PART 3 // chapter 6-3

[모나리자]

"살인자!" 그는 조용하지만 분명하고 뚜렷한 목소리로 갑자기 말했다. 라스콜니코프는 그 옆을 따라 걸었다. 그의 다리는 갑자기 약해졌고, 차가운 오한이 척추를 타고 내려갔으며, 그의 심장은 잠시 멈춘 듯했다가 갑자기 풀려난 듯이 쿵쾅거리기 시작했다. 그래서 그들은 침묵 속에서 나란히 약 100보를 걸었다. 그 남자는 그를 보지 않았다. "무슨 말이에요... 뭐예요... 누가 살인자예요?" 라스콜니코프가 거의 들리지 않게 중얼거렸다. "당신은 살인자예요." 그 남자는 승리에 찬 증오의 미소를 지으며 더욱 분명하고 단호하게 대답했고, 다시 한번 라스콜니코프의 창백한 얼굴과 멍든 눈을 똑바로 바라보았다.

그들은 방금 교차로에 도착했다. 그 남자는 뒤를 돌아보지 않고 왼쪽으로 돌았다. 라스콜니코프는 서서 그를 응시했다. 그는 그가 50보 떨어진 곳에서 돌아서서 여전히 그 자리에 서 있는 자신을 바라보는 것을 보았다. 라스콜니코프는 분명히 볼 수 없었지만, 그는 다시 차가운 증오와 승리의 미소를 짓고 있는 것 같았다.

라스콜니코프는 느리고 비틀거리는 걸음걸이로, 무릎을 떨며, 온몸이 오한을 느끼며 작은 다락방으로 돌아갔다. 그는 모자를 벗어 테이블에 올려놓았고, 10분 동안 움직이지 않고 서 있었다.

그러고 나서 그는 지쳐서 소파에 주저앉았고, 고통에 약하게 신음하며 그 위에 몸을 뻗었다. 그래서 그는 30분 동안 누워 있었다. 그는 아무것도 생각하지 않았다. 어떤 생각이나 생각의 조각, 질서나 일관성이 없는 어떤 이미지가 그의 머릿속에 떠다녔다. 어린 시절에 본 적이 있거나 어딘가에서 한 번 만난 적이 있는 사람들의 얼굴, 결코 기억하지 못했을 사람들의 얼굴, V에 있는 교회의 종탑, 레스토랑의 당구대와 당구를 치는 몇몇 경찰관, 지하 담배 가게의 시가 냄새, 선술집, 더러운 물로 더럽혀지고 달걀 껍질이 흩어져 있는 꽤 어두운 뒷계단, 그리고 어딘가에서 떠다니는 일요일 종... 이미지가 잇따라 이어지며 허리케인처럼 빙빙 돌았다.

그 중 일부는 그가 좋아해서 붙잡으려고 했지만, 사라졌고 그동안 내내 그의 내면에는 억압이 있었지만, 압도적이지는 않았고 때로는 기분 좋았다.... 가벼운 떨림은 여전히 ​​지속되었지만, 그것도 거의 기분 좋은 감각이었다. 그는 라주미힌의 서둘러 걷는 발소리를 들었다. 그는 눈을 감고 잠자는 척했다. 라주미힌은 문을 열고 잠시 주저하듯 문간에 서 있다가, 부드럽게 방 안으로 들어와 조심스럽게 소파로 갔다. 라스콜니코프는 나스타샤의 속삭임을 들었다. "그를 방해하지 마! 자게 두어.

나중에 저녁을 먹을 수 있을 거야." "그렇지." 라주미힌이 대답했다. 둘 다 조심스럽게 물러나 문을 닫았다. 30분이 더 지났다. 라스콜니코프는 눈을 뜨고 다시 등을 돌리고 두 손을 머리 뒤로 모았다. "그는 누구야? 땅에서 솟아난 그 남자는 누구야? 그는 어디에 있었고, 무엇을 보았지? 그는 모든 것을 봤어, 분명해. 그는 그때 어디에 있었지? 그리고 그는 어디에서 보았지? 왜 지금에야 땅에서 솟아났지? 그리고 그는 어떻게 볼 수 있었지? 가능할까? 흠..." 라스콜니코프가 추워지고 떨면서 말을 이었다. "그리고 니콜라이가 문 뒤에서 발견한 보석 상자—가능할까?

단서? 당신은 무한소선을 놓치고 그것을 증거의 피라미드로 만들 수 있어요! 파리가 날아가서 봤어요! 가능할까요?” 그는 갑자기 혐오감을 느끼며 자신이 얼마나 약하고 육체적으로 약해졌는지 깨달았습니다. “알았어야지.” 그는 쓴웃음을 지으며 생각했습니다. “그리고 어떻게 감히 나 자신을 알고, 내가 어떻게 되어야 하는지 알고 도끼를 들고 피를 흘렸을까요! 미리 알았어야지... 아, 하지만 알았어!” 그는 절망에 빠져 속삭였습니다. 때때로 그는 어떤 생각에 멈춰 섰습니다.

“아니, 그 사람들은 그렇게 만들어지지 않았어요. 모든 것이 허락된 진짜 주인은 툴롱을 습격하고, 파리에서 학살을 저지르고, 이집트에서 군대를 잊고, 모스크바 원정에 50만 명의 병력을 낭비하고, 빌니우스에서 농담을 합니다. 그리고 그의 죽음 이후에 제단이 세워지고, 그래서 모든 것이 허락됩니다. 아니, 그런 사람들은 살이 아니라 청동으로 만들어진 것 같아요!” 갑자기 떠오른 무의미한 생각 하나가 그를 거의 웃게 만들었습니다.

나폴레옹, 피라미드, 워털루, 그리고 비참하고 마른 노파, 침대 밑에 빨간 트렁크를 둔 전당포 주인—포르피리 페트로비치가 소화하기 좋은 해시입니다! 어떻게 소화할 수 있을까요! 너무 예술적이지 않습니다. "노파의 침대 밑에 나폴레옹이 기어들어가다니! 으악, 얼마나 역겹습니까!"

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“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice. Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence. The man did not look at him. “What do you mean... what is.... Who is a murderer?” muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly. “You are a murderer,” the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and stricken eyes.

They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph.

With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving.

Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour. He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind—faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere.... The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane.

Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant.... The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation. He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s whisper: “Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep.

He can have his dinner later.” “Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head. “Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that’s clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...” continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, “and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door—was that possible?

A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?” He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. “I ought to have known it,” he thought with a bitter smile. “And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand.... Ah, but I did know!” he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought.

“No, those men are not made so. The real Master to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And altars are set up to him after his death, and so all is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!” One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh.

Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed—it’s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!”