The play took the Grand Prize of the jury at the \”Second National Edition of  „Bogdan Amaru” Theater Festival in Ramnicu Valcea in 2007.

It`s a modern reinterpretation of the myth of Pygmalion from the pelasgo-Greek mythology, it is the story and parable of the genius that through art, talent, total dedication to the total self forgetfulness  and to sacrifice, succeeds  to put life in clay, , to give life to his painting and statue that he created.  Pygmalion is the artist of genius, the painter of genius who lives in a developed capitalist society. The painter loves Galateea, the symbol of Love, of love of the artist …

Galteea will make a journey by plane, which will collapse in a mountainous, wooded area. She is declared as a missing person , dead by mass media. After learning of the death of his beloved wife, the artist will fall into a state of trance and starts to paint Galateea. His effort has resulted in the  resurrection of Galateea, waking her up from a coma, dying in the hospital where she was after the accident aircraft. Galateea returned home, Pygmalion will be mad of happiness, being convinced that his dedication and his genius has resurrected Galateea. Oh, but their house is broken by Thieves (the symbol of men becoming  slaves of money, the human beings who have lost moral values, the meaning of life) who come to steal the paintings. On this occasion Galatea will be killed.

The essential idea of this play is that art taken up to the highest heights and the artist`s sacrifice can defeat death, can re-create life … Oh, but this miracle happens no more in the contemporary consumption society, with its mean mentality, in which art and artist are no longer valued, in which money alienated man and the entire  human society. The play is a bitter and deep meditation on the idea of Creation and the artist’s condition in the world of money, in the capitalist consumer society, deprived, sick! Certainly this play will be appreciated  on the stage of any Theater in the world!♪






(A play in two parts)









     I dedicate this to                                                               

                                                                                                  SANDA GOLOPENTIA



                              AUGUSTE PYGMALION, THE ARTIST


                              THE OLD WOMAN, THE ARTIST’S MOTHER

                              THIEF 1

                              THIEF 2

                              THE CIVIL SERVANT







                                               One of the great European writers

                                          WRITER proposed for the Nobel Prize


In this introduction I will try to give a reliable overview of both the work and the writer Stefan Dumitrescu, today 62 years old, member of the Writers Union of Romania, one of the greatest European writers, with an impressive published and unpublished  literary work… By Stefan Dumitrescu Romania would indeed have the chance to take the first Romanian Nobel Prize if the writer were not so envied and marginalized in his country … a typical Romanian disease  since the Romanians are the only nation that have the saying „Let  die the neighbour’s goat.” All of today’s leading writers of Romania know that Stefan Dumitrescu is the writer with the most important and rich literary work, but no one say a word about it… Instead this writer has been proposed  for many years for the Nobel Prize by Cultural Foundations,  Societies of writers, cultural personalities …

When I first read his first books and manuscripts, I was, as Ana Blandiana, deeply impressed by the „shocking” talent of the young writer, by the depth and originality of his ideas put into his writings, by his thirst of knowledge, his obsession to enter as deep as possible into the „abysmal condition of the human phenomenon” (from this point of view Stefan Dumitrescu carries forward the Dostoyevskian request, to know the depth of the human soul, and of the „Romanian soul.” See his novel, „FM Dostoevsky commited suicide in Bucharest”, which is now released on the international online book market by an American publisher). The first books and manuscripts, that came to me by-ways in the 80s when the writer was very young, talked about an author who had not only an overflowing imagination with a deep and warm style, but who came in the literature with a blast and a new spirit, whose literary innovations, whose endeavor stood outside literature.


From this point of view the poet Ana Blandiana, who launched and published Stefan Dumitrescu much in the 1970s, was right to talk about an author who came with ” his risky released soul” in the space of literature. „I say that this launch is courageous and risky because it occurs outside the well-worn road                                                                                                                                                                                                                          of poetry, because Stefan Dumitrescu both versifies beautifully and with much talent in a known or surmised  lyricism but he creates his own frames, his  own reference systems „). Ana Blandian is the writer who, in 1971, in the „Amphitheatre” Review, had the courage to impose Stefan Dumitrescu in the Romanian literature, and presented him to the public in a brilliant  way:




„A country with cosmic valleys in which birds blossom, whose sky is sustained by the choir of virgins, whose flags are the souls of ancestors gone to battle, a hallucinating country, a land full of songs and blinded by the light, is glorified by Stefan Dumitrescu in his recent lyrics, a strange poet, with his soul released risky, bridge over the liric gap, whose shore beyond can`t be known.  I say that this launch is courageous and risky because it occurs outside the well-worn  roads of poetry, because Stefan Dumitrescu both versifies beautifully and with much talent in a known or surmised  lyricism but he creates his own frames, his  own reference systems. Each of his poems is an opening into a world created by himself, a world in which birds walk armed and sing in the ruins of the flutes. Talent beyond any doubt, restless and constantly burning, author of essays reinterpreting myths and of poems rebuilding the universe, Stefan Dumitrescu is a tougher, more steeply, more subdued to suffering and anguish than the  clear Dan Verona, but equally certain and True.”

Ana Blandiana, „Amphitheater” Review, no. 2, 1971.



The poet Ştefan Dumitrescu started being discovered by Miron Radu Paraschivescu, who published his first poems in 1967 in the magazine „Branches” (”Ramuri”), under the pseudonym, when he  was only 17 years old. In a warm and  encouraging letter,  Miron Radu Paraschivescu wrote him: „If you’re going on this way, my dear, you`ll go a great way”.  The poet Miron Radu Paraschivescu`s urge is seen today, nearly half a century, to have been a prophecy, a revelation!


Hoowever. Ana Blandiana is that who found and released him as a far-reaching writer who over 40 years would give an impressive work in the Romanian and European literature.




Two years later, in autumn 1973, because Stefan Dumitrescu was a hope of Romanian literature, Adrian Paunescu demands to open the famous and criticized the FLAME Literary Circle with the poet Stefan Dumitrescu. The young poet read at the first meeting of the FLAME Literary Circle an entire volume of poetry, entitled „Nicolae LABIŞ- COSMOGONIC PORTRAIT „, which strongly impressed  the public. On this occasion Adrian Paunescu said about Stefan Dumitrescu: „Stefan Dumitrescu is a chance of the Romanian literature. Stefan Dumitrescu is a great chance of the Romanian Literature „.


Literary critic Cioculescu Serban, who took part at that first meeting,  was impressed by the poetry of Stefan Dumitrescu, saying about him: ‘Stefan Dumitrescu is a very interesting poet and I will watch him with all my attention”

Serban Cioculescu, FLAME REVIEW, 1973





The writer and scientist Ioan Crisan saw Stefan Dumitrescu as a great writer since 1973. „Stefan Dumitrescu is a deep and serious writer. He`s one of those writers who gives content to a whole era”

IOAN CRISAN, writer, scientist, 1973.


Many of Stefan Dumitrescu`s manuscripts, because they had no chance to pass censorship, circulated in the years of communism „underhand”, privately. Therefore this writer’s books could not be published during the Communist period. After 1990 ‘s his books were to be printed one after another. Especially the writer was part of the Revival Group since 1976, a group that helped young people who were very gifted creators to make discoveries, to create theories, literary and scientific works, which later triggered in Romania a kind of cultural Renaissance, Renaissance to draw after it the entire Romanian society…Unfortunately the Romanian Intelligentsia and the Romanian people, Romanian society are too sick, too lacking in energy, are suicidal to be able to trigger a renaissance. We, Romanians, are good only to assassinate our values, to promote shabby fellows, nulities and thieves, and throw aside each other. It is a very effective way by which we commit suicide.

Discussion with ION CRISAN, writer, scientist, 1973.




As I said, since the early works of Stephen Dumtrescu I realized that I am in front of a particular writer, not only very talented, burning like a flame, who comes in literature with tremendous strength, but has another „size”, another dimension, another caliber, he is on a European level, is the writer of European or worldwide breadth, like  Thomas Mann, Albert Camus, Garcia Marquez. How George Enescu is in music, for example, compared with other Romanian composers. His literary creation, whether there are volumes of poetry, prose, novels, short stories, or theater, „sounds” different, it does not sound at all localist, has a European timbre, has a European dimension. In fact in the presentation done by Ana Blandiana to Stefan Dumitrescu, she intuited, revealed that truth, when the writer was only 21, that: „Stefan Dumitrescu both versifies beautifully and with much talent in a lyricism known or surmised,  and creates his own frames, his own reference systems. Each of his poems is an opening into a world created by himself, a world in which birds walk armed and sing in the ruins of the flutes”and ” a soul released risky, a bridge over the lyric gap, that is not known beyond the shore „.



Stefan Dumitrescu is really a bridge between classic and modern, a bridge over the gap between the national and universal spirit, between real and transcendental. We believe that we have defined him very well in a literary Chronicle, written in 1993, an excerpt from this Chronical being on the fourth cover of the prose book „Ancestral Bottom „, 1993.  Here’s a „picture” as true as possible of the writer, as we saw him in 1993: „Poet, prose writer, playwright, essayist, literary critic, philosopher, political analyst, this man so good, with an expression of a ever wondering child, is one of the most ardent and restless consciousness of his age. When the Romanians will really know the true depth of Stefan Dumitrescu`s work, will be surprised that a writer of the same value like Thomas Mann, or Albert Camus, was unknown among them. At the end of this century, Ştefan Dumitrescu is the spearhead of the Romanian literature thrust deeply into universality. I would compare with Mircea Eliade, but,  being acquainted with much of his work, I know that Stefan Dumitrescu is like himself.

       Francesca Pini, litarary critic, 4th cover of the book : „Ancestral Bottom”, 1993




In the same year the writer Ion Zubaşcu noticed also that the writer Stefan Dumitrescu is part of that very rare typology of „total” writers, creators who manifest a wide space of creation, which open up new paths „in culture” and found  „schools” in their lifetime. Here’s what the editor Ion Zubaşcu wrote in the „Magazin” Review , in 1993, when the  was 43 years old: In everything you do and think, you rather have the aura of a founder. I think you should gather around your disciples, by working directly on the live destinies through the students who would be able to continue your work, raising forts of the spirit or cities of mind just as durable as those created under the shade of the ancient olive trees. We are living  in times too petty and money-oriented to find a magazine open immediately to what you think. The only solution would be to ask a publishing house like Humanitas that might be interested in the scope of your visions. ”

ION ZUBAŞCU, writer, Express Magazine, no. 4, 1993



Very talented, as Ana Blandiana presented him (Stefan Dumitrescu first wrote poetry), or as literary chronicler of „Reality” Magazine, Dumi Nedelcu, wrote („If you read the lyrics of Stephen Dumitrescu,  remain somewhere between real and ideal, lecturing his novel „Delirium”, a sequel of M. Preda’s masterpiece, we are amazed by his talent and originality. This novel will soon be printed and we recommend it to all lovers of true literature „, Dumi Nedelcu, „Realitatea”  Magazine, Galatzi, June 2000).


An exciting text was written by Doru Motoc: Stefan Dumitrescu is first and foremost a great poet: „You wrote a book of love poetry absolutely exceptional (” MOUNT BURDENED WITH LOVE „, Marea Neagra Publishing House.”) . That’s all I read most beautiful and noble in recent years, when our poetry was suffocated by a wave of hogwash and abject pornography. The fact that you still keep the flag up gives me courage. But again and again I realize how right you were when you made ​​that fantastic diagnosis that we are an axiofag  people. That’s right! We don`t appreciate our true values​​, we don`t help and promote them, we don`t know how to attract the world attention upon them, to make the world aware of them.  What a pity! „29.05. 2008  Doru Moţoc.



But Stefan Dumitrescu is a novelist with terrible force, who investigates the inside continent of the human phenomenon, penetrating its depth, describing the folds of the human „ocean bottom” accurately and with a humanism that impresses. That’s why I compare him  in the text above with Thomas Mann, Albert Camus.

Here’s how the writer Alexandru Magereanu sees Stefan Dumitrescu after reading his novel „Delirium, Volume II”, the sequel to the novel „Delirium, Volume I, by Marin Preda as Marin Preda  would have written it (we sincerely believe that the novel „Delirium”, Volume II was inspired from other dimension by the spirit of Marin Preda, very rarely in literature) :

„Dear Stefan! I have read Moromete`s novel all in one breath. („Delirium, Volume II” sequel of „Delirium, Volume I” by Marin Preda) and I really liked how you wrote it. I say, leave aside all the concerns and go on and write novels! You have plenty of talent, do not waste it. Take advantage of it and give our Country and our literature everlasting works! Take advantage of the your age and life that gives you so many opportunities and you will remain unforgettable for readers, for the country. You`ve got a magnetic power in every word written! You have a special power to catch the essence of life! You`ve already had a valuable experience of writing! It won`t be hard to manage. So write, dear Stefan! ”

Alexander Magereanu, poet, Oradea, 80 years old



But Stefan Dumitrescu is a very talented playwright. He  is certainly one of the greatest world playwrights, giving more valuable plays than Camus, Sartre, Tennesse Williams or Arthur Muller. Here’s what impression Dumitrescu`s palys have made to theater people, who really wanted to help him acting his plays: Liviu Ciulei, the great Director, said in a letter to the author of „Laughter”: „I understand why thirty years ago Teatrul Mic (Little Theater) put the play ” Laughter ”  into the drawer. Of course the modern style of the play scared them – at that time– and they were thoughts about possible allusions and comparisons with that present ( communist age). Let us hope that God will give me strength to see this play on the stage of Bulandra Theater in Bucharest. ” (Liviu Ciulei).


The Romanian actor, Celestine Duca, settled in Paris, wanted to help Stefan Dumitrescu to stage „Laughter” in Paris : „I`ve read your play „Laughter” and I found it interesting, original and fun! I’m with you. I will help you break up the crust of indifference. I intend to give it to the Theatre of Poche, founded by Eugen Ionesco, where his plays were performed and by virtue of which he became a member of the French Academy (Académie française). I also think to give it to an actor, very well-known in France, who has mastered the art of laughing”. – Celestine Duca. July 16, 2000. Paris.


Ion Tobosaru, Professor of theater science, academician, spoke admiringly about Stefan Dumitrescu`s talent and theatre vocation: His vocation to dramatic literature gets the colours of certainty.

“Laughter” by Ştefan Dumitrescu makes up a lasting opus regarding its structure and the problems that spur the interest and the expressive literary phrases. His talent is obvious, as well as his dramatic experience. Inventive, intelligent, thorough and allusive-document  and fiction, art of moral portrait and of intensity of conflict – man and drama create a structure which the literary guild has to enlighten, to submit it to a redeeming projection and effort.  ”

ION TOBOSARU – Professor, academician, aesthtetician. Text on the fourth cover of the book „Complete Dictionary of I. L. Caragiale`s drama”


Romanian-born Argentinian writer Alina Diaconu, who translated his poems and stories publishing them in Argentina, realized that she meets a great writer:

„I congratulate you, you are a great writer, I’m extremely glad knowing you this way.

ALINA DIACONU, Romanian-Argentine writer, established in Argentina, 28, July, 2007 ..


„I am very happy that at those over 70 years of mine I saw, a long time before others, in my young brother, Mr. Stefan Dumitrescu, a major European writer, a writer as great as, if not greater than many writers who got the Nobel Prize.  I remain ,as in 1994, of the same belief that they are not many writers in the world to be „total writers”, who give valuable works in all genres of literature, and who are, as Mircea Eliade, the Romanian famous writer, scientists, too.  Here’s what I wrote about Stefan Dumitrescu in 1994, nearly 20 years ago:


Stefan Dumitrescu is currently one of the Romanian writers with the largest and the most profound work. Type of the total  writer, and of the total man, Stefan Dumitrescu wrote novels which will have celebrity of Marquez’s novels, plays that will shake the consciousness for centuries from now, essays with an impressive horizon of synthesis, a „History of Romanian dramaturgy” as well as poems for children of an infinite tenderness. In this volume, a volume of impressive poetry screaming hi slove for Basarabia, and also his consciousness of  deep „wound” of national being, Stefan Dumitrescu reminds us in the most painful way,  that we are Romanians, that we ONE BEING with the mourning Feeling and Consciousness!”

Francesca Pini, lecturer, 1994.


Few people know that Stefan Dumitrescu, one of the important members Futurology Office in Bucharest, is the one who discovered the Third major Type of Intelligence (the writer is Licentiate of the Faculty of Philosophy, Bucharest, 1973, his specialities being Psychology, Pedagogy, Sociology , Economics, Futurology, fields in which he gave valuable works) which he called „Positive Intelligence and Negative Intelligence”. Stefan Dumitrescu is the author of a paramount work that revolutionizes Economics, entitled „XXI CENTURY NEW ECONOMIC SCIENCE OR PSYCHO-ECONOMICS” describing the discovery of the economic system of the future, called  the „SOCIO-ECONOMIC SYSTEM OF EVOLUTION” . It`s an economic system that knows no unemployment and economic crisis, which will likely save human civilization from this terrible crisis, artificial and natural at the same time, which we are living now.


Few people know that Stefan Dumitrescu is the one who discovered „Ways by which countries can emerge from the current economic crisis VERY EASILY  IN A SHORT PERIOD OF TIME, without being diminished wages and pensions, without being increased taxes and with no Unemployment” (This paper was published in serial in the” Destiny ” Review of the Romanian Writers’ Society of Canada)

These Dumitrescu`s findings could  save from suffering, from stress and humiliation billions  of people … Maybe someone interests them …


Other author’s works, which could become global best-seller, and would do a lot of good to people, are:  „Theory of Revolution of Good” and „Psychotherapy and Education through Good!



Stefan Dumitrescu resembles Mircea Eliade, as I said, that is he is the author of a precious literary value, very complex, covering a wide range of topics, ideas, myths, which he interprets in a unified, original vision, but he is also the creator of a scientific work, in the field of social science, an extraordinary, pioneering work, which opens up new horizons in human knowledge.. Stefan Dumitrescu is by excellence a far-reaching mind of synthesis, so we find that literary and scientific works intertwine, they enrich one another. By his entire work Stefan Dumitrescu joins the universal triad Mircea Eliade, Eugène Ionesco (the author of an original drama of great value) and Emil Cioran. Dumitrescu is an essayist of substance, with an astonishing power of analysis and of re-interpretation. It`s no doubt that being published by Great Western Publishing  Houses, Stefan Dumitrescu will impress the readers and  will gain their sympathy and love.


I have already said that Stefan Dumitrescu has been proposed for many years to award the Nobel Prize by Cultural Foundations, such as Romanian Aid Cultural Foundation, „Country” Foundation , by Societies of writers, such as Society of Romanian Writers of Basarabia, several cultural figures, Publishing houses, Magazines. We present below the proposal to the Nobel Prize Committee in Stockhlom sent by the Romanian Writers’ Society of Moldavia, that impressed us with its essentiality and objectivity.Ștefan Dumitrescu - ULTIMUL ŢIPĂT


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Thr Romanian Writers Society of The Republic of Basarabia, whose target is to promote and develop the literary process, consolidation and rebirth of the Romanian spirituality in Moldova, the  patriotic education on the basis of the national historical traditions, linguistic education of all the generations, to cultivate among the members of this association the particular Romanian  soul and nature, its ancient traditions, proposes the writer Stefan Dumitrescu to the Committee for Awarding the Nobel Prize for Literature in Stockholm.

The reason of our proposal : nowadays the writer Stefan Dumitrescu is a writer with a vast and deep literary work. We are very much impressed by the depth of his thoughts about the destiny of hunam beings, his  infinite  love for His Majesty :  Man

A total writer and a total man, he is a remarkable personality in our contemporary literature, creating immortal universal value works.

We wish him good luck and great success in his nobel way to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature!  May God bless him!!!



20 September 2010

str. Albisoara 84/5 ap. 13

MD-2005,  Chişinău, Republic of. Moldova



I honestly believe that these words explain, define and grasp the essence of Stefan Dumitrescu:

„STEFAN Dumitrescu is one of those writers who has come into literature with a tremendous strength. His books, whether novels, short stories, essays, plays or poetry, are most shocking, stunning, revealing the drama,  pain, abysmal depth of human psychology, absurdity and paradox of human nature. But all these works have in them a thrill of a deep tenderness, a delicacy , a bright beauty. This dimension of his creation is seen mainly in his very rich  literature for children: tales, stories and poetry for children”.

Francesca PINI, literary critic, 1995. (text on the fourth cover of the novel ” You will be air,too,” published by ANAMAROL Publishing House, Bucharest, 2007)

Professor Francesca Pini, literary critic.














The play took the Grand Prize of the jury at the \”Second National Edition of  „Bogdan Amaru” Theater Festival in Ramnicu Valcea in 2007.

It`s a modern reinterpretation of the myth of Pygmalion from the pelasgo-Greek mythology, it is the story and parable of the genius that through art, talent, total dedication to the total self forgetfulness  and to sacrifice, succeeds  to put life in clay, , to give life to his painting and statue that he created.  Pygmalion is the artist of genius, the painter of genius who lives in a developed capitalist society. The painter loves Galateea, the symbol of Love, of love of the artist …

Galteea will make a journey by plane, which will collapse in a mountainous, wooded area. She is declared as a missing person , dead by mass media. After learning of the death of his beloved wife, the artist will fall into a state of trance and starts to paint Galateea. His effort has resulted in the  resurrection of Galateea, waking her up from a coma, dying in the hospital where she was after the accident aircraft. Galateea returned home, Pygmalion will be mad of happiness, being convinced that his dedication and his genius has resurrected Galateea. Oh, but their house is broken by Thieves (the symbol of men becoming  slaves of money, the human beings who have lost moral values, the meaning of life) who come to steal the paintings. On this occasion Galatea will be killed.

The essential idea of this play is that art taken up to the highest heights and the artist`s sacrifice can defeat death, can re-create life … Oh, but this miracle happens no more in the contemporary consumption society, with its mean mentality, in which art and artist are no longer valued, in which money alienated man and the entire  human society. The play is a bitter and deep meditation on the idea of Creation and the artist’s condition in the world of money, in the capitalist consumer society, deprived, sick! Certainly this play will be appreciated  on the stage of any Theater in the world!♪














(A play in two parts)


                                       I dedicate this to                                                               

                                      SANDA GOLOPENTIA



                              AUGUSTE PYGMALION, THE ARTIST


                              THE OLD WOMAN, THE ARTIST’S MOTHER

                              THIEF 1

                              THIEF 2

                              THE CIVIL SERVANT




The workshop of sculptor August Pygmalion. The drawn sunblind sink the vast room (too full of objects usually seen in painters’ workshops) into an overwhelming semidarkness. A woman torso can be loomed in the right corner. A portrait of a lady can be guessed on a rectangular canvas in the background. Some more chairs, a bucket full of brushes, other workshop objects.

In a hieratic position, on his bended knees as if he is praying, the figure of a man can be supposed.

Somewhere far away thunders can be heard dimly, as if the storm is coming. A long enough time passed since the artist is staying in the same position.

A door is opened on the left. A tired light is slinking into the workshop. An old woman is coming bringing a tray of food.

( a long, strong  thunder).


THE OLD WOMAN (stops on the threshold for a moment): August, my boy…

THE ARTIST (some moments later): Don’t disturb me, mum.

THE OLD WOMAN:…you have been eating nothing for a week…I’ve brought some food for you…(pause) something you liked when you were attending the college.

THE ARTIST (is silent)

THE OLD WOMAN (puts the tray on the table): You’ll destroy yourself if you don’t make an effort to get out of the house…(pause) you have to walk, to meet your friends…(returning she sees the canvas hanging on the wall; she is motionless): When did you paint this?

THE ARTIST: Last night…

THE OLD WOMAN (staying by him): My boy…August…it’s too hard for me, too…I’ve been praying for days and nights…But we have to be strong. We are just two of us…your old mother has nobody else except you…(caressing his head) August, my boy…I’m awfully afraid…

THE ARTIST (some time later): I’ve begged you to be calm, mum…and trust me (a far-off thunder)

THE OLD WOMAN: You know well that I always trust you.

THE ARTIST: She is certain to come back…She seems to come (hallucinating gesture), she is alive, she is sound …look at her, …she is stepping…a wonder in this unhappy world.

THE OLD WOMAN (she is crossing herself scary)

THE ARTIST: And now, mum, leave me alone…

THE OLD WOMAN (tired) I’d like you to have some mouthfuls only.

THE ARTIST (standing up, he seems to be concerned by something)

THE OLD WOMAN: Just some mouthfuls, August…and I am content. (a lasting thunder)

THE ARTIST (walking through the workshop): I’d like to leave me alone.

THE OLD WOMAN (ready to go): Promise me you’ll eat something.

THE ARTIST: I promise you, mum…(the old woman is going out)

THE OLD WOMAN: God speeds us! (it is thundering somewhere nearby).

THE ARTIST: (the same nervous, obsessive search. He walks and draws the sunblind violently, for a moment he puts his hand on his eyes groaning. Then he will take a canvas and hang it on the same wall. He starts working nervously, gnashing his teeth. Groaning or rather yelling): It can’t be true! It will be as I think…(pause; he is working excited as a self-denial) Oh, God! It can’t be true! It will be just like this. (pause) Even if she is dead…I will paint her, I will sculpture her so beautiful…this will be mine…more alive than she ever was.

(he stops afraid, watching the lines traced. He suddenly grows angry, grasps the canvas…He will tear it bit by bit…His face is flushed, his eyes are demential).

THE ARTIST: (He is standing for a moment, breathing hardly…) It is true, if my power can do it…! (a long thunder)

THE ARTIST: (Bending his knees, his body cowers little by little, groaning): It can’t be true! It can’t be truuuuuue! (faintl) I must believe it! I must believe it! I must believe it as a mad with all my soul.

THE ARTIST: (rarely, mastering his temper) I must be lucid…self- possessed. It’s the only way I can re-create her again…by the power of my mind and soul…(he is sitting on a tripod in front of the immense painting on the back wall. He is getting calmer and calmer, his eyes are burning vividly, intensely).

THE ARTIST: And yet, where’s perfection?…It seems to be you, Galateea…However, something is missing , I need something  (silence) Something essential…the essence that I begin to infer, to touch.

THE OLD WOMAN: (opening the door) Can I disturb you a little, August?

THE ARTIST: Yes, mum?

THE OLD WOMAN: Jean Andon telephoned, he looks you up tonight. If you agree, he would like to go to Africa together.

THE ARTIST: I need peace and energy, mum…(a feeble thunder)

THE OLD WOMAN: I think it will do you good…Can you remember? This was your lasting dream.

THE ARTIST: It was…It’s no more now…

THE OLD WOMAN: You didn’t eat anything, August, it’s about two weeks since you ate nothing…

THE ARTIST: A week and two days…And I couldn’t eat until I bring her back to life… revive her, better saying.

THE OLD WOMAN: May I stay?

THE ARTIST: Yes. (a thunder far away)

THE OLD WOMAN: I’d like so much to go on that trip, it will inspire you…

THE ARTIST: (watching the painting) I can’t do it now. I’m sure I’ll do it one day… together with Galateea. (pause) What do you think it lacks for? (pointing to the painting)

THE OLD WOMAN: (watching carefully) Nothing…It’s well done. When you display it, it will arouse many praises.

THE ARTIST: I’ll never display it. And yet it needs something…

THE OLD WOMAN: Try to eat some spoonfuls of soup at least, August…

THE ARTIST: Some years ago I had a revelation, that art upholds this world not to break down.

THE OLD WOMAN: August…(it thunders far away)

THE ARTIST: And the theory of that critic, what’s his name, who affirmed that man came into history from animality through the gate of art, I think it’s true…it’s a genial idea.

THE OLD WOMAN: I’m glad you are serene …and desired of talking.

THE ARTIST: Because I’m sure Galateea is not dead…or better said, she’s coming back to life.

THE OLD WOMAN: August…Don’t frighten me.(pause)  Once I told you  that absolute accidentally your grandfather was named Pygmalion. The notary was lit up and wrote this name.

THE ARTIST: OK. But what about giving life to Galateea, is it an accident too? What  about her name, Galateea?

THE OLD WOMAN: August…(a feeble thunder)

THE ARTIST: She told me clearly, I’ve calculated with a calendar in my hand…From the moment the canvas on which Galateea was painted was ready, she could rise by a miracle, she was lying in her bed since she was six…I’ve told you. (a feeble thunder, a sign that the storm stopped).

THE OLD WOMAN: I think you’d better go and see the exhibition recently opened.

THE ARTIST: Please, don’t try to draw my attention away. This thing is very important for me.

She told me clearly, it was on Friday in the evening when she saw she could move her legs. Being curious she tried to see if she could rise…she thought she was dreaming and getting crazy when she saw she could go….

THE OLD WOMAN: August, I don’t want to give you hopes…now maybe it would be right to encourage you in your illusions, but afterwards I’m afraid it will hurt you. So it’s better to accustom to an irreversible loss.

THE ARTIST: (painful expression) I’ll bring her back to life even if she is in the grave. (large demoniac gestures) I’ll make her more beautiful. She will be like a queen…She seems to come into my workshop.

THE OLD WOMAN:  (shaking with fear) My boy…!

THE ARTIST: (demential glance) Believe me, mum, the myth of Pygmalion is true. The myths are meta-essences…essence of a history. That’s a myth, do you understand? It can’t be false, it can’t be untrue…The myth is eternal. (silence)

THE OLD WOMAN: I agree with you, August. (worried expression)

THE ARTIST: (starts walking and gesticulating in the workshop) Galateea was in the airplane, at six thousand meters high in the sky…I agree with you that nobody can be alive from that height, especially the plane broke down in the mountains, over precipices and forests. But… the power of art, you can’t understand it, is immense, is boundless.

THE OLD WOMAN: (watching him carefully, with sympathy) August, my boy…I want you so much to get out of this room, you are obsessed by an idea. This idea can drive you crazy… (pause) Believe me, my boy, many people pass through this misfortune. I was thirty years old when your father died…you were nine. I yelled, I fall in ill…but I didn’t loose my minds.

THE ARTIST: (realizing) Mum…

THE OLD WOMAN: (with tears in her eyes) After I lost my husband and my daughter-in-law, I couldn’t bear to loose my boy too. (pause) August, believe me, I’m old, I passed through a lot…If you don’t get out of this dammed workshop, where you stay and paint the same face day by day, you’ll get mad.

THE ARTIST: I’ll paint her thousand and thousand times, for thousand years. Until I bring her back to life.

THE OLD WOMAN:(more quiet) A man of thirty five years can  still love. You’ll love again, get married, you’ll see…

THE ARTIST: (biting her lips, thoughtfully) Galateea was more than my lover or my wife, she was my creation…and my reason of being. (pause) You can’t understand this. Creation of life is the ideal and duty of any artist. If I can’t revive Galateea I’ll be the most miserable man…(pause) And now I want to be alone, I need to be by myself.

THE OLD WOMAN: (near the table) Take but some swallows, August, I’ll be so pleased for today.

THE OLD WOMAN: I can’t, mum. (he sits on the same tripod  in front of the painting that represents Galateea life-size; he stays for a long while with his head in his hands, as if a saving idea is worrying him )

                                             PART ONE

                                           SCENE TWO

At the same workshop. Some days later…the painting seen in the previous scene that represented Galateea life-size, is hanged up horribly, torn, made dirty with paints.

The artist turned up his sleeves. His look is terrible, strained to madness. The sleeves of his overall wave smeared by paints, in a Messianic way. He is preparing a new canvas. He goes to the door, locks it. Nervously, burning like a flame, he starts painting another Galateea. With a trembling voice, broken by fear and the feverishness of work. Long moments when he forgets to talk to himself lost in labor.

THE ARTIST: I feel her, I see her before my eyes…Galateea!   (pause) I know…You are dead…maybe you are but wounded and you need me, (rarely) you need my thoughts to come to you. (he shuts his eyes gnashing his teeth; then he opens them violently, his glance springs out dementially, focussed.)

THE ARTIST: (holding up as if he wanted to touch her, as if he found her) I can see you now…your body is lying on the ground…on the grass…my thought is reaching you (yelling) Now, Galateea…now! Stand up, my darling…that’s it… spirit is like a lightning…a lightning between me and your soul…I feel it gives you strength.(as in a hallucinating trance he starts painting; the outlines are painted fleetingly, the colors are put unconsciously)

THE ARTIST: (broken breath)  Now…quickly, oh, my God…give me powers to catch her as she is now…alive! Galateea, (loudly), can you feel me? Can you hear me? (pause; his whizzing breath can be heard ) I can see you, I can see your lips, (his brush moves making the outlines of her lips) I can hear your breath! (more loudly) I can hear your blood pulsing in the veins…I want to paint it too…(somebody knocks at the door)

THE OLD WOMAN: August!…(silence) August! Can you hear me?

THE ARTIST: (his communication with outside world is completely interrupted) I feel you are coming back to life. Galateea! My love, I know your portrait will get life…(slowly)…I already know it!…I feel it…

THE OLD WOMAN: (beseechingly) August ! Open the door, my dear boy…(pause)  August, don’t be fool…August!

THE ARTIST  (more lucidly): I feel  I can catch you this time, (loudly) I can feel the reality getting life under my brush! (yelling happily) My Gooood! Let this be my unique moment, my supreme moment!

THE ARTIST: (yelling happily, laboring bitterly)  I feel matchless powers inside me, which burst and nobody and nothing can stop them.

THE OLD WOMAN: (faint voice ) August…my dear, don’t be foolish…

THE ARTIST: (steps back for an instant to watch the painting; he seems lucid for a moment)

Oh, my God!…I feel I can make it this time…I’ll bring her back to life…Galateea…(he starts working again, the painting seems to be made line by line; the light wanes little by little on the stage)

THE ARTIST: Galateea! I can see you before my eyes…alive…beautiful…as you used to be.  (loudly) Stand up and walk, Galateea!  As Jesus Christ resurrected from death. Stand up and walk, my darling, (the artist can be hardly seen in the dark that floods the stage)

THE OLD WOMAN (more faintly): August…My boy…

THE ARTIST (Exhausted, slight voice): Stand up, Galateea! That’s it, my honey!…walk now, come home!

THE OLD WOMAN (faint  voice): August…My child…

THE ARTIST (faded voice): Oh, my God! I’m so tired. As if I weren’t alive…(loudly) Maybe I’m not living at all…there’s no more drop of substance left from my poor body.

                                        PART  ONE

                                      SCENE  THREE

Three days later. The artist’s workshop is getting lightened bit by bit. On the front wall Galateea’s painting in life-size, of an unusual beauty. The impression that the woman is in the painting, comes down in the workshop, that art made her alive, of the flesh, is so strong and overwhelming. The artist is seen down, crouched at the bottom of the canvas.

THE OLD WOMAN (knocks at the door): August…August…my boy!

THE ARTIST (is startling)

THE OLD WOMAN: August, wake up! I know you are sleeping, I’ve heard your breathing.

THE ARTIST (wakes up, heavy with sleep in the first moments): Oh, God,… where am I?

THE OLD WOMAN: August, I’ve heard your voice!

THE ARTIST (stands up like a sleepwalker): Yes, mum, I can hear you. (pause, he comes to his own senses) Oh, my God, what’s up with me?


THE ARTIST (seeing the painting he gets dumbfounded, entranced): Galateea!… Goodness! It’s her!…She’s alive!

THE OLD WOMAN: Open the door, please.

THE ARTIST (keeps enraptured): Yes, mum, I’ve heard you, open right now. (keeps watching the painting) You’re terribly beautiful! And above all you’re alive.


THE ARTIST: My God! What alive you are! You’ve never been so alive, so happy!


THE ARTIST (comes back to reality): Yes, mum, just a moment. (opens the door)
THE OLD WOMAN (comes in the workshop carefully, tries to embrace him; her glance comes up against the painting; scared): August…!( forgets to embrace him ) August, what’s this?

THE ARTIST (lost himself in watching the painting): Well, mum, can’t you see?

THE OLD WOMAN: Oh, goodness! She seems more alive than in reality. (she comes near the painting more and more fascinated; she would like to touch it but she’s afraid)

THE ARTIST: She’s alive, mum. Look, if you touch it, you’ll feel the blood beating in her body.Look at her face, can’t you see how happy she is?

THE OLD WOMAN: I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind, August. I’d rather think it is a grizzly dream.

THE ARTIST: Galateea is alive, mum. I’ve been resurrecting her from among the dead. Now she’s in her way back home.

THE OLD WOMAN (she looks at him terrified, crossing herself): Oh, my God! Help us!

THE ARTIST: She’s alive, mum! She’ll come and embrace you.

THE OLD WOMAN (touching him, trying to caress him) August, take care not to lose our minds. I don’t know why I have the feeling that a misfortune happened.

THE ARTIST (tries to stop her): Don’t talk like that! What I’ve done is a thing frightfully great. Maybe thanks to me, for the first time in  history, art has achieved its ideal: to create life.

THE OLD WOMAN (tries to come back to reality): August, we have to come back to the real existence.

THE ARTIST: Mum, if it’s right that life appeared out from clay, it’s also true that life must never come back into clay.

THE OLD WOMAN: But where, my child?

THE ARTIST: Life must fly, mum. To the sky, in the universe, it is there that life must come back….

THE OLD WOMAN (after a while): You haven’t got out of the workshop for two weeks…

THE ARTIST (wipes his hands): You’re right…It is two weeks today since we heard that ill-fated news…(pause) I can get out now, I can see the day light…(loudly) can eat, get drunk.

THE OLD WOMAN (casts a glance around the workshop): Oh, God, I was so worried all these days. If I couldn’t have heard your breath and bearish snores I should have believed you had put an end to your life.

THE ARTIST (ready to get out): Art must re-create life, mum, not destroy it. Without art this world couldn’t withstand alive at least for a second, it would collapse.

THE OLD WOMAN: Before going for a walk you should eat something.

THE ARTIST: Let me cast a glance, mum…(pause) She’s quite alike I dreamt her. Oh, my God, she’s so alive…!

THE OLD WOMAN: We’d better get out and eat something.

THE ARTIST: Yes, and then we go to the station to wait for her. (the two ones disappear; the stage is sinking gradually into the dark.)

            PART   ONE

           SCENE  FOUR

The stage is getting light imperceptibly. The artist comes into the workshop.

THE ARTIST: I wasn’t wrong. So it’s true. My God, how alive she is…! (pause)

THE ARTIST (sitting on a tripod in front of the painting): As I was out I was doubting all the time. I was terribly scared, my honey, that it could be a dream,  (slowly) an invention…

But it wasn’t so. You’re real and alive…more alive than any other woman. I won’t leave away from here, I’ll stay here near you and I’ll sleep and eat at your feet.

THE OLD WOMAN (knocks at a door, then enters): August, my child…Michele is here to see you.

THE ARTIST: I’m not at home for anybody, mum. Please ask Michele to forgive me, but nobody except you may come and see me.

THE OLD WOMAN: Your old mother is asking you…

THE ARTIST (watching his work): It’s my last word. (the old woman gets out; the artist is lying at the feet of the painting and soon he will fall asleep )

THE ARTIST: I know for sure my work is alive, that Galateea is looking for me, that she is coming home…now, right now…Although why am I waiting for her? Why do I doubt?  (pause) My God, what a torture! How burdensome my soul is! (pause) In fact I think I’m afraid that nothing of what I have hoped is true…(light becomes dimly little by little)

                                           PART  ONE

                                         SCENE  FIVE

The workshop is sunken into the darkness. Somewhere somebody knocks at a door. The semidarkness takes shape, the objects from the workshop can be loomed. On the front wall the painting of Galateea can be seen. At its feet the artist is sleeping. A key in the lock can be heard concretely and definitely. Behind the painting of Galateea hanging near a door, a woman appears. The light grows hardly perceptible, then it stops near Pygmalion who is sleeping at the feet of the painting. The woman walks for a while, having no desire to wake him, then she sits on a lounge chair where she soon will fall asleep.

                                      PART  ONE

                                     SCENE  SIX

Next day, the same sets. The first who gets up is the artist. When he sees Galateea sleeping in the lounge chair is wonder-struck. He rubs his eyes as if he would like to awake from a dream that perplexed him. Some moments later he will knee near his beloved woman.

THE ARTIST (trying to caress her, seems astonished): Oh, God, it’s true! Galateea, my sweetheart…! Have you come back? In flesh…?

GALATEEA (is waking up, smiles happily)

THE ARTIST: My honey…Welcome home!

GALATEEA (takes his hand and kisses it): My darling, it seems a dream but it’s true. Don’t doubt any moment.

THE ARTIST (kissing her): Yes, I know all is true.

GALATEEA: I came back last night by one o’clock train, I stepped in through the back door…you were sleeping, and I didn’t want to awake you.

THE ARTIST: You should awake me.

GALATEEA: It’s better as it is, I seem to show myself out of a dream.

THE ARTIST: What’s the time?

GALATEEA: It is nine.

THE ARTIST: Mum will soon come to bring breakfast. I think I have to make her ready, otherwise who knows what could happen…

GALATEEA (nods assenting and smiling): You’re right. Go and make her ready. (the artist gets out of the room. Galateea stands up and sighs happily;she takes some steps and stops in front of the painting that represents her; a worrisome and panic look springs up gradually on her face).

                                            PART ONE

                                        SCENE SEVEN

The same set.

THE ARTIST (comes into the workshop like a bolt): That’s it, I’ve convinced her, she’s beside herself with joy!

THE OLD WOMAN (trembling): I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it! (embracing her daughter-in-law) My child, my child…Great Heavens!

GALATEEA (embracing her): Mum…!

THE ARTIST (happily): I haven’t seen so many kisses in all my life.

THE OLD WOMAN: Sit down my girl, I’m sitting here by you. (she puts her hand on her chest) Good Lord, how my heart is throbbing! How glad I am!

GALATEEA (smiling): The shock was terrible. After so much silence I come back to a normal life.

THE OLD WOMAN: So is it true? Really true?!

GALATEEA: I’m doing my best to believe that everything is true, that I’m alive, I find it hard to believe. I’m smiling all the time like an idiot.

THE OLD WOMAN: Mighty are the powers of God. I’d like to go to the church, my child.

GALATEEA: Maybe it’s a good idea, mum. Though I think God has had no role in my play.


THE OLD WOMAN: Don’t talk like that. This is an extremely rare event. No survivor was declared in the communique written in the newspaper…Good Lord, all these days I stayed near the radio and TV waiting for the news. I prayed in my mind.

GALATEEA: (thoughtful) Yes… it was an event.

THE OLD WOMAN: We have to let your parents know.

GALATEEA (thoughtful): I think we do. But not by a telegram.

THE ARTIST: That’s right, I’ll deal with it, honey, and I’ll deal with breakfast, too. (he goes out)

THE OLD WOMAN: Good Heavens! What a miracle…!

GALATEEA (watching the painting carefully)

THE OLD WOMAN: What’s up with you?

GALATEEA: I don’t know. (pale) It’s a confused feeling of panic and anxiety. I’m afraid everything is just an illusion…that nothing is real.

THE OLD WOMAN (comes by her): Poor you! It’s a wonder you haven’t lost your minds. All the time you missed I was afraid of happening the same thing with August. Now everything passed away, we are going to get used to it.

GALATEEA: When did he do this painting?

THE OLD WOMAN: Some days later…he finished it the day before yesterday.

GALATEEA (pale, obsessed): I don’t know why it fascinates or worries me. It’s as if it makes fun of me…

THE OLD WOMAN: Nonsense, Galateea, it’s a good painting.

GALATEEA (sad): It’s amazingly well…

THE ARTIST (enters with a tray): Breakfast is ready…! Ham, eggs, milk and coffee.                                                         (puts the tray on the table in the middle of the workshop) Sit down.

                                          PART  ONE

                                        SCENE  EIGHT

The three ones sit down around the table.

GALATEEA: August, I want to know if you finished the painting three days ago.

THE ARTIST (swallows): It’s great! I have to recover the lost ground. (pause) Yes, honey, and I can tell you when. In the afternoon at five o’clock, it was that time when I finished my painting and it was then when you raised from the dead.

GALATEEA (pale): Is it true therefore? (pause)


GALATEEA: It was that time when I could move. I really had an impression that I raised from the dead. (she stands up, as if she has a moment of clear-sightedness ) I saw you in my mind, clearly… but I was dead, inert, I don’t know how to tell you. And then I heard your voice…”Galateea! I see you before my eyes. Stand up and walk, my honey! As Jesus Christ

Raised from dead! Stand up and walk, Galateea!” (she stops and looks right at his face)

THE ARTIST (looks at her amazed)

GALATEEA: These were the words you exactly uttered, August.

THE ARTIST: Yes..(thoughtful) you’re right. These were the words I exactly said, I could precisely remember them…It was as if dreadful forces had burst and twisted my body and soul like a whirlpool.

THE OLD WOMAN: My children, (pause) don’t you mean this portrait…?

THE ARTIST (sitting down): Yes, we do, mum.

THE OLD WOMAN: Galateea!

GALATEEA (she sits down too sadly): That’s the truth.

THE ARTIST: The power of art is fantastic, mum. I explained it to you, I think. (pause) All this universe of chains, wheels and driving belts which is the human civilization will collapse if it is not supported by art.

THE OLD WOMAN: You have to believe it, because you are an artist. What about Galateea?

GALATEEA: Luckily, a true miracle, I chanced to catch at a kind of an air cushion. It was a chance of 1 to 1billion. I don’t know from where that air cushion appeared. Then I had the good luck to fall among the branches of two pines…afterwards I was lying unconscious for a week and more. Three days ago I heard his voice that awoke me and ordered me to stand up. (both of them are watching her with bated breath ). That’s all.

THE OLD WOMAN: Don’t offend God, my children, this is God’s mercy.

GALATEEA (thoughtful, sad): I wonder, August, if those pines and that air cushion hadn’t been, if my body had become a mixture of bones and blood, could you have bring me back to life? (a deep silence surrounds everywhere)

THE ARTIST: I think I could, Galateea. (silence again)

THE OLD WOMAN: To your hearts’ content, children. Please have regard for my old age and don’t talk such nonsense in my sight. (she touches the table) How can a work of art revive a dead thousand kilometers far away?

GALATEEA: Imagine, August, falling down I didn’t get out of the purse where my money was…


GALATEEA: Otherwise I couldn’t have money to get back home. (she stands up) let me, mum, I bring it.

THE OLD WOMAN (gets out taking up the tray): No, no, I leave you to have a rest for an hour, then we’ll go to the church where we’ll pay the priest for a divine service.

                                          PART  ONE

                                       SCENE  NINE

The two ones are alone; unbearable silence.

GALATEEA (walking through the workshop): Do you know what’s my impression, August?

THE ARTIST: (sitting in an armchair; he watches the painting obsessively): Yes?

GALATEEA: You know that my life is not life, it’s not a human life…  the life of a real woman.

THE ARTIST (absorbed in thoughts): Yes…

GALATEEA: I feel like a puppet. My life is the life of a puppet, the puppet of an art creation.

THE ARTIST (startling and watching her): What did you say? It’s nonsense, Galateea…How can you fancy it? (pause) We both would have to thank God for this painting, as mum said.  Because God saved us.  He saved me as an artist and you as life.

GALATEEA (watching the painting in a strange way): You as a genial artist and me as a puppet.

THE ARTIST (watching her surprisingly): Galateea…!

GALATEEA (sitting in another armchair): Oh, God, how tired am I.

THE ARTIST: You’re right, I feel tired, too. Let’s go to bed.

GALATEEA: No, (pause) today I’d like to rove. Can you remember how we strolled in olden times?

THE ARTIST (in a good temper): Like guttersnipes …good idea.

GALATEEA: The most beautiful guttersnipes in the world, honey.

THE ARTIST: And mum will go to the church to for the divine service.

GALATEEA (ready for leaving): I’m ready. (they get out of the room)

                                           PART  ONE

                                          SCENE  TEN

Some days later. Galateea enters the workshop full of thoughts.

GALATEEA (stops in front of the painting): Why is it fascinating me? And why am I feeling so humiliated? In fact who are you? You are just a canvas. Are you the spirit? (pause) I always feel divided, as if two bodies fought for the same soul. (pause, painfully) And the happy soul is inside you…peaceful, good, immortal. (loudly) I’m a miserable body without soul.

GALATEEA (sitting in an armchair; watching as if she liked to merge in the other one): That’s why I hate you, I feel as if I had sinned. (silence) How much I wished I had been a mere canvas. (pause) I’m afraid of you, I feel self-conscious when I get in here. If I weren’t afraid that in the moment I destroyed you my life would be finished, I would cut you in pieces.

THE ARTIST (enters the room): Galateea, what are you doing?

GALATEEA: I’m talking to myself.

THE ARTIST: I wish I was wrong, but this painting seems to upset you.

GALATEEA (looking at him confused): Yes, it does.

THE ARTIST: When you enter the workshop your face is always contorted by a strange pain.

GALATEEA (thinking): August, if I asked you to sell the house and the workshop and move in another town…Would you fulfil my desire?

THE ARTIST (after a while): No, Galateea, I was born here.

GALATEEA: I see…Then I’d like to let me pack this painting and put it up in the garret, as we did the first one.

THE ARTIST: I wish I kept it for me. When I work, when I look at it, it inspires me.

GALATEEA: I feel inside me the desire to destroy it.

THE ARTIST (sitting by her): The same reaction I had upon the first painting.

GALATEEA: You know, my darling, as I am getting old, this woman will always be looking young, magnificent. When I am gone she will make fun of me.

THE ARTIST (deep in thought): Does this worry you, therefore?

GALATEEA: Yes, darling, and all sorts of things…

THE ARTIST: OK. Let’s go. We’ll see what we can do.

GALATEEA (standing up) And one more thing tortures me, August…That between me and this Galateea, you’ll always love her more than me.

THE ARTIST: Don’t be silly!

GALATEEA: This thought tortures me that I am a woman who takes a back seat, August… (she takes his hand)

THE ARTIST: Can’t you understand that I did everything for you?

GALATEEA: My love, take me away. I want to forget everything, to be glad about air, light, life.

THE ARTIST (kissing her hand): I promise you. In autumn we’ll go to South America.

GALATEEA (kissing him): Thank you!

                                         PART ONE

                                   SCENE ELEVEN

THE ARTIST (enters the workshop, stands on a chair for getting down the painting): No, no, art must not be above life. Art must be subordinated by life.

THE ARTIST (watching the picture): Although art must not be a mere instrument.(pause)  I have no choice, my dearest…Even if I wish I watched you for more time, I pack and lock you in a chest.

THE ARTIST (meditatively): Although I feel guilty about you, Galateea…(watching the picture) You have mounted me on the highest peak of art, if you weren’t I would be a mere dauber of canvas like most of the French painters.(rolling the canvas) Come what may!…Life is above art. (the light is dying out bit by bit)

                                                PART  TWO                                          

                                                SCENE  ONE

      A week later. Galateea is preparing the luggage.

GALATEEA: (humming a confused melody; a sound of a turned about key in the lock makes her to throb; the door is opened suddenly, in the workshop appears a man.)

THE MAN  (remains for a moment astonished): Bonjour, madame!

GALATEEA  (moment of amazement): Good afternoon. Who are you?

THE MAN (shutting the door, carefully): By our information we shouldn’t have met anybody. Hands up! (he shuts the front door). Fine!

GALATEEA (Screaming terrified): What do you want from me?

THE MAN (treating her rudely, putting the gun in her neck): Nothing, just tell me where you keep your jewelry and where your husband keeps the pictures.

GALATEEA: In other words, you have come to rob us.

THE MAN (examining the objects in the house): Exactly, I am a banal housebreaker.

GALATEEA (Turning around): You bastard! Oh…

THE MAN (throws her down by a thunderous blow): Shut up…(stepping on her hand) Tell me, where is that picture which everybody talks about?

GALATEEA (moaning, recovering herself)

THE MAN: I warn you, Mrs. Pygmalion, that if you managed to save yourself miraculously from the tragedy which brought you fame, this time you won’t!

GALATEEA (Trying to move herself): My husband will soon be back…

THE MAN (with the gun pointed to her): They both have gone to Ruan, where the old woman’s sister has died, I have sent the telegram haven’t I? And they are not back until tonight.

GALATEEA (gnashing her teeth: trying to fight against the aggressor): I warn you, I have seen you, you’ll better leave!

THE MAN (cruel): The jewelry and the pictures…

GALATEEA: There is no picture!

THE MAN: Relatives’ friends have declared they had seen it.

GALATEEA (trying to get up, the man hits her back)

THE MAN (cynic) I am not here to play the part of a housebreaker. I am the voice of this miserable society…It has sent me here.

GALATEEA (moaning) You bastard, you miserable…

THE MAN (hits her again; then he starts rummaging about, finds quickly the picture which represents Galateea; he puts it on the chair and steps back to watch it): Oh, God! (in ecstasy; his face is lit by a strange look) It is a real masterpiece…50 years later it will be the most expensive one in the whole world.

GALATEEA (who has got up; she is about to hit him with an object): You bastard!

THE MAN (surprised, he turns around and shoots her)

GALATEEA: You miserable…What have you done? (she tumbles down and tries to breath deeply as if she is choking)

THE MAN (looking at her cynical): I’ve told you I am not playing, madam. (bending his knees and seeing she is dead) Good luck  in the other world. (turning himself to the picture) Actually I think it’s enough.(he packs it carefully and puts it in a portfolio) You have had too much luck in this life, madam. You had become too famous. See you!                                  

                                                 PART  TWO

                                               SCENE  TWO

A week later. The artist lies on the bed. His hand hangs down inertly on the end of the bed. In the workshop comes his old mother, dressed in black. He carries a tray, which she puts on the table, then she lays near him.

THE OLD WOMAN (changing his compress): Sleep my boy, sleep…

THE ARTIST (with the lips burned by fever) Mum…Mum…

THE OLD WOMAN (watching him compassionately): Oh, God! He is recovering.


THE OLD WOMAN: Don’t get up, August! I’m beside you, your old mother won’t leave you.

                                              PART  TWO

                                           SCENE  THREE

The same set, next day. August Pygmalion lays weakened in bed. It seems he’s better now.

THE OLD WOMAN (giving to him a sandwich): Try to eat it, please, August.

THE ARTIST (getting it): Tell me if it’s true, mama.

THE OLD WOMAN (putting her hand on his forehead, sighing): Yes, my child, unfortunately it ‘s true.

THE ARTIST: Don’t you know if they have caught him? (pause)

THE OLD WOMAN: They have…

THE ARTIST: I’ll burn his flesh piece by piece.

THE OLD WOMAN (looking to him with grief) No, August…

THE ARTIST (an outburst of violence): Why didn’t he ask for it? I would have given to him anything, even my skin…If only he hadn’t killed her. He would have let her live!

THE OLD WOMAN (worried): Calm down, August, calm down. He had mental problems, paranoia or something like that (silence) Anyway he will be executed.

THE ARTIST (bending his head) In vain… it’s too little.

THE OLD WOMAN: Art must raise you upon pains, dramas, August.

THE ARTIST: But how long? There comes a moment when it just can’t be.

THE OLD WOMAN: Then the end of the world will really come.

THE ARTIST: If I believed in God I would go in Heaven to kill Him. Such a cruel world He has created!

THE OLD WOMAN (crossing herself): Don’t speak like that, August. Oh, God, forgive our sins. Not even that miserable believed in God.

THE ARTIST: My soul is too heavy, mother!

THE OLD WOMAN (silence): It’s very hard for me, too. (pause) You see, August, you have art…you can win. I have nothing anymore…

THE ARTIST: Yes, mother, I’ll try to star it again.

THE OLD WOMAN: God help you! (pause) I still resist because I have you, otherwise…we’d better not be born nowadays.


                                                PART  TWO


                                               SCENE  FOUR


The same characters, the next day.


THE ARTIST: (he has recovered a little; he walks haunted in the workshop): Nevertheless, mother, why did this tragedy happen precisely to me? Isn’t it because I am Pygmalion?

THE OLD WOMAN (sitting on the chair): No, August, (pause) Maybe it’s my fault I get this idea into your head. You, artists are always in the clouds.

THE ARTIST: What an idea, mother!

THE OLD WOMAN: Listen to me carefully, my child. Mankind, our society is passing through the most awful moral, economic crisis. The poor society is sick, hopeless, any moment we can die in an atomic holocaust. You cannot live anymore in this world, my boy.

THE ARTIST: So what?

THE OLD WOMAN: The man survives, he does not live on this planet.

THE ARTIST: The man you are talking about deserves to disappear from this planet, mother.

THE OLD WOMAN: You haven’t understood me, August, nowadays it is normal to die, to be killed, ill, crazy, thief…It is a very rare lucky chance to live and to achieve yourself, and you had had it, because of the art. Do you know what the assassin declared? That he did what he did for envy. He lived four houses near us.

THE ARTIST (biting his lips): I knew people are as they are, mother. This thing can be seen in my work, too. (silence)

THE OLD WOMAN: I know you want to paint Galateea one more time. I am sure you hope you’ll resurrect her again.

THE ARTIST (looking to her deeply and painfully): You have read my thoughts, mother.

THE OLD WOMAN: Even if you manage, my boy, somebody else will kill her. And you’ll have to start it again.

THE ARTIST: Even I have to star it all over again, I still resurrect her.

THE OLD WOMAN: No, August, the end of the world is getting dizzily closer. Nothing good can resist anymore under this sky.

THE ARTIST (terrified) Are you sure, mother?

THE OLD WOMAN: We, Christians, are ready. You said art could save world from destruction; I am sure art is as sick and powerless as world is.

THE ARTIST (meditating; there are heard knocking in the door): Yes…                                      

                                           PART  TWO

                                           SCENE  FIVE

On the threshold of the door appears a man with a portfolio in his hand.

THE MAN: Is the painter August Pygmalion living here?


THE MAN: I am Jean Aureas, employee at the aviation company…

THE ARTIST: What do you want?

THE MAN: As you know in the aircraft crash…


THE MAN: Your wife was on the list of passengers being on board. The minute researches haven’t established the existence of any survival.


THE MAN: Also, logical, it was impossible for anybody to survive.

THE ARTIST: Yes, and what do you want from me?

THE MAN: Our company took knowledge from the press of assassination of Mrs.Pygmalion.


THE MAN: The conclusion the leadership of the company has reached is that Mrs.Pygmalion wasn’t on board in the moment when the accident happened. In this case the company cannot pay the damages to the family.

THE ARTIST: We don’t need them.

THE MAN: This is all we wanted to inform you. We would like to have your assent you will not summon the Company in court.

THE ARTIST : (more and more irritated): I assure you.

THE MAN: Nothing remains me to do but to apologize and to withdraw myself.

THE ARTIST: You do the right thing.

THE MAN: My respects, madam! Good bye, Mr.Pygmalion!

THE OLD WOMAN: Good luck, man! (the Company’s employee goes out; there is a moment of silence)

THE ARTIST (wandering with his hands at his back): I am stun! I think you are right, mother, I don’t know the world I live in. Fancy! The Company cannot believe!

THE OLD WOMAN (after a while): August, I need to tell you…Your interview has created a lot of hate, curiosity, interest, but no one believed you.

THE ARTIST (looking at her thoughtfully)

THE OLD WOMAN: No one believed art could revive a woman who had fainted away.

THE ARTIST: (sitting down heavily): I see.

THE OLD WOMAN: Most of the people had fun. (silence)

THE ARTIST: I wonder weather this world doesn’t draw itself to destruction. Isn’t it sick and isn’t this the main cause of its disease and of its future disappearance: the fact that it doesn’t believe anymore?

THE OLD WOMAN: Nowadays the man doesn’t believe in anything, August.

THE ARTIST (preparing himself to work. His face is transfigured): Mother, could you please, let me alone…(pause; he keeps wondering restless) You’ll bring me food when I knock the door…

THE OLD WOMAN (worried): August…

THE ARTIST thoughtfully): The artist must be a Prometheus. And I…(pause) He must always start it again.

THE OLD WOMAN (being late): I would be calm if this attempt made you find your peace.

THE ARTIST (sad, deep in thoughts): I’ll find it, mother…

THE OLD WOMAN: Let me believe you are not asking me to go out. (pause) I’ll bring you food every morning, don’t you bother.

The ARTIST (thoughtful): Yes…

THE OLD WOMAN: I wish you good luck! (she goes out sadly)

                                                PART  TWO

                                                SCENE  SIX

Some moments later, meanwhile August Pygmalion wondered in his workshop, very much concerned with something .The artist stopped in front of the painting. Then he will bend and will take out from a chest a rectangular canvas, which he will put in front of the door through which Galateea entered. Then he will start to work quietly.

THE ARTIST (after many moments, closing his eyes, tormenting himself): Oh, God, God, I feel it doesn’t wooork! (loudly) I don’t have power…I don’t have that crazy thing that I would need. (he will go to open a cognac bottle from which he’ll drink)

THE ARTIST (moaning): The helplessness of the artist is so terrible! (he drinks greedily)

THE ARTIST: I’d rather get swine-drunk than stand this idea. (loudly, screaming) The idea of helplessness! (gasping) The idea of helplessness…

THE ARTIST: (almost crying) I caaan’t. (yelling) God, why can’t I? Why can’t I?                              

THE ARTIST (more and more drunk) I shall be patient…I shall wait…(he breathes deeply) That terrible force I need doesn’t come…

THE ARTIST (tumbling down, yelling): Gala-teee-aa, wheeeere are you, honeeey!!??



The next day. The artist kneels down in front of the canvas on which a few lines can be seen.


THE ARTIST: (after a long while) I need months, years of concentration, of meditation. I need to let energies to gather, to leaven, to gurgle.

THE ARTIST: (loudly, praying) God, God, give me powers just one more time, one more time! (he gurgles , hopelessly) One more time… and I’ll ask you nothing more!






 Some days later. August Pygmalion wanders as a beast in a cage. From time to time he drinks from the cognac bottle. (breaking loose)


THE ARTIST: (almost yelling) It cannot be true! (rarely) I feel that the energy inside me hasn’t died! (throwing himself forward the canvas which he tears up with his teeth)

THE ARTIST: (after he calms down a little. Kneeling, he cries as a child) I caaan’t!

(yelling) I caaan’t!

THE ARTIST: (loudly) My hand seems to be a knot! And my body seems to be inert. I am afraid I shall lose my mind.

THE OLD WOMAN: (knocking at the door) August! August, open up please!

THE ARTIST (moaning) Leave me alone, mother! (he looks for the bottle from which he drinks passionately)






More calm, in front of the canvas, kneeling.

THE ARTIST: (frenetically) It works! (loudly) I feel it works! (he works unconsciously)

THE ARTIST (with the eyes burning feverishly) It works! (cries of joy) God! It works! (pause) Let me so, God! (without looking, he extends his hand for the cognac bottle from which he drinks without knowing what he is doing )

THE ARTIST (working feverishly) Galateea! (loudly) She seems to be a star! (mourning) Which rises and rises…God…and rises. Up at night on the realm.

THE ARTIST (working feverishly, on the canvas appears the portrait of an unbelievable beauty of his wife) My Galateea…The light of my eyes…Venus and Sun. Rises in the sky!

THE ARTIST (exhausted, whispering) God! Oh, Mighty, have mercy. Keep me so just one more hour. Just one more hour and I can die.

THE ARTIST (closing his eyes) I feel myself exhausted…As if I had not blood any more (he extends his hand for the bottle and drinks passionately keeping his eyes closed. He will fell down at the feet of the immense picture)






August Pygmalion kneels in front of the picture.


THE ARTIST (working feverishly, lit up) Keep me up, God! (loudly) One more hour. One more day. (pause, working like a madman) Fine, God, keep me up this way! 

THE ARTIST (loudly): Galateea! I can see you! I can feel and smell you, my honey! (amazed) You’re alive inside me! Soon you’ll be in the flesh! (nearly screaming) Alive, beautiful and strong!

THE ARTIST (overwhelmed by the ecstasy of creation; yelling) Goooooood! One more minute! (gasping) Just one more minute! And the miracle will happen! (pause; he works excitedly like in a self – denial)

THE ARTIST: Oh, miserable world!  So stupid, that you don’t believe in your own salvation! (his moment, at the door through which his old mother usually entered, a man with a gun in his hand appears)

 THE ARTIST (as if he lost his minds) Galateea! More beautiful than a star! More alive than a heart!

THE MAN (loudly) Painter! Hands up!

THE ARTIST (after a moment when he was afraid): Who?

THE MAN (harshly): Hands up! If you move a finger I’ll kill you…(pause, cynical) As I did killed your mother.

THE ARTIST (turns to him, astonished; his hands shake); What…? What’s happening?

THE MAN: (snarling): Haven’t you got eyes to see? (pause) I’ve read in the newspaper about the other painting of your wife. (rarely; master of himself ) I want it!

THE ARTIST: (amazed; he starts to realize) What ? Did you kill my mother?  (more and more  deafening silence )

THE MAN (grinning): I think she’s just faint. (short pause) I’ m interested in your picture. Where’s it? (comes near a cassette recorder on a shelf and presses on play button)

THE ARTIST (horrified mumbles something)

THE MAN: Let’s play some music, maybe you can remember anything.

THE ARTIST (astonished and terrified): It …it’s…in…in…the…garret. (loudly) I want to see my mother!

THE MAN (calm, pressing the buttons of the cassette recorder that does not work) You’ll see your mother …later. (concerned with the instrument) Well, it doesn’t work. (all of a sudden a voice bursts out )

RADIO: As the UPI Agency have announced quoted by France Press, the  FAO experts gathered at the recent Conference held in the capital of Italy estimate that the number of children who will die of hunger this year will top two million. According to their estimations more than half of earth’s population suffers from malnutrition. All these happen while the arms race is going on aberrantly.

THE ARTIST (as if he lived a shock): What did he say? (amazed) This year two million children will die of hunger? (icy, peaceful silence )

THE MAN (calm, grinning) : If you think you can take me in , you’re wrong, sir! I have strong enough nerves, much stronger than yours. (harshly, the barrel of the gun pointed to him) I want the picture!

THE ARTIST (more lucid): I’ll give it to you if you bring my mother, bastard (loudly) sound and safe!  If you leave making us no harm.

THE MAN (harshly): Agreed. Be quite here. At the slightest move I shoot.

THE ARTIST (stays in the same position, horrified, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Some moments later the man comes in holding the old woman who fainted away)

THE MAN: Look, she’s sound and safe. (a faint far away thunder is heard as a sign of the storm that bursts out again )

THE ARTIST (horrified, with indignation) My God, you hit her! (he looks at him full of hate)

THE MAN: (sternly, cynical) Shut up, you animal! I give you three minutes! Go into the garret and bring the picture (energetically) And your most valuable things. Otherwise it won’t be good. (an icily  silence flows)

THE ARTIST: (wiping his perspiration) Do you promise then you’ll leave us alone?

THE MAN:  (the storm is getting closer: it is heard the prolonged thunderclap) I assure you.

THE ARTIST: Swear, otherwise I don’t believe you. (he looks to him with hate)

THE MAN (dryly, bred) I swear.

THE ARTIST (he goes out. He is back after some minutes with the painting that shows Galateea.  Besides this he gives him other two rolled canvases) It is this one.

THE MAN (examining the picture carefully. He unfolds the two scrolls. He seems satisfied. He takes a look at the picture that was in hand) What does this picture represent?

THE ARTIST (bending to the old woman who was recovering) It isn’t finished. I cannot give it to you. (pause)

THE MAN: (he seems satisfied) Well…yes .It is not bad. (packing the taken pictures)

 THE ARTIST: (calm, sad) I want you to leave so I can take care of my mother (prolonged thunder followed by a muffled lightning)

THE MAN (without rushing) She is more scared but she is well.

THE OLD WOMAN (moaning) August…August…

THE ARTIST (he breathes deeply, sadly) There is nothing wrong, mother, stay calm.

THE MAN (taking his last look) I am sorry. Au revoire…Life is life…If…(he threatens him)

THE ARTIST (sighing, calmly) Go without fear.

THE MAN (he disappears. Somewhere nearby there is a thunder. The windows are heard vibrating)

THE OLD WOMAN (moaning, opening her eyes) Bastard…

THE ARTIST (giving her to drink) Drink some water, mother.

THE OLD WOMAN (after she drinks) I am recovered. (pause) Thanks to God we are alive. He could have killed us as Galateea was.                             

THE ARTIST (wandering lost in thoughts in his workshop) I still cannot believe my eyes. (loudly) There can’t be such a thing.

THE OLD WOMAN (sighing) It was true, darling. Unfortunately it was as real as it could be…Thanks God I am alive…(a lasting thunder as if it won’t stop)



THE ARTIST (after smoking thoughtfully a cigarette) Awful… I am shocked

THE OLD WOMAN (moaning, getting up slowly) Only last year in The United States there were 300 millions of robberies and I don’t know how many murders. Can you imagine what this means?

THE ARTIST (depressed, as if he were obsessed by something) Awful…

THE OLD WOMAN (trying to walk) Thanks God i am still alive (pause) Let’s see if he took anything else from the house.(she goes out)

THE ARTIST: (being alone. He takes his head in his hands) Awful…(pause) Terrible…(with an immense desperation) In a world like this one what is the artist’s mission? Because of this thing I can’t stand living. (rarely) In fact I am a dead Pygmalion. (prolonged thunder ,through the workshop’s  window the thunder is seen flashing through the sky)

THE ARTIST (after some moments) God, and it was me who wanted to give Galateea life one more time…(terrified) Such an absurd gesture…(pause) I think full of horror at the mothers who must give birth to their children in this world…(he stands up and  stops in front of the picture)

THE ARTIST (access of madness, tearing the picture. Screaming): Galateea! Honey, it was me who gave you birth, it is me who kills you! (pause) To your happiness…(silence. It is heard just the artist’s gasp) And mine. (Silence. Outside starts the storm. The raining is heard pattering on the roof)

THE ARTIST (loudly) Rain, God and stop no more! (yelling) Lave this accursed and ill, this dirty and hooorriiiiible world of sins. (remote thunder)

THE ARTIST (silence, meditating) Weren’t enough two world wars. This world needs an unfinished flood as Noel’s…(thunders, lasting thunderclap. Then the unfinished sound of the rain falling on the roof)                       

       THE END                                                                                           



Ştefan Dumitrescu’s coming in our literature will bring great changes.”

Ana Blandiana, Amfiteatru Review, No12, 1971

Ştefan Dumitrescu is a chance of Romanian literature. He is a great chance of Romanian literature.”

         Adrian Păunescu, Flacăra Review, 17th September 1973

“Poet, fiction writer, playwright, essay writer, literary critic and historian, philosopher and political analyst, this man so good, with a face expression of ever wondering child, is one of the most anxious, burning and sensitive consciousness of this century. When the Romanian really know Ştefan Dumitrescu the entire depth and intensity of this work, they will be surprised that a writer of the same stature as Thomas Mann and Albert Camus  was unknown, among them. At the end of this century Ştefan Dumitrescu is a point of lance thrusted deeply into universality. I would compare Ştefan Dumitrescu with Mircea Eliade if I didn’t know (because I know the main part of his work) that Ştefan Dumitrescu looks like himself.

Francesca Pini, university lecturer, literary critic, (4th cover of the book Ancestral Bed,1993)

“Laughter” by Ştefan Dumitrescu. His vocation to dramatic literature gets the colours of certainty.

“Laughter” by Ştefan Dumitrescu makes up a lasting opus regarding its structure and the problems that spur the interest and the expressive literary phrases. His talent is obvious, as well as his dramatic experience. Intelligent, thorough and allusive-document  and fiction, art of moral portrait and of struggle intensity-the man and the drama create a structure which the literary guild has to enlighten.”

Ion Toboşaru, academician, professor, doctor aesthetician 1984