“He was much talked about at the time,” replied Sanine thoughtfully. “Some did not look upon him as a Christian, and for that reason condemned him. Others said that he was mad and not devoid of self- conceit, while some denied that he had any moral force; and, since he would not fight, they declared that he was neither prophet nor conqueror. I judge him otherwise. At that time he influenced me to the point of folly. One day a student boxed my ears, and I became almost mad with rage. But Lande stood there, and I just looked at him and— Well, I don’t know how it was, but I got up without speaking, and walked out of the room. First of all I felt intensely proud of what I had done, and secondly I hated the student from the bottom of my heart. Not because he had struck me, but because to him my conduct must have been supremely gratifying. By degrees the falseness of my position became clear to me, and this set me thinking. For a couple of weeks I was like one demented, and after that I ceased to feel proud of my false moral victory. At the first ironical remark on the part of my adversary I thrashed him until he became unconscious. This brought about an estrangement between Lande and myself. When I came to examine his life impartially, I found it astonishingly poor and miserable.” “Oh! how can you say that?” cried Soloveitchik. “How was it possible for you to estimate the wealth of his spiritual emotions?” “Such emotions were very monotonous. His life’s happiness consisted in the acceptance of every misfortune without a murmur, and its wealth, in the total renunciation of life’s joys and material benefits. He was a beggar by choice, a fantastic personage whose life was sacrificed to an idea of which he himself had no clear conception.” Soloveitchik wrung his hands. “Oh! you cannot imagine how it distresses me to hear this!” he exclaimed. “Really, Soloveitchik, you’re quite hysterical,” said Sanine, in surprise. “I have not told you anything extraordinary. Possibly the subject is, to you, a painful one?” “Oh! most painful. I am always thinking, thinking, till my head seems as if it would burst. Was all that really an error, nothing more? I grope about, as in a dark room, and there is no one to tell me what I ought to do. Why do we live? Tell me that.” “Why? That nobody knows.” “And should we not live for the future, so that later on, at least, mankind may have a golden age?”