THE SULTAN OF MOROCCO.
"It was here yesterday," I said. "I am quite sure I saw it."
"Saw what?" said the lady of the house.
"A letter," I said, "that required an answer."
"Well," she said, "there are about fifty letters of that kind on your table there. Why don't you answer some of those? You can take your pick of them."
"Those are different," I said. "They've waited a long time, and it won't hurt them to wait a little longer. The one I want came yesterday, and required an immediate answer. I remember it quite distinctly."
"Why not answer it, then, without finding it? I'll dictate to you:—'Dear Sir or Madam,—In answer to your obliging letter, I beg to say that I much regret I shall be unable to attend the meeting of the blank committee on the blank of blank, owing to a previous engagement to be present at the meeting of the blank association for the blank blank blank. I enclose herewith my subscription of blank, and remain, with apologies for my delay, yours blankly, etc., etc.' Fire away; you can't go wrong."
"I am not sure," I said, "that I like all those blanks. It's a good model, of course, but it's just a bit too sketchy."
"If you remember the letter so perfectly you can fill in the blanks as you go along."
"I didn't say I remembered it so perfectly as all that. I remember getting it. I remember it was marked 'Urgent and confidential' or 'Private and immediate,' or something of that kind, and I remember putting it down on this writing-table and making up my mind to answer it at once, but I don't remember who it was from——"
"Whom it was from."
"Amiable pedant! I don't remember who my importunate correspondent was, or what address he or she wrote from, or what it was about. It was one of those letters that produce a general sense of discomfort, the sort you want to forget but can't."
"Oh, but you can. I never heard of anything so completely forgotten as this unfortunate letter."
"Really," I said, "you drive me to despair. Can't you see that a man may remember the existence of a letter without remembering all its petty details? For instance, I know there's a Sultan of Morocco, but I don't know what he's like, or what his name is, or how he's dressed, or what his exact colour is. Still, there he is, you know."
"Where?"
"Oh, I don't know. Morocco, I suppose, would find him."
"Then all you've got to do is to write him a respectful letter, saying that you can't accept his Majesty's kind invitation to the small and early dance at the Palace."
"I am not," I said, "in a humour for frivolity. I want to write a letter."
"And I," she said proudly, "am doing my best to help you."
"I put it down on this writing-table, and one of you has moved it. Possibly it looked untidy, and one of you has tidied it—you yourself, for choice. In that case I shall never, never find it. To think that there is some one in the world who is eagerly expecting a letter from me, who is watching for the postman as he comes on his rounds, who is constantly disappointed, who lapses finally into a sullen acquiescence, who considers me unbusinesslike—and all because you saw a letter which didn't please you, and so you tidied it away. After all, it's my writing-table, and in future I won't have anyone at it except myself."
"Don't be harsh," she said. "How do you know any of us have been at what you call your table?"
"How do I know?" I said bitterly. "Look at these neat little packets of papers all put carefully one on top of the other. Look at my pens, look at my bills, look at my cheque-book, look at my notepaper and envelopes—I mean, don't look at them, because if you did you wouldn't see them. They're tucked away out of sight, and all that is left to me is a blotting pad, on which you have done several interesting money addition sums, and Peggy has drawn four Red Indians in crayons, and Helen has tentatively written in ink the words 'alright' and 'allright.' Oh yes, some of you have invaded my private domain and sat at my table, and have first scattered and then re-asserted my papers."
At this moment John entered the room, came and stood beside me, and abstracted from the table a pencil and a sheet of foolscap.
"There," I said, "you can see the result of your dreadful example. Even this innocent child has learnt to pilfer my writing materials."
"John," said his mother, "would you like to search your father?"
"What's 'search'?" said John.
"Feel in his coat pockets and see if you can find a letter."
John was quite willing. He inserted a pudgy hand into one pocket after another, and finally extracted a rather crumpled letter.
"Hurrah!" I said. "He's got it."
"What is it?" she said.
"It is a courteous communication from Messrs. Wilfer and Wontner, highly commending the virtues of their renowned Hygeia tabloids, two to be taken daily after dinner."
"It's the most private and urgent letter I ever heard of. And now, I suppose, you'll withdraw your most unjust decree against our using the writing-table."
"Not at all," I said; "I make it stricter than ever. If you hadn't used my table I should have looked in my coat pocket and found the letter long ago."
"Anyhow," she said, "it's a comfort to think you won't have to write to the Sultan of Morocco."
R. C. L.