Cecil Dreeme. Theodore Winthrop

I was recalling these remarks, Densdeth’s servant had deposited the wine at my right. He was an Afreet creature, this servant, black, ugly, and brutal as the real Mumbo Jumbo. Yet sometimes, as he stood by his master, I could not avoid perceiving a resemblance, and fancying him a misbegotten repetition of the other. And at the moments when I mistrusted Densdeth, I felt that the Afreet’s repulsive appearance more fitly interpreted his master’s soul than the body by which it acted.

      I raised the goblet to my mouth. The aroma was delicious.

      “Densdeth,” I thought, “must have had a cask of the happiest vintage of Burgundy’s divinest juice hung in gimbals, and floated over the Atlantic in the June calms.”

      I put the fragrant draught to my lips, and bowed my compliments.

      Densdeth was studying me, with a covert expression,—so I felt or fancied. I interpreted his look,—“Young man, I saw on the steamer that you were worth buying, worth perverting. I have spent more civility than usual on you already. How much more have I to pay? Are you a cheap commodity? Or must I give time and pains and study to make you mine?”

      Do these fancies seem extravagant? They must justify themselves hereafter in this history.

      I set down Densdeth’s glass, untasted.

      “What does it mean,” thought I, “this man’s strange fascination? When his eyes are upon me, I feel something stir in my heart, saying, ‘Be Densdeth’s! He knows the mystery of life.’ I begin to dread him. Will he master my will? What is this potency of his? How has he got this lodgment in my spirit? Is he one of those fabulous personages who only exist while they are preying upon another soul, who are torpid unless they are busy contriving a damnation? Why has he been trying to turn me inside out all the voyage? Why has he kept touching the raw spots and the rotten spots in my nature? I can be of no use to him. What does he want of me? Not to make me better and nobler,—that I am sure of. No; I will not touch his wine. I will keep clear of his attentions.”

      By the way of desperate evasion, I seized and tossed off, first, Governor Bluffer’s mawkish champagne, and then the acrid fabrication with which Blinckers had honored me.

      Of course the rash and feeble dodge was futile. I was not to be let off in that way.

      There stood Densdeth’s wine, attracting me like some magic philter. It became magnetic with Densdeth’s magnetism. I could almost see an imp in the glass,—not the teetotaller’s bottle-imp, but a special sprite, urging me, “Drink, and let the draught symbolize renewed intimacy with Densdeth! Drink, and accept his proffered alliance. Be wise, and taste!”

      The vulgar scenery of the long dining-room faded away from my eyes. The vulgar, dressy women, the ill-dressed, vulgar men, the oleaginous waiters, all became distant shadows. I heard the clatter and bustle and pop about me, as one hears the hum of mosquitos outside a bar at drowsy midnight. I was conscious of nothing but the wine—the philter—and him who had poured it out.

      Absurd! Yes; no doubt. But fact. Certainly a Chuzzlewit dining-room is a shrine of the commonplace; but even there such a mood is possible under such an influence. Densdeth was exceptional.

      I sat staring at the silly glass of wine, and began to make an unwholesome test of my self-control. I recalled the typical legend of Eve and the apple, and exaggerated the moral importance of my own incident after the same fashion.

      “If I resist this symbolic cup,” thought I, “I am my own man; if I yield, I am Densdeth’s.”

      When a man is weak enough to put slavery and freedom thus in the balance, it is plain that he will presently be a slave.

      “Bah!” I thought. “What harm, after all, can this terrible person do me? Why shouldn’t I accept his alliance? Why shouldn’t I study him, and learn the secret of his power?”

      My slight resistance was about to yield to the spiritual enticement of the wine, when suddenly an outer force broke the spell.

      A gentleman had just taken a vacant chair at my right. Absorbed in the mêlée of my own morbid fancies, I had merely perceived his presence, without noticing his person.

      Suddenly this new-comer took part in the drama. He flirted his napkin, and knocked Densdeth’s wine-glass over into my plate. The purple fluid made an unpleasant mixture with my untouched portion of fish.

      “Thank you!” I exclaimed, waking at once from my half-trance, my magnetic stupor, and feeling foolish.

      I turned to look at my unexpected ally. Perhaps some clumsy oaf who had never brandished a napkin before, and struck wide, like a raw swordsman.

      No. My neighbor was a gentleman. He held out his hand cordially.