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....
—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.