Waxworks
‘But one really never knows the Age one lives in. How interesting it would be,’ I said to the lady next me, ‘how I wish we could see ourselves as Posterity will see us!’
I have said it before, but on this occasion I was struck—almost thunder-struck—by my own remark. Like a rash enchanter, the spirit I had raised myself alarmed me. For a queer second I did see ourselves in that inevitable mirror, but cadaverous and out-of-date and palsied—a dusty set of old waxworks, simpering inanely in the lumber-room of Time.
‘Better to be forgotten at once!’ I exclaimed, with an emphasis that seemed to surprise the lady next me.