Joseph Roth - Tarabas

Those were the events of a long by-gone life. Remembrance of them lay within Tarabas, dead and cold, corpses of memories. Like a stone coffin his heart enclosed them. The sky of home, the meadows of his childhood, the familiar song of the frogs, the sweet, mild soughing of the rain, even the perfume of the limes in early blossom, and the well-known monotonous knocking of the wood-pecker, all were dead to Tarabas, although they were all round him, and he could feel and hear them. It was as though, in the moment when he had kissed his sleeping father’s hand, he had taken leave not only of the house in which he was born, and of his birthright and his home, but also of every sentiment for them and for the past. So long as he had still feared to set his foot over the threshold of the house again his parents and his sister and the landscape of home had been alive; living objects of that dangerous nostalgia which might yet have the power to seduce Tarabas from his endless, aimless wanderings. How foolish the fear had been! An unknown, mustachioed, crippled man was his father; a frightened, grey-haired simpleton, his mother. If love had lived in either of them years ago, now they were cold and empty, like Nicholas himself. He might have said: “I am your son,” and they would not have had the power to open their hearts to take him in, for their hearts were no longer alive, but had turned to stone. Had they died, had he come home to find only their two graves, his warm remembrance could have brought them back to life again, them and the house. But they were not dead; they moved about, or stood; they slept and fed the chickens; they chased beggars from their door — they were animated mummies, in which they themselves were buried, each one his own walking sarcophagus.

As Tarabas came out of the little wood that ended at the avenue of birches, he turned round once again. He saw the shimmering white façade of the house which closed the avenue at the far end, and the dark silver of the trees in front of it. Between the house and Tarabas the rain hung a flowing, thick grey curtain.

“It was all over long ago!” said Tarabas to himself.

Even in the hot noons of those summer days the shivering frosts assailed him now more and more often. His great body, which had not yet lost the strength that dwelt in it, was borne down by the fierce fever, which accompanied him throughout the halcyon summer days like his own personal and separate winter. Without warning, just as its inexplicable moods would prompt, it leapt upon him. And Tarabas learnt not to resist its onslaughts any more, as one learns in time not to resist the shadow that each man has inseparably attached to him. Sometimes he lay exhausted on the edge of the road, and felt the good sun and the radiant sky as through a thick, cold wall of glass, and froze and shivered. There he would lie, and wait for the pains to come, in the back and in the chest, together with the fits of helpless coughing. These took place with a certain regularity; one could await them confidently, like faithful, dependable enemies. Sometimes blood would flow from his mouth. It reddened the rich green of the slope, or the light, earthy grey of the road. Tarabas had seen the flowing of much blood in his time, had caused much to flow. He spat it from him, red liquid life. It dropped out of him and away. Sometimes, when he felt that the great weakness was coming on him, he would go into a tavern, fumble a coin or two out of his bag, and drink a glass of strong spirits. This was followed by hunger, as in his old days. It was as though his body still remembered the old Tarabas whom it had once enclosed within itself. The stomach still felt hunger, the throat thirst. The feet still desired to walk, and then to rest. The hands still desired to grasp and touch things. And when the night came, the eyes closed and sleep descended upon Tarabas. And when the morning broke, it was as though Tarabas had to wake himself by force, and scold his limbs for being tired and lazy; he had to order his feet to move, command them to march, as he had once commanded his regiment to do these things.

Regularly on every fifteenth day of the month, he appeared in the great hall of the post-office in the capital. And regularly he was met by the young man, who handed him his pension. These meetings were attended by a certain laconic ceremonial. Tarabas raised two fingers to his cap, while the young man lifted his hat respectfully. He said: “Thank you very much, sir!” when Tarabas had signed. He raised his hat again when they separated.

One day, however, he did not go at once but stood a while regarding Tarabas, and said then: “If I may take the liberty of suggesting it, sir, I think you should see a doctor. Hadn’t I perhaps better say something to His Excellency?”

“Say nothing whatever, please!” said Tarabas.

He inspected his face in the little mirror of the weighing-machine which had been lately set up in the vestibule of the post-office, in order to give it the final touch of modernity. And he saw that his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and that a thick network of tiny blue veins criss-crossed both his temples. He stood on the platform and dropped a coin into the slot. He weighed one hundred and eight pounds just as he was.

He went out smiling, like one who has at last learnt what he is to do. He left the capital by the road along which the dairy-farmer had driven him a few months before. A mile down, there was a parting of the ways. At this point there stood two ancient, weather-faded wooden sign-posts with arrows. On the left-hand one could be deciphered the half-erased word, “Koryla.” The arrow on the other pointed to the right towards Koropta. Tarabas took the road to Koropta.

He went slowly, almost meditatively. He did not want to reach the little town before nightfall. He seemed to be sunk in long-drawn sweet anticipation of an inescapable happiness that must await him in Koropta. When the first cottages of the little town came into sight — it was late in the afternoon — his heart began to beat fast with joy. One more curve in the road, and already the wall round the inn of the White Eagle was within view. Tarabas granted himself a rest. For the first time in many a long, long day the summer peace which lay upon the world entered him too. No fever had him in its grip. In the evening glory a happy swarm of tiny mayflies, golden in the sun, danced before his face. He watched their intricate play. He received it like a kind of welcome and recognition. The sun moved farther down the sky, the mayflies withdrew. Tarabas got up. When he reached Kristian-poller’s inn it was already evening. Fedya was standing on a ladder outside the great brown door, pouring fresh oil into the red lantern which hung on an iron arm at right-angles to the wall.

“Praise be to Jesus Christ,” cried Tarabas to Fedya above his head.

“World without end, amen, I’m coming!” answered Fedya busily. He clambered down, can in hand, and said: “Come inside!”

Tarabas sat down in the yard on one of the barrels. He saw the out-house in front of him. Its walls had been newly white-washed, and the old door replaced by a new one painted black. Fedya brought meat, potatoes, and beer, and Tarabas, pointing to the outhouse said:

“What is that over there?”

“It’s a chapel now,” said Fedya. “Nobody knew it for a long time. But one day the picture of the Madonna suddenly came out on the wall — all by itself, just think of that! It was a miracle. She got down from the wall and stretched out her arms and blessed the soldiers in their sleep — but they woke up and saw her. And then everyone went out into the streets and began to beat the Jews, but the priests came, and preached to the people. They said the Jews were not to blame. My own master, the inn-keeper here, he’s a Jew. And I know he’s innocent as the first snow. He’s even had a chapel made of the place — it used to be his lumber-room. On Sundays the priests say mass here. It’s good business for us, I can tell you, because the peasants can hardly wait till mass is over before they make a bee-line for the bar. We have our hands full on Sundays. We make even more on Sundays than on pig-market day.”