by John Darnton
You asked me to tell you about my home-coming. It was not as dreadful as I had feared. Parslow himself met me at Orpington and filled me in on the family news. He said that it was a pity that I had not attended Etty’s wedding and his tone was so unaffected that I deemed it unlikely he had any inkling of why I had been absent. I pleaded ill-health and said that was the reason I had gone to rest in the Swiss mountains. He said that Papa too had not been well and had barely been able to give her away at the church. It was a short ceremony with scarcely any festivities, though Parslow was much surprised at the presence of a group of men who were unknown to him—it turned out that they were friends of Richard’s from the Working Men’s College.
Papa was upstairs in his bedroom when I arrived and he did not come downstairs to greet me. He stayed there all the afternoon, only descending for dinner. When he saw me, he nodded, nothing else. The meal would have passed largely in silence except that Horace was home from Trinity and he at least was garrulous. I enquired after Etty (which caused Mamma to shoot me a dark look) and Horace said that the newly-weds had both fallen sick on their honeymoon in Europe. ‘Tell Bessie what Etty wrote from Cannes,’ he said, turning to Mamma. Most reluctantly, she recited a passage from a letter in which Etty wrote that the two of them felt very married, each lying in a sickbed as if they’d been together thirty years, just like Mamma and Papa. It made my ears burn to hear of it.
Two days have passed now since my return and Papa has not referred to the letter I wrote him from Zurich. I decided to give Papa an opportunity to raise the subject if he so desired. Consequently, this afternoon when he readied himself to take his constitutional along the Sandwalk, I asked if I could accompany him.
He appeared surprised but agreed and we set out. After discussing the weather and other such topics of little consequence, we fell silent. I realised that Papa had no desire to broach the subject that was on both of our minds—nor did he want me to do so. As for myself, I was content, as the saying goes, to let sleeping dogs lie.
The longer I live here with my parents, the more I find myself sinking into a familiar lassitude. I am at their beck and call. It makes me feel that I am losing my shape, my footing in the world, and becoming insubstantial, like the morning fog on the garden. My condition reminds me of a passage in Middle-march, in which you described a woman very much like me and wrote that she was ‘nipped and subdued as single women are apt to be who spend their lives in uninterrupted subjection to their elders’.
I do miss you so much, Mary Ann, and long to see you. No one else understands the depth of the misery that has befallen me.
Yours in eternal friendship,
Bessie
1 January 1873
My dear Mary Ann,
It is the New Year and I have seized upon the day to write you and bring you abreast of my doings, such as they are. It is hard to believe that more than half a year has passed since my misfortune. I have vowed to throw myself into my life as a dutiful daughter and spinster, much as I detest the word. We have settled into a quiet existence at Down House. All of the other children are gone now—William to banking in Southampton, George to law, Francis to study medicine and his beloved plants, Leonard to the Royal Engineers and Horace back to University. Mamma and Papa and I live as a threesome, with little to disturb the daily routine.
Papa no longer plays billiards with Parslow but still has a go at Backgammon with Mamma every night after dinner. He keeps a record of their respective wins and losses over the years and each time he is forced to increase her tally, he thunders, ‘Bang your bones!’ or ‘Confound you, woman!’ Afterwards she reads novels to him while he reclines upon the sofa.
As you know, he has finally finished his book on human and animal expressions—at last, we no longer live with those horrid photographs of people grimacing and animals snarling! Now he putters around the greenhouse doing God knows what with orchids and pea-plants and those insect-catching sundews. He has been talking lately about writing his autobiography, largely, he says, to provide amusement to his grandchildren and perhaps instruction to others.
I try not to think of my baby girl and am able, through sheer force of will, to banish the memory from my mind for days on end. When the barest thought of her begins to intrude, I consciously push it away by quickly seeking out someone for conversation or by finding something to read. This strategem, however, does not always succeed, especially if I am out walking and see a young child who would be about her age. Then the floodgate opens. On those occasions I cannot help but ask myself scores of questions: How big is she now? What colour hair does she have? In looks does she take after her father or me? Is she quick of mind like me or slow like Horace? After torturing myself with such questions, I fall into a black melancholy that lasts for weeks.
Yours always,
Bessie
6 July 1873
My dear Mary Ann,
Today I am content and I would like to share that sentiment with you. It being a summer Sunday, we had a host of visitors. About seventy men and women came from the Working Men’s College. Their number was augmented by the Huxleys and their children and all manner of local people. The weather was glorious, with the sun shining and the roses in full bloom. In the garden we had set up long tables for tea and strawberries. People danced on the lawn and relaxed in the shade of the new verandah. The children rolled in the newly mown hay and played at Red Indians along the Sandwalk, using javelins of hazel from the gardener’s shed.
I am accustomed to finding Richard’s visits most upsetting. In anticipation, I would feel my heart beating against my ribs and my breath so shallow that I feared I would faint. The very first time I saw them as a married couple, Richard ignored me, as if I were of as little consequence as a piece of furniture. Etty gave me a big hug and took me by the hand for a walk in the garden, which calmed me considerably—for I had been afraid that during their honeymoon he had felt a compulsion to confess our transgression. So little did I know of his nature! And yet from time to time I caught a hint of jealousy on her part. She would appraise me during unguarded moments, as if she were trying to burrow into my secret. Once, by accident I sat close to Richard in the drawing-room, and as he quickly stood up to change his seat,
I saw her observe him and a chill passed over her features as distinct as a cloud.
But today was different. Everyone seemed to enjoy the outing. As the men gathered under the lime-trees for a sing-along, Richard brought out his concertina. At one point I heard his deep bass rising above the others and I looked at him closely, able to scrutinise him fully while being myself unobserved. My Mr X. He has gained a bit of weight. I thought back to the time when he and I would take the men on countryside excursions on the train.
They were the happiest days of my life. And yet, as I recalled them, I felt not simply an ache of regret that they were forever gone but a quiet joy that they had happened at all. I walked under the shade of a lime-tree and stood to one side, looking at Richard as he tilted his head back to sing, and I realised that I no longer felt the same about him, that my passion had ebbed or turned into something else, something more tranquil and not at all hurtful. Perhaps it has become a memory of itself.
Today it is, I think, that I begin my journey to recovery.
Yours always,
Bessie
10 January 1874
My dear Mary Ann,
You asked me to describe the séance we attended at Uncle Ras’ house the other night from my point of view, so that we might compare our experiences.
As you perhaps do not know, Papa attended only at the urging of my cousin Hensleigh; customarily he disdains such events that turn on mysticism and spiritualism.
As you remarked at the outset, mesmerism, mediums, spirit-guides, table-rappers and spirit-photographs are all the fad in London these days. In a thousand darkened parlours people gather around tables to commune with the dead or find divertissement in the prospect. Papa pours scorn on the whole idea and in this he is
joined by the ever faithful Mr Huxley.
The ‘manifestation’ was arranged by George. It was he who chose Charles Williams as the medium. In addition to Mamma and Papa, I was surprised to see that all manner of people joined us for the session, including Etty and Richard, Hensleigh and Fanny and Francis Galton. I was most happy to see you and Mr Lewes there, since I always find your presence reassuring. I wonder if you spotted the man who slipped in at the last moment. I am convinced it was Huxley himself, dressed incognito, undoubtedly to heighten the drama of his attendance.
I thought the setting-up was great fun. I giggled when the doors were shut, the curtains drawn and George and Hensleigh tied Mr Williams’ hands and feet and we all sat there in the dark waiting for the show to begin. It soon got horribly stuffy and since the room was pitch-black even I began to imagine various shapes and forms. It was all quite spookish, since one heard breathing and all kinds of sounds—and it was impossible to tell who was making them.
By this time the heat was almost insufferable. Then the show began with the ringing of a bell and we heard the sound of wind rushing through the room.
Someone exclaimed and stood up—I heard a chair scraping against the floor.
The chair fell over and I heard a gasp, the sound of someone in distress. The lights were put on. Imagine my surprise when it turned out that Papa, as you must have noticed, seemed unable to breathe. He insisted on lying down and was taken upstairs and put to bed. Afterwards, the session resumed with more sounds and sparks flashing and the table rising up above our heads.
When it was over, most of those present appeared giddy from the excitement. Papa recovered and later pronounced it all ‘rubbish’, though I must say that he appeared genuinely distraught. George, who is a believer in the spiritual world, saw the look upon his face as he came down the staircase, and whispered to me: ‘If I did not know better, I would have said: here is a man who is loath to have a reckoning with someone in the afterworld.’
Later, I was moved when you took my hands in yours and squeezed them and referred to what you called my ‘travails’. You said: ‘My dear, it is we women who bear the suffering of the world. It has always been so and will always be. The consolation is that while men may wash themselves in our tears, it is we who drink deeply at life’s source.’ As you said this, I spied a single tear running down your face. When you leaned over to kiss me goodbye, I felt it upon my cheek, which made me think, years ago, of the sister in Goblin Market and the juice that dripped over her face and lodged in the dimples of her chin.
I shall never forget the support you have provided for me during my time of tribulation.
Yours always,
Bessie
18 November 1877
My dear Mary Ann,
To think I have not seen you in almost four years. So much has happened, and yet so little. As you know, we have taken Francis’ son Bernard into our house following the death of poor Amy in childbirth. Although I dearly wish it had never happened, I will admit that the presence of a one-year-old has enlivened the old place; his cry seems to shake the dust from the rafters and rattle the mulberry-tree outside the nursery. I suspect that in no time the old toys will be broken out, including the sliding-board on the stairs. Mamma says Bernard is as solemn as a Grand Lama. I, of course, have found it wonderfully bittersweet to hold a baby in my arms once again. Sometimes my eyes fill up with tears, and whether it is from joy or sorrow, I cannot tell.
Papa has become interested in earthworms, which, Mr Huxley noted, is appropriate for someone ‘whose mind is casting ahead to the grave’. He has placed a mill-stone in the garden, attached to a device that can measure how much it sinks, to measure their underground activity. He is convinced they are intelligent and has Mamma playing the Broadwood and Francis playing the bassoon to test their reactions, despite the fact that, as Mamma points out, they have no ears.
Parslow retired two years ago; he lives in the cottage on the property and has become a superb gardener, winning first prize for potatoes in the village show two years running.
As you are no doubt aware, Papa’s fame continues to grow. Yesterday he received an honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from Cambridge. Mamma worried that he would not be able to last the ceremony, but he did; it was not without its lighter moments. The Senate House was packed to overflowing, with rowdy undergraduates standing in the windows and sitting on statues.
Moments before Papa appeared in his bright red robe, a stuffed monkey in gown and mortar-board was suspended from the gallery. A proctor confiscated it, much to the crowd’s disappointment, but the boys rallied when an object said to represent ‘the missing link’ was lowered from above and remained hovering just over Papa’s head. He did not appear to notice it. The crowd both cheered and jeered him but it was clear that it was all in good spirits. The Latin was largely incomprehensible, save for the Orator’s final declaration that men and apes are morally different.
I could not help but feel proud. There are many things which I have told no-one, not even you. Perhaps at the end of the day, despite the fact that his studies and writings flow from an event that is singularly reprehensible, of which only I and a few others have knowledge, he does possess some attri-butes of greatness. For he is at least the messenger of a great idea. I take solace in thinking of him as the Angel Gabriel of natural science.
Now that I know the worst about the man, forgiveness can begin.
Yours always,
Bessie
CHAPTER 21
Hugh leaned against the railing on the South Bank near the entrance to the National Theatre and checked his watch. Neville was forty minutes late—forty-two, to be exact. Hugh worried that he wouldn’t come. God knows, he hadn’t been all that eager to meet, but still—he wouldn’t have set a time and place with no intention of showing up, would he?
Hugh paced along the Embankment, each time lengthening his path.
Then, when he reached a point about one hundred yards from the theatre entrance, he spotted Neville sitting on a bench, reading the Financial Times. When Hugh walked over, Neville did a slight double take, fumbling with the paper and standing up and sticking out his hand almost as if it were a coincidence that they met.
“Afraid I’d missed you,” he said.
“I was waiting over there.” Hugh pointed to the entrance.
“I see. There’s another one, you know, just around the corner here.
My mistake, I’m sure.”
“It doesn’t matter. The main thing is we found each other.”
They started walking slowly along the Embankment. Neville, still wearing the bulky sweater of the other day, looked at the ground. Hugh could tell his companion was nervous; for that matter, so was he.
“Shall we take a ride? I’ve always wanted to.” Hugh motioned toward the London Eye, rising high in the sky.
To his surprise, Neville agreed. Hugh bought their tickets for the slow-motion Ferris wheel and within minutes the two were ushered into a cabin that began to move slowly upward, rocking slightly.
They were silent for a few moments, then Hugh took a breath and began: “Look, I know this is difficult for you—”
“That it most definitely is.”
“But I hope you’ll be able to tell me something. Everyone’s acting so mysterious. Bridget keeps implying that a lot of things happened that I didn’t know about. That Cal was disturbed about something. And you—I don’t know—you seem so secretive. As if you know something important but don’t want to tell me.”
“I see. That’s what you took away from our conversation?”
“Yes. You said his death was upsetting—”
“It certainly was. Nothing mysterious about that.”
“No, but you implied that something had happened. You talked about going back over old ground and reassessing things. What did you mean?”
The wheel was moving steadily upward now. They could see the bridges up and down the Thames and the two towers of Westminster Abbey.
“What did you do in the lab, anyway? I mean, what was the work?”
“Ah,” said Neville, falling silent. He peered out the window, rubbing it with his sweater sleeve to see more clearly. But when he turned back, he looked at Hugh directly for the first time. “I might as well tell you what I know. Please treat what I’m about to say as confidential.”
“I will. I promise.”
He gave Hugh a penetrating look. “You’ve heard of bovine spongi form encephalopathy?”
“Isn’t that mad cow disease?”
“Yes.”
“We had some in the States—a cow from Canada, if I remember.”
“Exactly. It’s been linked to a strain of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease in humans. Aberrant proteins eat away at your brain, turn it into Swiss cheese. You go crazy, you’re wracked with pain, then you die a horrible death. Altogether, a nasty business.”
“And your lab investigated it?”
“We were in the forefront of the research. The big question was whether the disease could leap the species barrier. We figured it already
had—that it began with scrapie in sheep and because sheep offal was fed to cows, they came down with it. It’s widely known that slaughter-houses don’t abide by regulations, so bits of cow brains and spinal cords were getting into the beef we eat.
“I don’t know if you remember, but back in 1996, when the link was established, there was a sort of hysteria over here. The European Union boycotted British beef. Wimpy’s, Burger King, and McDonald’s took it off the market; even British Airways. It was a crisis for John Major. The Tory government had been on a PR offensive for years—I still remember a cabinet minister going on the telly to feed a hamburger to his four-year-old daughter. Her name was Cordelia. You don’t forget something like that.”
“I guess not. But why are you telling me all this?”
“To give you some idea of the pressures we were under. They were culling herds right and left. Beef is a ten-billion-pound industry and it was in free fall. The ranchers were screaming and there were demonstrations. It was quite a circus—simply unbelievable.”
