Joseph Roth - Tarabas

He took his seat — not, as he usually did, on the aisle, but in the middle of the row amongst the other people, and close to the screen, though from that point he could not see the picture properly. He was resolved to give his whole attention to what was going on before him. For a while he could not succeed in doing so, either because he had come in in the middle of the story, or because he was too near. He had to crane his neck to see, the row in which he sat being too far below the level of the screen, and soon it became painful. But gradually the story captured him, and he tried to guess the beginning of it, as though it were one of those puzzles in the illustrated papers, the solution of which often beguiled his hours of waiting for Katharina.

It was now clear to him that the story on the screen was concerned with the fate of a curious man who, guiltless, and indeed from noble motives — to protect a woman, in fact — had become a criminal, a murderer, thief, and burglar, and who, misunderstood by the lady in distress for whose sake he had performed so many gruesome deeds, was put in prison, into a horrible cell, condemned to death, and finally conducted to the gallows. Asked, according to custom, to express a last wish, he begged for leave to write the name of his beloved in his own blood upon the wall of his cell, and for the promise of the authorities that it should never be effaced. With a knife lent him by the executioner’s assistant he made an incision in his left hand, dipped the first finger of the right into the blood, and wrote upon the stone wall of the cell the sweetest name of all—“Evelyn.” These proceedings took place, as one could see by the costumes, not in America, nor yet in England, but in one of the legendary Balkan countries of the Continent. The hero died imperturbably upon the scaffold.

The screen was quiet and empty. The pleasant hum of the cinema apparatus ceased, as did the piano which accompanied the dramas. For a few moments Tarabas was left to wonder whether, in the play he had just seen, he should recognize an allusion to his own experience plain enough to warrant his taking it to be the sign which he believed heaven always sent him for his guidance.

There was certainly a resemblance between the hero and himself, and between Evelyn and Katharina. Before, however, he had had time to decide the matter definitely, the screen lit up again and a new film began.

This time the theme was biblical, namely the shearing of Samson by Delilah, in order to make him weak and subservient to the Philistines. If, under the influence of the foregoing piece, Tarabas had felt disposed to surrender himself to earthly justice and suffer the heroic fate which had seemed to bring him near to the man on the gallows, now the figure of Samson, meting out vengeance on Delilah and the Philistines, though blind, inspired him with a preference for that still more imposing end. And, contriving a resemblance now between Katharina and Delilah, he began to confuse them with each other. He wondered, in view of the extreme dissimilarity between American and biblical conditions, how he should manage to effect his vengeance on the world of Philistines in the manner of the Judean hero. Miracles must take place in New York no less than in the ancient land of Israel. And with the help of God, who was probably not ill disposed towards Tarabas either, one could pull down the mighty pillars of the law-courts and the prison. Tarabas felt strength in every muscle. He was still in his heart a firm believer. It was a long time now since he had been to church. As a young man and a student, dedicated to the revolutionary ideal, he had given notice to the God his childhood had held in awe that he neither believed in Him nor would obey Him any longer; and soon afterwards he had fallen a prey to his belief in chimney-sweeps, white horses, and red-headed Jews. These notwithstanding, he still loved and cherished the conception of a God Who never forsook the believer, and Who held all sinners dear. That was true; God loved him, Nicholas Tarabas. His mind was made up; when the programme was over, he would give himself up to earthly justice, piously confident of the clemency of heaven.

But weariness overcame him — and moreover the programme began again from the beginning. Tarabas stayed where he was, whilst in front of him, behind, and next to him on either side, the old audience went away and the new audiences came in. Five times he watched the programme from end to end. At last the morning came, and they closed the theatre.

IT had rained in the night. The morning was cool, the pavements were still wet. But they dried quickly in the rough, steady morning breeze. The water-wagons were already rattling through the streets, sprinkling them again.

Tarabas resolved to give himself up to the first policeman he met. As, however, for the moment, none came along, he reflected that he would do better to accost not the first but the third, on account of the figure three which had always brought him good luck. It was, indeed, more than likely that this would decide whether the café-owner was alive or dead.

The first policeman was going in the same direction as Tarabas and overtook him. This could not be called meeting him; for Tarabas “meeting” meant a face-to-face encounter. But here was one, swinging his baton, tired at the end of an all-night beat, yawning — but the first. In order to postpone the meeting with the second as long as possible, Tarabas turned into the next side street he came to — where he immediately met him, a cheerful, youthful-looking one, as though his day’s duty had only just begun. Tarabas smiled at him and turned back the way he had come. It was not the law, which might be on his trail already, that he feared, but that the prophecy might be fulfilled sooner than he had thought.

“Now there’s only one more left,” thought Tarabas, “and then it will all be in God’s hands!”

He had returned to the thoroughfare, but for a whole half-hour not another policeman appeared. Tarabas found himself actually longing for the third one to come. But at the very moment when, at the farthest end and in the middle of the broad street he emerged — the grey helmet sharp and high against the deep green of the park — at that moment the clear voice of one of New York’s earliest newsboys rang out. “War between Austria and Russia!” it bugled. “War between Austria and Russia!” “War between Austria and Russia!”

One of the freshest papers — it was still damp with the dew of the morning and the printer’s ink of the night — Tarabas purchased. “War between Austria and Russia!” he read.

The policeman came up and glanced at the page fresh with the morning, reading over Tarabas’s shoulder.

“It’s war,” said Tarabas to the policeman; “I am going to fight in that war!”

“Be sure you come back alive then!” said the policeman, raising his hand to his helmet as he moved off.

Tarabas ran after him and asked the quickest way to the Russian Embassy. The information given, he set off with long strides towards the Embassy, towards the war. And Katharina, the café-owner, and his misdeed were gone from his mind and forgotten.

IN the presence of the mighty harbour of New York and the great liners in their bridal white; in the unceasing monotone of dark waves beating against planks and stone; in the tide of porters, sailors, port-officials, onlookers, pedlars, Nicholas Tarabas completely lost all memory of the previous day. The hearts of foolish, easily intoxicated people are impenetrable. They are dark wells in which thought and feeling, memory, fear, and hope, yes, and remorse itself, can drown, and for a while even the fear of God. Lightless and fathomless, a true well, was the heart of Nicholas Tarabas. But in his large, clear eyes shone innocence.