Set Down in Malice: A Book of Reminiscences

								

what he said of shorthand, do you? And in The Perfect Wagnerite he
has said all that it is necessary for him to say about Wagner. Last of
all comes H. G. Wells.
Now, I have not the remotest idea what Shaw thinks of Wells in these
days, yet I would give a good deal to know. But sixteen years ago the
older man had for the younger an almost reverential admiration. At the
time of my visit to Shaw one of Wells’ books was appearing serially
in, I think, The Fortnightly Review. Wells was busy looking into the
future, and the future that he saw seemed, in some respects, so
disagreeable yet so likely that Shaw was dismayed at the prospect.
“A great man, Wells,” said Shaw; “do you know anything about him?”
I told him the little I knew and, as we had finished lunch, I asked
Mrs Shaw’s permission to light a cigarette.
Almost immediately after, we started on our walk.
Never shall I forget that terrible walk. I believed then, as I believe
now, that Shaw was deliberately pitting his powers of endurance
against my own—the powers of endurance of a middle-aged vegetarian
against those of a young meat-eater. He walked with a long, easy
stride, swinging his arms, breathing deeply through his wide nostrils.
His pace, which never for a moment did he attempt to accommodate to
mine, was at least five miles an hour. He forgot, or he did not choose
to remember, that I had that morning travelled by the slow midnight
train from Manchester, that I had crossed London, that I had reached
Guildford by a weary Sunday train from Waterloo, and that I had just
eaten an enormous lunch. I panted and struggled half a pace behind
him. I became stupendously hot. I made unexpected and unathletic
sounds, like a man who is being smothered. Blissfully unconscious of
all this was Shaw.... I wonder?... No; blissfully conscious of all
this was Shaw.
He talked steadily the whole time, but I was suffering from an
inhibition of all my mental faculties. Yet, at the back of my mind, I
kept saying to myself: “You know, you have not yet told him that he is
to share your book with George Moore.” And each time I told myself
that, I shuddered somewhat.
It was not until we had neared Mr G. F. Watts’ house that Shaw
moderated his pace a little.
“That,” said he, in a curiously low voice—the kind of voice one uses
in churches—“that is where G. F. Watts lives.”
And he pointed to some high chimneys that overtopped a belt of trees,
and stopped and gazed. But I was in no mood of reverence and, though I
have frequently struggled to induce a feeling of rapture when gazing
upon the large canvases of Watts, I have never been able to do so. So
I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my perspiring forehead.
“Hot?” asked Shaw grimly.
“Of course I’m hot. Aren’t you?”
“Warm. Just nicely warm.”
Presently we came to a tall tower of terra-cotta bricks which, Shaw
told me, had been erected by the villagers under the direction and at