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169 RUE DE L'UNIVERSITE,
PARIS, Dec. 22; '94.
DEAR MR. ROGERS,--I seemed to be entirely expecting your letter, and
also prepared and resigned; but Lord, it shows how little we know
ourselves and how easily we can deceive ourselves. It hit me like a
thunder-clap. It knocked every rag of sense out of my head, and I went
flying here and there and yonder, not knowing what I was doing, and only
one clearly defined thought standing up visible and substantial out of
the crazy storm-drift that my dream of ten years was in desperate
peril, and out of the 60,000 or 90,000 projects for its rescue that came
floating through my skull, not one would hold still long enough for me
to examine it and size it up. Have you ever been like that? Not so much
so, I reckon.
There was another clearly defined idea--I must be there and see it die.
That is, if it must die; and maybe if I were there we might hatch up
some next-to-impossible way to make it take up its bed and take a walk.
So, at the end of four hours I started, still whirling and walked over
to the rue Scribe--4 P. M.--and asked a question or two and was told I
should be running a big risk if I took the 9 P. M. train for London and
Southampton; "better come right along at 6.52 per Havre special and step
aboard the New York all easy and comfortable." Very! and I about two
miles from home, with no packing done.
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