When the war broke out, I lost my pupils one by one. The lawyers joined up, their wives grew moody and patriotic, and began to express a preference for war wounded. I volunteered for the 21st Jaegers. I didn’t want to have to travel third class, to salute incessantly, I was an eager soldier, got to the line too soon, I reported for cadet school, I wanted to be an officer. I became an ensign. I stayed on the eastern front till the war ended. I was brave, strict, and ambitious. I decided to remain with the army. Then came the revolution. I hated revolutions, but had to make way for them, and, since the last train had just left Shmerinka, I had to march home. I marched for three weeks. Then for another ten days I followed roundabout routes, from Podwoloczysk to Budapest, from there to Vienna, where, because I didn’t have any money, I started to write for the papers. They printed my nonsense. I lived off it. I became a writer.4
Soon after, I moved to Berlin—I was forced to go by the love of a married woman and my fear of losing my freedom, which was worth more to me than my uncertain heart. I wrote the stupidest things, and so made a name for myself. I wrote bad books, and became famous. Twice I was turned down by Kiepenheuer. He would have turned me down a third time too, if we hadn’t gotten to know each other.
One Sunday we drank schnapps. It was bad schnapps, it made both of us ill. Out of sympathy, we became friends, in spite of the difference in our natures, which are such that only alcohol is capable of bridging them. Kiepenheuer is a West-Phalian, you see, while I am an East-Phalian. There hardly exists any greater contrast than that. He is an idealist, I am a skeptic. He loves Jews, I don’t. He is an apostle of progress, I am a reactionary. He is ageless, I have been old ever since I can remember. He is turning fifty, I am two hundred. I could have been his great-grandfather, if I wasn’t his brother. I am radical, he is conciliatory. He is polite and vague, I am ferocious. He is an optimist, I am a pessimist.
There must be some secret connection between us somewhere. Because sometimes we do agree. It’s as though we each made concessions to the other, but we don’t. Because he doesn’t understand money. That’s a quality we share. He is the most courtly man I know. So am I. He got it from me. He loses money on my books. So do I. He believes in me. So do I. He waits for my success. So do I. He is certain of posterity. So am I.
We are inseparable; that’s his advantage.
10 June 1930
Joseph Roth
1. This, the “Kiepenheuer letter,” is the only thing even resembling a CV that we have from Roth, and for all its dissemblings and dissimulations, it is a revealing document. The one big falsehood of this letter is made up of what are actually lots of tiny truths, concerning his parentage, his fatherlessness, his precocity, his restlessness and rootlessness, his uncertain affections, his haphazard progress (“I started to write for the papers. They printed my nonsense.”), his snobbery and affections across social and ethnic lines (“I don’t”), his underlying, adamantine confidence (“So am I”).
2. in some vague relation: in the circumstances of JR’s life, I find this bittersweet joke positively heroic.
3. This tale has elements of JR’s story “April” (1925), where the “engineer” is a railwayman.
4. I became a writer: cf. JR’s story “Rare and ever rarer in this world of empirical facts . . . ” in Collected Stories.
99. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel am Zoo
Berlin
20 June 1930
Dear esteemed Mr. Zweig,
I no longer ask you to excuse my long and ill-bred silence, that’s how well I feel you know me already, and know what my not-writing to you signifies. It means I am still unable to find the requisite distance from myself, and that it is difficult for me to give you any sort of objective report. Perhaps it’s best if I stick to externals, then at least I won’t make any mistakes.
Over a week ago, Kiepenheuer—who’s since left Berlin—and Dr. Ruppel of the Kölnische Zeitung were negotiating over my trip to Russia and Siberia. The Kölnische should have decided already, but it still hasn’t, and I’m waiting impatiently. It’s the most important factor governing the next few months for my wife and me. Dr. Ruppel (the feuilleton editor) claimed the general editor was very keen on my working for the paper. So long as he’s not lying or exaggerating—and he doesn’t look the sort—then my chances are good. Unfortunately, the general editor is away on vacation. He promised to confer with Dr. Ruppel about my trip on the telephone, and it seemed the decision must be made even before his return (set for early July). I await it every day. If the trip is declined, there will be other reasons I can’t even guess at. There’s nothing to be done about them. The Russian correspondent of the Kölnische was apparently based on the Turksib.1 To improve my chances—and to the universal horror of all who are familiar with the country and my style—I asked for only 10,000 to 12,000 marks—for five months. I didn’t dare ask for more. How I’m supposed to get by on that, I have no idea. I have to leave at least 3,000 marks for my wife. The water is up to my neck. Kiepenheuer’s expensive authors, Feuchtwanger2 Zweig3 Glaeser4 Heinrich Mann,5 are coming in with their new manuscripts, drawing vast sums, and Kiepenheuer is rightly stopping my advance. I’m getting an unreasonable amount, I need 1,200 for my wife, 800 for myself, monthly, and I have already had 22,000 marks advanced to me. Since last week I’ve started writing articles again—stupid of me, given my state of exhaustion, and lack of inspiration—and Kiepenheuer’s newspaper distribution company sells them. But I can’t make more than 500 marks a month from reprints. If Cologne doesn’t come through, I don’t know what to do. It’ll just have to come through. In October I’ll find out how Job does. If only it would sell 15,000 copies! Generalkonsul Pflaum6 has died. But the Munich people may go on paying me till August. Provided I am able to produce articles for them, which of course is now triply impossible. I’m no longer equal to this schmonzes.7 I have trained myself so that I can only think on a larger scale now, and it takes me a long time to tear a pretty little piece out of something else. Which of course I then hate. So you can imagine I’m sitting on coals. My wife’s costs are fixed, I can do nothing to reduce them. I will work to the limits of possibility, even if it kills me. If it’s possible via the Concordia8 to get lower rates—as your wife wrote to me—without her having to go to a different institution, then I’d be very grateful to you. It probably won’t be possible to work with Sarnetzki9 at the Cologne paper. It’s the board that seems to want me. At the moment I am preoccupied with the old business of my wife, and with the visit to Siberia. I am impatient, suspicious, mean, I can’t stand myself. It’s the easiest way to writer’s block.
Now I notice I must no longer ask forgiveness10 for not writing, but for writing. I have written some disgusting things to you today, and I beg your indulgence. If I were with you, no doubt your kindly eye would see more than I am able to write here and now. Please view this letter as strictly a news communication. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. I promise to write to your good wife soon.—I hope you’re well, and wish you all the best. Think of me, as I think of you. The thought of good friends has great power. I hope you feel me thinking of you.
Cordially, always, your old
Joseph Roth
1. Turksib: the Turkestan-Siberian Railway, under construction from 1927 to 1930.
2. Feuchtwanger: Lion Feuchtwanger (1884 Munich–1958 Los Angeles), novelist, playwright, essayist.
3. Zweig: Arnold (no relation) Zweig (1887–1969), writer, playwright, essayist, and man of the Left.
4. Glaeser: Ernst Glaeser (1902–1963), writer and journalist. Went into exile in 1933, only to return to the Third Reich in May 1939.
5. Heinrich Mann (1871 Lübeck–1950 Santa Monica), writer and essayist. Older brother of Thomas Mann. Shared a house with Roth and Kesten for a time in the south of France.
6. Generalkonsul Pflaum: director of the publishing house Knorr & Hirth, which
brought out the right-ish MNN.
7. schmonzes: (Yiddish) nonsense, tripe, balderdash.
8. A literary association in Vienna.
9. Sarnetzki: Detmar Sarnetzki (1878–1961), feuilleton editor at the Kölnische Zeitung.
10. forgiveness: typical of JR’s exquisite courtliness, the obverse of his occasional uncouthness.
100. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel am Zoo
Berlin
27 June 1930
Dear very dear Mr. Zweig,
the Kölnische (in the person of Mr. Neven DuMont)1 seems to rate me, but not Russia. I replied I would probably have to accept a tour around Germany. Even though that brings in little money, and Russia would have freed me from more than just the material pressure. I could have become a different person there. On Monday I’m going around to Theodor Wolff,2 and on Tuesday to Ullstein. But the world has been divvied up among those journalistic pashas called special correspondents. There’s probably nothing to be done. Please give my regards to Mr. Sarnetzki anyway.—My wife is no better. I am not just grateful to Dr. Schacherl, I have become humanly fond of him. This fine man tries everything, even though experience must tell him it’s hopeless. If you get a chance to tell him how I honor him, please do so. Though I’m afraid it may all become too much for him. This week, a friend of my wife’s, one Professor Kuczynski (Gelbfieber) made inquiries of him via a mutual colleague in Vienna—and I’d like him not to be overrun like that.—I’m compelled to stay in Berlin. I’m getting hold of all the money I can, with more expertise than I thought I had. Berlin is apt to be forgetful. If you’re not here, you can’t do anything.—I’m glad you’re not bringing a book out in autumn. You don’t have to gallop the whole time, as I do. Miss Baker3 was admired everywhere, is read with interest, and the book will be one of your great successes, even if you wait till spring. May God continue to give you good fortune, I am always on your side.
You are so kind to me, you tell me you no longer get on with contented people. But I know that you need such, and that unhappy people are unlucky. For months your friendship is the only comfort I have felt. (Many times I simply haven’t written, because I am unable to concentrate.)
With kind regards, your old
Joseph Roth
1. Neven DuMont: Alfred Neven DuMont (1868–1940), editor of the Kölnische Zeitung.
2. Theodor Wolff (1868–1943), editor of the Berliner Tageblatt.
3. Miss Baker: Mary Baker Eddy (1821–1910), founder of the Christian Science movement, and subject of one of Stefan Zweig’s three-for-one biographical excursuses, where she is paired—or trebled?—with Freud and Mesmer (Heilung durch den Geist, 1931).
101. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel am Zoo
Berlin
17 July 1930
To Mr. Stefan Zweig, Kapuzinerberg, Salzburg
Dear esteemed Mr. Zweig,
yesterday I thought it might be possible to visit you for a day in Salzburg. I would rather have spoken to you than telling you scraps of things that I am unable to put on paper. But then I get a letter from the Kölnische Zeitung, in which they agree to my conditions. So on Monday or Tuesday I’ll head off for the Ruhr after a short stay in central Germany. It’s a grisly job, which will take me at least 8 weeks, but it’s the only thing that’ll bring in a bit of money at the moment. I’ll be getting 2,000 marks cash down, of which I’ll be able to send 1,000 to Vienna. That’s all I care about at the moment. Should I write to Dr. Scheyer in Vienna direct, to ask him if I can join Concordia? Is that correct?
I got a kind letter from your wife, suggesting in various ways a period of recuperation for me. I can’t accept any of them. I have to earn money in the period before the book comes out, because the publisher won’t give me another penny.
Letters—and I hope you will write me soon—will reach me from now on c/o Kiepenheuer Verlag, Berlin NW, Altonaerstrasse 4. Mrs. Olden, who left for Salzburg yesterday and to whom I said I would be there on Monday, will give you my best wishes.
In old sincere friendship
Your [Joseph Roth]
102. To Benno Reifenberg
Hotel am Zoo, Berlin
17 July 1930
To Mr. Benno Reifenberg, Paris, c/o Frankfurter Zeitung
Dear Mr. Reifenberg,
I believe I owe you the following notification: I will shortly have to undertake a brief German tour on behalf of the Kölnische Zeitung. I know that various parties are interested in my renewed work for the Frankfurter Zeitung; while various other parties have expressed themselves against it. The Kiepenheuer Verlag, to whom, as you know, I have sold my journalistic work, is unable to go on paying me if I don’t take this opportunity, which will bring in quite a lot of money. I know that various parties, in particular your good self, will be disappointed to see me suddenly appearing there. But there is nothing I can do about it. In any case, I think I owed you this notification.
Give my regards to your family.
I am not doing well. I am a little surprised not to hear from you.
Cordially your old
Joseph Roth
Address: c/o Kiepenheuer Verlag, Altonaerstrasse 4 II
103. Benno Reifenberg to Joseph Roth
[Paris] 25 July 1930
To Mr. Joseph Roth, Kiepenheuer Verlag, Altonaerstrasse, 4 II, Berlin
My dear Roth,
thank you for your letter, though it saddened me to think that I must look to find you in other newspapers and not in ours, which is really the only possible one for you. Mr. Jedlicka1 told me you were sad about my silence, but there must be some misunderstanding there, or else you didn’t get the letter I sent you in Salzburg. You see, I was waiting for news of you, not least as I was hoping to see you here in Paris among us. I am alone, Maryla and Jan have gone to the seaside. I should like to talk to you, and hear how life is treating you, and what you’re writing. I was delighted to see that we’re at least going to publish the serialization of your novel, of which Jedlicka gave me a passionate account
Be well, drop me a line to let me know you’ve at least gotten this, and then I’ll write you again at greater length.
Unaltered your
[Benno Reifenberg]
P.S. I enclose an article on the Delacroix exhibition, perhaps it—the article—passed you by. I visited the exhibition many times.
1. Jedlicka: Dr. Gotthard Jedlicka (1899–1965), art historian, writer for the FZ, professor of art history at the University of Zurich.
104. To Benno Reifenberg
[1930]
Dear precious Mr. Reifenberg,
it was very nice to hear from you, and to see Jan again. Unfortunately, you’re right: not since the time of the inflation have I been so wretched as I am now. I find the politics quite paralyzing. It’s so hard to write. I have no money, I mean really NO MONEY, I get by on 5 marks a day. And I’m drinking. And my strength is fading. Just this novel now—then I’m off to Zurich by way of Frankfurt, I stand to pick up 2,000 marks when it’s done.
Kiepenheuer doesn’t want the Hausenstein book. I’ve made inquiries at Rowohlt. Please, could you dictate your letter again, without referring to the rejection by the Frankfurter Societätsdruckerei1 and Fischer! So that I can show it to Rowohlt, and maybe to Tal in Vienna.
Your article was very sensible and radical. Thank you! Do you write much? When is your family joining you in France?
What are our friends doing?
H.S.2 was here, but didn’t come and see me. How are you managing to work? Tired, grumpy, optimistic?
Please give my regards to Gubler,3 and to Picard, if he’s there.
Your old old
Joseph Roth
1. The publisher of the FZ (and book publisher).
2. H.S.: Heinrich Simon.
3.
Gubler: Friedrich Traugott Gubler—see no. 118.
105. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel Englischer Hof
Frankfurt am Main
22 September 1930
To Mr. Stefan Zweig, Salzburg, Kapuzinerberg 5
Dear esteemed Stefan Zweig,
I must yield to your wish that I not address you as “Mr.” if you think it impedes the friendliness of our communications. That it honors me, I need not say.
Thank you for reading Job once more. I for my part find it superfluous to have written it. I have no ties to it any more. I am tired of it, or I am simply tired. I don’t think the book can engage me any more than I can engage myself. Believe me, I’ve been a burden to myself for years, sometimes intolerably so. If you do write about Job, please don’t go to any trouble, your name will do by itself. I would be sorry if you were to contribute something that would hardly be understood in Germany, and would certainly not be appreciated.
I can hardly tell you how unwillingly I have attached myself to the newspaper again. What else could I have done? Kiepenheuer’s money goes on Vienna, there’s almost nothing left for me. I’ve lived the past 3 weeks on borrowed money. Even though I’ve written 50 typewritten pages for the Kölnische Zeitung, the proprietor tells me it’s not enough, and I have to write another 3 articles if I am to claim the remaining 1,000 marks he offered me. What shall I do? I wrote to him that he is right if he pays by the line, and I am right in that I leave out lines. So I will not have the 1,000 marks. I know of no other solution than the deal with the Frankfurter Zeitung. Perhaps you don’t know what it’s like when you can’t wait for a book to succeed because you have no money at all. I will hardly be able to finish my recently begun novel in the next months. But for the Frankfurter Zeitung, I will have to knock out 4 articles a month, and sometimes more.
Joseph Roth- a Life in Letters Page 17
