Page:Poet Lore, volume 21, 1910.djvu/447

 Maya.—Happy! Since my childhood I have not been entirely happy. Because happiness to me seems like a peaceful rest, calmness, conciliation with life. But my life is nothing but activity, effort, and struggle. I must always aspire further and higher, without a minute’s rest, without stop. Instead of my passion for happiness, I have only my ambition; I find joy in work, joy in beauty, and I know how to become infatuated even with the joy of life. But happy, that which you call “happiness,” happy I am not. And see, I often yearn for that happiness—like that happiness of my childhood; but not until to-day did I know that such happiness would be sufficient for me. I don’t want it—although I know that it exists—only it does not exist for me.

Petr (does not understand her clearly).—You have lived so differently from me. I believe you, but I do not understand.

Maya.—That’s because you never knew the charm of your calling. In the selfsame way you could have been a lawyer or a physician. You decided to become a priest because your mother wanted it. And in the same way that you believe me, but do not understand, so do I believe that you will gladly become a priest. You are, namely, happy because until now you have not aspired for anything different.

Petr.—Do you think so?

Maya.—Yes. Perhaps you never aspired for anything different because they separated you in time from everything. You look neither to the left nor to the right, and obediently go the commanded way. You go gladly, you say. But, Mr. Petr, did you ever feel joy on the way?

Petr.—My calling is not supposed to be a joyful one.

Maya.—Don’t think that! Everywhere it is possible to feel joy, even in the most cruel and terrible things. Don’t you think that there was joy in dungeons, pillories; in martyrdom and sufferings that there was no joy? Don’t you tkink that they who died for their faith at the stake or in torture chambers, that they felt no joy in such dying? And don’t you know that our more common heroes who will ingly castigate their bodies, lie down alone in coffins, condemn themselves voluntarily to exile and solitude—don’t you think that they find passionate pleasure in it? No matter what we do, it can be beautiful and joyful, but it must originate from our will, from our innermost conviction, from the needs of our passions, from our entire self, from our soul.