“They were sour and unripe, but, as Pushkin says: 

     “’Dearer to us the falsehood that exalts
     Than hosts of baser truths.’

“I saw a happy man whose cherished dream was so obviously fulfilled, who had attained his object in life, who had gained what he wanted, who was satisfied with his fate and himself.  There is always, for some reason, an element of sadness mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and, on this occasion, at the sight of a happy man I was overcome by an oppressive feeling that was close upon despair.  It was particularly oppressive at night.  A bed was made up for me in the room next to my brother’s bedroom, and I could hear that he was awake, and that he kept getting up and going to the plate of gooseberries and taking one.  I reflected how many satisfied, happy people there really are!  ’What a suffocating force it is!  You look at life:  the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all about us, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying....  Yet all is calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand living in a town, there is not one who would cry out, who would give vent to his indignation aloud.  We see the people going to market for provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes....  Everything is quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute statistics:  so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition....  And this order of things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that silence happiness would be impossible.  It’s a case of general hypnotism.  There ought to be behind the door of every happy, contented man some one standing with a hammer continually reminding him with a tap that there are unhappy people; that however happy he may be, life will show him her laws sooner or later, trouble will come for him—­disease, poverty, losses, and no one will see or hear, just as now he neither sees nor hears others.  But there is no man with a hammer; the happy man lives at his ease, and trivial daily cares faintly agitate him like the wind in the aspen-tree—­and all goes well.

“That night I realized that I, too, was happy and contented,” Ivan Ivanovitch went on, getting up.  “I, too, at dinner and at the hunt liked to lay down the law on life and religion, and the way to manage the peasantry.  I, too, used to say that science was light, that culture was essential, but for the simple people reading and writing was enough for the time.  Freedom is a blessing, I used to say; we can no more do without it than without air,