Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man: The Early Years

by Thomas Mann

  'For now something enters in through which Nature deviates amazingly from her basic design, something through which man's whole fastidious insistence upon separateness and being alone inside his own skin is annulled; the inflexible law that each is inoffensive only to himself is so completely wiped out that if one were to take the trouble to see it for the first time — and it is one's duty to do so — he might find his orbs overflowing from amazement and emotion. I use the words "orbs" and "overflow" because they are poetic and therefore appropriate to the subject. "To shed tears" seems to me too ordinary in this context. One sheds tears when one gets a cinder in one's eye. But "overflowing orbs" is on a higher plane.

  'You must forgive me, Zouzou, if now and again I pause in this speech I have prepared for you and, as it were, begin a new paragraph. I am liable to digress, as here on the subject of orbs, and I must pull myself together again for the task of setting you right. Well, then! What is the digression on Nature's part that, to the astonishment of the universe, wipes out the division between one person and another, between the me and the you. It is love. An everyday affair, but eternally new and, carefully considered, nothing short of miraculous. What happens? Out of their separateness two glances encounter each other as glances never meet at other times. Startled and forgetful of the world, confused and a little shamefaced at their complete difference from all other glances, but not willing to surrender this difference for all the world, they sink into each other — if you wish, I will say "plunge into each other", but "plunge" is not necessary, "sink" is just as good. There is a trace of bad conscience as well — the reason for which I shall not ask. I am a simple nobleman, and no one can demand that I solve the riddles of the universe. In any case, it's the sweetest bad conscience in the world, and with this in their eyes and hearts these two who have suddenly been lifted above all classifications resolutely approach each other. They talk together in ordinary language about this and that, but both this and that are lies, just as the ordinary language is, and for this reason their lips as they speak have a slight mendacious twist and their eyes are full of sweet deceit. They glance at each other's hair and lips and limbs and then the deceitful eyes swiftly drop or wander abroad somewhere in the world where they have no interest and see nothing at all, for these eyes are blind to everything except each other. These glances seek refuge in the world only to return promptly and all the more brightly to the other's hair and lips and limbs, for these, contrary to all usage, have ceased to be alien and worse than indifferent, unpleasant, repulsive because they are not one's own but another's, and have become the object of delight, longing, and a yearning desire to touch — an ecstasy of which the eyes anticipate, steal in advance, all they can.

  'That's a paragraph in my speech, Zouzou, and I shall make an indentation. You are listening to me carefully? As though you were hearing about love for the first time? I hope so. Before long there comes the moment when these two privileged beings are sick to death of lies and all the to-do about this and that and the twisted mouths, and they toss all this aside as though they were already tossing aside their clothes, and they pronounce the one true sentence, the only true one for them, in contrast to which everything else has been simply garrulous evasion: the words "I love you". It is a true fulfilment, the boldest and sweetest there is. Thereupon lips sink, or as one might say, plunge into one another in a kiss, an occurrence that is so unique in this world of separateness and isolation that one's orbs might well overflow at it. I ask you, how crudely you talked about the kiss, which is, after all, the pledge of that marvellous release from separateness and from the fastidious refusal to be interested in anything that is not oneself! I admit, I admit with the liveliest sympathy, that it is the beginning of everything that is to follow, for it is the astounding, silent declaration that closeness, ultimate closeness, closeness as complete as possible, just that closeness that otherwise is oppressive to the point of suffocation, has become the essence of all that is desirable. Through lovers, Zouzou, love does everything, exerts itself to the utmost, to make this closeness complete, perfect, to raise it to the actual oneness of two lives, but in this, comically and sadly, it is never successful despite all its efforts. It cannot to this extent triumph over Nature, for Nature, despite the fact that it invented love, sides in principle with separateness. For two to become one is not something that happens to lovers, it happens beyond them, if at all, in a third heing, the child, who emerges from their efforts. But I am not talking about the blessings of parenthood and the joys of family life; that goes beyond my theme and I shall not touch on it. I am speaking about love in new and noble words and trying to create new eyes for you, Zouzou, and awaken your understanding to its touching miraculousness, so that you will not again express yourself so crudely about it. I do this by paragraphs because I cannot say it all in one breath, and here I make another indentation in order to say the following as follows:

  'Love, Zouzou my love, does not consist simply in the state of being in love where, amazingly, one physically separate body ceases to be unpleasant to another. Everywhere in the world there are delicate signs and intimations of its existence. When a dirty beggar child on a streetcorner looks up at you and you not only give him a few centavos but run your ungloved hand over his hair, though very likely there are lice in it, and you smile into his eyes as you do so, and thereupon walk on happier than you were before — what is that but a delicate sign of love? I will tell you something, Zouzou: stroking that child's louse-infested hair with your bare hand and afterward being happier than before is perhaps more astounding evidence of love than the fondling of a beloved body. Look about you in the world and look at Man as though you were doing so for the first time. Everywhere you will see signs of love, intimations of it, confessions of it on the part of what is separate and disinclined to have anything to do with another physical body. People shake hands — that is something very ordinary, everyday, and conventional; no one thinks anything about it except those who are in love, and they enjoy this contact because as yet no other is allowed them. Others do it unfeelingly and without considering that it was love that originated the practice; but they do it. Their bodies remain at a measured distance — not too great proximity on any account! But across this space separating two closely guarded individual lives they extend their arms, and the strange hands meet, embrace each other, press each other, and there is nothing in this but what is most ordinary, there is nothing of any special significance, so it seems, so one thinks. In truth, however, carefully examined, it belongs in the domain of the miraculous, and it is no small testimonial to Nature's departure from itself, the denial of the aversion of stranger for stranger, a secret sign of omnipresent love.'

  My dear mother in Luxemburg would certainly never have believed that I could possibly have spoken thus and would no doubt have put down my report of it as nothing but a fine fiction. But I swear on my honour that is how I spoke, for it just came to me. Perhaps the fact that I succeeded in making so original a speech is to be attributed in large measure to the extreme prettiness and uniqueness of the Belem cloister through which we were wandering; let that be as it may. In any case that is how I spoke, and when I had finished a very remarkable thing happened. Zouzou gave me her hand! Without looking at me, her head turned away as though she were inspecting the stone fretwork at her side, she put out her right hand — I, of course, was walking on her left. I took it and pressed it, and she responded to the pressure. In the same instant, however, she jerked her hand away and said, with brows gathered stormily:

  'And those drawings you took the liberty of making? Where are they? Why don't you finally produce them and hand them over to me?'

  'But Zouzou, I have not forgotten. I have no intention of forgetting. Only you know yourself there has been no opportunity -'

  'Your lack of imagination in finding an opportunity,' she said, 'is pitiable. I see that I must help out your ineptitude. With a little more circumspection and better powers of observation you would know without my having
to tell you that behind our house — in the little garden at the rear, you understand — there is a bench surrounded by oleander bushes, more of a bower really, where I like to sit after luncheon. By this time you might know that, but of course you don't, as I have occasionally said to myself while sitting there. With the slightest degree of imagination and enterprise you would long ago have found an opportunity when lunching with us, after coffee, to act as though you were going away and actually to go a little distance, and then to turn about and come to find me in the bower, so that you could deliver your handiwork to me. Astonishing, isn't it? An idea of genius? Or so it would seem to you. And so in the near future you will be kind enough to do this — will you?'

  'I most certainly will, Zouzou! It's really as brilliant as it is obvious. Forgive me for not having noticed the bench under the oleanders. It's so far at the rear I never paid any attention to it. So you sit there after lunch all alone among the bushes? Marvellous! I'll do exactly as you say. I will publicly take my departure, from you too, and appear to be going home; instead of that, however, I will come to you with the pictures. I give you my hand on it.'

  'Keep your hand to yourself! We can shake hands later on after we have returned home in your carriage. Meanwhile there's no sense in pressing each other's hands all the time.'

  CHAPTER 11

  HAPPY though this arrangement made me, I was understandably nervous at the thought of letting Zouzou see the pictures. It would be a rash act, an impossible act. By adorning Zaza's pretty body, portrayed in various poses, with Zouzou's highly characteristic cluster of curls, I had transferred to it Zouzou's identity. How she would take these impertinent portraits was a disturbing question. Besides, I asked myself why it was necessary to have luncheon at the Kuckucks' and go through the comedy of leave-taking before seeking her out in the bower. If it was Zouzou's habit to sit there alone after the midday meal, I could make my way to the bench among the oleanders on any convenient day, trusting to the protection of the siesta hour to escape discovery. If only I dared go to the rendezvous without those accursed and outrageous drawings!

  Whether, through fear of Zouzou's wrath which was unpredictable in the degree of its violence, I did not in fact so dare, or whether my volatile soul had been diverted from that desire by a new and thrilling experience — of which I shall speak directly — suffice it to say that day after day passed without my obeying Zouzou's command. Something intervened, I repeat, a distracting experience, a sombre celebration, that altered from one hour to the next my attitude toward the double image, reversing the emphasis by revealing one aspect, the mother, in the strongest light, blood-red in colour, and putting the other, the enchanting daughter, a little in the shade.

  Very likely I use the metaphor of light and shade because the contrast between them plays so important a part in the bull ring — the contrast, that is, between the sunny side and the shady side, with the shady side, where we people of distinction sat, having the preference, of course, while the small folk are banished into the sun ... But I speak too abruptly of the bull ring, as though the reader already knew that this very remarkable ancient Iberian institution was going to be my subject. Writing is not a conversation with oneself. Orderly development, self-possession, and an unhurried approach to the subject are indispensable.

  To begin with, it must be said that my stay in Lisbon was now gradually drawing to a close; it was already late September. The return of the Cap Arcona was imminent, and there was barely a week until my departure. This inspired me with a desire to pay a second and final visit, alone, to the Museum Ciências Naturäes in the Rua da Prata. Before leaving, I wanted to see again the white stag in the entrance hall, the primordial bird, the poor dinosaur, the great armadillo, that delightful nocturnal monkey, the loris, and all the others — not by any means least the worthy Neanderthal family and the Dawn Man presenting his bouquet to the sun. And so I did. One forenoon, my heart flooded with universal sympathy, I wandered without any guide through the halls and galleries on the ground floor and the corridors in the basement of Kuckuck's institution. Nor did I fail to put in a brief appearance in the director's office, for I wanted him to know that I had been drawn back to his museum. As usual, he received me with great cordiality, praised me for my faithfulness to his institudon, and then made the following announcement.

  That day, Saturday, was the birthday of Prince Luis-Pedro, a brother of the King. In recognition of this, there was to be a corrida de toiros, a bullfight, next day at three in the afternoon, and the great man would be there. It was to be held in the big arena on the Campo Pequeno, and he, Kuckuck, was planning to attend this traditional spectacle with his ladies and Hurtado. He had tickets, seats on the shady side, and he had an extra one for me. For he considered it most opportune, in view of the educational purpose of my tour, that just before my departure I should have this opportunity of seeing a corrida. What did I think?

  My thoughts were definitely unenthusiastic, and I told him so. The sight of blood made me somewhat queasy, I said, to my own knowledge, I was not the man for quaint national massacre. The horses, for instance — I had been told that the bull often ripped open their stomachs so that the entrails spilled out; I did not at all want to see this, not to mention the bull himself, for whom I should certainly feel sorry. One might suppose that if ladies' nerves were strong enough to stand this spectacle, I ought to be able to endure it if not exactly to enjoy it. But Portuguese ladies were born to these robust traditions, whereas he had in me a somewhat delicate foreigner — and so on, to the same effect.

  But Kuckuck reassured me. I ought not to have too grisly an idea of the festival, he said. A corrida was, to be sure, a serious occasion, but not horrifying. The Portuguese were animal-lovers and would not permit anything horrible. As far as the horses were concerned, for a long time now they had been provided with protective padding so that hardly anything serious could happen to them, and the bull died a more chivalrous death than in the slaughterhouse. Besides, whenever I liked, I could glance away and turn my attention to the festive crowd and the view of the arena itself which was picturesque and of great ethnic interest.

  Very well, I could see that I ought not to scorn this opportunity or his considerateness, for which I thanked him. We agreed that my carriage and I would wait for him and his family at the foot of the cable railway in ample time to ride to the arena together. It would go very slowly, Kuckuck warned; the streets would be crowded. I found this confirmed when next day, to be on the safe side, I left my hotel at two-fifteen. I had never seen the city in such a state, though I had been there on so many Sundays. Obviously, only a corrida could get everyone out. The Avenida in all its splendid width was crowded with carriages and people, teams of horses and teams of mules, people riding on asses and people walking, as were also the streets through which I rode to the Rua Augusta, kept to a walking pace by the density of the crowd. From every nook and cranny, from the old city, from the suburbs, from the surrounding villages, streamed city people and country people, mostly in holiday attire brought out only for such occasions. Hence, no doubt, the proud, expectant, and yet dignified, even reverent expression of their faces. Their mood, so it seemed to me, was sedate; there were no shouts or uproar, no quarrelsome collisions, as they moved with one accord in the direction of the Campo Pequeno and the amphitheatre.

  Whence the strange feeling of oppression, the mixture of awe, sympathy, and excitement tinged with sadness, that constricts the heart at the sight of a crowd exalted by a festival and informed and united by its meaning? There is something inarticulate, primordial, about it that inspires awe and a certain anxiousness as well. The weather was still midsummer's, the bright sun glinted on the copper ferrules of the long staffs the men planted before them like pilgrims. They wore bright-coloured sashes and hats with broad rims. The women's clothes were of snowy cotton, embroidered at breast, sleeve, and hem with gold and silver thread. Many wore high Spanish combs, often with the black or white veil called mantilha, which covers hea
d and shoulders. There was nothing surprising about this in the case of farm women out for a holiday, but when Dona Maria Pia came to greet me at the cable-car station, not, to be sure, in the glittering national costume but in an elegant afternoon dress, wearing, however, just such a black mantilha over her high comb — I was surprised, yes, startled. She saw no reason for any smile of apology for this ethnic masquerade, and no more did I. Deeply impressed, I bowed with special reverence over her hand. The mantilha was particularly becoming to her. Through its fine fabric the sun threw a filigree pattern on her large, pale, stern face.

  Zouzou wore no mantilha. And in my eyes, at least, the charming cluster of dark curls at her temples was ethnic mark enough. Her dress, however, was even darker than her mother's, a little as though she were going to church. And the gentlemen, the professor as well as Dom Miguel, who had arrived on foot and had joined us as we were exchanging greetings, were in formal attire, black cutaways and bowler hats, whereas I had selected a blue suit with bright stripes. This was somewhat embarrassing, but the ignorance of a stranger might perhaps excuse it..