by Thomas Mann
No doubt I shall be accused of common theft. I will not deny the accusation, I will simply withdraw and refuse to contradict anyone who chooses to mouth this paltry word. But the word — the poor, cheap, shopworn word, which does violence to all the finer meanings of life — is one thing, and the primeval absolute deed for ever shining with newness and originality is quite another. It is only out of habit and sheer mental indolence that we come to regard them as the same. And the truth is that the word, as used to describe or characterize a deed, is no better than one of those wire fly-swatters that always miss the fly. Moreover, whenever an act is in question, it is not the what nor the why that matters (though the second is the more important), but simply and solely the who. Whatever I have done or committed, it has always been first of all my deed, not Tom's or Dick's or Harry's; and though I have had to accept being labelled, especially by the law, with the same name as ten thousand others, I have always rebelled against such an unnatural identification in the unshakeable belief that I am a favourite of the powers that be and actually composed of finer flesh and blood. The reader, if I ever have one, will pardon this digression into the abstract, which perhaps ill suits me since I am not trained in abstract thought. But I regard it as my duty to reconcile him as far as I can to the eccentricities of my way of life or, if this should prove impossible, to prevent him betimes from reading further.
When I got home I went up to my room, still wearing my overcoat, spread my treasures out on the table, and examined them. I had hardly believed that they were real and would still be there; for how often do priceless things come into our possession in dreams, yet when we wake our hands are empty. No one can share my lively joy unless he can imagine that the treasures vouchsafed him in a delightful dream are ready and waiting for him on the coverlet of his bed in the light of morning, as though left over from the dream. They were of the best quality, those candies wrapped in silver paper, filled with sweet liqueurs and flavoured creams; but it was not alone their quality that enchanted me; even more it was the carrying over of my dream treasure into my waking life that made up the sum of my delight — a delight too great for me not to think of repeating it when occasion offered. For whatever reason — I did not consider it my duty to speculate — the delicatessen shop occasionally proved to be unattended at noon. This did not happen often or regularly, but after a longer or shorter interval it would occur, and I could tell by strolling slowly past the glass door with my schoolbag on my shoulder. I would return and go in, having learned to open the door so gently that the little bell did not ring, the clapper simply quivering on its wire. I would say 'Good morning', just in case, quickly seize whatever was available, never shamelessly, but rather choosing moderately — a handful of sweets, a slice of honey cake, a bar of chocolate — so that very likely nothing was ever missed. But in the incomparable expansion of my whole being which accompanied these free and dream-like forays upon the sweets of life, I thought I could clearly recognize anew the nameless sensation that had been so long familiar to me as the result of certain trains of thought and introspection.
CHAPTER 8
UNKNOWN reader! I have put aside my fluent pen for purposes of reflection and self-examination before treating a theme on which I have had earlier occasion to touch lightly in the course of my confessions. It is now my conscientious duty to dwell on it at somewhat greater length. Let me say immediately that whoever expects from me a lewd tone or scabrous anecdote will be disappointed. It is rather my intention to see that the dictates of morality and good form should be combined with the frankness which I promised at the outset of this enterprise. Pleasure in the salacious for its own sake, though an almost universal fault, has always been incomprehensible to me, and verbal excesses of this kind I have always found the most repulsive of all, since they are the cheapest and have not the excuse of passion. People laugh and joke about these matters precisely as though they were dealing with the simplest and most amusing subject in the world, whereas the exact opposite is the truth; and to talk of them in a loose and careless way is to surrender to the mouthings of the mob the most important and mysterious concern of nature and of life. But to return to my confession.
First of all I must make clear that the above-mentioned concern began very early to play a role in my life, to occupy my thoughts, to shape my fancies and form the content of my childish enterprises — long, that is, before I had any words for it or could possibly form any general ideas of its nature or significance. For a considerable time, that is, I regarded my tendency to such thoughts and the lively pleasure I had in them to be private and personal to myself. Nobody else, I thought, would understand them, and it was in fact advisable not to talk of them at all. Lacking any other means of description, I grouped all my emotions and fancies together under the heading of 'The Best of All' or 'The Great Joy' and guarded them as a priceless secret. And thanks to this jealous reserve, thanks also to my isolation, and a third motive to which I shall presently return, I long remained in a state of intellectual ignorance which corresponded little to the liveliness of my senses. As far back as I can remember, this 'Great Joy' took up a commanding position in my inner life — indeed, it probably began further back than my conscious memory extends. For small children are ignorant and in that sense innocent; but to maintain that theirs is an angelic purity is certainly a sentimental superstition that would not stand the test of objective examination. For myself at least, I have it from an excellent authority (whom I shall shortly identify) that even at my nurse's breast I displayed the most unambiguous evidence of sensual pleasure — and this tradition has always seemed highly credible to me, as indicative of the eagerness of my nature.
In actual fact my gifts for the pleasures of love bordered on the miraculous; even today it is my conviction that they far exceeded the ordinary. I had early grounds to suspect that this was so, but my suspicions were converted to certainty by the evidence of that person who told me of my precocious behaviour at my nurse's breast. For several years I carried on a secret relationship with this person. I refer to our housemaid Genovefa, who had been with us from a tender age and was in her early thirties when I reached sixteen. She was the daughter of a sergeant-major and for a long time had been engaged to the station master at a little station on the Frankfurt-Niederlahnstein line. She had a good deal of feeling for the refinements of life, and although she did all the hard work in the house, her position was halfway between a servant and a member of the family. Her marriage was — for lack of money — only a distant prospect; and the long waiting must have been a genuine hardship for the poor girl. In person she was a voluptuous blonde with exciting green eyes and a graceful way of moving. But despite the prospect of spending her best years in renunciation she never lowered herself to heeding the advances of soldiers, labourers, or such people, for she did not consider herself one of the common folk, and felt only disgust for the way they spoke and the way they smelt. It was different with the son of the house, who may well have won her favour as he developed, and she may have had the feeling that in satisfying him she was not only performing a domestic duty but advancing her social position. Thus it happened that my desires encountered no serious resistance.
I am far from inclined to go into details about an episode that is too common to be of interest to a cultivated public. In brief, my godfather Schimmelpreester had dined with us one evening and later we had spent the time trying on costumes. When I went up to bed it happened — not without her connivance — that I met Genovefa in the dark corridor outside the door of my attic room. We stopped to talk, by degrees drifted into the room itself, and ended by occupying it together for the night. I well remember my mood. It was one of gloom, disillusion, and boredom such as often seized me after an evening of trying on costumes — only this time it was even more severe than usual. I had resumed my ordinary dress with loathing, I had an impulse to tear it off, but no desire to forget my misery in slumber. It seemed to me that my only possible consolation lay in Genovefa's arms — yes, to
tell the truth, I felt that in complete intimacy with her I should find the continuation and logical conclusion of my brilliant evening and the proper goal of my adventuring among the costumes from my godfather's wardrobe. However that may be, the soul-satisfying unimaginable delights I experienced on Genovefa's white, well-nourished breast defy description. I cried aloud for bliss, I felt myself borne heavenwards. And my desire was not of a selfish nature, for characteristically I was truly inflamed only by the joy Genovefa evinced. Of course, every possibility of comparison is out of the question; I can neither demonstrate nor disprove, but I was then and am now convinced that with me the satisfaction of love is twice as sweet and twice as penetrating as with the average man.
But it would be unjust to conclude that because of my extraordinary endowment I became a libertine and lady-killer. My difficult and dangerous life made great demands on my powers of concentration — I had to be careful not to exhaust myself. I have observed that with some the act of love is a trifling matter, which they discharge perfunctorily, going their way as though nothing had happened. As for me, the tribute I bought was so great as to leave me for a time quite empty and deprived of the power to act. True, I have often indulged in excesses, for the flesh is weak and I found the world all too ready to satisfy my amorous requirements. But in the end and on the whole I was of too manly and serious a temper not to return from sensual relaxation to a necessary and healthful austerity. Moreover, is not purely animal satisfaction the grosser part of what as a child I had instinctively called 'The Greater Joy'? It enervates us by satisfying us too completely; it makes us bad lovers of the world because on the one hand it robs life of its bloom and enchantment while on the other hand it impoverishes our own capacity to charm, since only he who desires is amiable and not he who is satiated. For my part, I know many kinds of satisfaction finer and more subtle than this crude act which is after all but a limited and illusory satisfaction of appetite; and I am convinced that he has but a coarse notion of enjoyment whose activities are directed point-blank to that goal alone. Mine have always been on a broader, larger, and more general scale; they found the most piquant viands where others would not look at all; they were never precisely defined or specialized — and it was for this reason among others that despite my special aptitude I remained so long innocent and unconscious, a child and dreamer indeed, my whole life long.
CHAPTER 9
HEREWITH I leave a subject in the treatment of which I believe I have not for a moment transgressed the canons of propriety and good taste and hasten forward to the tragic moment which was the turning-point in my career and which terminated my sojourn under my parents' roof. But first I must mention the betrothal of my sister Olympia to Second Lieutenant Übel of the Second Nassau Regiment, stationed in Mainz. The betrothal was celebrated on a grand scale but led to no practical consequences. It was broken off under the stress of circumstances and my sister, after the break-up of our family, went on the stage in comic opera. Übel was a sickly young man, inexperienced in life. He was a constant guest at our parties, and it was there, excited by dancing, games of forfeit, and Berncasteler Doctor, and fired by the calculated glimpses that the ladies of our household granted so freely, that he fell passionately in love with Olympia. Longing for her with the desirousness of weak-chested people and probably overestimating our position and importance, he actually went down on his knees one evening and, almost weeping with impatience, spoke the fatal words. To this day I am amazed that Olympia had the face to accept him, for she certainly did not love him and had doubtless been informed by my mother of the true state of our affairs. But she probably thought it was high time to make sure of some refuge, however insubstantial, from the oncoming storm; and it may even have been indicated to her that her engagement to an army officer, however poor his prospects, might delay the catastrophe. My poor father was appealed to for his consent and gave it with an embarrassed air and little comment; thereupon the family event was communicated to the assembled guests, who received the news with loud huzzahs and christened it, so to speak, with rivers of Loreley extra cuvée. After that, Lieutenant Übel came almost daily from Mainz to visit us, and did no little damage to his health by constant attendance upon the object of his sickly desire. When I chanced to enter the room where the betrothed pair had been left alone for a little while, I found him looking so distracted and cadaverous that I am convinced the turn affairs presently took was a piece of unmixed good fortune for him.
As for me, my mind was chiefly occupied in these weeks with the fascinating subject of the change of name my sister's marriage would bring with it. I remember that I envied her almost to the point of dislike. She who for so long had been called Olympia Krull would sign herself in future Olympia Übel — and that fact alone possessed all the charm of novelty. How tiresome to sign the same name to letters and papers all one's life long! The hand grows paralysed with irritation and disgust — what a pleasant refreshment and stimulation of the whole being comes, then, from being able to give oneself a new name and to hear oneself called by it! It seemed to me that the female sex enjoys a great advantage over the male through being afforded at least once in life the opportunity of enjoying this restorative tonic — whereas for a man any change is practically forbidden by law. As I personally, however, was not born to lead the easy and sheltered existence of the majority, I have often disregarded a prohibition that ran counter to both my safety and my dislike of the humdrum and everyday. In doing so I have displayed a very considerable gift of invention and I mention now, by way of anticipation, the peculiar charm of that place in my notes where I first speak of the occasion on which I laid aside like a soiled and worn-out garment the name to which I was born, to assume another which for elegance and euphony far surpassed that of Lieutenant Übel.
But events had taken their course in the midst of the betrothal, and ruin — to express myself metaphorically — knocked with a bony knuckle on our door. Those malicious rumours about my poor father's business, the avoidance we suffered from all and sundry, the gossip about our domestic affairs, all these were most cruelly confirmed by the event — to the miserable satisfaction of the prophets of doom. The wine-drinking public had more and more eschewed our brand. Lowering the price (which could not, of course, improve the product) did nothing to allure the gay world, nor did the enticing design produced to oblige the firm and against his better judgement by my good-natured godfather Schimmelpreester. Presently sales dropped to zero, and ruin fell upon my poor father in the spring of the year I became eighteen.
At that time I was, of course, entirely lacking in business experience — nor am I any better off in that respect now, since my own career, based on imagination and self-discipline, gave me little business training. Accordingly I refrain from exercising my pen on a subject of which I have no detailed knowledge and from burdening the reader with an account of the misfortunes of the Loreley Sparkling Wine Company. But I do wish to give expression to the warm sympathy I felt for my father in these last months. He sank more and more into speechless melancholy and would sit about the house with head bent, the fingers of his right hand gently caressing his rounded belly, ceaselessly and rapidly blinking his eyes. He made frequent trips to Mainz, sad expeditions no doubt designed to raise cash or to find some new source of credit; he would return from these excursions greatly depressed, wiping his forehead and eyes with his batiste handkerchief. It was only at the evening parties we still held in our villa, when he sat at table with his napkin tied around his neck, his guests about him, and his glass in his hand, presiding over the feast, that anything like comfort revisited him. Yet in the course of one such evening there occurred a most unpleasant exchange between my poor father and the Jewish banker, husband of the jet-laden female. He, as I later learned, was one of the most hardhearted cut-throats who ever lured a harried and unwary businessman into his net. Very soon thereafter came that solemn and ominous day — yet for me refreshing in its novelty and excitement — when my father's factory and business pr
emises failed to open, and a group of cold-eyed, tight-lipped gentlemen appeared at our villa to attack our possessions. My poor father had filed a petition in bankruptcy, expressed in graceful phrases and signed with that naïve, ornamental signature of his which I knew so well how to imitate, and the proceedings had solemnly begun.
On that day, because of our disgrace, I had an excuse for staying away from school — and I may say here that I was never permitted to finish my course. This was due, first, to my having never been at any pains to hide my aversion to the despotism and dullness which characterized that institution, and secondly because our domestic circumstances and ultimate downfall filled the masters with venom and contempt. At the Easter holidays after my poor father's failure, they refused to give me my graduation certificate, thus presenting me with the alternative of staying on in a class below my age or of leaving school and losing the social advantages of a certificate. In the happy consciousness that my personal abilities were adequate to make up for the loss of so trifling an asset, I chose the latter course.
Our financial collapse was complete; it became clear why my poor father had put it off so long and involved himself so deeply in the toils of the usurers, for he was aware that when the crash came, it would reduce him to total beggary. Everything went under the hammer: the warehouses (but who wanted to buy so notoriously bad a product as my father's wine?), the real estate — that is, the cellars and our villa, encumbered as they were with mortgages to two-thirds of their value, mortgages on which the interest had not been paid for years — the dwarfs, the toadstools and earthenware animals in the garden — yes, even the mirrored ball and the Aeolian harp went the same sad way. The inside of the house was stripped of every pleasant luxury: the spinning-wheel, the down cushions, the glass boxes and smelling-salts all went at public auction; not even the halberds over the windows or the portières were spared; and if the little device over the entrance door that played the Strauss melody as the door closed still jingled unmindful of the desolation, it was only because it had not been noticed by its legal owners.
