Joseph Roth - The Silent Prophet

It was in no way remarkable to encounter Dr Süsskind’s stubborn matter-of-factness in the realm of this newly hatched diplomacy. The legacy of the career diplomats who had brought about the war through folly, ambition, an unthinking pleasure in the secret game, but who at least displayed the social forms as natural qualities, fell after the war to the bourgeois intellectuals — editors, men of letters, teachers and judges — men who, with an incurable love of sincerity, endeavoured to copy the traditional tricks of international politics, and who could be seen from a mile away as striving to safeguard a so-called state secret. With diplomatic passports, for which they themselves had more respect than the customs officcials, they crossed the frontiers hiding in their sealed bags lace for their wives and liqueurs for their guests, in conformity with the familiar behaviour of the lower middle class from which they sprang. Diplomatic intercourse between the representatives of the old and the new states acquired the cosy aspect of bourgeois family occasions; and it was no accident that beer, the festive drink of sturdy uprightness, became a political intoxicant. Beer evenings were the vogue. The reconciliation of the nations was achieved under the aegis of beer, just as formerly the preparation of the war had been achieved to the accompaniment of champagne. Men had become congenial. The international dominance of the bourgeoisie had only just begun.

Within this petty bourgeois diplomacy only the representatives of the sole proletarian state mastered the old diplomatic forms. A natural cunning, acquired in long struggles with the authorities, a sharp instinct for artifice and dissimulation, a spontaneous desire to deceive friend and foe, all these conferred on the representatives of the Revolution those qualities that an ancient tradition, the inherited experience of aristocratic blood and a training in courteous insincerity had conferred on the diplomats of the vanishing old world. Of all the people Friedrich now had anything to do with — and his occupation consisted in the main of having to talk to them — not a single one seemed to him capable of that kind of impassioned deliberation without which it is impossible to have an overall view of the world. All lay like soldiers in the trenches, knowing only their own section. It was war. And as each had a rank in the services, or at least a well-defined task, each took note of the uniform and insignia of the other; and if one of them were to be asked if the man he had been negotiating with every day for years were good or bad, clever or stupid, enthusiastic or half-hearted, convinced or indifferent, the questioned one would have replied: ‘Mr X, about whom you enquire, only smokes cigars, is married, negotiates with me over the concession at Tomsk and is esteemed by his superiors.’ And it really was as if the so-called ‘human’ qualities had been the characteristic features of a period of human history long past and were now only to be found on tombstones, as inscriptions for the dead. It was as if these human qualities were gradually disappearing, like goods for which there was no longer any demand, and as if they had to be replaced by others that were now much sought after. Friedrich never succeeded in obtaining any other answer to his question as to who this or that person might be than: ‘X. has left the Party, B. is editor of the Democratic newspaper, Y. is Director General of the Z. works.’ And one obtained such answers, not so much because no one cared about anyone else, but because, in fact, an editor seemed to be nothing but an editor and a Director General only a Director General. One of the most intimate peculiarities that could be imparted about a man was that he practised this or that vocation, displayed this or that political opinion. And Friedrich, who had never known a vocation, thought: ‘I am the only one with human qualities. I am malicious, nasty, egoistic, hard-hearted and intelligent. But no longer ambitious. My ambition is extinct. For its aim was to exercise power over human beings, not over Director Generals, editors and party members or those without party. It would have been my passion to see through cunning, chastise evil, buttress justice, annihilate the vicious. I would have identified with a cause. Nothing remains for me now but to look on. For twenty years I looked on, in order to learn. For a single year I fought. I shall remain an onlooker for the rest of my life. “Was it really necessary?” said old Parthagener.’

He retained enough curiosity to engage in experiences. But it was no longer the primal curiosity, which would have wanted to know what was happening, but a sort of second-class curiosity, which sought only for confirmation of what it had already accurately surmised. Once, when Friedrich had to negotiate with the executive of an aviation company, he said to himself: ‘He will be a big broad-boned man in a new light-grey suit, with hair cut short and parted on the left, a wedding-ring on his finger, no other jewellery. On his desk stands a photograph of his wife. The telephone will ring every five minutes to intimidate me. The best quality cigars and cigarettes are shut away in the drawer, so-called “smoking material” for guests lies on the table. The functional nature of the office furnishings does not exclude a certain cool leathery comfort. On the arms of soft light-yellow armchairs, squat yellow shiny ashtrays rubbed over with metal polish. The man is conservative, a moderate monarchist. He acts the honest businessman with principles, but readily lets it be recognized that he is not stupid.’

When Friedrich entered he found his conjectures confirmed. The discussion bored him from the first moment. He could have supplied an exact report of it without having taken part. To make a change and to disconcert the executive he suddenly said: ‘Would you disconnect your telephone while we’re talking!’ The great man immediately obeyed. He pressed a button with his foot; his desk was equipped with the latest technical devices and pedals like a piano. Underneath, as if by magic, all the electrical controls came out of the floor. One saw no flex leading to the lamp or the telephone, no bell on the table, no locks on the drawers, the inkwell rested in a depression in the desk and, without the executive having to make the slightest movement, he summoned his secretary by an act of simple lightning-quick volition. Friedrich noticed how the wall suddenly opened and the secretary appeared, as if he had all along been lodged in a cleft between the bricks. ‘Would you just disconnect the circuit?’ said the executive, and the secretary disappeared in a trice and the wall was whole again. ‘We are not as electrified as that in Russia yet!’ said Friedrich, pointing to the mysterious wall. ‘That I can believe!’ answered the executive. ‘We are far ahead in Germany.’ And like a man who, out of pride at the beauty of his country, shows a foreigner the landscape and tells him the names of the mountains, valleys and rivers, the executive began to explain to Friedrich the technical secrets of his office. He said ‘our’ with the same emphasis with which the party leaders spoke of their party and the Fatherland. ‘Our installation,’ he said, ‘was completed only three months ago. All the wiring is in the floor, under the carpet. Here, under the desk, you see three buttons that light up red, green and yellow. The red is an alarm signal, the green is my secretary, and the yellow my lady secretary. If I press the wall here, the picture springs out.’ He pressed, and the portrait, which showed the head of the firm, flew out of its frame like a window pushed open by a gust of wind, and revealed a secret compartment containing banknotes and documents. ‘I need only draw this curtain,’ continued the executive, ‘and I am in the midst of my family circle.’ The curtain opened and Friedrich saw a niche with life-sized coloured pictures showing a woman and two boys in sailor-suits. In the ceiling above the pictures a small lamp burned, so that the niche appeared like an altar. He drew nearer and recognized Hilde’s portrait. It had been painted by the painter with the bushy eyebrows. He immediately resolved to find out where the Director General lived, just in case and not in order to disturb family life. ‘Your wife,’ Friedrich ventured to say, ‘is very beautiful.’ ‘We have been married ten years,’ replied the executive confidingly, ‘but we are no longer deeply in love!’ And he glanced at a shiny steel ruler as if the word ‘deeply’ were a term for a specific measure of love. He stood up again and seemed to reflect. He returned to the smooth wall, touched a yellow flower on the wallpaper, and immediately a small door sprang open and revealed the gilt back of a thick leather volume. This back also opened and now Friedrich perceived that it was not a book, but a small cupboard for glasses and liqueur bottles. ‘One can’t talk properly without a drink!’ said the executive. After one glass, he became loud and exuberant, slapped Friedrich a few times on the knee and made one of the secret drawers in the green desk fly open, revealing to Friedrich pornographic postcards and hygienic objects of an erotic nature. ‘Dear friend,’ said the executive, ‘the sexual department. Sexuality is an important factor.’ And he began to spread out his pictures.