5 days ago
13
It is probably wrong to touch, even gently, a sea anemone. But even now, I find it difficult to resist
In her book Theatres of Glass, Rebecca Stott writes about the Victorian craze for home aquariums – which swept London in the 1850s, with people taking animals from the seaside and making miniature rock pools at home in large glass enclosures or pie dishes. The craze did not last long; people didn’t have a way to oxygenate the water and most of what they collected died.
But among the people who loved the idea that you could create a rock pool at home was Mary Ann Evans – who wrote as George Eliot. She and her partner, the philosopher and critic George Henry Lewes, spent two summers hunting sea anemones in the town of Ilfracombe, where they were “absolutely fascinated” by what they saw, says Stott. Commenting on how difficult they found it at first to spot the anemones they had been told were as “plenty as blackberries”, Eliot wrote that it is “characteristic enough of the wide difference there is between having eyes and seeing”.
Lewes, meanwhile, wrote in an article for the Westminster Review:
We must always remember the great drama which is incessantly acted out in every drop of water, on every inch of earth. Then and only then do we realise the mighty complexity, the infinite splendour of nature. Then and only then do we feel how full of life, varied, intricate, marvellous, world within world, yet nowhere without space to move is this single planet, on the crust of which we stand and look out into shoreless space peopled by myriads of other planets, larger, if not more wonderful than ours.
Viciously, then, I lock my door.
The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside
Ushers in evening rain. Once more
Uncontradicting solitude
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
At nights birds hammered my unborn
child’s heart to strength, each strike bringing
bones and spine to glow, her lungs pestled
loud as the sea I was raised a sea anemone
among women who cursed their hearts
out,
Helen Sullivan is a Guardian journalist. She is writing a book for Scribner Australia
Do you have an animal, insect or other subject you’d like to see profiled by this columnist? Email helen.sullivan@theguardian.com
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