Part 14 (1/2)

PYGMALION AND THE IMAGE.

ARGUMENT.

A man of Cyprus, a sculptor named Pygmalion, made an image of a woman, fairer than any that had yet been seen, and in the end came to love his own handiwork as though it had been alive: wherefore, praying to Venus for help, he obtained his end, for she made the image alive indeed, and a woman, and Pygmalion wedded her.

At Amathus, that from the southern side Of Cyprus, looks across the Syrian sea, There did in ancient time a man abide Known to the island-dwellers, for that he Had wrought most G.o.dlike works in imagery, And day by day still greater honour won, Which man our old books call Pygmalion.

Yet in the praise of men small joy he had, But walked abroad with downcast brooding face.

Nor yet by any damsel was made glad; For, sooth to say, the women of that place Must seem to all men an accursed race, Who with the Turner of all Hearts once strove And now their hearts must carry l.u.s.t for love.

Upon a day it chanced that he had been About the streets, and on the crowded quays, Rich with unopened wealth of bales, had seen The dark-eyed merchants of the southern seas In chaffer with the base Propoetides, And heavy-hearted gat him home again, His once-loved life grown idle, poor, and vain.

And there upon his images he cast His weary eyes, yet little noted them, As still from name to name his swift thought pa.s.sed.

For what to him was Juno's well-wrought hem, Diana's shaft, or Pallas' olive-stem?

What help could Hermes' rod unto him give, Until with shadowy things he came to live?

Yet note, that though, while looking on the sun, The craftsman o'er his work some morn of spring May chide his useless labour never done, For all his murmurs, with no other thing He soothes his heart, and dulls thought's poisonous sting, And thus in thought's despite the world goes on; And so it was with this Pygmalion.

Unto the chisel must he set his hand, And slowly, still in troubled thought must pace, About a work begun, that there doth stand, And still returning to the self-same place, Unto the image now must set his face, And with a sigh his wonted toil begin, Half-loathed, half-loved, a little rest to win.

The lessening marble that he worked upon, A woman's form now imaged doubtfully, And in such guise the work had he begun, Because when he the untouched block did see In wandering veins that form there seemed to be, Whereon he cried out in a careless mood, ”O lady Venus, make this presage good!

”And then this block of stone shall be thy maid, And, not without rich golden ornament, Shall bide within thy quivering myrtle-shade.”

So spoke he, but the G.o.ddess, well content, Unto his hand such G.o.dlike mastery sent, That like the first artificer he wrought, Who made the gift that woe to all men brought.

And yet, but such as he was wont to do, At first indeed that work divine he deemed, And as the white chips from the chisel flew Of other matters languidly he dreamed, For easy to his hand that labour seemed, And he was stirred with many a troubling thought, And many a doubt perplexed him as he wrought.

And yet, again, at last there came a day When smoother and more shapely grew the stone And he, grown eager, put all thought away But that which touched his craftsmans.h.i.+p alone, And he would gaze at what his hands had done, Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well.

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, And with the pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see, Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name.

The night seemed long, and long the twilight seemed, A vain thing seemed his flowery garden fair; Though through the night still of his work he dreamed, And though his smooth-stemmed trees so nigh it were, That thence he could behold the marble hair; Nought was enough, until with steel in hand He came before the wondrous stone to stand.

No song could charm him, and no histories Of men's misdoings could avail him now, Nay, scarcely seaward had he turned his eyes, If men had said, ”The fierce Tyrrhenians row Up through the bay, rise up and strike a blow For life and goods;” for nought to him seemed dear But to his well-loved work to be anear.

Then vexed he grew, and knowing not his heart, Unto himself he said, ”Ah, what is this, That I who oft was happy to depart, And wander where the boughs each other kiss 'Neath the west wind, now have no other bliss But in vain smoothing of this marble maid, Whose chips this month a drachma had outweighed?

”Lo I will get me to the woods and try If I my woodcraft have forgotten quite, And then, returning, lay this folly by, And eat my fill, and sleep my sleep anight, And 'gin to carve a Hercules aright Upon the morrow, and perchance indeed The Theban will be good to me at need.”

With that he took his quiver and his bow, And through the gates of Amathus he went, And toward the mountain slopes began to go, Within the woods to work out his intent.

Fair was the day, the honied beanfield's scent The west wind bore unto him, o'er the way The glittering noisy poplar leaves did play.

All things were moving; as his hurried feet Pa.s.sed by, within the flowery swathe he heard The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred, Or murmured in the clover flowers below.

But he with bowed-down head failed not to go.

At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said, ”Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by, The day is getting ready to be dead; No rest, and on the border of the sky Already the great banks of dark haze lie; No rest--what do I midst this stir and noise?