The observer (here, Dr. Gibson) is present in the scene, and the details that are enumerated reveal a sensitivity to the process of observation familiar to a naturalist. In Wives and Daughters, those people who are strong observers are distinguished from those who cannot see the truth. It is no accident that Roger Hamley’s great error of judgment manifests itself as a failure of observation, one in which he cannot see the truth about a woman, but rather only a series of trite poetic images: She was a “a polar star, high up in the heavens, and so on, and so on; for, with all a lover’s quickness of imagination and triteness of fancy, he called her a star, a flower, a nymph, a witch, an angel, or a mermaid, a nightingale, a siren ...” (p. 368). The capacity to observe is equated in the novel with the capacity for truth—qualities most consistently present, not surprisingly, in Molly, the novel’s heroine.
Natural history also functions in Wives and Daughters as a kind of analogy for its narrative procedure. That is, the novel makes a clear connection between interest in “out-of-door things” and the pursuit of a detailed exposition of everydayness, which can be said to be Gaskell’s ambition. In the following economical description of Roger, “everydayness” and “detail” are terms of value that are in line with knowledge of the natural world: “Roger was practical; interested in all out-of-door things, and he enjoyed the details, homely enough, which his father sometimes gave him of the everyday occurrences which the latter had noticed in the woods and the fields” (p. 248). In the same way that looking at objects under a microscope for Molly was palliative in her moment of deepest despair, here the practice of noticing nature knits together a father and son. The kind of knowledge that his father has—gathered from “everyday occurrences” that even this uneducated man had “noticed in the woods and fields”—is like the knowledge that Roger Hamley is pursuing as a naturalist and budding scientist, which in the coming years (but not yet) would become a proper subject at university. Roger’s interest in the “details” is matched by Gaskell’s narrative, which interests itself especially in the economic details of everyday life: how many bank notes are needed for a gown, the price that the Miss Brownings pay for tea, the specific rate of interest Cynthia repays on her loan, the process of insuring one’s life, the cost of drainage works, the worth of legacies, the entailment of land, and so on. The value natural history places on the observation of “everydayness” is like the knowledge that Gaskell herself is pursuing in trying to capture the details of the country around Hollingford, both social and natural. In this way, you might think of Wives and Daughters as a natural history of a society—not only which species inhabit it, but how the ecosystem works.
It is from this perspective that one should understand the specific references to the scientific debates Roger enters into when he publishes a paper in response to debates circulating in French scientific circles. As a result of the paper, he is invited by Lord Hollingford to attend a dinner for scientists at which the guests wish to “meet the author of the paper which had already attracted the attention of the French comparative anatomists” (p. 300). The French comparative anatomists that the novel refers to by name—Georges Cuvier, Etienne Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, and Jean-Baptiste Lamarck—are the central scientific figures of the early nineteenth century whose debates and early discoveries contributed to the emergence of evolutionary theory ; Darwin himself cited Saint-Hilaire’s realizations about the homologies among species as important to his understanding of evolutionary relationships. The novel thus means us to understand that Roger is working at the cutting edge of the emerging field of evolutionary theory, especially because he is interested in “comparative osteology,” which as a forerunner of evolutionary theory was concerned with the likenesses and dissimilarities among various species (especially apes and humans). Roger, clearly the novel’s ideal of a man, is thus engaged in pursuits that require observation of homely everyday natural objects as well as theoretical pursuits that are attempting to answer the most profound questions about the relationships among species and the origin of humans. It is hard to dismiss these references to natural history as inconsequential—mere attempts to add verisimilitude to the narrative—not least because the references are so many and so detailed.
How might we understand, then, these references to contemporary science? Perhaps one way of understanding their place in Gaskell’s “every-day story” is to think about the status of natural history in the novel. A quick catalog of the various characters shows that the characters who are depicted as either most educated or most admirable are also interested in one way or another in the natural world: Lord Hollingford sponsors scientific endeavors; Roger Hamley is a naturalist, while Molly reads Le Règne Animal, happily receives wasps’ nests as gifts, and scours Roger’s letters from Africa for details about his discoveries (as well as his well-being); Squire Hamley is an untutored observer of nature, while Dr. Gibson appreciates nature’s details from his horse; and Lady Harriet peppers her speech with analogies drawn from nature, while her sister Lady Agnes is an amateur botanist. In contrast, Cynthia is bored by Roger’s naturalist discussions and fails to appreciate the floral language implicit in a bouquet gathered for her, while Mrs. Gibson—otherwise a sharp reader of social hierarchies and distinctions—is unimpressed by Roger’s fame on the London scientific stage. The novel seems to employ natural history as a short-hand for distinction of person, whether that be class, education, or morality. For instance, Cynthia’s lack of feeling is shown when she fails to attend a meeting, while in London, of the Geographical Society, at which a letter from Roger is to be read aloud to the public (women included). In contrast, Molly somehow naturally embodies a kind of distinction that Cynthia lacks.
Lady Harriet, the novel’s shrewdest observer, distinguishes Molly early on as a kind of exception to her class; she employs language that reminds Molly of zoology. When Molly protests that Lady Harriet speaks of “ ‘the sort of—the class of people to which I belong as if it was a kind of strange animal you were talking about,’ ” Lady Harriet responds by saying “ ‘I talk after my kind, just as you talk after your kind. It’s only on the surface with both of us. Why, I dare say some of your good Hollingford ladies talk of the poor people in a manner which they would consider as impertinent in their turn’ ” (p. 162). By likening the way people distinguish themselves from those of a different class as an exercise in observing animals—as a zoologist might—Molly initiates a discussion about class with Lady Harriet. Notice the way Molly does not back away from saying what she means; she clarifies what she means by substituting “the sort of” people with “the class of people.” Lady Harriet’s candid response about equality—a term she employs with reservation—is fascinating in the way it both accepts as natural the distinctions between social classes and yet allows for the possibility that class is not inherent:“But somehow I separate you from all these Hollingford people.”“But why?” persevered Molly. “I’m one of them.”“Yes you are. But—now don’t reprove me again for impertinence—most of them are so unnatural in their exaggerated respect and admiration when they come up to the Towers, and put on so much pretence by way of fine manners, that they only make themselves objects of ridicule. You at least are simple and truthful, and that’s why I separate you in my own mind from them, and have talked unconsciously to you as I would—well! now here’s another piece of impertinence—as I would my equal—in rank, I mean; for I don’t set myself up in solid things as any better than my neighbours” (p. 162).