Pygmalion and Three Other Plays

INTRODUCTION

In one of Katharine Hepburn’s early films, Morning Glory (from a 1933 play by Zoe Akins), Hepburn plays a self-confident, self-reliant, fearless, and outspoken young woman, ambitious to become a great actress in New York — in short, Hepburn plays herself. In the film, in an exchange with a producer (played by the ever-dapper Adolphe Menjou), Hepburn explains that she has done several major roles back home in her local Vermont theater company, including a role “in Shaw’s You Never Can Tell.” Menjou then asks, “Bernard Shaw?” and she replies, “The one and only.” They continue:

“You think Shaw’s clever?”

“He’s the greatest living dramatist.”

“You really think so?”

“I know it.”

She goes on to explain that she once wrote to Shaw and received a reply (which she carries with her), and that she will always have a Shaw play in her repertoire “as long as I remain in the theater.” The version of herself Hepburn plays here amounts to a version of the headstrong Shavian heroine. In the real theater world, Hepburn played the title role in one of Shaw’s late but not-quite-great plays, The Millionairess, in a New York and London production (1952). Some twelve years earlier, when she was starring in the film The Philadelphia Story, Shaw himself had suggested that she was just the sort of actress to play his millionairess. But even apart from her actual stage experience with Shaw, Hepburn, like her parents before her, was a Shavian — that is, influenced by Shaw’s ideas; full of unorthodox views, especially about religion; independent-minded; strong-willed. That was the appeal of Shaw in the 1930s, when the number of his plays that were part of the active repertory of the world’s theater — say twenty plays — was greater than that of almost any other playwright, Shakespeare, as always, excepted.

The modernists — Eliot, Joyce, Beckett — and modernism had not yet completely triumphed, so that Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf could argue about Shaw’s place in modernism, Virginia maintaining that Shaw was out of date, and Leonard asserting that if it had not been for Shaw’s work of educating the first generation of the twentieth century about everything, the modernists would have found no audience. So Shaw still could seem ahead of his time — enough ahead of his time for a most modern woman like Katharine Hepburn (and the character she played in Morning Glory) to admire him as a culture hero, an advanced thinker, and a modern playwright.

The four plays in the present volume are test cases both for Shaw’s achievement in drama and for the destinies of his headstrong heroines. The plays also give more trouble than those in Barnes & Noble Classics’s other edition of Shaw — Mrs. Warren’s Profession, Candida, The Devil’s Disciple, and Man and Superman — more trouble in that they have more unresolved chords than his earlier plays, and so are more difficult to understand; they reflect a Shaw troubled by the role of the artist in the world and by the world’s role in the universe. Heartbreak House, the last play in this edition, was written during World War I; it expresses Shaw’s struggle not to be defeated by all the evidence that the Devil in Man and Superman, who argued that Man is primarily a destroyer with his heart in his weapons, was right after all. Just the number of the war dead — the prodigiousness of which can be gauged by considering that United States fatalities for the whole of the Vietnam war, some 54,000, about equaled the number killed on one side on a single day of battle on the Western Front.

Major Barbara and its two predecessor plays — Afan and Superman (1903) and John Bull’s Other Island (1904; Shaw’s only major play about and set in his native Ireland) — form a trilogy on the theme of human destiny within a social order and a cosmic perspective, as Bernard Dukore has suggested in Shaw’s Theatre (see “For Further Reading”). All three plays use forceful images of heaven and hell, and debate propositions and ideas that would transform the world from a hellish place to a more heavenly one. But where Man and Superman projects an optimistic vision of human potential, both John Bull’s Other Island and Major Barbara end more ambiguously — that is, with the sense that any hope that humankind will put an end to war and waste remains in the realm of madness or fantasy — though Shaw still commits his characters to the fervent attempt to turn hope into reality. By the time Shaw wrote Heartbreak House, during World War I, he found himself a powerless witness to death and destruction on a massive scale such as the world had not seen. Heartbreak House records most precisely the reaction of the playwright to be like that of a man looking down from the top ledge of a skyscraper who becomes afraid, not that he will fall, but that he will jump. The tension in the play derives from Shaw’s instinct to resist yet give full expression to the allure of the jump that would let him be finally done with the world.

John Bull’s Other Island made Shaw famous and popular in 1904. Previously he had been something of a coterie dramatist with a few mildly successful plays to his credit. But the topicality of John Bull’s Other Island — together with the fortuitous attendance at a performance by King Edward, during which he laughed frequently and noticeably, and apparently with such gusto that he broke his chair — raised Shaw’s recognition and reputation to a hitherto unattained level. Certainly Shaw’s Irish play has its hilarious moments and episodes; but it is also suffused with sadness over the spiritual paralysis Shaw diagnoses as deriving from his countrymen’s tormenting imagination, which drives them to flee from reality to the bottle and futile dreams. The play’s embodiment of this tragic condition is a defrocked priest, Father Keegan, who expresses in the last scene an ideal social and metaphysical order:

In my dreams [Heaven] is a country where the State is the Church and the Church the people: three in one and one in three. It is a commonwealth in which work is play and play is life: three in one and one in three. It is a temple in which the priest is the worshipper and the worshipper the worshipped: three in one and one in three. It is a godhead in which all life is human and all humanity divine: three in one and one in three. It is, in short, the dream of a madman.

Yeats in his old age cited this speech of Keegan along with a very few other passages in literature as moving him greatly; the line “How can we know the dancer from the dance?” from Yeats’s poem “Among School Children” seems to echo Keegan. At its core Keegan’s dream proposes that all life is holy because it is whole, that the material and the metaphysical are indivisible, that the social and the spiritual are equally in need of attention. And though that proposition is presented as and perhaps acknowledged to be a madman’s dream, it lies at the heart of the ideas that Shaw’s next big play, Major Barbara, confronts.

MAJOR BARBARA

Major Barbara was successfully revived by the Roundabout Theatre in New York in 2001 The revival elicited the following encomium from Margo Jefferson, writing in The New York Times Book Review (August 5), after she has noted that “Shaw was a true artist, a master of multiple forms”:

The language and the complexity of the world Shaw made still excite. It isn’t just the war of wills between Barbara Undershaft, the society girl who turns to the Salvation Army in her need to do good and save souls, and her father, whose munitions empire commits him to war and destruction. It is out-of-work cockneys, young men about town and rich dowagers, all living on habit, instinct and the calculation needed to bridge the gap between what they have and what they want. And, in all Shaw’s work, it is the rigorous musicality of his language.

Jefferson is surely right that Shaw’s achievement in Major Barbara has two aspects: the variety and plenitude of the world he unfolds before us; and the designing and composing of sentences into harmony, counterpoint, and rhythmical ideas. But let me add a third aspect: the shaping and arranging of action. And it is not for naught that Shaw knew Shakespeare’s plays as he knew Beethoven’s nine symphonies note for note. But Shaw’s view of Shakespeare has often been misunderstood — Shaw loved Shakespeare’s art but did not love what he took to be Shakespeare’s stoic-pessimistic view of life. He said once that no one would ever write a better play than Othello, because humanly speaking, Shakespeare had done the thing as well as it could be done; in the same way no one could improve on Mozart’s music. Shaw learned much from Shakespeare — how much is especially evident in Major Barbara. One of Shakespeare’s triumphant strategies for getting a maximum of meaning out of dramatic form is to parallel actions and stage images in one dramatic scene with another, thereby causing the audience to compare the behavior of one character to that of another. Characters and actions become metaphors — that is, we come to understand a character or an action better, or to rethink our attitude toward it, by its being set parallel to another character in an analogous situation, or by the placement of a similar action in a different context.

For example, Major Barbara enacts a drama of loss of self and rebirth in terms of finding one’s home and one’s work. The protagonist of the play, Barbara Undershaft, is the daughter of an aristocratic mother, Lady Britomart, and a fabulously wealthy and powerful munitions maker, Andrew Undershaft, who is also a foundling (the play has a strong fairy tale/parable quality). In the first act, Andrew Undershaft returns home, to a great house in fashionable Wilton Crescent, after a long absence from family life; he proves so fascinating to his grown children, especially Barbara, that by the end of the act, his wife has been reduced to tears because all her children have deserted her to follow their father into another room, where Andrew has agreed to participate in a nondenominational religious concert. Finally, though, even Lady Britomart is lured by the music and joins her husband and children.

The second act is in every way patterned after the action of the first, though in appearance they could not be more different. Barbara has invited her father the next day to watch her work at her Salvation Army shelter in a neighborhood that is the exact opposite of Wilton Crescent. There, her millionaire father finds cold, brutality, hunger, hypocrisy, and the work of conversion, where Wilton Crescent seemed to provide warmth, comfort, formality, and conversation. But Shaw’s aim is to show that both places are alike in being devoid of authentic religious feeling and genuine spiritual nourishment. Shaw does so by having Undershaft do wittingly to Barbara in the second act what he does unwittingly to her mother in the first act: undermine her sense of self and position. In Lady Britomart, the undermining is limited and temporary, but in Barbara’s case it induces in her a dark night of the soul that makes her resign her job with the Salvation Army. For her father shows his spiritually vital daughter, whose greatest hunger is to affect and transform the souls of people, that her organization can be bought.

When the Salvation Army general, Mrs. Baines, arrives and announces that a number of shelters will close unless the Army secures substantial donations from wealthy benefactors, Under - shaft offers to make a £5,000 contribution, which in turn will compel equal contributions from, among others, a whisky distiller. The general cheerfully accepts, but Barbara is horrified to see the Army “sell itself” by taking donations from a whisky distiller and a munitions maker. Her principled posture makes her resign in a state of tearful despair. (For those who believe with Oscar Wilde that life imitates art and not the other way around, I note that, according to the Associated Press on January 3, 2003, the Salvation Army refused a donation of $100,000 from a lotto winner in Naples, Florida, on the grounds that the Salvation Army counsels families who have lost their homes due to gambling, and would therefore be hypocritical in accepting such a donation!) When the shelters are saved the Army members gather together behind a band that includes both Barbara’s father and her fiance, and march off for a great celebration at the Assembly Hall, leaving the deserted Barbara, stripped of her identity as a saver of souls and stripped of her real home, which was the shelter.

Both the first and second acts, therefore, end with a woman in tears and feeling that everything she valued has been taken from her, put in that state by Andrew Undershaft, her misery accompanied by the sound of music from another place. And just as Shakespeare in Henry IV, Part One describes Hotspur calling for his horse after he has plotted to rebel against the king, and then Falstaff in the next scene calling for his horse during the Gadshill robbery, in order to make us think about what Hotspur’s rebellion has in common with Falstaff’s robbery, in Major Barbara Shaw parallels Lady Britomart and Barbara in order to make us see more complexly the nature of Barbara’s loss. Since Barbara has now lost the two things that above all give us our sense of ourselves — work and home — she will spend the third act trying to find new versions of both, which together mean a new self.

But you need not take my word that setting up parallel actions is Shaw’s method, for he says so himself in the preface, when he explains how he has shown us two attempts on the part of transgressors to pay off the Salvation Army: Bill Walker for having struck Jenny Hill, and Horace Bodger for selling whisky to the poor:

But I, the dramatist, whose business it is to shew the connexion between things that seem apart and unrelated in the haphazard order of events in real life, have contrived to make it [that the Army will take Bodger’s atonement money but not Bill‘s] known to Bill, with the result that the Salvation Army loses its hold of him at once (p. 35).

Here we see Shaw doing just what Aristotle in his Poetics says is the mark of genius in the poet (because it cannot be learned): intuiting the hidden similarity between two apparent dissimilars, or making metaphors. Shaw makes Bill Walker see the comparison so that we will see it, just as Shakespeare makes Prince Hal see the connection between the apparent opposites Falstaff the coward and Hotspur the daredevil, which is that both live outside of all order.

The friends to whom Shaw read Major Barbara were strongly moved by the power of the second act, in which Andrew Undershaft demonstrates the power of the pound over religion, and in doing so makes his daughter feel as if she has lost all purpose in life. In one of the play’s most profound aphorisms, Undershaft reproves Barbara for feeling self-pity by observing to her: “You have learnt something. That always feels at first as if you had lost something” (p. 132). Perceiving something new often means abandoning a cherished view or opinion, and it often hurts to do so, but Shaw puts the emphasis on “at first.” In other words, one can find compensations for losses; one can mend a broken heart.

And so Barbara does when she gets to her father’s cannon-works town with its powerful foundry, its well-tended workers’ dwellings, its families, and its children. She sees that here is a real challenge for her: Can she induce well-fed and well-paid workers to pay attention to their spiritual selves, to their salvation? She decides to renew hope and marry the man who will take over the cannon works from her father. That man turns out to be Cusins. From the premiere of the play in 1906 people have found its ending ambiguous: Do Barbara and Cusins succumb to the allure of materialism in agreeing to take over the cannon works from Undershaft? Or do they intend to use their new power to “make war on war”? Shaw leaves the question unresolved, though he clearly leans toward the latter possibility. In any case, as he said in the postscript to the preface to Back to Methuselah (1921), which he wrote in 1944 for the Oxford World’s Classics edition: It is the job of classic works to “try to solve, or at least to formulate, the riddles of creation.”

Cusins formulates one of the riddles of creation in an exchange with Barbara over how the cannon works are to be used. Cusins says he will use them to give power to the people. But Barbara laments the power to destroy and kill. Cusins replies: “You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too” (p. 155). Another way of formulating that idea is: Undershaft’s weapons and explosives are as good or as bad as the man making them (to adapt a line from the film Shane). Barbara sees the cannon works as her opportunity to raise “hell to heaven.” Her most immediate impulse, however, is to escape to heaven, away from the “naughty, mischievous children of men.” But her courage returns, and she unites herself to both Cusins and her father (while she also reaffirms her bond with her mother, an affirmation that is the seal of her reborn self). Jonathan Wisenthal (in The Marriage of Contraries) has argued persuasively that the end of the play anticipates a tripartite union of three kinds of power: material (Undershaft), intellectual (Cusins), and spiritual (Barbara). But Shaw is well aware that such a union, like Father Keegan’s vision of three in one, is not realized in the play, and may be only a madman’s dream.

THE DOCTOR’S DILEMMA

The comical satire of the medical profession in Shaw’s play hardly differs from Moliere’s portrayal of doctors and patients in his comedies devoted to the subject (The Imaginary Invalid, The Doctor in Spite of Himself , Doctor Love). Shaw makes the same points that Moliere makes (points that bear repeating for every generation): that there are fashions in diseases as there are in dresses; that people will use real, pretended, and imagined illnesses to manipulate and dominate their nearest and dearest; that doctors have obsessions in treatments and cure-alls, and resist innovation; that they will pretend to knowledge they do not have and are jealous of professional rivals; and that they behave as all other professionals do in using jargon to prevent outsiders from keeping close tabs on them. And though Shaw has much fun with all of this — especially the surgeon determined to remove everyone’s “nuciform sac” as a universal cure for what ails you — the satirical comedy is not the real point of the play.

Nor is the real point the ethical dilemma denoted by the title. Doctor Ridgeon has developed a new, effective cure for tuberculosis but can treat only so many patients. He must choose, therefore, who to save: the artist, Louis Dubedat, who creates authentic art but is immoral in his treatment of others — indiscriminately exploitative, deceitful in all things, honest in none, monumentally selfish, and automatically unscrupulous — or the dull but decent Doctor Blenkinsop, a gentle and considerate soul, generous to a fault, congenial to all, genuinely honest, but an ineffectual doctor, innocuous company, and generally useless to society. One further complication is that Doctor Ridgeon has fallen in love with the artist’s wife, Jennifer, who not only worships her husband but utterly blinds herself to his crimes.

The very symmetry of this dilemma has misled even some of the best critical minds into faulting the play for contrivance (for example, Lionel Trilling in The Experience of Literature). But the Shavian symmetry aims not for contrivance but for the theme of the Double, the use of paired characters to dramatize the relationship between inner and outer life in individuals, a theme Shaw had addressed already in The Devil’s Disciple, but to which here he gives a deeper development and darker variation. The scalawag Dick Dudgeon of the earlier play, who was not truly villainous but only unorthodox and unconventional in his manners and morals, here becomes the truly opprobrious artist-scoundrel Dubedat, while the minister and man of peace, Anthony Anderson, who turns into a man of war and rebellion, becomes Dr. Ridgeon, medical miracle worker and murderer.

Judith Anderson becomes Jennifer Dubedat. We may note that in the transformation Shaw shifts the woman’s position in the triangle: In the later play, she is the wife not of the socially respectable older man, but of the transgressive young artist; and she has become the erotic object of the older Ridgeon, who sees in her some fantasy of female artistic beauty, a fantasy for which he is willing to kill by withholding his medical skill. The perfect irony of Ridgeon’s infatuation is matched by Jennifer’s tragi-comic fantasy of her husband as the noble artist. The poisonous ending of the play keeps her a primarily comic figure because she remains perfectly happy in her deluded picture of her dead husband, while Ridgeon is turned into a mainly tragic figure by the mere addition of self-knowledge. He comes to see himself through the woman’s eyes: a jealous old man who “committed a purely disinterested murder” (p. 357).

That Shaw self-consciously reworked the psychological pattern of the woman’s role in the rivalry of the Doubles from The Devil’s Disciple to The Doctor’s Dilemma can be seen from his having given Jennifer a line virtually identical to a line he gave Judith — a line, moreover, that describes the relationship of the two men to be that of psychological twins. In the earlier play, Judith reproaches Dick Dudgeon for being jealous of her husband: “Can you not forgive him for being so much better than you are?” In the later play, Jennifer reproaches Ridgeon: “Can you not forgive him for being superior to you? for being cleverer? for being braver? for being a great artist?” (p. 326). Where the earlier pair’s rivalry centered on a question of relative moral worth, each wanting to be the better man, each discovering the truth about himself, the later play’s pair of Doubles compete as twin artists. (For Shaw the defining characteristic of the artist was that he or she should create new thought; hence, he regarded scientists like Ridgeon, inventor of a new treatment for tuberculosis, or Henry Higgins, the phoneticist in Pygmalion, as artists in that broad sense.)

There is yet another link between the two plays. Shaw asserted that the idea for The Doctor’s Dilemma resulted from hearing his friend, the great physician Sir Almoth Wright (upon whom and whose development of opsonin Shaw based Ridgeon’s story), when asked if he could take on an extra patient, say that he would have to consider whose life was more worth saving. In The Devil’s Disciple the saving of lives (and souls) based on moral worth is at issue, for Dick saves the minister’s life, and the minister in turn wants to save Dick’s soul but changes to saving his life. Implicit in each play is the question: Whose lives are worth saving? In the more optimistic and comic vision of The Devil’s Disciple, there is obviously so much goodness in each of the two men that the answer to the question would seem: Everyone’s life is worth saving. In the darker Doctor’s Dilemma, the answer would seem: hardly anyone’s.

The most prevalent paradigm for stories of Doubles — The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and The Picture of Dorian Gray, to take examples contemporary with The Doctor’s Dilemma — is that the destruction of one’s Double means the destruction of oneself. When Doctor Ridgeon kills Louis Dubedat he is trying to kill his unrealized self. In an unguarded moment, after discovering Dubedat’s true nature to be that of an unscrupulous liar, cheat, and monstrous egotist, Ridgeon remarks to his old patron and friend, Sir Patrick: “I’m not at all convinced that the world wouldnt be a better world if everybody behaved as Dubedat does than it is now that everybody behaves as Blenkinsop does” (pp. 300 — 301). That is, he feels the world would be better if everyone behaved with regard to self-interest and without regard to the interest of others. Sir Patrick challenges Ridgeon to explain why he then does not behave so. Ridgeon replies that he cannot. He would like to act that way but cannot get up the courage. He calls it a dilemma, and thus explains the title: To think one way and to live another is the doctor’s dilemma. Finally, though, he tries to resolve his dilemma by killing Louis. But as the play’s final scene — one of Shaw’s greatest — shows, in doing so he destroys himself, for Jennifer categorically rejects his attempt to take Louis’s place in her bed and in her heart. She has married someone else, according to her husband’s dying wish.

Historian and critic Jacques Barzun says that if you open a Shaw play to any scene and begin reading, you quickly become convinced that the characters are talking about life and death matters. So intensely do they listen to one another and turn every assertion, query, and rejoinder into blows, thrusts, and shots, that one feels both of them cannot possibly emerge from the “discussion” alive. This is particularly true of Ridgeon’s final confrontation with Jennifer. The scene anticipates the ferocious struggle between Higgins and Eliza in Pygmalion — another play in which an older man has a potential sexual relationship with a younger woman that ends in a checkmate.

PYGMALION

The parallels between Eliza Doolittle and Jennifer Dubedat result chiefly from their involvement — their struggles — with older men whose apparent coldness stems from their scientists’ approach to life and human relations. And just as Shaw revealed that Jennifer occupied a niche in his imagination similar to Judith’s (in The Devil’s Disciple) by giving the former an expanded version of a line belonging to the latter, so too does Shaw give Eliza one of Jennifer’s lines. In that no-quarter-given final dialogue between Jennifer and Ridgeon, Jennifer expresses her frustration at trying to converse with him: “I don’t understand that. And I cant argue with you” (p. 357). In Eliza’s last verbal smack-down with Higgins, she expresses a similar sense of futility: “I cant talk to you: you turn everything against me” (p. 456). Both women are complaining about more than traditional male-female miscommunication (though there is plenty of that in their dialogue); each is rebelling against Ridgeon’s and Higgins’s automatic treatment of them as creatures, as means to an end rather than ends in themselves. In Ridgeon’s case, he wants to possess Beauty itself in the person of Jennifer, whose beauty first attracts him through one of her husband’s drawings of her, for then he would take the place of the artist, Louis, who is capable of creating beauty.

Higgins’s case is more deranged. The man admits he has never married because he has never found a woman enough like his mother — a woman, Shaw takes pains to point out, who surrounds herself with art. Now, a son who looks for a replicate of his mother in a wife is a son who wants to take his father’s place, to be his own father (note that Higgins’s father is never so much as referred to in the play). Higgins has mastered the art of speech, of phonetics, so that he can identify people’s hidden origins, as he does with the crowd that gathers around Eliza when she suspects he is a detective ready to arrest her for prostitution and is protesting her innocence. As soon as he hears their accents, he tells them where they were born, all the while concealing his own identity. (There is something of Shakespeare’s “Duke of dark corners” in Measure for Measure, walking amongst his people incognito, as well as of Shakespeare’s Prospero about Higgins.) Pickering even asks him if he does this in a music hall for a living, as if Higgins were a magician. (Shaw had a similar experience when, while lecturing dock workers on elocution, they called him a “quick-change artist.”)

Higgins belongs with Ibsen’s Master Builder (in The Master Builder, 1892) and Rubek the sculptor (in When We Dead Awaken, 1899) among modern drama’s most profound studies of the artist’s psychology, for the Professor of Speech forgets the difference between life and art. When he undertakes the experiment of turning the “draggle-tailed guttersnipe” Eliza Doolittle into a “duchess at an ambassador’s garden party,” Higgins imagines that he is a god creating out of nothing, out of the “squashed cabbage leaves of Covent Garden.” He fails to see that he has only transported her from one kind of limiting garden to another. As part of the fantasy of creator he lives out, he must become Eliza’s father: “I’ll be worse than two fathers to you.” He considers the “gift of articulate speech” he is to give Eliza a “divine” one, but it is really the parent’s gift to the child; more particularly, the mother gives language to the child (which is why we speak the “mother tongue”). Much later in the play, Shaw will make this point comically by having Henry’s mother, Mrs. Higgins, trick her son into not whistling by provoking a remark from him, and explain herself by saying, “I only wanted to make you speak” (p. 445).

In making Eliza speak, Higgins becomes her parent; he becomes a creator, instead of someone who is himself created. He can fantasize that he is an original, in the way all artists want to believe that their art is original. That is why Shaw has Higgins tell everyone where they originated; and why Shaw makes Higgins identify himself professionally to Pickering as one who does “a little as a poet on Miltonic lines” (p. 378). (When Shaw prepared the play to be filmed, he excised this reference to Milton, perhaps because it was too revealing of his anxieties about his own originality), for Milton’s Satan (in Paradise Lost) claims not to have been created by God: He considers himself to be coeval with God. In other words, Satan considers himself self-begotten, the author of himself; he has no origin outside himself. Nor does Higgins. Shaw plays a great deal with images of Higgins as a satanic tempter, as when Eliza feels “tempted” by his offer of chocolates, or when Mrs. Pearce reproaches him for “tempting” Eliza; he even munches an apple, the biblical symbol of temptation, as he suggests to her that she might marry someone or other.

But when his Frankenstein’s “creature,” Eliza, comes to life, he treats her as his creation, not as a fellow creature. Higgins has been slow to see that Eliza has fully as much soul as he, that she is full of humanity and self-respect, that she has ambition and goodness in her. The sailor-hat Shaw gives her to wear befits her willingness to voyage into life, though her voyage begins with a tempest of rain over Covent Garden. Higgins fails to recognize the gumption she shows in seeking him out to improve her speech so she can earn enough to live a decent life. To him she is only the subject of an experiment whereby he may demonstrate his art; to him she has no feelings that he need bother about. But he is wrong: Eliza feels intensely. Indeed, the powerful drive of her feelings brings her to life in the fourth act and drives her to independence from Higgins in the fifth act. (Like The Doctor’s Dilemma, Pygmalion has five acts, showing the affinity between the two plays, but also showing that Shaw is particularly conscious here of the Shakespearean model.)

Higgins says to Pickering that all the attractive young, rich American women he teaches “might as well be blocks of wood,” as far as their sexually tempting him is concerned. And at first he regards Eliza this way — as a block of wood out of which he will carve a duchess. When Leontes looks upon his wife Hermione’s statue in Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, he becomes ashamed, remembering the grave injustice he did her, and asks rhetorically: “Does not the stone rebuke me for being more stone than it?” (act 5, scene 3). Eliza’s flexible humanity rebukes Higgins for being stone cold. It is an accusation that stings and provokes Higgins to one of his great outbursts about the life of science, of art being utterly unlike the life of the gutter, not immediate, not warm. (The speech actually reflects an intensely dramatic letter Shaw sent to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, while she was rehearsing the part of Eliza Doolittle, in which he reproaches her for rejecting him.) Eliza retorts that she was not seeking from him what the gutter gave; she wanted from him respect for her as a fellow human being, some regard for her feelings. She rightly says that she will not care for someone who does not care for her. But she does not quite succeed in penetrating his defense system until she shows the shrewdest understanding of where his pride lies. She threatens to set herself up as a rival artist by becoming a teacher of phonetics. That finally makes Higgins actually think of her as an original herself, and not just a copy of him. When at the end of the play Eliza rebuffs Higgins’s final attempt to bully her, she tells Higgins to buy his own gloves, and then “sweeps out”; she becomes mobile, while he remains, statue-like, standing in place.

HEARTBREAK HOUSE

The Doctor’s Dilemma and Pygmalion, for all their embedding in social problems — doctors having a pecuniary interest in their patients’ illnesses, language as class barrier — grew out of Shaw’s preoccupations with the figure of the artist, the dangers of self-absorption combined poisonously with lack of self-knowledge. Heartbreak House grew out of and during the four-year cataclysm World War I, the family feud among the ruling houses of Europe, which nearly ended them all, along with everyone else. To Shaw, who forged — and I mean forged — through an intense exercise of will and faith an optimism about the future course of the human race in the face of his own subcutaneous suspicions that human beings harbor within a fugitive desire for self-destruction, the war was a nightmare come true.

He first reacted, as writers tend to do, by writing something — a pamphlet he called “Common Sense About the War.” In it he argued that first of all, now that we (Great Britain and its allies) are in the war we must prosecute it vigorously to the finish, but we must seize the opportunity when it is over to insure that it is the last war. While conceding the necessity of victory, though, Shaw argued that we must not deal with the defeated Germans from a morally superior position. He also opined that if the Germans behaved badly to the civilian population in Belgium, we have behaved badly to subjects of our empires, that the Germans’ militarism differs little from ours. He challenged the rhetoric of the war by suggesting that if those who insist we must crush Germany totally mean it, then why do we not try to kill all the German women instead of the men?

Such equations and flippancy infuriated the reading populace and the literati, who mostly supported the war and Britain’s role in it. Shaw turned almost overnight from a tolerated, popular provocateur into a national persona non grata. He was denounced left and right, called the vilest names (fellow playwright and former friend Henry Arthur Jones, in an open letter, called Shaw “a freakish homunculus, germinated outside of lawful procreation”); Theodore Roosevelt vilified him. Shaw’s books were removed from bookstore shelves; people asserted they would get up and leave the room if Shaw entered; for a while it seemed he might suffer Oscar Wilde’s fate upon being imprisoned for sodomy, that of being deliberately ignored. To Shaw such attacks mattered little, for his courage and indifference to personal criticism was — well, extraordinary.

I know of no better example from Shaw’s life that illustrates this quality of extraordinariness in him than the episode of his expulsion from the Dramatists’ Club. At an October 27, 1915, meeting, there was a discussion among the members of their desire not to encounter Shaw at the Club, given his attitude toward the war. The Secretary, H. M. Paul, then wrote to Shaw that his company was undesired by some of the members. Did Shaw sue them? Did he whine to the newspapers that his freedom of speech was being suppressed? No, he wrote back to Paul that as the constitution of the Club made no provision for expelling members, here is how they must go about it: “The proper procedure is as follows. They must draw up a resolution that I be expelled from the Club, and state their reasons. Of this full notice must be given so that every member of the Club shall be warned that it is going to be moved.” Etc. Now, it takes a miraculous amount of good temper (or a miraculous absence of rancor) to write such a letter. Who among our public literary figures would be capable of such a gesture in such a political context?

For Shaw, a comic sense of things was not only indispensable, but a stay against despair. Yet he felt the wounds of the war through the grief of friends who lost loved ones in battle. When Mrs. Patrick Campbell’s son, Alan, was killed in 1917, Shaw wrote to her expressing his anger over the war: “These things simply make me furious. I want to swear. I do swear. Killed just because people are blasted fools.” At other times, Shaw was able to channel his anger into a kind of humor that can only be described as dangerous — and courageous.

When St. John Ervine, a fellow playwright and future biographer of Shaw, was wounded by a shell and had to have a leg amputated, Shaw wrote to cheer him up. First he recounted to Ervine how he, Shaw, had once broken a leg and had to get around on crutches but found that he could do without his “leg just as easily as without eyes in the back of my head.” Shaw then asserted that Ervine was actually better off than he himself was: “You will be in a stronger position. I had to feed and nurse the useless leg.You will have all the energy you hitherto spent on it to invest in the rest of your frame. For a man of your profession two legs are an extravagance.” Shaw went on to enumerate other benefits to losing the leg, such as an increased pension, and no more going to the Front. Finally Shaw reached the logical conclusion: “The more the case is gone into the more it appears that you are an exceptionally happy and fortunate man, relieved of a limb to which you owed none of your fame, and which indeed was the cause of your conscription” (Collected Letters, vol. 3, pp. 550-551 ). Wit does not usually seem a humane weapon, but such a letter shows the same kind of comic courage Aristophanes exhibited when he condemned war by imagining women on a sex strike.

Heartbreak House was written in a context where one could consider writing such a letter, and the play’s mixed tones show it. Shaw claimed that the play wrote itself. By turns whimsical, farcical, melancholy, tragi-comic, and visionary, Heartbreak House sometimes drifts and sometimes sails full speed ahead — whith — ersoever. Shaw said that it represented the European elite before the war — by which he meant the people whose concerns should have been history, political economy, and government, but were instead sex, aesthetics, leisure activities, and money, and so people who let their countries blunder into war. Shaw arranges for various representative members of this society to gather for a weekend in the country in ancient Captain Shotover’s house, which is designed to resemble a ship and therefore carries the metaphoric suggestion that it is the Ship of State. (People have been misled by Shaw’s subtitle, “A Fantasia in the Russian Manner on English Themes,” to see a strong resemblance to Chekhov’s plays, but Heartbreak House is at least equally indebted to Tolstoy’s The Fruits of Enlightenment or Gorky’s The Lower Depths.)

Shaw claimed repeatedly that he did not know what his play meant, and indeed it is full of mystery. The play is launched with a young woman falling asleep while reading Othello, so that the rest of the play seems to be her dream, a bed-voyage. It begins and ends respectively with the averting of a small and a large destruction. In between, identities become confused and fluid as in dreams. The Captain insists on mistaking Mazzini Dunn for his old boatswain, Billy Dunn, though they do not look alike, and when the real Billy shows up unexpectedly, Shotover asks him, “Are there two of you?” — and gets one of the play’s biggest laughs (in a play that has fewer laughs than almost any other of Shaw’s plays). Billy explains to his Captain the confusion by noting that there were two branches of the Dunn family, the drinking Dunns and the thinking Dunns.

Captain Shotover as an inventor, adventurer, and architect succeeds Ridgeon and Higgins as a figure for the artist, but an artist who has gone slightly mad from disappointment with reality, whose heart was broken when his daughter rejected his ways and left home, and who himself has taken refuge in rum. To fill the void made by his daughter’s desertion, he enters into a spiritual marriage with young Ellie Dunn, who had been in actuality planning herself to marry an older man, the crude capitalist Alfred Mangan. In that way, Shotover continues in the Shavian/Shakespearean line of spiritual affinities between fathers and daughters. In Major Barbara, Cusins says to Undershaft: “A father’s love for a grown-up daughter is the most dangerous of all infatuations. I apologize for mentioning my own pale, coy, mistrustful fancy in the same breath with it” (p. 98). Like Undershaft, too, Shotover invents and keeps explosives.

To the play’s contemporaries who lived through World War I, Heartbreak House, however indirectly, expressed the feelings of sadness, futility, and madness the war provoked (T. E. Lawrence, known as Lawrence of Arabia, who became a great friend of Shaw, called it “the most blazing bit of genius in English literature”). The play never alludes explicitly to the context of the war, though. The closest it comes to doing so is at the end, when a zeppelin flies over the house during an air raid and bombs are dropped. The ghostly inhabitants of Heartbreak House are variously terrified and thrilled by the energy, sound, and destructive power of the air machines. At the end, Captain Shotover calls the raid Judgment Day, while the heroines, Ellie Dunn and Hesione Hushabye, hope that the zeppelin will return the next night. Does Shaw mean that these people, the failed leaders of the best society, are played out and long only for the world to be destroyed? Or is their thrilling to the wonder and raw energy of the sky machine a sign of their renewal?Their purgation? (Shaw had always bet on young women, like Ellie, to become “active verbs” and change the world.)

I think Shaw himself meant both possibilities to be weighed, for the direction Europe would take in 1919 was as unknown to Shaw as it was to Europe. But since both Shaw and Europe would see another World War twenty years later, it would seem that Ellie and Hesione had their hope fulfilled; the air machines indeed did come back. Shaw survived that war, too, and did not die until 1950, writing plays — practicing the craft of Shakespeare, as he put it — and prefaces, fables, screenplays, and political treatises, and enough letters for ten lives.

Shaw once inscribed one of his books as a gift to a friend. The friend subsequently fell on hard times and had to sell the valuable volume to a secondhand bookstore. Shaw found himself browsing the very bookstore at a later date and stumbled upon the volume inscribed by him. He immediately purchased it and re-sent it to his friend with the additional inscription: “With the renewed compliments of the author, G. Bernard Shaw.” The current neglect of Shaw may have nothing to do with hard economic times, but the present two editions of his plays by Barnes & Noble Classics should be understood to be placed before the public — with the renewed compliments of their author.

JOHN A. BERTOLINI was educated at Manhattan College and Columbia University. He teaches English and dramatic literature, Shakespeare, and film at Middlebury College, in Vermont, where he is Ellis Professor of the Liberal Arts. He is the author of The Playwrighting Self of Bernard Shaw and editor of Shaw and Other Playwrights; he has also published articles on Alfred Hitchcock, Renaissance drama, and British and American dramatists. He is writing a book on Terence Rattigan’s plays.