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‘Can’t you see there’s a sign here that says “Do not lean out”? Do official orders mean nothing to you?
     This remark was addressed to the young man leaning out of the window by a faded, elderly man in pince-nez. It happened on a train, somewhere beyond Lublin. The young man drew his head inside and turned around.
     Do you know what the next stop is?’ he asked.
     If I inquire of you whether you are aware that leaning out of the window while the train is in motion is not allowed, perhaps it would be appropriate to answer the question in the first place, and only then pose one of your own,’ said the stickler for form with the face of a fish, bristly hair, and a gold watch chain hanging in the region of his belly. The young man instantly replied in a free and frivolous tone: ‘Oh, sorry.
     This freedom and frivolity increased the fish-faced gentleman’s irritation. Councillor Szymczyk was inordinately fond of lecturing and drilling others, but he couldn’t tolerate his remarks not being taken seriously enough. He cast his victim a look of disgust.
     This was a dark blond of about twenty, with an extremely neat physique. Although the summer was coming to an end and the evenings could be cool, he was only wearing a blue, sleeveless string top, grey trousers and tennis shoes on his bare feet.
     Who might this be? thought the councillor. He’s got two rackets, so perhaps he’s the son of a resident of these parts? But his hands are rough, with poorly kept nails, as from physical work. Anyway, his hair is not well groomed and his voice is rather common. A proletarian, then? No, a proletarian wouldn’t have ears and eyes like his. But then the mouth and chin are almost working class... and altogether there’s something suspicious about him... a sort of hybrid.
     The other passengers must have shared his opinion, because they too were glancing furtively at the young man, who stood leaning against the wall. Finally Councillor Szymczyk became so curious that he decided for the time being to drop further polemic on the topic of failing to attend seriously to instructions and advice given him by qualified people. He proceeded to establish the stranger’s personal details, which in any case came to him easily, as even when on holiday he always considered himself an official, accustomed to filling in the blanks on forms.
     ‘What is your employment?’ he asked.
     ‘I’m a tennis coach.’
     ‘Age?’
     ‘Twenty.’
     ‘Twenty? Twenty what? Twenty years old? Please answer properly!’ he said, with impatience and irritation.
     ‘Twenty years old.’
     ‘And where are you going?’ asked the councillor suspiciously. He liked this character less and less. He always felt a certain suspicion towards persons who answered questions too hastily and compliantly; many years of office experience had taught him that as a rule such individuals either already had, or intended to have, something on their conscience...
     ‘I’m going to a place near here,’ the boy replied, ‘to an estate where I’ve been hired as a coach.’
     ‘Ah,’ exclaimed the councillor, ‘then perhaps you are going to Połyka, to the Ochołowskis? Eh? Of course! I guessed at once, since Miss Ochołowska is by all accounts an accomplished tennis player, sir. Are you there for long?’
          ‘Nooo... Or rather I don’t know how it will turn out. I’m to repair the rackets, refresh the court and practise with the young lady, as apparently she has no one to play against.’
     ‘I’m going there too,’ the councillor felt it appropriate to reveal, then stretched out a hand and said abstractedly: ‘Szymczyk.’
     To which the coach replied with a bow and said: ‘Walczak.’
     At this point they were approached by a hearty old man who had been listening closely to their conversation from the start. ‘What, are you gentlemen going to Połyka?’ he exclaimed. ‘This is splendid, for I am going there too. Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said, addressing the councillor. ‘I am Skoliński, Czesław, professor, or, to be precise, art historian. Skoliński! You must be going to the boarding house, eh? I can assure you that you’ve struck gold – the manor at Połyka is paradise, sir, not a boarding house! Sometimes I really am pleased that the landed gentry is going bust and must establish boarding houses at their manors, for nowhere does one get as good a rest as in the countryside. I’ve been staying there for a fortnight now, I’ve been up to Warsaw for a while, but now I’m on my way back again. It’s a superb place, gentlemen! À propos, Miss Maja Ochołowska, your future partner,’he boomed at the young coach, ‘is also travelling on this train. Skoliński, if you please, professor, or, to be precise, art historian. I’d introduce you to her, gentlemen, but I do not wish to be indiscreet, because she is travelling with her fiancé... That’s to say, her fiancé is travelling with Prince Holszański – you know, the prince from Mysłocz, which is next door to Połyka – so her fiancé, Mr Cholawicki, is travelling in one compartment with the prince, whose secretary he is, while she, poor lass, is in the next compartment down. The prince is a little... like that...’ – he put a finger to his forehead – ‘and his secretary cannot abandon him. But in any case, we’d better not disturb the young couple.’
     The train sped on, swaying steadily, through the mournful land, flat and dark-green against the setting sun. More and more often the woods crept up on either side, more and more often the train sheared through a small pine copse. The two gentlemen immersed themselves in conversation, while Marian Walczak, coach for the Zespół club in Lublin, whistled a tune as he gazed at the passing landscape. He was bored. Altogether he was often bored. Sometimes such colossal boredom came over him that he found it simply unbearable. He set off on a walk down the train.

(...)