HARRIS ON SHAW

Greymouth Evening Star, 28 July 1932, Page 10

HARRIS ON SHAW

THE UNSOLVED RIDDLE. The mind of Frank Harris remained Dark Irish to the end. In his retreat at Nice the Raffish Lad of letters became a needy blade. His inherent penchant for backing Josers stuck to him, and the acid of his ill-fortun? ate into his mind, writes G. R. Stevens in the “Cape Times.” But after the war pice young Aniericah geniuses, filled with their feelings, began to slip away from Isadora Duncan, at Antibes, to motor over and to call him Master. When he gave his visitors of his great days, they heapd many tales of that unstable coleague who had buffooned his way into the company of the’ immortals, who always backed the winners, who brought off doubles -without ceasing to revile the sport. The nice young American geniuses were deeply impressed, for most of them lived on the Cote D’Azur because they shaved Messire Shaw’s opinions concerning their countrymen —to wit, that they were boobs. They asked for more. The idea grew. Who better to reveal the penumbra of the vast shadow of Cyrano the Second than a fellow-Irishman who had scorned to barter iris soul for the iieshpots? Who but a cosmopolitan to assess a cosmic clown? When Bernard Shaw heard of the proposal he was aghast. But ever the most obliging of men where publicity is concerned, and the kindliest in the presence of physical necessities, he gave in, promising magnificently: “I will see you through with plenty to quote.” , .

He was as good as his word. Whenever the biography needed ginger it came out of his letter-case. In such matter as Lee’s relations with his mother, his own relations with actresses, with his wife, with women in general, Shaw supplied original material which meant not only great sales but fresh editions. And although he revised the proofs (Harris died before publication) he forbore retouching what is in many respects an ill-natured portrait, and his one remonstrance concerned an Elizabethan epithet which Harris applied to Mrs Shaw. Considering Harris the “most impossible of biographers,” ho was yet prepared to countenance any portrait as a work of art, even if there should be no. likeness wh'atsover. His .anticipations were justified. In cbnipletion the picture is only, passably Shaw, but it does embody an excellent impression of Harris laying on the'paint. ’• < ’ The result of this egocentric enterprise is that the book is less a biography than a study of Harrisian tones and values. It was as nearly impossible for Frank Harris to write badly as it was for him to have sound ideas to Write about. In style his last book retains much of the macabre brilliance which distinguished his earlier fiction.

Nevertheless, this very fictional quality would have destroyed the conviction which must be instilled into any biography. Even if the careful research and continuity of attitude which is essential to -serious record'ng had not been beyond Harris, he always had to leap upon his subject, if he missed his pounce, he : went growling to his den. Shaw states quite fairly in a postcript:— “Frank (Harris) was an exceedingly sensitive man, who reacted with such violence, not only to authentic ’ acts, but to any sort of gossip that stirred up his always seething susceptibility to scornful indignation, that he could not sto.p to ask himself the first question of the professed biographer, which is, ‘What is the evidence, for this?’ and the cognate question of the intellectually honest judicial critic, ‘What else could I have done if it had been in my case?’” LINKED FORTUNES. From the beginning of his story, Harris links his fortunes with those jf hi subject. He professes the obverse of the Shaw achievement; he was the prodigal who remained faith,'ul to his husks. He, the cosmopolitan man of feeling, footed it on the same stage with the cosmic clown. His grimaces, his prances were as expert as those of his partner; but the clown exploited his routine with droll intimacy, sticking out his tongue at the stalls, rolling his eyes towards the galelry, mouthing brags and unprofessional japes, 'until he passed off, hogging the pplause; while his more scrupulous partner- regained the wings unnoticed, with scorn and bitterness in his heart. This attitudinising convicts the biography of guesswork from the beginning, and no amount of imagination .•an replace facts, in the case of a man like Shaw. Consequently there are parts of the book which arc scarcely worth reading. -The first chapters, containing a description of Shaw’s boyhood and the story of his -lean years : n London arouse gloomy forebodings. They are task-writing of a trivial sort, of little significance. Even the much-discussed menage a

trois in London is tamely treated. But fortunately, with the end of Shaw’s ■obscurity, the biography proper ends, and on the next page the real interest of the book begins. For there Harris, returns to his true

metier, impressionistic delineations of simple phases of experience. He resolves the Shaw kinesis into its dynamic elements, and deals with his subject separately as philosopher, critic, business man, playwright, producer, economist, controversialist, and iconoclast: as well as amorist, husband, and friend.

These examinations are brilliantly conducted. In accordance with the Harris outlook, they resemble pretrial examinations under the French •judicial system. The prisoner is heard, hut his guilt is assumed. • Harris expresses admiration for l-?haw the critic, but has doubts concoining his qualifications. For Shaw file economist he has no use whatsoever; but he himself never got beyond the primer stage of Prince Koropotkin, and has no authority to pass upon this science. In philosophy, he finds Slm.w to be Figaro posturing as Aristotle. As an iconoclass Shaw is a bluffer; his hammer lias a rubber head. As controversialist a wordy eel, ever slithering out of reach. As playwright, “Heartbreak House,” “Can-1 didiy’ and perhaps “Mrs Warren’s }'■ olession” will live. As producer, a great technician.

As business man (here Harris is on vary ■sound ground) he links'him with liesident Hoover and Al Capone as the cleverest advertisers of the age I’or forty years Shaw has sold his scares to people who neither needed them nor wanted them, with an acumen which puts other great impre-

sarios of spoof in the shade. If any man has ever persuaded innocent bystanders. to build his pyramid for him, and to carry him up and seat him upon its pinnacle, it is the subject of these discussions, this very lively gentleman, Bernard Shaw.

These glimpses of Shaw getting great are fascinatingly handled, an<J they really make better reading than the sex revelations which have been trumpeted to sell the book. Actually, the Shavian confessions are only mildly piquant; so little intriguing that Frank Harris, given to passions, shews comic bewilderment at what he has to tell. Is it vegetarianism? Are weeds and water the clues to continence? Or is it Shaw’s pride in physical prowess?

In the next few months every woman’s club in America will discuss these alternatives, and the “Sex Credo” will be the problem of the day. Fresh interpretations will spring up each morning like mushrooms after rain. But in connection with, this mystery the Irish mind betrays quite English obtuseness. Harris praises “Candida” as the best play since Shakespeare; but did not Candida, that warm and desiderate heroine, turn from tlie purple grapes of desire to the dry workaday raisins of service? • ' TWO QUARRELS. Two quarrels complete the biography. • It appears that on more than one occasion, Frank Harris and Shaw began or completed work on the same subject at the same time. Which was the plagiarist? Shaw does not deny the - charge, but even so, a Scottish verdict is the most Harris can claim. It is not really a serious matter. Even less serious, but highly amusing, are the chapters which deal with Shaw’s treason to the Irish tradition of hatred and contempt for England. When he affirms that not only is England a great nation but that English character is the cornerstone of world stability. Harris snorts his disgust. It is shocking to discover an Irishman whe feels like this.

Bnt where Shaw further insists that .America was no more than a British instrument in the World War, and that “the sheoplike Englishman can •teat the brave American bullyboy every time when it comes to scientific soldiering,” Harris'breaks down. He has no con\eback. He must always feel that any losing cause, except England’s, must be right. The truth, of course, was that Shaw foresaw with Machiavellian clearness that if the efficient Prussian machine were - imposed upon the tolerant muddle of England, the Shavian mode would go out overnight, permanently verboten. Because of this, he turned patriot,, and incidentally backed' one more winner. It may have been convict j.on, hypocrisy, or simply ■ good judgment which suspended his buffooneries during the Great War; but to the Dark Irishman and Man of able ng hiS recre * llic - v was abominSo at the end Frank Harris is very doubtful about his old friend and-

enemy. He fears Messire Shaw will die in bed, and not in a lost cause. In a thousand years the biographical dictionaries will read so: “Shaw—-Ber-nard. Subject of 'a bust by Rodin: otherwise unknown.”