Joseph Roth- a Life in Letters

by Michael Hofmann

  The young Moses went to gymnasium in Brody. He was gifted, precocious, and studious, took his exams with distinction, enrolled at the University of Lemberg in 1913, and went on to complete six semesters of German at the University of Vienna. As his first poems and articles started to appear, he took the “Moses” off his name (it’s there for his Viennese Jewish in-laws, though, and during one crisis in 1926, in letters to Reifenberg, it makes a short and moody reappearance). It’s curious that he started to publish and learned to dissemble at the same time. In 1917 in a typical volte-face—he was a pacifist just three years before—he volunteered for the army; saw his native Galicia, only now under Mars; made his way back to Vienna; found himself (as the British say) cushy billets as a censor and on an army newspaper. It is good to read those sensibly less than valiant lines to his cousin Paula on the advantages of being out of range of the Russians; before Roth launched the myth of his officer’s career—a corrective myth his life seemed to require, something like a pair of spectacles, as David Bronsen sweetly puts it. Similarly, those epically haphazard and chaotically adventurous returns from the front described in Flight Without End or The Emperor’s Tomb or Hotel Savoy were not his lot. He was back in Vienna pretty promptly in December 1918, in the same awkwardly dyed ex-army gear as everyone else, got his start on a new progressive newspaper, Der Neue Tag, in April 1919, published a hundred pieces in the year before it folded, and in June 1920, a refugee from unemployment and inflation in Austria, he moved to Berlin.

  The early letters are all personal and familial, to his Grübel cousins in Lemberg. They are joshing and showing off, affectionate and condescending. One can see in Roth a desire for independence (he needs license not to write to his uncle), and, at the same time, rather movingly, a wish to support, educate, encourage, cultivate these younger or female cousins. (One might think of the regular pattern, later in his life, where, hard up and managing to obtain a little money for himself, he straightaway transfers half of it to others; their need seems as great, or greater.) Unfledged himself, he shelters others under his wings. One might note, finally, that these are the only letters in which Roth sounds young, in fact like a young shuttlecock: frisky and agile, youthfully pompous or lightheartedly pugnacious, boasting of his publications, his undergraduate “red sofa with yellow trim,” amusing himself with Venice and Vienna, observing his Flemish neighbors and their Christian dogs, and entertaining the prospect of Albania. It is a tone worth cherishing, because once he’s twenty-five and in Germany, you won’t hear it again.

  1. To Resia Grübel1

  [Schwabendorf, holidays 1911]

  Dear Resia,

  I want to answer your letter as promptly as you wrote it—if not more so, seeing as it’s Sunday, and there’s little to do. When I wrote in my last letter to ask if I might come, that wasn’t a serious inquiry: you shouldn’t take everything seriously. I am a sworn enemy to etiquette.2 Now I’m not sure if I will be able to come, because I’ve been set some reading to do. It’s all because I’m an “A” student, and more is required of us. Anyway, I know I won’t be able to talk Mama into going, she never wants to leave the house. She seeks various pretexts for this, and since the help was discreetly “let go” yesterday, and there’s little chance of finding a suitable replacement, the prospect of my visit has rather receded. Well, the sky won’t fall down on top of us. And if we should be able to come after all, then we can do all the nice things you suggest.

  I gave Christiampoller3 your best; he would have leapt straight into an eighth heaven, had it existed. But as there are only seven, he contented himself with the seventh of them, and thousands of little lights sparkled before his eyes, and he heard choirs of seraphim and cherubim, just like in Goethe’s Faust, which, alas and alack, you haven’t read. He—i.e., Christiampoller, not Faust—will probably come to Lemberg. It’ll be good. He’s been brushing his hair and pressing his pants for three weeks now. All for Lemberg. Of course, he’s not as industrious as he used to be, and his studies suffer as a consequence.

  I don’t understand why you’re so worried about the war. It seems to preoccupy you all day.

  Why do I not hear from Paula?4 Perhaps she’s waiting for me to turn up on the doorstep? If we do come, I’ll give you notice. For the moment, be well, and write back! Pronto!

  Kisses

  Your cousin M.5

  With much love to everyone.

  1. Resia Grübel was Roth’s cousin, daughter of his mother’s brother Siegmund Grübel. The family lived in Lemberg/Lvov/Lviv, not far from Brody.

  2. sworn enemy to etiquette: either never true or subsequently abandoned. JR was Old World in his courtliness. The phrase itself has, one might note, an element of etiquette within it.

  3. Christiampoller: a local character, in Brody (two names presumably run together as one, for comic effect).

  4. Paula: Resia’s younger sister. See note in following letter.

  5. M. short for Muniu, Roth’s nickname as a child, the Polish diminutive form of Moses, his given name.

  2. To Resia and Paula Grübel

  [Brody, 2 September 1912]

  Dear Resia,

  you’re quite right, time hurries on and the years go around quickly, and already I’ve completed seventeen of them. I was very pleased to get your birthday congratulations; that’s not just a manner of speaking either, I mean I felt real, deep, inner, genuine-in-every-fiber pleasure. I know how devoted you are to me, and that you really are concerned for my welfare. It’s not so hard to tell real feelings from false. I see you take delight in the way my writing is coming on, and I want to thank you for that especially. Thank you too for your wishes regarding my studies. This last year will soon be over, and after my final exams all the trials and tribulations of school will be behind me, and I will go on to the great school of life. Let’s hope I earn equally good grades at that institution. [. . .]

  Thanks again, and kisses from your

  Cousin Muniu

  Dear Paula,1 I want to thank you as well for writing. I’m delighted that my dear younger cousin is thinking of me as well

  Kisses,

  Muniu

  1. Paula: Paula Grübel (1897–1941?). Lifelong friendship with Roth. She was murdered in the Holocaust.

  3. To Heini Grübel

  [Brody, no date]

  Dear Heini,1

  your sweet little note pleased me every bit as much as a long letter would have done! You are still so young, and frankness and straightforwardness are the plants native to the childish soul. That’s why good wishes from you made me so happy, because from whom other than a child, symbol of the life to come, should one desire wishes? I in turn wish you success at school. It’s not so long ago that I started wearing the school uniform myself, and quite soon now I will set it aside. I hope you get through gymnasium cheerfully and in good health. What makes me especially happy is the thought that we’re now both scholars together.

  Servus,2 my dear chap,

  Kisses from your Muniu

  1. Heini: Heinrich Grübel, younger brother of Paula and Resia.

  2. Servus: familiar Austrian greeting, classically used between intimates and equals, i.e., classmates at school, or fellow officers in the army.

  4. To Paula Grübel

  Vienna, 14 August 1916

  Dear Paula,

  it really was coincidence. Who ever would have guessed it: all of nineteen! But then, nineteen years are like a piece of fluff on the scales of eternity. And it’s in eternity that we live. From eternity, in eternity, for eternity. Yes, for eternity as well.

  What do I have to give you? I don’t have any money. But I get paid 6 hellers a line. Count the number of lines in this letter,1 and you’ll have a tidy sum.

  What can I wish for you? Three kingly things: a crown, a scarlet cloak, a scepter. The golden crown of imagination, the scarlet clo
ak of solitude, and the scepter of irony. It’s hard to come by these things at nineteen. They’re not much in evidence.

  But there’s one thing I wish you above all: that you don’t forget your laugh. Laughter is a tinkling silver bell that some good angel gave us on our life’s road. But because it’s so light and loose, it’s easily lost. Somewhere by the wayside. And big fate goes by with squeaking boots, and grinds it underfoot, the laughter.2 Some people are lucky and find another. Or someone else finds it, and picks it up, and returns it to its rightful owner. Not often, though! So look after it!

  I’m going to be in Baden later this week. At any rate, before I join the army.

  Bye! Till soon!

  Mu3

  1. Roth numbers the lines of this letter.

  2. laughter: a passage like this has absolutely the same rhythms and diction as some of JR’s very late writing; cf. “Rest While Watching the Demolition,” from 1938.

  3. Mu: Muniu.

  5. To Paula Grübel

  Vienna, a Wednesday [1915 or 1916]

  Dear Paula,

  I have a pretty next-door neighbor. She spends all day in front of her embroidery frame, doing petit point. A thoroughly Dutch figure, in spite of the fact that she’s a brunette. In the afternoon, when the sun shines, a sunbeam falls plumply and lingeringly on her embroidery. And then when her blond little boy stands beside her, the whole scene is utter Holland. Unfortunately, Mme Sun has had a toothache these past few days. She’s wrapped her face in black cloths. From time to time a bit of white cotton wool peeps out.

  And now it’s gone and started raining. M. Wind, my friend, has married Mme Cloud. I attended their wedding, a jolly affair. Now Mme Cloud is giving birth to their children on a daily basis: small and great Showers. What a to-do. I must ask the wind to desist, because his sons will insist on spoiling my creases. And you know how sacrosanct they are.

  We have cake. It’s resting quietly in a corner just now, giving off a splendid aroma. It’s almost like Brody, on a Friday. Or do you know of two phenomena more indissolubly connected than home and baking smells?

  A couple of days ago, I went out. It was gorgeous. The fields look just like my cheeks when I haven’t been to the barber’s for a couple of days. The song of the last scythe hangs unseen in the air. In the clouds there’s still a last verse of lark song. The dandelions have a patriotic shimmer. Somewhere in the distance, smoke rises vertically into the sky. The ground is decked out in all the cast-off glory of the trees. And in the air there’s the bitter whiff of steaming earth and wet foliage . . .

  Ever since 1 October, the library has been open all day. Soon lectures will begin. This year, Brecht1 is giving a course on classical drama (less interesting, unfortunately). Then the girl students will show up, with their earnest expressions and tousled hair. Anxious faces, like a three-day rain. How I hate those women! Though students are no more women than streetwalkers are.

  Do you remember Csallner? The fellow who used to borrow lecture notes from me in German? We’ve become friends. He has some admirable qualities. Including an attractive fiancée. I would back him to achieve, oh, half a dozen children, a small pot belly, and a professorship in Budapest—and still to remain a Philistine.

  I have poems due to appear in Österreichs Illustrierte Zeitung, if they haven’t come out already. I haven’t the cash or the inclination to go to a café or to invest in a copy. Either would set me back 60 hellers. If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you can see if they’ve run something of mine. No royalty, alas. But a few short stories I sent in, I should be paid quite well for. Then I’ll be in Baden. I’m looking forward to All Souls’ and Christmas. Two poems in the supplement will earn me 12 crowns.

  What do you think about money? I don’t think it’s worth bothering about. If I had it, I would chuck it out the window. Money’s the opposite of women. You think highly of a woman until you’ve got her, then when you get her, you feel like chucking her out (or at least you ought). Whereas money you despise as long as you don’t have it, and then you think very highly of it.

  I was pleased that you came around yesterday. Even more pleased, admittedly, that I was out. Even so, I’d like to see you. You’ll be needing to find me in any case, so that I can read you this letter . . .

  It’s too bad you live so far away. I have thin soles, and shoemakers are expensive. A shoemaker’s heart is tougher than his soles. [. . .]

  Things are all right. I myself am better than all right. My heart is heavy and my pockets are light. Mind you, if my pockets were as heavy as my heart, then my heart would be as light as my pockets.

  When are we going to see each other?

  Greetings

  Muniu Faktisch2

  1. Brecht: Walter Brecht, professor of German literature at the University of Vienna.

  2. The full version of Roth’s nickname; faktisch—actually, or in point of fact—was something he was much given to saying when he was still a young pedant and “A” student.

  6. To Paula Grübel

  Vienna, a Thursday [1916]

  Dear Paula,

  it’s summer outside, and a holiday, and a scent of lime blossom has snuck in from somewhere, and perched on my windowsill. Alas, my neighbor is a Jewess, and scares away my lime blossom with her appalling squawks. Her voice is shrill, and smells of onions. There is little sign of the holiday in my courtyard. At best, its denizens have rest days. They can only rest, not be holy. Outside, meanwhile, girls dressed in white sell badges. I was approached by a score of them, and I didn’t buy. Then one came—and I bought. For I am an individualist, and despise the mass. And the girl from whom I bought was an aristocrat. She walked alone, and offered her wares to no one. She was like a priestess among temple prostitutes.

  There is something of Venice1 in the air today, as there sometimes is on summer days, and I am in a mood as if after lunch I were going by gondola to some wharf. Open before me is a book: Vischer’s Aesthetics,2 I was reading it yesterday and the day before yesterday, but I am too uncultivated to understand it. It’s so terribly learned, and only when Professor V. condescends to climb down from the dizzy heights of his lectern—which is rarely enough—do I understand him. The things I do understand in the book give me little pleasure, because I knew them all anyway. I will give it back to my colleague, who won’t understand it either, but even so we will discuss it endlessly between ourselves, and one day I will give my colleague a fearful slap, for being such a liar.

  I am going to have my lunch soon, and am looking forward to it. Today we are having something cheesy and prosy, but the Venetian element in the air today will ennoble and Italianize it, and I will eat nothing cheesy or prosy, but macaroni. And then I really will go out on a gondola, past the Ring and the Volksgarten, and I will encounter a pretty Venetian girl, and will accost her thus: May I bore you, Signorina? And the pretty Venetian girl will reply in purest Viennese: See if I care. And for all that, I am in Venice today. Today, today only, I am the doge of Venice and an Italian tramp rolled in one, but tomorrow, tomorrow I will go back to being the dreamy German poet, art enthusiast, and 3rd year German student studying under Professor Brecht. Tomorrow Faust is being performed at the Burgtheater—the play, not the horrible opera!—with Ludwig Wüllner in the title role. And I will stand up in the gods, dog-tired or god-tired, and will imagine I shall have seen Faust.

  Lunch wasn’t good, because firstly, my neighbor beat his wife with a broomstick. Secondly, the macaroni weren’t proper macaroni at all. And thirdly, Auntie Rieke ate cheese off the point of her knife. Just as well Aunt Mina confiscated my revolver in Lemberg, otherwise I might have committed tanticide.

  A Christian is a rarity in my courtyard. But even so, there is one living here. The window across the courtyard from me is very pretty. A fair-haired boy is doing his homework. His dog is beside him. Does a Jew keep a dog? The fair-haired boy, th
e dog, and I—we are the only decent people in the whole building.

  Last week, I went to hear Professor Brecht every day, and watched Miss Lumia write everything down with her awful industry. She looks so comically serious when she does that, and she’s so serious, I can feel it against my back—because she sits behind me. There are women who are moving in their beauty. Lumia is moving, too—but in her dimness.

  I have a pretty red sofa with yellow trim, which I am about to go and lie down on. It’s 3 o’clock now, and I’ll remain horizontal till 5. Then I’ll wash and go for a walk. No, take a gondola. Because it’s still Venice.

  Maybe I’ll come to Baden next week. If I have any money, I’ll bring Wittlin3 along, so you can see there are other young men than Baden lawyers.

  Now write and tell me about the three pines.

  Byebye!

  Muniu

  And in this space you can draw me something pretty:4

  1. Venice: this refers to a contemporary feature in the big Viennese funfair, the Prater, an installation called Venice in Vienna.

  2. Vischer: Friedrich Theodor Vischer (1807–1887). Author of On the Sublime and the Comic (1837) and Aesthethics, or the Science of Beauty (1846–1857).

  3. Wittlin: Jozef Wittlin (1896–1976), friend of JR’s. A Polish author and essayist, Wittlin studied in Vienna with Roth, and served in the same regiment in World War I. Lived in exile in Paris after 1939, after 1941 in New York. Wrote Salt of the Earth (1935), and translated several of Roth’s novels into Polish. Paula, JR’s favorite cousin, never married.