Free The Darwin Conspiracy by John Darnton Page B

quality to the laughter and, were he as perspicacious as some of our modern novelists from Mudie’s Library like Mrs Gatskell or Mr Trollope, he might be able to detect the reasons for it. We are not as we present ourselves to the unknowing outsiders.
    Indeed, I sometimes feel that our attempts at hospitality and gaiety are mere play-acting.

    6 January 1865
    Papa, as always, is at the centre of our household. I feel his moods have grown increasingly worse in the six years since the publication of Origin. He now retreats to his study for hours on end, but not in the old way which I recollect so fondly. Then he would immerse himself in his study of barnacles or some such, scooting around contentedly in his wheeled chair, emerging every so often for a pinch of black snuff from the jar in the hall, looking up with curiosity when one of us children burst in upon him to ask for a foot-rule or a  pin and never taking umbrage at the interruption. Now, he hides himself away for hours on end, almost as if he did not want to be in our company, and try as I might, I cannot fathom the reason for his ill humour.
    Three days ago, in search of a sticking-plaster, I chanced to open the door and came upon him sitting in his black leather horse-hair chair, so lost in gloomy thought that when I spoke, he started like a deer. He rose up and demanded to know why I was ‘stealthily creeping up’ on him so that he could not have ‘a moment’s peace’. He thundered on in that vein so long that even when I closed the door, his voice could be heard throughout the hall, with the result that Camilla broke off her German lessons with Horace to come to the top of the staircase and peer down with evident concern.
    Recently he directed Parslow to attach a small round mirror to the window-casement so that by positioning himself in his chair he could obtain a view of the front step. He told us that in that way he could catch sight of the postman, but I doubt the explanation. I believe that the arrangement enables him to examine unseen any caller, the easier to support the pretence that he is not at home. My concern is that it is not simply the desire to avoid interruption that impels him to this course but rather something more profound and disquieting.
    Nor has Papa’s health shown any improvement. Quite the contrary, it has worsened noticeably in recent times. He now retches two or three times a day and often complains of stomach problems, including wind, which is so odoriferous he refuses to travel. In addition to dyspepsia, he is subject to dizziness, fainting-spells and headaches. On some days he breaks out in eczema. Poor Mamma has become a veritable Florence Nightingale, sacrificing herself at all hours to bring him tea and rub his back and read aloud to soothe his nerves and distract him from his various ailments. He has had constructed a sort of water-closet in his study, a basin set inside a platform in the floor, hidden behind a half-wall and curtain, no more than ten feet from his corner of precious books and tiny drawers. It is for emergencies; in this way, he is able to lunge up from his chair, thrusting his writing-board to one side, and run to vomit. At the sound, which is truly horrible, the servants gather nervously in the hall, looking at one another, and only Parslow is allowed to enter to offer aid. Sometimes he has to actually lift Papa, limp and pale and dripping with perspiration, and carry him upstairs to his room.
    11 January 1865
    Papa has been ill as long as I can remember. When he takes to his bed, a pall is cast upon the household and we all scarcely dare to speak above a murmur.
    Mamma says the attacks are brought on by his work, by the strain of thinking so hard about natural science. To support her speculation she notes that his initial attack, now almost thirty years ago, came as he was first framing his theory on the transmutation of species and natural selection. For twenty-two years he kept his theory a secret in