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<p>“I see,” he began, in a subdued tone, “that you contemplate sacrificing yourself for her. ‘I will descend to her level, and protect her from the mob,’ and so on. That’s what you are saying to your virtuous self, waxing big in your own eyes as a worm does in carrion. But it’s all a sham; nothing else but a lie! You’re not in the least capable of self-sacrifice. If, for instance, Lida had been disfigured by smallpox, perhaps you might have worked yourself up to such a deed of heroism. But after a couple of days you would have embittered her life, either spurning her or deserting her, or overwhelming her reproaches. At present your attitude towards yourself is one of adoration, as if you were an icon. Yes, yes, your face is transfigured, and everyone would say, ‘Oh! look, there’s a saint.’ Yet you have lost nothing which you desired. Lida’s limbs are the same as before; so are her passion and her splendid vitality. But of course, it is extremely convenient and also agreeable to provide oneself with enjoyment while piously imagining that one is doing a noble deed. I should rather say it was!”</p> |