PART I // chapter 5-2

[모나리자]

그는 호화로운 마차와 말을 탄 남자와 여자를 만났다. 그는 호기심 어린 눈으로 그들을 바라보았고, 그들이 시야에서 사라지기 전에 그들을 잊었다. 그는 한 번은 가만히 서서 돈을 세어 보았다. 그는 30코펙이 있다는 것을 알았다. "경찰관에게 20코펙, 나스타샤에게 편지값으로 3코펙, 그러니까 어제 마르멜라도프에게 47코펙이나 50코펙을 주었을 거야." 그는 알 수 없는 이유로 계산해 보았지만, 곧 주머니에서 돈을 꺼낸 목적이 무엇인지 잊어버렸다.

그는 식당이나 선술집을 지나가면서 그 돈을 떠올렸고, 배가 고팠다... 선술집에 들어가 보드카 한 잔을 마시고 어떤 종류의 파이를 먹었다. 그는 걸어가면서 다 먹었다. 보드카를 마신 지 오래 되었고, 와인잔 한 잔만 마셨지만 금세 효과가 나타났다. 그의 다리가 갑자기 무거워졌고 엄청난 졸음이 찾아왔다.

그는 집으로 향했지만, 페트로프스키 오스트로프에 도착하자 완전히 지쳐서 멈추고, 길에서 덤불로 방향을 틀고, 풀밭에 주저앉더니 금세 잠이 들었다. 뇌가 병들어 있는 상태에서 꿈은 종종 독특한 현실성, 생생함, 그리고 현실의 놀라운 모습을 보인다. 때때로 괴상한 이미지가 만들어지지만, 배경과 전체 그림은 너무나 사실적이고 섬세하고, 예상치 못하게, 그러나 예술적으로 일관성 있는 세부 사항으로 가득 차 있어서, 꿈꾸는 사람이 푸쉬킨이나 투르게네프와 같은 예술가라도 깨어 있는 상태에서는 결코 그것을 만들어낼 수 없었을 것이다.

그런 병든 꿈은 항상 기억 속에 오래 남아 있고, 과로하고 혼란스러운 신경계에 강력한 인상을 남긴다.

라스콜니코프는 무서운 꿈을 꿨다. 그는 어린 시절로 돌아가서 태어난 작은 마을에서 꿈을 꿨다. 그는 일곱 살 정도의 아이였고, 휴일 저녁에 아버지와 함께 시골로 걸어가고 있었다. 흐리고 무거운 날이었고, 시골은 그가 기억했던 그대로였다. 실제로 그는 기억 속에서보다 꿈에서 훨씬 더 생생하게 기억해냈다. 작은 마을은 손처럼 밋밋한 평평한 곳에 서 있었고, 버드나무 한 그루도 없었다. 멀리 떨어진 곳에 숲이 펼쳐져 있었고, 지평선 바로 가장자리에 어둡게 흐릿하게 보였다.

마지막 시장 정원에서 몇 걸음 떨어진 곳에 선술집이 있었다. 큰 선술집이었는데, 아버지와 함께 지나갈 때마다 항상 혐오감과 두려움을 불러일으켰다. 항상 군중이 있었고, 항상 소리를 지르고, 웃고, 욕설을 퍼부었고, 흉측하게 쉰 목소리로 노래하고, 종종 싸웠다. 술에 취해 있고 끔찍해 보이는 인물들이 선술집 주변에 매달려 있었다. 그는 아버지에게 꼭 달라붙어 그들을 만날 때마다 온몸을 ​​떨었다.

선술집 근처에서 길은 먼지가 쌓인 길이 되었고, 먼지는 항상 검은색이었다. 구불구불한 길이었고, 약 100걸음 더 가면 오른쪽으로 묘지로 이어졌다. 묘지 한가운데에는 녹색 돔이 있는 석조 교회가 있었는데, 그는 그곳에서 아버지와 어머니와 함께 1년에 2~3번 미사에 참석하곤 했습니다. 할머니를 추모하는 예배가 열렸을 때였는데, 할머니는 오래전에 돌아가셨고 그는 할머니를 한 번도 본 적이 없었습니다.

그럴 때마다 그들은 식탁보에 묶은 흰 접시에 건포도를 넣은 특별한 종류의 쌀 푸딩을 십자가 모양으로 꽂아 먹곤 했습니다. 그는 그 교회, 고풍스럽고 장식 없는 성상, 그리고 머리를 흔드는 늙은 사제를 좋아했습니다. 돌로 표시된 할머니의 무덤 근처에는 여섯 달 만에 죽은 그의 남동생의 작은 무덤이 있었습니다. 그는 동생을 전혀 기억하지 못했지만, 남동생에 대한 이야기를 들었고, 묘지를 방문할 때마다 종교적으로 경건하게 십자가를 그었고, 작은 무덤에 절을 하고 입을 맞추었습니다.

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He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he had thirty copecks. “Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday,” he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket.

He recalled it on passing an eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was hungry.... Going into the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It was a long while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him.

He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep. In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state.

Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.

Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He was a child about seven years old, walking into the country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon.

A few paces beyond the last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking figures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when he met them.

Near the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which was always black. It was a winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never seen.

On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmother’s grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did not remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave.