One profoundly selfish thought took possession of him,
and the whole universe was swallowed up and lost in it. For him the
universe existed no longer; the whole world had come to be within
himself. For the sick, the world begins at their pillow and ends at
the foot of the bed; and this countryside was Raphael's sick-bed.
Who has not, at some time or other in his life, watched the comings
and goings of an ant, slipped straws into a yellow slug's one
breathing-hole, studied the vagaries of a slender dragon-fly, pondered
admiringly over the countless veins in an oak-leaf, that bring the
colors of a rose window in some Gothic cathedral into contrast with
the reddish background? Who has not looked long in delight at the
effects of sun and rain on a roof of brown tiles, at the dewdrops, or
at the variously shaped petals of the flower-cups? Who has not sunk
into these idle, absorbing meditations on things without, that have no
conscious end, yet lead to some definite thought at last. Who, in
short, has not led a lazy life, the life of childhood, the life of the
savage without his labor? This life without a care or a wish Raphael
led for some days' space. He felt a distinct improvement in his
condition, a wonderful sense of ease, that quieted his apprehensions
and soothed his sufferings.
Pages:
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405