Lu Xun Complete Works/ja/Feizao
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石鹸 (肥皂)
魯迅 (ルーシュン, 1881–1936)
中国語からの日本語翻訳。
第1節
[The Nose -- Russia: Gogol]
[I]
On the twenty-fifth of March, an extraordinarily strange event occurred in Petersburg. The barber Ivan Yakovlevich, residing on Ascension Avenue (his surname has been lost, and on his shop sign, apart from a gentleman with a face lathered in soap and the words "Also Bloodletting," nothing was to be seen) -- in short, the barber Ivan Yakovlevich, residing on Ascension Avenue, awoke quite early and immediately smelled freshly baked bread. Raising himself slightly in bed, he saw his wife, who looked like a fine lady and was particularly fond of coffee, taking the freshly baked bread out of the oven.
"Today, Praskovya Osipovna, I don't want coffee," said Ivan Yakovlevich, "I'd rather have some hot bread with onions." (In truth, Ivan Yakovlevich wanted both coffee and bread, but he knew it was absolutely impossible to ask for both at once, since Praskovya Osipovna utterly detested such bad manners.) "Let the fool eat just bread, that suits me fine," thought his wife, "that means an extra portion of coffee for me." And she tossed a loaf on the table.
Ivan Yakovlevich put on his tailcoat over his undershirt, sat down at the table, sprinkled salt, prepared two onion heads, took up the knife, and with a most solemn expression began to cut the bread. Having divided it in two, he looked at the middle and was startled to see something white inside. Ivan Yakovlevich carefully poked with the knife and felt with his finger. "Quite hard!" he said. "What on earth is this?"
He stuck his finger in and pulled out -- a nose! ...
Ivan Yakovlevich involuntarily drew back his hand, rubbed his eyes, and felt again: a nose, a real nose! And this nose even seemed somehow familiar. Horror appeared on Ivan's face. But this horror was nothing compared to the fury displayed by his wife.
"Where did you cut that nose off, you good-for-nothing?" she shouted angrily. "You scoundrel, you drunkard! I'll report you to the police! You oaf! I've already heard from three customers that when you shave them you pull their noses so hard they nearly come off!"
But Ivan Yakovlevich was nearly breathless; he had already recognized that this was none other than the nose of Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov, who came to be shaved every Wednesday and Sunday.
"Wait, Praskovya Osipovna! I'll wrap it in a cloth and put it in the corner. Let it stay there for now; later I'll throw it away."
"No! What, a cut-off nose lying in my room -- I won't have it! ... You good-for-nothing! All you can do is strop your razor, but what you ought to do you never do straight away. You layabout, you blockhead! Do you think I'll go to the police for you? No thank you! You sluggard, you fool! Take it away! Wherever you like! But don't make me smell such a thing!"
Ivan Yakovlevich stood there as if beaten. He thought and thought -- but did not know what to think. "How can such a thing happen?" he said at last, scratching behind his ear. "Whether I came home drunk last night, I can't rightly remember. But this business, no matter how I think about it, doesn't seem real. First of all, bread is baked thoroughly, but a nose is not at all. I simply cannot figure it out!" Ivan Yakovlevich fell silent. The thought that the police might discover the nose on his person and prosecute him nearly drove him mad. Before his eyes already flashed the red collar with silver braid, and a sword gleamed -- he trembled all over. He took out trousers and boots, dressed himself as inconspicuously as possible, and accompanied by his dear wife's nagging, went out into the street with the nose wrapped in a cloth.
He had intended to stuff it under a doorstep or drop it somewhere on the street and then turn into a side lane. But bad luck had it that at the critical moment he always ran into an acquaintance who asked things like "Where are you off to, Ivan Yakovlevich?" or "Whose place are you going to for a shave so early?" -- so he could find no opportunity. Once he had already dropped it very skillfully, but a sentry standing far off pointed his stick at him and shouted: "Pick that up! You've dropped something!" This left Ivan Yakovlevich no choice but to pick up the nose again and put it in his pocket. Meanwhile, shops opened their doors and more and more pedestrians appeared, and he despaired completely.
He decided to run to the St. Isaac's Bridge. Perhaps somehow he could throw it into the Neva? -- But it is the author's fault that until now nothing has been said about our Ivan Yakovlevich, who possesses many respectable qualities.
Like all proper Russian artisans, Ivan Yakovlevich was a terrible drunkard; though he shaved other people's faces every day, his own remained perpetually unshaven. His tailcoat (he never wore a frock coat) was covered in stains: originally black, it had turned grayish-yellow everywhere; the stiff collar shone, and three buttons were missing, leaving only the thread stumps. Yet Ivan Yakovlevich was a great satirist. For instance, when Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov said during his shave, as was his custom: "Your hands, Ivan Yakovlevich, always smell rotten!" -- Ivan Yakovlevich would reply: "Why should they smell rotten?" -- "I don't know, friend, but they stink terribly," the Collegiate Assessor answered. Ivan Yakovlevich would take a pinch of snuff and then lather cheeks, upper lip, behind the ears, under the chin -- in short, wherever his hand happened to go -- all with soap, as his answer.
第2節
'You are mistaken, my dear sir; I am myself. There can be no close relationship between us. Judging by the buttons on your coat, you serve in an entirely different department.' Having said this, the nose turned away and paid him no further attention. Kovalyov was utterly bewildered; he knew neither what to do nor what to think. Suddenly he heard the pleasant rustle of a lady's dress. An elderly woman, adorned all over with lace, approached, and with her a slender young lady in a white dress that charmingly displayed her graceful figure, wearing a straw-colored hat as light as a pastry. Behind them stood a tall lackey with enormous side-whiskers and a whole dozen collars, opening his snuff-box. Kovalyov stepped closer, pulled out the cambric collar of his shirt, arranged the seals hanging from his gold chain, and looked about with smiles in every direction. His gaze fastened upon the airy young lady, who inclined her head like a little spring flower and raised her white hand with its semi-transparent fingers to her forehead. The smile on Kovalyov's face broadened still further when he caught sight beneath the hat of a round, dazzling white chin and part of a cheek blushing like an early spring rose. But suddenly he sprang back as if scalded.
第3節
He returned straight home; even his footsteps were barely audible. It was already evening. The search had been utterly fruitless. Coming home defeated, he found his own apartment dreary and disgusting. Scarcely through the door, he saw his manservant Ivan lying on the filthy leather sofa. He was lying on his back, spitting at the ceiling, and hitting the same spot every time with remarkable accuracy. Truly a life of boundless leisure! But such carefree behavior infuriated Kovalyov. "You scoundrel, always lying on the sofa!" said Kovalyov wrathfully. Ivan leapt hastily from the sofa and helped him off with his cloak. Kovalyov entered his room, exhausted and melancholy. He threw himself into an armchair, and after sighing for a while, said: "My God! My God! Why this misfortune? Had I lost an arm or a leg—that would be bad, but bearable. But a man without a nose—the devil knows what that is: neither fowl nor citizen; just take him and toss him out the window!" He fell into deep reflection on the causes of so strange an occurrence.
第4節
Meanwhile, the rumor of this extraordinary incident had spread throughout the entire city. As is customary, with each retelling something was added. At that time, people's minds were turned toward the extraordinary. Experiments with electromagnetism had just come into fashion, and the story of the dancing chairs in Straw Hut Street was still a fresh memory. And so the rumor arose that Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov's nose was promenading every day at three o'clock on the Nevsky Prospect. The curious came flocking. Someone claimed the nose was at Junker's shop—and before Junker's shop such a crowd gathered that the police had to intervene. A speculator of respectable appearance, with side-whiskers, who sold pastries in front of the theater, set up specially constructed sturdy wooden benches so the curious could stand on them and see inside; he charged eighty kopecks for admission.
第5節
"Ah..." But he could not say it. The crowd gathered at the street corner grew ever larger. Yet everyone only stared at the sailor, and no one wanted to fire. No one knows why, but all stood with their eyes cast down. Finally someone spoke in a timid voice: "We should finish him off." Everyone came alive again, as if waking from a dream. But at the same time a feeling of shame came over them. They had realized that the man before them was ready to die, while they all just stood and watched. What had happened? Why did no one act? Was it cowardice, compassion, or simply the dull inertia that seizes people when history calls them to act and they prefer to remain spectators? The silence lasted an eternity. Then the sailor began to speak. His words were simple but weighty. He spoke of injustice, of the hungry and the sated, of those who possessed everything and those who had nothing. He spoke not like an orator but like a man telling the truth because there was no alternative. One by one the soldiers lowered their weapons. Not because they were convinced—perhaps they were not—but because at that moment they recognized that they too belonged to the hungry.
第6節
Abgeon forgot about shooting and resistance; he merely pressed himself against the wall, hugging the ice-cold stone as though trying to burrow into it. With terrified, wide-open eyes he watched the slaughter at his side and waited breathlessly for his own fate. Two officer cadets approached to point-blank range; one raised his rifle and took aim at Abgeon's head. Abgeon could still clearly see the man's face, his squinting eyes at the sight, the barrel pointing at his forehead. In that last instant, a strange clarity swept through him. He saw his entire life before him, not in separate images but as a single, continuous sensation—childhood, his mother, the smell of bread, the first snow. Everything was there at once, everything was present, and everything was already past. The shot rang out. But it missed. The officer cadet had lowered the rifle at the last moment. Why, no one knew—perhaps not even he himself. Perhaps it was a trembling of the hand, a moment's hesitation, an unexpected flash of something one might call humanity. Abgeon was alive. He lay on the ground, pressed against the wall, not knowing whether he was dead or alive. He breathed—so he lived. But the life he would lead from now on would never be the same again.
第7節
Famine (From the History of a Certain Town) — Russia, Saltykov-Shchedrin
The year seventeen hundred seventy-six began in the town of Glupov under auspicious omens. The preceding six years had brought the town neither fires nor famines, neither epidemics among the populace nor pestilence among the cattle. The citizens believed that such fortune had never before been recorded in the annals. They thanked the Brigadier and praised his wisdom. The Brigadier himself was so moved by this praise that he shed tears and declared he had never in his whole life seen such a peaceful and obedient town.
But everything has its end. One morning—it was a Monday—the town awoke to find that there was no more bread. At the market: no bread. In the bakeries: no bread. In the granaries: no bread. It was as though an invisible hand had overnight removed all flour, all stores, every single grain.
The Brigadier was at a loss. He wrote letters, many letters, to all manner of places. In his reports he wrote that if there was no bread, there was nothing for it but to request troops. But from nowhere came any reply.
第8節
"Ah, ah, I have sinned grievously," the Brigadier groaned, and burst into loud weeping. He wrote letters again, many letters, and sent them everywhere. In his reports he stated that if there was no bread, there was nothing for it but to request troops. But from nowhere came any reply.
The citizens of Glupov grew more stubborn by the day. They gathered in the market square and debated. The Brigadier watched them through the window and wrote still more letters. But the citizens had lost faith in letters. They wanted bread.
Finally a deputation appeared before the Brigadier. They were polite but firm. "We want bread," they said. "Write no more letters. Give us bread." The Brigadier promised bread. Then he went to his room and wrote another letter.
第9節
On the first day, Andrei Ivanovich was somewhat concerned about his freedom from constraint. He feared the guest might burden him and bring unwelcome changes to his life, disturbing the daily routine he had so happily established. But his concern was entirely unfounded. Our friend Pavel Ivanovich displayed a truly remarkable talent and elasticity in adapting to everything. He praised the host's philosophy as genuinely wise, declaring that country life was the only life worthy of a human being. He admired solitude and its blessings, spoke of how he himself had long cherished the wish to settle in the countryside. In short—Pavel Ivanovich possessed the masterful ability to show everyone that he was of exactly the same opinion.
第10節
Tentetnikov was deeply startled by these words. He sat with his mouth agape, thinking only: "An extremely peculiar person, this Chichikov!"
"A strange fellow, this Tentetnikov!" thought Chichikov for his part, and then said aloud: "Andrei Ivanovich, please give me, as you would a brother, what I ask of you." Thus spoke Chichikov, and his tone was so warm, so sincere, that Tentetnikov was almost moved. Almost—for in the depths of his consciousness stirred a mistrust he could not quite name.
第11節
Telling of Himself by Gide. Japan: Ishikawa Takeshi
In the third volume of the French edition of "The Complete Works of Gide" there is a short essay entitled "Portrait of the Author." The date is unknown; perhaps it dates from around 1901. Since it is still of some interest, the full text is reproduced here.
The Vallotton mentioned here is a famous French printmaker. About him, if I remember correctly, Kuriyagawa Hakuson also wrote. In the poet Gourmont's collection of literary essays "The Book of Masks," he created portraits of many French authors.
According to the words of Martin Chauffier, the editor of the "Complete Works," this portrait seems to have appeared in the serialized work "Describing Oneself" published in the newspaper "Le Cri de Paris," accompanied by an article by Gide. The portrait was later included in "The Book of Masks."
When Vallotton created this woodcut, he had never seen Gide; he worked only from a photograph taken under palm trees in Biskra (Africa). Shortly after, when the two met for the first time, Vallotton exclaimed, "From my woodcut, one could hardly have recognized you!"
That Gide loved the South (Italy and Africa) and that his many travels there produced many of his masterworks is well known. Critics attribute this to the blood of his paternal lineage, which came from the region of Uzes in southern France.
(Translated by Luo Wen from "Bunka Shudan," Vol. 2, No. 8.)
(Published in "Yiwen" [Translations], Vol. 1, No. 2, October 16, 1934.)
第12節
Love Song — Romania, Sadoveanu
One
Our wagons halted on the woodland meadow of Zigonari. A great campfire of brushwood lit the teamsters with its red glow. In the distant darkness the unyoked cattle rested. When the flames flared up they showed clearly, then sank back into the gloom. Beside them stood the loaded wagons, measuring sticks protruding—these were traders on their way to the fair.
The night was warm and still. Stars sparkled brightly in the clear sky. Around the fire the men sat smoking their pipes. One began to sing—an old melody telling of love and loss, of forests and mountains, of the longing that fills a man when he is far from his beloved.
The others listened. In the flickering firelight their faces were grave and thoughtful. They all knew the song, for it was their song—the song of the wayfarers, the traders, the homeless who wandered through the forests of Romania and sang the same old tunes at every campfire.
第13節
Pyoerl turned his gaze to the other side of the castle. As if his wife's distinct figure stood at the window—was this real, or merely his imagination? "Listen, Grigory," he turned and said quickly, with a dark frown: "Can I not have a moment's peace?" Grigory was silent and gazed blankly at the window panes.
Night settled over the castle. In the great hall the candles still burned, and shadows danced on the walls. Pyoerl sat in his armchair staring into the fire. He thought of his wife, of the years gone by, of the love that had once existed and now seemed extinguished like the embers in the hearth.
He rose, went to the window, and gazed out into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The wind rustled in the old oaks. It was a night like any other—and yet Pyoerl sensed that something was different, that something was coming to an end, irrevocably and forever.
第14節
Afterwards everyone sat down to wine again, but Nastassye's brother-in-law Dumitru apparently no longer wished to drink from a cup; in all seriousness he began drinking from his wife's slipper.
The dancing went on: after Bryuhl came Batut, after Batut came Karasher; on the woodland meadow laughter and song rang out again. The night at Zigonari was one of those Romanian nights that one does not forget—the stars sparkled in the black sky, the fire blazed, the wine flowed, and the old songs rose like smoke into the darkness.
In the end everyone sang for himself, each his own melody, and yet they all harmonized—a chorus of individual voices, each alone and yet united, like the Romanian people itself, which always walks alone and yet belongs together.
第15節
The Village Woman — Bulgaria, Vazov
— (A Historical Episode) —
One
On the twentieth of May, eighteen hundred seventy-six, in the afternoon—on the very day when Botev's forces suffered a devastating defeat in the Balkan mountains and Botev himself was killed by the cruel Dzhambalas—a village woman, who had come over from the neighboring village of Etropole, reached the ford of the river Isker.
She was a simple woman, neither young nor old, with the weather-browned face of Bulgarian peasant women and the strong hands of a woman who had worked her whole life. On her back she carried a basket with some provisions for her family on the other side of the river.
The river was swollen with spring rains, and the ford, normally safe to cross, looked menacing. The brown water swirled and foamed, and at the edges driftwood and mud had collected. But the woman had to cross—on the other side her husband and children were waiting.
第16節
She was terrified and lost her resolve. She walked toward the small boat... The Isker was roaring frightfully... She looked at the dark shadow of the turbid current... She shuddered.
What to do?... Wait until dawn? She was unwilling to do that, though the rooster of Lyutibrod was already announcing the approaching morning.
What should she do? Did she dare cross alone? The river was wild, the boat small and rotten, and she could barely row. But on the other side her family was waiting—the sick husband, the hungry children.
She made her decision. With the hands of a peasant woman accustomed to carrying heavy loads, she pushed the boat into the water. The boat rocked dangerously, but it held. She seized the oar and began to row—against the current, against the fear, against the darkness.
The story of this nameless woman is the story of Bulgaria in that year: a small, fragile boat against a raging current, and the unyielding will to reach the other shore—at any price.
第17節
The short piece "The Village Woman" was originally titled "The Bulgarian Woman" and was retranslated from the anthology translated by Mrs. Szatanska (Marya Jonas von Szatanska) in the Reclam Universal Library, number five thousand and fifty-nine. The anthology is titled "The Bulgarian Woman and Other Stories"; this is the first piece, depicting the typical village woman of his country: superstitious, stubborn, but sturdy and brave; along with her conception of the revolution, for the nation, for the faith. Therefore the original title is more apt. The current change to a more "familiar" rather than "faithful" title is actually not a good example; after I finished translating, I reconsidered and realized I had been too clever before. The original author used "good deeds" to strike at prayer at the end -- this was probably a hint for his domestic readers.
I think it is unnecessary for me to explain that Bulgaria at that time was under Turkish oppression. Although this short story is simple, it is written very clearly, and the places and characters in it are real. Though sixty years have already passed, I believe it still possesses great power to move.
(Published in the final issue of "Yiwen" [Translations], September 16, 1935.)
第18節
[Structural marker: 【]
第19節
Third Chapter]
"If Colonel Koshkaryov is indeed mad, that would actually not be bad at all," said Chichikov, when he found himself once more beneath the open sky and wide fields. All human habitations lay far behind him; now he saw only the vast firmament and in the distance two small clouds. The landscape was barren and monotonous, but this did not disturb Chichikov in the least—on the contrary, this solitude put him in a reflective and at the same time cheerful mood.
Chichikov was a man who did not fear solitude, provided it did not last too long. He used it for reflection—not about the great questions of life, but about the small, practical matters that moved his heart: How much were the dead souls worth? Where could he obtain more? And above all: How could he extract the greatest possible profit from the whole enterprise?
第20節
"Your holy commands are quite sufficient! What kind of talk is that, as though you had never had any troubles!"
"I never have! I haven't had the slightest time to devote to troubles either. In the morning—I'm still asleep. Barely opened my eyes and the cook is already standing before me; the menu for lunch must be ordered. Then I drink tea and give the steward his instructions. Then I go fishing or hunting, and before you know it, dinner time has come. After dinner I lie down for a bit, and then the evening company arrives. Where would there be time for trouble?"
"Indeed, no time for trouble," Chichikov confirmed. "Now that's what I call living! And what a lunch we had yesterday! In all my life I've never eaten so well!"
"And that was merely an ordinary meal," said the host modestly, obviously flattered.
第21節
"Around the sturgeon, you must arrange carrot stars, whitefish with mushrooms; also radish and carrots, beans, and all sorts of things—you know: the garnishes must be plentiful, do you hear? And you must fill the pig's stomach with ice so it swells up a bit!"
Petushov gave many more instructions. With each dish he named, he grew more animated, and his eyes began to shine. He described not only what should be cooked but how it should be cooked—with the passion of an artist planning his masterpiece.
Chichikov listened to all this with growing appetite. He had the impression of attending not a kitchen briefing but a symphony—a symphony of aromas and flavors, in which each individual dish was an instrument and the ensemble of all produced a feast such as few mortals were privileged to enjoy.
"You truly know how to live," said Chichikov admiringly.
"Yes," replied Petushov simply, "I do." And in those two words lay an entire philosophy of life.
第22節
"Quite right! Traveling about the world is very fine."
"An excellent insight! Indeed, it really is fine. One can see all manner of things one would not ordinarily see, and meet people one would otherwise hardly encounter. Many a conversation is worth its weight in gold—take the present example: for me it is a most pleasant experience, and I count it as a stroke of fortune..." Here Chichikov made a gallant bow.
Travel, Chichikov reflected, served a dual purpose for him: first, it offered the opportunity to make new business acquaintances, and second, it allowed him to escape the tedium of staying in one place. Chichikov was not a man who could remain long in a single spot—not from restlessness, but from the instinctive knowledge that opportunities present themselves only to those who are in motion.