PART 2 // chapter 1-3

[모나리자]

"그는 정말 아프다!" 나스타샤가 그에게서 눈을 떼지 않고 말했다. 문지기는 잠시 고개를 돌렸다. "어제부터 열이 나요." 그녀가 덧붙였다. 라스콜니코프는 아무 대답도 하지 않고 종이를 손에 쥐고 펴지도 않았다. "그럼 일어나지 마." 나스타샤가 연민 어린 어조로 말을 이었다. 그가 소파에서 발을 내리고 있는 것을 보고는. "아프니까 가지 마. 그렇게 서두를 필요는 없어. 뭐 가지고 있는 거야?" 그는 바라보았다. 오른손에는 바지에서 잘라낸 조각, 양말, 주머니의 헝겊이 있었다. 그래서 그는 그것들을 손에 든 채 잠들었던 것이다.

나중에 생각해보니, 열병에 반쯤 깨어나서 이 모든 것을 손에 꽉 쥐고 다시 잠이 들었던 것을 기억했다. "그가 모아서 자는 누더기를 봐, 마치 보물을 손에 넣은 것처럼..." 그리고 나스타샤는 히스테리컬하게 웃음을 터뜨렸다. 그는 즉시 그것들을 모두 그의 큰 코트 아래에 집어넣고 그녀를 뚫어지게 바라보았다. 그는 이성적인 반성을 할 수 없었지만

그 순간, 그는 체포될 사람에게 그런 행동을 할 사람은 아무도 없을 것이라고 느꼈다.

"하지만... 경찰?" "차 좀 드세요! 네? 가져갈게요, 아직 남았거든요." "아니... 갈게요. 바로 갈게요." 그는 중얼거리며 일어섰다. "이봐요, 당신은 절대 아래층으로 내려갈 수 없을 거예요!" "네, 갈게요." "원하는 대로." 그녀는 문지기의 뒤를 따라 나갔다. 그는 즉시 양말과 누더기를 살펴보기 위해 불빛 쪽으로 달려갔다. "얼룩은 있지만 별로 눈에 띄지 않아요. 모두 흙으로 뒤덮여 있고, 문질러서 이미 변색되어 있어요. 아무도 의심하지 않는 사람은 아무것도 구별할 수 없었다. 멀리서 본 나스타샤는 알아차리지 못했을 것이다. 신께 감사드린다!” 그러고 나서 그는 떨면서 공고문의 봉인을 뜯고 읽기 시작했다. 그는 이해하기까지 오랜 시간 동안 읽었다.

그날 오전 9시 반에 지구 경찰서에서 지구 경찰서장 사무실로 출두하라는 평범한 소환장이었다. “그런데 언제 그런 일이 일어났지? 나는 경찰과는 전혀 상관이 없어! 그리고 왜 오늘만인가?” 그는 괴로운 당혹감에 잠겨 생각했다. “맙소사, 빨리 끝내줘!” 그는 무릎을 꿇고 기도하려고 했지만 웃음이 터졌다. 기도하는 생각이 아니라 자신에게 웃음이 터졌다. 그는 서둘러 옷을 입기 시작했다. “내가 길을 잃었다면, 나는 길을 잃었어. 상관없어! 양말을 신을까?” 그는 갑자기 궁금해졌다. “더 먼지가 쌓이고 흔적도 사라질 거야.

"하지만 신자마자 혐오감과 공포에 질려 다시 벗어버렸다. 벗어버렸지만 다른 양말이 없다는 것을 깨닫고 양말을 집어 다시 신었다. 그리고 다시 웃었다. "그게 다 관습적인 일이고, 상대적인 일이고, 그저 보는 방식일 뿐이야." 그는 순식간에 생각했지만, 온통 떨리는 동안 그의 정신의 맨 위에만 떠올랐다. "자, 신었어! 신는 걸 끝냈어!" 하지만 그의 웃음은 금세 절망으로 이어졌다.

"아니, 나한테는 너무해..." 그는 생각했다. 그의 다리가 떨렸다. "두려움 때문에." 그는 중얼거렸다. 그의 머리는 빙빙 돌고 열로 아팠다. "속임수야! 그들은 나를 거기로 유인하고 모든 것을 혼란스럽게 만들고 싶어해." 그는 계단으로 나가면서 곰곰이 생각했다. "가장 나쁜 건 내가 거의 어지러워진다는 거야... 뭔가 어리석은 말을 내뱉을지도 몰라..." 계단에서 그는 벽의 구멍에 모든 물건을 그대로 두고 나간다는 것을 기억해냈다. "그리고 아마도 내가 나갔을 때 일부러 수색을 하려고 그런 거겠지." 그는 생각하며 멈췄다. 하지만 그는 절망에 사로잡혔고, 비참함에 대한 냉소주의에 사로잡혔고, 그렇게 부를 수 있다면, 손을 흔들며 계속했다. "그저 극복하기 위해서야!"

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

“He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment. “He’s been in a fever since yesterday,” she added. Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without opening it. “Don’t you get up then,” Nastasya went on compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. “You’re ill, and so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?” He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep with them in his hand.

Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep again. “Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has got hold of a treasure...” And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection

at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person who was going to be arrested.

“But... the police?” “You’d better have some tea! Yes? I’ll bring it, there’s some left.” “No... I’m going; I’ll go at once,” he muttered, getting on to his feet. “Why, you’ll never get downstairs!” “Yes, I’ll go.” “As you please.” She followed the porter out. At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags. “There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed, thank God!” Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood.

It was an ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent. “But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why just to-day?” he thought in agonising bewilderment. “Good God, only get it over soon!” He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter—not at the idea of prayer, but at himself. He began, hurriedly dressing. “If I’m lost, I am lost, I don’t care! Shall I put the sock on?” he suddenly wondered, “it will get dustier still and the traces will be gone.

” But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he picked it up and put it on again—and again he laughed. “That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way of looking at it,” he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his mind, while he was shuddering all over, “there, I’ve got it on! I have finished by getting it on!” But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.

“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His legs shook. “From fear,” he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. “It’s a trick! They want to decoy me there and confound me over everything,” he mused, as he went out on to the stairs—“the worst of it is I’m almost light-headed... I may blurt out something stupid...” On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as they were in the hole in the wall, “and very likely, it’s on purpose to search when I’m out,” he thought, and stopped short. But he was possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. “Only to get it over!”