nothing to be said by way of response.
“So,” continued Roland, “you’ve done what . . . looked through some of his letters?”
“Something like that.” Not many secrets around here, thought Hugh.
“They’re pretty well combed over,” said Roland. “Darwin’s known to have written fourteen thousand letters and nine thousand of them are here. I’ll bet each one has been read a hundred times.”
“Now it’s a hundred and one.”
“Perhaps you should look for something new. There are only thirty pages extant from the original manuscript of the Origin. Incidentally, we have nineteen of them. You could see if you could unearth some of the missing ones.”
Hugh perked up. “You seem to know this stuff pretty well,” he said.
“I should. I’ve been working here eight years. A man’s got to do something to pass the time.” He paused, looking at Hugh, then continued. “You could look for the 1858 Darwin and Wallace manuscripts
from the Linnean Society. They’ve never been found. They’re not in any of the collections.”
“So where would you go?”
“Some other archive. Maybe his publishers. Anywhere but here.
This ground has been ploughed over so many times there’s nothing left.” Roland raised his voice a notch. “There’re so many mysteries about the man. Why don’t you tackle some of them?”
“Like what?”
“Here’s this wanker who goes around the world, has all sorts of adventures, rides with the gauchos of South America, for Christ’s sake, and then sails home and never stirs again. What do you make of that?
And all his illnesses—he came down with everything in the book. He was a walking infirmary. You mean to tell me that’s normal? And he has this theory that’ll turn the world on its head and make him famous but he can’t bring himself to publish for twenty-two years. You don’t find that strange?”
Hugh did find it strange, of course, as did most scholars who took Darwin on, but that was part of the man’s attraction—he was nothing if not human.
“Everyone’s always making excuses for his procrastination. His wife was religious. He knew his work would bring down the walls of Jericho.
He needed time to marshal all his data. His own body was in a state of rebellion at what he was doing— Bullshit! I think people let him get away with murder.”
Hugh noticed that the more Roland talked, the more flirtatious he became. So he wasn’t really surprised when his luncheon companion posed one or two leading questions about his social life and asked what he did for fun. Hugh pushed aside the advance, gently. He had begun to like him.
“Incidentally,” said Roland, “I think Darwin had a freaky side.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing he was obsessed with hermaphrodites. He kept finding barnacles with two penises and it shook him terribly. He abhorred the whole idea. I think he feared it because there was so much intermarriage in his family. And then later, of course, he saw that hermaphrodites are proof that nature can throw off mutants, which was an important concept for his theory.”
“How do you know all this?”
“It’s an interest of mine. Not Darwin. I mean hermaphrodites.”
Hugh could not help but laugh.
“Hugh! My God.”
The woman’s voice caught him from behind, a mid-Atlantic accent.
He identified it at once and stiffened with anticipation and dread. He turned slowly, but a knot of people was passing through the archway of Burlington House, silhouettes backlighted by the sunny courtyard, so that he didn’t spot her right away. She spoke again.
“What are you doing here?”
He kissed Bridget lightly on the cheek and there was an awkward moment as he pulled back while she leaned forward to kiss the other.
His first thought was that she looked older. There was a fleshiness to her cheeks that widened her face, and her blond hair looked a little thinner. But the impression lessened as he looked into her eyes and saw there
“So,” continued Roland, “you’ve done what . . . looked through some of his letters?”
“Something like that.” Not many secrets around here, thought Hugh.
“They’re pretty well combed over,” said Roland. “Darwin’s known to have written fourteen thousand letters and nine thousand of them are here. I’ll bet each one has been read a hundred times.”
“Now it’s a hundred and one.”
“Perhaps you should look for something new. There are only thirty pages extant from the original manuscript of the Origin. Incidentally, we have nineteen of them. You could see if you could unearth some of the missing ones.”
Hugh perked up. “You seem to know this stuff pretty well,” he said.
“I should. I’ve been working here eight years. A man’s got to do something to pass the time.” He paused, looking at Hugh, then continued. “You could look for the 1858 Darwin and Wallace manuscripts
from the Linnean Society. They’ve never been found. They’re not in any of the collections.”
“So where would you go?”
“Some other archive. Maybe his publishers. Anywhere but here.
This ground has been ploughed over so many times there’s nothing left.” Roland raised his voice a notch. “There’re so many mysteries about the man. Why don’t you tackle some of them?”
“Like what?”
“Here’s this wanker who goes around the world, has all sorts of adventures, rides with the gauchos of South America, for Christ’s sake, and then sails home and never stirs again. What do you make of that?
And all his illnesses—he came down with everything in the book. He was a walking infirmary. You mean to tell me that’s normal? And he has this theory that’ll turn the world on its head and make him famous but he can’t bring himself to publish for twenty-two years. You don’t find that strange?”
Hugh did find it strange, of course, as did most scholars who took Darwin on, but that was part of the man’s attraction—he was nothing if not human.
“Everyone’s always making excuses for his procrastination. His wife was religious. He knew his work would bring down the walls of Jericho.
He needed time to marshal all his data. His own body was in a state of rebellion at what he was doing— Bullshit! I think people let him get away with murder.”
Hugh noticed that the more Roland talked, the more flirtatious he became. So he wasn’t really surprised when his luncheon companion posed one or two leading questions about his social life and asked what he did for fun. Hugh pushed aside the advance, gently. He had begun to like him.
“Incidentally,” said Roland, “I think Darwin had a freaky side.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing he was obsessed with hermaphrodites. He kept finding barnacles with two penises and it shook him terribly. He abhorred the whole idea. I think he feared it because there was so much intermarriage in his family. And then later, of course, he saw that hermaphrodites are proof that nature can throw off mutants, which was an important concept for his theory.”
“How do you know all this?”
“It’s an interest of mine. Not Darwin. I mean hermaphrodites.”
Hugh could not help but laugh.
“Hugh! My God.”
The woman’s voice caught him from behind, a mid-Atlantic accent.
He identified it at once and stiffened with anticipation and dread. He turned slowly, but a knot of people was passing through the archway of Burlington House, silhouettes backlighted by the sunny courtyard, so that he didn’t spot her right away. She spoke again.
“What are you doing here?”
He kissed Bridget lightly on the cheek and there was an awkward moment as he pulled back while she leaned forward to kiss the other.
His first thought was that she looked older. There was a fleshiness to her cheeks that widened her face, and her blond hair looked a little thinner. But the impression lessened as he looked into her eyes and saw there
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