Aspects of science

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?