B.R. COHEN'S
ANNALS OF SCIENCE,
VOLUME IX.
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Read previous installments of
B.R. Cohen's Annals of Science here.
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Little Charlie Darwin,
God Bless Him.
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This is nuts. Darwin's all famous now, right? His name comes up now and again. But before he was, he wasn't. He was a confused, pimply, brash, confused, and also pimply kid. He got his real start on this snoopy-sounding HMS Beagle. Sailed around the world in the aftermath of a failed romance and a list of ups and downs, he did.
He's 22. It's the 1830s. Already dropped out of med school, already pissed off Dad, already decided to just suck it up and become a man of the cloth, get himself a real nice Anglican parish in the countryside. And he's got this scheme: over summer break he and this guy Ramsay are gonna get a boat, sail down to the Canary Islands, do the fashionable thing for landed gentry, you know, botanizing, entomologizing, maybe geologizing. It's big. It's on. He's up.
But comes time to get ready annnnd ... Ramsay dies. The guy's not yet 40, not too old. It's a surprise death. The expedition, clearly, is off. He's down.
Then, along about the same week, Darwin gets this letter from the dear Reverend Henslow, a professor friend from clergy school—Cambridge University, if you've heard of it—asking if he wants to go on this big expedition to South America. Set aside for a sec this weird young-man-with-old-men-for-friends thing. I don't know what that was. But Henslow knows a guy who has a boat, a government commission, and this need for an upper-class assistant, someone to break the boredom with. The captain for sure isn't hanging out with the crew, so jokes and biscuits with Charles oughta pass the time. Henslow put in the word for him. Does he want it? Charles says, Yes, sure, you gotta be kidding me with your perfect timing, I'd love to, just have to convince dear Father, since he's paying. (Up again.)
Dad, actually, isn't so keen on the idea. Big, fat, stern Robert Darwin gives a big fat no. He doesn't want little Charlie flitting around aimlessly. So Charles sulks. A sulking 6-foot-tall 20-something Anglican in britches with tea stains. Wasn't any better an image then than it is now. He's down.
So he does the obvious and whines. First he gets Henslow to petition stern Father directly, to change his mind. But yeah, no. Nothing doing. Then he gets his uncle to weigh in. Uncle Jos sends a letter, tells his brother Papa Darwin it's on the up and up, all very intelligently designed, which actually—wild—does the trick, and then, just like that, in a snap, it's back on. He's going to Tierra del Fuego. (Up!)
Oh. Not really. Yet.
The captain—his name's FitzRoy—admits, Well, the job isn't actually yours for the taking. I have this other guy in mind first, and haven't heard back yet. I'd prefer the other guy, but you seem nice. Keep in touch, 'K, kid? You're ever in London, stop by and see me. (Down.)
After all that shit—Ramsay dead, Canary plans gone, the new offer, Dad shooting him down, Uncle Jos saving the day, leaps of joy, racing around and telling everyone, tearful farewells, buying up expedition gear, snacks, swimsuit, old People magazines—he comes to find out it isn't a go. Hope nobody was "inconvenienced," FitzRoy says. What a dick. (Way down.)
Darwin's in London now. Just then there was a new king; everyone was festive. Except Charlie. With that clichéd internal soundtrack of dejection—brushes on snare drum, an overwrought string section, you've heard it—we've got a motif of upper-class despair. Chin on chest, feet shuffling, snail's-pace walk of shame through the city streets, streamers and party favors all around, but Charlie's too self-absorbed in pangs of disappointment, the balloons raining down to mock his gloom. Rethinking it all. Why didn't I get back to Fanny when she so wanted to hook up? Why did I spend all that time beetling instead? Who the hell beetles anyway? Come on, man, touring the countryside on vacation collecting rare varieties of insects? What was that? Fanny didn't even care. What a freakin' waste. Ooh, look at me, I can describe a beetle better than Linnaeus. Who even knows who Linnaeus is? I'm such a tool.
Avoiding light posts, revelers, chamber pots, he finds himself down by FitzRoy's office. Walks in and FitzRoy says, Hey, so, uh, the other guy just left here like no more than five minutes ago. Seriously, five minutes ago. He doesn't want it. He said no. You game? Job's yours if you want it. We're taking this refurbished boat, the Beagle, maybe hit the Galápagos, and you have to do some collecting and observing and sanity-making and don't get seasick and don't be a hero, and so yea or nay? We're off as soon as soon is.
Heel-clicking leaps of joy this time and his heart is going like mad and yes he says yes I will. Yes.
Ergo, Darwinism.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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B.R. Cohen's Annals of Science, Volume IX By B.R. Cohen
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