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[鈥淏ernard Shaw is an old man who is still young: in an age when the young men are most of them very old. There is a real score for his negative eccentricities, when we can still see him making merry over cold water and cabbages, while men who would be his grandsons or great-grandsons are making themselves miserable over cocktails and champagne...Hope, hearty conviction, the fighting spirit 鈥� these are things not so abounding among the youth of our time, that we can fail to salute them in the chief literary veteran of the age.鈥�
鈥� G. K. Chesterton: George Bernard Shaw.]

The above, it will be seen, is mighty praise, indeed: thus does royalty salute royalty. It is an intensely moving tribute from one celebrity to another:

鈥淲hen the high heart we magnify,
And the sure vision celebrate,
And worship greatness passing by,
Ourselves are great.鈥�

Alas, Chesterton is no more鈥揳s well as he whom he has celebrated in the above passage. We could have ill-spared him in an age of small men. There was (God be thanked!) nothing small about him He was Falstaffian in nearly every sense of the term. There was a largeness, a magnificence, even about his chivalry. Did he not, for instance, boast once that he had vacated his seat on the tram for three ladies? And to reflect that the archreviler of the French Revolution should have been impelled to make such a 鈥渢o-do鈥� about 鈥渢he age of chivalry being gone!鈥� It must, to be sure, have disappeared now 鈥� with the disappearance, from our midst, of Gilbert Keith Chesterton.

English letters lost decidedly their most brilliant figure when, quite a few decades ago, tiring of a mean world, a world incessantly given to cheese-paring, to counting its candle-ends (both literally and metaphorically), he was in a desperate hurry to leave us: doubtless to commune with kindred souls in a more spacious universe.

鈥淕. K. C.鈥� and 鈥淕. B. S.鈥�

I have brought in the august name of G. K. C. with malice prepense, as it were. There has never been anyone who was a fitter antagonist of Bernard Shaw, a foeman worthy of his steel, than he. G. K. C. was G. B. S鈥檚 real foil: they were strophe and anti-strophe. They met on the battlefield 鈥渓ike two clouds over the Caspian.鈥� Many were the intellectual bouts between them: and I consider it a great good fortune that it fell to my lot to have been a keenly interested spectator at not a few of them. It was superb fun to watch these two wily disputants 鈥� both carrying great guns of wit and learning 鈥� going at one another like two heavy颅weights in the boxing-ring.

More often than not, I found myself sharing Shaw鈥檚 views on men and affairs. But, if the truth is to be told, my heart was nearly always with Chesterton. Loving the man as I did, and feeling in my bones, so to speak, that, in sheer brain-power, he was the undoubted superior, I felt impelled to side with him rather than with Shaw. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and there are some things that simply cannot be helped: some things in which, as Lowell said, we believe more than we can give a reason for. Did not Andrew Lang observe long ago:

鈥淓ach one of us has an author who is a favourite, a friend, an idol, whose immutable perfection hemaintains against all comers. For example, things are urged against Scott: I receive them in the attitude of the deaf adder of St. Augustine, who stops one ear with his tail and presses the other against the dust. The same with Moliere! M. Scher utters complaints against Moliere! He would not convince me even if I was convinced.鈥� (Essays in Little)

G. K. C.鈥檚 book on G. B. S.

There is no need for anyone to remind me that this is supposed to be an article on Bernard Shaw, not on Gilbert Chesterton. I shall bear it in mind at reasonable intervals, as the Master himself suavely retorted in his scintillating monograph on Shaw. Chesterton on Shaw! A Daniel come to judgment, indeed! The motto that_I have appended to my article is from that book. Even if, as is commonly true of most books of Chesterton, it is more a revelation of Chesterton than of Shaw, it is still a revelation of Shaw, and by far the best revelation of him extant. I would have given a good deal to have read Shaw on Chesterton. But that pleasure has been denied us. Of the two, Shaw was the older man as well as the more considerable author. Chesterton was the wisest interpreter that Shaw has had so far: the most sympathetic and the most penetrating.

Shaw is all mind: he is one solid mass of intellect. I have often toyed with the notion that when the Philosopher-Prince, in that celebrated rhapsody of his:

鈥淲hat a piece of work is man! How nimble in reason: How infinite in faculties: in form and moving how express and admirable: in action how like an angel: in apprehension how like a god: the beauty of the world: the paragon of animals!鈥�

he must have had an inexplicable provision of the sage of Ayot St. Lawrence.

Shaw himself speaks somewhere of his having 鈥渃ut cerebral capers鈥� in this or that play of his. He has, let me remind him, done nothing else since he broke loose from his comfortable berth in the firm of a land-agent in Dublin in the fateful March of 1876 to win laurels in London as a literary figure 鈥渙f importance in his day,鈥� as Browning would have put it. 鈥淐utting cerebral capers鈥� is the mot juste: in other words, performing intellectual acrobatics on the political, scientific, economic and theological trapezes. It has been a merry game throughout, and he has eminently deserved all the chuckles he has got out of it: so, let me add, his innumerable readers.

Irish 鈥渄e haut en bas鈥�

The most important fact one has to remember about him is, of course, that he was an Irishman: he was Irish de haut en bas. I like Irishmen 鈥渕ore than somewhat鈥�, in Danon Runyon鈥檚 phrase and I can bear no grudge against any son of Erin. It is not at all a bad trait in a person to glory in his birth and state. But one may have too much of a good thing. Speaking for myself, I would have liked Bernard Shaw anyhow: that is, even if he had not been an Irishman, if only for his inimitable English prose style. What Emerson says of Landor may, with equal justice, be said of Shaw also:

鈥淥f many of Landor鈥檚 sentences we are fain to remember what was said of those of Socrates, that they are cubes which will stand firm, place them how or where you will.鈥�

What Elizabeth Barrett Browning also says of Landor is true, once again, of Shaw himself:

鈥淚n marble, indeed, he seems to work, for there is an angularity in the workmanship, whether of prose or of verse, which the very exquisiteness of his polish renders more conspicuous.鈥�

With me a writer possessing such a bewitching manner of 鈥減utting it across鈥� has already won more than half the battle. Add that he is Irish, and I am prepared to eat out of his hand. That is why I feel that he would have done well not to underline the fact of his being an Irishman to the extent he has done. Besides, Shaw was not typically Irish.聽聽聽聽聽聽聽 The typical Irishman is a Catholic: Shaw was a Protestant. Nearly as wide a gulf separates a Protestant Irishman from a Catholic Irishman as both from a true-blue Englishman. That Shaw himself had a faint suspicion that the Catholic Irish are the typical Irish is evidenced by this remark of his in one of his prefaces to his plays:

鈥� 鈥楾he Island of the Saints鈥� is no idle phrase. Religious genius is one of our national products; and Ireland is no bad rock to build a Church on. Holy and beautiful is the soul of Catholic Ireland: her prayers are lovelier than the teeth and claws of Protestantism, but not so effective in dealing with the English.鈥� (Preface to John Butt鈥檚 OtherIsland.)

G. B. S.: A Home-Ruler

It was fortunate that, though a Protestant, he was not an 鈥淥range-man鈥�; if, by that term, it is implied a Belfast Tory. He says somewhere that, though it is the rule for a Protestant Irishman to be an anti-Home-Ruler, he is apt to become a more fierce Home-Ruler even than a Catholic Irishman once he sees the Light and enters the Radical tabernacle. Well, Powell also was a Protestant, so, perhaps, we may take Shaw at his word. He was a Home-Ruler鈥撯�渨ith knobs on.鈥� If Ireland won Home Rule it was in no small measure owing to Shaw鈥檚 valiant champion颅ship. All politically-dependent people will do well to read, mark, and inwardly digest his masterly Preface to his play, John Bull鈥檚 Other Island. As political pamphleteering it is, indisputably, in a class by itself: 鈥渋t forms a vast species alone鈥�, as Cowley said of Pindar. It is so fundamentally sound in its central thesis as to deserve, in Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch鈥檚 memorable phrase, 鈥渂eing bound by the young student of politics for a frontlet on his brow and a talisman on his writing-wrist.鈥�

In that preface Shaw demolishes, once for all, the case for one country dominating another. I can quote passage after passage from it, piling Palion on Ossa, as it were, but my space is limited. It is difficult to write a short article on Shaw. He never could write a short article himself, or a short play, or a short preface: least of all, a short preface. He can be excruciatingly entertaining on any topic: else, read his Revolutionist鈥檚 Handbook, which is a sort of tail-piece to his magnificent Preface to Man and Superman. He can write on anything 鈥� from a lady鈥檚 commerce with her looking-颅glass to a man鈥檚 intercourse with his Maker. It is, therefore, a little difficult to select passages from his writings.

G. B. S. and Ireland

I should like to linger over the play, John Bull鈥檚 Other Island; a while longer. It was the first play I read of Shaw. I like that 鈥淥ther Island鈥� even if I do not like 鈥淛ohn Bull鈥�, and I like Larry Doyle (though a prolonged residence in London appears to have turned him into a prig), and even Matthew Haffigan, that 鈥済narled snag of a man鈥�, as C. E. Montague has called him, I may be wrong, but I feel that there is a lot of Larry Doyle in Shaw himself. I wonder whether every Irishman 鈥� like Shaw and Sean O鈥� Casey and Larry Doyle in the play 鈥� is determined never to return to Ireland once he leaves its elfin shores.

Shaw鈥檚 memories of his early Dublin life seem to be the reason for his being so allergic to revisiting his native country. And yet his lines were not cast in such hard places! He had not belonged to the 鈥渟ubmerged tenth鈥� of society. He was a 鈥測ounger son鈥� of a 鈥測ounger son鈥�, as he has been at such considerable pains to inform us, and the proverbial 鈥渨olf鈥� was nowhere to be seen near his door. It may not have been a veritable 鈥淧aradise鈥�, but neither was it 鈥渢he other place.鈥� There was, however, that trouble about Shaw (鈥淪enior鈥�) : that was the one crumpled rose-颅leaf under our hero鈥檚 bed. His paterfamilaswas given to a little tipsyness: he was often 鈥渦nder the weather.鈥� That was the skeleton in the family cupboard.

G. B. S. in London

London made Shaw as it has made many another of his country颅men, and it is worth remembering that even in London his lines were not cast in hard places. For was there not his mother to support him? He has made much of the fact, that, instead of him supporting his mother, she supported him. Self-confessedly, other men were not like him. Did not a physician assure him once that his eyesight was perfectly normal鈥撯�渘ormal sight conferring the power of seeing things accurately and being enjoyed only by about ten per cent of the population, the remaining ninety per cent being abnormal?鈥�

I have written that London made him as it has made many another of his countrymen. I should have written, rather, that it was that distinguished dramatic critic and translator and populariser of Ibsen in England, William Archer, who, more than any other individual, made him. It was he who pulled the right strings, at the right time, and established Shaw as the dramatic critic of the Saturday Review. After that鈥揳nd only after that鈥揝haw made himself. It is a moot point whether he could have made himself but for this fortunate accident: because, all said and done, the starting颅 point of his fame and career was this same appointment of himself as the arbiter elegentarium of European drama on that famous weekly. The Saturday Review specialised in dramatic critics: the list runs from Bernard Shaw to James Agate. And Agate has confessed that what induced him to forsake calico-selling for the far more onerous job of play-boosting, or play-damning, was the reading of Shaw鈥檚 dramatic criticism in the Saturday.

The Acorn and the Oak

Frankly, I have not read that dramatic criticism. But I have read 础驳补迟别鈥檚 dramatic criticism鈥揾eaps and heaps of it鈥揳nd what I feel is that, if the disciple could write such magnoperative stuff, the Master鈥檚 productions must have been epoch-making, indeed! It is my confirmed opinion that English journalism is the father, the mother, and the wet nurse combined of English literature. Most considerable English authors started in life as journalists. It was quite appropriate, therefore, that Shaw should have commenced his journalistic career in the hospitable column of the Saturday Review. It was as good a jumping-off place for his future, marvellous success as any other.

鈥淭he Discussion-Drama鈥�

Though Shaw had been many things in his time, he will be remembered chiefly as a dramatist, and as a dramatist who broke entirely new ground in the theatre. To him largely belongs the credit for inaugurating what has been called 鈥渢he play of ideas鈥�. or 鈥渢he discussion-drama.鈥� Stated in such bald terms, of course, it may very well be a fruitful source of confusion. It can hardly be that, before his advent, plays had been totally devoid of ideas or the discussion of them. Besides, it is rather difficult to visualise a play that is so full of the Agatian 鈥渃ogitabundities of cogitation.鈥� It cannot be a play, properly so called, if it is overflowing with

鈥淭houghts hardly to be packed
In a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and escaped,鈥�
There must be a teeny-weeny framework of action within which those tremendous cerebrations can find full scope for functioning. Shaw, I must confess, confuses me here with his Getting Married. Like the Cheshire cat, which is said to be all grin and not enough of cat, that play is all discussion and not enough of play. That does not, however, invalidate my contention that the primary duty of a play is to be as compact of action as possible: without any noticeable detriment (let me interpolate) to the copious cornucopia of ideas.

Shaw鈥檚 influence on the English Stage

I am, frankly, a heretic in this matter. W. Somerset Maugham administers the coup de grace to the idolisation of Shaw as the innovator of the 鈥渄iscussion-drama.鈥� In his revealing auto颅biography, Summing Up, he has no hesitation in asserting that the influence of Shaw on the English stage of today has well-nigh been devastating. He further opines that Shaw has succeeded on the stage, not because he is a dramatist of ideas, but because he is a dramatist. Maugham was himself a dramatist of considerable repute and, as such, has a peculiar right to be heard in this connection. I worship Shaw like most persons, but worship him 鈥渢his side idolatry.鈥�

I am certain that he has not written a slovenly sentence in all his life. But I am certain also that he has written many (far too many, in fact) that he need not have written. His Preface to what he himself regards as his finest play, Man and Superman, is, judged by whatever standard, a wonderful piece of workman颅ship. It is my considered opinion, however, that it would have been even a more considerable piece of workmanship if he could have brought himself to delete huge chunks from it. One not seldom gets bored by his endless divagations. The amusing storyhas been narrated of Swinburne flinging himself on the floor at Dr. Jowett鈥檚 feet and exclaiming:

鈥淢aster, I have never thanked you enough for cutting 4,000 lines from Bothwell.鈥�

Congenitally prolific writers like Shaw will do well to remember it when they are in the throes of composition. Coming to the play of ideas it may interest my readers to note what that eminent dramatic critic of the London Times, the late Mr. A. B. Walkley has to say on Shaw鈥檚 contribution to it:

鈥淚t is better not to enter into so dangerously controversial a subject as the value of Shaw鈥檚 criticism of life; nor is there any need, seeing that he fails to express it in terms of drama. The essential law of the theatre is thought through emotion. No character exhibits real emotion in the fascinating exercises in dialectic which Shaw miscalls plays.鈥�

He leaves Dublin for London

I have mentioned that, forsaking a fairly comfortable berth in the firm of a land-agent in Dublin in the fateful March of 1876, Shaw the unpredictable left Dublin for London. Why did he do so? He himself furnishes the answer. He had already begun to experience a strange longing for writing: a malady, let me mention, most incident to callow youth. Words early began to make an irresistible appeal to him: their sounds and their nuances. He, so to speak, lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. Finding himself thus a prey to this malady, he took the only step that was feasible in the circumstances: he hid himself to London, the intellectual metropolis of the world as well as, in his own inimitable words, 鈥渢he literary centre of the English language and for such artistic culture as the realm of the English language (of which I propose to be King) could afford.鈥�

That, and nothing less, was the impulse that prompted the future author of St. Joan, Man and Superman and to Methuselah to make the pilgrimage to London and thus to choose a career to which, as everyone knows, many are called but few chosen. Our hero, needless to say, saw to it that he would be among the few chosen and not among the many that fell by the wayside. He aspired to be 鈥渢he King of the realm of the English language.鈥� Who dares to suggest, at this time of day, that he has not succeeded in this overpowering ambition and that, in his hands, English prose has not
鈥溾�︹��.become a trumpet, whence he (has blown)
Soul-animating strains?鈥�

Conclusion

Shaw is, undoubtedly, a lord of language. He wrote like one that had been inspired. I shall now conclude my article: 鈥渆ven the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.鈥� Shaw believes in 鈥淪upermen鈥�. I do not: no, not even 鈥渘orth-north-west.鈥� We have been condemned to see some 鈥淪upermen鈥� in our times: they have gone the way of 鈥渢he many Ninevehs and Hecatempoli.鈥� Shaw performed not a few astonishing somersaults in his political convictions: and one of these has been the mystifying recantation of his own full-blooded faith in democracy in favour of an unstinted glorification of dictatorship. His play, Geneva, and, to a lesser extent, his play, The Apple Cart, fully bear me out on this point. His Battler and his Bombordonne are now less than the dust under the chariot-wheels of that much-despised human being, 鈥渢he man in the street.鈥�

In Man and Superman, he gives full rein to his pet notion that, in this eternal amorous game, it is not the man who pursues the woman but the woman the man. In his previous play, You Never Can Tell, we had been given a rather piquant foretaste of this same pet notion ofhis. Gloria in the earlier drama, and Anne in the latter, throw all womanly decency to the four winds when they find that their men are about to give them the slip.

In a sense, Shaw was his own 鈥淪uperman鈥� come to life not withstanding a fewastounding political recantations.