The Wonder (20 page)

Victor Stott did not look at me when I entered his mother’s cottage; I saw only the unattractive exterior of him, and I blundered into an air of patronage.

“Is this your boy?” I said, when I had greeted her. “I hear he is a great scholar.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ellen Mary quietly. She never boasted to strangers.

“You don’t remember me, I suppose?” I went on, foolishly; trying, however, to speak as to an equal. “You were in petticoats the last time I saw you.”

The Wonder was standing by the window, his arms hanging loosely at his sides; he looked out aslant up the lane; his profile was turned towards me. He made no answer to my question.

“Oh yes, sir, he remembers,” replied Ellen Mary. “He never forgets anything.”

I paused, uncomfortably. I was slightly huffed by the boy’s silence.

“I have come to spend the summer here,” I said at last. “I hope he will come to see me. I have brought a good many books with me; perhaps he might care to read some of them.”

I had to talk
at
the boy; there was no alternative. Inwardly I was thinking that I had Kant’s Critique and Hegel’s Phenomenology among my books. “He may put on airs of scholarship,” I thought; “but I fancy that he will find those two works rather above the level of his comprehension as yet.” I did not recognise the fact that it was I who was putting on airs, not Victor Stott.

“’E’s given up reading the past six weeks, sir,” said Ellen Mary, “but I daresay he will come and see your books.”

She spoke demurely, and she did not look at her son; I received the impression that her statements were laid before him to take up, reject, or pass unnoticed as he pleased.

I was slightly exasperated. I turned to the Wonder. “Would you care to come?” I asked.

He nodded without looking at me, and walked out of the cottage.

I hesitated.

“’E’ll go with you now, sir,” prompted Ellen Mary. “That’s what ’e means.”

I followed the Wonder in a condition of suppressed irritation. “His mother might be able to interpret his rudeness,” I thought, “but I would teach him to convey his intentions more clearly. The child had been spoilt.”

The Wonder chose the road over the Common. I should have gone by the wood, but when we came to the entrance of the wood, he turned up on to the Common. He did not ask me which way I preferred. Indeed, we neither of us spoke during the half-mile walk that separated the Wood Farm from the last cottage in Pym.

I was fuming inwardly. I had it in my mind at that time to put the Wonder through some sort of an examination. I was making plans to contribute towards his education, to send him to Oxford, later. I had adumbrated a scheme to arouse interest in his case among certain scholars and men of influence with whom I was slightly acquainted. I had been very much engrossed with these plans as I had made my way to the Stotts’ cottage. I was still somewhat exalted in mind with my dreams of a vicarious brilliance. I had pictured the Wonder’s magnificent passage through the University; I had acted, in thought, as the generous and kindly benefactor. … It had been a grandiose dream, and the reality was so humiliating. Could I make this mannerless child understand his possibilities? Had he any ambition?

Thinking of these things, I had lagged behind as we crossed the Common, and when I came to the gate of the farmyard, the Wonder was at the door of the house. He did not wait for me, but walked straight into my sitting-room. When I entered, I found him seated on the low window-sill, turning over the top layer of books in the large case which had been opened, but not unpacked. There was no place to put the books; in fact, I was proposing to have some shelves put up, if Mrs. Berridge had no objection.

I entered the room in a condition of warm indignation. “Cheek” was the word that was in my mind. “Confounded cheek,” I muttered. Nevertheless I did not interrupt the boy; instead, I lit a cigarette, sat down and watched him.

I was sceptical at first. I noted at once the sure touch with which the boy handled my books, the practised hand that turned the pages, the quick examination of title-page and the list of contents, the occasional swift reference to the index, but I did not believe it possible that any one could read so fast as he read when he did condescend for a few moments to give his attention to a few consecutive pages. “Was it a pose?” I thought, yet he was certainly an adept in handling the books. I was puzzled, yet I was still sceptical—the habit of experience was towards disbelief—a boy of seven and a half could not possibly have the mental equipment to skim all that philosophy. …

My books were being unpacked very quickly. Kant, Hegel, Schelling, Fichte, Leibnitz, Nietzsche, Hume, Bradley, William James had all been rejected and were piled on the floor, but he had hesitated longer over Bergson’s
Creative Evolution
. He really seemed to be giving that some attention, though he read it—if he were reading it—so fast that the hand which turned the pages hardly rested between each movement.

When Bergson was sent to join his predecessors, I determined that I would get some word out of this strange child—I had never yet heard him speak, not a single syllable. I determined to brave all rebuffs. I was prepared for that.

“Well?” I said, when Bergson was laid down. “Well! What do you make of that?”

He turned and looked out of the window.

I came and sat on the end of the table within a few feet of him. From that position I, too, could see out of the window, and I saw the figure of the Harrison idiot slouching over the farmyard gate.

A gust of impatience whirled over me. I caught up my stick and went out quickly.

“Now then,” I said, as I came within speaking distance of the idiot, “get away from here. Out with you!”

The idiot probably understood no word of what I said, but like a dog he was quick to interpret my tone and gesture. He made a revoltingly inhuman sound as he shambled away, a kind of throaty yelp. I walked back to the house. I could not avoid the feeling that I had been unnecessarily brutal.

When I returned the Wonder was still staring out of the window; but though I did not guess it then, the idiot had served my purpose better than my determination. It was to the idiot that I owed my subsequent knowledge of Victor Stott. The Wonder had found a use for me. He was resigned to bear with my feeble mental development, because I was strong enough to keep at bay that half-animal creature who appeared to believe that Victor Stott was one of his own kind—the only one he had ever met. The idiot in some unimaginable way had inferred a likeness between himself and the Wonder—they both had enormous heads—and the idiot was the only human being over whom the Wonder was never able to exercise the least authority.

I went in and sat down again on the end of the table. I was rather heated. I lit another cigarette and stared at the Wonder, who was still looking out of the window.

There was silence for a few seconds, and then he spoke of his own initiative.

“Illustrates the weakness of argument from history and analogy,” he said in a clear, small voice, addressing no one in particular. “Hegel’s limitations are qualitatively those of Harrison, who argues that I and he are similar in kind.”

The proposition was so astounding that I could find no answer immediately. If the statement had been made in boyish language I should have laughed at it, but the phraseology impressed me.

“You’ve read Hegel, then?” I asked evasively.

“Subtract the endeavour to demonstrate a preconceived hypothesis from any known philosophy,” continued the Wonder, without heeding my question, “and the remainder, the only valuable material, is found to be distorted.” He paused as if waiting for my reply.

How could one answer such propositions as these offhand? I tried, however, to get at the gist of the sentence, and, as the silence continued, I said with some hesitation: “But it is impossible, surely, to approach the work of writing, say a philosophy, without some apprehension of the end in view?”

“Illogical,” replied the Wonder, “not philosophy; a system of trial and error—to evaluate a complex variable function.” He paused a moment, and then glanced down at the pile of books on the floor. “More millions,” he said.

I think he meant that more millions of books might be written on this system without arriving at an answer to the problem, but I admit that I am at a loss, that I cannot interpret his remarks. I wrote them down an hour or two after they were uttered, but I may have made mistakes. The mathematical metaphor is beyond me. I have no acquaintance with the higher mathematics.

The Wonder had a very expressionless face, but I thought at this moment that he wore a look of sadness; and that look was one of the factors which helped me to understand the unbridgeable gulf that lay between his intellect and mine. I think it was at this moment that I first began to change my opinion. I had been regarding him as an unbearable little prig, but it flashed across me as I watched him now, that his mind and my own might be so far differentiated that he was unable to convey his thoughts to me. “Was it possible,” I wondered, “that he had been trying to talk down to my level?”

“I am afraid I don’t quite follow you,” I said. I had intended to question him further, to urge him to explain, but it came to me that it would be quite hopeless to go on. How can one answer the unreasoning questions of a child? Here I was the child, though a child of slightly advanced development. I could appreciate that it was useless to persist in a futile “Why, why?” when the answer could only be given in terms that I could not comprehend. Therefore I hesitated, sighed, and then with that obstinacy of vanity which creates an image of self-protection and refuses to relinquish it, I said:

“I wish you could explain yourself; not on this particular point of philosophy, but your life—” I stopped, because I did not know how to phrase my demand. What was it, after all, that I wanted to learn?

“That I can’t explain,” said the Wonder. “There are no data.”

I saw that he had accepted my request for explanation in a much wider sense than I had intended, and I took him up on this.

“But haven’t you any hypothesis?”

“I cannot work on the system of trial and error,” replied the Wonder.

Our conversation went no further this afternoon, for Mrs. Berridge came in to lay the cloth. She looked askance, I thought, at the figure on the window-sill, but she ventured no remark save to ask if I was ready for my supper.

“Yes, oh! yes!” I said.

“Shall I lay for two, sir?” asked Mrs. Berridge.

“Will you stay and have supper?” I said to the Wonder, but he shook his head, got up and walked out of the room. I watched him cross the farmyard and make his way over the Common.

“Well!” I said to Mrs. Berridge, when the boy was out of sight, “that child is what in America they call ‘the limit,’ Mrs. Berridge.”

My landlady put her lips together, shook her head, and shivered slightly. “He gives me the shudders,” she said.

I neither read nor wrote that evening. I forgot to go out for a walk at sunset. I sat and pondered until it was time for bed, and then I pondered myself to sleep. No vision came to me, and I had no relevant dreams.

The next morning at seven o’clock I saw Mrs. Stott come over the Common to fetch her milk from the farm. I waited until her business was done, and then I went out and walked back with her.

“I want to understand about your son,” I said by way of making an opening.

She looked at me quickly. “You know, ’e ’ardly ever speaks to me, sir,” she said.

I was staggered for a moment. “But you understand him?” I said.

“In some ways, sir,” was her answer.

I recognised the direction of the limitation. “Ah! we none of us understand him in all ways,” I said, with a touch of patronage.

“No, sir,” replied Ellen Mary. She evidently agreed to that statement without qualification.

“But what is he going to do?” I asked. “When he grows up, I mean?”

“I can’t say, sir. We must leave that to ’im.”

I accepted the rebuke more mildly than I should have done on the previous day. “He never speaks of his future?” I said feebly.

“No, sir.”

There seemed to be nothing more to say. We had only gone a couple of hundred yards, but I paused in my walk. I thought I might as well go back and get my breakfast. But Mrs. Stott looked at me as though she had something more to say. We stood facing each other on the cart track.

“I suppose I can’t be of any use?” I asked vaguely.

Ellen Mary became suddenly voluble.

“I ’ope I’m not askin’ too much, sir,” she said, “but there is a way you could ’elp if you would. ’E ’ardly ever speaks to me, as I’ve said, but I’ve been opset about that ’Arrison boy. ’E’s a brute beast, sir, if you know what I mean, and ’
e
” (she differentiated her pronouns only by accent, and where there is any doubt I have used italics to indicate that her son is referred to) “doesn’t seem to ’ave the same ’old on ’im as ’
e
does over others. It’s truth, I am not easy in my mind about it, sir, although ’
e
’as never said a word to me, not being afraid of anything like other children, but ’e seems to have took a sort of a fancy to you, sir” (I think this was intended as the subtlest flattery), “and if you was to go with ’im when ’e takes ’is walks—’e’s much in the air, sir, and a great one for walkin’—I think ’e’d be glad of your cump’ny, though maybe ’e won’t never say it in so many words. You mustn’t mind ’im being silent, sir; there’s some things we can’t understand, and though, as I say, ’e ’asn’t said anything to me, it’s not that I’m scheming be’ind ’is back, for I know ’is meaning without words being necessary.”

She might have said more, but I interrupted her at this point. “Certainly, I will come and fetch him,”—I lapsed unconsciously into her system of denomination—“this morning, if you are sure he would like to come out with me.”

“I’m quite sure, sir,” she said.

“About nine o’clock?” I asked.

“That would do nicely, sir,” she answered.

As I walked back to the farm I was thinking of the life of those two occupants of the Stotts’ cottage. The mother who watched her son in silence, studying his every look and action in order to gather his meaning; who never asked her son a question nor expected from him any statement of opinion; and the son wrapped always in that profound speculation which seemed to be his only mood. What a household!