Joseph Roth - Perlefter - The Story of A Bourgeois

In the drawers of the commode lay the children’s still, dead pocket watches next to broken hairpins and dusty yellow tobacco residue. In the inkwells the ink was dry, no more than a black crust. The quills splayed as soon as one put them to paper. There was colourful stationery in all shades; purchased in cheap cigar shops, it was as porous as blotting paper. The postal scale was out of balance. The pencils could not be sharpened, for the lead consisted entirely of fragments and the wood was brittle and fibrous. In the bathroom cold water streamed out of the hot tap and vice versa. The bath towels were frayed. An old mousetrap did not snap shut any more. Inside hung a bait of such a composition that even a hungry rat would be deterred. The laundry cart was missing its right front foot. To steady it a couple of bricks from his son Alfred’s set of toy building blocks had been placed underneath. On the mantle stood a plaster ballerina without arms. Under the mirror in the girls’ room hung a wreath of pink paper flowers. They didn’t throw it out because they felt sorry for it. They liked all broken, defective and useless things. From the proud row of encyclopaedias was missing the volume ‘Buddha to Cologne’.

The baker came but three times a week with fresh bread. They preferred to eat it dry and withered, claiming that fresh bread was harmful to the stomach. Old sardines in open cans were refreshed with lemon juice. Marinated herring, however, they ate too soon, before the flavour had soaked in. Breaded cutlets were made that fell apart on the plates. There was cauliflower soup without the cauliflower. Bunches of radishes lay in the kitchen. Only Perlefter himself was allowed to eat them, as long as they were fresh. For only Perlefter himself lived in affluence. He ate the best soups, the largest and freshest cakes, the specialities, the fresh bread (even though it was harmful); his liquor filled entire bottles; his inkwells were filled to the top with good, flowing blue ink; his pencils lay secure in a shut drawer and were made of the finest material; his bath towel was given to him every morning from the chest (for he would not use the tattered ones); and upon the sofa where he took his afternoon nap there was no white linen. Perlefter was annoyed with his wife’s thrift and the miserly disorder in the house, yet was himself the cause of this frugality. For only out of concern about him and out of fear that he might overwork himself in order to provide new things did they keep the old and broken-down furniture and extend their frugality to such things as useless paper garlands. Perlefter, however, did not sigh over the difficult life. His good wife came to the most natural conclusion. Ah! She didn’t know that the only reason he came home was because no place else could he find such willing ears that were fine-tuned to his trials and tribulations. He unloaded all his suffering at home and then became annoyed that his house resembled a mortuary.

Outside of the house Perlefter indulged himself in numerous luxuries. At home he absolutely eschewed all delicacies such as chocolates, figs or crystallized fruit. For he wanted to show that he was ‘not a pig’ and he feared that a father who doles out sweets loses authority over his children. On the way home, however, he happily stopped at the confectioner’s and had himself a bite to eat. Sometimes chocolate could be found in his coat pocket in rustling tin foil. This chocolate was usually discovered by his oldest daughter. She came smiling to Perlefter, who then said, ‘Oh dear! I meant to bring this to you! I completely forgot about it! Perhaps, come to think of it, I even ate half!’ And she didn’t doubt his word.

Only his son, who was known as Fredy, enjoyed as many freedoms as Perlefter. Around the time when Perlefter took off in the aeroplane he began to grow and become healthy. When I had arrived he was a cry-baby. Eventually he grew into a mischievous and stupid boy. I really noticed changes as the years passed. Yes, they passed, and Fredy grew. His voice slid into those depths of melancholy descant to which notes of barbarism and sentimentality lend a manly tone. Fredy developed a gradual inclination towards servant girls and in equal measure developed his muscles. He had friends. They came to the house on Saturday afternoons — young men with slicked-back hair in excellent suits with golden bracelets and silk handkerchiefs in their left jacket pockets; young men with smooth faces and abbreviated foreheads. They played whist, they brought liqueur with them, nothing but sweet liqueurs, and amused themselves with confectionary and smoked cigarettes, inhaling each pull with evident pleasure. I never heard them speak of literature. From the pockets of their coats, which were visible in the corridor, protruded colourful magazines dealing with sports, love and ‘society’. The young men read fashion magazines. They wanted to look like tailors’ models, and they succeeded. It was precisely these young men who set the tone of the city. With a magical swiftness they passed the examination that opened the door to admission into the different universities around the country. Were they not so rich one would have to believe that they were brilliant. Together they joined rowing clubs, they played tennis, they did gymnastics and fencing, some had horses, and they all said they had genuine horseman’s legs even if they had, actually, been bowed by a combination of nature and birth into the high life. Each wore a badge in his buttonhole. They were the sons of the Moderate Party and consequently had no political convictions. Young people in bad circumstances are radicals, as they blame the political system for their personal misfortunes. These young men, however, had it so good that to them all political viewpoints were the same. They were thus the future of the Moderate Party. It is an error to believe that the moderate parties of all countries have no future. So long as there are those who can afford the luxury of indifference there will also be moderate people. One might have said that these young men were reasonable enough to remain in the middle. It was actually more like satisfied enough. They were protected on all sides, as they had not severed any ties. They were not strong opponents, nor did they have any.

Such were these young men. Those of them who claimed the spirit fancied themselves to be homosexual, although they liked young girls better. They made off with girls, too, if nobody noticed. As for the young Fredy Perlefter he was still wavering over which sex to choose. But after it became clear to him that he would carry on his father’s business he decided upon normal sexual intercourse. It was good to see, as the true nature of the young man gradually broke through. He shed the illness of his childhood days like one outgrows old clothes and in the course of several months became a hero and a sportsman. At the same time his face was also changing, becoming ever more the old, round and slightly girlish face of Perlefter. Fredy’s eyes were also colourless and played the events of the world without surprise, wonder, love, compassion or bitterness. With a fearlessness that left him unfazed he plunged into various hazardous sports, and while his family feared for him he won first prize in swimming, track and field and winter sports, and his foolish face graced the illustrated newspapers. I believe that he had no idea he was placing himself voluntarily in the proximity of Death and was not sensible enough to have fear. He had only ambition. He wanted to be the spoiled darling of the family and remain that way, achieving it indirectly by means of heroism. Thus he and his father, in different ways, both arrived at the same goal. Fredy liked to complain about sore muscles. He had ‘trained’ too hard. He showed several bruises. For weeks he had an arm in a black sling. His mother fed him. One had to hold his jacket and put his socks on for him. After he had definitively decided on the female sex he slept with one of the servant girls and earned himself his first sexually transmitted disease, of which he was quite proud and of which the entire family knew but about which nobody spoke. The servant girl left the house and took a silver service along with her. For weeks this service was the topic of conversation. The oldest daughter maintained that it was silver plate and a wedding gift from Herr Hahn who gave nothing real. Frau Perlefter cried anyway. For her it was silver. To annoy his sister Fredy said that he himself had seen the mark. It was silver. Frau Perlefter’s widowed sister, who delighted in the losses of others, confirmed Fredy’s assertion.