Pygmalion and Three Other Plays by George Bernard Shaw

And it is all the deadlier because, in your romanticist cant, they love one another.” Which shall use up the other? that is the issue between them. Of all human struggles there is none so treacherous and remorseless as the struggle between the artist man and the mother woman. In the rage of that creation he is as ruthless as the woman, as dangerous to her as she to him, and as horribly fascinating. Our minds are nothing but this knowledge of ourselves and he who adds a jot to such knowledge creates new mind as surely as any woman creates new men. Perish the race and wither a thousand women if only the sacrifice of them enable him to act Hamlet better, to paint a finer picture, to write a deeper poem, a greater play, a profounder philosophy! For mark you, Tavy, the artist’s work is to shew us ourselves as we really are. But he is worse: he is a child-robber, a blood-sucker, a hypocrite, and a cheat.

Since marriage began, the great artist has been known as a bad husband. He pretends to spare her the pangs of child-bearing so that he may have for himself the tenderness and fostering that belong of right to her children. He steals the mother’s milk and blackens it to make printer’s ink to scoff at her and glorify ideal women with.

He persuades women that they may do this for their own purpose whilst he really means them to do it for his. He gets into intimate relations with them to study them, to strip the mask of convention from them, to surprise their inmost secrets, knowing that they have the power to rouse his deepest creative energies, to rescue him from his cold reason, to make him see visions and dream dreams, to inspire him, as he calls it. To women he is half vivisector, half vampire. “The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art.

Pygmalion and Three Other Plays by George Bernard Shaw