Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man: The Early Years

by Thomas Mann

  'Care, sorrow, a breaking heart, dear Kroull! What can you do, there's nothing left but the solace of wine, and you learn to appreciate the gifts of Bacchus. That's his name, isn't it? "Bacchus", not "Bachus", as people usually say for convenience. I call it convenience not to use a harsher word. Are you strong on mythology?'

  'Not very, marquis. There is, for instance, the god Hermes. But aside from him I know very little.'

  'Why do you need to? Learning, especially conspicuous learning, is not a gentleman's affair. That's a legacy from the days when a nobleman only needed to have a decent seat on a horse and was taught nothing else, not even reading and writing. The books he left to the priests. There's still a strong tendency in that direction among my fellows. Most of them are elegant loafers, and not even charming. Do you ride? Permit me to fill your glass with this care-killer! Your good fortune again! Oh, my good fortune? There's no point in drinking to that. It's not so easily mended. So you don't ride? I'm convinced you're perfectly suited to it, born for it, in fact; you would put all the cavaliers in the Bois to shame.'

  'I admit to you, marquis, I almost think so myself.'

  'That's no more than healthy self-confidence, dear Kroull. I call it healthy because I share it, because I myself have confidence in you and not on that point alone. ... Let me be frank. I have the impression that you are not really a confiding man or one who opens his heart. You always hold something back. Somehow or other, there's a mystery about you. Pardon, I am being indiscreet. My talking this way simply demonstrates my own carefree garrulousness — that is, my confidence in you.'

  'For which I am sincerely grateful, dear marquis. May I take the liberty of inquiring after Mademoiselle Zaza's health? I was really surprised to find you here without her.'

  'How nice of you to ask after her! You do find her charming, don't you? How could you fail to? I permit you to. I permit the whole world to find her charming. And yet I should really like to withdraw her from the world and have her entirely to myself. The dear child is busy this evening at her little theatre, the Folies Musicales. She is a soubrette; didn't you know? At present she is appearing in Le Don de la Fée. But I've seen the thing so often I can't stand being there for every performance. Besides, it makes me a little nervous to see her wearing so little when she sings — the little is becoming, but it is very little indeed, and now I suffer because of it, although at the start that was just what made me fall so madly in love with her. Have you ever been passionately in love?'

  'I'm in a very good position to follow you, marquis.'

  'I can readily believe you know all about matters of the heart. And yet you seem to me the type who is more loved than loving. Am I wrong? All right, let's put that question aside. Zaza still has to sing in the third act. After that I will take her home and we will have tea together in the little apartment I have furnished for her.'

  'My congratulations! But that means we'll have to hurry with our Lafite and end this pleasant meeting before long. For my own part, I have a ticket for the Opéra Comique.'

  'Really, I don't like to hurry. Besides, I can telephone the little one to look for me at home a bit later. Would you mind if you didn't get to your box until the second act?'

  'Not much. Faust is a charming opera, but how could it attract me more than Mademoiselle Zaza attracts you?'

  'The thing is, I would like to talk to you more specifically about my problems. You must have realized from a number of things I have said that I am in a dilemma, a serious and painful dilemma of the heart.'

  'I did realize it, dear marquis, and I have only been waiting for a signal from you to inquire sympathetically about the nature of your embarrassment. It concerns Mademoiselle Zaza?'

  'Whom else? You have heard that I am to take a trip? That I am to be away for a year?'

  'A whole year! Why?'

  'My dear friend, this is how it is. My poor parents — I have talked to you about them once or twice — know that my liaison with Zaza has been going on for a year or more. There was no need for gossip or an anonymous letter; I myself was childish and trusting enough to let my happiness and my plans appear unmistakably in my letters to them. I wear my heart on my tongue, as you know, and from my tongue to my pen the route is short and easy. The dear old people were quite right in thinking I was serious about the affair and intended to marry the girl — or the "person", as they naturally say — and they have been, as might have been expected, beside themselves. They were here until the day before yesterday — I've had some bad times, a week of uninterrupted argument. My father talked in a very deep voice and my mother in a very high one, vibrating with tears — he in French and she in German. Don't misunderstand me, there were no hard words except the repetition of the word "person", which, to be sure, hurt me more than if they had called me an irresponsible fool and a disgrace to the family. They did not do that; they simply kept on imploring me not to give them or society any grounds for such a description. I assured them in a voice that was both deep and vibrant that I was sincerely sorry to be a source of concern to them. For they really love me and want what is best for me, only they don't understand what that is — in fact, they understand so little that they actually spoke of disinheriting me in case I should carry out my scandalous intentions. They did not use the word, either in French or in German; I have already said that out of love for me they refrained from harsh words. But they indicated the possibility clearly enough — as a consequence and a threat. Now I have always thought, because of my father's position and the hand he has in the Luxemburg steel industry, that at the very least I count on living decently. But being disinherited would be of no help whatever to me or to Zaza. It wouldn't be much fun for her to marry someone who had been disinherited, you can understand that.'

  'I pretty well can. At least, I can put myself in Mademoiselle Zaza's place. But now, about the trip?'

  'The story about the damned trip is this: my parents want to pry me loose — "You must be pried loose," my father said, using the German word in the midst of his French discourse — an entirely inappropriate word, whatever they think they have to pry me loose from. For I'm neither stuck fast in the ice like an Arctic explorer — the warmth of Zaza's bed and her sweet body makes that comparison wholly ridiculous — nor am I held by iron chains, but rather by the most delightful chain of roses, whose strength, however, I do not deny. However, I am to break it, at least experimentally, that's the idea, and that's the purpose of the world tour which my parents are generously prepared to finance — their intentions are so good! I am to leave — what's more, for a long time, leave Paris, the Théâtre des Folies Musicales, and Zaza. I am to see foreign lands and people and thereby acquire new ideas and get "these whims out of my head" — "whims", they call it — and return a different person, a different person! Can one wish to be a different person from the one he is? You look uncertain, but I, I do not want it in the least. I want to remain who I am and not to let my heart and head be turned topsy-turvy by this travel cure they prescribe and so become alien to myself and forget Zaza. Of course, that is possible. Long absence, a complete change of scene, and a thousand new experiences might accomplish it. But it's exactly because I consider it theoretically possible that I so thoroughly detest this experiment.'

  'Consider, nevertheless,' I said, 'that if you should become another person, you would not feel the lack of your present self or regret it, simply because it would no longer be you.'

  'What sort of comfort is that to me now? Who could wish to forget? Forgetting is the most distressing and disagreeable thing in the world.'

  'And yet you really know that your dread of the experiment is no proof that it will not succeed.'

  'Yes, theoretically. Practically, it's out of the question. For all their love and care, my parents are attempting to murder love. They will be unsuccessful, I am sure of it as I am of myself.'

  'That means something. And may I ask whether your parents are ready to accept this experiment as an experiment, and if the result is neg
ative, accommodate themselves to the proven strength of your desires?'

  'I asked them that, too. But I could not get a simple yes. They were concerned with "prying me loose", and they did not think beyond that. That's what's so unfair about it. I had to give them my promise without getting one in return.'

  'So you agreed to the trip?'

  'What else could I do? After all, I can't expose Zaza to the loss of my inheritance. I told her I had promised to go on the trip and she wept a great deal, partly because of the long separation, partly through her natural fear that the cure my parents propose may work and that I may return a changed man. I understand her fear. At times, after all, I feel it myself. Oh, my dear friend, what a dilemma! I have to travel and I do not want to; I have obligated myself to travel — and cannot do it. What shall I do? Who can help me out of this?'

  'Indeed, dear marquis, you are to be pitied,' I said. 'I feel the greatest sympathy for you, but no one can release you from the obligation you have taken upon yourself.'

  'No, no one.'

  'No one.'

  The conversation died away for a few moments. He twisted his glass in his fingers. Suddenly he got up and said: 'I had almost forgotten — I must telephone my little friend. If you will wait a moment..

  He left. The roof garden was almost empty. Only two other tables were still being served. Most of the waiters were standing idle. I smoked a cigarette to pass the time. When Venosta returned he ordered another bottle of Château Lafite and began again:

  'Dear Kroull, I have told you about the conflict with my parents, very painful on both sides. I hope I did not fail in reverence and respect in what I said, or in expressing my gratitude for their loving care — not least for the generous offer which their concern has inspired, even though it may have the appearance of an injunction or even a command. It is only my peculiar situation that makes this invitation to take a trip around the world in total luxury such an unbearable imposition that I scarcely understand how I came to agree to it. For any other man, whether of family or of good family, such an invitation would be a gift from Heaven wrapped in the rainbow hues of novelty and adventure. Even I, in my present situation, sometimes catch myself — it is a kind of disloyalty to Zaza and to our love — picturing in imagination the manifold charms of such a year of travel, the variety of scenes, encounters, experiences, enjoyments that would certainly come with it, if only one were responsive to such things. Just consider — the wide world, the Orient, North and South America, the Far East. In China there are said to be servants in plenty. A European bachelor would have a dozen of them. He would have one to carry his visiting-cards — to run ahead with them. I have heard of a tropical sultan who was thrown from his horse and lost all his teeth; he had new ones made of gold in Paris, with a diamond in the middle of each. His beloved wears the national costume, a precious cloth wrapped around her thighs and tied in front beneath her supple hips, for she is as beautiful as a dream. Around her neck she wears three or four ropes of pearls and below them three or four strands of diamonds of fabulous size.'

  'Was it your revered parents who described all this to you?'

  'It wasn't exactly my parents. They haven't been there. But isn't it altogether likely and the way you would picture it, especially the hips? What's more, the sultan is said occasionally to relinquish his beloved to favoured guests, guests of distinction. Naturally, I didn't hear that from them either — they have no idea what they are offering me in this trip around the world. But however unresponsive I am, do I not theoretically owe them gratitude for their handsome offer?'

  'Unquestionably, marquis. But you are taking over my role. You are, so to speak, talking with my voice. It should be up to me to reconcile you as far as possible to the idea of this trip which you hate so much, especially by pointing out to you the advantages it would offer — it will offer — and while you were telephoning I decided to make exactly that attempt.'

  'You would be preaching to deaf ears, even if you were to protest a hundred times how much you envied me — if only on account of the hips.'

  'Envy? No, marquis, that's not exactly right. It would not have been envy that inspired me in my well-meant efforts. I am not especially eager to travel. Why does a Parisian need to go abroad in the world? It comes to him. It comes to us here in the hotel, and when I sit on the terrace of the Café de Madrid about the time the theatres close, it is conveniently present right before my eyes. I don't have to tell you about that.'

  'No, but in your airy way you have undertaken too much if you think you can make the trip palatable to me.'

  'Dear marquis, I shall try, nevertheless. How could I not try to show myself grateful for your confidence? I have already thought of proposing that you take Mademoiselle Zaza with you.'

  'Impossible, Kroull. What are you thinking of? You mean well, but what are you thinking of? I won't mention Zaza's contract with the Folies Musicales. Contracts can be broken. But I cannot travel with Zaza and at the same time keep her hidden. In any case, there are difficulties in taking a woman who is not your wife around the world with you. And I should be seen, my parents have contacts here and there, some of them official, and they would inevitably find out if I defeated the whole purpose of the trip by taking Zaza with me. They would be beside themselves! They would cancel my letter of credit. For instance, I am to make a longish visit at the Argentinian estancia of a family whose acquaintance my parents once made at a French watering-place. Shall I leave Zaza alone for weeks at a time in Buenos Aires, exposed to all the dangers of that city? Your proposal is unthinkable.'

  'I was afraid of that when I made it. I withdraw it.'

  'That means you leave me in the lurch. You resign yourself to the fact that I have to travel alone. It's easy enough for you to resign yourself! But I can't. I have to travel and I want to stay here. That means I must attempt the impossible: to travel and to stay here at the same time. That, in turn, means I must become two people, must divide myself in two; one part of Louis Venosta must travel, while the other stays in Paris with his Zaza. It's important to me that the latter should be the real one. In short, the trip must go on concurrently. Louis Venosta must be here and there. Do you follow the convolutions of my thought?'

  'I am trying to, marquis. In other words, it must look as though you were travelling, but in reality you will stay at home.'

  'Damnably right!'

  'Damnably only because no one looks like you.'

  'In Argentina no one knows how I look. I have nothing against looking different in different places. As a matter of fact, I'd like it very much if I looked better there than here.'

  'So then your name must travel attached to a person who is not you.'

  'But who cannot be just anyone.'

  'I should think not. One can't be particular enough about that.'

  He filled his glass, emptied it in big gulps, and banged it down on the table.

  'Kroull,' he said, 'as far as I'm concerned, my choice is made.'

  'So soon? With so little consideration?'

  'We've been sitting here facing one another for quite a while.'

  'We? What are you thinking of?'

  'Kroull,' he repeated, 'I call you by your name, the name of a man of good family, a name, naturally, that one would not want to relinquish even temporarily although by doing so one might appear to be a man of family. Would you be willing to help a friend in dire need? You said you were not anxious to travel. But what is the lack of a strong desire to travel compared to my horror at leaving Paris! You said, too in fact, we agreed about it — that no one could release me from my promise to my parents. How would it be if you released me from it?'

  'It seems to me, dear marquis, that you are losing yourself in fantasies.'

  'Why? And why do you speak of fantasies as of a realm to which you are a complete stranger? After all, there is something singular about you, Kroull! I called this quality intriguing, I finally even called it mysterious. If I had used the word "fantastic" instead, would you hav
e been angry?'

  'No indeed, since you would not have meant it ill.'

  'Certainly not! And therefore you can't be angry with me because your appearance suggested the idea to me, because during this meeting my choice — my very particular choice has fallen on you!'

  'On me as the person to bear your name out in the world, represent you, be you in people's eyes, your parent's son, not just a member of your family but you yourself? Have you given this the consideration it requires?'

  'I shall remain who I am where I really am.'

  - 'But out in the world you will be another — to wit, me. People will see you in me. In the eyes of the world you will relinquish your personality to me. "Where I really am", you say, but where would you really be? Would that not be a little uncertain, for you as well as for me? And if this uncertainty was all right with me, would it be all right with you, too? Would it not be unpleasant to be yourself only very locally, and in the rest of the world — that is, predominantly to exist as me, through me, in me?'

  'No, Kroull,' he said, warmly extending his hand to me across the table. 'It would not — you would not be — unpleasant to me. It would not be bad at all for Louis Venosta if you changed selves with him and he went about the world in your person, that is, if his name were attached to your person as now, in the world outside, it will be — provided you agree. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that it would not be at all displeasing to certain others if that were the way nature had arranged things. They will just have to put up with reality, about whose vagaries I am not in the least concerned. For I really am where Zaza is. And it is perfectly all right with me for you to be Louis Venosta elsewhere. I should take the greatest pleasure in appearing to people in your person. You are an elegant fellow both here and there, in both roles, as gentleman and as commis-de-salle. I could wish many of my fellow noblemen your manners. You know foreign languages, and if the conversation should turn to mythology, which hardly ever happens, you will make out well enough with Hermes. No one demands more from a nobleman — one might even say that you as a bourgeois are obliged to know more. You must take this simplification into account in making your decision. Well, then is it agreed? You will undertake this great act of friendship?'