Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

Only when evening came — far too early for my liking — hurried on by the artificial efforts of the street lamps, did my mood change. A feeling of despondency came over me, and I appeared to myself like some disappointed believer who has lost his gods. I hailed a fiacre and drove to my hotel And with all my strength I clung to the one hope that was left me, to Lutetia. To Lutetia and to tomorrow. Tomorrow I would see her. Tomorrow, tomorrow!

I began to do what our type always does in such circumstances: I began to drink. First beer, then wine, then schnapps. In time the heaviness began to lift from my heart, and by the early hours of the morning I had almost attained the same feeling of blissfulness as that which had filled me in the afternoon.

When I went out into the streets, no longer quite sure of my movements, the mild winter’s morning was already graying in the sky. It was raining, softly and kindly, as it can only rain in April in Russia. That and my mental confusion made me forget for a moment the time and place of my present being. I was astonished and almost frightened when I saw the servility with which the employees of the hotel treated me. I had first to remind myself that I was actually Prince Krapotkin.

The memory of it returned to me after a time, outside in the soft fresh morning rain. It was as though the rain itself had baptized me Prince Krapotkin. A Parisian Prince Krapotkin. And that, in my opinion, meant far more than a Russian one.

It rained out of the Parisian sky, softly and kindly, upon my bare head, upon my tired shoulders. I stood for a long time in front of the hotel steps. Behind my back I could feel the respectful, the elaborately indifferent, glances of the staff. And, thanks to my professional instinct, I could also feel something of mistrust in those glances. But they did me good. The rain did me good. The sky above blessed me. Morning in Paris was already beginning. Newspaper sellers moved past with curiously brisk indifference. The people of Paris were waking. And I, as though I were not a Golubchik but a real Krapotkin, a Parisian Krapotkin, yawned, with weariness indeed, but no less with arrogance. And arrogantly, leisurely, with the perfect air of a grand seigneur , I walked past the respectful, mistrustful glances of the hotel staff, whose backs were bent for a Krapotkin and whose eyes seemed to stare at the spy Golubchik.

Confused and exhausted I sank into my bed. On the windowsill outside the rain pattered monotonously.

I now entered upon, as I had decided — or, if you like, as I had imagined — a new existence. With new clothes — for I had summoned one of those ridiculous tailors who at that time used to dress the so-called gentlemen of fashion — I began to lead the sort of life which seemed to me suited to a prince. A truly new sort of life. Several times I was invited by my beloved Lutetia’s dressmaker. Several times I invited him to my hotel. Since my old shame is so far fallen from me that I can tell you my story as openly as I am now doing, you will believe me, my friends, when I assure you that it is not out of pride or conceit when I say that at that time I was gifted with a great talent for languages. Within a week I could speak almost perfect French. At all events, I could converse fluently with the fashionable dressmaker and his girls, who all knew me from the journey. I also conversed with Lutetia. Of course she remembered me, especially from the incident at the frontier, and also because of my name, and finally on account of the hour she had spent in my compartment. At that time I was nothing more than the bearer of my false name. I had long since ceased to be myself. I was not only not a Krapotkin, I was also not a Golubchik. I was as though between Heaven and earth. More still: between Heaven and earth and Hell. In none of those three worlds did I feel at home. Where was I really? And what was I really? Was I Golubchik? Was I Krapotkin? Was I in love with Lutetia? Was I in love with her or with my new existence? Was it even a new existence? Was I lying or was I telling the truth? At that time I sometimes thought of my poor mother, the wife of the forester Golubchik. She knew of me no more; I had vanished from the narrow circle of faces before her poor old eyes. No longer had I even a mother left. A mother! What other person in the whole, wide world was without a mother? I was lost and desolate. But such a wretch was I then, that I even extracted a certain pride from my misery; and, since I myself had brought it about, I regarded it as a sort of distinction which fate had conferred upon me.

But I will try to be brief. After a few entirely unnecessary visits to the great dressmaker, and after having seen and praised his new “creations,” I succeeded in gaining with Lutetia that particular kind of intimacy which implies an engagement between two people. A short while afterwards I had the doubtful pleasure of being a guest in her house.

In her house! What I call “house” was a miserable hotel in the rue de Montmartre. It was a tiny room. The browny-yellow wallpaper depicted an endless repetition of two parrots, a chrome yellow one and a snow white one, perpetually kissing one another. They were caressing. Those parrots had all the qualities of doves. Yes, even the wallpaper affected me deeply. It seemed to me unworthy of Lutetia that, just in her room, parrots had to behave like doves. And it had to be parrots. At that time I hated parrots. Today, I no longer know why. (Incidentally, I also hated doves.)

I brought flowers and caviar with me, the two gifts which I thought should characterize a Russian prince. We had long conversations together, deep and intimate. “You know my cousin?” I asked, innocently and mendaciously. “Yes, little Sergei,” she answered, equally innocently and equally mendaciously. “He made love to me,” she continued. “For hours on end! He sent me orchids. Think of it! Me, of all the girls! But I didn’t take any notice of him. I didn’t care for him.”

“I don’t care for him, either,” I said. “I’ve known him ever since he was a boy, and even then I didn’t care for him.”

“You are right,” said Lutetia. “He is a beast.”

“But still,” I began, “you had a rendezvous with him in Petersburg, and he himself told me that it was in a chambre séparée at old Lukatchevski’s.”

“He was lying, he was lying,” screamed Lutetia, as only women can scream when they obviously wish to deny the truth. “I have never been with any man in a chambre separée . Neither in Russia nor in France!”

“Don’t shout so,” I said, “and don’t lie. I saw you myself. I saw you. You must have forgotten it. My cousin never lies.”

As could not otherwise be expected, Lutetia began to sob brokenly. I, who cannot bear to see a woman crying, ran downstairs and ordered a bottle of cognac. When I returned, Lutetia was no longer crying. She only behaved as though the lie in which I had caught her had utterly exhausted her and drained her of all strength. “Don’t worry!” I said. “I’ve brought you a restorative.”

She got up after a while. “Don’t let’s talk any more about your cousin,” she said.

“All right, we won’t talk about him any more,” I agreed. “Let us talk about you.”

And she told me everything — all of which I strangely enough accepted as absolute truth, although I had heard her lie only a few minutes before. She was the daughter of a rag-and-bone merchant. Seduced at an early age, that is, at sixteen, which today I can no longer call “early,” she ran away with a jockey who loved her and left her in a hotel in Rouen. Oh, she was never lacking in men! She did not remain long in Rouen. And because she was so strikingly beautiful, the fashionable dressmaker, who was then searching among the crowds of Paris for models, had noticed her.… And so she had come to work for the fashionable dressmaker….