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『白痴』のカラフル対訳について

カラフル対訳で紹介している『白痴』は、パブリックドメインの作品を出典としています。

このサイトで使われている作品は、ロシアの文豪フョードル・ドストエフスキーによる小説 The Idiot を出典としています。 英文は Eva M. Martin による英訳版をもとにしています。 原文は、著作権の切れた名作などの全文を電子化し、インターネット上で公開している Project Gutenberg(プロジェクト・グーテンベルク)、 朗読音声は LibriVox(リブリヴォックス/朗読図書館) の公開音声を出典としています。

原文はProject Gutenberg、音声はLibriVoxで公開されているパブリックドメイン作品を出典としています。

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『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER X イッポリートの告白とナスターシャの馬車

『The Idiot』PART II CHAPTER X を、英語学習用に「英文→和訳」の順で読みやすく整理し、重要語句を多めに色分けしています。上部の操作パネルで、和訳・色分け・ミニ訳・カテゴリ別ハイライトを切り替えられます。

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カテゴリ別ハイライト
動作・変化 感情・心理 場面・描写 人物・性格 疑問・不穏 重要表現

After moistening his lips with the tea that Vera Lebedeff had brought him, Hippolyte set the cup down and looked around. He seemed confused, almost at a loss.

“Look, Lizabetha Prokofievna,” he began with feverish haste. “These china cups are supposed to be very valuable. Lebedeff usually keeps them locked in his cupboard.”

“They were part of his wife’s dowry. Yet tonight he has brought them out, naturally in your honour. He is so pleased…”

He wanted to add something more, but suddenly could not find the words.

“There, he is embarrassed. I expected it,” whispered Evgenie Pavlovitch in the prince’s ear. “That is a bad sign.”

“Now, out of spite, he will say something outrageous, something even Lizabetha Prokofievna cannot endure.”

Muishkin looked at him questioningly.

“You do not mind if he does?” Evgenie continued. “Neither do I. In fact, I should almost be glad. It would be a proper punishment for our dear Lizabetha Prokofievna.”

“Never mind, later,” said the prince impatiently. “Yes, I am not feeling well.” He was barely listening, for he had just heard Hippolyte mention his name.

“You do not believe it?” said the invalid with a nervous laugh. “No wonder. But the prince will believe it easily. He will not be surprised at all.”

“Do you hear that, prince?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning toward him.

There was laughter around her. Lebedeff stood before her, wildly gesticulating.

“He says that your humbug of a landlord revised that gentleman’s article—the article that was read aloud just now, the one that gave you such a fine scolding.”

The prince looked at Lebedeff in astonishment.

“Why don’t you say something?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping her foot.

“Well,” murmured the prince, his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, “I can see now that he did.”

“Is it true?” she asked eagerly.

“Absolutely, your excellency,” said Lebedeff without the slightest hesitation.

Mrs. Epanchin almost jumped up in amazement, astonished not only by the confession but by the confidence with which it was made.

“He seems almost proud of it!” she cried.

“I am base, base!” muttered Lebedeff, beating his breast and hanging his head.

“What do I care whether you are base or not?” she cried. “He thinks he has only to say, ‘I am base,’ and everything is settled.”

“And you, prince—are you not ashamed? I ask again, are you not ashamed to mix with such riff-raff? I will never forgive you!”

“The prince will forgive me!” said Lebedeff with emotional conviction.

Then Keller suddenly left his seat and approached Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“Only out of generosity, madame,” he said in a resonant voice, “and because I did not wish to betray a friend in an awkward position, did I keep silent about the revision.”

“But now, to clear the matter up, I declare that I did ask him for help, and paid him six roubles.”

“I did not ask him to correct my style. I wanted facts—facts I did not know, and which he was able to supply.”

“The story of the gaiters, the appetite in the Swiss professor’s house, the substitution of fifty roubles for two hundred and fifty—all those details came from him.”

“But he did not correct the style.”

“I must state that I revised only the first part,” cried Lebedeff with feverish impatience, while laughter rose around him.

“We quarrelled halfway through over one idea, so I never corrected the second half. Therefore I cannot be held responsible for its many grammatical errors.”

“That is all he thinks about!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

Evgenie Pavlovitch asked Keller when the article had been revised.

“Yesterday morning,” Keller answered. “We had an interview which all of us promised on our honour to keep secret.”

“The very time when he was cringing before you and making declarations of devotion!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“Mean wretches! I will have nothing to do with your Pushkin, and your daughter shall not set foot in my house!”

She was about to rise, but then saw Hippolyte laughing and turned sharply upon him.

“Well, sir, I suppose you wanted to make me look ridiculous?”

“Heaven forbid,” he answered with a forced smile. “But I am more than ever struck by your eccentricity.”

“I admit I told you about Lebedeff’s duplicity on purpose. I knew what effect it would have on you—on you alone.”

“The prince will forgive him. He has probably forgiven him already, and is now trying to invent some excuse for him. Is that not true, prince?”

He gasped as he spoke, and his strange agitation seemed to grow stronger.

“Well?” said Mrs. Epanchin angrily, surprised by his tone. “What more?”

“I have heard many things of the kind about you,” Hippolyte continued. “They delighted me. I have learned to hold you in the highest esteem.”

His words sounded almost mocking, yet he was terribly agitated. He glanced around suspiciously, lost the thread of his thoughts, and grew more confused.

His consumptive face, blazing eyes, and frenzied expression naturally drew everyone’s attention.

He said he admired that Lizabetha Prokofievna had stayed with such people as himself and his friends, even though they were not of her class.

He added that she had even allowed her daughters to hear the scandal, though she might be ashamed of it tomorrow.

Then he laughed, but a violent fit of coughing seized him and stopped him for two full minutes.

“He has lost his breath now,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna coldly, watching him with curiosity rather than pity.

“Come, my dear boy, enough. Let us end this.”

Ivan Fedorovitch suddenly interrupted, deeply annoyed.

He said his wife was there as Prince Muishkin’s guest, and that it was not for Hippolyte to judge her conduct or comment on what he thought he saw in the general’s face.

The general added that his wife had stayed mostly out of amazement, as one might stop in the street to look at some strange curiosity.

Evgenie Pavlovitch supplied the word “curiosity,” and the general gratefully accepted it.

He continued that Lizabetha Prokofievna had remained because Hippolyte was ill and because his plea had aroused her pity.

Then, red with irritation, he called to his wife that it was time to say good night to the prince.

“Thank you for the lesson, general,” said Hippolyte suddenly, with unexpected seriousness.

“Two minutes more, Ivan Fedorovitch,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna to her husband. “He is feverish and delirious. It is impossible to let him go back to Petersburg tonight.”

She asked the prince whether Hippolyte could stay there, and then suddenly turned to Prince S. and asked if he was bored.

Then she called Alexandra over, pretended that her hair was coming down, arranged it though nothing was wrong, and kissed her.

“I thought you were capable of development,” said Hippolyte, coming out of his abstraction.

He said Burdovsky sincerely wished to protect his mother, and yet he himself had become the cause of her disgrace.

The prince sincerely wished to help Burdovsky and offered money and friendship, yet they stood like sworn enemies.

“You all love beauty and distinction in outward forms,” he cried. “That is all you care about.”

“Perhaps none of you loved your mother as Burdovsky loved his.”

He then turned to the prince and said he knew that Muishkin had secretly sent money to Burdovsky’s mother through Gania.

With a hysterical laugh, he predicted that Burdovsky would accuse the prince of indelicacy and lack of respect for his mother.

Then he gasped and began coughing again.

“Enough!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. “You are burning with fever. Now go to bed.”

But Hippolyte suddenly turned irritably to Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“You are laughing, I think. Why do you keep laughing at me?”

Evgenie said he merely wanted to know whether it was true that Hippolyte believed he could persuade the people from a window in fifteen minutes.

“I may have said so,” answered Hippolyte, trying to remember. Then he suddenly became animated. “Yes, I certainly said so. What of it?”

Evgenie replied that he only wanted to understand the matter more fully.

Lizabetha Prokofievna urged him to finish quickly, for the sick boy needed rest.

Evgenie then summarized what he thought Hippolyte and his friends believed: the triumph of right above everything else, even before discovering what right truly was.

Hippolyte said he did not understand and asked what else Evgenie had to say.

Evgenie suggested that such reasoning could lead to the idea that might is right, the right of the clenched fist and of personal desire.

He mentioned that the world had often reached that conclusion, even among people who called themselves advanced.

“From the right of might,” he said, “to the right of tigers and crocodiles is only one step.”

Hippolyte was scarcely listening. He repeated “well?” and “what else?” almost mechanically.

“Nothing else. That is all,” said Evgenie.

Suddenly Hippolyte smiled and held out his hand, saying that he bore Evgenie no grudge.

The gesture surprised Evgenie, but he touched the offered hand with great seriousness.

Then Evgenie thanked him too respectfully, and added that liberals often refuse to allow others their own opinions.

General Epanchin remarked that this was quite true, then returned to the terrace steps with an air of boredom.

“That will do, sir. You tire me,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly to Evgenie Pavlovitch.

* * *

Hippolyte rose suddenly, looking troubled and almost frightened.

“It is time for me to go,” he said, glancing around. “I have detained you. I wanted to tell you everything… for the last time… it was a whim.”

At moments he seemed to recover full possession of himself, but only briefly; then he spoke in broken phrases that had probably haunted him through many sleepless nights.

“Well, good-bye,” he said abruptly. “Do you think it is easy for me to say good-bye to you?”

He smiled angrily, vexed that he could not express what he really meant.

Then, in a loud voice, he said that he had the honour of inviting Lizabetha Prokofievna and everyone present to his funeral.

He burst out laughing again, but it was the laugh of a madman.

Lizabetha Prokofievna approached anxiously and took his arm. He stared at her, still laughing, then suddenly became serious.

“Do you know that I came here to see those trees?” he said, pointing toward the park. “That is not ridiculous, is it? Say it is not ridiculous.”

Then he sank into thought. A moment later he raised his head and began looking for Evgenie Pavlovitch, though Evgenie was near him.

“Ah, you have not gone,” he said when he found him. “You laughed because I spoke of talking to the people from a window for fifteen minutes.”

“But I am not eighteen, you know. Lying in bed and looking out of that window, I have thought of all kinds of things for so long.”

“A dead man has no age. I said that to myself only last week, when I was awake in the night.”

He said that they feared sincerity most of all, even while they despised people like him.

He tried to say more, then covered his face with his hands and struggled to gather his thoughts.

“I shall never see these people again,” he murmured. “This is the last time I shall see the trees.”

“After this I shall see only the red brick wall of Meyer’s house opposite my window.”

He said that he had wanted to tell them this: that a dead man might say anything, and society would not be angry.

Then he looked anxiously around and asked why they were laughing.

“I have so many strange ideas lying there in bed,” he said. “I have become convinced that nature is full of mockery.”

Then, with sudden seriousness, he added that he had not corrupted Colia.

“Nobody is laughing at you. Calm yourself,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, now deeply moved.

She promised that he would see another doctor the next day and insisted that Botkin must have been mistaken.

A tear shone on her cheek. Hippolyte saw it, lifted his hand timidly, and touched the tear with his finger, smiling like a child.

He said that Colia had always spoken of her enthusiastically, and that he had loved that enthusiasm.

He repeated that he had not corrupted Colia, but that he must leave him too—must leave them all.

“I wanted to be a man of action,” he cried. “I had a right to be.”

He said he had wanted many things, but now wanted nothing. He had renounced all desires and would leave the search for truth to others.

“Nature is full of mockery,” he said again. “Why does she create the finest beings only to mock them?”

He spoke of the one perfect human being ever shown to mankind, and of the bloodshed that had followed the words spoken in that name.

“It is better for me to die,” he said. “I too would tell some dreadful lie. Nature would arrange it so.”

He insisted once more that he had corrupted nobody.

“I wanted to live for the happiness of all men, to find the truth and spread it.”

He said he had once believed that if he could speak for fifteen minutes, he could convince the whole world.

“And now, for once in my life, I have come into contact with you—and what is the result? Nothing. Only that you despise me.”

“Therefore I must be a fool, useless, and it is time I disappeared.”

He cried that he would leave no memory, no sound, no trace, not a single deed.

“Do not laugh at the fool. Forget him forever. If I were not consumptive, I would kill myself.”

He seemed to want to say still more, but fell silent. He sank back in his chair, covered his face, and began to sob like a little child.

“What on earth are we to do with him?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

She hurried to him and pressed his head against her breast while he sobbed violently.

“Come, come. You must not cry. You are a good child. God will forgive you, because you did not know better.”

Hippolyte raised his head with effort and began to speak of his little brothers and sisters, poor and innocent.

He begged Lizabetha Prokofievna to save them, saying that she was a saint and a child herself.

“For the love of God, for the love of Christ!” he cried.

Lizabetha Prokofievna turned irritably to her husband and asked what was to be done.

The general said that a nurse would be more useful than an excitable person, and that they should find a sober, reliable man for the night.

He added that they must consult the prince and let the patient rest at once.

Doktorenko asked crossly whether Hippolyte would go with them or stay there.

“You may stay with him if you like,” said Muishkin. “There is plenty of room here.”

Suddenly Keller hurried to the general and offered to sacrifice himself for his friend by staying as the reliable man for the night.

He declared that Hippolyte had a great soul, and that when he criticized, he scattered pearls.

Ivan Fedorovitch turned away from the boxer with a gesture of despair.

The prince said he would be glad if Hippolyte stayed, since it would be difficult for him to return to Petersburg.

Lizabetha Prokofievna then noticed that the prince himself looked half ill and asked whether something was wrong.

In truth, the prince was almost feverish from illness, painful memories, the Burdovsky affair, and the scene with Hippolyte.

There was also a new fear in his eyes. He watched Hippolyte anxiously, as though expecting something more.

* * *

Suddenly Hippolyte rose again. His face was terribly pale, full of shame and despair.

He looked at everyone with fear and hatred, then lowered his eyes and staggered toward Burdovsky and Doktorenko.

He had decided to go with them.

“There! That is what I feared,” cried the prince. “It was inevitable.”

Hippolyte turned on him in a fit of maniacal rage.

“Ah, that is what you feared! It was inevitable, you say!” he cried in a hoarse, strained voice.

“If I hate anyone here, I hate you all. But you, you with your Jesuitical soul, your sickly sweetness, you beneficent millionaire—I hate you most of all.”

He said he had seen through the prince and hated him from the day he first heard of him.

“You arranged all this. You drove me into this state. You made a dying man disgrace himself.”

“You are the cause of my abject cowardice. If I remained alive, I would kill you.”

He declared that he wanted none of the prince’s benefits, none from anyone, and cursed them all.

His breath failed, and he had to stop.

“He is ashamed of his tears,” whispered Lebedeff to Lizabetha Prokofievna. “It was inevitable. Ah, what a wonderful man the prince is! He read his soul.”

But Mrs. Epanchin did not even deign to look at Lebedeff.

She drew herself up haughtily and looked at the young men with scornful curiosity.

When Hippolyte had finished, Ivan Fedorovitch shrugged his shoulders, and his wife looked him up and down angrily.

Then she turned to the prince with cold bitterness.

“Thank you, prince, for the pleasant evening you have provided for us,” she said.

She added that he must be very pleased to have mixed the family up in his extraordinary affairs.

Trembling with anger, she arranged her cloak and waited for the young men to leave.

The cab that Lebedeff’s son had been sent to fetch arrived at that moment.

The general tried to add a few words, but Adelaida quickly approached the prince and held out her hand.

The prince smiled absently at her. Then suddenly he felt his ear burn as an angry voice whispered close to him.

“If you do not turn those dreadful people out of the house this instant, I shall hate you all my life.”

It was Aglaya. She seemed almost in a frenzy, but she turned away before the prince could look at her.

There was no one left to turn out, however; Hippolyte had already been helped into the cab, which drove away.

Lizabetha Prokofievna asked how long the affair would go on and whether she would soon be free of these odious youths.

Ivan Fedorovitch held out his hand to Muishkin, but before he could shake it, he ran after his wife, who was leaving in violent anger.

Adelaida, Prince S., and Alexandra said good-bye with sincere friendliness.

Evgenie Pavlovitch also took leave, and he alone seemed in good spirits.

“What I expected has happened,” he murmured with a charming smile. “But I am sorry, poor fellow, that you had to suffer for it.”

Aglaya left without saying good-bye.

* * *

But the evening was not yet over. One more unexpected adventure was waiting for Lizabetha Prokofievna.

She had scarcely descended the terrace steps toward the road beside the park when a smart open carriage, drawn by two beautiful white horses, dashed past.

After going about ten yards beyond the house, the carriage suddenly stopped.

One of the two ladies inside turned sharply around, as though she had caught sight of someone she especially wanted to see.

“Evgenie Pavlovitch! Is that you?” cried a clear, sweet voice, which made the prince—and perhaps someone else too—tremble.

“I am glad I have found you at last. I sent to town for you twice today. My messengers have been searching everywhere.”

Evgenie Pavlovitch stood on the steps as if struck by lightning.

Mrs. Epanchin also stopped, though not with Evgenie’s petrified expression.

She looked haughtily at the bold woman who had addressed her companion, then turned an astonished gaze on Evgenie himself.

“There is news!” the clear voice continued. “You need not worry about Kupferoff’s IOUs. Rogojin has bought them up. I persuaded him to.”

“I dare say we shall settle Biscup too, so everything is all right. Au revoir, tomorrow! Do not worry!”

The carriage moved on and disappeared.

“The woman is mad!” cried Evgenie at last, crimson with anger and looking around in confusion.

“I don’t know what she is talking about. What IOUs? Who is she?”

Mrs. Epanchin continued to watch his face for a few seconds, then marched briskly and haughtily toward her own house.

The others followed her.

A minute later, Evgenie Pavlovitch reappeared on the terrace in great agitation.

“Prince,” he said, “tell me the truth. Do you know what all this means?”

“I know nothing whatever about it,” replied Muishkin, who himself was in a state of nervous excitement.

“No?”

“No.”

“Well, neither do I!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, suddenly laughing.

“I have not the slightest knowledge of any IOUs like those she mentioned, I swear it. What is the matter? Are you fainting?”

“Oh no, no. I am all right, I assure you.”

『The Idiot』by Fyodor Dostoyevsky / Translated by Eva Martin をもとに、英語学習用の英文・和訳・語句色分け形式に編集しています。原文の PART II CHAPTER X に対応しています。
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白痴

『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER IX ブルドフスキーの真実とリザヴェータ夫人の激怒 『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER XI Part 1 疑惑の三日間とケラーの告白