Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man: The Early Years

by Thomas Mann

  It sometimes happened that I spent those afternoons and evenings with Stanko, who had long ago recovered from his illness and was back at work in the garde-manger, preparing his cold dishes and other delicacies for the big buffet. He was fond of me; I liked him well enough and was glad of his company in cafés and places of entertainment, though his presence was hardly distinguished. In ordinary clothes he had a comical, ambiguously exotic appearance, for his taste ran to large checks and bright colours, and no doubt he looked far better in the white apron and high white linen chef's hat of his calling. It is a common mistake: the working-class ought never to attempt to be fashionable, at least by bourgeois standards. They do it awkwardly and it damages them in the eyes of the public. More than once I have heard my godfather Schimmelpreester express himself on this subject, and Stanko's appearance reminded me of his words. The abasement of the people, he said, through their acceptance of fashion, which was a result of the standardization of the world through bourgeois taste, was much to be regretted. The holiday attire of the peasantry and the former pomp and circumstance of the artisans' guilds had been far finer spectacles than some plump maid trying to play the lady on Sunday in feathered hat and train, not to mention the party clothes of the factory worker awkwardly striving to be fashionable. Since, however, the time was over and done with when the classes were distinguished from one another by mutual respect, he was for a society in which there were no more classes at all, neither maid nor lady, neither fine gentlemen nor commoner, and all wore the same thing. Golden words, spoken as though out of my own soul. What, I thought, would I have against shirt, breeches, belt, and nothing more? It would become me, and Stanko too would look better thus than in his clumsy approximation of fashion. Almost anything is becoming to a human being except the perverse, the stupid, and the half-baked.

  So much by way of marginal comment. It was with Stanko, then, that I visited for a time the cabarets and terrace cafés, including the Café de Madrid, where a colourful and instructive society gathered after the theatres closed. But one special gala evening we spent at the Stoudebecker Circus, which had just opened in Paris for a few weeks' run. A word or two about that — or perhaps more! I should never forgive myself if I passed over such an experience without imparting to it some of the colour it so richly possessed.

  This famous institution had pitched its vast round tent on the Square Saint-Jacques near the Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt and the Seine. The attendance was tremendous, since the performance obviously equalled or perhaps excelled the best in this field that had ever been offered the knowledgeable and highly exacting taste of the Parisian public. What an attack on the senses and nerves, what sensuous delight, in fact, lies in the uninterrupted succession of scenes as the fantastic programme unrolls! Exploits that lie at the extreme limits of human ability are achieved with bright smiles and lightly thrown kisses; their basic pattern is the salto mortale, for they all involve the fatal risk of a broken neck. Schooled to grace at moments of utmost daring, the performers are accompanied by the flourishes of a music appropriate enough in its commonplaceness to the physical character of the performance but not to the extreme heights to which it is raised; it is this that furnishes the breath-taking build-up for the last not-to-be accomplished act — which nevertheless is accomplished.

  With a brief nod (for the circus has no use for bows) the artist acknowledges the ecstatic applause of the massed onlookers. This is a unique audience, confusingly and excitingly compounded of the sensation-seeking crowd and the rude elegance of the horsy world. Cavalry officers in the loges, their caps at an angle; young rakes, freshly shaved, wearing monocles, a carnation or a chrysanthemum in the buttonholes of their loose yellow topcoats; cocottes, mingling with inquisitive ladies from the fashionable faubourgs, accompanied by knowledgeable cavaliers in grey frock coats and grey top hats, their field-glasses slung in sporting fashion around their necks as though at a race at Longchamp. Add to this the excitement of the animals' physical presence, the magnificent, colourful costumes, the glittering spangles, the stable smell extending everywhere, the naked limbs of men and women. Breasts, throats, beauty in its most instantly appreciated form, the savage charm of dangerous deeds performed for the pleasure of the blood-thirsty crowd cater to every taste and enflame every desire. Women riders from the Hungarian steppe spring as though possessed on to wild-eyed, saddleless horses, roused to berserk frenzy by harsh cries. Gymnasts in tight-fitting, flesh-coloured tights; the hairless, bulging arms of athletes, stared at by the ladies with a strange, cold fixity; and charming boys. How forcibly I was struck by a troupe of tumblers and tightrope-walkers distinguished from the fantastic crowd not only by their simple sports clothes, but also by their agreeable trick of consulting briefly before each of their hair-raising performances, as though they first had to come to an agreement. Their star, who was obviously a favourite with everyone, was a boy of fifteen who bounded from a springboard, turned two and a half somersaults in the air, and then landed without so much as a wobble on the shoulders of the man behind him, apparently his elder brother. He was, to be sure, successful in doing this only on his third attempt. Twice he failed, missing his brother's shoulders and falling; his laughter and the way he shook his head at this failure were just as enchanting as the ironic gallantry of the gesture with which his senior summoned him back to the springboard. Possibly it was all intentional, for naturally enough the applause and bravo's of the multitude were all the more tumultuous when on the third attempt he not only completed his salto mortale and landed without a quiver but managed to heighten the storm of applause by a gesture of his outspread hands which seemed to say: 'Me voilà!' It is certain, however, that his calculated or half-intended failures had taken him closer to a broken spine than his triumphant success.

  What fabulous creatures these artists are! Are they really human at all? Take the clowns, for example, those basically alien beings, fun-makers, with little red hands, little thin-shod feet, red wigs under conical felt hats, their impossible lingo, their hand-stands, their stumbling and falling over everything, their mindless running to and fro and unserviceable attempts to help, the hideously unsuccessful efforts to imitate their serious colleagues — in tightrope-walking, for instance — which brings the crowd to a pitch of mad merriment. Are these ageless, half-grown sons of absurdity, at whom Stanko and I laughed so heartily (I, however, with a thoughtful fellow-feeling), are they human at all? With their chalk-white faces and utterly preposterous painted expressions — triangular eyebrows and deep perpendicular grooves in their cheeks under the reddened eyes, impossible noses, mouths twisted up at the corners into insane smiles — masks, that is, which stand in inconceivable contrast to the splendour of their costumes — black satin, for example, embroidered with silver butterflies, a child's dream — are they, I repeat, human beings, men that could conceivably find a place in every-day daily life? In my opinion it is pure sentimentality to say that they are 'human too', with the sensibilities of human beings and perhaps even with wives and children. I honour them and defend them against ordinary bad taste when I say no, they are not, they are exceptions, side-splitting monsters of preposterousness, glittering, world-renouncing monks of unreason, cavorting hybrids, part human and part insane art.

  Everything must be 'human' for the man in the street, and he thinks himself amazingly tender-hearted and knowledgeable when he penetrates appearances and finds the human beneath the surface. What about Andromache — 'La Fille de l'air', as she was called on the lengthy programme? Was she, by chance, human? I still dream of her, and though her person was as far as possible from the sphere of the absurd, it was really she whom I had in mind when I let myself run on about the clowns. She was the star of the circus, the main attraction, and she did an act on the high trapeze that was incomparable. She did it — and this was the sensational novelty, something unique in circus history — without a safety net below her. Her partner, a man of considerable ability who was, nevertheless, not to be compared to her, performed with p
ersonal restraint, only extending his hand to her at the end of her foolhardy, amazingly executed evolutions in space between the two rapidly swinging trapezes; he really served only to set off her feats. Was she twenty years old, or less, or more? Who can say? Her features were severe and noble. Strangely enough, they were not disfigured but made clearer and more attractive by the elastic cap she pulled on when she set to work, without which her heavy, tightly braided brown hair would have whipped about during her wild, head-over-heels flight. She was more than average size for a woman. Her short pliant silver breastplate was edged with swansdown, and attached to her shoulder-blades, as though to confirm her title of 'daughter of the air', she wore a small pair of white wings. As if they could help her to fly! Her breasts were meagre, her hips narrow, the muscles of her arms, naturally enough, more developed than in other women, and her amazing hands, though not as big as a man's, were nevertheless not so small as to rule out the question whether she might not, Heaven forfend, be a boy in disguise. No, the female conformation of her breasts was unmistakable, and so too, despite her slimness, was the form of her thighs. She barely smiled. Her beautiful lips, far from being compressed, were usually slightly parted, and the nostrils of her pure Grecian nose were dilated. She distained all flirtatiousness toward the crowd. Pausing after a tour de force on the crossbar, one hand resting against the rope, she would just perceptibly stretch out the other in greeting. But her serious eyes, staring straight ahead under even, unruffled, motionless brows, did not join in the greeting.

  I worshipped her. She would stand up, set the trapeze in violent motion, leap off and fly past her partner, who would be coming toward her from the opposite trapeze; seize the crossbar with her hands, which were neither male nor female, execute, with body fully extended, a complete giant swing — which few gymnasts can perform — and utilize the tremendous impetus thus attained to fly back, once more passing her partner, and execute another salto mortale in mid-career; seize the bar of the swinging trapeze, draw herself up with a barely visible contraction of her arm muscles, and, impassively raising her hand, seat herself on it.

  It was incredible, impossible, and nevertheless she did it. A shudder of enthusiasm shook anyone witnessing it and his heart grew cold. The crowd repaid her with awe rather than acclaim, they worshipped her, as I did, in the deathly stillness that followed the cutting off of the music during her dare-devil feats. That the most precise calculation was a vital condition of everything she did goes without saying. At exactly the right instant, figured to the fraction of a second, just as she was ready to alight after her giant swing on the opposite trapeze and her salto on the way back, the flying trapeze her partner had abandoned must swing toward her, and not on any account start its back swing. If the bar was not there, those magnificent hands would close on emptiness and she would pitch headlong from the element of her art, the air, down to the common ground, which was death. The extreme accuracy these calculations called for made one shudder.

  But I repeat my question: was Andromache really human? Was she a human being outside the ring, apart from her professional accomplishments, her almost unnatural — indeed, for a woman, wholly unnatural — achievements? To imagine her as a wife and mother was simply stupid; a wife and mother, or even anyone who could possibly be thought of as one, does not hang head-down from a trapeze, swinging so violently that it almost turns all the way over. She does not let go and fly through the air to her partner, who seizes her by her hands, executes a pendulum motion back and forth, and releases her at the top of the swing so that she returns to her own trapeze to the accompaniment of the famous mid-air salto. This was Andromache's way of consorting with a man; any other was unthinkable, for one recognized too well that this disciplined body lavished upon the adventurous accomplishments of her art what others devote to love. She was not a woman; but she was not a man either and therefore not a human being. A solemn angel of daring with parted lips and dilated nostrils, that is what she was, an unapproachable Amazon of the realms of space beneath the canvas, high above the crowd, whose lust for her was transformed into awe.

  Andromache! Her vision, painful and uplifting at once, lingered in my mind long after her act was over and others had replaced it. The ringmasters and their attendants formed an avenue through which Director Stoudebecker entered with his twelve black stallions. He was a middle-aged sporting gentleman with a grey moustache, in evening clothes, the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole. In one hand he held a riding-crop and a long whip with an inlaid handle — a gift from the Shah of Persia, as he was careful to explain — which he could crack explosively. Standing in the sand of the ring in his gleaming patent-leather shoes, he addressed quiet, personal directions to one or other of his magnificent pupils, their proud heads decked in white bridles. At his command they went through their paces, knelt and turned and, finally, confronted by his raised crop, executed a magnificent circle of the ring on their hind feet. An impressive sight, but I was thinking of Andromache. Magnificent animal bodies; and it is between animal and angel, so I reflected, that man takes his stand. His place is closer to the animals, that we must admit. But she, my adored one, though all body, was a chaster body, untainted by humanity, and stood much closer to the angels.

  Then lion bars were put around the ring and the lion cage was rolled in to offer a spice of danger to the unheroic, gaping crowd. The trainer, Monsieur Mustafa, had gold rings in his ears, was naked to the waist, and wore wide red trousers and a red hat. He entered through a small door which was quickly opened for him and closed behind him just as fast. Five beasts awaited him inside, their sharp, carnivorous scent mingling with the smell of the stables. They retreated before him and, at his command, one after another crouched reluctantly on the five stools arranged around the cage. They snarled with hideously contorted faces and struck at him with their paws — possibly half in play, but with a large element of rage as well, for they knew that entirely against their inclination and nature they were going to be forced to leap through hoops, and ultimately through fiery ones. A couple of them shook the air with the thunderous roar that had once terrified and scattered the small creatures of the forest. He retorted by shooting his revolver into the air. At this they cringed, snarling, for they realized their nature-given roar was out-trumped by this deafening report. Thereupon Mustafa swaggeringly lighted a cigarette, an action they observed with deep resentment. Then softly but firmly he pronounced a name, Achille or Nero, and with the utmost decisiveness summoned the first of them to his performance. One after another the kingly cats had unwillingly to leave their stools and spring back and forth through hoops held high in the air and finally, as I have said, through a hoop smeared with blazing pitch. Well or ill, they leaped through the flames; it was not hard for them to do, but it was an indignity. Growling, they returned to their stools, which were in themselves an insult, and stared fascinated at the man in red trousers. He kept moving his head lightly and quickly, fixing his dark eyes on the green eyes of each beast in turn — eyes narrowed by fear and by a certain hate and affection. At the slightest sound of disturbance he would swing round instantly and impose quiet with a glance of amazement and a name spoken softly but firmly.

  Everyone felt the uncanny and cruel fellowship in which he moved, and this was exactly the titillation for which the rabble sitting in safety had paid. It was perfectly clear that his revolver would be of no use if the five mighty beasts awoke from their illusion of helplessness and decided to tear him to pieces. It was my impression that if he had injured himself in any way and they had seen his blood, it would have been all over with him. I realized, too, that if he went into the cage half naked it was as a boon to the crowd, so that their craven joy might be enhanced by the sight of flesh, the flesh into which the great cats — who knows, perhaps it will happen tonight! — might set their terrible claws. Since I, however, continued to think of Andromache, I felt tempted to picture her as Mustafa's beloved; at any rate there was a kind of appropriateness in that. At the mere
thought, jealousy pierced my heart like a knife and I actually lost my breath; hastily I banished the image. Comrades in the face of death they might well be, but not a pair of lovers, no, no; besides, it would bode ill to both of them! If he were involved in an affair, the lions would know and would refuse him obedience. And she, the angel of daring, would miss the flying bar, I was sure of it, if she abased herself and became a woman; she would pitch headlong toward the ground into disgrace and death. ...

  What more was there, early and late, in the Stoudebecker Circus? A great variety of things, a superfluity of disciplined marvels. There is little to be gained by recalling them all. I do remember that from time to time I glanced sidewise at my friend Stanko, who, like all the people round about, was sunk in passive, blank enjoyment of this never-ending stream of dazzling skill, this colourful cascade of confusing, intoxicating feats and sights. This was not my style at all nor my way of meeting experience. Nothing, to be sure, escaped me; I seized on every detail with passionate attention. This was surrender, but in it there was — how shall I say? — an element of rebellion; I stiffened my back; my soul — how in the world can I express it? — exerted a kind of counter-pressure against the overwhelming flood of impressions. For all my admiration, there was a certain distrust — I am not putting this accurately but only approximately — in my penetrating observation of the tricks and arts and their effects. The crowd around me seethed with joy and merriment — I, however, in some measure shut myself off from their seething and yearning, coolly, like someone who was a member of the profession, who 'belonged' to the performers. Not as a member of the circus profession or a performer of the salto mortale, of course; I could not feel myself that, but as a member of a more general profession, as an entertainer and illusionist. That is why I inwardly withdrew from the crowd, which was only the passive victim of entertainment, revelling in self-forgetfulness, and repudiated any idea that I was one of them. They merely enjoyed, and enjoyment is a passive condition that will never satisfy one who feels himself born to act and to achieve.