Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman came anywhere near it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive, and only prevented from moving by modesty. His art was so perfect that it concealed itself and its product looked like the workmanship of nature. Pygmalion admired his own work, and at last fell in love with the counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it as if to assure himself whether it were living or not, and could not even then believe that it was only ivory. He caressed it, and gave it presents such as young girls love, - bright shells and polished stones, little birds and flowers of various hues, beads and amber. He put raiment on its limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a necklace about its neck. To the ears he hung earrings and strings of pearls upon the breast. Her dress became her, and she looked not less charming than when unattired. He laid her on a couch spread with cloths of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their softness. The festival of Aphrodite was at hand - a festival celebrated with great pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar and timidly said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give me, I pray you, for my wife" - he dared not say "my ivory virgin," but said instead - "one like my ivory virgin." Aphrodite, who was present at the festival, heard him and knew the thought he would have uttered; and as an omen of her favor, caused the flame on the altar to shoot up thrice in a fiery point into the air. When he returned home, he went to see his statue, and leaning over the couch, gave a kiss to the mouth. It seemed to be warm. He pressed its lips gain, he laid his hand upon the limbs; the ivory felt soft to his touch and yielded to his fingers like the wax of Hymettus. While he stands astonished and glad, though doubting, and fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a lover's ardor he touches the object of his hopes. It was indeed alive! The veins when pressed yielded to the finger and again resumed their roundness. Then at last the votary of Aphrodite found words to thank the goddess, and pressed his lips upon lips as real as his own. The virgin felt the kisses and blushed, and opening her timid eyes to the light, fixed them at the same moment on her lover. Aphrodite blessed the nuptials she had formed, and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city, sacred to Aphrodite, received its name.
Francois Boucher
As told by Orpheus in Ovid’s Metamorphoses; translated and with an introduction by Mary N. Innes; Penguin Books; 1955
Pygmalion was a young sculptor from Cyprus. He was a misogynist and scorned the company of women, preferring to dedicate himself to his art. He saw women as flawed creatures and vowed never to waste any moment of his life with them.
Instead he devoted his time, ironically enough, to a statue of a woman. Perhaps he sought to correct in marble the flaws he saw in women of flesh and blood. Whatever the case, he worked so long and with such inspiration on this statue, that it became more beautiful than any maiden that had ever lived or been carved in stone. As he finished the statue's features, they became exquisitely lovely, and he found himself applying the strokes of hammer and chisel with increasing affection. When his chisel finally stopped ringing, there stood before him a woman of such perfection that Pygmalion, who had professed his disdain of all females, fell deeply in love.
His statue seemed not to be of stone, but of flesh temporarily still, as though at any moment it might turn its head and smile at him. But stone it was, and it could not return his kisses or respond to his loving caress. In bitter frustration he embraced the cold marble maid; what irony that he who had scorned women should fall in love with a woman who could never love him in return! He pretended, as a child would, that she was real. He would dress her in fine cloths, and bring her flowers and gifts. He would take her into his bed at night and fall asleep with the sculpture clasped to his body.
Such a passion could not go unnoticed by the goddess of love, Aphrodite. She took pity on the young man and, when he went to her temple to sacrifice a bull, Aphrodite gave him a sign. As the offering burned on the temple, the flames shot up one, two, three times. Pygmalion went home, wondering what to make of the manifestation he had seen. When he entered his studio, however, and saw Galatea, all other thoughts were banished from his mind. He ran to his statue and embraced it. Did she seem warm to his touch, or was it just residual heat form the sunset that had warmed the stone? He kissed her. Did the statue's lips seem soft? He stood back and regarded her. Did there appear the glow of life from within the marble form? Was he imagining it? No.
He watched in amazement as Galatea began to move. She stretched her arms above her head as though she were waking from a deep sleep. She turned toward him and smiled, and stepped off her pedestal into his arms.
The goddess Aphrodite herself attended their wedding.
Festival of Venus by Rubens
