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ECRASIA. It is as easy to understand as any other ignorant error. What artist is as great as his own works? He can create masterpieces; but he cannot improve the shape of his own nose. ACIS. There! What have you to say to that, old one? THE HE-ANCIENT. He can alter the shape of his own soul.
And it will not be an accident. THE HE-ANCIENT. We are very tired of this subject. I must leave you. THE NEWLY BORN. What is being tired? THE SHE-ANCIENT. The penalty of attending to children. Farewell. The two Ancients go away severally, she into the grove, he up to the hills behind the temple. ECRASIA. Dreadful people! STREPHON. Bores!
THE HE-ANCIENT. And then, when you have achieved this as Pygmalion did; when the marble masterpiece is dethroned by the automaton and the homo by the homunculus; when the body and the brain, the reasonable soul and human flesh subsisting, as Ecrasia says, stand before you unmasked as mere machinery, and your impulses are shewn to be nothing but reflexes, you are filled with horror and loathing, and would give worlds to be young enough to play with your rag doll again, since every step away from it has been a step away from love and happiness.
I had rather have the case judged. The He-Ancient emerges from the grove. A child lost! A life wasted! How has this happened? It was not me. May I be struck dead if I touched him! You bit him. Everyone here saw you do it. Dont. She did it, sir: indeed she did. THE HE-ANCIENT. Silence, I say. He knocks the Male Automaton upright by a very light flip under the chin.
They have forgotten how to speak; how to read; even how to think in your fashion. We do not communicate with one another in that way or apprehend the world as you do. THE HE-ANCIENT. I find it more and more difficult to keep up your language. Another century or two and it will be impossible. I shall have to be relieved by a younger shepherd.
I grant you about the friends perhaps; but the mountains are still the mountains, each with its name, its individuality, its upstanding strength and majesty, its beauty ECRASIA. What! Acis among the rhapsodists! THE HE-ANCIENT. Mere metaphor, my poor boy: the mountains are corpses. THE HE-ANCIENT. Yes.
Life is hard enough for us as it is. THE HE-ANCIENT. Life is not meant to be easy, my child; but take courage: it can be delightful. What I wanted to tell you is that ever since men existed, children have played with dolls. ECRASIA. You keep using that word. What are dolls, pray? THE SHE-ANCIENT. What you call works of art. Images. We call them dolls. ARJILLAX. Just so.
What use are the artists if they cannot bring their beautiful creations to life? An Ancient Woman has descended the hill path during Strephon's lament, and has heard most of it. She is like the He-Ancient, equally bald, and equally without sexual charm, but intensely interesting and rather terrifying.
You see, children, we have to put things very crudely to you to make ourselves intelligible. THE HE-ANCIENT. And I am afraid we do not quite succeed. STREPHON. Very kind of you to come at all and talk to us, I'm sure. ECRASIA. Why do the other ancients never come and give us a turn? THE SHE-ANCIENT. It is difficult for them.
For whilst we are tied to this tyrannous body we are subject to its death, and our destiny is not achieved. THE NEWLY BORN. What is your destiny? THE HE-ANCIENT. To be immortal. THE SHE-ANCIENT. The day will come when there will be no people, only thought. THE HE-ANCIENT. And that will be life eternal. ECRASIA. I trust I shall meet my fatal accident before that day dawns.
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