Page 624 - the-idiot

a stranger to all this, that he was outside this glorious fes-
tival.
What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal
pageant to which he had yearned from his childhood up,
and in which he could never take part? Every morning the
same magnificent sun; every morning the same rainbow
in the waterfall; every evening the same glow on the snow-
mountains.
Every little fly that buzzed in the sun’s rays was a singer
in the universal chorus, ‘knew its place, and was happy in it.
‘Every blade of grass grew and was happy. Everything knew
its path and loved it, went forth with a song and returned
with a song; only he knew nothing, understood nothing,
neither men nor words, nor any of nature’s voices; he was a
stranger and an outcast.
Oh, he could not then speak these words, or express all he
felt! He had been tormented dumbly; but now it appeared to
him that he must have said these very words—even then—
and that Hippolyte must have taken his picture of the little
fly from his tears and words of that time.
He was sure of it, and his heart beat excitedly at the
thought, he knew not why.
He fell asleep on the bench; but his mental disquiet con-
tinued through his slumbers.
Just before he dozed off, the idea of Hippolyte murder-
ing ten men flitted through his brain, and he smiled at the
absurdity of such a thought.
Around him all was quiet; only the flutter and whisper of
the leaves broke the silence, but broke it only to cause it to