Chapter III

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:

THE HISTORY OF COCLES

I have very few friends in the world; and before this happened I did not know of one. I do not know who was my father and I never knew my mother; for a long time I wondered why I lived.

I went out into the streets, searching for a determining influence from outside. I thought, the first thing that happens to me will decide my destiny; for I did not make myself as I am, too naturally kind for that. The first act, I knew, would give a motive to my life. Naturally kind, as I have said, my first act was to pick up a handkerchief. The one who dropped it had only gone three steps. Running after him I returned it to him. He took it without appearing surprised; no--the surprise was mine when he handed me an envelope--the same one that you see here.--Will you have the kindness, he said smilingly, to write here an address.--What address? I asked.--That, he replied, of any one you know.--So saying he placed near me all the materials to write with. Wishing to let myself go to exterior influence I submitted. But, as I told you, I have few friends in the world. I wrote the first name that came into my head at the moment, a name quite unknown to me. Having written the name I bowed--would have walked on--when I received a tremendous blow on my face.

In my astonishment I lost sight of my adversary. When I came to myself, I was surrounded by a crowd. All spoke at once. They would not let me alone. I could only rid myself of their attentions by assuring them that I was not hurt at all, even though my jaw caused me terrible pain and my nose was bleeding furiously.

The tumefaction of my face confined me to my room for a week. I passed my time thinking:

Why did he strike me?

It must have been a mistake. What could he have against me? I have never hurt anybody; nobody could wish me ill.--There must be a reason for ill-will.

And if it was not a mistake?--for the first time I was thinking. If that blow was intended for me! In any case, what does it matter! by mistake or not, I received it and ... shall I return it? I have told you, I am naturally good-hearted. And then there is another thing which worries me: the man who struck me was much stronger than I.

When my face was well and I could again go out, I looked everywhere for my adversary; yes, but it was to avoid him. Anyway, I never saw him again, and if I avoided him it was without knowing it.

But--and in saying this he leant towards Prometheus, you see to-day how everything joins up, it is becoming more complicated instead of less so: I understand that, thanks to my blow, this gentleman has received £20.

--Ah, but allow me! said Damocles.

--I am Cocles, sir, said he, bowing to Damocles;--Cocles! and I tell you my name, Damocles, for you must certainly be pleased to know to whom you owe your windfall....

--But....

--Yes--I know: we will not say to whom; we will say: from the suffering of whom.... For understand and do not forget that your gain came from my misfortune....

--But....

--Do not cavil, I beg you. Between your gain and my trouble there is a relation; I do not quite know which, but there is a relation....

--But, sir....

--Do not call me sir.

--But, my dear Cocles.

--Say simply Cocles.

--But once again, my best Cocles....

--No, sir,--no, Damocles,--and it is no use your talking, for I still wear the mark of the blow on my cheek ... it is a wound that I will show you at once.

The conversation becoming disagreeably personal, the waiter at this moment showed his tact.