In his hut, using bits of twig and gumnuts laid out on the table between us, Mr Dawes started on our first lesson. He talked about the sun, and the planets running around it in their orbits, and one planet, our own Earth, having as if its own planet, the moon, running in its own orbit, and waxing and waning depending on the shadow of the Earth across it—and at that point he saw that he had lost me. I stared at the gumnuts and twigs but I did not follow, had not followed from the first.
I knew I was not a stupid woman, but nothing in the learning Mr Kingdon had thought suitable for girls had equipped me for this. Easy arithmetic, enough for household accounts. Dot and carry one, long division. But what Mr Dawes was trying to explain had no numbers to add and subtract, had nothing at all except these gumnuts, these twigs, making ovals as he moved them around the table, and these words that I did not understand.
– You have done no geometry, I think, he said at last, gently, as if not having done geometry was like being blind or deaf.
– No, Mr Dawes, I have not, I said.
I sat miserable with myself. I had truly mistaken this idea of learning.
– You have been good beyond measure, Mr Dawes, I said, trying to snatch back some shreds of dignity. But the stars and planets will have to go on circling without the understanding of an ignorant woman.
He looked at me with some strong feeling that looked close to anger.
– Do not denigrate your abilities, Mrs Macarthur, he said. No one is born knowing geometry. Being a woman, you have been denied the smallest education in such matters, and it is to your great credit that you wish to remedy that lack. Come back again next week and I promise we will make better progress.