It would be worthy
of the woman. No experience, no memories, no dead traditions of passion
or language would inspire 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, a sudden influx of people through the
doors of the platform. I made out my man's whiskers at once--not that
they were enormous, but because I had been warned 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 and so very fine that the least breath of air animated them
into a sort of playful restlessness. The man's shoulders were hunched up
and when he had made his way clear of the throng of passengers I
perceived him as an unhappy and shivery being. Obviously he didn't
expect to be met, because when I murmured an enquiring, "Senor Ortega?"
into his ear he swerved away from me and nearly dropped a little handbag
he was carrying. His complexion was uniformly pale, his mouth was red,
but not engaging. His social status was not very definite. He was
wearing a dark blue overcoat of no particular cut, his aspect had no
relief; yet those restless side-whiskers flanking his red mouth and the
suspicious expression of his black eyes made him noticeable. This I
regretted the more because I caught sight of two skulking fellows,
looking very much like policemen in plain clothes, watching us from a
corner of the great hall. I hurried my man into a fiacre. He had been
travelling from early morning on cross-country lines and after we got on
terms a little confessed to being very hungry and cold. His red lips
trembled and I noted an underhand, cynical curiosity when he had occasion
to raise his eyes to my face. I was in some doubt how to dispose of him
but as we rolled on at a jog trot I came to the conclusion that the best
thing to do would be to organize for him a shake-down in the studio.
Obscure lodging houses are precisely the places most looked after by the
police, and even the best hotels are bound to keep a register of
arrivals. I was very anxious that nothing should stop his project