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Updated: July 14, 2025
MARTELLUS. You know him quite well. Pygmalion. That soulless creature! A scientist! A laboratory person! ARJILLAX. Pygmalion produce a work of art! You have lost your artistic senses. The man is utterly incapable of modelling a thumb nail, let alone a human figure. MARTELLUS. That does not matter: I have done the modelling for him. ARJILLAX. What on earth do you mean?
Is it not true? THE SHE-ANCIENT. Speak, Martellus: you who have travelled the whole path. MARTELLUS. It is true. With fierce joy I turned a temperature of a million degrees on those two things I had modelled, and saw them vanish in an instant into inoffensive dust. THE SHE-ANCIENT. Speak, Arjillax: you who have advanced from imitating the lightly living child to the intensely living ancient.
They would bore me; and they would bore you if you had any sense. Go in and look at my busts. ECRASIA. Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn. Scorn! That is what I feel for your revolting busts. ARJILLAX. Fool: the busts are only the beginning of a mighty design. Listen. ACIS. Go ahead, old sport. We are listening. Martellus stretches himself on the sward beside the altar.
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