Joseph Roth- a Life in Letters

by Michael Hofmann

  Monnot

  Café Restaurant

  Tuesday

  [Nice]

  Dear friend,

  you must forgive me for writing instead of telling you the following. But it’s not easy to say, and those are further grounds for recriminations with myself.

  It seems to me that sometimes in your dealings with people, with colleagues in particular, you adopt a stance that is capable of harming you. Innocent, without side, and magnanimous as you are, you make yourself too accessible, you are on too relaxed a footing with the world. I know that none of us is able to see himself at his or her true worth. You, though, underestimate yourself, and I am for absolute hierarchy, externally as well as privately. It’s not good that you are on too intimate terms with shits. In Germany, you almost criminally squandered intimacy and trust. Outside Germany, you seem to me to display the same inclinations. You are wholly unable to deny credit—not me. I allow myself to be rough with people at times. At certain moments, I can be quite brutal, and let the person concerned see how much separates me from him. I don’t stop short of insults. You are incapable of that. That doesn’t mean that you should be familiar with certain people, or allow them to gain the impression of your being familiar with them. You are a prince ès letters—as the French so beautifully put it—and they are little skivvies. I rule out any imputation that I may be speaking to you thus out of personal devotion to you, and from a sort of possessiveness. I have gone into myself. If there was the least possibility of that being the case, I would never have been able to write to you in this way.

  Don’t, please, say: well, it’s no skin off my nose. It is skin off your nose. You don’t hear it, but I hear it, what little shits say about you, their envy, their foolishness—and I watch them lying, how honored they are to be on brotherly terms with you, and how they then have to get their own back on you, for the feeling of having been honored. My indulgence works differently. I remain suspicious. I don’t scruple to slap faces either, metaphorically, or—sometimes—actually. But not you. Please, I beg you, be aloof, as you ought to be, and not too democratic.

  Now forgive me,

  your Joseph Roth

  Please destroy this letter.

  324. To Blanche Gidon (written in French)

  Nice, Alpes-Maritimes

  Hotel Imperator

  Boulevard Gambetta

  15 February 35

  Madam and dear friend,

  thank you for your kind letter. I venture to enclose these hasty lines to Plon, with the request that you translate them for me. It seems to me that cowardice and fear of going against current politics are hindering them from publishing my Antichrist.

  As for my novel, I don’t know what to do. I am working in real panic and anguish. I haven’t had any money from the publisher for two months now. My unhappiness is too great for me to be able to describe it, and I beg you, my dear, also to excuse the typewriter. Mrs. Manga Bell sends you her best wishes. She is terribly unhappy. I don’t know how all this is going to end.

  Your old faithful

  Joseph Roth

  Kindly greetings, please, to Mr. Gidon.

  325. To the publishing house of Plon

  [Nice, 15 February 1935]

  Gentlemen,

  the translator of my Antichrist informs me that she has not yet heard from you when you are planning to publish my Antichrist. Since this work has just appeared in the United States and is shortly to appear in England, I ask you to tell me when it will appear in France. My American publisher asks that I inform him of the date.

  Respectfully, your humble

  [Joseph Roth]

  326. To Stefan Zweig

  [Nice] 15 February 1935

  Hotel IMPERATOR (NB: not Imperial)

  Dear friend,

  I just received your postcard. I’ve moved, after various complications, without Huebsch’s money it would have been impossible. You were quite right, I’m not cut out for apartment life. It’s the last time I’m going to let myself be drawn into foolish experiments like that.

  I can’t write you a detailed letter, of the sort you request, without bursting into tears, in a way you abhor.

  My novel is advancing every bit as slowly as I thought it would. It can’t be helped. I am not able to cheat and deceive myself. I tried to in Tarabas, the book failed in literary terms, and didn’t succeed in other ways either. A simple infantryman like me can’t expect to pull off cavalry stunts. The Antichrist was a failure—except in Holland. Both were rushed—counter to my literary rhythm. Now I can’t run the risk a third time, of being slapdash. That would be literary—and physical—suicide. If I remain scrupulous, at least it will only be physical.

  And it will be physical, because Mr. de Lange—legally speaking, he has a point—claims he has already paid out too much. It was my fault, for concluding a cheap contract over seven months. All my fault. I acted in the panic that governs most of my life, and from ill-advised affection for the two striplings from the Kurfürstendamm.1 Mea culpa.

  Out of panic I have written hurriedly and badly since your departure. It’s worth nothing. Behind each sentence I write, I can already see the sentences of the begging letter I will have to write to de Lange. My pathetic “business correspondence” betrays itself in my prose.

  The hotel has given me a little alleviation. Today I rented a small study, to have the illusion of a cell, and so as not to have to sit in the café any more. It even comes out cheaper: ten francs a day, undisturbed by friends checking up on me, and with a bottle of marc thrown in. Tonight I’ll start the second part over again. I have the courage of desperation. (I have only the courage of desperation.)

  Still, it means: in spite of my hopeless and panic-stricken position, I am relieved. It’s like having a very high fever, and getting up to go to the toilet. Is that a feeling you know?

  I owe you so much, as I always do, in every crisis. You give me confidence, and rescue me from (practically) desperate situations. If Huebsch hadn’t sent me the money, I would have cut my throat in that wretched flat.

  I thank you, but what does it mean to thank you? What meaning do thanks have in a situation like this?

  I wrote to Huebsch to send me another 100 dollars. It’s no telegraphophilia on my part if I ask you to wire him to send them to me. He only does what you tell him. Not me. (I got the American reviews of Tarabas today. Lots of savagings, with lots of respect.)

  I need to know that I will certainly be able to stay alive for another 3–4 weeks, to be able to write. This horrible book—I wish I’d never embarked on that wretched story—must be brought to an end quickly. And I’m so slow! And on top of my slowness, there’s my crippling fear, slowing me down.

  If you wire Huebsch, he’ll send me 100 dollars, before the Antichrist flops.

  Because it will, in America—and then Huebsch will be grumpy, and not send me any more money.

  What should I do? I beg of you. I can be finished in 4 weeks, so long as I know those 4 weeks are in the bag, promise, promise.

  Please write back immediately, sincerely,

  your old Joseph Roth

  1. two striplings from the Kurfürstendamm: Roth’s moody, bitter, and anti-Semitic (anti-Western Jews) description of Landauer and Landshoff.

  327. Stefan Zweig to Joseph Roth

  Salzburg

  Kapuzinerberg 5

  16 February 1935

  Dear friend,

  I’m back, and wanted to get in touch with you right away. Tell me first whether you’ve finished your book, and whether you got my postcard from New York. It made me so happy to see how good your Antichrist looked in its U.S. edition. Mary Stuart is being printed even now, and I can’t wait to have that book behind me (instead of always in front of me), and be able to embark on something new.

  Now my dear friend, I
have a discreet request to put to you, but please not a word to anyone. You remember how at the time I wrote several letters to Strauss, but—sign of the times—he didn’t get them all. There was one in particular which I sent him registered from Nice, and I would be very thankful if you could apply to retrieve this letter for me from the post office. They’re sure to have the other part of the form in case it did reach him; otherwise, they would have to pay damages. Since I think a public dispute is likely in the affair sooner or later, it’s very important to me (you will understand this) that I have proof of postage. The letter, like the others, will have been intercepted en route. Once again, please be absolutely discreet; I don’t want to have to read about it in the newspaper, which would certainly happen if you were to tell anyone at all about it.

  As of the day after tomorrow, I’ll be in Vienna. Sincerely, your loyal

  Stefan Zweig

  Post receipts enclosed.

  328. Albert Einstein1 to B. W. Huebsch

  Princeton, N.J., 24 February 1935

  To Mr. B. W. Hübsch, The Viking Press Inc., 18 East 48th St., New York City

  Esteemed Mr. Hübsch,

  I am truly grateful to you for sending me this consoling book2 by a real mensch and great writer. As I read it, I was able to share the pain of a clear and kindly human soul, inflicted upon it by the callousness and spiritual blindness of the present age, and felt myself strangely shriven by the sort of objective invention of which only an artistic genius is capable.

  Friendly greetings from your

  [A. Einstein]

  P.S. Please forward this note to the respected author. You have my permission to use it to publicize the book in any way you see fit.

  1. Albert Einstein (1879–1955), physicist.

  2. this consoling book: JR’s novel Job, translated by Dorothy Thompson. No American journalist in the 1930s was more steadfast in her opposition to Hitler and her support of the German Jews than Thompson.

  329. To Blanche Gidon (written in French)

  27 February 1935

  Nice

  Hotel Imperator

  Madam and dear friend,

  thank you for your kind letter. Mr. Gidon’s condition1 makes me very sad. So it’s true what people write about suffering being the badge of noble men and great souls! It’s sad, so very sad. I fear that Mr. Gidon may not have enough “faith” to appreciate any “religious” sentiments, otherwise I should have written to him already. But I imagine he is probably very fixed and certain, and I would find myself in the state (give or take) of an abbé chased off by an invalid. Tricky, even, or especially for a friend. At least, my dear, tell Mr. Gidon that I am very devoted to him, and feel very much for him in his suffering. Thank you!

  My story will reach you one of these days. Perhaps it’s too long. If so, I’ll send you another one tomorrow, a better one, it seems to me, written in Marseille. That one is short enough to go in the Nouvelles Littéraires. Since my agent hasn’t paid me any money yet, I’m in a truly desperate situation. I can’t wait for things to improve! If M. Lefèvre will publish one of the stories, and pay for it in advance, he can have it. Because—in truth—I’m at the end of my rope. I don’t want to go into details, not at the moment.

  I hope Plon really does owe me 3–400 francs. I beg you, my dear, for you and Mr. Poupet to go and cash them.

  I’m working 8–10 hours a day. This will be my Waterloo. I’m “finished, finished,” a writer who promised more than he could keep. Such is “a Russian soul.”

  I don’t know the story of Wetzlar.

  As to the anti-Semitism in those right-wing papers: believe me, my dear, Mr. Blum’s2 brand of it is more dangerous. It’s the Jews—you know I have the right to speak frankly about the Jews—who have introduced Socialism and catastrophe into European culture. “novarum rerum cupidissimi”: that’s the Jews for you. They are the real cradle of Hitler and the reign of the janitors. One shouldn’t always believe that “the Left” is good and “the Right” is wicked. If I was in your shoes, I would talk to Mr. Bailby,3 and show him that blind and vulgar anti-Semitism is not of the “Right.” The Jews have unleashed the plebs. There’s progress! But I’m “philosophizing” too much.

  Warm greetings, my dear friend, and thank you, thank you!

  Your old and wretched

  Joseph Roth

  1. Mr. Gidon’s condition: the radiologist Ferdinand Gidon underwent several finger amputations; he eventually died in 1954, a victim of his research.

  2. Mr. Blum: Léon Blum (1872–1950), leader of the French Socialist Party. He was several times elected minister president, and was in Dachau between 1943 and 1945.

  3. Mr. Bailby: Léon Bailby, an extreme right-wing journalist.

  330. To Stefan Zweig

  [March 1935]

  Dear friend,

  while seeing to your business with the post (Strauss) I had occasion to be in your hotel, and there this letter was given back to me; no one had picked it up.

  As for S. (whether he ever got your letter or not) I will know more in a few days. The German post hasn’t written back yet, in 8 days. Perhaps it is censorship.

  I embrace you,

  your Joseph R.

  331. To Blanche Gidon

  Hotel Imperator

  Nice

  4 March 1935

  Madam and dear friend,

  I don’t want to wait for your promised letter to come because I am in the middle of the third section of my book,1 and I have absolutely got to finish it tomorrow or the day after.—Thank you so much for the 650 francs, it’s a real lifesaver, but I need to know for which story I am being paid. Write and tell me, please. Tell me, too, my dear, how Mr. Gidon is faring. Is he calmer in himself? Give him my warmest regards, please.

  Yours sincerely (and longing to see you again soon),

  Your old Joseph Roth

  1. my book: The Hundred Days.

  332. To Stefan Zweig

  Hotel Imperator

  Nice, Alpes-Maritimes

  Boulevard Gambetta

  6 March 1935

  Dear friend,

  thank you for your lines, and please excuse the fact that I’m dictating these to you now. It dawned on me that I was being perhaps too demanding of you with my affairs. You probably have lots of other things that need your attention in Vienna. Please tell me whether your mother’s condition is as grave as it seemed to you before.

  Please, my dear friend, don’t push me with the novel. I can only write at my own speed. An inadequate book would mean literary and physical suicide for me. A slow book that refuses to be finished is merely physical. I am very industrious these days, and mindful of you.

  Don’t be upset if my letters are full of impatience and even irritations. It so happens I live and write in a continual state of confusion.

  I send you lots of kind and fond wishes—please write me before you leave for Salzburg.

  Yours sincerely

  [Joseph Roth]

  333. Stefan Zweig to Joseph Roth

  [Vienna, March 1935]

  Dear friend,

  this will have to be brief, I have the final proofs to correct,1 no secretary, and forty phone calls to make, I am frantically busy. You’ll have a letter from me next week, I can’t do anything now, I need to supervise the typesetters at their work.

  I’m sorry I can’t help as I’d like to. It’s like this: as long as I’m in Austria, I’m obliged to adhere to the (unusually pedantic) currency regulations, i.e., can’t send funds abroad beyond a certain minimum, and have no funds with Hella at the moment. You must understand, you know I insist on obeying all regulations absolutely to the letter, especially here, so that I can’t have any accusation leveled against me that would mask the earlier injustice done to me. In April, though, it looks as thoug
h I’ll be in Italy, and will be better able to act from there.

  Dear friend, I don’t have the peace of mind to go through this all with you, the telephone is ringing off the hook—you can have no idea, by the way, how badly off authors are here, how much even small sums mean to them, nor again how many of them get in touch, including a few I would never have expected. It’s ghastly, and I’ll be glad when the book is printed, and I can leave. The arrangement with your wife will be extended with good old Csokor’s2 help, but it will become doubly acute in two or three months; but the only thing that matters now is that you finish the novel, and that’s it. Everything else can be sorted out more easily after that.

  One thing, Roth, don’t name figures to anyone but me. You have no idea on what tiny amounts people get by here, and how much resentment it causes when (to them) fantastic amounts are referred to deprecatingly. The newspapers pay 20 schillings for a feuilleton, and people come to blows over royalties. More anon. I am frantic in a way I haven’t been for years, please forgive me.

  Sincerely, Z.

  Don’t worry about the R.S.3 affair any more. I’ve found what I wanted to know.

  1. the proofs: of Zweig’s Maria Stuart (Vienna: Reichner, 1935).

  2. Csokor: Franz Theodor Csokor (1885–1968), Austrian playwright and essayist, friend of JR’s.

  3. R.S.: Richard Strauss.

  334. To Stefan Zweig

  15 March 1935

  Dear friend,

  thank you for your letter. The R.S. business is in the hands of the post now, I can’t do anything about it. I’ll get an answer in a day or two. It’s no extra trouble for me, the wheels are turning.

  Forgive me for burdening you with financial stuff. Not because it matters, but to clarify things let me tell you that of course I name sums only to my closest friends, and secondly, that if compelled to by some necessity, I would not scruple to say how much money I need or think I need, even in front of other needy persons or beggars. I myself allow Rothschild to tell me he’s short of a million to develop his goldfields, for instance. Neither in my personal nor my public life is there anything I have to hide, if occasion should demand that I say everything. The consideration that more wretched individuals than I might view my particular wretchedness with envy is not one that I will permit myself to indulge. Even if I had to assume the presence of envy, or resentment, or something of the kind, I would of course still have to speak the truth. (And so would you!) I have written bad books, but never lying books. I can’t and mustn’t, not even in personal life, pay false regard. It’s foolish—however “prudent” it might appear. Besides, even on an objective look and closer inspection, I don’t believe I am any less miserable than others are. My “helpfulness” and my “comradeliness”—horrible words by the way, that need to be encased in quotation marks—you yourself are so familiar with that you would never suspect me of not having such virtues. They are all as natural to me as breathing: giving, needing, and being open about needing.