5. Mr. H. G. Wells and the Giants
We ought to see far enough into a hypocrite to see even his sincerity.
We ought to be interested in that darkest and most real part
of a man in which dwell not the vices that he does not display,
but the virtues that he cannot. And the more we approach the problems
of human history with this keen and piercing charity, the smaller
and smaller space we shall allow to pure hypocrisy of any kind.
The hypocrites shall not deceive us into thinking them saints;
but neither shall they deceive us into thinking them hypocrites.
And an increasing number of cases will crowd into our field of inquiry,
cases in which there is really no question of hypocrisy at all,
cases in which people were so ingenuous that they seemed absurd,
and so absurd that they seemed disingenuous.
There is one striking instance of an unfair charge of hypocrisy.
It is always urged against the religious in the past, as a point of
inconsistency and duplicity, that they combined a profession of almost
crawling humility with a keen struggle for earthly success and considerable
triumph in attaining it. It is felt as a piece of humbug, that a man
should be very punctilious in calling himself a miserable sinner,
and also very punctilious in calling himself King of France.
But the truth is that there is no more conscious inconsistency between
the humility of a Christian and the rapacity of a Christian than there
is between the humility of a lover and the rapacity of a lover.
The truth is that there are no things for which men will make such
herculean efforts as the things of which they know they are unworthy.
There never was a man in love who did not declare that, if he strained
every nerve to breaking, he was going to have his desire.
And there never was a man in love who did not declare also that he ought
not to have it. The whole secret of the practical success of Christendom
lies in the Christian humility, however imperfectly fulfilled.
For with the removal of all question of merit or payment, the soul
is suddenly released for incredible voyages. If we ask a sane man
how much he merits, his mind shrinks instinctively and instantaneously.
It is doubtful whether he merits six feet of earth.
But if you ask him what he can conquer--he can conquer the stars.
Thus comes the thing called Romance, a purely Christian product.
A man cannot deserve adventures; he cannot earn dragons and hippogriffs.
The mediaeval Europe which asserted humility gained Romance;
the civilization which gained Romance has gained the habitable globe.
How different the Pagan and Stoical feeling was from this has
been admirably expressed in a famous quotation. Addison makes
the great Stoic say--
"'Tis not in mortals to command success;
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it."
But the spirit of Romance and Christendom, the spirit which is in
every lover, the spirit which has bestridden the earth with European
adventure, is quite opposite. 'Tis not in mortals to deserve success.
But we'll do more, Sempronius; we'll obtain it.
And this gay humility, this holding of ourselves lightly and yet ready
for an infinity of unmerited triumphs, this secret is so simple that every
one has supposed that it must be something quite sinister and mysterious.
Humility is so practical a virtue that men think it must be a vice.
Humility is so successful that it is mistaken for pride.
It is mistaken for it all the more easily because it generally goes
with a certain simple love of splendour which amounts to vanity.
Humility will always, by preference, go clad in scarlet and gold;
pride is that which refuses to let gold and scarlet impress it or please
it too much. In a word, the failure of this virtue actually lies
in its success; it is too successful as an investment to be believed
in as a virtue. Humility is not merely too good for this world;
it is too practical for this world; I had almost said it is too
worldly for this world.
The instance most quoted in our day is the thing called the humility
of the man of science; and certainly it is a good instance as well
as a modern one. Men find it extremely difficult to believe
that a man who is obviously uprooting mountains and dividing seas,
tearing down temples and stretching out hands to the stars,
is really a quiet old gentleman who only asks to be allowed to
indulge his harmless old hobby and follow his harmless old nose.
When a man splits a grain of sand and the universe is turned upside down
in consequence, it is difficult to realize that to the man who did it,
the splitting of the grain is the great affair, and the capsizing
of the cosmos quite a small one. It is hard to enter into the feelings
of a man who regards a new heaven and a new earth in the light of a
by-product. But undoubtedly it was to this almost eerie innocence
of the intellect that the great men of the great scientific period,
which now appears to be closing, owed their enormous power and triumph.
If they had brought the heavens down like a house of cards
their plea was not even that they had done it on principle;
their quite unanswerable plea was that they had done it by accident.
Whenever there was in them the least touch of pride in what
they had done, there was a good ground for attacking them;
but so long as they were wholly humble, they were wholly victorious.
There were possible answers to Huxley; there was no answer possible
to Darwin. He was convincing because of his unconsciousness;
one might almost say because of his dulness. This childlike
and prosaic mind is beginning to wane in the world of science.
Men of science are beginning to see themselves, as the fine phrase is,
in the part; they are beginning to be proud of their humility.
They are beginning to be aesthetic, like the rest of the world,
beginning to spell truth with a capital T, beginning to talk
of the creeds they imagine themselves to have destroyed,
of the discoveries that their forbears made. Like the modern English,
they are beginning to be soft about their own hardness.
They are becoming conscious of their own strength--that is,
they are growing weaker. But one purely modern man has emerged
in the strictly modern decades who does carry into our world the clear
personal simplicity of the old world of science. One man of genius
we have who is an artist, but who was a man of science, and who seems
to be marked above all things with this great scientific humility.
I mean Mr. H. G. Wells. And in his case, as in the others above
spoken of, there must be a great preliminary difficulty in convincing
the ordinary person that such a virtue is predicable of such a man.
Mr. Wells began his literary work with violent visions--visions of
the last pangs of this planet; can it be that a man who begins
with violent visions is humble? He went on to wilder and wilder
stories about carving beasts into men and shooting angels like birds.
Is the man who shoots angels and carves beasts into men humble?
Since then he has done something bolder than either of these blasphemies;
he has prophesied the political future of all men; prophesied it
with aggressive authority and a ringing decision of detail.
Is the prophet of the future of all men humble ? It will indeed
be difficult, in the present condition of current thought about
such things as pride and humility, to answer the query of how a man
can be humble who does such big things and such bold things.
For the only answer is the answer which I gave at the beginning
of this essay. It is the humble man who does the big things.
It is the humble man who does the bold things. It is the humble
man who has the sensational sights vouchsafed to him, and this
for three obvious reasons: first, that he strains his eyes more
than any other men to see them; second, that he is more overwhelmed
and uplifted with them when they come; third, that he records
them more exactly and sincerely and with less adulteration
from his more commonplace and more conceited everyday self.
Adventures are to those to whom they are most unexpected--that is,
most romantic. Adventures are to the shy: in this sense adventures
are to the unadventurous.
Now, this arresting, mental humility in Mr. H. G. Wells may be,
like a great many other things that are vital and vivid, difficult to
illustrate by examples, but if I were asked for an example of it,
I should have no difficulty about which example to begin with.
The most interesting thing about Mr. H. G. Wells is that he is
the only one of his many brilliant contemporaries who has not
stopped growing. One can lie awake at night and hear him grow.
Of this growth the most evident manifestation is indeed a gradual
change of opinions; but it is no mere change of opinions.
It is not a perpetual leaping from one position to another like
that of Mr. George Moore. It is a quite continuous advance along
a quite solid road in a quite definable direction. But the chief
proof that it is not a piece of fickleness and vanity is the fact
that it has been upon the whole in advance from more startling
opinions to more humdrum opinions. It has been even in some sense
an advance from unconventional opinions to conventional opinions.
This fact fixes Mr. Wells's honesty and proves him to be no poseur.
Mr. Wells once held that the upper classes and the lower classes
would be so much differentiated in the future that one class would
eat the other. Certainly no paradoxical charlatan who had once
found arguments for so startling a view would ever have deserted it
except for something yet more startling. Mr. Wells has deserted it
in favour of the blameless belief that both classes will be ultimately
subordinated or assimilated to a sort of scientific middle class,
a class of engineers. He has abandoned the sensational theory with
the same honourable gravity and simplicity with which he adopted it.
Then he thought it was true; now he thinks it is not true.
He has come to the most dreadful conclusion a literary man can
come to, the conclusion that the ordinary view is the right one.
It is only the last and wildest kind of courage that can stand
on a tower before ten thousand people and tell them that twice
two is four.
Mr. H. G. Wells exists at present in a gay and exhilarating progress
of conservativism. He is finding out more and more that conventions,
though silent, are alive. As good an example as any of this
humility and sanity of his may be found in his change of view
on the subject of science and marriage. He once held, I believe,
the opinion which some singular sociologists still hold,
that human creatures could successfully be paired and bred after
the manner of dogs or horses. He no longer holds that view.
Not only does he no longer hold that view, but he has written about it
in "Mankind in the Making" with such smashing sense and humour, that I
find it difficult to believe that anybody else can hold it either.
It is true that his chief objection to the proposal is that it is
physically impossible, which seems to me a very slight objection,
and almost negligible compared with the others. The one objection
to scientific marriage which is worthy of final attention is simply
that such a thing could only be imposed on unthinkable slaves
and cowards. I do not know whether the scientific marriage-mongers
are right (as they say) or wrong (as Mr. Wells says) in saying
that medical supervision would produce strong and healthy men.
I am only certain that if it did, the first act of the strong
and healthy men would be to smash the medical supervision.
The mistake of all that medical talk lies in the very fact that it
connects the idea of health with the idea of care. What has health
to do with care? Health has to do with carelessness. In special
and abnormal cases it is necessary to have care. When we are peculiarly
unhealthy it may be necessary to be careful in order to be healthy.
But even then we are only trying to be healthy in order to be careless.
If we are doctors we are speaking to exceptionally sick men,
and they ought to be told to be careful. But when we are sociologists
we are addressing the normal man, we are addressing humanity.
And humanity ought to be told to be recklessness itself.
For all the fundamental functions of a healthy man ought emphatically
to be performed with pleasure and for pleasure; they emphatically
ought not to be performed with precaution or for precaution.
A man ought to eat because he has a good appetite to satisfy,
and emphatically not because he has a body to sustain. A man ought
to take exercise not because he is too fat, but because he loves foils
or horses or high mountains, and loves them for their own sake.
And a man ought to marry because he has fallen in love,
and emphatically not because the world requires to be populated.
The food will really renovate his tissues as long as he is not thinking
about his tissues. The exercise will really get him into training
so long as he is thinking about something else. And the marriage will
really stand some chance of producing a generous-blooded generation
if it had its origin in its own natural and generous excitement.
It is the first law of health that our necessities should not be
accepted as necessities; they should be accepted as luxuries.
Let us, then, be careful about the small things, such as a scratch
or a slight illness, or anything that can be managed with care.
But in the name of all sanity, let us be careless about the
important things, such as marriage, or the fountain of our very
life will fail.
Mr. Wells, however, is not quite clear enough of the narrower
scientific outlook to see that there are some things which actually
ought not to be scientific. He is still slightly affected with
the great scientific fallacy; I mean the habit of beginning not
with the human soul, which is the first thing a man learns about,
but with some such thing as protoplasm, which is about the last.
The one defect in his splendid mental equipment is that he does
not sufficiently allow for the stuff or material of men.
In his new Utopia he says, for instance, that a chief point of
the Utopia will be a disbelief in original sin. If he had begun
with the human soul--that is, if he had begun on himself--he would
have found original sin almost the first thing to be believed in.
He would have found, to put the matter shortly, that a permanent
possibility of selfishness arises from the mere fact of having a self,
and not from any accidents of education or ill-treatment. And
the weakness of all Utopias is this, that they take the greatest
difficulty of man and assume it to be overcome, and then give
an elaborate account of the overcoming of the smaller ones.
They first assume that no man will want more than his share,
and then are very ingenious in explaining whether his share
will be delivered by motor-car or balloon. And an even stronger
example of Mr. Wells's indifference to the human psychology can
be found in his cosmopolitanism, the abolition in his Utopia of all
patriotic boundaries. He says in his innocent way that Utopia
must be a world-state, or else people might make war on it.
It does not seem to occur to him that, for a good many of us, if it were
a world-state we should still make war on it to the end of the world.
For if we admit that there must be varieties in art or opinion what
sense is there in thinking there will not be varieties in government?
The fact is very simple. Unless you are going deliberately to prevent
a thing being good, you cannot prevent it being worth fighting for.
It is impossible to prevent a possible conflict of civilizations,
because it is impossible to prevent a possible conflict between ideals.
If there were no longer our modern strife between nations, there would
only be a strife between Utopias. For the highest thing does not tend
to union only; the highest thing, tends also to differentiation.
You can often get men to fight for the union; but you can
never prevent them from fighting also for the differentiation.
This variety in the highest thing is the meaning of the fierce patriotism,
the fierce nationalism of the great European civilization.
It is also, incidentally, the meaning of the doctrine of the Trinity.
But I think the main mistake of Mr. Wells's philosophy is a somewhat
deeper one, one that he expresses in a very entertaining manner
in the introductory part of the new Utopia. His philosophy in some
sense amounts to a denial of the possibility of philosophy itself.
At least, he maintains that there are no secure and reliable
ideas upon which we can rest with a final mental satisfaction.
It will be both clearer, however, and more amusing to quote
Mr. Wells himself.
He says, "Nothing endures, nothing is precise and certain
(except the mind of a pedant). . . . Being indeed!--there is no being,
but a universal becoming of individualities, and Plato turned his back
on truth when he turned towards his museum of specific ideals."
Mr. Wells says, again, "There is no abiding thing in what we know.
We change from weaker to stronger lights, and each more powerful
light pierces our hitherto opaque foundations and reveals
fresh and different opacities below." Now, when Mr. Wells
says things like this, I speak with all respect when I say
that he does not observe an evident mental distinction.
It cannot be true that there is nothing abiding in what we know.
For if that were so we should not know it all and should not call
it knowledge. Our mental state may be very different from that
of somebody else some thousands of years back; but it cannot be
entirely different, or else we should not be conscious of a difference.
Mr. Wells must surely realize the first and simplest of the paradoxes
that sit by the springs of truth. He must surely see that the fact
of two things being different implies that they are similar.
The hare and the tortoise may differ in the quality of swiftness,
but they must agree in the quality of motion. The swiftest hare
cannot be swifter than an isosceles triangle or the idea of pinkness.
When we say the hare moves faster, we say that the tortoise moves.
And when we say of a thing that it moves, we say, without need
of other words, that there are things that do not move.
And even in the act of saying that things change, we say that there
is something unchangeable.
But certainly the best example of Mr. Wells's fallacy can be
found in the example which he himself chooses. It is quite true
that we see a dim light which, compared with a darker thing,
is light, but which, compared with a stronger light, is darkness.
But the quality of light remains the same thing, or else we
should not call it a stronger light or recognize it as such.
If the character of light were not fixed in the mind, we should be
quite as likely to call a denser shadow a stronger light, or vice
versa If the character of light became even for an instant unfixed,
if it became even by a hair's-breadth doubtful, if, for example,
there crept into our idea of light some vague idea of blueness,
then in that flash we have become doubtful whether the new light
has more light or less. In brief, the progress may be as varying
as a cloud, but the direction must be as rigid as a French road.
North and South are relative in the sense that I am North of Bournemouth
and South of Spitzbergen. But if there be any doubt of the position
of the North Pole, there is in equal degree a doubt of whether I
am South of Spitzbergen at all. The absolute idea of light may be
practically unattainable. We may not be able to procure pure light.
We may not be able to get to the North Pole. But because the North
Pole is unattainable, it does not follow that it is indefinable.
And it is only because the North Pole is not indefinable that we
can make a satisfactory map of Brighton and Worthing.
In other words, Plato turned his face to truth but his back on
Mr. H. G. Wells, when he turned to his museum of specified ideals.
It is precisely here that Plato shows his sense. It is not true
that everything changes; the things that change are all the manifest
and material things. There is something that does not change;
and that is precisely the abstract quality, the invisible idea.
Mr. Wells says truly enough, that a thing which we have seen in one
connection as dark we may see in another connection as light.
But the thing common to both incidents is the mere idea of light--
which we have not seen at all. Mr. Wells might grow taller and taller
for unending aeons till his head was higher than the loneliest star.
I can imagine his writing a good novel about it. In that case
he would see the trees first as tall things and then as short things;
he would see the clouds first as high and then as low.
But there would remain with him through the ages in that starry
loneliness the idea of tallness; he would have in the awful spaces
for companion and comfort the definite conception that he was growing
taller and not (for instance) growing fatter.
And now it comes to my mind that Mr. H. G. Wells actually has written
a very delightful romance about men growing as tall as trees;
and that here, again, he seems to me to have been a victim of this
vague relativism. "The Food of the Gods" is, like Mr. Bernard
Shaw's play, in essence a study of the Superman idea. And it lies,
I think, even through the veil of a half-pantomimic allegory,
open to the same intellectual attack. We cannot be expected to have
any regard for a great creature if he does not in any manner conform
to our standards. For unless he passes our standard of greatness
we cannot even call him great. Nietszche summed up all that is
interesting in the Superman idea when he said, "Man is a thing
which has to be surpassed." But the very word "surpass" implies
the existence of a standard common to us and the thing surpassing us.
If the Superman is more manly than men are, of course they will
ultimately deify him, even if they happen to kill him first.
But if he is simply more supermanly, they may be quite indifferent
to him as they would be to another seemingly aimless monstrosity.
He must submit to our test even in order to overawe us.
Mere force or size even is a standard; but that alone will never
make men think a man their superior. Giants, as in the wise old
fairy-tales, are vermin. Supermen, if not good men, are vermin.
"The Food of the Gods" is the tale of "Jack the Giant-Killer"
told from the point of view of the giant. This has not, I think,
been done before in literature; but I have little doubt that the
psychological substance of it existed in fact. I have little doubt
that the giant whom Jack killed did regard himself as the Superman.
It is likely enough that he considered Jack a narrow and parochial person
who wished to frustrate a great forward movement of the life-force.
If (as not unfrequently was the case) he happened to have two heads,
he would point out the elementary maxim which declares them
to be better than one. He would enlarge on the subtle modernity
of such an equipment, enabling a giant to look at a subject
from two points of view, or to correct himself with promptitude.
But Jack was the champion of the enduring human standards,
of the principle of one man one head and one man one conscience,
of the single head and the single heart and the single eye.
Jack was quite unimpressed by the question of whether the giant was
a particularly gigantic giant. All he wished to know was whether
he was a good giant--that is, a giant who was any good to us.
What were the giant's religious views; what his views on politics
and the duties of the citizen? Was he fond of children--
or fond of them only in a dark and sinister sense ? To use a fine
phrase for emotional sanity, was his heart in the right place?
Jack had sometimes to cut him up with a sword in order to find out.
The old and correct story of Jack the Giant-Killer is simply the whole
story of man; if it were understood we should need no Bibles or histories.
But the modern world in particular does not seem to understand it at all.
The modern world, like Mr. Wells is on the side of the giants;
the safest place, and therefore the meanest and the most prosaic.
The modern world, when it praises its little Caesars,
talks of being strong and brave: but it does not seem to see
the eternal paradox involved in the conjunction of these ideas.
The strong cannot be brave. Only the weak can be brave;
and yet again, in practice, only those who can be brave can be trusted,
in time of doubt, to be strong. The only way in which a giant could
really keep himself in training against the inevitable Jack would
be by continually fighting other giants ten times as big as himself.
That is by ceasing to be a giant and becoming a Jack.
Thus that sympathy with the small or the defeated as such,
with which we Liberals and Nationalists have been often reproached,
is not a useless sentimentalism at all, as Mr. Wells and his
friends fancy. It is the first law of practical courage.
To be in the weakest camp is to be in the strongest school.
Nor can I imagine anything that would do humanity more good than
the advent of a race of Supermen, for them to fight like dragons.
If the Superman is better than we, of course we need not fight him;
but in that case, why not call him the Saint? But if he is
merely stronger (whether physically, mentally, or morally stronger,
I do not care a farthing), then he ought to have to reckon with us
at least for all the strength we have. It we are weaker than he,
that is no reason why we should be weaker than ourselves.
If we are not tall enough to touch the giant's knees, that is
no reason why we should become shorter by falling on our own.
But that is at bottom the meaning of all modern hero-worship
and celebration of the Strong Man, the Caesar the Superman.
That he may be something more than man, we must be something less.
Doubtless there is an older and better hero-worship than this.
But the old hero was a being who, like Achilles, was more human
than humanity itself. Nietzsche's Superman is cold and friendless.
Achilles is so foolishly fond of his friend that he slaughters
armies in the agony of his bereavement. Mr. Shaw's sad Caesar says
in his desolate pride, "He who has never hoped can never despair."
The Man-God of old answers from his awful hill, "Was ever sorrow
like unto my sorrow?" A great man is not a man so strong that he feels
less than other men; he is a man so strong that he feels more.
And when Nietszche says, "A new commandment I give to you, `be hard,'"
he is really saying, "A new commandment I give to you, `be dead.'"
Sensibility is the definition of life.
I recur for a last word to Jack the Giant-Killer. I have dwelt
on this matter of Mr. Wells and the giants, not because it is
specially prominent in his mind; I know that the Superman does
not bulk so large in his cosmos as in that of Mr. Bernard Shaw.
I have dwelt on it for the opposite reason; because this heresy
of immoral hero-worship has taken, I think, a slighter hold of him,
and may perhaps still be prevented from perverting one of
the best thinkers of the day. In the course of "The New Utopia"
Mr. Wells makes more than one admiring allusion to Mr. W. E. Henley.
That clever and unhappy man lived in admiration of a vague violence,
and was always going back to rude old tales and rude old ballads,
to strong and primitive literatures, to find the praise of strength
and the justification of tyranny. But he could not find it.
It is not there. The primitive literature is shown in the tale of Jack
the Giant-Killer. The strong old literature is all in praise of the weak.
The rude old tales are as tender to minorities as any modern
political idealist. The rude old ballads are as sentimentally
concerned for the under-dog as the Aborigines Protection Society.
When men were tough and raw, when they lived amid hard knocks and
hard laws, when they knew what fighting really was, they had only
two kinds of songs. The first was a rejoicing that the weak had
conquered the strong, the second a lamentation that the strong had,
for once in a way, conquered the weak. For this defiance of
the statu quo, this constant effort to alter the existing balance,
this premature challenge to the powerful, is the whole nature and
inmost secret of the psychological adventure which is called man.
It is his strength to disdain strength. The forlorn hope
is not only a real hope, it is the only real hope of mankind.
In the coarsest ballads of the greenwood men are admired most when
they defy, not only the king, but what is more to the point, the hero.
The moment Robin Hood becomes a sort of Superman, that moment
the chivalrous chronicler shows us Robin thrashed by a poor tinker
whom he thought to thrust aside. And the chivalrous chronicler
makes Robin Hood receive the thrashing in a glow of admiration.
This magnanimity is not a product of modern humanitarianism;
it is not a product of anything to do with peace.
This magnanimity is merely one of the lost arts of war.
The Henleyites call for a sturdy and fighting England, and they go
back to the fierce old stories of the sturdy and fighting English.
And the thing that they find written across that fierce old
literature everywhere, is "the policy of Majuba."
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