by John Darnton
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.
I blushed scarlet and found it impossible to look either gentleman in the eye for the rest of the afternoon, though whether it was for my trespass or their most uncongenial plotting was hard to say. In any case, I was taken aside by Mamma shortly before supper and told that my father was most upset with me and that I would be sent to London for a spell to stay with Uncle Ras so that his anger might cool.
10 February 1865
I must say that my Uncle’s London house is one of my favourite places on this earth. All manner of interesting and elegant persons are drawn to his dinner table: Benthamites and Chartists and Catholics, even atheists—in short, free-thinkers of all stripes. The wine flows bounteously, as does the conversation, and unlike Down House, where Papa is given to banishing me from the drawing-room the moment the discussion turns spirited (which is rare enough), here I am permitted to remain as witness to the verbal thrusts and parries.
This evening, Thomas and Jane Carlyle were present, as were Hensleigh and Fanny Wedgwood, and three or four other notables, including Harriet Martineau, whose lively conversation is more diverting than her journalism.
Imagine my surprise after the meal was concluded when yet another couple joined the company. It was shocking enough that the two arrived only to par-take of coffee and brandy. But I was overcome with embarrassment when I was introduced to Miss Mary Ann Evans and did not at once grasp that I was standing in the presence of a person I most esteem, the author of The Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner, the confusion arising from her adoption of the pseudonym George Eliot. To complete my discomfiture, I next found myself addressing her paramour, George Henry Lewes, who despite the furore surrounding their relationship, struck me as a perfect gentleman. I find Uncle admirable for opening his door to two such personages who so bravely fly in the face of social convention, especially Miss Evans, living openly as she does with a married man.
No sooner were we all seated than the conversation took a lively turn.
Miss Martineau, as is her wont in her writings, attacked slavery as a most
‘hideous institution’ and avowed that of all peoples, the Americans are the most uncivilised. Uncle Ras—undoubtedly to throw some oil on the fire, since he has rarely evidenced concern for the impoverished—then inquired as to whether her compassion for ‘those in shackles’ was broad enough to include poor English working men and women. Another gentleman put in that factory workers in the Midlands laboured in conditions of servitude not much removed from those on plantations in the American South.
To this Hensleigh objected in a most unpleasant manner, saying that the depravity of the poor was their own doing and that the problem with Christianity was that it coddled the sinful. Miss Martineau demurred, and quoted from her own research on factory accidents.
All the while, I was formulating a thought on the earlier question and searching for the courage to put it into words. For though I have been privileged to attend Uncle Ras’ soirées, I have never before expressed an opinion, following as it were some unspoken etiquette to remain silent, and I wondered whether my Uncle might be displeased at such a breach. Miss Evans noticed my conundrum and kindly leaning over to pat my hand, said to the assembly:
‘I venture that Miss Darwin has something to say.’ Instantly, all eyes turned upon me. I had no choice but to voice my view, saying that I felt that there was yet another group that found itself ‘in the yoke’. ‘And what group, pray tell, is that?’ said Mr Carlyle. I felt I should hesitate to accept a challenge from such an eminent thinker but found, before I had barely a chance to consider the matter, that I blurted out my answer in a single word: ‘Women.’
This met with great merriment around the table, causing me to blush deeply. But Miss Evans came to my rescue and insisted that I had much evidence and reason on my side. The others laughed again, but then she raised her voice most uncharacteristically and declared: ‘I have often had the thought—which I am loath to confess and which for that reason weighs heavily upon my bosom—that I would rather have been born a boy than a girl. For no-one can doubt that from every point of view a man’s lot is infinitely preferable to a woman’s in the England of today.
‘Is it not the case,’ she said, ‘that a woman’s property and fortune falls to her husband in the very first minute of marriage? And is it not the case that a woman can be speedily divorced upon the mere accusation of criminal conversation ?’ (In saying this Miss Evans showed no sign of shame at her own adultery.) ‘And once in court, is it not true that she finds herself without legal rights?’
At this point, Harriet Martineau was moved to recall the case of poor Caroline Norton, whose husband beat her for nine years, robbed her income, filed a malicious lawsuit after separation, and refused to allow her to see her three sons.
This led to consideration of the Contagious Diseases Act, which I consider an outrage since it allows for a woman to be apprehended solely for the act of being found close to a military garrison. The men all defended it, saying the only method of putting an end to the horrible epidemic was for women of dubious virtue to undergo mercury treatment.
‘Besides,’ said Mr Carlyle, ‘the measure is not intended for use against ladies such as yourselves. It is aimed solely at those of a lower order.’
His words caused a visible discomfort around the table for his having linked, however obliquely, Miss Evans with fallen women. Mr Lewes, I thought, was going to square off right then and provoke him to fisticuffs (which I would have viewed with a certain relish), but fortunately for our host the moment passed without incident.
Throughout the evening, I felt Miss Evans’ grey-blue eyes and soft round face seeking me out, and I basked in her warm regard. Upon wishing me good-evening, she leant so close I felt a wisp of her hair brush my cheek, and she whispered in my ear that I was a most excellent woman—a credit to my kind, she said—and that I must always hold true to my beliefs.
I do believe Uncle Ras heard part of this, for after everyone had departed, he fixed me with a curious gaze and said I was a continual mystery to him, a ‘veritable Pandora’s box’. He followed what I took to be a compliment with harder words, however, though they were not meant harshly, I am sure. He said he wondered why it was that my Papa doted so on Etty when he had another equal treasure close at hand.
13 February 1865
At breakfast this morning Uncle Ras, who is fond of diversions of all sorts, asked me when in my childhood I had been at my happiest. Something about the way he posed the enquiry, seated at the table with a shadow falling across his set face and staring out the window, was saddening, as if he were reflecting upon the loneliness of his bachelor life, but I took the question at its most superficial and tried to give him a proper reply.
I talked warmly of the early years and especially of his visits to Down House, when we children would gather at his heels like a pack of puppies and follow him all the day long. And indeed I do retain fond memories of the amusements he devised, telling us tal
l tales of outlandish adventures in Africa and India and drawing devils and monkeys and imps with his long, thin fingers. Seeing that my recollections appeared to warm him, I continued in that vein, talking about our trip to London to see the Great Exhibition, though in fact much of that I was told about afterwards, retaining only the dimmest memory of grasping his hand in fear of the towering crowds. I recalled our visits together to the Zoological Gardens, where I was fascinated by the languid hippopotamus, and to Wombwell’s Menagerie to see the orangutan dressed up in a child’s clothes.
‘Capital,’ he replied loudly, though it struck me that his enthusiasm was perhaps over strong and was intended to cover some deeper malaise.
And indeed, something about recollecting my childhood plunged me into a melancholy that I could not shake for the trying. I began thinking of all the bleak times of my now distant youth and found it impossible to reconcile them with other times that I knew to be joyous. What made the recollection so troubling was that I could not for the life of me fathom the reason for any unhappiness, yet I remained convinced that despite all the occasions of joy and even laughter, a blight of some sort lay upon my early years. Upon considering it at length, I drew a connection to Papa’s many illnesses and to the pall of sickness and death that seemed to spread over our household like some cauchemar.
14 February 1865
The cause of our distress may have been the death of poor sweet Annie some fourteen years ago. I cannot honestly say that I remember Annie, since I was only four years old at the time of her passing, and yet on occasion I am able to conjure her up—a gentle creature, with ruby lips and golden curls. I am told she never recovered from the scarlet fever, which struck down all of us girls at once, and she suffered terribly, lingering for weeks on end at death’s door in Malvern where she was taking the water-treatment. Papa kept vigil by her bedside but did not attend her funeral, which I find odd. All this I know from Aunt Elizabeth, not from my parents, since they never speak of Annie’s death, nor indeed of Annie herself.
Indeed, we Darwins have had our fair share of torment from untimely deaths. There was poor Mary, no bigger than a squirrel, who lived not quite one full year, and little Charles Waring, who did not see two years. We pass their tiny headstones every Sunday on the way to church. And then of course there was the passing of Papa’s own father, my grandfather Robert, which was so deeply upsetting. To Papa’s eternal regret, he arrived too late at Shrewsbury and could not be present at the burial of the man who made him what he is today.
We are like our poor Queen, who lost her beloved Albert four years ago and yet, to hear talk of it, is still unhinged by grief, wearing nothing but black and having his clothes laid out anew each morning.
Though she is not mentioned, Annie is a spectral presence in our house.
Some years back I discovered at the bottom of a large trunk her very own writing-box, and occasionally when I am alone I retrieve it. It is made of a handsome hardwood and inside there is some cream-coloured stationery with crimson borders and matching envelopes, as well as steel pen-nibs with a wooden holder, two goose-quill pens, and a pen-knife with a mother-of-pearl handle; also red sealing-wax and wafers kept in a small box with decorations reading ‘Am I Welcome?’ and ‘Dieu Vous Garde’. The quills still have ink on their tips and I used to hold them and imagine myself as Annie, dipping them pensively as she chose her words in writing to this person or that.
Of all the deaths and illnesses, it was Annie’s that rent Papa’s heart. For some reason he holds himself to blame, I believe, as if her being called away at the tender age of ten was some kind of retribution. I recall Etty telling me that she observed Papa closely as he was composing his long memorial to Annie, writing his recollections slowly and sobbing quietly every so often. She said the look upon his face was, to her thinking at least, a look of guilt.
It would not be the first time that he has castigated himself unduly. Some years back, Mamma, in the fullness of her religious belief, wrote him a private letter expressing a deep and secret sorrow: unless he turned to God, she feared, they would not have the blessing of eternal life together. I came upon it in the desk in his study where he kept it hidden and where he was wont to read it from time to time. Once, I chanced to be in the same room, and as he was unaware of my presence, I observed him seized by a strong emotion and heard him murmur an expression of his own culpability, ‘If she but knew the reason. If she but knew the reason.’ His words have long been a puzzlement to me.
Sometime afterwards I asked him when it was and why he had lost his faith and become an atheist. For I wondered to myself if the cause had not been the crisis brought on by Annie’s demise. But his answer was of a different order altogether and a surprising one. He held me at arm’s length and looking into my eyes replied: ‘It was long, long ago, when I was a young man aboard the Beagle. But there’s no more to be said about that.’
15 February 1865
I surreptitiously borrowed from my Uncle a book that is the rave of all London and I can see why it has gained such renown. It is but a slender volume containing a single poem, called Goblin Market. Though it is frightening in parts, especially in its depiction of those horrid little goblin-men, I find it most uplifting in its ultimate moral message. All’s well that ends well, I suppose. I found the book on a rosewood table in Uncle Ras’ parlour and took it upstairs without his permission. To my knowledge, he has never asked about it and consequently I am sorely tempted to keep it. The volume is so small I keep it in Annie’s writing-box.
16 February 1865
I returned home to Down House today, in the middle of a downpour that soaked my skirts as I ran from the carriage. But once inside, I was relieved to find sunnier news: all is forgiven. Mamma brought me a cup of tea and afterwards Papa broke off playing billiards with Parslow and instead challenged me to a game of Backgammon. I allowed him to win and he was so content I think he failed to see through my trickery.
Still, I find it most difficult to rein in my curiosity. This afternoon, I decided to look through the specimens that Papa sent back from the Beagle. He has never explicitly forbidden us to examine them and they are scattered all over the estate in the oddest of places. I found an entire cache in two deep drawers in the greenhouse where Papa has been conducting experiments with those horrid-smelling Drosera that eat insects (he has taught the plants to devour raw meat and they are only too happy to oblige). I came across something unusual. Many of the specimens are bones and fossils and such, labelled and dated in Papa’s hand, but some of them bear another set of initials: ‘R.M.’ I find that confounding but do not dare to ask Papa what the letters mean.
CHAPTER 10
Jemmy Button sat next to Charles at the great table, leaning close to look at the pictures of leopards and snakes and other animals in the natural history textbook. Whenever he saw one he recognized, he would squirm with delight and reach out with his small pudgy brown finger to touch it.
“Me know that one. Me see that one in me own contree.” He giggled, taking the book in both hands and raising it to hold the painting of the ostrich so close to his face it was but three inches from his nose.
Charles laughed along with him. Was he trying to smell it? At times like this he found himself asking whether Jemmy’s love of learning was instinctual, something that he had utilized in a rudimentary way in his previous world (where it would have found scant application), or whether it was nurtured by the many marvels he had seen in the civilized world. Could one take any reasonably endowed savage by the hand and teach him like a child? And how far could he go? Doubtless he would never rise to the level of a twelve-year-old English lad.
Perhaps the scientist in Charles was frustrated by a lack of specimens to study, for the three Yamana Indians fascinated him. Sick as he was, he sought them out often in the week since he had met Jemmy, observing their responses to the shipboard world. They were not new to it—they had spent eight months aboard on the Beagle’s homeward trip two years ago—but still t
hey seemed mystified by its workings. They masked their bewilderment in a heavy-lidded lethargy and spent most of their time belowdecks, venturing up only during the calmest seas and at sunset, which appeared to hold some mystical meaning. They presented a bizarre threesome, dressed to the nines in layers of English clothes and staring wide-eyed at the orange disk sinking below the horizon, their black skins ablaze.
Charles could not suppress the thought that they wore the accouterments of civilization lightly and that they might revert to their savage origins at the first opportunity.
Except for Jemmy. He was different from the other two: Fuegia Basket, a merry but dim-witted eleven-year-old girl; and York Minster, a morose, surly man in his mid-twenties. All had been dubbed with Anglicized names when they were kidnapped. Jemmy Button’s came from the circumstance of his abduction: FitzRoy had taken him from a canoe piloted by an old man and, in a fit of angry fair-mindedness, had ripped a mother-of-pearl button from his own tunic and tossed it at the man’s feet to make it a trade.
Jemmy, as Charles had been informed, came from a different tribe than the other natives. His were upland Indians, smaller-boned and more advanced; they thought of themselves as an enlightened people.
To hear FitzRoy tell it, Jemmy’s first days on the Beagle had been miserable because he was ridiculed and persecuted by the other Fuegians, who called him Yapoo, which apparently meant “enemy.” FitzRoy, for all his interest in the Yamana, seemed strangely crass about them. He sometimes waggishly referred to them all as “Yahoos,” after the filthy primitives of Gulliver’s Travels.
As Jemmy examined the animal pictures, Charles studied him. He was a dandy, all right, wearing white gloves and a dress coat, even on deck when a sou’wester would be in order. He paraded around and loved gazing at himself in a mirror; he insisted that the collars of his shirts be blindingly white, and if he so much as got a spot on his boots, he ran to his cabin in a tantrum to polish them. Teased about his fop-pishness, he would stick his nose in the air and answer: “Too much skylark.”
