A man who believes something is ready and witty, because he has all his weapons about him. he can apply his test in an instant.
The man engaged in conflict with a man like Mr. Bernard Shaw may fancy he has ten faces; similarly a man engaged against a brilliant duellist may fancy that the sword of his foe has turned to ten swords in his hand. But this is not really because the man is playing with ten swords, it is because he is aiming very straight with one.
Moreover, a man with a definite belief always appears bizarre, because he does not change with the world; he has climbed into a fixed star, and the earth whizzes below him like a zoetrope.
Millions of mild black-coated men call themselves sane and sensible merely because they always catch the fashionable insanity, because they are hurried into madness after madness by the maelstrom of the world.
People accuse Mr. Shaw and many much sillier persons of "proving that black is white." But they never ask whether the current colour-language is always correct. Ordinary sensible phraseology sometimes calls black white, it certainly calls yellow white and green white and reddish-brown white.
We call wine "white wine" which is as yellow as a Blue-coat boy's legs.
We call grapes "white grapes" which are manifestly pale green.
We give to the European, whose complexion is a sort of pink drab, the horrible title of a "white man"--a picture more blood-curdling than any spectre in Poe.
Now, it is undoubtedly true that if a man asked a waiter in a restaurant for a bottle of yellow wine and some greenish-yellow grapes, the waiter would think him mad. It is undoubtedly true that if a Government official, reporting on the Europeans in Burmah, said, "There are only two thousand pinkish men here" he would be accused of cracking jokes, and kicked out of his post. But it is equally obvious that both men would have come to grief through telling the strict truth.
That too truthful man in the restaurant; that too truthful man in Burmah, is Mr. Bernard Shaw. He appears eccentric and grotesque because he will not accept the general belief that white is yellow.
He has based all his brilliancy and solidity upon the hackneyed, but yet forgotten, fact that truth is stranger than fiction.
Truth, of course, must of necessity be stranger than fiction, for we have made fiction to suit ourselves.
So much then a reasonable appreciation will find in Mr. Shaw to be bracing and excellent. He claims to see things as they are;and some things, at any rate, he does see as they are, which the whole of our civilization does not see at all.
But in Mr. Shaw's realism there is something lacking, and that thing which is lacking is serious.
Mr. Shaw's old and recognized philosophy was that powerfully presented in "The Quintessence of Ibsenism." It was, in brief, that conservative ideals were bad, not because They were conservative, but because they were ideals. Every ideal prevented men from judging justly the particular case; every moral generalization oppressed the individual; the golden rule was there was no golden rule.
And the objection to this is simply that it pretends to free men, but really restrains them from doing the only thing that men want to do.
What is the good of telling a community that it has every liberty except the liberty to make laws? The liberty to make laws is what constitutes a free people. And what is the good of telling a man (or a philosopher) that he has every liberty except the liberty to make generalizations. Making generalizations is what makes him a man.
In short, when Mr. Shaw forbids men to have strict moral ideals, he is acting like one who should forbid them to have children.
The saying that "the golden rule is that there is no golden rule,"can, indeed, be simply answered by being turned round.
That there is no golden rule is itself a golden rule, or rather it is much worse than a golden rule. It is an iron rule;a fetter on the first movement of a man.
But the sensation connected with Mr. Shaw in recent years has been his sudden development of the religion of the Superman.
He who had to all appearance mocked at the faiths in the forgotten past discovered a new god in the unimaginable future. He who had laid all the blame on ideals set up the most impossible of all ideals, the ideal of a new creature. But the truth, nevertheless, is that any one who knows Mr. Shaw's mind adequately, and admires it properly, must have guessed all this long ago.
For the truth is that Mr. Shaw has never seen things as they really are.
If he had he would have fallen on his knees before them.
He has always had a secret ideal that has withered all the things of this world. He has all the time been silently comparing humanity with something that was not human, with a monster from Mars, with the Wise Man of the Stoics, with the Economic Man of the Fabians, with Julius Caesar, with Siegfried, with the Superman. Now, to have this inner and merciless standard may be a very good thing, or a very bad one, it may be excellent or unfortunate, but it is not seeing things as they are. it is not seeing things as they are to think first of a Briareus with a hundred hands, and then call every man a cripple for only having two. It is not seeing things as they are to start with a vision of Argus with his hundred eyes, and then jeer at every man with two eyes as if he had only one.
