“What do you mean by ‘calmly?’” asked Sanine. “I couldn’t look on calmly and see a chicken killed, much less a man. It was painful to me to hit him. To be conscious of one’s own strength is pleasant, of course, but it was nevertheless a horrible experience—horrible, because such an act in itself was brutal. Yet my conscience is calm. I was but the instrument of fate. Sarudine has come to grief because the whole bent of his life was bound to bring about a catastrophe; and the marvel is that others of his sort do not share his fate. These are the men who learn to kill their fellow-creatures and to pamper their own bodies, not knowing why or wherefore. They are lunatics, idiots! Let them loose, and they would cut their own throats and those of other folk as well. Am I to blame because I protected myself from a madman of this type?” “Yes, but you have killed him,” was Soloveitchik’s obstinate reply. “In that case you had better appeal to the good God who made us meet.” “You could have stopped him by seizing hold of his hands.” Sanine raised his head. “In a moment like that one doesn’t reflect. And how would that have helped matters? His code of honour demanded revenge at any price. I could not have held his hands for ever. It would only have been an additional insult, nothing more.” Soloveitchik limply waved his hand, and did not reply. Imperceptibly the darkness closed round them. The fires of sunset paled, and beneath the deserted sheds the shadows grew deeper, as if in these lonely places mysterious, dreadful beings were about to take up their abode during the night. Their noiseless footsteps may have made Sultan uneasy, for he suddenly crept out of his kennel and sat in front of it, rattling his chain. “Perhaps you’re right,” observed Soloveitchik sadly, “but was it absolutely necessary? Would it not have been better if you had borne the blow?” “Better?” said Sanine. “A blow’s always a painful thing. And why? For what reason?” “Oh! do, please, hear me out,” interrupted Soloveitchik, with a pleading gesture. “It might have been better—” “For Sarudine, certainly,” “No, for you, too; for you, too.” “Oh! Soloveitchik,” replied Sanine, with a touch of annoyance, “a truce to that silly old notion about moral victory; and a false notion, too. Moral victory does not consist in offering one’s cheek to the smiter, but in being right before one’s own conscience. How this is achieved is a matter of chance, of circumstances. There is nothing so horrible as slavery. Yet most horrible of all is it when a man whose inmost soul rebels against coercion and force yet submits thereto in the name of some power that is mightier than he.” Soloveitchik clasped his head with both hands, as one distraught. “I’ve not got the brains to understand it all,” he said plaintively. “And I don’t in the least know how I ought to live.”