EL 112 – MYTHOLOGY AND FOLKLORE

October 25, 2022 Discussion – MIDTERMS # 3

PYGMALION AND GALATEA from Mythology by Edith

A gifted young sculptor of Cyprus, named Pygmalion, was a woman-hater. Detesting the faults beyond measure
which nature has given to women, he resolved never to marry. His art, he told himself, was enough for him.
Nevertheless, the statue he made and devoted all his genius to was that of a woman. Either he could not dismiss
what he so disapproved of from his mind as easily as from his life, or else he was bent on forming a perfect
woman and showing men the deficiencies of the kind, they had to put up with.

However, that was, he labored long and devotedly on the statue and produced a most exquisite work of art. But
lovely as it was, he could not rest content. He kept on working at it and daily under his skillful fingers it grew
more beautiful. No woman· ever born, no statue ever made, could approach it. When nothing could be added to
its perfections, a strange fate had befallen its creator: he had fallen in love, deeply, passionately in love, with the
thing he had made. It must be said in explanation that the statue did not look like a statue; no one would have
thought it was ivory or stone, but warm human flesh, motionless for a moment only. Such was the wondrous
power of this disdainful young man. The supreme achievement of art was his, the art of concealing art (it looks
real)

But from that time on, the sex he scorned (hate/dislike) had their revenge (in what way? – by making him fall
inlove)

No hopeless lover of a living maiden was ever so desperately unhappy as Pygmalion. He kissed those enticing
lips—they could not kiss him back; he caressed her hands, her face—they were unresponsive; he took her in his
arms—she remained a cold and passive form. For a time, he tried to pretend, as children do with their toys. He
would dress her in rich robes, trying the effect of one delicate or glowing color after another, and imagine she
was pleased. He would bring her the gifts real maiden’s love, little birds and gay flowers and the shining tears
of amber Phaethon's sisters weep, and then dream that she thanked him with eager affection. He put her to bed
at night, and tucked her in all soft and warm, as little girls do their dolls. But he was not a child; he could not
keep on pretending. In the end he gave up. He loved a lifeless thing, and he was utterly and hopelessly
wretched.

This singular passion did not long remain concealed from the Goddess of Passionate Love. Venus was
interested in something that seldom came her way, a new kind of lover, and she determined to help a young man
who could be enamored (be in love/ be in a feeling of love) and yet original.

The feast day of Venus was, of course, especially honored in Cyprus, the island which first received the goddess
after she rose from the foam. Snow-white heifers whose horns had been gilded were offered in numbers to her;
the heavenly odor of incense was spread through the island from her many altars; crowds thronged her temples;
not an unhappy lover but was there with his gift, praying that his love might turn kind. There too, of course, was
Pygmalion. He dared to ask the goddess only that he might find a maiden like his statue, but Venus knew what
he really wanted and as a sign that she favored his prayer the flame on the altar he stood before leaped up three
times, blazing into the air.

Very thoughtful at this good omen Pygmalion sought his house and his love, the thing he had created and given
his heart to. There she stood on her pedestal, entrancingly beautiful. He caressed her and then he started back.
Was it self-deception or did she really feel warm to his touch? He kissed her lips, a long lingering kiss, and felt
them grow soft beneath his. He touched her arms, her shoulders; their hardness vanished. It was like watching
wax soften in the sun. He clasped her wrist; blood was pulsing there. Venus, he thought. This is the goddess’s
doing. And with unutterable gratitude and joy he put his arms around his love and saw her smile into his eyes
and blush.

Venus herself graced their marriage with her presence, but what happened after that we do not know, except
that Pygmalion named the maiden Galatea, and that their son, Paphos, gave his name to Venus' favorite city.

Pyramus and Thisbe

Pyramus and Thisbe, he the most beautiful youth and she the loveliest maiden of all the East, lived in Babylon,
the city of Queen Semiramis, in houses so close together that one wall was common to both. Growing up thus
side by side they learned to love each other. They longed to marry, but their parents forbade. Love, however,
cannot be forbidden. The more that flame is covered up, the hotter it burns. Also love can always find a way. It
was impossible that those two whose hearts were on fire should be kept apart.

In the wall both houses shared there was a little chink (circle). No one before had noticed it, but there is nothing
a lover does not notice. Our two young people discovered it and through it they were able to whisper sweetly
back and forth. Thisbe on the side, Pyramus on the other. The hateful wall that separated them had become their
means of reaching each other. “But for you we could touch, kiss,” they would say. “But at least you let us speak
together. You give a passage for loving words to reach loving ears. We are not ungrateful.” So, they would talk,
and as night came on and they must part, each would press on the wall kisses that could not go through to the
lips on the other side.

Every morning when the dawn had put out the stars, and the sun’s rays had dried the hoarfrost on the grass, they
would steal to the crack and, standing there, now utter words of burning love and now lament their hard fate,
but always in softest whispers. Finally, a day came when they could endure no longer. They decided that that
very night they would try to slip away and steal out through the city into the open country where at last they
could be together in freedom. They agreed to meet at a well-known place, the Tomb of Ninus, under a tree
there, a tall mulberry full of snow-white berries, near which a cool spring bubbled up. The plan pleased them,
and it seemed to seem the day would never end.

At last, the sun sank into the sea and night arose. In the darkness, Thisbe crept out and made her way in all
secrecy to the tomb. Pyramus had not come; still she waited for him, her love making her bold. But of a sudden,
she saw by the light of a moon, a lioness. The fierce beast had made a kill; her jaws were bloody, and she was
coming to slake her thirst in the spring. She was still far away from Thisbe to escape, but as she fled, she
dropped her cloak. The lioness came upon it on her way back to her lair and she mouthed it and tore it before
disappearing into the woods. That is what Pyramus saw when he appeared a few minutes later. Before him, lay
the bloodstained shreds of the cloak (cape) and clear in the dust were the tracks of the lioness. The conclusion
was inevitable. He never doubted that he knew all. Thisbe was dead. He had let his love, a tender maiden, come
alone to a place full of danger, and not been there first to protect her. “It is I who had killed you,” he said. He
lifted up from the trampled dust what was left of the cloak and kissing it again and again carried it to the
mulberry tree. “Now,” he said, “you shall drink my blood too.” He drew his sword and plunged it into his side.
The blood spurted up over the berries and dyed them dark red.

Thisbe, although terrified of the lioness, was still more afraid to fail her lover. She ventured to go back to the
tree of the tryst, the mulberry with the shining white fruit. She could not find it. A tree was there, but not one
gleam of white was on its branches. As she stared at it, something moved on the ground beneath. She started
back shuddering. But in a moment, peering through the shadows, she saw what was there. It was Pyramus,
bathed in blood and dying. She flew to him and threw her arms around him. She kissed his cold lips and begged
him to look at her, to speak to her. “It is I, your Thisbe, your dearest,” she cried to him. At the sound of her
name, he opened his heavy eyes for one look. Then death closed them.

She saw his sword fallen from his hand and beside it her cloak stained and torn. She understood all. Your own
hand killed you,” she said, “and your love for me. I too can be brave. I too can love. Only death would have had
the power to separate us. It shall not have that power now.” She plunged into her heart the sword that was still
wet with his life’s blood.

The gods were pitiful at the end and the lover’s parents too. The deep red fruit of the mulberry is the everlasting
memorial of these true lovers, and one urn holds, the ashes of the two whom not even death could part.