Joseph Roth- a Life in Letters
Page 30
your St. Z.
1. Zwangsschriftstellergesetz: a recent law required all writers and journalists to become members of one of several chambers (for literature, press, theater, etc.). Eligibility for membership was controlled by Goebbels’s Reich Chamber of Culture (established in September 1933).
225. Stefan Zweig to Joseph Roth
[postmarked: London,
13 November 1933]
Dear friend,
I have finally heard from Professor Kippenberg.1 He was undergoing a cure all this time, everything transpired in his absence. Now, that won’t do for me as an explanation, I have already written to say that following this abuse I have (regretfully) decided to leave the Insel, my life is there, but honor is more important. I don’t know where I’m going to take my new book, but I don’t care either. At any rate, I am now in a state of inner freedom. And if my books disappear for a few years, that doesn’t matter, I don’t care for them that much. What I am shaken by, though, is what is done to me on both sides by friends, in the next issue of the Neue Deutsche Blätter, you will find an incendiary article about me, again by a friend. Well, one will have to learn to live in solitude and in hatred, I’m not about to hate back. I’m looking forward to your book.
Sincerely St. Z.
1. Kippenberg: Professor Anton Kippenberg, director of the Insel Verlag, with whom Zweig had published since 1905.
226. To Carl Seelig
Rapperswil
23 November 1933
Dear Mr. Seelig,
I would very much like to see you, and if it’s all one to you, then Saturday rather than Sunday, because there’s a chance that another visitor might come, and we wouldn’t be alone. I would like to be able to talk to you undisturbed.
I would be particularly grateful if you were able to bring along a couple of Balzac novels, either very cheap paper editions, or for me to return, in German or French. If it’s not too much trouble!
Sincerely
Your Joseph Roth
227. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel Schwanen
Rapperswil am Zürichsee
24 November 1933
Dear esteemed friend,
please don’t forget to give me your address when you leave London. I don’t yet know myself when I’m leaving here, but will certainly write and tell you first. I’m working very hard, feeling ill and staring into a grim and empty space.
I expect you saw, in yesterday’s Temps that a law has been passed in the Third Reich invalidating contracts between Jewish authors
and Aryan publishers. So they’ve beaten you to it. I’d be surprised if the Insel expected you to remain. You will be spared no disappointment. The Insel will be happy if you go. Today you are a burden on it. Jews nowadays are something to be ashamed of. The fatter the Jew, the greater the “shame” for those madmen.
I am no agitator. But if you have something on your conscience, write it down. It will do you good. Your friends will be pleased. And no doubt you will write it very cleverly and place it effectively.
Sincere friendly greetings from your
Joseph Roth
228. To Franz Schoenberner
28 November 1933
Rapperswil am Zürichsee
Hotel zum Schwanen
Dear esteemed Mr. Schoenberner,1
your kind letter finds me here, where I’ve been living these past three months. I am unable therefore to tell you anything about what Mrs. Luchaire2 has achieved. I fear: nothing.
I am here working on my novel. Ten pages are still to be written. Then I will have to go to Paris and Amsterdam. I may be able to get hold of some money for the next couple of months. My advance is spent. It’s a wretched life.
I’ll have them send you my novel from Amsterdam. Thank you kindly. You are very dear.
I’ve heard nothing from my friend Kesten for months now. Do you see him?
Sincerely your
Joseph Roth
1. Schoenberner: Franz Schoenberner (1892–1970), journalist, essayist, editor. Exiled to France in 1933, and then New York in 1941.
2. Mrs. Luchaire: Antonina Vallentin.
229. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel Schwanen
Rapperswil am Zürichsee
29 November 1933
Very dear and esteemed friend,
thank you so much for yours of the 27th. I think I can promise you that I’ll be in Paris on 10 December, admittedly only for two days; I have to go to Amsterdam to see my new publisher and assure myself of the immediate future. I think we have the same journey. Perhaps we could meet somewhere. Yes, let’s meet. (Please, drop me a line to confirm arrival.)
I fear you are overestimating the whole literary kerfuffle about the Insel once again. To begin with, it is a matter of complete indifference to the Third Reich whether you write that you want nothing more to do with Germany, or with Germany today. You must understand that Germany today is just as indistinguishable from the Third Reich as, say, you are, in Goering’s eyes, from Feuchtwanger and Arnold Zweig.
Further, I don’t believe there are any legal obstacles, even though I have no way of assessing the whole business legally and financially. If you haven’t heard back from Insel yet, then there are other reasons for that: perhaps Mr. K’s1 conscience is paining him, belatedly. Your separation from Insel will go very smoothly, much more smoothly and easily than you believe today.
Of the three possibilities of expressing your views, the public exchange with Romain Rolland seems the most effective to me. The prominence of your names is a guarantee of effectiveness. Furthermore, the reproaches that have been hurled at you will be defused by the authority of Rolland. If it’s in your hands, I would choose that form.
Don’t get so worked up about those left-wing shits! It’s too late to tell you that that little Fischer2 (I ordered a couple of articles of his in the AZ specially) is a narrow-minded bourgeois numbskull, a dilettante. [. . .] Let him print what he likes. (I think his sponsor is Davidl Bach.) You are on a different level, and the judgment of people who matter to you has nothing to do with the writers and readers of the AZ or the Neue Deutsche Blätter. Forget about those people already!
“Germany” isn’t about to do Mr. Fischer’s bidding. Somehow, you still fail to see it: for Germany, you (or me), and Arnold Zweig, Fischer, the AZ in Vienna, Feuchtwanger, Thomas, Heinrich, and Klaus Mann are all absolutely the identical same Jewish shit. That’s the way of it.
Bonsels3 was here. He asked me via intermediaries if I was angry with him. I told him by the same method he can take a flying ——
Germany is dead. For us it’s dead. It’s not possible to take account of it any more. Neither its unscrupulousness, nor its magnanimity. It was a dream. Please see that, won’t you!
Your old
Joseph Roth
1. Mr. K.: Anton Kippenberg.
2. Fischer: Ernst Fischer (1899–1972), Communist journalist in Vienna.
3. Bonsels: Waldemar Bonsels (1880–1952), author of a celebrated German children’s book; in 1933 he was a Nazi.
230. To Stefan Zweig
Rapperswil
30 November 1933
Hotel zum Schwanen
Dear esteemed friend,
about two hours ago, I finished my novel. Its final title is: Tarabas, a Guest on This Earth. When you see the book, you’ll understand why. I have no idea yet how it’s turned out.
Yesterday I ordered a copy of the Neue Deutsche Blätter. Even though I don’t care for your ex-friend Fischer, I have to say that he didn’t publish your private letter out of low-mindedness, but from the feeling of having to “absolve” you. Further, it was an editorial note that specified that it was Hitler-Germany and not “Germany” that you were finished with. But as I wrote you yesterday, the Third Reich couldn’t g
ive a shit whether you say Germany or Hitler-Germany, the editorial note made it clear that you meant Hitler’s Germany. You needn’t worry any more about that.
I dislike your friend Fischer, because for me he reeks of socialism. About three years ago, I was startled to note that little [. . .] Ebermayer1 was your friend. Well, frankly, he could never have been mine. No more than the Marxist Fischer. Just by the by. I just mean to say that the scurrilousness of printing a private letter wasn’t in any way scurrilous where Mr. Fischer was concerned, quite the opposite: he wanted to “see you in the clear.” He’s a plebeian (just like his wife, whom I met once. She looks huge, but only sitting down. A stumpy-legged plebeian.)
(You know my intentions with all this stuff are not personal.)
I read further, in my Neue Deutsche Blätter, that you are supposed to have told Mr. Fischer that it hardly matters whether a Stefan Zweig writes any more or not, when one considers that the Communists are transforming an entire continent.
Well, for myself, I’d rather that you and I wrote, than that Russia be changed or “improved.” If you really imagine “Communism” is any better than “National Socialism” then your letter to Insel is perfectly all right. If you told Fischer the Soviets have right on their side, then you will have to say the Nazis have right on their side as well.
Modest as I am, a single invention from the likes of us is worth more than all the proletariat garbage that you get over the airwaves. Wherever they oppress us, in Russia, Italy, Germany, is a TOILET. It stinks there. It’s not true to say that Communism has “transformed an entire continent.” Like fuck it has. It spawned Fascism and Nazism and hatred for intellectual freedom. Whoever endorses Russia has eo ipso endorsed the Third Reich.
All of which is to say: if you decide to raise your pen against Hitler’s Germany, then you must not repeat or repeat approximately the sentence you are supposed to have said to Fischer, or to Gerhart Hauptmann.
It is more important that a Stefan Zweig writes, than that a hundred thousand plebeians learn to read and write, as now supposedly in Russia.
As soon as my book is typed up, in another 2–3 days, I’m going to Amsterdam.
Sincerely,
your old Joseph Roth
1. Ebermayer: Erich Ebermayer (1900–1970), lawyer, novelist, playwright, scenarist.
231. To Félix Bertaux
Rapperswil
1 December 1933
My dear good friend,
I’ve made you wait a long time for a reply, but this time too I regret to have to say, there were many reasons which will make you take a lenient view of my silence. I had to finish my novel at a great rate, after urgent warnings and even threats from the publishers, Querido of Amsterdam. So I worked like a madman, whole nights through sometimes with temperature of 99 degrees. I finally finished it last night. I hope the book will be able to come out before Christmas, because the first part was typeset even before I’d written the middle. I’m afraid it will be my last book. I used up the whole of the advance. I have just enough money to see me through to 15 December. I need to go to Amsterdam, and try to find a rich man who will help me out for a couple of months. If I don’t, my end is certain. Please, dear friend, forgive me these explanations. You understand that I am in desperation and thinking of nothing else than keeping alive, day and night. It’s absurd to be in this situation, at the end of 14 books, 3,500 newspaper articles, having made a name for myself, and lived through so much personal unhappiness! It’s not even tragic any more! In almost every country I have publishers, readers, buyers. No one knows I’m dying, at the end of twelve years that were stuffed with paper, paper, paper!
Do you know if my Radetzky March is on sale in Paris yet? I don’t hear a squeak from Plon. I expect the translation is god-awful. But what does it matter to me, in my position?
Please give Mrs. Bertaux and Pierre my warm regards.
Maybe we’ll see each other in Paris.
Sincerely,
your old Joseph Roth
232. To Stefan Zweig
Hotel Foyot
Paris
22 December 1933
Dear friend,
thank you for your letter. I congratulate you on the Erasmus.1
I have asked for new and proper proofs in Amsterdam. They’re due at the very beginning of January. I’ll send them to you.
I have the keen sense that my book is bad. But my indifference towards “literary” questions has become such that my shame at showing you the book has become rather slight.
I wasn’t able to see the publisher Querido.2 He had the flu. Instead, I saw the publisher de Lange.
I told him that I am unable to let him have the book: “Jews and Anti-Semites” by 31 January. You remember: we spoke about it in Zurich, about the extensive changes I would make, changes from the ground up. Now I must have it ready by 31 March instead. Mr. de Lange said promptly then he would pay me another 3 installments. That means 3 x 750 marks, at the moment (and at other moments) a great deal of money for me. Even more, seeing as I quite literally have nothing at all right now. I got to Amsterdam by borrowing 100 francs. I sat in the American Hotel for 3 days, without eating anything. Mr. Querido was, for the first time in his life, confined to bed.—Little tricks of the devil, things I’m pretty much used to by now. In the end I was able to secure 1,000 francs from Mr. Landshoff. Then I began to drink. I had a supper invitation from Mr. de Lange, for which I turned up completely drunk. Now, Mr. de Lange is a mighty drinker, and he wasn’t sober either. But something happened that I thought would never happen to me. For the first time in my life I experienced a complete blackout. My recollection of the evening is absolutely nonexistent. It’s possible I’ve wrecked my chances with de Lange. You know, he’s a sort of Junker type really. He knows from somewhere that writers drink, but in his imagination or experience it doesn’t stretch to their actually being drunk. He can only have had a very approximate sense of me. I was a “literary name” to him, little more. He was very nice, but I’m afraid I’ve messed up my chances. For the first time I felt a real sense of weakness. My dear friend, it’s possible that my “self-destructive instinct” put in a major appearance; even though, in physiological terms it’s easy enough to explain how a man can get very drunk if he hasn’t had anything to eat. I’m still rather shocked at myself. For the first time. In the field and after, I sometimes had an awful lot to drink, as you know. But I never had the feeling afterwards that I had been completely awol. Maybe it’s a sign to me to stop. But believe me: however much I believe that my muse is the muse of desperation, I know perfectly clearly that she is driving me to suicide. I can’t live any more with five francs in my pocket. I can’t imagine that I’ll get through this time. Bear in mind that I’ve spent 20 years of my life starving, was in the war for four more, and was “desperately up against it” for another six. It’s only in the past three years that I can be said to have lived at all. And now these global events. And before that the business with my wife. I know that all this is part of me, that it’s what I consist of. But with all that, I remain a private individual, who eats, sleeps, fucks, and so forth. I can’t historicize myself. But nor can I continue to convert this intrusion of private grief into my “true,” unliterary life into literature. It’s killing me. And believe me, never did an alcoholic “enjoy” his alcohol less than I did. Does an epileptic enjoy his fits? Does a madman enjoy his episodes?
But to turn to the intended topic: Mr. de Lange sends you his best regards. He has infinite respect for you. He sees me principally as your friend. And I have the wretched feeling that it is your friend upon whom I have brought discredit, through my lack of moderation. Please forgive me!
If you felt able to write him a kind word about me under some business pretext, then I wish you would. (He intimated that he was involved in some sort of business correspondence with you.)
In
deed—and now I’m not writing, as I’m sure you will suppose, for myself—I’m ashamed to say so, even though the next 6 months or even a whole year could be assured by you: if you were to give just some trifle to de Lange, he would, as they say, kiss your feet. You can write your own terms. All foreign rights free. Any sum—I know it doesn’t matter to you. You can hardly imagine the degree to which this basically unintellectual man is devoted to you.
Well, it won’t matter much—to you. For me, a book of yours with de Lange3 means staying alive another year. Not that I’m trying to tell you to underwrite my life for a year. I’m afraid I’ll live another year anyway (as a beggar, a down-and-out). But I certainly wouldn’t be writing you all this if I didn’t seriously think that you would have all possible freedom here, with him. De Lange would agree to any conditions of yours. And now: you surely won’t believe I’m writing this on my own behalf. You can’t think that, my dear friend! All I’ve said to you is that I depend on you—perhaps I’ve even exaggerated a little—because, to you, I want to say everything. I don’t want you ever to get a letter from me in which I keep silent about something, or in which I hide or keep back anything from you.
I am very, very unhappy. Please reply, right away.
All the best! Kiss Mrs. Zweig’s hand for me.
Your old J.R.
*-----
* I wanted to put: alias Beierle. But I’m not so strong. And I’m not so forlorn either—I think, at the last moment.
1. Erasmus: Zweig’s book Triumph and Tragedy of Erasmus of Rotterdam, English edition with Cassell in 1934, German edition from Reichner in Vienna in 1935.
2. publisher Querido: Emanuel Querido, owner of the Querido Verlag in Amsterdam. He was deported and gassed by the Germans.
3. a book of yours with de Lange: no book of Zweig’s appeared with de Lange until long after Gerard de Lange’s death in 1935. (His novel Ungeduld des Herzens/Beware of Pity did in 1939—too late to do JR any good.)
233. To Stefan Zweig
[Paris] 27 December 1933
Dear, esteemed friend,
I’m just reading the beginning of your fine Erasmus in the Freie Presse.1 I want to alert you to a few irritating trifles right at the beginning: the most indisputable fame; the form shaded by others’ profiles; to procure one’s own biography; “just like us”: unnecessary and weakening; “the contrary spirit of common sense”; the unilaterally beating whip; war the most violent form . . . is pleonastic; “truly in no country” is dubious; to refer to Latin as “artificial Esperanto” is probably more than dubious.—Such little things—perhaps they wouldn’t bother anyone else—and more like them. There is a pleasing momentum to the whole, and a few deft phrases. Its bearing on the present time is distinct and abundant.