PART I // chapter 2-10

[모나리자]

그들은 마당에서 들어와 4층까지 올라갔다. 계단은 올라갈수록 점점 더 어두워졌다. 

11시가 다 되어 가고 있었고 피터스버그의 여름에는 진짜 밤이 없지만 계단 꼭대기는 꽤 어두웠다. 계단 맨 위에 있는 더러운 작은 문이 반쯤 열려 있었다. 길이가 약 10보인 매우 초라해 보이는 방이 촛불 끝으로 밝혀져 있었다. 입구에서 방 전체를 볼 수 있었다. 모든 것이 엉망이었고, 특히 아이들의 옷을 포함한 온갖 종류의 누더기가 널려 있었다.

가장 먼 구석에는 누더기 시트가 펼쳐져 있었다. 그 뒤에는 아마도 침대가 있었을 것이다. 방에는 의자 두 개와 구멍이 난 미국산 가죽으로 덮인 소파 외에는 아무것도 없었다. 그 앞에는 칠도 안 하고 덮개도 없는 오래된 주방용 테이블이 있었다. 테이블 가장자리에는 철제 촛대에 타오르는 탤로 양초가 놓여 있었다. 가족은 방의 일부가 아니라 그들만의 방을 가지고 있는 듯했지만, 그들의 방은 사실상 통로였다.

아말리아 리페베흐셀의 아파트가 나뉘어진 다른 방, 아니 찬장으로 통하는 문은 반쯤 열려 있었고, 안에서는 소리치고, 떠들썩하고, 웃음소리가 들렸다. 사람들은 그곳에서 카드놀이를 하고 차를 마시는 듯했다. 때때로 가장 예의 없는 말들이 튀어나왔다.

라스콜니코프는 카테리나 이바노브나를 즉시 알아봤다. 그녀는 다소 키가 크고 날씬하고 우아한 여성이었고, 몹시 쇠약해 보였고, 멋진 짙은 갈색 머리카락을 가지고 있었고 뺨에는 흥분한 홍조가 있었다. 그녀는 작은 방을 왔다 갔다 하며 가슴에 손을 얹고 있었다. 그녀의 입술은 말라붙었고 그녀의 호흡은 긴장해서 끊어진 헐떡거림이었다. 그녀의 눈은 열병처럼 번쩍였고

가혹하고 움직이지 않는 시선으로 주변을 둘러보았다.

그리고 촛불 끝의 마지막 깜빡이는 불빛이 비춰지는 그 소모적이고 흥분한 얼굴은 역겹게 느껴졌다. 그녀는 라스콜니코프에게 30세 정도로 보였고, 마르멜라도프에게는 확실히 이상한 아내였다.... 그녀는 그들의 말을 듣지 못했고 그들이 들어오는 것을 알아차리지 못했다. 그녀는 생각에 잠겨 아무것도 듣지도 보지도 못한 듯했다.

방은 가까웠지만, 그녀는 창문을 열지 않았다. 계단에서 악취가 났지만, 계단으로 통하는 문은 닫히지 않았다. 안쪽 방에서 담배 연기가 흘러들어왔고, 그녀는 계속 기침을 했지만, 문은 닫지 않았다. 여섯 살 난 막내딸은 잠들어 있었고, 소파에 머리를 얹은 채 바닥에 웅크리고 앉아 있었다. 한 살 더 많은 소년이 구석에서 울고 떨고 있었는데, 아마 방금 구타를 당했을 것이다.

그 옆에는 키가 크고 마른 아홉 살짜리 소녀가 서 있었는데, 얇고 해진 셰미즈를 입고 있었고, 오래 전에 자라서 무릎까지 간신히 닿는 오래된 캐시미어 펠리스를 맨 어깨에 걸쳤다. 그녀의 팔은 막대기처럼 가늘었고, 그녀의 오빠의 목에 두르고 있었다. 그녀는 그를 위로하려고 애썼고, 그에게 무언가를 속삭였고, 그가 다시 징징거리지 않도록 최선을 다했다.

동시에 그녀의 커다랗고 어두운 눈은 그녀의 겁먹은 얼굴의 얇음 때문에 더 커 보였으며, 그녀의 어머니를 놀라서 바라보고 있었다. 마르멜라도프는 문으로 들어가지 않고 바로 문간에 무릎을 꿇고 라스콜니코프를 그의 앞으로 밀어냈다. 낯선 사람을 본 여자는 무관심하게 그를 바라보는 것을 멈추고, 잠시 정신을 차리고 그가 왜 왔는지 궁금해하는 듯했다. 하지만 그녀는 그가 그녀의 방을 통과해야만 옆방으로 갈 것이라고 분명히 결정했다.

그녀는 그를 더 이상 신경 쓰지 않고 바깥문으로 걸어가 문을 닫았고, 문간에 무릎을 꿇은 남편을 보고 갑자기 비명을 질렀다.

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They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o’clock and although in summer in Petersburg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs. A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children’s garments.

Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but their room was practically a passage.

The door leading to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel’s flat was divided stood half open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps.Her eyes glittered as in fever

and looked about with a harsh immovable stare.

And that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing.

The room was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating.

Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother’s neck. She was trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep him from whimpering again.

At the same time her large dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there.

Taking no further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the doorway.