erprise than merely passing through
the frontier line in charge of some trustworthy guide. I pictured
the fellow to myself trudging over the stony slopes and scrambling
down wild ravines with my letter to Dona Rita in his pocket. It
would be such a letter of farewell as no lover had ever written, no
woman in the world had ever read, since the beginning of love on
earth. It would be worthy of the woman. No experience, no
memories,
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it. She herself would be its sole inspiration. She would see her
own image in it as in a mirror; and perhaps then she would
understand what it was I was saying farewell to on the very
threshold of my life. A breath of vanity passed through my brain.
A letter as moving as her mere existence was moving would be
something unique. I regretted I was not a poet.
I woke up to a great noise of feet,
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through the doors of the platform. I made out my man's whiskers at
once - not that they were enormous,
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beforehand of their existence by the excellent Commissary General.
At first I saw nothing of him but his whiskers: they were black
and cut somewhat in the shape of a shark's fin yilai:
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