I had recently occasion to watch one of the most harmless and yet one of
the most striking of these illusions in a private asylum which has
specialized, if I may so express myself, upon men of letters. The case
was harmless and even benign, for the poor fellow was not of a combative
disposition to begin with, was of too careful and dignified a
temperament to show more than slight irritation if his delusion were
contradicted. This misfortune, however, very rarely overtook him, for
those who came to visit him were warned to humour his whim. This
eccentricity I will now describe.
He imagined, nay he was convinced, that he was existing fifty years in
the future, and that the interest of his conversation for others would
lie in his reminiscence of the state of society in which we are actually
living today. If anyone who had not been warned was imprudent enough to
suggest that the conversation was taking place in 1909 would smile
gently, nod, and say rather bitterly, "Yes, I know, I know," as though
recognizing a universal plot against him which he was too weary to
combat. But when he had said this he would continue to talk on as though
both parties to the conversation were equally convinced that the year
was really 1960 or thereabouts. Whether to add zest to what he said or
from some part of his malady consonant with all the rest, my poor friend
(who had been a journalist and will very possibly be a journalist again)
presupposed that the whole structure of society as we now know it had
changed and that his reminiscences were those of a past time which, on
account of some great revolution or other, men imperfectly comprehended,
so that it must be of the highest interest and advantage to listen to
the testimony of an eye-witness upon them.
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