에필로그 2-1

[모나리자]

그는 오랫동안 아팠다. 하지만 그를 짓밟은 것은 감옥 생활의 공포도, 힘든 노동도, 나쁜 음식도, 깎은 머리도, 헝겊 조각도 아니었다. 그는 그 모든 시련과 고난을 어떻게 다스렸는가! 그는 힘든 일을 기뻤다. 육체적으로 지쳐 있었지만, 적어도 몇 시간 동안은 조용히 잠을 잘 수 있을 것이다. 그리고 그에게 음식은 무엇이었을까? 딱정벌레가 떠다니는 묽은 양배추 수프? 학생 시절에는 종종 그런 것도 먹지 못했다. 그의 옷은 따뜻했고 그의 생활 방식에 적합했다.

그는 족쇄조차 느끼지 못했다. 그는 깎은 머리와 여러 가지 색깔의 코트를 부끄러워했을까? 누구 앞에서? 소니아 앞에서? 소니아는 그를 두려워했는데, 어떻게 그녀 앞에서 부끄러워할 수 있었을까? 하지만 그는 소니아 앞에서도 부끄러워했고, 경멸스럽고 거친 태도로 그녀를 고문했다. 하지만 그가 부끄러워한 것은 깎은 머리와 족쇄가 아니었다. 그의 자존심이 뼈속까지 찔렸다.

그를 아프게 만든 것은 상처받은 자존심이었다. 오, 그가 자신을 비난할 수 있었다면 얼마나 행복했을까! 그는 그때는 무엇이든 견뎌낼 수 있었을 것이다. 심지어 수치심과 불명예조차도. 하지만 그는 자신을 엄하게 판단했고, 그의 짜증난 양심은 누구에게나 일어날 수 있는 단순한 실수를 제외하고는 과거에 특별히 끔찍한 잘못을 발견하지 못했다. 그는 라스콜니코프가 맹목적인 운명의 어떤 판결로 인해 절망적으로, 어리석게도 슬픔에 빠졌고, 어떻게든 평화를 찾으려면 자신을 낮추고 "어리석은" 판결에 복종해야 한다는 사실 때문에 부끄러웠다.

현재의 모호하고 목적 없는 불안과 미래에는 아무것도 얻지 못하는 끊임없는 희생이 그의 앞에 놓여 있었다. 그리고 8년이 지나서 겨우 32살이 되어 새로운 삶을 시작할 수 있다는 것이 그에게 얼마나 위안이 되었을까! 그는 무엇을 위해 살아야 했을까? 그는 무엇을 기대해야 했을까? 그는 왜 노력해야 했을까?

존재하기 위해 살아야 했을까? 그는 이전에도 천 번이나 어떤 생각이나 희망, 심지어 환상을 위해 존재를 포기할 준비가 되어 있었습니다. 그저 존재하는 것만으로는 항상 그에게는 너무 작았습니다. 그는 항상 더 많은 것을 원했습니다. 아마도 그는 자신의 욕망이 강해서 다른 사람보다 더 많은 것을 허용하는 사람이라고 생각했을 것입니다.

그리고 운명이 그에게 회개를 보내줬더라면—그의 마음을 찢어놓고 잠을 빼앗아갈 불타는 회개, 그 회개, 그 끔찍한 고통이 교수형이나 익사의 환상을 불러일으켰을 회개! 오, 그는 기뻤을 것이다! 눈물과 고통이 적어도 삶이었을 것이다. 하지만 그는 자신의 범죄를 회개하지 않았다.

적어도 그는 자신의 어리석음에 분노하면서 위안을 찾았을지도 모른다. 그가 감옥에 오게 된 그 괴상한 실수에 분노했던 것처럼. 하지만 이제 감옥에서, 자유 속에서 그는 자신의 모든 행동을 다시 생각하고 비판했고, 결코 그것들이 치명적인 시기에 보였던 것처럼 그토록 어리석고 괴상하다고 생각하지 않았다.

"어떤 면에서" 그는 스스로에게 물었다. "세상의 시작부터 몰려와 충돌했던 다른 이론들보다 내 이론이 더 어리석었는가? 그 일을 아주 독립적으로, 광범위하게, 그리고 평범한 생각에 영향을 받지 않고 바라보기만 하면, 내 생각은 결코 그렇게... 이상하게 보이지 않을 것이다. 오, 회의론자들과 반페니 철학자들이여, 왜 반쯤 멈추는 거야! "내 행동이 왜 그들에게 그렇게 끔찍하게 보일까?" 그는 스스로에게 말했다. "범죄였기 때문일까? 범죄란 무엇을 의미할까?

내 양심은 평화롭다. 물론, 그것은 합법적인 범죄였고, 물론, 법의 문자가 어겨졌고 피가 흘렀다. 글쎄, 법의 문자로 나를 처벌해라... 그리고 그것으로 충분하다. 물론, 그 경우 권력을 물려받는 대신 스스로를 위해 권력을 빼앗은 인류의 많은 은인들은 첫걸음에서 처벌을 받았어야 했다. 하지만 그 사람들은 성공했고, 그래서 그들은 옳았고, 나는 그렇지 않았고, 그래서 나는 그 걸음을 내딛을 권리가 없었다." 그가 자신의 범죄성을 인정한 것은 오직 그 점에서였고, 그가 실패했고 그것을 자백했다는 사실에서만이었다.

그는 또한 다음과 같은 질문으로 괴로워했습니다. 왜 그는 자살하지 않았을까요? 왜 그는 강을 바라보며 서서 고백하기를 선호했을까요? 살고 싶은 욕망이 그렇게 강했고 그것을 극복하기가 그렇게 어려웠을까요? 스비드리가일로프는 죽음을 두려워했지만 그것을 극복하지 못했을까요? 비참한 마음으로 그는 스스로에게 이 질문을 던졌고, 강을 바라보며 서 있던 바로 그 순간에 자신과 자신의 신념에 있는 근본적인 허위성을 희미하게 의식하고 있었을지도 모른다는 것을 이해할 수 없었습니다.

그는 그 의식이 미래의 위기, 삶에 대한 새로운 관점, 미래의 부활에 대한 약속이 될 수 있다는 것을 이해하지 못했습니다. 그는 그것을 자신이 넘어설 수 없는 본능의 죽은

무게에 기인하는 것을 선호했습니다. 그는 동료 수감자들을 바라보았고 그들이 모두 삶을 사랑하고 소중히 여기는 것을 보고 놀랐습니다. 그는 그들이 자유 속에서보다 감옥에서 삶을 더 사랑하고 소중히 여기는 것처럼 보였습니다.

예를 들어 부랑자처럼 그들 중 일부는 얼마나 끔찍한 고통과 박탈을 견뎌냈을까요! 그들은 햇살 한 줄기, 원시림, 보이지 않는 곳에 숨겨진 차가운 샘, 떠돌이가 3년 전에 표시해 두었던 곳, 다시 보고 싶어했던 곳, 마치 연인이 그 주변의 푸른 풀과 덤불 속에서 노래하는 새를 꿈꾸는 것을 보는 것처럼 그렇게나 많은 것을 좋아할 수 있을까?

그가 계속 나아가면서 그는 더욱 설명할 수 없는 예를 보았다. 물론 감옥에서는 그가 보지 못하고 보고 싶어하지 않는 것이 많았다. 그는 마치 눈을 내리깔고 살았다. 보는 것은 그에게 혐오스럽고 참을 수 없는 일이었다. 하지만 결국 그를 놀라게 하는 것이 많았고 그는 마치 무의식적으로 전에는 의심하지 않았던 많은 것을 알아차리기 시작했다.

그를 가장 놀라게 한 것은 그와 다른 모든 사람들 사이에 놓인 끔찍하고 불가능한 심연이었다. 그들은 다른 종인 듯했고, 그는 그들을 바라보았고 그들은 그를 불신과 적대감으로 바라보았다. 그는 고립의 이유를 느꼈고 알고 있었지만, 그때까지 그 이유가 그렇게 깊고 강력하다는 것을 결코 인정하지 않았을 것이다. 그들 중에는 폴란드 망명자, 정치범도 있었다. 그들은 그저 다른 모든 사람들을 무지한 촌뜨기라고 폄하했다. 하지만 라스콜니코프는 그들을 그렇게 바라볼 수 없었다.

그는 이 무지한 사람들이 여러 면에서 폴란드인보다 훨씬 더 현명하다는 것을 알았다.

전직 장교와

두 명의 신학교생처럼 똑같이 경멸적인 러시아인도 있었다. 라스콜니코프는 그들의 실수를 분명히 보았다. 그는 모든 사람에게 싫어받고 피했다. 심지어 마침내 그를 미워하기 시작했다. 왜인지는 알 수 없었다. 훨씬 더 죄책감을 느낀 사람들은 그의 범죄를 경멸하고 비웃었다.

"당신은 신사입니다." 그들은 말하곤 했다. "도끼로 난도질해서는 안 돼. 신사의 일이 아니잖아." 사순절 둘째 주에, 그의 차례가 되어 그의 무리와 함께 성찬을 취했다. 그는 교회에 가서 다른 사람들과 함께 기도했다. 어느 날 다툼이 터졌는데, 어떻게 된 일인지는 몰랐다. 모든 것이 한꺼번에 격노하여 그에게 닥쳤다.

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II

He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him—the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of life.

He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick.

It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to “the idiocy” of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.

Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing—that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive?

To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

And if only fate would have sent him repentance—burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime.

At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in prison, in freedom, he thought over and criticised all his actions again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque as they had seemed at the fatal time.

“In what way,” he asked himself, “was my theory stupider than others that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has only to look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so... strange. Oh, sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt half-way! “Why does my action strike them as so horrible?” he said to himself. “Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime?

My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law... and that’s enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded and so they were right, and I didn’t, and so I had no right to have taken that step.” It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.

He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death? In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that, at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions.

He didn’t understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future resurrection. He preferred to attribute it to the dead

weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom.

What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval‎ forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush?

As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples. In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before.

What surprised him most of all was the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that.

He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles.

There were some Russians who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and

two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone; they even began to hate him at last—why, he could not tell. Men who had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.

“You’re a gentleman,” they used to say. “You shouldn’t hack about with an axe; that’s not a gentleman’s work.” The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.

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