marry the lovestruck Freddy. Much to Shaw’s disgust, when his play was made into the film Pygmalion in 1938, the producers insisted on inventing a romantic conclusion, suggesting that Eliza returns to Higgins. After Shaw’s death, the creators of the 1956 musical, My Fair Lady, kept that “happy ending,” which, of course, was maintained in the 1964 film of the musical.
If the Pygmalion myth has always captivated artists and audiences alike, in the eighteenth century it acquired the status of a cult. More interpretations of the story were produced during the 1700s than in all other periods of history put together. Fired by their fascination for the classical world and fueled by the debate that raged over the balance of nature and nurture in forming personality, the Georgians reveled in the Pygmalion idea. Every schoolboy knew the Ovid myth. The story was re-created in ballet, opera and drama. And the crucial moment when the statue steps down from her pedestal and comes to life was reproduced in paintings, on porcelain and—ironically enough—in statues. Even Rousseau could not resist the lure of the dramatic metamorphosis. In 1762, he composed a poetic drama, Pygmalion: un scène lyrique , which took the classical myth to new heights of eroticism. And for the first time, in the Rousseau version, the statue acquired a name—Galatea.
In reality, of course, when it comes to choosing a spouse the vast majority of people have been always content to accept flawed reality over mythical perfection. But not Thomas Day. Nobody—before or since—has tried quite so literally or so systematically to create for themselves their vision of a perfect mate. There is no doubt that Day—with his veneration for classical literature—was well aware of the Pygmalion myth when he embarked on his journey to create the perfect wife. Day was the incarnation of the sculptor Pygmalion intent on bringing to life his ivory girl. He was the original Professor Higgins on a mission to transform an innocent girl plucked out of the gutter into a polished and articulate perfect companion. In a mission as absurd as it was sinister, Day would take the human quest for perfection to its ultimate extreme. If God created woman, Day was determined to go one step further and improve on that divine design.
His young pupil, of course, was completely ignorant of his plans—and Day made no attempt to enlighten her. But if she had no idea of her destiny,Ann Kingston had little knowledge of her true origins either. Beyond the fact that she had been surrendered soon after birth, she knew no details of her arrival at the Foundling Hospital and had no clue to her previous identity.
Day would always seek to bury his pupil’s origins in obscurity. His friends would conspire to conceal or obfuscate the events. Ann herself would never discover the full details of her past. And writers down the centuries would assume that her original identity had been lost in the morass of Foundling Hospital records that accumulated over the years; one would even report that there was no trace of a girl being apprenticed from Shrewsbury to Thomas Day, when of course the official guardian was Richard Edgeworth. The story has acquired almost apocryphal status. Was it even true? Like a ghost, Day’s orphan pupil has seemed almost impossible to grasp. Yet, in fact, all the time the details of her origins and the key events of her life within the Foundling Hospital had been scrupulously recorded and preserved in the heavy orphanage ledgers—which survive to this day—just as they had for the thousands of babies who had crossed the charity’s threshold since it first opened its doors.
Founded in 1741, the Foundling Hospital was the vision of one man: retired sea captain Thomas Coram. Sent to sea at eleven, two years after his mother died, Coram was later apprenticed to a shipwright. After emigrating to America in his twenties, he made and lost a fortune before returning to his
If the Pygmalion myth has always captivated artists and audiences alike, in the eighteenth century it acquired the status of a cult. More interpretations of the story were produced during the 1700s than in all other periods of history put together. Fired by their fascination for the classical world and fueled by the debate that raged over the balance of nature and nurture in forming personality, the Georgians reveled in the Pygmalion idea. Every schoolboy knew the Ovid myth. The story was re-created in ballet, opera and drama. And the crucial moment when the statue steps down from her pedestal and comes to life was reproduced in paintings, on porcelain and—ironically enough—in statues. Even Rousseau could not resist the lure of the dramatic metamorphosis. In 1762, he composed a poetic drama, Pygmalion: un scène lyrique , which took the classical myth to new heights of eroticism. And for the first time, in the Rousseau version, the statue acquired a name—Galatea.
In reality, of course, when it comes to choosing a spouse the vast majority of people have been always content to accept flawed reality over mythical perfection. But not Thomas Day. Nobody—before or since—has tried quite so literally or so systematically to create for themselves their vision of a perfect mate. There is no doubt that Day—with his veneration for classical literature—was well aware of the Pygmalion myth when he embarked on his journey to create the perfect wife. Day was the incarnation of the sculptor Pygmalion intent on bringing to life his ivory girl. He was the original Professor Higgins on a mission to transform an innocent girl plucked out of the gutter into a polished and articulate perfect companion. In a mission as absurd as it was sinister, Day would take the human quest for perfection to its ultimate extreme. If God created woman, Day was determined to go one step further and improve on that divine design.
His young pupil, of course, was completely ignorant of his plans—and Day made no attempt to enlighten her. But if she had no idea of her destiny,Ann Kingston had little knowledge of her true origins either. Beyond the fact that she had been surrendered soon after birth, she knew no details of her arrival at the Foundling Hospital and had no clue to her previous identity.
Day would always seek to bury his pupil’s origins in obscurity. His friends would conspire to conceal or obfuscate the events. Ann herself would never discover the full details of her past. And writers down the centuries would assume that her original identity had been lost in the morass of Foundling Hospital records that accumulated over the years; one would even report that there was no trace of a girl being apprenticed from Shrewsbury to Thomas Day, when of course the official guardian was Richard Edgeworth. The story has acquired almost apocryphal status. Was it even true? Like a ghost, Day’s orphan pupil has seemed almost impossible to grasp. Yet, in fact, all the time the details of her origins and the key events of her life within the Foundling Hospital had been scrupulously recorded and preserved in the heavy orphanage ledgers—which survive to this day—just as they had for the thousands of babies who had crossed the charity’s threshold since it first opened its doors.
Founded in 1741, the Foundling Hospital was the vision of one man: retired sea captain Thomas Coram. Sent to sea at eleven, two years after his mother died, Coram was later apprenticed to a shipwright. After emigrating to America in his twenties, he made and lost a fortune before returning to his
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
