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- Федор Достоевский
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- Стр. 399/592
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But
the
prince
's
mental
perturbation
increased
every
moment
.
He
wandered
about
the
park
,
looking
absently
around
him
,
and
paused
in
astonishment
when
he
suddenly
found
himself
in
the
empty
space
with
the
rows
of
chairs
round
it
,
near
the
Vauxhall
.
The
look
of
the
place
struck
him
as
dreadful
now
:
so
he
turned
round
and
went
by
the
path
which
he
had
followed
with
the
Epanchins
on
the
way
to
the
band
,
until
he
reached
the
green
bench
which
Aglaya
had
pointed
out
for
their
rendezvous
.
He
sat
down
on
it
and
suddenly
burst
into
a
loud
fit
of
laughter
,
immediately
followed
by
a
feeling
of
irritation
.
His
disturbance
of
mind
continued
;
he
felt
that
he
must
go
away
somewhere
,
anywhere
.
Above
his
head
some
little
bird
sang
out
,
of
a
sudden
;
he
began
to
peer
about
for
it
among
the
leaves
.
Suddenly
the
bird
darted
out
of
the
tree
and
away
,
and
instantly
he
thought
of
the
"
fly
buzzing
about
in
the
sun
's
rays
"
that
Hippolyte
had
talked
of
;
how
that
it
knew
its
place
and
was
a
participator
in
the
universal
life
,
while
he
alone
was
an
"
outcast
.
"
This
picture
had
impressed
him
at
the
time
,
and
he
meditated
upon
it
now
.
An
old
,
forgotten
memory
awoke
in
his
brain
,
and
suddenly
burst
into
clearness
and
light
.
It
was
a
recollection
of
Switzerland
,
during
the
first
year
of
his
cure
,
the
very
first
months
.
At
that
time
he
had
been
pretty
nearly
an
idiot
still
;
he
could
not
speak
properly
,
and
had
difficulty
in
understanding
when
others
spoke
to
him
.
He
climbed
the
mountain-side
,
one
sunny
morning
,
and
wandered
long
and
aimlessly
with
a
certain
thought
in
his
brain
,
which
would
not
become
clear
.
Above
him
was
the
blazing
sky
,
below
,
the
lake
;
all
around
was
the
horizon
,
clear
and
infinite
.
He
looked
out
upon
this
,
long
and
anxiously
.
He
remembered
how
he
had
stretched
out
his
arms
towards
the
beautiful
,
boundless
blue
of
the
horizon
,
and
wept
,
and
wept
.
What
had
so
tormented
him
was
the
idea
that
he
was
a
stranger
to
all
this
,
that
he
was
outside
this
glorious
festival
.
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
continued
through
his
slumbers
.
Just
before
he
dozed
off
,
the
idea
of
Hippolyte
murdering
ten
men
flitted
through
his
brain
,
and
he
smiled
at
the
absurdity
of
such
a
thought
.
