Part 14

I told them—what some knew—that evolution was an ancient, philosophical theory, and only the method of evolution Darwinian. Some of them said Darwin’s name always made them think of monkeys.

I now went on to explain Darwin’s theory of natural selection; spoke of variation in all directions as the law of life; then explained the struggle for food and place, and then protective colorings, and consequent elimination. The children gave as many examples and instances as myself. Then I went on to tell what artificial selection had been able to do, and showed a group of pictures of the dog, domesticated from a wolf-like animal. The pictures included prize bulldogs, St. Bernards, French poodles, tiny Japanese dogs and great Danes.

Now Florence, who has just had instruction in evolution by her helpful big brother, said:

“But a great many scientists no longer accept natural selection and the survival of the fittest as an explanation of development. There is the theory of isolation, too.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I am one of those who believe in natural selection only in part, but I wanted you to hear it all. Florence, explain the effect of isolation to us.”

She explained it, and gave a very good example, that of some birds in a species having stronger wings than others, and so flying farther to nest.

When I asked what any theory of the process of evolution failed to explain, Ruth answered “immortality.” I told her that evolutionary theories did not attempt to explain that.

I showed them how no theory explained change itself, explained the initial variation. I showed them, too, the limits of natural selection. When I took the eye as an example of a specialized organ too complex to be easily accounted for by natural selection, I found them hard to convince, because they did not realize the complexity of the eye. But when I spoke of the life and death value of any organic change as necessary for its selection, they saw how that limited selection in many ways.

We spoke of the relation of evolution to our idea of life. At once they said it was a proof of progress.

I insisted on its being a self-evolving, a will in life. They saw that. Alfred said: “Could the one-celled creature will; did it know enough?” Marian answered that it was a subconscious will.

Henry said: “Within living things is the inner will. But how about the earth? Isn’t there a will outside for other things?”

I answered that even the earth seemed self-impelled; that within the universe seemed to be an immense will, and we were a part of that will; it was our will within us.

I said that creatures could change only because they wanted to be different, because something wanted to be different. I said to change, and to change always in one direction, was progress; that what we wanted to do, and thought we had done, was to find that direction.

They saw at once how physical death was necessary to race progress, how the old died to make room for the young, and how each newborn creature had new possibilities of progress.

But when I spoke of all the progress of evolution, of even struggle and selection leading toward harmony, fitness and relationship, which is the thing we want, Ruth said:

“I don’t see how the lobster killing its fellows because it had a larger claw could lead to harmony and better relationship.”

That was a good point. But I scarcely had a chance to answer it, for Marian said that creatures had to develop themselves first.

Then I spoke again, in this relation, of changing standards of good and bad, how what was right for an animal, for the lobster, for instance, was wrong for us. I showed them how all animals were selfish, and had to be selfish and self-evolving alone; how we had to be unselfish only because we realized how vast we were. Marian spoke again of the criminal. She said: “If he were behind us, he, from his own point of view, would not be bad.”

“But he would have to be punished,” said Ruth, “and made to be good.”

“Yes,” I answered, “for he is human, and we expect human actions of him. But we would not dare to blame him.”

Henry said we would punish him not as a punishment to hurt him, but to teach him.

We spoke again of diversity as necessary to comprehension, to understanding. I told them I had a whimsical fancy that the first one-celled creature divided because it wanted company. If creatures never divided, and became different, they certainly could never understand each other. Marian said:

“I see now. It is like a girl who had always lived in her own family and developed pretty well there, but the more different people she met the better she would develop.”

“Yes,” I answered, “unlikeness gives us recognition.”

Virginia said: “If we were all one self, life would be uninteresting.”

“Yes,” said I, “but we might reach a self-conscious self which is unthinkable to us now. There is one way, however, in which evolution helps us, and that is such an obvious way that none of you has thought of it.”

For a moment they were puzzled. Then Alfred said: “It is that we are really all one self.”

“Oh, I see,” said Marian.