Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

“How much?” I asked, like a real prince.

“Eight thousand!” said Charron promptly.

“Good!” I said — like a real prince. And I dismissed him.

After he had gone, I drove straight to Lutetia. Eight thousand francs, my friends — that was no trifle for me, a wretched penniless spy. Of course, I should perhaps have done nothing. But — was I not still in love? Was I not still a prisoner?

I went to Lutetia. She was sitting at a table laid for supper and waiting for me, as usual — as she even did on the evenings when I could not come — as befits a so-called “well-bred” young woman.

I gave her the customary kiss, which a man is in duty bound to give to the woman he keeps. It was a duty kiss, such as the great condescend to give.

I ate, without any appetite, and I must admit that, for all my love, I observed Lutetia’s healthy appetite with some ill-will. I was, at that time, petty enough to think of the eight thousand francs. A great many other things, too, came into my mind. I thought of myself, the real Golubchik. A few hours earlier I had been glad to be a real Golubchik again. Yet now, with Lutetia at the same table, the thought that I was to be a Golubchik once more filled me with bitterness. But at the same time I was still somehow a Krapotkin, and I had eight thousand francs to pay. As a Krapotkin, I had to pay them. Suddenly I felt embittered at the amount of the sum, I who had never counted or calculated. There are, my friends, certain moments in which the money one has to pay for a passion seems almost as important as the passion itself — and its object. I never gave a thought to the fact that I had wooed and won Lutetia, the beloved of my heart, with shameful and villainous lies. On the contrary, I used it as a reproach against her, that she believed my lies and lived on them. A strange, unknown fury rose up within me. I loved Lutetia. But I was angry with her. Soon it seemed to me, while we were still eating, that she alone was responsible for my debt. I searched, I scrutinized, I delved for faults in her. I discovered that it was tantamount to a betrayal to have told me nothing about the clothes.

Therefore I said slowly, while I folded up my serviette equally slowly: “Monsieur Charron came to see me today.”

“Swine,” said Lutetia simply.

“Why?” I asked.

“Old swine,” said Lutetia.

“Why?” I repeated.

“Pah! What do you know about it!” said Lutetia.

“I am supposed to pay eight thousand francs for you,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I needn’t tell you everything,” she replied.

“Yes, everything,” I said.

“Not little things!” said Lutetia. She propped her clasped hands under her chin and looked at me, pugnaciously and almost evilly. “Not everything,” she repeated.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Well.”

“What do you mean: Well?”

“I’m a woman,” she said.

What an argument! I thought — and pulled myself together, as the phrase goes, and said:

“I have never doubted that you were a woman!”

“But you have never understood it!” she said. “Let us talk practically and sensibly,” I said, still calm. “Why didn’t you tell me about your clothes?”

“A trifle!” she answered. “‘What did they cost?”

“Eight thousand,” I said.

At that I feared — although I had already determined to be a plain Golubchik — that I had not spoken as a Prince Krapotkin would have spoken in similar circumstances.

“A trifle!” she said. “I am a woman. I need clothes!”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I am a woman!”

“I know that.”

“You don’t! Otherwise you wouldn’t waste time discussing all this.”

“You could have spared me Charron’s visit,” I said. “I dislike such things. I hate surprises.” I was still talking like a prince — although my mind was fully occupied with the eight thousand francs.

“Do you want to go on quarrelling with me?” asked Lutetia. And there began to glow in her beautiful, soulless eyes, which at that moment reminded me of glass marbles, an angry little fire, such as you, my friends, will have seen in the eyes of your wives — at certain times. If fire has sex, I believe that there is a quite definite feminine fire. It has no reason, no visible cause. I suspect that it is always glowing in a woman’s soul and sometimes it blazes up and burns in her eyes: a fine and yet an evil little fire. As one regards it. At all events, I am afraid of it.

With that wanton violence which with a woman is so often playacting and equally often is so very real. Lutetia got up, threw down her serviette, and said once more:

“I won’t stand it any longer! I have had enough!” And as though she had not already said it several times, she repeated: “You will never realize it! — I am a woman!”

I, too, got up. I thought, inexperienced as I then was, that a woman could be soothed and appeased by a tender caress. On the contrary, my friends, the very opposite is the case! Scarcely had I stretched out a propitiatory hand than sweet Lutetia, the beloved of my heart, hammered her clenched fists into my face. At the same time she stamped with both feet — a curious characteristic which we men lack when we hit out — and she screamed: “You will pay — pay, tomorrow — tomorrow morning — I demand it!”

‘What would a Prince Krapotkin have done then, my friends? Probably he would have said: “Certainly!” and walked out. But I, who was now a Golubehik, said: “No!” and stayed.

Suddenly Lutetia laughed gaily, the sort of laugh that is called a “theatrical laugh” but is not a theatrical laugh at all. For the women on the stage simply imitate the women in real life, themselves. Where does so-called life stop and where does the so-called theater begin?

So she laughed, the beloved of my heart. It lasted a considerable time. But everything has an end, as you know, my friends. After Lutetia had laughed to an end, she became suddenly quite serious, almost tragic, and said in a quiet voice: “If you don’t pay, your cousin will.”

It frightened me when Lutetia said that; yes, it frightened me, although I had nothing more to fear. If my so-called brother had already been with Lutetia, my real identity could not be kept hidden from her much longer. And why — I asked myself — should it be kept hidden from her? Had I not longed, just before I came there, to throw off my horrible disguise and become once more a plain Golubchik?

So why was I now distressed again at having to give up my confused and confusing existence? Did I love Lutetia so much? Was the sight of her alone sufficient to overthrow all my resolution? Did she attract me now, at this very moment? Could I not see that she was lying, could I not see that she was venal? Yes, I saw everything, and I despised her for it, too. And perhaps, if it had not been my false brother who had again, just here again, crossed my path, I would have left her. I had been magnanimous to him, I had refused his money — and lo! his miserable power once more stood in my way.

Of course I could never hope to raise that enormous sum of money, nor even a third of it. What wouldn’t I have had to do in order to obtain, all at once, even three thousand francs, so that I could at least begin payments? And could I, even if I did pay, prevent Lutetia from learning who I really was? If only I had the money, I thought in my infatuation, I would tell her who I was and that I had committed the very worst of my infamous deeds for her sake, and also that a Golubchik could hold his own with any woman against a Krapotkin. So I thought. And although I knew that she lied and that she was a creature without a trace of conscience, I credited her with the generosity not only to accept, but also to treasure, my sincerity. I even believed that sincerity would move her. But women — and, to be honest, men too — may be partial to genuinely sincere people, yet nevertheless they dislike hearing the sincere confessions of liars and deceivers.