白痴 英文版 The Idiot
陀思妥耶夫斯基 Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Idiot VI.
"Here you all are," began the prince, "settling yourselves downto listen to me with so much curiosity, that if I do not satisfyyou you will probably be angry with me. No, no! I'm onlyjoking!" he added, hastily, with a smile.
"Well, then--they were all children there, and I was always amongchildren and only with children. They were the children of thevillage in which I lived, and they went to the school there--allof them. I did not teach them, oh no; there was a master forthat, one Jules Thibaut. I may have taught them some things, butI was among them just as an outsider, and I passed all four yearsof my life there among them. I wished for nothing better; I usedto tell them everything and hid nothing from them. Their fathersand relations were very angry with me, because the children coulddo nothing without me at last, and used to throng after me at alltimes. The schoolmaster was my greatest enemy in the end! I hadmany enemies, and all because of the children. Even Schneiderreproached me. What were they afraid of? One can tell a childeverything, anything. I have often been struck by the fact thatparents know their children so little. They should not conceal somuch from them. How well even little children understand thattheir parents conceal things from them, because they considerthem too young to understand! Children are capable of givingadvice in the most important matters. How can one deceive thesedear little birds, when they look at one so sweetly andconfidingly? I call them birds because there is nothing in theworld better than birds!
"However, most of the people were angry with me about one and thesame thing; but Thibaut simply was jealous of me. At first he hadwagged his head and wondered how it was that the childrenunderstood what I told them so well, and could not learn fromhim; and he laughed like anything when I replied that neither henor I could teach them very much, but that THEY might teach us agood deal.
"How he could hate me and tell scandalous stories about me,living among children as he did, is what I cannot understand.Children soothe and heal the wounded heart. I remember there wasone poor fellow at our professor's who was being treated formadness, and you have no idea what those children did forhim, eventually. I don't think he was mad, but only terriblyunhappy. But I'll tell you all about him another day. Now I mustget on with this story.
"The children did not love me at first; I was such a sickly,awkward kind of a fellow then--and I know I am ugly. Besides, Iwas a foreigner. The children used to laugh at me, at first; andthey even went so far as to throw stones at me, when they saw mekiss Marie. I only kissed her once in my life--no, no, don'tlaugh!" The prince hastened to suppress the smiles of hisaudience at this point. "It was not a matter of LOVE at all! Ifonly you knew what a miserable creature she was, you would havepitied her, just as I did. She belonged to our village. Hermother was an old, old woman, and they used to sell string andthread, and soap and tobacco, out of the window of their littlehouse, and lived on the pittance they gained by this trade. Theold woman was ill and very old, and could hardly move. Marie washer daughter, a girl of twenty, weak and thin and consumptive;but still she did heavy work at the houses around, day by day.Well, one fine day a commercial traveller betrayed her andcarried her off; and a week later he deserted her. She came homedirty, draggled, and shoeless; she had walked for a whole weekwithout shoes; she had slept in the fields, and caught a terriblecold; her feet were swollen and sore, and her hands torn andscratched all over. She never had been pretty even before; buther eyes were quiet, innocent, kind eyes.
"She was very quiet always--and I remember once, when she hadsuddenly begun singing at her work, everyone said, 'Marie triedto sing today!' and she got so chaffed that she was silent forever after. She had been treated kindly in the place before; butwhen she came back now--ill and shunned and miserable--not one ofthem all had the slightest sympathy for her. Cruel people! Oh,what hazy understandings they have on such matters! Her motherwas the first to show the way. She received her wrathfully,unkindly, and with contempt. 'You have disgraced me,' she said.She was the first to cast her into ignominy; but when they allheard that Marie had returned to the village, they ran out to seeher and crowded into the little cottage--old men, children, women,girls--such a hurrying, stamping, greedy crowd. Marie waslying on the floor at the old woman's feet, hungry, torn,draggled, crying, miserable.
"When everyone crowded into the room she hid her face in herdishevelled hair and lay cowering on the floor. Everyone lookedat her as though she were a piece of dirt off the road. The oldmen scolded and condemned, and the young ones laughed at her. Thewomen condemned her too, and looked at her contemptuously, justas though she were some loathsome insect.
"Her mother allowed all this to go on, and nodded her head andencouraged them. The old woman was very ill at that time, andknew she was dying (she really did die a couple of months later),and though she felt the end approaching she never thought offorgiving her daughter, to the very day of her death. She wouldnot even speak to her. She made her sleep on straw in a shed, andhardly gave her food enough to support life.
"Marie was very gentle to her mother, and nursed her, and dideverything for her; but the old woman accepted all her serviceswithout a word and never showed her the slightest kindness. Mariebore all this; and I could see when I got to know her that shethought it quite right and fitting, considering herself thelowest and meanest of creatures.
"When the old woman took to her bed finally, the other old womenin the village sat with her by turns, as the custom is there; andthen Marie was quite driven out of the house. They gave her nofood at all, and she could not get any work in the village; nonewould employ her. The men seemed to consider her no longer awoman, they said such dreadful things to her. Sometimes onSundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to throw her apenny or two, into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up themoney. She had began to spit blood at that time.
nearly.Only the children had altered--for then they were all on my sideand had learned to love Marie.sorrowingover it; and at the waterfall, of an evening, when we parted forthe?
"At last her rags became so tattered and torn that she wasashamed of appearing in the village any longer. The children usedto pelt her with mud; so she begged to be taken on as assistantcowherd, but the cowherd would not have her. Then she took tohelping him without leave; and he saw how valuable her assistancewas to him, and did not drive her away again; on the contrary, heoccasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread andcheese. He considered that he was being very kind. When themother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold Marie upto public derision and shame. Marie was standing at the coffin'shead, in all her rags, crying.
"A crowd of people had collected to see how she would cry. Theparson, a young fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher,began his sermon and pointed to Marie. 'There,' he said, 'thereis the cause of the death of this venerable woman'--(which was alie, because she had been ill for at least two years)--'there shestands before you, and dares not lift her eyes from the ground,because she knows that the finger of God is upon her. Look at hertatters and rags--the badge of those who lose their virtue. Whois she? her daughter!' and so on to the end.
"And just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them, nearly.Only the children had altered--for then they were all on my sideand had learned to love Marie.
"This is how it was: I had wished to do something for Marie; Ilonged to give her some money, but I never had a farthing while Iwas there. But I had a little diamond pin, and this I sold to atravelling pedlar; he gave me eight francs for it--it was worthat least forty.
"I long sought to meet Marie alone; and at last I did meet her,on the hillside beyond the village. I gave her the eight francsand asked her to take care of the money because I could get nomore; and then I kissed her and said that she was not to supposeI kissed her with any evil motives or because I was in love withher, for that I did so solely out of pity for her, and becausefrom the first I had not accounted her as guilty so much asunfortunate. I longed to console and encourage her somehow, andto assure her that she was not the low, base thing which she andothers strove to make out; but I don't think she understood me.She stood before me, dreadfully ashamed of herself, and withdowncast eyes; and when I had finished she kissed my hand. Iwould have kissed hers, but she drew it away. Just at this momentthe whole troop of children saw us. (I found out afterwards thatthey had long kept a watch upon me.) They all began whistling andclapping their hands, and laughing at us. Marie ran away at once;and when I tried to talk to them, they threw stones at me. Allthe village heard of it the same day, and Marie's position becameworse than ever. The children would not let her pass now in thestreets, but annoyed her and threw dirt at her more than before.They used to run after her--she racing away with her poor feeblelungs panting and gasping, and they pelting her and shoutingabuse at her.
"Once I had to interfere by force; and after that I took tospeaking to them every day and whenever I could. Occasionallythey stopped and listened; but they teased Marie all the same.
"I told them how unhappy Marie was, and after a while theystopped their abuse of her, and let her go by silently. Little bylittle we got into the way of conversing together, the childrenand I. I concealed nothing from them, I told them all. Theylistened very attentively and soon began to be sorry for Marie.At last some of them took to saying 'Good-morning' to her,kindly, when they met her. It is the custom there to saluteanyone you meet with 'Good-morning' whether acquainted or not. Ican imagine how astonished Marie was at these first greetingsfrom the children.
"Once two little girls got hold of some food and took it to her,and came back and told me. They said she had burst into tears,and that they loved her very much now. Very soon after that theyall became fond of Marie, and at the same time they began todevelop the greatest affection for myself. They often came to meand begged me to tell them stories. I think I must have toldstories well, for they did so love to hear them. At last I tookto reading up interesting things on purpose to pass them on tothe little ones, and this went on for all the rest of my timethere, three years. Later, when everyone--even Schneider--wasangry with me for hiding nothing from the children, I pointed outhow foolish it was, for they always knew things, only they learntthem in a way that soiled their minds but not so from me. One hasonly to remember one's own childhood to admit the truth of this.But nobody was convinced. . . It was two weeks before hermother died that I had kissed Marie; and when the clergymanpreached that sermon the children were all on my side.
"When I told them what a shame it was of the parson to talk as hehad done, and explained my reason, they were so angry that someof them went and broke his windows with stones. Of course Istopped them, for that was not right, but all the village heardof it, and how I caught it for spoiling the children! Everyonediscovered now that the little ones had taken to being fond ofMarie, and their parents were terribly alarmed; but Marie was sohappy. The children were forbidden to meet her; but they used torun out of the village to the herd and take her food and things;and sometimes just ran off there and kissed her, and said, 'Jevous aime, Marie!' and then trotted back again. They imaginedthat I was in love with Marie, and this was the only point onwhich I did not undeceive them, for they got such enjoyment out ofit. And what delicacy and tenderness they showed!
"In the evening I used to walk to the waterfall. There was a spotthere which was quite closed in and hidden from view by largetrees; and to this spot the children used to come to me. Theycould not bear that their dear Leon should love a poor girlwithout shoes to her feet and dressed all in rags and tatters.So, would you believe it, they actually clubbed together,somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and some linen, andeven a dress! I can't understand how they managed it, but theydid it, all together. When I asked them about it they onlylaughed and shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands andkissed me. I sometimes went to see Marie secretly, too. She hadbecome very ill, and could hardly walk. She still went with theherd, but could not help the herdsman any longer. She used to siton a stone near, and wait there almost motionless all day, tillthe herd went home. Her consumption was so advanced, and she wasso weak, that she used to sit with closed eyes, breathingheavily. Her face was as thin as a skeleton's, and sweat used tostand on her white brow in large drops. I always found hersitting just like that. I used to come up quietly to look at her;but Marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble violently asshe kissed my hands. I did not take my hand away because it madeher happy to have it, and so she would sit and cry quietly.Sometimes she tried to speak; but it was very difficult tounderstand her. She was almost like a madwoman, with excitementand ecstasy, whenever I came. Occasionally the children came withme; when they did so, they would stand some way off and keepguard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near. This was agreat pleasure to them.
"When we left her, Marie used to relapse at once into her oldcondition, and sit with closed eyes and motionless limbs. One dayshe could not go out at all, and remained at home all alone inthe empty hut; but the children very soon became aware of thefact, and nearly all of them visited her that day as she layalone and helpless in her miserable bed.
"For two days the children looked after her, and then, when thevillage people got to know that Marie was really dying, some ofthe old women came and took it in turns to sit by her and lookafter her a bit. I think they began to be a little sorry for herin the village at last; at all events they did not interfere withthe children any more, on her account.
"Marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the whole while;she coughed dreadfully. The old women would not let the childrenstay in the room; but they all collected outside the window eachmorning, if only for a moment, and shouted 'Bon jour, notrebonne Marie!' and Marie no sooner caught sight of, or heard them,and she became quite animated at once, and, in spite of the oldwomen, would try to sit up and nod her head and smile at them,and thank them. The little ones used to bring her nice things andsweets to eat, but she could hardly touch anything. Thanks tothem, I assure you, the girl died almost perfectly happy. Shealmost forgot her misery, and seemed to accept their love as asort of symbol of pardon for her offence, though she never ceasedto consider herself a dreadful sinner. They used to flutter ather window just like little birds, calling out: 'Nous t'aimons,Marie!'
"She died very soon; I had thought she would live much longer.The day before her death I went to see her for the last time,just before sunset. I think she recognized me, for she pressed myhand.
"Next morning they came and told me that Marie was dead. Thechildren could not be restrained now; they went and covered hercoffin with flowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on herhead. The pastor did not throw any more shameful words at thepoor dead woman; but there were very few people at the funeral.However, when it came to carrying the coffin, all the childrenrushed up, to carry it themselves. Of course they could not do italone, but they insisted on helping, and walked alongside andbehind, crying.
"They have planted roses all round her grave, and every year theylook alter the flowers and make Marie's resting-place asbeautiful as they can. I was in ill odour after all this with theparents of the children, and especially with the parson andschoolmaster. Schneider was obliged to promise that I should notmeet them and talk to them; but we conversed from a distance bysigns, and they used to write me sweet little notes. Afterwards Icame closer than ever to those little souls, but even then it wasvery dear to me, to have them so fond of me.
"Schneider said that I did the children great harm by mypernicious 'system'; what nonsense that was! And what did he meanby my system? He said afterwards that he believed I was a childmyself--just before I came away. 'You have the form and face of anadult' he said, 'but as regards soul, and character, and perhapseven intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense of theword, and always will be, if you live to be sixty.' I laughedvery much, for of course that is nonsense. But it is a fact thatI do not care to be among grown-up people and much prefer thesociety of children. However kind people may be to me, I neverfeel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back tomy little companions. Now my companions have always beenchildren, not because I was a child myself once, but becauseyoung things attract me. On one of the first days of my stay inSwitzerland, I was strolling about alone and miserable, when Icame upon the children rushing noisily out of school, with theirslates and bags, and books, their games, their laughter andshouts--and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughedhappily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly. Girlsand boys, laughing and crying; for as they went home many of themfound time to fight and make peace, to weep and play. I forgot mytroubles in looking at them. And then, all those three years, Itried to understand why men should be for ever tormentingthemselves. I lived the life of a child there, and thought Ishould never leave the little village; indeed, I was far fromthinking that I should ever return to Russia. But at last Irecognized the fact that Schneider could not keep me any longer.And then something so important happened, that Schneider himselfurged me to depart. I am going to see now if can get good adviceabout it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is notthe principal thing. The principal thing is the entire changethat has already come over me. I left many things behind me--toomany. They have gone. On the journey I said to myself, 'I amgoing into the world of men. I don't know much, perhaps, but anew life has begun for me.' I made up my mind to be honest, andsteadfast in accomplishing my task. Perhaps I shall meet withtroubles and many disappointments, but I have made up my mind tobe polite and sincere to everyone; more cannot be asked of me.People may consider me a child if they like. I am often called anidiot, and at one time I certainly was so ill that I was nearlyas bad as an idiot; but I am not an idiot now. How can I possiblybe so when I know myself that I am considered one?
"When I received a letter from those dear little souls, whilepassing through Berlin, I only then realized how much I lovedthem. It was very, very painful, getting that first littleletter. How melancholy they had been when they saw me off! For amonth before, they had been talking of my departure and sorrowingover it; and at the waterfall, of an evening, when we parted forthe night, they would hug me so tight and kiss me so warmly, farmore so than before. And every now and then they would turn upone by one when I was alone, just to give me a kiss and a hug, toshow their love for me. The whole flock went with me to thestation, which was about a mile from the village, and every nowand then one of them would stop to throw his arms round me, andall the little girls had tears in their voices, though they triedhard not to cry. As the train steamed out of the station, I sawthem all standing on the platform waving to me and crying'Hurrah!' till they were lost in the distance.
"I assure you, when I came in here just now and saw your kindfaces (I can read faces well) my heart felt light for the firsttime since that moment of parting. I think I must be one of thosewho are born to be in luck, for one does not often meet withpeople whom one feels he can love from the first sight of theirfaces; and yet, no sooner do I step out of the railway carriagethan I happen upon you!
"I know it is more or less a shamefaced thing to speak of one'sfeelings before others; and yet here am I talking like thisto you, and am not a bit ashamed or shy. I am an unsociablesort of fellow and shall very likely not come to see you againfor some time; but don't think the worse of me for that. It isnot that I do not value your society; and you must never supposethat I have taken offence at anything.
"You asked me about your faces, and what I could read in them; Iwill tell you with the greatest pleasure. You, Adelaida Ivanovna,have a very happy face; it is the most sympathetic of the three.Not to speak of your natural beauty, one can look at your faceand say to one's self, 'She has the face of a kind sister.' Youare simple and merry, but you can see into another's heart veryquickly. That's what I read in your face.
"You too, Alexandra Ivanovna, have a very lovely face; but Ithink you may have some secret sorrow. Your heart is undoubtedlya kind, good one, but you are not merry. There is a certainsuspicion of 'shadow' in your face, like in that of Holbein'sMadonna in Dresden. So much for your face. Have I guessed right?
"As for your face, Lizabetha Prokofievna, I not only think, butam perfectly SURE, that you are an absolute child--in all, inall, mind, both good and bad-and in spite of your years. Don't beangry with me for saying so; you know what my feelings forchildren are. And do not suppose that I am so candid out of puresimplicity of soul. Oh dear no, it is by no means the case!Perhaps I have my own very profound object in view."