Pygmalion

Finally, my turn has come round this wondrous fire. Listen close, companions, and I shall tell you the story of a wretched man who loved, lost, and was lost himself. This is the tale of Pygmalion, and I hope you take heed of the lesson it yields.

Pygmalion saw the corruption of women and, as with immoral things, he hardened his heart against them. He would not debase himself in the eyes of the gods. Instead his eyes turned towards the arts, his hands to sculpture, and he created a magnificent ivory statue, pleasing to all who looked upon her, as lifelike as could be within the bounds of carved perfection. He could not help but desire her. When he touched her, his fingers trembled, and he was unable to look away from the beauty he had created.

Such was his plight that he dared make a pretense of romancing her. During the day he sang to her, and purchased her all manner of gifts, adorning the ivory with jewels and fine clothing. At night, he lay her in his bed, contenting himself with kisses placed upon unmoving lips and dreams of returned affections. Nothing mattered more than his love, and he forsake all other things in her favor.

It became too much. He was consumed with the thought of her living, of warmth in his bed and a mouth that moved beneath his own. One can only harbor such unrequitable infatuation for so long without inviting a degree of madness. In anguish, he left the house, unable to look at the lovely figure that caused him such joy and pain in equal measure.

Ensnared as he was by his ivory obsession, he had not realized it was the festival of Venus. Celebration sounded around him as, with renewed hope, he came to the outside of the temple, where a slaughtered calf lay next to a brazier. Cutting a thigh from the calf and throwing it onto the coals, Pygmalion gave thanks for his wondrous skill in sculpting the perfect woman, and made his one request of the goddess. “I understand,” he said, “that she is but a statue. But if only I could have a living woman like my creation.”

Venus heard his prayer, and went to look at the object of his tormented desire, lifting a piece of fabric draped over the statue's head. At once she had the measure of her supplicant, understanding the foolishness of his love. His paramour was modest and demure, obedient in the downward cast of her gaze, yet somehow exuding forbidden sensuality in the set of her mouth, the curve of her hips. She was ideal, unattainable by all living, save Venus herself. The goddess allowed a flicker of envy, deciding then to grant Pygmalion’s wish. The man would come to understand his mistake.

The flames grew high on the altar and hope bloomed within Pygmalion. He rushed home, but the statue lay where he left her, face covered with the large cloth. He had not been able to bear the sight of her, knowing he was not seen in return. Now he went to her, caressed her body as he often did, delighting in the smooth contours of her neck and waist. In his delirium, he heard a soft gasp. The cloth fluttered. Unbelieving, he pulled the fabric down to reveal her once-shy eyes fixed upon him. The lovestruck man was filled with delight and kissed her immediately, relishing in the long-desired warmth of her body against his. He took her into his bed and swore to marry her the next day.

When he awoke next day, he turned in his bed to look once more at his want made real, and found nothing. His paramour was not in the house. He departed to search the town, panicked at the thought of his loss. He came upon her in the market, conversing with several men and women by a merchant’s stall. The sight of her infuriated him. His love was pure and perfect, yet she mingled with wicked women and men who surely lusted after her like dogs. The affection he felt for her died in his chest as he watched her laughing with them. Surely this was not his ivory girl, the statue who waited each day for his touch, who stayed where he put her. She saw him, then, and waved. Pygmalion went to her and, filled with disgust, could only say, “Do not think you will have a home with me,” before he turned and walked away.

By the time he returned home, he was resolved to create a new statue. A girl more beautiful than the previous, one who would stay as she was. Taking a block of ivory, he began to work, carefully carving himself a new love. No matter what he did, however, he could not seem to even recreate his past work, much less surpass it. The proportions were wrong, the skin not smooth enough, the eyes lopsided. The work became his new fixation. He bought new materials, new tools, he toiled day and night, yet he was never satisfied. His heart was warped by his ideals, and as Venus foresaw, his incredible skill suffered. Never again would he create such beauty.

Such was the fate of Pygmalion.

Author's note: As I mentioned in my reading notes, I've always been bothered by the original ending of this story. In the original, Pygmalion does still hate women. He decides to create a statue woman instead, and he falls in love with her. Venus does still grant Pygmalion's wish (though for no good reason, in my opinion), and Pygmalion's magic statue wife just happens to love him back, and after Venus attends their wedding he gets to live happily ever after with his creepy creation. Since I saw no morally permissible outcome in the original, I decided to create the ending that I think is more logical, with Pygmalion punished by his own righteousness and perfectionism, while the statue is free to pursue her life as she chooses (which may not have actually been great for her in Roman culture, but as the storyteller, I'm saying she gets a happy ending). I tried to emulate the flow and kind of antique-sounding style of the original translation, with what I think are mixed results. My own writing style definitely comes through a bit, especially towards the end. I also mimicked the original's minimal use of Pygmalion's name, opting to just say "he" for most of the story. The specifics about the materials used for the sacrifice came from here.

Bibliography

"Pygmalion," from Ovid's Metamorphoses, translated by Tony Kline (2000). Source.

Image: Pygmalion and Galatea (statue). Source.