BOOK EXCERPT: THE LETTERS OF JOSEPH ROTH
书摘：约瑟夫·罗斯手札
Posted by Willing Davidson
韦林·戴维森供稿
Joseph Roth, who died as Hitler began to destroy Europe, was a great predictor of doom—civilization’s and his own. In this way, he was a perfect man for his era, and perfectly unsuited to live in it. Born in 1894 in what is now the Ukraine but was then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, Roth was a Jew who migrated to Vienna for university before serving Kaiser Franz Joseph in the First World War. In his work, especially “The Radetzky March,” his most celebrated novel, the war is seen as the central catastrophe of modern civilization—not because of the bloodshed, but because it caused the dissolution of the empire, which Roth considered the only home he ever had. Afterward, he became a journalist—a celebrated and well-paid one, for a while—and then a novelist. He had no fixed address, but lived in hotels throughout Europe until he died in Paris, in 1939. Roth was terminally bad with money and alcohol, and as debts and drinks mounted he wrote more quickly and for pitifully small advances.
约瑟夫·罗斯(Joseph Roth)逝世之际，正值希特勒肆虐欧洲之始，他成功地预见了文明的衰落之日和自身的黯淡前景。尽管与时代格格不入，但由此观之，他依然可称为那个时代的完人。约瑟夫·罗斯1894年生于原奥匈帝国（现属乌克兰）的一个犹太人家庭，为求学移民维也纳，后在一战中辅佐奥皇凯撒·弗朗兹·约瑟夫(Kaiser Franz Joseph)。其著作颇多，以小说《拉德斯基进行曲》最富盛名，该书中，战争被视为现代文明最深重的灾难，并非战争导致流血牺牲，而是战争摧毁了奥匈帝国——他心中唯一的家园。自那以后，他做了一段时间记者，声名鹊起，收入颇丰，再后又开始小说创作。他居无定所，但行迹遍布欧洲，直至1939年卒于巴黎。罗斯晚年穷困潦倒，嗜酒成性，由于债台高筑，开始加快创作，只可惜进展甚微。
This month, W. W. Norton releases “Joseph Roth: a Life in Letters,” translated and with an introduction by Michael Hofmann. It’s a great book, simply, and we’re pleased to present a selection from it: Roth’s letters to Stefan Zweig. At the time that Roth was corresponding with him, Zweig was one of the most famous novelists in the world; his fame has since descended, mirroring Roth’s own rise. Zweig mentored and occasionally supported Roth from his own exile in England. In return, Roth wrote him these letters.
本月，诺顿出版社推出《约瑟夫·罗斯：书信一生》的译本，由迈克尔·霍夫曼代为作序。一言以蔽之，这是本好书，因此，从中选取罗斯和史蒂芬·茨威格(Stefan Zweig)的一段书信往来，以飨读者，也是我们乐见之事。二人通信之时，茨威格正如日中天，是当时全世界最优秀的小说家之一，但之后却江河日下。与此同时，罗斯平步青云，与之鲜明对比。对于罗斯，茨威格不但给予指导，就连自己流亡英国时都曾几次对他伸出援手，罗斯则鸿雁传书，聊表感激之情。
The letters reveal Roth as a writer of extraordinary range—witty, maudlin, serious, arrogant, and finally tragic. His political and religious views are inconsistent but prescient. Roth was also a pain in the ass, whose insistence that the sky would fall if the money did not arrive tomorrow tried the patience of even the generous Zweig.
这些信中向我们展示了一个多变的罗斯：机敏睿智，却又多愁善感，不苟言笑同时自视甚高，最终悲情收场；他政治立场波动，富有远见卓识，但也着实招人讨厌：如果事情未能如其所愿，他必能闹得不可开交，这一点，就连一向包容宽厚的茨威格也忍无可忍。
Joan Acocella, in an essay in The New Yorker, describes his work best: she writes, “He had a nineteenth-century style and a twentieth-century vision.” “The Radetzky March,” in tracing the fall of the Hapsburg reign, suggests that the self-determination of peoples is a catastrophe that leads only to war. These letters, a complementary masterpiece, explain what comes next.
琼·阿克切拉在《纽约客》杂志中曾檄文对罗斯著作进行过评价，恰如其分：“他的文风属于19世纪，但字里行间却透着对20世纪的洞见。”《拉德斯基进行曲》，一部追溯哈布斯堡王朝的衰亡史，说明了各民族一意孤行只能导致战争。这些信件，一样称得上是宏作，则从另一方面记述了战争之后的岁月。
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[This letter refers to an affair Roth had with an unknown young woman.]
【此信涉及罗斯和一位不知名年轻女士之间的韵事。】
Hotel du Cap d’Antibes
昂蒂布角酒店
Antibes
昂蒂布
24 March [1931]
1931年3月24日
Dear esteemed Stefan Zweig,
敬爱的斯蒂芬·茨威格：
I hope you’re safely resettled in Salzburg, and enjoying a second spring. Here it’s finally exploded. The guardian has arrived, with long beard and big belly, a clueless man, dimmed by Catholicism. The little girl slips into my room at night, even though he’s sleeping next door, prays, crosses herself, and starts to sin. The guardian has no idea what she’s done with the dog. He says she’s right, it was wrong to try and get such a big animal to sleep in a bed, it remained a hunting animal, and was possibly infectious. He reads your books delightedly, he’s a historian, a beer table pontificator, he loves the little girl to bits, believes everything, is completely unaware of the erotic nature of his relationship to her, prays before and after meals and a half an hour before bedtime, busies himself with gardening, drapes cloaks and things round sick trees, and doesn’t hold with shooting rabbits because he feels sorry for them. Goes to Mass every morning at 6 o’clock, sings in church twice a year, wears a shirt for a week and jagerwasche and rollchen, always in black, too tight pants. It’s getting more and more obvious. The mother is the lady mayor of the place, spends half the day praying, cries the other half, and has a relationship with a priest, who out of jealousy intrigues against the girl. The girl’s father hated the mother, and kept getting her pregnant to get him off sleeping with her. He was afraid to go to brothels, in case someone saw him, or he got sick. I’m certain he died of secondary syphilis. In his fever, he ripped up the girl’s clothes and blabbed about everything. Then the mother started hating her. The church is involved in everything, the whole house, makes everyone blind and deaf and hard. The girl is so soft at night, when the sun rises—different again, and her sex uncertain. She cries a lot, is sensuous and inventive, extraordinary predilection for perversities, extremely sensitive to pain in normal intercourse, probably all stemming from her sensitive psyche. Three Catholic hymens before the real one, a shouter, and I practice the art of deflowering whilst feeling little pleasure. How can I desist from such an interesting hobby? A great aunt of hers was canonized. She wore armor day and night. The bank employees have all propositioned her . . . I’m starting to enjoy myself. Only I miss you, your shrewd eye, your shrewd heart. Am writing the fourth chapter with the regimental doctor, in bold, strong lines. Very good, I think. Don’t worry about me! I’m more of a writer than I’m prepared to admit. Tear this letter up when you’ve absorbed it all. Give my regards to your wife, I can’t write to her yet, she’s a woman. I feel very much a man, and empathize with manliness in all forms. The red-haired Irishwoman suddenly yearns for you, she says she has dreams about you.
希望你已在萨尔茨堡顺利安顿下来，享受着第二年的春光。我这儿的情况终于爆发，那个监护人已经来了，满脸胡须，大腹便便，一副铁石心肠的模样，看来是因为信了天主教。晚上那女孩全然不顾他睡在隔壁，就偷溜进我房里，双手合十，虔诚忏悔。至于她对那狗究竟做了什么，监护人其实一无所知，只夸她做得好，说要把那么大只动物弄上床一起睡就是不对的，不管怎么说，它老跟着去打猎，很可能把人惹上传染病。那个监护人很是喜欢你的书，他自己是个历史学家，喜欢在啤酒桌上高谈阔论，还全心全意爱着那女孩，对一切充满信念，浑然不觉自己对那女孩的欲望。每日餐前饭后，必要祈祷，睡前半小时也祈祷，忙于打理花园，往患了病的树上挂挂遮罩或是其他些玩意儿，还反对猎杀兔子，因为觉得它们可怜。每天早上6点，他会准时去做弥撒，每年在教堂参加两次唱诗班，一件衬衣能穿一个礼拜，穿条紧身裤，永远一身黑。另一些事也越来越明了，那女孩的妈妈是当地的市长，每天都花上半天时间祈祷，剩下的时间哭哭啼啼。她和一名牧师有染，因为嫉妒自己的女儿，总耍手段对付她。女孩的爸爸对他妻子厌恶至极，为了能分开睡就老弄大她的肚子，但自己又没胆子去妓院，生怕被别人瞧见，或者惹上什么病，尽管我确定他终究还是死于二期梅毒。他高烧时，一把撕烂了自己女儿的衣服，满嘴胡言乱语。自那之后，那女孩的妈妈就开始恨她。这里的什么事都能牵扯上教堂，包括这个家，里边的每个人对周围的人事都装聋作哑，熟视无睹，日子也都不好过。像这女孩，一到晚上，柔情似水，一旦旭日东升，却立即判若两人，全没啦女子应有的气质。她常哭，却又风姿撩人，叫人惊喜连连，她非常任性，及其敏感，平常做爱时受不了一点儿疼痛，可能和天性敏感有关吧。我尝试了三次，终于进入她的深处，随着一声大叫，她童贞已失，本该享受房事之乐的我，此时竟也兴趣索然。但我怎么可能放过这种乐事？她的一个姑姑已受洗为圣徒，日夜裹的严实，可还有在银行做事的人对她提出非分的要求……啊，我终于开始感到欢愉了。只是我仍想念着你，你目光炯炯，心思敏锐。我的书已进行到第四章，正写到军团医生，落笔之字又粗又重，但我觉得写得还合意，所以不必担忧！我到不打算谦虚，写作我还是拿手的。看完此信就撕了吧，代我向夫人问好，目前我还没法给她写信，或者说，还没法给女人写信，我这人把男人身份看得较重，处处都免不了大男子主义。那个红头发的爱尔兰女人突然很想你，说她梦到你了。
Write back soon, even if it’s just a line or two. My wife is doing badly. Credit to the girl, even so, that I’m not as burdened by it as usual. I may be a son of a bitch, but defloration in a literary setting, that’s worth something to me.
希望你已在萨尔茨堡顺利安顿下来，享受着第二年的春光。我这儿的情况终于爆发，那个监护人已经来了，满脸胡须，大腹便便，一副铁石心肠的模样，看来是因为信了天主教。晚上那女孩全然不顾他睡在隔壁，就偷溜进我房里，双手合十，虔诚忏悔。至于她对那狗究竟做了什么，监护人其实一无所知，只夸她做得好，说要把那么大只动物弄上床一起睡就是不对的，不管怎么说，它老跟着去打猎，很可能把人惹上传染病。那个监护人很是喜欢你的书，他自己是个历史学家，喜欢在啤酒桌上高谈阔论，还全心全意爱着那女孩，对一切充满信念，浑然不觉自己对那女孩的欲望。每日餐前饭后，必要祈祷，睡前半小时也祈祷，忙于打理花园，往患了病的树上挂挂遮罩或是其他些玩意儿，还反对猎杀兔子，因为觉得它们可怜。每天早上6点，他会准时去做弥撒，每年在教堂参加两次唱诗班，一件衬衣能穿一个礼拜，穿条紧身裤，永远一身黑。另一些事也越来越明了，那女孩的妈妈是当地的市长，每天都花上半天时间祈祷，剩下的时间哭哭啼啼。她和一名牧师有染，因为嫉妒自己的女儿，总耍手段对付她。女孩的爸爸对他妻子厌恶至极，为了能分开睡就老弄大她的肚子，但自己又没胆子去妓院，生怕被别人瞧见，或者惹上什么病，尽管我确定他终究还是死于二期梅毒。他高烧时，一把撕烂了自己女儿的衣服，满嘴胡言乱语。自那之后，那女孩的妈妈就开始恨她。这里的什么事都能牵扯上教堂，包括这个家，里边的每个人对周围的人事都装聋作哑，熟视无睹，日子也都不好过。像这女孩，一到晚上，柔情似水，一旦旭日东升，却立即判若两人，全没啦女子应有的气质。她常哭，却又风姿撩人，叫人惊喜连连，她非常任性，及其敏感，平常做爱时受不了一点儿疼痛，可能和天性敏感有关吧。我尝试了三次，终于进入她的深处，随着一声大叫，她童贞已失，本该享受房事之乐的我，此时竟也兴趣索然。但我怎么可能放过这种乐事？她的一个姑姑已受洗为圣徒，日夜裹的严实，可还有在银行做事的人对她提出非分的要求……啊，我终于开始感到欢愉了。只是我仍想念着你，你目光炯炯，心思敏锐。我的书已进行到第四章，正写到军团医生，落笔之字又粗又重，但我觉得写得还合意，所以不必担忧！我到不打算谦虚，写作我还是拿手的。看完此信就撕了吧，代我向夫人问好，目前我还没法给她写信，或者说，还没法给女人写信，我这人把男人身份看得较重，处处都免不了大男子主义。那个红头发的爱尔兰女人突然很想你，说她梦到你了。
In old and late friendship Your J.R.
你的老朋友 J.R.
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Joseph Roth in Paris, around 1925.
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***
13 May 1931
1931年5月13日
Dear esteemed Stefan Zweig,
敬爱的斯蒂芬·茨威格：
In addition to all the other things you don’t know about, I have an eye inflammation that stops me from writing. Thank you so much for your letter! I feel bad in every respect. Please excuse the handwriting. I am writing with half-open eyes. I look like a bloodhound. Flanders has taken a wholly unexpected turn. The little girl has blabbed, and been put in a nunnery where she will probably die. I’ve had a letter from a monk. Life is so much finer than literature! I feel sorry for literature! It is a SWINDLE!
你不知道的事儿还有着呢。我有只眼睛发炎，所以不得不停止写作。谢谢你的信！但我浑身上下都不舒服，字迹潦草，请见谅。现在我正睁着半只眼睛写信，就跟只猎狗似的。那女孩一时失言，被弗兰德(Flander)关进了修道院，真是出乎人意料，那地方可不是人待的。我从一个修道士那儿收到封信，了解了些情况。真正的生活可比文学作品好多了，我真为文学感到难过，它根本就是个谎言！
In old cordiality Your J.R.
你真诚的老朋友 J.R.
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Paris,
巴黎
33 Rue de Tournon,
图尔农街33号
Hotel Foyot
富瓦约酒店
26 March 1933
1933年3月26日
Dear esteemed friend,
敬爱的朋友：
I’m of the view that one should stay in constant contact in these times. Hence the prompt reply.
我觉得如今的时代，人与人还是应该多加联系，多有往来。
You should make sure your letters to me go via Switzerland; some go via Germany.
寄给我的信请务必走瑞士，有些走德国也成。
I completely agree with you: we have to wait. For now. Only I’m not quite sure how long for.
对于你的所言：“我们只能等待”——我深表赞同。当前的情况确实只能如此，只是不知这一等会等上多久。
The world is stupider now than it was in 1914. The human no longer bestirs himself when humanity is hurt and killed. In 1914, all parties tried to come up with human reasons and pretexts to explain the bestiality.
比起1914年，今天的世界甚至更加麻木无知，眼见泯灭人性之事，人们恐怕也只无动于衷。1914年，各方还曾纷纷借口托词，企图为野蛮的行径开脱罪责。
Whereas today people just offer bestial defenses for bestiality that are even more foul than the bestialities themselves.
今天，竟沦落到对之加以维护，简直比暴行本身更让人不齿。
And nothing stirs in the whole world. I mean, in the world of writing people, aside from the eccentric Gide, who, recently converted to Communism, has held a meeting for snobs and international Communists, without the least success; aside from the Jews of England and America, but they are just disturbed by anti-Semitism, which is a little spoke in the great wheel of bestiality.
而且，这种情况还蔓延到了整个世界。写作界最近开了次会，来了一群势利小人，还有些国际共产主义者，会议无果而终。此外，纪德（注：法国小说家安德烈·纪德，Andre Gide），这个怪人最近投奔了共产主义。此外，英美的犹太人亦可算作个例外，但反犹主义这股风气助纣为虐，难免搅得他们心神不宁。
You understand, the difference between 1933 and 1914 is roughly that between a sick animal like Goering, and Wilhelm II who at least kept vestiges of humanity. Obviously, fools perpetrate folly, and beasts commit bestiality, and madmen commit mad acts: all of them suicidal.
你知道，大体上说，1933年和1914年的区别就如同戈林(Hermann Göring，赫尔曼·戈林，纳粹德国空军元帅，最终被控以战争罪和反人类罪，服毒自杀)和威廉二世(Wilhelm II，末代德意志皇帝和普鲁士国王，1888年至1918年在位)，戈林仅有兽性残存，而且还像只受了伤的动物作困兽之斗，威廉二世起码还有些人性。显然，傻子干的叫傻事，野兽犯的是兽行，疯子呢，尽是疯狂的举动：但无论哪种行为，都是致命的。
But it is not at all obvious that the equally sick and confused surroundings discern stupidity, bestiality, and madness.
眼下社会动乱，时局不清，到底原因是以上哪种，却真是道不明，说不清了。
That’s the difference. And I ask myself whether the time hasn’t come where it is our duty to quarantine the world around us, so that it doesn’t get infected.
所谓的区别就在于此。我也会问自己，是否到了该明哲保身，以免同流合污的时候？
My fear is that it is too late.
怕只怕一切已经太迟。
I’m afraid I’ll be forced into the position of wishing for war as soon as possible.
尽管并非出于本意，但恐怕我已迫不及待的希望战争发生了。
I won’t be going to Vienna, for lots of reasons. The past 10 years I’ve lived 6-8 months a year in France. Why not now? And in particular, why not when those people who hate me will always say I fled anyway. (And why not, when it is plain to see that one really is fleeing).
我并不打算去维也纳，过去十年我每年都有6到8个月时间住在法国，为什么要在这时候破例？更何况，那些痛恨我的人反正总要给我按一个逃亡的罪名，我又何必要回去？（再说了，现在的情况，真的出逃德国也稀松平常，我回去干什么？）
In Vienna word would get around even quicker that I’ve left Germany. There especially, because I’d be returning to a place I once lived.
我已离开德国一事在维也纳散播的必然更快，因为人们总觉得我应该回到曾经住过的地方。
In a French gutter magazine, your name is listed among those who have fled to Switzerland, while I appear as Ernst Roth—no doubt, because they left Toller off their list.
法国贫民区的一份杂志登了你的名字，还有其他逃到瑞士去的人，我的名字被写成Ernst Roth——到也是，我反正没在名单上看到Toller的名字。
But I’ll go to Salzburg to see you, even if it’s just for a couple of days, as soon as I have a new contract and a little money and security.
不过一旦我签了新合同，手头有些钱，局势安定些，就会去萨尔茨堡见你，只有几天也成。
As far as the Jewishness in us is concerned, I agree that one mustn’t give the impression one is concerned for the Jews, and no one else.
至于我们的犹太人血统，我同意不能让人觉得除了犹太人以外，我们谁都不关心。
But we must remember that being a Jew absolves no man from the duty to go to the front line, along with any conscientious non-Jew.
但我们必须谨记，身为犹太人并不等于和其他人一起远离前线，远离战场。
There is a certain point where noblesse is disobliging, and doesn’t help anyone. Because for the beasts over there, a filthy yid is what one remains.
有些时候，品格再高贵也无济于事，因为对于一只野兽，眼中所见的只有一头犹太猪而已。
You opposed the war as a Jew, and I fought in it as a Jew. We each have many comrades. We didn’t hang around behind the lines.
你因身为犹太人而反对战争，我因身为犹太人而参与战争，各有战友，各有作为，并非退居二线，游手好闲。
On the battlefield of humanity, you could say, there are such people as behind-the-lines Jews.
在人性的战场上，或许可说，有那么群犹太人贪生怕死，不敢上战场。
We mustn’t be like that.
但我们不该如此。
I have never overestimated the tragic destiny of Jews, least of all now, when it is a tragedy to be a decent human being.
对于犹太人的悲惨命运，我从不去夸张。现在，一个体面做人反倒悲剧收场的时候，尤其不会如此。
It’s the nastiness of the others to see only Jews. It’s not fitting that we, by hanging back, should reinforce the argumentation of those foolish animals. As a soldier and an officer I wasn’t a Jew. As a German author I’m not a Jew either. (Not in the way we’re talking about.)
只是，从他人的卑劣下作中才能对犹太人有更好的审视。我们不能退缩，这会让那群愚蠢的野兽叫嚣的更甚。身为士兵和军官时，我便不是犹太人，身为德国作家时，我也不是犹太人（起码不是我们所谓的含义）。
I’m afraid there will be a moment when Jewish reserve will be nothing more than a reaction of the discreet Jew against the chutzpah of the indiscreet Jews. The one is as damaging and foolish as the other.
我害怕的是终有一刻，犹太人的保守会成为内部问题，成为谨言慎行一派对那些肆无忌惮一派的无声抗议，而后者的愚昧和危害一点不比我们的敌人少。
As I said already we owe a duty as much to Voltaire, Herder, Goethe, and Nietzsche, as to Moses and his Jewish fathers.
我觉得，对伏尔泰，对赫尔德，对歌德，对尼采，我们已经亏欠太多。同样的，对摩西，对他的犹太人祖先之未竟事业，我们也任重道远。
From there may be derived the duty:
我们是肩负这样的责任的：
To save one’s life and one’s writing, if they are threatened by the animals.
面临威胁，拯救生命，拯救文明。
No premature surrender to what we are pleased to call fate.
不到最后，绝不向命运投降。
And to “take a hand,” to fight when the moment has come. The question is whether it might not be sooner rather than later.
需要时刻，上场杀敌。关键在于这一刻可能迟迟不会到来。
As ever, sincerely yours Joseph Roth
你永远的朋友：约瑟夫·罗斯
* * *
***
Joseph Roth with Stefan Zweig in Ostende, Belgium, 1936.
* * *
***
Hotel Foyot
富瓦约酒店
Paris
巴黎
22 December 1933
1933年12月22日
Dear friend,
亲爱的朋友：
Thank you for your letter. I congratulate you on the Erasmus.
谢谢你的来信，祝贺你完成《伊拉斯谟》一书。
I have asked for new and proper proofs in Amsterdam. They’re due at the very beginning of January. I’ll send them to you.
新的素材证据我已向阿姆斯特丹方面索要，一月初应该就有消息，到时寄给你。
I have the keen sense that my book is bad. But my indifference towards “literary” questions has become such that my shame at showing you the book has become rather slight.
我有强烈的感觉我这本书写的很糟，不过反正我对“文学性”问题也不那么看重，所以到时还是要厚着脸皮向你请教。
I wasn’t able to see the publisher, Querido. He had the flu. Instead, I saw the publisher de Lange.
我没能见到那个叫做克里多(Querido)的出版商，他得了流感。见了另一位，名叫朗格。
I told him that I am unable to let him have the book: Jews and Anti-Semites by January 31st. You remember: we spoke about it in Zurich, about the extensive changes I would make, changes from the ground up. Now I must have it ready by March 31st instead. Mr. de Lange said promptly then he would pay me another 3 installments. That means 3 x 750 marks, at the moment (and at other moments) a great deal of money for me. Even more, seeing as I quite literally have nothing at all right now. I got to Amsterdam by borrowing 100 francs. I sat in the American Hotel for 3 days, without eating anything. Mr. Querido was, for the first time in his life, confined to bed.—Little tricks of the devil, things I’m pretty much used to by now. In the end I was able to secure 1000 francs from Mr. Landshoff. Then I began to drink. I had a supper invitation from Mr. de Lange, for which I turned up completely drunk. Now, Mr. de Lange is a mighty drinker, and he wasn’t sober either. But something happened that I thought would never happen to me. For the first time in my life I experienced a complete blackout. My recollection of the evening is absolutely non-existent. It’s possible I’ve wrecked my chances with de Lange. You know, he’s a sort of Junker type really. He knows from somewhere that writers drink, but in his imagination or experience it doesn’t stretch to them actually being drunk. He can only have had a very approximate sense of me. I was a “literary name” to him, little more. He was very nice, but I’m afraid I’ve messed up my chances. For the first time I felt a real sense of weakness. My dear friend, it’s possible that my “self-destructive instinct” put in a major appearance; even though, in physiological terms it’s easy enough to explain how a man can get very drunk if he hasn’t had anything to eat. I’m still rather shocked at myself. For the first time. In the field and after, I sometimes had an awful lot to drink, as you know. But I never had the feeling afterwards that I had been completely awol. Maybe it’s a sign to me to stop. But believe me: however much I believe that my muse is the muse of desperation, I know perfectly clearly that she is driving me to suicide. I can’t live any more with five francs in my pocket. I can’t imagine that I’ll get through this time. Bear in mind that I’ve spent 20 years of my life starving, was in the war for four more, and was “desperately up against it” for another six. It’s only in the past three years that I can be said to have lived at all. And now these global events. And before that the business with my wife. I know that all this is part of me, that it’s what I consist of. But with all that, I remain a private individual, who eats, sleeps, fucks, and so forth. I can’t historicize myself. But nor can I continue to convert this intrusion of private grief into my “true”, literary life into literature. It’s killing me. And believe me, never did an alcoholic “enjoy” his alcohol less than I did. Does an epileptic enjoy his fits? Does a madman enjoy his episodes?
我告诉他《犹太人和反犹太主义》这本书得到1月31号才能完成。你记得我们在苏黎世时，我曾说过要做些大改动吧，改的几乎彻头彻尾。现在这事儿我得拖到3月31日了。朗格先生很爽快地答应会再预支我3个月的稿费，每月750马克，对于此刻的我来说（其他时刻也一样），这真可算是一大笔钱了。而且我现在确实身无分文，来阿姆斯特丹前借了100法郎，在美国酒店里呆了3天，没吃没喝。不过克里多生平还是第一次下不了床——是老天开的个小玩笑吧，不过我对这种玩笑早已习以为常。最后，我设法从兰德绍夫(Landshoff)那儿想法弄到了1000法郎，又开始喝酒。当时我受朗格先生之邀出席晚宴，结果喝得醉醺醺的过去。朗格先生自己酒量就好得很，他当时也有些醉意，但后来发生的事真是我这辈子都没想到的：我头一次彻底晕了过去，不省人事，完全不记得当天晚上发生了什么。很可能我就这么把朗格先生给的机会给毁了，他不知从哪儿听说搞写作的人都爱喝酒，但根据自己的想象和经验又觉得作家都是不会把自己给灌醉的。对于我他并不了解，大约只是个“文学圈的名字”而已，再无其他。朗格先生脾气很好，不过恐怕我已自毁前途。这也是我第一次真切感受到内心的软弱无助。亲爱的朋友，估计我那“自我摧残的本性”当时表露无疑，尽管从生理学上解释空腹醉酒并不是什么难事。直到现在，我还是为自己的表现大吃一惊，这真是有史以来头一遭。之后，你明白的，我还是会时不时的酩酊大醉，但再没有过类似经历。也许这是个预兆，要我从此戒酒，但相信我，无论我信仰为何，我的缪斯乃是绝望之女神，而且我清楚的知道她正带我走向自我毁灭。我每日口袋中不超过五法郎，真无法想象要如何熬过这段日子。要知道我生命中有20年都食不果腹，4年多时间又为战争所累，还有整整6年时间“不顾一切，与生命抗争”，只有过去的三年才算得上真正的生活。现在，到处都是国际问题，之前还跟妻子矛盾不断。这些是我的一部分，我明白，正是这一切构成了我，但除此之外，我依然是一个自我的个体，吃饭，睡觉，做爱……我不可能就这么把自己载入历史，也无法不顾隐私，将个人的悲伤写成文学。这会要了我的命。相信我，比起其他酗酒的人，我一点儿也觉不出酒之甘甜。难不成一个癫痫病人能享受病发时的快乐？抑或一个疯子能体会发疯时的趣味？
I am very, very unhappy. Please reply, right away.
我非常，非常不开心。请回信，迅速回信。
All the best! Kiss Mme Zweig’s hand for me.
祝一切安好。代我亲吻茨威格夫人的手。
Your old J.R.
你的老朋友 J.R.
* * *
***
Marseilles
马赛
Hotel Beauvau
博沃酒店
22 June 1934
1934年6月22日
Dear true friend, I know I ask too much of you. I am writing to you again today, even though I wrote to you only yesterday. I want to thank you first for your letter about Gollancz. I have no agent, Landauer and de Lange didn’t try to sell the Antichrist in England. It might not be easy for you—or pleasant—to hear all the acts of folly I perpetrated since you left Paris—all under the pressure of repulsive experiences. I know how difficult it is even for a great understanding to cope with a small derangement. But I still beg you to continue to think of me as a sensible person subject to occasional fits of madness but broadly in control, and as a conscientious friend who only writes like this in hours of clarity. I have debased and humiliated myself. I have borrowed money from the most impossible places, despising and cursing myself as I did so. And it was all because never in my life have I had anything like a secure financial base, never a bank account or savings. Nothing, nothing, just advances—expenditure, expenditure, advances, and until the Third Reich, I had publishers. (And I’ve paid all my debts in Germany.) When you were in Paris, I only had 2000 francs of debts. Since then it’s risen to 11,000 urgent, pressing, terrible debts. I feel obliged to come before you quite naked, my dear friend. Whatever you do, you cannot judge me more harshly than I do myself. I abuse you too, with the desperate selfishness of someone putting the life of his friend in danger by clinging to him like a drowning man clinging to his rescuer. I can think of no other image! If anything is able to exculpate me in your eyes and in my own—which are probably more indulgent—then it will be this: that I am working every day, that here in Marseilles I’ve written 3 half-decent novellas, each of 35-40 pages. At the beginning of October I need to hand in my novel, which is just one-third written. I can’t go out any more. I’ve felt the rope around my neck for months now—and if I haven’t been throttled, it’s purely because every now and then some good-natured individual comes along and allows me to push a finger in between my neck and the rope. And straight after, the rope draws tight again. With the rope around my neck like that, I work for 6-8 hours a day. If you knew what commitments I’d incurred, you would laugh. But my dear friend, I must be free, just once, the relaxing of the noose isn’t enough, it has to be taken off. Oh, please, I need 12,000 francs by the end of August. Maybe an English publisher will provide them. Maybe, maybe! I am working, it’s all I can do, I can’t do more! Please, please don’t forsake me! Don’t take anything here amiss! Picture me lying flat out on my deathbed. Forgive me. I have drunk nothing while writing this to you. I am stone cold sober.
亲爱的挚友：我自知打扰你太多，昨天刚写过信，今天又是一封。我想首先感谢你关于格兰茨（Gollancz）的来信，我没有经纪人，兰道尔(Landauer )和朗格也没打算在英国推销《反基督者》一书。自你离开巴黎以来，因形势所迫，我干了很多蠢事，你应该很不高兴吧。你我即便是知交，要忍受一个动不动就发神经的人，一定也很难。但我依然请求你能把我当成个明白人，多数时候还是清醒的，只是偶尔会丧失理智，请求你将我当做一个真诚的朋友，清楚地知道自己此刻正在写些什么。我向一些最不该伸手的地方借了些钱，边做这事边鄙视甚至诅咒自己，我知道这是自取其辱。在我的生命中从来没有过稳定的收入，没有银行账户，没有存款。什么都没有，一无所有，只有预支——开销，开销，预支，直到为《第三帝国》找到出版商。（我已在德国付清了所有债务）你在巴黎时，我的债务仅为两千法郎，现在已变成一万一千法郎了，债主步步紧逼，我终日提心吊胆。但在你面前我不想有任何保留，亲爱的朋友。你怎么想怎么做都好，我已自责过成千上万次。是我辜负了你，我这个绝望自私的人还要拖累你，想把你一起拉下水，真是越想越觉得窝囊！如果有什么我可以为自己辩驳，让整件事显得宽慰些，那只能是我的工作了，我每天都在努力工作，在马赛这儿，我已经写了三篇还算像样的中篇，每篇大约35到40页。10月初我就得交上小说成稿，可现在才完成三分之一。目前我哪儿也去不了，感觉几个月来脖子上像套了跟绳索，要是我还没被活活勒死，那是因为总有好心人时不时来帮我松一松，好留出指缝宽的空间让我苟延残喘。但要不了多久，这绳子就又勒紧了，如此境况下，我每天工作在6到8个小时。你要是知道我惹的事，肯定要笑出来了。但我亲爱的朋友，我必须获得自由，一次也好，这么松一松绞索远远不够，得彻底挣脱才行。哦，天哪，8月底我得搞到一万二千法郎。有个英国出版商可能靠得住。可能，只是可能而已！我正在努力工作，我能做的也仅限于此了。请不要抛弃我！不要因为这些事抛弃我！想象一下我直挺挺等死的样子吧。原谅我。写这信的时候我滴酒未沾，脑子一清二楚。
I embrace you fervently, your J.R.
热烈的拥抱你 你的J.R.
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***
One of Roth’s letters.
* * *
***
24 July 1935
1935年7月24日
Hotel Foyot
富瓦约酒店
Paris 6e
巴黎6区
My dear friend, your dear letter, which confirms you almost as much as it shakes me, will not be put off. I am therefore replying to it straight away, I’d be grateful if you did the same with a couple of lines to confirm arrival of this one. Of late, lots of mail seems to be getting lost in Germany.—Maybe you’re right in saying that you were unable to take the steep fall that Romain Rolland did. It’s a plunge into darkness. But you’re not right when you describe my defensive fury as an aggressive hatred. That’s not well thought out by you, who are supposed to know me well. That I, Yossl Roth from Radziwillow, am defending Germany with all its past glories is perfectly clear to me. My Jewishness never appeared as anything else to me but an accidental quality, like, say, my blond mustache (which could have been brown). I never suffered from it, I was never proud of it. Nor is it the fact that I think and write in German that bothers me now—but the fact that 40 million people in the middle of Europe are barbarians. I share this sorrow with quite a lot of other people, including most of the remaining 20 million Germans, inasmuch as these things can be quantified. I believe in a Catholic empire, German and Roman, and I am near to becoming an orthodox, even a militant Catholic. I don’t believe in “humankind”—I never did—but in God, and in the fact that mankind, to whom He shows no mercy, is a piece of shit. (Of course, I hope for his mercy.) “Palestine” and “humankind” have been repulsive to me for a long time. All that matters to me is God—and, for now, on earth, in the area where I am permitted to labor and discharge my duty, a German Catholic Empire. I will do all in my feeble powers to bring about a Habsburg return. I don’t want to “convert” you to my persuasion, because I have too much respect for you. But I don’t want you to go imputing hatred and aggression to me, as you do to the Weltbÿhne of miserable memory, and the “émigrés”. Mine is not hatred, but righteous fury. And I will be proved right, because Hitler won’t last more than another year and a half, and then, slowly but surely, we shall have a new German Empire.
亲爱的朋友，你的来信既让我宽慰也让我吃惊，我一刻也没耽搁，着手就给你回信，如果你也能够在收到信后立刻回上几行，那就再好不过。最近，德国很多信件都收不到。你说你无法像罗曼罗兰那样承受如此大的落差，也许你是对的。此刻确实像是坠入了苍茫黑夜。但我为自己的愤怒辩护，你却说我气急败坏，充满仇恨，那就是你的不对了。你本应更了解我，这么说实在让我意外。我，约瑟·罗斯，来自拉齐维乌，捍卫德国过去的荣耀，清楚地知道自己的所作所为。犹太人的身份对我来说只是一个偶然，如同我的金色胡须（它本来也可以长成棕色，我并无所谓）。我并未因此感到困扰，却也从未想过以此争荣。我并不觉得用德语思考和写作有什么不妥，欧洲中部战场上的四千万人如野兽般厮杀才让我不安。这种悲伤许多人都有体会，剩下的那两千万德国人也一样，因为死死伤伤，都是赤裸裸的数据摆在眼前。我信奉天主教统领下的帝国，比如德意志，比如罗马，我自己也快成为天主教的坚决拥护者了，我的军事观也因此受到影响。我不相信“人类”——应该说从未相信过“人类”——但我相信上帝。事实证明，上帝对人类毫无怜悯之心，弃之如敝履（当然，我依然渴望上帝的宽恕）。一直以来，我对“巴勒斯坦”和“人类”二词就十分反感，我在乎的只有上帝——而现在，在尘世间，我在乎的只有这片耕耘劳作的土地：德意志天主教帝国。为了哈布斯堡王朝的再度复兴，我愿献上绵薄之力。我并不想刻意说服你站到我的一边，因为我深深的敬重你。但我亦不希望你敌视或者攻击我，如同对待Weltbÿhne或是那些移民，留下的只有痛苦的回忆。我所有的并非仇恨，而是愤懑，并且有因有果。我的判断不会有错，希特勒撑不过一年半，到时，尽管步履缓慢，新的德意志帝国必将重新崛起。
You see, my dear friend, you believed in “humankind”, and, had you been as foolish as your “maitre” Rolland, you’d still be a Bolshevik now. But you’re more sensible than that, you can’t be a Communist. But nor do you wholly and firmly believe in God. Therefore you are in despair. Only God can help you. And free you from the errors of your ways, some of which you even see yourself.
你看，亲爱的朋友，你信仰的却是“人性”，不是像你的“老师”罗兰一样犯了傻，就是成了个布尔什维克。但你理智得很，怎么能当共产党呢？可你又不是全心全意信奉上帝，两头受困，所以才感到绝望。只有上帝能够拯救你，将你从歧途解脱，有些错误，你自己亦一清二楚啊。
The Habsburgs will return. Please don’t deny what’s all too evident! You see I’ve been right thus far. Austria will be a monarchy. I’m right. I foresaw the madness and excess of Prussia. Because I believe in God. And you, you didn’t see it, because you believe in “humankind”, a concept so unclear that by contrast with it, you could think to meet God on the nearest street corner. Of course friendship is our true home. And you may be sure I will observe it more faithfully than anyone else.
哈布斯堡王朝必将卷土重来，如此显而易见，岂容质疑！你知我到目前为止都没有错过，奥地利将成为君主国，我说对了；普鲁士的贪婪和失控，我也预见了。这一切都因为我相信上帝。而你，没有看到这一切，因为你相信的乃是“人性”，人性究竟为何尚无人知晓，上帝却时刻在转角处等待众生。但是，对于我们，友谊依然是真正的归宿。你可以相信，我比任何人都看重这份情谊。
Sincerely, your old Joseph Roth
你永远的挚友：约瑟夫·罗斯
* * *
***
[end of October 1935]
1935年10月末
My dear friend, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. There is no other way of saying this in my vocabulary. Admittedly, 2000 francs are not enough to save me, but even so, it’s like a convict getting his chains not taken off him, but at least loosened. If they are loosened for two weeks, to me that feels like a scent of freedom, and I can at least look out my cell window. I am very much afraid you will be one of just 3 stray individuals who admire my book. You will have made a mistake, I fear.
亲爱的朋友，由衷感谢，难以言表。虽然实话实说，2000法郎还不足以帮我彻底解围，但脖子上这条绳子好歹松了一松，虽然还没完全解下。如果能再喘息两周，我几乎会嗅到自由的味道，或者起码，能有权利望望窗外的景致了。我的书看来只有寥寥三人看得上，你是其中之一。但恐怕你是犯了个错。
Whether it is a good book or not, I now have enough strength in me to finish the “Regular” and to go onto “Strawberries.” I could have Strawberries finished within a year. What matters to me isn’t so much being able to rest, as being allowed to work in complete peace and quiet. Work under such circumstances is better for me than sanatorium and vacation. Above all I need to be free of the exploitative contracts and humiliating bossiness of Landauer. It was so stupid of me to sign all those émigré contracts, and so sensible of you to steer clear of them. Everybody now resents me for my big advances, and they hate me and will ruin my book with their hatred. Hate is even more magically powerful than love.
不管评价如何，我现在已鼓起足够勇气打算写完“Regular”部分，然后进入“Strawberries”的篇章，这部分差不多一年内能完成。对我而言，目前重要的不是休息，而是能在绝对的平静中工作。以现在的形势看，比起疗养休假，还是工作更适合我。此外，我尤其想摆脱那些合同，它们不过是剥削我的劳动力，我也不想再受兰道尔的气了，他颐指气使，只会口出秽言。我当初因为流亡国外签了那些合同，想来真是愚蠢透顶，你真是明智，早早的撇清了干系。我事业上的起色招来所有人的嫉恨，他们直想毁了我的书。仇恨的力量比爱居然更加强大，真是难以置信。
Why do you think I don’t want to make any promises to you? As your friend and as I believe in God and in your friendship, I promise to stop killing myself if I can have the certainty of being left alive for another 3 months following November 15th. That’s what I drink to forget! Only for that reason, and because instead of 6 or 8 I have to write 15 or 20 pages a day. I have found places for the children costing, all told, 650 francs per month. Perhaps that could be reduced eventually to 300 or so, by special dispensation. My room costs 700 francs per month. I beg you, I beg you, please rescue me. I am doomed, I can’t go on selling myself tout compris, with all subsidiary rights, I can’t wake up night after night from dread of what the morning will bring, the hotel manager, the post, don’t think when you see me that I live the way I appear, my life is atrocious, atrocious. I slink around like a wanted man, my hands shake and my feet shake, I only calm down a little once I have had a drink. Free me from my trembling and apprehension, if you can, and I will need only beer and wine to write with, not schnapps.—I have another fortnight clear in front of me, and then nothing, nothing thereafter, and I don’t believe my book will be a success, but I still would like to go on living.
你为什么觉得我不会对你做任何承诺？作为你的朋友，也作为一个上帝的信徒，我答应你，如果从11月15日起我还能活上三个月，我就不再自我作践。但我喝酒就是为了忘记这件事！完全直因为这个原因，因为我每天不是写6页8页，而是要写上15页20页。我已经给孩子找好了地方，每月总共650法郎，也许还能因为特殊减免降到300法郎，住的房间每个月则要700法郎。我求你了，求你救救我。我不能再这么着一无所有，负债累累了，不想每天都在噩梦中醒来，担忧明日会在何方，不想再为面对酒店经理，或者邮差而感到惶恐不安了。我的生活，并不像看上去的那样，我的生活就是一出悲剧，每天躲躲闪闪，避人耳目，如同犯了什么大事；终日慌慌张张，只有来杯酒才算带给我一点慰藉。如果可以，请帮我从惶恐和忧虑中解脱吧，我所需的不过是浊酒一杯，笔纸左右。有两个礼拜我滴酒未沾，但也一事无成，我真不信自己的书会是个成功，但依然，我仍对生活充满向往。
I am so sick, forgive me for begging you to confirm that you’ve received this letter. I no longer believe that letters arrive. I am inconsolable if I don’t get word from you, my true, my one true friend! Are you upset with me for some reason? Have you had enough of me?
我病得厉害，原谅我非要请你来信告知信已收到。现在，我都不太信任邮政行业了。如果得不到你的消息，我会无所适从，因为你是我真正的——唯一的、真正的朋友。你会不会因为某些原因而讨厌我了？或者，你早已受够了我？
I embrace you sincerely, your old J.R.
真诚的拥抱你 你的老朋友 J.R.
* * *
***
Hotel Foyot
富瓦约酒店
Paris
巴黎
Wednesday [February 1936]
1936年2月 星期三
Dear friend, I am not at all offended, your wife must take my extreme despair for antagonism. It’s most peculiar. You’re tired out, I know, and I am inconsolable about the fact that I only tire you out more. I’m too shaky to be able to put it better and more delicately than that. I’m too confused at the moment, I’m not sure I shouldn’t just go to bed, and wait for the end. But I do know this, that it’s not possible for me to do anything else, as you suggested. Who do I write articles for? Or films? How do I make the time? Where’s the money to tide me over? I’m running around with my tongue hanging out, a scrounger with drooling tongue and wagging tail. How do I avoid signing new contracts for new books? I don’t even get offered those. What do I do, now, today, next week? All your perfectly correct thoughts have nothing to base themselves on. You just need to put yourself in my shoes, you can do that, in my typical day, I’ve told you what that’s like. I have no more nights. I [sit?] around till 3 a.m., I lie down fully dressed at 4, I wake up at 5, and I wander round the room. I haven’t been out of my clothes for two weeks. You know what time feels like, an hour is a lake, a day is a sea, the night is an eternity, waking up is a thunderclap of dread, getting up a struggle for clarity against fevered nightmares. That’s what it’s all about, time, time, time, and I don’t have any. In two weeks I’ll have a contract, in three weeks, I’m told, there’ll be a reply from America—and how much of my life do I lose in those 2 weeks! For nothing! For nothing! Humiliated, disgraced, indebted, smiling, smiling through gritted teeth—an acrobatic stunt—so that the hotel proprietor doesn’t notice, my pen clamped, cramped in my hand, desperately clinging on to the idea I’ve just had, because it’s galloping away from me, sometimes starving, falling asleep in my chair after 3 sentences, but what do you want, what do you want from a man who’s half-madman, half-corpse? What else am I to do, if I don’t write books? I’m old and sick, I can’t go back to the army, which is the only job I ever had. Debts, ghosts, privation, and writing, talking, smiling, no suit, no shirt, no boots, hungry open mouths, and scroungers to stuff them, and ghosts, ghosts, wall to wall ghosts. And what a life behind me! What do you want, my friend? How well you are able to describe it, and how alien it sounds to me, your clever counsel. You know everything, don’t you! You know everything! You can sniff out the deepest secrets, and the things that lie around on the surface, you see those too! Or do you miss them? I can’t sell film ideas, I can’t compete on the English market with Lania, etc., with […] Frischauer—I’m not up to it. Please, my dear friend, take me at my word. Either I’ll be sick to death, or go crazy, or perhaps I am already. Don’t be angry, and remember I love you.
亲爱的朋友，我一点儿也没觉得生气，夫人肯定把我这个穷途末路的人当成敌人了。但这可太奇怪了。我知道你已精疲力尽，一想到我只能给你添更多的麻烦，我就更加自责。我实在无能，不能让整件事变得更简单些。现在，我又搞不太清楚状况，是不是该径直躺倒床上等死算了。但有一点我清楚，你所说的找些其他事干干，我实在不行。谁会找我写文章，写剧本？我每天怎么打发时间？去哪儿找钱掐过这阵子？只能四处打听，卑躬屈膝，费劲唇舌，摇尾乞怜。你问我为何不肯签订新书合约？根本没人想跟我签，何来拒绝？此刻我该如何是好，今天怎么过，下个礼拜呢？你的想法都对，只是未曾亲身经历我的遭遇。我已向你描述过我的一天，你只需设身处地，便能体会一二。晚上我几乎无法入睡，一般（也不知是不是坐着）呆到凌晨三点，四点和衣躺一会儿，五点醒来，在屋里溜达几圈。两个礼拜以来，我都没脱下过外套。你知道时间，一个小时像一面湖，一天就仿佛是一片汪洋大海，而经历深夜就如同经历永恒。然后一阵霹雳，你努力驱散梦靥，挣扎醒来。一切问题到底都是时间，就是时间，就是时间，可时间正是我所缺的。两周后我就会收到合约，三周后我听说美国方面会有回应——但这两周我的生活又要白白浪费！一事无成！我已受尽羞辱，名誉扫地，债台高筑，却还要强颜欢笑，还要咬紧牙关强颜欢笑——好像一个杂技演员——因为只有这样，酒店才不会注意到我已难以成章，只是还绝望地死守着刚刚冒出来的灵感，生怕它稍纵即逝。有时，我饥饿难耐，或者写完三句话就在椅子上睡了过去，但你还想怎样呢？我已经疯疯癫癫，如同行尸走肉。如果不写作，我还能做什么？我一个上了年纪，疾病缠身的老头，总不能再去当兵，我这辈子干过的工作也就是当兵了。我欠了一屁股债，精神恍惚，穷困潦倒，平时写写文章，话不少，还不得不笑脸待人。没套像样的西装衬衣，食不果腹，为填饱肚子四处奔波。还净见到些幻影，到处都是。我过的这叫什么生活！我的朋友，你想从生活那儿获得什么？你能描述一下吗？知道吗，你的建议都很好，只是都离我太远。你什么都知道，不是吗！你什么都知道！秘密隐藏的再深，你也能嗅的出来，更别提光天化日之下，你更是什么都看得一清二楚！你怀念它们吗？怎么拍电影，我不是专家，英国市场上有拉尼亚(Lania)和弗里舒(Frischauer)，我也没什么用武之地。我的朋友，请记得我说的话：无论我命不久矣，还是将要痴傻疯癫——搞不好我已经如此了——请不要生气，只需记得我永远爱你。
Your J.R.
你的J.R.
* * *
***
8 August 1937
1937年8月8日
Dear friend, it will be difficult for you, perhaps even, God forbid, impossible, to pull me out of my worst situation thus far—and the one for which I am least to blame myself. It’s hard for me to say it, as you know. See from the enclosed letter what’s happening to me, only happens to me. I’m getting 125 gulden per month. Everything is adjusted to that, the hotel, all my personal needs. The publisher, the new one, after Querido and de Lange, hasn’t sent me this month’s money and has gone away on holiday. I have nothing, except a couple of stamps bought in advance, and as if fearing the worst. The hotel, booked for 8 weeks, room payable every other week, is getting nasty. On the 15th I need to renew my Belgian visa in Brussels. I have 40 francs in my pocket. I don’t know what to do. Should I not turn to you? Perhaps it would have been right. There is so much unappetizing baggage, in terms of my poverty, my constantly varied little catastrophes which for me are earthquakes, in this rope that so long disdains to kill me once and for all, and just tightens spasmodically round my neck, it’s soaked already in the sweat of my fear; nothing but the vacation of just one man who won’t know any of this—I am his only German author—a puff of wind, some woman falling ill so that the managing editor can think of nothing else—takes me to the brink of Salvation Army and gaol, unfortunately only in installments to the brink of the grave. I’ve finished my long novel “1002nd Night”, the other one is three-quarters done, I have to hand it in at the beginning of September. In Poland I was writing all winter—the lectures on the side—I was happy and cheerful to be getting 125 gulden till the end of ‘37. And for the past 4 weeks here I’ve been calm and industrious. Then yesterday the enclosed letter came. Who can I send it to? Not to you, I know that. For almost a whole year I didn’t bother you with my shitty little business. Excuse me! If you can excuse me. I hope at least you’ll reply promptly. If you can somehow arrange for me to get the money through Belgium or Paris, then I can send 125 gulden back to your address (if it’s still right?) on 1st September. What shall I do? Answer me, I beg you. Just now, two policemen are dragging a man across the street. I am so wound up that I can see myself there in their midst, with no visa, being schlepped to the German frontier, the directest way back to Austria. Almondo has asked me round, but if I take so much as one meal from someone like that I’d feel I was practically a con artist.—I have such huge fear of falling into the depth of those latrines. See how it pulls me in. Please see, it’s not my fault. I’ve wrecked my reputation by industry, too many books in short succession. I’ve got this publisher to agree to publish my next book not at Christmas, but in 1938. But in order to live till the end of 37 I’ve promised to deliver yet another novel by the beginning of September.—Oh, it’s all shameful, pitiful, degrading. I’d seen the end so many times already, please believe me it’s not being delayed through any doing of mine. I mustn’t shoot myself—left to myself I would have done to spare you the undignified spectacle of a lamenting friend. Please believe me, I haven’t done anything irresponsible, I came here for 3 months with exactly 1800 Belgian francs, to be in the cheapest country and in the proximity of this strange publishing house, that doesn’t understand the least thing about packing, or printing or distribution, whose typesetters don’t even know German. I have to correct their exotic misprints myself, there is no one else to do it. And Mr. Lion turns up and says he would never have thought someone who had put out so many books could be any good. And there are many who think like that. You still believe in my literary virtue. But you can see I can’t work in a latrine.
亲爱的朋友，要你解救我于如此糟糕至极的境地，一定很难，我本是天理难容，自作自受。如你所知，此事确实难以启齿。你所了解的那些事情实实在在都发生了。我现在每月拿125荷兰盾，食宿安排及其他所需均严格控制。继克里多和朗格先生后，我正和一个新的出版商合作，不过他休假去了，还没有寄来这个月的钱。我再次变得身无分文，只剩事先买好的一叠邮票，当时也是未雨绸缪。这个酒店我订了八周，每两个礼拜付一次帐，现在打扫的也越来越不勤快了。15号我得去布鲁塞尔续签比利时签证，现在口袋里却只有40法郎，真是不知如何是好。我是不是不该找你帮忙？一切本不应如此。我穷困潦倒，时不时出点事，五花八门的，看上去似乎都是小问题，可对我其实都是灾难。这根在我脖子上的绳索连让我死得痛快都不肯，非要隔段时间紧一紧，现在则早被我恐惧的汗水浸透。一个人的假期能对我造成什么影响，他一定想象不到。我不过是他下面的一个德国作家，唯一一个德国作家又如何，只是过眼云烟罢了。恐怕他正忙于照顾哪个抱恙的女人，根本无暇顾及我。可对于我，这无疑是把我推向救世军，推向牢狱之灾——一切不过是一步步将我推向死亡！我已完成了长篇小说《第一千零二夜》，另一部小说也完成了四分之三，九月初就要交稿。在波兰时我整个冬天都在写作，偶尔赚些讲座的外快。今年年底能拿到125荷兰盾我已经挺开心了。过去四周我一直都冷静清醒，勤奋工作。昨天收到的那封附信，我还能寄给谁呢？我知道不能寄给你。前后也快一年了，我都不想再拿自己的烂事儿烦你了。对不起！如果你能原谅我，请至少速速回信。如果你能设法让我从比利时或者巴黎拿到钱，我定会于9月1日将125荷兰盾寄到你住处（不知这样是否仍然可行？）。我还有什么别的法子？求你告诉我。就在刚才，两个警察拖着个男人过了街，我紧张得要命，仿佛在那儿的是自己，因为没有签证，被他们拖到德国边界，尽管这倒是回奥地利的最佳捷径。阿曼多(Almondo)四处打听我，但我总不能一下子从一个人那儿要求太多，那岂不是和骗子无异。我极其恐惧，觉得自己将要陷入不复之地，正步步走向深渊。可你明白，这并非我的过错，我辛勤工作，要在这么短的时间内写出这么多书，其实会坏了自己的名声。我已经说服这个出版商让我推迟发行时间，从今年圣诞改到1938年。可是为了解决今年的生计，我又答应在九月初完成另一部小说。——唉，如此丢人，如此窘困，如此可耻。很多次，我似乎都能看到自己的末日，不论如何努力，相信我，死期已摆在那儿。但我不会就这么饮弹自尽，就算要，我也会自己悄悄解决，不会牵连到你，或让你目睹我悲悲戚戚的惨象。相信我，我清醒理智，来这儿已经三个月了，随身一千八百比利时法郎，一分不多。这个国家的消费可算我所知最低，我就住在出版社附近。这地方也挺奇怪，完全不懂包装，也不懂印刷或者发行，排字工居然连德语都不会，那些千奇百怪的错，还得我替他们一个个纠，根本没有其他人手了。之前莱昂先生在，说他觉得能出很多书的人未必肚里有货，许多人都表示赞同。尽管你依然相信我的文学价值，但恐怕也无法想象我在这么个地方的地位有多低。
I know that your mind, used to stability and to thinking in terms of continual improvements, will view this catastrophe of mine—and rightly—as a consequence of my overall situation, and that you will first think how to improve the overall situation. Please bear in mind, though, that this acute difficulty may make a subsequent overall situation impossible. At this moment I can see the policemen escorting the man back toward the station. I feel a sudden desire to absolve him, to take his place and say there has been an error, a mistaken identity—and so bring about the final catastrophe. I can’t go on. I see right away that there’s such a thing as literary honor. The reality is that I’ll get another letter from the hotel tomorrow, that the laundry bill hasn’t been paid, and that I won’t be able to write anything any more, not even a letter. Today is Sunday. On Tuesday you will have this disgusting letter, does that feel like a long time! It’s three years! Can you, will you send me a telegram?—And then I’m afraid of the post. What if this doesn’t find you? I’ll send it express, and then a postcard as well. It’s cheaper than registered. But believe me that, in this whole calamity, your saying that you forgive me remains the most important element. Please send me a wire. (I am not responsible for the nonsense that may appear here.) All I know is that these are the 8th 9th 10th 11th, and that it’s 24 days till I next get money from Holland.
我知道你的想法，一贯求稳求进，肯定觉得我的一切遭遇必然和一直以来的境况有关，我也觉得有理，所以你肯定会劝我先改善整体状况。可你也要明白，这一次的问题太严重，改变不太可能。现在那两个警察正把那男的带回警局，突然我有种欲望想要帮他解脱，想要替代他，想冲上去说他们搞错了，该抓的人是我——就这么了结了一切也好。我不能再想下去了。想到现实，突然间我感到一阵恐惧：明天，酒店会交给我另一封信，洗衣房的账单又要来催，我，却已文思枯竭，再写不出一笔一划，甚至连封信都难以成句。今天是周日，周二你就能收到这封信了，看了一定叫你厌烦，一直以来我的信读起来都叫你厌烦吧！三年了！你能给我发个电报吗？我仍然对邮政没信心。这封信你收不到怎么办？还是快递吧，顺带附上明信片一张，挂号更贵。但是，相信我，灾难再多，对我而言最重要的依然是你的一句原谅。给我拍封电报。（我也管不了自己在这里的胡言乱语了），我只知道今天是8号，之后是9号、10号、11号，距离下一次荷兰汇钱过来还有24天。
I am so full of loathing for me, it’s so awful, soon I won’t care any more—and that frightens me.
我很厌恶自己，这种感觉很糟，但要不了多久也就不在乎了——但正是这种想法让我害怕。
I embrace you, send me a wire on Tuesday, I will go home late from fear of not finding one,
拥抱你。周二给我封电报吧，我会晚点回家，到了应该就能看到了。
your J.R.
你的J.R.
* * *
***
18 August 1937
1937年8月18日
Kind thanks from an oppressed heart, my friend! Don’t reproach me for railing at myself. It’s the only thing I can do, I involve you in my catastrophes which I probably deserve, though I do nothing to provoke them. Instead of the most exalted, I make merely the most putrid demands of you. I want to be near to you, and probably only succeed in being intrusive. Next follows a break-in to your restricted bank account, and the shameless imposition of further economies, all caused by me. I know you take far greater pleasure in sensual things than I do, a good express train, a decent meal, a spoonful of caviar, and I take the spoon away from you and I know what it feels like, to have one’s wine glass taken away. No brother would do that to you. The counterweight is this: you have to imagine suddenly, with the help of one banknote, waking up from a coma, the women are once more walking through the lanes, the trees are green again, laughter and tears are back, the beloved pain returns that had been anesthetized by banal squalid worries. Your life returns to you, the hotel was a prison in which one was not allowed to be locked up, worse thereby than the others. Suddenly it becomes your airy bower again. These are actual sensations, my dear friend, if only I weren’t so desperate to have them. It’s too much, too often, I rack my brains what I could do to break free of my publisher, but racking one’s brains doesn’t produce miracles. It’ll be the death of me, this mixture of brain, hand, begging, advance, eager promises of works that my head isn’t certain of being able to write—and all in vain, without readers, without the trust that comes from outside, an echo to the one within. I can feel myself having to violently regenerate morally and physically, in two months I have to be well, then abysmal feeling, panic and derangement, anguish, heart-pain, darkness. Two or three proper catastrophes, the death of someone near to me, and I’ve had it. Such loose talk as Lion’s is very detrimental to me—in monetary terms too—believe me, it damages me with publishers, with Oprecht, with Huebsch, with Querido, in Vienna, it builds up like an avalanche, and it crushes me. My fertility is taken amiss, my blocked colleagues take it for proof of lack of talent.
这样一个抑郁的时候，真要感谢你的来信，我的朋友！请不要怪我自怨自艾，我唯一能做的也仅限于此。尽管并非出于本意，但我罪有应得，如今却还要把你搅进这趟浑水，所请求之事亦难登堂面，想必让你有许多难看。我想与你成为知交，却只能用这种莽撞的方式接近。之后你的破财相助，以及我的持续困窘，说来都让人无地自容。一切皆因我而起。对于生活的体悟，我知道你比我更懂快乐为何，一趟火车旅行，一餐佳肴，一匙鱼子酱，都能让你觉得趣味横生。而此时若将勺子硬从你嘴边拿走，个中滋味我能体会，正如酒喝得正在兴头突然被夺了酒杯。但这种事，真正的兄弟和朋友定不会做。为了弥补这种失落，你得想象着，突然间，一笔钱花下去，你便从昏迷中醒来，女人依然在小道上婀娜漫步，树木重又郁郁葱葱，你像从前一样，想哭便哭，想笑便笑，曾经的卑鄙下贱，麻木不仁已化为一股阵痛，久违而亲切。你已重拾生活。曾几何时，这个酒店如同一个囚室，虽无脚镣手铐所限，却让人备受煎熬。但顷刻之间它却又成为了你的家园，你在里面怡然且自得。这些都是真实的感受，我亲爱的朋友，我只怕自己太急于求成，反而陷入绝望。我常想法子和出版商较劲，最后不欢而散，但这种事发生的太多，太频繁，却不见有什么奇迹发生。我之所以无法确定是否能继续写作，是因为想到死亡，想到思考和工作，想到乞讨般的生活，想到穷追不舍的催稿。而且这一切，没有读者，没有外界的信任，也没有内在的肯定，一切都是徒劳无功。我感到自己必须不顾一切地重新振作，精神上也好，身体上也好。我只有两个月时间调整自己，摆脱绝望、恐慌，摆脱苦闷和消极的情绪。其他方面也接二连三的发生了一些事，一个和我比较亲近的人去世了。有些时候，即使和莱昂之流随便聊聊对我打击也很大，钱的问题上也一样。相信我，这种对话总会毁掉我和维也纳出版商的关系，比如奥帕雷希特(Oprecht)，休布希(Huebsch)和克里多(Querido)。这些问题像滚雪球，越滚越大，直到我难以承受，创作能力日益减退。这样一来，我的对手则就可借题发挥，称我在写作上根本毫无天分。
We will [see] each other whenever it suits you, God knows how I need to have you there, at hand, and how much I need you to need me. Even though the unhappy propensity to see each meeting as a farewell is becoming a real disease. I am half done in, and at the same time eerily taut. It doesn’t go.
你什么时候方便，我们见上一面。上帝知道我多么需要你在我身边，但我亦希望你同样渴望我的陪伴。总将每次见面视为永别，因而情绪低落，实在不是个好事。但我的确时常精神紧绷，这种感觉挥之不去。
Please confirm receipt of this letter, and the date of your departure.
收到信告诉我，还有你的动身日期。
Your warm and trusty Joseph Roth
挚友：约瑟夫·罗斯
A manuscript page from Joseph Roth’s 1932 novel, “The Radetzky March.”
