Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw

Source of book: I own this

Man and Superman is George Bernard Shaw’s riff on the Don Juan myth, although the title itself references Nietzsche's concept of the ubermensch. Both ideas are blended in the play, which itself reads like an amalgam of a satirical romantic comedy and a class on political philosophy.

Shaw himself reminds me a bit of Oscar Wilde, except without Wilde’s light touch. Shaw can be funny, but there is a bit if an edge on the humor, and he occasionally gets heavy handed with his points. Shaw gives a look of “did you get that?” where Wilde would laugh or wink.

Still, there is humor in this play, and Shaw’s social commentary is often right on point for the issues of 21st Century America. The British oligarchy of the early 20th Century has quite a number of parallels with our own system, and the tendency of the wealthy to moralize at the poor certainly continues today.

Shaw was a Fabian socialist, which helps to explain the direction he was going with his philosophising, but the main point of his argument was directed, not at the social system, but in the relationship between men and women.

In Shaw’s view, there are two primary drives that motivate human behavior: the need to eat, and the drive to reproduce and perpetuate the species. Due to some combination of social factors and innate being, these drives were segregated by gender. Men thus concern themselves with the acquisition of wealth, while women concern themselves with making babies. To make all this work socially, then, women must pursue and trap men into marriage, so the species can continue. (Give Shaw a bit of a pass here on the sexism by remembering the era in which he wrote.)

Shaw was inspired to write this play by a request from critic Arthur Bingham Walkley that he write a Don Juan story. In his extended introduction, Shaw lays out the challenge, and confesses that he didn’t follow the traditional version of the story. Don Juan is no longer the predatory pursuer of women but a rebel bearing enmity to the false gods of society. Shaw apologises in advance for his lecturing, which Walkley apparently complained about. “I have a conscience; and conscience is always anxiously explanatory. You on the contrary, feel that a man who discusses his conscience is much like a woman who discusses her modesty.” I’ll admit that I am like Shaw in this way, having “the temperament of a schoolmaster,” as my long and explanatory posts often prove.

The Don Juan character in the play is Jack Tanner. (The name is essentially an Anglicised version of Don Juan’s full name. The names of other characters are likewise drawn from the original.) Tanner is a radical pamphleteer (one of “his” pamphlets is appended to the play) with socialist and anarchist leanings. His flame, Ann (after Donna Anna), has been left property by her father, but the estate is to be managed by two guardians. One of these is Tanner, while the other is Roebuck Ramsden, an old man (corresponding to the Statue) who loathes Tanner. Neither Ramsden nor Tanner is at all thrilled to be handcuffed together that way, but duty calls. Meanwhile, Octavius is in love with Ann, but she prefers Tanner, who would prefer not to be married at all.

It isn’t much of a spoiler to say that the play concerns itself with Ann’s pursuit of Jack.

While it is obvious that Jack does have some fondness for - and indeed attraction to - Ann, he is nevertheless unwilling to be fettered.

TANNER: All she wants with me is to load up all her moral responsibilities on me, and do as she likes at the expense of my character. I can’t control her; and she can compromise me as much as she likes. I might as well be her husband.

And later, in a conversation with Octavius:

TANNER: Tavy: that’s the devilish side of a woman’s fascination: she makes you will your own destruction.

OCTAVIUS: But it’s not destruction: it’s fulfilment.

TANNER: Yes, of her purpose; and that purpose is neither her happiness nor yours, but Nature’s. Vitality in a woman is a blind fury of creation. She sacrifices herself to it: do you think she will hesitate to sacrifice you?

OCTAVIUS: Why, it is just because she is self-sacrificing that she will not sacrifice those she loves.

TANNER: That is the profoundest of mistakes, Tavy. It is the self-sacrificing women that sacrifice others most recklessly.

That last line in particular stood out to me as true beyond its context. (And beyond its gender.) Those who are most self-sacrificing are willing to sacrifice others. In fact, they often demand that others be sacrificed to their purposes. As C. S. Lewis once put it, a man will not be content to give up something, but will demand that everyone else give it up too.

After all this talk, there is finally some action. Tanner and his chauffeur head off to the Continent for a road tour. In Spain, they are waylaid by a group of brigands in the Sierra Nevada. I found this a bit amusing. For me, the Sierra Nevada is located in California - in my backyard. It is a place I love very much indeed. So to see the other Sierra Nevada (the “original,” if you will) as place in a story, is jarring.

After the leader of the bandits, Mendoza (who corresponds to the Devil in the legend) realizes that Tanner is more of an ally than an enemy, everyone heads to bed for some dreams.

What follows is an extended dream sequence, “Don Juan in Hell,” which is often omitted from productions of the play. It is easy to see why. It is not narratively connected to the rest of the play, does nothing to further the plot, and in fact disturbs the momentum. (It is around an hour long in an otherwise long play.)

That said, it is also one of the most fascinating parts of the play, with some pretty amazing dialogue, and many memorable lines. This act, while omitted from the greater play, is often performed by itself.

The discussion takes place between Don Juan, the Devil, Donna Anna (who comes to hell as an old woman), and the Commendatore, who has adopted the Statue as his preferred manifestation. He is on a visit from heaven, and is considering relocating to hell. Donna Anna is irate at finding herself in hell, but Don Juan attempts to persuade her that she will actually be much happier in hell. Juan himself wishes to go to heaven, because he finds hell tedious.

In Shaw’s conception, hell is a place of art, beauty, love, and pleasure. The only problem is that nothing is real. It’s all just as fake and artificial as it was on earth during the mortal life. (In fact, it is a continuation of life on earth in most ways.) Thus, those who were at home with artifice and propriety during their lifetimes will be quite at home in hell. In contrast, heaven is a place devoted to rational discourse and thought, and the pursuit of the “Life Force,” which isn’t clearly defined by Shaw. Thus, the Commendatore tires of heaven, and wishes to be in hell, where he is a bit of a celebrity, while Don Juan wants to continue his lifetime pursuit of the “Life Force.” The four characters - particularly Don Juan and the Devil - offer their opinions on these matters, and many others related to society.

Shaw, as a non-religious person, and thus an “enemy” of the Church, has the outsider’s perceptiveness about hypocrisy within religion and society in general, and many of the best lines are pointed observations about these topics. (Personally, I wish that we religious sorts would spend less time complaining about people like Shaw and more time examining the ways that they are right about us, and making some corrections.) Here are the tidbits that I found most interesting.

DON JUAN: ...Hell is the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven deadly virtues. All the wickedness on earth is done in their name: where else but in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you that the truly damned are those who are happy in hell?

Shaw is right in good part about this. The worst of evil is that which is baptized by calling it “virtue.” No hate so great as that which is done in the name of “love.”

THE STATUE: ...Well, there is the same thing in heaven. A number of people sit there in glory, not because they are happy, but because they think they owe it to their position to be in heaven. They are almost all English.

THE DEVIL: An Englishman thinks he is moral when he is only uncomfortable.

The Devil is right on this occasion - and not just about Englishmen. In fact, I think the statement applies even more appropriately to the puritanical streak in American religion. From Prohibition to the current ascetic dietary fads, this isn’t just about traditional religion at all, but a belief that to be uncomfortable is to be moral. As noted above regarding the self-sacrificing, this discomfort isn’t morality, but moralistic self-righteousness.

Probably the most famous quote of them all from the play, however, comes from Don Juan’s argument with Donna Anna about marriage. Juan claims that marriage is really just a man-trap set by Nature to ensure the “greatest number of children and their closest care.” He points out that women are expected to learn arts that make them pleasing to men, but that these usually lapse after marriage. (Juan grants that men do this too.) It is Don Juan’s clinching argument that asks the question that demands to be answered.

DON JUAN: ...Those who talk most about the blessings of marriage and the constancy of its vows are the very people who declare that if the chain were broken and the prisoners left free to choose, the whole social fabric would fly asunder. You cannot have the argument both ways. If the prisoner is happy, why lock him in? If he is not, why pretend that he is?

Now, to be clear, I am a happily married man, and believe in the benefits of marriage. At least a good marriage. As a divorce attorney, I don’t see bad marriages as having the same benefits. In fact, bad marriages harm everyone involved, including the children.

That said, Shaw is absolutely right. And not just on marriage. Those who talk the most about the “blessings” of a particular system do tend to also preach fear that if the system were not vigorously and rigidly enforced, everything would go to hell.

I think in particular about those who claim that gender hierarchy and gender roles are necessary. On the one hand, they claim that everyone is happier when women stay home and obey their husbands without question. On the other, they insist on the enforcement of these rules with as heavy of a hand as necessary, realizing that many do not actually find these roles and hierarchies to be a blessing.

You cannot have it both ways. “If the prisoner is happy, why lock him in? If he is not, why pretend that he is?”

And thus, I believe that the secret to creating lasting marriages isn’t to force people to stay in bad ones, but to teach and assist them to have good ones. Don’t lock the cage. Destroy the cage.

In closing the play, Jack Tanner (or Don Juan, if you will) observes the universal hypocrisy of humankind. He knows Ann is unscrupulously pursuing him, but also that this charge against her could be easily brought against us all.

“We all lie; we all bully as much as we dare; we all bid for admiration without the least intention of earning it; we all get as much rent as we can out of our powers of fascination.”

And like Ann, we “do just what she likes herself whilst insisting on everybody else doing what the conventional code prescribes.”

It is good to look in the mirror sometimes, and Shaw is one of those writers whose mirror has a great deal of polish indeed.

Note on the Stage Directions:

Not only did Shaw write a long introduction and a weighty appendix to this play, his stage directions are incredibly detailed. Before some of the scenes, these directions for the setting go on for literally pages on end, following philosophical rabbit trails, and giving ludicrously detailed and yet vague descriptions of how a character should look. For example, here is a small part of the description of Roebuck Ramsden:

How old is Roebuck? The question is important on the threshold of a drama of ideas; for under such circumstances everything depends on whether his adolescence belonged to the sixties or to the eighties. He was born, as a matter of fact, in 1839, and was a Unitarian and Free Trader from his boyhood, and an Evolutionist from the publication of the Origin of Species.

And it goes on. And on. Shaw’s dialogue, while rather long as well, is quite snappy compared to the stage directions.

Don Juan in Hell, the classic recording:

There is a marvelous classic audio recording of this scene available online, starring Charles Boyer, Charles Laughton, Cedric Hardwicke, and Agnes Moorehead. They took this show on the road, and it was a hit.

Part 1 

Part 2

More GBS:

I reviewed The Perfect Wagnerite a few years ago.

St. Francis of Assisi by G. K. Chesterton

Source of book: I own this.

I read Chesterton fairly frequently. To me, he seems one of those larger than life characters that could never fit into a box - or perhaps even the world itself. His ideas are unpredictable, and he always forces me to look at things from an unexpected angle. If I were to choose one person from history to spend an evening with, he would be near or at the top of the list.

I chose this book in part because of the choice of the current Pope to take the name of Francis. Although I am a Protestant, not a Catholic, (and not wedded to a particular denomination, for that matter) I still follow important developments in the other branches of the Church.

St. Francis was a rather interesting person, and his story is fascinating. However, do not read this book intending to get a clear idea of the life of its subject. Chesterton assumes that you already know the basics of the story, which meant that I had to brush up on it myself. Chesterton rather wishes to comment on the significance of the man and his ideas, and explain to the modern mind the context of that man’s works and ideals.

In fact, one of the best things about this book is that Chesterton understands that context is vitally important for understanding the past, and that we can’t simply analyze historical figures as if they existed in the same cultural context as today. (I’ve written before about how this tends to lead to a idolization of past cultures, while ignoring the reality, especially for those who lacked power in those societies.) Chesterton strikes a good balance in this book, neither worshiping the Middle Ages nor unfairly condemning them. I believe the reason is that Chesterton is always brimming with love and good humor. He really can’t bring himself to hate anyone - even the villains in his works of fiction. In that respect, he was a modern counterpart to St. Francis, at least in his good will toward his fellow men.

A great example of this was Chesterton’s friendship with George Bernard Shaw, his philosophical opposite. In Heretics, Chesterton devoted an entire chapter to the dismantling of Shaw’s beliefs, all the while expressing his personal admiration. I mention Shaw, because one of the key points of this book is the idea that being charitable to the poor is much, much different than loving the poor. This is so very true in our modern society, when we truly believe that material success is the result of “godliness,” and that thus, we middle class people are truly “better” than the poor, even as we generously attempt to better their condition. (This is true of both liberals and conservatives.) Chesterton correctly identified the problem as being due, in large part, to thinking of “the poor” in a collective sense, rather than as individuals. Humans in the same sense that we are.

Chesterton saw this impulse in St. Francis, and attributed our modern bewilderment at his often bizarre actions to our lack of understanding of the true nature of religion. To the modern, rational mind, religion is a philosophy. (To the atheist, it is an irrational, mad, philosophy at best.) Chesterton noted that the things that St. Francis did resembled the crazy things that people do when in love.

He was a Lover. He was a lover of God and he was really and truly a lover of men; possibly a much rarer mystical vocation. A lover of men is very nearly the opposite of a philanthropist; indeed the pedantry of the Greek word carries something like a satire on itself. A philanthropist may be aid to love anthropoids. But as St. Francis did not love humanity but me, so he did not love Christianity by Christ. Say, if you think so, that he was a lunatic loving an imaginary person; but an imaginary person, not an imaginary idea.

The same impulse that leads to sacrifice in the name of romantic love led to the sacrifice of asceticism in St. Francis.

Men will ask what selfish sort of woman it must have been who ruthlessly exacted tributed in the form of flowers, or what an avaricious creature she can have been to demand solid gold in the form of a ring: just as they ask what cruel kind of God can have demanded sacrifice and self-denial. They will have lost the clue to all that lovers have meant by love; and will not understand that is was because the thing was not demanded that it was done.

This is the meaning of love, that self-giving without the demand. It is the difference between legalistic systems that look to make God like us more than other people and the amazing things that people like St. Francis have done out of an abundance of love for the Creator. It is the difference between those who sort others into categories of acceptability and those who see others as having equal worth and value.

Later, Chesterton hints at the difference between true equality and condescending charity when he says that a Gentleman cannot be fully an egalitarian until he can quarrel with his servant.

In contrast, St. Francis truly seemed to have approached each person as an individual made in the image of God.

I have said that St. Francis deliberately did not see the wood for the trees. It is even more true that he deliberately did not see the mob for the men...He only saw the image of God multiplied but never monotonous. To him a man was always a man and did not disappear in a dense crowd any more than in a desert. He honoured all men; that is, he not only loved but respected them all. What gave him his extraordinary personal power was this; that from the Pope to the beggar, from the sultan of Syria in his pavilion to the ragged robbers crawling out from the wood, there was never a man who looked into those brown burning eyes without being certain that Francis Bernardone was really interested in him; in his own inner individual life from the cradle to the grave; that he himself was being valued and taken seriously, and not merely added to the spoils of some social policy or the names in some clerical document.

I found this book to be a bit convicting on this point. It is so easy to forget the person. To look at others as problems to be solved, rather than individuals, each with his or her own story.

St. Francis has been referred to as le Jongleur de Dieu. The Jongleur was a juggler, a musician, a clown, all rolled into one. A fool, perhaps. Chesterton makes much of this idea. Certainly, Francis was unafraid to be thought a fool or to do “foolish” things. Many of these, however, had a serious and oddly logical purpose. He is legendary, of course, for his refusal to own property, either individually or collectively - the socialist ideal. Chesterton points out that this would not have worked for everyone, as someone has to be responsible for the upkeep of the means of sustenance and shelter. However, for the particular point he was making, it did make sense for him.

His argument was this: that the dedicated man might go anywhere among any kind of men, even the worst kind of men, so long as there was nothing by which they could hold him.

A few more random thoughts from this book, which is full of stuff to ponder.

One of the incidents in St. Francis’ life that Chesterton dwells on is the episode with St. Clare. She was a seventeen year old girl, who ran away from her father to become a nun. (Francis assisted her escape.) Chesterton quite correctly points out that had she run away to elope, like Juliet at age fourteen, St. Francis would have been an analogue to Friar Lawrence. Again, by understanding religious passion as a form of romantic love, the choice makes sense. She would go on to form the counterpart to the Franciscan order. Chesterton’s take on this is interesting.

[W]e may at least assume that no friend of what is called the emancipation of women will regret the revolt of St. Clare. she did most truly, in the modern jargon, live her own life, the life that she herself wanted to lead, as distinct from the life into which parental commands and conventional arrangements would have forced her.

Chesterton was pretty conservative, and not much of a feminist, but he is gracious enough to grant the point. Women, too, are legitimate in desiring to make their own choices about their own lives. (Notwithstanding the Christian Patriarchists, who believe in the absolute control of daughters by their fathers and then husband, for example.)

I also liked Chesterton’s discussion of the difference between conquest and conversion. He notes this in a contrast between the worst impulses of the Catholic Church (particularly in the New World) and the approach of St. Francis. I think this debate still rages in conservative Christian circles, with a significant contingent still seeking political dominion.

In contrast to this attitude and quest for power, St. Francis said that he found the secret of life in being the servant and the secondary figure. I want to make this the goal of my own life - to be the world’s best second fiddle, as it were. To lead through service, not through domination.

I noted above the need for historical context to understand the writings of the past. Chesterton noted that this even applies to the very words of Christ.

It is a truism to say that Christ lived before Christianity; and it follows that as an historical figure He is a figure in heathen history. I mean that the medium in which He moved was not the medium of Christendom but of the old pagan empire; and from that alone, not to mention the distance of time, it follows that His circumstances are more alien to us than those of an Italian monk such as we might meet even to-day. I suppose that the most authoritative commentary can hardly be certain of the current or conventional weight of all His words or phrases; of which of them would then have seemed a common allusion and which a strange fancy. This archaic setting has left many of the sayings standing like hieroglyphics and subject to many and peculiar individual interpretations.

From my own experience in the legalistic labyrinth of the Patriarchy movement, I would say that there are many possible “peculiar individual interpretations” which take on a life of their own. The point is that we may well often have to admit that we really don’t know and understand everything that is written. We can do the best we can to understand the times and the illusions, but we are best served by a humility in our approach. We see and understand in part only, and our interpretations are not the final word. I love that Chesterton is willing to admit that fact. 

One line that stuck with me, and that I may quote on future occasions is this: “it is as rational for a theist to believe in miracles as for an atheist to disbelieve in them. In other words, there is only one intelligent reason why a man does not believe in miracles and that is that he does believe in materialism.”

There are a few points on which I decidedly did not agree with Chesterton. He was a Catholic, and I am a Protestant, so his views on the role and function of church hierarchy are bound to be different from mine. I also am not sure what to think about his views of the Middle Ages, although he at least doesn’t wish to return there.

The medieval world was far ahead of the modern world in its sense of the things in which all men are at one: Death and the daylight of reason and the common conscience that holds communities together. Its generalizations were saner and sounder than the mad materialistic theories of to-day; nobody would have tolerated a Schopenhauer scorning life or a Nietzsche living only for scorn. But the modern world is more subtle in its sense of the things in which men are not at one; in the temperamental varieties and differentiations that make up the personal problems of life.

There is some truth there, and he certainly identifies the way in which the modern life is easier on those who differ from the normal expectation. (See St. Clare, above.) I have my doubts about how much better the generalizations were, and wonder whether Chesterton’s fairly privileged upbringing might be a contributing factor. As always, in discussions about the past, one must not just look to the class of wealthy men, but must also look at the conditions of the serfs, one one risks falling into a nostalgia of self-interest.

As usual with Chesterton, his creative use of words was part of the pleasure.

First, I noted his use of “botheration,” which I associate primarily with a friend from New Zealand, for whom it was a multi-purpose imprecation.

Second, I had to look up “adumbrate.” It means, per the dictionary: 1) To give a sketchy outline of, 2) To prefigure indistinctly; foreshadow, 3) To disclose partially or guardedly, 4) To overshadow; shadow or obscure. It is related to “umbra,” or shadow. It’s fun to learn a new word.

One final thought that I am still pondering.

Every heresy has been an effort to narrow the Church.

Since the Catholic Church as historically regarded Protestantism as a heresy, and took great pains to exterminate those “heretics,” I am not sure exactly what Chesterton means by this, although in context, he applies it to the idea that St. Francis could not found his own religion for that reason. There was and is much Christianity apart from St. Francis and his followers. The Franciscan movement has its place and its truth and beauty, but it is not all there is to either. Had it limited Christianity to like minded followers, it would have become a heresy. Perhaps this might apply best to legalism in general. St. Francis followed Christ as he was called. Not everyone had or has the same calling. Once we decide that everyone must do as we do, we narrow the kingdom of God. Still thinking about this one.

As usual, Chesterton’s ideas have caused me to step back and think. Whether one agrees or disagrees with his points, it is impossible to not respect the originality of his thought, and his overflowing love and good cheer.

Note on the legacy of St. Francis:

The Franciscan order of friars is the most obvious. Father Junipero Serra, who founded the California mission system, was a Franciscan, as was Father Francisco Garces, who explored much of the Southwestern United States and discovered the Tejon pass, between the desert and the San Joaquin Valley, back in 1776. He is honored here in Bakersfield for the work he did in the area.

Also of note, the city of San Francisco was named after St. Frances. Also, the ill fated St. Francis dam, which broke in dramatic fashion.

Note on the poetry of St. Francis:

The best known poem that is believed with certainty to have been written by St. Francis is the Canticle of the Sun.

Most high, all powerful, all good Lord!

All praise is Yours, all glory, all honor, and all blessing.

To You, alone, Most High, do they belong.

No mortal lips are worthy to pronounce Your name.

Be praised, my Lord, through all Your creatures,

especially through my lord Brother Sun,

who brings the day; and You give light through him.

And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendor!

Of You, Most High, he bears the likeness.

Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars;

in the heavens You have made them bright, precious and beautiful.

Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,

and clouds and storms, and all the weather,

through which You give Your creatures sustenance.

Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Water;

she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.

Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Fire,

through whom You brighten the night.

He is beautiful and cheerful, and powerful and strong.

Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Mother Earth,

who feeds us and rules us,

and produces various fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

Be praised, my Lord, through those who forgive for love of You;

through those who endure sickness and trial.

Happy those who endure in peace,

for by You, Most High, they will be crowned.

Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Bodily Death,

from whose embrace no living person can escape.

Woe to those who die in mortal sin!

Happy those she finds doing Your most holy will.

The second death can do no harm to them.

Praise and bless my Lord, and give thanks,

and serve Him with great humility.

Better known is his famous prayer, but it is not certain that he wrote it. Certainly, it is consistent with his writings and beliefs, but it may have been written at a later date, as it did not appear in print until the early 1900s.

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

I am partial to John Michael Talbot’s musical setting of the prayer.

The Perfect Wagnerite by George Bernard Shaw

Source of book: I own this.

Occasionally, I have the opportunity to read a book that corresponds to the music that the Symphony is performing. For example, The School for Scandal and Why Mahler?

This year is the 200th anniversary of the birth of the two most important opera composers of the Nineteenth Century: Giuseppe Verdi, and Richard Wagner. In honor of this event, we performed a concert jointly featuring the two composers. At the same time, I purchased a copy of George Bernard Shaw’ commentary on The Ring, which conveniently happened to be on sale at a nice discount.

Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen is a cycle of four operas, or as he would prefer, music-dramas, based loosely on the Norse Sagas, and filled with philosophy and symbolism. The works were intended to be presented as a set, over four consecutive nights. With a total length of over fifteen hours, they are not for those of limited attention span.

The ring referred to is a magic ring forged of stolen gold. (This is one of a number of parallels with Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings - both works share source material.) The universe of the dramas contains gods, demi-gods, giants, dwarves, mortals, and heros. The plot is too involved to re-create here, but a summary is easy enough to find. I am particularly fond of my copy of Stories of the Wagner Operas by H. A. Guerber, published in 1895. (I have the 1897 version - I am guessing it is a second edition, but it doesn’t say. My wife found this for me for next to nothing at a used book sale.)

While it cannot hurt to be familiar with the story before reading Shaw’s analysis, he includes all of the necessary elements for his point.

Shaw’ interpretation of The Ring is that it is a socialist allegory, and there is ample evidence that Wagner intended that, at least in part. Shaw was a Fabian, so he would naturally analyze the work through that lens. Engel’s book on the working class of England was popular and influential, as were the works of Marx. Wagner was given to philosophizing, but, as Shaw notes, his views changed over the twenty-one years he worked on the cycle, and many of his writings are self-contradictory. Toward the end of the process, he became enamoured of Schopenhauer, and then attempted to fit his earlier ideas into that ill-fitting mould.

Unlike most composers of opera, Wagner chose to create everything about The Ring. He wrote the text first, in reverse order, then compose the music in chronological order. He collaborated with Adolphe Sax to design the Wagner Tuba, a new instrument for the occasion. He designed and built an opera house intended to show The Ring in all its glory.

I had not previously read any of Shaw’s non-fiction, and, although I knew he had a legendarily sharp tongue, I was surprised at his level of arrogance and condescension. He refers often to the “superior” listener, and dismisses those who prefer the music of Gotterdammerung to that of Das Rheingold. As Shaw notes, the allegory makes the most sense in that first drama, and breaks down in the last. Thus, those who come merely for the beautiful music rather than for the philosophy are mere Philistines. I’m afraind that I probably fall into that category, being somewhat unimpressed with Wagner’s philosophical preaching and moved by the transcendent sweep of composition in Gotterdammerung. This is not to say that I dislike Das Rheingold, but that I find it less irresistible.

In Shaw’s conception, there are four representations of humanity in the work. First, the dwarves - particularly Alberic - represent the capitalists, who have turned their back on love, and seek to rule the world through the power of gold. (It must be said that Wagner’s portrayal reveals his anti-Semitism. The terms “capitalist” and “Jew” were all too interchangeable in Nineteenth Century writing. Even W. E. B. Du Bois fell prey to this.) The giants represent the “stupid” but respectable and toiling class, who worship money. The gods represent the intellectual, talented, and moral people, who are forced to assume the reigns of power, secular and religious. The heros represent those pure artists who are able to break free from the worldly systems and, Wagner and Shaw hope, save the world someday.

Shaw wrote this book in 1897, updating it three times, the last in 1923. This was during the time of optimism about the future of socialism and communism, when Fabians like Shaw could still believe that the workers’ paradise would eliminate greed and oppression. Later events proved that human nature remains the problem and that there is no panacea, but Shaw lacked knowledge of the future. Thus, I find that “greed” rather than “capitalism” fits the allegory better. There has never been a “golden age” when men enjoyed gold for its beauty rather than its power. Greed and oppression have plagued humanity since the dawn of recorded history.

Despite being too much enamoured of the vision, Shaw’s analysis is convincing as to what Wagner intended. The allegory, while not perfect (Shaw noted that perfect allegories are unreadable), works as far as it goes. His musical knowledge shows too, and he enlightens those portions of the work as well.

There were a few delightful lines worth quoting. Shaw notes that its much in the “ordinary way of the world, for senile avarice and craft to set youth and bravery to work to win empire for it.” I also liked the analysis of fear. The magic fire surrounding Brunhilde can only be passed by the man who knows no fear. (In this case, Siegfried.) In contrast, Mimmy the dwarf is the incarnation of irrational fear.

Mimmy is all fear: the world for him is a phantasmagoria of terrors. It is not that he is afraid of being eaten by bears in the forest, or of burning his fingers in the forge fire. A lively objection to being destroyed or mained does not make a man a coward: on the contrary, it is the beginning of a brave man’s wisdom. But in Mimmy, fear is not the effect of danger: it is a natural quality of him which no security can allay.

Shaw’s criticisms are accurate as well. Wagner’s works are long, in large part because he repeats himself.

Almost the first thing that a dramatist has to learn in constructing a play is that the persons must not come on the stage in the second act and tell one another at great length what the audience has already seen pass before its eyes in the first act. The extent to which Wagner has been seduced into violating this rule by his affection for his themes is startling to a practiced playwright.

In some cases, the singers did the material no favors. Shaw describes some of the worst as “mere animated beer casks.”

One final musical note by Shaw also looks different from the Twenty-first Century. The author lists the foremost post-Wagner composers as Brahms (no argument there), Richard Strauss (arguable, but not certain), and Edward Elgar (really?). Shaw shows a certain pro-British myopia here, as Elgar is considered a lesser light than Mahler, Sibelius, and others of the late Nineteenth. Shaw’s assertion that there was no true musical heir to Wagner was true enough at its time (both Strauss and Mahler would show his influence, but the music-drama never caught on.) However, Wagner’s true influence was to be in a medium unknown and unforeseen by Shaw: the motion picture. Wagner’s use of the leitmotif, a term he invented, turned out to be perfect for the new art form. Uncluttered by endless storytelling and turgid poetry, the use of themes for emotions, characters, and and items would become a key element of movie scores, particularly those with epic storylines.

Here is the final scene from Das Rheingold, one of the selections from our last concert. Alas, we did not use either bass trumpets or Wagner tubas. I love the portrayal of Loki, the lawyer god, if you will.


And, perhaps the best known selection from Gotterdammerung.