Doctor Faustus

by Thomas Mann

  There remains no doubt—I say it in all calmness—that tireless, self-confident perseverance, put off by nothing, had won the day over aloofness and reserve. Such a conquest, considering the polarity—I emphasize the word—the polarity of the partners, the intellectual antithesis between them, could have only one definite character, and that, in a freakish sort of way, was what had always been sought and striven after. It is perfectly clear to me that a man of Schwerdtfeger’s make-up had always, whether consciously or not, given this particular meaning and coloration to his wooing of Adrian—though of course I do not mean that it lacked nobler motives. On the contrary, the suitor was perfectly serious when he said how necessary Adrian’s friendship was to the fulfilment of his nature, how it would develop, elevate, improve it. But he was illogical enough to use his native gift of coquetry—and then to feel put off when the melancholy preference he aroused did not lack the signs of ironic eroticism.

  To me the most remarkable and thrilling thing about all this was to see how the victim did not see that he had been bewitched. He gave himself credit for an initiative that belonged entirely to the other party, and was full of fantastic astonishment at frankly reckless and regardless advances that might better be called seduction. Yes, Adrian talked about the miracle of that undaunted single-mindedness, undistracted by melancholy or emotion; I have little doubt that his astonishment went back to that distant evening when Schwerdtfeger appeared in his room to beg him to come back because the party was so dull without him. And yet in these so-called miracles you could always see poor Rudi’s “higher,” his free and decent characteristics as an artist, which I have repeatedly celebrated. There is a letter which Adrian at about the time of the Bullinger dinner wrote to Schwerdtfeger, who should of course have destroyed it but which, partly out of sentiment, partly as a trophy he did in fact preserve. I refrain from quoting it, merely characterizing it as a human document which affects the reader like the baring of a wound and whose painful lack of reserve the writer probably considered an uttermost hazard. It was not. And the way it proved not to be was really beautiful. At once, with all expedition, with no torturing delay, Rudi’s visit to Pfeiffering followed. There were explanations, there was assurance of the profoundest gratitude: the revelation of a simple, bold, and utterly sincere bearing, zealously concerned to obviate all humiliation… That I must commend, I cannot help it. And I suspect—and in a way approve—that on this occasion the composition and dedication of the violin concerto were decided on.

  It took Adrian to Vienna. It took him, with Rudi Schwerdtfeger, to the estate in Hungary. When they returned, Rudolf rejoiced in the prerogative that up to then, from our childhood on, had been mine alone: he and Adrian were per du.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Poor Rudi! Brief was the triumph of your childish daemony. It had entered into a field of power far more charged with fate, far more daemonic than its own, which speedily shattered, consumed, and extinguished it. Unhappy “Du!” It was inappropriate to the blue-eyed mediocrity that had achieved it; nor could he who so far condescended refrain from avenging the humiliation inseparable from the condescension, pleasurable though that may have been. The revenge was automatic, cold-eyed, secret. But let me tell my tale.

  In the last days of 1924 the successful violin concerto was repeated in Berne and Zurich, as part of two performances of the Swiss Chamber Orchestra, whose director, Herr Paul Sacher, had invited Schferdtfeger, on very flattering terms and with the express wish that the composer might honour the occasion with his presence. Adrian demurred, but Rudolf knew how to plead and the recent “Du” was strong enough to open the way for what was to come.

  The concerto occupied a place in the middle of a program including German classics and contemporary Russian music. It was performed twice: in the Hall of the Conservatorium at Berne and also in Zurich, in the Tonhalle. Thanks to the exertions of the soloist, who gave all that he had to its execution, the piece fully asserted both its fascination and its intellectual appeal. True, the critics remarked a certain lack of unity in the style, even in the level of the composition, and the public too was slightly more reserved than in Vienna. However, it not only gave the performers a lively ovation but on both evenings insisted on the appearance of the composer, who gratified his interpreter by appearing repeatedly hand in hand with him to acknowledge the applause. I was not present at this twice repeated unique event, the exposure of the recluse in person to the gaze of the crowd. I was out of it. I heard about it, however, from Jeanette Scheurl, who was in Zurich for the second performance and also met Adrian in the private house where he and Schwerdtfeger lodged.

  It was in the Mythenstrasse, near the lake, the home of Herr and Frau Reiff, an elderly, wealthy, childless pair. They were friends of art, who had always enjoyed extending hospitality to prominent artists on tour and entertaining them socially. The husband was a retired silk-manufacturer, a Swiss of the old democratic mould. He had a glass eye, which imparted a rather stony expression to his bearded face and belied his character, for he was of a lively and liberal frame and loved nothing better than playing the gallant with prima donnas and soubrettes in his drawing-room. Sometimes he entertained the company, not too badly, with his cello, accompanied by his wife, who came from Germany and had once been a singer. She lacked his sense of humour, but was the energetic, hospitable housewife personified, warmly seconding her husband’s pleasure at entertaining celebrities and giving their drawing-rooms an atmosphere of unforced virtuosity. She had in her boudoir a whole tableful of photographs of European celebrities, gratefully dedicated to the Reiff hospitality.

  Even before Schwerdtfeger’s name had appeared in the papers the couple had invited him, for as an open-handed Maecenas the old industrialist heard sooner than ordinary people about coming musical events. They had promptly extended the invitation to Adrian so soon as they knew he was coming too. Their apartment was spacious, there was plenty of room for guests; in fact on their arrival from Berne the two musicians found Jeanette Scheurl already installed, for she came every year for a few weeks on a visit. But it was not Jeanette Scheurl next whom Adrian was placed at the supper the Reiffs gave for a small circle of friends after the concert.

  The master of the house sat at the head of the table, drinking orange-juice out of wonderful engraved crystal, and despite his staring gaze exchanging free and easy repartee with the dramatic soprano of the municipal theatre, a powerful female who in the course of the evening thumped herself repeatedly on the breast with her fist. There was another opera singer there, the heroic baritone, a Bait by birth, a tall man with a booming voice, who, however, talked with intelligence. Then of course Kapellmeister Sacher, who had arranged the concert, Dr. Andreae, the regular conductor of the Tonhalle, and Dr. Schuh, the excellent music-critic of the Neue Zuricher Zeitung—all these were present with their wives. At the other end of the table Frau Reiff energetically presided between Adrian and Schwerdtfeger, next to whom sat, respectively, a young, or still young professional woman, Mile Godeau, a French Swiss, and her aunt, a thoroughly good-natured, almost Russian-looking old dame with a little moustache. Marie (in other words Mile Godeau) addressed her as “ma tante” or Tante Isabeau; she apparently lived with her niece as companion and housekeeper.

  It is undoubtedly incumbent on me to give a picture of the niece, since a little later, for excellent reasons, my eyes dwelt long upon her in anxious scrutiny. If ever the word “sympathetic” was indispensable to the description of a person, it is so in the present case, when I seek to convey the picture of this woman: from head to foot, in every feature, with every word, every smile, every expression of her being, she corresponded to the tranquil, temperate, aesthetic, and moral climate purveyed by this word. She had the loveliest black eyes in the world. I will begin with them: black as jet they were, as tar, as ripe blackberries; eyes not large indeed, but with a clear and open shine from their dark depths, under brows whose fine, even line had as little to do with cosmetics as had the the temperate native r
ed of the gentle lips. There was nothing artificial, no make-up about her, no accentuation by borrowed colour. Her native genuine sweetness—the way, for instance, in which the dark-brown hair was drawn back from her brow and sensitive temples, leaving the ears free and lying heavy at the back of her neck—set its stamp on the hands as well. They were sensible and beautiful, by no means small, but slender and small-boned, the wrists encircled by the cuffs of a white silk blouse. And just so too the throat rose out of a flat white collar, slender and round like a column, crowned by the piquantly pointed oval of the ivory-tinted face. The shapely little nose was remarkable for the animation of the open nostrils. Her not precisely frequent smile, her still less frequent laugh, which always caused a certain appealing look of strain round the almost translucent region of the temples, revealed the enamel of her even, close-set teeth.

  It will be seen that I seek to summon up in a spirit of painstaking love the figure of this woman whom Adrian for a short time thought to marry. It was in that white silk evening blouse which so enhanced—perhaps with intention—her brunette type that I too saw Marie for the first time. Afterwards I saw her chiefly in one of her still more becoming simple everyday and travelling costumes of dark tartan with patent-leather belt and mother-of-pearl buttons; or else in the knee-length smock which she put on over it when she worked with lead-pencils and coloured crayons at her drawing-board. She was a designer, so Adrian had been told by Frau Reiff; an artist who sketched and worked out for the smaller Paris opera and vaudeville stages, the Gaiete Lyrique, the old Theatre du Trianon, the figurines, costumes, and settings which then served as models for costumiers and decorators. The artist, a native of Nyon on Lake Geneva, lived and worked in the tiny rooms of a flat on the He de Paris, companioned by Tante Isabeau. Her reputation for inventiveness and industry was on the increase, as were her professional grasp of costume history and her fastidious taste. Her present visit in Zurich was a business one; and she told her neighbour on the right that in a few weeks she would be coming to Munich, where she was to create the settings for a modern comedy of manners at the Schauspielhaus.

  Adrian divided his attention between her and the hostess, while opposite him the tired but happy Rudi joked with “ma tante.” She laughed till the tears ran down; often she leaned over with wet face and shaking voice to repeat something her neighbour had just said and her niece absolutely must hear. Marie would nod and smile, obviously pleased to see her aunt so well amused; her eyes rested gratefully on the source of the old lady’s enjoyment, while he in his turn did his utmost to provoke her to yet another repetition of what he had said. Mile Godeau talked with Adrian, answering his questions about her work in Paris, about recent productions of the French ballet and opera which were only partly known to him, works by Poulenc, Auric, Rieti. They exchanged animated views on Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe and the Jeux of Debussy, Scarlatti’s music to the Donne di buon umore by Goldoni, Cimarosa’s Il Matrimonio segreto, and L’Education manquee by Chabrier. For some of these Marie had designed new settings, and she made sketches on her place-card to illustrate solutions for various scenic problems. Saul Fitelberg she knew—oh, of course! It was then she showed the gleaming enamel of her teeth, her voice rang out in a hearty laugh, and her temples got that lovely look of strain. Her German was effortless, with a slight, delightful foreign accent; her voice had a warm, appealing quality, it was a singing voice, a “material” beyond a doubt. To be specific, not only was it like Elsbeth Leverkühn’s in colour and register but sometimes one really might think, as one listened, that one heard the voice of Adrian’s mother.

  But a company of fifteen people, like this one, usually breaks up on rising from table into groups and makes fresh contacts. Adrian scarcely exchanged a word after supper with Marie Godeau. Sacher, Andrese, and Schuh, with Jeanette Scheurl, engaged him in a long conversation about Zurich and Munich musical events, while the Paris ladies, with the opera singers, the host and hostess, and Schwerdtfeger, sat at the table with the priceless Sevres service and with amazement watched the elderly Herr Reiff empty one cup of strong coffee after another. He declared in his impressive Swiss German that he did it by his doctor’s advice, to strengthen his heart and make him fall asleep more easily. The three house guests retired soon after the departure of the rest of the company. Mile Godeau was staying for several days with her aunt at Hotel Eden au Lac. When Schwerdtfeger, who was to accompany Adrian the next morning to Munich, bade them goodbye, he expressed a lively hope of seeing them there later. Marie waited a moment, until Adrian echoed the wish, and then pleasantly reciprocated.

  * * *

  The first weeks of June 1925 had gone by when I read in the paper that my friend’s attractive Zurich table partner had arrived in our capital and with her aunt was staying in Pension Gisela in Schwabing; not by chance, for Adrian told me he had recommended it to her. He had stopped there for a few days on his return from Italy. The Schauspielhaus, in order to arouse interest in the coming premiere, had given publicity to the news of her arrival; it was at once confirmed to us by an invitation from the Schlaginhaufens to spend the next Saturday evening with them to meet the well-known stage designer.

  I cannot describe the suspense with which I looked forward to this meeting. Curiosity, pleasurable expectation, apprehension, mingled in my mind and resulted in profound excitement. Why? Not—or not only—because Adrian on his return from Switzerland had told me among other things of his meeting with Marie and had given me a description of her which, as a simple statement, included the likeness of her voice to his mother’s and in other ways besides had made me prick up my ears. Certainly it was no enthusiastic portrayal, on the contrary his words were quiet and casual, his manner unembarrassed, he talked looking off into the room. But that the meeting had made an impression on him was clear, if only because he knew Marie’s first and her last name. And we know that in society he seldom knew the name of the person he spoke with. Of course he did much more than merely mention her, besides.

  But that was not all that caused my heart to beat so strangely in joy and fear. On my next visit to Pfeiffering, Adrian let fall remarks to the effect that he had now lived here a very long time. He might possibly make changes in his outward life; at least he might soon put an end to his hermit state: he was considering matters, and so on. In short you could interpret his remarks only as an intention to marry. I had the courage to ask whether his hints were connected with a certain social event in Zurich; to that he replied: “Who can prevent you from making guesses? Anyhow this cabined, cribbed, confined space is not at all the right theatre. If I mistake not, it was on Mount Zion, back home, that you once made me similar revelations. We ought to climb up to the Rohmbühel for this conversation.”

  Imagine my astonishment! “My dear friend,” said I, “this is a sensation, it is thrilling.”

  He advised me to moderate my transports. He would soon be forty; that he thought was warning enough not to put off the step. I was not to ask any more questions. I would see in good time. I did not conceal from myself my joy that this new idea meant the severance of the impish and anomalous bond with Schwerdtfeger; I rejoiced to interpret it as a conscious means to that end. How the fiddler and whistler would take it was a minor matter, which did not unduly upset me since Schwerdtfeger had already, with the concert, arrived at the goal of his childish ambition. After that triumph, I thought, he would be ready to take a more reasonable place in Adrian Leverkühn’s life. But what I was revolving in my mind was my friend’s singular way of speaking of his intention as though its realization depended on himself alone; as though he did not need to give a thought to the girl’s consent. I was more than ready to approve a self-confidence so strong as to assume that it needed only to choose, only to make known its choice. And yet I did feel some trepidation at this naivete, it seemed to me like another manifestation of that remoteness and other-worldness he carried about like an aura. Against my will, I doubted whether this man was made to win the love of women. If I were quite can
did with myself, I even doubted that he believed it himself. I thought perhaps he struggled against the feeling and purposely so put it as though his success were a matter of course. Whether the woman of his choice had so far any inkling of his feelings and plans remained obscure.

  It remained obscure so far as I was concerned even after the evening party in the Briennerstrasse where I first met Marie Godeau. How much I liked her will be clear from the description I gave above. Not only the mild dark depth of her eyes—and I knew what an appeal that must make to Adrian’s sensibilities—her delightful smile, her musical voice; not only these won me to her, but also the friendly and intelligent seriousness of her character, the directness so far above all cooing femininity, the decision, even the bluntness of the independent, capable woman. It rejoiced me to think of her as Adrian Leverkühn’s life-partner; I could well understand the feeling she gave him. Did not “the world” come near to him in her, the world from which he shrank—and, in an artistic and musical sense, that part of the world which was outside Germany? And it came in the most serious, friendly guise, awakening confidence, promising fulfilment, encouraging him to abandon his recluse state. Did he not love her out of his own world of musical theology, oratorio, mathematical number-magic? It gave me hope, it excited me, to see these two human beings together in one room, although in fact they were not together for long at a time. Once a shift in the grouping brought Marie, Adrian, myself, and another person together, when I removed myself almost at once in the hope that the other person would take the hint and move off too.