ed and did not manage to gain anything but shame and
sorrow! and, there now, I require nothing to be happy;' and suddenly a
new light seemed to reveal itself to him. 'Happiness is this!' he said
to himself. 'Happiness lies in living for others. That is evident. The
desire for happiness is innate in every man; therefore it is
legitimate. When trying to satisfy it selfishly--that is, by seeking
for oneself riches, fame, comforts, or love--it may happen that
circumstances arise which make it impossible to satisfy these desires.
It follows that it is these desires that are illegitimate, but not the
need for happiness. But what desires can always be satisfied despite
external circumstances? What are they? Love, self-sacrifice.' He was so
glad and excited when he had discovered this, as it seemed to him, new
truth, that he jumped up and began impatiently seeking some one to
sacrifice himself for, to do good to and to love. 'Since one wants
nothing for oneself,' he kept thinking, 'why not live for others?' He
took up his gun with the intention of returning home quickly to think
this out and to find an opportunity of doing good. He made his way out
of the thicket. When he had come out into the glade he looked around
him; the sun was no longer visible above the tree-tops. It had grown
cooler and the place seemed to him quite strange and not like the
country round the village. Everything seemed changed--the weather and
the character of the forest; the sky was wrapped in clouds, the wind
was rustling in the tree-tops, and all around nothing was visible but
reeds and dying broken-down trees. He called to his dog who had run
away to follow some animal, and his voice came back as in a desert. And
suddenly he was seized with a terrible sense of weirdness. He grew
frightened. He remembered the abreks and the murders he had been told
about, and he expected every moment that an abrek would spring from
behind every bush and he would have to defend his life and die, or be a
coward. He thought of God and of the future life as for long he had not
thought about them. And all around was that same gloomy stern wild
nature. 'And is it worth while living for oneself,' thought he, 'when
at any moment you may die, and die without having done any good, and so
that no one will know of it?' He went in the direction where he fancied
the village lay. Of his shooting he had no further thought; but he felt
tired to death and peered round at every bush and t