PART 4 // chapter 6-2

[모나리자]

"무슨 생각이 들었는지는 묻지 않았어... 말해, 죽였어?" "내가 살인자야... 증거를 제시하고 싶어." 니콜라이가 말했다. "아악! 뭐로 죽였어?" "도끼야. 준비해 놓았어." "아악, 서두르고 있잖아! 혼자?" 니콜라이는 질문을 이해하지 못했다. "혼자서 죽였어?" "네, 혼자야. 그리고 미트카는 무죄고 아무런 관련이 없어." "미트카 때문에 서두르지 마! 아악! 그때 왜 그렇게 아래층으로 달려갔어? 짐꾼들이 너희 둘을 만났잖아!" "그들이 냄새 맡지 못하게 하려고 그랬어... 미트카를 쫓아갔어." 니콜라이가 서둘러 대답했다. 마치 대답을 준비해 놓은 듯. "알았어!" 포르피리가 짜증을 내며 소리쳤다.

"그가 하는 이야기는 자기 이야기가 아니야." 그는 마치 자신에게 말하듯 중얼거렸고, 갑자기 그의 눈은 다시 라스콜니코프에게 머물렀다. 그는 니콜라이에게 너무 빠져서 잠시 라스콜니코프를 잊었던 모양이다. 그는 약간 당황했다. "친애하는 로디온 로마노비치, 실례합니다!" 그는 그에게 달려가서 말했다. "이게 안 됩니다. 가야 합니다... 머물러도 소용없어요... 저는... 보다시피, 얼마나 놀라운 일인가!... 안녕!" 그리고 그는 그의 팔을 잡고 문으로 안내했다. "당신은 예상하지 못했을 겁니다." 라스콜니코프는 상황을 완전히 파악하지는 못했지만 용기를 되찾았다.

"당신도 예상하지 못했을 겁니다, 친구. 손이 떨리는 걸 보세요! 하하하!" "당신도 떨고 있군요, 포르피리 페트로비치!" "그래요, 저도 떨고 있어요. 예상하지 못했어요." 그들은 이미 문 앞에 있었다. 포르피리는 라스콜니코프가 떠나기를 고대했다. "그리고 당신의 작은 놀라움, 그것을 나에게 보여주지 않을 건가요?" 라스콜니코프가 비꼬는 듯이 말했다. "이봐, 그는 물어볼 때 이를 갈고 있어, 하하하! 넌 아이러니한 사람이야! 만날 때까지 와!" "안녕이라고 말할 수 있을 거라고 믿어!" "그건 신의 손에 달려 있어." 포르피리가 부자연스러운 미소를 지으며 중얼거렸다.

라스콜니코프는 사무실을 지나가면서 많은 사람이 자신을 바라보고 있다는 것을 알아챘다. 그중에는 그날 밤 경찰서에 초대했던 집에서 온 두 명의 짐꾼이 있었다. 그들은 그곳에서 기다리고 있었다. 하지만 그는 계단에 오르자마자 뒤에서 포르피리 페트로비치의 목소리가 들렸다. 뒤돌아보니 후자가 숨가쁘게 자신을 쫓아왔다. "한 마디만 해, 로디온 로마노비치. 나머지는 신의 손에 달려 있어. 하지만 형식적으로 몇 가지 질문을 해야 할 것 같아... 그럼 다시 만날 수 있을 거야, 그렇지?" 포르피리는 움직이지 않고 미소를 지으며 그를 마주보았다. "그렇지?" 그는 다시 덧붙였다.

하지만 니콜라이의 자백은 실제 사실이었다. 이 사실의 결과는 그에게 즉시 분명했고, 그 거짓은 틀림없이 발각될 것이고, 그러면 그들은 다시 그를 쫓을 것이다. 그때까지는 적어도 그는 자유로웠고, 위험이 임박했기 때문에 자신을 위해 무언가를 해야 했다. 하지만 얼마나 임박했을까? 그의 입장은 점차 분명해졌다. 포르피리와 함께한 최근 장면의 주요 개요를 대략적으로 기억하면서, 그는 다시 공포에 떨지 않을 ​​수 없었다. 물론, 그는 아직 포르피리의 모든 목표를 알지 못했고, 그의 모든 계산을 들여다볼 수 없었다.

하지만 그는 이미 자신의 손을 일부 보여줬고, 아무도 포르피리의 "리드"가 그에게 얼마나 끔찍했는지

라스콜니코프보다 더 잘 알지 못했다. 조금만 더 했다면 그는 자신을 완전히, 상황에 따라 드러냈을지도 모른다. 그의 신경질적인 기질을 알고 첫눈에 그를 꿰뚫어 본 포르피리는 대담한 게임을 했지만, 반드시 이길 것이다. 라스콜니코프가 심각하게 타협했다는 것은 부인할 수 없지만, 아직 밝혀진 사실은 없습니다. 긍정적인 것은 아무것도 없습니다.

하지만 그는 그 입장에 대해 진실된 견해를 가지고 있었을까요? 그는 착각하지 않았을까요? 포르피리는 무엇을 얻으려고 했을까요? 그는 정말로 그를 위해 준비된 놀라움이 있었을까요? 그리고 그것은 무엇이었을까요? 그는 정말로 무언가를 기대했을까요? 니콜라이가 예상치 못하게 나타나지 않았다면 그들은 어떻게 헤어졌을까요? 포르피리는 거의 모든 카드를 보여주었습니다. 물론 그는 그것을 보여주면서 무언가를 걸었습니다. 그리고 그가 정말로 소매에 무언가를 숨겨두었다면(라스콜니코프는 숙고했습니다) 그는 그것도 보여줬을 것입니다.

그 "놀라움"은 무엇이었을까요? 농담이었을까요? 그것이 무언가 의미가 있었을까요? 그것이 사실이나 긍정적인 증거와 같은 것을 숨길 수 있었을까요? 어제의 방문객? 그는 어떻게 되었을까요? 그는 오늘 어디에 있었을까요? 포르피리가 정말로 어떤 증거라도 가지고 있다면, 그것은 그와 관련이 있을 것이다... 그는 팔꿈치를 무릎에 얹고 얼굴을 손으로 가린 채 소파에 앉았다. 그는 여전히 긴장해서 떨고 있었다. 마침내 그는 일어나 모자를 쓰고 잠시 생각한 뒤 문으로 갔다. 그는 적어도 오늘은 위험에서 벗어났다고 생각할 수 있을 것 같은 예감이 들었다.

그는 갑자기 기쁨에 가까운 감정을 느꼈다. 그는 카테리나 이바노브나의 집으로 서둘러 가고 싶었다. 물론 장례식에는 너무 늦겠지만 추모 만찬에는 제때 도착할 것이고, 그곳에서 소냐를 바로 볼 수 있을 것이다.

그는 가만히 서서 잠시 생각했고, 잠시 그의 입술에 고통스러운 미소가 떠올랐다. "오늘! 오늘." 그는 스스로에게 되뇌었다. "그래, 오늘! 그래야겠지..." 하지만 그가 문을 열려고 하자 문이 저절로 열리기 시작했다. 그는 놀라서 뒤로 물러섰다. 문이 조심스럽고 느리게 열리더니 갑자기 어떤 인물이 나타났다. 어제 지하에서 온 방문객이었다.

그 남자는 문간에 서서 아무 말 없이 라스콜니코프를 바라보더니 방으로 한 걸음 다가갔다. 그는 어제와 똑같았다. 똑같은 몸매, 똑같은 옷차림이었지만 얼굴에는 큰 변화가 있었다. 그는 낙담한 듯 보였고 깊이 한숨을 쉬었다. 그가 뺨에 손을 대고 머리를 한쪽으로 기울였더라면 정확히 시골 여자처럼 보였을 것이다. "무엇을 원하니?" 라스콜니코프가 공포에 멍하니 물었다. 그 남자는 여전히 말이 없었지만 갑자기 거의 땅에 몸을 숙여 손가락으로 만졌다.

"무슨 일인가?" 라스콜니코프가 소리쳤다. "나는 죄를 지었다." 그 남자가 부드럽게 말했다. "어떻게?" "악한 생각으로." 그들은 서로를 바라보았다. "나는 화가 났어. 네가 술을 마시고 와서, 아마도 경찰서에 가서 피에 대해 물었을 때, 그들이 너를 풀어주고 술 취한 것으로 몰았기 때문에 화가 났어. 너무 화가 나서 잠을 잃었어. 그리고 어제 우리가 여기 와서 당신을 불렀던 주소를 기억하면서...”

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6546p

He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. “You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed... I lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. “Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. “I myself, too... I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it’s God’s will, we may see a great deal of one another.” “And will get to know each other through and through?” added Raskolnikov. “Yes; know each other through and through,” assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov.

“Now you’re going to a birthday party?” “To a funeral.” “Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well.” “I don’t know what to wish you,” said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. “I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one.” “Why comical?” Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. “Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed!

You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you’ll begin vivisecting him again. ‘You are lying,’ you’ll say. ‘You are not the murderer! You can’t be! It’s not your own tale you are telling!’ You must admit it’s a comical business!” “He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?” “How could I help noticing it!” “He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You’ve really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side... he-he!

They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers.” “Yes, of Gogol.” “Yes, of Gogol.... I shall look forward to meeting you.” “So shall I.” Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing—something beyond his understanding.

But Nikolay’s confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry’s aims, he could not see into all his calculations.

But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than

Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry’s “lead” had been for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There’s no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive.

But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn’t he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay? Porfiry had shown almost all his cards—of course, he had risked something in showing them—and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too.

What was that “surprise”? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yesterday’s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him.... He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to the door. He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might consider himself out of danger.

He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna’s. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at once he would see Sonia.

He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment on to his lips. “To-day! To-day,” he repeated to himself. “Yes, to-day! So it must be....” But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure—yesterday’s visitor from underground.

The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a peasant woman. “What do you want?” asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with his finger.

“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov. “I have sinned,” the man articulated softly. “How?” “By evil thoughts.” They looked at one another. “I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you....”