Page 818 - the-idiot

He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still
restrained him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation
as he went on.
‘Listen—I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply
to give a good example—simply to begin the work. I have
done this— I have begun, and—and—oh! CAN anyone be
unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief matter—what does
misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do you
know, I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green
tree, and not feel happy only to look at it! How anyone can
talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him! Oh, it is
my own fault that I cannot express myself well enough! But
there are lovely things at every step I take—things which
even the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful.
Look at a little child—look at God’s day-dawn—look at the
grass growing— look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze
back into your eyes!’
He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old
gentleman was looking at him now in unconcealed alarm.
Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung her hands. ‘Oh, my God!’ she
cried. She had guessed the state of the case before anyone
else.
Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to
receive him in her arms, and to hear with dread and horror
that awful, wild cry as he fell writhing to the ground.
There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a
cushion under his head.
No one had expected this.
In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie

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