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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 III CHAPTER I エパンチン家の不安とロシア的リベラリズム論

『The Idiot』PART III CHAPTER I 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

The Epanchin family, or at least the more serious members of it, were sometimes grieved because they seemed so unlike the rest of the world.

They were not quite certain, but had at times a strong suspicion that things did not happen to them as they did to other people.

Others led a quiet, uneventful life, while they were subject to continual upheavals. Others kept on the rails without difficulty; they ran off at the slightest obstacle.

Other houses were governed by a timid routine; theirs was somehow different.

Perhaps Lizabetha Prokofievna was alone in making these fretful observations; the girls, though not wanting in intelligence, were still young; the general was intelligent, too, but narrow.

In any difficulty he was content to say, “H’m!” and leave the matter to his wife. Consequently, on her fell the responsibility.

It was not that they distinguished themselves as a family by any particular originality, or that their excursions off the track led to any breach of the proprieties. Oh no.

There was nothing premeditated, there was not even any conscious purpose in it all.

And yet, in spite of everything, the family, although highly respected, was not quite what every highly respected family ought to be.

For a long time now Lizabetha Prokofievna had had it in her mind that all the trouble was owing to her “unfortunate character,” and this added to her distress.

She blamed her own stupid unconventional “eccentricity.” Always restless, always on the go, she constantly seemed to lose her way, and to get into trouble over the simplest and most ordinary affairs of life.

* * *

At the beginning of our story, we said that the Epanchins were liked and esteemed by their neighbours.

In spite of his humble origin, Ivan Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with respect.

He deserved this, partly on account of his wealth and position, partly because, though limited, he was really a very good fellow.

But a certain limitation of mind seems to be an indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at least to all serious financiers.

Added to this, his manner was modest and unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet never allowed himself to be trampled upon.

Also—and this was more important than all—he had the advantage of being under exalted patronage.

As to Lizabetha Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows, belonged to an aristocratic family.

True, Russians think more of influential friends than of birth, but she had both.

She was esteemed and even loved by people of consequence in society, whose example in receiving her was therefore followed by others.

It seems hardly necessary to remark that her family worries and anxieties had little or no foundation, or that her imagination increased them to an absurd degree.

But if you have a wart on your forehead or nose, you imagine that all the world is looking at it, and that people would make fun of you because of it, even if you had discovered America!

Doubtless Lizabetha Prokofievna was considered “eccentric” in society, but she was none the less esteemed: the pity was that she was ceasing to believe in that esteem.

When she thought of her daughters, she said to herself sorrowfully that she was a hindrance rather than a help to their future.

Her character and temper were absurd, ridiculous, insupportable.

Naturally, she put the blame on her surroundings, and from morning to night was quarrelling with her husband and children, whom she really loved to the point of self-sacrifice.

She was, above all, distressed by the idea that her daughters might grow up “eccentric,” like herself.

She believed that no other society girls were like them. “They are growing into Nihilists!” she repeated over and over again.

For years she had tormented herself with this idea, and with the question: “Why don’t they get married?”

“It is to annoy their mother; that is their one aim in life; it can be nothing else.”

“The fact is it is all of a piece with these modern ideas, that wretched woman’s question!”

“Six months ago Aglaya took a fancy to cut off her magnificent hair. Why, even I, when I was young, had nothing like it!”

“The scissors were in her hand, and I had to go down on my knees and implore her.”

“She did it, I know, from sheer mischief, to spite her mother, for she is a naughty, capricious girl, a real spoiled child.”

“And then Alexandra wanted to shave her head, not from caprice or mischief, but, like a little fool, simply because Aglaya persuaded her she would sleep better without her hair.”

“And how many suitors have they not had during the last five years! Excellent offers, too!”

“What more do they want? Why don’t they get married? For no other reason than to vex their mother—none—none!”

* * *

But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled when she could say that one of her girls, Adelaida, was settled at last.

“It will be one off our hands!” she declared aloud, though in private she expressed herself with greater tenderness.

The engagement was both happy and suitable, and was therefore approved in society.

Prince S. was a distinguished man, he had money, and his future wife was devoted to him; what more could be desired?

Lizabetha Prokofievna had felt less anxious about this daughter, although she considered her artistic tastes suspicious.

But to make up for them she was, as her mother expressed it, “merry,” and had plenty of “common-sense.”

It was Aglaya’s future which disturbed her most.

With regard to her eldest daughter, Alexandra, the mother never quite knew whether there was cause for anxiety or not.

Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to be expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be fated to be an old maid, and “with such beauty, too!”

The mother spent whole nights in weeping and lamenting, while all the time the cause of her grief slumbered peacefully.

“What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist, or simply a fool?”

But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how unnecessary was the last question.

She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna’s judgment, and often consulted her in difficulties.

But that she was a “wet hen” she never for a moment doubted.

“She is so calm; nothing rouses her—though wet hens are not always calm! Oh! I can’t understand it!”

Her eldest daughter inspired Lizabetha with a kind of puzzled compassion. She did not feel this in Aglaya’s case, though the latter was her idol.

It may be said that these outbursts and epithets, such as “wet hen,” only made Alexandra laugh.

Sometimes the most trivial thing annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a frenzy.

For instance, Alexandra Ivanovna liked to sleep late, and was always dreaming, though her dreams had the peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as those of a child of seven.

And the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her mother.

Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the cause of quite a serious quarrel—no one knew why.

Another time she had a dream with a spark of originality in it.

She dreamt of a monk in a dark room, into which she was too frightened to go.

Adelaida and Aglaya rushed off with shrieks of laughter to relate this to their mother, but she was quite angry, and said her daughters were all fools.

“H’m! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable ‘wet hen’! Nothing excites her; and yet she is not happy.”

“Some days it makes one miserable only to look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?”

At times Lizabetha Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and as usual she spoke in the threatening tone of one who demands an immediate answer.

Ivan Fedorovitch would frown, shrug his shoulders, and at last give his opinion: “She needs a husband!”

“God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan Fedorovitch!” his wife flashed back.

“Or that he should be as gross and churlish as you!”

The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha Prokofievna after a while grew calm again.

That evening, of course, she would be unusually attentive, gentle, and respectful to her “gross and churlish” husband, her “dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch.”

For she had never left off loving him. She was even still “in love” with him.

He knew it well, and for his part held her in the greatest esteem.

* * *

But the mother’s great and continual anxiety was Aglaya.

“She is exactly like me—my image in everything,” said Mrs. Epanchin to herself.

“A tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric, senseless and mischievous! Good Lord, how unhappy she will be!”

But the fact of Adelaida’s approaching marriage was balm to the mother.

For a whole month she forgot her fears and worries.

Adelaida’s fate was settled; and with her name that of Aglaya’s was linked, in society gossip.

People whispered that Aglaya, too, was “as good as engaged.”

And Aglaya always looked so sweet and behaved so well during this period, that the mother’s heart was full of joy.

Of course, Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly studied first, before the final step should be taken.

But, really, how lovely dear Aglaya had become—she actually grew more beautiful every day!

And then—yes, and then—this abominable prince showed his face again, and everything went topsy-turvy at once.

Everyone seemed as mad as March hares.

What had really happened?

If it had been any other family than the Epanchins’, nothing particular would have happened.

But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin’s invariable fussiness and anxiety, there could not be the slightest hitch in the simplest matters of everyday life without her immediately foreseeing the most dreadful consequences.

What then must have been her condition, when she now saw looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance—something really likely to arouse doubts and suspicions!

* * *

“How dared they, how dared they write that hateful anonymous letter informing me that Aglaya is in communication with Nastasia Philipovna?” she thought.

She thought this as she dragged the prince along towards her own house, and again when she sat him down at the round table where the family was already assembled.

“How dared they so much as think of such a thing? I should die with shame if I thought there was a particle of truth in it.”

“Who dares play these jokes upon us, the Epanchins?”

“Why didn’t we go to the Yelagin instead of coming down here? I told you we had better go to the Yelagin this summer, Ivan Fedorovitch. It’s all your fault.”

“I dare say it was that Varia who sent the letter. It’s all Ivan Fedorovitch. That woman is doing it all for him, I know she is.”

“But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your daughters are mixed up in it, Ivan Fedorovitch.”

“Young ladies in society, young ladies at an age to be married; they were present, they heard everything there was to hear.”

“I cannot forgive that wretched prince. I never shall forgive him!”

“And why, if you please, has Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three days?”

“Why has she all but quarrelled with her sisters, even with Alexandra—whom she respects so much that she always kisses her hands as though she were her mother?”

“What are all these riddles of hers that we have to guess?”

“Why did she take upon herself to champion Gavrila Ardalionovitch this morning, and burst into tears over it?”

“Why is there an allusion to that cursed ‘poor knight’ in the anonymous letter?”

“And why did I rush off to him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back here?”

“I do believe I’ve gone mad at last.”

“What on earth have I done now? To talk to a young man about my daughter’s secrets—and secrets having to do with himself, too!”

“Thank goodness, he’s an idiot, and a friend of the house!”

“Surely Aglaya hasn’t fallen in love with such a gaby! What an idea!”

“We ought all to be put under glass cases—myself first of all—and be shown off as curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!”

“I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch—never! Look at her now. Why doesn’t she make fun of him?”

“She said she would, and she doesn’t. Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes, and doesn’t move.”

The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table and seemed to be feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and rapture.

Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side—one particular corner—where he knew very well that a pair of dark eyes were watching him intently.

And how happy he was to think that he was once more among them, and occasionally hearing that well-known voice, although she had written and forbidden him to come again!

“What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?” he thought to himself.

He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to Evgenie Pavlovitch’s eloquence.

The latter had never appeared so happy and excited as on this evening.

The prince listened to him, but for a long time did not take in a word he said.

* * *

Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet returned from town, the whole family was present.

Prince S. was there; and they all intended to go out to hear the band very soon.

Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. “So he is received as usual, after all,” thought the prince.

The Epanchins’ country-house was a charming building, built after the model of a Swiss chalet, and covered with creepers.

It was surrounded on all sides by a flower garden, and the family sat, as a rule, on the open verandah as at the prince’s house.

The subject under discussion did not appear to be very popular with the assembly, and some would have been delighted to change it.

But Evgenie would not stop holding forth, and the prince’s arrival seemed to spur him on to still further oratorical efforts.

Lizabetha Prokofievna frowned, but had not as yet grasped the subject, which seemed to have arisen out of a heated argument.

Aglaya sat apart, almost in the corner, listening in stubborn silence.

“Excuse me,” continued Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, “I don’t say a word against liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin.”

“It is a necessary part of a great whole, which whole would collapse and fall to pieces without it.”

“Liberalism has just as much right to exist as has the most moral conservatism; but I am attacking Russian liberalism.”

“And I attack it for the simple reason that a Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal, he is a non-Russian liberal.”

“Show me a real Russian liberal, and I’ll kiss him before you all, with pleasure.”

“If he cared to kiss you, that is,” said Alexandra, whose cheeks were red with irritation and excitement.

“Look at that, now,” thought the mother to herself, “she does nothing but sleep and eat for a year at a time, and then suddenly flies out in the most incomprehensible way!”

The prince observed that Alexandra appeared to be angry with Evgenie, because he spoke on a serious subject in a frivolous manner.

He was pretending to be in earnest, but with an under-current of irony.

“I was saying just now, before you came in, prince, that there has been nothing national up to now about our liberalism.”

“Nothing the liberals do, or have done, is in the least degree national. They are drawn from two classes only, the old landowning class, and clerical families.”

“How, nothing that they have done is Russian?” asked Prince S.

“It may be Russian, but it is not national. Our liberals are not Russian, nor are our conservatives.”

“Come, that’s good! How can you maintain such a paradox? If you are serious, that is.”

“I cannot allow such a statement about the landed proprietors to pass unchallenged. Why, you are a landed proprietor yourself!” cried Prince S. hotly.

“I suppose you’ll say there is nothing national about our literature either?” said Alexandra.

“Well, I am not a great authority on literary questions, but I certainly do hold that Russian literature is not Russian, except perhaps Lomonosoff, Pouschkin and Gogol.”

“In the first place, that is a considerable admission, and in the second place, one of the above was a peasant, and the other two were both landed proprietors!”

“Quite so, but don’t be in such a hurry! Since it has been the part of these three men to say something absolutely their own, not borrowed, these three men become really national.”

“If any Russian shall have done or said anything really and absolutely original, he is to be called national from that moment.”

“Though he may not be able to talk the Russian language; still he is a national Russian. I consider that an axiom.”

“But we were not speaking of literature; we began by discussing the socialists.”

“Very well then, I insist that there does not exist one single Russian socialist. There does not, and there has never existed such a one.”

“All our eminent socialists are merely old liberals of the class of landed proprietors, men who were liberals in the days of serfdom.”

“Why do you laugh? Give me their books, give me their studies, their memoirs, and I will prove as clear as day that every word is proprietary or seminarist!”

“You are laughing again, and you, prince, are smiling too. Don’t you agree with me?”

It was true enough that everybody was laughing, the prince among them.

“I cannot tell you on the instant whether I agree with you or not,” said the latter, suddenly stopping his laughter, and starting like a schoolboy caught at mischief.

“But, I assure you, I am listening to you with extreme gratification.”

So saying, he almost panted with agitation, and a cold sweat stood upon his forehead.

These were his first words since he had entered the house; he tried to lift his eyes and look around, but dared not.

Evgenie Pavlovitch noticed his confusion, and smiled.

* * *

“I’ll just tell you one fact, ladies and gentlemen,” continued Evgenie, with apparent seriousness and even exaltation of manner.

But there was a suggestion of “chaff” behind every word, as though he were laughing in his sleeve at his own nonsense.

“A fact, the discovery of which, I believe, I may claim to have made by myself alone.”

“In this fact is expressed the whole essence of Russian liberalism of the sort which I am now considering.”

“What is liberalism, speaking generally, but an attack upon the existing order of things?”

“Then my ‘fact’ consists in this, that Russian liberalism is not an attack upon the existing order of things, but an attack upon the very essence of things themselves.”

“Not an attack on the Russian order of things, but on Russia itself.”

“My Russian liberal goes so far as to reject Russia; that is, he hates and strikes his own mother.”

“Every misfortune and mishap of the mother-country fills him with mirth, and even with ecstasy.”

“He hates the national customs, Russian history, and everything.”

“If he has a justification, it is that he does not know what he is doing, and believes that his hatred of Russia is the grandest and most profitable kind of liberalism.”

“This hatred for Russia has been mistaken by some of our ‘Russian liberals’ for sincere love of their country.”

“But of late they have grown more candid and are ashamed of the expression ‘love of country.’”

“There can be no such thing anywhere else as a liberal who really hates his country.”

“How is this fact to be explained among us? By my original statement that a Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal—that’s the only explanation that I can see.”

“I take all that you have said as a joke,” said Prince S. seriously.

“I have heard all you have said with indignation,” said Alexandra. “You have taken some accidental case and twisted it into a universal law.”

“Accidental case!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch. “Do you consider it an accidental case, prince?”

“I must also admit,” said the prince, “that I have not seen much, or been very far into the question.”

“But I cannot help thinking that you are more or less right, and that Russian liberalism, that phase of it at least, really is sometimes inclined to hate Russia itself.”

“Of course this is only partially the truth; you cannot lay down the law for all…”

The prince blushed and broke off, without finishing what he meant to say.

In spite of his shyness and agitation, he could not help being greatly interested in the conversation.

A special characteristic of his was the naive candour with which he always listened to arguments which interested him.

In the very expression of his face this naivete was unmistakably evident, this disbelief in the insincerity of others.

Evgenie Pavlovitch had put his questions to the prince with no other purpose but to enjoy the joke of his simple-minded seriousness.

Yet now, at his answer, he was surprised into some seriousness himself, and looked gravely at Muishkin.

“Why, how strange!” he ejaculated. “You didn’t answer me seriously, surely, did you?”

“Did not you ask me the question seriously?” inquired the prince, in amazement.

Everybody laughed.

“Oh, trust him for that!” said Adelaida. “Evgenie Pavlovitch turns everything and everybody he can lay hold of to ridicule.”

“In my opinion the conversation has been a painful one throughout, and we ought never to have begun it,” said Alexandra.

“Come along then,” said Evgenie; “it’s a glorious evening.”

“But to prove that this time I was speaking absolutely seriously, and especially to prove this to the prince, will you allow me to put just one more question to the prince, out of pure curiosity?”

“It shall be the last.”

“We have just used the expression ‘accidental case.’ This is a significant phrase; we often hear it.”

“Not long since everyone was talking and reading about that terrible murder of six people by a young fellow.”

“And of the extraordinary speech of the counsel for the defence, who observed that in the poverty-stricken condition of the criminal it must have come naturally into his head to kill these six people.”

“Was this distortion, this capacity for a perverted way of viewing things, a special or accidental case, or is such a general rule?”

Everyone laughed at this.

“A special case—accidental, of course!” cried Alexandra and Adelaida.

“Let me remind you once more, Evgenie,” said Prince S., “that your joke is getting a little threadbare.”

“What do you think about it, prince?” asked Evgenie, observing Muishkin’s serious eyes fixed upon his face.

“Was it a special or a usual case—the rule, or an exception? I confess I put the question especially for you.”

“No, I don’t think it was a special case,” said the prince, quietly, but firmly.

“My dear fellow!” cried Prince S., with some annoyance, “don’t you see that he is chaffing you?”

“He is simply laughing at you, and wants to make game of you.”

“I thought Evgenie Pavlovitch was talking seriously,” said the prince, blushing and dropping his eyes.

The prince reflected a little, but very soon he replied, with absolute conviction in his tone, though he still spoke somewhat shyly and timidly.

“I only wished to say that this ‘distortion,’ as Evgenie Pavlovitch expressed it, is met with very often, and is far more the general rule than the exception.”

“So much so, that if this distortion were not the general rule, perhaps these dreadful crimes would be less frequent.”

“Dreadful crimes? But I can assure you that crimes just as dreadful, and probably more horrible, have occurred before our times,” said Prince S.

“The only difference is that in former times there was less publicity, while now everyone talks and writes freely about such things.”

“I know that there were just as many, and just as terrible, crimes before our times,” said the prince.

“Not long since I visited a convict prison and made acquaintance with some of the criminals.”

“There were some even more dreadful criminals than this one—men who have murdered a dozen of their fellow-creatures, and feel no remorse whatever.”

“But what I especially noticed was this: the most hopeless and remorseless murderer still knows that he is a criminal.”

“That is, he is conscious that he has acted wickedly, though he may feel no remorse whatever.”

“Those of whom Evgenie Pavlovitch has spoken do not admit that they are criminals at all; they think they had a right to do what they did, and that they were even doing a good deed, perhaps.”

“I consider there is the greatest difference between the two cases. And recollect—it was a youth, at the particular age which is most helplessly susceptible to the distortion of ideas!”

Prince S. was now no longer smiling; he gazed at the prince in bewilderment.

Alexandra, who had seemed to wish to put in her word when the prince began, now sat silent.

Evgenie Pavlovitch gazed at him in real surprise, and this time his expression had no mockery in it whatever.

“What are you looking so surprised about, my friend?” asked Mrs. Epanchin, suddenly.

“Did you suppose he was stupider than yourself, and was incapable of forming his own opinions?”

“No! Oh no! Not at all!” said Evgenie.

“But how is it, prince, that if you are capable of observing and seeing things as you evidently do, you saw nothing distorted in that claim upon your property?”

“That claim was full of arguments founded upon the most distorted views of right and wrong.”

“I’ll tell you what, my friend,” cried Mrs. Epanchin, of a sudden.

“Here are we all sitting here and imagining we are very clever, and perhaps laughing at the prince, some of us.”

“Meanwhile he has received a letter this very day in which that same claimant renounces his claim, and begs the prince’s pardon.”

“There! we don’t often get that sort of letter; and yet we are not ashamed to walk with our noses in the air before him.”

“And Hippolyte has come down here to stay,” said Colia, suddenly.

“What! has he arrived?” said the prince, starting up.

“Yes, I brought him down from town just after you had left the house.”

“There now! It’s just like him,” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, boiling over once more.

“I dare swear that you went up to town yesterday on purpose to get the little wretch to do you the great honour of coming to stay at your house.”

“No, he didn’t, for I saw it all myself,” said Colia. “On the contrary, Hippolyte kissed his hand twice and thanked him.”

“And all the prince said was that he thought Hippolyte might feel better here in the country!”

“Don’t, Colia,—what is the use of saying all that?” cried the prince, rising and taking his hat.

“Where are you going to now?” cried Mrs. Epanchin.

“Never mind about him now, prince,” said Colia. “He is all right and taking a nap after the journey.”

“He is very happy to be here; but I think perhaps it would be better if you let him alone for today.”

The prince observed that Aglaya came out of her corner and approached the table at this point.

He did not dare look at her, but he was conscious, to the very tips of his fingers, that she was gazing at him, perhaps angrily.

“It seems to me, Mr. Colia, that you were very foolish to bring your young friend down,” remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“If he is the same consumptive boy who wept so profusely, and invited us all to his own funeral.”

“He talked so eloquently about the blank wall outside his bedroom window, that I’m sure he will never support life here without it.”

“I think so too,” said Mrs. Epanchin; “he will quarrel with you, and be off.”

“Yes, I remember he boasted about the blank wall in an extraordinary way,” continued Evgenie.

“Without that blank wall he will never be able to die eloquently; and he does so long to die eloquently!”

“Oh, you must forgive him the blank wall,” said the prince, quietly. “He has come down to see a few trees now, poor fellow.”

“Oh, I forgive him with all my heart; you may tell him so if you like,” laughed Evgenie.

“I don’t think you should take it quite like that,” said the prince, quietly, and without removing his eyes from the carpet.

“I think it is more a case of his forgiving you.”

“Forgiving me! why so? What have I done to need his forgiveness?”

“If you don’t understand, then—but of course, you do understand.”

“He wished—he wished to bless you all round and to have your blessing—before he died—that’s all.”

“My dear prince,” began Prince S., hurriedly, exchanging glances with some of those present, “you will not easily find heaven on earth.”

“Heaven is a difficult thing to find anywhere, prince; far more difficult than appears to that good heart of yours.”

“Better stop this conversation, or we shall all be growing quite disturbed in our minds.”

“Let’s go and hear the band, then,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, angrily rising from her place.

The rest of the company followed her example.

『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 III CHAPTER I に対応しています。

白痴

『白痴』英文/和訳 PART II CHAPTER XII 手紙の告白とリザヴェータ夫人の急変 『白痴』英文/和訳 PART III CHAPTER II Part 1 緑のベンチと音楽会の醜聞