“And how is it that you know our language?” asked one of the customers. And again Golubchik answered: “He was on the Eastern front during the war and served in the so-called ‘Army of Occupation.”’ “True enough,” I said. “And later,” continued Golubchik, “he was again in Russia; that is to say, not in Russia but in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. He was working for an important newspaper. He is a writer.” I was amazed at this precise information about myself. For I had drunk a fair amount, and in this condition I can hardly distinguish the miraculous from the matter-of-course. I was very polite and said a little pompously: “I thank you for the interest: which you have for so long taken in me, and for the distinction which you have thereby conferred on me.” They all laughed. And the host said: “He talks like an old Petersburg alderman!” With that, all doubts as to my standing were allayed. Yes, they even regarded me benevolently, and there followed four more rounds in which we all drank to each other’s health.
The host went to the door, locked it, put out a number of the lights, and invited us all to sit down. The hands of the clock pointed at half-past eight. I had no watch on me, and for one of the guests to enquire about the time seemed to me unseemly. I thought rather that I should be spending half the night there, or possibly the whole night. A large carafe of schnapps stood before us. In my estimation it would, at least, have to be half emptied. So I asked: “Why did they speak in such an extraordinary way of you just now, Herr Golubchik?”
“That is my nickname,” he answered, “but again, it is not only a nickname. Many years ago I killed a man and — as I then believed — a woman also.”
“A political assassination?” asked our host, and thus it became clear to me that the others also knew nothing, except for the nickname.
“Nothing like it!” said Semjon. “I am in no way a political personality. I am not interested in public affairs. I prefer private ones. Those are the only things that interest me. I am a good Russian — even if a Russian from a frontier land. I was born in Wolhynia. But I have never been able to understand the companions of my youth, with their desperate desire to dedicate their lives to some mad or, for all I care, sensible idea. No! Believe me, a man’s private life, simple humanity, is more important, greater, more tragic than all the public affairs in the world. And perhaps to modern ears that sounds absurd. But I believe that, and I will believe it to my last hour. I could never have aroused in myself enough political passion to kill a man for political reasons. Neither do I believe that political criminals are better or finer than others; provided, of course, that one is not of the opinion that a criminal, of whatever sort, can never be a fine person. Take myself for example. I have killed and yet I consider myself to be a good man. A foul creature, or to speak more plainly, a woman, drove me to murder.”
“Very interesting,” said our host.
“Not at all. Very ordinary,” said Semjon Semjonovitch modestly. “And yet not quite so ordinary. I can tell you my story quite shortly. And you will see that it is only a simple tale.”
He began. And the story was neither short nor commonplace. Therefore I have decided to write it down here.
~ ~ ~
“I HAVE PROMISED TO tell you a short story, but I see now that I must go far back for the real beginning of it all, and so I beg you not to become impatient with me. I said earlier that private affairs are the only things that interest me. I must return to that point. By that statement I mean that, if one examines life closely enough, one must of necessity come to the conclusion that all the so-called great historical events in this world can, in fact, be traced back to some moment in the private life of their author, or to several such moments. Not for nothing — that is, not without some private impulse — can one become a Field Marshal or a Socialist or a reactionary; and all great and noble and despicable deeds, which have to some extent altered the history of this world, are the results of some quite unimportant occurrence of which we have no knowledge. I told you earlier that I was once a police spy. (After this, I shall simply call myself a spy, but you must remember that that is never meant in the international sense. I was simply a hireling employed to spy upon my own people.) Well, I have often racked my brains to discover why I, of all people, should have been chosen to follow such an accursed profession — for there is no grace in it, and it is certainly not pleasing to God. Today it is still the same; without a doubt, I am possessed by a devil. Of course you know that I no longer make my living by spying, but I can never give it up — I can never give it up. There must be a special demon of espionage. If someone should interest me especially, as for example this gentleman here, the writer”—Golubchik nodded towards me—“I could have no peace, or rather it would leave me no peace, until I had found out who he was, where he lived, and where he came from. For, of course, I know considerably more than you imagine. You live across the road, and some mornings you look out of the window while you are dressing. But you are not the subject of this story, I am. So I’ll get on. My profession was not pleasing to God, but His inscrutable will had selected it for me.