Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

But spare me the closer details of how I became Lutetia’s lover. It was not difficult. It was not easy. I was in love, my friends, and even today I find it hard to say whether it was difficult or easy for me to become Lutetia’s lover. It was difficult and easy, it was easy and difficult — whichever you prefer…!

In those days I had no very exact ideas of the world and of the curious laws which govern love. I was, indeed, a spy, and therefore, one would think, a jack-of-all-trades. But in spite of my profession and in spite of all the experiences which it had brought me, I was a harmless fool with regard to Lutetia; with regard to Lutetia — that is, to all women; with regard to the whole of womankind. For Lutetia was woman, plain and simple — she was womankind personified. She was the woman of my life. She was the woman, the feminine in my life.

Today, my friends, it is easy to deride the situation in which I then found myself. Today I am old and experienced. Today we are all old and experienced. But each of you will be able to remember an hour when you were young and foolish. With you, perhaps, it was only an hour, measured by the clock. But with me it was a long hour, far too long an hour… as you will soon see.

As I had been ordered, and as was my duty, I reported at the Russian Embassy.

There was a man there, a man, I tell you, who attracted me at the first glance. He even attracted me strongly. He was a huge, powerful man. He was a handsome, powerful man. He should rather have been in the Imperial Guard than in our Secret Police. Till then I had never seen a man of his type in our company. Yes, I must admit that after I had spoken to him for scarcely a quarter of an hour it almost pained me to know that he was in a position in which he could never escape from vileness and treachery. Yes, it actually pained me. So strongly did he radiate a genuine, inward peace. How shall I describe it: it was a harmonious power, the characteristic of real kindliness. “I have heard about you,” he greeted me. “I know what foolishness you have been up to. Well now, under which name do you propose to live here?”

Under which name? Well, I had one, the only one which fitted me. My name was Krapotkin. I had visiting-cards. Such were my wretched reflections at the time. For the past few years I had practiced every sort of deceit — and nothing, one might think, could make a man more astute, more experienced, more discerning, than spying. But no; one would be wrong. My victims were not only finer men than I, but also considerably cleverer; and the simplest among them would have found it impossible to be as vain and ridiculous and childish as I was. I was already in the depths of Hell. Yes, I was already a hardened servitor of Hell, and still — I felt it at that moment — the one, stupid, blind, driving-force of my life was my chagrin at the name of Golubchik and at the degradation to which I considered I had been subjected, and my mania to become a Krapotkin at any price. I still believed that through cunning and treachery I could wipe out what I deemed to be the stigma in my life. But I only heaped disgrace after disgrace upon my own miserable head. At that moment, too, I felt vaguely that I had never really followed Lutetia out of love for her, and that I had merely imagined a great passion, such as only noble souls can experience, for my own justification. In reality, I had simply made up my mind to possess her, just as I had made up my mind no longer to be a Golubchik. Within myself, and therefore against myself I had evolved one mad folly after another. I had deceived and betrayed myself, exactly as I was supposed to be deceiving and betraying others. I had woven myself into my own net. It was too late. Although I realized all this, half clearly, half unclearly, I still compelled myself to cling to the lie that everything was because of Lutetia, and that for her sake alone I could not surrender my false name of Krapotkin. “I have already a name,” I said, and showed him my passport. He ignored it and said: “My young friend, to work here with that name you must indeed be clever. You know that you have been allotted the definite duties of an intermediary agent. But you may have private reasons for your choice. There is probably a woman somewhere about. Let us hope that she is young and pretty. I will only remind you that young and pretty women need money. And I am very economical. I only pay unusual premiums for unusual services. I shall make no exception in your case. False papers, in other names, you can have as many as you want. You may go now. Report to me as often as you wish. Where are you staying? In the Hotel Louvois, I know it. One thing more. Learn languages, take lessons, go to the High School if you like. You will report to me at least twice a week, here, during the evening. Here is a check. That you will be watched by your colleagues, you know already. So no foolishness!”

When I got outside I breathed deeply. I felt that I had been through one of those hours which, when one is young, one calls decisive. Later in life, one comes to recognize that many, in fact most hours are decisive. Admittedly there are crises and climaxes and so-called peripetiae, but we ourselves know nothing of them, and it is quite impossible for us to distinguish between a moment of climax and any ordinary moment. At the most, we experience this and that — and even then the experience is of no use to us. But the power to recognize and to distinguish is denied us.

Our imagination is always stronger than our conscience. Although my conscience told me that I was a scoundrel, a weakling, a wretch, I was unable to accept the miserable truth, for my imagination rode away with me at a terrible gallop. With a comfortable check in my pocket, temporarily dismissed by my chief, whom indeed I now thought as intolerable as he had previously seemed kindly, I felt free and unbounded in a free and unbounded Paris. Adventures, glorious adventures, lay on every side, and I was on my way to meet the most beautiful woman in the world and the most fashionable of all dressmakers. In that hour it seemed to me that I was at last beginning the sort of life which I had always longed for. Now I was almost a real Krapotkin. And I suppressed the importunate but almost inaudible voice of conscience which insisted that I was really on my way towards a twofold, even a threefold, captivity: firstly the captivity of my foolishness, my indiscretion, my depravity, to all of which, however, I was already accustomed; secondly to the captivity of my love; and thirdly to the captivity of my profession.

It was a mild, sunny, Parisian, winter’s afternoon. The good people were sitting on the terraces outside the cafés, and with blissful contentment I thought how, at the same time of day and year in Russia, the good people would be huddled together in hot, dark rooms. I wandered aimlessly from one café to another. Everywhere the people, the shopkeepers, the waiters seemed to be happy and benevolent, blessed with that benevolence which only a lasting happiness can give. Winter in Paris was a real spring. The women in Paris were real women. The men in Paris were cordial companions. The waiters in Paris were like happy, alert white-aproned minions of some bountiful god from the Golden Age. And in Russia, which I believed I had left for ever, it was dark and cold. It was as though I were no longer m the terrible service of that country. There lived the Golubchiks, whose miserable name I only bore because I had happened to come into the world in my father’s house. There lived the no less miserable Krapotkins, miserable in character, a princely race such as could only be found in Russia, a race which denied its own flesh and blood. Never would a French Krapotkin have behaved like that. I was, as you can see, young, stupid, miserable, and pitiable. But to myself I appeared proud, noble and victorious. Everything that I saw in this wonderful city seemed to confirm my convictions, my previous actions, and my love for Lutetia.