The Darwin Conspiracy (13 page)

Hugh wondered: Just how reliable an observer was she? Was she a Victorian maiden with an overheated imagination? Was she fixated on her father? Jealous of Etty? Some things were clear: she was a rebellious tomboy, hungry for life—but also, by her own account, shy, suspicious, wanting to fade into the background. And a sleuth—what a sleuth!

Unaccountably, Hugh suddenly felt protective of her, wanting to side with her against her perfect sister, her uncomprehending mother, and her beloved but autocratic Papa.

She was certainly dead-on about the illnesses that plagued Darwin’s later life. He checked the indexes and skimmed the relevant passages: there they all were, the pathetic bouts of nervous exhaustion and nausea, dizziness and headaches, fatigue and insomnia, eczema and anxiety.

He had so many symptoms that no single illness explained them all.

Some theorized that he came down with Chagas’ disease, contracted from the bite of a benchuca bug in South America, an episode that Darwin described in grisly detail (Hugh made a note: March 26, 1835—

Triatoma infestans
). But the symptoms didn’t fit; Darwin did have an incapacitating sickness in Argentina, but that happened before, not after, the famous bite. So most scholars leaned to the theory that his illnesses were psychosomatic in origin. They seemed to involve an amalgam of grief, guilt, and fear, suggesting, said one biographer, Janet Browne, “some deep-seated dread of exposure.” But what secret was there in his life? What exposure could he possibly have feared?

Hugh’s thoughts were interrupted by Roland.

“Only half an hour to closing.”

“Roland, do you have any of Lizzie’s letters? Can I see them?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“There aren’t any?”

“No, there are. They’re on the reserve shelf. Someone else has them on call.”

“Someone else?”

Roland nodded officiously. “Look, I’m not supposed to say anything.

Curators are not supposed to blab about other people’s research. What do they say in Vegas? What goes on here, stays here. But the coincidence is just too striking.”

“What?”

“For the longest time, nobody’s interested in Elizabeth Darwin. And then just a few days ago a young woman comes along and, like you, she wants to know everything about her. She’s American too.”

“Her name . . . would it be Beth Dulcimer?”

“Ah, so you know her. Or do you know
of
her?”

“I know her.”

“Then I do hope you’re not rivals. She certainly is attractive.”

On the way home, Hugh wondered what Beth could be up to. And why was she so secretive about it? On the other hand, he had to admit, he had not been exactly forthcoming himself. But that was precisely the point: he had something to hide. So what was she hiding?

He stopped off at The Hawks Head, muggy and smoky and loud. As
8 5

he approached the bar, he noticed a young man seated on a stool who looked a lot like Cal during his Harvard days—the thin back, the dark hair curling just over the collar. Hugh felt the familiar rush of confusion and emptiness and then the long numbing ache.

He brought his beer to a table and ignored a young, sallow blond woman who gave him the eye. He finished a pint, then another. With the alcohol, the ache began to ebb a bit. Relaxed, he let his mind drift back to his days at Andover.

The truth of it was, when he got expelled, he had not been devastated. Quite the contrary: he was secretly pleased, excited; the drama brought everything to a head. He had gotten into the school only on his brother’s coattails—Cal had been such a success, they hoped for the same from the younger brother—and, as always, he hadn’t quite measured up. But this—this was as good as success in its own way; it made as big a mark, merely upside down. Not for him the easy path. He was a rebel. That morning, he spent a good half hour carving his name into the wooden seat of a bench on campus; he had once heard that Wordsworth did this as a young boy in the Lake District.

“Hugh, Jesus Christ. No, it can’t be.” When Cal called him in the dorm
the next morning to make sure he had not gotten caught, Hugh had to tell
him what had happened—that the dorm master had gone looking for him,
had smelled alcohol on his breath, and had promptly called the Dean of Students. He was finished. Cal groaned into the receiver, for he was bound to
feel responsible. He had come up to Andover to celebrate Hugh’s Harvard
acceptance and together the two had gone off to a bar. Cal came with him on
the train to Connecticut; it was hard to know who was consoling whom. They
would confront their father together. Their father did not get particularly
angry. But that was worse in a way—he seemed to expect Hugh to fail. The
one he was angry at was Cal.

When Hugh left the pub, the rain had stopped. He walked to his rooming house and found a note from his landlady pushed under the door. Bridget had telephoned—he was to call back, no matter how late.

He went to the phone in the hall.

“Hugh, thank God.”

“What’s up?”

“Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking. We have to meet. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“Okay. But tell me why.”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. Noon tomorrow, right? St. James’s Park?

At the entrance closest to the palace . . . Hugh, are you there? Are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“So what do you say—will you meet me?”

He paused, only a second.

“I’ll be there.”

7 February 1865

Mr Alfred Russel Wallace came to Down House today for the week-end and
as always his visit precipitated an atmosphere of crisis. Even before our guest
arrived, Papa began stammering, as he so often does in Mr Wallace’s presence. This is to be expected, I suppose, since Papa responds adversely to the
strain of any social situation, and in this instance the awkwardness is compounded by Mr Wallace’s rightful claim to be co-discoverer of the theory of
natural selection.

As I heard Mr Wallace recount it (on his first visit here three years ago),
the theory came to him while he was mapping an invisible boundary between
two hostile tribes on the island of Gilolo in the Moluccas. He was stricken
with malaria and as he lay feverish on a mat in a palm-lined hut, the idea
leapt full-blown into his brain. Influenced by the work of Thomas Malthus,
as was Papa, he conjectured that disease, war and famine hold a population
in check and of necessity improve the race ‘because in every generation the
inferior would inevitably be killed off and the superior would remain’.

Mr Wallace is a tall man, somewhat aloof. He gives the impression of not
having fully adapted to English society after eight years wandering among
the savages of the Moluccas and Papua New Guinea. I see something in him
that is as strong as steel. He is enigmatic and arouses some suspicion in me,
though why that should be I am at a loss to explain since he has acted only
with kindness and deference to Papa and our family. Etty finds him lower
class and vulgar in his manners and so of little consequence, but I cannot dispel the notion that he is as swift and cunning as one of his emblematic species
that would prevail through sheer instinct to survive.

He and Papa are cordial in their dealings and outwardly correct, but I
know that their relationship is not without tension. When Papa first replied
to Mr Wallace’s letter outlining the theory, he did not receive an answer for
the longest time. And when finally it came he was upset, reading it in the privacy of his study and promptly throwing it into the fire-place. I can attest to
this myself for I entered shortly afterwards and saw it burning there.

To ease this particular week-end, Papa has invited some other guests,
including Mr Lyell and Mr Huxley. Mr Lyell is a bit dreary and talks so
softly one must strain to hear him. But I enjoy Mr Huxley, a most entertaining and energetic man who has a quick wit and a lively countenance. He has
become Papa’s most ardent defender, describing himself as ‘Mr Darwin’s
bulldog’ (though I think he more resembles a fox-terrier). I sometimes think
of him as a revolutionary general, a Napoleon of natural history, pursuing a
military campaign against the Church and scientific establishment under the
banner of pure reason.

Our guests arrived at differing times in the morning and Comfort
exhausted a number of horses in fetching them. For the afternoon, Mamma
packed Etty and Horace and Leonard and me off to Great-Aunt Sarah’s
house to be out from underfoot. We returned barely in time for dinner. The
conversation was animated, with Mr Huxley extolling the virtues of the
natural sciences. At one point he declared that to a person uninstructed in its
glories, a country stroll is ‘a walk through a gallery filled with wonderful
works of art, nine-tenths of which have their faces turned to the wall’.

He then described the latest attacks upon Papa’s theory and his own
efforts at confounding the critics which, to hear him tell it, are unerringly successful. He observed that a new word had come into conversations around
London clubs, the word Darwinism. As he said this I could not help but steal
a glance in Mr Wallace’s direction to see how he would take it, since I sometimes wonder if he is subject to jealousy, but his face was a mask of imper-turbability. Shortly afterwards, he proffered a recommendation, which he
said would ensure that the theory be fully understood in all its particulars.

He began by saying as follows: ‘I venture to suggest that the words natural selection, while accurate from a scientific point of view, tend to be misleading as far as the general public is concerned.’

At this Papa sat bolt upright and demanded: ‘By Jove, how so?’

‘The phrase opens the door to misinterpretation, since it would seem to
imply that these natural forces, which you and I both agree are impersonal
 
and random, operate as if some higher consciousness were involved. The
word selection would seem to indicate that there is in fact some entity or other
that performs the selecting.’

‘And what term, pray tell, would you use in its place?’ inquired Mr
Huxley.

‘I suggest borrowing a term from Herbert Spencer,’ Mr Wallace replied.

‘It sums up the theory most concisely and it does so without any reference
whatsoever to a higher force.’

‘And pray, what term is that?’

‘ “Survival of the fittest.” ’

At that, Papa reacted so strongly I thought he would have a stroke. He
turned ashen and thrust his hand upon his chest as if his heart would give
out. Then he rose shakily, excused himself from the table and retreated to his
bedroom for the remainder of the evening.

Mr Huxley, who is nothing if not irreverent, made light of the matter. He
said to Mr Wallace over coffee: ‘I dare say, if it was a strong reaction you
were seeking, you were most successful in provoking one.’

The episode stayed with me for some time. What is there about that particular term, I wondered, that gave Papa such nervous offence?

8 February 1865

Today an incident occurred that makes me blush to recall. In early afternoon,
with Papa still not stirring from his room and Mr Wallace having departed
for the train station, Mr Huxley and Mr Lyell convened in Papa’s study. As
they had a slightly secretive air about them, as if to indicate that what they
were about to discuss was confidential, my curiosity was naturally piqued.

And so, after a few minutes, I strolled into the hall and waited outside the
door. My intuition was soon rewarded, for I overheard snippets of a conversation that was heated and most intriguing.

Mr Huxley remarked at one point that ‘he has become very high-handed
indeed’, a statement with which Mr Lyell agreed. I was not at all certain to
whom they were referring—and feared for a moment that it could be dear
Papa—until I heard Mr Lyell continue, saying: ‘He should not have been told 
that he had been left out of the second edition. That clearly upset him and
was a mistake.’ This made clear that the reference was to Mr Wallace, for in
the past I had heard someone observe that Papa had neglected to mention his
competitor in this edition of the
Origin
and had been forced to move quickly
to rectify the matter. Scientists care a great deal about such things.

Mr Huxley, speaking as if from deep conviction, then said: ‘He is a fox
circling our hen-house. He could cause us no end of trouble and hurt our
cause.’ To which Mr Lyell posed a question: ‘What do you suggest we do
about it?’ A brief silence followed and then came the reply: ‘I am not overly
concerned for the moment. He has not many friends, nor is he a member of the
learned societies—we have seen to that—and he is continually in need of
money. That is his great weakness, and if we are crafty, we can play upon it.’

I knew that I was hearing a most interesting conspiracy and scarcely
breathed for fear of missing a single word. But just at that moment who
should come down the stairs and spy me but Papa. I tried to slip away,
although I was certain that he had caught me in the most unladylike posture
of eavesdropping. Sure enough, he followed me into the drawing-room and
grabbed my wrist, demanding to know what I was about. My protestations of
innocence fell upon disbelieving ears—and rightly so, for I had been caught
full in the act. Abruptly he turned upon his heels and left the room.