It is doubtful whether the gift was innate. For my own part, I
think it came to him suddenly. Indeed, until he was thirty he was a
sceptic, and did not believe in miraculous powers. And here, since
it is the most convenient place, I must mention that he was a little
man, and had eyes of a hot brown, very erect red hair, a moustache
with ends that he twisted up, and freckles. His name was George
McWhirter Fotheringay--not the sort of name by any means to lead to
any expectation of miracles--and he was clerk at Gomshott’s. He was
greatly addicted to assertive argument. It was while he was asserting
the impossibility of miracles that he had his first intimation of his
extraordinary powers. This particular argument was being held in the
bar of the Long Dragon, and Toddy Beamish was conducting the opposition
by a monotonous but effective ‘So _you_ say,’ that drove Mr Fotheringay
to the very limit of his patience.
There were present, besides these two, a very dusty cyclist, landlord
Cox, and Miss Maybridge, the perfectly respectable and rather portly
barmaid of the Dragon. Miss Maybridge was standing with her back to Mr
Fotheringay, washing glasses; the others were watching him, more or
less amused by the present ineffectiveness of the assertive method.
Goaded by the Torres Vedras tactics of Mr Beamish, Mr Fotheringay
determined to make an unusual rhetorical effort. ‘Looky here, Mr
Beamish,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Let us clearly understand what a
miracle is. It’s something contrariwise to the course of nature,
done by power of will, something what couldn’t happen without being
specially willed.’
‘So _you_ say,’ said Mr Beamish, repulsing him.
Mr Fotheringay appealed to the cyclist, who had hitherto been a silent
auditor, and received his assent--given with a hesitating cough and
a glance at Mr Beamish. The landlord would express no opinion, and
Mr Fotheringay, returning to Mr Beamish, received the unexpected
concession of a qualified assent to his definition of a miracle.
‘For instance,’ said Mr Fotheringay, greatly encouraged. ‘Here would be
a miracle. That lamp, in the natural course of nature, couldn’t burn
like that upsy-down, could it, Beamish?’
‘_You_ say it couldn’t,’ said Beamish.
‘And you?’ said Fotheringay. ‘You don’t mean to say--eh?’
‘No,’ said Beamish reluctantly. ‘No, it couldn’t.’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Then here comes some one, as it
might be me, along here, and stands as it might be here, and says
to that lamp, as I might do, collecting all my will--Turn upsy-down
without breaking, and go on burning steady, and--Hallo!’
It was enough to make any one say ‘Hallo!’ The impossible, the
incredible, was visible to them all. The lamp hung inverted in the
air, burning quietly with its flame pointing down. It was as solid, as
indisputable as ever a lamp was, the prosaic common lamp of the Long
Dragon bar.
Mr Fotheringay stood with an extended forefinger and the knitted brows
of one anticipating a catastrophic smash. The cyclist, who was sitting
next the lamp, ducked and jumped across the bar. Everybody jumped,
more or less. Miss Maybridge turned and screamed. For nearly three
seconds the lamp remained still. A faint cry of mental distress came
from Mr Fotheringay. ‘I can’t keep it up,’ he said, ‘any longer.’ He
staggered back, and the inverted lamp suddenly flared, fell against the
corner of the bar, bounced aside, smashed upon the floor, and went out.
It was lucky it had a metal receiver, or the whole place would have
been in a blaze. Mr Cox was the first to speak, and his remark,
shorn of needless excrescences, was to the effect that Fotheringay
was a fool. Fotheringay was beyond disputing even so fundamental a
proposition as that! He was astonished beyond measure at the thing that
had occurred. The subsequent conversation threw absolutely no light on
the matter so far as Fotheringay was concerned; the general opinion
not only followed Mr Cox very closely but very vehemently. Every one
accused Fotheringay of a silly trick, and presented him to himself as a
foolish destroyer of comfort and security. His mind was in a tornado of
perplexity, he was himself inclined to agree with them, and he made a
remarkably ineffectual opposition to the proposal of his departure.
He went home flushed and heated, coat-collar crumpled, eyes smarting,
and ears red. He watched each of the ten street lamps nervously as
he passed it. It was only when he found himself alone in his little
bedroom in Church Row that he was able to grapple seriously with his
memories of the occurrence, and ask, ‘What on earth happened?’
He had removed his coat and boots, and was sitting on the bed with
his hands in his pockets repeating the text of his defence for the
seventeenth time, ‘_I_ didn’t want the confounded thing to upset,’
when it occurred to him that at the precise moment he had said the
commanding words he had inadvertently willed the thing he said, and
that when he had seen the lamp in the air he had felt that it depended
on him to maintain it there without being clear how this was to be
done. He had not a particularly complex mind, or he might have stuck
for a time at that ‘inadvertently willed,’ embracing, as it does, the
abstrusest problems of voluntary action; but as it was, the idea came
to him with a quite acceptable haziness. And from that, following, as I
must admit, no clear logical path, he came to the test of experiment.
He pointed resolutely to his candle and collected his mind, though he
felt he did a foolish thing. ‘Be raised up,’ he said. But in a second
that feeling vanished. The candle was raised, hung in the air one
giddy moment, and as Mr Fotheringay gasped, fell with a smash on his
toilet-table, leaving him in darkness save for the expiring glow of its
wick.
For a time Mr Fotheringay sat in the darkness, perfectly still. ‘It did
happen, after all,’ he said. ‘And ’ow _I’m_ to explain it I _don’t_
know.’ He sighed heavily, and began feeling in his pockets for a match.
He could find none, and he rose and groped about the toilet-table. ‘I
wish I had a match,’ he said. He resorted to his coat, and there was
none there, and then it dawned upon him that miracles were possible
even with matches. He extended a hand and scowled at it in the dark.
‘Let there be a match in that hand,’ he said. He felt some light object
fall across his palm and his fingers closed upon a match.
After several ineffectual attempts to light this, he discovered it was
a safety match. He threw it down, and then it occurred to him that he
might have willed it lit. He did, and perceived it burning in the midst
of his toilet-table mat. He caught it up hastily, and it went out. His
perception of possibilities enlarged, and he felt for and replaced the
candle in its candlestick. ‘Here! _you_ be lit,’ said Mr Fotheringay,
and forthwith the candle was flaring, and he saw a little black hole in
the toilet-cover, with a wisp of smoke rising from it. For a time he
stared from this to the little flame and back, and then looked up and
met his own gaze in the looking-glass. By this help he communed with
himself in silence for a time.
‘How about miracles now?’ said Mr Fotheringay at last, addressing his
reflection.
The subsequent meditations of Mr Fotheringay were of a severe but
confused description. So far, he could see it was a case of pure
willing with him. The nature of his experiences so far disinclined
him for any further experiments, at least until he had reconsidered
them. But he lifted a sheet of paper, and turned a glass of water
pink and then green, and he created a snail, which he miraculously
annihilated, and got himself a miraculous new tooth-brush. Somewhere
in the small hours he had reached the fact that his will-power must be
of a particularly rare and pungent quality, a fact which he had indeed
had inklings before, but no certain assurance. The scare and perplexity
of his first discovery was now qualified by pride in this evidence of
singularity and by vague intimations of advantage. He became aware
that the church clock was striking one, and as it did not occur to him
that his daily duties at Gomshott’s might be miraculously dispensed
with, he resumed undressing, in order to get to bed without further
delay. As he struggled to get his shirt over his head, he was struck
with a brilliant idea. ‘Let me be in bed,’ he said, and found himself
so. ‘Undressed,’ he stipulated; and, finding the sheets cold, added
hastily, ‘and in my nightshirt--no, in a nice soft woollen nightshirt.
Ah!’ he said with immense enjoyment. ‘And now let me be comfortably
asleep....’
He awoke at his usual hour and was pensive all through breakfast-time,
wondering whether his overnight experience might not be a particularly
vivid dream. At length his mind turned again to cautious experiments.
For instance, he had three eggs for breakfast; two his landlady had
supplied, good, but shoppy, and one was a delicious fresh goose egg,
laid, cooked, and served by his extraordinary will. He hurried off to
Gomshott’s in a state of profound but carefully concealed excitement,
and only remembered the shell of the third egg when his landlady
spoke of it that night. All day he could do no work because of this
astonishing new self-knowledge, but this caused him no inconvenience,
because he made up for it miraculously in his last ten minutes.
As the day wore on his state of mind passed from wonder to elation,
albeit the circumstances of his dismissal from the Long Dragon were
still disagreeable to recall, and a garbled account of the matter that
had reached his colleagues led to some badinage. It was evident he must
be careful how he lifted frangible articles, but in other ways his gift
promised more and more as he turned it over in his mind. He intended
among other things to increase his personal property by unostentatious
acts of creation. He called into existence a pair of very splendid
diamond studs, and hastily annihilated them again as young Gomshott
came across the counting-house to his desk. He was afraid young
Gomshott might wonder how he had come by them. He saw quite clearly
the gift required caution and watchfulness in its exercise, but so far
as he could judge the difficulties attending its mastery would be no
greater than those he had already faced in the study of cycling. It was
that analogy, perhaps, quite as much as the feeling that he would be
unwelcome in the Long Dragon, that drove him out after supper into the
lane beyond the gasworks, to rehearse a few miracles in private.
There was possibly a certain want of originality in his attempts, for,
apart from his will-power, Mr Fotheringay was not a very exceptional
man. The miracle of Moses’ rod came to his mind, but the night was
dark and unfavourable to the proper control of large miraculous
snakes. Then he recollected the story of ‘Tannhäuser’ that he had
read on the back of the Philharmonic programme. That seemed to him
singularly attractive and harmless. He stuck his walking-stick--a very
nice Poona-Penang lawyer--into the turf that edged the footpath, and
commanded the dry wood to blossom. The air was immediately full of the
scent of roses, and by means of a match he saw for himself that this
beautiful miracle was indeed accomplished. His satisfaction was ended
by advancing footsteps. Afraid of a premature discovery of his powers,
he addressed the blossoming stick hastily: ‘Go back.’ What he meant was
‘Change back’; but of course he was confused. The stick receded at a
considerable velocity, and incontinently came a cry of anger and a bad
word from the approaching person. ‘Who are you throwing brambles at,
you fool?’ cried a voice. ‘That got me on the shin.’
‘I’m sorry, old chap,’ said Mr Fotheringay, and then, realising the
awkward nature of the explanation, caught nervously at his moustache.
He saw Winch, one of the three Immering constables, advancing.
‘What d’yer mean by it?’ asked the constable. ‘Hallo! it’s you, is it?
The gent that broke the lamp at the Long Dragon!’
‘I don’t mean anything by it,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘What d’yer do it for then?’
‘Oh, bother!’ said Mr Fotheringay.
‘Bother indeed! D’yer know that stick hurt? What d’yer do it for, eh?’
For the moment Mr Fotheringay could not think what he had done it for.
His silence seemed to irritate Mr Winch. ‘You’ve been assaulting the
police, young man, this time. That’s what _you_ done.’
‘Look here, Mr Winch,’ said Mr Fotheringay, annoyed and confused. ‘I’m
sorry, very. The fact is----’
‘Well?’
He could think of no way but the truth. ‘I was working a miracle.’ He
tried to speak in an offhand way, but try as he would he couldn’t.
‘Working a----! ’Ere, don’t you talk rot. Working a miracle, indeed!
Miracle! Well, that’s downright funny! Why, you’s the chap that
don’t believe in miracles.... Fact is, this is another of your silly
conjuring tricks--that’s what this is. Now, I tell you----’
But Mr Fotheringay never heard what Mr Winch was going to tell him. He
realised he had given himself away, flung his valuable secret to all
the winds of heaven. A violent gust of irritation swept him to action.
He turned on the constable swiftly and fiercely. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I’ve
had enough of this, I have! I’ll show you a silly conjuring trick, I
will! Go to Hades! Go, now!’
He was alone!
Mr Fotheringay performed no more miracles that night, nor did he
trouble to see what had become of his flowering stick. He returned
to the town, scared and very quiet, and went to his bedroom. ‘Lord!’
he said, ‘it’s a powerful gift--an extremely powerful gift. I didn’t
hardly mean as much as that. Not really.... I wonder what Hades is
like!’
He sat on the bed taking off his boots. Struck by a happy thought
he transferred the constable to San Francisco, and without any more
interference with normal causation went soberly to bed. In the night he
dreamt of the anger of Winch.
The next day Mr Fotheringay heard two interesting items of news. Some
one had planted a most beautiful climbing rose against the elder Mr
Gomshott’s private house in the Lullaborough Road, and the river as far
as Rawling’s Mill was to be dragged for Constable Winch.
Mr Fotheringay was abstracted and thoughtful all that day, and
performed no miracles except certain provisions for Winch, and the
miracle of completing his day’s work with punctual perfection in spite
of all the bee-swarm of thoughts that hummed through his mind. And the
extraordinary abstraction and meekness of his manner was remarked by
several people, and made a matter for jesting. For the most part he was
thinking of Winch.
On Sunday evening he went to chapel, and, oddly enough, Mr Maydig, who
took a certain interest in occult matters, preached about ‘things that
are not lawful.’ Mr Fotheringay was not a regular chapel-goer, but
the system of assertive scepticism, to which I have already alluded,
was now very much shaken. The tenor of the sermon threw an entirely
new light on these novel gifts, and he suddenly decided to consult Mr
Maydig immediately after the service. So soon as that was determined he
found himself wondering why he had not done so before.
Mr Maydig, a lean, excitable man with quite remarkably long wrists and
neck, was gratified at a request for a private conversation from a
young man whose carelessness in religious matters was a subject for
general remark in the town. After a few necessary delays, he conducted
him to the study of the manse, which was contiguous to the chapel,
seated him comfortably, and, standing in front of a cheerful fire--his
legs threw a Rhodian arch of shadow on the opposite wall--requested Mr
Fotheringay to state his business.
At first Mr Fotheringay was a little abashed, and found some difficulty
in opening the matter. ‘You will scarcely believe me, Mr Maydig, I am
afraid’--and so forth for some time. He tried a question at last, and
asked Mr Maydig his opinion of miracles.
Mr Maydig was still saying ‘Well’ in an extremely judicial tone, when
Mr Fotheringay interrupted again: ‘You don’t believe, I suppose, that
some common sort of person--like myself, for instance--as it might be
sitting here now, might have some sort of twist inside him that made
him able to do things by his will.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Mr Maydig. ‘Something of the sort, perhaps, is
possible.’
‘If I might make free with something here, I think I might show you by
a sort of experiment,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Now, take that tobacco-jar
on the table, for instance. What I want to know is whether what I am
going to do with it is a miracle or not. Just half a minute, Mr Maydig,
please.’
He knitted his brows, pointed to the tobacco-jar and said: ‘Be a bowl
of vi’lets.’
The tobacco-jar did as it was ordered.
Mr Maydig started violently at the change, and stood looking from
the thaumaturgist to the bowl of flowers. He said nothing. Presently
he ventured to lean over the table and smell the violets; they were
fresh-picked and very fine ones. Then he stared at Mr Fotheringay
again.
‘How did you do that?’ he asked.
Mr Fotheringay pulled his moustache. ‘Just told it--and there you are.
Is that a miracle, or is it black art, or what is it? And what do you
think’s the matter with me? That’s what I want to ask.’
‘It’s a most extraordinary occurrence.’
‘And this day last week I knew no more that I could do things like that
than you did. It came quite sudden. It’s something odd about my will, I
suppose, and that’s as far as I can see.’
‘Is that--the only thing. Could you do other things besides that?’
‘Lord, yes!’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Just anything.’ He thought, and
suddenly recalled a conjuring entertainment he had seen. ‘Here!’ he
pointed, ‘change into a bowl of fish--no, not that--change into a glass
bowl full of water with goldfish swimming in it. That’s better! You see
that, Mr Maydig?’
‘It’s astonishing. It’s incredible. You are either a most
extraordinary.... But no----’
‘I could change it into anything,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Just anything.
Here! be a pigeon, will you?’
In another moment a blue pigeon was fluttering round the room and
making Mr Maydig duck every time it came near him. ‘Stop there, will
you?’ said Mr Fotheringay; and the pigeon hung motionless in the air.
‘I could change it back to a bowl of flowers,’ he said, and after
replacing the pigeon on the table worked that miracle. ‘I expect you
will want your pipe in a bit,’ he said, and restored the tobacco-jar.
Mr Maydig had followed all these later changes in a sort of ejaculatory
silence. He stared at Mr Fotheringay and in a very gingerly manner
picked up the tobacco-jar, examined it, replaced it on the table.
‘_Well!_’ was the only expression of his feelings.
‘Now, after that it’s easier to explain what I came about,’ said Mr
Fotheringay; and proceeded to a lengthy and involved narrative of his
strange experiences, beginning with the affair of the lamp in the Long
Dragon and complicated by persistent allusions to Winch. As he went on,
the transient pride Mr Maydig’s consternation had caused passed away;
he became the very ordinary Mr Fotheringay of everyday intercourse
again. Mr Maydig listened intently, the tobacco-jar in his hand, and
his bearing changed also with the course of the narrative. Presently,
while Mr Fotheringay was dealing with the miracle of the third egg, the
minister interrupted with a fluttering, extended hand.
‘It is possible,’ he said. ‘It is credible. It is amazing, of course,
but it reconciles a number of amazing difficulties. The power to work
miracles is a gift--a peculiar quality like genius or second sight;
hitherto it has come very rarely and to exceptional people. But in
this case.... I have always wondered at the miracles of Mahomet, and
at Yogi’s miracles, and the miracles of Madame Blavatsky. But, of
course---- Yes, it is simply a gift! It carries out so beautifully the
arguments of that great thinker’--Mr Maydig’s voice sank--‘his Grace
the Duke of Argyll. Here we plumb some profounder law--deeper than the
ordinary laws of nature. Yes--yes. Go on. Go on!’
Mr Fotheringay proceeded to tell of his misadventure with Winch, and Mr
Maydig, no longer overawed or scared, began to jerk his limbs about and
interject astonishment. ‘It’s this what troubled me most,’ proceeded
Mr Fotheringay; ‘it’s this I’m most mijitly in want of advice for; of
course he’s at San Francisco--wherever San Francisco may be--but of
course it’s awkward for both of us, as you’ll see, Mr Maydig. I don’t
see how he can understand what has happened, and I dare say he’s
scared and exasperated something tremendous, and trying to get at me.
I dare say he keeps on starting off to come here. I send him back, by
a miracle, every few hours, when I think of it. And of course, that’s
a thing he won’t be able to understand, and it’s bound to annoy him;
and, of course, if he takes a ticket every time it will cost him a
lot of money. I done the best I could for him, but, of course, it’s
difficult for him to put himself in my place. I thought afterwards that
his clothes might have got scorched, you know--if Hades is all it’s
supposed to be--before I shifted him. In that case I suppose they’d
have locked him up in San Francisco. Of course I willed him a new suit
of clothes on him directly I thought of it. But, you see, I’m already
in a deuce of a tangle----’
Mr Maydig looked serious. ‘I see you are in a tangle. Yes, it’s a
difficult position. How you are to end it....’ He became diffuse and
inconclusive.
‘However, we’ll leave Winch for a little and discuss the larger
question. I don’t think this is a case of the black art or anything of
the sort. I don’t think there is any taint of criminality about it at
all, Mr Fotheringay--none whatever, unless you are suppressing material
facts. No, it’s miracles--pure miracles--miracles, if I may say so, of
the very highest class.’
He began to pace the hearthrug and gesticulate, while Mr Fotheringay
sat with his arm on the table and his head on his arm, looking worried.
‘I don’t see how I’m to manage about Winch,’ he said.
‘A gift of working miracles--apparently a very powerful gift,’ said Mr
Maydig, ‘will find a way about Winch--never fear. My dear sir, you are
a most important man--a man of the most astonishing possibilities. As
evidence, for example! And in other ways, the things you may do....’
‘Yes, _I’ve_ thought of a thing or two,’ said Mr Fotheringay.
‘But--some of the things came a bit twisty. You saw that fish at first?
Wrong sort of bowl and wrong sort of fish. And I thought I’d ask some
one.’
‘A proper course,’ said Mr Maydig, ‘a very proper course--altogether
the proper course.’ He stopped and looked at Mr Fotheringay. ‘It’s
practically an unlimited gift. Let us test your powers, for instance.
If they really _are_.... If they really are all they seem to be.’
And so, incredible as it may seem, in the study of the little house
behind the Congregational Chapel, on the evening of Sunday, Nov. 10,
1896, Mr Fotheringay, egged on and inspired by Mr Maydig, began to work
miracles. The reader’s attention is specially and definitely called to
the date. He will object, probably has already objected, that certain
points in this story are improbable, that if any things of the sort
already described had indeed occurred, they would have been in all the
papers at that time. The details immediately following he will find
particularly hard to accept, because among other things they involve
the conclusion that he or she, the reader in question, must have been
killed in a violent and unprecedented manner more than a year ago. Now
a miracle is nothing if not improbable, and as a matter of fact the
reader _was_ killed in a violent and unprecedented manner in 1896.
In the subsequent course of this story that will become perfectly
clear and credible, as every right-minded and reasonable reader will
admit. But this is not the place for the end of the story, being
but little beyond the hither side of the middle. And at first the
miracles worked by Mr Fotheringay were timid little miracles--little
things with the cups and parlour fitments, as feeble as the miracles
of Theosophists, and, feeble as they were, they were received with
awe by his collaborator. He would have preferred to settle the Winch
business out of hand, but Mr Maydig would not let him. But after they
had worked a dozen of these domestic trivialities, their sense of power
grew, their imagination began to show signs of stimulation, and their
ambition enlarged. Their first larger enterprise was due to hunger
and the negligence of Mrs Minchin, Mr Maydig’s housekeeper. The meal
to which the minister conducted Mr Fotheringay was certainly ill-laid
and uninviting as refreshment for two industrious miracle-workers; but
they were seated, and Mr Maydig was descanting in sorrow rather than
in anger upon his housekeeper’s shortcomings, before it occurred to Mr
Fotheringay that an opportunity lay before him. ‘Don’t you think, Mr
Maydig,’ he said, ‘if it isn’t a liberty, _I_----’
‘My dear Mr Fotheringay! Of course! No--I didn’t think.’
Mr Fotheringay waved his hand. ‘What shall we have?’ he said, in a
large, inclusive spirit, and, at Mr Maydig’s order, revised the supper
very thoroughly. ‘As for me,’ he said, eyeing Mr Maydig’s selection,
‘I am always particularly fond of a tankard of stout and a nice Welsh
rarebit, and I’ll order that. I ain’t much given to Burgundy,’ and
forthwith stout and Welsh rarebit promptly appeared at his command.
They sat long at their supper, talking like equals, as Mr Fotheringay
presently perceived, with a glow of surprise and gratification, of all
the miracles they would presently do. ‘And, by-the-by, Mr Maydig,’ said
Mr Fotheringay. ‘I might perhaps be able to help you--in a domestic
way.’
‘Don’t quite follow,’ said Mr Maydig, pouring out a glass of miraculous
old Burgundy.
Mr Fotheringay helped himself to a second Welsh rarebit out of
vacancy, and took a mouthful. ‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘I might be
able (_chum, chum_) to work (_chum, chum_) a miracle with Mrs Minchin
(_chum, chum_)--make her a better woman.’
Mr Maydig put down the glass and looked doubtful. ‘She’s---- She
strongly objects to interference, you know, Mr Fotheringay. And--as a
matter of fact--it’s well past eleven and she’s probably in bed and
asleep. Do you think, on the whole----’
Mr Fotheringay considered these objections. ‘I don’t see that it
shouldn’t be done in her sleep.’
For a time Mr Maydig opposed the idea, and then he yielded. Mr
Fotheringay issued his orders, and a little less at their ease,
perhaps, the two gentlemen proceeded with their repast. Mr Maydig was
enlarging on the changes he might expect in his housekeeper next day,
with an optimism that seemed even to Mr Fotheringay’s supper senses
a little forced and hectic, when a series of confused noises from
upstairs began. Their eyes exchanged interrogations, and Mr Maydig
left the room hastily. Mr Fotheringay heard him calling up to his
housekeeper and then his footsteps going softly up to her.
In a minute or so the minister returned, his step light, his face
radiant. ‘Wonderful!’ he said, ‘and touching! Most touching!’
He began pacing the hearthrug. ‘A repentance--a most touching
repentance--through the crack of the door. Poor woman! A most wonderful
change! She had got up. She must have got up at once. She had got up
out of her sleep to smash a private bottle of brandy in her box. And to
confess it too!... But this gives us--it opens--a most amazing vista of
possibilities. If we can work this miraculous change in _her_....’
‘The thing’s unlimited seemingly,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘And about Mr
Winch----’
‘Altogether unlimited.’ And from the hearthrug Mr Maydig, waving
the Winch difficulty aside, unfolded a series of wonderful
proposals--proposals he invented as he went along.
Now what those proposals were does not concern the essentials of
this story. Suffice it that they were designed in a spirit of
infinite benevolence, the sort of benevolence that used to be called
post-prandial. Suffice it, too, that the problem of Winch remained
unsolved. Nor is it necessary to describe how far that series got
to its fulfilment. There were astonishing changes. The small hours
found Mr Maydig and Mr Fotheringay careering across the chilly market
square under the still moon, in a sort of ecstasy of thaumaturgy, Mr
Maydig all flap and gesture, Mr Fotheringay short and bristling, and
no longer abashed at his greatness. They had reformed every drunkard
in the Parliamentary division, changed all the beer and alcohol to
water (Mr Maydig had overruled Mr Fotheringay on this point); they
had, further, greatly improved the railway communication of the place,
drained Flinder’s swamp, improved the soil of One Tree Hill, and cured
the vicar’s wart. And they were going to see what could be done with
the injured pier at South Bridge. ‘The place,’ gasped Mr Maydig, ‘won’t
be the same place to-morrow. How surprised and thankful every one will
be!’ And just at that moment the church clock struck three.
‘I say,’ said Mr Fotheringay, ‘that’s three o’clock! I must be getting
back. I’ve got to be at business by eight. And besides, Mrs Wimms----’
‘We’re only beginning,’ said Mr Maydig, full of the sweetness of
unlimited power. ‘We’re only beginning. Think of all the good we’re
doing. When people wake----’
‘But----’ said Mr Fotheringay.
Mr Maydig gripped his arm suddenly. His eyes were bright and wild. ‘My
dear chap,’ he said, ‘there’s no hurry. Look’--he pointed to the moon
at the zenith--‘Joshua!’
‘Joshua?’ said Mr Fotheringay.
‘Joshua,’ said Mr Maydig. ‘Why not? Stop it.’
Mr Fotheringay looked at the moon.
‘That’s a bit tall,’ he said, after a pause.
‘Why not?’ said Mr Maydig. ‘Of course it doesn’t stop. You stop the
rotation of the earth, you know. Time stops. It isn’t as if we were
doing harm.’
‘H’m!’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘I’ll try. Here!’
He buttoned up his jacket and addressed himself to the habitable globe,
with as good an assumption of confidence as lay in his power. ‘Jest
stop rotating, will you?’ said Mr Fotheringay.
Incontinently he was flying head over heels through the air at the rate
of dozens of miles a minute. In spite of the innumerable circles he was
describing per second he thought; for thought is wonderful--sometimes
as sluggish as flowing pitch, sometimes as instantaneous as light. He
thought in a second, and willed. ‘Let me come down safe and sound.
Whatever else happens let me down safe and sound.’
He willed it only just in time, for his clothes, heated by his rapid
flight through the air, were already beginning to singe. He came down
with a forcible, but by no means injurious, bump in what appeared to
be a mound of fresh-turned earth. A large mass of metal and masonry,
extraordinarily like the clock-tower in the middle of the market
square, hit the earth near him, ricochetted over him, and flew into
stonework, bricks, and cement, like a bursting bomb. A hurtling cow hit
one of the larger blocks and smashed like an egg. There was a crash
that made all the most violent crashes of his past life seem like the
sound of falling dust, and this was followed by a descending series
of lesser crashes. A vast wind roared throughout earth and heaven,
so that he could scarcely lift his head to look. For a while he was
too breathless and astonished even to see where he was or what had
happened. And his first movement was to feel his head and reassure
himself that his streaming hair was still his own.
‘Lord!’ gasped Mr Fotheringay, scarce able to speak for the gale, ‘I’ve
had a squeak! What’s gone wrong? Storms and thunder. And only a minute
ago a fine night. It’s Maydig set me on to this sort of thing. _What_
a wind! If I go on fooling in this way I’m bound to have a thundering
accident!...’
‘Where’s Maydig?’
‘What a confounded mess everything’s in!’
He looked about him so far as his flapping jacket would permit. The
appearance of things was really extremely strange. ‘The sky’s all
right anyhow,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘And that’s about all that is all
right. And even there it looks like a terrific gale coming up. And even
there’s the moon overhead. Just as it was just now. Bright as midday.
But as for the rest---- Where’s the village? Where’s--where’s any
thing? And what on earth set this wind a-blowing? _I_ didn’t order no
wind.’
Mr Fotheringay struggled to get to his feet in vain, and after one
failure, remained on all fours, holding on. He surveyed the moonlit
world to leeward, with the tails of his jacket streaming over his head.
‘There’s something seriously wrong,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘And what it
is--goodness knows.’
Far and wide nothing was visible in the white glare through the haze of
dust that drove before a screaming gale but tumbled masses of earth and
heaps of inchoate ruins, no trees, no houses, no familiar shapes, only
a wilderness of disorder, vanishing at last into the darkness beneath
the whirling columns and streamers, the lightnings and thunderings of
a swiftly rising storm. Near him in the livid glare was something that
might once have been an elm-tree, a smashed mass of splinters, shivered
from boughs to base, and further a twisted mass of iron girders--only
too evidently the viaduct--rose out of the piled confusion.
You see, when Mr Fotheringay had arrested the rotation of the solid
globe, he had made no stipulation concerning the trifling movables
upon its surface. And the earth spins so fast that the surface at its
equator is travelling at rather more than a thousand miles an hour, and
in these latitudes at more than half that pace.
So that the village, and Mr Maydig, and Mr Fotheringay, and everybody
and everything had been jerked violently forward at about nine miles
per second--that is to say, much more violently than if they had been
fired out of a cannon. And every human being, every living creature,
every house, and every tree--all the world as we know it--had been so
jerked and smashed and utterly destroyed. That was all.
These things Mr Fotheringay did not, of course, fully appreciate. But
he perceived that his miracle had miscarried, and with that a great
disgust of miracles came upon him. He was in darkness now, for the
clouds had swept together and blotted out his momentary glimpse of
the moon, and the air was full of fitful struggling tortured wraiths
of hail. A great roaring of wind and waters filled earth and sky, and
peering under his hand through the dust and sleet to windward, he saw
by the play of the lightnings a vast wall of water pouring towards him.
‘Maydig!’ screamed Mr Fotheringay’s feeble voice amid the elemental
uproar. ‘Here!--Maydig!’
‘Stop!’ cried Mr Fotheringay to the advancing water. ‘Oh, for goodness’
sake, stop!
‘Just a moment,’ said Mr Fotheringay to the lightnings and thunder.
‘Stop jest a moment while I collect my thoughts.... And now what shall
I do?’ he said. ‘What _shall_ I do? Lord! I wish Maydig was about.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘And for goodness’ sake let’s have it
right _this_ time.’
He remained on all fours, leaning against the wind, very intent to have
everything right.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Let nothing what I’m going to order happen until I say
“Off!” ... Lord! I wish I’d thought of that before!’
He lifted his little voice against the whirlwind, shouting louder and
louder in the vain desire to hear himself speak. ‘Now then!--here goes!
Mind about that what I said just now. In the first place, when all
I’ve got to say is done, let me lose my miraculous power, let my will
become just like anybody else’s will, and all these dangerous miracles
be stopped. I don’t like them. I’d rather I didn’t work ’em. Ever so
much. That’s the first thing. And the second is--let me be back just
before the miracles begin; let everything be just as it was before that
blessed lamp turned up. It’s a big job, but it’s the last. Have you got
it? No more miracles, everything as it was--me back in the Long Dragon
just before I drank my half-pint. That’s it! Yes.’
He dug his fingers into the mould, closed his eyes, and said ‘Off!’
Everything became perfectly still. He perceived that he was standing
erect.
‘So _you_ say,’ said a voice.
He opened his eyes. He was in the bar of the Long Dragon, arguing about
miracles with Toddy Beamish. He had a vague sense of some great thing
forgotten that instantaneously passed. You see that, except for the
loss of his miraculous powers, everything was back as it had been, his
mind and memory therefore were now just as they had been at the time
when this story began. So that he knew absolutely nothing of all that
is told here--knows nothing of all that is told here to this day. And
among other things, of course, he still did not believe in miracles.
‘I tell you that miracles, properly speaking, can’t possibly happen,’
he said, ‘whatever you like to hold. And I’m prepared to prove it up to
the hilt.’
‘That’s what _you_ think,’ said Toddy Beamish, and ‘Prove it if you
can.’
‘Looky here, Mr Beamish,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Let us clearly
understand what a miracle is. It’s something contrariwise to the course
of nature done by power of Will....’