PART 6 // chapter 6-5

[모나리자]

"젠장, 이 자식!" 그는 문을 열면서 생각했지만, 아이가 잠들었는지 다시 돌아보았다. 그는 조심스럽게 담요를 들어올렸다. 아이는 깊이 잠들어 있었고, 담요 아래에서 따뜻해졌으며, 창백한 뺨이 붉어졌다. 하지만 이상하게도 그 붉어짐은 어린 시절의 붉은 뺨보다 더 밝고 거칠어 보였다. "열이 나서 붉어지는 거야." 스비드리가일로프가 생각했다. 마치 술을 마신 후의 붉어짐 같았고, 마치 마실 잔을 가득 채운 것 같았다.

그녀의 진홍색 입술은 뜨겁고 빛났다. 하지만 이게 뭐지? 그는 갑자기 그녀의 긴 검은 속눈썹이 떨리는 것 같았다. 마치 눈꺼풀이 열리고 교활한 눈이 어린애답지 않은 눈짓으로 엿보인 것 같았다. 마치 어린 소녀가 잠들지 않고 척하는 것 같았다. 그렇다. 그녀의 입술이 미소를 지으며 벌어졌다. 그녀의 입꼬리가 떨렸고, 마치 그녀가 입술을 제어하려고 하는 것 같았다. 하지만 이제 그녀는 모든 노력을 완전히 포기했고, 이제 그것은 미소, 넓은 미소였습니다. 그 아주 유치하지 않은 얼굴에는 뻔뻔스럽고 도발적인 것이 있었습니다. 그것은 타락이었고, 창녀의 얼굴이었습니다. 프랑스 창녀의 뻔뻔스러운 얼굴이었습니다.

이제 두 눈이 크게 뜨였습니다. 그들은 그를 향해 빛나고 뻔뻔스러운 시선을 돌렸습니다. 그들은 웃으며 그를 초대했습니다.... 그 웃음, 그 눈, 아이의 얼굴에 나타난 그런 추악함에는 무한히 흉측하고 충격적인 것이 있었습니다. "뭐, 다섯 살에?" 스비드리가일로프가 진짜 공포에 질려 중얼거렸습니다. "무슨 뜻이야?" 그리고 이제 그녀는 그에게 돌아섰고, 그녀의 작은 얼굴은 모두 빛났으며, 팔을 내밀었습니다.... "저주받은 아이!" 스비드리가일로프가 소리치며 손을 들어 그녀를 때리려고 했지만, 그 순간 그는 깨어났습니다.

그는 여전히 담요에 싸인 채로 같은 침대에 있었습니다. 촛불은 켜지지 않았고, 햇빛이 창문으로 쏟아지고 있었습니다. "밤새 악몽을 꿨어요!" 그는 화가 나서 일어났고, 완전히 무너진 기분이었다. 뼈가 아팠다. 밖에는 짙은 안개가 끼었고 아무것도 보이지 않았다. 거의 다섯 시였다. 그는 늦잠을 잤다! 그는 일어나서 여전히 축축한 재킷과 외투를 입었다. 주머니에 리볼버가 있는 것을 느끼고 그것을 꺼낸 다음 앉아서 주머니에서 노트를 꺼내서 제목 페이지의 가장 눈에 띄는 곳에 큰 글씨로 몇 줄을 썼다. 그것을 읽으며 그는 팔꿈치를 테이블에 얹고 생각에 잠겼다.

리볼버와 노트가 그의 옆에 있었다. 파리 몇 마리가 깨어나서 여전히 테이블 위에 있는 손대지 않은 송아지 고기에 앉았다. 그는 파리를 응시했고 마침내 자유로운 오른손으로 파리를 잡으려고 했다. 그는 지칠 때까지 시도했지만 잡을 수 없었다. 마침내 그는 이 흥미로운 추구에 참여하고 있다는 것을 깨닫고 일어나서 단호하게 방을 나갔다. 1분 후 그는 거리에 있었다.

마을 위에는 짙은 우유빛 안개가 끼어 있었다. 스비드리가일로프는 미끄러운 더러운 나무 포장도로를 따라 리틀 네바 강을 향해 걸어갔다. 그는 밤에 부풀어 오른 리틀 네바 강, 페트로프스키 섬, 젖은 길, 젖은 풀, 젖은 나무와 덤불, 그리고 마침내 덤불을 그려보았다... 그는 집들을 우스꽝스럽게 바라보며 다른 것을 생각하려고 했다. 거리에는 마부나 지나가는 사람이 없었다. 밝은 노란색 나무로 된 작은 집들은 닫힌 덧문으로 더럽고 낙담해 보였다.

추위와 습기가 온몸을 꿰뚫었고 그는 떨기 시작했습니다. 때때로 그는 상점 간판을 발견하고 하나하나 주의 깊게 읽었습니다. 마침내 그는 나무 포장 도로 끝에 도달하여 큰 돌집에 도착했습니다. 더럽고 떨리는 개 한 마리가 꼬리를 다리 사이에 끼고 그의 길을 가로질러 왔습니다. 외투를 입은 한 남자가 얼굴을 아래로 하고 누워 있었습니다. 길 건너편에는 술에 취해 있었습니다. 그는 그를 바라보고 계속 갔습니다. 왼쪽에 높은 탑이 솟아 있었습니다. "바!" 그는 소리쳤습니다. "여기가 장소야. 왜 페트로프스키여야 할까? 어차피 공식 증인이 있는 곳에서는 그럴 텐데..." 그는 이 새로운 생각에 거의 미소를 지으며 탑이 있는 큰 집이 있는 거리로 향했습니다.

집의 커다란 닫힌 문에서 작은 남자가 어깨를 문에 기대고 서 있었고, 회색 군인의 코트를 두르고 머리에 구리 아킬레스 헬멧을 쓰고 있었습니다. 그는 졸린 듯 무관심한 눈빛으로 스비드리가일로프를 쳐다보았습니다. 그의 얼굴은 예외 없이 모든 유대인의 얼굴에 매우 신랄하게 각인되어 있는, 짜증나는 낙담의 끊임없는 표정을 띠고 있었다. 스비드리가일로프와 아킬레스는 몇 분 동안 아무 말도 하지 않고 서로를 응시했다. 마침내 아킬레스는 술에 취하지 않은 남자가 세 걸음 떨어진 곳에서 서서 응시하고 아무 말도 하지 않는 것이 이상하다고 생각했다.

"여기서 뭘 원하는 거야?" 그는 움직이거나 자세를 바꾸지 않고 말했다. "아무것도 아니야, 형님. 좋은 아침이야." 스비드리가일로프가 대답했다. "여기가 그런 곳이 아니야." "형님, 저는 외국으로 갈 거예요." "외국으로요?" "미국으로요." "미국." 스비드리가일로프가 리볼버를 꺼내서 당겼다. 아킬레스가 눈썹을 치켜올렸다.

"말씀드리자면, 여기는 그런 농담을 할 곳이 아니에요!" "왜 그런 곳이 아니어야 합니까?" "그렇지 않으니까요." "글쎄요, 형님. 저는 그게 괜찮아요. 좋은 곳이거든요. 누가 물어보면 그냥 그가 미국에 간다고 했어." 그는 리볼버를 오른쪽 관자놀이에 대었다. "여기선 안 돼, 여기가 그런 곳이 아니야." 아킬레스가 소리치며 눈을 뜨고 점점 커졌다. 스비드리가일로프가 방아쇠를 당겼다.

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“Damn the child!” he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. “It’s a flush of fever,” thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink.

Her crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot.

Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him.... There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. “What, at five years old?” Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. “What does it mean?” And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms.... “Accursed child!” Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.

He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows. “I’ve had nightmare all night!” He got up angrily, feeling utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table.

The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street.

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters.

The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the left. “Bah!” he shouted, “here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway....” He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower.

At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word.

“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or changing his position. “Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigaïlov. “This isn’t the place.” “I am going to foreign parts, brother.” “To foreign parts?” “To America.” “America.” Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.

“I say, this is not the place for such jokes!” “Why shouldn’t it be the place?” “Because it isn’t.” “Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.” He put the revolver to his right temple. “You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger. Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

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