|
Tales of Love- Pygmalion and Galatea*
A long time ago, on the island of Cyprus, there lived a young artist. His name was Pygmalion and he was a sculptor who created beautiful images from marble and ivory. Now Pygmalion was a brilliant artist whose great talent amazed all who saw his work, but he was quite unlike most men his age. Pygmalion did not like women; in fact, he couldn’t stand them!
Hearing his friends speak of their sweethearts he would always shake his head.
“You poor fellows,” he’d say to them sadly. “You are all blind. I’m starting to think that I’m the only one who can see women for what they really are.”
“And what are they?” his friends asked one day. “Tell us Pygmalion.”
“They’re a curse,” the sculptor replied. “The old stories about them are true. It was woman who brought misery and suffering into the world.”
“Oh you’ll change your mind soon enough friend,” the young men laughed. “Give yourself a few years and you’ll discover that you are the blind one. Why, Woman is the greatest blessing that mankind has ever received!”
“Yep, she sure is!” someone else threw in. “And you seem to forget, Pygmalion, that it was one of their “evil” kind who gave you life and nurtured you from infancy.”
“All the same,” Pygmalion replied. “I’ll never change my opinion of women. And it goes without saying that I’ll never be ensnared by one.”
“Sure!” the young men chuckled. “We’ll remind you of your words when we come to your wedding.” And the artist’s friends walked away, shaking their heads and laughing.
“No,” Pygmalion said to himself with great conviction. “I’ll never marry!” And with that he returned to his studio to work.
His had just begun working on a new block of marble. He chiselled and carved; working hard from sunrise to sunset with his characteristic skill and patience. And the block of marble slowly began to take on shape. Wiping the sweat from his brow, and packing up his tools for the day, Pygmalion surveyed his work and smiled.
“Yes,” he said to himself. “There is only one kind of love worth having; the love of art. The world can keep its women! I’ll have nothing to do with any of them.”
For many weeks Pygmalion worked, watching his sculpture take shape. Soon enough it was clear what the block of marble would become.
Still Pygmalion worked and under his fingers, the statue became smoother and more perfect by the day. At last, the artist stood back and smiled, taking the sculpture in. Strangely enough, it was the image of a woman! And not just any woman, but the most beautiful woman that anyone had ever laid eyes upon.
Yet still, Pygmalion wasn’t satisfied and so he worked. And as he worked, the marble figure became even lovelier and even more beautiful. But to the artist, the statue was not yet lovely enough. He continued to work on the image; spending every waking moment with it and devoting all his energy to it. At long last, Pygmalion laid down his chisel and sighed. The sculpture stood before him; beautiful, lifelike and perfect! It was a young girl, and so real did she appear that she could have been alive! The statue was indeed perfect; better than any other sculpture that had ever been made. And as Pygmalion gazed at his work it was evident that a spell had been cast upon him, for his eyes glowed; his breath came fast and heavy and his heart beat like it had never beat before. Pygmalion, t
he artist who had sworn never to be ensnared by a woman, was deeply in love! He had fallen in love with a lifeless image; the work of his own hands. And the object of his affections stared back at him blankly; knowing nothing, seeing nothing and feeling nothing. She was nothing but cold, lifeless marble.
Pygmalion reached out to caress her cheek, and it was as smooth as the smoothest skin, but cold; too cold to the touch. He bent down to plant his lips on hers, but the kiss was not returned. He took the statue in his arms but it remained fixed; unmoving. Pygmalion sat down and wept.
“My love,” he sobbed. “Why won’t you respond to my touch? What can I do to win your heart?”
When the statue didn’t reply, Pygmalion jumped to his feet.
“I know what the matter is!” he cried. “You don’t have any clothes on and you are embarrassed.” And he hurried off to buy the most expensive dress he could find.
Pygmalion dressed the statue and hung golden jewellery around its neck and wrists. He even placed golden rings upon its slender marble fingers. But the statue still didn’t respond to his touch or become warm under his caresses. So he brought her more gifts: flowers; jewellery; amber, all the things that delighted real women. He even made a bed of expensive rugs and furs, and tucked the statue in at night. But all of his efforts were in vain. The marble image remained cold and lifeless; and Pygmalion remained in agony.
Now a festival to Aphrodite, the goddess of love was celebrated regularly by the Cyprians and as the day of the festival drew near, Pygmalion prepared an offering for the goddess with hope in his heart.
“Surely Aphrodite can do something about this,” he thought to himself. “But I have scorned the goddess for so long that she may never forgive me!”
But Pygmalion was wrong. Aphrodite had been watching the artist with interest. It is true that he had scorned love and women for so long, but his sufferings had more than atoned for his foolishness and the goddess was feeling merciful. So when Pygmalion approached her altar with his offering and whispered the secret prayer from his heart, she smiled down at him and made the flames of his sacrifice flare up three times.
“Give me a maiden like my statue,” the artist had prayed, having been too ashamed to ask for the statue itself. But the goddess had seen his heart and knew what he really wanted.
Pygmalion was quiet on his way home, wondering where he would find the woman he sought. The goddess had given him a favourable sign but he what exactly did it portend? He entered his house and out of habit glanced at the pedestal in the corner where he had placed the statue. It was still there. Sighing, he made his way to sand before it. It looked just the same.
He reached out to touch it and it was still cold. He kissed it, and the lips were still hard and lifeless. Or were they? Hadn’t there been an almost imperceptible softening of the marble lips? He kissed it again and drew back with a gasp. They had indeed felt warm! He caressed the cheek and felt it soften beneath his fingers. With a cry of joy his trembling fingers dropped to her wrist, and there it was; a pulse. Weeping, he took the statue in his arms and brought his lips to hers. And the statue kissed him back! Pygmalion had been granted his wish. The sculpture had come to life.
He named her Galatea and married her that very day. Ten months later, she bore him a son. And in this case, the family did indeed live happily ever after.
The Greeks wrote other tales of woman haters who later realised the error of their ways. One of these myths tells of a young man named Narcissus who fell in love, not with a lifeless statue but with his own image. But that of course is another story...
*Based on Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” Back
|
