A Pantoum in Prose by H. G. Wells
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 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
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 of 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–ho, 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 over-night 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
“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
sorry, very. The fact is—-“
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 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. 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 chapelgoer, 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
“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
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…
“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.
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
“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
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 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
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.
“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
“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
“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
“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
“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–
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
“Stop!” cried Mr. Fotheringay to the advancing water. “Oh, for goodness’
“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
“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
“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
“That’s what _you_ think,” said Toddy Beamish, and “Prove it if you
“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 Man Who Could Work Miracles” is a British fantasy–comedy short story by H. G. Wells first published in 1898 in The Illustrated London News. It carried the subtitle “A Pantoum in Prose”. (see more)