白痴 英文版 The Idiot
陀思妥耶夫斯基 Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Idiot X.
THE prince understood at last why he shivered with dread everytime he thought of the three letters in his pocket, and why hehad put off reading them until the evening.
When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the verandah,without having had the courage to open a single one of the threeenvelopes, he again dreamed a painful dream, and once more thatpoor, "sinful" woman appeared to him. Again she gazed at him withtears sparkling on her long lashes, and beckoned him after her;and again he awoke, as before, with the picture of her facehaunting him.
town."ofthe razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"the door. nightseemed?
He longed to get up and go to her at once--but he COULD NOT. Atlength, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began toread them.
These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange,impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of nature. When weawake we remember them and wonder at their strangeness. Youremember, perhaps, that you were in full possession of yourreason during this succession of fantastic images; even that youacted with extraordinary logic and cunning while surrounded bymurderers who hid their intentions and made great demonstrationsof friendship, while waiting for an opportunity to cut yourthroat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingeniousstratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived, orwhether they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place;then you thought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again.You remember all this quite clearly, but how is it that yourreason calmly accepted all the manifest absurdities andimpossibilities that crowded into your dream? One of themurderers suddenly changed into a woman before your very eyes;then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning littledwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as amatter of course--while at the same time your intelligence seemedunusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity,and logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world ofrealities you nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, thatthe vanished dream has carried with it some enigma which you havefailed to solve? You smile at the extravagance of your dream, andyet you feel that this tissue of absurdity contained some realidea, something that belongs to your true life,--something thatexists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search yourdream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left adeep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, orwhat has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understandnor remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon theprince. He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that thevery fact of their existence was like a nightmare. How could sheever have made up her mind to write to her? he asked himself. Howcould she write about that at all? And how could such a wild ideahave entered her head? And yet, the strangest part of the matterwas, that while he read the letters, he himself almost believedin the possibility, and even in the justification, of the idea hehad thought so wild. Of course it was a mad dream, a nightmare,and yet there was something cruelly real about it. For hours hewas haunted by what he had read. Several passages returned againand again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, he feltinclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known allthat was written here; it even seemed to him that he had read thewhole of this some time or other, long, long ago; and all thathad tormented and grieved him up to now was to be found in theseold, long since read, letters.
"When you open this letter" (so the first began), "look first atthe signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I needexplain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any wayon a footing with you, you might be offended at my audacity; butwho am I, and who are you? We are at such extremes, and I am sofar removed from you, that I could not offend you if I wished todo so."
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: "Do not consider mywords as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, inmy opinion--perfection! I have seen you--I see you every day. Ido not judge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reasonand found you Perfection--it is simply an article of faith. But Imust confess one sin against you--I love you. One should not loveperfection. One should only look on it as perfection--yet I am inlove with you. Though love equalizes, do not fear. I have notlowered you to my level, even in my most secret thoughts. I havewritten 'Do not fear,' as if you could fear. I would kiss yourfootprints if I could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on alevel with you!--Look at the signature--quick, look at thesignature!"
"However, observe" (she wrote in another of the letters), "thatalthough I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked youwhether you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw youbut once. He spoke of you as of 'the light.' These are his ownwords--I heard him use them. But I understood without his sayingit that you were all that light is to him. I lived near him for awhole month, and I understood then that you, too, must love him.I think of you and him as one."
"What was the matter yesterday?" (she wrote on another sheet). "Ipassed by you, and you seemed to me to BLUSH. Perhaps it was onlymy fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, andshow you the revelation of undisguised vice--you should notblush. You can never feel the sense of personal affront. You mayhate all who are mean, or base, or unworthy--but not foryourself--only for those whom they wrong. No one can wrong YOU.Do you know, I think you ought to love me--for you are the samein my eyes as in his-you are as light. An angel cannot hate,perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself--is it possibleto love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature.Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But youare different. You cannot help loving all, since you can comparewith none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! howbitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame onmy account, for that would be your fall--you would becomecomparable at once with such as me.
"Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out apicture.
"Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospelstories. I should do differently. I should represent Christalone--the disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I shouldpaint one little child left with Him. This child has been playingabout near Him, and had probably just been telling the Savioursomething in its pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it,but was now musing--one hand reposing on the child's bright head.His eyes have a far-away expression. Thought, great as theUniverse, is in them--His face is sad. The little one leans itselbow upon Christ's knee, and with its cheek resting on its hand,gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes do ponder. Thesun is setting. There you have my picture.
"You are innocent--and in your innocence lies all yourperfection--oh, remember that! What is my passion to you?--youare mine now; I shall be near you all my life--I shall not livelong!"
At length, in the last letter of all, he found:
"For Heaven's sake, don't misunderstand me! Do not think that Ihumiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to thatclass of people who take a satisfaction in humiliatingthemselves--from pride. I have my consolation, though it would bedifficult to explain it--but I do not humiliate myself.
"Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For myown sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus besolved; I have thought so for a long time. I know that once whenyour sister Adelaida saw my portrait she said that such beautycould overthrow the world. But I have renounced the world. Youthink it strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked withlace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and wastrels. Takeno notice of that; I know that I have almost ceased to exist. Godknows what it is dwelling within me now--it is not myself. I cansee it every day in two dreadful eyes which are always looking atme, even when not present. These eyes are silent now, they saynothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and thereis a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razorhidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscowmurderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had arazor hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with thisrazor he intended to cut a throat.
"All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewherebeneath the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse,wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, whoknows? Just as in the Moscow case. I could have shown you thevery spot!
"He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so muchthat he must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the sameday; so I have arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. Iwould kill him from very fright, but he will kill me first. Hehas just burst out laughing, and says that I am raving. He knowsI am writing to you."
There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters--one of them was very long.
At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which hehad wandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright nightseemed to him to be lighter than ever. "It must be quite early,"he thought. (He had forgotten his watch.) There was a sound ofdistant music somewhere. "Ah," he thought, "the Vauxhall! Theywon't be there today, of course!" At this moment he noticed thathe was close to their house; he had felt that he must gravitateto this spot eventually, and, with a beating heart, he mountedthe verandah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. Heopened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty.He stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly thedoor opened, and in came Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing theprince she stopped before him in surprise, looking at himquestioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through the roomfrom door to door, and had not had the remotest notion that shewould meet anyone.
"How did you come here?" she asked, at last.
"I-I--came in--"
"Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed,and I am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father andPrince S. have gone to town."
"I have come to you--now--to--"
"Do you know what time it is?"
"N--no!"
"Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one."
"I-I thought it was half-past nine!"
"Never mind!" she laughed, "but why didn't you come earlier?Perhaps you were expected!"
"I thought" he stammered, making for the door.
"Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!"
He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart wasbeating, his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed tobe part of a dream.
And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep withthe same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise upbefore him. The woman appeared to step out from the park, andstand in the path in front of him, as though she had been waitingfor him there.
He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed itfrenziedly.
No, this was no apparition!
There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the firsttime since their parting.
She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heartached with anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection ofthis meeting with her, and he never remembered it but with thesame pain and agony of mind.
She went on her knees before him--there in the open road--like amadwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissedit, and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on herlong, beautiful lashes.
"Get up!" he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. "Get upat once!"
"Are you happy--are you happy?" she asked. "Say this one word.Are you happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been withher? What did she say?"
She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; sheput her questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued.
"I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me--I won't write--sothat this is the last time I shall see you, the last time! Thisis really the LAST TIME!"
"Oh, be calm--be calm! Get up!" he entreated, in despair.
She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.
"Good-bye!" she said at last, and rose and left him, veryquickly.
The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at herside, and had taken her arm and was leading her away.
"Wait a minute, prince," shouted the latter, as he went. "I shallbe back in five minutes."
He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince waswaiting for him.
"I've put her in the carriage," he said; "it has been waitinground the corner there since ten o'clock. She expected that youwould be with THEM all the evening. I told her exactly what youwrote me. She won't write to the girl any more, she promises; andtomorrow she will be off, as you wish. She desired to see youfor the last time, although you refused, so we've been sittingand waiting on that bench till you should pass on your way home."
"Did she bring you with her of her own accord?"
"Of course she did!" said Rogojin, showing his teeth; "and I sawfor myself what I knew before. You've read her letters, Isuppose?"
"Did you read them?" asked the prince, struck by the thought.
"Of course--she showed them to me herself. You are thinking ofthe razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Oh, she is mad!" cried the prince, wringing his hands. "Whoknows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all," said Rogojin,softly, as though thinking aloud.
The prince made no reply.
"Well, good-bye," said Rogojin. "I'm off tomorrow too, you know.Remember me kindly! By-the-by," he added, turning round sharplyagain, "did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, ornot?"
"No, no, no!" cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness.
"Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say 'yes,'" cried Rogojin,laughing sardonically.
And he disappeared, without looking round again.