PART 2 // chapter 1-9

[모나리자]

그들에게 자신의 감정을 강요했다. 그리고 그 감정은 어디서 왔을까? 지금 방 전체가 경찰관이 아니라 그에게 가장 가까운 사람들로 가득 찼다면, 그는 그들을 지칭하는 인간적 단어 하나를 찾지 못했을 것이다. 그의 마음은 너무나 텅 비어 있었기 때문이다. 고통스럽고 영원한 고립과 소외감이라는 우울한 감각이 그의 영혼 속에서 의식적인 형태를 띠었다. 일리야 페트로비치 앞에서의 감상적인 감정의 분출이 비열했던 것도, 그가 그를 이긴 것에 대한 비열함이 그의 마음에 갑자기 혐오감을 불러일으킨 것도 아니었다. 오, 그는 지금 자신의 비열함, 이 모든 사소한 허영심, 경찰관, 독일 여성, 빚, 경찰서와 무슨 상관이 있을까?

만약 그가 그 순간에 화형을 선고받았다면, 그는 움직이지 않았을 것이고, 거의 끝까지 그 판결을 듣지 못했을 것이다. 그에게 완전히 새롭고 갑작스럽고 알려지지 않은 일이 일어나고 있었다. 그는 이해한 것이 아니라, 경찰서에 있는 이 사람들에게 최근의 폭발처럼 감정적인 폭발이나 그 어떤 것으로도 더 이상 호소할 수 없다는 것을 모든 강렬한 감각으로 분명히 느꼈습니다. 그리고 그들이 경찰관이 아니라 자신의 형제 자매였다면, 삶의 어떤 상황에서도 그들에게 호소하는 것은 전혀 불가능했을 것입니다. 그는 그렇게 이상하고 끔찍한 감각을 경험한 적이 없었습니다.

그리고 가장 고통스러웠던 것은 개념이나 아이디어라기보다는 감각이었고, 직접적인 감각이었고, 그가 평생 알고 있었던 모든 감각 중에서 가장 고통스러웠습니다. 서기가 그에게 평소와 같은 선언 형식을 지시하기 시작했습니다. 그는 지불할 수 없고, 나중에 지불하겠다고 약속하고, 마을을 떠나지 않고, 재산을 팔지 않을 것입니다. "하지만 당신은 글을 쓸 수 없고, 펜을 제대로 잡을 수도 없습니다." 서기가 호기심 어린 눈으로 라스콜니코프를 바라보며 말했습니다. "아프신가요?" "네, 저는 어지러워요. 계속하세요!" "그게 다입니다. 서명하세요." 서기가 종이를 받고 다른 사람들을 돌보기 위해 돌아섰습니다. 라스콜니코프는 펜을 돌려주었지만, 일어나서 떠나는 대신 팔꿈치를 테이블에 얹고 손으로 머리를 눌렀습니다.

그는 마치 두개골에 못이 박히는 것 같은 기분이 들었습니다. 이상한 생각이 갑자기 떠올랐습니다. 즉시 일어나서 니코딤 포미치에게 가서 어제 일어난 모든 일을 말하고, 그와 함께 숙소로 가서 구석에 있는 구멍에 있는 물건을 보여줘야겠다는 생각이었습니다. 충동이 너무 강해서 그는 자리에서 일어나 그것을 수행했습니다. "잠깐 생각해 보는 게 낫지 않을까?" 그의 머릿속에 번쩍였습니다. "아니, 생각 없이 짐을 벗어던지는 게 낫겠어." 하지만 갑자기 그는 움직이지 않고 그 자리에 굳어버렸습니다. 니코딤 포미치는 일리야 페트로비치와 열심히 이야기를 나누고 있었고, 그 말이 그에게 전해졌습니다.

"불가능해, 둘 다 풀려날 거야. 우선, 이야기 전체가 모순됩니다. 그들이 그렇게 했다면 왜 문지기에게 전화했을까요? 스스로에게 불리한 정보를 제공하려고? 아니면 장님으로서? 아니요, 너무 교활할 겁니다! 게다가 학생인 페스트리아코프는 문지기와 한 여자에게 문으로 들어가는 모습이 보였습니다. 그는 세 친구와 함께 걷고 있었는데, 그들은 그를 문에 남겨 두었고, 그는 문지기에게 친구들이 있는 자리에서 길을 안내해 달라고 부탁했습니다. 이제, 그가 그런 물건을 가지고 갔다면 길을 물었을까요? 코흐의 경우, 그는 아래 은세공인 가게에서 30분을 보낸 후, 늙은 여자에게 다가갔고, 그는 정확히 8시 15분에 그를 떠났습니다. 이제 생각해 보세요..."
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forcing his feelings upon them. And where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women, debts, police-offices?

If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to these people in the police-office with sentimental effusions like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation.

And what was most agonising—it was more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the sensations he had known in his life. The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on. “But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,” observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?” “Yes, I am giddy. Go on!” “That’s all. Sign it.” The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others. Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands.

He felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat to carry it out. “Hadn’t I better think a minute?” flashed through his mind. “No, better cast off the burden without thinking.” But all at once he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:

“It’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with, the whole story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his way if he had been going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the silversmith’s below, before he went up to the old woman and he left him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider...”