DEDICATION
To my mother and my sister, who shared the years with me, and in memory of my father, missed by all.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Family tree
Genes and pith helmets
Camp followers in Kenya
The land of the lake
Eagle in the mountains
Farewell to Africa
Photographic Insert 1
Under Salisbury’s spire
‘And your English summer’s done’
The spire by the Nene
Photographic Insert 2
Dreaming spires
Learning the trade
West Coast dreamtime
Computer fix
Photographic Insert 3
The grammar of behaviour
The immortal gene
Looking back down the path
Acknowledgements
Text acknowledgements
Picture acknowledgements
Index
About the author
Also by Richard Dawkins
Credits
Copyright
About the publisher
FAMILY TREE
GENES AND PITH HELMETS
GLAD to know you, Clint.’ The friendly passport controller was not to know that British people are sometimes given a family name first, followed by the name their parents wanted them to use. I was always to be Richard, just as my father was always John. Our first name of Clinton was something we forgot about, as our parents had intended. To me, it has been no more than a niggling irritation which I would have been happier without (notwithstanding the serendipitous realization that it gives me the same initials as Charles Robert Darwin). But alas, nobody anticipated the United States Department of Homeland Security. Not content with scanning our shoes and rationing our toothpaste, they decreed that anyone entering America must travel under his first name, exactly as written in his passport. So I had to forgo my lifelong identity as Richard and rebrand myself Clinton R. Dawkins when booking tickets to the States – and, of course, when filling in those important forms: the ones that require you explicitly to deny that you are entering the USA in order to overthrow the constitution by force of arms. (‘Sole purpose of visit’ was the British broadcaster Gilbert Harding’s response to that; nowadays such levity will see you banged up.)
Clinton Richard Dawkins, then, is the name on my birth certificate and passport, and my father was Clinton John. As it happened, he was not the only C. Dawkins whose name appeared in The Times as the father of a boy born in the Eskotene Nursing Home, Nairobi, in March 1941. The other was the Reverend Cuthbert Dawkins, Anglican missionary and no relation. My bemused mother received a shower of congratulations from bishops and clerics in England, unknown to her but kindly calling down God’s blessings upon her newborn son. We cannot know whether the misdirected benedictions intended for Cuthbert’s son had any improving effect on me, but he became a missionary like his father and I became a biologist like mine. To this day my mother jokes that I might be the wrong one. I am happy to say that more than just my physical resemblance to my father reassures me that I am not a changeling, and was never destined for the church.
Clinton first became a Dawkins family name when my great-great-great-grandfather Henry Dawkins (1765–1852) married Augusta, daughter of General Sir Henry Clinton (1738–95), who, as Commander-in-Chief of British forces from 1778 to 1782, was partly responsible for losing the American War of Independence. The circumstances of the marriage make the commandeering of his name by the Dawkins family seem a bit cheeky. The following extract is from a history of Great Portland Street, where General Clinton lived.
In 1788 his daughter eloped from this street in a hackney-coach with Mr Dawkins, who eluded pursuit by posting half a dozen other hackney-coaches at the corners of the street leading into Portland Place, with directions to drive off as rapidly as possible, each in a different direction . . .1
I wish I could claim this ornament of the family escutcheon as the inspiration for Stephen Leacock’s Lord Ronald, who ‘. . . flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions’. I’d also like to think that I inherited some of Henry Dawkins’s resourcefulness, not to mention his ardour. This is unlikely, however, as only one 32nd part of my genome is derived from him. One 64th part is from General Clinton himself, and I have never shown any military leanings. Tess of the D’Urbervilles and The Hound of the Baskervilles are not the only works of fiction that invoke hereditary ‘throwbacks’ to distant ancestors, forgetting that the proportion of genes shared is halved with every generation and therefore dies away exponentially – or it would if it were not for cousin-marriage, which becomes ever more frequent the more distant the cousinship, so that we are all more or less distant cousins of each other.
It is a remarkable fact, which you can prove to yourself without leaving your armchair, that if you go back far enough in a time machine, any individual you meet who has any living human descendants at all must be an ancestor of everybody living. When your time machine has travelled sufficiently far into the past, everybody you meet is an ancestor either of everybody alive in 2013 or of nobody. By the method of reductio ad absurdum beloved of mathematicians, you can see that this has to be true of our fishy ancestors of the Devonian era (my fish has to be the same as your fish, because the absurd alternative is that your fish’s descendants and my fish’s descendants stayed chastely separate from each other for 300 million years yet are still capable of interbreeding today). The only question is how far back you have to go to apply that argument. Clearly not as far as our fishy forebears, but how far? Well, hurdling swiftly over the detailed calculation, I can tell you that if the Queen is descended from William the Conqueror, you quite probably are too (and – give or take the odd illegitimacy – I know I am, as does almost everybody with a recorded pedigree).
Henry and Augusta’s son, Clinton George Augustus Dawkins (1808–71) was one of the few Dawkinses actually to use the name Clinton. If he inherited any of his father’s ardour he nearly lost it in 1849 during an Austrian bombardment of Venice, where he was the British consul. I have a cannonball in my possession, sitting on a plinth bearing an inscription on a brass plate. I don’t know whose is the authorial voice and I don’t know how reliable it is, but, for what it is worth, here is my translation (from French, then the language of diplomacy):
One night when he was in bed, a cannonball penetrated the bed covers and passed between his legs, but happily did him no more than superficial damage. I first took this to be a tall story, until I learned for certain that it was based on the exact truth. His Swiss colleague met him later in the funeral procession of the American consul and, when asked about it, he laughingly confirmed the facts and told him it was precisely for this reason he was limping.
This narrow escape of my ancestor’s vital parts took place before he was to put them to use, and it is tempting to attribute my own existence to a stroke of ballistic luck. A few inches closer to the fork of Shakespeare’s radish and . . . But actually my existence, and yours, and the postman’s, hangs from a far narrower thread of luck than that. We owe it to the precise timing and placing of everything that ever happened since the universe began. The incident of the cannonball is only a dramatic example of a much more general phenomenon. As I have put it before, if the second dinosaur to the left of the tall cycad tree had not happened to sneeze and thereby fail to catch the tiny, shrew-like ancestor of all the mammals, we would none of us be here. We all can regard ourselves as exquisitely improbable. But here, in a triumph of hindsight, we are.
C. G. A. (‘Cannonball’) Dawkins’s son Clinton (later Sir Clinton) Edward Dawkins (1859–1905) was one of many Dawkinse
s to attend Balliol College, Oxford. He was there at the right time to be immortalized in the Balliol Rhymes, originally published as a broadsheet called The Masque of Balliol in 1881. In the spring term of that year, seven undergraduates composed and printed scurrilous rhymes about personalities of the college. Most famous is the verse that celebrates Balliol’s great Master, Benjamin Jowett, composed by H. C. Beeching, later Dean of Norwich Cathedral:
First come I, my name is Jowett.
There’s no knowledge but I know it.
I am Master of this College,
What I don’t know isn’t knowledge.
Less witty, but intriguing to me, is the rhyme on Clinton Edward Dawkins:
Positivists ever talk in s-
Uch an epic style as Dawkins;
God is naught and Man is all,
Spell him with a capital.
Freethinkers were much less common in Victorian times, and I wish I had met great-great-uncle Clinton (as a child I did meet two of his younger sisters in advanced old age, one of whom had two maids called – I found the surname convention weird – Johnson and Harris). And what should we make of that ‘epic style’?
I believe Sir Clinton later paid for my grandfather, his nephew Clinton George Evelyn Dawkins, to go to Balliol, where he seems to have done little but row. There is a photograph (reproduced in the picture section) of my grandfather preparing for action on the river that is wonderfully evocative of Edwardian high summer in Oxford. It could be a scene from Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson. The behatted guests are standing on the college barge, the floating boathouse which all the college rowing clubs maintained until living memory. Today, alas, they have been replaced by serviceable brick boathouses on the shore. (One or two of the barges are still afloat – or at least aground – as houseboats, having been towed to watery resting places amid moorhens and grebes in the backwaters and rivers around Oxford.) The resemblance between Grandfather and two of his sons, my father and my Uncle Colyear, is unmistakable. Family resemblances fascinate me, although they die away rapidly as the generations march on.
Grandfather was devoted to Balliol and contrived to stay there far beyond the normally allotted span of an undergraduate – solely, I suspect, in order to carry on rowing. When I used to visit him in old age, the college was his main topic of conversation, and he repeatedly wanted to know whether we still used (I repeatedly had to tell him we didn’t) the same Edwardian slang: ‘Mugger’ for Master; ‘wagger pagger’ for wastepaper basket; Maggers’ Memogger for the Martyrs’ Memorial, the landmark cross outside Balliol that commemorates the three Anglican bishops who were burned alive in Oxford in 1555 for their attachment to the wrong flavour of Christianity.
One of my last memories of Grandfather Dawkins was of delivering him to his final Balliol gaudy (reunion dinner for former members, where each year a different age cohort is entertained). Surrounded by old comrades pushing Zimmer frames (‘walkers’) and festooned with ear trumpets and pince-nez, he was recognized by one of them who indulged the obvious sarcasm: ‘Hello, Dawkins, you still rowing for Leander?’ I left him looking a trifle forlorn among the boys of the old brigade, some of whom must surely have fought in the Boer War and were, therefore, rightful dedicatees of Hilaire Belloc’s famous poem ‘To the Balliol Men Still in Africa’:
Years ago, when I was at Balliol,
Balliol men – and I was one –
Swam together in winter rivers,
Wrestled together under the sun.
And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol,
Loved already, but hardly known,
Welded us each of us into the others:
Called a levy and chose her own.
Here is a House that armours a man
With the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger
And a laughing way in the teeth of the world
And a holy hunger and thirst for danger:
Balliol made me, Balliol fed me,
Whatever I had she gave me again:
And the best of Balliol loved and led me.
God be with you, Balliol men.
With difficulty I read this at my father’s funeral in 2011, and then again in 2012 when I gave a eulogy for Christopher Hitchens, another Balliol man, at the Global Atheist Convention in Melbourne. With difficulty because, even on happier occasions, I become tearful with embarrassing ease when reciting loved poetry, and this particular poem by Belloc is one of the worst offenders.
After leaving Balliol, Grandfather made his career, like so many of my family, in the Colonial Service. He became Conservator of Forests in his district of Burma, where he spent much time in remote corners of the hardwood forests, supervising the heavy work of the highly trained elephant lumberjacks. He was up-country among the teak trees when the news reached him – I like to fancy by hand of runner with cleft stick – of the birth, in 1921, of his youngest son Colyear (named after Lady Juliana Colyear, mother of the enterprising Henry who eloped with Augusta Clinton). He was so excited that, without waiting for other transport to be available, he bicycled 50 miles to be at his wife Enid’s bedside, where he proudly opined that the new boy had the ‘Dawkins nose’. Evolutionary psychologists have noted the particular eagerness with which new babies are scanned for resemblances to their paternal, as opposed to maternal relatives – for the obvious reason that it is harder to be confident of paternity than maternity.
Colyear was the youngest and John, my father, the eldest of three brothers, all of whom were born in Burma to be carried around the jungle in Moses baskets slung from poles by trusty bearers, and all of whom eventually followed their father into the Colonial Service, but in three different parts of Africa: John in Nyasaland (now Malawi), the middle brother, Bill, in Sierra Leone, and Colyear in Uganda. Bill was christened Arthur Francis after his two grandfathers, but was always called Bill for a childhood resemblance to Lewis Carroll’s Bill the Lizard. John and Colyear looked alike as young men, to the extent that John was once stopped in the street and asked: ‘Are you you or your brother?’ (That story is true, which is perhaps more than can be said of the famous legend that W. A. Spooner, the only Warden (head) of my present Oxford college to qualify for an ‘ism’, once greeted a young man in the quad with the question: ‘Let me see, I never can remember, was it you or your brother was killed in the war?’) As they aged, Bill and Colyear grew more alike (and like their father) and John less so, to my eyes. It often happens that family resemblances appear and disappear at different stages during a life history, which is one reason I find them fascinating. It is easy to forget that genes continue to exert their effects throughout life, not just during embryonic development.
There was no sister, to the regret of my grandparents, who had intended that their youngest would be Juliana but had to settle for her noble surname instead. All three brothers were talented. Colyear was the cleverest academically, and Bill the most athletic: I was proud to see his name on the roll of honour at the school I attended later, as holder of the school record for the hundred yards sprint – an ability which doubtless served him well at rugby when he scored a dashing touchdown for the Army against Great Britain early in the Second World War. I share none of Bill’s athleticism, but I like to think that I learned how to think about science from my father, and how to explain it from my Uncle Colyear. Colyear became an Oxford don after leaving Uganda and was widely revered as a brilliant teacher of statistics, a notoriously difficult subject to convey to biologists. He died too young, and I dedicated one of my books, River Out of Eden, to him in the following terms:
To the memory of Henry Colyear Dawkins (1921–1992), Fellow of St John’s College, Oxford: a master of the art of making things clear.
The brothers died in reverse order of age and I sadly miss them all. I spoke the eulogy at the funeral of Bill, my godfather and uncle, when he died at the age of 93 in 2009.2 I tried to convey the idea that, although there was much that was bad in the British Colonial Service, the best was very good indeed; and Bill
, like his two brothers, and like Dick Kettlewell whom I’ll mention later,3 was of the best.
If the three brothers could be said to have followed their father into the Colonial Service, they had a similar heritage on their mother’s side too. Their maternal grandfather, Arthur Smythies, was Chief Conservator of Forests in his district of India; his son Evelyn became Chief Conservator of Forests in Nepal. It was my Dawkins grandfather’s friendship with Evelyn, forged while both were reading forestry at Oxford, that led to his meeting and marrying Evelyn’s sister Enid, my grandmother. Evelyn was the author of a noted book on India’s Forest Wealth (1925) as well as various standard works on philately. His wife Olive, I am sorry to say, was fond of shooting tigers and published a book called Tiger Lady. There is a picture of her standing on a tiger and under a solar topee, with her husband proudly patting her on the shoulder, captioned: ‘Well done, little woman.’ I don’t think she would have been my type.
Olive and Evelyn’s eldest son, my father’s taciturn first cousin Bertram (‘Billy’) Smythies, was also in the forest service, in Burma and later Sarawak: he wrote the standard works Birds of Burma and Birds of Borneo. The latter became a kind of bible to the (not at all taciturn) travel writer Redmond O’Hanlon, on his hilarious journey Into the Heart of Borneo with the poet James Fenton.
Bertram’s younger brother John Smythies departed from family tradition and became a distinguished neuroscientist and authority on schizophrenia and psychedelic drugs, living in California, where he is credited with inspiring Aldous Huxley to take mescaline and cleanse his ‘doors of perception’. I recently asked his advice on whether to accept the kind offer of a friend to mentor me through an LSD trip. He advised against. Yorick Smythies, another first cousin of my father, was a devoted amanuensis of the philosopher Wittgenstein.4 Peter Conradi, in his biography of the novelist Iris Murdoch, identifies Yorick as the ‘holy fool’ upon whom she based one of the characters in Under the Net, Hugo Belfounder. I must say it is hard to see the resemblance.
An Appetite for Wonder Page 1