PART I // chapter 2-1

[모나리자]

라스콜니코프는 군중에 익숙하지 않았고, 앞서 말했듯이 그는 모든 종류의 사교를 피했으며, 특히 최근에는 더욱 그랬다. 하지만 지금은 갑자기 다른 사람들과 함께 있고 싶은 마음이 들었다. 그의 내면에서 새로운 무언가가 일어나는 듯했고, 그와 함께 그는 일종의 동행에 대한 갈증을 느꼈다. 그는 한 달 동안의 집중된 비참함과 우울한 흥분으로 너무 지쳐서 다른 세상에서 잠시라도 쉬고 싶었다. 그리고 주변이 더러웠지만, 그는 이제 선술집에 머물게 되어 기뻤다.

그 식당의 주인은 다른 방에 있었지만, 그는 자주 몇 개의 계단을 내려가 메인 룸으로 들어갔고, 그의 경쾌하고 타르가 묻은 부츠와 빨간색 턴오버 탑이 그의 나머지 몸보다 먼저 보였다. 그는 풀코트와 끔찍하게 기름진 검은색 새틴 조끼를 입고 크라바트는 없었고, 그의 얼굴 전체가 철제 자물쇠처럼 기름으로 얼룩진 듯했다. 카운터에는 열네 살 정도의 소년이 서 있었고, 그보다 조금 어린 소년이 원하는 것을 건네주었다. 카운터에는 얇게 썬 오이, 말린 검은 빵 조각, 작게 잘게 썬 생선이 놓여 있었는데, 모두 매우 나쁜 냄새가 났다. 참을 수 없을 정도로 가까웠고, 술 냄새가 너무 강해서 그런 분위기에 5분만 있어도 취해버릴 수 있었다.

낯선 사람과 우연히 만나는 경우가 있는데, 말을 하기 전부터 우리의 관심을 끌었다. 라스콜니코프는 그와 약간 떨어진 곳에 앉아 은퇴한 사무원처럼 보이는 사람에게서 그런 인상을 받았다. 그 청년은 나중에 종종 이런 인상을 떠올렸고, 심지어 예감 때문이라고 생각했다.

그는 사무원을 계속 쳐다보았는데, 아마도 사무원이 끊임없이 자신을 응시하고 있었고, 분명히 대화에 끼고 싶어했기 때문일 것이다. 방 안의 다른 사람들, 선술집 주인을 포함하여, 점원은 마치 그들과 어울리는 데 익숙해진 듯, 지쳐 있는 듯, 자신보다 지위와 교양이 떨어지는 사람들에 대한 멸시적인 경멸의 그림자를 보였다. 그는 50대가 넘은 대머리에 덥수룩한 얼굴에 중간 키에 튼튼한 체구였다. 끊임없이 술을 마셔서 얼굴이 부어 있었고, 노랗고 심지어 녹색을 띠었고, 눈꺼풀이 부어 있었고, 날카로운 붉은 눈이 작은 틈처럼 반짝였다. 하지만 그에게는 매우 이상한 것이 있었다. 그의 눈에는 강렬한 감정처럼 빛이 있었다. 아마도 생각과 지성도 있었겠지만, 동시에 광기와 같은 무언가의 반짝임이 있었다.

그는 낡고 절망적으로 해진 검은색 드레스 코트를 입고 있었는데, 단추 하나만 빼고는 모두 빠져 있었고, 그 단추는 분명히 이 마지막 명예의 흔적에 집착하고 있었다. 얼룩과 얼룩으로 뒤덮인 구겨진 셔츠 앞부분이 그의 캔버스 조끼에서 튀어나와 있었다. 그는 점원처럼 수염이나 콧수염을 기르지 않았지만 너무 오랫동안 면도하지 않아서 그의 턱은 뻣뻣한 회색 솔처럼 보였다. 그리고 그의 태도에는 존경스럽고 공무원 같은 무언가가 있었다. 하지만 그는 안절부절못했다. 그는 머리를 헝클어뜨리고 때때로 머리를 손에 떨어뜨리고 얼룩덜룩하고 끈적거리는 테이블에 엉성한 팔꿈치를 얹었다. 마침내 그는 라스콜니코프를 똑바로 바라보며 큰 소리로 단호하게 말했다.

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Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.

The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment.

He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense feeling—perhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a gleam of something like madness.

He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely: