Creation

Papa?

- Tell me a story.

- Alright. What about?

I don't know. About everything.

Everything?

Very well, then.

In Tierra del Fuego, land of fire...

...a blighted and loveless country

on the Earth's furthest rim,

lives a community

of the dirtiest, most vulgar,

least civilised people

you can possibly imagine.

They appeared almost entirely naked

with their hair

all the way down to their bottoms.

They never washed their hands

or their faces, even before dinner.

One day, Captain Fitzroy

went ashore to meet them.

Thank you.

Not long now. I shall be with you

presently. Head to me, please.

Very good. Now, very still, please.

No fidgeting.

And above all, no smiling.

- Excuse me, sir?

- Hmm?

- Will this hurt?

- Oh, no, no, no.

It is only a beam of light.

- Papa?

- Hmm?

How can light make a picture?

Well, they take a copper plate

and they prepare it with chemicals,

and these chemicals are activated

by the light that reflects back

from your face,

and so the silver

sticks to the places where the light

is brightest. Understand?

Yes.

- Sorry. So sorry.

- No, thank you.

- Go on. He went ashore to meet them.

- Yes, that's right.

So, erm, Captain Fitzroy went ashore

to interview the Fuegians.

Now.

He offered them

some axe heads, some calico,

and very pretty buttons.

Total value, probably two shillings.

This is yours. You take it.

Look how it... Look how it glisters.

See?

And all he asked in return?

A few spare children.

You give me el nia.

To the Fuegians, children

were cheap and buttons were precious,

so it wasn't long

before the Fuegians had their trinkets

and Captain Fitzroy

had his three children.

He named them Boat Memory...

...Jemmy Button and Fuegia Basket.

Come here, you dirty little beggar!

The good captain

had them washed and dressed,

and he taught them

the proper table manners.

Boat Memory died of smallpox,

but the two littlest ones,

they learned their prayers

and their times-tables so excellently

that they were invited

to meet the King and Queen.

Everyone agreed

that good Christian values

had tamed the most savage of hearts.

The King gave Jemmy

a genuine brass telescope

and the Queen gave Fuegia one of her

Sunday best bonnets to keep for ever.

Two years later,

Captain Fitzroy and I took them home,

accompanied by a young missionary,

in the belief that, by example,

they would bring their fellow savages

to God.

And what do you think happened?

It didn't work.

That's right. Of course it didn't work!

- Go after them, you fool! Get them now.

- Jemmy! Fuegia!

Put your clothes back on! Come back!

It was a complete and total failure.

No, no, no!

Quite still, didn't I say?

You shall have to do it all over again.

So sorry. So badly behaved. So sorry.

Mr Darwin, sir?

Come on, Mr Darwin,

or your dinner will be spoiling.

Mr D will be in presently, ma'am.

I imagine.

- Thank you, Mrs Davies.

- Is Papa unwell again?

- He's always unwell these days.

- He is not, Franky.

Maybe he caught something awful

from the Hottentots.

Nanny Brodie said

God was angry with him.

- Brodie said no such thing.

- Yes, she did!

- Good evening.

- Good evening, Papa.

Sorry I'm so late.

Soup du jour, sir.

Thank you, Parslow.

Lord God, bless this family

and the food we eat.

- We ask in Thy name. Amen.

- Amen.

I hear Mr Hooker is coming tomorrow.

Yes. Yes, that's right.

Did he say what it was about?

I'm not sure

that now's the time to discuss it.

Perhaps the time to discuss it

was before you invited him.

Well, quite possibly, but he...

He invited himself.

Sorry.

Tell Mrs Davies it was delicious,

but my...

My stomach's still not quite what it...

it should be. Forgive me.

- Can we go fishing?

- Can we pick gooseberries?

October 17th, 1858.

Passed a poor night.

Stomach still wretched.

Noticed a slight tremor in right hand.

Consider increasing laudanum

by ten per cent, perhaps.

We'll sacrifice the two

tumblers. I want to skeletonise them.

Yes, sir.

Selective breeding

is undoubtedly working.

Already seeing real changes

in wing structure.

I'm convinced that all fancy breeds,

pouter, carrier, tumbler et cetera,

derive from the common rock pigeon.

Nature selects for survival,

man for appearance.

Must improve skeletonising methods.

Consider aqua regia, quicklime, perhaps.

They'll need a few more hours,

those, sir.

Master George! Master Franky! Lady Etty

and Master Lenny. How are you, sir?

- Sir?

- Thank you.

Anything else, sir?

No, no, no, you... carry on.

I'll clean myself up.

Is it true that he only let you go

if you married his fattest daughter?

Absolutely true, George,

but don't you dare tell my wife.

- Dear Joseph.

- Dearest Emma.

Ah. Yes. Forgive the short notice.

- You know Thomas Huxley?

- Only by reputation.

- He insisted on coming.

- It's a lie.

I have a question

for your esteemed, reclusive husband

and I didn't trust Hooker

to ask it for me.

I see. Children, tell Papa

his visitors are here.

- He already knows.

- He's hiding.

Do come in, please.

Can we play Charge of the Light Brigade?

You must be exhausted.

Will you take tea?

Hooker! My dear fellow!

And Huxley. Do come in. Come in.

Lead the charge, boys.

And away we go.

We're re-forming the Linnean Society.

The committee will comprise of myself,

Lyell, Hooker, yourself, of course,

if you're game for it.

Now that Hooker

and I finally have a bit of clout,

we can start to reclaim science

as a profession.

Wrest it away from the country parsons

and beetle collectors.

- Some of whom are friends.

- Your book will be our rallying point.

No, it won't. There is no book.

There are fragments, and they're not

in any fit state to publish.

I've read your abstract

and the argument is hugely powerful.

Clear evidence of transformation

over millions of years

from a free-swimming prawn

to a shellfish stuck on a rock.

That's my point. You can't be sure of

that, and that's why I need more time.

- Mr Darwin, sir?

- Yes?

Either you are being disingenuous or you

do not fully understand your own theory.

Evidently, what is true of the barnacle

is true of all creatures, even humans.

The Almighty can no longer claim to have

authored every species in under a week.

You've killed God, sir.

You have killed God.

Or to put it another way...

And I say good riddance

to the vindictive old bugger!

- Charles? Charles?

- Oh, no, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.

- Thomas, please.

- Yes, I quite understand.

It is time to write your book.

Strike hard and fast

with a blow that is utterly conclusive.

Really, sir, you...

You talk as if we're at war.

Yes. Science is at war with religion,

and when we win,

we'll finally be rid of

those damned archbishops

and their threats of eternal punishment.

No, Mr Huxley, we...

We live in a society and it is a society

bound together by the Church.

An improbable sort of barque,

I grant you, but at least it floats.

It floats. And you would what?

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