That's just why I've come to
grief now, because my life has never been free; because I've never
lived it in my own way. Of my own free will should I ever have wanted
to fight a duel, or to hit him with the whip? Nobody would have struck
me, and everything would have been all right. Who first imagined, and
when, that an insult could only be wiped out with blood? Not I,
certainly. Well, I've wiped it out, or rather, it's been wiped out with
my blood, hasn't it? I don't know what it all means, but I know this,
that I shall have to leave the regiment!"
His thoughts would fain have taken another direction, yet, like birds
with clipped wings, they always fell back again, back to the one
central fact that he had been grossly insulted, and would be obliged to
leave the regiment.
He remembered having once seen a fly that had fallen into syrup
crawling over the floor, dragging its sticky legs and wings along with
the utmost difficulty. It was plain that the wretched insect must die,
though it still struggled, and made frantic efforts to regain its feet.
At the time he had turned away from it in disgust, and now he saw it
again, as in a feverish dream.
Pages:
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382