Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

So I fell in love with Lutetia, literally, at first sight. Very soon it seemed to me that she carried her number like a stigma, and suddenly I was filled with hatred against this exquisite dressmaker, who had been invited by the highest society to exhibit his unhappy slaves. Of all these unhappy slaves it was, of course, Lutetia, with her Number 9, who seemed to me the unhappiest. And as though this contemptible but far from criminal dressmaker were in reality a slave-trader or a white-slaver, I began considering the ways and means by which I might rescue Number 9 from his clutches. Yes, I saw in the fact that I had been sent to Petersburg on account of this wretch, a particular “gesture of fate.” And I made up my mind to save Lutetia.

I believe I forgot to tell you why the police had taken these precautions against such an unusual, but nevertheless unsuspicious, dressmaker. A week or two previously an attempt had been made on the life of the Governor of Petersburg. As you all know, unsuccessful assassinations used to have far more terrible results in our old Russia than successful ones. Successful assassinations were, to a certain extent, the irrevocable will of God. For, my friends, people still believed in God in those days, and they were convinced that nothing could happen against His will. But in order to forestall, so to speak, the Almighty before he could find an opportunity of destroying a high personage, so-called precautionary measures were taken. These measures were mostly hopeless and often ridiculous. We, for example, were given orders to watch those poor young girls particularly closely during the intervals while they were changing, and also during the daytime, in their hotels. We were also ordered to take particular note of the men with whom, in all probability, they would come in contact. And so, during those days, we were really no longer policemen, but a sort of group of governesses. I, however, was in no way ashamed of this task, indeed it amused me. But what would not have amused me during those first happy days when I was in love! — My heart! I felt I had denied it up till then. Ever since that moment when love had entered in, I had realized that it was still there, my heart, and that, up to that hour, I had only ignored, insulted and repressed it. Or so I believed. Yes, my friends, it was an unspeakable joy to feel that I still possessed a heart and to recognize my crime in having previously ill-treated it. At the time I had no such clear conception of my feelings as I have now. But I already felt that love had begun to redeem me and that the greatest gift it could bring me would be my redemption, with suffering, with joy, and even with pleasure. For love, my friends, does not make us blind, as the stupid proverb asserts. On the contrary, it makes us see. Suddenly, and thanks to my foolish love for an ordinary girl, I realized that up to that hour I had been evil, and I realized, too, exactly how evil I had been. Since then, I have come to realize that the object which awakes love in a human heart is utterly unimportant compared to the knowledge which that love bestows. Whoever or whatever a man may love, his perception grows greater, not less. Yet I still did not know whether the girl would return my love. But the blessing of being able to fall in love so suddenly, at first sight, made me sure of myself and simultaneously aroused pangs of conscience within me at the shamefulness of past deeds. I tried to become worthy of this gift. In a flash I realized the baseness of my profession, and it disgusted me. At that time I began to make amends; it was the beginning of my period of atonement. Little did I know then how much more I should have to atone for later.

I watched the girl whom they called Lutetia. I watched her, no longer as a policeman, but as a jealous lover; no longer because of my duty, but because of my heart. And it gave me a quite particular pleasure to watch her and to know, every moment, that she was really in my power. So cruel, my friends, is human nature! For even when we realize that we have been vile, we still remain vile. We are men! Good and bad. Bad and good. Nothing more than men!

I suffered the tortures of Hell while I was watching that girl. I was madly jealous. Every moment I trembled lest another man, another of my colleagues, might perchance be ordered to take my place in guarding her. I was young then, my friends. And when a man is young it sometimes happens that jealousy comes with the beginning of love; and a man can be happy in the midst of his jealousy, even because of his jealousy. Suffering makes us just as happy as joy. Indeed, one can scarcely distinguish between suffering and joy. The real ability to draw that distinction only comes with age. And by then we are already too feeble to avoid suffering and appreciate joy.

In reality — or have I told you already — the name of my beloved was, of course, not Lutetia. It may seem pointless to you that I mention this, but to me it meant much that she had two names, a real one and a false one. For a long time I kept her passport in my pocket. I took it to police headquarters, copied down even the dates on it, had, as was customary with us, the photograph retaken, kept two prints for myself, and put them in a special envelope. Both names fascinated me, each in a different way. Both names I had heard for the first time. From her real name there emanated a warm, subtle glamour, from the name Lutetia a resplendent, imperious glitter. It was almost as though I loved two women instead of one, and, since they were one, as though I had to love that one twice as much.

During the evenings when the girls were in the theater, parading the dresses — or, as the newspapers called them, the “creations”—we had to stand on duty in the dressing rooms. Monsieur Charron made a furious protest against this. He went to the widow of General Portchakoff, who at that time was an important personage in Petersburg society and who had been the main instigator of his visit to Russia. In spite of her famous embonpoint the widow was extraordinarily impetuous. She possessed the astonishing ability of being able to visit, on the same morning, two archdukes, the governor-general, three lawyers, and the intendant of the Imperial opera, in order to protest against this decree of the police. But, my friends, of what use in old Russia, in circumstances such as these, was a protest against a decree? The Czar himself could have done nothing — he least of all, perhaps.

Of course, I was fully aware of all the activities of this energetic old woman. Indeed, I even paid out of my own salary for the sleigh which I hired in order to be able to follow her; and also out of my own pocket came the bribes which I gave to the servants and lackeys in return for detailed accounts of the conversations which took place in every house she visited. I did not fail immediately to report the results of my investigations to my chief. He congratulated me, but I was ashamed of his congratulations. For I was no longer working for the police. I was in the service of something higher; I was in the service of my passion.

In those days I was probably the smartest of all the secret agents. For I possessed not only the capacity of being quicker than the impetuous widow, but also the extraordinary gift of being in several different places almost simultaneously. Thus I was able to watch not only Lutetia, but also the general’s widow and the dressmaker at one and the same time. There was only one thing I did not see, my friends, only one thing. And you will shortly hear what that was. One day, therefore, I saw the famous dressmaker come out of his house. He was wrapped in an enormous fur coat which he had had made in Paris — for it was not a real Russian coat, but only such a one as the Parisians think is worn in Russia. Round his shoulders was an effeminate little cape of astrakhan, and on his head a hood of blue fox with a silver tassel. He climbed into a sleigh and drove off to the general’s widow. I followed, reached the house long before him, relieved him of his remarkable furs — for I was a friend of the footman’s — and waited in the hall. The enterprising widow had disastrous news for him. I, too, succeeded in listening to it. All her efforts had been in vain. I heard this with satisfaction. Against the Ochrana, and therefore, to a certain extent, against me, not even an archduke could do anything, not even a Jewish lawyer. But in old Russia, as you know, there were three infallible means of getting what one wanted — and these she told him: Money, money, and money.