by Peter Raby
From the start, nothing quite fulfilled his expectations. He was welcomed by two German missionaries, whom he compared unfavourably to the French Jesuits he had known in Singapore: ‘Trading missionaries, teaching what Jesus said, but not doing as He did, can scarcely be expected to do more than give them [savage tribes] a very little of the superficial varnish of religion.’2 They received him hospitably enough, and one of them, who spoke the language, made arrangements to lend him some men to cut wood, rattan and bamboo. The houses were wretched and dilapidated, built out over the water, and the large council-house was supported on posts grossly carved to represent a naked male or female figure, with other carvings ‘still more revolting’ placed on the platform before the entrance. Wallace, normally tolerant, found little to please him in these early encounters, and the local workforce proved apathetic and inefficient. Nevertheless, after three days he had a wooden house twenty feet by fifteen, with a bamboo floor, a thatch door, and a large window overlooking the sea: New Guinea palm-leaf mats formed the walls, and his imported mats were used on the roof, as planned. The Papuans were paid with knives and choppers, the schooner sailed east, and Wallace congratulated himself on being the only European inhabitant on the New Guinea mainland (the missionaries lived on a nearby island). For a few nights, the strangers set a watch and slept with loaded guns to hand, before deciding that the people were, despite popular rumour, well disposed.
The collecting business looked promising to begin with, lories and parroquets, a grackle, a king-hunter, a racquet-tailed kingfisher. But it was hard work: the wet season had left the countryside saturated and muddy. For a naked Papuan, this was not a problem – he would wade through it, and the next water-course would clean him up. For Wallace, in boots and trousers, it was extremely disagreeable. But far less bearable than the mud was the absence of birds of paradise. Dorey, apparently, was not a good centre for them, and they had to be sought for much further away. The natives, he decided, were poor creatures – they scarcely shot a thing, or if they did, they did not bring it to him. Insects, as always, cheered Wallace up: he obtained four distinct species of a new genus of horned flies, later named by William Saunders as Elaphomia, or deerflies, including Elaphomia wallacei. But then his old foot trouble returned – an ankle wound, suffered as he clambered about among fallen tree trunks, turned septic, and kept him indoors for several weeks, especially tantalising when he could see troops of grand butterflies whizzing past the door. He read every line of the Family Herald, and consoled himself with Dumas’s novels, notably La Reine Margot, but his impatience grew. Even more infuriating was the arrival of the Dutch warship Etna, with the Prince of Tidore and the Resident of Banda on board, providing blatant competition. They sent men round in every direction, and were known to be in the market for birds of paradise, while anything less exotic that the local people had for sale was taken straight on board. Wallace was forced to change his tactics, and quietly arranged for Ali to slip away by boat for a month, with instructions to buy all the birds of paradise he could find.
On 18 June 1858, Wallace’s letter reached Darwin at Downe, with its enclosure; and Darwin’s reaction was a mixture of amazement and despair. In Wallace’s later words, the effect of his paper on Darwin ‘was at first almost paralysing’.3 It was as if Darwin were reading his own theory, or an abstract of the ‘big’ book he was working on, Natural Selection. Painfully he composed a letter to Lyell.
Some year or so ago, you recommended me to read a paper by Wallace in the Annals, which had interested you & as I was writing to him, I knew this would please him much, so I told him. He has to day sent me the enclosed & asked me to forward it to you. It seems to me well worth reading. Your words have come true with a vengeance that I shd. be forestalled.
Darwin had never seen a more striking coincidence (understandably, at first he noticed the similarities rather than the differences of emphasis). Any idea of his own priority vanished: his originality was smashed.
I never saw a more striking coincidence, if Wallace had my M.S. sketch written out in 1842 he could not have made a better short abstract! Even his terms now stand as Heads of my Chapters. Please return me the M.S. which he does not say he wishes me to publish; but I shall of course at once write & offer to send to any Journal … I hope you will approve of Wallace’s sketch, that I may tell him what you say.4
Lyell duly read Wallace’s paper, and replied to Downe with an alternative proposal, a compromise whereby Darwin and Wallace would announce their discoveries jointly. Darwin was distraught. His baby son Charles was seriously ill with scarlet fever, and died on 28 June. He forced himself to try to concentrate on the moral dilemma of priority.
There is nothing in Wallace’s sketch which is not written out much fuller in my sketch copied in 1844, & read by Hooker some dozen years ago. About a year ago I sent a short sketch of which I have copy of my views (owing to correspondence on several points) to Asa Gray, so that I could most truly say & prove that I take nothing from Wallace. I shd. be extremely glad now to publish a sketch of my general views in about a dozen pages or so. But I cannot persuade myself that I can do so honourably. Wallace says nothing about publication, & I enclose his letter. – But as I had not intended to publish any sketch, can I do so honourably because Wallace has sent me an outline of his doctrine? – I would far rather burn my whole book, than that he or any other man shd. think that I had behaved in such a paltry spirit. Do you not think that his having sent me this sketch ties my hands?5
Whatever Darwin may have been hoping for, in terms of a response, he was certainly laying out a strong case against himself: ‘I could send Wallace a copy of my letter to Asa Gray to show him that I had not stolen his doctrine’ … ‘base & paltry’ … ‘This is a trumpery affair’ … ‘This is a trumpery letter influenced by trumpery feelings’. All the same, would Lyell forward the trumpery letter, and his reply, to Hooker, so that he could have the opinion of his two best and kindest friends? He added a postscript to make the case against himself as strong as possible, and concluded that ‘First impressions are generally right & I at first thought it would be dishonourable in me now to publish.’ Letters passed to and fro, between Lyell, Hooker and Darwin. Darwin, grieving over Charles and thoroughly demoralised, distanced himself from the decisions. Lyell and Hooker conferred. They agreed, on the basis of their knowledge of Darwin’s hitherto unpublished work, and work in progress, that it would be fair to both parties to arrange a joint publication, and chose a meeting of the Linnean Society on 1 July 1858 as the occasion. The timing was fortuitous: this was an extra meeting arranged after the previous one had been cancelled following the death on 10 June of the great botanist Robert Brown, a former President of the Society. Hooker and Lyell were present, and introduced the papers: extracts from Darwin’s unpublished 1844 essay, which Hooker (but not Lyell) had indeed read; a section of a letter to the American naturalist Asa Gray written by Darwin in September 1857, which contained a sketch of his views, including the part played by the principle of divergence; and thirdly Wallace’s Ternate paper, ‘On the Tendency of Varieties to Depart Indefinitely from the Original Type’, in that order – the strict chronological order.6 In one important respect, Darwin’s misgivings had been met. He was not asked to prepare a new sketch of his theory, but was represented by documents, extracts of documents, intended for other purposes, whereas Wallace’s paper was polished and fluent (even if he had, of course, no chance to correct it). On the other hand, by presenting the papers in the order of writing, Hooker was ensuring greater prominence, and effective priority, for the much better-known Darwin.
There was no discussion, but the theory was out in the open. Hooker commented that
… the interest excited was intense, but the subject was too novel and too ominous for the old school to enter the lists, before armouring. After the meeting it was talked over with bated breath: Lyell’s approval, and perhaps in a small way mine, as his lieutenant in the affair, rather overawed the Fellows, who would otherwi
se have flown out against the doctrine. We had, too, the vantage ground of being familiar with the authors and their theme.7
(They were familiar with Darwin, and the theme, but not with Wallace.) Darwin was not present to read his contributions; his little boy was buried on the very same day as the meeting. Wallace had not been consulted. His agreement might have taken six months to obtain, and in any case, since Lyell had helped to orchestrate the decision, in one sense his wishes were being fully met. All the same, some rather carefully composed letters would need to be written. Darwin, once he had recovered his composure, settled down to work on a ‘short’ version of his book, the text that was published as Origin of Species, urged on by Lyell, Hooker and Huxley.
Wallace was not, in fact, totally ignored in the immediate aftermath of the Linnean presentation. When Alfred Newton received the published papers, he sat up late to read them.
Never shall I forget the impression it made upon me. Herein was contained a perfectly simple solution of all the difficulties which had been troubling me for months past. I hardly know whether I at first felt more vexed at the solution not having occurred to me, than pleased that it had been found at all … All personal feeling apart, it came to me like the direct revelation of a higher power; and I awoke the next morning with the consciousness that there was an end of all the mystery in the simple phrase, ‘Natural Selection’.8
In September that year, Richard Owen, later a fierce opponent, gave cautious recognition to both men in his presidential address to the British Association at Leeds.
In New Guinea, Wallace may have been wondering about Lyell’s reception of his theory, but he had many other practical problems to contend with. Disappointments and setbacks continued. Ali came back from his bird-of-paradise sortie empty-handed. Wallace visited a German naturalist, Rosenberg, draughtsman to the Etna’s survey staff, and admired, longingly, some rare skins of paradise birds. He began to realise that most species came from deep in the interior, passing from village to village by barter till they reached the coast, where they would be sold to Bugis or Ternate traders. To interrupt this chain of supply would be difficult and dangerous. Then Wallace went down with a sharp bout of malaria, and two of his men fell ill in turn, with dysentery and fever. He used his depleted stock of medicine, but the quiet eighteen-year-old lad, Jumaat, died. Wallace provided some new cotton cloth for a shroud, and the other men, fellow Muslims, performed the burial rites. The days dragged on, and Wallace’s persistence was repaid with a good haul of insects, especially beetles. But at the end of July, when the Hester Helena arrived, they said farewell to Dorey without much regret. Continual rain, continual sickness, one death, little wholesome food and finally a plague of ants and blowflies dampened even Wallace’s ardour. The ants swarmed over his work table, carrying off his precious insects under his very nose, even tearing them from the cards on which they were gummed; and the flies settled in swarms on his bird skins, filling their plumage with masses of eggs which turned into maggots the next day. It was a great relief to return to Ternate, and to be able to enjoy milk with his tea and coffee, fresh bread and butter, and fowl and fish daily for dinner. Recalling the episode in The Malay Archipelago, he wrote in a comparatively rare first-person plural that ‘This New Guinea voyage had used us all up’; just as rare was the feeling of comparative failure.9
As soon as he had recovered his energy, he made a short side trip to Gilolo, perhaps with one eye on the next mail boat. When it arrived, it brought a letter from Darwin, and another from Hooker, with news that his paper had been read at the 1 July meeting of the Linnean Society. ‘I have received letters from Mr Darwin and Dr Hooker,’ he reported to his mother,
two of the most eminent naturalists in England, which have highly gratified me. I sent Mr Darwin an essay on a subject upon which he is now writing a great work. He showed it to Dr Hooker and Sir Charles Lyell, who thought so highly of it that they had it read before the Linnean Society. This insures me the acquaintance of these eminent men on my return home.10
In this contemporary reaction, there is a clear note of deference. His comments in My Life are more rounded:
Both Darwin and Dr Hooker wrote to me in the most kind and courteous manner, informing me of what had been done, of which they hoped I would approve. Of course I not only approved, but felt that they had given me more honour and credit than I deserved, by putting my sudden intuition – hastily written and immediately sent off for the opinion of Darwin and Lyell – on the same level with the prolonged labours of Darwin, who had reached the same point twenty years before me, and had worked continuously during that long period in order that he might be able to present the theory to the world with such a body of systematised facts and arguments as would almost compel conviction.
In a later letter, Darwin wrote that he owed much to me and his two friends, adding: ‘I almost think that Lyell would have proved right, and that I should never have completed my larger work.’ I think, therefore, that I may have the satisfaction of knowing that by writing my article and sending it to Darwin, I was the unconscious means of leading him to concentrate himself on the task of drawing up what he termed an ‘abstract’ of the great work he had in preparation, but which was really a large and carefully written volume – the celebrated ‘Origin of Species’, published in November, 1859.11
Knowing how carefully Wallace used words, it is possible to infer a slight but significant distinction between the two paragraphs, between his approval in 1858, and the later recognition that, but for Wallace’s paper, Darwin might never have been pushed into writing The Origin of Species in the particular form he gave it. At the time Wallace seems to have been genuinely delighted; and his other contemporary comments, to George Sims, to Bates, to Stevens, are entirely consistent. He instructed Stevens to obtain copies of the proceedings. ‘Send one to Bates, Spencer and any other of my friends who may be interested in the matter and who do not attend the Linnean,’ he wrote, much as he might have done with a paper on the Aru Islanders or the orang-utan – and this was request number three in his letter, following a complaint about the length of the no. 14 pins Stevens had shipped out: ‘perfectly useless’.12 Darwin had approved of the paper, and had forwarded it, as asked, to Lyell. Hooker and Lyell had, effectively, refereed it and presented it to the scientific world, alongside papers from Darwin. How could Wallace, locked into his slow island-hopping rhythm, not be pleased? In addition, the Aru collection had been a huge success – £1000 worth actually sold already. Another year or two, and he might realise enough to live on, and carry out ‘long-cherished plans of a country life in Old England’.13 He made calculations on the cost of annuities. The idea of going back to England via California was fading. Once his explorations were complete, he would be glad to return home as quickly and cheaply as possible. As for his own big book, he seems to have had no urgent plans to push ahead with it, even after receiving the good news of the Ternate paper’s reception; besides, while it might be planned, it could scarcely be written during his travels.
The financial success of the Aru collection spurred him on. For his next trip, he became even more independent, hiring a boat and a pilot, who together with his four assistants – Ali included – made up the entire complement. A twelve-day voyage via the Kaioa Islands brought them to Batchian (Bacan). The morning after he had set up his establishment, he wandered off alone to investigate likely collecting grounds, having first sent his boys off to shoot. Ali came back with several birds hanging from his belt, and held up one for Wallace’s inspection: ‘Look here, sir, what a curious bird!’
I saw a bird with a mass of splendid green feathers on its breast, elongated into two glittering tufts; but what I could not understand was a pair of long white feathers, which stuck straight out from each shoulder. Ali assured me that the bird stuck them out this way itself when fluttering its wings, and that they had remained so without his touching them. I now saw that I had got a great prize, no less than a completely new form of the bird of paradise, d
iffering most remarkably from every other known bird.14
To Stevens, he could not conceal his joy: it was
… the finest and most wonderful bird in the whole island: a new Bird of Paradise! of a new genus!! quite unlike anything yet known, very curious and very handsome!!! When I can get a couple of pairs I will send them overland to see what a new Bird of Paradise will really fetch. I expect £25 each! … I consider it the greatest discovery I have yet made …15
George Gray, the Ornithological Curator at the British Museum, named it after its collector, Semioptera wallacei, or Wallace’s standard-wing. This was the kind of boost Wallace needed to drive him forward. From now on, birds of paradise remained at the forefront of his plans: he might discover more species in Gilolo or Ceram. To set against the honour and acclaim of the theoretical paper on how species evolved, Wallace could happily weigh the beauty of some new and perfect organism that he had chanced on, in the remote solitude of the islands. Returning to Ternate on a government boat – he had sent his own back some while before – he had one unnerving encounter. On retiring for the night, he put out his candle, as there was still an oil lamp burning, and stretched out a hand to pick up his handkerchief, which he thought he saw on a box beside his bed. He felt instead something cool and very smooth, which moved as he touched it: another aspect of paradise, a highly poisonous snake that must have come on board in a bunch of plantains. It was swiftly dispatched, in a joint effort between Wallace and Ali.