“Yes, that is what I think.”
“But what about your friend Lande? You yourself were—”
“I loved Lande,” said Sanine gravely, “not because he was a Christian, but because he was sincere, and never swerved from his path, being undaunted by obstacles either ridiculous or formidable. It was as a personality that I prized Lande. When he died, his worth ceased to exist.”
“And don’t you think that such men have an ennobling influence upon life? Might not such men have followers or disciples?”
“Why should life be ennobled? Tell me that, first of all. And, secondly, one doesn’t want disciples. Men like Lande are born so. Christ was splendid; Christians, however, are but a sorry crew. The idea of his doctrine was a beautiful one, but they have made of it a lifeless dogma.”
Tired with talking, Sanine said no more. Soloveitchik remained silent also. There was great stillness around them, while overhead the stars seemed to maintain a conversation wordless and unending. Then Soloveitchik suddenly whispered something that sounded so weird that Sanine, shuddering, exclaimed:
“What’s that you said?”
“Tell me,” muttered Soloveitchik, “tell me what you think. Suppose a man can’t see his way clear, but is always thinking and worrying, as everything only perplexes and terrifies him—tell me, wouldn’t it be better for him to die?”
“Well,” replied Sanine, who clearly read the other’s thoughts, “perhaps death in that case would be better. Thinking and worrying are of no avail. He only ought to live who finds joy in living; but for him who suffers, death is best.”
“That is what I thought, too,” exclaimed Soloveitchik, and he excitedly grasped Sanine’s hand. His face looked ghastly in the gloom; his eyes were like two black holes.