Classic Poem

I

George Bernard Shaw

A cheerful, well-appointed study at Number 10, Adelphi Terrace, London, W. C., the blaze of a crackling fire, within, rendered doubly alluring by the bluster of a detestable March night, without. Substantial furniture, a neatly arranged desk, and bookcases filled with orderly volumes, notably the works of Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Karl Marx and Plato, with dramatists old and new, suggest that the inmate is a methodical person possessed of philosophic and literary tastes. This diagnosis is borne out by the appearance of the victim himself as he stands with his back to the glow, his tall, thin, alert, Satanic figure sharply outlined against the yellow flames. How old is he? His somewhat scanty hair and beard, once red, but now almost colorless, indicate that he has emerged from the larval stage of youthful cynicism and despondency and is now in the full enjoyment of that radiant benevolence and optimism granted only to those who have known the triumphs and accomplished promises of half a century and more. His brown suit, red tie, and soft flannel shirt, as well as the broad-brimmed Alpine hat which he has thrown upon the table, reveal the Socialist; his excessive pallor betrays confirmed vegetarianism; while his steel-blue eyes of soldierly directness give assurance that here is one who would sooner quarrel than eat a bushel of turnips. Upon the bookcase facing him stands a bronze portraitbust, clearly of himself (for it is by the hand of no less a sculptor than Rodin), upon which his eyes fall quizzically, yet, on the whole, with great respect. To the right and left of this master-piece are other works of art — an effigy of Ibsen upon which our Protagonist, as he speaks, confers a glance of condescending approbation; a bas-relief of Wagner, which he notices with a slight nod that seems to say, " Very well, old man; but it's lucky for you that I devoted myself to Drama instead of Opera " ; and an engraving of the Stratford bust of Shakespeare which must, perforce, be content with a commiserating smile that may be interpreted as signifying, " Poor chap! You meant well, but you didn't know! "

My birth? I beg you, let us call
That mystery unsolved.
In fact, I was not born at all,
But, so to speak, evolved.

My education? Books are naught;
At schools I've always spurned;
So just put down, " The man was taught " ;
Or, better still, " He learned. "

You seek to know my aim in life? —
To write as best I can,
To stir a little wholesome strife
And hunt the Superman.

Myself, the First of Supermen,
I levitate above
Your wabbling world, and now and then
I give the thing a shove.

In motley clad ( " the only wear! " )
I watch with fiendish grin
Your childish bubbles float in air
And prick them with a pin.

My creed, though big and broad, insists
On ten perfervid hells,
Say one for anti-Socialists
And nine for H. G. Wells.

Ah, yes; I've written loads of stuff
From changing points of view,
And all of it is bright enough,
And much, I fear, is true.

My Works? behold them, bound in calf
Upon the middle shelf.
They're great; yet, somehow, more than half
I don't believe myself.

For what is Truth? How well I know
A jest confutes the wise!
But this, at least, I'm sure is so —
It pays to advertise!