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      A DREAM OF ARMAGEDDON

       Table of Contents

      The man with the white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly in spite of the urgency of his porter, and even while he was still on the platform I noted how ill he seemed. He dropped into the corner over against me with a sigh, made an incomplete attempt to arrange his travelling shawl, and became motionless, with his eyes staring vacantly. Presently he was moved by a sense of my observation, looked up at me, and put out a spiritless hand for his newspaper. Then he glanced again in my direction.

      I feigned to read. I feared I had unwittingly embarrassed him, and in a moment I was surprised to find him speaking.

      “I beg your pardon?” said I.

      “That book,” he repeated, pointing a lean finger, “is about dreams.”

      “Obviously,” I answered, for it was Fortnum-Roscoe’s Dream States, and the title was on the cover. He hung silent for a space as if he sought words. “Yes,” he said at last, “but they tell you nothing.” I did not catch his meaning for a second.

      “They don’t know,” he added.

      I looked a little more attentively at his face.

      “There are dreams,” he said, “and dreams.”

      That sort of proposition I never dispute.

      “I suppose—” he hesitated. “Do you ever dream? I mean vividly.”

      “I dream very little,” I answered. “I doubt if I have three vivid dreams in a year.”

      “Ah!” he said, and seemed for a moment to collect his thoughts.

      “Your dreams don’t mix with your memories?” he asked abruptly. “You don’t find yourself in doubt; did this happen or did it not?”

      “Hardly ever. Except just for a momentary hesitation now and then. I suppose few people do.”

      “Does HE say—” he indicated the book.

      “Says it happens at times and gives the usual explanation about intensity of impression and the like to account for its not happening as a rule. I suppose you know something of these theories—”

      “Very little—except that they are wrong.”

      His emaciated hand played with the strap of the window for a time. I prepared to resume reading, and that seemed to precipitate his next remark. He leant forward almost as though he would touch me.

      “Isn’t there something called consecutive dreaming—that goes on night after night?”

      “I believe there is. There are cases given in most books on mental trouble.”

      “Mental trouble! Yes. I dare say there are. It’s the right place for them. But what I mean—” He looked at his bony knuckles. “Is that sort of thing always dreaming? IS it dreaming? Or is it something else? Mightn’t it be something else?”

      I should have snubbed his persistent conversation but for the drawn anxiety of his face. I remember now the look of his faded eyes and the lids red-stained—perhaps you know that look.

      “I’m not just arguing about a matter of opinion,” he said. “The thing’s killing me.”

      “Dreams?”

      “If you call them dreams. Night after night. Vivid!—so vivid … this—” (he indicated the landscape that went streaming by the window) “seems unreal in comparison! I can scarcely remember who I am, what business I am on… .”

      He paused. “Even now—”

      “The dream is always the same—do you mean?” I asked.

      “It’s over.”

      “You mean?”

      “I died.”

      “Died?”

      “Smashed and killed, and now, so much of me as that dream was, is dead. Dead for ever. I dreamt I was another man, you know, living in a different part of the world and in a different time. I dreamt that night after night. Night after night I woke into that other life. Fresh scenes and fresh happenings—until I came upon the last—”

      “When you died?”

      “When I died.”

      “And since then—”

      “No,” he said.

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