The Darwin Conspiracy (29 page)

I must not ramble. To do so simply makes it all the harder to bear. There,
I have confessed my secret and I must have done with it.

But the burden feels no lighter.

12 June 1871

My life, by which I mean my external life, is to all appearances much as it
was when last I closed my journal. I am now twenty-three years of age. The
startling events in the Meteorological Office and FitzRoy’s grotesque death
affected me deeply. I could not discard the idea that I myself bore some
responsibility for it, having upset him so during our interview. As a consequence, it took a severe toll on my health. I collapsed and fell into convulsions, which occurred off and on for weeks. I lost my appetite and became
very pale and thin, so much so that I had no need of a corset (though I had no
desire to venture outside and spent most of the time in my bedchamber).

I also turned away from the Church, becoming an unbeliever. This troubled Mamma no end. She pressed me continually to attend services and
prayed for me to pursue ‘the Lord’s light and grace’. She was brought to tears
during our first argument on the matter when I refused confirmation; she
asked me for my reasoning and I forgot myself and shouted that I believed
neither in the Trinity nor in baptism nor, in fact, in God Himself. She was so
shocked that she fell silent and then turned on her heel and took to her bed
weeping. I expect she was thinking that now our household held two non-believers, the other being of course Papa.

Little could I confide to her that my conversion to atheism was in part due
to my feelings about Papa. For my suspicions that something horrible had
occurred during the voyage of the
Beagle—
perhaps during that
nuit de feu
—
had hardened into the conviction that he himself was guilty of some wrong-doing. The feeling became all the more painful since it placed his character so
at odds with the world’s view of him. My suspicions strengthened when I saw
Papa’s reaction to FitzRoy’s death; far from being saddened, he acted as if a 
weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Shortly after the funeral, I saw
Mr Huxley clap him upon the back and overheard him saying, ‘Well, that
puts an end to the whole sorry business; the weather-man shall get no more
stipend from me.’ I thought it a most cruel remark.

For a period I ceased talking altogether. Out of concern for my behaviour
and what Dr Chapman called my ‘mental lassitude’, I was trundled off to
Europe in hopes that a change of habitat might inspire a recovery. For by that
time I had indeed fallen grievously ill, though naturally, as I have said, I
could tell no-one the true cause of my malady—that I had begun to suspect
that Papa is not the man he pretends to be. I visited Germany and then took
up residence at Baden-Baden, where the fresh mountain air and curative
springs gradually restored my peace of mind. I remained there for almost
three months and returned to Down House only after George was dispatched
to fetch me. My homecoming was cause for some celebration, at least outwardly (Parslow was most moved, almost to tears), and I pretended to par-take of the festive air. Abroad I had come to a resolution and I informed my
family of it: to make a clean start of things I wanted to relinquish the name
Lizzie and to be called Bessie instead. They were puzzled and it took them
some time to accommodate my wish. The servants were the first to learn to
address me by my new name and then Mamma and my brothers. Etty and
Papa took the longest.

15 June 1871

Papa’s health has not improved. He has been following John Chapman’s
remedy of applying ice to the spine; he straps cold-water bags to his lower
back several times a day, setting his teeth to chattering. He is a sight to
behold, moving around the house like a great lumbering bear or lying on his
bed groaning. But for all of that it does little good.

Papa’s illnesses cannot be laid to the opprobrium of society, for in recent
years, far from being treated like a pariah, he has been placed upon a
pedestal. His fame has continued to spread beyond all expectation. His theory
on natural selection (which some are now calling
evolution
) is gaining in
acceptance. Most notably, the attacks from the Church seem to be lessening. A
 
year ago, Oxford awarded him its highest honorary degree, and every day the
postman brings stacks of letters from all corners of the globe. In short, he has
attained great status as an innovative thinker, esteemed even by those who
disagree with him. Perhaps because he has reached the venerable age of sixty-two or because he and his circle have mounted such an effective campaign to
promote his theory, but he has practically become a national institution.

In disseminating his views, he is deucedly clever; he never confronts an
antagonist straight on but works on him indirectly, using allies to persuade
while he himself strikes a disarming stance of reasonableness. He is good at
proselytising and adept in his use of language. For example, he has a meta-phor he often uses to take the steam out of debate. When an adversary
ridicules him for asserting that our forefathers were monkeys, he denies it
steadfastly, saying that he contends merely that men and monkeys have a common ancestor. He then describes what he calls ‘the tree of life’. In the depiction, the simplest creatures are at the bottom and the most complicated
animals are at the top; as species vary, they branch off from one another in
such a way that those with the greatest difference are farthest apart. In this
way the essence of his argument strikes home.

Origin
is soon to reach its sixth printing, much to the delight of John
Murray. It has been translated into just about every European language,
although Papa is upset with the French version, which he believes ties him too
closely to Lamarck. For the past two years, he has been working on his ‘man
book’.
The Descent of Man,
which finally appeared last month, makes the
evolutionary link between men and animals explicit, which he did not dare to
do before. Etty helped him, proofreading the manuscript and scrawling her
suggestions in the margins; as always, her changes toned down the conclusions and eliminated improprieties. She acts and thinks like an old maid.

I’ve read the manuscript, although I was not asked to do so. Papa’s theory
on ‘sexual selection’ is arresting; it accounts for the persistence of traits that
determine how people and animals choose their mates, and it explains the differences among races and why we here in the West are the most advanced. He
states that men are intellectually superior to women. There is one aspect to it
that bothers me: the thought that in the most civilised societies it is the men
who choose the women, not the other way around. I find that upsetting—it
treats women as passive receptacles without a will or mind of their own. I
have heard too many women talking below stairs, as it were, to find this
assertion convincing, and I have confirmed my view on the matter in conversations with Mary Ann Evans, who has become a friend of mine. If Papa could only read my heart, and see the amorous tempest brewing there whenever X walks into a room where I happen to be (not by chance), he would surely alter his view.

25 June 1871

X
called this afternoon at 3:15, riding all the way out from London. As we
were already engaged in receiving visitors (Mrs Livington, a dreadful bore to
boot!), he left his card. It was on the hall table and my heart skipped a beat
when I managed to steal a glance at it. To my great joy, he had turned down
one corner, signifying that the visit was intended not just for Mamma but for
us daughters as well. I was stricken to have missed him but glad at least that
he did not display the bad manners of sitting Mrs Livington out.

27 June 1871

Oh, happy, blessed day! I spent most of this Sunday with
X.
He organised
an excursion for the Working Men’s College to take fresh air in the countryside around the village of Kidlington and asked Etty and me to go along.

We spent a most delightful morning, walking through the fields and foot-paths and took a merry lunch on the grounds of an inn there. Then on the
train ride back, we struck up song after song—
X
has a rumbling baritone—
that kept us all rollicking. One man was proficient at making bird-sounds by
cupping his hands together and blowing through his thumbs, which amused
us considerably.

It is now one month since
X
entered my life, since Etty met him at the
Wedgwoods’ and invited him to visit Down House. I have so much in common with him. We hold the same views of human nature and progressive politics. Like him, I support the Reform Act, since I believe that expansion of the
electorate is the only way to further democracy and reduce inequities among
the classes. I share his vision for a Utopian future and I could listen to him
 
talk about it for hours. Although I am not acquainted with all the thinkers
he espouses, such as Thomas Hughes and Vernon Lushington, I have read
works by John Ruskin, whom
X
knows well.
X
is more radical in his political views than I am, but I am sure I could be elevated to his position with a
little more education. At one point he expressed a certain sympathy for the
current events in France; he admitted that the Paris Commune had raged out
of control and ended sadly in its ‘week of blood’ but he said that some of
the ideas of a workers’ revolt were not misplaced. I think he is absolutely
brilliant.

29 June 1871

I cannot tell if
X
reciprocates my feelings. Sometimes I dare to think he likes
me. He came to Down House for dinner yesterday evening and afterwards
the family withdrew to the drawing-room where he played the grand piano
and I turned the pages for him. As I did so, I fancied he looked at me out of
the corner of his eye. Later he smiled at me in a way that made me turn red
and feel flushed. My heart was throbbing so, I feared it would give me away,
that he could almost hear it once the music stopped. He played like a man
possessed—I could see the muscles on his strong fingers stand out as they
pressed the keys. Then he played the concertina and sang a madrigal while
Etty accompanied him on the piano.

When the music was done, he and Papa fell into a discussion about Papa’s
theories on ‘sexual selection’.
X
said something that caused Papa to become
excited—namely, that he had often thought that animals used song to court
their mates. I could see Papa registering this thought for some possible use
later on.
X
then said that he thought human beings did much the same thing
and I fancied that as he said this he was looking in my direction.

When he was about to depart, he brushed against me in the entrance-hall.

I could not tell whether this was an accident or intentional, but I felt his
hand touch the inside of my arm and a sensation shot through me like a
charge. I am sure he noticed how flustered I became. My cheeks were burning
scarlet. He said he would return soon as he kissed my hand and Etty’s. At
that point I saw Mamma, standing behind him, break into a sly smile.

Afterwards, Etty and I acted giddily. We talked about him and she said

she liked his big brown beard and she laughed, saying that he reminded her
of Papa in many ways, not the least of which is his devotion to work and his
ideals. I could not bring myself to talk about him at length, because I thought
my shaking voice would betray me.

At night I have difficulty sleeping. I thrash about in bed and awaken
often. Sometimes I find myself dripping in perspiration from the warm night
air that blows in from the garden, bringing the scent of honeysuckle. I have
strange thoughts, which I am loath to confess, and most vivid dreams.

Recently I have taken to reading
Goblin Market
just before bedtime. It
arouses feelings that are difficult to explain. The refrain sung by the horrid
little goblin-men—
‘come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy’
—
echoes through my sleep along with visions of ripening oranges and strawberries and peaches, all dripping their juices.

The only person to whom I might confess my love is Mary Ann Evans but,
alas, I have not seen her for some months now. And even to her, I would not
reveal his identity.

2 July 1871

Despite my vow to do so, I have not totally given up my efforts to shed light
on the events on the
Beagle
and the underlying cause of Papa’s misery. I do
not go out of my way to unearth clues, but I pick them up and examine them
when they fall into my lap. I think life is like that: it is when one stops exerting oneself that one often succeeds in attaining a goal. So it was with my
sleuthing.

Over the years I have heard of a secret dining club established by Mr
Huxley called the ‘X Club’
(
lately, whenever I hear of it, I think of my own
Mr
X).
The club contains a handful of eminent scientific thinkers and
activists like Messieurs Hooker, Spencer, Lubbock and Busk. As far as I can
tell, its main purpose is to infiltrate the Royal Societies and the rest of the scientific establishment to form a beach-head for Papa’s ideas. Yesterday, some
four club members came to Down House for the weekend and, listening in on
the after-dinner conversation, I was shocked to learn that one
raison d’être
for their visit was to collect money for poor Mr Alfred Wallace, who is perpetually in financial straits. I had heard that the club was pressing the gov
ernment to give Mr Wallace a pension of some £200, but it now appears that
Mr Wallace was
demanding
such a pension.