University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene: Pygmalion's Studio.

Several classical statues are placed about the room; at the back a temple or cabinet containing a statue of Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue from the audience.

Mimos, a slave, is discovered at work on a half-finished statue. To him enters Agesimos.

Ages.
(haughtily).
Good day. Is this Pygmalion's studio?

Mim.
(bowing).
It is.

Ages.
Are you Pygmalion?

Mim.
Oh, no;
I am his slave.

Ages.
And has Pygmalion slaves?
A stone-cutter with slaves to wait on him;
With slaves to fetch and carry—come and go—
And bend submissive uncomplaining backs
To whips and scourges, at a sculptor's whim!
What's the world coming to?

Mim.
What is your will?

Ages.
This: Chrysos will receive Pygmalion
At half-past three to-day; let him attend.

Mim.
And are you Chrysos, sir?

Ages.
(disconcerted).
Well, no, I'm not.
That is, not altogether: I'm, in fact,
His slave.

Mim.
(relieved).
His slave!

Ages.
(very proudly).
My name's Agesimos!

Mim.
And has Agesimos a master then,
To bid him fetch and carry—come and go—
And does he bend an uncomplaining back
To whips and scourges at that master's whim?
What's the world coming to?

Ages.
Poor purblind fool!
I'd sooner tie the sandals of my lord
Than own a dozen bondsmen such as you.
As for the scourge—to be by Chrysos flogged
Is honour in itself. I'd rather far
Be flogged by Chrysos seven times a day,
Than whip you hence to the Acropolis;
What say you now?

Mim.
Why, that upon one point
Agesimos and I are quite agreed.
And who is Chrysos?

Ages.
Hear the slave, ye gods!
He knows not Chrysos!

Mim.
Verily, not I.

Ages.
He is the chiefest man in Athens, sir;
The father of the arts—a nobleman
Of princely liberality and taste,
On whom five hundred starved Pygmalions
May batten if they will.

Enter Pygmalion.
Pyg.
Who is this man?

Ages.
I'm Chrysos's slave—my name's Agesimos.
Chrysos has heard of you: he understands
That you have talent, and he condescends
To bid you call on him. But take good care
How you offend him: he can make or mar.

Pyg.
Your master's slave reflects his insolence!
Tell him from me that, though I'm poor enough,
I am an artist and a gentleman.
He should not reckon Art among his slaves:
She rules the world—so let him wait on her.

Ages.
This is a sculptor!

Pyg.
(furiously).
And an angry one!
Begone, and take my message to your lord.
[Exit Agesimos.
Insolent hound!

Enter Cynisca.
Cyn.
Pygmalion, what's amiss?

Pyg.
Chrysos has sent his slave to render me
The customary tribute paid by wealth
To mere intelligence.

Cyn.
Pygmalion!
Brooding upon the chartered insolence
Of a mere slave! Dismiss the thought at once.
Come, take thy chisel; thou hast work to do
Ere thy wife-model takes her leave to-day;
In half an hour I must be on the road
To Athens. Half an hour remains to thee—
Come—make the most of it—I'll pose myself;
Say—will that do?

Pyg.
I cannot work to-day.
My hand's uncertain—I must rest awhile.

Cyn.
Then rest and gaze upon thy masterpiece,
'Twill reconcile thee to thyself—Behold!

(Draws curtain and discovers statue of Galatea.)
Pyg.
Yes—for in gazing on my handiwork,
I gaze on heaven's handiwork—thyself!

Cyn.
And yet, although it be thy masterpiece,
It has the fault thy patrons find with all
Thy many statues.

Pyg.
What then do they say?

Cyn.
They say Pygmalion's statues have one head—
That head, Cynisca's.

Pyg.
So then it's a fault
To reproduce, maybe an hundred fold,
For the advantage of mankind at large,
The happiness the gods have given me!
Well, when I find a fairer head than thine
I'll give my patrons some variety.

Cyn.
I would not have thee find another head
That seemed as fair to thee for all the world!
We'll have no stranger models if you please,
I'll be your model, sir, as heretofore,
So reproduce me at your will; and yet
It were sheer vanity in me to think
That this fair stone recalls Cynisca's face!

Pyg.
Cynisca's face in every line!

Cyn.
No, no!
Those outlines softened, angles smoothed away,
The eyebrows arched, the head more truly poised,
The forehead ten years smoother than mine own,
Tell rather of Cynisca as she was
When, in the silent groves of Artemis,
Pygmalion told his love ten years ago:
And then the placid brow, the sweet sad lips,
The gentle head down-bent resignedly,
Proclaim that this is not Pygmalion's wife,
Who laughs and frowns, but knows no meed between.
I am no longer as that statue is! (Closes curtain.)


Pyg.
Why here's ingratitude, to slander Time,
Who in his hurried course has passed thee by!
Or is it that Cynisca won't allow
That Time could pass her by, and never pause
To print a kiss upon so fair a face?

Enter Myrine.
Myr.
Pygmalion; I have news.

Pyg.
My sister, speak.

Myr.
(bashfully).
Send Mimos hence.

Pyg.
(signs to Mimos).
Now we are quite alone.

Myr.
Leucippus—

Cyn.
Well!

Myr.
(to Pyg.)
He was thy schoolfellow,
And thou and he are brothers save in blood;
He loves my brother as a brother.

Pyg.
Yes,
I'm sure of that; but is that all thy news?
There's more to come!

Myr.
(bashfully).
He loves thy sister too.

Pyg.
Why this is news, Myrine—kiss me girl.
I'm more than happy at thy happiness,
There is no better fellow in the world!

Cyn.
But tell us all about it, dear. How came
The awkward, bashful, burly warrior,
To nerve himself to this confession?

Leucippus appears at door.
Myr.
Why—
He's here—and he shall tell thee how it was.

Leuc.
In truth I hardly know! I'm new at it;
I'm but a soldier. Could I fight my way
Into a maiden's heart, why well and good;
I'd get there, somehow. But to talk and sigh,
And whisper pretty things—I can't do that!
I tried it, but I stammered, blushed, and failed.
Myrine laughed at me—but, bless her heart,
She knew my meaning, and she pulled me through!

Myr.
I don't know how, Pygmalion, but I did.
He stammered, as he tells you, and I laughed;
And then I felt so sorry, when I saw
The great, big, brave Leucippus look so like
A beaten schoolboy—that I think I cried.
And then—I quite forget what happened next,
Till, by some means, we, who had always been
So cold and formal, distant and polite,
Found ourselves—

Leuc.
Each upon the other's neck!
You are not angry? (offering his hand.)


Pyg.
(taking it).
Angry? overjoyed!
I wish I had been there, unseen, to see;
No sight could give me greater happiness!

Leuc.
What! say you so? Why then, Myrine, girl,
We'll reproduce it for his benefit. (They embrace.)

See here, Pygmalion, here's a group for thee!
Come, fetch thy clay, and set to work on it,
I'll promise thee thy models will not tire!

Cyn.
How now, Leucippus, where's the schoolboy blush
That used to coat thy face at sight of her?

Leuc.
The coating was but thin, we've rubbed it off!

(Kisses Myrine.)
Pyg.
Take care of him, Myrine; thou hast not
The safeguard that protects her. (Indicating Cynisca.)


Myr.
What is that?

Cyn.
It's a strange story. Many years ago
I was a holy nymph of Artemis,
Pledged to eternal maidenhood!

Leuc.
Indeed!

Myr.
How terrible!

Cyn.
It seemed not so to me;
For weeks and weeks I pondered steadfastly
Upon the nature of that serious step
Before I took it—lay awake at night,
Looking upon it from this point and that,
And I at length determined that the vow,
Which to Myrine seems so terrible,
Was one that I, at all events, could keep.

Myr.
How old wast thou, Cynisca?

Cyn.
I was ten!
Well—in due course, I reached eleven, still
I saw no reason to regret the step;
Twelve—thirteen—fourteen saw me still unchanged;
At fifteen, it occurred to me one day
That marriage was a necessary ill,
Inflicted by the gods to punish us,
And to evade it were impiety;
At sixteen the idea became more fixed;
At seventeen I was convinced of it!

Pyg.
In the mean time she'd seen Pygmalion.

Myr.
And you confided all your doubts to him?

Cyn.
I did, and he endorsed them—so we laid
The case before my mistress Artemis;
No need to tell the arguments we used,
Suffice it that they brought about our end.
And Artemis, her icy steadfastness
Thawed by the ardour of Cynisca's prayers,
Replied, “Go, girl, and wed Pygmalion;
“But mark my words, whichever one of you,
“Or he or she, shall falsify the vow
“Of perfect conjugal fidelity—
“The wronged one, he or she, shall have the power
“To call down blindness on the backslider,
“And sightless shall the truant mate remain
“Until expressly pardoned by the other.”

Leuc.
It's fortunate such powers as thine are not
In universal use; for if they were,
One-half the husbands and one-half the wives
Would be as blind as night; the other half,
Having their eyes, would use them—on each other!

(Mimos enters, and gives Pygmalion a scroll, which he reads.)
Myr.
But then, the power of calling down this doom
Remains with thee. Thou wouldst not burden him
With such a curse as utter sightlessness,
However grievously he might offend?

Cyn.
I love Pygmalion for his faithfulness;
The act that robs him of that quality
Will rob him of the love that springs from it.

Myr.
But sightlessness—it is so terrible!

Cyn.
And faithlessness—it is so terrible!
I take my temper from Pygmalion;
While he is god-like—he's a god to me,
And should he turn to devil, I'll turn with him;
I know no half-moods, I am love or hate!

Myr.
(to Leuc.).
What do you say to that?

Leuc.
Why, on the whole
I'm glad you're not a nymph of Artemis!

[Exeunt Myrine and Leucippus.
Pyg.
I've brought him to his senses. Presently
My patron Chrysos will be here to earn
Some thousand drachmas.

Cyn.
How, my love, to earn?
He is a man of unexampled wealth,
And follows no profession.

Pyg.
Yes, he does;
He is a patron of the Arts, and makes
A handsome income by his patronage.

Cyn.
How so?

Pyg.
He is an ignorant buffoon,
But purses hold a higher rank than brains,
And he is rich; wherever Chrysos buys,
The world of smaller fools comes following,
And men are glad to sell their work to him
At half its proper price, that they may say,
“Chrysos has purchased handiwork of ours.”
He is a fashion, and he knows it well
In buying sculpture; he appraises it
As he'd appraise a master-mason's work—
So much for marble, and so much for time,
So much for working tools—but still he buys,
And so he is a Patron of the Arts!

Cyn.
To think that heaven-born Art should be the slave
Of such as he!

Pyg.
Well, wealth is heaven-born too.
I work for wealth.

Cyn.
Thou workest, love, for fame.

Pyg.
And fame brings wealth. The thought's contemptible,
But I can do no more than work for wealth.

Cyn.
Such words from one whose noble work it is
To call the senseless marble into life!

Pyg.
Life! Dost thou call that life?

(Indicating statue of Galatea.)
Cyn.
It all but breathes!

Pyg.
(bitterly).
It all but breathes—therefore it talks aloud!
It all but moves—therefore it walks and runs!
It all but lives, and therefore it is life!
No, no, my love, the thing is cold, dull stone,
Shaped to a certain form, but still dull stone,
The lifeless, senseless mockery of life.
The gods make life: I can make only death!
Why, my Cynisca, though I stand so well,
The merest cut-throat, when he plies his trade,
Makes better death than I, with all my skill!

Cyn.
Hush, my Pygmalion! the gods are good,
And they have made thee nearer unto them
Than other men; this is ingratitude!

Pyg.
Not so; has not a monarch's second son
More cause for anger that he lacks a throne
Than he whose lot is cast in slavery?

Cyn.
Not much more cause, perhaps, but more excuse.
Now I must go.

Pyg.
So soon, and for so long!

Cyn.
One day, 'twill quickly pass away!

Pyg.
With those
Who measure time by almanacks, no doubt,
But not with him who knows no days save those
Born of the sunlight of Cynisca's eyes;
It will be night with me till she returns.

Cyn.
Then sleep it through, Pygmalion! But stay,
Thou shalt not pass the weary hours alone;
Now mark thou this—while I'm away from thee,
There stands my only representative. (Indicating Galatea.)

She is my proxy, and I charge you, sir,
Be faithful unto her as unto me;
Into her quietly attentive ear
Pour all thy treasures of hyperbole,
And give thy nimble tongue full license, lest
Disuse should rust its glib machinery;
If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee,
There stands my other self; tell them to her;
She'll listen well. (He makes a movement of impatience.)

Nay, that's ungenerous,
For she is I, yet lovelier than I,
And hath no temper, sir, and hath no tongue!
Thou hast thy license, make good use of it.
Already I'm half jealous— (draws curtains)

There, it's gone.
The thing is but a statue after all,
And I am safe in leaving thee with her;
Farewell, Pygmalion, till I return.

(Kisses him, and exit.)
Pyg.
“The thing is but a statue after all!”
Cynisca little thought that in those words
She touched the key-note of my discontent—
True, I have powers denied to other men;
Give me a block of senseless marble—Well,
I'm a magician, and it rests with me
To say what kernel lies within its shell;
It shall contain a man, a woman—child—
A dozen men and women if I will.
So far the gods and I run neck and neck;
Nay, so far I can beat them at their trade!
I am no bungler—all the men I make
Are straight-limbed fellows, each magnificent
In the perfection of his manly grace:
I make no crook-backs—all my men are gods,
My women goddesses—in outward form.
But there's my tether! I can go so far,
And go no farther! At that point I stop,
To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back.
To curse the arrogance of those proud gods,
Who say, “Thou shall be greatest among men,
“And yet infinitesimally small!”

Galatea.
Pygmalion!

Pyg.
Who called?

Gal.
Pygmalion!

(Pyg. tears away curtain and discovers Galatea alive.)
Pyg.
Ye gods! It lives!

Gal.
Pygmalion!

Pyg.
It speaks!
I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes!

Gal.
Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion;
Give me thy hand—both hands—how soft and warm!
Whence came I? (Descends.)


Pyg.
Why, from yonder pedestal!

Gal.
That pedestal? Ah, yes, I recollect,
There was a time when it was part of me.

Pyg.
That time has passed for ever, thou art now
A living, breathing woman, excellent
In every attribute of womankind.

Gal.
Where am I, then?

Pyg.
Why, born into the world
By miracle!

Gal.
Is this the world?

Pyg.
It is.

Gal.
This room?

Pyg.
This room is a portion of a house;
The house stands in a grove; the grove itself
Is one of many, many hundred groves
In Athens.

Gal.
And is Athens then the world?

Pyg.
To an Athenian—Yes—

Gal.
And I am one?

Pyg.
By birth and parentage, not by descent.

Gal.
But how came I to be?

Pyg.
Well—let me see.
Oh—you were quarried in Pentelicus;
I modelled you in clay—my artisans
Then roughed you out in marble—I, in turn,
Brought my artistic skill to bear on you,
And made you what you are—in all but life—
The gods completed what I had begun,
And gave the only gift I could not give!

Gal.
Then this is life?

Pyg.
It is.

Gal.
And not long since
I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect
That by some means I knew that I was stone:
That was the first dull gleam of consciousness;
I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold immovable identity,
I knew that I was stone, and knew no more!
Then, by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things,
Seen—darkly and imperfectly—yet seen—
The walls surrounding me, and I, alone.
That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice
That called on Galatea! At that word,
Which seemed to shake my marble to the core,
That which was dim before, came evident.
Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct,
Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves
Into a language I could understand;
I felt my frame pervaded by a glow
That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh;
Its cold hard substance throbbed with active life,
My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived!
Lived in the ecstasy of new-born life!
Lived in the love of him that fashioned me!
Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope,
Love, gratitude—thoughts that resolved themselves
Into one word, that word, Pygmalion! (Kneels to him.)


Pyg.
I have no words to tell thee of my joy,
O woman—perfect in thy loveliness!

Gal.
What is that word? Am I a woman?

Pyg.
Yes.

Gal.
Art thou a woman?

Pyg.
No, I am a man.

Gal.
What is a man?

Pyg.
A being strongly framed,
To wait on woman, and protect her from
All ills that strength and courage can avert;
To work and toil for her, that she may rest;
To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh;
To fight and die for her, that she may live!

Gal.
(after a pause).
I'm glad I am a woman.

Pyg.
So am I. (They sit.)


Gal.
That I escape the pains thou hast to bear?

Pyg.
That I may undergo those pains for thee.

Gal.
With whom then wouldst thou fight?

Pyg.
With any man
Whose deed or word gave Galatea pain.

Gal.
Then there are other men in this strange world?

Pyg.
There are, indeed!

Gal.
And other women?

Pyg.
(taken aback).
Yes;
Though for the moment I'd forgotten it!
Yes, other women.

Gal.
And for all of these
Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep, and fight?

Pyg.
It is man's duty, if he's called upon,
To fight for all—he works for those he loves.

Gal.
Then by thy work I know thou lovest me.

Pyg.
Indeed, I love thee! (Embraces her.)


Gal.
With what kind of love?

Pyg.
I love thee (recollecting himself and releasing her)
as a sculptor loves his work!
(Aside)
There is a diplomacy in that reply.

Gal.
My love is different in kind to thine:
I am no sculptor, and I've done no work,
Yet I do love thee: say—what love is mine?

Pyg.
Tell me its symptoms, then I'll answer thee

Gal.
Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come.
A sense that I am made by thee for thee;
That I've no will that is not wholly thine;
That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise
That does not own thee as its sovereign;
That I have life, that I may live for thee,
That I am thine—that thou and I are one!
(Embraces him passionately—then, frightened at her earnestness, she withdraws from him, still kneeling.)
What kind of love is that?

Pyg.
A kind of love
That I shall run some risk in dealing with!

Gal.
And why, Pygmalion?

Pyg.
Such love as thine
A man may not receive, except indeed
From one who is, or is to be, his wife.

Gal.
Then I will be thy wife!

Pyg.
That may not be;
I have a wife—the gods allow but one.

Gal.
Why did the gods then send me here to thee?

Pyg.
I cannot say—unless to punish me
For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer!
I prayed that thou shouldst live—I have my prayer,
And now I see the fearful consequence
That must attend it!

Gal.
Yet thou lovest me?

Pyg.
Who could look on that face and stifle love?

Gal.
Then I am beautiful?

Pyg.
Indeed thou art.

Gal.
I wish that I could look upon myself,
But that's impossible.

Pyg.
Not so indeed.
This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold!

(Hands her a mirror.)
Gal.
How beautiful! I'm very glad to know
That both our tastes agree so perfectly;
Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think
That aught could be more beautiful than thou,
Till I beheld myself. Believe me, love,
I could look in this mirror all day long.
So I'm a woman!

Pyg.
There's no doubt of that!

Gal.
Oh happy maid to be so passing fair!
And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze,
At will, upon so beautiful a face!

Pyg.
Hush! Galatea—in thine innocence
Thou sayest words that never should be said.

Gal.
Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong
To think that one is exquisitely fair?

Pyg.
Well, it's a confidential sentiment
That women cherish in their heart of hearts;
But, as a rule, they keep it to themselves.

Gal.
And is thy wife as beautiful as I?

Pyg.
No, Galatea, for in forming thee
I took her features—lovely in themselves—
And in the marble made them lovelier still.

Gal.
(disappointed).
Oh! then I'm not original?

Pyg.
Well—no—
That is—thou hast indeed a prototype;
But though in stone thou dost resemble her,
In life the difference is manifest.

Gal.
I'm very glad I'm lovelier than she.
And am I better?

Pyg.
That I do not know.

Gal.
Then she has faults?

Pyg.
But very few indeed;
Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show
That she and I are of one common kin.
I love her all the better for such faults!

Gal.
(after a pause).
Tell me some faults, and I'll commit them now.

Pyg.
There is no hurry; they will come in time:
Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin
To sit as lovingly as we sit now.

Gal.
Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk
As we are sitting, be indeed a sin,
Why I could sin all day! But tell me, love,
Is this great fault that I'm committing now,
The kind of fault that only serves to show
That thou and I are of one common kin?

Pyg.
Indeed, I'm very much afraid it is.

Gal.
And dost thou love me better for such fault?

Pyg.
Where is the mortal that could answer “no”?

Gal.
Why then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion;
Thy wife and I can start on equal terms.
She loves thee?

Pyg.
Very much.

Gal.
I'm glad of that.
I like thy wife.

Pyg.
And why?

Gal.
Our tastes agree.
We love Pygmalion well, and what is more,
Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife;
I'm sure we shall agree.

Pyg.
(aside).
I doubt it much!

Gal.
Is she within?

Pyg.
No, she is not within

Gal.
But she'll come back?

Pyg.
Oh, yes, she will come back.

Gal.
How pleased she'll be to know, when she returns,
That there was some one here to fill her place!

Pyg.
(dryly).
Yes, I should say she'd be extremely pleased.

Gal.
Why, there is something in thy voice which says
That thou art jesting! Is it possible
To say one thing and mean another?

Pyg.
Yes,
It's sometimes done.

Gal.
How very wonderful;
So clever!

Pyg.
And so very useful.

Gal.
Yes.
Teach me the art.

Pyg.
The art will come in time.
My wife will not be pleased; there—that's the truth.

Gal.
I do not think that I shall like thy wife.
Tell me more of her.

Pyg.
Well—

Gal.
What did she say
When last she left thee?

Pyg.
Humph! Well, let me see:
Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife,—
Her solitary representative;
She feared I should be lonely till she came,
And counselled me, if thoughts of love should come,
To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont
To speak to her.

Gal.
That's right.

Pyg.
But when she spoke
Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood,
Which makes a difference!

Gal.
It's a strange world!
A woman loves her husband very much,
And cannot brook that I should love him too;
She fears he will be lonely till she comes,
And will not let me cheer his loneliness;
She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone,
And when that stone is brought to life—be dumb!
It's a strange world—I cannot fathom it!

Pyg.
(aside).
Let me be brave, and put an end to this
(aloud).
Come, Galatea—till my wife returns,
My sister shall provide thee with a home;
Her house is close at hand.

Gal.
(astonished and alarmed).
Send me not hence,
Pygmalion—let me stay.

Pyg.
It may not be.
Come, Galatea, we shall meet again.

Gal.
(resignedly).
Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion!
But we shall meet again?—and very soon?

Pyg.
Yes, very soon.

Gal.
And when thy wife returns,
She'll let me stay with thee?

Pyg.
I do not know.
(Aside)
Why should I hide the truth from her; (aloud)
alas!
I may not see thee then.

Gal.
Pygmalion!
What fearful words are these?

Pyg.
The bitter truth.
I may not love thee—I must send thee hence.

Gal.
Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love!
Was it for this that Heaven gave me life?
Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see,
I am thy work, thou hast created me;
The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine,
Thine! only, and unalterably thine!
This is the thought with which my soul is charged.
Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love,
That thou hast love for her alone: Alas!
I do not know these things—I only know
That Heaven has sent me here to be with thee!
Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife,
Of vows that thou wilt love but her; Alas!
I do not know these things—I only know
That Heaven, who sent me here, has given me
One all-absorbing duty to discharge—
To love thee, and to make thee love again!

[During this speech Pygmalion has shown symptoms of irresolution; at its conclusion he takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately.]