In a few moments he had passed completely from the old life to a life
which he had never believed possible, but which had nevertheless been long
present with him. He knew it and felt it, quickly realizing that for the
first time since he could remember he was wholly and perfectly happy. He
was a man who had dreamed of all that is noble and great for man to do,
who had consecrated his every hour and minute to the attainment of his
end; and though his aim was in itself a good one, the undivided
concentration which the pursuit of it required had driven him into a state
outwardly resembling extreme egotism. He had loved his own purposes as he
had loved nothing else, and as he had been persuaded that he could love
nothing else, in the whole world. Now, suddenly, he knew his own heart.
There is something beyond mere greatness, beyond the pursuit of even the
highest worldly aims; there is something which is not a means to the
attainment of happiness, which is happiness itself. It is an inner
sympathy of hearts and souls and minds, a perfect union of all that is
most worthy in the natures of man and woman; it is a plant so sensitive
that a breath of unkindness will hurt it and blight its beauty, and yet it
is a tree so strong that neither time nor tempest can overthrow it when it
has taken root; and if you would tear it out and destroy it, the place
where it grew is as deep and as wide as a grave.
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