Monday, 18 September 2017

The War That Will End War (1914)

There are two things to consider here. One is the book, compiled out of eleven newspaper and magazine articles Wells published in the first months of the First World War. The other is the title itself. Because where the book is an object lesson in what happens to hostages-to-fortune under the withering glare of hindsight, the title may be one of the most famous phrases ever to come from Wells's pen.

So to start with the first of these two things, the book itself. It has not, I'm afraid, aged well.
Chapter I. Why Britain Went to War
Chapter II. The Sword of Peace
Chapter III. Hands Off the People's Food
Chapter IV. Concerning Mr. Maximilian Craft
Chapter V. The Most Necessary Measures in the World
Chapter VI. The Need of a New Map of Europe
Chapter VII. The Opportunity of Liberalism
Chapter VIII. The Liberal Fear of Russia
Chapter IX. An Appeal to the American People
Chapter X. Common Sense and the Balkan States
Chapter XI. The War of the Mind
Wells blames the war entirely on German aggression, and more specifically on Prussian militarism (it's possible, just possible, that the actual causes of the war were a little more complex than that). He is certain that Germany will lose, and soon (that within ‘two or three months’ the entire edifice of ‘German Imperialism will be shattered’): that ‘Prussianism took its mortal wound at the first onset before the trenches of Liege. We begin a new period of history’; that ‘the German repulse at Liege was but the beginning of a German disaster as great as that of France in 1871’; and that
if you want to see where diplomacy and Weltpolitik have landed Europe after forty years of anxiety and armament, you must go and look into the ditches of Liege. These bloody heaps are the mere first samples of the harvest. [War That Will End War, 6]
Nor was he alone in thinking that the defence of Liège constituted a war-ending repulse to the Germans. Here's a contemporaneous Punch cartoon:

In fact Liège fell relatively quickly, on the 16th August 1914, and the defence it mounted delayed the German advance by a couple of days at most (plus: it cost as many as 20,000 Belgian lives, as against 5000 German casualties). So the gate in that cartoon very speedily had the ‘No’ before its ‘Thoroughfare’ erased.

Since Wells is certain the Germans are in the process of being defeated, he gives a lot of time to the question of how to order the postwar world. For example, he proposes completely redrawing the map of Europe (‘I suggest that France must recover Lorraine, and that Luxemburg must be linked in closer union with Belgium. Alsace, it seems to me, should be given a choice between France and an entry into the Swiss Confederation .. the break-up of the Austrian Empire has hung over Europe like a curse for forty years. Let us break it up now and have done with it ... then, I would suggest that the three fragments of Poland should be reunited, and that the Tsar of Russia should be crowned King of Poland’ and so on, for many pages). As far as this goes, he is at least cheerily up-front about his complete lack of expertise—‘I am a fairly ignorant person ... and I admit a certain sense of presumptuous absurdity as I sit here before the map of Europe like a carver before a duck and take off a slice here and decide on a cut there’—although he does nonetheless insist upon its urgent needfulness. Once again, hindsight is not on Wells's side where this kind of thing is concerned (there are plenty of examples of the damage it can do).

More worryingly still, the book contains a deal of raw, anti-Semitic blather:
In the South and East [of the Russian empire] are certain provinces thick with Jews, whom Russia can neither contrive to tolerate nor assimilate, who have no comprehensible projects for the help or reorganisation of the country, and who deafen all the rest of Europe with their bitter, unhelpful tale of grievances, so that it is difficult to realise how local and partial are their wrongs. [War That Will End War, 1]
‘Thick with Jews’ is an especially unpleasant piece of phraseology, isn't it? It's not that Wells is unaware of the series of anti-Jewish pogroms conducted in Russia between 1881 and the years in which he was writing. It's that, in his own words, Jewish prominence ‘in the English and still more in the American Press’ has had the effect of ‘distort[ing] the issue of this’, an argument with some very alarming implications. He also asserts that ‘the Jews by their particularism invite the resentment of all uncultivated humanity.’ Invite it, no less!

Anyhow: Wells proposes a Balkan League to solve the Balkan Problem (indeed he asserts, breezily, that ‘the Balkan States never have been a problem’), and presses hard on the need for Propaganda:
By means of a propaganda of books, newspaper articles, leaflets, tracts in English, French, German, Dutch, Swedish, Norwegian, Italian, Chinese and Japanese we have to spread this idea, repeat this idea, and impose upon this war the idea that this war must end war. We have to create a wide common conception of a re-mapped and pacified Europe, released from the abominable dangers of a private trade in armaments, largely disarmed and pledged to mutual protection. [War That Will End War, 8]
That passage comes near the end of the book, and contains the main text's only iteration of the titular slogan.

Which brings me to that slogan. I'd say that there are three phrases in particular, out of all the many phrases and ideas Wells coined, that have enjoyed the most widespread and enduring afterlife: time machine, atom bomb and the war to end war. This latter has a particularly pungency, since it went in short order from being heartfelt and genuine rallying cry to an ironic, bitter, reflection on a conflict that killed seventeen million, maimed twenty million more and ruined a continent without resulting in larger benefit for humankind of any kind. Wells here uses the phrase ingenuously; when he cites it again in his later novel The Bulpington of Blup he does so with rather sour irony. You see, it turns out that—spoiler—this war didn't actually end war after all.

And The War That Will End War is a frankly self-contradictory title:—one might as well call a book The Cholera Bacillus That Will End Dysentery or Fucking for Virginity. Hindsight, to put it bluntly, licences us to mock Wells (and several of his prophecies really do look rather naïve: that it will become globally illegal to produce warships, for instance, and the oceans of the world free of armied navies ‘for hundreds of years’). His larger twofold point is not so far-fetched, I suppose: that militarism can only be defeated militarily, and that a victory so won will give the world the chance at collective disarmament, ‘at a settlement that shall stop this sort of thing for ever.’ Even so:
Every soldier who fights against Germany now is a crusader against war. This, the greatest of all wars, is not just another war—it is the last war! [War That Will End War, 1]
Say what you like about the crusades, they at least put an end to all religiously-grounded conflict and war forever.

I shouldn't be sarcastic. It's no laughing matter. And yet the phrase continues to endure. Of the various versions of it, ‘The War To End War’ (or the ‘War To End All War’), ‘This War Must End War’ ‘Making War on War’ and so on, I think Wells's title here is the best: something to do with the way it follows its initial iamb with two unstressed and then two stressed syllables—technically this latter is called a minor ionic, or sometimes a double iamb—which is prosodically quite forceful.

Saturday, 16 September 2017

The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman (1914)

The novel starts with young Lady Harman, driven by a chauffeur who also functions as a chaperone and guard, viewing a house.

The house belongs to the novel's version of Wells himself, George Brumley (Wells's middle name plus a surname that evokes the town where he was born). Brumley is a successful novelist, small, energetic, randy, ‘one of those very natural-minded men with active imaginations who find women the most interesting things in a full and interesting universe’ [1:1]. He has been a widower for three years, and is just starting to get over his wife's death, which is why he's now selling his spacious country house. But Mrs Harman definitely catches his eye, since she is both very young and very beautiful. Indeed she is so young that he is astonished when he discovers she already has four children.

After some pleasant enough, if not exactly rib-tickling, comedy of manners stuff we get her backstory: born Ellen Sawbridge, the daughter of a financially embarrassed middle-class mother, courted by the wealthy Sir Isaac Harman whose self-made fortune is based on selling sub-par loaves (‘Staminal Bread’) to the masses, and running a chain of cheap, sub-par shops and cafés, the ‘International Bread and Cake Stores’. Harman is shallow, acquisitive and gasping, the sort of man who measures his self-worth solely in terms of his possessions. He more-or-less straightforwardly purchases Ellen, installing her in a lavish household that she is not permitted to leave, and fathering four children in quick succession upon her. Indeed, having so many kids so quickly damages her health: after ‘tactful explanation on the part of the elderly and trustworthy family doctor’ Harman is persuaded to leave his wife alone for a bit: ‘there came a less reproductive phase’.

The bulk of the novel traces Lady Harman's growth from thoroughly naïf and timid child-bride, living out an Ibsenian Dolls-House existence, into self-assured young woman who reads suffragette literature, befriends other women, undertakes her own projects in the world and otherwise ‘comes out’. She does all this in the teeth of her husband's implacable opposition. He leaves a copy of The Taming of the Shrew around the house with key passages underlined, and explicitly acts the Petruchio to her Katherina—chapter eight is actually called ‘Sir Isaac as Petruchio’: hectoring her, denying her use of the car to go out and see friends, and at one point abruptly moving her to a house in the country to keep her away from London society. But instead of taming her, Harman's behaviour only strengthens her resolve to achieve some measure of independence.

As this is going on, Brumley is falling deeper in love with Lady Harman. He tries, and fails, to seduce her, and decides instead to style himself as a knight errant dedicated to rescuing her from her misery. Her denial of his sexual advances is polite but firm, dedicated as she is not simply to pass from one man's ownership to another. They do become friends though, meeting from time to time, and exchanging letters in which Brumley says things like ‘I would rather kiss the hem of your garment than be the lord of any other woman's life’. And this relationship plays its part, as does Ellen's friendship with a group of suffragette women, in bracing her in her struggle for independence.

In David Smith's words, Wells set out in this novel to ‘present a picture of feminists of various kinds, especially suffragettes’, this latter group being broadly criticised for failing the larger aims of female emancipation by ‘defusing and re-focusing the battle for equality, by their attention to side issues’ [Smith, 378]. In the Experiment in Autobiography, Wells says: ‘in The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman I tried to explain to myself and my readers the suppressions and resentments that might lead a gentle woman to smash a plate-glass window. I studied my model carefully and I think the figure lives, but no suffragette saw herself in my mirror.’ Presumably that's because suffragettes saw themselves as committed to equality predicated on specific social reform, where Wells's novel advances the case that the real problem is jealousy, troped in this novel as a function of masculine possessiveness. It's not that he doesn't have a point. It's that he's taking aim at a rather different, less tractable, target.

Lady Harman's involvement in proto-feminism sees her founding a number of hostels for the underpaid and homeless waitresses at her husband's cake shops and cafés, some of whom are driven to supplement their wages by prostitution. I have to say: that's as far as her activism goes, really. Wells's interest in the hostels is that they can act as a piece of plot leverage, with Sir Isaac threatening to take away their funding if his wife leaves him, and so prolonging the conflict (and therefore) drama in the narrative—rather, that is, than Wells showing any deeper interest in the social questions the hostels, and the need for them, raise. Sir Isaac, generally dyspeptic and nervy, falls into rages when his will is thwarted, and so grows iller.

It's a dialogue-heavy novel, with some pleasant if weak-tea comedy of misunderstanding and deflated pompousness, and a certain amount of period-piece interest for the modern reader. But it's not very good, overall. Part of its problem. I think, is that Sir Isaac is an insufficiently intimidating villain. Wells handles Ellen's Bildungsroman pretty well, and there's something quite clever in the fundamental ineffectiveness of Brumley's character. But the novel as a whole feels underpowered, dawdling along until its rather abrupt mors ex machina ending. Which is: Sir Isaac's doctor instructs him to take a rest cure on the Continent, at a place called Santa Margherita, near Genoa. He has forbidden his wife from seeing Brumley, and to keep her hostels financially solvent she had agreed; but the two still correspond. Sir Isaac discovers some of these letters, has an apoplectic fit and dies.

Now, this development of course frees-up our heroine; but although Brumley proposes marriage, she turns him down. In part this is for practical reasons: Sir Isaac, like Casaubon in Middlemarch, has sought to influence his wife from beyond the grave by a provision in his will that would take the hostels away from her in the event of her remarriage. But her refusal to accept Brumley's suit also reflects her determination not to be owned by another man, and Brumley's anguished sense of emasculation in the face of this fills up quite a lot of the final section of the novel: ‘I am to be your tormented, your emasculated lover to the very end of things,’ he whines. ‘Emasculated by laws I hate and customs I hate and vile foresights that I despise ... Because I'm going to do it. I'm going to do what I can. I'm going to be as you wish me to be, to help you, to serve you. If you can't come to meet me, I'll meet you. I can't help but love you, I can't do without you.’ [12]

So it seems they'll carry on as friends, and Lady Harman will end the novel a free agent. Ah, but then again, on the very last page, Wells shuffles his two characters into a fragrant hyacinth garden and closes with a big old snog:
She crouched down upon him and, taking his shoulder in her hand, upset him neatly backwards, and, doing nothing by halves, kissed the astonished Mr. Brumley full upon his mouth. [The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman, 12]
So maybe not.

Wells began writing The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman in 1913, at the tail-end of his affair with Elizabeth Von Arnim, and Wells actually inserts a little tribute to Von Arnim's most famous book:
About this time she happened upon “Elizabeth and her German Garden,” and was very greatly delighted and stimulated by that little sister of Montaigne. She was charmed by the book's fresh gaiety, by its gallant resolve to set off all the good things there are in this world, the sunshine and flowers and laughter, against the limitations and thwartings and disappointments of life. For a time it seemed to her that these brave consolations were solutions, and she was stirred by an imitative passion. How stupid had she not been to let life and Sir Isaac overcome her! She felt that she must make herself like Elizabeth, exactly like Elizabeth; she tried forthwith, and a certain difficulty she found, a certain deadness, she ascribed to the square modernity of her house and something in the Putney air. The house was too large, it dominated the garden and controlled her. [The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman, 5:9]
But Ellen herself, he later claimed, was based on Agnes Eleanor Williams, a suffragette who married the overbearing W W Jacobs (author of ‘The Monkeys Paw’ and other classics of macabre writing). In his posthumously published supplement to his Experiment in Autobiography, Wells recalls how one woman of his acquaintance, Maud Pember Reeves, had worked her way slowly out from under the dominance of her husband, William Pember Reeves, to become ‘almost before he knew what was happening’ a leading suffragette. Then he adds:
The same way of escape was found by the wife of another tyrannous husband, Mrs W. W. Jacobs, and I made a book out of that type of reaction that I think may survive as a fragment of social history, The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman. [H G Wells in Love: Postscript to an Experiment in Autobiography (ed G P Wells, 1984), 71]
Now the thing here is, despite the surname, W W Jacobs wasn't Jewish. And Wells's Isaac Harman most assuredly is.

And so we come to the elephant in the room of this novel, and it's a big elephant, and it's brought its auntie with it—auntie-Semitism. I shouldn't crack wise, I know. But, still: damn. My guess is that Wells decided from the get-go that he wanted to focus his novel's critique on a certain possessive, materialist, jealous and stubbornly destructively mind-set, one he identified as masculine (which is fair enough), plutocratic and, well, Jewish. And that's obviously a problem. There are anti-Semitic gestures all the way through this novel. They are rarely more than gestures, but when one's culture is steeped in anti-Semitic assumptions a gesture is enough. This is Brumley when, beginning his pursuit of Ellen, he meets her children for the first time.
“Come and be hugged, you dears! Come and be hugged!” Before she knelt down and enveloped their shrinking little persons Mr. Brumley was able to observe that they were pretty little things, but not the beautiful children he could have imagined from Lady Harman. Peeping through their infantile delicacy, hints all too manifest of Sir Isaac's characteristically pointed nose gave Mr. Brumley a peculiar—a eugenic, qualm. [The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman, 3:4]
A eugenic qualm. Right.
At school Sir Isaac had not been a particularly prominent figure; his disposition at cricket to block and to bowl "sneaks" and "twisters" under-arm had raised his average rather than his reputation; he had evaded fights and dramatic situations, and protected himself upon occasions of unavoidable violence by punching with his white knuckles held in a peculiar and vicious manner. He had always been a little insensitive to those graces of style, in action if not in art, which appeal so strongly to the commoner sort of English mind; he played first for safety, and that assured, for the uttermost advantage. These tendencies became more marked with maturity. When he took up tennis for his health's sake he developed at once an ungracious service that had to be killed like vermin; he developed an instinct for the deadest ball available, and his returns close up to the net were like assassinations. Indeed, he was inherently incapable of any vision beyond the express prohibitions and permissions of the rules of the games he played, or beyond the laws and institutions under which he lived. His idea of generosity was the undocumented and unqualified purchase of a person by payments made in the form of a gift. [The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman, 5:4]
This is really quite a nasty piece of writing by Wells: insinuatingly painting Harman as ‘not one of us’, not a proper gentleman, as a man naturally (we might say: racially) a sneak, a cheat and a hoarder of wealth. I mean: killed like vermin? Really? ‘Oh but I'm only talking about his tennis!’ Yeah. Right.

Even blithe young Ellen has her eugenic qualms. Here she is trying to talk herself into sticking with her marriage:
Why, after all, shouldn't she take life as she found it, that is to say, as Sir Isaac was prepared to give it to her? He wasn't really so bad, she told herself. The children—their noses were certainly a little sharp, but there might be worse children. [8:5]
Noses crop up more than once:
Just how much she didn't really like her children she presently realized when in the feeble irascibility of their sickness they fell quarrelling. They became—horrid ... insisted upon having every single toy they possessed brought in and put upon their beds; Florence was first disingenuous and then surrendered her loot with passionate howlings. The Teddy Bear was rescued from Baby after a violent struggle in which one furry hind leg was nearly twisted off. It jars upon the philoprogenitive sentiment of our time to tell of these things and still more to record that all four, stirred by possessive passion to the profoundest depths of their beings, betrayed to an unprecedented degree in their little sharp noses, their flushed faces, their earnest eyes, their dutiful likeness to Sir Isaac. [7:3]
So there it is: gentile women have sex with Jews, contrary to all the best eugenic ideas, and the next thing the world is full of children with sharp noses ‘stirred by possessive passion to the profoundest depths of their beings.’ Putting the unmistakeably Jewish name of the heroine's husband right there on the title page of the novel can't help but flag this up, I think. And it makes me wonder if the Shakesperian prototype for Wells's novel is not The Taming of the Shrew so much as it is The Merchant of Venice. That's a story about how a clever woman bests a wicked Jew by taking on the habiliments of a man, which is more or less what Wells has written here.

Wells wasn't a dedicated anti-Semite, or at least adult Wells wasn't. There is, it's true, this eye-popping bit in 1934's Experiment in Autobiography about his teenage years: ‘I had ideas about Aryans extraordinarily like Mr. Hitler's. The more I hear of him the more I am convinced that his mind is almost the twin of my thirteen year old mind in 1879; but heard through a megaphone and—implemented.’ Implemented indeed. Wells reminisces in a rather misty-eyed manner: ‘I do not know from what books I caught my first glimpse of the Great Aryan People going to and fro in the middle plains of Europe, spreading east, west, north and south ... and driving the inferior breeds into the mountains.’ Inferior breeds. Right. What's worse is the way he concludes with what he presumably believed was mitigation: ‘I thought Abraham, Isaac, Moses and David loathsome creatures ... but unlike Hitler I had no feelings about the contemporary Jew.’  Ugh!

But, we might say: that was thirteen-year-old Wells. We all have crazy ideas as kids. Adult Wells had plenty of Jewish friends, slept with Jewish women, repudiated Hitlerism and so on. But I'm not sure he ever shook off the shaping assumptions of the immanent, low-level anti-Semitism that characterised nineteenth-century British society. It has, perhaps, something to do with his novelist's impulse not only to diagnose but to personalize and dramatize social problems. Rather than talk about money, greed, unproductive capital acquisition and plutocracy in the abstract, he liked to personify them, and such personifications often took on the lineaments of Der Stürmer-style racial libel—as in this novel.

This touches on an intriguing larger issue: the extent to which our broader cultural determination retains anti-Semitism as a default even in individuals who are consciously and deliberately not anti-Semitic, even sometimes in people who would consider themselves philo-Semites. Think of Proust: À la recherche du temps perdu is amongst other things an extraordinarily sensitive portrait of a Jew, Swann, as well as a potent critique of the reflex anti-Semitism of the France of l'époque de l'affaire Dreyfuss. Marcel loves Swann, and writes about him with deep and abiding insight and tenderness. But there are also passages in the novel like the one in Sodome et Gomorrhe when Marcel visits the dying Swann and is struck by how repulsively Jewish he looks: how ‘enormous, tumid, crimson’ his nose is, ‘fit for a clown or an old Hebrew.’ Proust's letters are full of offhand anti-Semitism, even though he was himself half-Jewish. It's complicated.

Wells never delves into the Jewish Question in as profound a way as Proust, of course; indeed his jaunty denial that there even was such a question is one of the most alarming aspects of his relationship to Jewry more generally. Here he is on his early journalistic days, in the 1890s, and his close friendship with Walter Low, another struggling young writer. Low was Jewish. It's alright though: he didn't look like a Jew:
Low was tall and dark, not the Jew of convention and caricature, the ambitious and not the acquisitive sort, mystical and deliberate. He had an extensive knowledge of foreign languages and contemporary literature. He knew vastly more about current political issues than I did. We argued endlessly about the Jewish question, upon which he sought continually to enlighten me. But I have always refused to be enlightened and sympathetic about the Jewish question. From my cosmopolitan standpoint it is a question that ought not to exist. So, though we never quarrelled, we had some lively passages and if we convinced each other of nothing we considerably instructed each other. [Experiment in Autobiography, 291]
I have always refused to be enlightened and sympathetic about the Jewish question is meant, I suppose, to be offhand and funny, a genial wave of the hand. But it strikes a genuinely catastrophic note in a book published only a few short years before the Final Solution to that very Question was put into grisly practice. To repeat myself: ugh.

Sunday, 10 September 2017

World Again Enchained: A Sequel to "The World Set Free" (2017)

The man had been waiting, patiently, for a great many days. He sat on a bench in a public chamber on the hundred-and-tenth floor of the World Council Building, and waited. From time to time he rose, and went over to one of the wide windows to gaze down at the cityscape of New Paris, still in the process of being constructed. Men and women were visible moving through streets and over esplanades, small as commas—artists, these, whose medium was urbēs. But mostly the motion visible belonged to atomic machinery, atom-powered cranes and diggers, atomic trucks of gigantic size bringing in the raw materials. A fine and wondrous labour it was, the creation of a new World Capital.

The man had been repeatedly told it was unlikely any of the Council would have leisure to speak with him, and that he would be better served returning home and communicating by notarised citizen's letter. But, he said, he preferred to stay. He left the building every evening and returned every morning. ‘What I have to say to the Council is too important, and too urgent,’ he told the receptionist, who happened to have started, new, on Friday, ‘for a letter. Please communicate to the Council that I am here. Once they have spoken to me they will wish to shelve all on-going Council business, and, indeed, to recall currently non-attending members. What I have to tell them will change the world—destroy it, I'm afraid.’

The receptionist on duty that day was Faye Teng. Having recently graduated from university with the best results of her entire year, and having been identified as a possible future Council member. she had taken up a position in the New Paris centre. The aim was to familiarise herself with the workings of government, although the main thing she had learned was how nugatory such workings were. By this stage, after the upheavals of the Last War and the collective assiduity of the Period of Reconstruction that followed it, the World State needed very little by way of ‘governance’ at all.

Here was this petitioner, though: one of those monomaniacs or eccentrics still, occasionally, thrown up in the general population. Usually such people were not violent, and the principles of humane co-existence meant that the State rarely interfered with idiosyncrasy, provided of course that it did not have any deleterious effect on others. You know the sorts of people: the ones convinced they have been contacted by aliens, or demons, who claim to have perfected perpetual motion machines, or to have decoded the Voynich Manuscript. Generally they were left their own odd devices, free to publish, to preach in public parks and to bore their friends and family and free in the largest sense to be ignored.

On rare occasions such people decided the Council needed to act, and so sent in petitions, or—as here—actually turned up in the Council Building itself. By decree the Council Parliament and all its infrastructure was perfectly open to any citizen of the world, so they could not be locked out, and such intrusions happened so rarely no formal protocol had been devised for processing them. The best strategy, it was thought, was to let them cool their heels; to use boredom as metaphorical antiseptic.

Faye smiled: ‘I should tell you, Citizen, it is very unlikely any Council Member will be free to see you today. Perhaps you should come again on Monday?’

‘Monday will be too late,’ said the man. ‘I must be seen by close of business this afternoon.’

‘I'm afraid that's very unlikely.’

The individual did not look disappointed, or angry. He nodded, a little dolefully. ‘Citizen, permit me—’

He handed her a laminated card on which was a name, GÜRCIOU KUYÜLAR, and a London address.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and returned to her business.

After lunch she happened to pass again through the chamber and saw Kuyülar still sitting there, patiently. He was so mild-mannered and polite, and her duties were light enough to encroach on actual boredom, that she went over to suggest they take coffee together. He agreed with a little bow, and the two of them went to one of the building's many little cafés: an automated wall that dispensed all manner of drinks and food, and many tables with a view over the resurrecting cityscape. It was Friday, the business of world governance was not pressing, and Faye and Kuyülar were the only two people in that room at that time.

‘It is kind of you to spend time with me,' he said, sipping his drink. ‘I appreciate I must appear a mere crank, or idiota.’

‘Not at all,’ said Faye, politely.

‘There is no need to humour me,’ Kuyülar said, with a wry smile. ‘I am, indeed, very sorry to be here. I have lived a happy life, truly. I bless Providence that I was born into the New Utopia our world has become. Such happiness as I have had would not have been possible for one such as me at any earlier period in history.’

‘Many people can say the same,’ agreed Faye. ‘My own genetic line consists of a thousand generations of peasants, all of them condemned to short lives of body-wrecking hard physical labour. And here I am, sitting in a room half a kilometer above the Capital of the World, helping the governance of the a perfected human society. I can do anything with my life I chose, make my talents manifest howsoever I prefer.’

At this, though, Kuyülar looked grave. ‘Alas to bring such a Utopia to an end!’ he said.

An individual from a past age might have affected not to have heard this strangely threatening statement; but people in the New Utopia were accustomed to speak plainly, so Faye said: ‘why would you say such a thing, Citizen?’

For a time Kuyülar was silent. The room faced west, and the sun was low in the sky, scattering fruit-coloured lights through the stacked layers of cloud as delicate-looking as gauze. The ripening light glinted from a million windows in the brand new metropolis. Faye realised only belatedly that Kuyülar was weeping, silently.

‘I apologise,’ he said, wrapping his right hand in a handkerchief and tapping at his face with it. ‘Only, it fills me with such sorry to think of all this passing away. Reverting, in fact, into what has past. But it is inevitable.’

‘How so?’

Kuyülar took a breath, put his handkerchief away, and say back. ‘Citizen,’ he said. ‘Permit me to burden you with my story, for which I apologise in advance. I have been working as a researcher at the London Polyscientia Institute for ten years. My citizenry file will confirm as much. And for much of that time my research brought me only joy, and joy, and joy. I worked on the physics of time itself, on what we must now, after the breakthrough research of McFarlane, call the coordinating manifold of space-and-time.’

Faye's own degree had been in art and aesthetics, with a final year project on the narratological understanding of history. But of course her school-level education had equipped her with an up-to-date knowledge of physics, chemistry, biology, sociology and mathematics. ‘A very interesting field,’ she said.

‘My dream,’ said Kuyülar, ‘was to invent a time machine and so travel through the future. I have little interest in the past, but am intensely curious as to what life will be in, let us say, the eightieth millennium. And the physics suggests that such travel should be possible.’

Despite herself, Faye's interest was piqued. ‘Fascinating! And did you make any progress with your machine?’

‘I created models and attempted to send small drones backwards and forwards in time. The theory told me they should have travelled, but they did not. After false starts and much puzzling I came to the conclusion that the temporal medium, the very stuff of time itself, was too attenuated to support their passage. That what I was attempting was akin to trying to fly a fixed-wing aircraft in a near-vacuum. And if it was too attenuated for small models to travel through, there is no hope that a craft large enough to transport a human being could be supported or make temporal pro- or regress.’

‘I see.’

‘It was frustrating,’ Kuyülar said, ‘but there were many other projects upon which I could direct my scientist's attention. Very many! And in fact, I very nearly began an entirely new project mapping the curvature of the manifold in the presence of supermassive objects. Would that I had! But instead I worried at my calculations. It bothered me that I had been so wrong in my mathematics when determining the, as-it-were, density of time itself. I re-worked all my equations and checked everything to find where I had gone wrong.’


‘And I had not gone wrong. The density of the space-and-time manifold ought to be much higher than it is. There is no doubt about that. And that sent me on an increasingly desperate quest into the wastelands of the Higher Physics, and atomism.’

‘Atomics? How so?’

‘It was a lengthy but inevitable path that led me there,’ Kuyülar murmured. ‘I reopened questions to do with atomic physics humankind had assumed buried forever. For why should we worry about it when the atomic technologies we use, on which our entire civilisation is based, work so manifestly well? But it did not take me long to understand that such theory as exists as to why our atom engines work is mere guesswork. You have studied history, and have read accounts of the old atomic bombs.’

‘Of course.’

‘They exploded continuously for months. We take it for granted. But study the underlying physics from first principles, and it becomes apparent that such a thing is impossible. There is indeed a great deal of energy in matter, and that energy can be liberated via atomic explosion. But such an explosion, though ten thousand times as powerful as any conventional detonation, would last mere fractions of a second. To cause Carolinum, or Radium, to release its energy in a catastrophic chain-reaction would result in all that energy being liberated instantly.’

Faye considered this. ‘And yet, in the Last War, the old bombs burned for many months. Paris itself was razed by one device.’

Kuyülar nodded. ‘Indeed. I was near the final conclusion of my researches, you see. It only remained for me to determine how those devices were able to maintain their prodigious output of energy.’

‘What did you find?’

‘The developers of these bombs did not fully understand what they were doing; and since the End War, there has been no need for the further development of weaponry of any kind. Those primitive scientists who made the atom bombs assumed their ordnance drew on the energy of the atom. But although the bombs initially exploded in a properly atomic reaction, the explosion continued because that initial release had, in a catastrophic cascade, torn the fabric of space-and-time itself. The ongoing explosions burned because they were drawing energy directly from the underlying fabric of the cosmos itself.’


Kuyülar once again performed his remarkably doleful nod. ‘Alas. Of course, it is not merely a question of bombs. All our machines, small and large, automobile and aircraft engines, construction, excavation, power generation on the largest scale; every thing. Our whole world is covered with a skein of these devices, and every one of them has rent the fabric of space-and-time, and has sucked energy from the very foundation of material life.’

‘And you reason,’ said Faye, ‘that this is why the temporal fabric has become so attenuated?’

Kuyülar said: ‘indeed. And it has reached crisis point. I shall leave this building tonight, and ride the atomic express through the Channel Tunnel to my London home, and make my final arrangements, for I do not wholly expect to see the morrow.’

‘Are things truly so dire?’

By way of reply, Kuyülar brought a folder from his carry-case and passed it over to Faye. ‘I was going to present this to the Council,’ he said. ‘It contains the details, my calculations, estimation as to how long things can continue. My prediction has a tolerance of weeks, not hours; and so it might be that we will last until the end of the month.’

‘And you come to the Council only now?’

‘I completed my calculations in July. Since then I have been trying to bring them to the Council's attention. It has not proved easy.’

‘What do you mean, last until the end of the month? How might we not ... last?’

‘Last? Oh, well, we are talking about the substrate upon which matter itself rests. That is what we have been so sedulously, if inadvertently, eroding. If we continue then, very soon, that substrate will lose its fundamental coherence. Below a certain structural threshold, matter will dissipate. The good news, if I may use that term, is that my calculations suggest the breakdown will be local—I mean, in terms of our solar system. Our planet will disaggregate, but the effect will not reach even so far as our Moon, and the other planets will not be effected. Beyond, of course, the alterations in their respective orbits occasioned by the gravitational absence of our world. So the cosmos as a whole will carry on, and only humankind will vanish.’

‘This is terrible!’ cried Faye. ‘We must stop all atomic engines, without delay.’ She leapt up. ‘We must act immediately! Perhaps it will not be too late?’

Kuyülar was also getting to his feet, though more slowly than Faye. ‘I must go, or I shall miss my train. If you'll forgive me, I would prefer to spend what may be my last night alive surrounded by familiar things.’

Faye, as it happened, possessed that energetic ferocity of optimism of which only the young are truly capable. ‘We can send out a world-wide order! Turn off every atomic engine, every machine!’

‘And perhaps that might hold off the end,’ Kuyülar said, as he walked towards the elevator doors.  ‘Although, of course, it would also mean the end to humanity's Utopia. We would revert to more primitive industrialism, to coal and oil, and to the social logics of that time. We would return to squabbling over scarce resources, and that would mean war. And war would mean what it always means, the collapse of true human civilisation. It is not a pretty choice, I think. And I do not have confidence that the World Council could enforce such a diktat, in the face of a population who have grown accustomed not to being oppressively ruled.’ He paused, and turned to face her, as the elevator light flashed to indicate that it was coming. ‘I suppose I consider it vastly more cruel of Providence to show us bliss and then to snatch it away, than never to have shown us bliss at all. Much crueller than can be justified, I think, except by postulating malignancy on a transcendent scale. But such thoughts are liable to depress the spirit. I shall take up my reservation in the dining car, and eat a fine meal, and drink a glass of bordeaux, and feel better about myself. Goodbye, Citizen!’

He stepped into the waiting elevator, and the doors slid shut.

The World Set Free (1914)


A novel without an individual hero, this is instead, as its subtitle puts it, ‘A Story of Mankind’. Wells speculates about the creation of nuclear weapons, ordnance for which he himself coined the enduring name ‘atom bombs’. He sketches their use in ‘the Last War’, when humanity teeters on the brink of utter destruction, before managing, after millions of deaths and the annihilation of some of the world's greatest cities, to haul itself back. The novel ends with a new utopian world state being built on the ruins of the old.

Formally The World Set Free is mostly disquisitional—the very first chapter, for instance, is an undiluted lecture on the long view of history, ‘the history of mankind is the history of the attainment of external power; man is the tool-using, fire-making animal’ and so on: pages and pages of it. This lecturer's mode is leavened with a series of fictioneer's touches, vingette-y individual character mini-stories. So, as he unfurls his future history, Wells gives us: Holsten, whose scientific breakthrough unleashes the new atomic energy, wandering around London and wondering what the future holds. Then there's more future exposition (‘the American Kemp engine, differing widely in principle but equally practicable, and the Krupp-Erlanger came hard upon the heels of this, and by the autumn of 1954 a gigantic replacement of industrial methods and machinery was in progress all about the habitable globe’), followed by a second inset life-story: Frederick Barnet, a rich kid who falls on hard times, is conscripted into the army, fights in northern Europe during the ‘Last War’ and fades from the novel's view as he takes up post-bellum duties in ‘the army of pacification’. Embedded in this account are two cut-aways, an unnamed secretary, serving the French supreme commander Marshal Dubois, who experiences the atomic bombing of Paris first hand and dies; and an unnamed French pilot part of the retaliatory mission that bombs Berlin.

Then the action moves on to a world-peace conference held in the Alps; into which Wells drops the good example of King Egbert, ‘the young king of the most venerable kingdom in Europe’ who surrenders his power to the new World State Council and the bad example of King Ferdinand Charles, ‘the “Slavic Fox,” the King of the Balkans’, who steals a number of atom bombs and tries to use them, to leverage his personal power, and is shot dead by the Council for his pains.

After this there's more exposition, describing Wells's future-state utopia (clean new roads and cities are constructed, money is pegged to energy production, English becomes the world language, atomic power frees humans to live as artists and gardeners, and flies are exterminated. That's right: ‘the War against Flies has been waged so successfully that this pestilential branch of life is nearly extinct’. Hah! Take that, flies!) Storytelling and lecturing come together in the last inset life-story: that of the brilliant, congenitally crippled Marcus Karenin, who plays a large part in reforming the world, and who dies in a hospital in the Himalayas, preaching from his deathbed:
“Man lives in the dawn for ever,” said Karenin. “Life is beginning and nothing else but beginning. It begins everlastingly. Each step seems vaster than the last, and does but gather us together for the nest. This Modern State of ours, which would have been a Utopian marvel a hundred years ago, is already the commonplace of life. But as I sit here and dream of the possibilities in the mind of man that now gather to a head beneath the shelter of its peace, these great mountains here seem but little things....” [World Set Free, 5:5]
The thrust of the novel is plain enough: soon, Wells is saying, we will develop weapons capable of utterly destroying civilisation, and then we will either extirpate ourselves entirely or, faced with this prospect, mature as a species and put all such foolishness behind us. OK then.


Wells's reputation as prophet accrued particular kudos from this novel, something he humblebrags about in the preface to the 1921 reissue, listing all the things he got ‘right’ and conceding only that he was wrong to date the coming ‘end war’ to 1956 rather than 1914-18 (‘as a prophet, the author must confess he has always been inclined to be rather a slow prophet’). Contemporaries and later critics both have tended to concur: ‘all this,’ said The Advocate of Peace in their positive review, ‘is a vision seen by Mr Wells, but one might imagine it to be the history which will be read a century or more hence.’ [The Advocate of Peace, 76:8 (Aug-Sept 1914), 193]. David Seed talks about the book's ‘keen prophetic vision’ and David C Smith praises it for its ‘prescience’. And it is true that Wells coined the phrase ‘atom bomb’, and in doing so named the weapon under whose shadow the second half of the twentieth-century, and the current portion of the twenty-first, quails.

But, but, but. The truth is Wells gets the really crucial things wrong. For one, I think he simply misread what Frederick Soddy (the novel's dedicatee) argues in his Interpretation of Radium (1909). Soddy's book was Wells's direct inspiration for the novel, and Wells's misprison of it creates atomic weaponry of prodigious oddness. I don't mean to sneer, hindsight-benefitted as I am: and indeed what Wells comes up with here makes for a very striking and memorable SF conceit. But that's not to say it makes sense. His reasoning seems to have gone like this:
1. A conventional bomb explodes instantaneously;

2. But a radioactive element releases half its energy over the course of its half-life, which might be many weeks, months, or even years;

3. Therefore an atom bomb would explode continuously for many weeks, months or even years.
Of the active ingredient of his bombs, Carolinium (which he calls ‘Carolinum’), Wells tells us that ‘what chemists called its half period was seventeen days’, and glosses this: ‘that is to say, it poured out half of the huge store of energy in its great molecules in the space of seventeen days, the next seventeen days' emission was a half of that first period's outpouring, and so on’ [2:4]. Thus his bombs explode with unprecedented force for seventeen days, and over the following months slowly reduce the intensity of their exploding.

There's a kind of genius in the sheer bonkers-ness of this, actually. Wells's bombs are suitcase-sized devices, carried in the open-cockpits of planes, activated by the aviator biting off a fuse with his teeth, and then dropped vaguely over the side. The US edition of the novel carried an illustration of one such moment on its front cover.

The bombs destroy Paris, Berlin and many other cities, and nearly destroy San Francisco (‘the Japanese very nearly got San Francisco. The Americans ran the Japanese aeroplane down into the sea and there the bomb got busted ... Submarine volcano. The steam is in sight of the Californian coast’). I can't prove it, but I wonder if, in reading Soddy's book, his eye skimmed past this passage on p.99:

... and instead was caught by the imaginative potential of this passage on p.100.

At any rate, it results in some splendid disaster-porn set-pieces.
The phenomena, it must be remembered, changed greatly from day to day, and even from hour to hour, as the exploding bomb shifted its position, threw off fragments or came into contact with water or a fresh texture of soil. Barnet, who came within forty miles of Paris early in October, is concerned chiefly with his account of the social confusion of the country-side and the problems of his command, but he speaks of heaped cloud masses of steam “all along the sky to the south-west” and of a red glare beneath these at night.

Other descriptions agree with this; they all speak of the “continuous reverberations,” or of the “thudding and hammering,” or some such phrase; and they all testify to a huge pall of steam, from which rain would fall suddenly in torrents and amidst which lightning played. Drawing nearer to Paris an observer would have found the salvage camps increasing in number and blocking up the villages, and large numbers of people, often starving and ailing, camping under improvised tents because there was no place for them to go. The sky became more and more densely overcast until at last it blotted out the light of day and left nothing but a dull red glare 'extraordinarily depressing to the spirit.' In this dull glare, great numbers of people were still living, clinging to their houses and in many cases subsisting in a state of partial famine upon the produce in their gardens and the stores in the shops of the provision dealers.

Coming in still closer, the investigator would have reached the police cordon, which was trying to check the desperate enterprise of those who would return to their homes or rescue their more valuable possessions within the 'zone of imminent danger.'

That zone was rather arbitrarily defined. If our spectator could have got permission to enter it, he would have entered also a zone of uproar, a zone of perpetual thunderings, lit by a strange purplish-red light, and quivering and swaying with the incessant explosion of the radio-active substance. Whole blocks of buildings were alight and burning fiercely, the trembling, ragged flames looking pale and ghastly and attenuated in comparison with the full- bodied crimson glare beyond. The shells of other edifices already burnt rose, pierced by rows of window sockets against the red-lit mist.

Every step farther would have been as dangerous as a descent within the crater of an active volcano. These spinning, boiling bomb centres would shift or break unexpectedly into new regions, great fragments of earth or drain or masonry suddenly caught by a jet of disruptive force might come flying by the explorer's head, or the ground yawn a fiery grave beneath his feet. Few who adventured into these areas of destruction and survived attempted any repetition of their experiences. There are stories of puffs of luminous, radio-active vapour drifting sometimes scores of miles from the bomb centre and killing and scorching all they overtook. And the first conflagrations from the Paris centre spread westward half-way to the sea. [World Set Free, 4:3]
In a way, a deeper problem with the novel is its social vision rather than its nuclear physics. The real point here, as with all of Wells's utopian writings, is to diagnose the now as ‘a phase of gigantic change in the contours and appearances of human life’ a change ‘as rapid and as wonderful as the swift ripening of adolescence to manhood after the barbaric boyish years’ and one ‘correlated with moral and mental changes’ [4:11]. Wells's wish was father to this thought, of course, but golly how he wished it. He suggests that two generations are enough to separate human beings entirely from ancestral barbarism:
The Highlanders of the seventeenth century, for example, were cruel and bloodthirsty robbers, in the nineteenth their descendants were conspicuously trusty and honourable men. There was not a people in Western Europe in the early twentieth century that seemed capable of hideous massacres, and none that had not been guilty of them within the previous two centuries. [World Set Free, 4:11]
Again, hindsight is easy; but there's something spectacularly misjudged about standing at the beginning of the twentieth-century and declaring there is not a people in Western Europe capable of hideous massacres now. Guess again, Bertie. (Also, has he not read his Walter Scott? Does he not understand the difference between Highlands Scots and Lowland Scots?)

Nor did his more fundamental prophesy, the one that structures the whole of The World Set Free, prove correct. That fundamental prophesy is that once humankind develops weapons with the power literally to destroy the planet, the old ways of global belligerence will be discarded, the weapons unmade, and a new utopia of social justice and peace built in its place. In fact what happened was: humankind, having developed weapons with the power literally to destroy the planet, not only kept them but proliferated them to many different countries, and otherwise carried on pretty much as before. Alas.


I will say that I enjoyed The World Set Free, although it's minor Wells, really. It anticipates the narrative strategies that became famous with later century blockbuster thrillers and disaster stories: an long-shot overview frame in which a number of individual point-of-view characters are embedded to give us on-the-spot perspectives. What is that mode of writing called? Does it even have a name?

Anyway: the real significance of this novel is that it marks a major change in Wells's own broader worldview. Reading those scientists who were, in the early nineteen-teens, investigating radioactivity—the opening to chapter one namechecks ‘such scientific men as Ramsay, Rutherford, and Soddy’, but there were probably others as well—in effect cured Wells of his attachment, as much aesthetic as intellectual I suspect, to entropy. It wasn't just him: this period at the beginning of the twentieth century stretched general conceptions of how long the sun would continue to shine, whether the earth was cooling, the age of the universe and so on. The winding-down, decay and ending of things had been believed relatively imminent; now it was pushed back. Here's the relevant passage from Soddy's book, which image I encourage you to click and embiggen:

This new Radioactivity Wells is, in crucial ways, a different sort of writer to the older Entropy Wells: less imaginatively pessimistic, more spaciously open-ended. It's an important rubicon in his career.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

An Englishman Looks at the World (1914)

A compendium of Wells's choice 1909-1914 journalism, this: twenty-six pieces, some shorter, a couple (‘The American Population’ is over sixty pages long) more substantial. There's the cover: Wells, undeniably an Englishman, looking. Presumably The World is just off to the left of the spine.
1. The Coming Of Blériot
2. My First Flight
3. Off The Chain
4. Of The New Reign
5. Will The Empire Live?
6. The Labour Unrest
7. The Great State
8. The Common Sense Of Warfare
9. The Contemporary Novel
10. The Philosopher's Public Library
11. About Chesterton And Belloc
12. About Sir Thomas More
13. Traffic And Rebuilding
14. The So-Called Science Of Sociology
15. Divorce
16. The Schoolmaster And The Empire
17. The Endowment Of Motherhood
18. Doctors
19. An Age Of Specialisation
20. Is There A People?
21. The Disease Of Parliaments
22. The American Population
23. The Possible Collapse Of Civilisation
24. The Ideal Citizen
25. Some Possible Discoveries
26. The Human Adventure
The first piece opens with Wells running up from his garden to take a phone call from the Daily Mail informing him that Blériot has just flown the Channel and asking him for ‘an Article ... about what it means’, which he then goes on to provide. From there he speculates on the future of the Empire, the coming war, comes out against military Conscription, opines on the limitations of parliamentary democracy and many things. He reacts to the contemporary literary scene, denies that sociology is a science (since ‘counting, classification, measurement, the whole fabric of mathematics, is subjective and deceitful, and that the uniqueness of individuals is the objective truth’ [14]) and looks into the future.

A preface attached to the collection ties the above-listed twenty-six pieces into an odd little sort-of narrative: ‘Blériot arrives and sets him thinking. (1) He flies, (2) And deduces certain consequences of cheap travel. (3) He considers the King, and speculates on the New Epoch; (4) He thinks Imperially, (5) And then, coming to details, about Labour, (6) Socialism, (7) And Modern Warfare, (8) He discourses on the Modern Novel, (9) And the Public Library; (10) Criticises Chesterton, Belloc, (11) And Sir Thomas More, (12) And deals with the London Traffic Problem as a Socialist should. (13) He doubts the existence of Sociology, (14) Discusses Divorce, (15) Schoolmasters, (16) Motherhood, (17) Doctors, (18) And Specialisation; (19) Questions if there is a People, (20) And diagnoses the Political Disease of our Times. (21) He then speculates upon the future of the American Population, (22) Considers a possible set-back to civilisation, (23) The Ideal Citizen, (24) The still undeveloped possibilities of Science, (25), and—in the broadest spirit— The Human Adventure. (26)’

There's not much mileage, I think, in a detailed close-reading of all these essays. Some have aged badly in terms of argument (the anti-Conscription one, for instance, looks especially shortsighted: difficult to see how Britain could have prevailed in the First World War without that strategy) and some in terms of tone. There's a prevailing jauntiness of voice that becomes rather grating in large doses. For example, this is how Wells starts his essay on Chesterton and Belloc:
It has been one of the less possible dreams of my life to be a painted Pagan God and live upon a ceiling. I crown myself becomingly in stars or tendrils or with electric coruscations (as the mood takes me), and wear an easy costume free from complications and appropriate to the climate of those agreeable spaces. The company about me on the clouds varies greatly with the mood of the vision, but always it is in some way, if not always a very obvious way, beautiful. One frequent presence is G.K. Chesterton, a joyous whirl of brush work, appropriately garmented and crowned. When he is there, I remark, the whole ceiling is by a sort of radiation convivial. We drink limitless old October from handsome flagons, and we argue mightily about Pride (his weak point) and the nature of Deity ... Chesterton often—but never by any chance Belloc. Belloc I admire beyond measure, but there is a sort of partisan viciousness about Belloc that bars him from my celestial dreams. [11]
Which is fairly jolly, although probably a little too effortfully conceited to really work (I mean, we get it: Chesterton made for a jollier drinking companion than Belloc). The rest of the essay is peculiar, too: hard to know if its, well, obtuseness is Wells being dim, or is instead some kind of three-dimensional-chess move of irony. What I mean is: Wells purports not to understand why Chesterton and Belloc and he don't get on, since they all patently want the same thing, at the same time as saying that he doesn't know what the other two want.
In many ways we three are closely akin; we diverge not by necessity but accident ... These two say Socialism is a thing they do not want for men, and I say Socialism is above all what I want for men. We shall go on saying that now to the end of our days. But what we do all three want is something very alike. Our different roads are parallel. I aim at a growing collective life, a perpetually enhanced inheritance for our race, through the fullest, freest development of the individual life. What they aim at ultimately I do not understand, but it is manifest that its immediate form is the fullest and freest development of the individual life. [11]
Does what they aim at ultimately I do not understand mean ‘I know, as religious people, they see God and faith as fundamental to human flourishing, but these are things I as a materialist literally do not comprehend’? Or does it actually mean what, on its face, it says: ‘who knows what these strange people want for mankind? It's a riddle wrapped inside an enigma’—Because if it is the latter then the whole essay becomes an exercise in point-missing on a really quite impressive scale.

Otherwise the essays in this volume cover a variety of topics to various degrees of edification and entertainment. That's a pretty wishywashy assessment, I appreciate; but there you are. Towards its end the volume reverts several times to Wells's idea (previously fictionalised as Remington's big idea in New Machiavelli) of ‘the Endowment of Motherhood’: Wells mocks the Fabians for not endorsing this notion, and praises Teddy Roosevelt for supporting it, with words if not with actions. Still: it is an idea that combines a more-or-less Feminist commitment to giving women financial security and freedom with an unashamed eugenicist agenda that is really pretty racist. ‘The birth-rate, and particularly the good-class birth-rate, falls steadily below the needs of our future’ Wells warns [17], and ‘good-class’ is really code for ‘white, middle-class, healthy’. He admonishes his readership that ‘every civilised community’—every white community, that presumably means—‘is drifting towards “race-suicide”.’ Nor are speeches alone enough, without the practical policies Wells is proposing: ‘I doubt if all the eloquence of Mr. Roosevelt and its myriad echoes has added a thousand babies to the eugenic wealth of the English-speaking world.’ Eugenic wealth is a queasy-making sort of phrase, though, isn't it?

So: yes, it's the eve of World War 1 and Wells is still banging on about eugenics:
The modern State has got to pay for its children if it really wants them—and more particularly it has to pay for the children of good homes. The alternative to that is racial replacement and social decay. That is the essential idea conveyed by this phrase, the Endowment of Motherhood. [17]
The oddity here is that the collection also includes perorations to the longue durée history of humankind precisely as a mode of strength through racial intermixing:
Every age is an age of transition, of minglings, of the breaking up of old, narrow cultures, and the breaking down of barriers, of spiritual and often of actual interbreeding. Not only is the physical but the moral and intellectual ancestry of everyone more mixed than ever it was before. We blend in our blood, everyone of us, and we blend in our ideas and purposes, craftsmen, warriors, savages, peasants, and a score of races, and an endless multitude of social expedients and rules. [24]
But make no mistake: the future to which Wells is looking—as in that cover photo, at the top of the post—belongs in his imagination to strong-limbed Anglo-Saxon people. Here's the very last paragraph in the collection:
And this Man, this wonderful child of old earth, who is ourselves in the measure of our hearts and minds, does but begin his adventure now. Through all time henceforth he does but begin his adventure. This planet and its subjugation is but the dawn of his existence. In a little while he will reach out to the other planets, and take that greater fire, the sun, into his service. He will bring his solvent intelligence to bear upon the riddles of his individual interaction, transmute jealousy and every passion, control his own increase, select and breed for his embodiment a continually finer and stronger and wiser race ... Sometimes in the dark sleepless solitudes of night, one ceases to be so-and-so, one ceases to bear a proper name, forgets one's quarrels and vanities, forgives and understands one's enemies and oneself, as one forgives and understands the quarrels of little children, knowing oneself indeed to be a being greater than one's personal accidents, knowing oneself for Man on his planet, flying swiftly to unmeasured destinies through the starry stillnesses of space. [26]
Those starry stillnesses are all very sublime, and so on, but ‘mankind must control his own increase, select and breed for his embodiment a continually finer and stronger and wiser race’ could hardly be a harder-core eugenicist expression.

Tuesday, 29 August 2017

The Passionate Friends (1913)


This is another (tempting to say: yet another) of Wells's consequences-of-adultery novels, although it is a cut above some of the others. The Passionate Friends falls into three discrete storytelling phases. It starts as an aristocratic love triangle, digresses from the rather mannered melodrama of this into a much more interesting novel about a tour of India, China and America as a vehicle for the protagonist's awakening political and spiritual consciousness, before, finally, reverting to the original she-loves-he-loves-she-loves for its tragic, or tragic-ish, denouement.

It's a first-person narration: the life story of Stephen Stratton, the son of a respectable though not particularly wealthy family (his father is rector of Burnmore). As a child his ‘playmate’ is the daughter of local aristocrats, Lady Mary Christian, and as teenagers they fall in love. When he turns nineteen Stephen proposes marriage, but Lady Mary turns him down, for a variety of reasons. Indeed, reading the novel I wasn't sure how sincerely or otherwise we're supposed to take these myriad excuses. So: despite loving him, she says that she won't marry him because (a) what they have together is too special to be sullied by the material day-to-day of married life, (b) she doesn't want to ‘belong’ to any man, since she is determined to ‘belong to herself’ (‘“Why should one have to tie oneself always to one other human being?” she asked. “Why must it be like that?”’ [4:5]), and (c) this last point notwithstanding, she is going to marry somebody else: a super-wealthy financier called Justin. Her rationale for this last decision is twofold: first that Justin has lots of money, where Stephen has very little, and that she doesn't fancy living ‘in some dreadful place ... no money ... worried and desperate. One gets ill in such places’, which I suppose at the least has the virtue of honesty. Her second reason is that that Justin has, it seems, agreed not to trespass on Mary's resolution to ‘own herself’, even agreeing not to press himself on her, sexually: ‘“But,” I choked. “You! He! He will make love to you, Mary .... You will bear him children!” “No. He promises. Stephen,—I am to own myself.”’ [4:5]

Since Mary later has two daughters with Justin, that resolution clearly didn't survive contact with reality.

Anyway: Mary becomes Lady Mary Justin, Stephen is heartbroken and takes himself off to South Africa, where (it being 1899) the Second Boer War has just broken out. Wells write this war chapter well, conjuring a believable and vivid sense of the South African milieu. Stephen proves a naturally gifted officer, and distinguishes himself in the fighting. He returns to England to discover that his father has, quite unexpectedly, inherited a vast fortune, freeing him up from the need to get a job. Instead he meets up again with Lady Mary Justin and the two of them become lovers, although it's a consummation that doesn't make him particularly happy. ‘From the day,’ he says, ‘that passion carried us and we became in the narrower sense of the word lovers ...’
... I do not think that we even had the real happiness and beauty and delight of one another. Because, I tell you, there is no light upon kiss or embrace that is not done with pride. I do not know why it should be so, but people of our race and quality are a little ashamed of mere gratification in love. Always we seem in my memory to have been whispering with flushed cheeks, and discussing interminably—situation. Had something betrayed us, might something betray, was this or that sufficiently cunning? Had we perhaps left a footmark or failed to burn a note, was the second footman who was detailed as my valet even now pausing astonished in the brushing of my clothes with our crumpled secret in his hand? Between myself and the clear vision of this world about me this infernal net-work of precautions spread like a veil. [Passionate Friends, 6:9]
His feelings of shabbiness are intensifed by the fact that he had started courting an eligible, virtuous young woman called Rachel More, and that she has unmistakably fallen in love with him, before this secret affair with Mary happened. The situation stretches out until Mary's husband Justin chances upon Stephen and Mary kissing, and there is a scene. The husband and his allies spirit Mary away to Ireland, and Stephen goes into a sort of frenzy trying to track her down. He lies to his own friends, travels to Ireland, discovers her gone, comes home, and eventually has to accept the inevitable: that the affair is over. To avoid scandal Stephen agrees never to meet with Mary again, and promises to leave England altogether for a period of three years.

That's the end of the first movement of the novel. Chapter Seven (of twelve) is called ‘Beginning Again’, and is as good as its title. Stephen travels, first to Europe, and from there to India. Here his old Imperialist beliefs crumple under the shock of what he sees, and his whole worldview shifts about. The tenor of the novel shifts too, broadening from its claustrophobic focus on a small group of upper-class Englishfolk into something altogether more panoramic:
Before my eyes again as I sit here, the great space before the Jumna Musjid at Delhi reappears, as I saw it in the evening stillness against a glowing sky of gold, and the memory of countless worshippers within, praying with a devotion no European displays. And then comes a memory of that long reef of staircases and temples and buildings, the ghats of Benares, in the blazing morning sun, swarming with a vast multitude of multicolored people and the water also swarming with brown bodies. It has the colors of a bed of extravagantly splendid flowers and the light that is Indian alone. Even as I sit here these places are alive with happening ... the sun sinks in the skies of India, the Jumna Musjid flushes again with the glow of sunset, the smoke of evening fires streams heavenward against its subtle lines, and upon those steps at Benares that come down the hillside between the conquering mosque of Aurangzeb and the shining mirror of the Ganges a thousand silent seated figures fall into meditation. And other memories recur and struggle with one another; the crowded river-streets of Canton, the rafts and houseboats and junks innumerable, riding over inky water, begin now to twinkle with a thousand lights. They are ablaze in Osaka and Yokohama and Tokio, and the swarming staircase streets of Hong Kong glitter with a wicked activity now that night has come. I flash a glimpse of Burmese temples, of villages in Java, of the sombre purple masses of the walls of the Tartar city at Pekin with squat pagoda-guarded gates. How those great outlines lowered at me in the twilight, full of fresh memories and grim anticipations of baseness and violence and bloodshed! I sit here recalling it—feeling it all out beyond the trellised vine-clad wall that bounds my physical vision.... Vast crowded world that I have seen! going from point to point seeking for clues, for generalities, until at last it seems to me that there emerges—something understandable. [Passionate Friends, 8:1]
The brute fact of mass poverty convinces him that ‘civilization has never yet existed, it has only continually and obstinately attempted to be. Our Civilization is but the indistinct twilight before the dawn’. From ‘the panther-haunted palaces of Akbar at Fatehpur Sikri’ he travels on to China, and walks ‘the Bruges-like emptinesses of Pekin’, where ‘the vast pretensions of its Forbidden City’ strike him as ‘like a cry, long sustained, that at last dies away in a wail’ [8:3]. The result of all this travel is that Stephen dedicates himself to the echt Wellsian project of facilitating the creation of a utopian World State: ‘a new world-city, a new greater State above your legal States, in which all human life becomes a splendid enterprise, free and beautiful.’

Stephen caps-off his world tour with a trip to America where he makes friends with a US millionaire called Gidding, who shares his beliefs and ambitions: ‘“Say, Stratton,” he said, after a conversation that had seemed to me half fantasy; “Let's do it!”’ [8:10]. Do what? Why, help lay the foundations for the coming World State, that's what.

They set up an international publishing house, ‘Alphabet and Mollentrave’, employing multiple teams of experts to translate the classics of world literature and science into all the major world languages, and making the results cheaply available across the globe. This is one of the most interesting and prescient elements of this novel, I think: ‘a huge international organ of information, and of a kind of gigantic modern Bible of world literature’ [10:1] anticipating our very own, much later, Wikipedia/Google Books et al revolution in knowledge.
Behind our enterprise of translations and reprints we were getting together and putting out a series of guide-books, gazetteers, dictionaries, text-books and books of reference, and we were organizing a revising staff for these, a staff that should be constantly keeping them up to date. It was our intention to make every copy we printed bear the date of its last revision in a conspicuous place, and we hoped to get the whole line of these books ultimately upon an annual basis, and to sell them upon repurchasing terms that would enable us to issue a new copy and take back and send the old one to the pulping mill at a narrow margin of profit. Then we meant to spread our arms wider, and consolidate and offer our whole line of text-books, guide-books and gazetteers, bibliographies, atlases, dictionaries and directories as a new World Encyclopædia, that should also annually or at longest biennially renew its youth. [Passionate Friends, 8:1]
It's here Wells first uses the phrase that was to become one of his slogans: Gidding and Stratton's project represents what the latter calls an ‘open conspiracy against potentates and prejudices and all the separating powers of darkness’ [9:10].

As this second movement in the story comes to a close, Stephen has put his life in order. He marries Rachel, confessing to her his previous affair with Lady Mary, but assuring her all that is behind him now. They start a family (the overall conceit of the novel is that Stephen is addressing the whole narrative to his son, for him to read when he comes of age), and he slowly builds a reputation as a campaigner for global justice and the amelioration of the human condition. He pushes ahead with the publishing, gets invited to address peace conferences and so on.

All this sets-up the final portion of the story. Taking a break from the exhausting whirl of work, Stephen goes on a brief walking holiday in the Alps, solus. At a hotel on Engstlen Lake, and quite by chance, he meets Mary again. She is also staying in the hotel with her maid and companion. Both have promised not to see or speak to the other, but since they still love one another they decide Providence has arranged the meeting and make the most of it: spending the day rowing about on the lake, talking old times and generally communing, though not having any sex.

The meeting has disastrous consequences. Word gets back to London, and Mary's husband, the haughty and imperious Justin, announces he will divorce her, with Stephen to be named as co-respondent. Stephen returns to London, hoping to avert the scandal of this. It doesn't look likely, though: Stephen's solicitor reveals that Lady Mary deliberately swapped rooms with her own maid in order to occupy the adjacent room to Stephen's: ‘“You were sleeping with your two heads within a yard of one another anyhow”,’ the lawyer notes. ‘“Thirty-six you had, and she had thirty-seven.” He turned over a paper on his desk. “You didn't know, of course,” he said. “But what I want to have"—and his voice grew wrathful—"is sure evidence that you didn't know. No jury on earth is going to believe you didn't know. No jury!— Why,”—his mask dropped—“no man on earth is going to believe a yarn like that!”’ [11:8]

Things are looking bad for Stephen. His wife Rachel is distraught, struggling and failing to bring herself to believe Stephen's insistence that he did not have sexual relations with that woman, Lady Mary. Stephen knows the coming court case will drag down his public reputation, and so destroy the good he can accomplish with Alphabet and Mollentrave. But Justin is implacable, and there's nothing Stephen can do.

So is set-up the novel's Tale of Two Cities-style final twist. Lady Mary visits Stephen at his London house one last time, telling him that she has made a deal with her husband: he will not go ahead with the divorce and in return she will agree to be sequestered in some secret fastness, ‘a lonely place, my dear—among mountains. High and away. Very beautiful, but lonely’ [11:10]. It occurs to Stephen during their conversation that she might be planning suicide, but the real danger of this only really dawns on him after Mary has left. He hurries round to her London house:
I saw instantly that I was too late when the door opened and showed me the scared face of a young footman whose eyes were red with tears.

“Are you Doctor—?” he asked of my silence.

“I want—” I said. “I must speak to Lady Mary.”

He was wordless for a moment. “She—she died, sir,” he said. “She's died suddenly.” His face quivered, he was blubbering. He couldn't say anything more; he stood snivelling in the doorway. [Passionate Friends, 11:12]
So Stephen's reputation, and ‘great work’, are saved; but at the cost of Mary's life. It is a far far better thing that she does now, and so on, and so forth—except that sounds pat, and a little snide, and the actual affect of the novel is not so by-the-numbers. If not quite full-on tragic, the conclusion is touching and effective, and it raises as many questions as it answers. The novel ends with a brief twelfth chapter in which Stephen declares ‘I give myself, and if I can I will give you [he's addressing his son], to the destruction of jealousy and of the forms and shelters and instruments of jealousy, both in my own self and in the thought and laws and usage of the world.’ [12:3].


In my post on his previous novel, Marriage (1912), I noted that Wells bracketed The Passionate Friends with Marriage, The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman and The Research Magnificent as the product of the years of his affair with Elizabeth Von Arnim, claiming that ‘none of them are among my best work.’  That's harsh, I think, although it speaks to Wells's own sense of personal interregnum, between the intensity of his (as he knew in his heart, even as he struggled to deny it) doomed relationship with Amber Reeves and his more equal but just as problematic affair with Rebecca West. Speaking broadly, the novel attempts to perform an effective transition (by ‘effective’ I mean: believable, compelling, but also ideologically or politically persuasive) from love as a narrowly personal to love as an effectively global phenomenon. Stephen is characterised as somebody with a great capacity for love: he loves Mary deeply and without diminution, through all the vicissitudes of their relationship, from the start to the end of the novel; but he also loves his wife Rachel, and his desire to improve the world is motivated by more than just rational calculation. Wells's target in The Passionate Friends, ‘jealousy’, becomes, functionally speaking, the artificial restriction on the whole scope of love as such, the thing that stands in the way of bettering the entire world. And the focus-pull in the novel's middle sections, when Wells opens the narrative convincingly-enough to a more global perspective, is quite an achievement, technically speaking.

But framing this with a heterosexual love-triangle, one man between two women, tends to throws into relief how little women as such figure in Wells's larger conception. Janice Harris may well be right that a key impetus for Wells to write The Passionate Friends was ‘Wells' growing conception of himself as an ally of the feminists, indeed a feminist himself’ (She adds: ‘Like other social activists during the decade, Wells viewed woman suffrage as an obvious necessity but more important was a reconceptualization of men's and women's working, parenting, and sexual lives’ [Harris, ‘Wifely Silence and Speech in Three Marriage Novels by H. G. Wells’, Studies in the Novel, 26:4, (1994), 406]). But where Wells's next novel, The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman, manages at least to a degree to situate the female characters in the larger flow, The Passionate Friends styles its women as marginal, passive and ultimately sacrificed to the—I fight shy of this word generally since my students misuse it so egregiously, but in this case it's strictly appropriate—patriarchal logic of the larger work.

So: the novel is a narration by a father addressed to his son. The first chapters concern the narrator's relationship with his own father. His key working relationship is with his male friend, Gidding; his relationship with Mary, the love of his life, is determined by his antagonism with Mary's husband, Justin, of whom Stephen remarks ‘It is a curious thing that in spite of our bitter antagonism and the savage jealousy we were to feel for one another, there has always been, and there remains now in my thought of him, a certain liking, a regret at our opposition, a quality of friendliness’ [6:9], The novel's final conclusion is that the only method for cutting the gordian knot of man's implacable threat to another man's great work is—the death of a woman they have in common. There have been plenty of feminist analyses of the way women figure as objects of exchange circulated between men according to the laws of masculine discursive systems, and some [I'm thinking of, eg Gayle Rubin's ‘The Traffic in Women: Notes on the “Political Economy” of Sex’, in Rayne R. Reiter (ed) Toward an Anthropology of Women (New York: 1975), 157-210] how positing women's value in intermasculine terms creates a tension with the sense of women as valuable in themselves, this latter justifying the exchange in the first place. That's very much at play in The Passionate Friends.

The symbolic economy of this novel requires Mary's Sidney Carton-esque sacrifice in order to square, to ‘make sense of’ the conflicting demands of masculinity: to ‘solve’ the problem of how male desire for women comes into conflict with male duty to other men. Since the oldest of justifications for male jealousy, the exclusivity of marriage, was masculine paternity fears (a woman will likely know who the father of her child is, but a father can never be sure), it is not coincidental that Wells devotes so much of The Passionate Friends to issues of parenthood. The figure of the child provides the copula between the personal drama of Mary, Stephen, and Rachel (who all have children) and Stephen's larger humanitarian project. It is an investigation into the horrors of child labour in India that first reshapes Stephen's consciousness:
I waded deep in labor, in this process of consuming humanity for gain, chasing my facts through throbbing quivering sheds reeking of sweat and excrement under the tall black-smoking chimneys,—chasing them in very truth, because when we came prying into the mills after the hour when child-labor should cease, there would be a shrill whistle, a patter of feet and a cuffing and hiding of the naked little creatures we were trying to rescue. They would be hidden under rugs, in boxes, in the most impossible places, and we dragged them out scared and lying. Many of them were perhaps seven years old at most; and the adults—men and women of fourteen that is to say—we could not touch at all, and they worked in that Indian heat, in a noisome air drenched with steam for fourteen and fifteen hours a day. And essential to that general impression is a memory of a slim Parsi mill-manager luminously explaining the inherited passion for toil in the Indian weaver, and a certain bulky Hindu with a lemon-yellow turban and a strip of plump brown stomach showing between his clothes, who was doing very well, he said, with two wives and five children in the mills. [Passionate Friends, 8:2]
That plump Hindu, with his two wives and five children, mentioned briefly here and never again, stands as a sort of rebus for Stephen himself: with his two women, and their aggregated kids (Mary's two, Rachel's three, only the latter biologically Stephen's of course). Which is how the novel understands its protagonist's own complicity in the misery it narrates. It is an oblique sort of knowledge, I suppose; but that may be part of the issue too. Passionate, in the title, speaks both to the intensity of Stephen and Mary's feelings and to its fundamental passivity; they are patients, not agents, in their own emotional interactions; and in the larger sense there is a deliberate sense of things happening to Stephen, rather than Stephen making things happen. When they are discovered together by Justin, Stephen urges Mary to accompany him, the two of them walking away to start a new life together; and he himself storms out of Justin's house. Only when he is outside does he discover that Mary has not come with him. It's a moment almost comic in its crumpling bathos; almost, but not quite. Because the whole novel ultimately replicates the claustrophobia of existential passivity. Maybe that's actually a feature, not a bug, although it tugs the book against its more programmatic ‘open conspiracy’ Wellsian World-State agenda. Reading these novels of the early nineteen-teens, I get the impression Wells believes in this goal intellectually, but can't quite bring himself to believe in it on other levels.


One last, brief, note. Something I noticed with this book, which I haven't noticed with earlier ones, and which is indicative (I think) of a writer straining, rather, for effect, is how often its prose falls into roughly approximate blank verse. So, for example it doesn't take much to turn (picked more-or-less at random) this:
You see, my son, there are two sorts of love; we use one name for very different things. The love that a father bears his children, that a mother feels, that comes sometimes, a strange brightness and tenderness that is half pain, at the revelation of some touching aspect of one long known to one, at the sight of a wife bent with fatigue and unsuspicious of one's presence, at the wretchedness and perplexity of some wrong-doing brother, or at an old servant's unanticipated tears, that is love—like the love God must bear us. That is the love we must spread from those of our marrow until it reaches out to all mankind, that will some day reach out to all mankind. But the love of a young man for a woman takes this quality only in rare moments of illumination and complete assurance. My love for Mary was a demand, it was a wanton claim I scored the more deeply against her for every moment of happiness she gave me. I see now that as I emerged from the first abjection of my admiration and began to feel assured of her affection, I meant nothing by her but to possess her, I did not want her to be happy as I want you to be happy even at the price of my life; I wanted her. I wanted her as barbarians want a hunted enemy, alive or dead. It was a flaming jealousy to have her mine. [Passionate Friends, 4:8]
You see, my son, there are two sorts of love;
We use one name for very different things:
The love a father bears his children, that
A mother feels, that sometimes comes, a strange
Brightness and a tenderness half pain,
Of revelation at some touching aspect
At the sight of a wife bent with fatigue
And unsuspicious of one's presence, at
The wretchedness and the perplexity
Of some wrong-doing brother, or perhaps
A servant's unanticipated tears,
All that is love—like [the] love God must bear us.
That is the love that we must spread from those
Of our own marrow til it reaches out
To all mankind, that will some day reach out
To all mankind.
and so on. There's quite a lot of this in The Passionate Friends, and I'm not convinced it's a good thing.