The Memory Clearing House

HEN I moved into better quarters on the strength of the success of my first novel, I little dreamt that I was about to be the innocent instrument of a new epoch in telepathy. My poor Geraldine—but I must be calm; it would be madness to let them suspect I am insane. No, these last words must be final. I cannot afford to have them discredited. I cannot afford any luxuries now.

Would to Heaven I had never written that first novel! Then I might still have been a poor, unhappy, struggling, realistic novelist; I might still have been residing at 109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras. But I do not blame Providence. I knew the book was conventional even before it succeeded. My only consolation is that Geraldine was part-author of my misfortunes, if not of my novel. She it was who urged me to abandon my high ideals, to marry her, and live happily ever afterwards. She said if I wrote only one bad book it would be enough to establish my reputation; that I could then command my own terms for the good ones. I fell in with her proposal, the banns were published, and we were bound together. I wrote a rose-tinted romance, which no circulating library could be without, instead of the veracious picture of life I longed to paint; and I moved from 109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras, to 22, Albert Flats, Victoria Square, Westminster.

A few days after we had sent out the cards, I met my friend O’Donovan, late member for Blackthorn. He was an Irishman by birth and profession, but the recent General Election had thrown him out of work. The promise of his boyhood and of his successful career at Trinity College was great, but in later years he began to manifest grave symptoms of genius. I have heard whispers that it was in the family, though he kept it from his wife. Possibly I ought not to have sent him a card and have taken the opportunity of dropping his acquaintance. But Geraldine argued that he was not dangerous, and that we ought to be kind to him just after he had come out of Parliament.

O’Donovan was in a rage.

“I never thought it of you!” he said angrily, when I asked him how he was. He had a good Irish accent, but he only used it when addressing his constituents

“Never thought what?” I enquired in amazement.

“That you would treat your friends so shabbily.”

“Wh-what, didn’t you g-get a card?” I stammered. “I’m sure the wife”

“Don’t be a fool!” he interrupted. “Of course I got a card. That’s what I complain of.”

I stared at him blankly. The social experiences resulting from my marriage had convinced me that it was impossible to avoid giving offence. I had no reason to be surprised, but I was.

“What right have you to move and put all your friends to trouble?” he enquired savagely.

“I have put myself to trouble,” I said, “but I fail to see how I have taxed your friendship.”

“No, of course not,” he growled. “I didn’t expect you to see. You’re just as inconsiderate as everybody else. Don’t you think I had enough trouble to commit to memory ‘109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras,’ without being unexpectedly set to study ‘21, Victoria Flats?’”

“22, Albert Flats,” I interrupted mildly.

“There you are!” he snarled. “You see already how it harasses my poor brain. I shall never remember it.”

“Oh yes, you will,” I said deprecatingly. “It is much easier than the old address. Listen here! ‘22, Albert Flats, Victoria Square, Westminster.’ 22—a symmetrical number, the first double even number; the first is two, the second is two, too, and the whole is two, two, too—quite æsthetical, you know. Then all the rest is royal—Albert, Albert the Good, see. Victoria—the Queen. Westminster—Westminster Palace. And the other words—geometrical terms, Flat, Square. Why there never was such an easy address since the days of Adam before he moved out of Eden,” I concluded enthusiastically.

“It’s easy enough for you, no doubt,” he said, unappeased. “But do you think you’re the only acquaintance who’s not contented with his street and number? Bless my soul, with a large circle like mine, I find myself charged with a new schoolboy task twice a month. I shall have to migrate to a village where people have more stability of character. Heavens! Why have snails been privileged with a domiciliary constancy denied to human beings?”

“But you ought to be grateful,” I urged feebly. “Think of 22, Alberts Flats, Victoria Square, Westminster, and then think of what I might have moved to? If I have given you an imposition, at least admit it is a light one.”

“It isn’t so much the new address I complain of, it’s the old. Just imagine what a weary grind it has been to master—109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras.’ For the last eighteen months I have been grappling with it, and now, just as I am letter perfect and postcard secure, behold all my labour destroyed, all my pains made ridiculous. It’s the waste that vexes me. Here is a piece of information, slowly and laboriously acquired, yet absolutely useless. Nay, worse than useless; a positive hindrance. For I am just as slow at forgetting as at picking up. Whenever I want to think of your address, up it will spring, ‘109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras.’ It cannot be scotched—it must lie there blocking up my brains, a heavy, uncouth mass, always ready to spring at the wrong moment; a possession of no value to anyone but the owner, and not the least use to him.”

He paused, brooding on the thought in moody silence. Suddenly his face changed.

“But isn’t it of value to anybody but the owner?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Are there not persons in the world who would jump at the chance of acquiring it? Don’t stare at me as if I was a comet. Look here! Suppose someone had come to me eighteen months ago and said, ‘Patrick, old man, I have a memory I don’t want. It’s 109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras! You’re welcome to it, if it’s any use to you.’ Don’t you think I would have fallen on that man’s—or woman’s—neck, and watered it with my tears? Just think what a saving of brain-force it would have been to me—how many petty vexations it would have spared me! See here, then! Is your last place let?”

“Yes,” I said. “A Mr. Marrow has it now.”

“Ha!” he said, with satisfaction. “Now there must be lots of Mr. Marrow’s friends in the same predicament as I was—people whose brains are softening in the effort to accommodate ‘109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras.’ Psychical science has made such great strides in this age that with a little ingenuity it should surely not be impossible to transfer the memory of it from my brain to theirs.”

“But,” I gasped, “even if it was possible, why should you give away what you don’t want? That would be charity.”

“You do not suspect me of that?” he cried, reproachfully. “No, my ideas are not so primitive. For don’t you see that there is a memory I want—‘33, Royal Flats’”

“22, Albert Flats,” I murmured, shamefacedly.

“22, Albert Flats,” he repeated, witheringly. “You see how badly I want it. Well, what I propose is to exchange my memory of ‘109, Little Turncot Street, Chapelby Road, St. Pancras’” (he always rolled it slowly on his tongue with morbid self-torture and almost intolerable reproachfulness), “for the memory of ‘22, Albert Square.’”

“But you forget,” I said, though I lacked the courage to correct him again, “that the people who want ‘109, Little Turncot Street,’ are not the people who possess ‘22, Albert Flats,’”

“Precisely; the principle of direct exchange is not feasible. What is wanted, therefore, is a Memory Clearing House. If I can only discover the process of thought-transference, I will establish one, so as to bring the right parties into communication. Everybody who has old memories to dispose of will send me in particulars. At the end of each week I will publish a catalogue of the memories in the market, and circulate it among my subscribers, who will pay, say, a guinea a year. When the subscriber reads his catalogue and lights upon any memory he would like to have, he will send me a postcard, and I will then bring him into communication with the proprietor, taking, of course, a commission upon the transaction. Doubtless, in time, there will be a supplementary catalogue devoted to ‘Wants,’ which may induce people to scour their brains for half-forgotten reminiscences, or persuade them to give up memories they would never have parted with otherwise. Well, my boy, what do you think of it?”

“It opens up endless perspectives,” I said, half-dazed.

“It will be the greatest invention ever known!” he cried, inflaming himself more and more. “It will change human life, it will make a new epoch, it will effect a greater economy of human force than all the machines under the sun. Think of the saving of nerve-tissue, think of the prevention of brain-irritation. Why, we shall all live longer through it—centenarians will become as cheap as American millionaires.”

Live longer through it! Alas, the mockery of the recollection! He left me, his face working wildly. For days the vision of it interrupted my own work. At last, I could bear the suspense no more and went to his house. I found him in ecstasies and his wife in tears. She was beginning to suspect the family skeleton.

“Eureka!” he was shouting. “Eureka!”

“What is the matter?” sobbed the poor woman. “Why don’t you speak English? He has been going on like this for the last five minutes,” she added, turning pitifully to me.

“Eureka!” shouted O’Donovan. “I must say it. No new invention is complete without it.”

“Bah! I didn’t think you were so conventional,” I said, contemptuously. “I suppose you have found out how to make the memory-transferring machine?”

“I have,” he cried, exultantly. “I shall christen it the noemagraph, or thought-writer. The impression is received on a sensitised plate which acts as a medium between the two minds. The brow of the purchaser is pressed against the plate, through which a current of electricity is then passed.”

He rambled on about volts and dynamic psychometry and other hard words, which, though they break no bones, should be strictly confined in private dictionaries.

“I am awfully glad you came in,” he said, resuming his mother tongue at last—“because if you won’t charge me anything I will try the first experiment on you.”

I consented reluctantly, and in two minutes he rushed about the room triumphantly shouting, “22, Albert Flats, Victoria Square, Westminster,” till he was hoarse. But for his enthusiasm I should have suspected he had crammed up my address on the sly.

He started the Clearing House forthwith. It began humbly as an attic in the Strand. The first number of the catalogue was naturally meagre. He was good enough to put me on the free list, and I watched with interest the development of the enterprise. He had canvassed his acquaintances for subscribers, and begged everybody he met to send him particulars of their cast-off memories. When he could afford to advertise a little, his clientèle increased. There is always a public for anything bizarre, and a percentage of the population would send thirteen stamps for the Philosopher’s Stone, post free. Of course, the rest of the population smiled at him for an ingenious quack.

The “Memories on Sale” catalogue grew thicker and thicker. The edition issued to the subscribers contained merely the items, but O’Donovan’s copy comprised also. the names and addresses of the vendors, and now and again he allowed me to have a peep at it in strict confidence. The inventor himself had not foreseen the extraordinary uses to which his noemagraph would be put, nor the extraordinary developments of his business. Here are some specimens culled at random from No. 13 of the Clearing House catalogue, when O’Donovan still limited himself to facilitating the sale of superfluous memories:—

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1. 25, Portsdown Avenue, Maida Vale.

3. 13502, 17208 (banknote numbers).

12. History of England (a few Saxon kings missing), as successful in a recent examination by the College of Preceptors. Adapted to the requirements of candidates for the Oxford and Cambridge Local and the London Matriculation.

17. Paley’s Evidences, together with a job lot of dogmatic theology (second-hand), a valuable collection by a clergyman recently ordained, who has no further use for them.

26. A dozen whist wrinkles, as used by a retiring speculator. Excessively cheap.

29. Mathematical formulæ (complete sets; all the latest novelties and improvements, including those for the higher plane curves, and a selection of the most useful logarithms), the property of a dying Senior Wrangler. Applications must be immediate, and no payment need be made to the heirs till the will has been proved.

35. Arguments in favour of Home Rule (warranted sound); proprietor, distinguished Gladstonian M.P., has made up his mind to part with them at a sacrifice. Eminently suitable for bye-elections. Principals only.

58. Witty wedding speech, as delivered amid great applause by a bridegroom. Also an assortment of toasts, jocose and serious, in good condition. Reduction on taking a quantity.

Politicians, clergymen, and ex-examinees soon became the chief customers. Graduates in arts and science hastened to discumber [sic] their memories of the useless load of learning which had outstayed its function of getting them on in the world. Thus not only did they make some extra money, but memories which would. otherwise have rapidly faded were turned over to new minds to play a similarly beneficent part in aiding the careers of the owners. The fine image of Lucretius was realised, and the torch of learning was handed on from generation to generation. Had O’Donovan’s business been as widely known as it deserved, the curse of cram would have gone to roost for ever, and a fine physical race of Englishmen would have been produced. In the hands of honest students the invention might have produced intellectual giants, for each scholar could have started where his predecessor left off, and added more to his wealth of lore, the moderns standing upon the shoulders of the ancients in a more literal sense than Bacon dreamed. he memory of Macaulay, which all Englishmen rightly reverence, might have been possessed by his schoolboy. As it was, omniscient idiots abounded, left colossally wise by their fathers, whose painfully acquired memories they inherited.

O’Donovan’s Parliamentary connection was a large one, doubtless merely because of his former position and his consequent contact with political circles. Promises to constituents were always at a discount, the supply being immensely in excess of the demand; indeed, promises generally were drug in the market.

Instead of issuing the projected supplemental catalogue of “Memories Wanted,” O’Donovan by this time saw his way to buying them up on spec. He was not satisfied with his commission. He had learnt by experience the kinds that went best, such as exam. answers, but he resolved to have all sorts and be remembered as the Whiteley of Memory. Thus the Clearing House very soon developed into a storehouse. O’Donovan’s advertisement ran thus:

O’Donovan soon sported his brougham. Any day you went to the store (which now occupied the whole of the premises in the Strand) you could see endless traffic going on. I often loved to watch it. People who were tired of themselves came here to get a complete new outfit of memories, and thus change their identities. Plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses came to be fitted with memories that would stand the test of the oath, and they often brought solicitors with them to advise them in selecting from the stock. Counsel’s opinion on these points was regarded as especially valuable. Statements that would wash and stand rough pulling about were much sought after. Gentlemen and ladies writing reminiscences and autobiographies were to be met with at all hours, and nothing was more pathetic than to see the humble artisan investing his hard-earned “tanner” in recollections of a seaside holiday.

In the buying-up department trade was equally brisk, and people who were hard-up were often forced to part with their tenderest recollections. Memories of dead loves went at five shillings a dozen, and all those moments which people had vowed never to forget were sold at starvation prices. The memories “indelibly engraven” on hearts were invariably faded and only sold as damaged. The salvage from the most ardent fires of affection rarely paid the porterage. As a rule, the dearest memories were the cheapest. Of the memory of favours there was always a glut, and often heaps of diseased memories had to be swept away at the instigation of the sanitary inspector. Memories of wrongs done, being rarely parted with except when their owners were at their last gasp, fetched fancy prices. Mourners’ memories ruled especially lively. In the Memory Exchange, too, there was always a crowd, the temptation to barter worn-out memories for new proving irresistible.

One day O’ Donovan came to me, crying “Eureka!” once more.

“Shut up!” I said, annoyed by the idiotic Hellenicism.

“Shut up! Why, I shall open ten more shops. I have discovered the art of duplicating, triplicating, polyplicating memories. I used only to be able to get one impression out of the sensitised plate, now I can get any number.

“Be careful! I said. “This may ruin you.”

“How so?” he asked, scornfully.

“Why, just see—suppose you supply two candidates for a science degree with the same chemical reminiscences, you lay them under a suspicion of copying; two after-dinner speakers may find themselves recollecting the same joke; several autobiographers may remember their making the same remark to Gladstone. Unless your customers can be certain they have the exclusive right in on people’s memories, they will fall away.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “I must ‘Eureka’ something else.” His Greek was as defective as if he had had a classical education.

What he found was “The Hire System.” Some people who might otherwise have been good customers objected to losing their memories entirely. They were willing to part with them for a period. For instance, when a man came up to town or took a run to Paris, he did not mind dispensing with some of his domestic recollections, just for a change. People who knew better than to forget themselves entirely profited by the opportunity of acquiring the funds for a holiday, merely by leaving some of their memories behind them. There were always others ready to hire for a season the discarded bits of personality, and thus remorse was done away with, and double lives became a luxury within the reach of the multitude. To the very poor, O’Donovan’s new development proved an invaluable auxiliary to the pawn-shop. On Monday mornings, the pavement outside was congested with wretched-looking women anxious to pawn again the precious memories they had taken out with the Saturday’s wages. Under this hire system it became possible to pledge the memories of the absent for wine instead of in it. But the most gratifying result was its enabling pious relatives to redeem the memories of the dead, on payment of the legal interest. It was great fun to watch O’Donovan strutting about the rooms of his newest branch, swelling with pride like a combination cock and John Bull.

The experiences he gained here afforded him the material for a final development, but, to be strictly chronological, I ought first to mention the newspaper into which the Catalogue evolved. It was called In Memoriam, and was published at a penny, and gave a prize of a thousand pounds to any reader who lost his memory on the railway, and who applied for the reward in person. In Memoriam dealt with everything relating to memory, though, dishonestly enough, the articles were all original. So were the advertisements, which were required to have reference to the objects of the Clearing House—e.g.,

And now for the final and fatal “Eureka.” The anxiety of some persons to hire out their memories for a period led O’Donovan to see that it was absurd for him to pay for the use of them. The owners were only too glad to dodge remorse. He hit on the sublime idea that they ought to pay him. The result was the following advertisement in In Memoriam and its contemporaries:—

Quite a new class of customers rushed to avail themselves of the new pathological institution. What attracted them was having to pay. Hitherto they wouldn’t have gone if you paid them, as O’Donovan used to do. Widows and widowers presented themselves in shoals for treatment, with the result that marriages took place even within the year of mourning—a thing which obviously could not be done under any other system. I wonder whether Geraldine—but let me finish now!

How well I remember that bright summer’s morning when, wooed without by the liberal sunshine, and disgusted with the progress I was making with my new study in realistic fiction, I threw down my pen, strolled down the Strand, and turned into the Clearing House. I passed through the selling department, catching a babel of cries from the counter-jumpers—“Two gross of anecdotes? Yes, sir; this way, sir. Half-dozen proposals; it’ll be cheaper if you take a dozen, miss. Can I do anything more for you, mum? Just let me show you a sample of our innocent recollections. The Duchess of Bayswater has just taken some. Anything in the musical line this morning, signor? We have some lovely new recollections just in from impecunious composers. Won’t you take a score? Good morning, Mr. Clement Archer. We have the very thing for you—a memory of Macready playing Wolsey, quite clear and in excellent preservation; the only one in the market. Oh, no, mum; we have already allowed for these memories being slightly soiled. Jones, this lady complains the memories we sent her were short.”

O’Donovan was not to be seen. I passed through the Buying Department, where the employees were beating down the prices of “kind remembrances,” and through the Hire Department, where the clerks were turning up their noses at the old memories that had been pledged so often, into the Amnesia Agency. There I found the great organiser peering curiously at a sensitised plate.

“Oh,” he said, “is that you? Here’s a curiosity.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“The memory of a murder. The patient paid well to have it off his mind, but I am afraid I shall miss the usual second profit, for who will buy it again?”

“I will!” I cried, with a sudden inspiration. “Oh! what a fool I have been. I should have been your best customer. I ought to have bought up all sorts of memories, and written the most veracious novel the world has seen. I haven’t got a murder in my new book, but I’ll work one in at once. ‘Eureka!’”

“Stash that!” he said, revengefully. “You can have the memory with pleasure. I couldn’t think of charging an old friend like you, whose moving from an address, which I’ve sold, to 22, Albert Flats, Victoria Square, Westminster, made my fortune.”

That was how I came to write the only true murder ever written. It appears that the seller, a poor labourer, had murdered a friend in Epping Forest, just to rob him of half-a-crown, and calmly hid him under some tangled brushwood. A few months afterwards, having unexpectedly come into a fortune, he thought it well to break entirely with his past, and so had the memory extracted at the Agency. This, of course, I did not mention, but I described the murder and the subsequent feelings of the assassin, and launched the book on the world with a feeling of exultant expectation.

Alas! it was damned universally for its tameness and the improbability of its murder scenes. The critics, to a man, claimed to be authorities on the sensations of murderers, and the reading public, aghast, said I was flying in the face of Dickens. They said the man would have taken daily excursions to the corpse, and have been forced to invest in a season ticket to Epping Forest; they said he would have started if his own shadow crossed his path, not calmly have gone on drinking beer like an innocent babe at its mother’s breast. I determined to have the laugh of them. Stung to madness, I wrote to the papers asserting the truth of my murder, and giving the exact date and the place of burial. The next day a detective found the body, and I was arrested. I asked the police to send for O’Donovan, and gave them the address of the Amnesia Agency, but O’Donovan denied the existence of such an institution, and said he got his living as secretary of the Shamrock Society.

I raved and cursed him then—now it occurs to me that he had perhaps submitted himself (and everybody else) to amnesiastic treatment. The jury recommended me to mercy on the ground that to commit a murder for the artistic purpose of describing the sensations bordered on insanity; but even this false plea has not saved my life.

It may. A petition has been circulated by Mudie’s, and even at the eighth hour my reprieve may come. Yet, if the third volume of my life be closed to-morrow, I pray that these, my last words, may be published in an édition de luxe, and such of the profits as the publisher can spare be given to Geraldine.

If I am reprieved, I will never buy another murderer’s memory, not for all the artistic ideals in the world, I’ll be hanged if I do.