このエントリは 26の61の部分 シリーズに 白痴
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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 V 幻の目と階段の発作

『The Idiot』PART II CHAPTER V 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

It was late now, nearly half-past two, and the prince did not find General Epanchin at home. He left his card, and decided to look up Colia, who had a room at a small hotel nearby.

Colia was not in. The prince was told that he might return shortly, but that if he had not come back by half-past three, it would mean that he had gone to Pavlofsk to dine with the Epanchins.

The prince resolved to wait until half-past three, and ordered some dinner.

At half-past three there was still no sign of Colia. The prince waited until four, and then went out, walking mechanically wherever his feet should carry him.

In early summer, St. Petersburg sometimes has magnificent days, bright, hot, and still. This day was one of them.

For some time the prince wandered without aim. He did not know the city well, and stopped at bridges and street corners, sometimes looking about him without really seeing anything.

Once he entered a confectioner’s shop to rest. He was in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation, noticing neither people nor things.

He felt a craving for solitude, as though he wished to be alone with his thoughts and feelings and give himself up to them passively.

At the same time, he loathed the thought of answering the questions that kept rising in his heart. “I am not to blame for all this,” he thought, almost unconsciously.

Towards six o’clock he found himself at the station of the Tsarsko-Selski railway.

By now he was tired of solitude. A new rush of feeling seized him, and for a moment a flood of light seemed to drive the darkness from his soul.

He bought a ticket to Pavlofsk and determined to go there as quickly as possible. But something stopped him, something real and not imaginary, though he was inclined to think it a fantasy.

Just as he was about to enter a carriage, he suddenly threw away the ticket and came out again, troubled and thoughtful.

A few moments later, in the street, he remembered something that had bothered him all afternoon.

He caught himself engaged in a strange occupation: from time to time he had been looking about him for something, though he did not know what.

He had forgotten this search for half an hour or so, but now the uneasy habit had begun again.

No sooner had he become aware of this strange state than another recollection swam into his mind and interested him intensely.

The last time he had been looking around for that unknown something, he had been standing before a cutler’s shop, in whose window certain goods were displayed.

He now felt an intense desire to discover whether that shop and those goods really existed, or whether the whole thing had been a hallucination.

He felt today as he had felt in former years just before his epileptic attacks. He remembered that at such times he became unusually absent-minded.

At such moments, he could hardly distinguish objects and persons unless he fixed special attention on them.

He remembered seeing an article in the window marked at sixty copecks. If the shop existed, and if that object was really there, then his attention had not entirely failed him.

So he walked back, searching for the shop, his heart beating with intolerable impatience.

At last, there it was: the very shop, and there was the article marked “60 cop.” “Of course it is sixty copecks,” he thought, “and worth no more.”

This thought amused him, and he laughed, but the laugh was hysterical. He felt terribly oppressed.

He remembered clearly that here, before this very window, he had turned round suddenly, just as earlier that day he had turned and found Rogojin’s dreadful eyes fixed upon him.

Convinced now that at least in this respect there had been no delusion, he left the shop and walked on.

He knew that he must think it all out. There had been no hallucination at the station either; something had really happened to him on both occasions.

Yet once again, a loathing for mental effort overcame him. He would not think of it now; he would postpone it and think of something else.

* * *

He remembered that just before his epileptic fits, he had always experienced a moment when his whole heart, mind, and body seemed to wake into vigour and light.

At such times he was filled with joy and hope, and all his anxieties seemed swept away forever.

These moments were only presentiments of the final second in which the fit came upon him; yet that second itself was beyond expression.

After an attack, when he reflected on these symptoms, he would tell himself that they were caused only by disease, by the sudden rupture of normal conditions.

Therefore, he reasoned, they could not be a higher form of life, but rather a lower one.

But this reasoning always ended in a paradox. What did it matter if it was only disease, if that moment seemed full of harmony, beauty, rapture, and complete life?

Vague as this sounds, it was perfectly comprehensible to Muishkin. He knew it was a feeble expression of what he felt.

He could not doubt that those abnormal moments contained beauty and harmony, and even a kind of highest synthesis of life.

They were not like the unreal dreams caused by hashish, opium, or wine. When the attack was over, he could judge that clearly.

If in the last conscious moment before the attack he could say, “I would give my whole life for this one instant,” then to him that instant was truly worth a lifetime.

He understood very well that the result of such ecstatic moments was stupor, darkness of mind, and idiocy. On that point there could be no argument.

Yet the reality of the sensation troubled him. What could be more difficult to answer than a fact?

He had once said to Rogojin in Moscow, “At such moments I feel as if I understood those wonderful words: ‘There shall be no more time.’”

He had then smiled and added that perhaps the epileptic Mahomet referred to the same instant when he said he had visited all the dwellings of Allah in less time than it took to empty a pitcher of water.

He had met Rogojin often in Moscow, and they had spoken about many things. “Today he called me his brother,” thought the prince.

By now he was sitting in the Summer Garden under a tree. It was about seven o’clock, and the place was nearly empty.

The heavy, breathless air foretold a storm, and the prince felt a strange charm in the contemplative mood that had taken possession of him.

He was still trying to forget something, to escape from an idea that haunted him. Yet melancholy thoughts kept returning.

Suddenly he remembered that, while dining, he had spoken with the waiter about a recent murder that everyone in town was discussing.

At that thought something strange came over him. He was seized by a violent desire, almost a temptation, against which he struggled in vain.

He jumped up and walked quickly towards the Petersburg Side.

Not long before, he had asked someone to show him where the Petersburg Side lay, across the Neva. He had not gone there then, and he knew very well that going now was useless.

He would certainly not find Lebedeff’s relation at home. She must have gone to Pavlofsk, or Colia would have told him otherwise.

If he went now, it would be only out of curiosity. Yet a sudden new idea had entered his head.

At least it was something to move forward and know where he was going. But a minute later he was moving without knowing anything at all.

He tried to take interest in the sky, in the Neva, in the streets, and even spoke to some children he met.

But he felt his epileptic condition developing more and more. The evening was close, and thunder was heard in the distance.

* * *

All day long, the face of Lebedeff’s nephew had haunted him, as a persistent musical phrase sometimes haunts the mind.

By a strange association of ideas, the young man always appeared to him as the murderer of whom Lebedeff had spoken that morning.

He had indeed read something about that murder recently. Since returning to Russia, he had heard many such stories, and they interested him.

He remembered the waiter again and decided that the man was no fool, but steady and intelligent.

Yet he also thought, “God knows what he may really be. In a country one does not know, it is difficult to understand the people one meets.”

He was beginning to have a passionate faith in the Russian soul. What discoveries he had made in the last six months, what unexpected discoveries!

Every soul is a mystery, and in the Russian soul there are depths of mystery.

He had been intimate with Rogojin, and a brotherly friendship had grown between them. Yet did he really know Rogojin?

What chaos and ugliness sometimes fill the world! And what a self-satisfied rascal that nephew of Lebedeff’s was!

“But what am I thinking?” the prince said to himself. “Can he really have committed that crime? Did he kill those six people? I am confusing everything.”

And Lebedeff’s daughter—how sympathetic and charming her face was as she held the child! What an innocent look and childlike laugh she had.

He wondered that he had forgotten her until now. Surely Lebedeff loved her deeply. And surely, strange as it seemed, he loved his nephew too.

Why should he judge them so hastily? Could he say what they were after one short visit?

Even Lebedeff had seemed an enigma today. Lebedeff and the Countess du Barry! Good heavens!

If Rogojin were really to kill someone, it would not be such a senseless, chaotic affair. Yet Rogojin too had a knife made in a special shape.

Could it be that Rogojin wished to murder someone? The prince began to tremble violently.

“It is a crime on my part to imagine anything so base with such cynical frankness,” he thought, and his face flushed with shame.

Then, like a flash, he remembered the eyes at the station, Rogojin’s question about those eyes, the cross he now wore, the blessing of Rogojin’s mother, and the embrace on the dark staircase.

And now, after all that, he found himself filled with this new “idea,” staring into shop windows and looking round for things. How base he was!

Despair overmastered him. He would go no farther; he would return to his hotel. He even turned back, but a moment later changed his mind again and continued in the old direction.

And now he was already on the Petersburg Side, quite near the house. Where was his “idea”? He was walking without it now.

Yes, his illness was returning; that was clear. All this darkness, heaviness, and these strange ideas were nothing but the approach of a fit.

Yet now all the gloom suddenly fled, and his heart was full of joy and hope. There was no such thing as doubt.

He had not seen her for so long; surely he must see her. He wished he could meet Rogojin and take his hand, so that they might go to her together.

His heart was pure. He was no rival of Parfen’s. Tomorrow he would go to him and tell him that he had seen her.

He had come all the way from Moscow only to see her. Perhaps she was still here; perhaps she had not yet gone to Pavlofsk.

Everything must be set straight and brought into the open. There must be no more passionate renunciations like Rogojin’s.

Could Rogojin’s soul not bear the light? He had said that he did not love her with sympathy or pity, but perhaps he had judged himself unfairly.

Rogojin reading a book—was that not the beginning of sympathy? Did it not show that he understood something in his relation to her?

And his story of waiting day and night for her forgiveness—surely that did not look like passion alone.

Could her face inspire nothing but passion? Could it inspire passion at all now? It inspired suffering, grief, and overwhelming sorrow of the soul.

A sharp, agonizing memory swept over the prince’s heart.

He remembered how he had suffered on that first day, when he thought he saw in her the symptoms of madness. He had almost fallen into despair.

How could he have lost his hold upon her when she ran from him to Rogojin? He should have followed her himself instead of waiting for news.

Could Rogojin have failed to see, even now, that she was mad? Rogojin explained her strangeness by other causes, by passion. What insane jealousy!

But why recall all this? There was madness on both sides. For him, the prince, to love this woman with passion was unthinkable; it would be cruel and inhuman.

Rogojin was not fair to himself. He had a large heart and a capacity for sympathy. When he learned the truth, he would forgive her everything.

He would see that she was an injured, broken, half-insane creature. Then he would become her slave, her brother, her friend.

Compassion would teach even Rogojin. Compassion was the chief law of human existence.

How guilty he felt before Rogojin! And for a few warm, hurried words spoken in Moscow, Parfen had called him brother.

No, this was delirium. Everything would come right.

Rogojin had hinted that his faith was failing. He must be suffering terribly. He had said he liked looking at that picture; perhaps it was not liking, but a need to look.

Rogojin was not merely passionate; he was a fighter. He was fighting for the restoration of his dying faith.

He needed something to hold on to, something to believe, and someone to believe in.

“What a strange picture that Holbein is!” thought the prince. “Why, this is the street, and here is the house—number sixteen.”

* * *

The prince rang the bell and asked for Nastasia Philipovna.

The lady of the house came out and said that Nastasia had gone to stay with Daria Alexeyevna at Pavlofsk, and might remain there for several days.

Madame Filisoff was a little woman of about forty, with a cunning face and sharp, crafty eyes.

When she mysteriously asked the visitor’s name, he refused at first, but then changed his mind and left strict instructions that his name should be given to Nastasia Philipovna.

His urgency impressed Madame Filisoff. She put on a knowing look, as if to say, “You need not be afraid; I understand perfectly.”

The prince’s name evidently surprised her greatly. He stood looking at her absently for a moment, then turned away and took the road back to his hotel.

But he went away changed. A great change had suddenly come over him.

He walked blindly forward. His knees trembled, his lips were blue, and a weak, meaningless smile quivered on them.

His demon had come upon him again.

What had happened? Why was his forehead clammy with moisture, and why was his soul pressed down by a cold gloom?

Was it because he had just seen those terrible eyes again?

He had left the Summer Garden precisely in order to see them. That had been his “idea.” He had wanted to make sure that he would see them once more at that house.

Then why was he so overwhelmed, now that he had seen them as expected?

Yes, they were the same eyes. The same eyes he had seen in the morning crowd at the station.

The same eyes he had surprised in Rogojin’s rooms when Rogojin answered with a sneering laugh, “Well, whose eyes were they?”

And for the third time, those same eyes had appeared as he was getting into the train for Pavlofsk.

He had felt a strong impulse to run up to Rogojin and repeat the morning’s question: “Whose eyes are they?”

Instead, he had fled from the station, and knew no more until he found himself gazing into the cutler’s shop window, wondering whether a knife with a stag-horn handle cost more than sixty copecks.

While he sat dreaming in the Summer Garden, a wicked demon had whispered to him that Rogojin had been spying on him all morning in a frenzy of despair.

The demon had told him that when Rogojin discovered he had not gone to Pavlofsk, he would surely go to that house on the Petersburg Side and wait there.

And so the prince had hurried to that house. But what was there in the fact that he had met Rogojin there?

He had merely seen a miserable, suffering creature, gloomy and wretched, yet entirely understandable.

In the morning Rogojin had seemed to hide himself; but at the station that afternoon he had stood more openly, and at the house he had been plainly visible across the road.

He had stood there with folded arms, watching, like an accuser, like a judge—not like a murderer.

Why had the prince not gone up to him and spoken? Why had he turned away, pretending not to have seen him, though their eyes had met?

Was there something in Rogojin’s whole appearance that justified the prince’s terror and the awful suspicions whispered by his demon?

Something had been seen, something indescribable, something that filled him with dreadful presentiments.

“Say it if you dare,” he repeated to himself. “Say clearly what this presentiment is. Oh, miserable coward that I am!”

He flushed with shame at his own baseness. “How shall I ever look this man in the face again? What a nightmare this day has been!”

For a moment, during the miserable walk back from the Petersburg Side, he longed to go straight to Rogojin, embrace him with tears, confess his distrust, and end the matter forever.

* * *

But here he was, back at his hotel.

How often that day he had thought of this hotel with loathing: its corridor, its rooms, its staircase.

For some reason he had dreaded returning to it. “What a foolish old woman I am today,” he had said to himself. “I believe every stupid presentiment.”

He stopped at the entrance. A sudden flush of shame passed over him. “I am a coward, a wretched coward,” he said, and moved forward.

Yet again he paused.

Among all the day’s incidents, one thing now returned to him above all others: the knife on Rogojin’s table.

“Why should Rogojin not have as many knives on his table as he likes?” he wondered, ashamed of his suspicions.

“What could it have to do with me?” he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted to the ground.

The entrance was always dark and gloomy; now it was doubly so, for the thunderstorm had broken and the rain was pouring down.

In the half-darkness, the prince distinguished a man standing near the stairs, apparently waiting.

There was nothing especially significant in a man standing in the doorway, but the prince felt with irresistible certainty that he knew him, and that it was Rogojin.

The man moved up the stairs. A moment later, the prince followed. His heart froze within him.

“In a minute or two I shall know everything,” he thought.

The staircase led to the corridors where the hotel rooms lay. It was narrow and very dark, turning around a massive stone column.

On the first landing there was a niche in the column, and in that niche the prince felt convinced that someone was hiding.

He thought he could distinguish a figure. He would pass quickly and not look. He took one step forward, but could bear the uncertainty no longer and turned his head.

The eyes—the same two eyes—met his.

The man hidden in the niche had also stepped forward. For one second they stood face to face.

Suddenly the prince seized him by the shoulder and twisted him toward the light, so that he might see his face clearly.

Rogojin’s eyes flashed, and a smile of insanity distorted his face. His right hand was raised, and something glittered in it.

The prince did not think of trying to stop it. Afterwards he remembered only that he seemed to cry out: “Parfen! I won’t believe it!”

The next instant, something seemed to burst open before him, and a wonderful inner light illuminated his soul.

It lasted perhaps half a second. Yet he distinctly remembered the beginning of a strange and terrible cry that burst from his lips of its own accord.

No effort of will could suppress that cry.

The next moment he was completely unconscious; black darkness blotted out everything.

He had fallen in an epileptic fit.

* * *

As is well known, such attacks occur instantaneously. The face, especially the eyes, becomes terribly distorted, and convulsions seize the limbs.

A dreadful cry breaks from the sufferer, a cry from which everything human seems to have vanished.

It becomes almost impossible to believe that the man who has fallen is the same man who uttered that cry.

It seems rather as if some other being inside the stricken person had cried out.

Many people have testified to this impression, and many cannot look upon an epileptic fit without mysterious terror and dread.

Such a feeling must have seized Rogojin at that moment, and so saved the prince’s life.

Not knowing that it was a fit, and seeing his victim fall headlong into the darkness, hearing his head strike the stone steps with a crash, Rogojin rushed downstairs.

He skirted the body and threw himself out of the hotel like a raving madman.

The prince’s body slipped convulsively down the steps until it rested at the bottom.

Within five minutes or so he was discovered, and a crowd gathered around him.

A pool of blood on the steps near his head caused grave fears. Was it an accident, or had there been a crime?

Soon, however, it was recognized as a case of epilepsy, and his identity was established, thanks to a fortunate circumstance.

Colia Ivolgin had returned to his hotel at about seven o’clock, moved by a sudden impulse that had made him refuse dinner at the Epanchins’.

Finding a note from the prince waiting for him, he had hurried to the prince’s address.

There he ordered a cup of tea and sat drinking it in the coffee-room. While there, he heard excited whispers that someone had been found in a fit at the bottom of the stairs.

With a presentiment of evil, he hurried to the spot and at once recognized the prince.

The sufferer was immediately carried to his room. Though he partially recovered consciousness, he lay for a long time in a half-dazed condition.

The doctor said there was no danger from the wound on his head.

As soon as the prince was able to understand what was happening around him, Colia hired a carriage and took him to Lebedeff’s.

There he was received with great cordiality, and the move to the country was hastened on his account.

Three days later, they were all at Pavlofsk.

『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 V に対応しています。
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白痴

『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER IV ホルバインの絵と十字架の交換 『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER VI パヴロフスクの別荘と「貧しき騎士」