Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

Time often passes quickly like that, when one stands at the bar instead of sitting at a table. When one sits at a table, one sees every second how much one has drunk, and the number of empty glasses marks the movement of the clock. But should one just “step in,” as they say, to a restaurant, and remain standing at the bar, one drinks and drinks and firmly believes that it all belongs to the single “step” originally intended. I myself noticed this on that particular evening. For, like the other two, I also drank one and then another and then a third, and I still stood there like one of those every hurrying, ever dilatory people who come into a house, refuse to take off their coats, keep hold of the door handle, intending every moment to say good-bye, and who yet stay longer than if they had at the beginning come right in and sat down. The other two customers were talking quietly with the host in Russian. The gray-haired man could certainly only half hear what was being said at the bar. He was sitting some distance away from us. I could see him in the mirror behind the bar, and he seemed in no way inclined to listen to the conversation or even to take part in it. I, too, as usual pretended to understand nothing. But suddenly a sentence caught my ear. I could not help hearing it. The sentence ran: “Why is our murderer so gloomy today?” One of the two customers had said this and at the same moment he pointed with his finger at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Involuntarily I turned towards the gray-haired man and thereby revealed that I had understood the question. The others immediately stared at me somewhat mistrustfully, but their expressions were mainly of astonishment. The Russians have, not without justification, a terror of police spies, and at all costs I wanted to avoid them suspecting me of being one. But at the same time the unusual description, “our murderer,” intrigued me so much that I immediately determined to ask why the gray-haired man was so called. When I turned round I noticed that the man had also heard this question. He nodded, smiling. And he would probably have answered for himself, had I remained indifferent and had I not in that short minute become an object of doubt and mistrust. “So you are a Russian?” the host asked me. “No,” I was about to reply, but to my amazement the gray-haired man answered behind my back: “Our friend here understands Russian, but he is a German. It was only his discretion that kept him quiet.” “That’s so,” I agreed, and I turned round and said: “Thank you, sir!” “Not at all,” he said, and stood up and came towards me. “My name is Golubchik,” he said, “Semjon Semjonovitch Golubchik.” We shook hands. The host and the other two customers laughed. “How is it that you know so much about me?” I asked. “One has not been a member of the Russian secret police for nothing,” answered Golubchik. I immediately envisaged a fantastic story. This man here, I thought, was an old official in the Ochrana and had killed a Communist spy in Paris; and that was why these White Russian emigrants so harmlessly and almost affectionately named him “our murderer,” and had no aversion to him. Yes, perhaps they were all four involved.

“And how is it that you know our language?” asked one of the customers. And again Golubchik answered: “He was on the Eastern front during the war and served in the so-called ‘Army of Occupation.”’ “True enough,” I said. “And later,” continued Golubchik, “he was again in Russia; that is to say, not in Russia but in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. He was working for an important newspaper. He is a writer.” I was amazed at this precise information about myself. For I had drunk a fair amount, and in this condition I can hardly distinguish the miraculous from the matter-of-course. I was very polite and said a little pompously: “I thank you for the interest: which you have for so long taken in me, and for the distinction which you have thereby conferred on me.” They all laughed. And the host said: “He talks like an old Petersburg alderman!” With that, all doubts as to my standing were allayed. Yes, they even regarded me benevolently, and there followed four more rounds in which we all drank to each other’s health.

The host went to the door, locked it, put out a number of the lights, and invited us all to sit down. The hands of the clock pointed at half-past eight. I had no watch on me, and for one of the guests to enquire about the time seemed to me unseemly. I thought rather that I should be spending half the night there, or possibly the whole night. A large carafe of schnapps stood before us. In my estimation it would, at least, have to be half emptied. So I asked: “Why did they speak in such an extraordinary way of you just now, Herr Golubchik?”

“That is my nickname,” he answered, “but again, it is not only a nickname. Many years ago I killed a man and — as I then believed — a woman also.”

“A political assassination?” asked our host, and thus it became clear to me that the others also knew nothing, except for the nickname.

“Nothing like it!” said Semjon. “I am in no way a political personality. I am not interested in public affairs. I prefer private ones. Those are the only things that interest me. I am a good Russian — even if a Russian from a frontier land. I was born in Wolhynia. But I have never been able to understand the companions of my youth, with their desperate desire to dedicate their lives to some mad or, for all I care, sensible idea. No! Believe me, a man’s private life, simple humanity, is more important, greater, more tragic than all the public affairs in the world. And perhaps to modern ears that sounds absurd. But I believe that, and I will believe it to my last hour. I could never have aroused in myself enough political passion to kill a man for political reasons. Neither do I believe that political criminals are better or finer than others; provided, of course, that one is not of the opinion that a criminal, of whatever sort, can never be a fine person. Take myself for example. I have killed and yet I consider myself to be a good man. A foul creature, or to speak more plainly, a woman, drove me to murder.”

“Very interesting,” said our host.

“Not at all. Very ordinary,” said Semjon Semjonovitch modestly. “And yet not quite so ordinary. I can tell you my story quite shortly. And you will see that it is only a simple tale.”

He began. And the story was neither short nor commonplace. Therefore I have decided to write it down here.

“I HAVE PROMISED TO tell you a short story, but I see now that I must go far back for the real beginning of it all, and so I beg you not to become impatient with me. I said earlier that private affairs are the only things that interest me. I must return to that point. By that statement I mean that, if one examines life closely enough, one must of necessity come to the conclusion that all the so-called great historical events in this world can, in fact, be traced back to some moment in the private life of their author, or to several such moments. Not for nothing — that is, not without some private impulse — can one become a Field Marshal or a Socialist or a reactionary; and all great and noble and despicable deeds, which have to some extent altered the history of this world, are the results of some quite unimportant occurrence of which we have no knowledge. I told you earlier that I was once a police spy. (After this, I shall simply call myself a spy, but you must remember that that is never meant in the international sense. I was simply a hireling employed to spy upon my own people.) Well, I have often racked my brains to discover why I, of all people, should have been chosen to follow such an accursed profession — for there is no grace in it, and it is certainly not pleasing to God. Today it is still the same; without a doubt, I am possessed by a devil. Of course you know that I no longer make my living by spying, but I can never give it up — I can never give it up. There must be a special demon of espionage. If someone should interest me especially, as for example this gentleman here, the writer”—Golubchik nodded towards me—“I could have no peace, or rather it would leave me no peace, until I had found out who he was, where he lived, and where he came from. For, of course, I know considerably more than you imagine. You live across the road, and some mornings you look out of the window while you are dressing. But you are not the subject of this story, I am. So I’ll get on. My profession was not pleasing to God, but His inscrutable will had selected it for me.

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