Joseph Roth - Three Novellas

The church bells tolled, the larks trilled and the crickets sang unceasingly.

The grave was prepared. The coffin was lowered with the flag draped over it, and for the last time Franz Xaver Morstin raised his saber in salute to his Emperor.

The crowd began to sob as though the Emperor Franz Josef and with him the old Monarchy and their own old home had only then been buried. The three pastors prayed.

So the old Emperor was laid to rest a second time, in the village of Lopatyny, in what had once been Galicia.

A few weeks later the news of this episode reached the papers. They published a few witticisms about it, under the heading, “Notes from all over.”

VII

Count Morstin, however, left the country. He now lives on the Riviera, an old man and worn out, spending his evenings playing chess and skat with ancient Russian generals. He spends an hour or two every day writing his memoirs. They will probably possess no significant literary value, for Count Morstin has no experience as a literary man, and no ambition as a writer. Since, however, he is a man of singular grace and style he delivers himself of a few memorable phrases, such as the following for example, which I reproduce with his permission: “It has been my experience that the clever are capable of stupidity, that the wise can be foolish, that true prophets can lie and that those who love truth can deny it. No human virtue can endure in this world, save only one: true piety. Belief can cause us no disappointment since it promises us nothing in this world. The true believer does not fail us, for he seeks no recompense on earth. If one uses the same yardstick for peoples, it implies that they seek in vain for national virtues, so-called, and that these are even more questionable than human virtues. For this reason I hate nationalism and nation states. My old home, the Monarchy, alone, was a great mansion with many doors and many chambers, for every condition of men. This mansion has been divided, split up, splintered. I have nothing more to seek for, there. I am used to living in a home, not in cabins.”

So, proudly and sadly, writes the old Count. Peaceful, self-possessed, he waits on death. Probably he longs for it. For he has laid down in his will that he is to be buried in the village of Lopatyny; not, indeed, in the family vault, but alongside the grave of the Emperor Franz Josef, beside the bust of the Emperor.

1

On a spring evening in 1934 a gentleman of mature years descended one of the flights of stone steps that lead from the bridges over the Seine down to its banks. It is there that, as all the world knows and so will hardly need reminding, the homeless poor of Paris sleep, or rather spend the night.

One such poor vagrant chanced to be walking towards the gentleman of mature years, who was incidentally well-dressed and had the appearance of a visitor, disposed to take in the sights of foreign cities. This vagrant looked no less pitiable and bedraggled than any other, but to the elderly well-dressed man he seemed to merit some particular attention: why, we are unable to say.

It was, as already mentioned, evening, and under the bridges on the banks of the river it was rather darker than it was up on the bridges and embankments above. The vagrant was swaying slightly and was clearly the worse for wear. He seemed not to have noticed the elderly, well-dressed gentleman. He, though, had clearly seen the swaying man from some way off, and, far from swaying himself, was striding purposefully towards him. He seemed intent on barring the way of the seedy man. They both came to a halt and confronted one another.

“Where are you going, brother?” asked the elderly, well-dressed gentleman.

The other looked at him for a moment, and said: “I wasn’t aware that I had a brother, and I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Then I will try to show you the way,” said the gentleman. “But first will you not be angry with me if I ask you for a rather unusual favor?”

“I am entirely at your service,” said the clochard.

“I can see that you are not without blemish. But God has sent you to me. Now, if you’ll forgive my saying so, I am sure you could use some money. I have more than enough. Could you tell me how much you require? At least for the immediate future?”

The other reflected for a moment and said: “Twenty francs.”

“That can’t be enough,” replied the gentleman. “I’m sure you require two hundred.”

The vagrant took a step back, and for a moment it looked as if he might fall over, but he managed to stay on his feet, if with a little local difficulty. Then he said: “Certainly, I would rather two hundred francs than twenty, but I am a man of honor. You may not have realized as much. I am unable to accept the sum you offer me for the following reasons: firstly, because I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you; secondly, because I don’t know how and when I would be able to repay you; and thirdly, because there would be no possibility of your asking me to repay you. I have no address. Almost every day finds me under a different bridge. And yet, in spite of that, as I have assured you, I am a man of honor, albeit of no fixed address.”

“I too have no address,” replied the elderly gentleman, “and I too may be found under a different bridge every day, and yet I would ask you please to accept the two hundred francs — a bagatelle for a man such as yourself. And as regards its repayment, I should explain why I am unable to refer you, say, to a bank, where you could deposit the money in my account. The fact is that I have recently become a Christian, as a result of reading the story of little St Thérèse de Lisieux. I have a special reverence for her little statue in the Chapelle de Sainte Marie des Batignolles, which you will have no trouble in finding. Therefore, when you next happen to have two hundred francs, and your conscience will not allow you to go on owing me such a paltry sum, I would ask you to go to Sainte Marie des Batignolles, and to leave the money in the hands of the priest who reads the Mass there. For if you owe it to anyone, you owe it to little Thérèse. Don’t forget now: Sainte Marie des Batignolles.”

“I see,” said the clochard, “that you have understood me and my sense of honor perfectly. I give you my word that I will keep my word. But I am only able to go to Mass on a Sunday.”

“By all means, on a Sunday,” said the elderly gentle man. He took two hundred francs from his wallet, gave them to the swaying fellow, and said: “I thank you!”

“It was a pleasure,” replied the other, and immediately vanished into the depths of the gloom.

For it had grown dark in the meantime, down by the river, while up above, on the bridges and quays, the silvery lamps were lighting up, to proclaim the merry Parisian night.

2

The well-dressed gentleman also vanished into the darkness. He had indeed experienced the miracle of faith. He had made up his mind to lead a life of poverty. And therefore he lived under bridges.

As for the other fellow, though, he was a drunkard and a toper. His name was Andreas. He lived, like many drunkards, a rather fortuitous existence. It was a long time since he had last had two hundred francs. And perhaps because it was such a long time, he took out a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil, and by the sparse light of one of the few lamps under one of the bridges, he noted down the address of St Thérèse, and the sum of two hundred francs that he now owed her. Then he climbed one of the flights of steps that lead from the Seine’s banks to the quays. He knew there was a restaurant there. And he went in, and ate and drank plentifully, and he spent a lot of money, and when he left he took a whole bottle with him for the night, which he intended to spend under the bridge, as usual. Yes, and he picked up a newspaper from a wastepaper bin, not in order to read it, but to wrap himself up in it. For, as all vagrants know, newspapers keep you warm.