PART 2 // chapter 1-4

[모나리자]

거리에서는 더위가 다시 참을 수 없을 정도였다. 그 모든 날 동안 비 한 방울도 내리지 않았다. 다시 먼지, 벽돌, 모르타르, 다시 상점과 주점의 악취, 다시 술 취한 남자, 핀란드 행상인, 반쯤 고장난 마차. 햇살이 그의 눈에 직접 비춰서 눈을 뜬 것이 아팠고, 그는 머리가 빙빙 도는 것을 느꼈다.

열이 난 사람이 밝고 화창한 날 거리로 나올 때 흔히 느끼는 것처럼. 그는 거리로 들어가는 길목에 도착했을 때, 겁에 질려 길을 내려다보았다... 집을... 그리고 즉시 눈을 돌렸다.

"그들이 나에게 질문하면, 그냥 말할 거야." 그는 경찰서에 다가가면서 생각했다. 경찰서는 약 1/4마일 떨어져 있었다. 최근에 새 집의 4층에 있는 새 방으로 이전했다. 그는 한때 옛 사무실에 잠깐 있었지만 오래전 일이었다. 그는 관문에서 돌아서서 오른쪽에 책을 손에 든 농부가 올라가는 계단을 보았다. "집안 수위일 거야. 그럼 사무실이 여기야." 그는 기회를 얻어 계단을 오르기 시작했다. 그는 누구에게도 질문을 하고 싶지 않았다. "들어가서 무릎을 꿇고 모든 것을 고백해야겠어..." 그는 4층에 도착하면서 생각했다. 계단은 가파르고 좁았으며 더러운 물로 인해 지저분했다.

아파트의 주방은 계단으로 열려 있었고 거의 하루 종일 열려 있었다. 그래서 무서운 냄새와 열기가 있었다. 계단은 책을 팔에 끼고 오르내리는 수위, 경찰관, 그리고 온갖 종류의 사람들로 붐볐다. 사무실 문도 활짝 열려 있었다. 농부들이 안에서 기다리고 있었다. 거기에서도 열기가 숨 막힐 듯했고 새로 장식한 방에서 나는 신선한 페인트와 오래된 기름 냄새가 역겹게 났다. 그는 조금 기다린 후 다음 방으로 이동하기로 했다. 모든 방은 작고 음조가 낮았다.

두려운 참을성이 그를 계속 끌어들였다. 아무도 그에게 주의를 기울이지 않았다. 두 번째 방에는 몇몇 사무원들이 앉아서 글을 쓰고 있었는데, 그는 그보다 별로 좋은 차림새도 아니었고, 오히려 이상하게 생긴 모습이었다. 그는 그들 중 한 명에게 다가갔다. "무슨 일이에요?" 그는 받은 통지서를 보여주었다. "당신은 학생이에요?" 그 남자가 통지서를 흘깃 보며 물었다. "네, 전에 학생이었어요." 사무원은 그를 바라보았지만, 전혀 관심이 없었다. 그는 눈에 고정관념이 있는, 특히 깔끔하지 못한 사람이었다. "그 사람한테서 아무것도 얻을 수 없을 거야. 그는 아무것에도 관심이 없으니까." 라스콜니코프는 생각했다.

"저기서 사무장한테 가." 사무원이 가장 먼 방을 가리키며 말했다. 그는 그 방으로 들어갔다. 순서대로 네 번째 방이었다. 작은 방이었고 사람들로 가득 차 있었고, 바깥 방보다 훨씬 더 잘 차려입었다. 그들 중에는 두 명의 여성이 있었다. 한 명은 애도 차림으로 초라하게 차려입고, 서기장 맞은편 테이블에 앉아 서기의 지시에 따라 무언가를 적고 있었다. 다른 한 명은 매우 통통하고 풍만한 여자로, 자주빛 붉은 얼룩덜룩한 얼굴에 지나치게 단정한 차림새에 가슴에는 접시만큼 큰 브로치를 달고 한쪽에 서 있었다.

분명히 무언가를 기다리고 있었다. 라스콜니코프는 서기장에게 공고문을 내밀었다. 서기장은 공고문을 흘깃 보고, "잠깐만요."라고 말하며 애도하는 여인을 돌보았다. 그는 더 자유롭게 숨을 쉬었다. "그럴 리가 없어요!"

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In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone

straight in his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going round—as a man

in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a bright sunny day. When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony of trepidation he looked down it... at the house... and at once averted his eyes.

“If they question me, perhaps I’ll simply tell,” he thought, as he drew near the police-station. The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here,” and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask questions of anyone. “I’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything...” he thought, as he reached the fourth floor. The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water.

The kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost the whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms. After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room. All the rooms were small and low-pitched.

A fearful impatience drew him on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking set. He went up to one of them. “What is it?” He showed the notice he had received. “You are a student?” the man asked, glancing at the notice. “Yes, formerly a student.” The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye. “There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest in anything,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Go in there to the head clerk,” said the clerk, pointing towards the furthest room. He went into that room—the fourth in order; it was a small room and packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face, excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer, was standing on one side,

apparently waiting for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and went on attending to the lady in mourning. He breathed more freely. “It can’t be that!”