PART 6 // chapter 7-1

[모나리자]

같은 날 저녁 7시경, 라스콜니코프는 어머니와 누이의 숙소로 가는 길이었다. 라주미힌이 그들을 위해 찾아준 바칼레예프의 집 숙소였다. 거리에서 계단이 올라갔다. 라스콜니코프는 갈지 말지 여전히 망설이는 듯 더딘 걸음걸이로 걸었다. 하지만 아무것도 그를 되돌릴 수 없었다. 그의 결정은 이미 내려졌다. "게다가, 상관없어, 그들은 여전히 ​​아무것도 모르고, 나를 괴짜로 생각하는 데 익숙해져 있잖아." 그는 생각했다.

그는 끔찍하게 차려입었다. 그의 옷은 찢어지고 더러워졌고, 밤새 내린 비에 젖어 있었다. 그의 얼굴은 피로, 노출, 24시간 동안 지속된 내면의 갈등으로 거의 일그러져 있었다. 그는 전날 밤 내내 혼자 지냈고, 신만이 어디에서 보냈는지 알 것이다. 하지만 어쨌든 그는 결정을 내렸다. 그는 어머니가 열어준 문을 두드렸다. 두니아는 집에 없었다. 하인조차도 외출 중이었다.

처음에 풀케리아 알렉산드로브나는 기쁨과 놀라움에 말을 잃었다. 그런 다음 그녀는 그의 손을 잡고 방으로 데려갔다. "여기 있잖아!" 그녀는 기쁨에 떨며 말을 시작했다. "나한테 화내지 마, 로디아, 눈물로 그렇게 어리석게 환영한다고 해서. 나는 울지 않고 웃고 있어. 내가 울고 있다고 생각했어? 아니, 기뻐. 하지만 눈물을 흘리는 멍청한 습관이 생겼어. 네 아버지가 돌아가신 이후로 계속 그래.

나는 뭐든 울어. 앉아, 자기야. 피곤할 거야. 너도 그렇잖아. 아, 얼마나 진흙투성이야." "어제 비에 젖었어, 어머니..." 라스콜니코프가 말을 시작했다. "아니, 아니." 풀케리아 알렉산드로브나가 서둘러 말을 가로채며 말했다. "내가 예전처럼 여자답게 반문할 줄 알았잖아. 걱정하지 마. 이해해. 다 이해해. 이제 여기의 방식을 배웠고, 그것이 더 낫다는 걸 직접 봤어. 나는 한 번 결심했습니다. 어떻게 당신의 계획을 이해하고 당신이 그것에 대해 설명할 것을 기대할 수 있겠습니까?

당신이 어떤 걱정과 계획을 가지고 있는지, 어떤 생각을 품고 있는지 신은 알고 계십니다. 그러니 내가 당신의 팔꿈치를 계속 툭 건드리고 당신이 무슨 생각을 하고 있는지 묻는 것은 옳지 않습니다. 하지만, 제발! 왜 내가 미친 사람처럼 이리저리 뛰어다니는 걸까요...? 저는 지금 잡지에서 당신의 기사를 세 번째 읽고 있습니다, 로디아. 드미트리 프로코피치가 가져다 주었습니다. 그것을 보자마자 저는 속으로 외쳤습니다. '이봐, 바보야.' 저는 생각했습니다. '그게 그가 바쁘게 하는 일이야. 그게 수수께끼의 해답이야! 학식 있는 사람들은 항상 그렇지. 그는 지금 막 새로운 생각을 하고 있을지도 몰라. 그는 그것에 대해 생각하고 있고, 저는 그를 걱정시키고 화나게 해.'

나는 그것을 읽었습니다, 나의 사랑, 그리고 물론 제가 이해하지 못하는 것이 많았습니다. 하지만 그것은 당연한 일입니다. 어떻게 해야 할까요?" "보여주세요, 어머니." 라스콜니코프는 잡지를 들고

자신의 기사를 훑어보았다. 그의 기분과 상황과는 어울리지 않았지만, 그는 모든 작가가 처음으로 자신의 모습을 인쇄본에서 볼 때 경험하는 이상하고 씁쓸하면서도 달콤한 감정을 느꼈다. 게다가 그는 겨우 23살이었다. 그것은 잠깐뿐이었다.

몇 줄을 읽은 후 그는 눈살을 찌푸리고 그의 가슴은 괴로움으로 쿵쾅거렸다.

그는 지난 몇 달 동안의 모든 내적 갈등을 떠올렸다. 그는 혐오감과 분노에 찬 표정으로 그 기사를 탁자 위에 던졌다. "하지만, 내가 아무리 어리석어도, 로디아, 나는 네가 곧 러시아 사상의 세계를 선도하는 사람 중 한 명이 될 것이라는 것을 직접 알고 있다. 그리고 그들은 네가 미쳤다고 감히 생각했다! 너는 모르지만, 그들은 정말로 그렇게 생각했다. 아, 그 멸시스러운 놈들이 천재성을 어떻게 이해할 수 있겠어!

그리고 두니아, 두니아는 거의 그것을 믿었다. 너는 그것에 대해 뭐라고 말할 수 있겠어? 네 아버지는 잡지에 두 번이나 보냈어. 첫 번째는 시(원고를 가지고 있어서 보여줄게)이고 두 번째는 소설 전체를 보냈어(내가 베껴 쓰게 해 달라고 간청했어). 그리고 우리는 그것들이 나가기를 기도했어. 나가지 않았어! 로디아, 나는 6~7일 전에 네 음식과 옷, 그리고 네가 사는 방식 때문에 내 마음을 아프게 했어.

하지만 이제 나는 내가 얼마나 어리석었는지 다시 깨달았어. 왜냐하면 너는 네 지성과 재능으로 원하는 어떤 지위라도 얻을 수 있으니까. 의심할 여지 없이 지금은 그것에 관심이 없고 훨씬 더 중요한 일에 몰두해 있을 거야..." "두니아가 집에 없어, 어머니?" "아니, 로디아. 나는 그녀를 자주 보지 못해. 그녀는 나를 내버려 두거든. 드미트리 프로코피치가 날 보러 와. 정말 잘해. 그는 항상 너에 대해 이야기해. 그는 너를 사랑하고 존경해, 내 사랑. 두니아가 배려심이 별로 없다고 말하는 건 아니야.

불평하는 게 아니야. 그녀는 그녀의 방식이 있고 나는 나만의 방식이 있어. 그녀는 요즘 몇 가지 비밀을 가지고 있는 듯하고 나는 너희 둘에게 비밀을 전혀 알지 못해. 물론, 두니아가 훨씬 더 현명하다는 건 확신하고, 게다가 그녀는 너와 나를 사랑해... 하지만 이게 무슨 결과를 가져올지 모르겠어. 네가 지금 와서 나를 행복하게 만들었지만, 로디아는 외출해서 네가 그리웠어;

그녀가 들어오면 내가 그녀에게 말할 거야: '네 오빠가 네가 외출한 사이에 들어왔어. 이제까지 어디 있었어?' 로디아, 날 너무 망치면 안 돼. 올 수 있을 때 와. 하지만 못 온다면 상관없어. 기다릴 수 있어. 어쨌든 네가 날 좋아한다는 걸 알게 될 거야. 그게 나한테는 충분할 거야.

네가 쓴 걸 읽을게. 모두에게서 네 이야기를 들을게. 그리고 가끔 네가 직접 날 보러 올 거야. 뭐가 더 좋을 수 있겠어? 이제 네가 네 어머니를 위로하러 왔구나, 알겠어." 여기서 풀케리아 알렉산드로브나는 울기 시작했다. "다시 왔어! 내 어리석음은 신경 쓰지 마. 세상에, 왜 여기 앉아 있는 거지?" 그녀가 소리치며 벌떡 일어났다. "커피가 있는데 내가 주지 않아. 아, 그게 나이 들어서 이기적인 거야. 바로 가져올게!" "어머니, 귀찮게 하지 마세요. 바로 갈게요.

그런 데 온 게 아니에요. 제 말을 들어주세요." 풀케리아 알렉산드로브나는 소심하게 그에게 다가갔다. "어머니, 무슨 일이 일어나든, 저에 대해 들은 게 무엇이든, 저에 대해 들은 게 무엇이든, 지금처럼 항상 저를 사랑해 주시겠어요?" 그는 갑자기 온 마음을 다해 물었는데, 마치 자신의 말을 생각하지도 않고, 가늠하지도 않는 듯했다. "로디아, 로디아, 뭐가 문제야? 어떻게 그런 질문을 할 수 있어?

왜, 누가 당신에 대해 말해 줄까? 게다가, 나는 누구도 믿어서는 안 되고, 듣지도 말아야 해." "나는 당신을 항상 사랑해 왔다는 것을 확신시켜 드리려고 왔고, 우리가 둘만 있는 게 기쁘고, 두니아가 나가서 기쁘다는 것도 기쁘다" 그는 같은 충동으로 말을 이었다. "나는 당신이 불행할지라도, 믿어야 한다는 것을 말씀드리려고 왔습니다.

당신의 아들이 지금 당신보다 당신을 더 사랑한다는 것을, 그리고 당신이 나에 대해 생각한 모든 것, 내가 잔인하고 당신을 신경 쓰지 않는다는 것은 모두 실수였다는 것을.

나는 당신을 사랑하는 것을 결코 멈추지 않을 것입니다.... 글쎄요, 충분합니다. 나는 이것을 해야 하고 이것으로 시작해야 한다고 생각했습니다....” 풀케리아 알렉산드로브나는 그를 아무 말 없이 껴안고 가슴에 꼭 껴안고 부드럽게 울었습니다.

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CHAPTER VII

The same day, about seven o’clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother’s and sister’s lodging—the lodging in Bakaleyev’s house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision was taken. “Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,” he thought, “and they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.”

He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a night’s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a decision. He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out.

At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room. “Here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don’t be angry with me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I’ve got into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever since your father’s death.

I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.” “I was in the rain yesterday, mother....” Raskolnikov began. “No, no,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, “you thought I was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don’t be anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them?

God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching; so it’s not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: ‘There, foolish one,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he is busy about; that’s the solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him.’

I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but that’s only natural—how should I?” “Show me, mother.” Raskolnikov took the magazine and

glanced at his article. Incongruous as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After

reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish.

He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger. “But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading—if not the leading man—in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don’t know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius!

And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it—what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines—the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that they should be taken—they weren’t! I was breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living.

But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don’t care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters....” “Dounia’s not at home, mother?” “No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don’t say that Dounia is very wanting in consideration.

I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don’t know what it will all lead to. You’ve made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has missed you by going out;

when she comes in I’ll tell her: ‘Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time?’ You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can, but if you can’t, it doesn’t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me.

I shall read what you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you’ve come now to comfort your mother, I see that.” Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. “Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting here?” she cried, jumping up. “There is coffee and I don’t offer you any. Ah, that’s the selfishness of old age. I’ll get it at once!” “Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once.

I haven’t come for that. Please listen to me.” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly. “Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now?” he asked suddenly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing them. “Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?

Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn’t believe anyone, I should refuse to listen.” “I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,” he went on with the same impulse. “I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe

that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you, was all a mistake.

I shall never cease to love you.... Well, that’s enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this....” Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently.

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