There was once a sculptor named Alfred. Having won a gold medal and a traveling scholarship, he went to Italy and later returned to his native land. On his return, he visited a small town in Zealand. The town's richest man gave a party in his honor, inviting all notable citizens. The event was so well-known that no public announcement was needed.
Apprentices and the poor stood outside the house, watching the lit windows. Inside, the sculptor told anecdotes, and everyone listened with pleasure and awe. None showed more respect than the elderly widow of a naval officer. She absorbed his every word like blotting paper, appreciative yet incredibly ignorant.
"I should like to see Rome," she said. "Describe it. How does it look when you enter the gate?"
"You enter a large open space," the sculptor replied, "with a thousand-year-old obelisk in the center."
"An organist!" exclaimed the lady, mishearing the word. Guests stifled laughter. The sculptor's smile faded as he noticed a pair of dark-blue eyes beside the inquisitive lady—her daughter. Surely, he thought, the mother of such a daughter could not be entirely silly. The mother was a fountain of questions; the silent daughter seemed the beautiful maid of the fountain. She was charming, a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to converse with.
"Has the pope a great family?" the widow asked.
"No, he does not come from a great family," Alfred answered tactfully.
"I mean, has he a wife and children?"
"The pope is not allowed to marry."
"I don't like that," she remarked.
Alfred spoke of Italy's glorious colors: purple hills, the deep blue Mediterranean, azure skies, whose beauty was only surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden. He said this with peculiar intonation, but she seemed unaware, which he found charming.
Guests sighed, "Beautiful Italy! Oh, to travel there!"
The widow declared, "If I win the lottery, my daughter and I will travel, and you, Mr. Alfred, must be our guide. We'll keep to Rome, where the roads are safe."
Her daughter sighed gently. Alfred attributed deep meaning to that sigh. Those eyes, lit up for him, must conceal treasures of heart and mind richer than Rome's glories. That night, he was completely lost to the young lady.
Alfred began visiting the widow's house frequently, soon making it clear his interest lay in the daughter, Kaela. She was beautiful but considered rather dull, sleeping late. "She is a beauty," her mother explained. "They are always easily tired. It makes her eyes clear."
Alfred felt the truth of "Still waters run deep." He often shared his adventures, and the mother remained as simple and eager as on their first meeting. He showed colored plates of Naples and spoke of Mount Vesuvius's eruptions.
"Good heavens! A burning mountain! Is it not dangerous?" she exclaimed.
"Whole cities have been destroyed," he said, mentioning Herculaneum and Pompeii.
He showed a pencil sketch of an eruption. Overwhelmed by the colored plates, the mother glanced at the pale drawing and cried, "What, did you see it throw up white fire?"
For a moment, Alfred's respect for her lessened considerably. But, dazzled by Kaela, he soon found it natural the old lady had no eye for color. After all, she possessed Kaela.
Alfred and Kaela were betrothed. The announcement appeared in the local paper; the mother bought thirty copies to send to friends. She was happy, feeling connected to the great sculptor Thorvaldsen. "You are his true successor," she told Alfred.
Kaela was silent, but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every movement was graceful. Alfred decided to sculpt busts of both mother and daughter. As he worked the clay, he spoke of nature's beauty and the sculptor's task: to seize the beauty of the mind and display it in outward form. Kaela nodded in silent approbation. Her mother confessed, "It is difficult to follow you; my head whirls. Still, I contrive to lay hold on some of it."
Kaela's beauty held Alfred in thrall. He spoke only to her, thought only of her. They were married in a gay wedding. "Pygmalion loved his Galatea," sang one of the guests.
The young couple moved to Copenhagen, accompanied by the mother-in-law to manage the "coarse work" of domestic arrangements. Kaela looked like a doll in a doll's house. Alfred, however, felt like a swan among geese. The magic of form had enchanted him; he had admired the casket without inquiring about its contents—an omission that often brings unhappiness to married life.
The young couple often sat hand in hand. He talked; she seldom spoke, though her voice was melodious. A mental relief came with a visit from Sophy, a friend of Kaela's. Sophy was not pretty—Kaela said she was a little crooked—but she was sensible. Her presence brought a needed new atmosphere to the doll's house. Feeling the need for a change, the family traveled to Italy.
Returning after a year, the mother and daughter said, "Thank heaven we are home! There's no real pleasure in traveling; it's wearisome and expensive." The mother complained about the galleries and the food. The journey had tired Kaela, who was always fatigued.
They sent for Sophy to live with them. She proved a clever, accomplished, and faithful friend, especially when Kaela fell ill. "When the casket is everything, the casket should be strong," the narrator observes. The casket was not strong enough; Kaela died.
"She was beautiful," her mother said. "A perfect beauty."
Alfred and the mother mourned. In time, Alfred married Sophy, whom the mother-in-law considered ugly. "He has gone from the most beautiful to the ugliest," she lamented. "Men have no constancy."
Alfred reflected, "'Pygmalion loved his Galatea' was sung at my first wedding. I fell in love with a beautiful statue that awoke to life in my arms. But the kindred soul, the angel who can feel and sympathize and elevate us, I have not found till now. You came, Sophy, not in the glory of outward beauty. You came to teach the sculptor that his work is but dust and clay, and that we should seek the ethereal essence of mind and spirit. Poor Kaela! Our life was but a meeting by the wayside."
"That was not a loving speech," said Sophy, "nor spoken like a Christian. In a future state, souls are attracted by sympathy. There, everything beautiful develops and is raised higher. Her soul will acquire such completeness that it may harmonize with yours even more than mine. You will then once more utter, 'Beautiful, most beautiful!'