Gladiator by Philip Wylie (recommended reading .txt) 📕

“That’s so. You must remember it.”

“Well⁠—I don’t have to be gentle with myself, do I? When I’m alone⁠—like in the woods, that is?”

The older one pondered. “You mean⁠—you like to⁠—ah⁠—let yourself out⁠—when you’re alone?”

“That’s what I mean.” The usual constraint between them had receded. Hugo was grateful for his father’s help. “You see, dad, I⁠—well⁠—I went walkin’ today⁠—and I⁠—I kind of tried myself out.”

Danner answered in breathless eagerness: “And?”

“Well⁠—I’m not just a strong kid, dad. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. It seems I’m not like other kids at all. I guess it’s been gettin’ worse all these years since I was a baby.”

“Worse?”

“I mean⁠—I been gettin’ stronger. An’ now it seems like I’m about⁠—well⁠—I don’t like to boast⁠—but it seems like I’m about the strongest man in the world. When I try it, it seems like there isn’t any stopping me. I can go on⁠—far as I like. Runnin’. Jumpin’.” His confession had commenced in detail. Hugo warmed to it. “I can do things, dad. It kind of scares me. I can jump higher’n a house. I can run faster’n a train. I can pull up big trees an’ push ’em over.”

“I see.” Danner’s spine tingled. He worshipped his son then. “Suppose you show me.”

Hugo looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. The evening was still duskily lighted by afterglow. “Look out then. I’m gonna jump.”

Mr. Danner saw his son crouch. But he jumped so quickly that he vanished. Four seconds elapsed. He landed where he had stood. “See, dad?”

“Do it again.”

On the second trial the professor’s eyes followed the soaring form. And he realized the magnitude of the thing he had wrought.

“Did you see me?”

Danner nodded. “I saw you, son.”

“Kind of funny, isn’t it?”

“Let’s talk some more.” There was a pause. “Do you realize, son, that no one else on earth can do what you just did?”

“Yeah. I guess not.”

Danner hesitated. “It’s a glorious thing. And dangerous.”

“Yeah.”

The professor tried to simplify the biology of his discovery. He perceived that it was going to involve him in the mysteries of sex. He knew that to unfold them to a child was considered immoral. But Danner was far, far beyond his epoch. He put his hand on Hugo’s shoulder. And Hugo set off the process.

“Dad, how come I’m⁠—like this?”

“I’ll tell you. It’s a long story and a lot for a boy your age to know. First, what do you know about⁠—well⁠—about how you were born?”

Hugo reddened. “I⁠—I guess I know quite a bit. The kids in school are always talkin’ about it. And I’ve read some. We’re born like⁠—well⁠—like the kittens were born last year.”

“That’s right.” Banner knitted his brow. He began to explain the details of conception as it occurs in man⁠—the biology of ova and spermatazoa, the differences between the anatomy of the sexes, and the reasons for those differences. He drew, first, a botanical analogy. Hugo listened intently. “I knew most of that. I’ve seen⁠—girls.”

“What?”

“Some of them⁠—after school⁠—let you.”

Danner was surprised, and at the same time he was amused. He had forgotten the details of his young investigation. They are blotted out of the minds of most adults⁠—to the great advantage of dignity. He did not show his amusement or his surprise.

“Girls like that,” he answered, “aren’t very nice. They haven’t much modesty. It’s rather indecent, because sex is a personal thing and something you ought to keep for the one you’re very fond of. You’ll understand that better when you’re older. But what I was going to tell you is this. When you were little more than a mass of plasm inside your mother, I put a medicine in her blood that I had discovered. I did it with a hypodermic needle. That medicine changed you. It altered the structure of your bones and muscles and nerves and your blood. It made you into a different tissue from the weak fibre of ordinary people. Then⁠—when you were born⁠—you were strong. Did you ever watch an ant carry many times its weight? Or see a grasshopper jump fifty times its length? The insects have better muscles and nerves than we have. And I improved your body till it was relatively that strong. Can you understand that?”

“Sure. I’m like a man made out of iron instead of meat.”

“That’s it, Hugo. And, as you grow up, you’ve got to remember that. You’re not an ordinary human being. When people find that out, they’ll⁠—they’ll⁠—”

“They’ll hate me?”

“Because they fear you. So you see, you’ve got to be good and kind and considerate⁠—to justify all that strength. Some day you’ll find a use for it⁠—a big, noble use⁠—and then you can make it work and be proud of it. Until that day, you have to be humble like all the rest of us. You mustn’t show off or do cheap tricks. Then you’d just be a clown. Wait your time, son, and you’ll be glad of it. And⁠—another thing⁠—train your temper. You must never lose it. You can see what would happen if you did? Understand?”

“I guess I do. It’s hard work⁠—doin’ all that.”

“The stronger, the greater, you are, the harder life is for you. And you’re the strongest of them all, Hugo.”

The heart of the ten-year-old boy burned and vibrated. “And what about God?” he asked.

Danner looked into the darkened sky. “I don’t know much about Him,” he sighed.

Such was the soundest counsel that Hugo was given during his youth. Because it came to him accompanied by unadulterated truths that he was able to recognize, it exerted a profound effect on him. It is surprising that his father was the one to give it. Nevertheless, Professor Danner was the only person in all of Indian Creek who had sufficient imagination to perceive his son’s problems and to reckon with them in any practical sense.

Hugo was eighteen before he gave any other indication of his strength save in that fantastic and Gargantuan play which he permitted himself. Even his play was intruded upon by