Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man: The Early Years
Thomas Mann
THOMAS MANN
THE CONFESSIONS OF FELIX KRULL CONFIDENCE MAN
The Early Years
translated by Denver Lindley
Original title: Bekenntnisse des Hochstaplers Felix Krull. Der Memoiren, erster Teil. Full original English title: Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man: The Early Years. First published in German in 1954 and a year later in English.
Originally the character of Felix Krull appeared in a short story written in 1911. The story wasn't published until 1936, in the book Stories of Three Decades along with twenty-three other stories written between 1896 and 1929, the year in which he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Much later, Mann expanded the story and managed to finish, and publish part one of the Confessions of Felix Krull, but due to his death in 1955 the saga of the morally flexible and irresistible conman, Felix, remains unfinished.
PART ONE
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
PART TWO
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
PART THREE
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
As I take up my pen at leisure and in complete retirement — furthermore, in good health, though tired, so tired that I shall only be able to proceed by short stages and with frequent pauses for rest — as I take up my pen, then, to commit my confessions to this patient paper in my own neat and attractive handwriting, I am assailed by a brief misgiving about the educational background I bring to an intellectual enterprise of this kind. But since everything I have to record derives from my own immediate experience, errors, and passions, and since I am therefore in complete command of my material, the doubt can apply only to my tact and propriety of expression, and in my view these are less the product of study than of natural talent and a good home environment. This last has not been wanting, for I come of a upper-class though somewhat dissolute family; for several months my sister Olympia and I were looked after by a Fräulein from Vevey, though it is true she presently had to decamp because female contention arose between her and my mother, with my father as its object; my godfather Schimmelpreester, with whom I was on the most intimate terms, was a greatly admired artist whom everyone in our little town called 'Herr Professor' though it is doubtful whether he was officially entitled to this distinction; and my father, though corpulent, possessed much personal charm and always laid great stress on the choice and lucid use of words. He had French blood on his grandmother's side, had himself spent his student years in France, and, as he assured us, knew Paris like the palm of his hand. He was fond of sprinkling his conversation with French phrases such as 'c'est ça', 'épatant', 'parfaitement', and the like. To the end of his days he remained a great favourite with the ladies.
This only by way of preface and out of its proper sequence. As to my natural instinct for good form, that is something I have always been able to count on all too well, as my whole career of fraud will prove, and in the present literary undertaking I believe I can rely on it implicitly. Moreover I am resolved to employ the utmost frankness in my writing, without fear of being reproached for variety or impudence. For what moral value or significance can attach to confessions written from any point of view except that of truthfulness?
The Rhine Valley brought me forth — that highly favoured and benign region, harsh neither in its climate nor in the quality of its soil, rich in cities and villages, peopled by a merry folk — it must be among the sweetest regions of the habitable globe. Here, sheltered from rough winds by the mountains of the Rhine district and happily exposed to the southern sun, flourish those famous communities whose very names make the winebibber's heart rejoice — Rauenthal, Johannisberg, Rüdesheim — and here, too, is that favoured town in which, only a few years after the glorious founding of the German Empire, I first saw the light of day. It lies slightly to the west of the bend the river makes at Mainz. With a population of some four thousand souls, it is renowned for its sparkling wines and is one of the principal ports of call for the steamers plying up and down the Rhine. Thus the gay city of Mainz was very near, as were the Taunus Baths, patronized by high society — Homburg, Langenschwalbach, and Schlangenbad. The last could be reached in a half-hour trip by narrow-gauge railway. How many summertime excursions we made, my parents, my sister Olympia, and I, by boat, by carriage, or on the train! Enticements lay in every direction, for nature and human ingenuity had everywhere provided charms and delights for our enjoyment. I can still see my father in his comfortable checked summer suit as we sat in the garden of some inn — a little way back from the table because his paunch prevented him from drawing up close — immersed in his enjoyment of a dish of prawns washed down by golden wine. My godfather Schimmelpreester was often with us, keenly studying people and landscape through his big artist's glasses and absorbing both great and small into his artist's soul.
My poor father owned the firm of Engelbert Krull, makers of the now discontinued brand of champagne Loreley extra cuvée. Their cellars lay on the bank of the Rhine not far from the landing, and often as a boy I used to linger in the cool vaults, wandering pensively along the stone-paved passages that led back and forth between the high shelves, examining the array of bottles, which lay on their sides in slanting rows. 'There you lie,' I thought to myself (though of course at that time I could not give such apt expression to my thoughts), 'there you lie in the subterranean twilight, and within you the bubbling golden sap is clearing and maturing, the sap that will enliven so many hearts and awaken a brighter gleam in so many eyes! Now you look plain and unpromising, but one day you will rise to the upper world magnificently adorned, to take your place at feasts, at weddings, to send your corks popping to the ceilings of private dining-rooms and evoke intoxication, irresponsibility, and desire in the hearts of men.' So, or approximately so, spoke the boy; and this much at least was true, the firm of Engelbert Krull paid unusual attention to the outside of their bottles, those final adornments that are technically known as the coiffure. The compressed corks were secured with silver wire and gilt cords fastened with purplish-red wax; there was, moreover, an impressive round seal — such as one sees on ecclesiastical bulls and old state documents — suspended from a gold cord; the necks of the bottles were liberally wrapped in gleaming silver foil, and their swelling bellies bore a flaring red label with gold flourishes round the edges. This label had been designed for the firm by my godfather Schimmelpreester and bore a number of coats of arms and stars, my father's monogram, the brand name, Loreley extra cuvée, all in gold letters, and a female figure, arrayed only in bangles and necklaces, sitting with legs crossed on top of a rock, her arm raised in the act of combing her flowing hair. Unfortunately it appears that the quality of the wine was not entirely commensurate with the splendour of its coiffure.
'Krull,' I have heard my godfather Schimmelpreester say to my father, 'with all due respect to you, your champagne ought to be forbidden by law. Last week I let myself be talked into drinking half a bottle, and my system h
asn't recovered from the shock yet. What sort of vinegar goes into that brew? And do you use petroleum or fusel oil to doctor it with? The stuff's simply poison. Look out for the police!' At this my poor father would be embarrassed, for he was a gentle man and unable to hold his own against harsh criticism.
'It's easy enough for you to laugh, Schimmelpreester,' he would reply, gently stroking his belly with his fingertips in his usual fashion, 'but I have to keep the price down because there is so much prejudice against the domestic product — in short, I give the public something to increase its confidence. Besides, competition is so fierce, my friend, I'm hardly able to go on.' Thus my father.
Our villa was a charming little estate on a gentle slope that comanded a view of the Rhine. The terraced garden was liberally adorned with earthenware gnomes, mushrooms, and all kinds of lifelike animals; on a pedestal stood a mirrored glass sphere, which distorted faces most comically; there were also an aeolian harp, several grottoes, and a fountain whose streams made an ingenious figure in the air, while silvery goldfish swam in its basin. As for the interior decoration of our house, it was, in accordance with my father's taste, both cosy and cheerful. Pleasant nooks offered repose, and in one corner stood a real spinning-wheel; there were innumerable knick-knacks and decorations — conch shells, glass boxes, and bottles of smelling-salts — which stood about on étagères and velvet-covered tables; countless downy cushions covered in embroidered silk were strewn everywhere on sofas and daybeds, for my father loved to have a soft place to lie down; and curtain rods and halberds, and between the rooms were those airy portières made of bamboo tied with strings of glass beads. They look almost as solid as a door, but one can walk through them without raising a hand, and they part and fall back with a whispering click. Over the outside door was an ingenious mechanism, activated by air pressure as the door closed, which played with a pleasing tinkle the opening bars of Strauss's 'Freut euch des Lebens'.
CHAPTER 2
SUCH was the home in which I was born one mild, rainy day in the merry month of May — a Sunday, to be exact. From now on I mean to follow the order of events conscientiously and to stop anticipating. If reports are true, the birth was slow and difficult and required the assistance of our family doctor, whose name was Mecum. It appears that I — if I may so refer to that far-away and foreign little being — was extremely inactive and made no attempt to aid my mother's efforts, showing no eagerness whatever to enter the world which later I was to love so dearly. Nevertheless, I was a healthy, well-formed child and thrived most promisingly at the breast of my excellent wet-nurse. Frequent reflection on this subject, moreover, inclines me to the belief that this reluctance to exchange the darkness of the womb for the light of day is connected with my extraordinary gift and passion for sleep, a characteristic of mine from infancy. I am told that I was a quiet child, not given to crying or trouble-making, but inclined to sleep and doze to an extent most convenient for my nurses. And despite the fact that later on I had such a longing for the world and its people that I mingled with them under a variety of names and did all I could to win them to myself, yet I feel that in night and slumber I have always been most at home. Even without being physically fatigued I have always been able to fall asleep with the greatest ease and pleasure, to lose myself in far and dreamless forgetfulness, and to awake after ten or twelve or even fourteen hours of oblivion even more refreshed and enlivened than by the successes and accomplishments of my waking hours. There might seem to be a contradiction between this love of sleep and my great impulse toward life and love, about which I intend to speak in due course. As I have already mentioned, however, I have devoted much thought to this matter and I have clearly perceived more than once that there is no contradiction but rather a hidden connexion and correspondence. In fact, it is only now, when I have turned forty and have become old and weary, when I no longer feel the old irrepressible urge towards the society of men but live in complete retirement, it is only now that my capacity for sleep is impaired so that I am in a sense a stranger to it, my slumbers being short and light and fleeting; whereas even in prison — where there was plenty of opportunity — I slept better than in the soft beds of the Palace Hotel. But I am falling again into my old fault of anticipating.
Often enough I heard from my parents' lips that I was a Sunday child, and, although I was brought up to reject every form of superstition, I have always thought there was a secret significance in that fact taken in connexion with my Christian name of Felix (for so I was called, after my godfather Schimmelpreester), and my physical fitness and attractiveness. Yes, I have always believed myself favoured of fortune and of Heaven, and I may say that, on the whole, experience has borne me out. Indeed, it has been peculiarly characteristic of my career that whatever misfortunes and sufferings it may have contained have always seemed an exception to the natural order, a cloud, as it were, through which the sun of my native luck continued to shine. After this digression into generalities, I shall continue to sketch in broad strokes the picture of my youth.
An imaginative child, my games of make-believe gave my family much entertainment. I have often been told, and seem still to remember, that when I was still in dresses I liked to pretend I was the Kaiser and would persist in this game for hours at a time with the greatest determination. Sitting in my little go-cart, which my nurse would push around the garden or the entrance hall of the house, I would draw down my mouth as far as I could so that my upper lip was unnaturally lengthened and would blink my eyes slowly until the strain and the strength of my emotion made them redden and fill with tears. Overwhelmed by a sense of my age and dignity, I would sit silent in my little wagon, while my nurse was instructed to inform all we met who I was, since I should have taken any disregard of my fancy much amiss. 'I am taking the Kaiser for a drive,' she would announce, bringing the flat of her hand to the side of her head in an awkward salute, and everyone would pay me homage. In particular, my godfather Schimmelpreester, a great joker, would encourage my pretence for all he was worth whenever we met. 'Look, there he goes, the old hero!' he would say with an exaggeratedly deep bow. Then he would pretend to be the populace and, standing beside my path, would shout: 'Hurray, hurray!' throwing his hat, his cane, even his eyeglasses into the air, and he would split his sides laughing when, from excess of emotion, tears would roll down my long-drawn face.
I used to play the same sort of game when I was older and could no longer demand the co-operation of grown-ups — which, however, I did not miss, glorying as I did in the independent and self-sufficient exercise of my imagination. One morning, for example, I awoke resolved to be an eighteen-year-old prince named Karl, and I clung to this fantasy all day long; indeed, for several days, for the inestimable advantage of this kind of game is that it never needs to be interrupted, not even during the almost insupportable hours spent in school. Clothed in a sort of amiable majesty, I moved about, holding lively imaginary conversations with the governor or adjutant I had in fantasy assigned to myself; and the pride and happiness I felt at my secret superiority are indescribable. What a glorious gift is imagination, and what satisfaction it affords! The other boys of the town seemed to me dull and limited indeed, since they obviously did not share my ability and were consequently ignorant of the secret joys I could derive from it by a simple act of will, effortlessly and without any outward preparation. They were common fellows, to be sure, with coarse hair and red hands, and they would have had trouble persuading themselves that they were princes — and very foolish they would have looked, too. Whereas my hair was silken soft, as it seldom is in the male sex, and it was fair; like my blue-grey eyes, it provided a fascinating contrast to the golden brown of my skin, so that I hovered on the borderline between blond and dark and might have been considered either. My hands, which I began to take care of early, were distinguished without being too narrow, never clammy, but dry and agreeably warm, with well-shaped nails that it was a pleasure to see. My voice, even before it changed, had an ingratiating tone and could fal
l so flatteringly upon the ear that I liked more than anything to listen to it myself, especially when I was alone and could blissfully engage in long, plausible, but quite meaningless conversations with my imaginary adjutant, accompanying them with extravagant gestures. Such personal advantages are mostly intangible and are recognizable only in their effect; they are, moreover, difficult to put into words, even for someone unusually talented. In any case, I could not conceal from myself that I was made of superior stuff, or, as people say, of finer clay, and I do not shrink from the charge of self-complacency in saying so. If someone accuses me of self-complacency, it is a matter of complete indifference to me for I should have to be a fool or a hypocrite to pretend that I am of common stuff, and it is therefore in obedience to truth that I repeat that I am of the finest clay.
I grew up solitary, for my sister Olympia was several years older than I; I indulged in strange, introspective practices, of which I shall give two examples. First, I took it into my head to study the human will and to practise on myself its mysterious, sometimes supernatural effects. It is a well-known fact that the muscles controlling the pupils of our eyes react involuntarily to the intensity of the light falling upon them. I decided to bring this reaction under voluntary control. I would stand in front of my mirror, concentrating all my powers in a command to my pupils to contract or expand, banishing every other thought from my mind. My persistent efforts, let me assure you, were, in fact, crowned with success. At first as I stood bathed in sweat, my colour coming and going, my pupils would flicker erratically; but later I actually succeeded in contracting them to the merest points and then expanding them to great, round, mirror-like pools. The joy I felt at this success was almost terrifying and was accompanied by a shudder at the mystery of man.
