- end_line
- 1107
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:47:57.722Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1030
- text
- acquainted."
"But--but I don't like this going dead against my own memory; I----"
"But didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some things this memory of
yours is a little faithless? Now, those who have faithless memories,
should they not have some little confidence in the less faithless
memories of others?"
"But, of this friendly chat and tea, I have not the slightest----"
"I see, I see; quite erased from the tablet. Pray, sir," with a sudden
illumination, "about six years back, did it happen to you to receive any
injury on the head? Surprising effects have arisen from such a cause.
Not alone unconsciousness as to events for a greater or less time
immediately subsequent to the injury, but likewise--strange to
add--oblivion, entire and incurable, as to events embracing a longer or
shorter period immediately preceding it; that is, when the mind at the
time was perfectly sensible of them, and fully competent also to
register them in the memory, and did in fact so do; but all in vain, for
all was afterwards bruised out by the injury."
After the first start, the merchant listened with what appeared more
than ordinary interest. The other proceeded:
"In my boyhood I was kicked by a horse, and lay insensible for a long
time. Upon recovering, what a blank! No faintest trace in regard to how
I had come near the horse, or what horse it was, or where it was, or
that it was a horse at all that had brought me to that pass. For the
knowledge of those particulars I am indebted solely to my friends, in
whose statements, I need not say, I place implicit reliance, since
particulars of some sort there must have been, and why should they
deceive me? You see sir, the mind is ductile, very much so: but images,
ductilely received into it, need a certain time to harden and bake in
their impressions, otherwise such a casualty as I speak of will in an
instant obliterate them, as though they had never been. We are but clay,
sir, potter's clay, as the good book says, clay, feeble, and
too-yielding clay. But I will not philosophize. Tell me, was it your
misfortune to receive any concussion upon the brain about the period I
speak of? If so, I will with pleasure supply the void in your memory by
more minutely rehearsing the circumstances of our acquaintance."
The growing interest betrayed by the merchant had not relaxed as the
other proceeded. After some hesitation, indeed, something more than
hesitation, he confessed that, though he had never received any injury
of the sort named, yet, about the time in question, he had in fact been
taken with a brain fever, losing his mind completely for a considerable
interval. He was continuing, when the stranger with much animation
exclaimed:
"There now, you see, I was not wholly mistaken. That brain fever
accounts for it all."
"Nay; but----"
"Pardon me, Mr. Roberts," respectfully interrupting him, "but time is
short, and I have something private and particular to say to you. Allow
me."
Mr. Roberts, good man, could but acquiesce, and the two having silently
walked to a less public spot, the manner of the man with the weed
suddenly assumed a seriousness almost painful. What might be called a
writhing expression stole over him. He seemed struggling with some
disastrous necessity inkept. He made one or two attempts to speak, but
words seemed to choke him. His companion stood in humane surprise,
wondering what was to come. At length, with an effort mastering his
feelings, in a tolerably composed tone he spoke:
"If I remember, you are a mason, Mr. Roberts?"
"Yes, yes."
Averting himself a moment, as to recover from a return of agitation, the
stranger grasped the other's hand; "and would you not loan a brother a
shilling if he needed it?"
The merchant started, apparently, almost as if to retreat.
- title
- Chunk 2