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with me. Acis Oh, stop squabbling. That is the worst of you artists. You are always in little squabbling cliques; and the worst cliques are those which consist of one man. Who is this new fellow you are throwing in one another’s teeth? Arjillax Ask Martellus: do not ask me. I know nothing of him. He leaves Martellus, and sits down beside Ecrasia, on her left. Martellus You know him quite well. Pygmalion. Ecrasia Indignantly. Pygmalion! That soulless creature! A scientist! A laboratory person! Arjillax Pygmalion produce a work of art! You have lost your artistic senses. The man is utterly incapable of modelling a thumb nail, let alone a human figure. Martellus That does not matter: I have done the modelling for him. Arjillax What on earth do you mean? Martellus Calling. Pygmalion: come forth. Pygmalion, a square-fingered youth with his face laid out in horizontal blocks, and a perpetual smile of eager benevolent interest in everything, and expectation of equal interest from everybody else, comes from the temple to the centre of the group, who regard him for the most part with dismay, as dreading that he will bore them. Ecrasia is openly contemptuous. Martellus Friends: it is unfortunate that Pygmalion is constitutionally incapable of exhibiting anything without first giving a lecture about it to explain it; but I promise you that if you will be patient he will show you the two most wonderful works of art in the world, and that they will contain some of my own very best workmanship. Let me add that they will inspire a loathing that will cure you of the lunacy of art forever. He sits down next the Newly Born, who pouts and turns a very cold right shoulder to him, a demonstration utterly lost on him. Pygmalion, with the smile of a simpleton, and the eager confidence of a fanatical scientist, climbs awkwardly on to the altar. They prepare for the worst. Pygmalion My friends: I will omit the algebra⁠— Acis Thank God! Pygmalion Continuing.⁠—because Martellus has made me promise to do so. To come to the point, I have succeeded in making artificial human beings. Real live ones, I mean. Incredulous Voices Oh, come! Tell us another. Really, Pyg! Get out. You haven’t. What a lie! Pygmalion I tell you I have. I will show them to you. It has been done before. One of the very oldest documents we possess mentions a tradition of a biologist who extracted certain unspecified minerals from the earth and, as it quaintly expresses it, “breathed into their nostrils the breath of life.” This is the only tradition from the primitive ages which we can regard as really scientific. There are later documents which specify the minerals with great precision, even to their atomic weights; but they are utterly unscientific, because they overlook the element of life which makes all the difference between a mere mixture of salts and gases and a living organism. These mixtures were made over and over again in the crude laboratories of the Silly-Clever Ages; but nothing came of them until the ingredient which the old chronicler called the breath of life was added by this very remarkable early experimenter. In my view he was the founder of biological science. Arjillax Is that all we know about him? It doesn’t amount to very much, does it? Pygmalion There are some fragments of pictures and documents which represent him as walking in a garden and advising people to cultivate their gardens. His name has come down to us in several forms. One of them is Jove. Another is Voltaire. Ecrasia You are boring us to distraction with your Voltaire. What about your human beings? Arjillax Aye: come to them. Pygmalion I assure you that these details are intensely interesting. Cries of No! They are not! Come to the human beings! Conspuez Voltaire! Cut it short, Pyg! interrupt him from all sides. You will see their bearing presently. I promise you I will not detain you long. We know, we children of science, that the universe is full of forces and powers and energies of one kind and another. The sap rising in a tree, the stone holding together in a definite crystalline structure, the thought of a philosopher holding his brain in form and operation with an inconceivably powerful grip, the urge of evolution: all these forces can be used by us. For instance, I use the force of gravitation when I put a stone on my tunic to prevent it being blown away when I am bathing. By substituting appropriate machines for the stone we have made not only gravitation our slave, but also electricity and magnetism, atomic attraction, repulsion, polarization, and so forth. But hitherto the vital force has eluded us; so it has had to create machinery for itself. It has created and developed bony structures of the requisite strength, and clothed them with cellular tissue of such amazing sensitiveness that the organs it forms will adapt their action to all the normal variations in the air they breathe, the food they digest, and the circumstances about which they have to think. Yet, as these live bodies, as we call them, are only machines after all, it must be possible to construct them mechanically. Arjillax Everything is possible. Have you done it? that is the question. Pygmalion Yes. But that is a mere fact. What is interesting is the explanation of the fact. Forgive my saying so; but it is such a pity that you artists have no intellect. Ecrasia Sententiously. I do not admit that. The artist divines by inspiration all the truths that the so-called scientist grubs up in his laboratory slowly and stupidly long afterwards. Arjillax To Ecrasia, quarrelsomely. What do you know about it? You are not an artist. Acis Shut your heads, both of you. Let us have the artificial men. Trot them out, Pygmalion. Pygmalion It is a man and a woman. But I really must explain first. All Groaning. !!! Pygmalion Yes: I⁠— Acis We want results, not explanations.