Now there once lived in Cyprus a young sculptor, Pygmalion by name, who
thought nothing on earth so beautiful as the white marble folk that
live without faults and never grow old. Indeed, he said that he would
never marry a mortal woman, and people began to think that his daily
life among marble creatures was hardening his heart altogether.

But it chanced that Pygmalion fell to work upon an ivory statue of a
maiden, so lovely that it must have moved to envy every breathing
creature that came to look upon it. With a happy heart the sculptor
wrought day by day, giving it all the beauty of his dreams, until, when
the work was completed, he felt powerless to leave it. He was bound to
it by the tie of his highest aspiration, his most perfect ideal, his
most patient work.

Day after day the ivory maiden looked down at him silently, and he
looked back at her until he felt that he loved her more than anything
else in the world. He thought of her no longer as a statue, but as the
dear companion of his life; and the whim grew upon him like an
enchantment. He named her Galatea, and arrayed her like a princess; he
hung jewels about her neck, and made all his home beautiful and fit for
such a presence.

Now the festival of Venus was at hand, and Pygmalion, like all who
loved Beauty, joined the worshippers. In the temple victims were
offered, solemn rites were held, and votaries from many lands came to
pray the favor of the goddess. At length Pygmalion himself approached
the altar and made his prayer.

"Goddess," he said, "who hast vouchsafed to me this gift of beauty,