The Wonder (12 page)

“Quite, quite,” replied Challis, watching a cloud shadow swarm up the slope of Deane Hill. “Yes, certainly a year’s work. I was thinking of the future.”

“I have thought of laboratory work in connection with psychology,” said Lewes, still puzzled.

“I thought I remembered your saying something of the kind,” murmured Challis absently. “We are going to have more rain. It will be a late spring this year.”

“Had the question any bearing on our engagement of this morning?” Lewes was a little anxious, uncertain whether this inquiry as to his future had not some particular significance; a hint, perhaps, that his services would not be required much longer.

“Yes; I think it had,” said Challis. “I saw the governess cart go up the road a few minutes since.”

“I suppose the boy will be here in a quarter of an hour?” said Lewes by way of keeping up the conversation. He was puzzled; he did not know Challis in this mood. He did not conceive it possible that Challis could be nervous about the arrival of so insignificant a person as this Stott child.

“It’s all very ridiculous,” broke out Challis suddenly; and he turned away from the window, and joined Lewes by the fire. “Don’t you think so?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.”

Challis laughed. “I’m not surprised,” he said; “I was a trifle inconsecutive. But I wish you were more interested in this child, Lewes. The thought of him engrosses me, and yet I don’t want to meet him. I should be relieved to hear that he wasn’t coming. Surely you, as a student of psychology …” he broke off with a lift of his heavy shoulders.

“Oh! Yes! I
am
interested, certainly, as you say, as a student of psychology. We ought to take some measurements. The configuration of the skull is not abnormal otherwise than in its relation to the development of the rest of his body, but …” Lewes meandered off into somewhat abstruse speculation with regard to the significance of craniology.

Challis nodded his head and murmured: “Quite, quite,” occasionally. He seemed glad that Lewes should continue to talk.

The lecture was interrupted by the appearance of the governess cart.

“By Jove, he
has
come,” ejaculated Challis in the middle of one of Lewes’s periods. “You’ll have to see me through this, my boy. I’m damned if I know how to take the child.”

Lewes flushed, annoyed at the interruption of his lecture. He had believed that he had been interesting. “Curse the kid,” was the thought in his mind as he followed Challis to the window.

Jessop, the groom deputed to fetch the Wonder from Pym, looked a little uneasy, perhaps a little scared. When he drew up at the porch, the child pointed to the door of the cart and indicated that it was to be opened for him. He was evidently used to being waited upon. When this command had been obeyed, he descended deliberately and then pointed to the front door.

“Open!” he said clearly, as Jessop hesitated. The Wonder knew nothing of bells or ceremony.

Jessop came down from the cart and rang.

The butler opened the door. He was an old servant and accustomed to his master’s eccentricities, but he was not prepared for the vision of that strange little figure, with a large head in a parti-coloured cricket-cap, an apparition that immediately walked straight by him into the hall, and pointed to the first door he came to.

“Oh, dear! Well, to be sure,” gasped Heathcote. “Why, whatever——”

“Open!” commanded the Wonder, and Heathcote obeyed, weak-kneed.

The door chanced to be the right one, the door of the breakfast-room, and the Wonder walked in, still wearing his cap.

Challis came forward to meet him with a conventional greeting. “I’m glad you were able to come …” he began, but the child took no notice; he looked rapidly round the room, and not finding what he wanted, signified his desire by a single word.

“Books,” he said, and looked at Challis.

Heathcote stood at the door, hesitating between amazement and disapproval. “I’ve never seen the like,” was how he phrased his astonishment later, in the servants’ hall, “never in all my born days. To see that melon-’eaded himp in a cricket-cap hordering the master about. Well, there——”

“Jessop says he fair got the creeps drivin’ ’im over,” said the cook. “’E says the child’s not right in ’is ’ead.”

Much embroidery followed in the servants’ hall.

INTERLUDE

THIS BRIEF HISTORY OF
the Hampdenshire Wonder is marked by a stereotyped division into three parts, an arbitrary arrangement dependent on the experience of the writer. The true division becomes manifest at this point. The life of Victor Stott was cut into two distinct sections, between which there is no correlation. The first part should tell the story of his mind during the life of experience, the time occupied in observation of the phenomena of life presented to him in fact, without any specific teaching on the theories of existence and progress, or on the speculation as to ultimate destiny. The second part should deal with his entry into the world of books; into that account of a long series of collated experiments and partly verified hypotheses we call science; into the imperfectly developed system of inductive and deductive logic which determines mathematics and philosophy; into the long, inaccurate and largely unverifiable account of human blindness and error known as history; and into the realm of idealism, symbol, and pitiful pride we find in the story of poetry, letters, and religion.

I will confess that I once contemplated the writing of such a history. It was Challis who, in his courtly, gentle way, pointed out to me that no man living had the intellectual capacity to undertake so profound a work.

For some three months before I had this conversation with Challis, I had been wrapped in solitude, dreaming, speculating. I had been uplifted in thought, I had come to believe myself inspired as a result of my separation from the world of men, and of the deep introspection and meditation in which I had been plunged. I had arrived at a point, perhaps not far removed from madness, at which I thought myself capable of setting out the true history of Victor Stott.

Challis broke the spell. He cleared away the false glamour which was blinding and intoxicating me and brought me back to a condition of open-eyed sanity. To Challis I owe a great debt.

Yet at the moment I was sunk in depression. All the glory of my vision had faded; the afterglow was quenched in the blackness of a night that drew out of the east and fell from the zenith as a curtain of utter darkness.

Again Challis came to my rescue. He brought me a great sheaf of notes.

“Look here,” he said, “if you can’t write a true history of that strange child, I see no reason why you should not write his story as it is known to you, as it impinges on your own life. After all, you, in many ways, know more of him than any one. You came nearest to receiving his confidence.”

“But only during the last few months,” I said.

“Does that matter?” said Challis with an upheaval of his shoulders—“shrug” is far too insignificant a word for that mountainous humping. “Is any biography founded on better material than you have at command?”

He unfolded his bundle of notes. “See here,” he said, “here is some magnificent material for you—first-hand observations made at the time. Can’t you construct a story from that?”

Even then I began to cast my story in a slightly biographical form. I wrote half a dozen chapters, and read them to Challis.

“Magnificent, my dear fellow,” was his comment, “magnificent; but no one will believe it.”

I had been carried away by my own prose, and with the natural vanity of the author, I resented intensely his criticism.

For some weeks I did not see Challis again, and I persisted in my futile endeavour, but always as I wrote that killing suggestion insinuated itself: “No one will believe you.” At times I felt as a man may feel who has spent many years in a lunatic asylum; and after his release is for ever engaged in a struggle to allay the doubts of a leering suspicion.

I gave up the hopeless task at last, and sought out Challis again.

“Write it as a story,” he suggested, “and give up the attempt to carry conviction.”

And in that spirit, adopting the form of a story, I did begin, and in that form I hope to finish.

But here as I reach the great division, the determining factor of Victor Stott’s life, I am constrained to pause and apologise. I have become uncomfortably conscious of my own limitations, and the feeble, ephemeral methods I am using. I am trifling with a wonderful story, embroidering my facts with the tawdry detail of my own imagining.

I saw—I see—no other way.

This is, indeed, a preface, yet I prefer to put it in this place, since it was at this time I wrote it.

On the Common a faint green is coming again like a mist among the ash-trees, while the oak is still dead and bare. Last year the oak came first.

They say we shall have a wet summer.

PART TWO (Continued)

THE WONDER AMONG BOOKS

CHAPTER IX

HIS PASSAGE THROUGH THE PRISON OF KNOWLEDGE

CHALLIS LED THE WAY
to the library; Lewes, petulant and mutinous, hung in the rear.

The Wonder toddled forward, unabashed, to enter his new world. On the threshold, however, he paused. His comprehensive stare took in a sweeping picture of enclosing walls of books, and beyond was a vista of further rooms, of more walls all lined from floor to ceiling with records of human discovery, endeavour, doubt, and hope.

The Wonder stayed and stared. Then he took two faltering steps into the room and stopped again, and, finally, he looked up at Challis with doubt and question; his gaze no longer quelling and authoritative, but hesitating, compliant, perhaps a little child-like.

“’Ave you read all these?” he asked.

It was a curious picture. The tall figure of Challis, stooping, as always, slightly forward; Challis, with his seaman’s eyes and scholar’s head, his hands loosely clasped together behind his back, paying such scrupulous attention to that grotesque representative of a higher intellectuality, clothed in the dress of a villager, a patched cricket-cap drawn down over his globular skull, his little arms hanging loosely at his sides; who, nevertheless, even in this new, strange aspect of unwonted humility bore on his face the promise of some ultimate development which differentiated him from all other humanity, as the face of humanity is differentiated from the face of its prognathous ancestor.

The scene is set in a world of books, and in the background lingers the athletic figure and fair head of Lewes, the young Cambridge undergraduate, the disciple of science, hardly yet across the threshold which divides him from the knowledge of his own ignorance.

“’Ave you read all these?” asked the Wonder.

“A greater part of them—in effect,” replied Challis. “There is much repetition, you understand, and much record of experiment which becomes, in a sense, worthless when the conclusions are either finally accepted or rejected.”

The eyes of the Wonder shifted and their expression became abstracted; he seemed to lose consciousness of the outer world; he wore the look which you may see in the eyes of Jakob Schlesinger’s portrait of the mature Hegel, a look of profound introspection and analysis.

There was an interval of silence, and then the Wonder unknowingly gave expression to a quotation from Hamlet. “Words,” he whispered reflectively, and then again “words.”

Challis understood him. “You have not yet learned the meaning of words?” he asked.

The brief period—the only one recorded—of amazement and submission was over. It may be that he had doubted during those few minutes of time whether he was well advised to enter into that world of books, whether he would not by so doing stunt his own mental growth. It may be that the decision of so momentous a question should have been postponed for a year—two years; to a time when his mind should have had further possibilities for unlettered expansion. However that may be, he decided now and finally. He walked to the table and climbed up on a chair.

“Books about words,” he commanded, and pointed at Challis and Lewes.

They brought him the latest production of the twentieth century in many volumes, the work of a dozen eminent authorities on the etymology of the English language, and they seated him on eight volumes of the
Encyclopædia Britannica
(India paper edition) in order that he might reach the level of the table.

At first they tried to show him how his wonderful dictionary should be used, but he pushed them on one side, neither then nor at any future time would he consent to be taught—the process was too tedious for him, his mind worked more fluently, rapidly, and comprehensively than the mind of the most gifted teacher that could have been found for him.

So Challis and Lewes stood on one side and watched him, and he was no more embarrassed by their presence than if they had been in another world, as, possibly, they were.

He began with volume one, and he read the title page and the introduction, the list of abbreviations, and all the preliminary matter in due order.

Challis noted that when the Wonder began to read, he read no faster than the average educated man, but that he acquired facility at a most astounding rate, and that when he had been reading for a few days his eye swept down the column, as it were at a single glance.

Challis and Lewes watched him for, perhaps, half an hour, and then, seeing that their presence was of an entirely negligible value to the Wonder, they left him and went into the farther room.

“Well?” asked Challis, “what do you make of him?”

“Is he reading or pretending to read?” parried Lewes. “Do you think it possible that he could read so fast? Moreover, remember that he has admitted that he knows few words of the English language, yet he does not refer from volume to volume; he does not look up the meanings of the many unknown words which must occur even in the introduction.”

“I know. I had noticed that.”

“Then you think he
is
humbugging—pretending to read?”

“No; that solution seems to me altogether unlikely. He could not, for one thing, simulate that look of attention. Remember, Lewes, the child is not yet five years old.”