The funeral was held on April 26. Emma and Charles had been married just over forty-three years. Emma did not go to London. She stayed at Down, at home, where she felt closer to Charles. She wanted to mourn alone. She told Etty she wanted now, and later, to live through her desolation by herself and be left to rebuild her life as well as she could without Charles. She wanted time, too, to think about her precious past with him.
The rest of the family went up to London, as did Parslow and a few other servants.
It was a stately affair, large and ceremonious. Charles’s body had been moved from the country coffin to an elegant city casket draped in black velvet and sprinkled with white blossoms. Most of the important people of the day came to show their respects to the great man of science. And as he was buried in a church, a gulf—there, at least—was bridged. A special hymn was written for the occasion. It began with words from the Book of Proverbs: “Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and getteth understanding.”
William, as the eldest son, the one upon whom “the nation’s eyes” rested, as the family always said afterward, lent the affair a casual, no-nonsense Darwin atmosphere. After he removed his hat, as one had to do in church in polite society, his bald head got cold. Not wanting to offend by putting his hat back on, but worried, of course, as any Darwin child would be, about getting sick, he balanced his black gloves on the top of his skull to keep it warm. He sat that way through the whole service.
Chapter 33
Unasked Questions
I feel a sort of wonder that I can in a measure
enjoy the beauty of spring.
—EMMA TO LEONARD, 1882
Emma spent that summer at Down, but she felt it would be too lonely to stay there without Charles in the winter. The house was large, and it would be too empty without the person on whom Emma fixed all her routines, as she said. In summer the children and grandchildren would come and help her fill up the empty space, the empty hours. But for the rest of the year, she needed a different place to live. So she bought a house in Cambridge, where two of her sons, George and Horace, already lived. Her new house, the Grove, gave her a place to rebuild her life without Charles, though she never went anywhere without her “precious packet”—the few letters she had saved that he had written to her over the years. She wished she had saved every scrap, every note he had written to her.
Frank and Bernard moved to Cambridge with her. And when Frank got engaged the following year, he built a house on Emma’s property so that Bernard could see his grandmother every day, as ever.
George married an American, and they had a baby whom they named Gwen. Emma took much pleasure in this baby, as she did in all her grandchildren. She wrote to Etty when Gwen was three months old, “I am so pleased to find how comfortable I can make this baby. She is so placid and spends her time devoted to the gas; but answering any attention by a smile and gathering herself in a lump with both fists in her mouth.”
But she missed Charles. Reading over his books and letters made her feel closer to him. Three years after he died, she sat down and read his Voyage of the Beagle again. There was Charles’s voice, his hand reaching out to her, Come with me. She told Etty, “It gives me a sort of companionship with him which makes me feel happy—only there are so many questions I want to ask.”
That year there was an unveiling of a statue of Charles in the Natural History Museum in London. Emma would have liked to be there, but she did not want to have to see people. “I should prefer avoiding all greetings and acquaintances.” She went later to see the statue, and she liked the pose, though she did not think it looked enough like Charles. How could a stone image look to her like the man she had loved for so long?
Frank was working to publish his father’s letters, as well as reminiscences he culled from the autobiography Charles had written. Emma read the letters, too, and found that “in almost every one there is some characteristic bit which charms one. A little mention of me in a letter…sent me to bed with a glow about my heart coming on it unexpectedly.”
But Emma was worried about the publication of the autobiography. Charles had written it for his family, not for strangers. And there were things Charles had written that she felt would offend others, because they offended her. Not surprisingly, they were about religion. She asked Frank to take out certain passages, writing to him, “There is one sentence in the Autobiography which I very much wish to omit, no doubt partly because your father’s opinion that all morality has grown up by evolution is painful to me; but also because where this sentence comes in, it gives one a sort of shock…“The sentence Charles had written was “Nor must we overlook the probability of the constant inculcation in a belief in God on the minds of children producing so strong and perhaps inherited effect on their brains not yet fully developed, that it would be as difficult for them to throw off their belief in God, as for a monkey to throw off its instinctive fear and hatred of a snake.” Emma felt this sentence would give people “an opening to say, however unjustly, that he considered all spiritual beliefs no higher than hereditary aversions or likings, such as the fear of monkeys towards snakes.”
Emma told Frank she thought it was fine to leave in the first part of the sentence, but asked that he take out the last—it was not good to equate religious feeling with the fear of snakes. She added, “I should wish if possible to avoid giving pain to your father’s religious friends who are deeply attached to him, and I picture to myself the way that sentence would strike them.” She named some friends, Charles’s sister Caroline, and “even the old servants.”
Emma asked Frank to omit other sentences as well, and he complied. She did not exactly censor Charles’s autobiography, but she did clean it up as much as she could so that nothing would be misunderstood, and nothing, she hoped, would give offense. She was, as always, Charles’s editor. But he wasn’t there to argue his points.
She left in “I gradually came to disbelieve in Christianity as a divine revelation” but took out “Beautiful as is the morality of the New Testament, it can hardly be denied that its perfection depends in part on the interpretation which we now put on metaphors and allegories.”
Most significantly, Emma expurgated this passage: “I can indeed hardly see how anyone ought to wish Christianity to be true; for if so the plain language of the text seems to show that the men who do not believe, and this would include my Father, Brother and almost all my best friends will be everlastingly punished. And this is a damnable doctrine.”
Was this true? Were Erasmus and Dr. Darwin, and Charles himself, in hell? Would she see Charles again? These were questions that could not be answered.
Other than helping Frank, Emma spent the years of her life after Charles’s death much as she had the years before she married him. She read constantly and offered, in letters to Etty mostly, her literary criticism. She read some of her favorite old books again. She spent much of her time reading, and in 1894 she wrote, “I am rather ashamed to find I use up rather more than a volume a day of novels.” She read the Brontës and Robert Louis Stevenson. She read the novels of Jane Austen and Elizabeth Gaskell. One of Mrs. Gaskell’s books, her last one, was left unfinished. In this book, Wives and Daughters, Roger Hamley, a wonderful, likeable hero, was modeled after Gaskell’s friend Charles Darwin. Because Gaskell died in 1866 before finishing the book, Roger and his sweetheart, Molly, were not yet together. But the book points to a happy ending.
Emma continued to read books on religion as well, and on politics; she read the Psalms, but was not much impressed by them, and as usual she called it as she saw it. She wrote in a letter to Etty, “I am reading the Psalms and I cannot conceive how they have satisfied the devotional feelings of the world for such centuries.” She also did needlework, played patience and whist, played the piano, and wrote many letters.
Emma enjoyed her grandchildren immensely, playing with them and bribing them just as she had done with her own children. They climbed into her bed as she ate breakfast; Emma pulled licorice out o
f her sewing basket and gave them treats. Her daughters-in-law loved her, too, and she returned the feeling. “My dear daughter in heart,” she called William’s wife.
One day in Cambridge she was playing with her grandchildren, watching them fly a kite. Afterward she had them over for tea and a game of hide-and-seek. Little Erasmus, then about three, said, “Grandmama, did your little children have kites?” Emma wondered whether he realized who her little children were.
She entertained visitors in Cambridge and in Down, often old servants and the children of old servants. Etty said she seemed very happy and less anxious in her later years. “Her buoyant spirit and the essential reserve of her nature prevented our knowing how much she dwelt on the past.”
In his autobiography, Charles told his children that their mother was his greatest blessing. “I marvel at my good fortune, that she, so infinitely my superior in every single moral quality consented to be my wife…She has been my wise adviser and cheerful comforter…She has earned the love and admiration of every soul near her.”
On September 27, 1896, Emma fell ill. She was eighty-eight years old. Charles had been gone for fourteen years. She wrote to Etty and said she was feeling fine; there was no need to come. But Etty hurried to take care of her mother just as her mother had taken care of her when she was sick.
Getting ready for bed on October 2, Emma wound up her watch as she always did before she went to sleep. Then she put her head back on her pillow and she died.
Epilogue
So Much to Worship
There is a grandeur in this view of life…
—CHARLES, IN THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES
I suppose one does admire one’s own view absurdly.
—EMMA, 1889, LOOKING AT THE VALLEY FROM THE FIELD AT DOWN
Charles Darwin left an unparalleled legacy to science. He gave future generations of scientists “a theory by which to work.” His theory will continue to evolve. The debate between evolution and religion continues, too. He and Emma would certainly say that people from both worlds should keep talking to each other.
Together Emma and Charles left a legacy in generations of Darwins. Frank, George, and Horace had children, and these three sons also continued in their father’s footsteps: Frank was a botanist and edited his father’s letters and published the Autobiography. He was knighted in 1913. George did grow up to find work he loved, as Aunt Jessie had hoped. He was an astronomer and mathematician and studied the evolution of the solar system. Horace made scientific instruments and was for a short time mayor of Cambridge.
As Charles had said, all the sons were doing wonders, though not all in science. William was a banker. Lenny became a soldier in the Royal Engineers, taught at the School of Military Engineering, and served in the Ministry of the War (in the Intelligence Division) and in Parliament. Henrietta Darwin Litchfield edited her mother’s personal letters and published them in 1904 with many biographical notes. Etty had no children but was a devoted wife and aunt. Elizabeth Darwin did not marry or have children; she was a loving and attentive aunt to her nieces and nephews and took care of elderly people at the workhouse in Cambridge.
Emma and Charles’s first grandchild, Bernard, grew up to be a lawyer and a famous golf writer. And George’s daughter, Gwen (the baby who put both fists in her mouth), grew up to be an artist and writer named Gwen Raverat. She wrote a memoir about her childhood called Period Piece, in which she described her grandmother Emma, her Darwin aunts and uncles, and Down House.
Gwen spent many summers at Down before Emma died. And as a little girl, she adored everything about Down House. She wrote,
The path in front of the veranda was made of large round water-worn pebbles, from some beach. They were not loose, but stuck down tight in moss and sand, and were black and shiny, as if they had been polished. I adored those pebbles. I mean literally, adored; worshipped…And it was adoration that I felt for the foxgloves at Down, and for the stiff red clay out of the Sandwalk clay-pit; and for the beautiful white paint on the nursery floor.
When the Darwins had first moved to Down House, Charles had planted flowers so that Emma would be as happy there as she had been at Maer. The offspring of those flowers still bloomed, alongside new ones that Emma had planted. Just as Emma had felt about the flowers at Maer—that they were the prettiest anywhere—so Gwen felt about the ones at Down. “All the flowers that grew at Down were beautiful,” she said, “and different from all other flowers.”
Even though she never met her grandfather, his presence filled the house. “The faint flavour of the ghost of my grandfather hung in a friendly way about the place, house, garden and all.” Charles Darwin was a person to be revered. “Of course, we always felt embarrassed if our grandfather were mentioned, just as we did if God were spoken of.”
Gwen looked at Charles’s study with awe. It had been left just as it was when he died, for the pilgrims who came to Down to see where the great man worked and lived. On the tables and shelves were remnants of his experiments, including something weird in a bottle. Gwen and her cousins ran through Charles’s study to get outside, but it felt “faintly holy and sinister, like a church.”
“At Down,” Charles and Emma’s granddaughter wrote, “there were more things to worship than anywhere else in the world.”
In 1838, when Charles had decided to ask Emma to marry him, he had made a leap of faith. When she agreed, they made that leap together.
“Marry—Marry—Marry Q.E.D.”
It had been demonstrated; it had been proved.
Acknowledgments
Writing this book was a labor of love. Sometimes it was a little heavy on the labor part, but it was never too light on the love part. That’s because I fell in love with Charles and Emma and their whole family. And speaking of love, this book is a love letter to my husband, Jonathan Weiner, and it is he whom I have to thank first. He is the one who got me into this, after all. Jon’s been writing about science and evolution since we met. I had just graduated from college with a major in religious studies. We started talking immediately—about science and religion and writing and pretty much everything else—and we haven’t stopped since.
One day, about seven years ago, Jon said to me, “You know, Charles Darwin’s wife was religious.” I looked at him. He continued, “And they loved each other very much. She was afraid he would go to hell and they wouldn’t be together for eternity.”
If bells had chimed right then or fireworks had exploded in the sky above us at that moment (as they did once in Italy for no apparent reason other than it was our anniversary), I would not have been surprised. I knew right then I had a book to write. So thank you, Jon, for that moment, and for all the other zillions of moments since. You put up with a lot as I wrote this book. You owed me, sure, but you have paid me back in spades. I’m ready for your next one. Jon read the book front to back in many drafts, and if there are any mistakes, blame him. (That’s not what you’re supposed to say, I know, but…hey, he’s my husband, so why not?)
Other people helped me enormously, and none of the mistakes (if there are any; God, I hope not) are theirs. I would like to thank those who read the whole book in different drafts: John Tyler Bonner, great scientist, writer, and dear friend; Martha Hewson, who saved my life and my sanity by being a terrific editor; Tali Woodward, who made terrific suggestions, and helped me check facts and track down loose ends at a moment’s notice; and a special thanks to Janet Browne, who knows more about Darwin than anyone ever, including Darwin himself. I would also like to thank Reverend Nathan Humphrey for consultations. The following writer friends read chapters and gave me great advice and much encouragement. Thank you to Kay Winters, Sally Keehn, Pat Brisson, Wendy Pfeffer, Elvira Woodruff, Joyce McDonald, Pamela Curtis Swallow, Susan Korman, Gail Carson Levine, Elizabeth Winthrop, and the other three Four Vines—Patricia Lakin, Marguerite Holloway, and Laurent Linn. Barbara Kerley, Marfé Ferguson Delano, and Laurie Halse Anderson held my hand from afar.
My sons, Aaron and Benj
amin, consulted, consoled, cajoled, and jumped to when I needed a quick fact or piece of advice. Benjamin helped out by going to college just as I had to finish the book. Those two sons of ours are doing wonders, and they inspire me every day. I also have to thank the friends and family I neglected while working on this book. They knew not to call before noon most days (if they remembered) and not to call at all sometimes. For their support and patience I thank especially Julie Stockler, Nancy Sandberg, Laurie Brotman (and Henry), Essie Goldsmith, Linda Miller, Cherie Vogelstein, Doris and Morton Fleischer, Bonnie Long, Jerome Weiner, and my whole Pennsylvania family. I’m sorry if I’m missing anyone. Thanks also to Gail and Steve Rubin.
Now to my book team. First to Ken Wright, who has the best homo-phonic name for an agent (yes, you Can Write!). Thank you, Ken, for looking at me at our first meeting, and saying, “So what do ya got?” and lighting up when I told you about Charles and Emma. Thank you, too, for your (almost) limitless capacity for patience, and for your humor, your great e-mails, and, you know, everything. (I don’t want to sing your praises too high because I don’t want to share you more than I already have to.) Noa Wheeler is probably the most brilliant associate editor in the universe and also perhaps the funniest. She not only kept us all in line and held it all together, miraculously, but she also came up with the second-best title for this book (Charles, Emma, and God: The Darwins at Home). A very special thanks to my editor, Laura Godwin, who dispensed pearls of wisdom just when I needed them and somehow managed to make me laugh at the same time. I don’t know how she does it.
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