So I studied the stranger. He was what is called a “fop.” He was holding a smart soft Panama hat in one hand, such a hat as was certainly not to be obtained throughout the length and breadth of Russia, and also a yellow cane with a silver knob. He was wearing a yellowish jacket of tussore, white trousers with a blue pin-stripe, and yellow button boots. And instead of a belt, his delicate little stomach was encircled by a low double-breasted waistcoat, made of white pique material and held together by three wonderful glittering mother-of-pearl buttons. Extraordinarily fascinating was his plaited gold watch-chain, with its numerous delicate little appendages, a miniature revolver, a tiny knife, a toothpick and a minute cowbell, all of purest gold. As to the man’s face, I can remember it exactly. He had thick black hair, parted in the middle, a low narrow brow, and a tiny little mustache, twirled upwards so that the ends crept right into his nostrils. His coloring was pale — pallid — what is sometimes called “interesting.” At that time, the whole effect seemed to me very impressive, an elegant representative of European worlds. Probably, I said to myself, he would never have spoken like that to an ordinary Russian, such as the others sitting in this shop. But with the expert glance of the European he has obviously recognized in me something special, a still nameless, but nevertheless genuine prince.
“I see, sir,” said the strange gentleman, “that you are a stranger here in Odessa. I am, too. I am not a Russian. So in a certain sense we are companions, companions of fortune—”
“I only arrived today,” I said.
“And I a week ago!”
“Where do you come from?” I asked.
“I am a Hungarian, from Budapest,” he answered. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lakatos, Jenö Lakatos.”
“But you speak very good Russian!”
“Learned, my friend, learned,” said the Hungarian, at the same time tapping my shoulder with the knob of his cane. “We Hungarians have a great talent for languages.”
It was unpleasant to feel his cane upon my shoulder, so I shook it off. He begged my pardon and smiled, and I could see his gleaming white, somewhat dangerous teeth and a little bit of red gum above. His black eyes sparkled. I had never seen a Hungarian before, but I had a very good idea of them after all I had read about them in history. I cannot say that what I had read had tended to fill me with any respect for these people, who in my opinion were even less European than we. They were Tartars who had sneaked into Europe and remained there. They were vassals of the Emperor of Austria, who valued them so little that he had once had to call the Russians to his help when they rebelled. Our Czar had helped the Austrian Emperor to suppress the rebellious Hungarians. And I would perhaps have had nothing more to do with this Herr Lakatos, had he not suddenly done something amazing, something which impressed me beyond belief. He drew out of the left pocket of his pique waistcoat a little flat bottle, sprinkled himself, his lapels, his hands and his broad blue-and-white-spotted cravat; and immediately such a sweet odor arose that I was almost stupefied. It was, as I then thought, an absolutely heavenly scent. I could not resist it. And when he suggested that we should go and have dinner together, I immediately got: up and obeyed.
Take note, my friends, of how cruelly God treated me when he placed that perfumed Lakatos at the first crossroads which I had to pass on my way through life. Without this meeting, my life would have been completely different.
But Lakatos led me straight to Hell. He even scented the way.
So we went out together, Herr Lakatos and I. Only after we had been walking for some time, backwards and forwards through the streets, did I suddenly notice that my companion limped. He only limped very slightly, it was scarcely perceptible, in fact it was not really a limp but rather as though his left foot was drawing a little loop, an ornament, on the pavement. Never since have I seen such a graceful limp; it was not a defect, but rather a perfection, a work of art — and it was this very fact that frightened me. At that time, you must know, I was a sceptic and also immensely proud of my scepticism. It seemed to me very clever that I, in spite of my youth, should already know that the sky was made of blue air and contained no angels and no God. And although I had every need to believe in God and the angels, and although in reality I was very sorry that there was nothing but blue air to be seen in the sky and that all happenings on earth were the workings of blind chance, I could not forgo my arrogant knowledge and the pride with which it filled me; so much so that, in spite of my longing to pray to God, I was nevertheless compelled at the same time to pray to myself. But when I noticed this graceful, even ingratiating and kindly limp of my companion, I believed that I had suddenly discovered that he was an emissary from Hell, not a man, not a Hungarian, not Lakatos, and I simultaneously realized that my scepticism was far from complete, and that that madness which I had once called my “ Weltanschauung” had suddenly, so to speak, sprung numerous leaks. For although I might have ceased believing in God, the fear of the Devil and a belief in him still played a large and lively part in my imagination. And had I even been able to sweep the seventh Heaven bare, I was quite incapable of ridding Hell of all its terrors. There was no doubt that Lakatos limped, but at first I tried desperately to persuade myself that this was not so, to deny my eyes what they saw so plainly. Subsequently I said to myself that of course ordinary people can limp, and I called to mind all the people I knew who limped: our postman Vassili Kolohin, for example, and the woodcutter Melaniuk, and the innkeeper Stefan Olepszuk. But the more clearly I remembered all the limping men I had known, the plainer it became to me that there was a difference between their deformity and that of my new friend. Sometimes, when I thought he would not notice it, I carelessly dropped back a few steps and watched him. No, there was no doubt at all, he really did limp. Seen from behind, his walk was more extraordinary, more unusual, more illusive than ever; it was exactly as though his left foot drew invisible circular patterns on the ground, and his left button-boot, yellow, pointed, and extremely elegant, suddenly seemed to me — but for a second only — to be considerably longer than the right. At last I could stand it no longer, and in order to prove to myself that I had again suffered a so-called “relapse” into my old “superstition,” I determined to ask Herr Lakatos whether he really limped. But I went about it very carefully, considering the wording of the question for a while, and then said: “Have you injured your left foot, or is your boot hurting you? It seemed to me that you were limping slightly.” Lakatos stopped suddenly, gripped my sleeve so tight that I had to stop too, and said: “Fancy you noticing that! I must say, my young friend, you’ve got eyes like a hawk. No. Really. You have remarkably sharp eyes. Very few people have noticed that. But I can tell you about it. We haven’t known each other long, but I already feel quite like an old friend, like an elder brother, if I may say so. Well, I have not injured my foot, and the boot fits perfectly. But I was born like that, I have limped ever since I started to walk, and as the years went by I even began to turn my deformity into a sort of art. I learned to ride and fence and play tennis. I can walk for hours and even climb. And I can swim and bicycle as well as anyone. You know, my friend, nature is never kinder than when she bestows some small deformity upon us. If I had come into the world perfect, I should probably have learned nothing.”
While Lakatos said all this, he was holding me, as I have already mentioned, fast by the sleeve. He stood leaning against the wall of a house, with me opposite him, almost in the middle of the narrow pavement. It was a bright, pleasant evening. People strolled by us lazily and happily, the setting sun gilding their faces; the whole world seemed to me carefree and contented, only I was not — and that because I had to stay with Lakatos. At times I thought I must leave him in the next second, and yet it seemed to me as though he had a grip not only on my sleeve but also, to a certain extent, on my soul; as though he had discovered a tip of my soul and refused to let it go. At that time I could neither ride nor cycle, and suddenly it seemed to me shameful that I could do neither, although I was not a cripple. Well — my name was Golubchik, and that was worse than being a cripple for me, who was really a Krapotkin and had the right to ride the finest horses in the world. But that this Herr Lakatos was an adept at every sport, although he had been born with a limp; and that he was not even called Golubchik and was certainly not the son of a prince, made me feel quite particularly ashamed. Thus it came about that I, who had always borne my ridiculous name like a deformity, suddenly began to believe that it was this very name that would carry me to success, just as Herr Lakatos’s lame foot had helped him to become an adept at sport. You can see, my friends, how the devil works.…