The Earthly Paradise Part 14

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?

What part have I in these unthinking joys?"

With that he turned, and toward the city-gate Through the sweet fields went swifter than he came, And cast his heart into the hands of fate; Nor strove with it, when higher 'gan to flame That strange and strong desire without a name; Till panting, thinking of nought else, once more His hand was on the latch of his own door.

One moment there he lingered, as he said, "Alas! what should I do if she were gone?"

But even with that word his brow waxed red To hear his own lips name a thing of stone, As though the G.o.ds some marvel there had done, And made his work alive; and therewithal In turn great pallor on his face did fall.

But with a sigh he pa.s.sed into the house, Yet even then his chamber-door must hold, And listen there, half blind and timorous, Until his heart should wax a little bold; Then entering, motionless and white and cold, He saw the image stand amidst the floor All whitened now by labour done before.

Blinded with tears, his chisel up he caught, And, drawing near, and sighing, tenderly Upon the marvel of the face he wrought, E'en as he used to pa.s.s the long days by; But his sighs changed to sobbing presently, And on the floor the useless steel he flung, And, weeping loud, about the image clung.

"Alas!" he cried, "why have I made thee then, That thus thou mockest me? I know indeed That many such as thou are loved of men, Whose pa.s.sionate eyes poor wretches still will lead Into their net, and smile to see them bleed; But these the G.o.d's made, and this hand made thee Who wilt not speak one little word to me."

Then from the image did he draw aback To gaze on it through tears: and you had said, Regarding it, that little did it lack To be a living and most lovely maid; Naked it was, its unbound locks were laid Over the lovely shoulders; with one hand Reached out, as to a lover, did it stand,

The other held a fair rose over-blown; No smile was on the parted lips, the eyes Seemed as if even now great love had shown Unto them, something of its sweet surprise, Yet saddened them with half-seen mysteries, And still midst pa.s.sion maiden-like she seemed, As though of love unchanged for aye she dreamed.

Reproachfully beholding all her grace, Pygmalion stood, until he grew dry-eyed, And then at last he turned away his face As if from her cold eyes his grief to hide; And thus a weary while did he abide, With nothing in his heart but vain desire, The ever-burning, unconsuming fire.

But when again he turned his visage round His eyes were brighter and no more he wept, As if some little solace he had found, Although his folly none the more had slept, Rather some new-born G.o.d-sent madness kept His other madness from destroying him, And made the hope of death wax faint and dim;

For, trembling and ashamed, from out the street Strong men he called, and faint with jealousy He caused them bear the ponderous, moveless feet Unto the chamber where he used to lie, So in a fair niche to his bed anigh, Unwitting of his woe, they set it down, Then went their ways beneath his troubled frown.

Then to his treasury he went, and sought Fair gems for its adornment, but all there Seemed to his eager eyes but poor and nought, Not worthy e'en to touch her rippled hair.

So he, departing, through the streets 'gan fare, And from the merchants at a mighty cost Bought gems that kings for no good deed had lost.

These then he hung her senseless neck around, Set on her fingers, and fair arms of stone, Then cast himself before her on the ground, Praying for grace for all that he had done In leaving her untended and alone; And still with every hour his madness grew Though all his folly in his heart he knew.

At last asleep before her feet he lay, Worn out with pa.s.sion, yet this burning pain Returned on him, when with the light of day He woke and wept before her feet again; Then of the fresh and new-born morning fain, Into his garden pa.s.sed, and therefrom bore New spoil of flowers his love to lay before.

A little altar, with fine gold o'erlaid, Was in his house, that he a while ago At some great man's command had deftly made, And this he now must take and set below Her well-wrought feet, and there must red flame glow About sweet wood, and he must send her thence The odour of Arabian frankincense.

Then as the smoke went up, he prayed and said, "Thou, image, hear'st me not, nor wilt thou speak, But I perchance shall know when I am dead, If this has been some G.o.ddess' sport, to seek A wretch, and in his heart infirm and weak To set her glorious image, so that he, Loving the form of immortality,

"May make much laughter for the G.o.ds above: Hear me, and if my love misliketh thee Then take my life away, for I will love Till death unfeared at last shall come to me, And give me rest, if he of might may be To slay the love of that which cannot die, The heavenly beauty that can ne'er pa.s.s by."

No word indeed the moveless image said, But with the sweet grave eyes his hands had wrought Still gazed down on his bowed imploring head, Yet his own words some solace to him brought, Gilding the net wherein his soul was caught With something like to hope, and all that day Some tender words he ever found to say;

And still he felt as something heard him speak; Sometimes he praised her beauty, and sometimes Reproached her in a feeble voice and weak, And at the last drew forth a book of rhymes, Wherein were writ the tales of many climes, And read aloud the sweetness hid therein Of lovers' sorrows and their tangled sin.

And when the sun went down, the frankincense Again upon the altar-flame he cast That through the open window floating thence O'er the fresh odours of the garden pa.s.sed; And so another day was gone at last, And he no more his love-lorn watch could keep, But now for utter weariness must sleep.

But in the night he dreamed that she was gone, And knowing that he dreamed, tried hard to wake And could not, but forsaken and alone He seemed to weep as though his heart would break, And when the night her sleepy veil did take From off the world, waking, his tears he found Still wet upon the pillow all around.

Then at the first, bewildered by those tears, He fell a-wondering wherefore he had wept, But suddenly remembering all his fears, Panting with terror, from the bed he leapt, But still its wonted place the image kept, Nor moved for all the joyful ecstasy Wherewith he blessed the day that showed it nigh.

Then came the morning offering and the day, Midst flowers and words of love and kisses sweet From morn, through noon, to evening pa.s.sed away, And scarce unhappy, crouching at her feet He saw the sun descend the sea to meet; And scarce unhappy through the darkness crept Unto his bed, and midst soft dreaming slept.