Oh, how much I wished then that he would have got angry, have defended himself, have shouted at me!
But he did nothing. I had all that to do within myself. He would have smiled, had he been able.
The fact that he could not, showed me more than anything else how hard I had hit him.
And because Pistorius took the blow from me, his presumptuous and ungrateful pupil, so quietly,
because he silently agreed with me, because he recognized my word as a judgment of fate,
he caused me to hate myself, he made my thoughtlessness seem a thousand times greater than it was.
As I struck, I had thought to hit a strong man, capable of defending himself—
now he was a meek, suffering creature, defenseless, who surrendered in silence.
We remained a long time lying before the dying fire, in which each glowing figure,
each crumbling ash heap called to my memory happy, beautiful, rich hours,
making my guilt and my obligation to Pistorius greater and greater.
Finally I could bear it no longer. I got up and went.
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