I might have been a hero: give me a regiment, gold epaulets, a
trumpeter, but to march in the ranks with some wild Anton Bondarenko or
the like, and feel that between me and him there was no difference at
all--that he might be killed or I might be killed--all the same, that
thought is maddening. You understand how horrible it is to think that
some ragamuffin may kill me, a man who has thoughts and feelings, and
that it would make no difference if alongside of me some Antonof were
killed,--a being not different from an animal--and that it might easily
happen that I and not this Antonof were killed, which is always UNE
FATALITE for every lofty and good man. I know that they call me a
coward: grant that I am a coward, I certainly am a coward, and can't be
anything else. Not only am I a coward, but I am in my way a low and
despicable man. Here I have just been borrowing money of you, and you
have the right to despise me. No, take back your money." And he held out
to me the crumpled bank-bill. "I want you to have a good opinion of me."
He covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears. I really did
not know what to say or do.
"Calm yourself," I said to him. "You are too sensitive; don't take
everything so to heart; don't indulge in self-analysis, look at things
more simply.
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