Joseph Roth - Confession of a Murderer

Lutetia was silent. She stared at me. She must already have known everything.

Since I made no movement, but only stood gazing sadly at the Prince, he, in his stupidity, may have thought that I was staring at him impertinently or threateningly. For he suddenly began to shout: “Get out! You spy, you scoundrel, you hireling — get out!”

And since I saw at that very moment how Lutetia sat up in bed, naked, with naked breasts, there awoke within me, in spite of all my resolutions and although I was already free from all fleshly desire, the old, evil rage. There flamed up in me, I say, at the sight of that naked woman who, according to the stupid conventions of men, should really have “belonged” to me, an uncontrollable madness.

At that moment I could think of nothing. Only one word — Golubchik — filled my brain and my blood; and my hate found no other expression. Lutetia’s nakedness bewildered me, and louder even than the Prince had shouted, I yelled into his face: “Your name is Golubchik! Not mine! Who knows with how many Golubchiks your mother slept! No one knows. But mine slept with the old Krapotkin! And I am his son!”

He sprang up, he gripped me by the throat, the weakling. And he was even weaker because he was undressed. His delicate hands could not encircle my throat. I pushed him back. He fell on the bed.

From then on I no longer know what really happened. Even today I can still hear Lutetia’s shrill screams. Even today I can still see how she sprang out of bed, completely naked, shameless it seemed to me then, to protect the youth. I was no longer conscious of my actions. In my pocket lay a heavy bunch of keys to which was attached an iron padlock, that lock which I used as a special precaution to secure my case when it contained particularly valuable papers. I had no valuable papers left. I was no longer a spy. I was a decent man. I was being tormented. I was being driven to murder. Without knowing what I did, I plunged my hand into my trouser pocket. Like a madman I struck out, at Krapotkin’s head, at Lutetia’s head. Until that hour I had never struck a blow in anger. I do not know how it affects other men when anger possesses them. But in my case, at all events, I know that every blow I struck filled me with an unfamiliar delight. At the same time I seemed to know that my blows gave an equal pleasure to my victims. I struck, I struck — I am not ashamed to describe it — I struck like that, my friends, and that—”

At these words Golubchik stood up from his chair, and his face at which we, his listeners, were staring, grew alternately ashen white and livid purple. He crashed his fist down on the table — again and again. The half-filled schnapps glasses fell over and rolled on to the floor. Our host hastened to save the carafe. Although he was feverishly watching Golubchik’s movements, he nevertheless found the (professional) presence of mind to conceal the carafe in his lap. First Golubchik forced his eyes open, then he closed them; then his eyelids began to quiver, and a thin trickle of saliva worked into a white foam on his bluish lips. Yes, just so must he have looked when he committed the murder. In that moment we all knew for certain: he was a murderer.…

He sat down again. The color flowed back into his face. He dried his mouth with the back of his hand, and the hand on his handkerchief. Then he continued:

“At first I saw in Lutetia’s forehead, above her left eye, a deep gash. The blood was spurting out and running down over her face and staining the pillows. Although Krapotkin, my second victim, lay close beside her, I succeeded in persuading myself that he was not there. (It was a wonderful gift not to see with open eyes what I did not want to see.) I only saw the torrent of Lutetia’s blood. I was not horrified at my crime. No! I was only horrified at the ceaseless stream, at the superabundance of blood that could be contained in a human skull. It was as though I must soon — should I wait — be drowned in the blood which I myself had spilled.

I became suddenly quite calm. Nothing soothed me so much as the certainty that they would now both be silent. Silent for all eternity. Everything was quiet; only the cats came creeping in. They jumped on to the bed. Perhaps they smelled the blood. In the next room the parrot screeched my name, my stolen name: “Krapotkin! Krapotkin!”

I walked over to the mirror. I was quite calm. I watched my face and said to my reflection in a loud voice: “You are a murderer!” Immediately afterwards I thought: “You are in the police. A man must know his job thoroughly.”

At that I walked into the lavatory, followed by the noiseless cats. I washed my hands and the keys and the padlock.

I sat down at Lutetia’s unpleasantly ornate writing table and wrote a few words in a disguised handwriting. They were senseless words. They ran: “We always wished to die. And now we have died at the hands of another. Our murderer is a friend of my lover, the Prince.”

It gave me a peculiar pleasure to copy Lutetia’s handwriting. Indeed, it was not difficult, with her pen and her ink. She wrote like all petty-minded, middle-class women who have suddenly been raised above their accustomed milieu . Nevertheless I spent an unusually long time in copying her hand exactly. Round about me crept the cats. From time to time the parrot called: “Krapotkin! Krapotkin!”

After I had finished I left the room. I locked the bedroom door on the outside, and also the outer door. I walked down the stairs calmly, without a thought in my head. As usual, I greeted the conciérge politely. In spite of the late hour she was still in her loge and when I passed she even stood up, for I was a prince — and she had often received princely tips from me.

I stood for a while in front of the house, calmly and patiently I was waiting for a cab. When an empty one came along, I waved to it and climbed in. I drove to the Swiss shoemaker with whom the Rifkins had lived. I roused him out of bed and said: “You must hide me.”

“Come,” he said simply — and led me into a room which I had not seen before. “You will be safe here,” he said. And he brought me milk and bread.

“I have something to tell you,” I said. “I have not killed for political reasons, but for private ones.”

“That does not concern me,” he answered.

“I have something more to tell you,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

At that moment — it was quite dark in the room — I summoned up the courage to say: “I am — I am a police spy. I have been one for many years. But today I committed a private murder.”

“You can stay here until dawn,” he said. “Until then — and not a second longer will you remain in this house.” And then, as though an angel had awoken within him, he added: “Sleep well, and God forgive you!”

I did not sleep at all — need I tell you that? Long before dawn I got up. I had lain there fully dressed, sleepless. I had to leave the house, and I left it. I wandered aimlessly through the awakening streets. When it struck eight o’clock from the various church towers, I tamed my steps towards the Embassy. I was not wrong in my reckoning. Without having been announced, I walked into Solovejczk’s room. I told him everything.

After I had finished, he said:

“You have had much misfortune in your life, but also a little luck. You do not know what has happened. There is war in the world. It may break out at any moment. It may have already done so. Perhaps at the hour when you committed your misdeed, or let us rather say, your murder. You must return home. Wait half an hour. You shall go back.”