began to suffer from migraines.
Even once he’d given up his mania for counting everything to grapple with problems both more wide-ranging and more difficult, at moments of nervous tension, worry, or doubt he kept up the habit of reciting to himself long series of figures that made sense only to him, and that he seemed to invent even as he calculated, chanting:
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233 …
1 4 1 5 9 2 6 5 3 5 8 9 7 9 3 …
… or in a case of extreme distress:
6, 28, 496, 8128, 33 550 336, 8 589 869 056, 137 438 691 328 …
The entire Love family got its first strong inkling of its youngest son’s remarkable skill at dinner one evening inApril, 1894, when he was twelve years old. On the menu there was mutton, a meat Edward hated because he thought it tasted like wool and he stuffed his portion in his pockets so that later he could give it to the dog.
Theresa Love shared the latest news about the household with her husband, the colonel. He listened abstractedly, having no interest in a visit by a fabric merchant – she had acquired more than ten metres of Italian silk which would be used to make new drapes for the small study – and even less in discussions with the gardener on the location of various roses – a bush supposed to produce red flowers having been covered instead with yellow buds the summer before, so that this spring an entire bed had to be reorganized. She was now at matters of household management, which were still submitted to the head of the household so he could ratify his wife’s decisions. He did so methodically, only too happy that she was taking charge of it all, although he nevertheless insisted on having the last word.
“Mary asked for Saturday off to attend the wedding of one of her sisters in Yorkshire,” said Mrs. Love. “I told her, ‘You poor dear, I don’t know how many sisters you have, but if they all decide to marry one after another, each in a more out-of-the-way place than the one before, you’d be well advised to buckle your suitcase for good.’ Just think, she’s been with us barely eighteen months and alreadyshe’s been away twice for some such nonsense. I hope she realizes she can’t take advantage of our kindness.”
“Twenty-two,” Edward said in a low voice.
“What’s he muttering?” roared the colonel, determined to make a man of this slender and withdrawn son. “Speak up, boy.”
“It’s not eighteen months that Mary’s been with us, it’s twenty-two.”
“That doesn’t matter,” continued Theresa who didn’t intend to get flustered over such a minor detail.
The colonel, who valued precision in all matters, congratulated Edward, surprising everyone because children were not supposed to join in adults’ conversation.
“Well done, son! Twenty-two months. No matter what the circumstances, accuracy is essential.”
“Actually,” Edward went on, slightly encouraged, “she joined our staff exactly twenty one months, three weeks, and five days ago, but I thought it best to round it out.”
Around the table, everyone had stopped chewing. The mutton was congealing on their plates. Wanting to dispel the uneasiness he’d provoked, Edward added affably:
“It was a Monday.”
Once the initial surprise was over, the colonel was favourably impressed by such an unusual talent. He sent for calendars of the preceding years, then the twenty-two volumes of the nineteenth edition of the
EncyclopaædiaBritannica
thus far available and questioned his last-born son until the lad’s mouth was dry, his head spinning. Not once, however, did the child make a mistake. Without hesitation he could state on what day the Battle of Agincourt had started, on what days Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth I had died, on what day Christopher Columbus had first set foot on American soil, and even, after a very brief pause, on what day Our Lord was born (Saturday), though that was impossible to confirm.
When they finally got up from the
Even once he’d given up his mania for counting everything to grapple with problems both more wide-ranging and more difficult, at moments of nervous tension, worry, or doubt he kept up the habit of reciting to himself long series of figures that made sense only to him, and that he seemed to invent even as he calculated, chanting:
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233 …
1 4 1 5 9 2 6 5 3 5 8 9 7 9 3 …
… or in a case of extreme distress:
6, 28, 496, 8128, 33 550 336, 8 589 869 056, 137 438 691 328 …
The entire Love family got its first strong inkling of its youngest son’s remarkable skill at dinner one evening inApril, 1894, when he was twelve years old. On the menu there was mutton, a meat Edward hated because he thought it tasted like wool and he stuffed his portion in his pockets so that later he could give it to the dog.
Theresa Love shared the latest news about the household with her husband, the colonel. He listened abstractedly, having no interest in a visit by a fabric merchant – she had acquired more than ten metres of Italian silk which would be used to make new drapes for the small study – and even less in discussions with the gardener on the location of various roses – a bush supposed to produce red flowers having been covered instead with yellow buds the summer before, so that this spring an entire bed had to be reorganized. She was now at matters of household management, which were still submitted to the head of the household so he could ratify his wife’s decisions. He did so methodically, only too happy that she was taking charge of it all, although he nevertheless insisted on having the last word.
“Mary asked for Saturday off to attend the wedding of one of her sisters in Yorkshire,” said Mrs. Love. “I told her, ‘You poor dear, I don’t know how many sisters you have, but if they all decide to marry one after another, each in a more out-of-the-way place than the one before, you’d be well advised to buckle your suitcase for good.’ Just think, she’s been with us barely eighteen months and alreadyshe’s been away twice for some such nonsense. I hope she realizes she can’t take advantage of our kindness.”
“Twenty-two,” Edward said in a low voice.
“What’s he muttering?” roared the colonel, determined to make a man of this slender and withdrawn son. “Speak up, boy.”
“It’s not eighteen months that Mary’s been with us, it’s twenty-two.”
“That doesn’t matter,” continued Theresa who didn’t intend to get flustered over such a minor detail.
The colonel, who valued precision in all matters, congratulated Edward, surprising everyone because children were not supposed to join in adults’ conversation.
“Well done, son! Twenty-two months. No matter what the circumstances, accuracy is essential.”
“Actually,” Edward went on, slightly encouraged, “she joined our staff exactly twenty one months, three weeks, and five days ago, but I thought it best to round it out.”
Around the table, everyone had stopped chewing. The mutton was congealing on their plates. Wanting to dispel the uneasiness he’d provoked, Edward added affably:
“It was a Monday.”
Once the initial surprise was over, the colonel was favourably impressed by such an unusual talent. He sent for calendars of the preceding years, then the twenty-two volumes of the nineteenth edition of the
EncyclopaædiaBritannica
thus far available and questioned his last-born son until the lad’s mouth was dry, his head spinning. Not once, however, did the child make a mistake. Without hesitation he could state on what day the Battle of Agincourt had started, on what days Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth I had died, on what day Christopher Columbus had first set foot on American soil, and even, after a very brief pause, on what day Our Lord was born (Saturday), though that was impossible to confirm.
When they finally got up from the
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