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Updated: May 13, 2025
ARJILLAX. She meant to kill him. STREPHON. This is horrible. A general shriek of horror echoes his exclamation. He turns deadly pale, and supports himself against the end of the curved seat. Pygmalion falls dead. THE NEWLY BORN. Oh! Whats the matter? Why did he fall! What has happened to him? They look on anxiously as Martellus kneels down and examines the body of Pygmalion.
Now that I am calm and that my remedy has brought back my nervous system to its normal state, I will explain to you my real position. She is my Galatea, I her Pygmalion. 'An allegory as old as the world, you are about to say; old or not, it is my true story.
There cannot be a refined soul insensible to its influence. The story of Pygmalion and his statue is as natural as it is poetical. Beauty is of itself a power; and it was now drawing Ben-Hur. The Egyptian was to him a wonderfully beautiful woman beautiful of face, beautiful of form.
THE NEWLY BORN. Why did you not make a woman instead of a man? She would have known how to behave herself. MARTELLUS. Why did you not make a man and a woman? Their children would have been interesting. PYGMALION. I intended to make a woman; but after my experience with the man it was out of the question. ECRASIA. Pray why?
In one, the story of Pygmalion compressed and Yankeefied, yet rendered additionally lovely by its homeliness; and the essence of all artistic life, in the other, presented in a form that cannot be surpassed. "Mrs.
THE NEWLY BORN. Oh, do not be so unkind, Arjillax. You will make water come out of my eyes again. I modelled them out of the stuff Pygmalion made for them. They are masterpieces of art. And see what they have done! Does that convince you of the value of art, Arjillax! STREPHON. They look dangerous. Keep away from them. ECRASIA. No need to tell us that, Strephon. Pf! They poison the air.
"As once with prayers in passion flowing, Pygmalion embraced the stone, Till from the frozen marble glowing, The light of feeling o'er him shone, So did I clasp with young devotion Bright Nature to a poet's heart; Till breath and warmth and vital motion Seemed through the statue form to dart.
"Pygmalion loved his Galatea," said one of the songs. "Ah, that is some of your mythologies," said mamma-in-law. Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were to live; mamma-in-law accompanied them, to attend to the "coarse work," as she always called the domestic arrangements. Kaela looked like a doll in a doll's house, for everything was bright and new, and so fine.
The whole army of the studio stood meanwhile at ease, drawing salary and waiting for Ferriday to remember his day's program and give the order to go ahead. But he was busy with his new story, in the throes of nympholepsy, seeing visions, hearing voices. Kedzie sat in a marble expectancy, Galatea watching Pygmalion create her and prepare to bring her to life. She had never lived. She realized that.
Indeed, he said that he would never marry a mortal woman, and people began to think that his daily life among marble creatures was hardening his heart altogether. But it chanced that Pygmalion fell to work upon an ivory statue of a maiden, so lovely that it must have moved to envy every breathing creature that came to look upon it.
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