The English public has commonly professed1, with a 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 mere2 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 Irishmen. 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 amiability3 which most Englishmen undoubtedly4 feel towards Irishmen is lavished5 upon a class of Irishmen which unfortunately does not exist. The Irishman of the English farce6, with his brogue, his buoyancy, and his tender-hearted irresponsibility, is a man who ought to have been thoroughly7 pampered8 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 tragic9 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 fidelity10, the more he regarded us with a sort of icy anger. The more the oppressor looked down with an amiable11 pity, the more did the oppressed 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 been 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 any one 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 logic12 and consistency13; 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 that I will reasonably, and at proper intervals14, remember the fact.
Mr. Shaw himself said once, “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 paradox15 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. Mystical dogmas are much of this kind. Dogmas are often spoken of as if they were signs of the slowness or endurance of the human mind. As a matter of fact, they are marks of mental promptitude and lucid16 impatience17. 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 lucidity18 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 folly19 wisely, like the Dons.
This is the truth about mystical dogmas and the truth about Irish bulls; it is also the truth about the paradoxes20 of Bernard Shaw. Each of them is an argument impatiently shortened into an epigram. Each of them represents a truth hammered and hardened, with an almost disdainful violence until it is compressed into a small space, until it is made brief and almost incomprehensible. The case of that curt21 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 psychology22 which I can trace in many of the things that come out of me, my fastidiousness, my frigid23 fierceness and my distrust of mere pleasure. But the thing must be tested by what comes from me; do not try on me the dodge24 of asking where I came from, how many batches25 of three hundred and sixty-five days my family was in Ireland. Do not play any games on me about whether I am a Celt, a word that is dim to the anthropologist26 and utterly27 unmeaning to anybody else. Do not start any drivelling discussions about whether the word Shaw is German or Scandinavian or Iberian or Basque. You know you are human; I know I am Irish. I know I belong to a certain type and temper of society; and 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 anthropology28 to hell or to Oxford29.” 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 symbolic30, 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 ascetic31 age of Christianity) to be called the “Land of Saints”; and which still might give it a claim to be called the Land of Virgins32. 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 recognize 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 ascetic pictures of the beardless Christ. However he may shout profanities or seek to shatter the shrines33, there is always something about him which suggests that in a sweeter and more solid civilisation34 he would have been a great saint. He would have been a saint of a sternly ascetic, perhaps of a sternly negative type. But he has this strange note of the saint in him: that he is literally35 unworldly. Worldliness has no human magic for him; he is not bewitched by rank nor drawn36 on by conviviality37 at all. He could not understand the intellectual surrender of the snob38. He is perhaps a defective39 character; but he is not a mixed one. All the virtues41 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 innocence42 is peculiar43 and fundamental in him; and 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 dealing44, 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 impetus45 which goes beyond itself and cannot always easily be recovered. So the healthiest men may often erect46 a law to watch them, just as the healthiest sleepers47 may want an alarum 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 elegance48; a dangerous and somewhat inhuman49 daintiness of 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 vegetarian50, 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 vegetarians51, of peasants who are compelled to accept the simple life in 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 virtue40 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 was once 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 miserable52 mandrakes which cannot even groan53. There is no natural limit to this rush and riotous54 gallop55 of refinement56.
But it is not this physical and fantastic purity which I should chiefly count among the legacies57 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 soldier and the lawyer; 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 Michael Angelo. 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 Irishman is genial58, unreasonable59, and sentimental60. This legend of the tender, irresponsible Paddy has two roots; there are two elements in the Irish which made the mistake possible. First, the very logic of the Irishman makes him regard war or revolution as extra-logical, an 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 dignified61 than a soldier worries whether a cannon-ball is shapely or a plan of campaign picturesque62. 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 archaic63 Erse 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 chivalry64 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 impulsiveness65 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 members suppose that he is a sentimentalist. The truth is that he is a scornful realist who alone remains66 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 Radicals67 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 men (he is hardly hot and animal enough for that), but because he really hated certain ideas even unto slaying68. He provokes; he will not let people alone. One might even say that he bullies69, 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. An even stronger instance of this national trait can be found in another eminent70 Irishman, Oscar Wilde. His philosophy (which was vile) was a philosophy of ease, of acceptance, and luxurious71 illusion; yet, being Irish, he could not help putting it in pugnacious72 and propagandist epigrams. He preached his softness with hard decision; he praised pleasure in the words most calculated to give pain. This armed insolence73, 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 strictly74 separate poetry from prose; and as in prose they are strictly prosaic75, so in poetry they are purely76 poetical77. 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 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 the universe. The English people made haste to abandon England in favour of Mr. Kipling and his imaginary colonies; they made haste to abandon Christianity in favour of Mr. Kipling’s rather morbid78 version of Judaism. Such a moral boom of a book would be almost impossible in Ireland, because 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 sublime79, and with the other eye that after all it was a dream. Both the humour and the sentiment of an Englishman cause him to wink80 the other eye. Two other small examples will illustrate81 the English mistake. Take, for instance, that noble survival from a nobler age of politics—I mean Irish oratory82. The English imagine that Irish politicians are so hot-headed and poetical that they have to pour out a torrent83 of burning words. The truth is that the Irish are so clear-headed and critical that they still regard rhetoric84 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 civilised. Blarney is a ritual; as much of a ritual as kissing the Blarney Stone.
Lastly, there is one general truth about Ireland which may very 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 patriotism85, about religion, or about money: the three great realities. In other words, they are concerned with what commonwealth86 a man lives in or with what universe a man lives in or with 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 Councils Bill; 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 a 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 Fenian to throw over Mr. Gladstone; each will throw over anything except the thing that he wants. Hence it happens that even the follies87 or the frauds of Irish politics are more genuine as symptoms and more honourable88 as symbols than the lumbering89 hypocrisies90 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 Piggott’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 truthful91 men of his time. An ordinary British statesman would never have made the confession92, because he would have grown quite accustomed to committing the crime. The party system itself implies a habit of stating something other than the actual 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 virulent93 Unionism, it was at least something which wanted a certain principle to be in force, not a certain clique94 to be in office. Of him the great Gilbertian generalisation 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 a Red Indian might stare at the Oxford and Cambridge boat-race, blind to all its irrelevant95 sentimentalities and to some of its legitimate96 sentiments. Bernard Shaw entered England as an alien, as an invader97, as a conqueror98. In other words, he entered England as an Irishman.
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1
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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batches
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| 一批( batch的名词复数 )； 一炉； （食物、药物等的）一批生产的量； 成批作业 | |
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anthropologist
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| n.人类学家，人类学者 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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vegetarians
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| n.吃素的人( vegetarian的名词复数 )；素食者；素食主义者；食草动物 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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