within himself, when he has not carried away with him even a warm look or a friendly word or spark of hope from his homeland â¦â
Ignacy shifted on his chair, to protest: âAllow me to remind you that at first I wrote very friendly letters, perhaps even excessively sentimental ones ⦠Your brief replies upset me.â
âAm I blaming you?â
âNo, but you can blame the others still less, for they donât know you as I do.â
Wokulski looked up.
âI donât bear any resentment against them. Perhaps â a trifle â towards you, because you used to write so very little about ⦠the town. Besides, the newspapers were often lost in the post, there were gaps in the news and I was tormented by awful forebodings.â
âOf what? There was no war here!â Ignacy replied in amazement.
âThatâs so ⦠You even managed to divert yourselves very well, as I recall. You had splendid tableaux in December. Who took part in them?â
âWell, I donât go to such nonsense.â
âThatâs so. But Iâd have given â oh, ten thousand roubles, just to see them. How absurd! Isnât it?â
âCertainly, though loneliness and boredom explain a good deal â¦â
âPerhaps yearning too,â Wokulski interrupted. âIt poisoned my every free moment, my every hour of rest. Pour me some wine, Ignacy.â
He drank it, again began to walk about the room and speak in a stifled voice: âIt came upon me first during a passage across the Danube that lasted from dusk till late at night. I was alone, with only a gipsy guide. We could not talk, so I watched the scenery. In that place, I saw sandbanks just like those here. Then it occurred to me that I was so far away from home that the only link between myself and all of you were these stars, but that probably none of you were looking at them at that moment, no one was thinking of me, no one! ⦠I felt as though torn asunder, and not until that moment did I realise how deep was the wound in my soul â¦â
âTruly, the stars have never interested me,â Ignacy whispered.
âFrom that day on, I suffered a strange sickness,â Wokulski said. âAs long as I was writing letters, doing accounts, inspecting goods, dispatching my agents or watching out for thieves, I had relative calm of mind. But when I tore myself away from business, and even when I momentarily laid down my pen, I felt a pain â do you understand me, Ignacy? â as if there were grit in my heart. It became so that Iâd walk about, eat, talk, think reasonably, look at the scenery, even laugh and be cheerful, yet all the time Iâd feel this dull pain, this uneasiness, this interminable disquiet â¦
âThis chronic state, indescribably agonising, was blown into a tempest by the slightest circumstance. A tree of familiar outline, some rocky hill, the colour of a cloud or flight of a bird, even a breath of wind, with no other reason, woke such insane despair within me that I fled from other people. I sought out a solitary refuge to fall to the ground and howl like a dog, unheard by anyone â¦
âSometimes, in this flight from myself, night would overtake me. Then dark shadows with sunken eyes would appear to me in the undergrowth, among the fallen tree-trunks, and would shake their heads sorrowfully. And all the rustling leaves, the distant noise of carts passing by, the trickling water would blend into one mournful voice, which asked: âPasser-by, what has become of you?â
âYes, what had become of me? â¦â
âI donât understand,â Ignacy interrupted. âWhat sort of madness was it?â
âYearning â¦â
âFor what?â
Wokulski shivered.
âWell, for everything ⦠for home â¦â
âWhy didnât you come back home, then?â
âWhat would my return have meant? ⦠Anyhow, I
Ignacy shifted on his chair, to protest: âAllow me to remind you that at first I wrote very friendly letters, perhaps even excessively sentimental ones ⦠Your brief replies upset me.â
âAm I blaming you?â
âNo, but you can blame the others still less, for they donât know you as I do.â
Wokulski looked up.
âI donât bear any resentment against them. Perhaps â a trifle â towards you, because you used to write so very little about ⦠the town. Besides, the newspapers were often lost in the post, there were gaps in the news and I was tormented by awful forebodings.â
âOf what? There was no war here!â Ignacy replied in amazement.
âThatâs so ⦠You even managed to divert yourselves very well, as I recall. You had splendid tableaux in December. Who took part in them?â
âWell, I donât go to such nonsense.â
âThatâs so. But Iâd have given â oh, ten thousand roubles, just to see them. How absurd! Isnât it?â
âCertainly, though loneliness and boredom explain a good deal â¦â
âPerhaps yearning too,â Wokulski interrupted. âIt poisoned my every free moment, my every hour of rest. Pour me some wine, Ignacy.â
He drank it, again began to walk about the room and speak in a stifled voice: âIt came upon me first during a passage across the Danube that lasted from dusk till late at night. I was alone, with only a gipsy guide. We could not talk, so I watched the scenery. In that place, I saw sandbanks just like those here. Then it occurred to me that I was so far away from home that the only link between myself and all of you were these stars, but that probably none of you were looking at them at that moment, no one was thinking of me, no one! ⦠I felt as though torn asunder, and not until that moment did I realise how deep was the wound in my soul â¦â
âTruly, the stars have never interested me,â Ignacy whispered.
âFrom that day on, I suffered a strange sickness,â Wokulski said. âAs long as I was writing letters, doing accounts, inspecting goods, dispatching my agents or watching out for thieves, I had relative calm of mind. But when I tore myself away from business, and even when I momentarily laid down my pen, I felt a pain â do you understand me, Ignacy? â as if there were grit in my heart. It became so that Iâd walk about, eat, talk, think reasonably, look at the scenery, even laugh and be cheerful, yet all the time Iâd feel this dull pain, this uneasiness, this interminable disquiet â¦
âThis chronic state, indescribably agonising, was blown into a tempest by the slightest circumstance. A tree of familiar outline, some rocky hill, the colour of a cloud or flight of a bird, even a breath of wind, with no other reason, woke such insane despair within me that I fled from other people. I sought out a solitary refuge to fall to the ground and howl like a dog, unheard by anyone â¦
âSometimes, in this flight from myself, night would overtake me. Then dark shadows with sunken eyes would appear to me in the undergrowth, among the fallen tree-trunks, and would shake their heads sorrowfully. And all the rustling leaves, the distant noise of carts passing by, the trickling water would blend into one mournful voice, which asked: âPasser-by, what has become of you?â
âYes, what had become of me? â¦â
âI donât understand,â Ignacy interrupted. âWhat sort of madness was it?â
âYearning â¦â
âFor what?â
Wokulski shivered.
âWell, for everything ⦠for home â¦â
âWhy didnât you come back home, then?â
âWhat would my return have meant? ⦠Anyhow, I
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