The Silent Prophet

by Joseph Roth

  Friedrich was afraid of the neighbours, an anonymous denunciation, a policeman's glance, and even Grünhut the patriot.

  He wanted to see Hilde again. He wrote to her, asking her to come to the café. He waited in the corner; an old gentleman sat opposite him, a newspaper in front of his face. Only his snow-white hair was visible, parted in the middle. He did not stir. He did not lay the newspaper down, nor did he turn it over. It was as if he had fallen asleep but went on reading through closed eyelids. A full glass of water which he had not touched stood on his table, covered by a page of the newspaper. He was probably holding quite an old issue of the paper, one announcing the outbreak of war. He could no longer put it down. On the wall to the right hung a long narrow mirror which had never been completely visible because it had always been obscured by a customer's back. It only provided a fleeting glimpse to the passer-by. Now, for the first time, Friedrich could see his face even though he was sitting down. Only two lamps burnt in the whole room. The wall where the mirror was still lay in the darkening grey of the departing day, and the mirror seemed far removed from the lighted part of the room. It held the image of one of the burning lamps, diminished in its unfathomable depths. Friedrich beheld his face like that of a stranger. If he turned his glance sideways without moving his head he could see his profile, and it alarmed him that he could scarcely recognize himself. His mouth was narrow, his lower lip projected and pulled the chin up with it. His hair was receding, his forehead bulged white and gleaming, and the first hint of a silvery sheen showed at his temples. His nose drooped gently and wearily over his mouth.

  Night already lay behind the windows when Hilde entered. He went towards her. He looked in her face for a long time, as he had just been looking in the mirror. He wanted to find changes in her, too, shadows cast by the times. But the months had passed over her smooth dark face like harmless caressing summer airs. Time had found no place on her cheeks to leave a trace behind. The dark gleam of her eyes, the glimmer of the soft silvery down on her skin, the red bow of her lips, the graceful hesitance of her body, which seemed to reflect before every movement as if the limbs had sense and the nerves intelligence—all these were for ever. Friedrich waited for the first sound of her voice as for a gift. He wanted to see and hear all at once. The waiter, hailed by her, came as a deliverance. 'What would you like to order?' he asked. And once again he heard her voice.

  She had been informed of his fate. She had often revisited the café. Once R. had sat down at her table and told her about Friedrich. But now it was wartime. And he had a twofold reason for fighting against Tsarism. The cause of freedom was now so splendidly identical with the cause of the Fatherland that all class distinctions and class conflicts were annulled. She was well aware of this. At last she had found an opportunity to get to know the people, for she nursed the wounded in hospital every morning. And finally came the inevitable question: 'When are you joining up?'

  'Next week,' he said mechanically.

  Could he come round tomorrow afternoon? Some of her old friends would be there, many of course in uniform.

  'No!' he said. But he already saw a shadow on her face and was touched by the fact that she was sad and might miss him.

  'Yes!' he corrected himself. 'I'll come.'

  In the entrance hall at Herr von Maerker's he already noted signs that the Fatherland was in danger. On the clothes-racks at either side of the mirror hung officers' caps and blue cloaks with metal buttons, and two sabres leaned in the stands appointed for umbrellas in times of peace. As Friedrich handed his hat to the servant girl it seemed to him that she hung it on a rather remote hook with faint disdain, alongside two dark forlorn civilian overcoats. The servant girl had a distant resemblance to a camp-follower.

  Most of the friends of the household had joined up. Herr von Maerker himself had become a captain and was currently commandant of a railway station. Twice a day he went to the station and observed the departing regiments and the arriving transports of wounded with an enthusiastic interest. The unwonted exercise did him good. Every day, for decades, he had walked along the same two streets. The sojourn at a station that he had only fleetingly traversed twice a year, on his departure for and his return from the holidays, gave him the pleasant illusion after years of monotonous office work of finding himself caught up in an exciting life. He had to thank his connections at the War Ministry for various items of knowledge about goings-on in politics and at G.H.Q., and for the comforting feeling that he would remain at one of the stations in Vienna for as long as it was possible. Naturally, he did not for a moment think that the protection he enjoyed was inconsistent with his love for the Fatherland. He lacked any understanding of the close connection between patriotism and danger to life. He did not take into account that the direct consequence of war was death, rather than variety. After all, like so many of his social class, he hardly realized that the phrase 'Fallen on the Field of Honour' necessarily implied the irrevocable end of the fallen.

  Herr von Maerker's housekeeper now went about with the cheering prospect of becoming the bride of her employer after victory. In its very first months the war had upset a few social prejudices which, despite their stupidity, had nevertheless been more moralistic than the war. A new era was seen as imminent. Because it had become necessary to endow proletarians with the aristocratic attributes of heroes and knights, members of the social class to which Herr von Maerker belonged imagined that they had become democratic. Some young women, so-called 'liaisons' of the sons of the aristocracy and high finance, were fortunate enough, through a quick wartime wedding, to become the legitimate spouses of their princes instead, as was usually the case in peacetime, of acquiring a drapery shop or a glove business as a peace-settlement. Through the mediation of their pretty daughters, a few hundred of the lower middle class acquired connections with elevated circles and got into the army medical service when they enlisted. Patriotic unity was therefore no longer a matter for doubt. All the ladies were nurses or manifested some kind of lively charitable impulse. They went so far as to send unknown war widows articles of clothing that would otherwise have been given to the sewing-women in order to forestall any demands for increased wages. Golden wedding-rings were exchanged for iron ones, even though there was some willingness to retain the precious stones. Watch-chains, especially unfashionable ones, were also exchanged. Wherever one looked there was iron. Many sons found themselves risking their lives, to the gratification of their parents. Even the ne'er-do-wells who had squandered money, were forgiven, since they were now heroes and no longer capable of squandering. The mothers of the dead wore their sorrow as generals their golden collars, and the death of the fallen became a kind of decoration for the bereaved. But even the relatives of heroes who were engaged in quite safe duties were as proud as if they had a dead man to mourn, and the nuances between mothers of the deceased and mothers of the living were effaced in the familiar general 'gravity of the times'. Since all alike was tragic, all imagined themselves as making a sacrifice.

  Already appeals for the first War Loan were posted on every wall, alongside notices of the third call-up. The portrait-painter was in uniform, even if a fanciful one hastily invented by some military official. There had not been adequate preparations for artists to participate in the war. The war propaganda department could not cope with so many painters and writers, historians and journalists, dramatists and drama critics. The journalists wore leather gaiters and revolvers and an arm-band on which the word 'Press' was stitched in gold letters. The drama critics went into the archives and were allowed to wear civilian clothes so as not to have to appear as NCO's. The painters were left to their own devices. They made portraits of the army leaders, painted the walls of military hospitals in gay and cheerful colours, and wrote diaries or letters which they then published as the 'guests of Literature'. They too went for medical examinations, but usually had a number of disorders that kept them from the shooting. Some of the dramatists began to write regimental histories.

 
At Herr von Maerker's house, where Hilde acted as mediator between literature, art and the history of art, there gathered not only fighting men but also painters and writers. Friedrich found their glances curious and quizzing. His revolutionary opinions and his Siberian experiences, together with his readiness to struggle against Tsarism—which people took for granted—fitted in with their conception of the identity of freedom and the cause of the Fatherland. His very presence attested to this identity.

  The writer G., one of the cultivated satirists who knew how to combine a decadent manner, elegant posturing and large debts with a sensitive feeling for language, was immersed in a discussion with young Baron K. about the French literature of the Enlightenment. He avoided the discussion of current events. He was, in fact, a sceptic and might have upset the general optimism. If he had expressed his opinions, it would have been all over with his congenial occupation and civilian clothing. However, in order not to appear as a man without any kind of attachment to the Fatherland, he said 'The war is the very time in which one is able to think. Never before have I been able to read so extensively and with so few distractions. At present I am reading the French. It affords me a special pleasure to get to know our enemies better. They are cruel and clever. The entire race is impelled by their so-called "raison". It is quite obvious to me, of course, that such sound commonsense rears a thrifty lower middle class but not a heroic nation. Great occasions call for a sweet unreason.'

  Hilde smiled and exchanged a glance with the writer. She understood that he had spoken for her and not to the lieutenant. She did not much care for the cavalry. For whereas the writer and the 'intellectuals'—this word was used increasingly often—discussed the very simplest battle reports in such a manner that nothing remained of their actuality but a faint echo, which Hilde found agreeable, the lieutenant named names, numbers, kilometres and divisions, which bored her. And although he said nothing that the others could not have said, had they wished to, it seemed as if he alone knew what war was all about.

  Besides this lieutenant, Hilde's father alone among all the men present remained an object for her particular disdain. Only since the war had the ministerial adviser participated in his daughter's entertainments, so changed was he by the great event. Among all the groups of that social class which produced no officers, no ministerial officials, no diplomats and no landed proprietors, the one he most detested consisted of what he called the 'Bohemians', of whom his notions were infantile. Even now when, revolutionized by wartime enthusiasm, he yielded to the general illusion that differences would be abolished and that a painter in travelling clothes and riding-breeches who painted a base hospital and a base commandant was part of the baggage-train of heroes, even now he winced imperceptibly when the painter P., as soon as anything exciting was mentioned, took his foot in his hands as if this manipulation was a necessary aid to better hearing, or when the drama critic R., in a quiet moment, broke a match between his teeth. In this unsuspecting state, which he owed to a secluded youth in a feudal institution, Herr von Maerker did not understand that these men did not display the free ways of an artistic disposition but the miserable ones of a lower middle-class upbringing. He regarded it as a method of expressing the artistic temperament.

  Friedrich looked around. The war correspondent who had just returned from the front was talking with a lieutenant, a lawyer in mufti, about the excellent equipment of the troops. He wanted next to go to Belgium and describe the victory parade. A Liberal deputy, middle-aged and at that time not liable for service, was explaining to a one-year volunteer, to whom it was of no concern, that the war would constitute the final overthrow of clericalism and that non-denominational schools would come about in a matter of weeks. The ironic author was now talking to Hilde. He had left the young cavalryman sitting in silence, and although their chairs were touching the literary man was separated from the officer by a whole world, a world that abounded with French writings of the Enlightenment. The writer now wore round his mouth a smile that could be put on and taken off like a moustache-trainer, one that he used to make an impression on women. His suit, his deportment, his hairstyle, were the careful work of an entire morning. Out of sceptical protest he wore his elegant civilian suit, for which he had a special permit in his pocket. But it was as provocative as an injustice in contrast with the entire uniformed world. The painstakingness revealed by the knot of his necktie alone was a demonstration against the confusion of a whole epoch. The glance, full of gentle appraisal, with which he followed Hilde's gestures and seemed to note them behind his forehead, held the melancholy renunciation of a critical genius who had yielded to the censor and was compelled to conceal deep within himself the many witticisms that occurred to him at every communiqué from the front. Friedrich hated him even more than the painter.

  He looked at Hilde. A slight flush, which darkened the brown of her cheeks, disclosed that she felt herself to be the centre of a circle of the elect who adored her and whom she herself venerated, and Friedrich asked himself if there was a causal connection between the adoration that pleased her and the veneration she rendered in return. She seemed strange and remote and almost hostile to him in the midst of these others. He would have liked to extract the immediate significance of every movement she made in order to detach her from her connection with this world, and the meaning of every word she said so that her beloved voice might continue as nothing but an innocuous sound. He loved her voice, but not her words. He loved her eyes, but hated what they recorded.

  12

  It was not until August that the Ukrainian P. returned from the camp. In the meantime it had become known that the Russian revolutionaries had for some time been the natural allies of the Central Powers. P.'s liberation from the camp was doubtless politically motivated. He remained in Vienna, the authorities were aware of it and even supported him. Some days after P.'s return Friedrich set out on his journey through Germany to Zurich. P. had been in contact with Zürich throughout, even during his stay in the camp, and with Comrade Tomkin in M. in Brandenburg—one of the middlemen between the comrades and the secret police. He was unchanged. Robust and carefree as he was, he seemed to regard the years up to the war, the straits in which he always lived and his sufferings in the concentration camp, as a kind of necessary gymnastic exercise, which he was able to surmount. He was unafraid, not because he was brave but because the bulk and strength of his muscles, the inexhaustible elasticity of his tendons and nerves and a healthly abundance of red blood left no room for fear. He was as little capable of being afraid as a tree. But, like every fearless man, he understood that anxiety did not always flow from cowardice but was also a quality connected with one's physical constitution and nerves.

  'Your worrying was unnecessary,' said P. to Friedrich. 'If you'd been locked up, they'd soon have let you out. We are allies for the time being and under the protection of a powerful institution. Our comrades even receive passports. You'll be taken care of too. You will now go to M., here is an address. You will report to this man and he'll give you money and papers for Switzerland. Give my greetings to the comrades. I'm staying here for the moment. I might be able to cross the lines to Russia.'

  He said 'cross the lines to Russia' as if it were a matter of going for a pleasant drive. He had decided to make a rendezvous with the comrades as one arranges an excursion to a well-known and popular beauty spot. He sat, powerful and calm on his old sofa which was wide and large enough for a grown man but seemed narrow, short and fragile under the weight and force of his body.

  'In order to avoid any unpleasantness just now, you will travel first class,' said P. 'You'll find yourself in the good society of higher officers and war contractors and no policeman will dare to demand your identity card. But if it should happen, make a fuss and snarl at any officials who cross your path.'

  They walked slowly through the streets. P. had the solemn deliberation of a burgomaster. 'If one has my kind of appearance,' he said, 'no one in Central Europe will be the least bit suspicious. The
Germans, and the smaller races within the German cultural sphere, have an indestructible trust in broad shoulders. Compare, for instance, the popularity of Hindenburg with the anonymity of Hötzendorf, who is small and elegant. The Russians command respect, although they are enemies. But the Russian generals have broad epaulettes, like the Germans. Striplings like yourself evoke mistrust.'

  In order to see Friedrich safely on his way, P. accompanied him to the station. And with the joviality that sprang from his nature, he delivered Friedrich into the care of the conductor. 'My dear fellow,' he said, 'my friend is ill and must have agreeable neighbours.' 'Thank you, Excellency,' said Friedrich, so loudly that the policeman who was due to accompany the train must have heard. 'Take care of yourself,' said P. and bade him farewell. The conductor and the policeman saluted as P. left the platform with great strides.

  Friedrich was not left alone in the compartment. A German colonel and an Austrian major climbed in. They exchanged greetings. It was wartime and one could be sure that no common travellers sat in the first class. Nowadays, whoever got on the train and wore civilian clothes was even mightier than a uniform. Clever officers, therefore, had gradually accustomed themselves to regard civilians they encountered in the first class as superiors.

  They were the more resentful when, just before the train departed, the conductor squeezed in one more passenger who would have made a more suitable first-class passenger in peacetime. Both officers exchanged a quick glance. While the eyebrows of each were raised in astonishment, their moustaches were already smiling. Both moved nearer each other as if they now had to join in mutual defence. The passenger so suspiciously received did not seem to notice anything for the moment. He sat very free and comfortable because the others had made themselves so small. He was shortsighted, as was betrayed by the thick lenses of his pince-nez, the way his head was permanently poked forwards, and his uncertain searching movements. He had evidently been in a hurry not to miss the train, his panting was clearly audible. His short legs dangled slightly above the floor, continually sought by the tips of his toes. His plump white hands lay on his knees and his fingers drummed inaudibly on the soft material of his trousers.