Ідіот

Chapter 7

           Ihavedonethis—Ihavebegun,and—and—oh!cananyonebeunhappy,really?Oh!whatdoesgriefmatter—whatdoesmisfortunematter,ifoneknowshowtobehappy?Doyouknow,Icannotunderstandhowanyonecanpassbyagreentree,andnotfeelhappyonlytolookatit!Howanyonecantalktoamanandnotfeelhappyinlovinghim!Oh,itismyownfaultthatIcannotexpressmyselfwellenough!ButtherearelovelythingsateverystepItake—thingswhicheventhemostmiserablemanmustrecognizeasbeautiful.Lookatalittlechild—lookatGod’sdaydawn—lookatthegrassgrowing—lookattheeyesthatloveyou,astheygazebackintoyoureyes!”

           Hehadrisen,andwasspeakingstandingup.Theoldgentlemanwaslookingathimnowinunconcealedalarm.LizabethaProkofievnawrungherhands.“Oh,myGod!”shecried.Shehadguessedthestateofthecasebeforeanyoneelse.

           Aglayarushedquicklyuptohim,andwasjustintimetoreceivehiminherarms,andtohearwithdreadandhorrorthatawful,wildcryashefellwrithingtotheground.

           Therehelayonthecarpet,andsomeonequicklyplacedacushionunderhishead.

           Noonehadexpectedthis.

           InaquarterofanhourorsoPrinceN.andEvgeniePavlovitchandtheolddignitarywerehardatworkendeavouringtorestoretheharmonyoftheevening,butitwasofnoavail,andverysoonaftertheguestsseparatedandwenttheirways.

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