|We were talking of the distinction between madness and sanity when one
of the company said that we were all potential madmen, just as every
gambler was a potential suicide, or just as every hero was a potential
coward.
“I mean,” he said, “that the difference between the sane and the
insane is not that the sane man never has mad thoughts. He has, but he
recognises them as mad, and keeps his hand on the rein of action. He
thinks them, and dismisses them. It is so with the saint and the sinner.
The saint is not exempt from evil thoughts, but he knows they are evil,
is master of himself, and puts them away.
“I speak with experience,” he went on, “for the potential madman in me
once nearly got the upper hand. I won, but it was a near thing, and if
I had gone down in that struggle I should have been branded for all
time as a criminal lunatic, and very properly put away in some place of
safety. Yet I suppose no one ever suspected me of lunacy.”
“Tell us about it,” we said in chorus.
“It was one evening in New York,” he said. “I had had a very exhausting
time, and was no doubt mentally tired. I had taken tea with two friends
at the Belmont Hotel, and as we found we were all disengaged that
evening we agreed to spend it together at the Hippodrome, where a revue,
winding up with a great spectacle that had thrilled New York, was being
presented. When we went to the box office we found that we could not get
three seats together, so we separated, my friends going to the floor of
the house and I to the dress circle.
“If you are familiar with the place you will know its enormous
dimensions and the vastness of the stage. When I took my seat next but
one to one of the gangways the house was crowded and the performance had
begun. It was trivial and ordinary enough, but it kept me amused, and
between the acts I went out to see the New Yorkers taking 'soft' drinks
in the promenades. I did not join them in that mild indulgence, nor did
I speak to anyone.
“After the interval before the concluding spectacle I did not return to
my seat until the curtain was up. The transformation hit me like a
blow. The huge stage had been converted into a lake, and behind the lake
through filmy draperies there was the suggestion of a world in flames.
I passed to my seat and sat down. I turned from the blinding glow of the
conflagration in front and cast my eye over the sea of faces that filled
the great theatre from floor to ceiling. 'Heavens! if there were a fire
in this place,' I thought. At that thought the word 'Fire' blazed in my
brain like a furnace. 'What if some madman cried Fire?' flashed through
my mind, and then '_What if I cried Fire?_'
“At that hideous suggestion, the demon word that suffused my brain leapt
like a shrieking maniac within me and screamed and fought for utterance.
I felt it boiling in my throat, I felt it on my tongue. I felt myself to
be two persons engaged in a deadly grapple--a sane person struggling to
keep his feet against the mad rush of an insane monster. I clenched my
teeth. So long as I kept my teeth tight--tight--tight the raging
madman would fling himself at the bars in vain. But could I keep up the
struggle till he fell exhausted? I gripped the arms of my seat. I felt
beads of perspiration breaking out on my right brow. How singular that
in moments of strain the moisture always broke out at that spot. I could
notice these things with a curious sense of detachment as if there were
a third person within me watching the frenzied conflict. And still
that titanic impulse lay on my tongue and hammered madly at my clenched
teeth. Should I go out? That would look odd, and be an ignominious
surrender. I must fight this folly down honestly and not run away from
it. If I had a book I would try to read. If I had a friend beside me I
would talk. But both these expedients were denied me. Should I turn to
my unknown neighbour and break the spell with an inconsequent remark or
a request for his programme? I looked at him out of the tail of my eye.
He was a youngish man, in evening dress, and sitting alone as I was. But
his eyes were fixed intently on the stage. He was obviously gripped by
the spectacle. Had I spoken to him earlier in the evening the course
would have been simple; but to break the ice in the midst of this tense
silence was impossible. Moreover, I had a programme on my knees and what
was there to say?...
“I turned my eyes from the stage. What was going on there I could not
tell. It was a blinding blur of Fire that seemed to infuriate the
monster within me. I looked round at the house. I looked up at the
ceiling and marked its gilded ornaments. I turned and gazed intensely at
the occupants of the boxes, trying to turn the current of my mind into
speculations about their dress, their faces, their characters. But the
tyrant was too strong to be overthrown by such conscious effort. I
looked up at the gallery; I looked down at the pit; I tried to busy my
thoughts with calculations about the numbers present, the amount of
money in the house, the cost of running the establishment--anything. In
vain. I leaned back in my seat, my teeth still clenched, my hands still
gripping the arms of the chair. How still the house was! How enthralled
it seemed!... I was conscious that people about me were noticing my
restless inattention. If they knew the truth.... If they could see the
raging torment that was battering at my teeth.... Would it never go? How
long would this wild impulse burn on my tongue? Was there no distraction
that would