Exiled in Europe
Joseph Roth’s real home was the German language.
Dec 3, 2012, Vol. 18, No. 12 • By MARK FALCOFF
Stefan Zweig, Joseph Roth, 1936
Some literary historian of the future will have to explain why just now several of the major German-language writers of the interwar period long regarded as passé—Stefan Zweig, Lion Feuchtwanger, Klaus Mann, and Joseph Roth—have come suddenly back into fashion in the English-speaking world. Perhaps the most prolific of all—though not necessarily the most financially successful—was Roth, whose best-known work, The Radetzky March, is a nostalgic reconstruction of the last days of Vienna under the Habsburgs. Published in 1932, it is still in print and has lost none of its charm. But this was hardly Roth’s only success; he was also the author of more than 20 other books, including novels, short stories, travel essays, and journalism. Now, a huge selection of his private letters have been made available through his translator, the poet Michael Hofmann.
Roth was born in 1894 in the town of Brody, in Galicia, on the easternmost reaches of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Though of Jewish background, he was a baptized Roman Catholic, which was common in those days among those who wished to pursue prestigious professions (e.g., Gustav Mahler) or, as in Roth’s case, to hold a commission in the army during World War I. After 1919, the young, thrice-decorated veteran emerged as a talented practi-tioner of the feuilleton—the literary essay that appeared (and in Germany, still appears) in a special section of newspapers. He was also an incessant traveler and reporter, visiting the Soviet Union in 1926, Albania and the Balkans in 1927, Italy and Poland in 1928. By the age of 30, he had risen to be the Paris correspondent of the liberal Frankfurter Zeitung. Throughout this time, he remained a Habsburg loyalist—in one letter he refers to himself as “a patriotic Austrian [who] love[s] what is left of my homeland as a sort of relic”—and, in fact, he occasionally moved in Legitimist circles until Hitler’s Anschluss in 1938. He died in a shabby hotel in Paris the following year.
The major event in Roth’s life, of course, was the Nazi seizure of power in Germany. Goebbels’s takeover of the German press and book publishing firms deprived Roth of much of his reading public and of a reliable source of income; thereafter he lived the life of an impoverished literary nomad. (As Hofmann puts it, with “no money, no books, no bank account, no clothes . . . a Jew in Austria, an Austrian in Germany, and a German in France.”) Living from hand to mouth, never staying long in the same place, he somehow managed—with no secretary and long before the invention of word processing—to produce vast amounts of newspaper copy and to write novels, three in 1933 and 1934 alone. But the vise was closing in: Austrian publishers began to become nervous about printing him even while their country was still independent of Germany, and it was not always easy to find a market for his books in France.
These letters reveal, not surprisingly, a very confused and unhappy man. Nonetheless, they also show him to be an acute observer of the European scene. Here, for example, is his description of a Socialist congress in Marseilles in 1925:
Social Democrats, he confides to a friend, are “a party of toothless dragons.” On the subject of the then-venerated André Gide, he quotes an exchange with Jean Paulhan, who had remarked, “C’est un acteur, n’est-ce pas?” Roth replied, “Il est plus qu’un acteur, il est une actrice.”
He admonished Klaus Mann, who had attended a writer’s congress in Moscow in 1934. (Unfortunately Mann’s side of the correspondence is not given, but its tone can be inferred by this comment of Roth’s: “A Western European going east of Warsaw for the first time, becomes an utter child . . . no new world is being readied there.”)
In another context, remarking on the same country:
Visiting Odessa as early as 1926, he writes that “never has it been brought home to me so strongly that I’m a European, a man of the Mediterranean if you will, a Roman and a Catholic, a Humanist and a Renaissance man.” Brave words when much of the Western intelligentsia was ready to go over to the Soviet vision, bag and baggage—and often, of course, without taking the trouble to visit the country itself.
Sometime in 1928, Roth was finally put into contact with his idol, Stefan Zweig. Present-day readers may have some difficulty grasping just how important an event this must have been. Zweig was then at the peak of his fame and fortune: Born independently wealthy, he was also probably the most widely read (and translated) writer of German. The correspondence with Zweig increasingly occupies ever-larger sections of this book, with Zweig’s own letters often included. Much of it has to do with money, since Zweig was generous with financial help, which Roth certainly needed after 1933.
Nonetheless, one must confess a certain ennui with this section, which is also filled with malicious gossip about personalities in the publishing world who have long since disappeared down the black hole of memory. There are also some rather unpleasant comments about Jews: The Zionist leader Chaim Weizmann is referred to as a “Jewish National Socialist,” something which has a strangely contemporary ring to it. The correspondence reveals a complicated relationship between two vain, talented, and creative individuals, but it is probably only of interest to literary historians.
What gives this book its special interest is the fact that Roth represents the final moments of an archetype: the cosmopolitan European, at home in several countries, and, before 1919, not even fully sensitive to national boundaries. (The Austro-Hungarian Empire was home to 17 different language and cultural groups.) Roth’s real home was the German language, and this explains why, after 1933, and particularly after 1938, he became homeless in both a physical and spiritual sense.
Nonetheless, he never lost his own particularly self-shaped identity. Hofmann quotes a friend who observed Roth sometime in the 1930s: “When summoned to the telephone, he slowly hobbled away with the aid of a stick, his thin legs in narrow old-fashioned pants, his sagging little paunch at odds with his birdlike bones, the east Galician Jew made the impression of a distinguished, if somewhat decayed, Austrian aristocrat—in other words, exactly the impression he had striven all his life to give, with every fiber of his body and soul, by means both legitimate and illegitimate.”
Mark Falcoff is completing a new translation of Klaus Mann’s Mephisto.