***
Boulogne, France
June 25, 1917
Dearest Charles,
Last week I was in Paris on leave. You will never guess who I met there – your friend Herbert West. He was drinking absinthe and was quite convivial, perhaps as a result. He asked me to say hello to you for him and to apologize for not writing more often. So here are greetings and apologies from Herbert.
My duty accomplished, I must say something more: He seemed a little disconnected, as though he was looking for someone to tell him who he was. You know him better than I, in most ways, so maybe you’ve seen him like that before. Or maybe not. In any case, I think I may have helped him a little. It was, in some ways, an informative encounter. I think he misses you more than he knows or is willing to admit. I miss you too, and know it and admit it, but somehow Arkham seems very small and far away. Remembering it, and even our good times together, is like looking through the wrong end of a telescope.
I’d better stop; I’m not sure what it is I’m saying.
Fondly,
Alma.
This letter seemed to imply more than it said, and I read it repeatedly, trying to extract a hidden meaning, but it eluded me. I expected a mention of this meeting in West’s next letter. But he did not write until several weeks later – a strangely uninformative letter, as though he had written it only to fulfill an obligation. Or perhaps it only seemed so to me. He rambled on about surgical procedures, using technical terminology that meant nothing to me (which was probably just as well), and referred to surgeons and nurses with whom he worked, not always in flattering terms. He seemed to have more respect for the nurses, explaining that in the Canadian Army they held actual military ranks, unlike the British Army’s nursing sisters. He mentioned, apropos of nothing, that he sometimes found it necessary to shoot rats among the hospital outbuildings, and closed with a token inquiry about my health.
But there was a postscript.
P.S. I met Alma Halsey in Paris nearly two months ago. It has become a leave centre recently, and I suppose both of us knew an opportunity when we saw it. She spent much of the time on the dance floor with a rather handsome fellow. When we managed to speak of you, Charles, I was discreet and said nothing to her of the Miss Enright you have mentioned more than once in your letters. H.
Nothing more for nearly three months, then this:
Etaples
Nov. 7, 1917
My Dear Charles,
Greetings from the No. 1, where business continues as usual, both official and otherwise. Birthday greetings, actually, to myself. I am thirty-one today. Three years in the belly of the beast or, more accurately, in its lower intestine. I wonder what that does to a man? If I ever get back to Arkham, you may be able to answer that question, Charles. I’m not sure I ever will.
Another piece of good news – I have finally come to terms with Clapham-Lee. If you recall, he was being tedious about my research, which he persisted in regarding as a collaborative effort long after anyone should have seen that it was not. A few weeks ago he issued an ultimatum, which proved wonderfully effective. I invited him to my laboratory hut, promising to show him the results of my latest efforts. He has now internalized them absolutely and has no more room for doubts of any sort – a remarkable transformation. I anticipate no more difficulty from him.
Wondrous are the ways of reason, and happy is he who pursues her unencumbered with irrational notions.
Unreliably (but sincerely) yours,
Herbert.
The Friendship of Mortals Page 20