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Polaris, v. 1, issue 2, March 1940
Page 4
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4 THE FORGOTTEN by Robert W Lowndes I think my name is Allyn, but it is so difficult to be sure of anything now. That is why I am writing this: I want something to which I can refer -- later. Already it has become difficult to recall the when and where of it -- and I fear I shall never know the why. One thing remains clear, the name of whoever it was who was first in my heart. Catherine. She must have been beautiful --- lovely -- because now how else would I recall her when everything else has gone. What could she have been like, I wonder? I sit here and watch the parade of men and women going by this window, gaze carefully at the lovely women who pass by this window and try to pretend: she was like this one. Sometimes I say: yes, Catherine looked like this. This was the way she walked, with the loveliness of her filling the air like the aura of some rare and wondrous flower; her voice must have been a mellow, caressing tone like that voice; her eyes must have been starry pools of warmth and tenderness like these eyes; she must have clung to me the way that woman clings to that man there. But, then, I cannot be sure... What sort of man was I? There is only the clue of my appearance in the mirror, the furnishings of this room, the facile way these words seem to flow from the typewriter to this paper. I think I was a literary person, perhaps a writer of no small distinction. I know what you are thinking: I am a victim of amnesia. I have lost my memory through some physical or mental accident. In a way, you are right. But mine has been a most singular amnesia. I will try to relate what I can recall. It was -- it must have been -- some weeks ago that it began. At that time, I was in no way abnormal. But at that time I began to notice certain abnormalities in the people surrounding me. I know that I had an appointment, a rather important appointment, with a person of prominence. That he (or she) was prominent there can be little doubt because I went to his (or her) office in the heart of the city, in an exclusive building. I went there, presented my card to the receptionist and waited. In a little while she returned, somewhat puzzledly, asking me if I had an appointment. I told her my name (at that time there was no difficulty in recalling personal data) and cited the occasion for the appointment. She went into an inner office, and, a moment later, returned with the person whom I was to see. I knew him (or her); I spoke to him (or her) by name and told him (or her) the purpose of the appointment. But he (or she) merely looked blankly at me and said: "I am sorry, but I do not recall you." It was a shock -- a very great shock. You see, I had called on this person before at this very same office. We had had a most cordial and satisfactory meeting. In fact, I had expected that the receptionist would remember me. But now, this person was saying, puzzledly: "I am afraid you have made a mistake: I am sure we have not met before." What could I do? I apologized and departed. Then I telephoned to a fairly intimate acquaintance who lived a few blocks away, telling him what had happened and asking if he could meet me short-
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4 THE FORGOTTEN by Robert W Lowndes I think my name is Allyn, but it is so difficult to be sure of anything now. That is why I am writing this: I want something to which I can refer -- later. Already it has become difficult to recall the when and where of it -- and I fear I shall never know the why. One thing remains clear, the name of whoever it was who was first in my heart. Catherine. She must have been beautiful --- lovely -- because now how else would I recall her when everything else has gone. What could she have been like, I wonder? I sit here and watch the parade of men and women going by this window, gaze carefully at the lovely women who pass by this window and try to pretend: she was like this one. Sometimes I say: yes, Catherine looked like this. This was the way she walked, with the loveliness of her filling the air like the aura of some rare and wondrous flower; her voice must have been a mellow, caressing tone like that voice; her eyes must have been starry pools of warmth and tenderness like these eyes; she must have clung to me the way that woman clings to that man there. But, then, I cannot be sure... What sort of man was I? There is only the clue of my appearance in the mirror, the furnishings of this room, the facile way these words seem to flow from the typewriter to this paper. I think I was a literary person, perhaps a writer of no small distinction. I know what you are thinking: I am a victim of amnesia. I have lost my memory through some physical or mental accident. In a way, you are right. But mine has been a most singular amnesia. I will try to relate what I can recall. It was -- it must have been -- some weeks ago that it began. At that time, I was in no way abnormal. But at that time I began to notice certain abnormalities in the people surrounding me. I know that I had an appointment, a rather important appointment, with a person of prominence. That he (or she) was prominent there can be little doubt because I went to his (or her) office in the heart of the city, in an exclusive building. I went there, presented my card to the receptionist and waited. In a little while she returned, somewhat puzzledly, asking me if I had an appointment. I told her my name (at that time there was no difficulty in recalling personal data) and cited the occasion for the appointment. She went into an inner office, and, a moment later, returned with the person whom I was to see. I knew him (or her); I spoke to him (or her) by name and told him (or her) the purpose of the appointment. But he (or she) merely looked blankly at me and said: "I am sorry, but I do not recall you." It was a shock -- a very great shock. You see, I had called on this person before at this very same office. We had had a most cordial and satisfactory meeting. In fact, I had expected that the receptionist would remember me. But now, this person was saying, puzzledly: "I am afraid you have made a mistake: I am sure we have not met before." What could I do? I apologized and departed. Then I telephoned to a fairly intimate acquaintance who lived a few blocks away, telling him what had happened and asking if he could meet me short-
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