He
spent some time drumming on the window with his finger-tips quietly. In
his listless wanderings round about the table he caught sight of his own
face in the looking-glass and that arrested him. The eyes which returned
his stare were the most unhappy eyes he had ever seen. And this was the
first thing which disturbed the mental stagnation of that day.
He was not affected personally. He merely thought that life without
happiness is impossible. What was happiness? He yawned and went on
shuffling about and about between the walls of his room. Looking
forward was happiness--that's all--nothing more. To look forward to
the gratification of some desire, to the gratification of some passion,
love, ambition, hate--hate too indubitably. Love and hate. And to escape
the dangers of existence, to live without fear, was also happiness.
There was nothing else. Absence of fear--looking forward. "Oh! the
miserable lot of humanity!" he exclaimed mentally; and added at once in
his thought, "I ought to be happy enough as far as that goes." But he
was not excited by that assurance. On the contrary, he yawned again as
he had been yawning all day. He was mildly surprised to discover himself
being overtaken by night. The room grew dark swiftly though time had
seemed to stand still. How was it that he had not noticed the passing of
that day? Of course, it was the watch being stopped.
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