Tea Table Talk.
Recently the tea-table was chatting about the Widow’s escape from the Romish fold. She was nearly converted by the urbane Monsignor Capel, but escaped at the critical moment, she said, “by reason of a sudden preoccupation.” This turned out to be the death of her worthy husband. The Widow is a pretty and amiable creature, approved even by the ladies who say “she is a good little soul and mourns most expensively.” Hence she never appears at the tea-table without an escort, and the most frequent of these is one Didymus, lawyer by profession, good humored, sceptic by nature, whose careless, semi-flippant manner makes it difficult to know him, though he and I frequent the same clubs and make our bows in the same drawing rooms. On the day in question the lady said that she brought him often because she “wanted him converted to Theosophy.”
“But, my dear Madam,” said I, “you know we don’t believe in converts. Theosophy is simply an extension of previous beliefs and like Victor Hugo it says, ‘in the name of Religion, I protest against religions.’ People have to grow into it. When they are ready for it a crisis of some kind, now moral, now physical, seems to occur just before they accept the Light from the East as a man receives back something he has lost. It seems as if those elemental creatures, who attend man, foresaw his determination and strove to frighten him away from the initial moment of choice. Great momentum, even of misapplied energies, often indicates the nearness of radical change.”
“Yes,” broke in Didymus quietly, “I believe that of the Elemental and the astral world. I’ve been there myself, don’t you know!”
Imagine the feelings of Balaam upon a noted occasion! Unlike the excellent but misunderstood animal of scripture, Didymus was urged to continue.
“No,” said he, “I can’t profess to explain my experiences, but I’ll tell them by way of illustrating Mr. Julius’ remark, as I find most people do go through a climax of some kind before they round the turning point of the Age.” The tea-table settled itself comfortably and Didymus proceeded.
“I was in a good deal of trouble last winter, trouble of various kinds, and needless to specify, and I had foolishly taken to a pretty lively life. I don’t mind saying that one of the chief causes of my trouble was the fact that I couldn’t believe in anything that made life worth living; all my ideals were pretty well played out. One Sunday I awoke with an overwhelming sense of terrible calamity, I recalled the events of the previous day, but all was in due order from the matutinal cocktail to the vesper toddy, so I finally concluded that my depression was a hint that I had been living too hard and I resolved to stop it. This resolve, by the way, I carried out from that hour, nor have I ever touched liquor since. I passed the day otherwise as usual with various friends and dined out with a glorious appetite. Returning to my hotel, I was engaged in making notes of one of Herbert Spencer’s works, when my attention was attracted by voices in the adjoining room, and I was astounded to find that they were detailing with startling accuracy, certain of my affairs which I not unnaturally supposed were hidden from the world at large. Conquering my blank amazement I sprang into the corridor, when the voices as suddenly ceased and I found my neighbor’s door ajar and the room entirely empty. This rather took me down, and I concluded to turn in, and was just falling asleep, when I seemed to see two fellows in evening dress whom I somehow knew to be jugglers. They advanced, bowed, and thereupon began a series of the most fascinating and laughable tricks I ever saw. I looked on with interest for what appeared to me a long time but at last the rapidity and variety of the illusions produced a feeling of intense weariness, and I said, ‘Gentlemen, thanks for your interesting performance, but you will pardon my remarking that it is late, and I am very tired.’ They bowed, said nothing, and continued their performance which became even more ludicrous. I repeated my request; again the bows and tricks of increasing absurdity. Worn out I exclaimed angrily, ‘I consider this a beastly imposition, you know, and if you persist I shall be obliged—’ but I never finished the sentence, for the two distorted their faces into masks of indescribable comicality and were off while I laughed—and awoke. As I did so, I was amazed to see a broad patch of vivid scarlet light slide down the wall from ceiling to floor and before I could give a second thought to this phenomenon, a big white cat sprang from the foot of my bed and vanished in the darkness.
“This aroused me thoroughly, for though I had never experienced the like before, I said to myself ‘Old Boy, you must have a touch of D. T. though why the devil you should have with your seasoned head, I can’t say.’ I got up and lit my gas; it was after midnight but I concluded to go out and get some medicine. The halls were quite dark save for a light in the front vestibule and I felt my way down by the balustrade. Turning the corner of the staircase I became aware of a shape—I cannot call it a form—which was distinguishable from the surrounding darkness only by being more intensely black. It seemed about seven feet high, the body was indistinct but in the sharply defined head two fiery eyes glowed with a malice and menace that were truly appalling. The shape stood directly before me and barred my way. I felt an icy chill down my back, and I’d wager that my hair stood up, but summoning all my courage I said,—‘Well; what do you want?’ The silent shape bowed mockingly and the eyes became more malignant and threatening. My temper, which is really hasty,” (cries of “Oh! no!” from the ladies,) “got the better of my fears, and advancing in furious anger I cried; ‘Stand aside and let me pass.’ The shape vanished and I reached the front door without further incident.
“The cold night somewhat calmed me, but as I crossed Madison Square I imagined that some one was following me. I turned sharply about; the square was deserted. I resumed my walk; again the swift footsteps ever coming closer: again I turned; nothing! By this time I began to be alarmed. For visible foes a man cares little, but those ghastly footsteps,—they curdled my very blood, by Jove! I walked on and reaching Broadway, I was struck with the tumult of voices that filled the air though there were but few people about. The street cars seemed crowded with noisy men, laughing, swearing, telling more or less questionable stories, and from every cab and wagon came similar sounds: it was like the rumpus on the Stock Exchange on a field day. The invisible footsteps, at first drowned in the noise recommenced, and constantly turning, I found myself ever duped. By this time I began to think the whole thing an illusion, but presently I saw a man just ahead of me look out from a doorway. As I approached, he apparently drew back, but getting opposite the door I found it closed by barred iron shutters: this occurred over and over. Then as I would approach anyone, pedestrian or driver, he would shout at me, mockingly, jovially, profanely or inconsequently, yet I could see that his lips were closed and that he was only mechanically aware of my presence.