Wednesday's Good Reading: “Mastermaid” by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe (translated into English by George Webb Dasent)

 

Once upon a time there was a king who had several sons. I don't know exactly how many there were. The youngest had no rest at home, for nothing would please him but to go out into the world and try his luck. After a long time the king was had to let him go.

After he had traveled some days, he came to a giant's house, and there he got a place in the giant's service.

In the morning the giant went off to herd his goats, and as he left the yard he told the prince to clean out the stable.

He said, "After you have finished, you can have the rest of the day off, for you must know that you have come to an easy master. But when you are asked to do something, you must do it well, and don't even think of going into any of the rooms that are beyond the one where you slept last night, for if you do, it will cost you your life."

"I surely do have an easy master," said the prince to himself, as he walked up and down the room humming and singing, for he thought there was plenty of time to clean out the stable. "But it would be good to take just a peep into his other rooms, for there must be something in them that he doesn't want me to see, since he won't allow me to enter them."

He went into the first room, and there was a pot boiling on a hook by the wall, but the prince saw no fire underneath it.

"I wonder what is inside it," he thought.

He dipped a lock of his hair into it, and the hair seemed to have turned to copper.

"What a strange stew," he said. "If you tasted it, it would do something to your gullet."

With that he went into the next room. There, too, was a pot hanging by a hook. It, too, was bubbling and boiling, although there was also no fire under it.

"I may as well try this too," said the prince. He put another lock into the pot, and it came out looking like silver.

"We don't have such expensive stew at my father's house," said the prince. "But the important thing is how it tastes."

With that he went into the third room. There, too, hung a pot, boiling just as he had seen in the two other rooms, and the prince wanted to test this one as well, so he dipped a lock of hair into it, and it came out looking like pure gold, so that it gleamed.

"Is this getting worse and worse, or better and better?" asked the prince. "If he is cooking up gold in here, I wonder what he is cooking up in the next room."

He wanted to see, so he went through the door into the fourth room. Well, there was no pot to be seen in there, but there was a girl seated on a bench. -- She had to be a princess. Whoever she was, she was so beautiful that the prince had never seen anyone like her all his born days.

"Oh, in Jesus' name," she said, "what are you doing here?"

"I entered service here yesterday," said the prince.

"Service indeed! May God help you out of it!" she said.

"Well, I think I've got an easy master. He hasn't given me much to do today. My day's work is finished as soon as I have cleaned out the stable."

"Yes, but how will you do it?" she said; "for if you set to work to clean it like other people, ten pitchforks full will come back in for every one that you throw out. But I will teach you what to do. Turn the fork upside down, and throw with the handle, and then everything will fly out by itself."

He said that he would do it that way, and then he sat there the whole day, for he and the princess soon decided that they wanted to get married. Thus, the first day of his service with the giant went by very quickly indeed.

As evening approached, she said that he should go and clean out the stable before the giant came home. He went out to the stable, and thought he would just see if what she had said were true, and so he began to work like he had seen the servants in his father's stable do; but he soon had to stop, for he hadn't worked a minute before the stable was so full of dung that he hadn't room to stand.

Then he did what the princess had told him to do: He turned the fork upside down and worked with the handle. In an instant the stable was as clean as if it had been scoured. When he was finished he went back to the room that the giant had given him, and began to walk up and down, humming and singing.

After a while, the giant came home with his goats.

"Have you cleaned the stable?" asked the giant.

"Yes, master, it's all spic-and-span," answered the prince.

"I'll soon see if it is," growled the giant, and strode off to the stable, where he found it just as the prince had said.

"You've been talking to my Mastermaid, I can see," said the giant; "for you didn't suck this knowledge out of your own breast."

"Mastermaid!" said the prince, playing dumb, "what sort of thing is that, master? I'd like to see one."

"Well!" said the giant, "you'll see her soon enough."

The next day the giant again went out with his goats. Before leaving he told the prince to bring in his horse, which was out grazing on the pasture, and when he had done that he could take the rest of the day off.

"For you must know that you have come to an easy master," said the giant; "but if you go into any of the rooms I spoke of yesterday, I'll rip your head off."

Then off he went with his flock of goats.

"You are indeed an easy master," said the prince; "but I still I would like to have a chat with your Mastermaid. Maybe she'd just as soon be mine as yours!"

So he went to her, and she asked him what he had to do that day.

"Oh, nothing to be afraid of," he said. "I only have to go up to the pasture and bring in his horse."

"Very well, and how will you go about doing it?"

"Well, there's nothing very difficult about riding a horse home. I have ridden many a frisky horse before now," said the prince.

"This task will not be as easy as you think, "she said, "but I'll teach you how to do it. When you see it, it will come up to you breathing fire and flame out of its nostrils like a pitch torch. You must take the bit that is hanging behind the door over there. Throw it into his mouth, and he will grow so tame that you can do anything that you want to with him."

He said that he would do that and so he sat there the whole day, talking and chatting with Mastermaid about one thing and another. But they talked about how happy they would be if they could only get married, and get away from the giant. To tell the truth, the prince would have forgotten both the horse and the pasture if Mastermaid hadn't reminded him of them as evening was approaching. She told him that he had better go out bring the horse in before the giant came home.

So he set off. Taking the bit which hung in the corner, he ran up to the pasture, and it wasn't long before he met the horse, with fire and flame blowing out of its nostrils. But he took his time, and when the horse came up to him, with its jaws wide apart, he threw the bit into its mouth, and the horse became as gentle as a lamb. After that it was not at all difficult to ride it home and put it into the stable. Then the prince went to his room, and began to hum and sing.

When the giant came home that evening with his goats, the first words that he said were, "Have you brought my horse down from the pasture?"

"Yes, master, that I have," said the prince; "and although it is a wonderful riding horse, I rode it straight home to the stable."

"I'll just check on that," said the giant, and ran out to the stable. The horse was standing there just as the prince had said.

"You've been talking to my Mastermaid, you have!" said the giant again. "You haven't sucked this out of your own breast."

"Yesterday master talked of this Mastermaid, and today it's the same story. God bless you, master! Won't you show me the thing at once? I really would like to see it," said the prince, pretending to be simple-minded and stupid.

"You'll get to see her soon enough," said the giant.

On the third day at dawn the giant went out into the woods again with his goats.

Before leaving he said to the prince, "Today you must go to Hell and get my fire tax. When you have done that you can have the rest of the day off, for you must know that you have come to an easy master."

And with that off he went.

"Easy master, indeed!" said the prince. "You may be easy, but you give me hard tasks all the same. I may as well see if I can find your Mastermaid. You claim that she belongs to you, but I'll see if she won't tell me what to do," and so he went to her once again.

Mastermaid asked what the giant had asked him to do that day, and he told her how he was to go to Hell and fetch the fire tax.

"And how will you go about it?" asked Mastermaid.

"You will have to tell me," said the prince, "for I have never been to Hell in my life. Even if I knew the way, I wouldn't know how much I am to ask for."

"Well, I'll tell you," said Mastermaid. "Go to the steep cliff over there beyond the pasture. Take the club that is lying there and knock on the face of the cliff. Someone who is all glowing with fire will come out. Tell him about your errand. When he asks you how much you need, say, 'As much as I can carry.'"

He said that he would do just that, and then he sat there with Mastermaid all that day too. Although evening was approaching, he would have sat there until now, if Mastermaid had not reminded him that it was time to be off to Hell to fetch the giant's fire tax before he came home. So he went on his way, and did just as Mastermaid had told him. When he reached the rock he picked up the club and gave a great thump. The cliff opened, and out came a person whose face was aglow, and from whose eyes and nostrils flew sparks of fire.

"What do you want?" he said.

"I've come from the giant to fetch his fire tax," said the prince.

"How much do you need?" said the other.

"I never ask for more than I am able to carry," said the prince.

"Lucky for you that you did not ask for a whole horseload," said the man from the cliff; "but come now into the cliff with me, and you shall have it."

So the prince went inside with him, and what heaps and heaps of gold and silver he saw lying in there, just like stones in a gravel pit. He got a load just as big as he was able to carry, and set off for home with it.

When the giant came home with his goats that evening, the prince went into his room, and began to hum and sing just as he had done the evenings before.

"Have you been to Hell after my fire tax?" roared the giant.

"Oh yes, that I have, master," answered the prince.

"Where did you put it?" said the giant.

"The sack is on the bench over there," said the prince.

"I'll check on that," said the giant, and went to the bench. There he saw that the sack was so full that the gold and silver dropped out on the floor as soon as he untied the string.

"You've been talking to my Mastermaid, that I can see," said the giant; "and if you have, I'll rip your head off."

"Mastermaid!" said the prince; "yesterday master talked of this Mastermaid, and today he talks of her again, and the day before yesterday it was the same story. I only wish I could see what sort of thing she is, I do!"

"Well, wait until tomorrow," said the giant, "and then I'll take you in to her myself."

"Thank you kindly, master," said the prince; "but I'll bet that master is only joking."

The next day the giant took him in to Mastermaid, and said to her, "You must cut his throat, and boil him in the great big pot, you know the one I mean, and when the stew is ready just give me a call."

Then he lay down on the bench to sleep, and began to snore so loud that it sounded like thunder in the mountains.

Mastermaid took a knife and cut the prince in his little finger, and let three drops of blood fall on a stool. Then she took all the old rags and soles of shoes, and all the rubbish she could lay her hands on, and put it all into the pot. She then filled a chest full of ground gold, and took a lump of salt, and a flask of water that hung behind the door, and she took, besides, a golden apple, and two golden chickens, and off she went with the prince, away from the giant's house as fast as they could.

When they had gone a little way they came to the sea, and after that they sailed over the sea; but I do not know where they got the ship from.

After the giant had slept a good bit, he began to stretch as he lay on the bench, and called out, "Will it soon be done?"

"Only just begun," answered the first drop of blood on the stool.

So the giant went back to sleep, and slumbered a long, long time. At last he began to toss about a little, and cried out, "Do you hear what I say? Will it soon be done?"

But he did not look up this time any more than the first, for he was still half asleep.

"Half done," said the second drop of blood.

The giant again thought it was Mastermaid, so he turned over on his other side, and fell asleep again.

When he had slept for many hours, he began to stir and stretch his old bones, and he called out, "Isn't it done yet?"

"Done to a turn," said the third drop of blood.

So the giant got up, and began to rub his eyes, but he couldn't see who it was that was talking to him. He searched and called for Mastermaid, but no one answered.

"Ah, well! I dare say she's just gone outside for a bit," he thought, and took up a spoon and went up to the pot to taste the stew.

There he found nothing but shoe soles, and rags, and such stuff, all boiled up together, so that he couldn't tell the thick from the thin. As soon as he saw this, he realized what had happened, and he became so angry that he barely knew which leg to stand upon. Away he went after the prince and Mastermaid, until the wind whistled behind him; but he soon came to the water and couldn't cross it.

"Never mind," he said; "I can fix this. I'll just call on my stream-sucker."

So he called on his stream-sucker, and he came and stooped down, and took one, two, three, gulps; and then the water fell so much in the sea that the giant could see Mastermaid and the prince sailing in their ship.

"Throw out the lump of salt!" said Mastermaid.

So the prince threw it overboard, and it grew up into a mountain so high, right across the sea, that the giant couldn't pass it, and the stream-sucker couldn't help him by swallowing up any more water.

"Never mind," cried the giant. "There's a fix for this too." So he called on his hill-borer to come and bore through the mountain, so the stream-sucker might crawl through and take another swallow; but just as they had made a hole through the hill, and the stream-sucker was about to drink, Mastermaid told the prince to pour a drop or two out of the flask into the sea, and then the sea was just as full as ever, and before the stream-sucker could take another gulp, they reached the land and were saved from the giant.

So they made up their minds to go home to the prince's father; but the prince would not hear of Mastermaid's walking, for he did not think it would be appropriate, neither for her nor for him.

"Just wait here ten minutes," he said, "while I go home after the seven horses which stand in my father's stall. It's not very far, and I won't be gone very long; I will not hear of my sweetheart walking to my father's palace."

"No!" said Mastermaid, "please don't leave me, for once you are home in your palace you'll forget me outright; I know you will."

"Oh!" said the prince, "how can I forget you; you with whom I have gone through so much, and whom I love so dearly?"

There was no stopping him, he insisted on going home to fetch the coach and seven horses, and she was to wait for him by the seaside. Finally Mastermaid gave in.

"But when you get home," she warned, "don't even take the time to greet anyone, but go straight to the stable, hitch up the horses, and drive back as quickly as you can. They will all come to you, but you must pretend that you cannot see them; and above all else, do not eat anything, for if you do, we shall both come to grief."

The prince promised all of this.

Now, just as he came home to the palace, one of his brothers was preparing to get married. The bride, with all her relatives, had just arrived at the palace. They all thronged around him, and asked about this thing and that, and wanted him to go inside with them. He pretended that he could not see them, and went straight to the stall and began to hitch up the horses. When they saw they could not get him to go inside, they came out to him with food and drink, the best of everything they had prepared for the feast, but the prince would not taste a thing, but busied himself with the horses.

Finally the bride's sister rolled an apple across the yard to him, saying, "Well, if you won't eat anything else, at least take a bite of this, for you must be hungry and thirsty after your long journey."

So he picked up the apple and took a bite out of it. He barely had the piece in his mouth before he forgot Mastermaid, and that he was going to drive back for her.

"I must be crazy," he said. "What am I doing here with this coach and horses?"

So he put the horses back into the stable, and went along with the others into the palace, and it was soon settled that he should marry the bride's sister, who had rolled the apple to him.

Mastermaid sat by the seashore, and waited and waited for the prince, but the prince did not come. Finally she left the shore, and walked a while until she came to a little hut, which stood by itself in a grove near the king's palace. She went in and asked if she might stay there. The hut belonged to an old woman, who was a disgusting and cranky old hag. At first she would not hear of Mastermaid's lodging in her house, but finally, in exchange for kind words and high rent, Mastermaid was permitted to stay there.

The hut was as dark and dirty as a pigsty, so Mastermaid said she would clean it up a little, so that their house might look like other people's. The old hag did not like this either, and complained and became angry; but Mastermaid did not pay any attention to her. She took her chest of gold, and threw a handful or so into the fire. The gold melted and bubbled over out of the grate, spreading itself over the whole hut, until it was entirely plated with gold, both outside and in. But as soon as the gold began to bubble up, the old hag became so afraid that she ran out as if the evil one were after her. As she ran through the door, she forgot to stoop down, and she crushed her head against the door frame.

The next morning the sheriff passed that way. He could scarce believe his eyes when he saw the golden hut shining and glistening there in the grove; but he was still more astonished when he went in and saw the lovely maiden who was sitting there. He fell in love with her at once, and begged her on the spot to marry him.

"Very well, but do you have a lot of money?" asked Mastermaid. He said that he had plenty, and he went home to fetch it. That evening he came back with a half-bushel sack filled with money, and set it down on the bench.

Mastermaid said that he was rich enough and that she would have him. They went to bed together, but they had barely lain down before she said she must get up again, because she had forgotten to bank up the fire.

"Please don't get up," said the sheriff; "I'll take care of it."

He jumped out of bed, and ran to the hearth.

"Tell me as soon as you have taken hold of the poker," said Mastermaid.

"I'm holding it now," said the sheriff.

Then Mastermaid said, "God grant that you may hold the poker and that the poker may hold you, and may you heap hot burning coals over yourself until morning."

So the sheriff had to stand there all night long, shoveling hot burning coals over himself. He begged, and prayed, and wept, but none of this made the coals a bit colder. As soon as day broke, and he finally was able to rid himself of the poker, he set off as though the bailiff or the devil were after him. Everyone who met him stared at him, for he acted like a madman, and looked like he had been flayed and tanned. They wondered what had happened to him, but he was too ashamed to tell anyone.

The next day the district judge passed by the place where Mastermaid lived, and he too saw how it gleamed and glistened in the grove, and he went inside to find out who lived there. When he saw the beautiful maiden, he fell even more madly in love with her than had the sheriff, and he immediately began to woo her.

Mastermaid responded to him, as she had responded to the sheriff, by asking if he had a lot of money. The judge replied that he was wealthy enough, and to prove it he went home to fetch his money. That evening he came back with a large sack of money -- I think that the sack held a whole bushel -- and set it down on the bench.

So she accepted him, and they went to bed. But Mastermaid had forgotten to shut the outside door, and she would have to get up and lock it for the night.

"What! You should do that!" said the judge. "No, you lie here, and I'll go and take care of it."

He jumped up like a pea on a drumhead, and ran into the hallway.

"Tell me when you have hold of the door latch" said Mastermaid.

"I've got hold of it now," said the judge.

"Then may you hold the door, and may the door hold you, and may you go back and forth until morning!" said Mastermaid.

And so the judge had to dance the whole night through. He had never experienced such a waltz before, and would not want to experience such a waltz again. He pulled the door one way, and then the door pulled him back the other; and so it went on and on. First he was dashed into one corner of the hallway, and then into the other, until he was almost battered to death. At first he cursed and swore; then he begged and prayed, but the door cared for nothing but holding its own until the break of day. As soon as it let him go, the judge ran off, leaving his money behind to pay for his night's lodging, and forgetting his courtship altogether, for -- to tell the truth -- he was afraid that the door might come dancing after him.

Everyone who met him stared and gaped at him, for he too acted like a madman, and he would not have looked worse if he had spent the whole night butting against a flock of rams.

On the third day the bailiff passed that way, and he too saw the golden hut, and went inside to find out who lived there. He had barely set eyes on Mastermaid before he began to woo her. So she responded to him as she had with the other two. If he had lots of money she would have him; if not, he might as well go about his business. Well, the bailiff said that he wasn't so badly off, and that he would go home and fetch the money. When he came back that evening, he had a bigger sack even than the judge had had -- it must have been at least a bushel and a half -- , and put it down on the bench.

So it was soon settled that he was to have Mastermaid, but they had barely gone to bed before Mastermaid said she had forgotten to bring the calf home from the meadow, so she would have to get up and drive him into the stall.

"No!" swore the bailiff. He would go and take care of it. And stout and fat as he was, he jumped up as nimbly as a young boy.

"Tell me when you've got hold of the calf's tail," said Mastermaid.

"I have hold of it now," said the bailiff.

"Then may you hold the calf's tail, and may the calf's tail hold you, and may you tour the world together until morning."

The race began at once. Away they went, he and the calf, over high and low, across hill and dale, and the more the bailiff cursed and swore, the faster the calf ran and jumped. By dawn the poor bailiff had nearly collapsed, and he was so glad to be able to let go of the calf's tail that he forgot his sack of money and everything else. He was a large man, and he went home a little slower than the judge and the sheriff had done, and the slower he went the more time people had to gape and stare at him; and I must say they made good use of their time, for he was terribly tattered and torn from his dance with the calf.

The next day there was to be a wedding at the palace, the elder prince to be married. And the younger one, the one who had lived with the giant, was to marry the bride's sister. They had just got into the coach and were about to drive off, when one of the harness pins snapped off. They put in another, and then a third, but they all broke, whatever kind of wood they used to make them with. It all took a long time, and they couldn't get to church, and everyone became very unhappy.

All at once the sheriff said -- for he too had been invited to the wedding -- that a maiden lived over there in the grove, "And if you can only get her to lend you her fireplace poker, I know very well that it will hold."

They sent a messenger at once, and he asked the maiden very politely if she would not mind lending them the poker that the sheriff had spoken of. The maiden said "yes," they might have it; so they got a harness pin which wasn't likely to break.

But just as they were driving off, the bottom of the coach fell apart. They set to work to make a new bottom as best they could; but however many nails they used nor whatever kind of wood they chose, as soon as they put a new bottom into the coach, it fell apart again as soon as they drove off, so they were even worse off than when they had broken the harness pin.

Then the judge said -- for if the sheriff was there, you may be sure that the judge was there too -- "A maiden lives over there in the grove, and if you could only get her to lend you half of her outside door, I know it would hold together."

They sent another message to the grove, and he asked very politely if they couldn't borrow the golden door that the judge had described; and they got it on the spot. They were just setting out, but now the horses were not strong enough to draw the coach, though there were six of them; then they put on eight, and ten, and twelve, but the more they put on, and the more the coachman whipped, the more the coach wouldn't stir an inch. By this time it was late in the day, and everyone about the palace was very unhappy; they had to make it to the church, and yet it looked as if they would never get there.

Then the bailiff said that a maiden lived in the golden hut over there in the grove, and if they could only borrow her calf, "I know it can pull the coach, even if it were as heavy as a mountain."

Well, they all thought it would look silly to be drawn to church by a calf, but there was nothing they could do about it, so they had to send a third time, and ask very politely in the king's name, if he couldn't borrow the calf the bailiff had spoken of, and Mastermaid let them have it on the spot, for she was not going to say "no" this time either. So they put the calf on before the horses, and waited to see if it would do any good, and away went the coach over high and low, and stock and stone, so that they could barely catch their breath; sometimes they were on the ground, and sometimes up in the air, and when they reached the church, the calf began to run around and around it like a spinning wheel, so that they had a hard time getting out of the coach, and into the church. On the way back home they went even faster, and they reached the palace almost before they knew they had set out.

Now when they sat down to dinner, the prince -- the one who had been with the giant -- said he thought they ought to ask the maiden who had lent them her poker, her door, and her calf, to come up to the palace. "For," he said he, "if we hadn't got these three things, we would still be stuck here."

The king thought that that was only right and fair, so he sent five of his best men down to the golden hut to greet the maiden from the king, and to ask her if she wouldn't be so good as to come and dine at the palace.

"Send the king my greetings," said Mastermaid, "and tell him, if he's too good to come to me, then I am too good to go to him."

So the king had to go himself, and then Mastermaid went with him without any more bother; and as the king thought she was more than she seemed to be, he sat her down in the highest seat by the side of the youngest bridegroom.

Now, when they had sat a little while at the table, Mastermaid took out her golden apple, and the golden cock and hen, which she had carried off from the giant, and put them down on the table before her, and the cock and hen began at once to peck at one another, and to fight for the golden apple.

"Just look," said the prince; "and see how those two are struggling for the apple."

"Yes, just as we two had to struggle to escape from the cliff," said Mastermaid.

Then the spell was broken, and the prince knew her again, and he was very glad indeed. But as for the witch who had rolled the apple over to him, he had her tied to twenty-four horses and torn to pieces, so that there was not a bit of her left.

Then they celebrated the wedding for real. And even though they were still stiff and sore, the sheriff, the judge, and the bailiff kept it up with the best of them.

Wednesday's Good Reading: The Man Who Could Work Miracles (A Pantoum in Prose) by H.G. Wells (in English)

 

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 someone, 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—Hullo!"

It was enough to make anyone say "Hullo!" 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. Everyone 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 bed-room 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 reeling 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. Somewhen in the small hours he had reached the fact that his will-power must be of a particularly rare and pungent quality, a fact of which he had certainly 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 astonishingly 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 gas-works, to rehearse a few miracles in private.

There was possibly a certain want of originality in his attempts, for apart from his willpower 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. Hullo! 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 very sorry. The fact is——"

"Well?"

He could think of no way but the truth. "I was working a miracle." He tried to speak in an off-hand 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 bed-room. "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. Someone 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 daresay he's scared and exasperated something tremendous, and trying to get at me. I daresay 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 someone."

"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 a year ago. 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 a year ago. 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. Fotheringnay 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 bye, 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 everyone 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 masonry, 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. But 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 anything? 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. . ."

 

THE END