Just imagine, one morning I received a letter. Gentlemen, I see by
your lack of astonishment that I am telling my story very badly. I
should have told you first that I did not expect any letters. I receive
exactly two a year: one from my landlord to ask for the rent, and one
from my bankers to inform me that I can pay it; but on the first of
January I received a third letter.... I cannot tell you where from.
The address was in an unknown hand. The complete lack of character
shown in the writing, which was revealed to me by graphologists, whom
I consulted, gave me no clue. The only indication the writing gave
was one of great kindness; and here again certain of them inferred
weakness. They could make nothing of it. The writing ... I speak, you
understand, of the writing on the envelope; for in the envelope there
was none; none--not a word, not a line. In the envelope there was
nothing but a bank-note of £20.
I was just going to drink my chocolate; but I was so astonished that
I let it get cold. I searched my mind ... nobody owes me money. I
have a fixed revenue, gentlemen, and with little economies each year,
notwithstanding the continual fall in the value of stock, I manage
to live within my income. I expected nothing, as I have said. I have
never asked for anything. My usual regular life prevents me from even
wishing for anything. I gave much thought to the question after the
best methods: _Cur, unde, quo, qua?_--From where, for where, by where,
why? And this note was not an answer, for this was the first time in my
life I questioned anything. I thought: it must be a mistake; perhaps
I can repair it. This sum was intended no doubt for some one of the
same name. So I looked in the Post Office Directory for a homonym, who
was perhaps expecting the letter. But my name cannot be common, as
in looking through that enormous book I was the only one of that name
indicated.
I hoped to come to a better result by the writing on the envelope, and
find out who sent the letter, if not to whom it was sent. It was then
that I consulted the graphologists. But nothing--no nothing--they could
tell me nothing; which only increased my distress. These £20 troubled
me more and more every day; I would like to get rid of them, but I
do not know what to do. For anyhow ... or if some one had given them
to me, at least they deserve to be thanked. I should like to show my
gratitude,--but to whom?
Always in the hope of something turning up, I carry the note with
me. It does not leave me day or night. I am at its disposal. Before,
I was banal but free. Now I belong to that note. This adventure has
decided me; I was nothing, now I am somebody. Since this adventure I
am restless; I search for people to talk to, and if I come here for
my meals it is because of this system of tables for three; among the
people I meet here I hope one day to find the one who will know the
writing on the envelope, here it is....
With these words Damocles drew from his breast a sigh and from his
frock-coat a dirty yellow envelope. His full name was written there in
a very ordinary handwriting.
Then a strange thing happened: Cocles, who up to that time had been
silent, kept silent,--but suddenly raised his hand and made a violent
effort to strike Damocles, the waiter catching his hand just in time.
Cocles recovered himself and sadly made this speech, which can be only
understood later on: After all, it is better so, for if I had succeeded
in returning you the blow you would have believed it your duty to give
me back the note and ... it does not belong to me.--Then, seeing that
Damocles was waiting for a further explanation:--It was I, he added,
pointing to the envelope, who wrote your address.
--But how did you know my name, cried Damocles, rather annoyed by the
incident.
--By chance--quietly said Cocles;--in any case that is of little
importance in this story. My story is even more curious than yours; let
me tell you in a few words: