As many more individuals of each species are born than can possibly survive; and as, consequently, there is a frequently recurring struggle for existence, it fol-lows that any being, if it vary however slightly in any manner profitable to itself, under the complex and sometimes varying conditions of life, will have a better chance of surviving, and thus be naturally selected.

—Darwin, The Origin of Species (1859)

The China-bound victim had in reality that evening to play host at a surprise planned by Ernestina and himself for Aunt Tranter. The two ladies were to come and dine in his sitting room at the White Lion. A dish of succulent first lobsters was prepared, a fresh-run salmon boiled, the cellars of the inn ransacked; and that doctor we met briefly one day at Mrs. Poulteney’s was pressed into establishing the correct balance of the sexes.

One of the great characters of Lyme, he was generally supposed to be as excellent a catch in the river Marriage as the salmon he sat down to that night had been in the river Axe. Ernestina teased her aunt unmercifully about him, ac-cusing that quintessentially mild woman of heartless cruelty to a poor lonely man pining for her hand. But since this tragic figure had successfully put up with his poor loneliness for sixty years or more, one may doubt the pining as much as the heartless cruelty.

Dr. Grogan was, in fact, as confirmed an old bachelor as Aunt Tranter a spinster. Being Irish, he had to the full that strangely eunuchistic Hibernian ability to flit and flirt and flatter womankind without ever allowing his heart to become entangled. A dry little kestrel of a man, sharp, almost fierce on occasion, yet easy to unbend when the company was to his taste, he added a pleasant astringency to Lyme society; for when he was with you you felt he was always hovering a little, waiting to pounce on any foolishness—and yet, if he liked you, it was always with a tonic wit and the humanity of a man who had lived and learned, after his fashion, to let live. There was, too, something faintly dark about him, for he had been born a Catholic; he was, in terms of our own time, not unlike someone who had been a Communist in the 1930s—accepted now, but still with the devil’s singe on him. It was certain—would Mrs. Poulteney have ever allowed him into her presence otherwise?—that he was now (like Disrae-li) a respectable member of the Church of England. It must be so, for (unlike Disraeli) he went scrupulously to matins every Sunday. That a man might be so indifferent to religion that he would have gone to a mosque or a synagogue, had that been the chief place of worship, was a deceit beyond the Lymers’ imagination. Besides he was a very good doctor, with a sound knowledge of that most important branch of medicine, his patients’ temperament. With those that secretly wanted to be bullied, he bullied; and as skillfully chivvied, cosseted, closed a blind eye, as the case required.

Nobody in Lyme liked good food and wine better; and the repast that Charles and the White Lion offered meeting his approval, he tacitly took over the role of host from the younger man. He had studied at Heidelberg, and practiced in London, and knew the world and its absurdities as only an intelligent Irishman can; which is to say that where his knowledge or memory failed him, his imagination was always ready to fill the gap. No one believed all his stories; or wanted any the less to hear them. Aunt Tranter probably knew them as well as anyone in Lyme, for the doctor and she were old friends, and she must have known how little consis-tent each telling was with the previous; yet she laughed most—and at times so immoderately that I dread to think what might have happened had the pillar of the community up the hill chanced to hear.

It was an evening that Charles would normally have en-joyed; not least perhaps because the doctor permitted himself little freedoms of language and fact in some of his tales, especially when the plump salmon lay in anatomized ruins and the gentlemen proceeded to a decanter of port, that were not quite comme il faut in the society Ernestina had been trained to grace. Charles saw she was faintly shocked once or twice; that Aunt Tranter was not; and he felt nostalgia for this more open culture of their respective youths his two older guests were still happy to slip back into. Watching the little doctor’s mischievous eyes and Aunt Tranter’s jolliness he had a whiff of corollary nausea for his own time: its stifling propriety, its worship not only of the literal machine in transport and manufacturing but of the far more terrible machine now erecting in social convention.

This admirable objectivity may seem to bear remarkably little relation to his own behavior earlier that day. Charles did not put it so crudely to himself; but he was not quite blind to his inconsistency, either. He told himself, now swinging to another tack, that he had taken Miss Woodruff altogether too seriously—in his stumble, so to speak, instead of in his stride. He was especially solicitous to Ernestina, no longer souffrante, but a little lacking in her usual vivacity, though whether that was as a result of the migraine or the doctor’s conversational Irish reel, it was hard to say. And yet once again it bore in upon him, as at the concert, that there was something shallow in her—that her acuteness was largely constituted, intellectually as alphabetically, by a mere cuteness. Was there not, beneath the demure knowingness, something of the automaton about her, of one of those ingenious girl-machines from Hoffmann’s Tales?

But then he thought: she is a child among three adults— and pressed her hand gently beneath the mahogany table. She was charming when she blushed.

The two gentlemen, the tall Charles with his vague resem-blance to the late Prince Consort and the thin little doctor, finally escorted the ladies back to their house. It was half past ten, the hour when the social life of London was just beginning; but here the town was well into its usual long sleep. They found themselves, as the door closed in their smiling faces, the only two occupants of Broad Street.

The doctor put a finger on his nose. “Now for you, sir, I prescribe a copious toddy dispensed by my own learned hand.” Charles put on a polite look of demurral. “Doctor’s orders, you know. Dulce est desipere, as the poet says. It is sweet to sip in the proper place.”

Charles smiled. “If you promise the grog to be better than the Latin, then with the greatest pleasure.”

Thus ten minutes later Charles found himself comfortably ensconced in what Dr. Grogan called his “cabin,” a bow-fronted second-floor study that looked out over the small bay between the Cobb Gate and the Cobb itself; a room, the Irishman alleged, made especially charming in summer by the view it afforded of the nereids who came to take the waters. What nicer—in both senses of the word—situation could a doctor be in than to have to order for his feminine patients what was so pleasant also for his eye? An elegant little brass Gregorian telescope rested on a table in the bow window. Grogan’s tongue flickered wickedly out, and he winked.

“For astronomical purposes only, of course.”

Charles craned out of the window, and smelled the salt air, and saw on the beach some way to his right the square black silhouettes of the bathing-machines from which the nereids emerged. But the only music from the deep that night was the murmur of the tide on the shingle; and somewhere much farther out, the dimly raucous cries of the gulls roosting on the calm water. Behind him in the lamp-lit room he heard the small chinks that accompanied Grogan’s dispensing of his “medicine.” He felt himself in suspension between the two worlds, the warm, neat civilization behind his back, the cool, dark mystery outside. We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

The grog was excellent, the Burmah cheroot that accom-panied it a pleasant surprise; and these two men still lived in a world where strangers of intelligence shared a common landscape of knowledge, a community of information, with a known set of rules and attached meanings. What doctor today knows the classics? What amateur can talk comprehensibly to scientists? These two men’s was a world without the tyranny of specialization; and I would not have you—nor would Dr. Grogan, as you will see—confuse progress with happiness.

For a while they said nothing, sinking back gratefully into that masculine, more serious world the ladies and the occasion had obliged them to leave. Charles had found himself curious to know what political views the doctor held; and by way of getting to the subject asked whom the two busts that sat whitely among his host’s books might be of.

The doctor smiled. “Quisque suos patimur manes.” Which is Virgil, and means something like “We make our destinies by our choice of gods.”

Charles smiled back. “I recognize Bentham, do I not?”

“You do. And the other lump of Parian is Voltaire.”

“Therefore I deduce that we subscribe to the same party.”

The doctor quizzed him. “Has an Irishman a choice?”

Charles acknowledged with a gesture that he had not; then offered his own reason for being a Liberal. “It seems to me that Mr. Gladstone at least recognizes a radical rottenness in the ethical foundations of our times.”

“By heavens, I’m not sitting with a socialist, am I?”

Charles laughed. “Not as yet.”

“Mind you, in this age of steam and cant, I could forgive a man anything —except Vital Religion.”

“Ah yes indeed.”

“I was a Benthamite as a young man. Voltaire drove me out of Rome, the other man out of the Tory camp. But this new taradiddle now—the extension of franchise. That’s not for me. I don’t give a fig for birth. A duke, heaven knows a king, can be as stupid as the next man. But I thank Mother Nature I shall not be alive in fifty years’ time. When a government begins to fear the mob, it is as much as to say it fears itself.” His eyes twinkled. “Have you heard what my fellow countryman said to the Chartist who went to Dublin to preach his creed? ‘Brothers,’ the Chartist cried, ‘is not one man as good as another?’ ‘Faith, Mr. Speaker, you’re right,’ cries back Paddy, ‘and a divilish bit better too!’” Charles smiled, but the doctor raised a sharp finger. “You smile, Smithson. But hark you—Paddy was right. That was no bull. That ‘divilish bit better’ will be the ruin of this country. You mark my words.”

“But are your two household gods quite free of blame? Who was it preached the happiness of the greatest number?”

“I do not dispute the maxim. But the way we go about it. We got by very well without the Iron Civilizer” (by which he meant the railway) “when I was a young man. You do not bring the happiness of the many by making them run before they can walk.”

Charles murmured a polite agreement. He had touched exactly that same sore spot with his uncle, a man of a very different political complexion. Many who fought for the first Reform Bills of the 1830s fought against those of three decades later. They felt an opportunism, a twofacedness had cancered the century, and given birth to a menacing spirit of envy and rebellion. Perhaps the doctor, born in 1801, was really a fragment of Augustan humanity; his sense of prog-ress depended too closely on an ordered society—order being whatever allowed him to be exactly as he always had been, which made him really much closer to the crypto-Liberal Burke than the crypto-Fascist Bentham. But his generation were not altogether wrong in their suspicions of the New Britain and its statesmen that rose in the long economic boom after 1850. Many younger men, obscure ones like Charles, celebrated ones like Matthew Arnold, agreed with them. Was not the supposedly converted Disraeli later heard, on his deathbed, to mutter the prayers for the dead in He-brew? And was not Gladstone, under the cloak of noble oratory, the greatest master of the ambiguous statement, the brave declaration qualified into cowardice, in modern politi-cal history? Where the highest are indecipherable, the worst ... but clearly the time had come to change the subject. Charles asked the doctor if he was interested in paleontology.

“No, sir. I had better own up. I did not wish to spoil that delightful dinner. But I am emphatically a neo-ontologist.” He smiled at Charles from the depths of his boxwing chair. “When we know more of the living, that will be the time to pursue the dead.”

Charles accepted the rebuke; and seized his opportunity. “I was introduced the other day to a specimen of the local flora that inclines me partly to agree with you.” He paused cun-ningly. “A very strange case. No doubt you know more of it than I do.” Then sensing that his oblique approach might suggest something more than a casual interest, he added quickly, “I think her name is Woodruff. She is employed by Mrs. Poulteney.”

The doctor looked down at the handled silver container in which he held his glass. “Ah yes. Poor Tragedy.’”

“I am being indiscreet? She is perhaps a patient.”

“Well, I attend Mrs. Poulteney. And I would not allow a bad word to be said about her.”

Charles glanced cautiously at him; but there was no mis-taking a certain ferocity of light in the doctor’s eyes, behind his square-rimmed spectacles. The younger man looked down with a small smile.

Dr. Grogan reached out and poked his fire. “We know more about the fossils out there on the beach than we do about what takes place in that girl’s mind. There is a clever German doctor who has recently divided melancholia into several types. One he calls natural. By which he means, one is born with a sad temperament. Another he calls occasional, by which he means, springing from an occasion. This, you understand, we all suffer from at times. The third class he calls obscure melancholia. By which he really means, poor man, that he doesn’t know what the devil it is that causes it.”

“But she had an occasion, did she not?”

“Oh now come, is she the first young woman who has been jilted? I could tell you of a dozen others here in Lyme.”

“In such brutal circumstance?”

“Worse, some of them. And today they’re as merry as crickets.”

“So you class Miss Woodruff in the obscure category?”

The doctor was silent a few moments. “I was called in—all this, you understand, in strictest confidence—I was called in to see her ... a tenmonth ago. Now I could see what was wrong at once—weeping without reason, not talk-ing, a look about the eyes. Melancholia as plain as measles. I knew her story, I know the Talbots, she was governess there when it happened. And I think, well the cause is plain—six weeks, six days at Marlborough House is enough to drive any normal being into Bedlam. Between ourselves, Smithson, I’m an old heathen. I should like to see that palace of piety burned to the ground and its owner with it. I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t dance a jig on the ashes.”

“I think I might well join you.”

“And begad we wouldn’t be the only ones.” The doctor took a fierce gulp of his toddy. “The whole town would be out. But that’s neither here nor the other place. I did what I could for the girl. But I saw there was only one cure.”

“Get her away.”

The doctor nodded vehemently. “A fortnight later, Grogan’s coming into his house one afternoon and this colleen’s walki............