Those who are interested in current “serious” literature, and more
particularly that branch of it which deals in a speculative way
with those vague but impressive problems which have always haunted
men, the existence of God, the “meaning” of the Universe and so on,
cannot have failed to notice the unaccustomed prestige now enjoyed by
science. The supposed contributions of science to these discussions
are now listened to with a gravity and politeness, with a kind of
serious hush, which was formerly reserved for quotations from Plato
and Aristotle. Compared with the crude materialists of Huxley’s day,
it is evident that the modern man of science has greatly improved his
social standing; he now frequently talks to the best people, on equal
terms, on such subjects as the Good and the Beautiful. The underbred,
pushing, clamorous self-assertion of the Victorian scientist is a rare
note in these improving conversations between philosophers and men
of science. A man like Haeckel is dismissed as a mere vulgarian; no
one would trouble to refute him; his loud voice and hob-nailed boots
are sufficient condemnation. Even Huxley is felt to be a rather noisy
person; the modern expositor of the relations of Science and Religion
or Science and Philosophy no longer borrows his technique from the Hyde
Park orator; he has adopted rather the insinuating charm of the curate.
There are, of course, survivals on both sides; sweetness and light
are not yet universal; the general atmosphere of mutual forbearance
and respect is still occasionally marred by the harsh note of some
exceptionally fanatic or insensitive partisan. One or two grave lapses
of this kind may be detected amongst the mass of recent books devoted
to cosmical questions. There are still one or two literary men and
philosophers who hint at those dreadful early days of science, before
it went to Oxford, and there are still one or two provincial men of
science, _farouche_, suspicious, who attend a modern cultured
salon carrying their obsolete life-preserver in their pocket. But on
the whole good manners prevail everywhere. It is realised that there is
no reason why anybody should feel awkward at meeting anybody else in a
world which is so indulgent of the difference between a man’s private
and public capacities.
To be on amiable terms with everybody is worth a sacrifice, and in
our relief at escaping from the ferocious savagery of the Victorian
controversialists we may well endure the minor discomforts of a
reconciliation between science, philosophy and religion so effective
as to render indistinguishable the separate persons of this trinity.
The particular advantage of this amalgamation that concerns us here
is the fact that it has brought a new branch of literature into
existence. As is usual in an amalgamation, each member profits by the
custom brought by the others, until finally a composite article is
evolved which is, as it were, simultaneously buff and blue. That is
how we get these very curious and interesting modern works on cosmical
questions--works which seem to result from a close collaboration
between, say, a professor of physics, an archdeacon and a Bond Street
crystal-gazer. A very comprehensive _Weltanschauung_ is thereby
afforded, and doubtless a truly “balanced” mind must result from the
perusal of such works, but we may doubt whether each component, as
it were, is presented in its purity. The advantages of association
are only obtained by a certain loss of individuality. We cannot speak
for the philosophy and religion of these works, but we are impelled
to these reflections by detecting a certain quality which pervades
the scientific part of the expositions. It is, as we have admitted,
a good thing for science that it has been taken up in this way. It
moves in an atmosphere of culture; it finds itself being described in
chapters headed with Greek quotations; it is complimented on its strong
vein of poetry; its peculiarities are explained, inaccurately but
sympathetically, in columns of literary causerie, and the unexpected
but gratifying discovery is made that it by no means lacks the bump of
reverence and proper respect for constituted authority.
Yet, kindly as are the surrounding faces, and pleasant as is the
consciousness that one’s clothes and accent excite no comment, there
is, on the part of many scientific men, a persistent uneasy feeling
that one has gained this position on false pretences. It is these
remarkable modern books to which we have referred which render the
feeling acute. At the same time, it is very difficult to state
precisely the elements of this feeling. We understand, however, that
there are young poets and novelists who experience very much the same
emotion when one of the great “official” men of letters talks about
literature. It appears that such people often get everything subtly
wrong, that their criticism never pierces to the real heart of the
matter, that they make literature at once more pompous and more tame
than it really is. These new cultured expositors of science affect
one very much like that. Their indisputable intelligence and their
wide knowledge do not save them; they lack something--it may be a
mere familiar way of talking--which marks the practitioner; we feel
they touch their subject with padded fingers. We attribute no occult
influence to laboratories, but we think the expositor of science who
is not also a creator is something like that curiously unconvincing
creature--the theoretical sailor who has never been to sea. For
that reason we are uneasy in the presence of these numerous modern
expositions. Such work of the kind as was done in the old days was done
by real men of science in their spare time. They had the competence,
if also something of the crudity, of the workman in the factory who
explains to you how his machine works. The modern writers are so much
more like those frock-coated “attendants” at Exhibitions. One is
oppressed with the same suavity, the same incredible readiness, the
same secret doubt whether he has ever handled a tool in his life....
Such being our estimate of our modern teachers, we may be permitted to
be sceptical concerning the complete satisfactoriness of their account
of the present disposition and relations of science. When they vouch
for the complete respectability and harmlessness of science we wonder
if they are not a little too kind. We have an absurd nervousness, as
in the presence of a reformed burglar. He looks well-dressed enough
and his hands are not impossibly horny; moreover, we are told that
the two very respectable gentlemen with him find him a most charming
companion. We are prejudiced, we suppose; but to our thinking there
is a coarseness about the jaw, an occasional hard glint in the eye,
which would make us reluctant to accept him as, at any rate, a sleeping
companion. We wonder if those two gentlemen, the one reverend and the
other nearly so, ever feel a little apprehensive during the night?