The Signature of All Things

asked.
    “Because it was not good enough.”
    “Nonsense! It’s all here. The entire theory is all here. It’s certainly more developed than the absurd, feverish letter I wrote to Darwin in ’fifty-eight. We should publish it now.”
    “No,” Alma said. “There is no need to publish it. Truly, I do not have a need of that. It is enough, what you just have said—that there were three of us. That is enough for me. You have made an old woman happy.”
    “But we could publish,” he pushed on. “I could present it for you . . .”
    She put her hand on his. “No,” she said, firmly. “I ask you to trust me. It is not necessary.”
    They sat in stillness for a while.
    “May I at minimum ask why you felt it was not worth publishing in 1854?” Wallace said, breaking the silence.
    “I did not publish because I believed there was something missing from the theory. And I will tell you, Mr. Wallace—I still believe there is something missing from the theory.”
    “Which is what, exactly?”
    “A convincing evolutionary explanation for human altruism and self-sacrifice,” she said.
    She wondered if she would have to elaborate. She did not know if she had the energy to dive fully into the giant question again—to tell him all about Prudence and the orphans, and the women who pulled babies from canals, and the men who rushed into fires to rescue strangers, and the starving prisoners who shared their last bites of food with other starving prisoners, and the missionaries who forgave the fornicators, and the nurses who cared for the insane, and the people who loved dogs that no one else could love, and all the rest of it beyond.
    But there was no need to get into particulars. He understood immediately.
    “I’ve had the same questions, myself, you know,” he said.
    “I know that you have,” she said. “I’ve always wondered—did Darwin have such questions?”
    “Yes,” Wallace said. Then he paused, reconsidering. “Though I never knew exactly what Darwin concluded on the matter, to be honest. He was so careful, you know, never to make proclamations about anything until he was absolutely certain. Unlike me.”
    “Unlike you,” Alma agreed. “But not unlike me.”
    “No, not unlike you.”
    “Were you fond of Mr. Darwin?” Alma asked. “I’ve always wondered that.”
    “Oh, yes,” said Wallace easily. “Quite. He was the best of men. I think he was the greatest man of our time, or, indeed, of most times. To whom can we compare him? There was Aristotle. There was Copernicus. There was Galileo. There was Newton. And there was Darwin.”
    “So you never resented him?” Alma asked.
    “Heavens no, Miss Whittaker. In science, all merit should be imputed to the first discoverer, and thus the theory of natural selection was always meant to be his. What’s more, he alone had the grandeur for it. I believe he was our generation’s Virgil, taking us on a tour through heaven, hell, and purgatory. He was our divine guide.”
    “I’ve always thought so, too.”
    “I tell you, Miss Whittaker, I am not at all distressed to learn that you beat me to the theory of natural selection, but I would have been terriblycast down to have learned that you had beat Darwin. I so admire him, you know. I would like to see him keep his throne.”
    “His throne is in no danger from me, young man,” said Alma mildly. “No need for alarm.”
    Wallace laughed. “I quite enjoy it, Miss Whittaker, that you call me a young man. For a fellow in his seventh decade, that is quite a compliment.”
    “From a lady in her ninth decade, sir, it is simply the truth.”
    He did indeed seem young to her. It was interesting—the best parts of her life, she felt, had always been spent in the company of old men. There were all those stimulating meals of her childhood, sitting at the table with the endless parade of brilliant aged minds. There were the years at White Acre with her father, discussing botany and trade late into the night. There was her time in Tahiti with the good and decent Reverend Francis Welles. There were the four happy years here in Amsterdam with Uncle Dees before his death. But now she herself was old, and there were no more old men! Now, here she sat with a stooped graybeard—a mere child of sixty—and she was the ancient tortoise in the room.
    “Do you know what I believe, Miss Whittaker? Regarding your question on the origins of human compassion and self-sacrifice? I believe that evolution explains