In the second month of spring, the open meadows are inviting to all women in Cyprus. In a town where devotees of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, look forward to the ceremony in her honour, they have been raised to put their hopes in her. They say that her benevolence is rare, for she is known to favour only a few worshippers – but this spring is like no other.
For only once, the townsfolk know that the goddess had bestowed life on a perfect sculpture made of marble, to bless its creator and lover. And there she is, walking on her feet, from the plains up the hill to pick fresh flowers, as the other women do.
Galatea’s ivory skin turns pinkish as the early morning Mediterranean sunlight reveals her perfectly carved features. She smiles at the few ladies picking myrtle near the boulders and those on her far right who cut the stems of violets, lusciously growing among the greens. Although her lover tells her that the servants can pick the flowers for her, she insists that the blooming beauties make her smile, so here she is among them.
Her eyes search for a new friend, Daphne, seated at that part of the meadow overlooking the sparkling sea. Daphne waves, and Galatea hurriedly walks towards her.
“Galatea, come sit with me and tell me what you’re looking for,” she calls.
“Thank you, Daphne. Pygmalion used to bring me fresh roses every day, in my former life, and so I’d like to know where he gets them,” Galatea responds with a virtuous smile. She stares at her friend’s basket filled with myrtle, violets, anemones and wild roses. “I see that you picked bountifully.”
“For Aphrodite, the goddess of the sea, the garland should be exquisite…. I… I will offer these for a miracle by sunset,” Daphne gladly shares as she straightens up. She leads her to the large cloth laid out by her servants. A basket with bread, olives, cheese and dried figs is laid on one corner, together with an Askos of diluted wine.
“A miracle, you say?”, Galatea eagerly asks. Their servants hold the parasols for them as they sit, spread their chiton covered by a himation, and share a meal.
“Yes… If the Benevolent Aphrodite blessed Pygmalion’s prayer to turn you from a marble statue into a human, then most probably, she can give me my heart’s desire too.” Daphne’s eyes are beaming as she turns to the sky and the foam in the sea.
“What is it that you’re praying for, if I may ask?”
“I pray that my husband allows me to practice archery and, if possible, join the Olympian Games!”
“Archery? O... Olympian Games?... Oh, well, whatever those are, I am sure that the goddess will bless you. You have a good heart.”
“I hope so… Pygmalion created you out of love, and so the goddess of love granted his wish…. But mine is a prayer for myself, not for my husband. And the Olympian Games are only open for male athletes.”
“It seems that many things are not allowed for women here.”
“Indeed. And so… I need a miracle!”
Daphne hands a wild rose to Galatea. She smiles as she smells it.
“If you like wild roses, they are on the other side of this hill… But…” Daphne hesitates.
“Tell me.”
“But if I may suggest, ask Pygmalion to get you the roses himself, to woo you like before. You said he knows it makes you happy.”
“Well, I insist because I want to learn things on my own.”
“Oh, delightful! However, does he talk about marriage?”
“It was the same question the neighbours asked me before.”
“Then you must insist that he court you as a human. Men should work hard to express their intention to gain our hands, even if their situation is different. He is your creator, but the air that you breathe came from Aphrodite. A woman should not be cherished only in private. He said you are the love of his life. And love entails hard work.”
“I see him working hard in his workshop every day… I happily share his bed each night.” Galatea’s words make the servants look at each other, itching to hear more.
“Think about it. You will thank me later,” Daphne says as she pours themselves a little wine.
The spring air touches their faces. The cool breeze from the sea invites Galatea to ponder what her friend just said.
***********************
Galatea is getting better at overseeing their home, but she still feels that the servants are uneasy around her. They do not know how to address her, whether she is called Despoina, the lady of the house or just by her first name. After all, she does not have a family name to carry – but Pygmalion’s – once he asks for her hand.
She also feels that because she is the one who entered their world, the servants know a lot more than she does, and so she is lost in giving them instructions many times. That’s why she treasures her time with Daphne. She observes how she conducts herself as a fine lady, and she tries to do the same.
From the large stone living room, she climbs down the stairs to Pygmalion’s workshop. She sees him chiselling another masterpiece for a renowned patron. She walks into the room and replaces the withered wild rose in the vase with new ones.
She looks at him intently. The way his hands grip his tools, and his arm muscles protrude when he hammers down the marble. He is perfection itself, and she feels warm as she tries to imagine what he looked like when he created her with his own strong hands.
“How did you know I would turn out beautiful?” she starts.
Pygmalion stops and looks at her and says as he smiles, “Oh… Because I saw you in my mind.”
He places the tools on his desk, dusts off his hands and walks toward her. “I know what you would turn out to be. The light in your eyes, the shape of your lips, the contour of your face, and these curves that still my thoughts.”
He holds her waist and pulls her closer. Looking into her eyes intently, he whispers. “You are the best gift of spring to me.”
“Then I want you to pick me wild roses, the pink ones, like you used to. And oh, I want poetry in the sunset, too.” She utters and kisses his tired hands.
“Of course, I will do that for you once I am done with this sculpture,” he gently says as he touches her hair.
“When your hands return to stone, do you still think of me?” Galatea blurts with a yearning stare.
“Of course I do, my love. How did you learn to ask that question?”
“I am trying to be human, with needs…. And, and desires.”
“All right. To be human, you have to understand that there are responsibilities and expectations. My responsibility is to provide for you and this household, so I need to focus on my work. I promise to make this a secure and happy home for both of us.”
“I am content with whatever you can provide, as long as we are together.”
“We will always be together.”
“But…”
“What is it?”
“I know I have been here for just weeks. And I do not know everything about the ways of men. But I have learned that a woman should be married to a man if she wants to be with him for the rest of her life… Otherwise, she will be treated differently, even by the servants in the master’s house.”
“Oh, Galatea! I never knew you would feel that way. Everything is new to me, too…”
“I dare ask… Would you want to make me the lady of your house?”
“Of course, I do! I should have asked you…. I was just so caught up by my excitement and disbelief.”
“Are you doubting that I will stay human in all your waking days?”
“No, no… I just don’t know what to do first. I have never prepared myself for marriage.”
“Why not?”
“Because most women that I met are wayward. So I committed to a life of celibacy until you came… But I admit I was too slow to recognise how to make things in order. Just wait, and I will do my part. You have my word.”
He touches her face and gives her a slow, languid kiss, as though still afraid that her warmth will turn cold once again. She knows this kiss too well - the first sensation that she felt upon her awakening.
As she tries to hold his arm with a rose in her hand, Galatea steps back and breaks the kiss. A thorn just pierced her finger, and it is bleeding. That’s her first pain.
Pygmalion takes her hand at once. His lips brush the wound gently, drawing away the blood. To her, it is a different kind of kiss – something not of pleasure, but of genuine care.
***********************
In the next few days, Galatea comes upon Daphne in the hilly meadows again, but this time, it is her servants who pick up violets and myrtle.
Daphne cries onto her friend’s shoulder almost uncontrollably. She covers her hand so as not to stir the attention of other ladies in the field.
“My husband warns me not to speak of archery and contests again.”
“Oh, I am so sorry… But why?”
“He says sports like that are only meant for women of some barbaric islands in Greece. It will taint his reputation.”
“But women are allowed to play the sport in other places, right?”
“He threatened to send me back to my father’s house if I tried to talk about this again.” Daphne sighs as she stares at the dancing violets in the wind, now getting more blurry.
“Aren’t the violets looking perfect?” She forces a smile as she dries her tears.
“They do.” Galatea presses the hand of her friend.
“Pardon my Despoina, we suggest we make haste. It might rain very soon,” suggests Daphne’s servant.
*************************
By the time Galatea comes back home, she expects to hear the usual sound of hammer and chisel from her lover’s workshop. But he is not there. Pygmalion is right in front of the archway, waiting for her, smiling, reaching out for her hand.
She gives him her hand. He walks her to their home.
There are more lighted torches in the archway leading to the stairs. The staircase is filled with wild pink roses, and the cool breeze makes the doorway more fragrant. He leads her to the workshop, and still more wild roses adorn the stairs and the workshop windows.
“You have outdone yourself, my love!” Galatea cannot stop smiling.
“That smile is what I want to see first every time I open my eyes in the morning,” he says as his chest heaves.
Galatea’s servants, standing a few steps behind them, cannot stop smiling, too.
The window faces the temple of Aphrodite. One servant places a small ceramic cup in the couple’s hands. Another one pours the wine and as the wine is poured, Pygmalion touches his forehead and his chest, looking at the temple, and then to Galatea, saying, “To the goddess who listened to my utmost cry when I first fell in love with the beauty of this creation, I humbly ask you to guide me, and give me your blessing, as I ask the hand of the woman that I love, to be my wife.”
He stares at Galatea with much reverence and passion. He sips the wine, and she does too. With a trembling hand, he presses her soft and warm hand again, not wanting to end this night without making her the Despoina of his home, the light of his life, the muse of all of his days.
The rain softly drizzles outside, and the household of Pygmalion and Galatea erupts in a joyous celebration.
“I will recite the poem on our wedding day. I need time. Is that all right?” Pygmalion whispers as he kisses her ear.
“Oh, I cannot wait!... I guess impatience is part of being human,” Galatea responds as they embrace, giggling.
