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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 VI パヴロフスクの別荘と「貧しき騎士」

『The Idiot』PART II CHAPTER VI 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。

表示設定
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

Lebedeff’s country-house was not large, but it was pretty and convenient, especially the part which had been let to the prince.

A row of orange and lemon trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs, stood on the fairly wide terrace.

According to Lebedeff, these trees gave the house a most delightful aspect. Some had already been there when he bought it, and he was so charmed by the effect that he promptly added more.

When the tubs arrived and were set in their places, Lebedeff kept running out into the street to admire the view of the house; and every time he did so, the rent he meant to demand from his future tenant went up with a bound.

This villa pleased the prince very much in his state of physical and mental exhaustion.

On the day after his attack, when they left for Pavlofsk, he looked almost well, though in reality he felt very far from recovered.

The faces of those around him during the last three days had made a pleasant impression on him. He was glad to see not only Colia, who had become his inseparable companion, but also Lebedeff himself and all the family, except the nephew, who had left the house.

He was also glad to receive a visit from General Ivolgin before leaving St. Petersburg.

It was late when the party reached Pavlofsk, but several people called to see the prince and gathered on the verandah.

Gania was the first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the prince could hardly recognize him.

Then came Varia and Ptitsin, who were rusticating in the neighbourhood.

As for General Ivolgin, he scarcely left Lebedeff’s house and seemed to have moved to Pavlofsk along with him.

Lebedeff did his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovitch near himself, and to prevent him from invading the prince’s quarters.

He chatted with him confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends.

During those three days the prince had noticed that they often held long conversations, and he had heard their voices raised in arguments on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedeff.

He seemed as if he could not do without the general.

But Ardalion Alexandrovitch was not the only person whom Lebedeff tried to keep away from the prince.

Since they had come to the villa, he had treated his own family in the same way. Under the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept the prince almost in isolation.

Muishkin protested in vain against this excessive zeal.

Lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away whenever they attempted to join the prince on the terrace; not even Vera was excepted.

“They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy; besides, it is not proper for them,” he declared at last, when the prince questioned him directly.

“Why on earth not?” asked the prince. “Really, you are becoming a nuisance, keeping guard over me like this.”

“I get bored all by myself. I have told you so over and over again, and you irritate me more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out so mysteriously.”

In fact, while Lebedeff was anxious to protect the patient from everyone else, he himself was continually coming in and out of the prince’s room.

He would first open the door a crack and peer in to see whether the prince was there or had escaped, then creep softly up to the arm-chair, sometimes making Muishkin start by his sudden appearance.

He always asked whether the patient wanted anything, and when the prince answered that he only wanted to be left alone, Lebedeff would tiptoe toward the door, making apologetic gestures.

His gestures meant that he had merely looked in, would not say a word, and would go away without intruding again.

But this did not prevent him from reappearing after ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour.

Colia alone had free access to the prince, a fact that made Lebedeff deeply disgusted and indignant.

He would listen at the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking. Colia discovered this and naturally told the prince.

“Do you think you are my master, that you try to keep me under lock and key like this?” said the prince to Lebedeff.

“In the country, at least, I intend to be free. Make up your mind that I mean to see whom I like and go where I please.”

“Why, of course,” replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands.

The prince looked him sternly up and down.

“Well, Lukian Timofeyovitch, did you bring with you that little cupboard which stood at the head of your bed?”

“No, I left it where it was.”

“Impossible!”

“It cannot be moved. One would have to pull down the wall, it is so firmly fixed.”

“Then perhaps you have one like it here?”

“I have one that is even better, much better. In fact, that is really why I bought this house.”

“Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door about an hour ago?”

“The—the general. I would not let him in. There is no need for him to visit you, prince…”

“I have the deepest esteem for him; he is a great man. You do not believe it? Well, you will see. And yet, most excellent prince, you had much better not receive him.”

“May I ask why? And why do you walk about on tiptoe, always looking as if you were about to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come near me?”

“I am vile, vile; I know it!” cried Lebedeff, beating his breast with a contrite air. “But will not the general be too hospitable for you?”

“Too hospitable?”

“Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. That is well enough; but he sticks at nothing, and immediately makes himself one of the family.”

“We have discussed our respective relations several times, and discovered that we are connected by marriage.”

“It seems also that you are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; and if you are his nephew, then I must also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince.”

“Never mind that; it is only a foible. But just now he assured me that, from the day he became an ensign until the eleventh of last June, he entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day.”

“At last he even said that they never rose from the table; they dined, supped, and had tea for fifteen hours at a stretch.”

“This went on for thirty years without a break; as soon as one person left, another took his place.”

“On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests, and on the thousandth anniversary of the foundation of the Russian Empire, seven hundred.”

“It has become a passion with him; it makes one uneasy to hear of it. So I wonder whether such a man may not be too hospitable for you and me.”

“But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?”

“Quite fraternal. I take it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law; it is all the same to me, rather an honour than otherwise.”

“But in spite of the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere.”

“You said just now that I always looked as if I were going to tell you a secret. You are right. I have a secret to tell you.”

“A certain person has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview with you.”

“Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself tomorrow.”

“No, oh no!” cried Lebedeff, waving his arms. “If she is afraid, it is not for the reason you think.”

“By the way, do you know that the monster comes every day to inquire after your health?”

“You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.”

“You must have no suspicions, none whatever,” said Lebedeff quickly. “I only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him, but of something quite different.”

“What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without more beating about the bush,” said the prince, irritated by Lebedeff’s mysterious grimaces.

“Ah, that is the secret,” said Lebedeff, with a smile.

“Whose secret?”

“Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most excellent prince,” murmured Lebedeff.

Then, satisfied that he had worked Muishkin’s curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly: “She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna.”

The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly:

“Really, Lebedeff, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila Ardalionovitch and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them away too?”

“They are coming, they are coming; and the general as well. I will open all the doors. I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very minute,” said Lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly frightened.

He waved his hands and ran from door to door.

At that moment Colia appeared on the terrace and announced that Lizabetha Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him.

Moved by this news, Lebedeff hurried up to the prince.

“Shall I call the Ptitsins and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the general in?” he asked.

“Why not? Let in anyone who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff, you have misunderstood my position from the very first.”

“You have been wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from anyone,” replied the prince gaily.

Seeing him laugh, Lebedeff thought fit to laugh too; and although he was much agitated, his satisfaction was quite visible.

Colia was right. The Epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him.

As they approached the terrace, other visitors appeared from Lebedeff’s side of the house: the Ptitsins, Gania, and Ardalion Alexandrovitch.

The Epanchins had only just heard of the prince’s illness and of his presence in Pavlofsk from Colia, and until then they had been in considerable bewilderment about him.

The general had brought the prince’s card from town, and Mrs. Epanchin had felt convinced that he himself would follow his card immediately.

The girls assured her in vain that a man who had not written for six months would not be in such a terrible hurry.

They said that he probably had enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlofsk to see them.

Their mother was quite angry at the very idea and announced her absolute conviction that he would appear by the next day at the latest.

So the next day the prince was expected all morning, and at dinner, tea, and supper.

When he did not appear in the evening, Mrs. Epanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of pretexts without once mentioning the prince’s name.

On the third day there was no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked at dinner, “Mamma is cross because the prince hasn’t turned up.”

The general replied that it was not his fault. Mrs. Epanchin misunderstood the observation, rose from her place, and left the room in majestic wrath.

That evening, however, Colia came with the story of the prince’s adventures, as far as he knew them. Mrs. Epanchin was triumphant, although Colia had to listen to a long lecture.

“He idles about here the whole day long; one can’t get rid of him. And when he is wanted, he does not come. He might have sent a line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself.”

At the words “one can’t get rid of him,” Colia became very angry and nearly flew into a rage, but decided to keep quiet for the moment and show his resentment later.

If the words had been less offensive, he might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lizabetha Prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince’s illness.

She would have sent to Petersburg at once for a famous doctor, but her daughters dissuaded her.

Still, they were not willing to stay behind when she prepared at once to visit the invalid.

Aglaya, however, suggested that it was a little unceremonious to go all together to see him.

“Very well then, stay at home,” said Mrs. Epanchin, “and a good thing too, for Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at home to receive him.”

Of course, after this, Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had never had the slightest intention of doing otherwise.

Prince S., who was in the house, was asked to escort the ladies.

He had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the Epanchins, for it appeared that they had known one another before and had spent some time together in a little provincial town three months earlier.

Prince S. had greatly taken to him and was delighted by the opportunity of meeting him again.

The general had not yet come down from town, and Evgenie Pavlovitch had not arrived.

It was only two or three hundred yards from the Epanchins’ house to Lebedeff’s.

Mrs. Epanchin’s first unpleasant impression was that the prince was surrounded by a whole assembly of guests—not to mention that some of those present were especially detestable to her.

The next annoyance was that, instead of the half-dying sufferer she had expected to see, a strong and healthy-looking young man, well dressed and smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace.

She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia immensely.

Of course, he could have corrected her impression before she started, but the mischievous boy had carefully avoided doing so.

He foresaw the laughable disgust she would feel when she discovered that her dear friend, the prince, was in good health.

Colia was indelicate enough to voice his delight at having successfully annoyed Lizabetha Prokofievna, with whom, despite real friendship, he was constantly sparring.

“Just wait a while, my boy!” she said. “Don’t be too certain of your triumph.”

Then she sat down heavily in the arm-chair which the prince had pushed forward for her.

Lebedeff, Ptitsin, and General Ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the young ladies.

Varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged confidences in ecstatic whispers.

“I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about like this. I expected to find you in bed,” said Mrs. Epanchin.

“But I give you my word, I was only annoyed for a moment, before I collected my thoughts. I am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare say you are the same.”

“I assure you, I am as glad to see you well as if you were my own son—yes, and more.”

“If you don’t believe me, the more shame to you, and it is not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in all sorts of tricks.”

“You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance.”

“What have I done wrong now?” cried Colia. “What was the use of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me.”

“It was so much more interesting to picture him on his death-bed.”

“How long do you remain here, prince?” asked Madame Epanchin.

“All the summer, and perhaps longer.”

“You are alone, aren’t you—not married?”

“No, I’m not married!” replied the prince, smiling at this ingenuous little feeler.

“Oh, you needn’t laugh! These things do happen, you know!”

“Now then, why didn’t you come to us? We have a whole wing empty. But just as you like, of course.”

“Do you lease it from him—this fellow, I mean?” she added, nodding towards Lebedeff. “And why does he always wriggle so?”

At that moment Vera came out of the house onto the terrace, carrying the baby in her arms as usual.

Lebedeff was fidgeting among the chairs and seemed not to know what to do with himself, though he had no intention of going away.

No sooner did he catch sight of his daughter than he rushed toward her, waving his arms to keep her away; he even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot.

“Is he mad?” asked Madame Epanchin suddenly.

“No, he…”

“Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar,” she added, glancing at the other guests.

“But what a pretty girl! Who is she?”

“That is Lebedeff’s daughter—Vera Lukianovna.”

“Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when Lebedeff dragged Vera forward in order to present her.

“Orphans, poor orphans!” he began in a pathetic voice.

“The child she carries is an orphan too. She is Vera’s sister, my daughter Luboff. The day this baby was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by the will of God Almighty…”

“Yes… Vera takes her mother’s place, though she is only her sister… nothing more… nothing more…”

“And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll excuse me. Well, well, you know that yourself, I expect,” said the lady indignantly.

Lebedeff bowed low. “It is the truth,” he replied, with extreme respect.

“Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told that you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it true?” asked Aglaya.

“Yes, that is so… for the last fifteen years.”

“I have heard of you, and I think I read of you in the newspapers.”

“No, that was another commentator whom the papers named. He is dead now, however, and I have taken his place,” said Lebedeff, much delighted.

“We are neighbours, so will you be kind enough to come over one day and explain the Apocalypse to me? I do not understand it in the least,” said Aglaya.

“Allow me to warn you,” interposed General Ivolgin, “that he is the greatest charlatan on earth.”

He had taken the chair next to the girl, and was impatient to begin talking.

“No doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country,” he continued, “and listening to a pretended scholar expound the Book of Revelation may be as good as any other.”

“It may even be original. But… you seem to be looking at me with some surprise. May I introduce myself—General Ivolgin. I carried you in my arms as a baby—”

“Delighted, I am sure,” said Aglaya. “I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna.” She was trying hard not to laugh.

Mrs. Epanchin flushed. Some accumulated spleen in her suddenly needed an outlet. She could not endure this General Ivolgin, whom she had known long ago in society.

“You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual!” she said, boiling over with indignation. “You never carried her in your life!”

“You have forgotten, mother,” said Aglaya suddenly. “He really did carry me about—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember.”

“He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don’t you remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?”

“Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet and a little wooden sword—I remember!” said Adelaida.

“Yes, I remember too!” said Alexandra. “You quarrelled over the wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, wearing her helmet and sword and all.”

The poor general had only said he had carried Aglaya in his arms because he always began conversations with young people in that way.

But this time he had actually hit upon the truth, though he himself had entirely forgotten it.

When Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how moved the poor old man became.

“I remember—I remember it all!” he cried. “I was captain then. You were such a lovely little thing—Nina Alexandrovna! Gania, listen! I was received then by General Epanchin.”

“Yes, and look what you have come to now!” interrupted Mrs. Epanchin. “However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away.”

“But you have broken your wife’s heart, sir, and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors’ prisons!”

“Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and lament your fallen dignity. Perhaps God will forgive you yet!”

“Go, go! I am serious. There is nothing so favourable for repentance as thinking of the past with remorse.”

There was no need for her to repeat that she was serious.

The general, like all drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily moved by memories of his better days.

He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him.

“Ardalion Alexandrovitch,” she cried after him, “wait a moment, we are all sinners!”

“When your conscience reproaches you a little less, come over to me and we will have a talk about the past.”

“I dare say I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go, good-bye; you had better not stay here!” she added in alarm, as he turned as though to come back.

“Don’t go after him just now, Colia, or he will be vexed, and the benefit of this moment will be lost,” said the prince, as the boy hurried toward the door.

“Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so,” said Mrs. Epanchin.

“That is what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life!” said Lebedeff. “It reduced him to tears.”

“Come, come! The less you say about it, the better—to judge from all I have heard about you!” replied Mrs. Epanchin.

The prince took the first opportunity to tell the Epanchin ladies that he had intended to visit them that very day, if they had not come themselves.

Lizabetha Prokofievna replied that she hoped he would still do so.

By this time some of the visitors had disappeared. Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebedeff’s wing, and Gania soon followed him.

On this first meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture, Gania had behaved modestly but with dignity.

Mrs. Epanchin had twice deliberately examined him from head to foot, but he had stood fire without flinching.

He was certainly much changed, as anyone who had not seen him for some time could have noticed; and this fact seemed to give Aglaya considerable satisfaction.

“That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch who just went out, wasn’t it?” she asked suddenly, interrupting someone else’s conversation.

“Yes, it was,” said the prince.

“I hardly knew him. He is much changed, and for the better!”

“I am very glad,” said the prince.

“He has been very ill,” added Varia.

“How has he changed for the better?” asked Mrs. Epanchin. “I don’t see any change for the better. What is better in him?”

“There is nothing better than the poor knight!” said Colia, who was standing near her chair.

“I quite agree with you there!” said Prince S., laughing.

“So do I,” said Adelaida, solemnly.

“What poor knight?” asked Mrs. Epanchin, looking around at each face in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was blushing, she added angrily:

“What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?”

“It is not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by twisting other people’s words,” said Aglaya haughtily.

Whenever Aglaya showed temper, which happened often, there was so much childish pouting in her apparent anger that one could not help smiling at her.

This always made her unutterably indignant. On such occasions she would say, “How can they, how dare they laugh at me?”

This time everyone laughed: her sisters, Prince S., Prince Muishkin, though he himself flushed for some reason, and Colia.

Aglaya was dreadfully indignant and looked twice as pretty in her wrath.

“He is always twisting round what one says,” she cried.

“I am only repeating your own exclamation!” said Colia.

“A month ago you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote and suddenly cried, ‘There is nothing better than the poor knight.’”

“Of course I do not know whom you meant, whether Don Quixote, or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said it.”

“And afterwards there was a long conversation…”

“You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your guesses,” said Mrs. Epanchin, showing some annoyance.

“But it is not I alone,” cried Colia. “They all talked about it, and they still do.”

“Just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared that they supported the poor knight, so there evidently is a poor knight.”

“If it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have known long ago who the poor knight was.”

“Why, how am I to blame?” asked Adelaida, smiling.

“You would not draw his portrait for us; that is why you are to blame!”

“Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait and gave you the whole subject of the picture. She invented it herself, and you would not do it.”

“What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted: ‘From his face he never lifted that eternal mask of steel.’”

“What sort of face was I to draw? I could not draw a mask.”

“I don’t know what you are driving at. What mask do you mean?” said Mrs. Epanchin irritably.

She was beginning to see quite clearly what it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of “poor knight.”

What especially annoyed her was that the prince was looking uncomfortable and blushing like a ten-year-old child.

“Well, have you finished your silly joke?” she added. “Am I to be told what this poor knight means, or is it a solemn secret which cannot be approached lightly?”

But they all laughed on.

“It is simply that there is a Russian poem,” began Prince S., evidently anxious to change the conversation, “a strange thing, without beginning or end, and all about a poor knight.”

“A month or so ago, we were all talking and laughing, and looking for a subject for one of Adelaida’s pictures. You know that finding subjects for Adelaida’s pictures is this family’s principal business.”

“Well, we happened upon this poor knight. I do not remember who thought of it first—”

“Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did,” said Colia.

“Very likely—I don’t recall,” continued Prince S.

“Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it. But she declared that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see his face.”

“We then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see whether any would do, and none suited us, so the matter ended there.”

“I do not know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the joke now. What was appropriate and funny then has quite lost interest by this time.”

“Probably there is some new silliness about it,” said Mrs. Epanchin sarcastically.

“There is no silliness about it at all—only the profoundest respect,” said Aglaya very seriously.

She had quite recovered her temper; indeed, from certain signs, one might conclude that she was delighted to see the joke go so far.

A careful observer might have noticed that her satisfaction began the moment the prince’s confusion became obvious to everyone.

“Profoundest respect! What nonsense! First insane giggling, and then suddenly a display of profound respect,” said Mrs. Epanchin.

“Why respect? Tell me at once why you have suddenly developed this profound respect.”

“Because,” replied Aglaya gravely, “in the poem the knight is described as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life.”

“That sort of thing is not to be found every day among men of our times.”

“The poem does not state exactly what the ideal was, but evidently it was some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty.”

“The knight wore a rosary around his neck instead of a scarf, and on his shield was inscribed a device—A. N. B.—whose meaning is not explained.”

“No, A. N. D.,” corrected Colia.

“I say A. N. B., and so it shall be!” cried Aglaya irritably.

“Anyway, the poor knight did not care what his lady was or what she did. He had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her.”

“He was bound to break lances for her and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards.”

“If she had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the same.”

“I think the poet wished to embody, in this one picture, the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic love of a pure and high-souled knight.”

“Of course it is all an ideal; and in the poor knight that spirit reached the utmost limit of asceticism.”

“He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comic. I used not to understand him, and I laughed at him; but now I love the poor knight and respect his actions.”

So ended Aglaya; and from her face it was difficult to judge whether she was joking or serious.

“Pooh! He was a fool, and his actions were those of a fool,” said Mrs. Epanchin. “And as for you, young woman, you ought to know better.”

“At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it? Recite it! I want to hear this poem!”

“I have hated poetry all my life. Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort of thing. Be patient!”

They certainly were both put out.

The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused and could not get the words out.

Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her little speech, was perhaps the only person present who was not in the least embarrassed.

Indeed, she seemed quite pleased.

She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace, and stood in front of the prince’s chair.

All looked on with some surprise; Prince S. and her sisters watched with real alarm, wondering what new frolic she was planning.

They thought it had already gone far enough. But Aglaya plainly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony with which she introduced her recitation.

Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she should forbid the performance after all, when, at the very moment Aglaya began her declamation, two new guests entered from the street, both talking loudly.

The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man.

Their entrance caused a slight commotion.

『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 VI に対応しています。
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白痴

『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER V 幻の目と階段の発作 『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER VII 貧しき騎士の朗読とパヴリシチェフの息子