 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. George Bernard Shaw by G. K. Chesterton. Section 1, containing introduction, a problem of a preface and Chapter 1, the Irishman. Introduction to the first edition. Most people either say that they agree with Bernard Shaw or that they do not understand him. I am the only person who understands him and I do not agree with him. G. K. Chesterton. The Problem of a Preface. A peculiar difficulty arrests the writer of this rough study at the very start. Many people know Mr. Bernard Shaw chiefly as a man who would write a very long preface, even to a very short play. And there is truth in the idea. He is indeed a very preparatory sort of person. He always gives the explanation before the incident. But so, for the matter of that, does the Gospel of St. John. For Bernard Shaw, as for the mystics, Christian and heathen, and Shaw is best described as a heathen mystic, the philosophy of facts is anterior to the facts themselves. In due time we come to the fact, the incarnation, but in the beginning was the word. This produces upon many minds an impression of needless preparation and a kind of bustling prolixity. But the truth is that the very rapidity of such a man's mind makes him seem slow in getting to the point. It is positively because he is quick-witted that he is long-winded. A quick-eye for ideas may actually make a writer slow in reaching his goal, just as a quick-eye for landscape might make a motorist slow in reaching Brighton. An original man has to pause at every illusion or simile to re-explain historical parallels, to reshape distorted words. Any ordinary leader-writer, let us say, might write swiftly and smoothly something like this. The element of religion in the Puritan rebellion, if hostile to art, yet saved the movement from some of the evils in which the French Revolution involved morality. Now a man like Mr. Shaw, who has his own views on everything, would be forced to make the sentence long and broken instead of swift and smooth. He would say something like this. The element of religion, as I explain religion in the Puritan rebellion, which you wholly misunderstand, if hostile to art, that is what I mean by art, may have saved it from some evils, remember my definition of evil, in which the French Revolution of which I have my own opinion involved morality, which I will define for you in a minute. That is the worst of being a really universal skeptic and philosopher. It is such slow work. The very forest of the man's thoughts chokes up his thoroughfare. A man must be orthodox upon most things, or he will never even have time to preach his own heresy. Now the same difficulty which affects the work of Bernard Shaw affects also any book about him. There is an unavoidable artistic necessity to put the preface before the play. That is, there is a necessity to say something of what Bernard Shaw's experience means before one even says what it was. We have to mention what he did when we have already explained why he did it. Viewed superficially, his life consists of fairly conventional incidents and might easily fall under fairly conventional phrases. It might be the life of any Dublin clerk or Manchester socialist or London author. If I touch on the man's life before his work, it will seem trivial. Yet taken with his work, it is the most important. In short, one could scarcely know what Shaw's doings meant unless one knew what he meant by them. This difficulty in mere order and construction has puzzled me very much. I am going to overcome it clumsily, perhaps, but in the way which affects me as most sincere. Before I write even a slight suggestion of his relation to the stage, I am going to write of three soils or atmospheres out of which that relation grew. In other words, before I write of Shaw I will write of three great influences upon Shaw. They were all three there before he was born, yet each one of them is himself and a very vivid portrait of him from one point of view. I have called these three traditions the Irishman, the Puritan, and the Progressive. I do not see how this preparatory theorizing is to be avoided, for if I simply said, for instance, that Bernard Shaw was an Irishman, the impression produced on the reader, might be remarked from my thought and what is more important from Shaw's. People might think, for instance, that I meant that he was irresponsible. That would throw out the whole plan of these pages, for if there is one thing that Shaw is not, it is irresponsible. The responsibility in him rings like steel. Or again, if I simply call him a Puritan, it might mean something about nude statues or prudes on the prowl. Or if I call him a Progressive, it might be supposed to mean that he votes for Progressives at the county council election, which I very much doubt. I have no other course but this, or briefly explaining such matters as Shaw himself might explain them. Some fastidious persons may object to my thus putting, the moral in front of the table. Some may imagine in their innocence that they already understand the word Puritan or the yet more mysterious word, Irishman. The only person, indeed, of whose approval I feel fairly certain is Mr. Bernard Shaw himself, the man of many introductions. Chapter 1 George Bernard Shaw, the Irishman The English public has commonly professed with the kind of pride that it cannot understand Mr. Bernard Shaw. There are many reasons for it which ought to be adequately considered in such a book as this. But the first and most obvious reason is the mere statement that George Bernard Shaw was born in Dublin in 1856. At least one reason why Englishmen cannot understand Mr. Shaw is that Englishmen have never taken the trouble to understand Irishman. They will sometimes be generous to Ireland, but never just to Ireland. They will speak to Ireland, they will speak for Ireland, but they will not hear Ireland speak. All the real amiability which most Englishmen undoubtedly feel towards Irishman is lavished upon a class of Irishmen which, unfortunately, does not exist. The Irishman of the English farce with his brogue, his buoyancy, and his tender hearted irresponsibility is a man who ought to have been thoroughly pampered with praise and sympathy if he had only existed to receive them. Unfortunately, all the time that we were creating a comic Irishman in fiction, we were creating a tragic Irishman, in fact. Never perhaps has there been a situation of such excruciating cross-purposes even in the three-act farce. The more we saw in the Irishman a sort of warm and weak fidelity, the more he regarded us with a sort of icy anger. The more the oppressor looked down with an amiable pity, the more did the oppress look down with a somewhat unamiable contempt. But indeed it is needless to say that such comic cross-purposes could be put into a play. They have been put into a play. They have put into what is perhaps the most real of Mr. Bernard Shaw's plays, John Bull's Other Island. It is somewhat absurd to imagine that anyone who has not read a play by Mr. Shaw will be reading a book about him. But if it comes to that it is, as I clearly perceive, absurd to be writing a book about Mr. Bernard Shaw at all, it is indefensibly foolish to attempt to explain a man whose whole object through life has been to explain himself. But even in nonsense there is a need for logic and consistency. Therefore let us proceed on the assumption that when I say that all Mr. Shaw's blood and origin may be found in John Bull's Other Island. Some reader may answer that he does not know the play. Besides, it is more important to put the reader right about England and Ireland even than to put him right about Shaw. If he reminds me that this is a book about Shaw, I can only assure him I will reasonably and at proper intervals remember the fact. Mr. Shaw himself once said, I am a typical Irishman. My family came from Yorkshire. Scarcely anyone but a typical Irishman could have made the remark. It is, in fact, a bull, a conscious bull. A bull is only a paradox which people are too stupid to understand. It is the rapid summary of something which is at once so true and so complex that the speaker, who has the swift intelligence to perceive it, has not the slow patience to explain it. Old dogmas are much of this kind. Dogmas are often spoken of as if they were signs of the slowness or the endurance of the human mind. As a matter of fact they are marks of mental promptitude and lucid impatience. A man will put his meaning mystically because he cannot waste time in putting it rationally. Dogmas are not dark and mysterious. Rather a dogma is like a flash of lightning, an instantaneous lucidity that opens across a whole landscape. Of the same nature are Irish bulls. They are summaries which are too true to be consistent. The Irish make Irish bulls for the same reason that they accept papal bulls. It is because it is better to speak wisdom foolishly like the saints rather than to speak folly wisely like the dons. This is the truth about mystical dogmas and the truth about Irish bulls. It is also the truth about the paradoxes of Bernard Shaw. Each of them is an argument impatiently shortened into an epigram. Each of them represents a truth hammered and hardened with almost disdainful violence until it is compressed into a small space, until it is made brief and almost incomprehensible. The case of that curt remark about Ireland and Yorkshire is a very typical one. If Mr. Shaw had really attempted to set out all the sensible stages of his joke, the sentence would have run something like this. That I am an Irishman is a fact of psychology which I can trace in many of the things that come out of me, my fastidiousness, my frigid fierceness, and my distrust of mere pleasure. But the thing must be tested by what comes from me. Do not try me on the dodge of asking where I came from, how many batches of 365 days my family was in Ireland. Do not play any games on me about whether I am a kelt, a word that is dimmed to the anthropologist and utterly unmeaning to anybody else. Do not start any driveling discussions about whether the word Shaw is German, or Scandinavian, or Iberian, or Basque. You know you are human, I know I am Irish, and I know I belong to a certain type and temper of society. I know that all sorts of people of all sorts of blood live in that society, and by that society, and are therefore Irish. You can take your books of anthropology to hell or to Oxford. Thus gently, elaborately, and at length, Mr. Shaw would have explained his meaning if he had thought it worth his while. As he did not, he merely flung the symbolic but very complete sentence, I am a typical Irishman, my family came from Yorkshire. What then is the colour of this Irish society, of which Bernard Shaw, with all his individual oddity, is yet an essential type? One generalisation, I think, may at least be made. Ireland has in it a quality which caused it, in the most aesthetic age of Christianity, to be called the land of saints, and which still might give it a claim to be called the land of virgins. An Irish Catholic priest once said to me, there is in our people a fear of the passions which is older even than Christianity. Everyone who has read Shaw's play upon Ireland will remember the thing in the horror of the Irish girl at being kissed in the public streets. But anyone who knows Shaw's work will recognise it in Shaw himself. There exists by accident an early and beardless portrait of him which really suggests, in the severity and purity of its lines, some of the early aesthetic pictures of the beardless Christ. However he may shout profanities or seek to shatter the shrines. There is always something about him which suggests that in a sweeter and more solid civilisation he would have been a great saint. He would have been a saint of a sternly aesthetic, perhaps of a sternly negative type, but he has this strange note of the saint in him, that he is literally unworldly. Worldliness has no human magic for him. He is not bewitched by rank nor drawn on by conviviality at all. He could not understand the intellectual surrender of the snob. He is perhaps a defective character, but he is not a mixed one. All the virtues he has are heroic virtues. Shaw is like the Venus of Milo. All that there is of him is admirable. But in any case this Irish innocence is peculiar and fundamental in him, and as strange as it may sound I think that his innocence has a great deal to do with his suggestions of sexual revolution. Such a man is comparatively audacious in theory because he is comparatively clean in thought. Powerful men who have powerful passions use much of their strength in forging chains for themselves. They alone know how strong the chains need to be. But there are other souls who walk the woods like Diana with a sort of wild chastity. I confess I think that this Irish purity a little disables a critic in dealing as Mr. Shaw has dealt with the roots and reality of the marriage law. He forgets that those fierce and elementary functions which drive the universe have an impetus which goes beyond itself and cannot always easily be recovered. So the healthiest men may often erect a law to watch them, just as the healthiest sleepers may want an alarm clock to wake them up. However this may be. Bernard Shaw certainly has all the virtues and all the powers that go with this original quality in Ireland. One of them is a sort of awful elegance, a dangerous and somewhat inhuman daintiness, a taste which sometimes seems to shrink from matter itself as though it were mud. Of the many sincere things Mr. Shaw has said, he never said a more sincere one than when he stated he was a vegetarian, not because eating meat was bad morality, but because it was bad taste. It would be fanciful to say that Mr. Shaw is a vegetarian because he comes of a race of vegetarians, of peasants who are compelled to accept the simple life and the shape of potatoes. But I am sure that his fierce fastidiousness in such matters is one of the allotropic forms of the Irish purity. It is to the virtue of Father Matthew what a coal is to a diamond. It has, of course, the quality common to all special and unbalanced types of virtue, that you never know where it will stop. I can feel what Mr. Shaw probably means when he says that it is disgusting to feast off dead bodies or to cut lumps off what once was a living thing. But I can never know at what moment he may not feel in the same way that it is disgusting to mutilate a pear tree or to root out of the earth those miserable mandrakes which cannot even grow. There is no natural limit to this rush and riotous gallop of refinement. But it is not this physical and fantastic purity which I should chiefly count among the legacies of the old Irish morality. A much more important gift is that which all the saints declared to be the reward of chastity, a queer clearness of the intellect, like the hard clearness of a crystal. This certainly Mr. Shaw possesses in such degree that at certain times the hardness seems rather clearer than the clearness. But so it does in all the most typical Irish characters and Irish attitudes of mind. This is probably why Irishmen succeed so much in such professions as require a certain crystalline realism, especially about results. Such professions are the soldiers and the lawyers. These give ample opportunity for crimes, but not much for mere illusions. If you have composed a bad opera, you may persuade yourself that it is a good one. If you have carved a bad statue, you can think yourself better than Michelangelo. But if you have lost a battle, you cannot believe you have won it. If your client is hanged, you cannot pretend that you have got him off. There must be some sense in every popular prejudice even about foreigners. And the English people certainly have somehow got an impression and a tradition that the Irishmen is genial, unreasonable, and sentimental. This legend of the tender, irresponsible petty has two roots. There are two elements in the Irish which made the mistake possible. First, the very logic of the Irishmen makes him regard war or revolution as extra-logical, as ultima ratio, which is beyond reason. When fighting a powerful enemy, he no more worries whether all his charges are exact or all his attitudes dignified than a soldier worries whether a cannonball is shapely or a plan of campaign picturesque. He is aggressive, he attacks. He seems merely to be rowdy in Ireland when he is really carrying the war into Africa or England. A Dublin tradesman printed his name and trade in archaic urse on his cart. He knew that hardly anybody could read it. He did it to annoy. In his position I think he was quite right. When one is oppressed it is a mark of chivalry to hurt oneself in order to hurt the oppressor. But the English, never having had a real revolution since the Middle Ages, find it very hard to understand this steady passion for being a nuisance and mistake it for mere whimsical impulsiveness and folly. When an Irish member holds up the whole business of the House of Commons by talking of his bleeding country for five or six hours, the simple English member supposes that he is a sentimentalist. The truth is that he is a scornful realist, who alone remains unaffected by the sentimentalism of the House of Commons. The Irishman is neither poet enough nor snob enough to be swept away by those smooth social and historical tides and tendencies which carry radicals and labour members comfortably off their feet. He goes on asking for a thing because he wants it, and he tries really to hurt his enemies because they are his enemies. This is the first of the queer confusions, which make the hard Irishman look soft. He seems to us wild and unreasonable because he is really much too reasonable to be anything but fierce when he is fighting. In all this it will not be difficult to see the Irishman in Bernard Shaw, though personally one of the kindest men in the world he has often written really in order to hurt. Not because he hated any particular man he is hardly hot and animal enough for that, but because he really hated certain ideas, even unto the slaying. He provokes, he will not let people alone. One might even say that he bullies, only that this would be unfair, because he always wishes the other man to hit back. At least he always challenges like a true Green Islander, and even stronger instance of his national trait can be found in another eminent Irishman, Oscar Wilde. This philosophy, which was Wilde, was a philosophy of ease, of acceptance and luxurious illusion. Yet being Irish he could not help putting it in pugnacious and propagandist epigrams. He preached his softness with a hard decision. He praised pleasure in the words most calculated to give pain. This armed insolence, which was the noblest thing about him, was also the Irish thing. He challenged all comers. It is a good instance of how right popular tradition is, even when it is most wrong, that the English have perceived and preserved this essential trait of Ireland in a proverbial phrase. It is true that the Irishman says, who will tread on the tail of my coat. But there is a second cause, which creates the English fallacy, that the Irish are weak and emotional. This again springs from the very fact that the Irish are lucid and logical. For being logical, they strictly separate poetry from prose. And as in prose, they are strictly prosaic. So in poetry they are purely poetical. In this, as in one or two other things, they resemble the French, who make their gardens beautiful because they are gardens. But their fields are ugly because they are only fields. An Irishman may like romance, but he will say, to use a frequent shavian phrase, that it is only romance. A great part of the English energy in fiction arises from the very fact that their fiction half deceives them. If Rudyard Kipling, for instance, had written his short stories in France, they would have been praised as cool, clever little works of art, rather cruel, and very nervous and feminine. Kipling's short stories would have been appreciated like Maupassant's short stories. In England they were not appreciated, but believed. They were taken seriously by a startled nation as a true picture of the empire and of the universe. The English people made haste to abandon England in favor of Mr. Kipling and his imaginary colonies. They made haste to abandon Christianity in favor of Mr. Kipling's rather morbid version of Judaism. Such a moral boom of a book would be almost impossible in Ireland. As the Irish mind distinguishes between life and literature, Mr. Bernard Shaw himself summed this up as he sums up so many things in a compact sentence which he uttered in conversation with the present writer. An Irishman has two eyes. He meant that with one eye an Irishman saw that a dream was inspiring, bewitching, or sublime, and with the other eye, that after all it was a dream. Perhaps a humor and the sentiment of an Englishman cause him to wink the other eye. Two other small examples will illustrate the English mistake. Take for instance that noble survival from a nobler age of politics. I mean Irish oratory. The English imagine that Irish politicians are so hot-headed and poetical that they have to pour out a torrent of burning words. The truth is that the Irish are so clear-headed and critical that they still regard rhetoric as a distinct art, as the ancients did. Thus a man makes a speech as a man plays a violin, not necessarily without feeling, but chiefly because he knows how to do it. Another instance of the same thing is that quality which is always called the Irish charm. The Irish are agreeable not because they are particularly emotional, but because they are very highly civilized. Blarney is a ritual, as much of a ritual as kissing the Blarney stone. Lastly there is one general truth about Ireland which may well have influenced Bernard Shaw from the first, and almost certainly influenced him for good. Ireland is a country in which the political conflicts are at least genuine. They are about something. They are about patriotism, about religion, or about money. The three great realities. In other words, they are concerned with what commonwealth a man lives in, with what universe a man lives in, or how he is to manage to live in either. But they are not concerned with which of two wealthy cousins in the same governing class shall be allowed to bring in the same parish council's bills. There is no party system in Ireland. The party system in England is an enormous and most efficient machine for preventing political conflicts. The party system is arranged on the same principle as the three-legged race. The principle that union is not always strength and is never activity. Nobody asks for what he really wants. But in Ireland the loyalist is just as ready to throw over the king as the Finnean to throw over Mr. Gladstone. Each will throw over anything except the thing he wants. Hence it happens that even the follies or the frauds of the Irish politics are more genuineness symptoms and more honorable as symbols than the lumbering hypocrisies of the prosperous parliamentarian. The very lies of Dublin and Belfast are truer than the truisms of Westminster. They have an object. They refer to a state of things. There was more honesty in the sense of actuality about Pigo's letters than about the times leading articles on them. When Parnell said calmly before the Royal Commission that he had made a certain remark in order to mislead the house, he proved himself to be one of the few truthful men of his time. An ordinary British statesman would never have made the confession because he would have grown quite accustomed to committing the crime. The party system itself implies a habit of stating something other than the truth. A leader of the house means a misleader of the house. Bernard Shaw was born outside all this, and he carries that freedom upon his face. Whether what he heard in boyhood was violent nationalism or virulent unionism, it was at least something which wanted a certain principle to be in force, not a certain clique to be in office. Of him the great Gilbertarian generalization is untrue. He was not born either a little liberal or else a little conservative. He did not, like most of us, pass through the stage of being a good party man on his way to the difficult business of being a good man. He came to stare at our general elections as the red Indian might stare at the Oxford and Cambridge boat race, blind to all its irrelevant sentimentalities and to some of its legitimate sentiments. Bernard Shaw entered England as an alien, as an invader, as a conqueror. In other words, he entered England as an Irishman. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. George Bernard Shaw by G. K. Chesterton. Section 2, Chapter 2, The Puritan. It has been said in the first section that Bernard Shaw draws from his own nation two unquestionable qualities, a kind of intellectual chastity and the fighting spirit. He is so much of an idealist about his ideals that he can be a ruthless realist in his methods. His soul has, in short, the virginity and the violence of Ireland. But Bernard Shaw is not merely an Irishman. He is not even a typical one. He is a certain, separated and peculiar kind of Irishman, which is not easy to describe. Some nationalist Irishmen have referred to him contemptuously as a West Britain. But this is really unfair. For whatever Mr. Shaw's mental faults may be, the easy adoption of an unmeaning phrase like Britain is certainly not one of them. It would be much nearer the truth to put the thing in the bold and bold terms of the old Irish song and call him the anti-Irish Irishman. But it is only fair to say that the description is far less of a monstrosity than the anti-English Englishman would be, because the Irish are so much stronger in self-criticism. Compared with the constant self-flattery of the English, nearly every Irishman is an anti-Irish Irishman. But here again popular phraseology hits the right word. This fairly educated and fairly wealthy Protestant wedge, which is driven into the country at Dublin and elsewhere, is a thing not easy superficially to summarize in any term. It cannot be described merely as a minority, for a minority means the part of a nation which is conquered. But this thing means something that conquers and is not entirely part of a nation. Nor can one even fall back on the phrase of aristocracy. For an aristocracy implies at least some chorus of snobbish enthusiasm. It implies that some at least are willingly led by the leaders, if only towards vulgarity and vice. There is only one word for the minority in Ireland, and that is the word that public phraseology has found. I mean the word garrison. The Irish are essentially right when they talk as if all Protestant Unionists lived inside the castle. They have all the virtues and limitations of a literal garrison in a fort. That is, they are valiant, consistent, reliable in an obvious public sense. But their curse is that they can only tread the flagstones of the courtyard of the cold rock of the ramparts. They have never so much as set their foot upon their native soil. They have considered Bernard Shaw as an Irishman. The next step is to consider him as an exile from Ireland living in Ireland. That, some people would say, is a paradox after his own heart. But indeed such a complication is not really difficult to expound. The great religion and the great national tradition which have persisted for so many centuries in Ireland have encouraged these clean and cutting elements. They have encouraged many other things which serve to balance them. The Irish peasant has these qualities which are somewhat peculiar to Ireland, a strange purity, and a strange pugnacity. But the Irish peasant also has qualities which are common to all peasants, and his nation has qualities that are common to all healthy nations. I mean chiefly the things that most of us absorb in childhood, especially the sense of the supernatural and the sense of the natural, the love of the sky with its infinity of vision, and the love of the soil with its strict hedges and solid shapes of ownership. But here comes the paradox of Shaw, the greatest of all his paradoxes, and the one of which he is unconscious. These one or two plain truths which quite stupid people learn at the beginning are exactly the one or two truths which Bernard Shaw may not learn even at the end. He is a daring pilgrim who has set out from the grave to find the cradle. He started from the points of view which no one else was clever enough to discover, and he is at last discovering points of view which no one else was ever stupid enough to ignore. The absence of the red-hot truisms of boyhood, this sense that he is not rooted in the ancient sagacities of infancy, has, I think, a great deal to do with his position as a member of an alien minority in Ireland. He who has no real country can have no real home. The average autocontherness Irishman is close to patriotism because he is close to the earth. He is close to domesticity because he is close to the earth. He is close to doctrinal theology and elaborate ritual because he is close to the earth. In short, he is close to the heavens because he is close to the earth. But we must not expect any of these elemental and collective virtues in the man of the garrison. He cannot be expected to exhibit the virtues of a people, but only as Ibsen would say of an enemy of the people. Mr. Shaw has no living traditions, no schoolboy tricks, no college customs to link him with other men. Nothing about him can be supposed to refer to a family feud or to a family joke. He does not drink toasts. He does not keep anniversaries, musical as he is. I doubt if he would consent to sing. All this has something in it of a tree with its roots in the air. The best way to shorten winter is to prolong Christmas, and the only way to enjoy the sun of April is to be an April fool. When people asked Bernard Shaw to attend the Stratford Tercentenary, he wrote back with characteristic contempt. I do not keep my own birthday, and I cannot see why I should keep Shakespeare's. I think that if Mr. Shaw had always kept his own birthday, he would be better able to understand Shakespeare's birthday and Shakespeare's poetry. In conjecturally referring this negative side of the man, his lack of the smaller charities of our common childhood to his birth in the dominant Irish sect, I do not write without historic memory or reference to other cases. That minority of Protestant exiles, which mainly represented Ireland to England during the eighteenth century, did contain some specimens of the Irish lounger and even of the Irish blackguard. Sheridan and even Goldsmith suggested the type. Even in their irresponsibility, these figures had a touch of Irish tartness and realism, but the type has been too much insisted on to the exclusion of others equally national and interesting. To one of these it is worthwhile to draw attention. At intervals during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, there has appeared a peculiar kind of Irishman. He is so unlike the English image of Ireland that the English have actually fallen back on the pretense that he was not Irish at all. The type is commonly Protestant and sometimes seems to be almost anti-national in its accurate instinct for judging itself. Its nationalism only appears when it flings itself with even bitterer pleasure into judging the foreigner or the invader. The first and greatest of such figures was Swift. Thackeray simply denied that Swift was an Irishman because he was not a stage Irishman. He was not, in the English novelist's opinion, winning and agreeable enough to be Irish. The truth is that Swift was much too harsh and disagreeable to be English. There is a great deal of Jonathan Swift in Bernard Shaw. Shaw is like Swift, for instance, in combining extravagant fancy with a curious sort of coldness. But he is most like Swift in that very quality which Thackeray said was impossible in an Irishman. Benevolent bullying. A pity touched with contempt and a habit of knocking men down for their own good. Characters in novels are often described as so amiable that they hate to be thanked. It is not an amiable quality, and it is an extremely rare one, but Swift possessed it. When Swift was buried, the Dublin poor came in crowds and swept by the grave of the broadest and most free-handed of their benefactors. Swift deserved the public tribute. But he might have writhed and kicked in his grave at the thought of receiving it. There is, in GBS, something of the same inhumane humanity. Irish history has offered a third instance of this particular type of educated and protestant Irishman. Sincere, unsympathetic, aggressive, alone. I mean Parnell. And with him also a bewildered England tried the desperate dodge of saying that he was not Irish at all. As if any thinkable, sensible, snobbish, law-abiding Englishman would ever have defied all the drawing-rooms by disdaining the House of Commons. Despite the difference between test eternity and a torrent of fluency, there is much in common also between Shaw and Parnell. Something in common even in the figures of the two men in bony bearded faces with their almost satanic self-position. It will not do to pretend that none of these three men belong to their own nation. But it is true that they belong to one special, though recurring, type of that nation. And they all three have this peculiar mark, that while nationalists in their various ways, they all give to the more genial English one common impression. I mean the impression that they do not so much love Ireland as hate England. I will not dogmatize upon the difficult question as to whether there is any religious significance in the fact that these three rather ruthless Irishmen were Protestant Irishmen. I inclined to think myself that the Catholic Church has added charity and gentleness to the virtues of a people which would otherwise have been too keen and contemptuous, too aristocratic. But however this may be, there can surely be no question that Bernard Shaw's Protestant education in a Catholic country has made a great deal of difference to his mind. It has affected it in two ways, the first negative and the second positive. It has affected him by cutting him off, as we have said, from the fields and fountains of his real home and history, by making him an orangeman. And it has affected him by the particular color of the particular religion which he received by making him a Puritan. In one of his numerous prefaces he says, I have always been on the side of the Puritans in the matter of art. And a closer study will, I think, reveal that he is on the side of the Puritans in almost everything. Puritanism was not a mere code of cruel regulations, though some of its regulations were more cruel than any that have disgraced Europe. Nor was Puritanism a mere nightmare, an evil shadow of Eastern gloom and fatalism, though this element did enter it, and was, as it were, the symptom and punishment of its essential error. Something much nobler, even if almost equally mistaken, was the original energy in the Puritan creed. And it must be defined with a little more delicacy, if we are really to understand the attitude of G.B.S., who is the greatest of the modern Puritans and, perhaps, the last. I should roughly define the first spirit in Puritanism, thus. It was a refusal to contemplate God or goodness with anything lighter or milder than the most fierce concentration of the intellect. A Puritan meant originally a man whose mind had no holidays. To use his own favorite phrase he would let no living thing come between him and his God, an attitude which involved eternal torture for him, and a cruel contempt for all the living things. It was better to worship in a barn than in a cathedral, for the specific and specified reason that the cathedral was beautiful. Physical beauty was a false and sensual symbol coming in between the intellect and the object of its intellectual worship. The human brain ought to be at every instant to consuming fire, which burns through all conventional images until they were as transparent as glass. This is the essential Puritan idea, that God can only be praised by direct contemplation of him. You must praise God only with your brain. It is wicked to praise him with your passions or your physical habits or your gesture or instinctive beauty. Or it is wicked to worship by singing or dancing or drinking sacramental wines or building beautiful churches or saying prayers when you are half asleep. We must not worship by dancing, drinking, building or singing. We can only worship by thinking. Our heads can praise God, but never our hands and feet. That is the true and original impulse of the Puritans. There is a great deal to be said for it, and a great deal was said for it in Great Britain, steadily, for two hundred years. It has gradually decayed in England and Scotland, not because of the advance of modern thought, which means nothing, but because of the slow revival of the medieval energy and character in the two peoples. The English were always hearty and humane, and they have made up their minds to be hearty and humane in spite of the Puritans. The result is that Dickens and WW Jacobs have picked up the tradition of Chaucer and Robin Hood. The Scotch were always romantic, and they have made up their minds to be romantic in spite of the Puritans. The result is that Scott and Stevenson have picked up the tradition of Bruce, Blind Harry, and the Vagabond Scottish Kings. England has become English again. Scotland has become Scottish again, in spite of the splendid Incubus, the noble nightmare of Kelvin. There is only one place in the British Islands where one may naturally expect to find still surviving in its fullness the fierce detachment of the true Puritan. That place is the Protestant part of Ireland. The orange Kelvinists can be disturbed by no national resurrection, for they have no nation. In them, if in any people, will be found the rectangular consistency of the Kelvinist. The Irish Protestant rioters are at least immeasurably finer fellows than any of their brethren in England. They have the two enormous superiority, first that the Irish Protestant rioters really believe in Protestant theology, and second that the Irish Protestant rioters do really riot. Among these people, if anywhere, should be found the cult of theological clarity combined with barbarous external simplicity. Among these people, Bernard Shaw was born. There is at least one outstanding fact about the man we are studying. Bernard Shaw is never frivolous. He never gives his opinions a holiday. He is never irresponsible, even for an instant. He has no nonsensical second self which he can get into as one gets into a dressing-gown, that ridiculous disguise which is yet more real than the real person. That collapse and humorous confession of futility was much of the force in Charles Lamb and in Stevenson. There is nothing of this in Shaw. His wit is never a weakness. Therefore it is never a sense of humor. For wit is always connected with the idea that truth is close and clear. Humor, on the other hand, is always connected with the idea that truth is tricky and mystical and easily mistaken. What Charles Lamb said of the Scotchman is far truer of this type of Puritan Irishman. He does not see things suddenly in a new light. All his brilliancy is a blindingly rapid calculation and deduction. Bernard Shaw never said an indefensible thing. That is, he never said a thing that he was not prepared brilliantly to defend. He never breaks out into that cry beyond reason and conviction, that cry of Lamb when he cried. We would indict our dreams. O'er of Stevenson, shall we never shed blood? In short he is not a humorist, but a great wit, almost as great as Voltaire. Humor is akin to agnosticism, which is only the negative side of mysticism. But pure wit is akin to Puritanism. To the perfect and painful consciousness of the final fact in the universe. Very briefly, the man who sees consistency in things is a wit, and a Calvinist. The man who sees the inconsistency in things is a humorist and a Catholic. However this may be, Bernard Shaw exhibits all that is purest in the Puritan. The desire to see truth face to face, even if it slays us. The high impatience with irrelevant sentiment or obstructive symbol. The constant effort to keep the soul at its highest pressure and speed, his instincts, upon all social customs and questions, are Puritan. His favorite author is Bunyan. But along with what was inspiring and direct in Puritanism, Bernard Shaw has inherited also some of the things that were cumbersome and traditional. If ever Shaw exhibits a prejudice, it is always a Puritan prejudice. For Puritanism has not been able to sustain, through three centuries, that native ecstasy of the direct contemplation of truth. Indeed it was the whole mistake of Puritanism to imagine for a moment that it could. One cannot be serious for three hundred years. In institutions built so as to endure for ages, you must have relaxation, symbolic relativity, and healthy routine. In eternal temples you must have frivolity. You must be at ease in Zion, unless you are only paying at a flying visit. By the middle of the nineteenth century this old austerity and actuality in the Puritan vision had fallen away into two principal lower forms. The first is the sort of idealistic garrality upon which Bernard Shaw has made fierce and on the whole fruitful war. Perpetual talk about righteousness and unselfishness, about things that should elevate in things which cannot but degrade, about social purity and true Christian manhood, all poured out with fatal fluency and with very little reference to the real facts of anybody's soul or salary, into this weak and lukewarm torrent, has melted down much of that mountainous ice which sparkled in the seventeenth century, bleak indeed but blazing. The hardest thing of the seventeenth century bids fair to be the softest thing of the twentieth. Of all this sentimental and deliquescent Puritanism, Bernard Shaw has always been the antagonist, and the only respect in which it has soiled him was that he believed for only too long that such sloppy idealism was the whole idealism of Christendom, and so used idealist itself as a term of reproach. But there were other and negative effects of Puritanism which he did not escape so completely. I cannot think that he has wholly escaped that element in Puritanism which may fairly bear the title of the taboo, for it is a singular fact that although extreme Protestantism is dying in elaborate and over-refined civilization, yet it is the barbaric patches of it that live longest and die last. Of the creed of John Knox, the modern Protestant has abandoned the civilized part and retained only the savage part. He has given up that great and systematic philosophy of Calvinism which had much in common with modern science, and strongly resembles ordinary and recurrent determinism. But he has retained the accidental veto upon cards and comic plays which Knox only valued as mere proof of his people's concentration on their theology. All the awful but sublime affirmations of Puritan theology are gone. Only savage negations remain, such as that by which in Scotland on every seventh day the creed of fear lays his finger on all hearts and makes an evil silence in the streets. By the middle of the nineteenth century, when Shaw was born, this dim and barbaric element in Puritanism, being all that remained of it, had added another taboo to its philosophy of taboos. There had grown up a mystical horror of those fermented drinks which are part of the food of civilized mankind. Doubtless many persons take an extreme line on this matter solely because of some calculation of social harm. Many but not all and not even most. Many people think that paper money is a mistake and does much harm, but they do not shudder or snigger when they see a checkbook. They do not whisper with unsavory slinus that such and such a man was seen going into a bank. I am quite convinced that the English aristocracy is the curse of England, but I have not noticed either in myself or others any disposition to ostracize a man simply for accepting a peerage, as the modern Puritans would certainly ostracize him from any of their positions of trust for accepting a drink. The sentiment is certainly very largely a mystical one, like the sentiment about the seventh day, like the Sabbath that is defended with sociological reasons, but those reasons can be simply and sharply tested. If a Puritan tells you that all humanity should rest once a week, you have only to propose that they should rest on Wednesday. And if a Puritan tells you that he does not object to beer but to tragedies of excess in beer, simply propose to him that in prisons and workhouses, where the amount can be absolutely regulated, the inmates should have three glasses of beer a day. The Puritan cannot call that excess, but he will find something to call it, for it is not the excess he objects to, but the beer. It is a transcendental taboo, and it is one of two or three positive and painful prejudices with which Bernard Shaw began. A similar severity of outlook ran through all his earlier attitude toward the drama, especially towards the lighter or looser drama. His Puritan teachers could not prevent him from taking up theatricals, but they made him take theatricals seriously. All his plays were indeed plays for Puritans. All his criticisms quiver with a refined and almost tortured contempt for the indulgencies of ballet and burlesque, for the tights and the double entente. He can endure lawlessness, but not levity. He is not repelled by the divorces and the adulteries, as he is by the splits. And he has always been foremost among the fierce modern critics who asked indignantly, Why do you object to a thing full of sincere philosophy like the wild duck while you tolerate a mere dirty joke like the spring chicken? I do not think he has ever understood what seems to me the very sensible answer of the man in the street. I laugh at the dirty joke of the spring chicken because it is a joke. I criticize the philosophy of the wild duck because it is a philosophy. Shaw does not do justice to the democratic ease and sanity on this subject. But indeed whatever else he is, he is not democratic. As an Irishman he is an aristocrat. As a Calvinist he is a soul apart. He drew the breath of his nostrils from a land of fallen principalities and proud gentility, and the breath of his spirit from a creed, which made a wall of crystal around the elect. The two forces between them produced this potent and slender figure, swift, scornful, dainty, and full of dry magnanimity, and it only needed the last touch of oligarchic mastery to be given by the overwhelming oligarchic atmosphere of our present age. Such was the Puritan Irishman who stepped out into the world. Into what kind of world did he step? I can now give a factor to, with a partial certainty at least, that the reader will give to the affairs of Bernard Shaw, something of the same kind of significance. Which they have for Bernard Shaw himself. Thus if I had simply said that Shaw was born in Dublin, the average reader might exclaim, ah yes, a wild Irishman, gay, emotional, and untrustworthy. The wrong note would be struck at the start. I have attempted to give some idea of what being born in Ireland meant to the man who was really born there. Now therefore for the first time I may be permitted to confess that Bernard Shaw was like other men born. He was born in Dublin on the 26th of July, 1856. Just as his birth can only be appreciated through some vision of Ireland, so his family can only be appreciated by some realization of the Puritan. He was the youngest son of one George, Carr, Shaw, who had been a civil servant and was afterwards a somewhat unsuccessful businessman. If I had merely said that his family was Protestant, which in Ireland means Puritan, it might have been passed over as a quite colorless detail. But if the reader will keep in mind what has been said about the degeneration of Calvinism into a few clumsy vetoes, he will see in its full and frightful significance such a sentence as this, which comes from Shaw himself. My father was in theory a veheminent teetotaler, but in practice, often a furtive drinker. The two things, of course, rest upon exactly the same philosophy, the philosophy of the taboo. There is a mystical substance, and it can give monstrous pleasures, or call down monstrous punishments. The dipsomeac and the abstainer are not only both mistaken, but they both make the same mistake. They both regard information without any ethical preface. People would have begun at once to talk nonsense about artistic heredity and Celtic weakness, and would have gained the general impression that Bernard Shaw was an Irish Wastrel and the child of Irish Wastrels, whereas it is the whole point of the matter that Bernard Shaw comes of a Puritan middle-class family of the most solid respectability, and the only admission of error arises from the fact that one member of that Puritan family took a particularly Puritan view of strong drink. That is, he regarded it generally as poison, and sometimes as medicine if only a mental medicine. But a poison and a medicine are very closely akin, as the nearest chemist knows, and they are chiefly akin in this, that no one will drink either of them for fun. Moreover medicine and a poison are also alike in this, that no one will by preference drink either of them in public. And this medical or poisonous view of alcohol is not confined to the one Puritan to whose failure I have referred. It is spread all over the whole of our dying Puritan civilization. For instance, social reformers have fired a hundred shots against the public house, never one against its really shameful feature. The sign of decay is not in the public house, but in the private bar, or rather the row of five or six private bars into each of which a respectable dypsomaniac can go in solitude, and by indulging his own half-witted sin violate his own half-witted morality. Nearly all these places are equipped with an atrocious apparatus of ground glass windows, which can be so closed that they practically conceal the face of the buyer from the seller. Words cannot express the abyss of human infamy and hateful shame expressed by that elaborate piece of furniture. Whenever I go into a public house, which happens fairly often, I always carefully open all these arpitures, and then leave the place in every way refreshed. In other ways also it is necessary to insist, not only on the fact of an extreme Protestantism, but on that of the Protestantism of a garrison, a world where that religious force both grew and festered all the more, for being at once isolated and protected. All the influences surrounding Bernard Shaw and Boywood were not only Puritan, but such that no non-Puritan force could possibly pierce or counteract. We belong to that Irish group which, according to Catholicism, has hardened its heart, which according to Protestantism has hardened its head, but which, as I fancy, has chiefly hardened its hide, lost its sensibility to the contact of the things around it. In reading about his youth one forgets that it was passed in the island which is still one flame before the altar of St. Peter and St. Patrick. The whole thing might be happening in Wimbledon. He went to the Wesleyan Connectual School. He went to hear Moody and Sanky. I was, he writes, wholly unmoved by their eloquence, and felt bound to inform the public that I was on the whole an atheist. My letter was solemnly printed in public opinion to the extreme horror of my numerous aunts and nockles. That is the philosophical atmosphere. Those are the religious postulates. He could never cross the mind of a man of the garrison, that before becoming an atheist he might stroll into one of the churches of his own country and learn something of the philosophy that had satisfied Dante and Vosé, Pascal and Descartes. In the same way I have to appeal to my theoretic preface at this third point of the drama of Shaw's career. On leaving school he stepped into a secure business position which he held steadily for four years, at which he flung away almost in one day. He rushed even recklessly to London, where he was quite unsuccessful and practically starved for six years. If I had mentioned this act on the first page of this book it would have seemed to have either the simplicity of a mere fanatic or else to cover some ugly escapade of youth or some quite criminal looseness of temperament. The Bernard Shaw did not act thus because he was careless, but because he was ferociously careful, careful especially of the one thing needful. What was he thinking about when he threw away his last half-pence and went to a strange place? What was he thinking about when he endured hunger and smallpox in London almost without hope? He was thinking of what he has ever since thought of—the slow but sure surge of the social revolution. You must read into all those bold sentences and empty years what I shall attempt to sketch in the third section. You must read the revolutionary movement of the later nineteenth century, darkened indeed by materialism and made mutable by fear and free thought, but full of awful vistas of an escape from the curse of Adam. Bernard Shaw happened to be born in an epic, or rather at the end of an epic which was in its way unique in the ages of history. The nineteenth century was not unique in the success or rapidity of its reforms, or in their ultimate cessation, but it was unique in the peculiar character of the failure which followed the success. The French Revolution was an enormous act of human realization. It has altered the terms of every law and the shape of every town in Europe, but it was by no means the only example of a strong and swift period of reform. What was really peculiar about the Republican energy was this—that it left behind it, not an ordinary reaction, but a kind of dreary, drawn-out and utterly unmeaning hope. The strong and evident idea of reform sank lower and lower until it became the timid and feeble idea of progress. Towards the end of the nineteenth century there appeared its two incredible figures. They were the pure conservative and the pure progressive—two figures which would have been overwhelmed with laughter by any other intellectual commonwealth of history. There was hardly a human generation which could not have seen the folly of merely going forward or merely standing still, of mere progressing or mere conserving. In a course's Greek comedy we might have a joke about a man who wanted to keep what he had, whether it was yellow gold or yellow fever. In the dullest medieval morality we might have a joke about a progressive gentleman who, having passed heaven and come to purgatory, decided to go further, and fair worse. The twelfth and thirteenth centuries were an age of quite impetuous progress. Men made in one rush roads, trades, synthetic philosophies, parliaments, universities, settlements, a law that could cover the world, and such spires as had never struck the sky. But they would not have said that they wanted progress, but that they wanted the road, the parliaments, and the spires. In the same way the time from Richlew to the Revolution was upon the whole a time of conservation. Even of harsh and hideous conservation it preserved tortures, legal quibbles, and despotism. But if you had asked the rulers they would not have said that they wanted conservation, but that they wanted the torture and the despotism. The old reformers and the old despots alike desired definite things, powers, licenses, payments, vetoes, and permissions. Only the modern progressive and the modern conservative have been content with two words. Other periods of active improvement have died by stiffening it last into some routine. Thus the gothic gaiety of the thirteenth century stiffening into the mere gothic ugliness of the fifteenth. Thus the mighty wave of the Renaissance, whose crest was lifted to heaven, was touched by a wintry witchery of classicism and frozen for ever before it fell. One of all such movements, the democratic movement of the last two centuries, has not frozen, but loosened and liquefied. Instead of becoming more pedantic in its old age, it has grown more bewildered. By the analogy of healthy history we ought to have gone on worshipping the republic and calling each other citizen with increasing seriousness until some other part of the truth broke into our republican temple. But in fact, we have turned the freedom of democracy into a mere skepticism, destructive of everything, including democracy itself. It is nonetheless destructive, because it is, so to speak, an optimistic skepticism, or as I have said, a dreary hope. It was none the better because the destroyers were always talking about the new vistas and enlightenment which their new negations opened to us. The republican temple, like any other strong building, rested on certain definite limits and supports, but the modern man inside it went on indefinitely knocking holes in his own house and saying that they were windows. The result is not hard to calculate. The moral world was pretty well all windows and no house by the time that Bernard Shaw arrived on the scene. Then there entered into full swing that great game of which he soon became the greatest master. A progressive or advanced person was now to mean not a man who wanted democracy but a man who wanted something newer than democracy. A reformer was to be not a man who wanted a parliament or a republic, but a man who wanted anything that he hadn't got. The emancipated man must cast a weird and suspicious eye around him at all the institutions of the world, wondering which of them was destined to die in the next few centuries. Each one of them was whispering to himself, what can I alter? This quite vague and very discontent probably did lead to the revelation of many incidental wrongs and to much humane hard work in certain holes and corners. It also gave birth to a great deal of quite futile and frantic speculation which seemed destined to take away babies from women or to give votes to Tomcats, but it had an evil in it much deeper and more psychologically poisonous than any superficial absurdities. There was in this thirst to be progressive a subtle sort of double-mindedness and falsity. A man was so eager to be in advance of his age that he pretended to be in advance of himself. Institutions that his wholesome nature and habit fully accepted, he had to sneer at as old-fashioned, out of a survival and snobbish fear of the future. Out of the primal forests, through all the real progress of history, man had picked his way obeying his human instinct or, in the excellent phrase, following his nose. But now he was trying by violent athletic exertions to get in front of his nose. Into this riot of all imaginary innovations, Shaw brought the sharp edge of the Irishman and the concentration of the Puritan and thoroughly thrashed all competitors in the difficult art of being at once modern and intelligent. In twenty-two penny controversies he took the revolutionary side, I fear in most cases because it was called revolutionary. But the other revolutionists were abruptly startled by the presentation of quite rational and ingenious arguments on their own side. The dreary thing about most new causes is that they are praised in such very old terms. Every new religion bores us with the same stale rhetoric about closer fellowship and the higher life. No one ever approximately equaled Bernard Shaw in the power of finding really fresh and personal arguments for these recent schemes and creeds. No one ever came within a mile of him in the knack of actually producing a new argument for a new philosophy. I give two instances to cover the kind of thing I mean. Bernard Shaw, being honestly eager to put himself on the modern side in everything, put himself on the side of what is called the feminist movement, the proposal to give the two sexes not merely equal social privileges, but identical. To this it is often answered that women cannot be soldiers, and to this again the sensible feminist answer that women run their own kind of physical risk, while the silly feminist answer that war is an outgrown barbaric thing which women would abolish. But Bernard Shaw took the line of saying that women had been soldiers in all occasions of natural and unofficial war, as in the French Revolution. That has the great fighting value of being an unexpected argument. It takes the other pugilist breath away for one important instant. To take the other case, Mr. Shaw has found himself led by the same mad imp of modernity on the side of the people who want to have phonetic spelling. The people who want phonetic spelling generally depress the world with tireless and tasteless explanations of how much easier it would be for children or foreign bagmen if height were spelled H-I-T-E. Now children would curse spelling whatever it was, and we are not going to permit foreign bagmen to improve Shakespeare. Bernard Shaw charged along quite a different line. He urged that Shakespeare himself believed in phonetic spelling since he spelt his own name in six different ways. According to Shaw, phonetic spelling is merely a return to the freedom and flexibility of Elizabethan literature. That again is exactly the kind of blow the old speller does not expect. As a matter of fact, there is an answer to both the ingenuities I have quoted. When women have fought in revolutions, they have generally shown that it was not natural to them by their hysterical cruelty and insolence. It was the man who fought in the revolution. It was the women who tortured the prisoners and mutilated the dead. And because Shakespeare could sing better than he could spell, it does not follow that his spelling and ours ought to be abruptly altered by a race that has lost all instinct for singing. But I do not wish to discuss these points. I only quote them as examples of the startling ability which really brought Shaw to the front, the ability to brighten even our modern movements with original and suggestive thoughts. But while Bernard Shaw pleasantly surprised innumerable cranks and revolutionists by finding quite rational arguments for them, he surprised them unpleasantly also by discovering something else. He discovered a turn of argument or trick of thought which has ever since been the plague of their lives and given him in all assemblies of their kind in the Fabian society or in the whole socialist movement a fantastic but most formidable domination. This method may be approximately defined as that of revolutionizing the revolutionist by turning their rationalism against their remaining sentimentalism. But definition leaves the matter dark unless we give one or two examples. Thus Bernard Shaw threw himself as thoroughly as any new woman into the cause of the emancipation of women. But while the new woman praised woman as a prophetess, the new man took the opportunity to curse her and kick her as a comrade. For the others, sexual equality meant the emancipation of women which allowed them to be equal to men, for Shaw it mainly meant the emancipation of men which allowed them to be rude to women. Indeed almost every one of Bernard Shaw's earlier plays might be called an argument between a man and a woman in which the woman is stumped and thrashed and outwitted until she admits that she is the equal of her conqueror. This is the first case of the Shavian trick of turning on the romantic rationalists with their own rationalism. He said in substance, If we are Democrats, let us have votes for women. But if we are Democrats, why on earth should we have respect for women? I take another example out of many. Bernard Shaw was thrown early into what may be called the Cosmopolitan Club of Revolution. The socialists of the SDF call it La Internationale. But the club covers more than socialists, it covers many who consider themselves the champions of oppressed nationalities, Poland, Finland and even Ireland, and thus a strong nationalist tendency exists in the revolutionary movement. Thus this nationalist tendency Shaw set himself with sudden violence. If the flag of England was a piece of piratical humbug, was not the flag of Poland a piece of piratical humbug too? If we hated the jingoism of the existing armies and frontiers, why should we bring into existence new jingo armies and new jingo frontiers? All the other revolutionists fell in instinctively with home rule for Ireland. Shaw urged in effect that home rule was as bad as home influences and home cooking and all the other degrading domesticities that began with the word home. His ultimate support of the South African War was largely created by his irritation against the other revolutionists for favoring a nationalist resistance. The ordinary imperialists objected to pro-bores because they were anti-patriots. But among the surprise attacks of GBS, these turnings of skepticism against the skeptics, there was one which has figured largely in his life, the most amusing and perhaps the most salutary of all these reactions. The progressive world, being in revolt against religion, had naturally felt itself allied to science and against the authority of the world. Shaw gazed for a few moments at this new authority, the veiled God of Huxley and Tyndall, and then with the greatest placidity and precision kicked it in the stomach. He declared to the astounded progressives around him that physical science was a mystical fake like sacral dodleism, that scientists could be the only ones who were able to declare to the astounded progressives around him that physical science was a mystical fake like sacral dodleism, that scientists, like priests, spoke with authority because they could not speak with proof or reason, that the very wonders of science were mostly lies, like the wonders of religion. When astronomers tell me, he says somewhere, that a star is so far off that its light takes a thousand years to reach us, the magnitude of the lie seems to me in artistic. The paralyzing impudence of set remarks left everyone quite breathless, and even to this day this particular part of Shaw's satiric war has been far less followed up than it deserves. For there was present in it an element very marked in Shaw's controversies. I mean that his apparent exaggerations are generally much better backed up by knowledge than would appear from their nature. He can lure his enemy on with fantasies and then overwhelm him with facts. Thus the man of science, when he read some wild passage in which Shaw compared Huxley to a tribal soothsayer grubbing in the entrails of animals, supposed the writer to be a mere fantastic whom science could crush with one finger. He would therefore engage in a controversy with Shaw about, let us say, vivisection, and discover to his horror that Shaw really knew a great deal about the subject and could pelt him with expert witnesses and hospital reports. Among the many singular contradictions in a singular character there is none more interesting than this combination of exactitude and industry in the detail of opinions with audacity and a certain wildness in their outline. CHAPTER IV THE PROGRESSIVE This great game of catching revolutionists snapping, of catching the unconventional people in conventional poses, of out marching and out maneuvering progressives till they felt like conservatives, of undermining the minds of nihilists till they felt like the house of lords. This great game of dishing the anarchists continued for some time to be his most effective business. It would be untrue to say that he was a cynic. He was never a cynic, for that implies a certain corrupt fatigue about human affairs, whereas he was vibrating with virtue and energy. Nor would it be fair to call him even a skeptic, for that implies a dogma of hopelessness and definite belief in unbelief. But it would be strictly just to describe him at this time at any rate as a merely destructive person. He was one whose main business was, in his own view, the pricking of illusions, the stripping away of disguises, and even the destruction of ideals. He was a sort of anti-confectioner whose whole business it was to take the guilt off the gingerbread. Now, I have no particular objection to people who take the guilt off the gingerbread, if only for this excellent reason, that I am much fonder of gingerbread than I am of guilt. But there are some objections to this task when it becomes a crusade or an obsession. One of them is this. That people who have really scraped the guilt off gingerbread generally waste the rest of their lives in attempting to scrape the guilt off gigantic lumps of gold. Which too has often been the case of Shaw. He can, if he likes, scrape the romance off the armaments of Europe, or the party system of Great Britain. But he cannot scrape the romance off love or military valor, because it is all romance, and three thousand miles thick. It cannot, I think, be denied that much of Bernard Shaw's splendid mental energy has been wasted in this weary business of gnawing at the necessary pillars of all possible society. But it would be grossly unfair to indicate that even in his first and most destructive stage he uttered nothing except these accidental, if arresting, negations. He threw his whole genius heavily into the scale in favor of two positive projects, or causes of the period. When we have stated these, we have really stated the full intellectual equipment with which he started his literary life. I have said that Shaw was on the insurgent side in everything, but in the case of these two important convictions he exercised a solid power of choice. When he first went to London, he mixed with every kind of revolutionary society and met every kind of person, except the ordinary person. He knew everybody, so to speak, except everybody. He was more than once a momentary apparition among the respectable atheists. He knew Bradlaw and spoke on the platforms of that Hall of Science in which very simple and sincere masses of men used to hail with shouts of joy the assurance that they were not immortal. He retained to this day something of the noise and narrowness of that room, as, for instance, when he says that it is contemptible to have a craving for eternal life. This prejudice remains in direct opposition to all his present opinions, which are all to the effect that it is glorious to desire power, consciousness, and vitality even for oneself. But this old secularist tag that it is selfish to save one's soul remains with him long after he has practically glorified selfishness. It is a relic of those chaotic early days, and just as he mingled with the atheists, he mingled with the anarchists, who were in the eighties a much more formidable body than now, disputing with the socialists on almost equal terms the claim to be the true heirs of the revolution. Shaw still talks, entertainingly, about this group. As far as I can make out, it was almost entirely female. When a book came out called A Girl Among the Anarchists, GVS was provoked to a sort of explosive reminiscence. A girl among the anarchists, he exclaimed to his present biographer, if they had said, a man among the anarchists, it would have been more of an adventure. He is ready to tell other tales of this eccentric environment, most of which does not convey an impression of very bracing atmosphere. That revolutionary society must have contained many high public ideals, but also a fair number of low private desires. And when people blame Bernard Shaw for his pitigless and prosaic coldness, his cutting refusal to reverence or admire, I think they should remember this riff-raff of lawless sentimentalism, against which his common sense had to strive. All the grand eloquent comrades and all the gushing affinities, all the sweet stuff sensuality and senseless sulking against law. If Bernard Shaw became a little too fond of throwing cold water upon prophecies or ideals, remember that he must have passed much of his youth among cosmopolitan idealists who wanted a little cold water in every sense of the word. Upon two of these modern crusades he concentrated, and as I have said, he chose them well. The first was broadly what was called the humanitarian cause. It did not mean the cause of humanity, but rather, if anything, the cause of everything else. At its novelist it meant a sort of mystical identification of our life with the whole life of nature. So a man might wince when a snail was crushed as if his toe were trodden on, so a man might shrink when a moth shriveled as if his own hair had caught fire. Man might be a network of exquisite nerves running over the whole universe, a subtle spider's web of pity. This was a fine conception, though perhaps a somewhat severe enforcement of the theological conception of the special divinity of man. For the humanitarians certainly asked of humanity, what can be asked of no other creature. No man ever required a dog to understand a cat, or expected the cow to cry for the sorrows of the nightingale. Hence this sense has been strongest in saints of a very mystical sword, such as St. Francis, who spoke of Sister Sparrow and Brother Wolf. Shaw adopted this crusade of cosmic pity, but adopted it very much in his own style, severe, explanatory, and even unsympathetic. He had no affectionate impulse to say, Brother Wolf, at the best he would have said, Citizen Wolf, like a sound Republican. In fact he was full of healthy human compassion for the sufferings of animals, but in phraseology he loved to put the matter unemotionally and even harshly. I was once at a debating club at which Bernard Shaw said that he was not a humanitarian at all, but only an economist, that he merely hated to see life wasted by carelessness or cruelty. I felt inclined to get up and address to him the following lucid question. If, when you spare a herring, you are only being oy Kano Mikal, for what oy cos are you being Namikal? But in an average debating club I thought this question might not be quite clear. So I abandoned the idea. But certainly it is not plain for whom Bernard Shaw is economizing if he rescues a rhinoceros from an early grave. But the truth is that Shaw only took this economic pose from his hatred of appearing sentimental. If Bernard Shaw killed a dragon and rescued a princess of romance, he would try to say I have saved a princess with exactly the same intonation as I have saved a shilling. He tries to turn his own heroism into a sort of superhuman thrift. He would thoroughly sympathize with that passage in his favorite dramatic author, in which the button-molder tells pure gint that there is a sort of cosmic housekeeping, that God himself is very economical, and that is why he is so well-to-do. This combination of the widest kindness and consideration with a consistent ungraciousness of tone runs through all Shaw's ethical utterance, and is nowhere more evident than in his attitude towards animals. He would waste himself to a white-haired shadow to save a shark in an aquarium from an inconvenience, or to add any little comforts to the life of a carrion crow. He would defy any laws or lose any friends to show mercy to the humblest beast or the most hidden bird. That I cannot recall in the whole of his works or in the whole of his conversation a single word of any tenderness or intimacy with any bird or beast. It was under the influence of this high and almost superhuman sense of duty that he became a vegetarian, and I seem to remember that when he was lying sick and near to death at the end of his Saturday review career, he wrote a fine, fantastic article declaring that his hearse ought to be drawn by all the animals that he had not eaten. Whenever that evil day comes, there will be no need to fall back on the ranks of the brute creation. There will be no lack of men and women who owe him so much as to be glad to take the place of the animals, and the present writer for one will be glad to express his gratitude as an elephant. There is no doubt about the essential manhood and decency of Bernard Shaw's instincts in such matters. And quite apart from the vegetarian controversy I do not doubt that the beasts also owe him much. But when we come to positive things, and passions are the only truly positive things, that obstinate doubt remains, which remains after all eulogies of Shaw, that fixed fancy sticks to the mind that Bernard Shaw is a vegetarian more because he dislikes dead beasts than because he likes live ones. It was the same with the other great cause to which Shaw more politically, though not more publicly, committed himself. The actual English people, without representation in press or parliament, but faintly expressed in public houses and music halls, would connect Shaw so far as they have heard of him with two ideas. They would say first that he was a vegetarian, and second that he was a socialist. Like most of the impressions of the ignorant, these impressions would be on the whole very just. My only purpose here is to urge that Shaw's socialism exemplifies the same trait of temperament as his vegetarianism. This book is not concerned with Bernard Shaw as a politician or a sociologist, but as a critic and creator of drama. I will therefore end in this chapter all that I have to say about Bernard Shaw as a politician or a political philosopher. I propose here to dismiss this aspect of Shaw. Only let it be remembered, once and for all, that I am here dismissing the most important aspect of Shaw. It is as if one dismissed the sculpture of Michelangelo and went on to his sonnets. Perhaps the highest and purest thing in him is simply that he cares more for politics than for anything else, more than for art than for philosophy. Socialism is the noblest thing for Bernard Shaw, and it is the noblest thing in him. He really desires less to win fame than to bear fruit. He is an absolute follower of that early sage who wished only to make two blades of grass grow instead of one. He is a loyal subject of Henry Quater who said that he only wanted every Frenchman to have a chicken in his pot on Sunday, except, of course, that he would call the rip-past cannibalism. But Keteris Paribus thinks more of that chicken than the eagle of the Universal Empire, and he is always ready to support the grass against the laurel. Yet by the nature of this book, the account of the most important Shaw, who is the Socialist, must be also most brief. Socialism, which I am not here concerned either to attack or defend, is, as everyone knows, the proposal that all property should be nationally owned, that it may be more decently distributed. It is a proposal resting upon two principles, unimpeachable as far as they go. First, that frightful human calamities call for immediate human aid. Second, that such aid must always be collectively organized. If a ship is being wrecked, we organize a lifeboat. If a house is on fire, we organize a blanket. If half a nation is starving, we must organize work and food. That is the primary and powerful argument of the Socialist. And everything it adds to it, weakens it. The only possible line of protest suggests that it is rather shocking that we have to treat a normal nation as something exceptional, like a house on fire or a shipwreck. But of such things it may be necessary to speak later. The point here is that Shaw behaved toward Socialism, just as he behaved towards vegetarianism. He offered every reason except the emotional reason, which was the real one. When taxed in a daily news discussion with being a Socialist for the obvious reason that poverty was cruel, he said this was quite wrong. It was only because poverty was wasteful. He practically professed that modern society annoyed him not so much like an unrighteous kingdom, but rather like an untidy room. Everyone who knew him knew, of course, that he was full of a proper, brotherly bitterness about the oppression of the poor. But here again he would not admit that he was anything but an economist. In thus setting his face like Flint against sentimental methods of argument, he undoubtedly did one great service to the causes for which he stood. Every vulgar anti-humanitarian, every snob who wants monkeys vivisected or beggars flogged, has always fallen back upon stereotyped phrases like marlin and sentimental, which indicated the humanitarian as a man in a weak condition of tears. The mere personality of Shaw has shattered those foolish phrases forever. Shaw, the humanitarian, was like Voltaire, the humanitarian. A man who sat tire was like steel, the hardest and coolest of fighters upon whose piercing point the wretched defenders of a masculine brutality wriggled like worms. In this quarrel one cannot wish Shaw even an inch less contemptuous, for the people who call compassion sentimentalism deserve nothing but contempt. In this one does not even regret his coldness. It is an honorable contrast to the blundering emotionalism of the jingos and the flagello maniacs. The truth is that the ordinary anti-humanitarian only manages to harden his heart by having already softened his head. It is the reverse of sentimental to insist that a black is being burned alive, for sentimentalism must be the clinging to pleasant thoughts, and no one, not even a higher evolutionist, can think a black burned alive a pleasant thought. The sentimental thing is to warm your hands at the fire while denying the existence of the black, and that is the ruling habit in England, as it has been the chief business of Bernard Shaw to show. And in this the Brutalitarians hate him, not because he is soft, but because he is hard, because he is not to be softened by conventional excuses, because he looks hard at a thing, and hits harder. Some foolish fellow of the Henley Wibbly reaction wrote that, if we were to be conquerors, we must be less tender and more ruthless. Shaw answered with really avenging irony, what a light this principle throws on the defeat of the tender dervish, the compassionate Zulu, and the morbidly humane boxer at the hands of the hardy savages of England, France, and Germany. In that sentence, an idiot is obliterated and the whole story of Europe told, but it is immensely stiffened by its ironic form. In the same way Shaw washed away forever the idea that socialists were weak dreamers, who said that things might be only because they wish them to be. GBS, in an argument with an individualist, showed himself as a rule much the better economist and much the worst retortation. In this atmosphere arose a celebrated Fabian society, of which he is still the leading spirit, a society which answered all charges of impractical idealism by pushing both its theoretic statements and its practical negotiations to the verge of cynicism. Bernard Shaw was the literary expert who wrote most of its pamphlets. In one of them, among such sections as Fabian temperance, reform, Fabian education, and so on, there was an entry gravely headed, Fabian natural science, which stated that in the socialist cause light was needed more than heat. Thus the Irish detachment and the Puritan austerity did much good to the country, and to the causes for which they were embattled. But there was one thing they did not do. They did nothing for Shaw himself in the matter of his primary mistakes and his real limitation. His great defect was, and is, the lack of democratic sentiment, and there was nothing democratic, either in his humanitarianism or his socialism. These new and refined faiths tended rather to make the Irishmen yet more aristocratic, the Puritan yet more exclusive. To be a socialist was to look down on all the peasant owners of the earth, especially on the peasant owners of his own island. To be a vegetarian was to be a man with a strange and mysterious morality, a man who thought the good Lord who roasted a oxen for his vassals, only less bad than the bad Lord who roasted the vassals. None of these advanced views could the common people hear gladly, nor indeed was Shaw especially anxious to please the common people. It was his glory that he pitied animals like men, it was his defect that he pitied men only too much like animals. Coulon said of the democracy, let them eat grass. Shaw said, let them eat greens. He had more benevolence, but almost as much disdain. I have never had any feelings about the English working classes, he said elsewhere, except the desire to abolish them and replace them by sensible people. This is the unsympathetic side of the thing. But it had another, and much nobler side, which must at least be seriously recognized before we pass on too much lighter things. Bernard Shaw is not a Democrat, but he is a splendid Republican. The nuance of difference between those terms precisely depicts him. And there is, after all, a good deal of dim democracy in England, in the sense that there is much of a blind sense of brotherhood and nowhere more than among the old-fashioned and even reactionary people. But a Republican is a rare bird, and a noble one. Shaw is a Republican in the literal and Latin sense. He cares more for the public thing than for any private thing. The interest of the state is with him a sincere thirst of the soul, as it was in the little pagan cities. Now this public passion, this clean appetite for order and equity, had fallen to a lower ebb, had more nearly disappeared altogether during Shaw's earlier epic than had any other time. Individualism of the worst type was on the top of the wave, a mean artistic individualism, which is so much crueler, so much blinder, and so much more irrational, even than commercial individualism. The decay of society was praised by artists as the decay of a corpse is praised by worms. The estate was all receptiveness like the flea. His only affair in this world was to feed on its facts and colors like a parasite upon blood. The ego was the all, and the praise of it was enunciated in matter and matter rhythms by poets whose helicon was absinthe and whose pegasus was the nightmare. This disease pride was not even conscious of a public interest and would have found all political terms utterly tasteless and insignificant. It was no longer a question of one man, one vote, but one man, one universe. I have in my time had my fling at the Fabian society, at the pedantry of schemes, the arrogance of experts, nor do I regret it now. But when I remember that other world against which it reared its bourgeois banner of cleanliness and common sense, I will not end this chapter without doing it decent honor. Give me the drainpipes of the Fabians rather than the panpipes of the later poets. The drainpipes have a nicer smell. Give me even that business-like benevolence that herded men-like beasts rather than that exquisite art which isolated them like devils. Give me even the suppression of zeo rather than the triumph of salome. And if I feel such a confession to be due to those Fabians who could hardly have been anything but experts in any society, such as Mr. Sidney Webb or Mr. Edward Pease, it is due yet more strongly to the greatest of the Fabians. Here was a man who could have enjoyed art among the artists, who could have been the wittiest of all the flinners, who could have made epigrams like diamonds and drunk music like wine. He has instead labored in a mill of statistics, and crammed his mind with all the most dreary and the most filthy details, so that he can argue on the spur of the moment about sewing machines or sewage, about typhus fever or two penny tubes. The usual mean theory of motives will not cover the case. It is not ambition, for he could not have been twenty times more prominent as plausible and popular humors. It is the real and ancient emotion of the salis populite almost extinct in our oligarchal chaos. Nor will I, for one, as I pass on to many matters of argument or quarrel, neglect to salute a passion so implacable and so pure. The End of Section 4. The End of Chapter 3b.