"Ah! yes, but it is!" cried Sanine. "What else could it be, pray?"
Novikoff was silent. All was darkness within his Soul, yet, as a
distant ray of light through the gloom there came the thought of pardon
and self-sacrifice.
Sanine, watching him, seemed to read what was passing through his mind.
"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 small-pox,
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 _ikon_. Yes, yes, your face is transfigured, and every one
would say, 'Oh! look, there's a saint.
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