Soloveitchik shook his head. “No,” he murmured sadly, “all that’s only talk. You can’t tell me how I ought to live. Nobody can tell me that.”
“That’s very true. Nobody can tell you that. The art of living implies a talent; and he who does not possess that talent perishes or makes shipwreck of his life.”
“How calmly you say that! As if you knew everything! Pray don’t be offended, but have you always been like that—always so calm?” asked Soloveitchik, keenly interested.
“Oh! no; though certainly my temperament has usually been calm enough, but there were times when I was harassed by doubts of all kinds. At one time, indeed, I dreamed that the ideal life for me was the Christian life.”
Sanine paused, and Soloveitchik leaned forward eagerly as if to hear something of the utmost importance.
“At that time I had a comrade, a student of mathematics, Ivan Lande by name. He was a wonderful man, of indomitable moral force; a Christian, not from conviction, but by nature. In his life all Christianity was mirrored. If struck, he did not strike back; he treated every man as his brother, and in woman he did not recognize the sexual attraction. Do you remember Semenoff?”
Soloveitchik nodded, as with childish pleasure.
“Well, at that time Semenoff was very ill. He was living in the Crimea, where he gave lessons. There, solitude and the presentiment of his approaching death drove him to despair. Lande heard of this, and determined to go thither and save this lost soul. He had no money, and no one was willing to lend any to a reputed madman. So he went on foot, and, after walking over a thousand versts, died on the way, and thus sacrificed his life for others.”
“And you, oh! do tell me,” cried Soloveitchik with flashing eyes, “do you recognize the greatness of such a man?”
“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.”