ON THE TIP OF ONE'S TONGUE

By JAN 'STRUTHER

IAM going through, at this moment, a well-known form of minor hell ; one of those trivial anguishes of the mind which have the power, while they last, to overshadow the vaster despairs of love, death or bank- ruptcy : as, on the bodily plane, a flea-bite can mono- polise the attention of a dying man. In other words, I am suffering from partial—and I hope temporary— amnesia. Or, to come down to brass tacks, I have been trying in vain for several hours to remember the name of a little man I met on a boat in 1922.

It is of no practical importance whether I remember it. or not. Even at the time he meant nothing to me, except that lie sat at the same table, shared my taste for pickled walnuts, and was the only person I ever managed to heat at bull-board ; and by now I should have forgotten him completely if it had not been for an old photograph album through which, every live years or so, I have the idle curiosity. to glance. " Ah, yes," I say reminiscently, " there's little —." But what do I say ? Little who ? This time my memory has failed me. All I can be certain of is that it began with an M. Moore ? Too short. Middleton ? Too long. Mackay ? No ; for we never mentioned Scotland. Morgan ? Morris ?. Marshall ? I rage, I burn.

Reason, or rather a kind of superstitious low cunning, counsels me to stop thinking about it. Leave it alone and it'll come home, bringing its name behind it. Ignore it deliberately, as a kitten stalks away with feigned unconcern from a suddenly tedious cotton-reel, in the hope that, glimpsed afresh from the other side of the room, it will turn once more into a mouse. (Ah I nearly had it that time . . . Marriott ? No.) Very well, then ; let me tear myself away from the particular annoyance and consider the general problem, A brain specialist, no doubt, could whip out, as neat as ninepence, the scientific explanation of why certain words or facts should suddenly change from docile palfreys, saddled, bridled, unobtrusively awaiting one pleasure, into intractable mustangs, ranging beyond recall ; should escape from the orderly pigeon-holes of one's brain into that mysterious region known as the tip of one's tongue. It is a small area : one would not think there was enough room for the number of things that manage to lurk there—addresses, telephone numbers, book-titles, middle parts of tunes, second lines of limericks, and above all, above all, names of little men whom one met on a boat in 1922. (I glance out of the corner of my eye at the cotton-reel : but it is still a lifeless block.) Scientific explanations, however, are more interesting than consoling. What one wants is a reliable cure for the disease, a magic formula which will release one from these bouts of agony. (Abracadabra. Gazeeka, gazeeka, gazum. Murphy. ? Mylechreest ?) What is more, it must be a lasting cure. One might imagine that the amount of time and trouble one spends in coaxing a truant word back into the memory would inscribe it indelibly on one's heart and ensure that that particular creature, at any rate, should never escape again : whereas, in fact, like a once-dislocated ankle, it is more than ever liable to slip out.

The art of mnemonics is insufficiently taught, and when practised by novices is apt to lead to confusion : witness the crude prep.-school chestnut about Mrs. Lummock and Mrs. Kelly. • A similar but more complex tangle was all the result I got from trying to fix in my head the name of a certain restaurant manager. whom I sometimes wanted to ring up. He was called Clayton, and he always took more trouble if one asked for him by name: but nothing would din it into me, not even con- necting his red hair with the colour of clay. Finally, I thought of that well-known theatrical partnership, Clayton and Waller. In order to be sure of remembering the second name I resorted to an excruciating pun. " What does one do in a restaurant ? " I asked myself. " Swaller," I replied unblushingly. The plan seemed pretty cast-iron : but the next time I wanted to book a table I asked for Mr. Lewis.

The only mnemotechnic device which ever worked with me did so by virtue of its superb and flagrant inconsequence.

" Where do you live, in ease I should need you again ? " I asked of a departing charwoman.

-" Seventy-nine, Skinner's Dwellings," she replied. " And if you ferget the number, m'm, think of a dog- licence."

" A dog-licence ? "

" Seven-an'-six--ony you turn the six upside down," she explained, beaming. " I thought of that," she added modestly, " myself." I was staggered : but I have remembered her number ever since.

There is, too, the well-known story of Benvenuto Cellini's father, who boxed his son's ears in order that he might never forget having seen a salamander. But such violent methods, well enough in mediaeval Italy, are out of place today. Ear-boxing is now deprecated as being apt to cause deafness ; and in any case it is difficult to box one's own.

(Mitchell ? Getting warmer, surely. I am certain it was something very like Mitchell.) Another point is this : a sudden lapse of the conscious memory seems to let loose the subconscious with a rush. One can remember all kinds of little irrelevant details : that the sentence one is searching for came two-thirds of the way down on a left-hand page ; that just as so-and-so made that so maddeningly mislaid witty remark the traffic-lights changed from red to amber and a passer-by dropped his newspaper. And if the missing object is a human being one may get a shock, when the mystery is cleared up, at the things one's tentative gropings have revealed.

" Who on .earth was it," T. asked me the other day, " who was telling us all that stuff about werewolves ? "

" I quite forget," I said, " but I know it was a man : and I've a sort of idea it was somebody we weren't mad cats on."

" Yes—or didn't trust very far, or something."

" A slight oik, too, so far as I remember."

" And surely, didn't he have rather a tiresome voice ? " " Very. Who could it have been ? "

At that moment X. happened to drop in for a drink, and as his name was announced T. and I looked at each other in horrified realisation. It was very queer : for we had always taken it for granted, just because we saw hint pretty often, that X. was a great friend of ours. And I, at any rate, have never felt quite the same about him since I caught that brief glimpse of him through the lidless eye of the subconscious.

Out of the photograph album, which I have been using as a writing-board, slips a discoloured sheet of notepaper.

" Dear Miss As promised am enclosing copies of the snaps I took on the trip. The ones of our final bull-board contest are quite a success, I think Hoping we may meet again when you are next in town, I am, Yours v. sincerely,

WM. Snirsas."

Simpson ! SIMPSON ! 0 blessed name ! 0 sweet, incomparable relief ! I knew, I knew it had an M in it.