by Thomas Mann
'Well, how are things with my old friend, your uncle Schimmelpreester?'
'Pardon me, Herr Generaldirektor,' I replied, 'he is not my uncle, but my godfather, which is perhaps even closer. Thank you for inquiring, everything is going very well with my godfather so far as I know. He enjoys the highest reputation as an artist in the whole Rhineland and even beyond.'
'Yes, yes, a gay old dog, a sly fellow,' he said. 'Really? Is he successful? Eh bien, all the better. A gay dog. We had good times together here in the old days.'
'I don't need to say,' I continued, 'how thankful I am to Professor Schimmelpreester for putting in a good word for me with you, Herr Generaldirektor.'
'Yes, he did that. What, is he Professor too? How is that? Mais passons. He wrote me about you and I did not disregard the matter, because in the old days we had so many larks together. But I must tell you, my friend, there are difficulties. What are we to do with you? You obviously have not the slightest experience in hotel work. You are as yet entirely untrained -'
'Without presumption I think I can say in advance,' I replied, 'that a certain natural adroitness will very quickly make up for my lack of training.'
'Well,' he remarked in a teasing tone, 'your adroitness no doubt shows itself mainly with pretty women.'
In my opinion he said this for three reasons. First of all, the Frenchman — and Herr Stürzli had long been that — loves to pronounce the phrase 'pretty women' for his own gratification as well as that of others. 'Une jolie femme' is the most popular raillery in that country; with it one can be sure of a gay and sympathetic response. It is much the same as mentioning beer in Munich. There one has only to pronounce the word to produce general high spirits. This in the first place. Secondly, and looking more deeply, in talking about pretty women and joking about my presumed skill with them, Stürzli wanted to subdue the confusion of his instincts, be rid of me in a certain sense, and, as it were, push me toward the female side. This I understood perfectly well. In the third place, however — in opposition, it must be admitted, to the above effort — it was his intention to make me smile, which could only lead to his experiencing that same confusion again. Obviously, in a muddled way, that was just what he wanted. The smile, however restrained, was something I could not refuse him and I accompanied it with the following words:
'Assuredly in this domain, as in every other, I stand far behind you, Herr Generaldirektor.'
My pretty speech was wasted. He did not hear it at all, but simply looked at my smile, and his face once more bore a look of revulsion. This is what he had wanted, and there was nothing for me to do but to lower my eyes once more in decorous modesty. And once again he did not make me pay for it.
'That's all very well, young man,' he said, 'the question is what about your rudimentary information? You drop in like this on Paris — do you even know how to speak French?'
This was grist to my mill. I was filled with elation, for now the conversation had taken a turn in my favour. This is the place to insert an observation about my general gift for languages, a gift that was always amazing and mysterious. Universal in my endowments and possessed of every possible potentiality, I did not really need to learn a foreign language, once I had acquired a smattering of it, to give the impression, for a short time at least, of fluent mastery. This was accompanied with such an exaggerated but precise imitation of the characteristic national gestures as bordered on the comic. The imitative, parody element in my performance did not lessen its credibility but actually enhanced it, and with it came a pleasant, almost ecstatic feeling of being possessed by a foreign spirit. Plunged in this or rather taken captive by it, I was in a state of inspiration, in which, to my astonishment (and this in turn increased the daring of my performance) the vocabulary simply flashed into my head, God knows from where.
In the first case, however, my glibness in French had no such supernatural background.
'Ah, voyons, monsieur le directeur général,' I gushed with extreme affectation, 'Vous me demandez sérieusement si je parle français? Mille fois pardon, mais cela m'amuse! De fait, c'est plus ou moins ma langue maternelle — ou plutôt paternelle, parce que mon pauvre père — qu'il repose en paix! — nourrissait dans son tendre cœur un amour presque passioné pour Paris et profitait de toute occasion pour s'arrêter dans cette ville magnifique dont les recoins les plus intimes lui étaient familiers. Je vous assure: il connaissait des ruelles aussi perdues comme, disons, la rue de l'Échelle au Ciel, bref, il se sentait chez soi à Paris comme nulle part au monde. La conséquence? Voilà la conséquence. Ma propre éducation fut de bonne part française, et l'idée de la conversation, je l'ai toujours conçue comme l'idée de la conversation française. Causer, c'était pour moi causer en français et la langue française — ah, monsieur, cette langue de l'élégance, de la civilisation, de l'esprit, elle est la langue de la conversation, la conversation elle-même. . . . Pendant toute mon enfance heureuse j'ai causé avec une charmante demoiselle de Vevey — Vevey en Suisse — qui prenait soin du petit gars de bonne famille, et c'est elle qui m'a enseigné des vers français, vers exquis que je me répète dès que j'en ai le temps et qui littéralement fondent sur ma langue — Hirondelles de ma patrie, De mes amours ne me parlez-vous pas?'
'Stop!' he interrupted the cascade of my chatter. 'Stop that poetry at once! I can't stand poetry, it upsets my stomach. Here in the lobby at five o'clock in the afternoon we sometimes let French poets appear, if they have anything decent to wear, and recite their verses. The ladies like it, but I keep as far away as possible, it makes the cold sweat break out on me.'
'Je suis désolé, monsieur le directeur général. Je suis violemment tenté de maudir la poésie.'
'All right. Do you speak English?'
Yes, did I? I did not, or at most I could act for three minutes or so as though I did — that is, just so long as I could manage with what I had once heard of the accent of the language in Langenschwalbach and in Frankfurt and the bits of vocabulary I had picked up here and there in books. The important thing was to construct out of a total lack of materials something that would be at least momentarily dazzling. And so I said — not in the broad, flat accents that the ignorant tend to associate with English, but pointing my lips instead and whispering, with my nose arrogantly raised in the air:
'I certainly do, sir. Of course, sir, quite naturally I do. Why shouldn't I? I love to, sir. It's a very nice and comfortable language, very much so indeed, sir, very. In my opinion, English is the language of the future, sir. I'll bet you what you like, sir, that in fifty years from now it will be at least the second language of every human being. .. .'
'Why do you wave your nose around in the air like that? It's not necessary. Also, your theories are superfluous. I simply asked what you knew. Parla italiano?'
Instantly I was an Italian; in place of soft-voiced refinement I became possessed by the fieriest of temperaments. There happily rose up in me all the Italian sounds I had ever heard from my godfather Schimmelpreester, who had enjoyed frequent sojourns in that sunny land. Moving my hand with fingers pressed together in front of my face, I suddenly spread all five fingers wide and carolled and sang:
'Ma, signore, che cosa mi domanda? Son veramente innamorato di questa bellissima lingua, la più bella del mondo. Ho bisogno soltanto d'aprire la mia bocca e involontariamente diventa il fonte di tutta l'armonia di quest'idioma celeste. Si, caro, signore, per nie non c'è dubbio che gli angeli nel cielo parlano italiano. Impossibile d'immaginare che queste beate creature si servano d'una lingua meno musicale —
'Stop!' he commanded. 'You're slipping into poetry again and you know that makes me ill. Can't you leave it alone? It's not fitting for an hotel employee. But your accent is not bad, and you have a certain knowledge of languages, as I see. That is more than I had expected. We will try you out, Knoll-'
'Krull, Herr Generaldirektor.'
'Ne me corrigez pas! So far as I am concerned, you could be called Knall. What's your first name?'
'Felix
, Herr Generaldirektor.'
'That doesn't suit me at all. Felix — Felix, there's something private and presumptious about it. You will be called Armand.'
'It gives me the greatest joy, Herr Generaldirektor, to change my name.'
'Joy or not, Armand is the name of the liftboy who is quitting his job tonight. You can take his place tomorrow. We will try you out as a liftboy.'
'I venture to promise, Herr Generaldirektor, that I will prove quick to learn and that I will do my job even better than Eustache.'
'What's this about Eustache?'
'He stops too high or too low and it makes an awkward step, Herr Generaldirektor. Only, of course, when he is carrying his equals. With hotel guests, if I understood him properly, he is more careful. This lack of consistency in carrying out his duties seems to me less than praiseworthy.'
'What business is it of yours to praise things around here? Besides, are you a Socialist?'
'No, indeed, Herr Generaldirektor! I find society enchanting just as it is and I am on fire to earn its good opinion. I only meant that when a man knows his business he should never permit himself to make a botch of it even when nothing is at stake.'
'Socialists are something we have no place whatever for in our business.'
'Ça va sans dire, monsieur le – '
'Go on now, Knoll. Have them give you the proper livery in the storeroom down in the basement. This is supplied by us, but the appropriate shoes are not, and I must call your attention to the fact that yours -'
'That is simply a temporary error, Herr Generaldirektor. By tomorrow it will be rectified to your complete satisfaction. I know what I owe the établissement and I assure you that my appearance will leave nothing whatever to be desired. I am enormously pleased about the livery, if I may say so. My godfather Schimmelpreester loved to dress me up in the most varied costumes and always praised me for looking so much at home in each of them, although inborn talent is not really a cause for praise. But I have never yet tried on a liftboy's uniform.'
'It will be no misfortune,' he said, 'if in it you please the pretty women. Adieu, your services will not be required here today. Take a look at Paris this afternoon. Tomorrow morning ride up and down a few times with Eustache or one of the others and see how the mechanism works; it's simple and will not exceed your competence.'
'It will be handled with love,' was my reply. 'I will not rest until I no longer make the smallest step. Du reste,monsieur le directeur général,' I added and let my eyes melt, 'les paroles me manquent pour exprimer – '
'C'est bien, c'est bien, I've got things to do,' he said and turned away, his face twisting once more in that grimace of distaste. This did not disturb me. Post-haste — for it was important for me to find that clockmaker before noon — I went downstairs to the basement, found the door marked 'Storeroom' without difficulty and knocked. A little old man with eyeglasses was reading the newspaper in a room that looked like a second-hand store or the costume room of a theatre, so crowded was it with colourful servants' liveries. I mentioned my needs, which were promptly met.
'Et comme ça,' said the old man, 'tu voudrais t'apprêter, mon petit, pour promener les jolies femmes en haut et en bas?'
This nation cannot stop doing it. I winked and agreed that this was my wish and duty.
Very briefly he measured me with his eyes, took a sand-coloured livery with red piping, jacket and trousers, from the hanger, and quite simply folded it over my arm.
'Wouldn't it be better for me to try it on?' I asked.
'Not necessary. Not necessary. What I give you will fit. Dans cet emballage la marchandise attirera l'attention des jolies femmes.'
The wizened old man was very likely thinking of something else. He spoke quite mechanically, and just as mechanically I winked back at him, called him 'mon oncle' at parting, and assured him I would owe my carrière to him alone.
I took the basement lift to the fifth floor. I was in a hurry, for I was still a little worried as to whether Stanko would leave my suitcase alone in my absence. On the way, the lift made several stops. Guests demanded the services of the lift; as they came in I modestly flattened myself against the wall. A lady entered from the lobby and asked to be taken to the second floor. An English-speaking bride and groom got in at the first floor and asked for the third. The single lady, who had entered first, excited my attention — and here, to be sure, the word 'excited' is appropriate. I observed her with a rapid beating of the heart that was not without sweetness. I knew the lady although she was not wearing a cloche with heron feathers, but another hat instead, a broad-brimmed creation trimmed in satin, over which she had put a white scarf that was tied under her chin and lay on her coat in long streamers. And although this coat was a different one from the one she had worn yesterday, a lighter, brighter one, with big cloth-covered buttons, there could not be the slightest doubt that I had before me my neighbour of the customs shed, the lady with whom I was connected through the possession of the jewel case. I recognized her first of all by a widening of the eyes that she had practised constantly during her argument with the inspector, but that was obviously a habit, for now she kept doing it constantly without cause. There were further signs of nervous tension in her not unlovely face. Otherwise, so far as I could see, there was nothing in the appearance of this forty-year-old brunette that could mar the tender relationship in which I stood to her. A little downy moustache lay not unbecomingly on her upper lip. Moreover her eyes had the golden-brown colour that always pleases me in women. If only she would not keep widening them in such a disturbing way! I had a feeling I ought to talk her out of that compulsive habit.
So we had really alighted here simultaneously — if the word 'alight' can be used in my case. It was only by chance that I had not met her again in front of the blushing gentleman at the reception desk. Her presence in the narrow space of the elevator produced a strange effect on me. Without knowing about me, without ever having seen me, without being aware of me now, she had been carrying me, featureless, in her thoughts ever since the moment yesterday evening or this morning when in unpacking her suitcase she had discovered that the jewel case was missing. I could not bring myself to attribute a hostile intent to her interest, however much this may surprise the solicitous reader. That her concern about me and her questions might have resulted in steps being taken against me (perhaps she was even now returning from taking such steps), these obvious possibilities flitted through my mind, without producing any real conviction; they had small weight against the enchantment of a situation in which the seeker was unwittingly so close to the object of her search. How I regretted, for her as well as for myself, that this proximity was of such short duration, lasting only to the second floor!
As she in whose thoughts I lay stepped out she said to the red-haired liftboy: 'Merci, Armand.'
It was remarkable, and a proof of her sociability as well, that she, who had so recently arrived, already knew this fellow's name. Perhaps she had been a frequent guest at the Saint James and Albany and had known him for some time. I was even more struck by the name and by the fact that it was Armand who was running the lift. The meeting had been rich in associations.
'Who was that lady?' I asked as we went on.
Like an ignorant boor, the redhead made no reply. Nevertheless, as I got out on the fifth floor I added this question:
'Are you the Armand who is quitting this evening?'
'That's none of your damn business,' he said hoarsely.
'You're wrong,' I replied. 'It is my business. As a matter of fact, I'm Armand now. I'm following in your footsteps. I'm your successor and I'm going to try to cut a less boorish figure than you.'
'Imbécile!' he shouted, slamming the lift gate in my face.
Stanko was asleep when I entered dortoir number four. Hastily I proceeded as follows: I removed my suitcase from the shelf, carried it into the washroom, took out the little case that the honest Stanko, thank God, had left untouched, and, after removing my jacket and vest, pu
t the charming topaz necklace around my neck and with some difficulty made sure the safety catch was closed behind. I then put my clothing back on, and crammed the rest of the jewelry, which was less bulky, into my right- and left-hand pockets. This done, I put my suitcase back in its place, hung up my livery in the wardrobe beside the hall door, put on my outdoor jacket and cap and — I think through being disinclined to ride with Armand again — ran down all five flights and was on my way to the rue de l'Echelle au Ciel.
With my pockets full of treasure I still did not have the few sous necessary for a bus. I had to go on foot, and with difficulty, for I had to ask my way and, besides, my pace soon suffered from the weariness of going uphill. It took me a good three-quarters of an hour to reach the Montmartre Cemetery, for which I had been inquiring. From there on, to be sure, Stanko's directions proved completely reliable, and I quickly made my way through the rue Damrémont to the sidestreet of the Wise Virgins. Once there, I was within a few strides of my goal.
A mammoth settlement like Paris consists of many quarters and communities, and very few of these give any hint of the majesty of the whole to which they belong. Behind the magnificent façade the metropolis exhibits to the stranger is hidden the middle-class small town that carries on an independent existence within it. Many of the inhabitants of the street called 'Ladder to Heaven' had probably not seen for years the glitter of the avenue de l'Opéra, or the cosmopolitan hubbub of the boulevard des Italiens. An idyllic provincial scene surrounded me. Children played on the narrow cobbled street. Along the quiet pavements were rows of simple houses, with here and there a shop on the ground floor — a grocer's, a butcher's, a baker's, a saddler's — modestly displaying its wares. There must be a clockmaker here, too. I soon found number 92. 'Pierre Jean-Pierre, Horlogier' was inscribed on the door of the shop beside the show window, which contained all kinds of timepieces — pocket watches for ladies and gentlemen, tin alarm clocks, and cheap pendulum clocks.
I pressed the latch and stepped in to the accompaniment of a tinkling bell that was set in motion by the opening of the door. The owner, a jeweller's lupe clamped in his eye, sat behind the counter, which was arranged as a showcase and also contained within its glass walls all sorts of watches and chains. He was examining the works of a pocket watch whose owner obviously had reason for complaint. The many-voiced tick-tock of table clocks and grandfather clocks filled the store.
