by James Morrow
Of the many felicitous events overseen by the Nog with characteristic detachment was Phineas Bathurst’s decision to start taking himself seriously as a puppeteer, enriching the Holywell Academy curriculum with his talents. The old man’s British history lessons were particularly memorable. Although the Holywell students were generally a rowdy breed (and had therefore been denied admission to more venerable Oxford educational establishments), even the most fractious young scholar found himself caring about the Long Parliament when its vagaries were explained by a puppet representing Oliver Cromwell. As for the fortunes of Charles I, his execution proved singularly absorbing when the presentation included the puppet’s head falling off its shoulders and rolling across the classroom floor.
Of the other happy occurrences surveyed by the Nog with its usual indifference, three brought Chloe particular satisfaction—the first being Malcolm’s resolution to finally forgive himself for killing two mercenaries during the attack on Castillo Bracamoros, the second being the marriage of Ralph Dartworthy, master of H.M.S. Inalienable (survey ship extraordinaire) to Solange Kirsop, mistress of Cornucopia House (brothel non pareil), and the third being the birth of a rambunctious but winsome primate named Sophie Anne Chadwick. Malcolm proved a loving father, Phineas an indulgent grandfather, Algernon a solicitous uncle, and Chloe an attentive mother. Owing to her hours spent in Sophie’s exuberant presence, she soon came to understand what Mr. Darwin meant by Annie defying the world with her joyousness, though each time she considered the sentiment her eyes welled up with tears.
For some reason Mr. Darwin had decided to call his book not Natural Selection but rather On the Origin of Species. Perhaps this more provocative title contributed to its triumph. On the first day following publication, the book sold out an initial printing of 1,250 copies, then went on to become at once a cause célèbre and a succès de scandale. As for the change of title, this mystery was solved when a stocky, bearded, pasty-faced gentleman showed up at Chloe’s door, portmanteau in hand, and presented her with a letter of introduction from Down House.
25 June 1860
My Dear Mrs. Chadwick,
The bearer of this letter, Mr. Thomas Huxley, biologist, has recently emerged as a tireless champion of my evolution theory (whose publication last year under the title On the Origin of Species perhaps drew your attention).
Before I forget, let me thank you for alerting me to the conjectures of the peripatetic specimen monger Alfred Russel Wallace. Because of your warning, I attended immediately to the manuscript that arrived in June of 1858 from the Malay Archipelago. Mrs. Chadwick, it was just as you predicted: your acquaintance had articulated an argument so close to my own in spirit and specificity that I might have written it myself.
In a political masterstroke, Mr. Lyell and Mr. Hooker (you will recall those gentlemen from your Down House days) arranged for Mr. Wallace’s “On the Tendency of Varieties to Depart Indefinitely from the Original Type” to be read at the Linnean Society in tandem with “An Essay Concerning Descent with Modification” (a sketch with which you are promiscuously familiar), so that the specimen monger and I would receive equal credit for the germ of the idea. Owing to this strategy, I have shed any obligation to collaborate with Mr. Wallace in future. Seeking further to establish my claim, I abandoned Natural Selection and began furiously to compose a shorter and more intelligible work.
So why is Mr. Huxley at your gate? Later this week, the British Association for the Advancement of Science will convene in Oxford’s newly built museum of natural history. Amongst the papers to be read are several that touch upon my Origin of Species. Fleet Street is framing the event as an epoch-making battle between Religion and Science. Looking after God’s interests will be Richard Owen, one-time Shelley Prize judge, as well as the ubiquitous Samuel Wilberforce. Mr. Huxley, meanwhile, will undertake to defend evolution against the slings and arrows of the Church of England.
It seems to me that, having made a case for descent with modification before a jury in the Encantadas, you are uniquely qualified to help Mr. Huxley rehearse his performance. Should you decide to offer him lodgings and, more importantly, to tutor him, you will earn my undying gratitude.
Yours, etc.,
C. Darwin
P.S. In his cover note Mr. Wallace mentioned his chance encounter in Manáos with a female naturalist called Chloe Bathurst, adding, “If this extraordinary woman has returned to England, you may wish to look her up. When I told her about the curious distribution of marmoset types along the Rio Negro, she apprehended why the mystery matters.”
Briefly Chloe considered attending the British Association gathering, but the thought of hearing Wilberforce and Owen pontificate about a theory they did not understand dismayed her. Better to send Huxley into the fray. After according her visitor a cheery welcome, she escorted him into the drawing-room and introduced him to her family. Malcolm was busy planning a lecture about the Norman Conquest. Sophie was busy preventing her father from planning a lecture about the Norman Conquest, an undertaking that required her to gallop about the room on a hobbyhorse whilst reciting nursery rhymes at the top of her lungs.
Upon learning of the imminent clash at the university museum, Malcolm announced that he wished to be amongst the observers. “I hope you won’t mind if I remain at home,” Chloe told her husband. “Simply being in Wilberforce’s presence gives me the fantods.”
For the balance of the evening Chloe and Malcolm attempted to recapitulate for Mr. Huxley the arguments they’d advanced during Duntopia versus Cabot and Quinn. Scribbling in his notebook, the biologist ornamented their narratives with smiles of approbation. The three of them speculated that, judging from the withering notice he’d accorded On the Origin of Species in the Edinburgh Review, Professor Owen would attempt a neurological line of attack. As the world’s most respected anatomist, he would testify that a gorilla’s brain mapped far more completely onto that of even the lowest lemur than onto Man’s exalted cerebrum.
“If that’s his game, I’ll happily take the field against him,” said Mr. Huxley. “When it comes to comparative neurology, the views of the world’s most respected anatomist suffer from the defect of being untrue.”
“As for Wilberforce, he’ll probably ask whether your simian relatives occur in greater abundance on your grandfather’s side of the family or your grandmother’s,” said Chloe. “If I were you, I would invite him to consider that, lost in the dark wood of his wit, he has missed the very Tree of Life flourishing at the heart of the argument. Yes, the theory of natural selection has a thing or two to say about apes and Englishmen, but Mr. Darwin somehow wrapped his mind about the whole of Creation—that’s the glory of On the Origin of Species.”
“Or you might simply say you would rather have an ape for a grandfather than a bishop,” Malcolm suggested.
Instead of allowing Wilberforce and Owen to spoil her day and her digestion, Chloe spent the 30th of June deploying bird feeders about the grounds of Holywell Academy, assisted by Sophie. Shortly after nine o’clock in the evening Malcolm and Mr. Huxley returned from their adventure, both in high spirits. Eavesdropping on the ebullient chatter at the reception marking the end of the British Association sessions, they’d quickly concluded that Darwin had carried the day. For all Samuel Wilberforce’s formidable rhetorical gifts, the bishop had been bested.
“This morning, it was Owen who commanded the dais,” said Mr. Huxley, “serving up his anticipated drivel about gorilla brains.”
“Thomas smote him hip and thigh,” said Malcolm. “I made a few contributions as well, sharing certain insights concerning tortoise shells and human cuspids.”
“We ate lunch at the Lamb and Flag,” said Mr. Huxley, “then sallied forth to tilt with Wilberforce, only to find mobs of students queuing up outside the museum, along with clergymen, dons, and ladies in crinolines. The building had no single space that might accommodate such a crowd—none save the reading room, which is still under construction.”
“Lo
rd Woolfenden and Lady Isadora came to the rescue, suggesting that everyone adjourn to their manor house down the street,” said Malcolm. “How strange it was to be back in the Alastor Hall library, preparing once again to participate in a debate about God.”
“Wilberforce lost no time assuming the dais,” said Huxley. “I’ve never seen him in better form. There’s nary a cake of soap to be had in Oxford. And you were right, Mrs. Chadwick. He asked me about my grandparents.”
Malcolm said, “Whereupon Thomas turned to me and whispered, ‘The Lord hath delivered him into my hands.’”
Mr. Huxley said, “I told Wilberforce, quote, ‘If the question were put to me, would I rather have an ape for a grandfather, or a man highly endowed by Nature and possessed of great means of influence, and yet who employs those faculties and that influence for the mere purpose of introducing ridicule into a serious scientific discussion—then I unhesitatingly affirm my preference for the ape!’”
“Well done, sir!” said Chloe.
Malcolm offered Mr. Huxley a puckish grin. “I still believe you should’ve said you’d rather have an ape for a grandfather than a bishop.”
“In any event, gentlemen, you won,” said Chloe. “I’m proud of you both.”
“It’s yourself you should be proud of, Mrs. Chadwick,” said Mr. Huxley. “Malcolm has been apprising me of your achievements: getting the rakehells to fund your adventure, saving the Galápagos fauna, rescuing your friends—to say nothing of your brilliant performance during the blasphemy trial. Mr. Darwin told me that your account of that proceeding inspired him to publish his book.”
“It would appear that, just as Charles Darwin has acquired a bulldog in Thomas Huxley,” said Chloe to her husband, “so have I found a cavalier in Malcolm Chadwick.”
“I owe you nothing less, my darling,” said Malcolm.
And from that moment on, it could truly be said that Chloe of the Encantadas knew her own wonder.
* * *
Insofar as it shaped our heroine’s fortunes and family, this chronicle of the Great God Contest is now ended—though one additional episode merits a full measure of printer’s ink. For it happened that Chloe was present when oblivion’s pale priest put on his threadbare cassock, donned his ratty cap, and came in quest of Charles Darwin. Moreover, the scientist passed away in proximity to a metaphysical mystery, a riddle that Chloe and Malcolm would ponder for the rest of their days.
16 April 1882
Dear Mrs. Chadwick,
I regret to inform you that Mr. Darwin is gravely ill. Seizures, chest pains, erratic pulse. Please remember him in your prayers, and call on us if you wish.
Sincerely,
Emma Darwin
At first Chloe rejected the idea of returning to Down House. Fond though she was of her former employer, it would be inappropriate for anyone save his immediate relations to witness his final hours. But then a nocturnal visit from Bertram prompted a change of heart.
“In my leisure time I’ve been sorting through my parents’ effects,” he said, following Chloe into the drawing-room, a rectangular package snugged under his arm. “Amongst my discoveries—rediscoveries, I should say—was this emanation from my father’s disordered mind.” He set the bundle on the tea table, pulling away the linen wrapping to reveal a stack of foolscap. “When I glanced at Decrypting the Descent of Man thirty years ago, I dismissed it as the ramblings of an intellect lost to lunacy. But yesterday I read every word, and I realized I’d done my father a disservice. I should greatly value your opinion of this manuscript, for it’s replete with scientific matters of the sort you and Malcolm are forever discussing. It even mentions the Charles Darwin who once employed you as his zookeeper.”
“I shall read it ere I douse the lights,” said Chloe.
That night she perused all seventy-two pages of Decrypting the Descent of Man. Allegedly penned by Bertram but evidently authored by his father, it was amongst the most engaging documents she’d ever encountered, as thrilling in its way as The Voyage of the Beagle. The following morning she gave the manuscript to her husband and insisted that he read it. Upon turning the last page, Malcolm declared that they must reach Mr. Darwin’s side without delay.
Arriving in Down Village early the next day, they secured a room at the Queens Head Inn, then proceeded to the estate on foot. The back lawn featured a scene of benign pandemonium, with Mr. Darwin’s adult children milling about the orchard and the walled vegetable garden whilst a tribe of grandchildren ran in all directions, some playing blindman’s bluff, others improvising a boisterous rendition of cricket. A more festive death watch could scarcely be imagined.
They found Mr. Darwin slouched in a wheelchair beside the Spanish chestnut, attended by his wife and a sturdy fellow who was surely Master William grown to manhood. With his long white beard and benevolent gaze, Mr. Darwin rather suggested the God whose alleged factuality he’d permanently problematized, but the analogy did not withstand scrutiny, for the person Chloe beheld was not a Supreme Being but a frail country gentleman, wheezing, febrile, hunched in pain. Mrs. Darwin plied her husband with a draught of quinine—a worthy drug, mused Chloe, though surely more effective in combating malaria than in curing mortality.
“I doubt that you remember me, William,” said Chloe, catching the gaze of the eldest Darwin son.
“I could never forget Miss Bathurst, who once played Pirate Anne Bonney and gave me a Satan snow globe. That treasure is still in my possession, sitting atop my wardrobe.”
As Chloe and Malcolm approached the wheelchair, Mrs. Darwin stepped discreetly aside, evidently sensing she would not take comfort in what the Oxonians were about to say. Her fears were well founded, for after Chloe made the introductions Malcolm confided to Mr. Darwin that his faith in God had evaporated partially in consequence of transmutationism.
“Is that good news or bad?” asked Mr. Darwin.
“Good, I think,” said Malcolm.
“As for my own religious speculations—in recent years I’ve put both God and Man to one side and rediscovered my passion for lowlier entities.” Mr. Darwin directed a trembling finger towards a circular slab set into the lawn like a horizontal millstone. “Behold my latest experiment.” Two vertical metal rods etched with calibrations protruded through a hole at the core of the plinth. “My youngest son, Horace, calls it the wormograph. Our observations suggest that, owing to soil displacement caused by earthworms, the stone sinks a full two millimeters each year.”
“They’re probably deaf, you know—earthworms,” Chloe told Malcolm. “When I first met Mr. Darwin, he demonstrated that hypothesis using Mrs. Darwin’s piano.”
“You must get Emma to play for you,” said Mr. Darwin. “She’s remarkably gifted.”
“Here’s something you’ll find equally remarkable.” Chloe deposited Decrypting the Descent of Man in his lap, then told him what she knew of its provenance.
“To employ a locution I first heard from your lips, it sounds like ‘a ripping good yarn,’” said Mr. Darwin, stroking the manuscript. “Now allow me to convey some news I hope won’t distress you. Our zoo no longer exists. Five years ago I decided that the Galápagos specimens and their progeny had played their parts in my life. I gave the newest generation of birds to the Marquis of Sudbury for his aviary. You’ll find the descendants of our original lizards in Her Majesty’s Zoo.”
“And the tortoises?” asked Chloe.
“Perseus of Indefatigable, Boswell of James, Isolde of Charles—all the rest: they’re in the Jardin des Animaux.”
“I shall make a point of visiting them.”
“Mr. Darwin must rest now,” said Mrs. Darwin, inserting herself into the tableau that had formed around the wheelchair. “If you wish to see him again, come back tomorrow morning.”
“The quinine is an excellent idea,” Chloe told Mrs. Darwin. “I would also recommend the occasional sip of whisky.”
“Mr. Darwin has already thought of that,” said Mrs. Darwin with an evanescent smile.
Partly to pass the time but mostly because she wanted him to see whence came the seeds of their South American adventure, Chloe took Malcolm on a tour. She showed him the vivarium, now as barren of reptiles and birds as Wilberforce and Hallowborn had intended to make Galápagos. She guided him to the greenhouse, where he took a naïve delight in feeding his fingernail clipping to a carnivorous sundew. The solitary comet orchid (perhaps the original specimen, perhaps a descendant) also fascinated Malcolm, and he decided that Mr. Darwin was well within his rights to predict the eventual discovery of the necessary pollinator, complete with thirty-centimeter tongue.
As dusk drew nigh, they perambulated along the famous sandwalk, four full revolutions, talking of many things. Chloe took note of the irony. On this saddest of days she and her husband were discussing unequivocally pleasant subjects—the unexpected ascent of Algernon Bathurst to the post of Oxford Gaming Commissioner; the bizarre puppet shows that the late Phineas Bathurst had staged for his three granddaughters; the generally successful theatrical career of their firstborn (though the Drury Lane Company’s revival of The Last Days of Pompeii, with Sophie as Nydia the blind flower seller, had closed after only fourteen performances); the new telescope that daughter Celia had acquired for her celestial explorations; the English translation of Novalis that Tess had recently completed for John Murray, publisher of Mr. Darwin’s The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals; the letter from Philippe Léourier revealing that he’d found, deep in the Peruvian jungle, “the ruins of a city that was surely El Dorado”; the admirable efforts of Ralph and Solange Dartworthy to transform Cornucopia House from an elegant brothel into a haven not only for harlots seeking to escape the trade but also for sailors in need of a final port.