"too weak to put my shoulder to the wheel
Which Fortune offers all to push or leave."
And yet, despite my laziness, my lack of initiative, my sacrifices to dull Convention, my timidity and my vacillation, I could not help harbouring a dull dim fury of resentment against Fate itself. I realised that I was the owner of high and original genius, yet this had omitted to imprint its proper mark in the world; and further, I argued that it was not wholly through my own fault that my latent virtues had never developed. The finest and most useful piece of machinery remains valueless and inert unless there be a skilled workman to set its mechanism in motion, to oil its cogs, and generally to supervise its action. So in my own case, the mental mechanism was all there ready to perform and needing but the touch of a sympathetic human hand to inspire its dormant possibilities. Some of the foremost characters in history have owed their fame and their success to the judicious but unappreciated help of persons of an inferior calibre, whose very names are often unknown to posterity; then why could not I have been permitted the service of some exterior force, some understanding coadjutor, to awaken the gigantic strength that was slumbering in myself?
Thus in my case a boyhood full of promise, yet a boyhood ever repressed and misunderstood, ripened into an early manhood of diffidence and irresolution. The golden years glided by unprofitably, until at length they reached the grand climacteric, when I found myself straying in a barren and deserted portion of the plain of life. A mental and physical weariness began to enfold me; the sense of failure at times was certainly keen and cutting as a razor, still I contrived by various devices to blunt its edge. I had indeed obtained some slight distinction in the sphere of literature, so that I was fain to feed my hungry disappointed soul with such crumbs or stale food of gratulation as fell to me from the small circle of those who admired my works, concerning which I myself can honestly say that I neither professed nor felt the smallest pride. A few trifles from my pen may possibly live in the general literature of Britain, mostly in verse, for poetry is often less perishable than prose in such instances as mine. Nevertheless, I recognised myself as a partial failure in the domain of letters, as I was admittedly a complete failure in the departments of politics, of thought, of influence, of philosophy.
Naturally, with such bitter matter for reflection, my equanimity was liable to serious disturbance what time the sharp edge of this haunting sense of a life's bankruptcy pricked my all-too-sensitive skin. At such periods long-drawn fits of depression would invade me. Though at first these would dissolve and would often leave a marked flow of gaiety and hopefulness behind them, yet such attacks grew stronger and more frequent, whilst the subsequent recovery was less ecstatic in its nature. It was during one of these temporary obsessions of brooding care that I encountered the one and only adventure of my life, the adventure indeed that, in one aspect, terminated it, as I shall presently relate. For I have only written thus much concerning my interior state of mind and my physical health to impress on the reader that, apparent failure as I was and void of all worldly success, yet I still possessed the clear inner consciousness of mental powers that far exceeded those of all my more fortunate acquaintances, and were perhaps equalled amongst very few contemporary persons whatsoever. My call to action came at last; the master hand at the eleventh hour put the rusty machinery of my unique mind in motion; and I have answered to that call, and am now employing for a worthy purpose those superior talents that, not altogether by reason of my own laches, had so long lain idle.
One November evening in the year 19—, whilst under the shadow of one of my recurring moods of melancholy, I made my way to the Café Royale in Regent Street, where I sat down and ordered a glass of absinthe. And here I may as well state that I am no drunkard, and that I have never sought to dispel my fits of depression by the aid of the wine-cup. Occasionally, however, I used to drink a glass of absinthe, as an excuse for visiting this foreign tavern, this latter-day Petty France in London, whose alien quality always tended to reduce my misery, for I found relaxation in the gruff Continental voices of the guests, in the sight and scent of the foreign liquors, in the garish Parisian decorations of the long low room, and in the unceasing chink of the dominoes on the marble-topped tables. I had already poured the ice-cold water upon the thin tablet of sugar reposing on the silver sifter that I had placed across the goblet, and was watching the clouded liquor below assume the yellow and green tints of the peridot, when I noticed a stranger enter the doorway, glance quickly round at the noisy crowd assembled, and then seat himself deliberately in the vacant chair opposite to me. With a languid interest I observed the new-comer, trying to recall his face, which somehow seemed vaguely familiar to me. As this personage is to figure presently as my liberator, my mentor, my particular deus ex machinâ, I may as well describe him here to the best of my ability. He was short, and a little inclined to stoutness; he was apparently about my own age, and was fashionably but quietly dressed; he was also obviously not an Englishman. His complexion was swarthy, even hinting at some possible admixture of Oriental blood, but his features were small, regular and far from unpleasing. His dark hair and moustache were grizzled; he had intelligent brown eyes and regular teeth; his voice showed an agreeable intonation as he ordered François to bring him some coffee. Having given his order, the stranger looked fixedly at me for a moment, the while stroking his chin with a delicate well-kept hand. Suddenly he addressed me, only to offer me the evening paper which he had brought with him. I thanked him, and seeing him thus anxious to converse, I made some commonplace remark on the badness of the weather. He replied with alacrity, and by the time the waiter had returned with his coffee the stranger and I were chatting affably. He spoke excellent English, but with an accent that caused me to speculate on his possible nationality. After we had indulged thus in small talk for ten minutes or more, my neighbour, assuming a graceful hesitation of manner, inquired of me whether my name were not A—— B——. Greatly surprised, I assented; whereupon the foreigner, with a well-bred apology for what he called his liberty of attitude towards me, stated that he was a sincere admirer of my books, and then proceeded to allude to them in a manner which showed plainly enough that at least he had read them. He praised my work warmly, complimented me on the subjects I had chosen for research, on my lucid style and on other points. Now, there are few persons who are not susceptible to praise or flattery, and I am no exception to the general rule, provided only that the praise (or flattery) be applied with a delicate brush and not with a trowel. The discriminating approval therefore of this distinguished-looking foreigner acted like a sedative to my jarred nerves, so that the cloud of depression hanging over my head began rapidly to disperse. We talked and argued with animation over my books and their themes, with which my unknown companion seemed to possess a most intimate acquaintance. Time raced rapidly during this congenial duologue, the clock above the bar denoting the flight of a full hour before my comrade broached the matter of his own identity, which could scarcely in politeness be withheld much longer. Taking a leather case from his breast-pocket, he produced a visiting card, which he handed to me, explaining to me at the same moment that he was of Italian parentage though born in the Argentine, where he followed the occupation of a merchant in connection with a large English commercial house holding concessions in Peru and Bolivia. The card bore the name "Signor Arrigo d'Aragno," and an address in Buenos Aires. Then, glancing hastily at the clock, he made some remark about an important business appointment and expressed deep concern at this abrupt ending of our agreeable conversation. With some slight hesitation however he ventured to ask whether I would not give him the extreme pleasure of my company at dinner that night, provided I would excuse such an invitation from a complete stranger after so short an acquaintance. I happened to be disengaged that day, with the uninviting prospect of a solitary evening at my club before me; and my alacrity in accepting his hospitality caused obvious satisfaction to Signor d'Aragno, who named one of the large London hotels for our trysting-place. We shook hands cordially, and separated with a warm a rivederla.
Arrived punctually at eight o'clock at the —— Hotel, I was shown upstairs to my host's private apartment, and a few moments later we two were sitting at table and resuming our interrupted discussion of the Café Royale. By the time we had reached the stage of dessert, and the waiters had retired, this topic had somewhat flagged, and the conversation now took on a more personal complexion. The praise that had hitherto been lavishly accorded to my books was now deftly and tactfully—though of course I was unaware of the change at the actual time—shifted to myself and my exceptional gifts of mind. Leading skilfully from one point to another, d'Aragno finally stated his opinion that my inherent genius, my political views, and my remarkable culture were altogether such as marked me out as a person born to rule, as a Homeric anax andrõn. The generous wine I had swallowed, the intoxicating but judicious adulation and insinuating personality of my host alike operated to arouse in me that keen desire for power I had ofttimes secretly indulged in; whilst at the same time they generated an indescribable sense of bitterness against the world at large for its neglect or ignorance of so marvellous a genius as mine. I am certain now (though at the time I was quite unconscious of its employment) the will of my companion was working with every force at its command to communicate with my brain and to instil therein the full appreciation of the special object he had in view. We proceeded to higher and higher planes of argument; the famous names of history fell frequently from our lips, as we spoke of the ideal Prince of Machiavelli, of the demi-god of Corsica, of the super-man of Nietzsche, of the mystical powers wielded by the Pope of Rome and the Dalai Lama. The hours flew by on rosy wings; midnight had passed, and the gong of Big Ben had just hurled its solitary stroke of one o'clock booming through the dank foggy air without that enveloped a London grown at last comparatively silent. How well do I recall that precise moment! The reverberation of the clanging knell had scarcely subsided when my host, making a brusque movement in his chair, bluntly placed the great proposition before me, and offered me a kingdom, though not a kingdom of this world!
II
Before attempting to give a short and, I hope, a tolerably coherent account of my lengthy nocturnal interview with Arrigo d'Aragno, of his amazing statements and proposals, and of my own half-hearted and intermittent struggles against his invading powers of persuasion, I must state first of all that the whole incident rises before me at this moment with crystal clearness. Even now, in these exotic surroundings, I can see with my mind's eye that commonplace hotel parlour with its ugly luxurious furniture and its flamboyant wall-paper of scarlet patterned with a design of raised and gilded vine-leaves. In this room for several hours my host continued to address me with scarcely a pause, except at one or two points when I feebly ventured to stem the torrent of his extraordinary discourse. The open allurements, the veiled warnings, the cynical wisdom, the biting indictments of our own existing conditions of society, together composed a strange medley of arguments, which were intended to convince me of the absolute necessity of my immediate and unconditional submission to his carefully prepared scheme. And this scheme was no less than the complete surrender of myself, mind and body, into his keeping for the purpose of being transported whilst in an unconscious or comatose state and by some hidden means to another planet! I cannot of course recall the whole of that prodigal information, nor all the astonishing things he confided in me; but I do remember vividly throughout the whole of this mental ordeal that I always remained fully aware of my host's sanity. He talked the dreams of madmen, as judged by our conventional standards of science and belief; yet I knew, instinctively knew, all his bizarre statements to be fact and not fiction. Was some irresistible hypnotic force, I wonder, emanating from that will and besieging my own overwrought brain, to compel my full credence in the apparently incredible? In any case, believe I did absolutely. I grew to realise also, dimly at first, but with increasing clarity, that a refusal on my part was now practically unthinkable. Of a truth my choice lay between a swift and certain death on Earth and a new career in another planet; and as the ties that bound me to Earth were neither very strong nor very dear, whilst my curiosity was boundless, I was filled with tense excitement but not with real alarm at the prospect opened before me. With hardly an attempt at opposition, therefore, I allowed myself to become permeated through and through with the psychical current of my companion's will to power, ignoring my shrewd presentiment of intense danger ahead in the event of my seeking to decline that which I most ardently longed for despite a few passing qualms. Beyond a doubt I was completely in the toils, but I experienced no anxiety to escape thence.