I see nothing; but I feel you, I feel your hair; now I stroke your head, round and small. I feel along your shoulders, Psyche, little child with wings. . . . But your wings I do not feel. . . . Have you none now? Have they been cut off? My star has faded, and your wings are cut; Emeralda triumphs alone! Her gift from the fairy has brought her prosperity. Her heart of ruby feels no pain; she is clad in the majesty of precious jewels. She is hard and beautiful, hard as a stone, beautiful as a jewel. . . . Psyche, creep close to me. . . . We can do nothing against her, child. My star is faded, your wings clipt; we have lost our noble rights. . . . I am old, but you—are you still young? You feel so young, indestructibly young. . . . You have suffered so, asked and wandered . . . . not appreciated your happiness, and murdered Eros! Poor child, you a murderess. . . .! You weep rubies . . . . you will do penance. You are strong, Psyche, and always young. . . . You will do penance after all your sins! Emeralda has laid penance on you. . . . To seek the Philosopher’s Stone in the caverns of flaming hell!! O Psyche, the Stone does not exist. The unutterable name is a legend.
