Man and Superman: A Comedy and a Philosophy
on the inexperienced. In Shakespear's plays the woman always takes the
initiative. In his problem plays and his popular plays alike the love
interest is the interest of seeing the woman hunt the man down. She may
do it by blandishment, like Rosalind, or by stratagem, like Mariana; but
in every case the relation between the woman and the man is the same:
she is the pursuer and contriver, he the pursued and disposed of. When
she is baffled, like Ophelia, she goes mad and commits suicide; and the
man goes straight from her funeral to a fencing match. No doubt Nature,
with very young creatures, may save the woman the trouble of scheming:
Prospero knows that he has only to throw Ferdinand and Miranda together
and they will mate like a pair of doves; and there is no need for
Perdita to capture Florizel as the lady doctor in All's Well That Ends
Well (an early Ibsenite heroine) captures Bertram. But the mature
cases all illustrate the Shakespearian law. The one apparent exception,
Petruchio, is not a real one: he is most carefully characterized as
a purely commercial matrimonial adventurer. Once he is assured that
Katharine has money, he undertakes to marry her before he has seen her.
In real life we find not only Petruchios, but Mantalinis and Dobbins who
pursue women with appeals to their pity or jealousy or vanity, or cling
to them in a romantically infatuated way. Such effeminates do not count
in the world scheme: even Bunsby dropping like a fascinated bird into
the jaws of Mrs MacStinger is by comparison a true tragic object of
pity and terror. I find in my own plays that Woman, projecting herself
dramatically by my hands (a process over which I assure you I have no
more real control than I have over my wife), behaves just as Woman did
in the plays of Shakespear.
And so your Don Juan has come to birth as a stage projection of the
tragi-comic love chase of the man by the woman; and my Don Juan is the
quarry instead of the huntsman. Yet he is a true Don Juan, with a sense
of reality that disables convention, defying to the last the fate which
finally overtakes him. The woman's need of him to enable her to carry
on Nature's most urgent work, does not prevail against him until his
resistance gathers her energy to a climax at which she dares to throw
away her customary exploitations of the conventional affectionate and
dutiful poses, and claim him by natural right for a purpose that far
transcends their mortal personal purposes.
Among the friends to whom I have read this play in manuscript are some
of our own sex who are shocked at the "unscrupulousness," meaning
the total disregard of masculine fastidiousness, with which the woman
pursues her purpose. It does not occur to them that if women were as
fastidious as men, morally or physically, there would be an end of the
race. Is there anything meaner then to throw necessary work upon other
people and then disparage it as unworthy and indelicate. We laugh at the
haughty American nation because it makes the negro clean its boots and
then proves the moral and physical inferiority of the negro by the fact
that he is a shoeblack; but we ourselves throw the whole drudgery of
creation on one sex, and then imply that no female of any womanliness
or delicacy would initiate any effort in that direction. There are no
limits to male hypocrisy in this matter. No doubt there are moments when
man's sexual immunities are made acutely humiliating to him. When
the terrible moment of birth arrives, its supreme importance and its
superhuman effort and peril, in which the father has no part, dwarf
him into the meanest insignificance: he slinks out of the way of the
humblest petticoat, happy if he be poor enough to be pushed out of the
house to outface his ignominy by drunken rejoicings. But when the
crisis is over he takes his revenge, swaggering as the breadwinner, and
speaking of Woman's "sphere" with condescension, even with chivalry, as
if the kitchen and the nursery were less important than the office in
the city. When his swagger is exhausted he drivels into erotic poetry
or sentimental uxoriousness; and the Tennysonian King Arthur posing as
Guinevere becomes Don Quixote grovelling before Dulcinea. You must admit
that here Nature beats Comedy out of the field: the wildest hominist or
feminist farce is insipid after the most commonplace "slice of life."
The pretence that women do not take the initiative is part of the farce.
Why, the whole world is strewn with snares, traps, gins and pitfalls
for the capture of men by women. Give women the vote, and in five years
there will be a crushing tax on bachelors. Men, on the other hand,
attach penalties to marriage, depriving women of property, of the
franchise, of the free use of their limbs, of that ancient symbol of
immortality, the right to make oneself at home in the house of God by
taking off the hat, of everything that he can force Woman to dispense
with without compelling himself to dispense with her. All in vain. Woman
must marry because the race must perish without her travail: if the risk
of death and the certainty of pain, danger and unutterable discomforts
cannot deter her, slavery and swaddled ankles will not. And yet we
assume that the force that carries women through all these perils and
hardships, stops abashed before the primnesses of our behavior for young
ladies. It is assumed that the woman must wait, motionless, until she is
wooed. Nay, she often does wait motionless. That is how the spider waits
for the fly. But the spider spins her web. And if the fly, like my hero,
shows a strength that promises to extricate him, how swiftly does she
abandon her pretence of passiveness, and openly fling coil after coil
about him until he is secured for ever!
If the really impressive books and other art-works of the world were
produced by ordinary men, they would express more fear of women's
pursuit than love of their illusory beauty. But ordinary men cannot
produce really impressive art-works. Those who can are men of genius:
that is, men selected by Nature to carry on the work of building up an
intellectual consciousness of her own instinctive purpose. Accordingly,
we observe in the man of genius all the unscrupulousness and all the
"self-sacrifice" (the two things are the same) of Woman. He will risk
the stake and the cross; starve, when necessary, in a garret all his
life; study women and live on their work and care as Darwin studied
worms and lived upon sheep; work his nerves into rags without payment,
a sublime altruist in his disregard of himself, an atrocious egotist in
his disregard of others. Here Woman meets a purpose as impersonal, as
irresistible as her own; and the clash is sometimes tragic. When it is
complicated by the genius being a woman, then the game is one for a king
of critics: your George Sand becomes a mother to gain experience for
the novelist and to develop her, and gobbles up men of genius, Chopins,
Mussets and the like, as mere hors d'oeuvres.
I state the extreme case, of course; but what is true of the great man
who incarnates the philosophic consciousness of Life and the woman who
incarnates its fecundity, is true in some degree of all geniuses and
all women. Hence it is that the world's books get written, its pictures
painted, its statues modelled, its symphonies composed, by people who
are free of the otherwise universal dominion of the tyranny of sex.
Which leads us to the conclusion, astonishing to the vulgar, that art,
instead of being before all things the expression of the normal sexual
situation, is really the only department in which sex is a superseded
and secondary power, with its consciousness so confused and its purpose
so perverted, that its ideas are mere fantasy to common men. Whether the
artist becomes poet or philosopher, moralist or founder of a religion,
his sexual doctrine is nothing but a barren special pleading for
pleasure, excitement, and knowledge when he is young, and for
contemplative tranquillity when he is old and satiated. Romance and
Asceticism, Amorism and Puritanism are equally unreal in the great
Philistine world. The world shown us in books, whether the books be
confessed epics or professed gospels, or in codes, or in political
orations, or in philosophic systems, is not the main world at all: it
is only the self-consciousness of certain abnormal people who have the
specific artistic talent and temperament. A serious matter this for you
and me, because the man whose consciousness does not correspond to that
of the majority is a madman; and the old habit of worshipping madmen is
giving way to the new habit of locking them up. And since what we call
education and culture is for the most part nothing but the substitution
of reading for experience, of literature for life, of the obsolete
fictitious for the contemporary real, education, as you no doubt
observed at Oxford, destroys, by supplantation, every mind that is not
strong enough to see through the imposture and to use the great Masters
of Arts as what they really are and no more: that is, patentees of
highly questionable methods of thinking, and manufacturers of highly
questionable, and for the majority but half valid representations of
life. The schoolboy who uses his Homer to throw at his fellow's head
makes perhaps the safest and most rational use of him; and I observe
with reassurance that you occasionally do the same, in your prime, with
your Aristotle.
Fortunately for us, whose minds have been so overwhelmingly
sophisticated by literature, what produces all these treatises and poems
and scriptures of one sort or another is the struggle of Life to become
divinely conscious of itself instead of blindly stumbling hither and
thither in the line of least resistance. Hence there is a driving
towards truth in all books on matters where the writer, though
exceptionally gifted is normally constituted, and has no private axe to
grind. Copernicus had no motive for misleading his fellowmen as to the
place of the sun in the solar system: he looked for it as honestly as a
shepherd seeks his path in a mist. But Copernicus would not have written
love stories scientifically. When it comes to sex relations, the man of
genius does not share the common man's danger of capture, nor the woman
of genius the common woman's overwhelming specialization. And that is
why our scriptures and other art works, when they deal with love, turn
from honest attempts at science in physics to romantic nonsense, erotic
ecstasy, or the stern asceticism of satiety ("the road of excess leads
to the palace of wisdom" said William Blake; for "you never know what is
enough unless you know what is more than enough").
There is a political aspect of this sex question which is too big for my
comedy, and too momentous to be passed over without culpable frivolity.
It is impossible to demonstrate that the initiative in sex transactions
remains with Woman, and has been confirmed to her, so far, more and more
by the suppression of rapine and discouragement of importunity,
without being driven to very serious reflections on the fact that this
initiative is politically the most important of all the initiatives,
because our political experiment of democracy, the last refuge of cheap
misgovernment, will ruin us if our citizens are ill bred.
When we two were born, this country was still dominated by a selected
class bred by political marriages. The commercial class had not then
completed the first twenty-five years of its new share of political
power; and it was itself selected by money qualification, and bred, if
not by political marriage, at least by a pretty rigorous class marriage.
Aristocracy and plutocracy still furnish the figureheads of politics;
but they are now dependent on the votes of the promiscuously bred