by Thomas Mann
My neighbour, honest Stanko, had no share in any such thoughts, and so we were dissimilar companions whose friendship could not possibly amount to much. On our walks my delighted attention was held by the spaciousness and splendour of the Parisian scenes; certain glorious perspectives of incredible distinction and magnificence always reminded me of my poor father and the way in which, almost fainting at the memory, he would exclaim 'Magnifique! Magnifique!' But as I made no ado about my admiration and amazement, my companion hardly noticed any difference in the responsiveness of our souls. On the other hand, he was slowly forced to notice that in some mysterious way our friendship failed to advance, that no real intimacy sprang up between us. This was simply due to my natural inclination toward taciturnity and reserve, to my insistence upon privacy and separateness. I have already mentioned this characteristic, which I consider one of the basic elements of my character, one which I could not have altered even had I wished to.
It is always thus with men who feel, not so much with pride as with acquiescence, that fate has something special in store for them. This feeling creates around them an atmosphere or emanation of coolness which, almost to their own regret, foils and repels all honest offers of friendliness and companionship. Thus it was with Stanko and me. He went to great lengths to confide in me and saw that I was patient rather than receptive. One afternoon, for example, as we were drinking wine in a bistro, he told me that before coming to Paris he had spent a year in jail because of a robbery he had been caught at not through any fault of his own but through the stupidity of his accomplice. I received this less than startling news with cheerful sympathy, and in itself it would have done nothing to injure our friendship. Next time, however, he went further and let me see that his confidences had been based on calculation, and this displeased me. He saw in me someone naturally lucky and possessed of childish cunning and skilful fingers, with whom, therefore, it woidd be useful to work and as he was obtuse enough not to realize that I was not born to be anyone's accomplice he made me a proposal. He had ferreted out a villa in Neuilly where he said a pretty haul could be made quite easily and almost without risk. When I declined with indifference, he became angry and asked me what made me think I was too good for it, adding that he knew all about me. As I have always despised people who thought they knew all about me, I simply shrugged my shoulders and replied that might well be but I was not interested. Whereupon he shouted 'Fool!' or perhaps 'Imbécile!' and stalked out.
Even this disappointment which I had caused him did not lead to an immediate break in our relations, but they grew less and less close until finally, without actually becoming enemies, we ceased to go out together.
CHAPTER 2
I CONTINUED to be a lift-boy all winter, and in spite of the signs of favour that came my way from the transient public, I soon became bored. I had reason to fear it would go on for ever and I would, so to speak, be forgotten there and grow old and grey in the job. What I heard from Stanko increased my concern. He, for his part, wished to be transferred to the main kitchen, with its two big ranges, four roasting-ovens, grill, and singeing-grate, so that in time he might become, if not actually a chef, then perhaps assistant kitchen-manager, whose duty it is to take the orders from the waiters and divide them among the company of cooks. But in his opinion his chances of such advancement were slight; there was too strong an inclination to keep a man where he happened to be, and he darkly predicted that I would stay tied to the lift for ever, though perhaps not permanently without pay, and would never come to know our cosmopolitan establishment from any point of view other than my narrow and limited one.
It was just this that worried me. I felt imprisoned in my lift-cage and in the shaft up and down which it moved at my direction. There was no chance, or at best only a fleeting one, for a glance at the scenes of high life in the lobby at five-o'clock teatime, when subdued music filled the air and girls in Greek attire danced for the entertainment of the guests who sat in wicker chairs at their usual small tables, consuming petits fours and delicate little sandwiches with their golden drink, and getting rid of the crumbs afterward by a kind of fluttering of their fingers in the air. The grand staircase swept between rows of palms in sculptured urns up to a gallery adorned with potted plants; here, on the carpeted steps, they would pause to chat; their expressions and the movement of their heads betokened wit; they exchanged jokes and indulged in the light laughter of men of the world. How fine it would be to move among them, waiting on them or on the ladies in the card-rooms or, at evening, to attend them in the dining-room, whither I saw tail-coated gentlemen proceeding, and ladies blazing with jewelry. In short, I was restless, longing for my existence to expand, for richer possibilities of contact with the world; and in actual fact kind fortune brought this to pass. My desire to get away from the lift, put on a new uniform, and embark on a new occupation with wider horizons was fulfilled: at Easter I became a waiter. This is how it happened.
The maître d'hôtel, Monsieur Machatschek by name, was a man of great consequence; clad daily in fresh linen, he moved his expansive belly around the dining-room with a vast authority. His clean-shaven moon face beamed. He commanded to perfection those lofty gestures of the lifted arm by which the master of the tables directs from afar the entering guests to their places. His way of dealing with any mistake or awkwardness on the part of the staff — in passing, and out of the corner of his mouth — was both discreet and biting. It was he who summoned me one morning, I must assume on the suggestion of the management, and received me in a small office opening off the magnificent salle-à-manger.
'Kroull?' he said. 'Called Armand? Voyons, voyons. Eh bien, I have heard of you — not exactly to your discredit and not altogether inaccurately, as would appear at first glance. That may be deceptive, pourtant. You realize, of course, that the services you have so far rendered this establishment are child's play and represent a very meagre use of your gifts? Vous consentez? It is our intention to make something out of you if possible, here in the restaurant — si c'est faisable. Do you feel a certain vocation for the profession of waiter, some degree of talent, I say — nothing exceptional and brilliant as you seem to be assuring me, that would mean carrying self-confidcnce too far, although of course courage doesn't hurt — a certain talent for elegant service and all the subtle attentions that go with it? For a decently skilful attendance on a public like ours? Innate? Of course something of this sort is innate, but the things you seem to consider innate in you would make one's head whirl. However, I can only repeat that healthy self-confidence is no drawback. You have some knowledge of languages? I did not say a comprehensive knowledge, as you claim, but only the most basic. Bon. These, of course, are all questions for a later day. In the nature of things, you can hardly expect to start anywhere except at the bottom. First of all, your job will be to scrape food off the plates that come from the dining-room before they go on to the scullery to be washed. You will receive forty francs a month for this employment — an almost exaggeratedly high salary, as your expression seems to indicate. Moreover, it's not customary when conversing with me to smile before I myself smile. I am the one who gives the signal to smile. Bon. We will provide the white jacket for your job as a scraper. Are you in a position to acquire a waiter's uniform in case we should need you some day to carry dishes out of the dining-room? You no doubt know this must be done at your own expense. You are entirely in a position to do it? Splendid. I see that we will have no difficulties with you. You are also provided with the necessary linen, decent evening shirts? Tell me: have you means of your own, money from your family? Some means? A la bonne heure. I believe, Kroull, within the foreseeable future we will be able to increase your salary to fifty or sixty francs. You can get the address of the tailor who makes our uniforms at the office. You may join us whenever you like. We need an assistant, and there are hundreds of applicants for the job of liftboy.A bientôt, mon garçon. We are getting close to the middle of the month, and so you will be paid twenty-five francs this month,
for I propose to start you at a salary of six hundred a year. This time your smile is permissible, for I set the example. That is all. You may go.'
Thus Machatschek in his conversation with me. That this momentous interview at first led to a come-down in my status and in what I represented is not to be denied. I had to turn in my liftboy's uniform at the store and receive a white jacket in exchange. I promptly had to acquire a usable pair of trousers to go with it, since it was out of the question to work in the ones belonging to my Sunday suit. This job of scraping scraps from the dishes into the garbage pail was somewhat degrading in comparison with my former occupation, which had been at any rate loftier, and at first it was not a little repulsive. Moreover, my chores extended into the scullery, where the china passed from hand to hand through a series of washings and ended up with the driers; from time to time I found myself among them attired in a white apron. Thus, in a sense, I stood at the beginning and at the end of this process of restoration.
To submit cheerfully to a position that is beneath one and to remain on cordial terms with those to whom such a situation is appropriate, is not difficult if one can only keep the word 'temporary' in mind. Despite people's insistence on equality, I felt complete confidence in the instinct for what is naturally pre-eminent and the impulse to recognize it. I was therefore convinced that I should not be kept in this position long; indeed, that I had only been put there as a matter of form. And so as soon after my conversation with Monsieur Machatschek as I had the opportunity I ordered a waiter's dress suit à la Saint James and Albany at the shop in the rue des Innocents, not far from the hotel, that specialized in uniforms and livery. It meant an investment of seventy-five francs, a special price agreed upon between the firm and the hotel. Employees without means had to pay it out of their wages, in instalments, but I of course paid cash. The livery was extremely pretty, especially if one knew how to wear it. The trousers were black, the tail-coat dark blue with gold buttons and velvet trimming at the collar; there were gold buttons, too, smaller ones on the deep-cut waistcoat. I was thoroughly delighted by this acquisition, which I hung up beside my Sunday clothes in the wardrobe outside the dormitory. I then procured the appropriate white tie and enamelled studs and cuff-links. Thus it came about that I was ready when, after five weeks in the scullery, one of the two tuxedo-clad head-waiters who assisted Monsieur Machatschek told me I would be needed in the dining-room. He instructed me to make the necessary preparations and I was able to inform him that I was completely prepared and could appear at any moment.
Thus at lunchtime the next day I made my debut in the dining-room in full glory. It is a magnificent hall, as spacious as a cathedral, with fluted columns whose gilded capitals support the white stucco ceiling. There are wall lights with red shades, billowing draperies at the windows, and countless tables, large and small, covered with white damask and adorned with orchids. Around them stand white lacquer chairs with red upholstered seats, and on the tables rest napkins folded like fans or pyramids, shining silver, delicate glasses, and bottles of wine in gleaming coolers or light wicker baskets — the responsibility of the wine steward, who is identifiable by his chain and cellarman's apron. Long before the first guests appeared I had been on hand, helping to set places and distribute menus at the tables to which I had been assigned as an assistant. I missed no opportunity, when my superior was busy elsewhere, to greet the entering guests with every sign of delight, to push in the ladies' chairs, hand them menus, fill their glasses — in short, to make my presence agreeable to our charges equally without respect to their unequal charms.
At first I had scant right or chance to do this. It was not my place to take orders or serve the courses, but simply to carry out the dishes and silverware after each course and, after the entremets and before the dessert was brought in, to remove the crumbs with a brush and flat scoop. The higher duties were the prerogative of my superior, Hector, a rather elderly man with a sleepy expression, whom I instantly recognized as the commis-de-salle with whom I had sat in the cantine on my first morning and who had given me his cigarettes. He too remembered me with a 'Mais oui, c'est toi', accompanied by a weary gesture of resignation, which was to characterize his attitude toward me — an attitude, from the very beginning, of resignation rather than command or reproof. He saw, of course, that the clientele, especially the ladies old and young, were interested in me, motioned to me when they wished some special item — English mustard, Worcestershire sauce, tomato catsup — wishes that in many cases I recognized as simple pretexts for calling me to the table in order to hear my 'Parfaitement, madame', 'Tout de suite, madame'. They would murmur: 'Merci, Armand' and accompany the words with a dazzling upward glance, hardly justified by the nature of my service. After a few days, while I was at the serving-table helping Hector remove the bones from a sole, he said to me:
'They would much rather be served by you, au lieu de moi — they are all crazy about you, toute la canaille friande! You'll soon squeeze me out and have these tables to yourself. You're an attraction — et tu n'as pas l'air de l'ignorer. The management knows it, too, and they push you ahead. You heard — of course you heard — what Monsieur Cordonnier' (that was the assistant head-waiter who had come to get me) 'said a while ago to the Swedish couple with whom you were chatting so prettily: "Joli petit charmeur, n'est-ce-pas?" Tu iras loin, mon cher — mes meilleurs vœux, ma bénédiction.'
'You exaggerate, Hector,' I replied. 'I would still have to learn a great deal from you before I could think of ousting you even if I had that in mind.'
This was not exactly my real thought on the matter. On one of the following days at dinnertime Monsieur Machatschek himself, propelling his belly toward my section and standing beside me so that we faced in opposite directions, murmured to me out of the corner of his mouth: 'Not bad, Armand. You don't work too badly. I recommend that you pay close attention to Hector when he is serving — that is, if you are interested in doing the same some time.'
I replied, also sotto voce: 'A thousand thanks, maître, but I know all that already, better than he does. I know, if you will pardon me, by instinct. I will not hurry you into putting me to the proof, but as soon as you decide to do so you will find my words are true.'
'Blagueur!' he said and gave a jerk to his stomach and a quick, amused laugh. At the same time, observing that a lady in green with a high, artificially blond coiffure had observed this little exchange, he winked at her and motioned toward me with his head, before moving on with his remarkably elastic step. As he did so he jerked his stomach again in amusement.
I soon received the additional assignment of serving coffee in the lobby twice a day with a few of my colleagues. This duty was presently extended to include serving tea there in the afternoons. In the meantime Hector had been moved to another part of the dining-room and the group of tables I had first served as an assistant was assigned to me. Thus, I had almost too much to do, and in the evening, toward the end of my varied day's work, I began to feel symptoms of exhaustion. As I handed around coffee and liqueurs, whisky and soda, and infusion de tilleul in the lobby after dinner, I felt that the current of sympathy between me and the world was losing vitality, that my zeal to be of service was weakening and my smile had a tendency to stiffen into a mask of pain.
By morning, however, my resilient nature would regain its freshness and gaiety: I could be seen again hurrying between breakfast room, coffee kitchen, and main kitchen, serving such guests as failed to take advantage of room service and have their breakfasts in bed, with tea, porridge, toast, preserves, baked fish, and pancakes with maple syrup; immediately afterward I could be seen in the dining-hall, assisted by an imbecile of a second, preparing for luncheon, spreading damask cloths over the soft base pads, setting places, and from twelve o'clock on, pencil in hand, taking down the orders of those who had come in. How well I knew how to counsel the indecisive, employing the soft, discreetly reserved tone appropriate to a waiter, and how to avoid any appearance of indifference in arranging and ser
ving the dishes, giving each motion the quality of loving personal service. Bowing, one hand behind my back in the best waiter's tradition, I would proffer the dishes; now and then I would practise the fine art of manipulating fork and spoon with my right hand alone to serve those who preferred me to do it for them. Meanwhile, the object of this attention — whether he or she, but especially if it was she — might take notice with agreeable surprise of my busy hand, which was the hand of no ordinary man.
No wonder, then, considering all this, that they pushed me ahead, that as Hector had said, exploiting the favour I found in the eyes of the over-fed guests of this luxury hotel, they handed me over to the gale of favouritism that beat about me and left it to my ingenuity to whip it up by my melting attentiveness and yet keep it within bounds by the propriety of my conduct.
To keep clear the picture of my character which these memoirs are designed to sketch for the reader, this much must be said to my credit. I have never taken vain or cruel pleasure in the sufferings of those fellow mortals in whom my person has aroused desires that my prudence has forbidden me to gratify. Passions of which one is the unmoved object may fill natures unlike mine with a cold and unlovely vanity or inspire a contemptuous distaste that leads them to trample pitilessly on the feelings of others. How different it is with me! I have always felt compassion for such feelings, have spared them to the best of my ability out of a kind of guilt, and have tried through an attitude of understanding to persuade the victims to a sensible renunciation. As proof I shall cite here, from this period of my life, the double example of little Eleanor Twentyman from Birmingham and Lord Stradibogie, an important member of the Scottish nobility. These simultaneous incidents represented in their different ways temptations to depart prematurely from my chosen career, tempations, in fact, to hasten down one of those by-paths of which my godfather had spoken, and which one cannot too carefully examine in respect to their direction and length.
