PART 6 // chapter 8-2

[모나리자]

그는 운하 제방을 따라 걸었고, 더 이상 갈 곳이 많지 않았다. 하지만 다리에 도착하자 그는 멈추고 길을 돌려 헤이 마켓으로 갔다. 그는 좌우를 열심히 살폈고, 모든 사물을 집중해서 바라보았지만, 어떤 것에도 주의를 기울일 수 없었다. 모든 것이 사라졌다. "일주일, 한 달 후면 나는 이 다리를 건너 감옥 밴에 태워질 거야. 그때 운하를 어떻게 볼까?

이걸 기억하고 싶어!" 그의 머릿속에 떠올랐다. "이 표지판을 봐! 그럼 그 글자들을 어떻게 읽을까? 여기 '캄파니'라고 쓰여 있어. 기억해야 할 일이야. 그 글자 a, 그리고 한 달 후에 다시 보면—그때는 어떻게 볼까? 그때는 무엇을 느끼고 생각할까?... 얼마나 사소한 일일까, 지금 내가 걱정하는 일이!

물론 다 흥미로울 거야... 나름대로... (하하하! 난 뭘 생각하고 있는 거지?) 나는 아기가 되어가고 있고, 나 자신에게 과시하고 있어; 왜 부끄러워? 푸! 사람들이 어떻게 밀어! 그 뚱뚱한 남자—그는 독일인인가 보다—나를 밀었는데, 누구를 밀었는지 알고 있나? 아기를 데리고 구걸하는 시골 여자가 있다. 그녀가 나를 그녀보다 더 행복하다고 생각하는 게 이상하다.

그녀에게 뭔가 줄 수도 있겠다, 그게 어울리지 않아서. 여기 내 주머니에 5코펙짜리 동전이 남았는데, 어디서 났지? 여기, 여기... 받아, 착한 여자야!" "신의 축복이 있기를." 거지가 눈물 어린 목소리로 외쳤다.

그는 헤이 마켓으로 들어갔다. 군중 속에 있는 건 역겹고, 매우 역겹지만, 그는 대부분 사람들이 보이는 곳으로 걸어갔다. 그는 혼자 있기 위해 세상의 모든 것을 내주었을 것이다. 하지만 그는 잠시라도 혼자 있을 수 없다는 걸 스스로 알고 있었다. 군중 속에 취해서 어수선한 남자가 있었다. 그는 계속 춤을 추려고 하다가 쓰러졌다. 그의 주변에는 사람들이 모여 있었다. 라스콜니코프는 군중 사이를 비집고 들어가,

술 취한 남자를 몇 분간 응시하다가 갑자기 짧고 갑작스럽게 웃었다. 1분 후 그는 그를 잊고 보지 못했지만, 여전히 응시했다. 그는 마침내 자신이 어디에 있는지 기억하지 못한 채 멀어졌다. 하지만 광장 한가운데에 다다르자 갑자기 감정이 밀려와 몸과 마음을 압도했다.

그는 갑자기 소냐의 말을 떠올렸다. "사거리로 가서 사람들에게 절하고 땅에 키스해라. 너도 땅에 죄를 지었으니까. 그리고 온 세상에 '나는 살인자다'라고 큰 소리로 말해라." 그는 그 말을 기억하며 떨었다. 그리고 그 모든 시간, 특히 지난 몇 시간 동안의 절망적인 비참함과 불안이 그에게 너무나 무겁게 눌려 있었기 때문에 그는 이 새로운 순수하고 완전한 감각의 기회를 적극적으로 붙잡았다. 그것은 마치 발작처럼 그에게 다가왔다. 마치 그의 영혼에 불이 붙어 그를 통해 불길이 번지는 것 같았다. 그의 모든 것이 한꺼번에 부드러워졌고 그의 눈에 눈물이 고이기 시작했다.

그는 그 자리에서 땅에 쓰러졌습니다.... 그는 광장 한가운데에 무릎을 꿇고 땅에 몸을 숙이고 그 더러운 땅에 행복과 황홀함으로 키스했습니다. 그는 일어나 두 번째로 몸을 숙였습니다. "그는 술을 마셨습니다." 그의 근처에 있던 청년이 관찰했습니다. 폭소가 터졌습니다. "형제들이여, 그는 예루살렘으로 가서 자식들과 나라에 작별인사를 합니다. 그는 온 세상에 몸을 숙이고 위대한 도시 상트페테르부르크와 그 포장도로에 키스합니다." 약간 취한 일꾼이 덧붙였습니다.

"꽤 젊은이군요!" 세 번째 사람이 관찰했습니다. "그리고 신사입니다." 누군가가 냉정하게 관찰했습니다. "요즘 누가 신사이고 누가 아닌지 알 수 없습니다."

이러한 감탄사와 발언이 라스콜니코프를 막았고, 아마도 그의 입에서 떨어지려던 "나는 살인자입니다."라는 말은 사라졌습니다. 하지만 그는 조용히 이런 말을 했고, 뒤돌아보지 않고 경찰서로 이어지는 길을 돌았습니다. 그는 길에서 그를 놀라게 하지 않는 무언가를 엿보았습니다. 그는 그것이 그럴 것이라고 느꼈습니다. 그가 건초 시장에서 두 번째로 절을 했을 때, 그는 왼쪽으로 50걸음 떨어진 곳에 소냐가 서 있는 것을 보았습니다. 그녀는 시장의 나무 판잣집 중 하나 뒤에 숨어 있었습니다.

그녀는 고통스러운 길을 따라 그를 따라왔습니다! 라스콜니코프는 그 순간 소냐가 영원히 그와 함께하고 운명이 그를 어디로 데려가든 지구 끝까지 그를 따라갈 것이라는 것을 느꼈고 알았습니다. 그것은 그의 가슴을 찢었습니다... 하지만 그는 막 운명의 장소에 도착한 것입니다. 그는 꽤 단호하게 마당으로 들어갔습니다. 그는 3층으로 올라가야 했습니다. "올라가는 데 시간이 좀 걸릴 거야." 그는 생각했습니다. 그는 운명의 순간이 아직 멀었다고 느꼈고, 고려할 시간이 많이 남았다고 느꼈습니다.

다시 같은 쓰레기, 나선형 계단에 널려 있는 같은 달걀 껍질, 다시 아파트의 열린 문, 다시 같은 주방, 그리고 그곳에서 나오는 같은 연기와 악취. 라스콜니코프는 그날 이후로 여기에 오지 않았다. 그의 다리는 마비되어 그 아래에서 무너졌지만, 그들은 여전히 ​​앞으로 나아갔다. 그는 잠시 멈춰서 숨을 쉬고, 자신을 가다듬고, 남자답게 들어가려고 했다. "하지만 왜? 무엇 때문에?" 그는 생각하며 생각했다.

"내가 그 잔을 마셔야 한다면 무슨 차이가 있을까? 더 역겹다면 더 좋다." 그는 잠시 "폭발적인 중위" 일리야 페트로비치의 모습을 상상했다. 그는 실제로 그에게 가는 것일까? 그는 다른 사람에게 갈 수 없을까? 니코딤 포미치에게? 그는 돌아서서 니코딤 포미치의 숙소로 바로 갈 수 없을까? 적어도 그렇게 하면 비밀리에 할 수 있을 것이다.... 아니, 아니! "폭발적인 중위"에게! 마셔야 한다면 즉시 마셔버려야 한다. 그는 차갑게 식고 거의 의식이 없어진 채 사무실 문을 열었다.

이번에는 사람이 거의 없었다. 집수리공과 농부뿐이었다. 문지기는 스크린 뒤에서 엿보지도 않았다. 라스콜니코프가 옆방으로 들어갔다. "아마도 아직 말할 필요가 없을 거야."라는 생각이 그의 머릿속을 스쳐 지나갔다. 제복을 입지 않은 어떤 사무원이 사무실에 앉아 글을 쓰고 있었다. 구석에는 다른 사무원이 앉아 있었다. 자메토프는 없었고, 물론 니코딤 포미치도 없었다. "안에 아무도 없니?" 라스콜니코프가 사무실에 있는 사람에게 말을 걸며 물었다.

"누구를 원하니?" "아-아! 소리는 들리지 않았고, 아무것도 보이지 않았지만, 러시아인의 냄새가 난다... 동화 속에서는 어떻게 돌아가는 거지... 기억이 나지 않는다! '당신을 위해!'" 친숙한 목소리가 갑자기 외쳤다. 라스콜니코프가 몸을 떨었다. 폭발물 중위가 그의 앞에 서 있었다. 그는 방금 세 번째 방에서 들어왔다. "운명의 손이구나." 라스콜니코프가 생각했다. "그가 왜 여기 있는 거지?" "우리를 보러 온 거야? 무슨 일로?" 일리야 페트로비치가 소리쳤다. 그는 분명히 매우 기분 좋았고, 어쩌면 약간 들떠 있었다.

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He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to the Hay Market. He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. “In another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how shall I look at the canal then?

I should like to remember this!” slipped into his mind. “Look at this sign! How shall I read those letters then? It’s written here ‘Campany,’ that’s a thing to remember, that letter a, and to look at it again in a month—how shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivial it all must be, what I am fretting about now!

Of course it must all be interesting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how people shove! that fat man—a German he must be—who pushed against me, does he know whom he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby, begging. It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is.

I might give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s a five copeck piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my good woman!” “God bless you,” the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.

He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd,

stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him body and mind.

He suddenly recalled Sonia’s words, “Go to the cross-roads, bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, ‘I am a murderer.’” He trembled, remembering that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especially of the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears started into his eyes.

He fell to the earth on the spot.... He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed down a second time. “He’s boozed,” a youth near him observed. There was a roar of laughter. “He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children and his country. He’s bowing down to all the world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its pavement,” added a workman who was a little drunk.

“Quite a young man, too!” observed a third. “And a gentleman,” someone observed soberly. “There’s no knowing who’s a gentleman and who isn’t nowadays.”

These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, “I am a murderer,” which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt that it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he saw, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place.

She had followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt and knew once for all that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart... but he was just reaching the fatal place. He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third storey. “I shall be some time going up,” he thought. He felt as though the fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time left for consideration.

Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and the same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to collect himself, so as to enter like a man. “But why? what for?” he wondered, reflecting.

“If I must drink the cup what difference does it make? The more revolting the better.” He imagined for an instant the figure of the “explosive lieutenant,” Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him? Couldn’t he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn’t he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s lodgings? At least then it would be done privately.... No, no! To the “explosive lieutenant”! If he must drink it, drink it off at once. Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office.

There were very few people in it this time—only a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into the next room. “Perhaps I still need not speak,” passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch. “No one in?” Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.

“Whom do you want?” “A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the Russian... how does it go on in the fairy tale... I’ve forgotten! ‘At your service!’” a familiar voice cried suddenly. Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third room. “It is the hand of fate,” thought Raskolnikov. “Why is he here?” “You’ve come to see us? What about?” cried Ilya Petrovitch. He was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle exhilarated.

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