all!' pursued Shubin with sudden vehemence, 'we are young, and neither
fools nor monsters; we will conquer happiness for ourselves!'

He shook his curls, and turned a confident almost challenging glance
upwards to the sky. Bersenyev raised his eyes and looked at him.

'Is there nothing higher than happiness?' he commented softly.

'And what, for instance?' asked Shubin, stopping short.

'Why, for instance, you and I are, as you say, young; we are good
men, let us suppose; each of us desires happiness for himself. . . .
But is that word, happiness, one that could unite us, set us both on
fire, and make us clasp each other's hands? Isn't that word an
egoistic one; I mean, isn't it a source of disunion?'

'Do you know words, then, that unite men?'

'Yes; and they are not few in number; and you know them, too.'

'Eh? What words?'

'Well, even Art--since you are an artist--Country, Science, Freedom,
Justice.'

'And what of love?' asked Shubin.

'Love, too, is a word that unites; but not the love you are eager for
now; the love which is not enjoyment, the love which is
self-sacrifice.'