ONE FAILURE TO FORGET.
Two others, both men, had nodded silent assent when Wooler made the declaration, lightly, that the pleasures of memory must surely pall before the pleasures of forgetting.
And presently, when the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, these three men found themselves looking one another over with that calm scrutiny in which one wonders who the deuce the other man is. As a matter of fact, however, these three, John Wooler, Andrew Insgate and Tom Farlough, knew one another fairly well. Each was merely trying to gauge the other’s sincerity.
“She objected, of course,” Wooler went on, as if there had been no interruption at all, “but then, I expected nothing else. A woman would always rather remember than forget.” He sipped thoughtfully at his port. “With us—it is different.”
At the other end of the table a group of portly, elderly gentlemen were regaling one another with anecdotal alletria.
“Do we really mean it?” asked Wooler, “or do we take the appearance of the thought for sake of its unorthodoxy?”
“For my part,” said Farlough, fingering his cravat, “I would give much of my life if I could forget some of it.”
Insgate held his wine glass to the light and gazed at the rich tint of red within. “Leopardi was right,” he said, “no man would live his life over again. But—I would begin anew tomorrow if I could wipe out all the yesterday.”
The other men had left the head of the table and joined the ladies in the drawing-room. The butler moved about silently for a few moments and then left these three alone with their wine, and their thoughts.
Wooler spoke again. “We are all able to, h’m, take a little for granted. Our reasons scarcely matter much.” The others nodded. “The only consideration is that we wish to—forget. Why shouldn’t we try, we three? We are not bound in any way. Neither wives nor debts stare us in the face. We have both time and money. Why not try?”
“Why not?” repeated Insgate.
“Gentlemen,” said Farlough, smiling, “I would represent the minority were I to do else than agree with you. Why not?”
“Very well. From now on, then, we attempt forgetting. Each in his own way. From time to time we report progress or regress.”
“Each in his own way! Are there so many ways to forgetfulness? I can only think of two: work and drink.”
“Ah, but there is Woman!”
“True, there is Woman. Strictly speaking, I considered her included in—however, that is but a quibble! Personally, I have no preference. I will take what you gentlemen leave.” It was Wooler who said this.
“Would you put us upon our consciences? No; let Dame Chance take a hand in dealing. We write the names—so!—and we each draw—so! Mine is work.” That was Farlough’s luck.
Insgate’s slip said “Drink.”
“For me,” said Wooler, “the Woman.” He lifted his glass, laughing quietly. “I wonder who she is. Well, we shall see.”
“Where shall we meet again?”
“And when?”
“A year from today. In the garden of the Belle-Alliance Theatre in Berlin. Travel is a necessary obligato.”
Somewhat solemnly, though with cheerful gestures, they pledged one another in a silently emptied glass of port.
And then they sauntered into the drawing-room.
A year later, Farlough strolled into the Belle-Alliance Theatre. He looked healthier and stronger; the tired look had left his eyes. He looked over the theatre lovingly. It had not changed much. Never very gay, but always cosy.
They were presenting Lortzing’s ever delightful “Zar und Zimmerman,” and, while it was by no means an adequate performance, it was decidedly a pleasant one.
When the curtain had come down after the first act, Farlough strolled out into the garden. The place was brilliant with its hundreds of crystal-clasped lights overhanging the graveled walks. A throng of Berliners went chattering about. Only a very occasional Englishman or American came into evidence.
In the small open air theatre a comedian was giving a lively imitation of Sarah Bernhardt.
But nowhere was there a sign of either of those two gentlemen, John Wooler and Andrew Insgate.
Farlough turned his steps toward the box office. He made an inquiry.
The official bowed politely. He handed him two letters. He bowed again and muttered mechanically, “Gehorsamster Diener!” He was from Vienna.
Putting the letters into his pocket after a quick scrutiny of the writing upon each envelope, Farlough returned to the theatre.
When the last notes had joined the echoes, he had himself driven over to the Hotel D’Angleterre. There he opened the envelopes and read the two letters.
The one from Insgate was dated at London. “At this moment,” went the screed, “I am remembering the matter of our meeting in Berlin. This is due to unexpected and inexplicable sobriety. As I may not remember again, I write now. You see, I shall not be there myself. I have managed to forget nearly all things. I began by trying the liquors of all civilization. They have succeeded in destroying my memory—except in such brief lapses as this is. And these are very rare now. By the time my money and my constitution are gone, I am sure my memory will be gone also. But as I am a sinner in agony, I swear that God in all his wisdom and wrath never invented so cruel a torment as this that I have wrought for myself. I pray that you two may not have succeeded so well.”
Farlough looked at the cold ink mutely. He pictured once again the scene at that dinner a year ago: Insgate’s nervous, aristocratic face; Wooler’s smiling cynicism.
He opened the latter’s missive. This man wrote from San Francisco. “Absent, John Wooler! Because of a woman. You see, I went the gamut of the sex. But never succeeded in forgetting until this one came into my life. When I am with her I forget everything else; when I am away from her, I remember with tenfold distinctness. So I have found heaven, and live in hell. For she happens to be another man’s wife.”
Farlough tore up the two letters slowly and burned the pieces of paper one by one at the candle by his side.
“And so,” he thought, looking straight out in front of him, “they have found the way and I have not. And yet, I have won while they have lost. For my work is such a pleasure to me that the past has been atoned for long ago, and none of my memories are tainted by regrets. I am all in my work, and in it I find the ecstasy of atonement.”
And then this man who had failed to find the way of forgetfulness, sought out a railway time table to see how soon he could start back to his workshop.
Percival Pollard.