The Man Who Could Work Miracles

by H. G. Wells

(Adapted book. Upper-Intermediate level)

Until he was thirty years old, Fotheringay did not believe in miracles. In fact he discovered his own unusual powers at the moment when he was claiming that miracles were quite impossible. He was having a drink at his local inn, and Toddy Beamish was driving him to the limits of his patience by disagreeing with everything he said.

‘So you say,’ answered Beamish whenever Fotheringay spoke. There were present, besides these two, a very dusty cyclist; the innkeeper, Cox; and fat Miss Maybridge, who served behind the bar. She was standing with her back to Mr Fotheringay, washing glasses; the others were watching him.

‘Listen, Mr Beamish,’ said Mr Fotheringay, annoyed by his opposition. ‘Let us clearly understand what a miracle is. It’s something against the laws of nature done by the power of Will, something that couldn’t happen without being specially willed.’

‘So you say,’ said Mr Beamish.

The cyclist agreed with Mr Fotheringay, but the innkeeper did not express an opinion.

‘For example,’ said Mr Fotheringay, ‘here would be a miracle. That lamp, in the normal course of nature, couldn’t burn like that upside down, could it, Beamish?’

‘You say it couldn’t,’ said Beamish.

‘And you?’ said Fotheringay. ‘You don’t mean to say - ? ’

‘No,’ said Beamish at last. ‘No, it couldn’t.’

‘Very well,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Then here comes someone, perhaps myself, and stands here, perhaps, and says to that lamp, as I might do, collecting all my will - “Turn upside down without breaking, and go on burning steadily,” and - Hullo!’

It was enough to make anyone say ‘Hullo!’ The impossible had happened. The lamp hung upside down in the air, burning quietly with its flame pointing down. It was as solid as ever a lamp was.

Mr Fotheringay stood with a finger stretched out and the troubled face of one expecting a terrible crash. The cyclist, who was sitting next to the lamp, jumped away. Miss Maybridge turned and cried out. For nearly three seconds the lamp remained as it was. A faint cry of pain came from Mr Fotheringay. ‘I can’t keep it up,’ he said, ‘any longer.’ The lamp suddenly fell, broke on the floor, and went out.

It was lucky that it had a metal container, or the whole place would have been on fire. Mr Cox was the first to speak, remarking that Mr Fotheringay was a fool. Fotheringay himself was astonished at what had happened. The conversation which followed gave no explanation of the matter, and the general opinion agreed with Mr Cox’s view that Fotheringay was a fool for playing such a trick. His own mind was terribly confused, and he rather agreed with them.

He went home red-faced and hot. He watched each of the ten street lamps nervously as he passed it. It was only when he found himself in his bedroom that he was able to think clearly.

He had taken off his shoes and was sitting on the bed, saying for the seventeenth time, ‘I didn’t want the thing to turn over,’ when he remembered that just by saying the commanding words, he had willed the thing to happen. He decided to try his new powers again.

He pointed to the candle and collected his thoughts together, though he felt that he was behaving foolishly. But in a second that feeling disappeared. ‘Be raised up,’ he said. The candle rose up, hung in the air for a moment, and then fell with a crash on his table, leaving him in darkness.

For a time Mr Fotheringay sat there, perfectly still. ‘It did happen,’ he said. ‘And how I’m going to explain it, I don’t know.’

He felt in his pockets for a match. He could find none, so he felt on the table. He tried his coat, and there were none there, and then it came to his mind that miracles were possible even with matches. He stretched out a hand. ‘Let there be a match in that hand,’ he said. He felt a light object fall across his hand, and his fingers closed on a match.

After several useless attempts to light this, he threw it down; and then he realized that he could have willed it to be lit. He did so, and saw it burning on the table. He picked it up quickly, and it went out. He became more adventurous and put the candle back in its place. ‘Be lit!’ said Mr Fotheringay, and immediately the candle burst into flame. For a time he looked at it and then he looked carefully into the mirror.

‘What about miracles now?’ said Mr Fotheringay, speaking to his own shadowed face.

Mr Fotheringay was becoming very confused. So far as he could understand, he had only to will things and they would happen. After his first experiences, he wished to be more careful. But he lifted a sheet of paper into the air, and turned a glass of water pink and then green, and got himself a new toothbrush. By the early hours of the morning he had decided that willpower must be unusual and strong. The fears of his first discovery were now mixed with pride and thoughts of how he could use his powers to his advantage. He heard the church clock strike one, and undressed in order to get into bed without further delay. As he struggled to undress, he had a wonderful idea. ‘Let me be in bed,’ he said, and found himself there. ‘Undressed,’ he said and, finding the sheets cold, added quickly, ‘and in a soft woollen nightshirt. Ah!’ he said with pleasure. ‘And now let me be comfortably asleep

He awoke at his usual hour, and wondered if his experiences had been a dream. He decided to test his skills again. He had three eggs for breakfast; two were supplied by his housekeeper; one was a much better egg, laid, cooked and served by his own unusual will. He hurried off to work very excited. All day he could do no work because of his astonishing new self- knowledge, but this did not matter because he did all the work by a miracle in the last ten minutes.

As the day passed, his state of mind changed from wonder to pleasure. It was clear that he must be careful how he lifted anything that was breakable, but in other ways his powers seemed more exciting the more he thought about them. He increased his personal property by making new things for himself, but he could see that he must be careful about that too. People might wonder how he got them.

After supper he went out for a walk on a quiet street to try a few miracles in private by the gas works.

His attempts could perhaps have been more interesting, but apart from his willpower Mr Fotheringay was not a very interesting man. He stuck his walking stick into the ground and commanded the dry wood to grow flowers. The air was immediately full of the smell of roses, but his satisfaction ended when he heard footsteps. He was afraid that someone would discover his powers, and he said quickly to the stick, ‘Go back.’ What he meant was, ‘Change back’, but the stick went backwards at high speed, and there came a shout of anger.

‘Who are you throwing rose bushes at, you fool?’ cried a voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Fotheringay. He saw Winch, one of the three local policemen, coming towards him.

‘What do you mean by it?’ asked the policeman. ‘Hullo! It’s you, is it? The man who broke the lamp at the inn!’

‘I don’t mean anything by it,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Why did you do it, then? Do you know that stick hurt?’

For the moment Fotheringay could not think why he had done it. His silence seemed to anger Mr Winch. ‘You’ve been attacking the police, young man, this time.That’s what you’ve done.’

‘Listen, Mr Winch,’ said Mr Fotheringay, angry and confused. ‘I’m very sorry. The fact is...’

‘Well?’

He could think of no answer except the truth. ‘I was working a miracle.’

‘Working a ... ! Listen! Don’t talk nonsense. Working a miracle! Really! Miracle! Well, that’s very funny! You’re the man who doesn’t believe in miracles ... The fact is, this is another of your foolish tricks. Now I tell you -’

But Mr Fotheringay never heard what Mr Winch was going to tell him. He realized that he had given his valuable secret to the whole world. He became violently angry and shouted, ‘Listen, I’ve had enough of this. I’ll show you a foolish trick. Disappear! Go now!’

He was alone.

Mr Fotheringay performed no more miracles that night, and he did not trouble to see what had happened to his flowering stick. He returned to the town, afraid and very quiet, and went to his bedroom. ‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘It’s a powerful gift - an extremely powerful gift. I didn’t mean to go that far. I wonder where Winch has gone.’

He sat on the bed and took off his shoes. He had a happy thought and sent the policeman to San Francisco, and went to bed. In the night he dreamt of Winch’s anger.

The next day Fotheringay heard two interesting pieces of news. Someone had planted a most beautiful climbing rose near Mr Gomshott’s house, and everyone was looking for Policeman Winch.

Mr Fotheringay was thoughtful all that day, and performed no miracles except some to help Winch, and the miracle of completing his day’s work on time. Most of the time he was thinking of Winch.

On Sunday evening he went to church, and strangely enough the minister, Mr Maydig, spoke about ‘things that are not lawful’.

Mr Fotheringay was not a regular churchgoer but decided to tell Mr Maydig about his powers, and to ask his advice.

Mr Maydig, a thin, excitable man with a long neck, was pleased when the young man asked to speak to him. He took him to his study, gave him a comfortable seat and, standing in front of a cheerful fire, asked Mr Fotheringay to state his business.

At first Mr Fotheringay found some difficulty in opening the subject. ‘You will hardly believe me, Mr Maydig...’ and so on for some time. He tried a question at last, and asked Mr Maydig his opinion of miracles.

‘You don’t believe, I suppose,’ said Fotheringay, ‘that some common sort of person - like myself, for example - might have something strange inside him that made him able to do things by willpower?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Mr Maydig. ‘Something of that sort, perhaps, is possible.’

‘If I may try with something here, I think I can show you what I mean,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Now that pot on the table, for example. I want to know whether this is a miracle or not.’

He pointed to the pot and said, ‘Be a bowl of flowers.’

The pot did as it was ordered.

Mr Maydig jumped violently at the change, and stood looking from Fotheringay to the flowers. He said nothing. Slowly he leaned over the table and smelt the flowers; they were fresh and very fine. Then he looked at Fotheringay again.

‘How did you do that?’ he asked.

Mr Fotheringay said, ‘I just told it - and there you are. Is that a miracle, or what is it? And what do you think is the matter with me? That’s what I want to ask.’

‘It’s a most astonishing thing.’

‘And last week I didn’t know I could do things like that. It came quite suddenly. It’s something strange about my will, I suppose.’

‘Is that - the only thing? Could you do other things besides that?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Anything.’ He thought a little. ‘Look!’ He pointed. ‘Change into a bowl of fish. You see that, Mr Maydig?’

‘It’s unbelievable. You are either a most unusual... But no...’

‘I could change it into anything,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Be a bird, will you?’

In another moment a blue bird was flying round the room and Mr Maydig had to bend his head every time it came near him. ‘Stop there, will you?’ said Mr Fotheringay; and the bird hung still in the air. ‘I could change it back to a bowl of flowers,’ he said, and after placing the bird on the table he worked that miracle. ‘I expect you want your pot back,’ he said, and brought back the pot.

Mr Maydig said nothing while he watched all these changes, but he gave a small cry every now and then. He picked up the pot carefully, examined it, and put it back on the table. ‘Well!’ was the only expression of his feelings.

‘Now after that, it’s easier to explain what I wanted to ask you,’ said Mr Fotheringay; and he told the whole story to Mr Maydig, beginning with the lamp at the inn and several times mentioning Winch. Mr Maydig listened carefully, and interrupted when Fotheringay was talking about the third egg he had caused to appear at breakfast.

‘It’s possible,’ said Maydig,‘but astonishing. The power to work miracles is a gift and a very rare gift. Yes - yes. Go on. Go on.’

Mr Fotheringay went on to talk about Winch. ‘It’s this that troubles me most,’ he said, ‘and I’m in need of advice mostly about Winch. Of course he’s in San Francisco - wherever San Francisco may be - but it’s awkward for both of us, Mr Maydig. I don’t see how he can understand what has happened, and he must be very angry with me. He may be trying to come back here to get me. I send him back by a miracle every few hours, when I think of it. Of course he won’t be able to understand that, and if he buys a ticket every time it will cost him a lot of money. I’ve done the best I could for him. But I’m in a very difficult position.’

Mr Maydig looked serious. ‘Yes, you are. How are you going to end it?’ He became confused. ‘But we’ll leave Winch for a little and discuss the whole subject,’ continued Mr Maydig. ‘I don’t think this is criminal at all. No, it’s just miracles, miracles of the very highest class.’

He began to walk around. Mr Fotheringay sat with his arm on the table and his head on his arm, looking worried. ‘I don’t see what I can do about Winch,’ he said.

‘If you can work miracles,’ said Mr Maydig, ‘you can solve the problem of Winch. My dear sir, you are a most important man - a man of the most astonishing possibilities. The things you could do...’

‘Yes, I’ve thought of a thing or two,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘But I thought it better to ask someone.’

‘Quite right,’ said Mr Maydig. He stopped and looked at Fotheringay. ‘It’s almost an unlimited gift. Let us test your powers.’

And so, though it is hard to believe, in the little study on the evening of Sunday, 10 November, 1896, Mr Fotheringay, urged on by Mr Maydig, began to work miracles. The reader’s attention is specially called to the date. He will object - probably he has already objected - that certain events in this story are improbable; that if these things had really happened they would have been in the newspapers long ago. The details which follow now will be particularly hard to accept, because they show, among other things, that he or she, the reader, must have been killed in a strange and violent manner in the past. As a matter of fact the reader was killed. In the remaining part of this story that will become perfectly clear, and every reasonable reader will accept the fact.

At first the miracles worked by Mr Fotheringay were little things with cups and such things. After he and Mr Maydig had worked several of these, their sense of power grew, their imagination increased, and they wanted to do greater things. Their first larger miracle was connected with the meal to which Mr Maydig led Mr Fotheringay. It was not a good meal, and Mr Maydig was expressing his sorrow at this when Mr Fotheringay saw his opportunity.

‘Don’t you think, Mr Maydig,’ he said, ‘I might...?’

‘My dear Fotheringay! Of course! I didn’t think.’

Mr Fotheringay waved his hand. ‘What shall we have?’ he said, and following Mr Maydig’s orders produced a much better meal.

They sat for a long time at their supper, talking as equals. ‘By the way,’ said Mr Fotheringay, ‘I might be able to help you with all your meals.’ He put some food into his mouth. ‘I was thinking that I might be able to work a miracle on your housekeeper, Mrs Minchin.’

Mr Maydig put down his glass and looked doubtful. ‘She strongly objects to being troubled, you know, Mr Fotheringay. And - as a matter of fact - it’s after 11 o’clock, and she’s probably in bed and asleep.’

Mr Fotheringay considered these objections. ‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t be done in her sleep.’

For a time Mr Maydig opposed the idea, and then he agreed. Mr Fotheringay gave his orders, and the two gentlemen went on with their meal, feeling slightly anxious. While they were talking of Mrs Minchin, they heard some strange noises coming from upstairs. Mr Maydig left the room quickly. Mr Fotheringay heard him calling the housekeeper and then his footsteps going softly up to her.

In a minute or two Mr Maydig returned, his face smiling. ‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘Wonderful!’

He began walking around the room. ‘Poor woman! A most impressive change! She had got up out of her sleep to get rid of a bottle of alcohol that she was keeping in her room. And she admitted it too, through the crack of the door. This may be the start of the most wonderful possibilities. If we can make this change in her...’

‘And about Mr Winch ...’ said Fotheringay.

Mr Maydig waved the Winch difficulty away, and made some proposals. These proposals are not part of this story, but they were good-natured and quite astonishing. In the early hours Mr Maydig and Mr Fotheringay were outside under the moon, Mr Maydig waving his arms, Mr Fotheringay no longer afraid of his greatness. They changed all heavy drinkers into good men; they changed all alcohol into water. They improved the running of the trains and the soil of One Tree Hill, and they were considering what could be done with the broken part of South Bridge. ‘The place,’ said Mr Maydig, ‘won’t be the same place tomorrow. How surprised and thankful everyone will be!’ And just at that moment the church clock struck three.

‘Oh!’ said Mr Fotheringay, ‘that’s three o’clock! I must be going home. I’ve got to be at work by eight o’clock.’

‘We’re only just starting,’ 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 seized his arm. His eyes were bright and wild.

‘My dear man,’ he said, ‘there’s no hurry. Look!’ He pointed to the moon.‘Stop it!’ he said.‘Why not?’

Mr Fotheringay looked at the full moon.

‘That’s too much,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ said Mr Maydig. ‘Of course the moon doesn’t stop. You stop the turning of the earth, you know. Time stops. It isn’t wrong.’

‘H’m!’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Well, I’ll try.’

He spoke to the earth. ‘Just stop turning, will you?’ said Mr Fotheringay.

Immediately he was flying head over heels through the air at high speed. Although he was turning round and round, he was able to think. He thought in a second, and willed, ‘Let me come down safe and unhurt.’

He willed it only just in time, for his clothes, heated by his rapid movement through the air, were beginning to burn. He came down on some freshly turned earth. A large amount of stone, very like the clock tower which had stood in the middle of the market square, hit the earth near him and broke into pieces. A flying cow hit one of the larger blocks and burst like an egg. There was a crash that made all the most violent crashes of his life sound like falling dust. A great wind roared all round him, so that he could hardly lift his head to look. For a time he was too breathless even to see where he was or what had happened.

‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘I was nearly killed! What has gone wrong? Storms and thunder! And only a minute ago, a fine night.

What a wind! It’s Maydig’s fault. If I go on like this, I’m going to have a terrible accident... Where’s Maydig?’

He looked around him as well as he could. The appearance of things was extremely strange. ‘The sky’s all right,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘And that’s about all that is right. There’s the moon overhead. Just as it was. Bright as midday. But the rest? Where’s the village? Where’s anything? And what started this wind? I didn’t order a wind.’

Mr Fotheringay struggled unsuccessfully to get to his feet, and remained on the ground.

Far and wide nothing could be seen through the dust that flew in the wind except piles of earth and ruins. No trees, no houses, no familiar shapes, only disorder and a rapidly rising storm.

You see, when Mr Fotheringay stopped the earth, he said nothing about the things on its surface. And the earth turns so fast that parts of its surface are travelling at rather more than a thousand miles an hour; in England, at more than half that speed. So the village, and Mr Maydig, and Mr Fotheringay, and everything and everybody had been thrown violently forward at about nine miles per second - that is to say, much more violently than if they had been fired out of a gun. And every human being, every living creature, every house and every tree - all the world as we know it - had been completely destroyed. That was all.

These things Mr Fotheringay did not fully understand. But he saw that his miracle had gone wrong, and with that a great hatred of miracles came on him. He was in darkness now, for the clouds had covered over the moon. A great roaring of wind and water filled the earth and sky, and he saw a wall of water pouring towards him.

‘Maydig!’ cried Mr Fotheringay’s weak voice in the roar of the storm. ‘Here! - Maydig!’

‘Stop!’ cried Mr Fotheringay to the wall of water. ‘Oh, stop!’ ‘Just a moment,’ said Mr Fotheringay to the storm and the thunder. ‘Stop just a moment while I collect my thoughts ... And now what shall

I do?’ he said. ‘Oh, I wish Maydig was here.’

‘I know,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘And let’s have it right this time. Let nothing that I’m going to order happen until I say “Off” ... Oh, I wish I had thought of that before!’

He lifted his little voice against the roaring wind, shouting louder and louder in an attempt to hear himself speak. ‘Now! Remember what I said just now. In the first place, when all I’ve asked for is done, let me lose my power to work miracles; let my will become just like anybody else’s will, and let all these dangerous miracles be stopped. That’s the first thing. And the second is - let everything be just as it was before that lamp turned upside down. Do you understand? No more miracles, everything as it was — me back at the inn just before I had my drink. That’s it! Yes.’

He dug his fingers into the earth, closed his eyes, and said ‘Off!’

Everything became perfectly still. He knew that he was standing up.

‘So you say,’ said a voice.

He opened his eyes. He was at the inn, arguing about miracles with Toddy Beamish. He had a feeling of some great thing forgotten, which passed immediately. You see, except for the loss of his powers, everything was back as it had been; his mind and memory were now just as they had been at the time when this story began. So he knew 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 can’t possibly happen,’ he said, ‘and I’m prepared to prove it.’

‘That’s what you think,’ said Beamish. ‘Prove it if you can.’

‘Listen, Mr Beamish,’ said Mr Fotheringay. ‘Let us clearly understand what a miracle is... ’

- THE END -

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