The Sculptor

Once upon a time, there lived a little boy. He grew up in a world of art, and his childhood days were spent in his father's workshop among towering blocks of marble. One day, when he was bored, he wandered to his father and asked, "What are you sculpting today, papa?" 

"I'm not sculpting, son."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm freeing the sculptures that are trapped inside the marble."

The boy scrunched his face in confusion. "But you're making them! They weren't there before."

The sculptor’s grizzled smile widened. "No, my son," he replied. "They are contained inside of the marble - and it is my job to help them escape. I make these sculptures come to life."

This answer didn't really make sense to the boy, so he shrugged his shoulders and continued playing with his scraps of marble. When he grew older, his father gave him the tools of the trade, and began teaching him how to carve the stone. In time, the boy's skill began to rival that of his father's, and word spread across the land of this new sculptor of great repute.

Eventually, the old sculptor's time came, and the boy - at this point having grown into a man of exemplary talent - found himself called upon to assume his father's responsibilities.

The young sculptor continued his father’s work as well as he could. But no matter how much praise he earned for his art, he soon found that he was never quite satisfied with himself. He had not, after all, in all his years of sculpting, been able to understand his father’s answer so long ago – that he helped the sculpted figures come to life.

One sunny afternoon, the young sculptor decided to take a walk. He had made enough progress for one day, he told himself, and the fresh air would do him some good. Out he meandered through the nearly empty town; it was the warmest part of the day, so the sculptor was left alone with nothing but his own thoughts for company. Perhaps his father had been speaking metaphorically about bringing the statues to life? It wasn’t as if there were people actually imprisoned within the marble…

The sculptor stopped in his tracks. Somewhere, somewhere, there was the faint sound of weeping. Worried, the sculptor followed the sound into an unkempt garden to see what was the matter. There was no one in the enclosed area; the weeds were overgrown, the flowers hung their wilted heads in shame, and the tree curled up into itself as if it couldn’t bear to stand tall among such squalor. In the middle of it all, there was a statue.

The sculptor recognized it immediately as the best statue he had ever created. It was a statue of an elegant woman; her face was veiled, but just so that you could see the barest hint of her classical features. He was so proud of this work of art.

The sound of weeping persisted. The sculptor looked at the courtyard again, confused.

“Is anyone there?” he asked.

“Me,” answered a lovely voice. And then the sculptor realized that the statue had spoken.

He stood there in amazement, but curiosity overtook him and he approached his creation.

“Why do you weep?”

“Because I once stood in splendor – and now I am in ruin.”

“But my lady,” the sculptor answered. “That is no matter. I can arrange to have you moved. You should not weep, I pray, for you are wonderfully made.”

“No,” said the statue. “That is a lie. You, as a human, cannot know what I suffer. Our lives are worlds apart – you are flesh, I am stone. You breathe life; death suffocates me.”

“I am sorry,” the sculptor apologized, “but that, I cannot do anything about. You are of your kind, and I, mine. We cannot change the lot we have been given.”

“Breathe life into me,” the statue answered, “and I will become like you. I will become a human.”

The sculptor was greatly troubled, and was silent for a while. The veiled lady continued to weep.

At last, the sculptor sighed with resignation. “I will free you,” he said to his creation. “But you must know this: time will corrupt you. You will age. You will grow old, and decrepit. Your immortal beauty will last forever. Would you not rather stay in this state forever?”

“Breathe life into me,” the statue insisted. “Let me become human, like you.”

And so the sculptor did as his statue requested. He breathed the softest of breaths into the curve of her lips, the barest hint of which were visible through her veil.

And the statue sighed a great sigh, and the stone fell away to reveal a lovely young woman before him. He saw her smile through the veil in gratitude at him - those lips that once were cold now graced him with warmth. Bowing his head, he took his leave.

He did not see her again until the very end of his life.