I put it to a German post-office clerk once—a man I had been boring for months. I said:
“You think I write these letters—these short stories, these three-act plays—on purpose to annoy you. Do let me try to get the idea out of your head. Personally, I hate work—hate it as much as you do. This is a pleasant little town of yours: given a free choice, I could spend the whole day mooning round it, never putting pen to paper. But what am I to do? I have a wife and children. You know what it is yourself: they clamour for food, boots—all sorts of things. I have to prepare these little packets for sale and bring them to you to send off. You see, you are here. If you were not here—if there were no post-office in this town, maybe I’d have to train pigeons, or cork the thing up in a bottle, fling it into the river, and trust to luck and the Gulf Stream. But, you being here, and calling yourself a post-office—well, it’s a temptation to a fellow.”
I think it did good. Anyhow, after that he used to grin when I opened the door, instead of greeting me as formerly with a face the picture of despair. But to return to our inexperienced friend.
At last the wicket is suddenly opened. A peremptory official demands of him “name and address.” Not expecting the question, he is a little doubtful of his address, and has to correct himself once or twice. The official eyes him suspiciously.
“Name of mother?” continues the official.
“Name of what?”
“Mother!” repeats the official. “Had a mother of some sort, I suppose.”
He is a man who loved his mother sincerely while she lived, but she has been dead these twenty years, and, for the life of him he cannot recollect her name. He thinks it was Margaret Henrietta, but is not at all sure. Besides, what on earth has his mother got to do with this registered letter that he wants to send to his partner in New York?
“When did it die?” asks the official.
“When did what die? Mother?”