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卡拉马佐夫兄弟|The Brothers Karanazov

第一部 第二卷 不合时宜的聚会:一、来到修道院

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 陀思妥耶夫斯基] 阅读：[7397]
PART I:Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering:Chapter I. They Arrive At The Monastery
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这是八月末的一天，天气很好，晴朗而暖和。跟长老的会面定在早弥撒之后，大约在十一点半左右。然而我们这几位客人没来做弥撒，他们抵达修道院时弥撒刚结束。他们分乘两辆马车：第一辆十分漂亮，套着两匹名贵的马，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇·米乌索夫坐在里面，身边还带了一位非常年轻的远房亲戚，二十来岁的彼得·福米奇·卡尔加诺夫，这位年轻人正打算上大学，不知为什么他暂时住在米乌索夫家里，米乌索夫百般怂恿他跟随自己一起出国，到苏黎世或耶拿去上大学，完成学业。年轻人还没有最后拿定主意。他爱沉思，似乎有点漫不经心的样子。他有一张好看的脸，身材魁梧。如同所有心不在焉的人那样，他的目光中常常流露出一种奇怪的滞呆的神色，他有时候会盯着你看好久，可是却视而不见。他沉默寡言，举止有点拙笨，然而跟谁单独相处的时候，又往往会突然变得特别健谈，特别冲动，特别爱笑，无缘无故就笑。不过，他这种活跃来得突然去得也快。他的衣着始终整齐，甚至十分考究。他已经拥有一份能独立支配的财产，而且可望得到更大的份额。他跟阿廖沙是好朋友。

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另一辆相当破旧、吱吱嘎嘎发响然而却十分宽畅的马车里坐着费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇和他的儿子伊凡·费奥多罗维奇，这辆套着两匹灰红色老马的出租马车远远落在米乌索夫他们后面。早在前一天就已经把具体时间通知了德米特里·费奥多罗维奇，可他还是迟迟未到。客人们把马车停在围墙外的客舍边，走进修道院的大门。除了费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇，其余三人似乎从来没有见过修道院，而米乌索夫三十多年来似乎连教堂的门都没进过。他东张西望，带着几分好奇，却又装出漫不经心的样子。对他这样一位善于观察的人来说，除了一些极其平常的教堂建筑和生活设施外，修道院内部并没有任何值得一看的东西。最后一批信徒正摘下帽子，画着十字，陆续走出教堂。在一群平民中间，还夹杂着几位比较上层的人物，两三位贵妇人，一位年迈的将军，他们都住在客舍里。乞丐们呼啦一下子围住了我们这几位客人，可是谁也没有给他们施舍。唯独彼得·卡尔加诺夫从钱包里掏出一枚十戈比的银币，不知为什么，他像做了亏心事似的赶紧塞给一名乡下女人，匆匆说了一句：“拿去分吧。”其实与他同行的几个人谁也没有注意这件事，他完全用不着不好意思；可是觉察到这一点之后，他反而更加不好意思起来。

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按理说他们应该受到欢迎，甚至隆重的礼遇。因为他们中间有一位前不久还布施过一千卢布；另一位则是富甲一方的地主，很有学问，而且根据诉讼可能出现的结果，修道院能不能在河里捕鱼在一定程度上还取决于他呢。可是很奇怪，修道院里没有一个头面人物出来接待他们。米乌索夫漫不经心地望着教堂旁边一块块墓碑，本来想说把坟墓选在这样的“圣地”肯定要花费很多钱，可是他没有说出来：他脸上的表情起了变化，通常那种自由派的讥讽几乎成了愤怒。

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“见鬼，在这乱七八糟的地方去问谁……这问题要解决，时间不早了。”他突然自言自语地说。

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突然，一位穿着宽大的夏季大衣、长着一对甜腻腻的小眼睛、头发略秃的老先生向他们走来。他稍稍举起帽子，口齿不清地向大家自我介绍说他是图拉的地主马克西莫夫。他马上就明白了我们这些客人要打听些什么。

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“佐西马长老就住在隐修室，隐修室与外界隔绝，离修道院四百来步，要穿过小树林，穿过小树林……”

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“我也知道要穿过小树林，”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇回答说，“就是不记得路怎么走，我们好久没来了。”

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“进这个大门，再直接穿过小树林……穿过小树林，咱们走吧，我来带路……我亲自带你们去……往这儿走，往这儿走……”

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他们穿过大门，朝一片小树林走去。地主马克西莫夫已经六十岁上下，他似乎不是在走，可以说是一路小跑，一边跑一边还怀着急不可耐的好奇从一旁仔细打量他们。他那双眼睛仿佛都鼓了出来。

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“您知道吗，我们是为私事来找长老的，”米乌索夫一本正经地说，“也可以说我们是来‘拜见’这位长老的。我们十分感谢您的一番好意，但我们不会请您跟我们一起进去的。”

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“我去过了，去过了，我已经去过了……名副其实的骑士。”这位地主说着朝空中打了个响指。

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“谁是骑士？”米乌索夫问。

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“长老啊，杰出的长老，长老……修道院的光荣和骄傲。佐西马，一位了不起的长老。”

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这时候一名小修士追了上来，打断了他这番前言不搭后语的话。那小修士身材瘦小，戴着高筒修士帽，脸色极其苍白。费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇和米乌索夫停下脚步。小修士极有礼貌地鞠了一个几乎九十度的躬，说道：

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“院长请诸位先生拜访结束之后到他那儿用膳。时间是一点钟，请不要迟到。请您也去。”他转身对马克西莫夫说。

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“我一定遵命！”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇大声说道，他听到院长的邀请十分高兴。“一定去。您知道吧，我们大家都保证在这儿按规矩办事……彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，您去吗？”

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“怎么能不去呢！要不是为了参观他们这儿的种种习俗，我到这儿来干什么呢？只是有一件事使我感到为难，那就是我现在必须陪着您，费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇……”

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“是啊，德米特里·费奥多罗维奇还没有来。”

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“要是他不来倒也好了，难道我乐意看你们争争吵吵，还要一直陪着你们吗？午饭前我们一定赶到。请您替我们感谢院长。”他对小修士说。

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“不，我还得带诸位去见长老呢。”小修士回答。

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“既然这样，那我就直接到院长那儿，现在就去。”地主马克西莫夫嘟囔说。

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“院长现在正忙着呐，不过您看着办吧……”小修士迟疑不决地说。

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“这小老头真讨厌。”待地主马克西莫夫回修道院之后，米乌索夫出声说道。

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“他真像冯·佐恩。”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇突然冒出了这么一句。

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“您就只知道这些……他怎么像冯·佐恩呢？您亲眼见过冯·佐恩吗？”

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“我见过他的像片。虽然脸型不同，但有一种说不出的相似之处，完完全全是冯·佐恩的翻版。只要看面孔我就能看得出来。”

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“也许是这样，您在这方面是行家。不过有一点，费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇，您刚才自己提到我们保证要守规矩的，这您可得记住。我要告诉您，您得把握住自己。要是您再充当小丑的角色，那我不想让人家把我也看作跟您一样的货色……您看，他就是这么个人。”他对小修士说。“我就怕跟他一起去见规规矩矩的人。”

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小修士苍白得没有血色的嘴角上露出一丝不无狡黠的微笑，但他什么也没回答，很明显，他保持沉默是出于自尊。米乌索夫眉头皱得更紧了。

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“嘿，真见他妈的鬼，这些家伙表面上装得道貌岸然，骨子里却是尔虞我诈，为非作歹！”他脑子里这样想。

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“这就是隐修室，我们到了！”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇大声喊道。“围墙挡道，大门紧闭。”

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他走过去对着画在大门上方和两侧的圣像画起十字来。

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“进了修道院就得遵守修道院的规矩。”他说。“这里有二十五位圣徒在修行，他们整天你看着我，我看着你，吃素斋戒，女人一概不得入内，这真了不起。事实也确实如此。不过我听说长老也接见太太们，有这么回事吗？”他突然问小修士。

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“现在这里就有平民妇女，您瞧，就在那边的回廊里躺着，等待接见。这里还为上流社会的太太们预备了两个小房间，就在回廊上，在围墙外面，瞧，那几扇窗户就是。长老身体好的时候就打里面的通道出来接见她们，也就是说中间隔着一道围墙。现在就有一位太太，一位来自哈尔科夫的女地主，霍赫拉科娃太太带着自己瘦弱不堪的女儿在等待接见。大约长老已经答应要接见她们，虽然近来他身体十分虚弱，很少公开露面。”

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“这么说来，从隐修室到太太们那儿还保留了一条通道。神甫，您别以为我在含沙射影，我只是随便说说罢了。您知道吗，在阿索斯，您听说过没有，不仅禁止妇女朝圣，甚至连雌性的动物都不允许存在，什么母鸡啦，母火鸡啦，母牛啦，都不允许存在……”

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“费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇，我要回去了，让您一个人留在这儿吧。我不在的时候他们会架着您把您轰走的，这我可要预先警告您。”

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“我碍您什么事啦，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇！您瞧瞧，”他突然高喊着，一步跨进了修道院的围墙。“您瞧瞧，他们简直住在玫瑰花的海洋里。”

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确实，尽管现在没有玫瑰花，可还有许许多多罕见的艳丽夺目的秋季鲜花，凡是能栽花的地方都栽满了花。这些花显然由富有经验的人在精心照料。教堂的围墙旁，周围的墓地里，到处散布着一个个花坛。长老修道室所在的那幢带门廊的木结构平房周围，也栽满了鲜花。

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“以前瓦尔索诺菲长老在世时，有没有这些鲜花？听说他不喜欢美的东西，见了女人就会光火，甚至还用手杖去揍她们。”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇登上台阶时说道。

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“瓦尔索诺菲长老有时候确实有点疯疯癫癫，但是大家也说得太离谱了。他从来没有用手杖打过什么人。”小修士回答说。“现在，先生们，请你们稍等片刻，我先去通报一声。”

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“费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇，您听着，我最后一次提醒您：您的言行要检点，不然我可要对您不客气。”米乌索夫再一次警告说。

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“真不明白您为什么这样激动，”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇讥讽道，“也许您是害怕犯下的罪孽吧？听说只要看人的眼睛就能知道这个人要来干什么。可您为什么对他们的意见看得那么重要呢？您这位长住巴黎的人士真使人感到惊讶！”

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米乌索夫还没来得及对他的讥讽作出反应，已经有人来请他们进去了。他进去的时候心里还窝着火……

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“嗯，我知道自己窝了一肚子火，会跟他们争起来的，可是我一发火就会贬低自己，贬低自己的理想。”他脑海中闪过这个念头。

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It was a warm, bright day at the end of August. The interview with the elder had been fixed for half‐past eleven, immediately after late mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove up with Miüsov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the university. Miüsov, with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to persuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or Jena. The young man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absent‐minded. He was nice‐ looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in his gaze at times. Like all very absent‐minded people he would sometimes stare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes, when he was alone with any one, he became talkative and effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even elaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune and expectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha’s.

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In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old pinkish‐gray horses, a long way behind Miüsov’s carriage, came Fyodor Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the monastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, none of the party had ever seen the monastery, and Miüsov had probably not even been to church for thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed ease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too were ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church, bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher rank—two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten‐ copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed—God knows why!—hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: “Divide it equally.” None of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be embarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even more overcome.

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It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made a donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands. Yet no official personage met them.

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Miüsov looked absent‐mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty penny for the right of lying in this “holy place,” but refrained. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger.

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“Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out, for time is passing,” he observed suddenly, as though speaking to himself.

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All at once there came up a bald‐headed, elderly man with ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He at once entered into our visitors’ difficulty.

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“Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from the monastery, the other side of the copse.”

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“I know it’s the other side of the copse,” observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, “but we don’t remember the way. It is a long time since we’ve been here.”

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“This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse ... the copse. Come with me, won’t you? I’ll show you. I have to go.... I am going myself. This way, this way.”

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They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head.

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“You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own,” observed Miüsov severely. “That personage has granted us an audience, so to speak, and so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to accompany us.”

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“I’ve been there. I’ve been already; un chevalier parfait,” and Maximov snapped his fingers in the air.

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“Who is a chevalier?” asked Miüsov.

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“The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!”

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But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan‐looking monk of medium height, wearing a monk’s cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miüsov stopped.

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The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced:

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“The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o’clock, not later. And you also,” he added, addressing Maximov.

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“That I certainly will, without fail,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely delighted at the invitation. “And, believe me, we’ve all given our word to behave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?”

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“Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company....”

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“Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non‐existent as yet.”

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“It would be a capital thing if he didn’t turn up. Do you suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner. Thank the Father Superior,” he said to the monk.

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“No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder,” answered the monk.

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“If so I’ll go straight to the Father Superior—to the Father Superior,” babbled Maximov.

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“The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please—” the monk hesitated.

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“Impertinent old man!” Miüsov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to the monastery.

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“He’s like von Sohn,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly.

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“Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have you ever seen von Sohn?”

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“I’ve seen his portrait. It’s not the features, but something indefinable. He’s a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy.”

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“Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin to play the fool I don’t intend to be associated with you here.... You see what a man he is”—he turned to the monk—“I’m afraid to go among decent people with him.” A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miüsov frowned more than ever.

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“Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath,” flashed through Miüsov’s mind.

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“Here’s the hermitage. We’ve arrived,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. “The gates are shut.”

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And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above and on the sides of the gates.

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“When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage there are twenty‐five saints being saved. They look at one another, and eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate. That’s what is remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that the elder receives ladies,” he remarked suddenly to the monk.

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“Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there waiting. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the portico, but outside the precincts—you can see the windows—and the elder goes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough. They are always outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov, waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the people.”

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“So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage to the ladies. Don’t suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do you know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no creature of the female sex—no hens, nor turkey‐hens, nor cows.”

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“Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They’ll turn you out when I’m gone.”

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“But I’m not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look,” he cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts, “what a vale of roses they live in!”

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Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and evidently tended by a skillful hand; there were flower‐beds round the church, and between the tombs; and the one‐storied wooden house where the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers.

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“And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He didn’t care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies with a stick,” observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps.

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“The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal that’s told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one,” answered the monk. “Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you.”

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“Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave properly or I will pay you out!” Miüsov had time to mutter again.

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“I can’t think why you are so agitated,” Fyodor Pavlovitch observed sarcastically. “Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by one’s eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I’m surprised at you.”

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But Miüsov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come in. He walked in, somewhat irritated.

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“Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to quarrel—and lower myself and my ideas,” he reflected.

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