Joseph Roth: Three Novellas

At the very beginning of the sparse avenue of birches which marked the gently rising approach to the main house, Fallmerayer jumped down. He walked up the drive so as to spin out a little more time. An old gardener asked him what he required. Fallmerayer replied that he wished to see the Countess. He would announce him, said the man, went slowly away and soon returned. Yes, the Countess was there and awaited his call.

The Countess Walewska quite understandably did not recognize Fallmerayer. She took him for another of the many military visitors whom she had had to receive recently. She invited him to sit down. Her voice was deep, dark and foreign. It was familiar and frightening at the same time. But even his fear, even the shiver, were dear to him, welcome, warmly welcome to him after unthinkable years of longing.

“My name is Fallmerayer,” said the officer, “and you will naturally have forgotten the name.” He began again, “You may recall it. I am the stationmaster at L.”

She came over to him and grasped his hand. He smelt again the scent which for countless years had pursued him, which had surrounded, enclosed, tortured and consoled him. Her hands rested for a moment in his.

“Oh tell me, tell me!” cried the Walewska. He told her briefly how it had been with him.

“And your wife and children?” asked the Countess.

“I’ve not seen them again,” said Fallmerayer, “I’ve never taken leave.”

Whereupon a short silence ensued. They looked at one another. The young forenoon sun lay sleek and golden across the room which was broad and low-ceilinged, whitewashed and almost severe. Fallmerayer looked quietly at the Countess’s broad pale face. Perhaps she understood him. She rose and picked a gardenia from the middle window of three.

“Too light?” she asked.

“I prefer them dark,” said Fallmerayer.

She went back to the little table and rang a small bell. An old servant appeared. She ordered tea. The silence between them did not relent; it grew, rather, until the tea was brought in. Fallmerayer smoked. As she poured his tea he asked suddenly, “Where is your husband?”

“At the front, of course,” she replied. “I have heard nothing more from him for three months. We can’t even correspond now.”

“Are you very worried?” asked Fallmerayer.

“Certainly,” she replied, “and no less than your wife probably is about you.”

“Forgive me, you are right. That was really stupid of me,” said Fallmerayer. He stared into his teacup.

She had debated with herself, continued the Countess, whether to leave the house. Others had fled. She would not run, either from her peasants or from the enemy. She lived here with four servants, two saddle horses and a dog. She buried her money and her jewels. For a long time she searched for a word. She did not know the word for “buried” in German, and pointed towards the ground. Fallmerayer said the Russian word.

“You speak Russian?” she asked.

“Yes. I learned it. I learned it at the front.” He went on in Russian and added, “I learned it on your account, for you. I learned Russian so that someday I could speak to you.”

She assured him that he spoke admirably, as if he had only uttered that pregnant sentence in order to indicate his ability as a linguist. In this way she deflected his avowal into an insignificant exercise in style.

“Now I must go,” he thought. He stood up at once and without awaiting her permission, and knowing full well that she would interpret his discourtesy correctly, he said, “I will come back before long!” She made no reply. He kissed her hand and left.

VIII

He left, and never doubted that his destiny was beginning to fulfill itself. It is a law, he said to himself. It is impossible for one human being to be so irresistibly driven towards another, and then for the other to remain barred against him. She feels what I feel. If she does not love me now, love me she will.

Fallmerayer carried out his duties with his unfailingly sure reliability as an officer and an administrator. He decided provisionally to take a fortnight’s leave, for the first time since he had reported for duty. His promotion to Oberleutnant was due within a matter of days. He wanted to wait for that.

Two days later he drove to Solowki. He was told that the Countess Walewska was not at home, that she was not expected before noon.

“Well, then,” said he, “I’ll just wait in the garden.”

And since no one dared to tell him to go, they left him in the garden at the back of the house. He looked up to the double row of windows. He sensed that the Countess was inside the house and had issued orders that she would not receive visitors. In fact he thought he saw the shimmer of a pale dress, first at one window, then at another. He waited patiently and was quite relaxed.

As it struck noon from the church tower he entered the house again. The Walewska was there. She was just coming downstairs in a narrow, black, high-necked dress, with a thin necklace of little pearls around her neck and a silver bracelet at her tight left sleeve. It seemed to Fallmerayer that she had put on armor because of him, and it seemed as though the fire which burned constantly for her in his heart had now borne another strange little blaze. Love was lighting fresh candles. Fallmerayer smiled.

“I’ve had a long wait,” he said, “but I was glad to wait, as you know. I looked up at your windows from the garden and pretended to myself that I was lucky enough to glimpse you. And so I passed the time.”

The Countess asked if he would care to lunch, since it was just the right hour. Gladly, said he, since he was hungry, but of the three courses which were then served he only ate ridiculously small helpings.

The Countess told him about the outbreak of war, and how they had returned home post haste from Cairo. She told him about her husband’s regiment of Guards; about his comrades; after that, about her youth. It was as if she were searching desperately for stories, as if she were even ready to invent them — anything so as to prevent the silent Fallmerayer from speaking. He stroked his little fair mustache and seemed to listen attentively to everything. He was, however, listening much more attentively to the scent which emanated from the woman than to the stories which she told. His pores were listening. And in any case even her words were scented, and her language. He sensed, anyway, everything she could tell him. Nothing about her could remain hidden from him. What could she hide from him? Her formal dress hid nothing of her body from the knowledge of his eyes. He felt the desire of his hands for her, the desire of his hands for the woman. As they rose he said that he thought he would stay a little. He had leave today and was taking a much longer leave in a few days’ time, when his promotion to Oberleutnant came through. Where did he think of going, asked the Countess.

“Nowhere!” said he. “I should like to stay with you.”

She invited him to stay as long as he liked, that day and later. But now she had to leave him and see to a few things about the house. Should he wish to come there were ample rooms in the house, quite enough for them to have no need of disturbing one another.

He took his leave. Since she could not stay with him, he said, he preferred to go back into the town.

As he climbed into the waggonette she waited on the threshold in her strict black dress, her face broad and white, and as he took up his whip she gently raised her hand halfway in a greeting that was at the same time determinedly restrained.

IX

Roughly a week after this visit the newly promoted Oberleutnant Adam Fallmerayer was granted his leave. He told all his comrades that he intended to go home. Instead he took himself to the family home of the Walewskis, moved into a room on the ground floor, which had been prepared for him, eating every day with the lady of the house, and discussing this and that, things far and near, with her, told her about the front and paid no attention to the content of his stories, let her tell him stories and never listened to her. At night he did not sleep, could no more sleep than he could at home in the station building, years before, during the six days which the Countess had spent over his head, in his room. Now, too, he was aware of her at night above him, over his head, over his heart.