A Ramble in Amnesia

My wife and I parted that morning in our usual way. She left her second cup of tea on the table to follow me to the front door. She picked the invisible piece of cotton from my jacket and told me to take care of my cold. I had no cold. Then, as I closed the door, I heard her slippers going back to her cooling tea.

When I left home, I had no idea what was about to happen. It came suddenly. For many weeks I had been working, almost night and day, at a famous railway case that I had won spectacularly only a few days before. In fact, I had been working at the law almost without pausing for many years. Once or twice, good Doctor Volney, my friend as well as my doctor, had warned me:

"If you don't slow down, Belford," he said, "you'll suddenly have a breakdown. Tell me, does a week go by when you don’t read in the papers of a case of amnesia – of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his identity forgotten – all caused by overwork or worry?"

Doctor Volney shook his head.

"You need a change or a rest," he said. "Court room, office and home – that’s the only journey you ever make. In your leisure time, you read law books."

"On Thursday nights," I said defensively, "my wife and I play cards. On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. And who says that law books are not leisure?"

That morning as I walked, I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was feeling as well as I usually did – possibly better than usual.

I woke up, stiff from sleeping a long time on the uncomfortable seat of the train. I put my head back against the seat and tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name." I searched my pockets but I could not find a card or a letter or anything of the sort. But I did find nearly $3,000 in large notes. "I must be someone, of course," I repeated to myself, and began to consider again.

The car was crowded with men who seemed to have some shared interest for they mixed freely and seemed in the best spirits. One of them – a stout gentleman with glasses who smelt strongly of medicine – took the empty half of my seat with a friendly nod and opened a newspaper. When he was not reading, we chatted about current affairs. I found I could keep up the conversation easily and cleverly. In the end, he said:

"You are one of us, of course. A fine lot of men the West sent in this time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been East before. My name's R. P. Bolder – Bolder & Son, of Missouri."

Though unprepared, I managed very well, as most men do in an emergency. My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain.

"My name," I said, easily, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a pharmacist and my home is in Kansas."

"I knew you were a pharmacist," said my new friend pleasantly. "Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."

"Are all these men pharmacists?" I asked, curiously.

"They are. This train came from the West. And they're old-time pharmacists, too –no big business tablet pushers that use machines instead of a prescription. We make our own pills and we aren't too good to sell sweets and shoes to keep profits up. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea for this convention – new ideas are what they want. Now, you know the bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt– one's poison, you know, and the other's harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do pharmacists mostly keep them? As far apart as possible on different shelves. That's wrong. I say keep them side by side, so when you want one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you get the idea?"

"It seems to me a very good one," I said.

"Alright! When I raise it at the convention you support it."

"If I can be of any help," I said, "the two bottles of –er– "

"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash."

"Shall sit side by side from now on".

"Here's another one of these fake amnesia cases," he said after a while, handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I don't believe in them. I think nine out of ten of them are frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his family and wants to have a good time. He runs away somewhere and when they find him he pretends to have lost his memory – doesn't know his own name and won't even recognise the scar on his wife's left shoulder. Amnesia, rubbish! Why can't they stay at home and forget?"

I took the paper and read the following:

"DENVER, June 12. - Elwyn C. Belford, a prominent lawyer, has been missing from his home for three days and all efforts to find him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known citizen with a fine reputation and is head of a large and lucrative law firm. He is married and owns a beautiful home and the largest private law library in the state. On the day of his disappearance, he took quite a large sum of money from his bank. No one saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford was a man of quiet and domestic tastes and seemed to find his happiness in his home and profession. If there is any clue to his strange disappearance, it may be that for some months he has been concentrating on an important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railway Company. Overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort is being made to discover the missing man."

"It seems to me you are cynical, Mr. Bolder," I said, after I had read the report. "This sounds to me like a genuine case. Why should this man, wealthy, happily married and respected, choose suddenly to leave everything behind? I know that these lapses of memory do occur and that men do find themselves without a name, a history or a home."

"Oh, rubbish!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's a bit of fun they want. There's too much education nowadays. Men know about amnesia and they use it as an excuse."

We arrived in New York about ten at night. I took a taxi to a hotel and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so, I felt a wild excitement – a sense of unlimited freedom, of new possibilities. I was just born into the world. The future lay before me like a clear road.

I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no luggage.

"The Pharmacists' Convention," I said. "My case has not arrived." I pulled out some money.

"Ah!" he said, "we have quite a lot of the Western delegates stopping here."

I tried to give a bit of life to my role.

"There is an important new idea among us pharmacists from the West," I said, "about the bottles containing the tartrate of antimony and potash and the tartrate of sodium and potash standing next to each other on the shelf."

"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, quickly. I was rushed away to my room.

The next day I bought a case and some clothing and began to live the life of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not worry about the problems of the past.

The following few days were like gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, still counting back to his birth in hours, knew the rare happiness of arriving in a new world without a care in the world. I sat entranced on the magic carpets in theatres and gardens that transported me into strange and delightful lands full of music, pretty girls and extravagance. And among all this, I learnt one thing that I never knew before: the key to liberty is escaping routine.

Sometimes, when I felt like it, I would enter softly murmuring restaurants and sit with the high-born life, while, at others, I would go down to the waterways packed with talkative, love-making clerks and shop-girls.

One afternoon as I entered my hotel, a stout man with a big nose and a black moustache blocked my way. When I wanted to get by him, he shouted:

"Hello, Bellford! What the hell are you doing in New York? I didn't know anything could pull you away from that old library of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business best managed alone, eh?"

"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."

The man stood to one side, astonished. As I walked away I heard him call to a clerk and say something about telegraphs.

"Give me my bill, please," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage ready in half an hour."

I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a quiet, old-fashioned one.

There was a restaurant a little way off. Quiet and luxury and perfect service made it an ideal place to take lunch. One afternoon I was there on my way to a table among the plants when I felt someone pull my arm.

"Mr.Bellford!" said an amazingly sweet voice.

I turned quickly to see a lady alone – a lady of about thirty, with handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I was her very dear friend.

"You were about to walk right by me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you don’t know me. Why shouldn’t we shake hands at least once in fifteen years?"

I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the table. Her hair was reddish gold. You could not look at it though because you could not look away from her eyes. But you were aware of it as you are aware of the sunset while you look into a deep, deep wood at twilight.

"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.

"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."

"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I told you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Kansas?"

"What would I think?" she repeated, with a laugh. "Why, I’d think that you hadn’t brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I wish you had. I would like to see Marian." Her voice lowered slightly. "You haven't changed much, Elwyn."

I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.

"Yes, you have," she corrected, and there was a soft note in her voice; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."

"I'm sorry," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."

She laughed deliciously at something she seemed to see in my face.

"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer out West – Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand dollars."

She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.

"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat shyly, "to offer you congratulations?"

"Tell me one thing," she said, moving towards me– "a thing I have wanted to know for many years – just from a woman's curiosity, of course – have you ever dared since that night to touch, smell or look at white roses – at white roses wet with rain?"

"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat that I have no memory at all about these things. I can’t tell you how much I regret it."

The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes went travelling direct to my soul. She laughed softly – it was a laugh of happiness – yes, and of content – and of misery. I tried to look away from her.

"You’re a liar, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed. "Oh, I know you’re lying!"

I gazed dully into the plants.

"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came to the Pharmacists' National Convention. There is a group of us in favour of a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little interest."

A car before the entrance. The lady got up. I took her hand.

"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could explain but think you wouldn’t understand."

"Good-bye, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sad smile.

I went to the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in his finger nails, appeared magically at my side.

"Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, paying attention to his fingers, "may I ask you for a little conversation? There is a room here."

"Certainly," I answered.

He took me into a small, private sitting room. A lady and a gentleman were there. The lady would have been unusually good-looking if her face had not been clouded by worry and tiredness. She was in a travelling dress; she gave me a look of extreme anxiety. I think she would have moved towards me, but the gentleman stopped her with a movement of his hand. He then came to meet me himself. He was a man of forty, a little grey, and with a strong, thoughtful face.

"Bellford," he said, politely, "I'm glad to see you again. Of course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you were overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in no time."

I smiled.

"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its surprise. Still, in the end, it will get boring. Would you accept that my name is Edward Pinkhammer and that I never saw you before in my life?"

Before the man could reply, a cry came from the woman. "Elwyn!" she sobbed and threw herself on me and held me tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am your wife – say my name once – just once. I would rather see you dead than this way."

I took her arms respectfully, but firmly.

"Madam," I said, "forgive me if I suggest that you are mistaken. It’s a pity," I went on, with a laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could not be kept side by side on the same shelf like tartrates of sodium and antimony for purposes of identification."

The lady turned to her friend and held his arm.

"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she asked.

"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will stay and talk with him. I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."

The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still looking at his fingers in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.

"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer," said the gentleman who stayed behind.

"If you like," I replied. "Please excuse me if I sit; I’m rather tired." I sat down by a window and lit a cigar. He pulled up a chair nearby.

"Let’s speak openly," he said. "Your name is not Pinkhammer."

"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a name of some sort. I don’t like the name of Pinkhammer. But when one decides on a name suddenly, the best ones don’t seem to come to mind. But, suppose it had been Scheringhausenor Scroggins! I think I did quite well with Pinkhammer."

"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You are one of the best lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from amnesia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of it was overwork and, perhaps, a life empty of pleasures. The lady who has just left the room is your wife."

"She is a fine-looking woman," I said, after a pause. "I especially like the shade of brown in her hair."

"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in New York from a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a travelling man from Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did not recognise him."

"I think I remember it," I said. "The man called me 'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time, now, for you to introduce yourself?"

"I am Robert Volney – Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for twenty years and your doctor for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford to find you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, – try to remember!"

"What's the use of trying?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you’re a doctor. Is amnesia curable? When a man loses his memory does it return slowly, or suddenly?"

"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."

"Will you take my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.

"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power and that science can do to cure you."

"Very well," I said. "Then I’m your patient. Everything is in confidence now – professional confidence."

"Of course," said Doctor Volney.

I got up. Someone had put a vase of white roses on the centre table – white roses. I threw them out of the window and then sat down again.

"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "for this cure to happen suddenly. I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in. But, oh, Doc," I said, as I kicked him playfully – "it was wonderful!"