by Thomas Mann
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.
One could hardly say at first that my father gave the impression of a broken man. His features even expressed a certain satisfaction that his affairs, having passed beyond his own competence, now found themselves in such good hands; and since the bank that had purchased our property let us for very pity remain for the time being within its bare walls, we still had a roof over our heads. Temperamentally easygoing and good-natured, he could not believe his fellow human beings would be so pedantically cruel as to reject him utterly; he was actually naïve enough to offer himself as director to a local company that manufactured sparkling wine. Contemptuously rejected, he made other efforts to re-establish himself in life — and if he had succeeded would no doubt have resumed his old practice of feasting and fireworks. But when everything failed he at last gave up; and as he probably considered that he was only in our way and that we might get along better without him, he decided to make an end of it all.
It was five months after the opening of the bankruptcy proceedings, and autumn had begun. Since Easter I had not gone back to school and was enjoying my temporary freedom and absence of definite prospects. We had gathered in our bare dining-room, my mother, my sister Olympia, and I, to eat our meagre meal, and were waiting for the head of the house. But when we had finished our soup and he had not yet appeared, we sent Olympia, who had always been his favourite, to summon him. She had scarcely been gone three minutes when we heard her give a prolonged scream and run still screaming upstairs and down and then distractedly up again. Chilled to the marrow of my bones and prepared for the worst, I hurried to my father's room. There he lay on the floor, his clothes loosened, his hand resting on his protuberant belly, beside him the fatal shining thing with which he had shot himself through his gentle heart. Our maid Genovefa and I lifted him to the sofa, and while she ran for the doctor, and my sister Olympia still rushed screaming through the house, and my mother for very fear would not stir out of the dining-room, I stood beside the body of my sire, now growing cold, with my hand over my eyes and paid him the tribute of my flowing tears.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 1
THESE papers have lain for a long time under lock and key; for at least a year now indifference toward the enterprise and doubt of my success have kept me from continuing my confessions, piling page on page in faithful sequence. For although I have often maintained that I am setting down these reminiscences principally for my own occupation and amusement, I will now honour truth in this respect, too, and admit freely that I have in secret and as it were out of the corner of my eye given some heed to the reading public as well; indeed, without the encouraging hope of their interest and approval I should hardly have had the perseverance to continue my work even this far. At this point, however, I have had to decide whether these true recollections, conforming modestly to the facts of my life, could compete with the inventions of writers, especially for the favour of a public whose satiety and insensitivity — the result of just such crass productions — cannot be exaggerated. Heaven knows, I said to myself, what excitement, what sensationalism, people will expect in a book whose title seems to place it side by side with murder mysteries and detective stories — whereas my life story, though it does indeed appear strange and often dreamlike, is totally devoid of stage effects and rousing dénouements. And so I thought I must abandon hope.
Today, however, my eyes chanced to fall on the composition in question; once more and not without emotion I ran through the chronicle of my childhood and early youth; aroused, I continued to spin out my reminiscences in imagination; and as certain striking moments in my career appeared vividly before me, I was quite unable to believe that incidents which exercise so enlivening an effect on me could fail to entertain the reading public as well. If I recall, for example, one of the great houses of Germany where, masquerading as a Belgian aristocrat, I sat in the midst of a distinguished company, chatting over coffee and cigars with the director of police, an unusually humane man with a deep understanding of the human heart, discussing the characteristics of confidence men and their appropriate punishment; or if I recollect, just to choose a case in point, the fateful hour of my first arrest, when a young novice among the police officers who came to fetch me was so impressed by the gravity of the occasion and so confused by the magnificence of my bedchamber that he knocked at the open door, carefully wiped his shoes, and humbly murmured: 'Permit me', thereby earning a glower of rage from the officer in charge: then I cannot deny myself the cheery hope that although my disclosures, in respect of vulgar excitement and satisfaction of common curiosity, may be put in the shade by the fables of the novelists, yet to compensate, they will be all the more certain to triumph in the end through a certain refined impressiveness and fidelity to truth. Accordingly my desire has been rekindled to continue and complete these reminiscences; and it is my intention while doing so to exercise, in the matter of purity of style and propriety of expression, even greater care, if possible, than hitherto, so that my offerings may pass muster even in the best houses.
CHAPTER 2
I TAKE up the thread of my story exactly where I dropped it — that is, at the moment when my poor father, driven into a corner by the hardheartedness of his contemporaries, took his own life. To provide a proper funeral presented difficulties, for the Church averts her face from an act such as his, and even a morality independent of canonical dogma must disapprove it too. Life is by no means the highest good, so precious it must be clung to in all circumstances. Instead it seems to me we should regard it as a heavy and exacting task that has been assigned us, one which we have in some sense chosen and which we are absolutely obliged to carry through with loyal perseverance. To abandon it before our time is unquestionably an act of dereliction. In this particular case, however, my judgement was suspended and converted into wholehearted sympathy — especially since we survivors held it of great moment that the departed should not go to his grave unblessed — my mother and sister, because of what people would say and out of a tendency to bigotry (for they were zealous Catholics); I, however, because I am conservative by nature and have always had an unforced affection for traditional procedures in preference to the vulgarities of progress. Accordingly, since the women's courage failed them, I undertook to persuade the official town minister, Spiritual Counsellor Chateau, to take charge of the obsequies.
I encountered that cheerful and worldly cleric, who had only recently assumed office in our town, at his lunch, which consisted of an omelet fines herbes and a bottle of Liebfraumilch, and he received me kindly. For Spiritual Counsellor Chateau was an elegant priest who most convincingly personified the nobility and distinction of his Church. Although he was small and stout he possessed much grace of manner, swayed his hips expertly and attractively when he walked, and was master of the most charmingly accomplished gestures. His manner of speech was studied and impeccable, and below his silky black cassock peeped black silk socks and patent-leather shoes. Freemasons and antipapists maintained that he wore
them simply because he suffered from sweaty, evil-smelling feet; but even today I consider that malicious gossip. Although I was as yet personally unknown to him, with a wave of his plump, white hand he invited me to sit down, shared his meal with me, and, in the manner of a man of the world, gave every indication of believing my report, which was to the effect that my poor father, in the process of examining a long unused gun, had been struck down by a shell that went off unexpectedly. This, then, is what he gave the appearance of believing, as a matter of policy, no doubt (for very likely in times like these the Church must rejoice when people sue for her gifts even deceitfully). He bestowed words of human comfort on me and declared himself ready to conduct the priestly rites of burial, the cost of which my godfather Schimmelpreester had nobly engaged to pay. His Reverence thereupon made some notes concerning the manner of life of the departed, which I was at pains to portray as both honourable and happy, and finally he directed to me certain questions about my own circumstances and prospects, which I answered in general and approximate terms. 'My dear son,' was the general tenor of his reply, 'you seem hitherto to have conducted yourself somewhat carelessly. As yet, however, nothing is lost, for your personality makes a pleasing impression and I should like to praise you in particular for the agreeable quality of your voice. I should be much surprised if Fortuna did not prove gracious to you. I make it my business at all times to recognize those with bright prospects, such as have found favour in the eyes of God, for a man's destiny is written on his brow in characters that are not indecipherable to the expert.' And therewith he dismissed me.
Cheered by the words of this clever man, I hastened back to my mother and sister to tell them the happy outcome of my mission. The funeral, I must, alas, admit, turned out to be less impressive than one might have hoped, for the participation of our fellow citizens was meagre in the extreme, a not surprising fact so far as our townspeople were concerned. But where were our other friends, who in his prosperous days had watched my poor father's fireworks and had done so well by his Berncasteler Doctor? They stayed away, less from ingratitude perhaps than simply because they were people who had no taste for those solemn occasions on which one's attention is directed toward the eternal, and avoided them as something upsetting, a course of action that certainly bespeaks an indifferent character. Among them all only Lieutenant Übel, of the Second Nassau Regiment in Mainz, put in an appearance, though in civilian clothes, and it was thanks to him that my godfather Schimmelpreester and I were not the only ones to follow the swaying coffin to the grave.
Nevertheless, the reverend gentleman's prophecy continued to ring in my ears, for it not only accorded completely with my own presentiments and impressions, but came from a source to which I could attribute particular authority in these arcane matters. To say why would be beyond most people's competence; I believe, however, that I can at least outline the reasons. In the first place, belonging to a venerable hierarchy like the Catholic clergy develops one's perception of the gradations of human worth to a far subtler degree than life in ordinary society can do. Now that this simple thought has been safely stated, I shall go a step further and in doing so I shall try to be consistent and logical. We are here talking about a perception and therefore about a function of our material nature. Now, the Catholic form of worship, in order to lead us to what lies beyond the world of the senses, takes special account of that world and works with it, takes it into consideration in every possible way, and more than any other explores its secrets. An ear accustomed to lofty music, to harmonies designed to arouse a presentiment of heavenly choruses — should not such an ear be sensitive enough to detect inherent nobility in a human voice? An eye familiar with the most gorgeous pomp of colour and form, prefiguring the majesty of the heavenly mansions — should not such an eye be especially quick to detect the signs of mysterious favour in charm and natural endowment? An organ of smell familiar with and taking pleasure in clouds of incense in houses of worship, an organ of smell that in former times would have perceived the lovely odour of sanctity — should it not be able to detect the immaterial yet nevertheless corporeal exhalation of a child of fortune, a Sunday child? And one who has been ordained to preside over the loftiest secret of the Church, the mystery of Flesh and Blood — should he not be able to differentiate, thanks to his higher sensibility, between the more distinguished and the meaner forms of human clay? With these carefully chosen words I flatter myself that I have given my thoughts the completest possible expression.
In any case, the prophecy I had received told me nothing that my insight and opinion of myself did not confirm in the happiest fashions. At times, to be sure, depression weighed my spirit down, for my body, which once an artist's hand had fixed on canvas in a legendary role, was clothed in ugly and shabby garments, and my position in the small town could only be called disgraceful — indeed, suspect. Of disreputable family, son of a bankrupt and suicide, an unsuccessful student without any real prospect in life, I was the object of dark and contemptuous glances; and though my fellow townsmen from whom they came were, in my opinion, superficial and unattractive, they could not but wound painfully a nature such as mine. For as long as I was compelled to stay there, they made it distressing for me to appear in the public streets. This period reinforced the tendency to misanthropy and withdrawal from the world which had always been a part of my character, a tendency that can go so amiably hand in hand with an eager delight in the world and its people. And yet something mingled in those glances — nor was this the case simply among my townswomen — that one might have described as unwilling admiration and that in more auspicious circumstances would have promised the finest recompense for my inner distress. Today, when my face is haggard and my limbs show the marks of age, I can say without conceit that my nineteen years had fulfilled all that my tender youth had promised, and that even in my own estimation I had bloomed into a most attractive young man. Blond and brown at once, with melting blue eyes, a modest smile on my lips, a charmingly husky voice, a silken gleam in my hair, which was parted on the left and brushed hack from my forehead in a decorous wave, I would have seemed as appealing to my simple fellow-countrymen as later I seemed to the citizens of other parts of the world, if their sight had not been confused and clouded by their awareness of my misfortunes. My physique, which in earlier days had pleased the artistic eye of my godfather, Schimmelpreester, was by no means robust, and yet every limb and muscle was developed with a symmetry usually found only in devotees of sport and muscle-building exercises — whereas I, in dreamer's fashion, had always shunned bodily exercise and had done nothing of an outdoor kind to promote my physical development. It must further be observed that the texture of my skin was of an extraordinary delicacy, and so very sensitive that, even when I had no money, I was obliged to provide myself with soft, fine soaps, for if I used the common, cheap varieties, even for a short time, they chafed it raw.
Natural gifts and innate superiorities customarily move their possessors to a lively and respectful interest in their heredity. And so at this time one of my absorbing occupations was to search about among the likenesses of my ancestors — photographs and daguerreotypes, medallions and silhouettes, in so far as these could be helpful — trying to discover in their physiognomies some anticipation or hint of my own person in order that I might know to whom among them I might perhaps owe special thanks. My reward, however, was meagre. I found, to be sure, among my relations and forebears on my father's side much by way of feature and bearing that provided a glimpse of preparatory experiments on the part of nature (just as I made a point of saying earlier, for example, that my poor father, despite his corpulence, was on the friendliest footing with the Graces). On the whole, however, I had to conclude that I did not owe much to heredity; and unless I was to assume that at some indefinite point in history there had been an irregularity in my family tree whereby some cavalier, some great nobleman must be reckoned among my natural forebears, I was obliged, in order to explain the source of my superiorities, to look w
ithin myself.
What was it really about the words of the divine that had made such an extraordinary impression on me? Today I can answer precisely, just as at the time I was instantly certain about it in my own mind. He had praised me — and for what? For the agreeable tone of my voice. But that is an attribute or gift that in the common view has nothing at all to do with one's deserts and is no more considered a subject for praise than a cock eye, a goitre, or a club foot is thought blameworthy. For praise or blame, according to the opinion of our middle-class world, is applicable to the moral order only, not to the natural; to praise the latter seems in such a view unjust and frivolous. That Town Minister Chateau happened to think otherwise struck me as wholly new and daring, as the expression of a conscious and defiant independence that had a heathenish simplicity about it and at the same time stimulated me to happy reverie. Was it not difficult, I asked myself, to make a sharp distinction between natural deserts and moral? These portraits of uncles, aunts, and grandparents had taught me how few, indeed, of my assets had come to me by way of natural inheritance. Was it true that I had had so little to do, in an inner sense, with the development of those assets? Had I not instead the assurance that they were my own work, to a significant degree, and that my voice might quite easily have turned out common, my eyes dull, my legs crooked, had my soul been less watchful? He who really loves the world shapes himself to please it. If, furthermore, the natural is a consequence of the moral, it was less unjust and capricious than might have appeared for the reverend gentleman to praise me for the pleasing quality of my voice.
CHAPTER 3
A FEW days after we had consigned my father's mortal remains to the earth, we survivors, together with my godfather, Schimmelpreester, assembled for a deliberation or family council, for which our good friend arranged to come out to our villa. We had been officially informed that we should have to vacate the premises by New Year's day, and so it had become urgently necessary for us to make serious plans about our future residence.
