Chesterton, Heretics, 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 partof 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 problemsof human history with this keen and piercing charity, the smallerand 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 ofinconsistency and duplicity, that they combined a profession of almostcrawling humility with a keen struggle for earthly success and considerabletriumph in attaining it. It is felt as a piece of humbug, that a manshould 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 betweenthe humility of a Christian and the rapacity of a Christian than thereis 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 suchherculean 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 strainedevery 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 oughtnot to have it. The whole secret of the practical success of Christendomlies in the Christian humility, however imperfectly fulfilled.For with the removal of all question of merit or payment, the soulis suddenly released for incredible voyages. If we ask a sane manhow 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 hasbeen admirably expressed in a famous quotation. Addison makesthe 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 inevery lover, the spirit which has bestridden the earth with Europeanadventure, 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 readyfor an infinity of unmerited triumphs, this secret is so simple that everyone 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 goeswith 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 pleaseit too much. In a word, the failure of this virtue actually liesin its success; it is too successful as an investment to be believedin 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 tooworldly for this world.

The instance most quoted in our day is the thing called the humilityof the man of science; and certainly it is a good instance as wellas a modern one. Men find it extremely difficult to believethat 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 toindulge his harmless old hobby and follow his harmless old nose.When a man splits a grain of sand and the universe is turned upside downin consequence, it is difficult to realize that to the man who did it,the splitting of the grain is the great affair, and the capsizingof the cosmos quite a small one. It is hard to enter into the feelingsof a man who regards a new heaven and a new earth in the light of aby-product. But undoubtedly it was to this almost eerie innocenceof 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 cardstheir 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 whatthey 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 possibleto Darwin. He was convincing because of his unconsciousness;one might almost say because of his dulness. This childlikeand 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 talkof 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 emergedin the strictly modern decades who does carry into our world the clearpersonal simplicity of the old world of science. One man of geniuswe have who is an artist, but who was a man of science, and who seemsto be marked above all things with this great scientific humility.I mean Mr. H. G. Wells. And in his case, as in the others abovespoken of, there must be a great preliminary difficulty in convincingthe ordinary person that such a virtue is predicable of such a man.Mr. Wells began his literary work with violent visions--visions ofthe last pangs of this planet; can it be that a man who beginswith violent visions is humble? He went on to wilder and wilderstories 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 itwith aggressive authority and a ringing decision of detail.Is the prophet of the future of all men humble ? It will indeedbe difficult, in the present condition of current thought aboutsuch things as pride and humility, to answer the query of how a mancan be humble who does such big things and such bold things.For the only answer is the answer which I gave at the beginningof 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 humbleman who has the sensational sights vouchsafed to him, and thisfor three obvious reasons: first, that he strains his eyes morethan any other men to see them; second, that he is more overwhelmedand uplifted with them when they come; third, that he recordsthem more exactly and sincerely and with less adulterationfrom 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 adventuresare 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 toillustrate 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 isthe only one of his many brilliant contemporaries who has notstopped growing. One can lie awake at night and hear him grow.Of this growth the most evident manifestation is indeed a gradualchange of opinions; but it is no mere change of opinions.It is not a perpetual leaping from one position to another likethat of Mr. George Moore. It is a quite continuous advance alonga quite solid road in a quite definable direction. But the chiefproof that it is not a piece of fickleness and vanity is the factthat it has been upon the whole in advance from more startlingopinions to more humdrum opinions. It has been even in some sensean 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 classeswould be so much differentiated in the future that one class wouldeat the other. Certainly no paradoxical charlatan who had oncefound arguments for so startling a view would ever have deserted itexcept for something yet more startling. Mr. Wells has deserted itin favour of the blameless belief that both classes will be ultimatelysubordinated or assimilated to a sort of scientific middle class,a class of engineers. He has abandoned the sensational theory withthe 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 cancome to, the conclusion that the ordinary view is the right one.It is only the last and wildest kind of courage that can standon a tower before ten thousand people and tell them that twicetwo is four.

Mr. H. G. Wells exists at present in a gay and exhilarating progressof conservativism. He is finding out more and more that conventions,though silent, are alive. As good an example as any of thishumility and sanity of his may be found in his change of viewon 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 afterthe 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 itin "Mankind in the Making" with such smashing sense and humour, that Ifind it difficult to believe that anybody else can hold it either.It is true that his chief objection to the proposal is that it isphysically impossible, which seems to me a very slight objection,and almost negligible compared with the others. The one objectionto scientific marriage which is worthy of final attention is simplythat such a thing could only be imposed on unthinkable slavesand cowards. I do not know whether the scientific marriage-mongersare right (as they say) or wrong (as Mr. Wells says) in sayingthat medical supervision would produce strong and healthy men.I am only certain that if it did, the first act of the strongand healthy men would be to smash the medical supervision.

The mistake of all that medical talk lies in the very fact that itconnects the idea of health with the idea of care. What has healthto do with care? Health has to do with carelessness. In specialand abnormal cases it is necessary to have care. When we are peculiarlyunhealthy 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 sociologistswe 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 emphaticallyto be performed with pleasure and for pleasure; they emphaticallyought 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 oughtto take exercise not because he is too fat, but because he loves foilsor 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 thinkingabout his tissues. The exercise will really get him into trainingso long as he is thinking about something else. And the marriage willreally stand some chance of producing a generous-blooded generationif it had its origin in its own natural and generous excitement.It is the first law of health that our necessities should not beaccepted as necessities; they should be accepted as luxuries.Let us, then, be careful about the small things, such as a scratchor a slight illness, or anything that can be managed with care.But in the name of all sanity, let us be careless about theimportant things, such as marriage, or the fountain of our verylife will fail.

Mr. Wells, however, is not quite clear enough of the narrowerscientific outlook to see that there are some things which actuallyought not to be scientific. He is still slightly affected withthe great scientific fallacy; I mean the habit of beginning notwith 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 doesnot sufficiently allow for the stuff or material of men.In his new Utopia he says, for instance, that a chief point ofthe Utopia will be a disbelief in original sin. If he had begunwith the human soul--that is, if he had begun on himself--he wouldhave found original sin almost the first thing to be believed in.He would have found, to put the matter shortly, that a permanentpossibility of selfishness arises from the mere fact of having a self,and not from any accidents of education or ill-treatment. Andthe weakness of all Utopias is this, that they take the greatestdifficulty of man and assume it to be overcome, and then givean 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 sharewill be delivered by motor-car or balloon. And an even strongerexample of Mr. Wells's indifference to the human psychology canbe found in his cosmopolitanism, the abolition in his Utopia of allpatriotic boundaries. He says in his innocent way that Utopiamust 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 werea 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 whatsense is there in thinking there will not be varieties in government?The fact is very simple. Unless you are going deliberately to preventa 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 wouldonly be a strife between Utopias. For the highest thing does not tendto union only; the highest thing, tends also to differentiation.You can often get men to fight for the union; but you cannever 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 somewhatdeeper one, one that he expresses in a very entertaining mannerin the introductory part of the new Utopia. His philosophy in somesense amounts to a denial of the possibility of philosophy itself.At least, he maintains that there are no secure and reliableideas upon which we can rest with a final mental satisfaction.It will be both clearer, however, and more amusing to quoteMr. 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 backon 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 powerfullight pierces our hitherto opaque foundations and revealsfresh and different opacities below." Now, when Mr. Wellssays things like this, I speak with all respect when I saythat 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 callit knowledge. Our mental state may be very different from thatof somebody else some thousands of years back; but it cannot beentirely different, or else we should not be conscious of a difference.Mr. Wells must surely realize the first and simplest of the paradoxesthat sit by the springs of truth. He must surely see that the factof 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 harecannot 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 needof other words, that there are things that do not move.And even in the act of saying that things change, we say that thereis something unchangeable.

But certainly the best example of Mr. Wells's fallacy can befound in the example which he himself chooses. It is quite truethat 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 weshould not call it a stronger light or recognize it as such.If the character of light were not fixed in the mind, we should bequite as likely to call a denser shadow a stronger light, or viceversa 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 lighthas more light or less. In brief, the progress may be as varyingas 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 Bournemouthand South of Spitzbergen. But if there be any doubt of the positionof the North Pole, there is in equal degree a doubt of whether Iam South of Spitzbergen at all. The absolute idea of light may bepractically unattainable. We may not be able to procure pure light.We may not be able to get to the North Pole. But because the NorthPole is unattainable, it does not follow that it is indefinable.And it is only because the North Pole is not indefinable that wecan make a satisfactory map of Brighton and Worthing.

In other words, Plato turned his face to truth but his back onMr. H. G. Wells, when he turned to his museum of specified ideals.It is precisely here that Plato shows his sense. It is not truethat everything changes; the things that change are all the manifestand 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 oneconnection 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 tallerfor unending aeons till his head was higher than the loneliest star.I can imagine his writing a good novel about it. In that casehe 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 starryloneliness the idea of tallness; he would have in the awful spacesfor companion and comfort the definite conception that he was growingtaller and not (for instance) growing fatter.

And now it comes to my mind that Mr. H. G. Wells actually has writtena very delightful romance about men growing as tall as trees;and that here, again, he seems to me to have been a victim of thisvague relativism. "The Food of the Gods" is, like Mr. BernardShaw'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 haveany regard for a great creature if he does not in any manner conformto our standards. For unless he passes our standard of greatnesswe cannot even call him great. Nietszche summed up all that isinteresting in the Superman idea when he said, "Man is a thingwhich has to be surpassed." But the very word "surpass" impliesthe existence of a standard common to us and the thing surpassing us.If the Superman is more manly than men are, of course they willultimately deify him, even if they happen to kill him first.But if he is simply more supermanly, they may be quite indifferentto 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 nevermake men think a man their superior. Giants, as in the wise oldfairy-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 thepsychological substance of it existed in fact. I have little doubtthat the giant whom Jack killed did regard himself as the Superman.It is likely enough that he considered Jack a narrow and parochial personwho 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 themto be better than one. He would enlarge on the subtle modernityof such an equipment, enabling a giant to look at a subjectfrom 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 wasa particularly gigantic giant. All he wished to know was whetherhe 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 politicsand the duties of the citizen? Was he fond of children--or fond of them only in a dark and sinister sense ? To use a finephrase 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 wholestory 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 seethe 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 couldreally keep himself in training against the inevitable Jack wouldbe 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 hisfriends 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 thanthe 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 ismerely stronger (whether physically, mentally, or morally stronger,I do not care a farthing), then he ought to have to reckon with usat 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 isno reason why we should become shorter by falling on our own.But that is at bottom the meaning of all modern hero-worshipand 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 humanthan humanity itself. Nietzsche's Superman is cold and friendless.Achilles is so foolishly fond of his friend that he slaughtersarmies in the agony of his bereavement. Mr. Shaw's sad Caesar saysin his desolate pride, "He who has never hoped can never despair."The Man-God of old answers from his awful hill, "Was ever sorrowlike unto my sorrow?" A great man is not a man so strong that he feelsless 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 dwelton this matter of Mr. Wells and the giants, not because it isspecially prominent in his mind; I know that the Superman doesnot bulk so large in his cosmos as in that of Mr. Bernard Shaw.I have dwelt on it for the opposite reason; because this heresyof immoral hero-worship has taken, I think, a slighter hold of him,and may perhaps still be prevented from perverting one ofthe 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 strengthand the justification of tyranny. But he could not find it.It is not there. The primitive literature is shown in the tale of Jackthe Giant-Killer. The strong old literature is all in praise of the weak.The rude old tales are as tender to minorities as any modernpolitical idealist. The rude old ballads are as sentimentallyconcerned for the under-dog as the Aborigines Protection Society.When men were tough and raw, when they lived amid hard knocks andhard laws, when they knew what fighting really was, they had onlytwo kinds of songs. The first was a rejoicing that the weak hadconquered the strong, the second a lamentation that the strong had,for once in a way, conquered the weak. For this defiance ofthe statu quo, this constant effort to alter the existing balance,this premature challenge to the powerful, is the whole nature andinmost secret of the psychological adventure which is called man.It is his strength to disdain strength. The forlorn hopeis not only a real hope, it is the only real hope of mankind.In the coarsest ballads of the greenwood men are admired most whenthey defy, not only the king, but what is more to the point, the hero.The moment Robin Hood becomes a sort of Superman, that momentthe chivalrous chronicler shows us Robin thrashed by a poor tinkerwhom he thought to thrust aside. And the chivalrous chroniclermakes 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 goback to the fierce old stories of the sturdy and fighting English.And the thing that they find written across that fierce oldliterature everywhere, is "the policy of Majuba."