Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

A few minutes later Lakatos came in and sat down. With some solemnity he drew an envelope from out of his coat pocket and handed it to me without a word. While I was engaged in opening this, which bore the seal of our Embassy, I saw how he took one of the passport papers out of his red leather case, and I heard him order pen and ink. In the document which I read, the Imperial Embassy informed. Prince Krapotkin that, by the special clemency of the Czar, the brothers Rifkin had been released, and the sister — Channa Lea Rifkin — had no longer any danger to fear, should she choose to return to Russia. I was horrified, my friends, I was filled with a deep, sickening horror. But I did not stand up to go away. I did not even push the document back to Lakatos. I only watched how Lakatos, who took not the slightest notice of me, slowly, carefully, comfortably, in his beautiful, copperplate, official handwriting, made out a passport for the Jewess Rifkin.

My friends! Even as I tell you this, I tremble with self-hatred and contempt. But at the time I was as dumb as a fish and as indifferent as a hangman before his hundredth execution. I believe that a virtuous man would be as little able to explain his noblest act as a scoundrel of my type his foulest. I knew that it was a question of destroying the noblest woman I had ever met. I saw already, with my practiced eye, the secret, devilish pinprick over the name. I did not tremble, I did not move. I thought of the unhappy Lutetia. And, as true as I am a scoundrel, I was only afraid of one thing: I would have to go myself to the Rifkins and tell the girl and her brother the happy, fatal news. I was so terrified at the thought of this that, curiously enough — or rather, shamefully enough — I felt free of any guilt when Lakatos, after he had carefully blotted his signature in the passport, stood up and said: “I am going to her myself. You need only write two lines: ‘The bearer of this is a friend. Farewell, and auf Wiedersehen in Russia. Krapotkin.”’ At the same time he pushed the ink pot and paper across to me and pressed the pen into my hand. And, my friends — do you still permit me to call you “friends”?—I signed. My hand wrote. Never before had it written so quickly.

Without drying the ink, Lakatos picked up the paper. He waved it in his hand like a flag. Under his left arm glowed the red dispatch case.

All this happened in a far shorter time than it takes to tell. Scarcely five minutes later I jumped up, paid hastily and ran out of the door in search of a cab. But no cab came. Instead of a cab I saw a lackey from the Embassy hurrying straight towards me. Solovejczyk summoned me.

Of course, I knew immediately that Lakatos had told him where I was to be found. But instead of making some excuse and searching further for a cab, I followed the servant and went to Solovejczyk.

I was the only one sitting in the anteroom of the initiated, but he kept me waiting a long time. Ten minutes passed, ten eternities; then he called me. I began immediately: “I must go. A precious human life may be lost. I must go!”

“Of whom are you talking,” he asked slowly “Of the Rifkins,” I said. “I have never heard of them, I know nothing about them,” said Solovejczyk. “Stay where you are! You needed money. Here! For special services.” He gave me my reward. My friends. One who has never taken a reward for a betrayal may perhaps think of “blood money” as an empty phrase. I not. I not.

I ran out, without a hat. I hailed a cab. Every moment I drummed with my fists on the cabby’s back. More and more violently he slashed and cracked his whip. ‘We arrived at the shoemaker’s shop. I jumped out. The good man greeted me with a beaming face. “At last they are free and saved,” he said, laughing with happiness. “Thanks to you. They are already on their way to the station. Your secretary went straight off with them. Oh, Your Highness, you are a kind and noble man!” He had tears in his eyes. He caught at my hand. He bent down to kiss it. The canaries trilled in their cage.

I wrenched my hand away from him, turned around without a word, jumped into the cab, and drove back to my hotel.

On the way, I took the cheque out of my pocket and clutched it convulsively. It was my blood money, but it should become my atonement. It was an unbelievably high reward. Even today I am ashamed to mention the sum — although I have told you all the other shameful details. No more Lutetia, no more dressmaker, no more Krapotkin. Back to Russia! With money I could still overtake them at the frontier. Telegraph my colleagues. They knew me. With money they could be sent back. No more ridiculous ambitions. I must make amends! Amends! Pack my bags and back to Russia. To save. To save those souls!

I paid my hotel bill. Ordered my bags to be packed. I called for drinks. I drank. I drank. A wild rejoicing filled me. I was already saved. I telegraphed to Kaniuk, the chief of our frontier police; told him to detain the Rifkins. I packed furiously, assisted by two valets.

Shortly before midnight I was ready. My train did not leave until seven o’clock in the morning. I put my hand in my pocket and felt a key. By its shape, by its wards, my fingers knew it for the key of Lutetia’s house. Ah, it was the pointing finger of God. I would go to her tonight, this blessed night, and confess and tell her everything. I would say farewell and bestow freedom on myself and her.

I drove to Lutetia. Even as I stepped out into the fresh air I seemed to realize that I had drunk too much. All around I saw singing, excited people. I saw men with flags, excited speakers, sobbing women. At that time, as you know, Jaurès had been shot in Paris. Everything that I saw of course meant war. But I was so wrapped up in myself that I understood nothing; I — a mad and drunken fool.…

I had made up my mind to tell Lutetia that I had lied to her. Once on the road to so-called decency, nothing could hold me back. At that moment I intoxicated myself with decency, just as I had formerly intoxicated myself with evilness. Only much later did I realize that such a delirium cannot last. It is impossible to intoxicate oneself on decency. Virtue is always sober. Yes, I wanted to confess everything. I wanted — and it seemed to me infinitely tragic — to humble myself before my beloved, before taking leave of her for ever. That noble and pious renunciation seemed to me at that moment to be far finer than the fictitious aura of nobility in which I had been living, finer even than my passion. From now on I wanted to wander through the world, a suffering, nameless hero. If, so far in my life, I had been a pitiable hero, from now on I should be a real one.

In this mood of exalted depression — if I may call it that — I drove to Lutetia. It was just the hour at which she usually expected my visit. But even in the hall I was surprised to find that her maid did not come hurrying towards me, for she, too, was usually awaiting me. All the doors were open. In order to reach the pale blue bedroom which Lutetia called her “boudoir,” I had to walk past the brightly-lit drawing room, with its hateful parrot and the rest of the menagerie, and then past her dressing room. At first I hesitated; I don’t know why. Then I advanced with a lighter step than usual. The third door, that of the bedroom, was closed, but not locked. I opened it softly.

In the bed, beside Lutetia, with an arm around her neck, lay a man. And the man, as you may have guessed, was young Krapotkin. Both seemed to be so fast asleep that they had not heard me enter. I approached the bed on tiptoe. Oh, it was not my intention to make a so-called scene! At that moment the sight before my eyes caused me deep pain. But I was in no wise jealous. In the mood of heroic renunciation which then possessed me, the pain which the two caused me was almost desirable. In a way it confirmed my heroism and my decision. It was actually my intention to waken them gently, to wish them luck, and tell them everything. But at that moment Lutetia awoke and let out a shrill scream, which naturally roused the young man. Before I could say anything, he sat up in bed, in a pair of sky blue pyjamas which exposed his naked chest. It was a white, weakly, hairless boy’s chest; a chest which, I know not why, aroused me to fury. “Ah, Golubchik,” he said — and rubbed his eyes, “so we have not finished with you yet. Hasn’t my secretary finally paid you? Give me my coat, you may take my wallet.”