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Updated: May 13, 2025
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.
The play was "Pygmalion and Galatea," and at the appearance of Galatea they knew that the overture had not lied. There, in dazzling white flesh, was all it had promised; and when she called "Pyg-ma-lion!" how their hearts thumped! for they knew it was really them she was calling. "Pyg-ma-lion! Pyg-ma-lion!" It was as though Cleopatra called them from the tomb. Their hands met.
Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman came anywhere near it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive, and only prevented from moving by modesty.
He also executed a portrait, at the time of the siege of Florence, of Francesco Guardi in the habit of a soldier, which was a very beautiful work; and on the cover of this picture Bronzino afterwards painted Pygmalion praying to Venus that his statue, receiving breath, might spring to life and become as, according to the fables of the poets, it did flesh and blood.
Venus blessed the nuptials she had formed, and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city, sacred to Venus, received its name. Schiller, in his poem the "Ideals," applies this tale of Pygmalion to the love of nature in a youthful heart.
Hence, if the evil be not already done, you warn me to be on my guard; from the admiration of an artist to the adoration of the man there is but a step, and the history of the late Pygmalion is commended to my study. In the first place, learned doctor and mythologian, allow me this remark.
I am proud of you. I love you. MARTELLUS. We must send out a message for an ancient. ACIS. Need we bother an ancient about such a trifle? It will take less than half a second to reduce our poor Pygmalion to a pinch of dust. Why not calcine the two along with him? MARTELLUS. No: the two automata are trifles; but the use of our powers of destruction is never a trifle.
As Pygmalion before Galatea, it was for them a lover in marble, and they waited for the breath of life to animate that breast, for blood to color those veins. There remained then the present, the spirit of the time, angel of the dawn which is neither night nor day; they found him seated on a lime-sack filled with bones, clad in the mantle of egoism, and shivering in terrible cold.
"He has gone to the other extremity," said his mother-in-law; "passed from the most beautiful to the ugliest. He has found it possible to forget his first wife. There is no constancy in man. My husband, indeed, was different; but he died before me." "Pygmalion got his Galathea," said Alfred. "These words were in the bridal song.
So Machbuba and the master who, like another Pygmalion, seems to have endowed this dusky Galatea with a mind and soul, remained at Vienna, where the Abyssinian, clad in a picturesque Mameluke's costume, accompanied the prince to all the public spectacles, and became a nine days' wonder to the novelty-loving Viennese.
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