As a gentleperson of good breeding and diverse interest, I had, like so many others, made the rounds of the more fashionable salons and social clubs in search of intellectual discourse of compelling vigor, breadth, and civility (while also, of course, hoping against expectation to catch even so much as the slightest whiff of the scent of a potential spouse). Though I spent a few energetic years in various cosmopolitan centres engaged in this pursuit, I encountered continuous and surprising difficulty in locating an adequate company of well-mannered individuals possessed of sufficiently controversial idea and opinion.

Before I continue my tale, I will indulge in a brief description of the workings of a typical contemporary intellectual club. Though the governance of such clubs varies widely, most share a common operational scheme. Upon arriving at the site of the organization, the member or guest is presented with a board on which a number of papers or articles are posted. After a careful perusal of these offerings, the seeker of knowledge may select a particular essay, and discuss it amongst peers in the comfortable nooks and crannies jumbled together at the club's address. The articles on the board are selected and often authored by the club's officers (or, in some disagreeable instances, by the unwashed public), but members of the club may at times submit papers to the governing body for consideration.

Such was the occasion of the events which have shaken me to the very foundations of my soul.

I had, in a moment of some small audacity, prepared a paper, and submitted it to the governing board of a club that, after my long search, I had found, at last, to be adequate. I considered that to be the end of the matter, as the lofty standards of the board were known to me, and I did not consider my small effort, a cautionary critique of a common periodical, to be of sufficient substance to merit a wider audience.

It would appear, however, that my small piece tapped some hidden vein of intellectual conflict, for upon arrival at the address of the club one evening, I found, to my utter astonishment, that my trifle had been posted on the board! I do not know what the obscure purpose of the officers may have been in selecting the piece, but I can be certain that it was not accident, as the club officers are careful and discerning, possessed of insight, acumen, and taste beyond reproach. I expected some derision and mockery from my fellow members, and resolved to bear it as best as I might, while waiting for the article to work its slow way down the board, lower with every new article, until such time came for it to be removed from the bottom and placed in the obscurity of the club archives.

And then it happened.

The article vanished.

None saw it disappear, and the notion that it might have been stolen is absurd on its face, as security at the club is more than adequate. Equally unlikely is the notion that the officials of the club changed their mind and removed the piece; these are great minds, after all, and they simply do not change once they have made a decision. The notion that a rogue club officer might have disturbed the workings of the board is laughable, as well; this is a group united, and unswerving in its loyalties.

I am left with but a single conclusion, to wit, that I have witnessed a direct act of God. Like other recorded divine interventions, this one leaves behind no trace or evidence, but there is no doubt in my mind of what I have witnessed.

While this would be an occasion of great joy for many, it produces in me, a person of modern scientific outlook, with a tremendous crisis. I am no longer at liberty, you see, to profess atheism, either to the public or to my heart. I must now embark on a quest for God, but the path before me has many branches but no signposts. I anticipate that even the first few steps, i.e., a review of the writings of all the world's major religions, will require several years of strenuous effort.

I am in complete turmoil. I would like nothing more than to find the blasted trifle on the board the next time I journey to the club, so that I might interpret these events as no more than a delusional episode, and cast aside the bottle rather than the foundations of my being. The derision of my peers and the slow march of the article to the bottom of the board, and then to the oblivion of the archives, would be the sweetest balm for my soul. Failing that, my greatest desire is for a further apparition; if it can happen once, then surely it might happen again?

These are dark and troubling days, indeed.