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Updated: May 1, 2025
Here we thoughtlessly amused ourselves for some time, quoting Acis and Galatea, Diana and her nymphs, and every classic story applicable to the scene.
Galatea then said, "Acis was the son of Faunus and a Naiad. His father and mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal to mine. For the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and he was just sixteen years old, the down just beginning to darken his cheeks.
It is a huge egg. ACIS. Yes. THE TUNIC BEARER. It is a shame. Why cant we have more boys? More girls. We want new girls. Let me out. I want to be born. Wait. You will be born presently. THE EGG. No, no: at once, at once. The She-Ancient takes her two saws, and with a couple of strokes rips the egg open.
There the blooming Adonis was seen, not breaking away to pursue the boisterous chase, but crowned with flowers, and languishing in the embraces of celestial beauty. There Acis wooed his Galatea in the shade, with the Sicilian sea spreading in halcyon serenity before them.
ECRASIA. I say that if the ancients had thoroughly grasped the theory of fine art they would understand that the difference between a beautiful nose and an ugly one is of supreme importance: that it is indeed the only thing that matters. THE SHE-ANCIENT. That is, they would understand something they could not believe, and that you do not believe. ACIS. Just so, mam.
He could alter the shape of his nose if the difference between a turned-up nose and a turned-down one were worth the effort. One does not face the throes of creation for trifles. ACIS. What have you to say to that, Ecrasia?
Which is just what this old gentleman and this old lady seem to think too. THE SHE-ANCIENT. Quite so. THE HE-ANCIENT. Precisely. What do you want to be? THE HE-ANCIENT. A vortex. THE NEWLY BORN. A what? THE SHE-ANCIENT. A vortex. I began as a vortex: why should I not end as one? ECRASIA. Oh! That is what you old people are, Vorticists. ACIS. But if life is thought, can you live without a head?
Pygmalion, with the smile of a simpleton, and the eager confidence of a fanatical scientist, climbs awkwardly on to the altar. They prepare for the worst. PYGMALION. My friends: I will omit the algebra ACIS. Thank God! To come to the point, I have succeeded in making artificial human beings. Real live ones, I mean. INCREDULOUS VOICES. Oh, come! Tell us another. Really, Pyg! Get out. You havnt.
Thyrsis of Etna am I, and this is the voice of Thyrsis. Where, ah! where were ye when Daphnis was languishing; ye Nymphs, where were ye? By Peneus's beautiful dells, or by dells of Pindus? for surely ye dwelt not by the great stream of the river Anapus, nor on the watch-tower of Etna, nor by the sacred water of Acis. Begin, ye Muses dear, begin the pastoral song!
Instead of being ideally beautiful nymphs and youths, they are horribly realistic studies of but I really cannot bring my lips to utter it. The Newly Born, full of curiosity, runs to the temple, and peeps in. ACIS. Oh, stow it, Ecrasia. Your lips are not so squeamish as all that. Studies of what? ECRASIA. Yes, ancients.
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