Better than a double-binding, we’re veering into diptych territory. The Beagle and The Origin talk to one another as an answer talks to a question. Throughout The Beagle, in its many digressions and discussions, we become aware of a negative space. In Darwin’s several observations he becomes aware of a skein of connexion, but he must stop short of identifying it. There is a mystery hovering just slightly overhead. Of the distribution of animals, of their similarity, of their differences. One can see the seams of the Old Order falling into desuetude, and yet nothing in the way of a replacement. Just so many ideas wafted about one another. I am unsure there has ever been a work that so confidently misses the thesis so confidently stated some decades later; it is artistic in the way that it carves out a void that would, unbeknownst to Darwin, later be so totally defined. The Galapagos become the natural climax, in which the many loose ideas suddenly come to fiery prominence, and with some appeal to the dramatic arts. Darwin, having left the islands, is made aware that each possesses species or variants unique in and of itself. He scrambles to his collected specimens, bemoaning that he had not kept them divided per island, perhaps knowing that in that division would be an answer to the great mystery of his career. But there is always a slab of understatement in Darwin’s writing. He is extraordinarily lucid, and writes a fine prose, but will check himself always. Any loud idea will come with it an orchestra of explanation; his devotion to the scientific method permits no flights of fancy, not even those one might expect in the reports of a now-storied explorer. We are likely the better for his sobriety; the real genius of Darwin’s creativity is that it exists without any hint of fabulism. He shapes his wonders only out of observed truth, and does so with so logical a process that one feels each of his proofs to be self-evident (even those later to be disproved). His most impressive sally in The Beagle is likely his decision, in the midst of everything else, to explain and define the formation of coral atolls. Dissatisfied with prevailing explanations of his day, Darwin – with deceptive simplicity – finds a more convincing hypothesis. One that has survived since. It is his manner of telling it, in which the travelogue suddenly morphs into a scientific proof, and then morphs back, without any sense of strain in his arranged prose. The journey and the science become as one: the first indicates the second; the evidence becomes the argument. There are features of Darwin’s writing that are less ordered. His political or anthropological leanings are often undeveloped or naïve; the notion of an English supremacy is obvious, but that he acknowledges no real exploitation other than slavery (and that he fails to appreciate its equivalents) is as much a failing of his individual as it is his age. The chapters after the Galapagos (and before the coral revelations) suffer most in this respect. It appears in this part of his journey that Darwin was either louche or disinterested; suddenly his natural history becomes scarce and meagre, whereas his colonial commentary takes on a primary (and superficial) position. As though the man, in this late stage of his journey, had quite lost the vigour that pressed him up mountains in the Andes. Perhaps a more emotive writer would have confessed some measure of personal difference in the parts of his journey; save for aesthetic disappointments Darwin is not of this character. He must sublimate himself under the aegis of scientific inquiry. If he is not to talk of one such investigation, he must replace it with another.
The Origin is by definition a very different work, though one that fulfils its predecessor neatly. These many loose strands are brought together in a work of culmination; that the entire universe might be reversed in the lines of a single work might imply some kind of Miltonic gravity but in Darwin we are always comforted by a taming of the dramatic spirit. In overturning the natural order he does so only with a series of proofs that must, by his reasoning, make themselves self-evident. His argument is based as much on a preponderance of evidence as on the insinuation that without this process – that of natural selection – so much one observes in the world becomes less sensical. He poses an argument in the way of a vice; to escape it one must not merely disprove his positive notions, but defend against those many negative in their train. The weakness of natural selection is, nonetheless, that with one serious exception the entire enterprise must fail. Darwin must defend evolution in this manner as a system, and it is by system that he creates his most compelling arguments. By this same approach we also encounter his most compelling errors. For instance, he fails to observe the potential of mass extinction events, on the logic that such events would be unnecessary in the vast cast of time. All things, in so many thousand generations, may change. The system provides the simplest explanation. But we have since found that such extinction events have taken place; Darwin’s appeal to a system that would be self-sufficient cannot – in the form he argues it – permit for an explanation that might (in this instance) overwrite its self-sufficiency. The most obvious deficiency aside from this strain of overconfidence is that of genetic ignorance; if The Beagle makes perfect primer for the theory of natural selection, then the theory of natural selection makes perfect primer for a theory of genetic inheritance. Darwin’s glosses on heredity are slim and he finds little justification for the process of inheritance. He may speculate on something shifting in the genitals under certain conditions, that – by dint of the shift – produce offspring in small ways different from their parents. And he can appreciate that certain offspring may produce characteristics often many generations separate from their own sires. But even in the self-contained logic of Victorian science, it appears Darwin only provides a hypothetical mechanism for an objective outcome; which is to say, he must give some answer for what must cause that thing that, as observed, is being caused. As such Darwin must miss some fragment of the beauty of his idea. The influence of the random; that in error (if we are to call it error) the most perfect consonance can be achieved. The metaphors tower above me. But it is that, in the underscore of Darwin’s work, that provides it such gleaming posture. In his empirical way, Darwin – Wallace, et al. – have reordered the presumption of descent. Whether the first being be caused or uncaused, by some finer creature, we must do away with the fall. That we were once greater than now; that a golden age was won and lost. It becomes instead a story of escalation. Of things microbial growing outward from themselves; of all the most complex, most fascinating lifeforms emanating outward from some simple source. We find a new formula, not of derivation from Platonic absolutes, but of development, of evolution, toward some yet-unknown country. We are not at an end, nor are we collapsed from a set beginning, but in the midst of a wheel of time so grand, and so absolute, that we are cloaked in a new ignorance. We cannot know the final destiny of life in a system that does not represent humanity as its absolute; nor can we conceive of the scale of a living universe in which time is no longer measured in the scale of one, or one hundred, or one thousand generations, but in figures so magnificent that their very conception boggles the mind. We look toward coasts and cliffsides, cut upon by hapless ocean. The great rock will always triumph, to the human eye. But we know that all the gashes, all the recesses, were made by that same wave upon that same edge. Darwin, and those who prepared the frame of geological time, has not merely proposed an alternative for the development of life, but for the scale of existence. Humanity is, in every way, minisculed. But the grandeur of the universe grows yet greater; the scope of the future longer; the mystery and connectedness of all beings becomes at once harmonious. We are not arbitrary, or abstract in our similar composition, but all of us deriving from parallel, and diverging lines; we are all couched in global systems of ancient heritage; we are all in constant flux and constant adaptation; every living thing becomes a cousin, or a branch, in the greatest tree ever grown. Darwin’s rigour, his absolutely scientific mind, cannot put out the searing beauty implied by this idea. It is so total, so conquering, and in its midst so moving. It is a trope of spiritualists to see all life as joined by some metaphysical string; a connexion that brings together all breathing things. Darwin makes this a redundancy. He argues by empiricism alone that all things are united in their origins, that all things are as one flesh divided, and multiplying. It is only in his final paragraph that Darwin ever thinks to indulge in the artistry of his revelation. And only in the page before last that he implicates, so very briefly, the fate of man. A canny trick – to allow those who would shut the book at any such implication to have read the whole thing by that time. By then, as Darwin knows, it is too late; the idea is planted.