Something astounding has happened: get this: my dear German professor, Dr. Brecht, who is going to Breslau now, hasn’t written me in 6 years. At the time I was his student, I was a German nationalist, as he was. Of course I assume that as a result of what I’ve published, I assume he will have effaced me from his heart. Then in an old newspaper in the Caucasus, I read that he’s turned 50. I write to congratulate him. And today the FZ forwards me a letter from him: he sends me his photograph. I was his student in 1912–13. He is completely unchanged. And he has just put me forward for a prize for young authors. He’s read everything I’ve written. He is just tidying up, and he packs — he packs my papers I wrote for him as a student. HE’S PACKING THEM! He’s taking them to Breslau with him! He put me up for scholarships then, and for prizes now. A German nationalist! Son of a professor, son-in-law of a professor, a friend of Roethe’s!4 There’s a German professor for you.
What do you say to that? The older you get, the better people become. At some level feeling is what counts. You can only hope to judge the Germans when you’re past forty.
Alfons Paquet5 is fondly remembered here. Give him my regards when he comes, with a greaseproof parcel in his briefcase that he leaves in the secretary’s office. He picks up review copies of books, and needs packing paper for some purposes of his own.
I’d be grateful for a line, and send my sentimental greetings
Your Roth
1. Guthmann: Rudolf Guthmann, a manager on the FZ.
2. Max Beckmann (1884–1950), generally regarded as the greatest German painter of the twentieth century. He went into exile in Holland in 1937, and died in New York City. Reifenberg was a long-term admirer of the painter’s, and wrote his biography. See also letter no. 136.
3. watchmaker: JR loved and collected (and gave away) watches. Watches and knives.
4. Roethe: Professor Gustav Roethe (1859–1926), Germanist.
5. Alfons Paquet (1881–1944), poet, dramatist, novelist, essayist. Traveled extensively, and wrote for the FZ.
42. To Benno Reifenberg
23 April 1927
Dear Mr. Reifenberg,
thank you for your letter. I’m late with my reply, because ever since Vienna I’ve been caught up in a steady stream of nasty banalities. The deal with the novel must have put you to so much trouble that I’m embarrassed to think about it — that, and the sheer impossibility of ever paying you back in important things what you expend on unimportant ones. What’s depressing about having you as a guardian angel — as you are to several of us in that firm — is the fact that you achieve tiny results with colossal expenditure of effort. Your friendship deserves greater outcomes, just as your talents deserve a better and nobler setting. I am continually moved, but rarely assuaged. I know that a big part of Dr. Simon’s decision was the consideration “you can’t do that sort of thing to Roth” when even you know how little vanity I have, and how difficult it is to offend me.
Anyway, your proposal seems impractical to me. The novel — let’s just say for the moment that it’s a flawless piece of work — given that sort of publication will not only get no attention, but no interest, either from readers or from publishers. It will drop out of the structural, as we’d intended, and be left with the chance and circumstantial, which will do more harm than good. So, I’m against it — in favor only because I need money badly. But then something else comes into play: namely that I don’t think the novel is at all flawless — this has nothing to do with the objection advanced above — and I am having to add another 40 pages or so of Parisian meat to the bones. I have been in negotiations with Ullstein about it. Kurt Wolff1 has spoken to his director Meyer, whom I saw in Berlin, of the necessity of publishing me. Max Brod2—who will already have sent you his novel, which I started (in Prague) and endorse — has recommended me to Zsolnay.3 If I accept your proposal, that means losing Ullstein. He’s not yet decided — and I need money. I’m now embarked on another novel, which is going absurdly smoothly, a book with plot, tension, hooks, twists, something even suitable for the Illustriertes Blatt. I hope to bring it with me, completed. I would far prefer to have that appear as my novel with you. At any rate, you should send me money. I guarantee that you will have one novel manuscript.
I am flat broke. I was in the rotten position of having to take an advance from the Prager Tagblatt—I can’t stand to travel on that basis. I am slow, thorough, full of fear that I might see something wrong, my so-called style is based on nothing but an exact understanding of the facts — I write badly without that — like Sieburg in the Easter issue. I don’t have “ideas,” only understanding. I am incapable of vacuous writing. I need money, and won’t be finished with the Balkans4 till June. Four weeks is not enough time to understand anything. Four weeks might do for one reportage or lead piece. So I will have to live off my royalty, and when I’m back, resume my campaign: either an unambiguous relationship with the newspaper, or else 6 articles a month, free agent, small retainer. The firm puts out a history of the age, not a newspaper, it has no idea of how to treat a journalist. You’ve seen yourself how little the editors are able to do. I won’t spend another 3 months sitting in the Englischer Hof, twiddling my thumbs. It’s a waste.
I’ll wire the address from Belgrade. I’ll be there for 6–8 days. If you have a moment, write me as soon as you get my wire.
Please tell the editorial conference that I won’t be able to write anything about the Yugoslav — Italian conflict before my visit to Albania — for fear of the trouble the Italians can make for me in Albania, where they are effectively in control.
Best regards to Dr. Kracauer, and tell him his Parisian article caused a real stir, and that people ask me about him — people in Berlin, Prague, Vienna.
[. .]
1. Kurt Wolff (1887–1963), publisher. In 1913 started the imprint bearing his own name known mainly for bringing out Expressionist writers. The Kurt Wolff Verlag was sold in 1931, and in 1933 Wolff went into exile, to Florence, Paris, then New York. In 1942, he founded Pantheon Books with his former secretary and wife, Helen. (The novel at issue here, Flight Without End, was duly published by Kurt Wolff.)
2. Max Brod (1884–1969), novelist, essayist, translator. Editor and friend (and executor) of Franz Kafka.
3. Zsolnay: the Paul Zsolnay Verlag, in Vienna.
4. the Balkans: Roth traveled to Albania for the paper and wrote a series of articles.
43. To Ludwig Marcuse
Paris VI, rue de Tournon 23
Hotel Helvetia
Paris, 14 June 1927
Dear friend Marcuse,1
I owe you a long letter, but since I have only grim news to report, I’m going to keep this as short as I can. I was in Berlin, but didn’t get to speak to anyone at Ullstein. Apparently it takes two weeks to get hold of anyone authorized to take a decision. So I decided to give it one last shot after my return here. Now Reifenberg has written to say he does want my novel after all. I made no great efforts therefore with Krell, the novel isn’t for the Vossische Zeitung.2 While I was away in Albania — as you know — Black Friday happened on the stock exchange.3 Dr. Simon seems to have taken that very much to heart. Even though I’d only been furnished with 1,000 marks, they wired me to say they were sorry I hadn’t written anything. It was a snotty, provincial, and wounded telegram, and hurtful too. I requested another 400 dollars — life is very expensive there. They wired me back that I’d had all I was going to get, the expenses account was empty, and I should come home. I got sick, got on a ship, I didn’t have enough money to go via Berlin, I went straight back to Paris, sent them another rude wire, asking whether they’d meant to get rid of me, and whether that were still their intention. I came back from that trip with 14 articles, of which just 2 have appeared. I had no reply, no money, I expect I’m too expensive and too demanding for them — now that old Mrs. Simon has probably lost money on the stock exchange. I wrote to Kaliski4 in Berlin, about Ullstein — no answer. I wrote to Lania,5 about the BC6—no answer as yet. I am desperate, sick, penniless. I’m wondering whether to write to Dombrowski about Ullstein — whether he would write to Magnus, or whether I should wait for Kaliski to reply. The novel has gone to Kurt Wolff.