Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

At that time I was young, my friends, and I was in love. After His Highness had passed judgment, something extraordinary happened to me, something ridiculous. I felt an unknown power forcing me to my knees. I actually fell on my knees before our chief and I fumbled for his hand to kiss it. He drew it sharply away from me and ordered me to get to my feet and cease such foolishness. Ah! He was great and powerful — because he was inhuman. Of course, he understood nothing of what was going on inside me. He threw me out.

Outside in the corridor, I looked at my papers. And I grew rigid with happiness and amazement. My papers were made out in the name of Krapotkin. My passport was made out in that name. In a covering letter to the Embassy in Paris I was expressly described as an agent whose duty it was to watch over the so-called subversive Russian element in France. What a hideous task, my friends! And yet at the time it seemed fine to me. How depraved I was then! Depraved and lost. All depraved people are really those who have lost their way.

Two days later the dressmaker, together with his girls, left Petersburg. Shortly before his departure he was introduced to me. In his stupid and vain eyes I was a representative of the nobility of Russia, a prince and at the same time a Krapotkin — for he may really have imagined that he had been given a genuine prince as an escort. And I too, having for the first time a passport in the name of Krapotkin in my pocket, persuaded myself that this was so. But all the while I felt in the depths of my heart the two-fold, the three-fold insult which had been paid to me. For I was a Krapotkin, a Krapotkin by blood; and I was a spy; and I bore the name which was mine by right only by virtue of my position in the police. In a most wrongful way I had bought and stolen what should have come to me by right. So I thought at the time, my friends, and I would probably have been extremely unhappy had it not been for my love for Lutetia. But that — my love I mean — excused and obliterated everything. I was with Lutetia, at her side. I was accompanying her. I stayed in the town where she was staying. I desired her. I wanted her with all my senses. I burned for her, as one says. But for the first I took no notice of her. I tried to appear indifferent; and of course I hoped that she would notice me of her own accord and would let me know by a glance, an expression, a smile, that she had noticed me. But she did nothing. Most certainly she had not noticed me. And why should she?

That was, indeed, during the first twelve hours of our journey. And why should she have noticed me in the first twelve hours?

We had to make a detour. We did not travel direct to Paris; for the society ladies who happened to be in Moscow at that time, or who lived there permanently, were unwilling to let the famous dressmaker leave Russia without at least having seen him and his dolls. So they demanded that we should stay a day in Moscow. Good! We would stop a day in Moscow. We arrived early one afternoon and drove to the Hotel Europe. For each of the girls I ordered a bouquet of dark red roses, all the same. But only in the bouquet destined for Lutetia did I insert my visiting card. Oh, of course, not my real one. I had never had such a thing in my life. But I now had no less than five hundred cards, false ones, in the name of Krapotkin.

I must admit that I often pulled one out of my pocket-book and gazed at it. I feasted my eyes on it. The longer I looked at it, the more I began to believe in its genuineness. I saw myself in this false visiting card, somewhat as a woman sees herself in a mirror which makes her appear more charming than she is. And as though I did not know that my passport was a false one, I would sometimes take it out and reassure myself by its official statement that my visiting card had not lied.

So stupid and vain was I at that time, my friends, although a far greater force held me in thrall. But even that force, namely my love, fed itself on my vanity and my stupidity.

We finally stayed two days in Moscow, and the society ladies came from near and far. On both afternoons in the hotel, there was a short and, so to speak, condensed display. The fashionable dressmaker did not trouble to put on his tail suit. He wore a violet morning coat, a pale pink silk shirt, and a pair of brown patent leather shoes. The ladies were enchanted by him. He welcomed them all in a long speech. And they replied by chanting his praises at still greater length. Although at that time my knowledge of French was still negligible, I noticed that the ladies were at pains to imitate the dressmaker’s pronunciation. I myself avoided speaking with them, because one or the other would most likely have recognized that I was not a Krapotkin — if only from my lamentable French. But I was safe enough, for they only took notice of the dressmaker and his “creations.” Mostly of the dressmaker! And how gladly, in spite of all their femininity, would they have worn a violet morning suit and a pale pink silk shirt!

But enough of these fruitless reflections. Every age has its ridiculous dressmakers, its ridiculous fashions, its ridiculous women. The women who today in Russia wear the uniform of the Red Front are the daughters of those same women who had once been prepared to put on a violet morning coat; and the daughters of the Red Front today will some time perhaps wear similar clothes to those of their grandmothers.

We left Moscow. We arrived at the frontier. At the very moment in which the train drew up, there came to me for the first time the sudden realisation that I was in danger of losing Lutetia if I did not do something quickly. But what to do? What does a lost man of my type do, a man who practices the most despicable of all trades? Ah, my friends, he never has the direct, inspired, godlike imagination of those who are simply in love. A man of my cast has a base, distorted imagination. He pursues the woman he loves with every means offered him by his profession. Not even his feelings can ennoble a man of my type. To misuse power is the guiding principle of men like me! And God knows, I misused it.

At the frontier I gave one of my colleagues a sign, and he understood it immediately. You will remember, my friends, what the Russian frontier meant in those days. It was less the boundary of the all-powerful empire of the Czar than the bounds of our despotism; that is, of the despotism of the Russian police. The might of the Czar had its limits, even in his own palace. But our might, the might of the police, only ceased at the frontiers of the empire, and often — as you will soon hear — far beyond the frontiers. Nevertheless it gave a police official inexpressible pleasure, firstly to see a harmless person tremble with fear, secondly to do a favor for a colleague, and thirdly — and this is particularly important — to frighten a pretty young woman. That, my friends, is the peculiar expression of police eroticism.

My colleague immediately understood me. I disappeared for a time and waited in the police bureau. The dressmaker and all his girls were subjected to a most distressing and thorough search — and nothing could avert it, neither his persuasive tongue nor his appeals in the name of all the nobility of Russia. The officials simply did not understand French. In vain he called for me, for Prince Krapotkin. I could, indeed, observe him through the little window set in the wall between the police bureau and the customs room. But he did not see me. I remained invisible. I saw how he fussed round amongst his terrified troupe of girls, important and helpless, self-confident and lost, simultaneously pompous and afraid, as arrogant as a cock, as timid as a hare, as stupid as a donkey. I enjoyed the sight. I admit it. I should really have had no time to watch and despise him. For I was in love with Lutetia. But such was my nature, my friends! Often, indeed, I do not know what to think of myself. …