I

I will not speak of public morals, for there are none, but this reminds me of an anecdote:

When, on the heights of the Caucasus, Prometheus found that chains, clamps, strait-waistcoats, parapets, and other scruples, had on the whole a numbing effect on him, for a change he turned to the left, stretched his right arm and, between the fourth and fifth hours of an autumn afternoon, walked down the boulevard which leads from the Madeleine to the OpÉra. Different Parisian celebrities passed continually before his eyes. Where are they going? Prometheus asked himself, and settling himself in a cafÉ with a book he asked: “Waiter, where are they going?”

THE HISTORY OF THE WAITER AND THE MIGLIONAIRE

—If his lordship could see them coming and going every day as I do, said the waiter, he would also ask where do they come from? It must be the same place, as they pass every day. I say to myself: Since they always return they cannot have found what they want. I now wait for his lordship to ask me: What are they looking for? and his lordship will see what I shall reply.

Then Prometheus asked: What are they looking for?

The waiter replied: Since they do not remain where they go, it cannot be happiness. His lordship may believe me or not, and, coming nearer, he said in a low voice: They are looking for their personalities;—His lordship does not live here?...—No, said Prometheus.

—One can easily see that, said the waiter; Yes: personality; we call it here idiosyncrasy: Like me (for example), from what you see, you think I am just a waiter in a restaurant! Well! your lordship, no! It is by choice; you may believe me or not: I have an inner life: I observe. Personalities are the only interesting things; and then the relations between personalities. It is very well arranged in this restaurant; tables for three; I will explain the management later on. You will dine soon, will you not? We will introduce you....

Prometheus was a little tired. The waiter continued: Yes, tables for three, that is what I found the easiest: three gentlemen arrive; they are introduced; they are introduced (if they wish it, of course), for in my restaurant before dining you must give your name; then say what you do; so much the worse if you deceive each other. Then you sit down (not I); you talk (not I, of course)—but I put you in sympathy; I listen; I scrutinize; I direct the conversation. At the end of dinner I know three inner men, three personalities! They, no. I, you understand, I listen, I bring into relation; they submit to the relationship.... You will ask me: What do you gain by this? Oh, nothing at all! It pleases me to create relationships.... Oh! not for me!... It is what one could call an absolutely gratuitous act.

Prometheus appeared a little tired. The waiter continued: A gratuitous act! Does this convey nothing to you?—To me it seems extraordinary. I thought for a long time that this was the one thing that distinguished man from the animals—a gratuitous act. I called man an animal capable of a gratuitous act;—and then afterwards I thought the contrary; that man is the only being incapable of acting gratuitously;—gratuitously! just think; without reason—yes, I hear—shall we say without motive; incapable! then this idea began to fidget me. I said to myself: why does he do this? why does he do that? ... and yet I am not a determinist ... but that reminds me of an anecdote:

—I have a friend, my lord, you will hardly believe me, who he is a miglionaire. He is also intelligent. He said to himself: A gratuitous act? how to do it? And understand this does not only mean an act that brings no return.... No, but gratuitous: an act that has no motive. Do you understand? no interest, no passion, nothing. The act disinterested; born of itself; the act without aim, thus without master; the free act; the act Autochthon!

—Hey? said Prometheus.

—Listen well, said the waiter. My friend went out one morning, taking with him a bank-note of £20 in an envelope and a blow prepared in his hand.

The point was to find somebody without choosing him. So he drops his handkerchief in the street, and, to the man who picks it up (evidently kindly since he picked it up), the miglionaire:—Pardon, sir, do you not know some one?

The other:—Yes, several.

The miglionaire: Then, sir, will you have the kindness to write his name on this envelope; here is a table, pens, and a pencil....

The other, good-naturedly, writes, then:—Now, sir, will you explain yourself...?

The miglionaire replies: It is on principle; then (I forgot to tell you he is very strong) he strikes him with the blow he had in his hand; then calls a cab and disappears.

Do you understand?—two gratuitous acts in one go! The bank-note of £20 sent to an address which he had not selected, and the blow given to a person who selected himself to pick up the handkerchief. No! but is it gratuitous enough? And the relation? I bet you have not seriously scrutinized the relationship; for, as the act is gratuitous, it is what we call here reversible: One receives £20 for a blow, and the other a blow for £20 ... then.... No one knows ... one is lost—think of it! A gratuitous act! There is nothing more demoralizing.—But my lord is beginning to be hungry; I beg his lordship’s pardon; I forget myself, I talk too much.... Will his lordship kindly give me his name,—so that I can introduce him....

—Prometheus, said Prometheus simply.

—Prometheus! I was right, his lordship is a stranger here ... and his lordship’s occupation is...?

—I do nothing, said Prometheus.

—Oh! no. No, said the waiter with an ingratiating smile.—Only to see his lordship, one knows at once that he is a man with an occupation.

—It is so long ago, stammered Prometheus.

—Never mind, never mind, continued the waiter. Anyway, his lordship need not be uneasy; in introducing I only say the name, if you like; but the occupation never. Come, tell me: his lordship’s occupation is...?

—Making matches, murmured Prometheus, blushing.There followed a painful silence, the waiter understanding that he should not have insisted, Prometheus feeling that he should not have answered.

In a consoling tone: Well! after all his lordship does not make them any more ... said the waiter. But then, what? I must write down something, I cannot write simply: Prometheus. His lordship has perhaps an avocation, a speciality.... After all, what can his lordship do?

—Nothing, again said Prometheus.

—Then let us say: Journalist.—Now, if his lordship will come into the restaurant; I cannot serve dinner outside. And he cried:—A table for three! one!...

By two doors two gentlemen entered; they could be seen giving their names to the waiter; but the introductions not having been asked for, without more ado the two men both sat down.

And when they had sat down:

II

—Gentlemen, said one of them,—if I have come to this restaurant, where the food is bad, it is only to talk. I have a horror of solitary meals, and this system of tables for three pleases me, as with two one might wrangle.... But you look taciturn?

—It is quite unintentional, said Prometheus.

—Shall I continue?

—Yes, please do.

—It seems to me quite possible that during lunch three people have time to become very well known to each other,—not losing too much time eating,—not talking too much; and avoiding trite topics; I mean to say mentioning only strictly individual experiences. I do not pretend that one is obliged to talk, but why come to this restaurant, where the food is bad, if conversation does not suit you?

Prometheus was very tired: the waiter leant over and whispered: That is Cocles. The one who is going to speak is Damocles.

Damocles said:

THE HISTORY OF DAMOCLES

Sir, if you had said that to me a month ago, I should have had nothing to say; but after what happened to me last month, all my ideas have changed. I will not speak of my old thoughts except to make you understand in what way I have changed.—Now, gentlemen, since thirty days I feel that I am an original, unique being, with a very singular destiny.—So, gentlemen, you can deduct that before I felt the contrary, I lived a perfectly ordinary life and made it my business to be as commonplace as possible. Now, however, I must admit that a commonplace man does not exist, and I affirm that it is a vain ambition to try to resemble everybody, for everybody is composed of each one, and each one does not resemble anybody. But never mind, I took the greatest pains to put things right; I drew up statistics; I calculated the happy medium—without understanding that extremes meet, that he who goes to bed very late comes across him who gets up very early, and that he who chooses the happy medium risks to fall between two stools.—Every night I went to bed at ten. I slept eight hours and a half. I was most careful in all my actions to copy the majority, and in all my thoughts the most approved opinions. Useless to insist.

But one day a personal adventure happened to me, the importance of which in the life of a well-ordered man as I was can only be understood later on. It is a precedent; it is terrible. And I received it.

III

Just imagine, one morning I received a letter. Gentlemen, I see by your lack of astonishment that I am telling my story very badly. I should have told you first that I did not expect any letters. I receive exactly two a year: one from my landlord to ask for the rent, and one from my bankers to inform me that I can pay it; but on the first of January I received a third letter.... I cannot tell you where from. The address was in an unknown hand. The complete lack of character shown in the writing, which was revealed to me by graphologists, whom I consulted, gave me no clue. The only indication the writing gave was one of great kindness; and here again certain of them inferred weakness. They could make nothing of it. The writing ... I speak, you understand, of the writing on the envelope; for in the envelope there was none; none—not a word, not a line. In the envelope there was nothing but a bank-note of £20.

I was just going to drink my chocolate; but I was so astonished that I let it get cold. I searched my mind ... nobody owes me money. I have a fixed revenue, gentlemen, and with little economies each year, notwithstanding the continual fall in the value of stock, I manage to live within my income. I expected nothing, as I have said. I have never asked for anything. My usual regular life prevents me from even wishing for anything. I gave much thought to the question after the best methods: Cur, unde, quo, qua?—From where, for where, by where, why? And this note was not an answer, for this was the first time in my life I questioned anything. I thought: it must be a mistake; perhaps I can repair it. This sum was intended no doubt for some one of the same name. So I looked in the Post Office Directory for a homonym, who was perhaps expecting the letter. But my name cannot be common, as in looking through that enormous book I was the only one of that name indicated.

I hoped to come to a better result by the writing on the envelope, and find out who sent the letter, if not to whom it was sent. It was then that I consulted the graphologists. But nothing—no nothing—they could tell me nothing; which only increased my distress. These £20 troubled me more and more every day; I would like to get rid of them, but I do not know what to do. For anyhow ... or if some one had given them to me, at least they deserve to be thanked. I should like to show my gratitude,—but to whom?

Always in the hope of something turning up, I carry the note with me. It does not leave me day or night. I am at its disposal. Before, I was banal but free. Now I belong to that note. This adventure has decided me; I was nothing, now I am somebody. Since this adventure I am restless; I search for people to talk to, and if I come here for my meals it is because of this system of tables for three; among the people I meet here I hope one day to find the one who will know the writing on the envelope, here it is....

With these words Damocles drew from his breast a sigh and from his frock-coat a dirty yellow envelope. His full name was written there in a very ordinary handwriting.

Then a strange thing happened: Cocles, who up to that time had been silent, kept silent,—but suddenly raised his hand and made a violent effort to strike Damocles, the waiter catching his hand just in time. Cocles recovered himself and sadly made this speech, which can be only understood later on: After all, it is better so, for if I had succeeded in returning you the blow you would have believed it your duty to give me back the note and ... it does not belong to me.—Then, seeing that Damocles was waiting for a further explanation:—It was I, he added, pointing to the envelope, who wrote your address.

—But how did you know my name, cried Damocles, rather annoyed by the incident.

—By chance—quietly said Cocles;—in any case that is of little importance in this story. My story is even more curious than yours; let me tell you in a few words:

THE HISTORY OF COCLES

I have very few friends in the world; and before this happened I did not know of one. I do not know who was my father and I never knew my mother; for a long time I wondered why I lived.

I went out into the streets, searching for a determining influence from outside. I thought, the first thing that happens to me will decide my destiny; for I did not make myself as I am, too naturally kind for that. The first act, I knew, would give a motive to my life. Naturally kind, as I have said, my first act was to pick up a handkerchief. The one who dropped it had only gone three steps. Running after him I returned it to him. He took it without appearing surprised; no—the surprise was mine when he handed me an envelope—the same one that you see here.—Will you have the kindness, he said smilingly, to write here an address.—What address? I asked.—That, he replied, of any one you know.—So saying he placed near me all the materials to write with. Wishing to let myself go to exterior influence I submitted. But, as I told you, I have few friends in the world. I wrote the first name that came into my head at the moment, a name quite unknown to me. Having written the name I bowed—would have walked on—when I received a tremendous blow on my face.

In my astonishment I lost sight of my adversary. When I came to myself, I was surrounded by a crowd. All spoke at once. They would not let me alone. I could only rid myself of their attentions by assuring them that I was not hurt at all, even though my jaw caused me terrible pain and my nose was bleeding furiously.

The tumefaction of my face confined me to my room for a week. I passed my time thinking:

Why did he strike me?

It must have been a mistake. What could he have against me? I have never hurt anybody; nobody could wish me ill.—There must be a reason for ill-will.

And if it was not a mistake?—for the first time I was thinking. If that blow was intended for me! In any case, what does it matter! by mistake or not, I received it and ... shall I return it? I have told you, I am naturally good-hearted. And then there is another thing which worries me: the man who struck me was much stronger than I.

When my face was well and I could again go out, I looked everywhere for my adversary; yes, but it was to avoid him. Anyway, I never saw him again, and if I avoided him it was without knowing it.

But—and in saying this he leant towards Prometheus, you see to-day how everything joins up, it is becoming more complicated instead of less so: I understand that, thanks to my blow, this gentleman has received £20.

—Ah, but allow me! said Damocles.

—I am Cocles, sir, said he, bowing to Damocles;—Cocles! and I tell you my name, Damocles, for you must certainly be pleased to know to whom you owe your windfall....

—But....

—Yes—I know: we will not say to whom; we will say: from the suffering of whom.... For understand and do not forget that your gain came from my misfortune....

—But....

—Do not cavil, I beg you. Between your gain and my trouble there is a relation; I do not quite know which, but there is a relation....—But, sir....

—Do not call me sir.

—But, my dear Cocles.

—Say simply Cocles.

—But once again, my best Cocles....

—No, sir,—no, Damocles,—and it is no use your talking, for I still wear the mark of the blow on my cheek ... it is a wound that I will show you at once.

The conversation becoming disagreeably personal, the waiter at this moment showed his tact.

IV

By a clever movement,—simply upsetting a full plate over Prometheus,—he suddenly diverted the attention of the other two. Prometheus could not restrain an exclamation, and his voice after the others seemed so profound that one realized that up to this minute he had not spoken.

The irritation of Damocles and Cocles joined forces.

—But you say nothing—they cried.

PROMETHEUS SPEAKS

—Oh, gentlemen, anything that I can say has so little importance.... I do not really see how ... and then the more I think.... No, truly I have nothing to say. You have each of you a history; I have none. Excuse me. Believe me it is with the greatest interest that I have heard you each relate an adventure which I wish ... I could.... But I cannot even express myself easily. No, truly you must excuse me, gentlemen. I have been in Paris less than two hours; nothing has as yet happened to me, except my delightful meeting with you, which gives me such a good idea of what a conversation can be between two Parisians, when they are both men of talent....

—But before you came here, said Cocles.

—You must have been somewhere, added Damocles.

—Yes, I admit it, said Prometheus.... But again, once more, it has absolutely no connexion....

—Never mind, said Cocles, we came here to talk. We have both of us, Damocles and I, already given our share; you alone bring nothing; you listen; it is not fair. It is time to speak Mr....?

The waiter, feeling instinctively that the moment had come for the introduction, quietly slipped in the name to complete the sentence:

—Prometheus—he said simply.

—Prometheus, repeated Damocles.—Excuse me, sir, but it seems to me that that name already....

—Oh! interrupted Prometheus quickly, that is not of the slightest importance.

—But if there is nothing of importance, impatiently cried the other two, why have you come here, dear Mr.... Mr....?

—Prometheus, replied Prometheus simply.

—Dear Mr. Prometheus—as I remarked a while ago, continued Cocles, this restaurant invites conversation, and nothing will convince me that your strange name is the only thing that distinguishes you; if you have done nothing, you are surely going to do something. What are you capable of doing? What is the most distinguishing thing about you? What have you that nobody else possesses? Why do you call yourself Prometheus?

Drowned beneath this flow of questions Prometheus bent his head and slowly and in a serious voice stammered...:

—What have I, gentlemen?—What have I?—Oh, I have an eagle.

—A what?

—Eagle—Vulture perhaps—opinions differ.

—An eagle! That’s funny!—an eagle ... where is he?

—You insist on seeing it, said Prometheus.

—Yes, they cried, if it is not too indiscreet.

Then Prometheus, quite forgetting where he was, suddenly started up and gave a great cry, a call to his eagle. And this stupefying thing happened:

HISTORY OF THE EAGLE

A bird which from afar looked enormous, but which seen close to was not so very big after all, darkened for a moment the sky above the boulevard and sped like a whirlwind towards the cafÉ; bursting through the window, it put out Cocles’ eye with one stroke of its wing and then, chirruping as it did so, tenderly indeed but imperiously, fell with a swoop upon Prometheus’ right side.

And Prometheus forthwith undid his waistcoat and offered his liver to the bird.

V

There was a great disturbance. Voices now mingled confusedly, for some other people had come into the restaurant.

—But for goodness’ sake, take care! cried Cocles.

His remark was unheard beneath the loud cries of:

—That! an eagle! I don’t think!! Look at that poor gaunt bird! That ... an eagle!—Not much!! at the most, a conscience.

The fact is that the great eagle was pitiful to see—thin and mangy, and with drooping wings as it greedily devoured its miserable pittance, the poor bird seemed as if it had not eaten for three days.

Others, nevertheless, made a fuss and whispered insinuatingly to Prometheus: But, sir, I hope you do not think that this eagle distinguishes you in any way. An eagle, shall I tell you?—an eagle, we all have one.

—But ... said another.

—But we do not bring them to Paris, continued another.—In Paris it is not the fashion. Eagles are a nuisance. You see what it has already done. If it amuses you to let it eat your liver you are at liberty to do so; but I must tell you that it is a painful sight. When you do it you should hide yourself.

Prometheus, confused, murmured: Excuse me, gentlemen,—Oh! I am really sorry. What can I do?

—You ought to get rid of it before you come in, sir.

And some said: Smother it.

And others: Sell it. The newspaper offices are there for nothing else, sir.

And in the tumult which followed no one noticed Damocles, who suddenly asked the waiter for the bill.

The waiter gave him the following:

... and keep the rest for yourself, said Damocles, handing the bank-note to the waiter. Then he quickly made off, beaming with joy.

The end of this chapter is much less interesting. Little by little the restaurant became empty. In vain Prometheus and Cocles insisted on paying their share of the bill—Damocles had already paid it. Prometheus said good-bye to the waiter and Cocles, and going back slowly to the Caucasus he thought: Sell it?—Smother it?... Tame it perhaps?...