“So much the more our carver’s excellence,” said Paulina, “which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her as if she lived now.”
“As now she might have done,” sighed Leontes. “O, thus she stood, even with such life of majesty, warm life, as now it coldly stands, when first I wooed her!”
“Give me leave,” said Perdita, “and do not say ’tis superstition that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, dear Queen, that ended when I but began, give me that hand of yours to kiss.”
“O, patience!” said Paulina. “The statue is but newly fixed; the colour is not dry.”
She made a movement to draw the curtain, saying that if they looked much longer they would presently think the statue moved. But Leontes implored her to let him gaze at it longer, for the more he did so, the more lifelike it appeared; it seemed to breathe; there was light in the eyes; it recalled to him all his love and sorrow for the lost Hermione.
“Let no man mock me,” he said, “for I will kiss it.”
Paulina begged him to forbear, and again offered to draw the curtain, and again he prevented her.
“Either forbear, and at once leave the chapel, or prepare for further amazement,” said Paulina. “If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, and take you by the hand. But then you’ll think—which I protest against—I am assisted by wicked powers.”
“What you can make her do, I am content to look on,” said Leontes; “what to speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move.”
Then Paulina bade music sound, and as the soft strains floated through the chapel, the statue of Hermione stirred, stepped down from its place, and took Leontes by the hand.