on>CONTENTS
Introduction by Christopher Newton
PART ONE: THE CHAMPION EMERGES
PART TWO: PUPIL AND TEACHER
CHAPTER 7 Fishing South of Quebec
CHAPTER 8 In Pursuit of the Groom
CHAPTER 10 Coldest Place We Ever Struck
CHAPTER 11 “He was the teacher, I the pupil”
PART THREE: HEIRESS AS CATALYST
CHAPTER 13 Saint Rocco Prayers
CHAPTER 17 Feet on Solid Ground
Dedicated to my Parents,
whose Love of Language, Poetry
and Life Enriched us All
Gene Tunney and Polly Lauder, in 1928 — the year they were married.
Bernard Shaw attending a boxing exhibition in London in 1929. “The intelligent prizefighter is not a knight-errant: he is a disillusioned man of business trying to make money at a certain weight,” wrote Shaw (Getty Images).
Introduction
So perhaps this is what he was really like. It’s clear from Holroyd and all the other biographers that Shaw was a generous man. He was more than kind to Wilde when he was in trouble. He gave anonymously to so many good causes and to so many people who were hurt or sick or caught in circumstances over which they had no control, but to me the public voice always seemed unsympathetic, hectoring and dissatisfied. I have a fading memory of hearing Shaw on the radio when I was eleven or twelve. Because he was a famous, even revered, celebrity, my parents encouraged me to listen. Unfortunately my memory is of a voice complaining endlessly about something which didn’t interest me.
Even the plays weren’t particularly compelling. It was perhaps 1950 when I saw an amateur production of Pygmalion — a play by the great Bernard Shaw! Already fascinated by the theatre, by make believe, I needed to see this play which was done in modern dress by local amateurs. But there were too many words and I suspect that I was more intrigued by hearing someone use a swear word on stage than anything else. That was thrilling, but the rest paled in comparison and I gained an impression that I carried with me for years that his plays were simply animated lectures. And in this, of course, I was not alone.
My very first professional job — acting in Saint Joan and Julius Caesar with the Canadian Players — didn’t change my mind. I was happy to be acting. I was happy to see all of Canada from Port aux Basques to Trail but on stage it was Julius Caesar that intrigued me not Saint Joan. I played at the Shaw Festival in the early days and again I thought I’d been caught up in a lecture not a real play, not an adventure that connected the audience with the stage. I played Henry Higgins with Nicola Cavendish in Vancouver but wasn’t convinced. It was not until I first directed Shaw that I gained any kind of understanding of the plays. I realized after the first few weeks of rehearsal that he was a genuine playwright who could invent believable human beings. I began to think that all the Shaw plays I had either seen or acted in were mis-directed. I began to say: “When in doubt about Shaw, look for the sex.” This helped, though I would probably now say: “Look for the love.” Nevertheless after arguing — even in Ireland where there is a certain skepticism — that after Shakespeare, Shaw is the greatest playwright in the language, I still found him an almost impossible human being. I didn’t like the man that I glimpsed behind the public persona and in my mind the ugly suburban house at Ayot St. Lawrence seemed to confirm the worst.
I had to be missing something. Dan Laurence used to talk to me about Shaw being like an onion. Every time you removed a skin, there was another layer underneath, and then another, and then the centre seemed to dis-appear. Well, Jay Tunney in this most attractive book about his father, the famous boxer, and his father’s friendship with Shaw, has given me a revelation.
