man and superman-第5章

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politics　was　preceded　by　a　very　convincing　demonstration　that　the
artist　never　catches　the　point　of　view　of　the　common　man　on　the
question　of　sex；　because　he　is　not　in　the　same　predicament。　I
first　prove　that　anything　I　write　on　the　relation　of　the　sexes　is
sure　to　be　misleading；　and　then　I　proceed　to　write　a　Don　Juan
play。　Well；　if　you　insist　on　asking　me　why　I　behave　in　this
absurd　way；　I　can　only　reply　that　you　asked　me　to；　and　that　in
any　case　my　treatment　of　the　subject　may　be　valid　for　the　artist；
amusing　to　the　amateur；　and　at　least　intelligible　and　therefore
possibly　suggestive　to　the　Philistine。　Every　man　who　records　his
illusions　is　providing　data　for　the　genuinely　scientific
psychology　which　the　world　still　waits　for。　I　plank　down　my　view
of　the　existing　relations　of　men　to　women　in　the　most　highly
civilized　society　for　what　it　is　worth。　It　is　a　view　like　any
other　view　and　no　more；　neither　true　nor　false；　but；　I　hope；　a
way　of　looking　at　the　subject　which　throws　into　the　familiar
order　of　cause　and　effect　a　sufficient　body　of　fact　and
experience　to　be　interesting　to　you；　if　not　to　the　play…going
public　of　London。　I　have　certainly　shown　little　consideration　for
that　public　in　this　enterprise；　but　I　know　that　it　has　the
friendliest　disposition　towards　you　and　me　as　far　as　it　has　any
consciousness　of　our　existence；　and　quite　understands　that　what　I
write　for　you　must　pass　at　a　considerable　height　over　its　simple
romantic　head。　It　will　take　my　books　as　read　and　my　genius　for
granted；　trusting　me　to　put　forth　work　of　such　quality　as　shall
bear　out　its　verdict。　So　we　may　disport　ourselves　on　our　own
plane　to　the　top　of　our　bent；　and　if　any　gentleman　points　out
that　neither　this　epistle　dedicatory　nor　the　dream　of　Don　Juan　in
the　third　act　of　the　ensuing　comedy　is　suitable　for　immediate
production　at　a　popular　theatre　we　need　not　contradict　him。
Napoleon　provided　Talma　with　a　pit　of　kings；　with　what　effect　on
Talma's　acting　is　not　recorded。　As　for　me；　what　I　have　always
wanted　is　a　pit　of　philosophers；　and　this　is　a　play　for　such　a
pit。

I　should　make　formal　acknowledgment　to　the　authors　whom　I　have
pillaged　in　the　following　pages　if　I　could　recollect　them　a11。
The　theft　of　the　brigand…poetaster　from　Sir　Arthur　Conan　Doyle　is
deliberate；　and　the　metamorphosis　of　Leporello　into　Enry　Straker；
motor　engineer　and　New　Man；　is　an　intentional　dramatic　sketch　for
the　contemporary　embryo　of　Mr　H。　G。　Wells's　anticipation　of　the
efficient　engineering　class　which　will；　he　hopes；　finally　sweep
the　jabberers　out　of　the　way　of　civilization。　Mr　Barrio　has　also；
whilst　I　am　correcting　my　proofs；　delighted　London　with　a　servant
who　knows　more　than　his　masters。　The　conception　of　Mendoza
Limited　I　trace　back　to　a　certain　West　Indian　colonial　secretary；
who；　at　a　period　when　he　and　I　and　Mr　Sidney　Webb　were　sowing　our
political　wild　oats　as　a　sort　of　Fabian　Three　Musketeers；　without
any　prevision　of　the　surprising　respectability　of　the　crop　that
followed；　recommended　Webb；　the　encyclopedic　and　inexhaustible；
to　form　himself　into　a　company　for　the　benefit　of　the
shareholders。　Octavius　I　take　over　unaltered　from　Mozart；　and　I
hereby　authorize　any　actor　who　impersonates　him；　to　sing　〃Dalla
sua　pace〃　（if　he　can）　at　any　convenient　moment　during　the
representation。　Ann　was　suggested　to　me　by　the　fifteenth　century
Dutch　morality　called　Everyman；　which　Mr　William　Poel　has　lately
resuscitated　so　triumphantly。　I　trust　he　will　work　that　vein
further；　and　recognize　that　Elizabethan　Renascence　fustian　is　no
more　bearable　after　medieval　poesy　than　Scribe　after　Ibsen。　As　I
sat　watching　Everyman　at　the　Charterhouse；　I　said　to　myself　Why
not　Everywoman？　Ann　was　the　result：　every　woman　is　not　Ann；　but
Ann　is　Everywoman。

That　the　author　of　Everyman　was　no　mere　artist；　but　an
artist…philosopher；　and　that　the　artist…philosophers　are　the　only
sort　of　artists　I　take　quite　seriously；　will　be　no　news　to　you。
Even　Plato　and　Boswell；　as　the　dramatists　who　invented　Socrates
and　Dr　Johnson；　impress　me　more　deeply　than　the　romantic
playwrights。　Ever　since；　as　a　boy；　I　first　breathed　the　air　of
the　transcendental　regions　at　a　performance　of　Mozart's
Zauberflote；　I　have　been　proof　against　the　garish　splendors　and
alcoholic　excitements　of　the　ordinary　stage　combinations　of
Tappertitian　romance　with　the　police　intelligence。　Bunyan；　Blake；
Hogarth　and　Turner　（these　four　apart　and　above　all　the　English
Classics）；　Goethe；　Shelley；　Schopenhaur；　Wagner；　Ibsen；　Morris；
Tolstoy；　and　Nietzsche　are　among　the　writers　whose　peculiar　sense
of　the　world　I　recognize　as　more　or　less　akin　to　my　own。　Mark　the
word　peculiar。　I　read　Dickens　and　Shakespear　without　shame　or
stint；　but　their　pregnant　observations　and　demonstrations　of　life
are　not　co…ordinated　into　any　philosophy　or　religion：　on　the
contrary；　Dickens's　sentimental　assumptions　are　violently
contradicted　by　his　observations；　and　Shakespear's　pessimism　is
only　his　wounded　humanity。　Both　have　the　specific　genius　of　the
fictionist　and　the　common　sympathies　of　human　feeling　and　thought
in　pre…eminent　degree。　They　are　often　saner　and　shrewder　than　the
philosophers　just　as　Sancho…Panza　was　often　saner　and　shrewder
than　Don　Quixote。　They　clear　away　vast　masses　of　oppressive
gravity　by　their　sense　of　the　ridiculous；　which　is　at　bottom　a
combination　of　sound　moral　judgment　with　lighthearted　good
humor。　But　they　are　concerned　with　the　diversities　of　the　world
instead　of　with　its　unities：　they　are　so　irreligious　that　they
exploit　popular　religion　for　professional　purposes　without
delicacy　or　scruple　（for　example；　Sydney　Carton　and　the　ghost　in
Hamlet！）：　they　are　anarchical；　and　cannot　balance　their　exposures
of　Angelo　and　Dogberry；　Sir　Leicester　Dedlock　and　Mr　Tite
Barnacle；　with　any　portrait　of　a　prophet　or　a　worthy　leader：　they
have　no　constructive　ideas：　they　regard　those　who　have　them　as
dangerous　fanatics：　in　all　their　fictions　there　is　no　leading
thought　or　inspiration　for　which　any　man　could　conceivably　risk
the　spoiling　of　his　hat　in　a　shower；　much　less　his　life。　Both　are
alike　forced　to　borrow　motives　for　the　more　strenuous　actions　of
their　personages　from　the　common　stockpot　of　melodramatic　plots；
so　that　Hamlet　has　to　be　stimulated　by　the　prejudices　of　a
policeman　and　Macbeth　by　the　cupidities　of　a　bushranger。　Dickens；
without　the　excuse　of　having　to　manufacture　motives　for　Hamlets
and　Macbeths；　superfluously　punt　his　crew　down　the　stream　of　his
monthly　parts　by　mechanical　devices　which　I　leave　you　to
describe；　my　own　memory　being　quite　baffled　by　the　simplest
question　as　to　Monks　in　Oliver　Twist；　or　the　long　lost　parentage
of　Smike；　or　the　relations　between　the　Dorrit　and　Clennam
families　so　inopportunely　discovered　by　Monsieur　Rigaud　Blandois。
The　truth　is；　the　world　was　to　Shakespear　a　great　〃stage　of
fools〃　on　which　he　was　utterly　bewildered。　He　could　see　no　sort
of　sense　in　living　at　all；　and　Dickens　saved　himself　from　the
despair　of　the　dream　in　The　Chimes　by　taking　the　world　for
granted　and　busying　himself　with　its　details。　Neither　of　them
could　do　anything　with　a　serious　positive　character：　they　could
place　a　human　figure　before　you　with　perfect　verisimilitude；　but
when　the　moment　came　for　making　it　live　and　move；　they　found；
unless　it　made　them　laugh；　that　they　had　a　puppet　on　their　hands；
and　had　to　invent　some　artificial　external　stimulus　to　make　it
work。　This　is　what　is　the　matter　with　Hamlet　all　through：　he　has
no　will　except　in　his　bursts　of　temper。　Foolish　Bardolaters　make
a　virtue　of　this　after　their　fashion：　they　declare　that　the　play
is　the　tragedy　of　irresolution；　but　all　Shakespear's　projections
of　the　deepest　humanity　he　knew　have　the　same　defect：　their
characters　and　manners　are　lifelike；　but　their　actions　are　forced
on　them　from　without；　and　the　external　force　is　grotesquely
inappropriate　except　when　it　is　quite　conventional；　as　in　the
case　of　Henry　V。　Falstaff　is　more　vivid　than　any　of　these　serious
reflective　characters；　because　he　is　self…acting：　his　motives　are
his　own　appetites　and　instincts　and　humors。　Richard　III；　too；　is
delightful　as　the　whimsical　comedian　who　stops　a　funeral　to　make
love　to　the　corpse's　widow；　but　when；　in　the　next　act；　he　is
replaced　by　a　stage　villain　who　smothers　babies　and　offs　with
people's　heads；　we　are　revolted　at　the　imposture　and　repudiate
the　changeling。　Faulconbridge；　Coriolanus；　Leontes　are　admirable
descriptions　of　instinctive　temperaments：　indeed　the　play　of
Coriolanus　is　the　greatest　of　Shakespear's　comedies；　but
description　is　not　philosophy；　and　comedy　neither　compromises　the
author　nor　reveals　him。　He　must　be　judged　by　those　characters
into　which　he　puts　what　he　knows　of　himself；　his　Hamlets　and
Macbeths　and　Lears　and　Prosperos。　If　these　characters　are
agonizing　in　a　void　about　factitious　melodramatic　murders　and
revenges　and　the　like；　whilst　the　comic　characters　walk　with
their　feet　on　solid　ground；　vivid　and　amusing；　you　know　that　the
author　has　much　to　show　and　nothing　to　teach。　The　comparison
between　Falstaff　and　Prospero　is　like　the　comparison　between
Micawber　and　David　Copperfield。　At　the　end　of　the　book　you　know
Micawber；　whereas　you　only　know　what　has　happened　to　David；　and
are　not　interested　enough　in　him　to　wonder　what　his　politics　or
religion　might　be　if　anything　so　stupendous　as　a　religious　or
political　idea；　or　a　general　idea　of　any　sort；　were　to　occur　to
him。　He　is　tolerable　as　a　child；　but　he　never　becomes　a　man；　and
might　be　left　out　of　his　own　biography　altogether　but　for　his
usefulness　as　a　stage　confidant；　a　Horatio　or　〃Charles　his
friend〃　what　they　call　on　the　stage　a　feeder。

Now　you　cannot　say　this　of　the　works　of　the　artist…philosophers。
You　cannot　say　it；　for　instance；　of　The　Pilgrim's　Progress。　Put
your　Shakespearian　hero　and　coward；　Henry　V　and　Pistol　or
Parolles；　beside　Mr　Valiant　and　Mr　Fearing；　and　you　have　a　sudden
revelation　of　the　abyss　that　lies　between　the　fashionable　author
who　could　see　nothing　in　the　world　but　personal　aims　and　the
tragedy　of　their　disappointment　or　the　comedy　of　their
incongruity；　and　the　field　preacher　who　achieved　virtue　and
courage　by　identifying　himself　with　the　purpose　of　the　world　as
he　understood　it。　The　contrast　is　enormous：　Bunyan's　coward　stirs
your　blood　more　than　Shakespear's　hero；　who　actually　leaves　you
cold　and　secretly　hostile。　You　suddenly　see　that　Shakespear；　with
all　his　flashes　and　divinations；　never　understood　virtue　and
courage；　never　conceived　how　any　man　who　was　not　a　fool　could；
like　Bunyan's　hero；　look　back　from　the　brink　of　the　river　of
death　over　the　strife　and　labor　of　his　pilgrimage；　and　say　〃yet
do　I　not　repent　me〃；　or；　with　the　panache　of　a　millionaire；
bequeath　〃my　sword　to　him　that　shall　succeed　me　in　my　pilgrimage；
and　my　courage　and　skill　to　him　that　can　get　it。〃　This　is　the
true　joy　in　life；　the　being　used　for　a　purpose　recognized　by
yourself　as　a　mighty　one；　the　being　thoroughly　worn　out　before
you　are　thrown　on　the　scrap　heap；　the　being　a　force　of　Nature
instead　of　a　feverish　selfish　little　clod　of　ailments　and
grievances　complaining　that　the　world　will　not　devote　itself　to
making　you　happy。　And　also　the　only　real