This Thing Of Darkness (101 page)

‘If a central intelligence has bred different types of pigeon in the wild, then surely the breeder is God Himself?’

‘Chance
is the breeder, my friend. For the crossbreeds are random, and the failed varieties die out. The successful crossbreeds go on to form the basis of new species.’

‘But crossbreeds are not successful in the wild. Farm-bred animals simply die out when released into the wild, like hot-housed flowers in a cold climate.’

‘Only because human breeders are looking for decorative variations, whereas nature inadvertently breeds species that are better suited to changes in climate, geology and so forth. We saw it with the Galapagos finches.’

‘Nature, or God, has crossbred a single type of finch into a variety of finches, I grant you, just as a pigeon-breeder can create a variety of pigeons. But human breeders have never once succeeded in altering a skeleton, or the organs of nutrition, of circulation, of respiration, of secretion or of generation. When man tries to crossbreed species — actual distinct species - the results are sterile. Look at the common mule. And you claim that where man, with all his ingenuity, fails, nature somehow succeeds by accident? Have you yourself succeeded in altering any of your pigeons at these fundamental levels?’

‘No. But how much more powerful are the mighty forces of nature than the mere hand of man - able, surely, to alter the whole machinery of life? Let me give you an example. In North America the black bear was witnessed by Hearne, swimming with an open mouth for hours on end, catching insects on the water’s surface. I can see no difficulty in a race of bears being rendered, by natural selection, more and more aquatic in their structure and habits, with larger and larger mouths, until a creature is produced as monstrous as a whale.’

FitzRoy laughed almost delightedly. He was beginning to enjoy himself once again, to relish the intellectual cut and thrust of his younger days, in spite of the grotesque presumption of his old shipmate’s arguments.

‘You are seriously suggesting that a bear might transmute into a whale? Where, then, is your half-creature - your half-bear, half-whale?’

‘You think there is no evidence of physical transmutation? What are the fins of a penguin but its former wings? What is a man’s useless nipple but the remains of a former breast?’

‘Even assuming you are correct in these observations, you are describing changes within the species of penguins, within the boundaries of the human race. You will find no half-men, half-penguins anywhere! By what means do you believe these variations descend, that the species boundary is so easily crossed?’

‘I call it
pangenesis.
I believe that every animal produces microscopic “gemmules”, which collect in its reproductive organs for transmission to the next generation. Without doubt, sexual reproduction is the key to adaptation. The different colours of the human race, for instance, must have been caused by sexual selection - although it seems at first sight a monstrous supposition that the jet blackness of the negro has been gained this way.’

FitzRoy was incredulous. ‘Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? What of the origin of life itself? How do you account for that, if you are not prepared to acknowledge our Creator?’

‘Life itself must have started by chance too — in a warm pond, perhaps, galvanized by a bolt of lightning that fused random molecules together.’

‘Lightning on a warm
pond?
What of human consciousness? Was that born of lightning on a warm pond as well?’

‘Even man’s vertebral skull, which contains our brains, is a sign of our descent from molluscal creatures with vertebrae but no head. Plato says in
Phaedo
that our imaginary ideas derive from the pre-existence of the soul. For pre-existence of the soul, one may substitute monkeys. We have animal ancestors, FitzRoy.’

‘I’m sorry,’ laughed his guest, ‘but I simply refuse to acknowledge that my most august ancestors, the dukes of Grafton, are descended from apes!’

‘My dear FitzRoy, can you not see that the utilitarianism that is changing our very society operates in nature as well? Open your mind to the idea of change, the idea of progress. Do not be hidebound by aristocratic privilege!’

Under former circumstances this last sentiment would have been an aggressive sally indeed, guaranteed to cause offence, but here it was delivered with a smile, and was accepted with one too, for nostalgia had the upper hand. This was a debate entered into by both parties with relish. Then, with a sudden stab, as a cold December gust came slicing in from the stubbly fields beyond the sand walk, FitzRoy remembered that Darwin had not invited him here to discuss pigeon-breeding and all its attendant ramifications. There was, no doubt, a deeper, darker purpose on the agenda. Both men knew what the pause in their conversation heralded.

‘I have received a letter,’ said Darwin at last, ‘from a man named Alfred Russel Wallace. He is a former schoolmaster, no more, who has become a professional collector of specimens for gentlemen naturalists. He is currently exploring the Malay archipelago. He has written to me from the island of Ternate, near New Guinea. He has written to me, FitzRoy, to propose my own theory - the theory of natural selection. Like me, he believes that all species form a branching tree. The plain truth is, we have thought alike and have come to similar conclusions. I never saw a more striking coincidence. I have been collecting facts for twenty-five years, and Wallace reached the same conclusions as myself after thinking about the matter for just three days!’

He pulled Wallace’s letter from an inside pocket and read out the salient paragraph.

Darwin folded the letter and replaced it portentously in his pocket.

‘What do you want of me?’ asked FitzRoy, who knew very well what Darwin wanted of him.

‘I should like to be released from my bond. I should like to write a book outlining my theories. In fact, I have already begun to write it, on the advice of Lyell. He says that my research consists of ugly facts, but facts nonetheless, and that if I do not publish them, Wallace will go ahead and publish regardless when he returns to these shores.’

‘Shall you credit Wallace?’

‘Lyell and Hooker have suggested a joint paper, in both our names, to be read to the Linnaean Society.’

Darwin looked shamefaced. ‘Let me be perfectly honest with you, FitzRoy. Writing this book feels like confessing to a murder. My wife and my family will be heartbroken. But I believe, I truly believe in my heart, that nature’s works are blundering, low and horribly cruel, and that it is my duty to say so. The chief good any individual scientific man can do is to push his field forward, a few years in advance of his age. For me to reach conclusions, and not openly to avow those conclusions, is to retard my field. It is a matter of principle.’

He is desperate for recognition,
realized FitzRoy,
yet he fears the consequences — and rightly so.

He fixed his gaze upon Darwin. ‘If your theories be true, then religion is a lie, human law is a mass of folly and a base injustice, morality is moonshine, our labours on behalf of the black people of the world are the works of madmen, and men and women are only better beasts. If you succeed, the Church shall be ruined and all moral safeguards shattered. You will give succour and credence to the Chartists who seek to overthrow our society. You will remove the very
need
for God.’

‘Perhaps not. Perhaps the success of
The Vestiges
has opened the way for healthy intellectual debate. Some scientists are with me — Huxley and Hooker, to name two. Owen, I must tell you, will be agin me: he believes that animals progress from one form to another only within basic species archetypes, as decreed by the will of God.’

‘Thank heavens for the good sense of Mr Owen.’

‘So, FitzRoy, will you release me from my obligations? Do I have your permission to publish?’

‘Were I to withhold my permission, would it make the slightest bit of difference?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then why ask?’

‘Because I respect you as a former shipmate and a friend; because I am about to walk a difficult road; and because I should like your blessing, at least by default, for my journey.’

FitzRoy saw that there was no stopping him. He thought, then, of Mary, and of his vow to uphold the word of the Lord in her name for the rest of his born days.
He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.
And yet, he was not his brother’s keeper. He pondered for a while, then made his decision.

‘Very well, Darwin. I will no longer hold you to your word. Go ahead and publish. But know that as of now I will be your enemy, and that I will do everything in my power to hinder you, and to hinder the public acceptance of your arguments.’

 

On the train back from Sydenham, FitzRoy unfolded and reread a letter of his own that he had kept quiet from his former cabin-mate. It was from his son, Robert O’Brien FitzRoy, now a midshipman serving on the Far Eastern station. It was just aimless chatter, most of it, intended to reassure a concerned parent that his offspring was happy and healthy with the sun on his back. But reading between the lines, FitzRoy thought he could detect the same loneliness, the same yearning for approval, that had so profoundly informed his own days as a young middie. Had he been a good parent? he wondered. Had he given the boy every advantage in life? He had sent him away to sea at twelve, which he considered to be the optimum age to begin a successful naval career. He would never have let the lad run riot, fixing trapezes to the ceiling or descending the stairs on a tin tray. One day, he knew, his son would thank him for instilling the virtues of discipline and hard work. But had he been too disciplined with himself? Had he worked too hard to afford his son sufficient of his own time?

A feeble winter light struggled to penetrate the rain-flecked windows as the train rolled through the filthy railway suburbs of South London, which seemed to be spreading as rapidly as soot exploding from a burst sack.

I have never neglected my duty for a minute,
he comforted himself; and even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized that devotion to duty had been only the half of it.
The more I employed myself the more I forced occupation, the more easily I got through the day,
he confessed inwardly.
My worst times have always been when I was alone and unemployed What a life this is — the pains are far greater than the pleasures. And yet people set such a value upon existence, as if they are always happy.

As if to prove his point, London Bridge station in mid-afternoon was full of good-natured trippers, braving the winter chills. The end of the war had lifted everybody’s spirits: the women paraded in blooming crinolines and vast hats, while their black-clad beaux, wealthy enough not to work, sported slick military moustaches. The swirling skirts put FitzRoy in mind of the grand ball held in his honour at the Teatro Solis in Monte Video, a celebration that appeared to him now as a distant dream. All those brightly coloured dresses that had opened out like flowers, all now withered and faded, pressed lifelessly in the book of his memories. There were times when his youth felt like someone else’s story - or perhaps this was someone else’s life, this was the illusion, and back there, back then, was where he truly belonged. Had he been happy then, in his innocence? He suspected so. But he had taken Darwin with him for company, and the philosopher had come home with seeds adhering unwittingly to his boots, the seeds of the tree of knowledge.

He rode a hansom cab to Parliament Street, and found Pattrickson and Babington warming their hands at the little grate, a high tide of unattended synoptic charts surging across the table. He was mystified: they were usually the most diligent and enthusiastic of men. He could not help but sound a little tart.

‘Why are you not transferring the meteorologic data to the log, as Admiral Beechey instructed?’

‘Have you not heard, sir?’ asked Babington, his face a picture of shock and news-bearing excitement.

‘Heard what?’

‘Admiral Beechey is dead!’

‘Dead? How?’ The admiral had been, if not a picture of health, then very much alive when FitzRoy had last seen him.

‘He died this very afternoon, sir, of heart failure.’

‘I ... I’m sorry.’

FitzRoy really did not know what to say.

‘I must confess, gentlemen, that I am not entirely sure what this news shall mean for us.’

‘What it shall mean, sir? Surely, it means that you will be promoted to the admiral’s former position, as Chief Naval Officer. It means that our work may continue, sir.’

The two of them sat there on their stools, no longer able to contain their true feelings, grinning like a pair of monkeys.

 

‘FitzRoy, my dear fellow, come in, come in!’

‘Your lordship.’

‘Oh, there is no need to stand on ceremony. We are old hands, you and I. I hope I see you well, sir.’

The fourteenth Earl of Derby beamed effusively, warmth and sincerity radiating from every pore. He had been very handsome and sought-after in his youth, although these days his striking aquiline features were half sunken in his spreading face, his extravagant ginger side-whiskers had turned to grey, and he was terribly assailed by gout; but he had lost none of the charisma that had propelled him to the summit of the Tory Party. The familiarity of the welcome immediately put FitzRoy on his guard: Derby was a consummate politician, and he was not to be trusted. He had been a Whig, then a Liberal, then a follower of Canning, then a full-blown Tory; he had espoused slavery, and had helped to abolish it; he had spoken for and against Irish emancipation; as Lord Stanley, prior to his father’s death, he had appointed FitzRoy governor of New Zealand, and then had dismissed him. In the process, he had amassed a personal fortune well in excess of a million pounds. Behind the affable manners, he was a cold, pragmatic businessman. He had been appointed prime minister twice, but had been overthrown twice, once by the Peelites and once by the electorate. Palmerston was prime minister now, but Derby was biding his time. He would be back.