The Real Bernard Shaw

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLIII, Issue 16, 20 October 1909, Page 45

The Real Bernard Shaw

By

DR. ARCHIBALD HENDERSON,

Of the University of North Carolina.

PERSONAL STUDY OF THE BRILLIANT IRISHMAN WHO IS PERHAPS THE MOST INTERESTING FIGURE IN THE ENGLISH-SPEAKING LI TERARY WORLD TO-DAY.

The Legend and the Truth. \ OTHING is so true and at the ' B same time so false as what may he called the G. B. S. legend. / The most incredible yarn in contemporary mythology is the Shavian myth. Picture to yourself, if you please, a tall, thin, alert-looking person; a face ©f excessive pallor contrasting clearly with hair and whiskers of a sandy red, heavily sprinkled, or rather edged, with gray; and a general air of nonchalant extemporaneousness. Given an olive skin and black eyes, hair, and beard, Bernard Shaw might well pass for the hero—off the stage, of romantic Italian opera. There is, too another resemblance, puzzling for a moment, till of a sudden it flashes out. _ As portrayed in the photographs of Histed or Beresford • —not in the colour-plates of Steichen— Bernard Shaw is often to be encountered upon the Rue de Clichy or the Boulevard des Capucines. Look again, and you note the Germanic type—red beard and blue eyes—suggesting the Wagnerian comic opera, ‘"Die Meistersinger.” And as you look again, and observe the pointed beard, the upward curling mustachios, and the peaked eyebrows, turning sharply outward and upward, there comes a vision of a cadaverous Celtic 'Edouard de Reszke —a genial MephisItopheles of the cock feather, the living impersonation of a Max Beerbohm cartoon. One is struck by Mr. Shaw’s intense pallor, the gleaming whiteness and delicate texture of his skin, and the clear steel-blue of his eyes. This frame for an artist’s sketch of his head would be ar. elongated rectangle—a curious cephalic conformation illustrated in more than one of the Coburn prints. His brow —-“the brow of a Madonna,” as one of his acquaintances described it —is fine and noble; but his eyes are his most significant and characteristic feature. When he is engaged in serious conversation. particularly in the effective enunciation of an idea, his eyes have all the commanding directness of the soldier; but the greater part of the -time they are dancing with the light of irrepressible humour." One idea, utterly mistaken, but fondly cherished by the many, is the supposition that Shaw’s costume is excessively outre or bizarre. And yet it is quite true that his clothes, as well as his face end figure, serve to mark him out in any crowd. He wears, usually, brown woollens, a soft shirt with a rolled collar, a four-in-hand tie of inconspicuous colour, brown shoes, and a brown Fedora hat with a very wide brim. He abhors and forswears the use ot either starch or blacking as offensive end dirty. “I infinitely prefer a sort, unstarched ehirt of finest texture,” he once told me, “to a white breastplate plastered over ■with a nasty coating of tallow.” Two Pictures of Shaw. Two word-pictures of his personal appearance, respectively at the beginning of his career and at the present time, clearly illustrate the remarkable change in his fortunes, one might even Bay in his views, that has taken place in the last quarter of a century. “When I first knew Bernard Shaw,” Baid Herbert Bland, the journalist, author, and Fabian, “his costume Was unmistakably, arrantly Bohemian.” We •were walking through the gardens of Mr. Bland’s beautiful place at Eltham, in Kent, awaiting the appearance of his wife, the poet and novelist E. Nesbit. “Shaw wore a pair of tawny trousers, distinguished for their baggy appearance a long cutaway coat which had once been black, but was then a dingy green, •uffs which he was now and then compelled, though cruel it was, to trim to

the quick, and a tall silk hat, which had been battered down so often that it had a thousand creases in it from top to crown. Ah, that was a wonderful hat!” Mr. Bland laughed heartily over the recollection. “Shaw had to turn it around when he put it on, because it was broken in the middle, and if he wore it in the usual way it would fall limply together when removed from his head.”

This was the Shaw of salad days, of novel-writing juvenility, of March-hare madness. Note the contrast in the following picture: “When Bernard Shaw went to Paris to sit to Rodin last year,” Alvin Langdon Coburn, the photographer, recently told me, “his costume made him the cynosure of all eyes in the Parisian din-ing-rooms. His attire was in striking contrast to the conventional evening clothes of every one else in the room. He wore a lounge suit of golden brown, something like khaki, but of much finer texture and more pleasing shade; a solid green four-in-hand tie, and a soft negligee shirt, cream in colour. He was a symphony in brown; and the contrast of the red beard with the soft shades of cream, brown, and green made a col-our-scheme which, strange though it may sound, was extremely gratifying and artistic.” In his outings in the country, Mr. Shaw frequently wears knickerbockers

and a Norfolk jacket, doubtless as much for convenience in cycling as for anything else. He always changes his elothes for dinner—not to the evening clothes of convention, but to those of bis own choice —a loose sack suit of dark navy blue, in which he can be absolutely comfortable and at ease. His prominent position in English life today, and his enforced presence at many public dinners, virtually compel him, at times, to don conventional evening garb. The French Socialist leader, Jean Jeures, an ardent advocate of peace, was once forced by public opinion to fight a duel; refusal to fight meant forfeiture of position and influence. In much the same- way. Bernard Shaw has been compelled against his will to follow the sartorial convention of London society; but he told me that he never put on evening clothes save when he was an especially invited guest, and so was obliged to wear them on the principle “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Simplicity of taste is a key-note of Mr. S b aw’s character, lie has meat and drink k \ his table for people who like

that sort of thing, but he is himself a strict vegetarian and teetotaller. Why He is a Vegetarian. “If people are cannibal enough in their taste to want to eat the corpses of slaughtered animals, and to excite their nerves with* injurious produets of fermentation,” he freely says, “I shall not prevent them from committing -ueh atrocities; but you cannot expect me to share in their tastes. I have no doubt that a baby’s tender cheek would make a delightful steak, but I could not eat such a thing, because it is personally repulsive to me.” “How did you happen to become a vegetarian?” I asked. “Well, you see,” replied Mr. Shaw, “the meals one could get at the vegetarian restaurants in the early eighties were not only much cheaper, but also far better, than meals at the ordinary restaurant. I recall with a shudder my own experiences as a meat-eater in the

days when I cultivated literature, not 01: a little oatmeal, but on beef and mutton. The terrible sameness of beefsteak, roa-t, and mutton palled on me. Pork revolted me; rabbit was just as bad as jugged cat; and fowls were too expensive and unsubstantial a luxury. I could not afford to retain a BrillatSavarin to devise a thousand different varieties of beef and mutton; chefs were not for sueh as me. I dined at a restaurant as well as I could for one and sixpence; but I grew tired x>f the beef and mutton, the steam and grease, the waiter looking as if he had been caught in a shower of gravy and not properly dried, the beer, the prevailing redness of nose, and the reek of the slaughter-house that convicted us all of being beasts of prey. I fled to the purer air of the vegetarian restaurants, and I have never returned to my old haunts.” A Palmist's Analysis of Shaw. Some time ago, a skilled palmist read Mr. Shaw’s hand; the record of his results, while not to be regarded as infallible, is interesting as indicating certain so-called traits of Mr. Shaw’s personality and temperament. The long, conical hands, quite small, for so tall a man, were recognised as belonging to an author, dramatist, musician, and critic, who, in matters of opinion, jumps to conclusions on insufficient grounds. Various features of his hand showed the ,-übjeet to be argumentative, dogmatic, and unconvinceable; susceptible to 'criticism himself, yet severe in his criticisms of others; quiet in temper, a curious mixture of caution and liberality. Most noticeable was the mark of “immensa wealth of imagination, extreme eccentricity of ideas, and disregard of truth, all notions and opinions being coloured, cy fancy until facts are completely lost sight of.” It was predicted that tho subject would make his own career in the world, and try to carry out his eccentric ideas. “He should do some very good artistic work in time to ecme,” vouchsafed the gracious palmist, “if he will only leave the practical side of things to others, and stick to art £U~ he should.” An Epigram of 'Wilde s. It was Oscar Wilde who once said of Bernard Shaw that he had many enemies, and that none of his friends quite liked him. Truth, as Wilde maintained, is only a relative term, and this is not even a half-truth. Bernard Shaw’s enemies I believe are generous enemies, who respect him, even while they wholly disagree with him. Those who believe in him as a genius, though they may not share his philosophy, are animated by a spirit of tho finest loyalty. Never was a man more blessed with adherents who would stand up for him in the last ditch. Somebody once asked Mr. Shaw why he was always so cynical; to which he replied that he could not account for his cynicism—it must be accepted as the primary and original product of his own. genius. His ability to see facts without illusion, his power of exposing the naked truth before a shocked audience, his corrosive wit, which is a vital product of extraordinary intellectuality, have led many people to regard him as merely cynical and flippant. “I am not a cynic at all,” Mr. Shaw said to me, “if by ‘cynic’ is meant one who despairs of human virtue, and disbelieves in the inherent goodness of man. But all this babble about the search for happiness does not impose on me in the slightest degree. Remember the saying of Napoleon: “ ‘Could I be what I am, little one, eared I only for happiness?’ “It is a common error to mistake a penetrating critic for a cynic. I owe my success as a critic, not to any quality of cynicism, but to a searching power of analysis.” Shaw as a Conversationalist. Bernard Shaw is a remarkable conversationalist—no mere Coleridge in monopoly of the stage, but as good a listener ns a talker. He recently said in answer to a question, that only two subjects he cared to talk of were polities and religion. As a matter of fact, he talks volubly and unhesitatingly on -any and every topic that comes to hand. His brilliancy in discussing questions w ilh which he is familiar Is equalled only by his fluency in discoursing upon themes of which he is entirely ignorant. He is prepared, at a moment’s notice, to deliver an opinion on any subject under the sun, from Gorman philosophy to wemen’s clothes, from Richard Wagnsr

to Anthony Comstock. And in almost all cases, he pours a flood of delightful and quite unina licious satire upon everything and everybody. His frank and boyish enjoyment of his effect upon the people he meets is infectious ; and nothing dcdigTTts him more than to Haunt a red rag at the British Bull named John. “1 get no end of fun out of fluttering the dove-cotes,” he told me, “and there is a peculiar exhilaration in creating among’ my critics a miniature reign of terror. People are always asking me silly questions, and I am human enough to «njoy mystifying people who have no sense of humour. Why, only the other day, some one innocently came up to me, and inquired if 1 was really serious in all that 1 said, wrote, and did. ‘lf you really believe me to be serious,’ 1 replied, ‘it is unnecessary for me to assure you of the fact. If you do not believe me to be serious, it is equally unnecessary to assure you of something which you would not believe.’ ” Earnestness Veiled in Jesting. This is the boyish, youthful side of Bernard Shaw. Talk with him earnestly and sympathetically about any subject whatever —-for he takes a lively interest in everything—and he will answer with equal earnestness and sympathy. He has a wide knowledge of music, art, and literature, and a wonderful insight into the heart of modern life. Talking with him you will discover that Michael Angelo has strongly influenced his artistic taste; that Mozart is his supreme ideal of the musician for musicians; that his dramas have vital points of contact with those of Moliere; that William Morris opened his eyes to the efficacy of style, and that he knows his Shakespeare from beginning to end as few men know it. He wears the grey cloak of bravado before the world, and makes'many a brave gesture of Cyranesque elan; but this is only the motley of the jester which conceals the profound seriousness of the man. “It is a mistake,” he recently toTll me, “to suppose that I thrive on depreciation. I do not write better under the fire of opposition. At times I love to play with the public, and I often say things that I know will make my opponents fairly rave. But what nerves me to write, and to produce the best that is in me, is the knowledge of a big, serious public—a public that reads my books seriously, and that really understands what I am driving at.” Irrepressible high spirfts and abounding life are noteworthy qualities of Bernard Shaw’s temperament. Yet' 1 was deeply impressed with his tremendous, at times almost terrifying, earnestness. You listen to his flashes of wit, the brilliant points of cleverness into which his speech is perpetually focusing, and you are like-ly-to be led into the belief that he is merely a light eauseur. But let mention be made of some vulgar social abuse, some crying social evil, or some damnable

social crime, and his whole tone and manner undergo a remarkable transformation. A hoarse, guttural note sounds in his voice, his eyes gleam like points of steel, and his whole being emanates protest against those classes of society which batten upon the helplessness of the poor, the credulity of the ignorant, the enforced depravity of a “submerged tenth.” It is at such times that he strikes out from the shoulder with those tremendous blows of comic irony, the effect of which his opponents seek to nullify by calling them the clever quips of u fantastic Irishman, who must not under any circumstances be taken seriously. Shaw’s Kindly Personality. In private life, Bernard Shaw is a rarely genial and kindly gentleman, ready to take any amount of trouble for a friend, and continually, putting out his hand to help some worthy petitioner for aid or aspirant for deserved place. As one of his friends remarked the other day, “his goodness of heart, his unvarying courtesy, his tenderness toward the susceptibilities of others, and his tactical handling of shy and timorous suppliants, are things that must be experienced to be appreciated. He has a sharp nose 'and a barbed tongue ever ready for the selfseeker, the snob, the poseur, the smiling time-server with a dagger under his coat; but to the honest friend, proved or unproved, he shows the very soul of gentle breeding.” His playful pretence of vanity before strangers is a source of great amusement to himself and his friends. His r riends know well that at the bottom, he is unaffectedly modest in respect to his own achievements. He takes criticism with the utmost equanimity, as 1 often found in discussing with him the details of his biography. The qualities which impressed me again and again were not affectation, but reserve; not ostentation, but simplicity. In conversation he is often complex and subtle; in homely intercourse, he is unaffectedly simple and natural. Tile Gospel of Work. If the germ of Mr. Shaw’s philosophy can be found embodied in a single paragraph, Kprefer to find it in something he recently said, exhibiting the contrast of his own optimistic theories of life with what lie regards as Shakespeare’s pessimistic view: “I am of the opinion that my lite, belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatsoever I can. “I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle for me, It is a sort of splendid torch, which I have got hold of for the moment; and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”