Readers of Mr. Bernard Shaw and other modern writers may be interested
to know that the Superman has been found. I found him; he lives in
South Croydon. My success will be a great blow to Mr. Shaw, who has been
following quite a false scent, and is now looking for the creature in
Blackpool; and as for Mr. Wells's notion of generating him out of gases
in a private laboratory, I always thought it doomed to failure. I assure
Mr. Wells that the Superman at Croydon was born in the ordinary way,
though he himself, of course, is anything but ordinary.
Nor are his parents unworthy of the wonderful being whom they have given
to the world. The name of Lady Hypatia Smythe-Browne (now Lady Hypatia
Hagg) will never be forgotten in the East End, where she did such
splendid social work. Her constant cry of “Save the children!” referred
to the cruel neglect of children's eyesight involved in allowing them
to play with crudely painted toys. She quoted unanswerable statistics
to prove that children allowed to look at violet and vermilion often
suffered from failing eyesight in their extreme old age; and it
was owing to her ceaseless crusade that the pestilence of the
Monkey-on-the-Stick was almost swept from Hoxton. The devoted worker
would tramp the streets untiringly, taking away the toys from all the
poor children, who were often moved to tears by her kindness. Her
good work was interrupted, partly by a new interest in the creed
of Zoroaster, and partly by a savage blow from an umbrella. It was
inflicted by a dissolute Irish apple-woman, who, on returning from some
orgy to her ill-kept apartment, found Lady Hypatia in the bedroom taking
down an oleograph, which, to say the least of it, could not really
elevate the mind. At this the ignorant and partly intoxicated Celt dealt
the social reformer a severe blow, adding to it an absurd accusation of
theft. The lady's exquisitely balanced mind received a shock, and it was
during a short mental illness that she married Dr. Hagg.
Of Dr. Hagg himself I hope there is no need to speak. Any one even
slightly acquainted with those daring experiments in Neo-Individualist
Eugenics, which are now the one absorbing interest of the English
democracy, must know his name and often commend it to the personal
protection of an impersonal power. Early in life he brought to bear that
ruthless insight into the history of religions which he had gained in
boyhood as an electrical engineer. Later he became one of our greatest
geologists; and achieved that bold and bright outlook upon the future of
Socialism which only geology can give. At first there seemed something
like a rift, a faint, but perceptible, fissure, between his views and
those of his aristocratic wife. For she was in favour (to use her own
powerful epigram) of protecting the poor against themselves; while he
declared pitilessly, in a new and striking metaphor, that the weakest
must go to the wall. Eventually, however, the married pair perceived
an essential union in the unmistakably modern character of both their
views, and in this enlightening and intelligible formula their souls
found peace. The result is that this union of the two highest types of
our civilization, the fashionable lady and the all but vulgar medical
man, has been blessed by the birth of the Superman, that being whom all
the labourers in Battersea are so eagerly expecting night and day.
I found the house of Dr. and Lady Hypatia Hagg without much difficulty;
it is situated in one of the last straggling streets of Croydon,
and overlooked by a line of poplars. I reached the door towards the
twilight, and it was natural that I should fancifully see something dark
and monstrous in the dim bulk of that house which contained the creature
who was more marvellous than the children of men. When I entered the
house I was received with exquisite courtesy by Lady Hypatia and her
husband; but I found much greater difficulty in actually seeing the
Superman, who is now about fifteen years old, and is kept by himself in
a quiet room. Even my conversation with the father and mother did not
quite clear up the character of this mysterious being. Lady Hypatia,
who has a pale and poignant face, and is clad in those impalpable and
pathetic greys and greens with which she has brightened so many homes in
Hoxton, did not appear to talk of her offspring with any of the vulgar
vanity of an ordinary human mother. I took a bold step and asked if the
Superman was nice looking.
“He creates his own standard, you see,” she replied, with a slight sigh.
“Upon that plane he is more than Apollo. Seen from our lower plane, of
course--” And she sighed again.