IDIOT, THE（ISBN=9780679642428）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

内容简介

　　Returning to Russia from a sanitarium in Switzerland, the Christ-like epileptic Prince Myshkin finds himself enmeshed in a tangle of love, torn between two women—the notorious kept woman Nastasya and the pure Aglaia—both involved, in turn, with the corrupt, money-hungry Ganya. In the end, Myshkin’s honesty, goodness, and integrity are shown to be unequal to the moral emptiness of those around him. In her revision of the Garnett translation, Anna Brailovsky has corrected inaccuracies wrought by Garnett’s drastic anglicization of the novel, restoring as much as possible the syntactical structure of the original.

作者简介

　　Anna Brailovsky is a translator and candidate for a Ph.D. in art history at Johns Hopkins University.
　　Joseph Frank is Professor Emeritus of Slavic and Comparative Literature at Princeton University. The first volume of his definitive biography, Dostoevsky: The Years of Ordeal, 1850–1859, won the 1984 National Book Critics Circle Award for Biography.

目　　录

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
INYRODUCTION by Foseph Frank
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE by Anna Brailovsky
THE IDIOT
PART ONE
PART Two
PART THREE
PART FOUR
READING GROUP GUIDE

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　　Nothing is outside Dostoevsky?s province. . . . Out of Shakespeare there is no more exciting reading.? ?Virginia Woolf -- Review

在线试读部分章节

　　I
　　In late November, during a thaw, around nine in the morning, atrain on the PetersburgWarsaw railway line was approachingPetersburg at full blast. It was so damp and foggy that it had justbarely grown light; within ten paces to the right and left of therails, it was difficult to make out anything at all from thecarriage windows. Among the passengers were some returning fromabroad; but the third-class compartments were more crowded, mainlywith common folk on business, from not too far away. As usual,everyone was tired, everyones eyes had grown heavy in the night,everyone was chilled, all the faces were pale and yellow, matchingthe color of the fog.

I 
　　In late November, during a thaw, around nine in the morning, a
train on the PetersburgWarsaw railway line was approaching
Petersburg at full blast. It was so damp and foggy that it had just
barely grown light; within ten paces to the right and left of the
rails, it was difficult to make out anything at all from the
carriage windows. Among the passengers were some returning from
abroad; but the third-class compartments were more crowded, mainly
with common folk on business, from not too far away. As usual,
everyone was tired, everyones eyes had grown heavy in the night,
everyone was chilled, all the faces were pale and yellow, matching
the color of the fog. 
　　In one of the third-class carriages, right by the window, two
passengers had, from early dawn, been sitting facing one
anotherboth were young people, both traveled light, both were
unfashionably dressed, both had rather remarkable faces, and both
expressed, at last, a desire to start a conversation. If they had
both known, one about the other, in what way they were especially
remarkable in that moment, they would naturally have wondered that
chance had so strangely placed them face to face in a third-class
carriage of the WarsawPetersburg train. One of them was a short man
about twenty-seven, with almost black curly hair and small but
fiery gray eyes. His nose was broad and flat, his cheekbones high;
his thin lips continually curved into a sort of insolent, mocking
and even malicious smile; but the high and well-shaped forehead
redeemed the ignoble lines of the lower part of the face. What was
particularly striking about the young mans face was its deathly
pallor, which lent him an exhausted look in spite of his fairly
sturdy build, and at the same time something passionate to the
point of suffering, which did not harmonize with his insolent and
coarse smile and his sharp and self-satisfied gaze. He was warmly
dressed in a full, black, sheepskin-lined overcoat, and had not
felt the cold at night, while his neighbor had been forced to
endure all the pleasures of a damp Russian November night, for
which he was evidently unprepared. He had a fairly thick and wide
cloak with no sleeves and a huge hood, just like those frequently
used by travelers in winter somewhere far abroad, in Switzerland
or, for instance, Northern Italy, who do not reckon, of course, on
such distances along the journey as from Eydtkuhnen1 to Petersburg.
But what was entirely suitable and satisfactory in Italy turned out
to be not quite fitting for Russia. The owner of the hooded cloak
was a young man, also twenty-six or twenty-seven years old,
somewhat above the average in height, with very fair thick hair,
with sunken cheeks and a thin, pointed, almost white beard. His
eyes were large, blue and intent; there was something calm, though
somber, in their expression, something full of that strange look by
which some can surmise epilepsy in a person at first glance. The
young mans face was otherwise pleasing, delicate and lean, though
colorless, and at this moment even blue with cold. From his hands
dangled a meager bundle tied up in an old, faded raw-silk kerchief,
which, it seemed, contained the entirety of his traveling effects.
He wore thick-soled boots and spatsit was all very un-Russian. His
dark-haired neighbor in the sheepskin observed all this, partly
from having nothing to do, and at last, with that indelicate smile
in which satisfaction at the misfortunes of others is sometimes so
unceremoniously and casually expressed, he asked: 
　　Chilly 
　　And he shuddered. 
　　Very, answered his neighbor, with extraordinary readiness, and
just think, its thawing, too. What if there were a frost I didnt
even think it would be so cold at home. Ive become unused to
it. 
　　From abroad, eh 
　　Yes, from Switzerland. 
　　Phew! You dont say! The dark-haired man whistled and burst into
laughter. 
　　They struck up a conversation. The readiness of the fair young
man in the Swiss cloak to answer all his swarthy companions
inquiries was astonishing and without the merest suspicion of the
absolute thoughtlessness, inappropriateness and idleness of some of
the questions. In answering, he declared by the by that he had
indeed not been in Russia for a long time, a little over four
years, that he had been sent abroad on account of an illness, some
kind of strange nervous illness, like epilepsy or St. Vituss dance,
resulting in trembling fits and convulsions. The swarthy man
chuckled several times as he listened; and he laughed particularly
when, in answer to his inquiry, Well, have they cured you the fair
one answered, No, they havent. 
　　Ha! You must have wasted a lot of money over it, and we believe
in them over here, the swarthy man observed sarcastically. 
　　Thats the honest truth! interposed a badly dressed gentleman
sitting beside them, a petty official type, set in his crusty
scriveners ways, about forty, powerfully built, with a red nose and
pimpled faceThats the honest truth, sir, they only absorb all the
resources of Russia for nothing! 
　　Oh, you are quite mistaken in my case! the patient from
Switzerland chimed in with a gentle and conciliatory voice. Of
course, I cant argue with you because I dont know all about it, but
my doctor even shared his last penny with me for the journey here;
and there, he supported me at his expense for nearly two
years. 
　　Why, had you no one to pay for you asked the swarthy man. 
　　No; Mr. Pavlishchev, who used to pay for me there, died two years
ago. Ive since written to Generaless Epanchin, a distant relation
of mine, but Ive had no answer. So Ive come . . . 
　　Where are you going then 
　　You mean, where am I going to stay . . . I dont rightly know yet
. . . Somewhere . . . 
　　Youve not made up your mind yet And both his listeners burst out
laughing again. 
　　And no doubt that bundle is all youve got in the world asked the
swarthy man. 
　　Im willing to bet on it, chimed in the red-nosed official with an
exceptionally gleeful air, and that hes got nothing else in the
luggage van, though poverty is no vice, which, again, one mustnt
neglect to note. 
　　It turned out that this was the case, too; the fair-haired young
man acknowledged it at once with extraordinary readiness. 
　　Your bundle has some value, anyway, the petty official went on,
when they had laughed to their hearts content (remarkably, the
owner of the bundle finally began to laugh himself, looking at
them, which increased their mirth), and though you could stake your
head that it contains no golden rolls of foreign coin with
Napoleons or Friedrichs, to say nothing of Dutch Arapchicks, which
may already be concluded merely from the spats covering those
foreign boots of yours, yet . . . when we add to your bundle such a
purported relation as, for ex- ample, Generaless Epanchin, then
even the bundle takes on a certain different significance, needless
to say, but only in the case that Generaless Epanchin is really
your relation and you are not mistaken, out of absentmindedness . .
. which a person is very, very wont to do, if only . . . from an
excess of imagination. 
　　Ah, youve guessed right again, the fair young man chimed in. It
really is almost a mistake, thats to say, she is almost no
relation; so much so that I really was not at all surprised back
then, when I got no answer there. It was what I expected. 
　　You simply wasted the money for the postage. Hm! . . . Anyway,
you are open-hearted and sincere, which is commendable. Hm! . . .
As for General Epanchin, we know him, yes sir, for, actually, he is
a man everyone knows; and I used to know the late Mr. Pavlishchev,
too, who paid your expenses in Switzerland, that is if it was
Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, for there were two of them,
cousins. The other lives in the Crimea. The late Nikolai Andreevich
was a worthy man and well connected, and hed four thousand serfs in
his day . . . 
　　Just so, Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev was his name. 
　　And having answered, the young man intently and searchingly
scrutinized the know-it-all gentleman. One encounters these
know-it-all gentlemen sometimes, even fairly often, in a certain
well-known social sphere. They know everything. All the restless
curiosity and faculties of their mind are irresistibly bent in one
direction, no doubt from lack of more important ideas and interests
in life, as the contemporary thinker would put it. The phrase they
know everything, by the way, must be taken to apply to a rather
limited sphere: where so-and- so serves, with whom he is
acquainted, the amount of his net worth, where he was governor, to
whom hes married, how much his wife brought in, who are his
cousins, who twice removed, etc., etc., and so on in that vein. For
the most part, these know-it-alls walk about with worn-out elbows
and receive a salary of seventeen rubles a month. The people of
whose lives they know every last detail would be at a loss to
imagine their motives. Yet, in the meantime many of them are
positively consoled by this knowledge, which amounts to a complete
science, and derive from it self-respect and even their highest
spiritual gratification. And indeed it is a fascinating science. I
have seen learned men, literary men, poets, politicians, who sought
and found in that very science their greatest worldly comforts and
goals, indeed, positively making their careers solely on that
account. Throughout this entire conversation the swarthy young man
had been yawning, looking aimlessly out of the window and
impatiently expecting the end of the journey. He was somehow
preoccupied, extremely preoccupied, almost agitated; he was even
becoming somewhat strange: at times he would both hear and not
hear, look and not look, laugh and not know or understand what he
was laughing at. 
　　Excuse me, whom have I the honor . . . the pimply gentleman said
suddenly, addressing the fair young man with the bundle. 
　　Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin, replied the latter with prompt
and unhesitating readiness. 
　　Prince Myshkin Lev Nikolaevich Dont know . . . Cant say Ive ever
heard . . . the official responded thoughtfully. I dont mean
the 
　　name, that is, its a historical name, its to be found in
Karamzins History, as it should be; I mean you personally, and
indeed there are no 
　　Prince Myshkins to be met with anywhere, one never hears of them
anymore. 
　　I should think not, the prince answered at once, there are no
Prince Myshkins now except me; I believe I am the last of them. And
as for our fathers and grandfathers, some of them had even been
odnodvortsy. My father, by the way, was a sublieutenant in the
army, of the Junkers. But I dont in fact know how Generaless
Epanchin also wound up being of the Myshkins, also the last in her
line . . . 
　　He-he-he! The last in her line! He-he! What a phrase you turn,
giggled the official. 
　　The swarthy man smirked, too. The fair man was rather surprised
that he had managed to make a pun, and a pretty bad one at
that. 
　　Imagine, I said it without thinking, he explained at last,
wondering. 
　　To be sure, to be sure you did, the official assented
good-humoredly. 
　　So then, Prince, and youve been studying the sciences out there
too, with the professor, have you asked the swarthy man
suddenly. 
　　Yes . . . I was studying. 
　　For my part, Ive never studied anything. 
　　Well, I only did a little, you know, added the prince almost
apologetically. It wasnt possible to teach me systematically,
because of my illness. 
　　Do you know the Rogozhins the swarthy man asked quickly. 
　　No, I dont know them at all. I know very few people in Russia.
Youre a Rogozhin, then 
　　Yes, my name is Rogozhin, Parfyon. 
　　Parfyon That wouldnt be of those same Rogozhins . . . the
official began, with increased gravity. 
　　Yes, one of those, one of the same, interrupted the swarthy man
quickly and with uncivil impatience. And indeed, he hadnt addressed
the pimply official even once, but from the very start had spoken
only to the prince. 
　　But . . . how is that The official froze with amazement and his
eyes nearly popped out of his head, his whole face immediately
beginning to assume a reverent and servile, almost frightened,
expression. Related to the same Semyon Parfyonovich Rogozhin,
Hereditary Honorable Citizen, what passed on a month since and left
two and a half million in capital 
　　And how do you know he left a clear two and a half million the
swarthy man interrupted, not deigning to glance toward the official
now, either. Just look! (he indicated him to the prince with a
wink), and what do they possibly gain by sucking up to you at once
But its true that my father has died, and as for me, a month later,
Im going home from Pskov practically barefoot. Neither my brother,
that scoundrel, nor my mother have sent either money or wordI was
sent nothing! Like a dog! Ive spent the entire month lying in a
fever in Pskov! . . . 
　　And now you are coming in for a tidy million, at the lowest
reckoning, oh Lord! the official flung up his hands. 
　　What is it to him, tell me that said Rogozhin, nodding irritably
and angrily toward him again. Why, I am not going to give you a
farthing of it, though you may walk on your hands before me, if you
like. 
　　I will, I will. 
　　You see! But I wont give you anything, I wont, if you dance for a
whole week. 
　　Well, dont! And I dont need it. Dont! But I shall dance. I shall
leave my wife and children and dance before you. Only to flatter!
To flatter! 
　　Fie on you! spat the swarthy man. Five weeks ago, like youhe
addressed the princewith nothing but a bundle, I ran away from my
father to Pskov, to my aunt; and there collapsed with fever, while
he went and died without me. Kicked the bucket. Eternal memory to
the deceased, but he almost killed me then! Would you believe it,
Prince, yes, by God! Had I not run away then, he would have killed
me on the spot. 
　　Did you do something to make him angry countered the prince,
examining the millionaire in the sheepskin with some particular
interest. But though there may have been something intrinsically
remarkable in the million and in receiving a legacy, the prince was
surprised and interested by something else as well; and Rogozhin
himself was for some reason especially keen to converse with the
prince, though it seemed he was in need of conversation in a more
mechanical than spiritual sense; rather more from preoccupation
than frankness; from agitation and disquiet, for the sake of just
looking at someone and prattling on about something. It seemed that
he was still in a feverish state, and at the very least suffering
from the chills. As for the official, well, he simply hovered over
Rogozhin, didnt dare to breathe, hung on every word and weighed it,
precisely as if looking for a diamond. 
　　Angry he certainly was, and perhaps with reason, answered
Rogozhin, but more than anything, my brother did me in. Nothing can
be said against my mother, shes an old woman, reads the Lives of
the Saints, sits with the crones, and whatever brother Senjka9
resolves, so it shall be done. And why didnt he send word to me at
the time, then Its clear, sir! Its true I was unconscious at the
time. They say a telegram was sent, too. But you just see if a
telegram can get to my aunt. Shes widowed going on thirty years now
and keeps sitting with the holy fools from morning till night. A
nun she isnt, but even worse. Well, the telegram gave her a fright,
and without opening it, she went and presented it at the constables
station, where it still lies to this day. Only Konyov, Vassily
Vassilielich, came to my rescue, wrote me all about it. At night my
brother cut off the solid gold tassels from the brocaded pall on my
fathers coffin. Think what a lot of money they are worth, he
apparently said. Well, for that alone he can go to Siberia, if I
like, for this is sacrilege. Hey there, you clown, he turned to the
official, whats the law say: is it sacrilege 
　　Sacrilege! Sacrilege! the official at once concurred. 
　　Do they send you to Siberia for it 
　　To Siberia, to Siberia. At once to Siberia!

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