“Listen⁠—I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to give a good example⁠—simply to begin the work. I have done this⁠—I have begun, and⁠—and⁠—oh! can anyone be unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief matter⁠—what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do you know, I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and not feel happy only to look at it! How anyone can talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him! Oh, it is my own fault that I cannot express myself well enough! But there are lovely things at every step I take⁠—things which even the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful. Look at a little child⁠—look at God’s day dawn⁠—look at the grass growing⁠—look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into your eyes!”

He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung her hands. “Oh, my God!” she cried. She had guessed the state of the case before anyone else.