“The young Krapotkin.”
“Not difficult,” said the little man. “Not at all difficult!”
How easy it was! The little man was in no way astonished that I needed material against Krapotkin. So they had long been collecting material against him! I almost thought myself magnanimous for not having known that before. What I intended was hardly a base piece of treachery, it was almost an honorable duty.
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow, at the same time,” said the little man.
He possessed really wonderful material. The half of what he brought would have been sufficient to condemn an ordinary Russian to twenty years in Siberia. We sat in the quiet back room of a restaurant whose owner I knew, and examined the material. It consisted of letters to friends, officers and highly placed personages, to well known anarchists and suspect writers, and a number of extremely convincing photographs. “This one,” said the little man, “and this one and this one, I forged.”
I stared at him. His little face, in which there was scarcely space for his eyes, nose, and mouth, and whose thin cheeks were sunken and hollow, was emotionless. In that face the features had no room to alter their expression. He said: “I forged that.” And: “I forged that.” And: “I forged that.” And not a flicker or change in his expression. It was plainly a matter of indifference to him whether the pictures were real or forged. They were just pictures. More than pictures — they were proof. And since he had learned in the course of many years that forged pictures could prove just as much as genuine ones, he had completely forgotten how to distinguish between the two; and with almost childish simplicity he believed that the forgeries, which he himself had made, were no forgeries at all. Yes. I believe that he no longer knew what was the difference between a forged photograph and a real one, or how a real letter differed from one of his own forgeries. It would have been wrong to have regarded this Leibusch, this tiny man, as a criminal. He was a lost soul, far worse than a criminal, fouler even than I, my friends
I knew exactly what I had to do with the letters and the pictures. My hatred had a purpose. But this little man was no hater and no judge. Everything that he did was purposeless; the Devil simply commanded him. He was as stupid as an ox, but brilliantly clever in doing difficult things whose sense and purpose he could not understand. He never even demanded a small earthly reward. He did it all to oblige others. He asked me for no money, no promise, no pledge. He handed over to me the whole of that valuable material, without a change of expression, without asking why I needed it, without demanding anything in return — without even knowing who I was. He had received his reward elsewhere, so it seemed.
Well, what had that got to do with me? I took what I needed; I did not ask where it came from, nor from whom. I simply took it from the little man.
Less than half an hour later I was in the presence of my immediate superior. And two hours later young Krapotkin was arrested
He did not remain long under arrest, my friends, not at all long. Three days in all. On the third I was summoned by our chief and he spoke to me as follows:
“Young man, I thought you were cleverer than that.”
I said nothing.
“Young man,” he began again, “explain your extremely stupid action to me.”
“Highness,” I said, “I have probably been stupid — because you yourself say so. But I cannot explain my action.”
“Very well,” he replied—“then I shall explain it to you. You are in love. And I am going to take this opportunity to make a few philosophical remarks. Pay attention to what I have to say. A man who wishes to make something of his life is never in love. But, more especially, a man who has the good fortune to work for us has no feelings whatsoever. He may desire a certain woman — good, I can understand that. But when someone greater stands in his way, he must repress his desire. Listen to me, young man. All my life I have only had one desire: to become great and powerful. I have succeeded; today I am both. I watch over His Majesty himself, our Czar — God grant him health and happiness. And why am I in a position to do that? Because never in my long life have I loved or hated anyone. I renounced every pleasure — and for that reason I have never known real suffering. I was never in love; so I know no jealousy. I never hated; so I have no desire for revenge. I have never spoken the truth; so I have never known the satisfaction that comes from a successful lie. Young man, model yourself on me! — I must punish you. The Prince is powerful, he will never forget the affront. For the sake of a ridiculous little girl you have ruined your career. And for me, too, you have earned a severe and unpleasant reprimand. I have considered carefully what punishment you deserve. And I have decided to inflict on you the severest of all punishments. You are hereby condemned to follow this ridiculous woman. I condemn you, in a manner of speaking, to eternal love. You will go to Paris as our agent. On the day you arrive, you will go to our Embassy and report to S. Here are your papers. God be with you, young man. That is the hardest judgment I have ever pronounced in my life.”
At that time I was young, my friends, and I was in love. After His Highness had passed judgment, something extraordinary happened to me, something ridiculous. I felt an unknown power forcing me to my knees. I actually fell on my knees before our chief and I fumbled for his hand to kiss it. He drew it sharply away from me and ordered me to get to my feet and cease such foolishness. Ah! He was great and powerful — because he was inhuman. Of course, he understood nothing of what was going on inside me. He threw me out.
Outside in the corridor, I looked at my papers. And I grew rigid with happiness and amazement. My papers were made out in the name of Krapotkin. My passport was made out in that name. In a covering letter to the Embassy in Paris I was expressly described as an agent whose duty it was to watch over the so-called subversive Russian element in France. What a hideous task, my friends! And yet at the time it seemed fine to me. How depraved I was then! Depraved and lost. All depraved people are really those who have lost their way.
Two days later the dressmaker, together with his girls, left Petersburg. Shortly before his departure he was introduced to me. In his stupid and vain eyes I was a representative of the nobility of Russia, a prince and at the same time a Krapotkin — for he may really have imagined that he had been given a genuine prince as an escort. And I too, having for the first time a passport in the name of Krapotkin in my pocket, persuaded myself that this was so. But all the while I felt in the depths of my heart the two-fold, the three-fold insult which had been paid to me. For I was a Krapotkin, a Krapotkin by blood; and I was a spy; and I bore the name which was mine by right only by virtue of my position in the police. In a most wrongful way I had bought and stolen what should have come to me by right. So I thought at the time, my friends, and I would probably have been extremely unhappy had it not been for my love for Lutetia. But that — my love I mean — excused and obliterated everything. I was with Lutetia, at her side. I was accompanying her. I stayed in the town where she was staying. I desired her. I wanted her with all my senses. I burned for her, as one says. But for the first I took no notice of her. I tried to appear indifferent; and of course I hoped that she would notice me of her own accord and would let me know by a glance, an expression, a smile, that she had noticed me. But she did nothing. Most certainly she had not noticed me. And why should she?
That was, indeed, during the first twelve hours of our journey. And why should she have noticed me in the first twelve hours?
We had to make a detour. We did not travel direct to Paris; for the society ladies who happened to be in Moscow at that time, or who lived there permanently, were unwilling to let the famous dressmaker leave Russia without at least having seen him and his dolls. So they demanded that we should stay a day in Moscow. Good! We would stop a day in Moscow. We arrived early one afternoon and drove to the Hotel Europe. For each of the girls I ordered a bouquet of dark red roses, all the same. But only in the bouquet destined for Lutetia did I insert my visiting card. Oh, of course, not my real one. I had never had such a thing in my life. But I now had no less than five hundred cards, false ones, in the name of Krapotkin.