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Updated: June 14, 2025
I set to work again for months to find out how to make a digestive system that would deal with waste products and a reproductive system capable of internal nourishment and incubation. ECRASIA. Why did you not find out how to make them like us? That was the secret you needed. THE NEWLY BORN. Oh yes. How true! MARTELLUS. Control your reflexes, child. THE NEWLY BORN. My what!
You dare disparage Martellus, twenty times your master. I too found one day that my images of loveliness had become vapid, uninteresting, tedious, a waste of time and material. I too lost my desire to model limbs, and retained only my interest in heads and faces. I, too, made busts of ancients; but I had not your courage: I made them in secret, and hid them from you all. Where are they, man?
The wrath of Ozymandias strikes like the lightning. ACIS. What are you going to do with them, Martellus? You are responsible for them, now that Pygmalion has gone. MARTELLUS. If they were marble it would be simple enough: I could smash them. As it is, how am I to kill them without making a horrible mess? Come one: come all: this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I. My hero husband!
MARTELLUS. Yet one would like to follow them; to enter into their life; to grasp their thought; to comprehend the universe as they must. ARJILLAX. Getting old, Martellus? MARTELLUS. Well, I have finished with the dolls; and I am no longer jealous of you. That looks like the end. Two hours sleep is enough for me. I am afraid I am beginning to find you all rather silly. STREPHON. I know.
If Pygmalion had come to me, I should have made ancients of them for him. Not that I should have modelled them any better. I have always said that no one can beat you at your best as far as handwork is concerned. But this job required brains. That is where I should have come in. MARTELLUS. Well, my brainy boy, you are welcome to try your hand.
MARTELLUS. Because you cannot give them life. As your hand became more skilful and your chisel cut deeper, you strove to get nearer and nearer to truth and reality, discarding the fleeting fleshly lure, and making images of the mind that fascinates to the end. But how can so noble an inspiration be satisfied with any image, even an image of the truth?
MARTELLUS. Your reflexes. The things you do without thinking. Pygmalion is going to shew you a pair of human creatures who are all reflexes and nothing else. Take warning by them. THE NEWLY BORN. But wont they be alive, like us? PYGMALION. That is a very difficult question to answer, my dear.
STREPHON. You saw her when you barged into us as we were dancing. She is four. THE NEWLY BORN. How I should have hated her twenty minutes ago! But I have grown out of that now. THE HE-ANCIENT. Good. That hatred is called jealousy, the worst of our childish complaints. Martellus, dusting his hands and puffing, returns from the grove. ARJILLAX. Ancients: I should like to make a few studies of you.
I took actual measurements and moulds from my own body. Sculptors do that sometimes, you know; though they pretend they don't. MARTELLUS. Hm! ARJILLAX. Hah! PYGMALION. He was all right to look at, at first, or nearly so. But he behaved in the most appalling manner; and the subsequent developments were so disgusting that I really cannot describe them to you.
PYGMALION. Yours, too, of course, if the stimulus comes from you. ECRASIA. Cannot he do anything original? PYGMALION. No. But then, you know, I do not admit that any of us can do anything really original, though Martellus thinks we can. ACIS. Can he answer a question? PYGMALION. Oh yes. A question is a stimulus, you know. Ask him one. Of us, for instance, and our ways and doings?
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