Some weeks ago, whilst sat quietly scrutinising some scientific correspondence in the midnight hour, I was interrupted by the most singular experience of my life. My scribbling must be excused, for the quill trembles in my hand as I hunch over that very same desk at Down House to write of how nefarious tricks were played on my senses that night.
I still beg to comprehend these happenings, & so wish to put to paper what occurred, perhaps in a fool’s attempt to exorcise myself of the quakes. I know that I risk ridicule if this passage is ever to be printed, & I have sought assurances that the following text will never see the light of day. I must exercise due caution, for the manuscript of On the Origin of Species will presently be ready for Mr John Murray & his inexorable presses — indeed, the public eye is about to turn upon me with its fullest gaze.
Nevertheless, I write. That evening, Emma & I had taken our meal of roasted beef accompanied by a small measure of claret — quite a hearty supper for a fragile constitution such as mine, but all prepared on the advice of Dr Lane, in his latest attempt to counter my divers nervous afflictions. We had in that preceding afternoon returned from the Spa, where I had indulged in a course of Hydro-therapy to only modest effect. A complete convalescence continued to elude me.
I had been distracted at the dinner table, I concede, by thoughts of my Theory of transmutations, which, I felt, once opened to the world like the box of Pandora, would bring me hatred from those who would not believe it, & so it bore my search for empirical proofs beyond the doubt of even the staunchest of opponents. I was wracked with familiar hesitancies about my piece, my stomach churning with fretfulness at the thought of publication. How was I to discern when the weight of evidence would be sufficient to quell those intellectual enemies who I was sure would soon begin barking at my door?
Post-feast, I retired to the study, where, after a pleasant few rounds of billiards with the butler Parslow, I bade him a good-night & took to my chair to continue annotations on the Cirripedia correspondence. Oft in these hours I might have partaken a small measure of snuff — but not that eve, for I had presently commenced a period of abstention. It was a habit that I regret ever having acquired, & my good Physician had commanded me to desist.
If it was through this lack of habitual tobacco, or perhaps digestive troubles from our sanguineous meal, I do not know, but as I sat & squeezed my fore-head I felt the familiar disquieting symptoms of my distempers take hold. I attempted to divert my attention, examining the abstract I was preparing for Mr Gray, scribbling some remembered observations from the pigeon fanciers & reading a letter from my dear cousin the Rev. Fox in Cheshire, whom, with his characteristic sympathy, advised that I should avoid overworking my Book, & that I should …
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