As to Russian, I
certainly might have written in that language; but then it would
have been very much like offering salt water to a thirsty person.
And that is why I did not write. I thought I had forgotten my
parents. But no! Even that was merely a matter of habit. I had
gotten so used to my feeling of longing that I was not aware of
having it. That is the way I explain it to myself. By and by there
opened in my heart a dark little corner that had been closed for
many a year. That was the longing for my parents, for my home,
mixed with just a trace of anger and resentment. I began to picture
to myself how my folks would meet me: there would be kisses,
embraces, tears, neighbors. . . . For, like a silly child, I
imagined they were all alive and well yet, and that the Angel of
Death would wait till I came and repaid them for all the worry I had
caused them. . . . And, indeed, would they not have been greatly
wronged, had they been allowed to die unconsoled, after they had
rent Heaven with their prayers and lamentations?
But the nearer I came to my native town, the less grew my desire to
see it.
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