WS Gilbert A Mid-Victorian Aristophanes - Haddon Hall

26 THE ENGLISH ARISTOPHANES
Pygmalion. Well—let me see;
Oh — you were quarried in Pentelicus;
I modelled you in clay — my artisans
Then roughed you out in marble — I in turn
Brought my artistic skill to bear on you,
And made you what you are — in all but life —
The gods completed what I had begun,
And gave the only gift I could not give.
Galatea. Then this is life?
Pygmalion. It is.
Galatea. And not long since
I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect
That by some means I knew that I was stone;
That was the first dull gleam of consciousness.
I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold, immovable identity,
I knew that I was stone, and knew no more!
Then by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things,
Seen — darkly and imperfectly — yet seen —
The walls surrounding me, and 1 alone.
That pedestal — that curtain — then a voice
That called on Galatea! At that word,
Which seemed to shake my marble to the core.
That which was dim before, came evident.
Sounds that had hummed around me indistinct,
Vague, meaningless — seemed to resolve themselves
Into a language I could understand.
My limbs grew supple, and I moved — I lived!
Lived in the ecstasy of newborn life,
Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope,
Love, gratitude — thoughts that resolved themselves
Into one word, that word, Pygmalion. (kneels to him)