided against itself and reveals that we ourselves sometimes produce our worst enemies.
The Psyche 1
Psychen
Nye Eventyr og Historier. Anden Samling, 1862
Andersen reported that this story was inspired by an incident that took place in Rome: a beautiful statue of Bacchus was unearthed when a grave was being dug for a young nun. The blend of allusions to the myths of classical antiquity and the biblical stories of sin and redemption also connect Andersen’s story to the German Romantics, particularly E.T.A. Hoffmann and Josef von Eichendorff, who were enamored of Italy and used it as the setting for their novellas. Albert Küchler, a Danish artist who became a monk, may have been the model for the sculptor in “The Psyche.”
“The Psyche” was published the same year as Andersen’s “The Ice Maiden,” a terrifying tale about an icy kiss of death from a Nordic femme fatale. In Stravinsky’s musical adaptation of that tale for the ballet Le baiser de la fée (1928), the fairy in the title is a muse who captures the hero for the world of art. From the start, with his first novel The Improvisatore, Andersen was troubled by the nature of art, which aspires to the divine but often descends into the demonic. In “The Psyche,” as in “The Shadow” and other works written in the last decade of his life, he was committed to exploring the complications of a life devoted to creativity and to a cult of beauty.
At dawn, a large star, the bright morning star, shines through the red clouds. Its beams tremble on the white wall,2 as if it were planning to write a story there about everything it has seen here and there over the thousands of years it has looked down on our earth as it rotates.
Let’s listen to one of its tales.
A short time ago—although the star’s short time ago is centuries in human time—my beams shone down on a young artist.3 He was living in the city of the popes, in Rome, one of the world’s greatest capitals. Many things have changed there since that time,4 but they have not changed as quickly as humans alter in the course of moving from childhood to old age. The imperial fortress was then, as now, a site of ruins. Fig trees and laurels were growing among the upturned columns, and, in the baths, the walls were still gleaming with gold even though they had been destroyed. The Coliseum stood in ruins. Church bells were ringing, and the fragrance of incense filled the air as processions with lighted candles and magnificent canopies passed through the streets. A holy event was taking place, and art too was hallowed and considered sacred. The world’s greatest painter, Raphael,5 and the greatest sculptor of his time, Michelangelo, were living in Rome at the time. The Pope himself held both in high esteem and honored them with his visits. Art was supported, revered, and rewarded.6 Nonetheless, not all talents and abilities were seen and acknowledged, even back then.
LORENZ FRØLICH
Down a little, narrow street, there was an old house that had once been a temple. In it lived a young artist, poor and unknown but with many young friends—artists all, young in spirit, mind, and thought. They told the artist that he was blessed with talent and skill but that he was a fool for lacking confidence in those abilities. He was always destroying what he had sculpted from clay. Never satisfied with what he made, he could not finish anything, and of course you had to be able to do that if you wanted to be known, celebrated, and make a living.
“You’re a dreamer!” his friends told him. “And that is your misfortune! Your problem is that you haven’t yet lived and enjoyed life in the way that it should be savored, in great big healthy doses. It is precisely when you are young that you can and should become one with life! Look at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors. He is not beyond enjoying bread and wine.”
“I’ll say. And he’s likely to gobble up the girl at the bakery too, the charming Fornarina,” said Angelo, one of the rowdiest of the artist’s young friends.
Yes, indeed, the friends all weighed in on the matter, each according to his age and attitude. They were intent on drawing the young artist into a life of merriment, wildness, what could also be called madness. And sometimes, for a moment, he would feel the desire to succumb. His blood was hot, and he had a lively imagination. Occasionally he would join in the spirited banter and laugh noisily with the others. But the thought of what they called “Raphael’s carefree way of living” disappeared like the morning mists when he saw the divine brilliance of the master’s great paintings or when he stood in the Vatican before the beautiful statues that great artists had shaped from blocks of marble so long ago. His chest would heave deeply with longing, and he could feel a power—noble, holy, uplifting, great and good—inspiring him to create the same kinds of figures, to carve them from marble. He was determined to create an image of what made his heart soar up to the firmament. But how and in what shape? His hands molded soft clay effortlessly into beautiful shapes, but the very next day, as always, he would destroy what he had created.
One day, he happened to pass by an opulent palace, one of many in Rome, and he paused before a wide entrance with open gates and saw inside colonnades adorned with statues, surrounding a little garden filled with the most beautiful roses. Enormous white calla lilies with lush green leaves were growing in the basin of a marble fountain, where clear water was splashing. The contours of a delicate, graceful, marvelously beautiful young woman could be seen gliding through the garden and past the fountain—the daughter of the noble family living there. He had never before seen such a beautiful woman. Wait! Once before he had seen a beauty like that, painted by Raphael, painted as Psyche, in a Roman palace. Yes, her portrait had been there, and here she had come to life and was walking around.7
The artist carried her image in his heart and thoughts. When he returned to his humble quarters, he began to mold a Psyche in clay. The figure was the wealthy, young daughter of Rome, a noble maiden, and, for the first time ever, he was satisfied with his work. It meant something to him: it was she. When his friends saw the statue, they were overjoyed. Here was the work of true genius that they had always known to be there and that the world would now also appreciate.
Clay is supple and lifelike, but it does not possess the whiteness and permanence of marble. This Psyche had to come to life in marble,8 and the artist already owned a precious slab of marble. For years, it had taken up space in his parents’ courtyard, with broken glass, stalks of cabbage, and artichoke leaves collecting around it and soiling its purity.9 But on the inside,
the slab was as white as shining mountaintops covered with snow. Psyche would emerge from this piece of marble.
Now, it happened one day (the morning star did not report this because it never knew about it, even though we do) that a party of Romans stopped in the narrow, uninviting street. The carriage in which they were traveling was parked at the top of the street, and the visitors walked down to the house in order to see the young artist’s work, which they had learned about only by chance. Who were these distinguished visitors? Poor young man! Or should we call him a young man who will become happy, perhaps too happy? The young maiden herself was right there in his dwelling, and what a smile broke out on her face when her father declared: “Why, it’s your image, as you live and breathe!” That smile, that gaze—what a wondrous look she gave the young artist! It cannot be carved, and it cannot be created. It was a look that inspired him and ennobled him—but it also crushed him!10
“Psyche must be realized in marble,” the rich gentleman proclaimed. And those were words of life for the dead clay and for the heavy marble block, just as they animated the young man, who was deeply moved. “When you have completed the work, I shall buy it,” the noble gentleman added.
It was as if the humble studio had suddenly come to life. It was lit up by joy and good cheer, and accompanied by a buzz of activity. The bright morning star watched as the work progressed. The clay itself had come to life since she had been there. It molded itself into the familiar features with heightened beauty.
“Finally I know what life is!” the artist rejoiced. “It is love! It is sacred devotion to the ecstatic rapture of losing yourself in beauty! What my friends called life and pleasure is as unreal and as fleeting as the bubbles made by yeast in dough. It has nothing to do with the pure, divine altar wine that consecrates life.”11
The marble block was hoisted into place, and the chisel began to cut away large chunks. Measurements were taken; points and lines were drawn on the stone; the work of the craftsman was done. Before long, the stone began to transform itself into Psyche, a figure of beauty as graceful and perfect as God’s own image of the maiden.12 The weighty stone was turned into a hovering, graceful, sprightly Psyche with the smile of divine innocence that had been captured in the mirror of the young sculptor’s heart.
The star of the rosy-colored dawn saw it and knew right away what was stirring the young man’s soul. It understood why his cheeks kept changing color and why his eyes were flashing while he was representing what God had created.
“You are like one of the masters from ancient Greek times,” his friends told him. “Soon the entire world will be admiring your Psyche!”
“My Psyche,” he repeated. “Mine! Yes, she must be mine! I am like one of the artists of old who are no longer with us! God has given me this divine gift and raised me to be the equal of nobles!”13
He fell to his knees and wept tears of gratitude to God. But he soon forgot about God and thought only of her and of her image in marble—his Psyche who was standing there as if she had been formed of snow,14 blushing in the morning sunlight.
He was supposed to go see her—the living, breathing Psyche, whose words were like music. Finally he could announce the news in the stately palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He entered the gates, crossed the open courtyard, where water was splashing from the mouths of dolphins into marble basins and where calla lilies and fresh roses were blooming in abundance. He walked into a long, lofty entryway, with walls and ceilings painted in beautiful colors and covered with coats of arms and works of art. Uniformed servants, haughty and pretentious, swaggering like sleigh horses decked out with bells, strutted up and down. A few of them even stretched out lazily and boldly on the carved wooden benches, as if they were the masters of the house.
The artist explained his errand and was escorted up polished marble steps covered with thick carpets. Marble statues lined both sides of the staircase. He walked through magnificent rooms with paintings and floors of mosaic. The sight of so much brilliance and finery was overwhelming, but he quickly regained his composure. The noble master of the house received him kindly, even warmly. When the artist was taking his leave, he was told to visit the young signorina, who wished to see him again. A servant took him through more magnificent rooms, until he was ushered into a room where she was the most brilliant ornament.
The young woman spoke to him, and even a prayer of mercy or church song would not have had the same great power to melt his heart and lift his soul. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Even rose petals were not as soft as that hand, but flames—flames of some kind—leaped from it. He felt grand sentiments coursing through him. Words flowed from his lips, but he had no idea what he was saying. Is a volcano aware that its eruptions produce fiery lava?15 He confessed his love to her. She drew herself up before him, astonished, offended, and proud, with a look of contempt on her features, as if she had just touched a cold, wet frog. Her cheeks turned red; her lips grew pale; and her eyes flashed pitch-black, as dark as the night.
“You madman,” she cried. “Go away! Get out of my sight!”16 And when she turned her back on him, the face of beauty bore a resemblance to that petrifying face with serpent hair.17
LORENZ FRØLICH
The artist descended the stairs in a stupor and found his way back to the street. He managed to reach his lodgings, moving like a sleepwalker, but came to in a fit of rage and pain. Taking his hammer in hand, he raised it high in the air and was about to smash the beautiful marble image. He was so beside himself that he did not even realize that his friend Angelo was standing right next to him. With a strong grip, Angelo held his arm back.
“Are you mad? What’s the matter?”
The two struggled, but Angelo was stronger and prevailed. Exhausted and breathing heavily, the young artist flung himself into a chair.
“What happened?” Angelo asked. “Pull yourself together. Tell me what happened!”
But what could he say! And since Angelo could not understand his ravings, he gave up.
“You’ll get into trouble with your eternal dreaming! Be a man, like your friends, and stop living in a fantasy world. You’ll go crazy. Get a little tipsy, and you’ll sleep it off! A beautiful girl can be your healer. The girls from the campagna18 are as beautiful as your princess in the marble castle. They are all daughters of Eve,19 and when you’re in paradise, you won’t be able to tell them apart. Take the advice of your Angelo. I’m your angel now, your angel of life! The time will come when you will be old, and your body will fall apart. Then, on a beautiful, sunny day, when everyone else is laughing and having a good time, you’ll lie there, like limp straw with no life left in it. I don’t have much faith in what the priests tell us about life beyond the grave. That’s a nice fantasy, a fairy tale for children—quite pleasant if you can persuade yourself that it’s true. As for me, I deal in reality. Come along with me! Start acting like a man!”
The artist was able to drag himself along, at least for the moment. He felt fire in his blood. A change had taken place in his soul, and he sensed a deep desire to move away from the familiar and to tear himself loose from his old self. And so he followed Angelo.
On the outskirts of Rome, there was a tavern frequented by artists. It had been built into the ruins of ancient baths. Large yellow lemons could be seen among dark, shining leaves and covered part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a vaulted chamber, almost like a cavern located in the ruins. Inside it, a lamp was burning before the image of the Madonna.20 A fire was blazing in the hearth, and there was much cooking and roasting. Outdoors, beneath the lemon and laurel trees, there were tables covered with food.
The two young men were greeted with shouts of joy by their friends. They didn’t eat much, but they drank a lot, and that raised everybody’s spirits. There was singing, and someone was playing the guitar. Then the saltarello21 was played, and everyone began dancing merrily. Two young Roman girls who were working as artists’ models joined in the danc
e and festivities—two charming Bacchantes,22 not as lovely as Psyche, to be sure, not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh, sturdy, vibrant carnations.
LORENZ FRØLICH
How hot it was that day! There was fire in the blood, fire in the air, fire in everyone’s eyes. Gold and roses were glowing in the air; life was gold and roses.
“At last you have joined us. Let yourself go with the flow all around you and in your soul.”
“I’ve never felt so healthy, so full of joy,” the young artist said. “You’re right, you were all right. I’ve been a fool and a dreamer. We should live in reality and not in fantasy.”
Singing and playing their guitars, the young artists left the tavern and strolled through the narrow streets under the clear, starlit skies. The daughters of the campagna, those colorful carnations, accompanied them.
They returned to Angelo’s room, where colored sketches, folios, and sensuous, lustrous images were scattered all around, and their voices became quieter but were no less animated. On the floor there were many sketches23 that resembled the daughters of the campagna, showing their robust beauty from many different angles. And yet the women were far more attractive than the images. Every candle on the sixarmed candelabra had been lit, and it was blazing and glowing. And from deep within the artist’s soul, something divine was also blazing and glowing.