For this sin my house had
ceased to be mine, my country also was estranged from me. Had I
died begging for my country, even unsuccessfully, that would have
been worship, acceptable to the gods. But theft is never
worship--how then can I offer this gold? Ah me! I am doomed to
death myself, must I desecrate my country with my impious touch?
The way to put the money back is closed to me. I have not
the strength to return to the room, take again that key, open
once more that safe--I should swoon on the threshold of my
husband's door. The only road left now is the road in front.
Neither have I the strength deliberately to sit down and count
the coins. Let them remain behind their coverings: I cannot
calculate.
There was no mist in the winter sky. The stars were shining
brightly. If, thought I to myself, as I lay out there, I had to
steal these stars one by one, like golden coins, for my country--
these stars so carefully stored up in the bosom of the darkness--
then the sky would be blinded, the night widowed for ever, and my
theft would rob the whole world. But was not also this very
thing I had done a robbing of the whole world--not only of money,
but of trust, of righteousness?
I spent the night lying on the terrace.
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