I heard the doors being shut and the guard calling out “Partenza!” My heart began to beat wildly. I felt as if once again I were strapped in the car on the switchback railway. I wanted to get out, to stop, to turn back. A whistle sounded and a gong was struck.
“Well, Mura, au revoir,” cried Kamarowsky, stretching up his hand to me. “A happy journey and all blessings.”
I leaned out as far as I could—the bar across the window hindered me, but I managed to touch his outstretched hand with the tips of my fingers.
A spasm caught my throat. “Paul, Paul!” I gasped. “Oh, God, forgive me!” A shrill whistle drowned my voice as the train moved slowly forward.
He must have seen the anguish in my face, for he cried anxiously:
“What? What did you say?” Now he was running beside the train, which was beginning to go faster.
I repeated my cry: “Forgive me! Forgive me!” and stretched out my arms to him from the window.
He shook his head to show that he had not understood. The train was throbbing and hastening.
He ran faster beside it. “What—what is it? What did you say?” But the train was gaining speed, and he was obliged to stop. He stood there, erect and solitary, at the extreme end of the platform, following with perplexed and questioning gaze the train that was carrying me away.
It is thus always that I see him in my memory—a solitary figure, gazing at me with perplexed and wondering eyes.