Joseph Roth - Tarabas

Ah, he was afraid to see his home again! He had still been too weak! One can part with power, with war, and with the uniform; with remembrance of Maria, with the pleasures a man like Tarabas knows in the arms of women — but from the silver birch trees of home there is no parting. His old father whom he had seen upon two crutches, was he near death now? — Was his mother still alive? — What did his sister look like? — Had Tarabas a great desire to know these things? — He did not know that it was not the sight of his infirm old father which had awakened his nostalgia, but the sudden whinny of the horse, the brown-spotted grey. In that voice all his home had called to him.

The following morning — a soft, sad rain was falling, as it does in spring, mild and full of goodness — Tarabas took the road that leads to Koryla. Towards ten o’clock he came to where the avenue of birch began, which led to the house. Yes, the hollows along the road were still the same, and had been filled with gravel as he had known it done years ago. Each separate tree was known to Tarabas. If trees had names, he could have called each one by its own. On either hand the fields spread out before him. They, too, belonged to the master of Koryla. These were the fallow fields, left so as long as anyone could remember; they were a sign that one was rich enough, and had no need to plough more land than one had under grain already. True the incendiary boots of war had trampled this earth as well; but the earth of the Tarabases produced in indefatigable freshness new seed, new wild plants, new grass; it was endowed with a luxuriant, irresponsible fruitfulness, it survived wars, it was stronger than death. Nicholas Tarabas, too, the last scion of that earth, and to whom it had ceased to belong, even he was proud of it, of this triumphant earth.

But he must go warily. He knew that in the yard behind the house the dogs began to bark as soon as any stranger passed the sixth birch from the house-door. He was at pains to move as quietly as he could. He could no longer manage the long way round, along the willow path between the marshes, to reach the house through the yard and climb the vine-grown wall, as he had done on that other homecoming! Now he shuffled quietly up the six low steps that led to the russet-coloured door of the broad, white-painted house. The knocker hung on a rusty wire at the door; he knocked, timidly, as befits a beggar. He waited.

He waited long. The door was opened. It was a young servant who had opened it; Tarabas had never seen him before.

He said immediately: “The master won’t have beggars coming here!”

“I’m looking for work,” answered Tarabas. “And I’m very hungry.”

The lad let him enter the house. He led him through the dark passage — on the left was the door of Maria’s room, to the right rose the staircase — into the yard, and quieted the dogs. He let Tarabas sit down on a pile of wood, and said that he would be back presently.

But he did not come. In his stead there came an old man with a white beard. “Kabla! Turkas!” he called to the dogs. They ran to him.

It was old Andrey. Tarabas had recognized him instantly. Andrey had changed very much. He sniffed and peered about him cautiously as he went with his head bent forward and dragging feet. At first he seemed not to see Tarabas, but came on, followed by the dogs, with his head poked forward as though searching. His eyes then fell on Tarabas, seated on the wood-pile.

“Be very quiet,” said old Andrey, “or the master might come. Wait; I won’t be a minute.”

He shuffled away and returned a few moments later with a steaming earthenware bowl and a wooden spoon.

“Eat, my boy, eat it up,” he said. “Don’t be afraid! The master’s asleep — he lies down for half an hour every afternoon, so you’ve plenty of time. But when he gets up, he might come out here, and find you — that would never do. He used to be quite different, though.”

Tarabas did not wait to be asked twice to eat. When he had finished, he still scraped the walls and bottom of the earthenware bowl for the last remains.

“Ssh! Ssh! Not so loud,” said Andrey. “The old master might hear. I’m responsible, you see, for everything,” he went on. “For forty years and more I’ve been in this house. I knew the old mistress, our master’s mother, and his son, too. I saw both our children come into the world, as you might say. And then I saw the old mistress die.”

“What has become of the son?” asked Tarabas.

“Well, he got into trouble first, and went off to America. And then he was in the war. They waited and waited for him after that. But he disappeared — no one knows where. Not long ago — autumn last year it was — the post-man brought a letter, though. It was a yellow envelope with seals on it. It was just at dinnertime. I still used to wait at table then, but now young Yury does it — the lad that opened the door to you. I see the master take the letter, and then he signs a paper, and he gives it back to the post-man — I had to go and get him his glasses out of the study. Then the master reads the letter — not out loud, just to himself. And then he takes off his glasses and he says: ‘There’s no hope any more,’ he said to the mistress. ‘This letter’s from General Lakubeit, and that’s what he says.’ And he gives her the letter. And she gets up and throws down her knife and fork, and she screams out, just as though I wasn’t in the room — but she’s forgotten me. ‘No hope! You tell me that!’ she shouts — at the master, mind you. ‘You dare to tell me that! You fiend — you unnatural fiend!’ And then she rushed away, out of the room. You can imagine our surprise, for it was the first time we had ever heard her raise her voice. She’d always looked as if she’d been crying, and so she did always cry a lot, but never a word from her. And now, all of a sudden, she’s the one to make all that noise. Well, so she goes away from the table, but when she gets to the door she falls down. We had her ill for six weeks after that. Then she got well enough to get up again, but by that time the master was ill too — he’d never said a word about the letter or anything, but he must have grieved over it; in silence, you know. We had to push him about in a wheel-chair for a few weeks, but now he can get about on two sticks.”

“And you — what do you think about it all?” asked Tarabas.

“Me? It’s not my place to think. It’s God’s will, whatever comes. They say, the master has made a will giving all his fortune to the church. The notary was here, and the priest as well. What do you think of such a thing! A great fortune like his, to the church! But they say, it’s done already, and they’re nothing more than tenants in their own house. The master drives to town once a month, and once it was Yury that went with him. He said he’d seen him pay the rent at the post-office. But he can still drive himself — he can manage the reins quite well. And if you saw him up on the driver’s box, you’d think nothing ailed him.”

“I want to go somewhere, Father,” said Nicholas. “I’ve come a long way. Can you show me where?”

The old man pointed towards the hall of the house.

A mad and irresistible plan was taking shape in Tarabas’s mind. He would carry it out without delay. He raced upstairs, four steps at a time. He opened the door of his room. It lay in a bleak brown twilight; the shutters were fastened over the window. Nothing had been changed. The closet was still against the right-hand wall, the bed was still on the left. But it was stripped of covers, the red-and-white striped mattress lay bare upon the springs. It looked like the skeleton of a bed, hideously skinned. An old green overcoat — Tarabas had worn it as a boy — hung on a nail behind the door. At the foot of the bed stood a pair of shoes.