PART 2 // chapter 1-2

[모나리자]

바지에서 잘라낸 닳은 누더기는 실제로 방 한가운데 바닥에 놓여 있었고, 들어오는 사람이라면 누구나 볼 수 있었다! "나한테 뭐가 문제야!" 그는 다시 한번 흥분한 사람처럼 소리쳤다. 그러자 이상한 생각이 그의 머릿속에 떠올랐다. 아마도 그의 모든 옷이 피로 뒤덮여 있을 수도 있고, 아마도 얼룩이 아주 많이 있을 수도 있지만, 그는 그것을 보지 못했고, 그의 지각이 약해져 산산이 조각나기 때문에 알아차리지 못했을 수도 있다... 그의 이성은 흐릿해졌다... 갑자기 그는 지갑에도 피가 묻어 있었다는 것을 기억해냈다.

"아! 그럼 주머니에도 피가 묻어 있을 거야, 젖은 지갑을 주머니에 넣었으니까!" 그는 순식간에 주머니를 뒤집어 놓았고, 그렇다!—주머니 안감에 흔적과 얼룩이 있었다! "그러니 내 이성은 아직 나를 완전히 버리지 않았구나. 그래서 나는 나 자신에 대해 추측했기 때문에 여전히 약간의 감각과 기억을 가지고 있다." 그는 깊은 안도의 한숨을 쉬며 승리감에 차서 생각했다. "그냥 열병에 약해서 잠깐 정신이 나간 것뿐이야." 그는 바지 왼쪽 주머니의 안감을 전부 뜯어냈다.

그 순간 햇살이 그의 왼쪽 부츠에 비쳤다. 부츠에서 튀어나온 양말에 흔적이 있는 것 같았다! 그는 부츠를 벗어던졌다. "정말 흔적이 있구나! 양말 끝이 피로 젖어 있었어." 그는 조심하지 않고 그 웅덩이에 발을 디딘 모양이었다.... "하지만 이제 이걸 어떻게 해야 하지? 양말과 걸레와 주머니는 어디에 두어야 하지?" 그는 그것들을 모두 손에 쥐고 방 한가운데에 섰다. "스토브에? 하지만 그들은 먼저 스토브를 뒤질 거야. 태워버릴까? 하지만 무엇으로 태울 수 있을까? 성냥조차 없어.

아니, 나가서 어딘가에 다 버리는 게 낫겠어. 그래, 버리는 게 낫겠어." 그는

다시 소파에 앉아 말했다. "그리고 당장, 이 순간, 망설이지 않고..." 하지만 그의 머리는 대신 베개에 가라앉았다. 다시 참을 수 없는 얼음 같은 떨림이 그를 덮쳤다. 그는 다시 코트를 끌어안았다. 그리고 오랜 시간 동안, 몇 시간 동안 그는 "지금 당장 어딘가로 가서 모든 것을 던져버리고, 눈에 띄지 않게 하고, 즉시, 즉시 끝내고 싶다!"는 충동에 사로잡혔다. 그는 여러 번 소파에서 일어나려고 했지만, 할 수 없었다. 마침내 그는 문을 두드리는 격렬한 소리에 완전히 깨어났다.

"열어, 알았지? 죽었어? 살아있어?" 나스타샤가 주먹으로 문을 두드리며 소리쳤다. "하루 종일 여기서 개처럼 코를 골고 있어! 개야. 열 시가 넘었어." "아마 집에 없을 거야." 한 남자의 목소리가 들렸다. "하! 문지기의 목소리야.... 뭘 원하는 거지?" 그는 뛰어올라 소파에 앉았다. 그의 심장이 뛰는 것은 확실히 고통스러웠다. "그럼 누가 문을 걸었을까?" 나스타샤가 반박했다. "그놈은 스스로를 움켜쥐고 있어!

훔칠 만한 놈인 것처럼! 열어, 멍청아, 일어나!" "그놈들이 뭘 원하는 거지? 왜 문지기야? 다 들켰어. 저항할래, 열래? 무슨 일이 있어도!..." 그는 반쯤 일어나 몸을 앞으로 숙이고 문을 열었다. 그의 방은 너무 작아서 침대에서 나오지 않고도 걸쇠를 풀 수 있었다. 그렇다. 문지기와 나스타샤가 서 있었다. 나스타샤는 이상한 방식으로 그를 응시했다.

그는 문지기에게 도전적이고 절박한 표정으로 시선을 돌렸고, 문지기는 아무 말 없이 병 왁스로 봉인된 회색 접힌 종이를 내밀었다. "사무실에서 온 통지서야." 그는 종이를 건네주며 말했다. "어떤 사무실에서 온 거야?" "물론 경찰서에 소환장이야. 어느 사무실인지 알지?" "경찰서에?... 뭐 때문에?..." "어떻게 알아? 네가 불려가니까 가." 그 남자는 그를 주의 깊게 바라보고 방을 둘러보고 돌아서서 떠났다.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them! “What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one distraught. Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces... his reason was clouded.... Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the purse too.

“Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!” In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!—there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket! “So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself,” he thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief; “it’s simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s delirium,” and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers.

At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood;” he must have unwarily stepped into that pool.... “But what am I to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?” He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room. “In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even.

No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,” he

repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute, without lingering...” But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him. And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to “go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!” Several times he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not. He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.

“Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!” shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. “For whole days together he’s snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It’s past ten.” “Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice. “Ha! that’s the porter’s voice.... What does he want?” He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive pain. “Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. “He’s taken to bolting himself in!

As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake up!” “What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open? Come what may!...” He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door. His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there. Nastasya stared at him in a strange way.

He glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax. “A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him the paper. “From what office?” “A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.” “To the police?... What for?...” “How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.” The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go away.