“To tell you the truth,” he said to her, “I could almost envy you your pure free joy in things.”
She looked at him, surprise passing swiftly into serene observation.
“What troubles you,” she said, “that you should not have it yourself?”
He smiled slightly as he answered her.
“Pleasure, however sweet, however clear, is not joy.—And yet,” he added quickly, “I would not change my pleasure for your joy.”
“No?”
“A child has joy, a man has pleasure: joy, then, is a step backward. It may excel in height, as we should say, but breadth is the finer quality. The mountains are noble, but the sea, encompassing all lands, is great.”
“The sea also is deep, it has its valleys whose shadow is nadir to the zenith peaks and light. I will not grant you your simile. You must not mock at joy, for joy is the gift not only of childhood which precedes, but of maturity which follows, manhood. I would sooner be a Christian and have joy than a Heathen with only pleasure.”
“Christianity,” said Gildea, “is spiritual opium. You do not eat it?”
“No,” she said, “I see no use in drugs. But, as I said, I would sooner take drugs that give me joy than live on meats and wines that only gave me pleasure. Joy is mine, but pleasure is every one’s.”