CHAPTER 3.14.
1895.
Two months of almost continuous frost, during which the thermometer fell below zero, marked the winter of 1894-95. Tough, if not strong, as Huxley's constitution was, this exceptional cold, so lowering to the vitality of age, accentuated the severity of the illness which followed in the train of influenza, and at last undermined even his powers of resistance.
But until the influenza seized him, he was more than usually vigorous and brilliant. He was fatigued, but not more so than he expected, by attending a deputation to the Prime Minister in the depth of January, and delivering a speech on the London University question; and in February he was induced to write a reply to the attack upon agnosticism contained in Mr. Arthur Balfour's "Foundations of Belief". Into this he threw himself with great energy, all the more because the notices in the daily press were likely to give the reading public a wrong impression as to its polemic against his own position. Mr. Wilfrid Ward gives an account of a conversation with him on this subject:—
Some one had sent me Mr. A.J. Balfour's book on the "Foundations of Belief" early in February 1895. We were very full of it, and it was the theme of discussion on the 17th of February, when two friends were lunching with us. Not long after luncheon, Huxley came in, and seemed in extraordinary spirits, he began talking of Erasmus and Luther, expressing a great preference for Erasmus, who would, he said, have impregnated the Church with culture, and brought it abreast of the thought of the times, while Luther concentrated attention on individual mystical doctrines. "It was very trying for Erasmus to be identified with Luther, from whom he differed absolutely. A man ought to be ready to endure persecution for what he does hold; but it is hard to be persecuted for what you don't hold." I said that I thought his estimate of Erasmus's attitude towards the Papacy coincided with Professor R.C. Jebb's. He asked if I could lend him Jebb's Rede Lecture on the subject. I said that I had not got it at hand, but I added, "I can lend you another book, which I think you ought to read—Balfour's 'Foundations of Belief'."
He at once became extremely animated, and spoke of it as those who have read his criticisms, published in the following month, would expect.] "You need not lend me that. I have exercised my mind with it a good deal already. Mr. Balfour ought to have acquainted himself with the opinions of those he attacks. One has no objection to being abused for what one DOES hold, as I said of Erasmus; at least, one is prepared to put up with it. An attack on us by some one who understood our position would do all of us good—myself included. But Mr. Balfour has acted like the French in 1870: he has gone to war without any ordnance maps, and without having surveyed the scene of the campaign. No human being holds the opinions he speaks of as 'Naturalism.' He is a good debater. He knows the value of a word. The word 'Naturalism' has a bad sound and unpleasant associations. It would tell against us in the House of Commons, and so it will with his readers. 'Naturalism' contrasts with 'supernaturalism.' He has not only attacked us for what we don't hold, but he has been good enough to draw out a catechism for 'us wicked people,' to teach us what we MUST hold."
[It was rather difficult to get him to particulars, but we did so by degrees. He said], "Balfour uses the word phenomena as applying simply to the outer world and not to the inner world. The only people his attack would hold good of would be the Comtists, who deny that psychology is a science. They may be left out of account. They advocate the crudest eighteenth-century materialism. All the empiricists, from Locke onwards, make the observation of the phenomena of the mind itself quite separate from the study of mere sensation. No man in his senses supposes that the sense of beauty, or the religious feelings [this with a courteous bow to a priest who was present], or the sense of moral obligation, are to be accounted for in terms of sensation, or come to us through sensation." [I said that, as I understood it, I did not think Mr. Balfour supposed they would acknowledge the position he ascribed to them, and that one of his complaints was that they did not work out their premises to their logical conclusions. I added that so far as one of Mr. Balfour's chief points was concerned—the existence of the external world—Mill was almost the only man on their side in this century who had faced the problem frankly, and he had been driven to say that all men can know is that there are "permanent possibilities of sensation." He did not seem inclined to pursue the question of an external world, but said that though Mill's "Logic" was very good, empiricists were not bound by all his theories.
He characterised the book as a very good and even brilliant piece of work from a literary point of view; but as a helpful contribution to the great controversy, the most disappointing he had ever read. I said, "There has been no adverse criticism of it yet." He answered with emphasis], "No! BUT THERE SOON WILL BE." ["From you?" I asked.] "I let out no secrets," [was the reply.
He then talked with great admiration and affection of Mr. Balfour's brother, Francis. His early death, and W.K. Clifford's (Huxley said), had been the greatest loss to science—not only in England, but in the world—in our time.] "Half a dozen of us old fogies could have been better spared." [He remembered Frank Balfour as a boy at [Harrow] and saw his unusual talent there.] "Then my friend, Michael Foster, took him up at Cambridge, and found out that he had real genius for biology. I used to say there was science in the blood, but this new book of his brother's," [he added, smiling], "shows I was wrong."
Apropos to his remark about the Comtists, one of the company pointed out that in later life Comte recognised a science of "the individual," equivalent to what Huxley meant by psychology.] "That," [he replied], "was due to the influence of Clotilde de Vaux. You see," [he added, with a kind of Sir Charles Grandison bow to my wife], "what power your sex may have." [As Huxley was going out of the house, I said to him that Father A.B. (the priest who had been present) had not expected to find himself in his company.] "No! I trust he had plenty of holy water with him," [was the reply.
…After he had gone, we were all agreed as to the extraordinary vigour and brilliancy he had shown. Some one said, "He is like a man who is what the Scotch call 'fey.'" We laughed at the idea, but we naturally recalled the remark later on.
The story of how the article was written is told in the following letters. It was suggested by Mr. Knowles, and undertaken after perusal of the review of the book in the "Times". Huxley intended to have the article ready for the March number of the "Nineteenth Century", but it grew longer than he had meant it to be, and partly for this reason, partly for fear lest the influenza, then raging at Eastbourne, might prevent him from revising the whole thing at once, he divided it into two instalments. He writes to one daughter on March 1:—]
I suppose my time will come; so I am "making hay while the sun shines" (in point of fact it is raining and blowing a gale outside) and finishing my counterblast to Balfour before it does come.
Love to all you poor past snivellers from an expectant sniveller.
[And to another:—]
I think the cavalry charge in this month's "Nineteenth" will amuse you. The heavy artillery and the bayonets will be brought into play next month.
Dean Stanley told me he thought being made a bishop destroyed a man's moral courage. I am inclined to think that the practice of the methods of political leaders destroys their intellect for all serious purposes.
No sooner was the first part safely sent off than the contingency he had feared came to pass; only, instead of the influenza meaning incapacity for a fortnight, an unlucky chill brought on bronchitis and severe lung trouble. (As he wrote on February 28 to Sir M. Foster]: "If I could compound for a few hours' neuralgia, I would not mind; but those long weeks of debility make me very shy of the influenza demon. Here we are practically isolated…I once asked Gordon why he didn't have the African fever. 'Well,' he said, you see, fellows think they shall have it, and they do. I didn't think so, and didn't get it.' Exercise your thinking faculty to that extent.") The second part of the article was never fully revised for press.]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 8, 1895.
My dear Knowles,
Your telegram came before I had looked at to-day's "Times" and the article on Balfour's book, so I answered with hesitation.
Now I am inclined to think that the job may be well worth doing, in that it will give me the opportunity of emphasising the distinction between the view I hold and Spencer's, and perhaps of proving that Balfour is an agnostic after my own heart. So please send the book.
Only if this infernal weather, which shrivels me up soul and body, lasts, I do not know how long I may be over the business. However, you tell me to take my own time.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 18, 1895.
My dear Knowles,
I send you by this post an instalment (the larger moiety) of my article, which I should be glad to have set up at once IN SLIP, and sent to me as speedily as may be. The rest shall follow in the course of the next two or three days.
I am rather pleased with the thing myself, so it is probably not so very good! But you will judge for yourself.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 19, 1895.
My dear Knowles,
We send our best congratulations to Mrs. Knowles and yourself on the birth of a grand-daughter. I forget whether you have had any previous experience of the "Art d'etre Grandpere" or not—but I can assure you, from 14 such experiences, that it is easy and pleasant of acquirement, and that the objects of it are veritable "articles de luxe," involving much amusement and no sort of responsibility on the part of the possessor.
You shall have the rest of my screed by to-morrow's post.
Ever yours very faithfully,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 20, 1895.
My dear Knowles,
Seven mortal hours have I been hard at work this day to try to keep my promise to you, and as I find that impossible, I have struck work and will see Balfour and his "Foundations", and even that ark of literature the "Nineteenth", at Ballywack, before I do any more.
But the whole affair shall be sent by a morning's post to-morrow. I have the proofs. I have found the thing getting too long for one paper, and requiring far more care than I could put into the next two days—so I propose to divide it, if you see no objection.
And there is another reason for this course. Influenza is raging here.
I hear of hundreds of cases, and if it comes my way, as it did before,
I go to bed and stop there—"the world forgetting and by the world
forgot"—until I am killed or cured. So you would not get your article.
As it stands, it is not a bad gambit. We will play the rest of the game afterwards, D.V. and K.V.
Hope mother and baby are doing well.
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, February 23, 1895, 12.30 P.M.
My dear Knowles,
I have just played and won as hard a match against time as I ever knew in the days of my youth. The proofs, happily, arrived by the first post, so I got to work at them before 9, polished them off by 12, and put them into the post (myself) by 12.5. So you ought to have them by 6 P.M. And, to make your mind easy, I have just telegraphed to you to say so. But, Lord's sake! let some careful eye run over the part of which I have had no revise—for I am "capable de tout" in the way of overlooking errors.
I am very glad you like the thing. The second instalment shall be no worse.
I grieve to say that my estimation of Balfour, as a thinker, sinks lower and lower, the further I go.
God help the people who think his book an important contribution to thought! The Gigadibsians who say so are past divine assistance!
We are very glad to hear the grandchild and mother are getting on so well.
Ever yours very truly,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 8, 1895.
My dear Knowles,
The proofs have just arrived, but I am sorry to say that (I believe for the first time in our transactions) I shall have to disappoint you.
Just after I had sent off the manuscript influenza came down upon me with a swoop. I went to bed and am there still, with no chance of quitting it in a hurry. My wife is in the same case; item one of the maids. The house is a hospital, and by great good fortune we have a capital nurse.
Doctor says its a mild type, in which case I wonder what severe types may be like. ("But in the matter of aches and pains, restless paroxysms of coughing and general incapacity, I can give it a high character for efficiency." [To M. Foster, March 7.]) I find coughing continuously for fourteen hours or so a queer kind of mildness.
Could you put in an excuse on account of influenza?
Can't write any more.
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, March 19, 1895.
My dear Knowles,
I am making use of the pen of my dear daughter and good nurse, in the first place to thank you for your cheque, in the second place to say that you must not look for the article this month. I haven't been out of bed since the 1st, but they are fighting a battle with bronchitis over my body.
Ever yours very faithfully,
For T.H.H., Sophy Huxley.
[The next four months were a period of painful struggle against disease, borne with a patience and gentleness which was rare even in the long experience of the trained nurses who tended him. To natural toughness of constitution he added a power of will unbroken by the long strain; and for the sake of others to whom his life meant so much, he wished to recover and willed to do everything towards recovery. And so he managed to throw off the influenza and the severe bronchitis which attended it. What was marvellous at his age, and indeed would scarcely have been expected in a young man, most serious mischief induced by the bronchitis disappeared. By May he was strong enough to walk from the terrace to the lawn and his beloved saxifrages, and to remount the steps to the house without help.
But though the original attack was successfully thrown off, the lung trouble had affected the heart; and in his weakened state, renal mischief ensued. Yet he held out splendidly, never giving in, save for one hour of utter prostration, all through this weary length of sickness. His first recovery strengthened him in expecting to get well from the second attack. And on June 10 he writes brightly enough to Sir J.D. Hooker:—]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, June 10, 1895.
My dear Old Friend,
It was cheering to get your letter and to hear that you had got through winter and diphtheria without scathe.
I can't say very much for myself yet, but I am carried down to a tent in the garden every day, and live in the fresh air all I can. The thing that keeps me back is an irritability of the stomach tending to the rejection of all solid food. However, I think I am slowly getting the better of it—thanks to my constitutional toughness and careful nursing and dieting.
What has Spencer been trampling on the "Pour le merite" for, when he accepted the Lyncei? I was just writing to congratulate him when, by good luck, I saw he had refused!
The beastly nausea which comes on when I try to do anything warns me to stop.
With our love to you both,
Ever yours,
T.H. Huxley.
[The last time I saw him was on a visit to Eastbourne from June 22-24. I was astonished to find how well he looked in spite of all; thin, indeed, but browned with the endless sunshine of the 1895 summer as he sat every day in the verandah. His voice was still fairly strong; he was delighted to see us about him, and was cheerful, even merry at times. As the nurse said, she could not expect him to recover, but he did not look like a dying man. When I asked him how he was, he said, "A mere carcass, which has to be tended by other people." But to the last he looked forward to recovery. One day he told the nurse that the doctors must be wrong about the renal mischief, for if they were right, he ought already to be in a state of coma. This was precisely what they found most astonishing in his case; it seemed as if the mind, the strong nervous organisation, were triumphing over the shattered body. Herein lay one of the chief hopes of ultimate recovery.
As late as June 26 he wrote, with shaky handwriting but indomitable spirit, to relieve his old friend from the anxiety he must feel from the newspaper bulletins.]
Hodeslea, Eastbourne, June 26, 1895.
My dear Hooker,
The pessimistic reports of my condition which have got into the papers may be giving you unnecessary alarm for the condition of your old comrade. So I send a line to tell you the exact state of affairs.
There is kidney mischief going on—and it is accompanied by very distressing attacks of nausea and vomiting, which sometimes last for hours and make life a burden.
However, strength keeps up very well considering, and of course all depends upon how the renal business goes. At present I don't feel at all like "sending in my checks," and without being over sanguine I rather incline to think that my native toughness will get the best of it—albuminuria or otherwise.
Ever your faithful friend,
T.H.H.
Misfortunes never come single. My son-in-law, Eckersley, died of yellow fever the other day at San Salvador—just as he was going to take up an appointment at Lima worth 1200 pounds a year. Rachel and her three children have but the slenderest provision.
[The next two days there was a slight improvement but on the third morning the heart began to fail. The great pain subdued by anaesthetics, he lingered on about seven hours, and at half-past three on June 29 passed away very quietly.
He was buried at Finchley, on July 4, beside his brother George and his little son Noel, under the shadow of the oak, which had grown up into a stately young tree from the little sapling it had been when the grave of his first-born was dug beneath it, five and thirty years before.
The funeral was of a private character. An old friend, the Reverend Llewelyn Davies, came from Kirkby Lonsdale to read the service; the many friends who gathered at the grave-side were there as friends mourning the death of a friend, and all touched with the same sense of personal loss.
By his special direction, three lines from a poem written by his wife, were inscribed upon his tombstone—lines inspired by his own robust conviction that, all question of the future apart, this life as it can be lived, pain, sorrow, and evil notwithstanding, is worth—and well worth-living:—
Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep;
For still He giveth His beloved sleep,
And if an endless sleep He wills, so best.]