If I have blundered, the
consequences be on my own head. My hair could hardly be whiter--that's
something. Besides, retreat is not cut off. I have sworn no eternal
oath not to change my mind again.
In any case you have no occasion to worry about me: I've a head full of
memories. I am going to classify them, as I do my books. Some of them I
am going to forget, just as I reject books that have ceased to interest
me. I know the latter is always a wrench. The former may be
impossible. I shall not be lonely. No one who reads is ever that. I
may miss talking. Perhaps that is a good thing. I may have talked too
much. That does happen.
Remember one thing--I am not inaccessible. I may now and then get an
opportunity to talk again, and in a new background. Who knows? I am
counting on nothing but the facts about me. So come on, Future. I've
my back against the past. Anyway, as you see, it is too late to argue.
I've crossed the Rubicon, and can return only when I have built a new
bridge.
II
June 18, 1914.
That's right. Accept the situation. You will soon find that Paris will
seem the same to you.
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