PART I // chapter 3-1

[모나리자]

CHAPTER III 

그는 잠을 깨고 나서 다음 날 늦게 일어났다. 하지만 잠은 그를 상쾌하게 해주지 못했다. 그는 격노하고, 짜증이 나고, 성질이 나쁜 채로 깨어났고, 증오심에 찬 눈으로 자신의 방을 바라보았다. 방은 길이가 6보 정도 되는 작은 찬장이었다.

벽에서 먼지가 묻은 노란 종이가 벗겨져 있어 가난해 보였고, 너무 낮은 음조여서 평균 키보다 큰 사람이 그 안에서 불편해하고 천장에 머리를 부딪힐 때마다 느꼈다.

가구는 방과 조화를 이루었다. 낡은 의자가 세 개 있었는데, 다소 허름했다. 모서리에 몇 권의 원고와 책이 놓인 그림이 그려진 테이블이 있었다. 그 위에 쌓인 먼지는 오랫동안 손대지 않은 것임을 보여주었다.

크고 서투른 소파가 방의 한쪽 벽과 바닥 공간의 절반을 거의 차지했다. 한때는 천으로 덮여 있었지만, 지금은 누더기가 되어 라스콜니코프의 침대 역할을 했다. 그는 종종 옷을 벗지 않고, 시트도 없이, 옛 학생용 외투에 몸을 감싸고, 작은 베개 하나에 머리를 얹고, 베개 밑에 깨끗하고 더러운 린넨을 모두 쌓아올렸다. 소파 앞에는 작은 테이블이 있었다.

더 이상 무질서하게 가라앉는 건 어려웠겠지만, 지금의 정신 상태에서는 라스콜니코프에게 이는 긍정적으로 기분 좋은 일이었다. 그는 거북이가 껍질 속에 있는 것처럼 모든 사람에게서 완전히 벗어났고, 심지어 그를 시중들고 가끔 그의 방을 들여다보는 하녀를 보는 것만으로도 그는 신경질적으로 짜증이 났다.

그는 한 가지 일에만 전적으로 집중하는 일부 일광주의자를 압도하는 상태였다. 그의 집주인은 지난 2주 동안 그에게 식사를 보내는 것을 포기했고, 그는 저녁을 먹지 않고도 그녀에게 간청할 생각은 아직 하지 않았다.

나스타샤는 요리사이자 유일한 하인으로, 하숙인의 기분에 매우 만족했고, 청소와 방 청소를 완전히 포기했으며, 일주일에 한 번 정도 빗자루를 들고 그의 방으로 들어갔습니다.

그날 그녀는 그를 깨웠습니다. "일어나, 왜 자고 있니?" 그녀는 그를 불렀습니다. "아홉 시가 넘었어. 차를 가져왔어. 한 잔 마실래? 꽤 배고프실 것 같은데?" 라스콜니코프는 눈을 뜨고 깜짝 놀라 나스타샤를 알아보았습니다. "집주인에게서 온 거야?" 그는 소파에 앉아 병든 얼굴을 천천히 물었습니다.

"정말 집주인에게서 온 거야!" 그녀는 약하고 오래된 차가 가득 담긴 깨진 찻주전자를 그 앞에 놓고, 그 옆에 노란색 설탕 덩어리 두 개를 놓았습니다. "자, 나스타샤, 받아." 그는 주머니를 더듬으며 말했습니다(그는 옷을 입은 채로 잤기 때문입니다). 그리고 한 줌의 동전을 꺼냈습니다. "달려가서 빵 한 덩어리를 사 와. 그리고 돼지 고기 정육점에서 제일 싼 소시지를 조금 가져다 줘."

"내가 지금 당장 가져다 줄게, 하지만 소시지 대신 양배추 수프를 먹고 싶지 않아? 어제 만든 대박 수프야. 어제 널 위해 남겨두었는데, 넌 늦게 왔어. 맛있는 수프야."

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He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length.

It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling.

The furniture was in keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched.

A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student’s overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of the sofa.

It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of a servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation.

He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner.

Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather pleased at the lodger’s mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray into his room with a broom.

She waked him up that day. “Get up, why are you asleep?” she called to him. “It’s past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you’re fairly starving?” Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya. “From the landlady, eh?” he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa.

“From the landlady, indeed!” She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it. “Here, Nastasya, take it please,” he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers—“run and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher’s.”

“The loaf I’ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn’t you rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It’s capital soup, yesterday’s. I saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It’s fine soup.”