by Thomas Mann
From time to time the marquis would come to dinner not alone but in the most charming company. On these occasions he would order a larger table, and Machatschek would see that the flowers on it were especially gay. He would appear about seven o'clock, accompanied by a person who was really extraordinarily pretty — I could not question his taste, although it was a taste for le beauté de diable and for what was obviously perishable. Just then, however, in the bloom of youth, Zaza — so he called her — was the most enchanting creature in the world. She was a shapely brunette, Parisienne by birth, type grisette, but dignified by evening dresses from expensive establishments, which he, of course, ordered for her, and by the rare antique jewelry which was, of course, his gift. Her arms, which were always bare, were remarkably beautiful; her hair was done low on her neck in a bizarre, fluffy coiffure surmounted sometimes by a very becoming turban with silver fringes at the sides and a feather that swept over her forehead; she had a snub nose and her flirtatious glances were accompanied by a continual chatter.
They drank the champagne which was always substituted, when Zaza came, for the half-bottle of Bordeaux Venosta drank when he dined alone, and it was a pleasure to wait on the pair, they took such joy in each other's company. There was no doubt that he was head over heels in love with her — and no wonder — to the point of being completely indifferent to all appearances, captivated by the glimpses of her enticing décolletage, her chatter, the bewitchment of her black eyes. And she, I can well believe, was delighted by his tenderness and happy to respond to it, and tried in every way to inflame it; to her it meant nothing less than first prize in the grand lottery, the basis of her hopes for a glowing future. I was accustomed to address her as 'madame', but once, after her fourth or fifth visit, I ventured to say 'madame la marquise', which produced a great effect. She blushed in happy terror and threw her friend a questioning and loving glance. He met this with merry eyes, while she, in some embarrassment, lowered her own to the table.
Naturally she flirted with me, too, and the marquis pretended to be jealous, although he certainly could be sure of her faithfulness.
'Zaza, you'll drive me crazy — tu me feras voir rouge — if you don't stop ogling Armand. You don't really want to be responsible for a double murder and a suicide, do you? ... Come now, admit you wouldn't mind a bit if he were in a dinner-jacket sitting at the table with you and I were serving you in a blue tail-coat.'
How strange that he should have put into words the preoccupation of my leisure moments, my silent game of exchanging roles! While I held the menu for them both so that they could choose dessert, I was bold enough to answer in Zaza's stead:
'Then you would have the more difficult role, monsieur le marquis, for waiting is a trade, but to be a marquis is existence pure and simple.'
'Excellent!' she cried, laughing with the delight of her kind at a well-turned phrase.
'And are you sure,' he inquired, 'that you are more capable of existence pure and simple than I am of a trade?'
'I believe it would be neither courteous nor accurate,' I replied, 'to ascribe to you a special talent as a waiter, monsieur le marquis.'
She was much amused. 'Mais il est incomparable, ce gaillard!'
'Your admiration for him is killing me,' he said with theatrical despair. 'And, besides, he only evaded me.'
I let it go at that and withdrew. The evening dress in which he had pictured me as taking his place actually existed, however; I had acquired it a short time before and kept it, together with some other things, in a little room I had rented in a quiet corner of the central section of the city, not far from the hotel. My purpose was not to sleep there — that seldom happened — but to have a place to keep my personal wardrobe and to change unobserved when I wanted to spend my free evenings in somewhat higher circles than those I had frequented in Stanko's company. The room was in a house in a little cité, a covey of old houses enclosed by iron fences and reached through the quiet rue Boissy d'Anglas. There were neither shops nor restaurants there; only a few small hotels and private houses of the sort one can look into from the street through the open door of the porter's lodge and see the concierge at her housework and her husband sitting with his bottle of wine, the cat beside him. It was in a house of this sort that I had a short time before become the sub-tenant of a kindly middle-aged widow who occupied a four-room apartment on the third floor. For a moderate monthly rental she turned one of her rooms over to me — a kind of small bed-sitting-room with a cot and a marble fireplace surmounted by a mirror, a pendulum clock on the mantelpiece, rickety upholstered furniture, and sooty silk curtains at the French windows, from which one had a view of a narrow court with glass-roofed kitchens below. Beyond this one looked out on the back windows of the elegant houses of the faubourg Saint-Honoré, where in the evenings one could see the cooks and maids wandering through the service quarters and bedrooms. Moreover, somewhere over there lived the Prince of Monaco and to him belonged this whole peaceful little cité, for which he could receive, any time he wanted it, forty-five million francs. Then it would be torn down. But he seemed not to need the money, and so, subject to cancellation, I remained the guest of this monarch and grand croupier, a thought to whose odd charm I was by no means insensible.
The good suit I had bought at the Printemps had its place in the wardrobe outside dormitory number four. My new acquisitions, however — a dinner-jacket, a silk-lined evening cape, in the selection of which I had been unconsciously influenced by my still vivid recollection of Müller-Rosé as attaché and woman-chaser, a silk hat, and a pair of patent-leather shoes — I had not dared exhibit in the hotel; I kept them ready for use in the 'cabinet de toilette' in my rented room. This was a kind of wallpapered closet where a cretonne curtain protected my clothes. Dress shirts, black silk socks, and bow ties were in the Louis Seize bureau in the room. My dinner-jacket with its satin lapels had not actually been made to order; I had bought it off the hanger and only had it altered a little, but it fitted my figure so perfectly that I would like to have seen the connoisseur who would not have sworn it had been made to measure by an expensive tailor. For what purpose did I keep these and other fineries stored in my quiet private dwelling?
But I have already divulged the answer; from time to time, by way of experiment and practice in living the higher life, I would dine in some elegant restaurant on the rue de Rivoli or the avenue des Champs-Elysées or in some hotel of the same quality as my own, or finer if possible, the Ritz, the Bristol, the Meurice, and would afterward take a loge seat in some good theatre devoted to the spoken drama or comic opera or even grand opera. This amounted, as one can see, to a kind of dual existence, whose charm lay in the ambiguity as to which figure was the real I and which the masquerade: was I the liveried commis-de-salle who waited on and flattered the guests in the Saint James and Albany, or was I the unknown man of distinction who looked as though he must keep a riding horse and who would certainly, once he had finished dinner, call in at various exclusive salons but was meanwhile graciously permitting himself to be served by waiters among whom I found none equal to me in my other role? Thus I masqueraded in both capacities, and the undisguised reality behind the two appearances, the real I, could not be identified because it actually did not exist. Nor am I willing to say that I gave my role as a man of distinction any definite preference over the other. I was too good and successful a waiter to feel appreciably happier when I was the one who was waited on — a part, by the way, that requires as much natural talent as the other. An evening was to come, however, that committed me to this talent, this theatrical gift for playing the master, in a decisive and gratifying, indeed almost intoxicating manner.
CHAPTER 4
IT was a July evening shortly before the national holiday that brings the theatre season to a close, and I was enjoying one of the free nights my employers granted me every fortnight. I had decided to dine, as I had done a few times before, in the attractive roof garden of the Grand Hôtel des Ambassadeurs on the boulevard Sai
nt-Germain. From its lofty heights one has a sweeping view over the flower boxes and across the city in the direction of the Seine on one side toward the Place de la Concorde and the Madeleine, on the other toward that masterpiece of the World Exposition of 1889, the Eiffel Tower. An elevator takes you up five or six stories and you find yourself in a refreshing atmosphere, surrounded by the subdued conversation of high society, whose manners forbid curiosity. I fitted in easily and faultlessly. Brightly clad ladies, their hats wide and daring, sat in their wicker chairs at tables lighted by little shaded lamps. The moustached gentlemen escorting them wore correct evening attire, as did I. Some even had on tails. These I did not possess, but my own elegance was more than sufficient, and I felt completely at ease as I took my place at the empty table to which the head waiter escorted me while his assistant removed the second couvert. I was looking forward to a delightful evening after an agreeable meal for I had in my pocket a ticket to the Opéra Comique, where Faust was to be given that night, my favourite opera, the melodious masterpiece of the late Gounod. I had heard it once before and was looking forward to renewing the charming impressions of that first occasion.
That, however, was not to be. Fate had something quite different and far more significant in store for me that evening.
I had communicated my wishes to the waiter bending over me, menu in hand, and had asked for the wine card. I was allowing my eyes to wander over the assembled company with a casual and purposely weary gaze when they encountered another pair of eyes, merry and alert, the eyes of the young Marquis de Venosta, who, apparelled like me, was sitting at a single table some distance away. Understandably enough, I recognized him before he recognized me. It was obviously easier for me to trust my eyes than for him to believe what he saw. After a brief wrinkling of the brow, a look of merry astonishment appeared on his face; for, though I had hesitated to greet him (I was not sure it would be tactful), the involuntary smile with which I met his glance assured him of my identity — the identity, that is, of the cavalier and the waiter. With a toss of his head and a brief spreading of his hands he indicated his amazement and pleasure, and, laying aside his napkin, made his way over to me between the tables.
'Mon cher Armand, is it you or is it not? But forgive my momentary doubt. And forgive me for using your first name out of habit — unfortunately, your family name is unknown to me, or it has escaped my mind. For us you were always just Armand.'
I had risen and was shaking his hand, which of course he had never offered me before.
'Not even the first name,' I said, laughing, 'is exactly right, marquis. Armand is only a nom de guerre or d'affaires. Actually, my name is Félix — Félix Kroull — enchanted to see you.'
'Mon cher Kroull, of course, how could it have slipped my mind? It is I who am enchanted, I assure you! Comment allez-vous? Very well indeed, to judge by your appearance, although appearances ... I, too, look well, and yet things are going ill with me. Yes, yes, ill. But none of that. And you — am I to understand that you have quit your delightful activities at the Saint James and Albany?'
'No, indeed, marquis. They go on concurrently. Or this goes on concurrently. I am both here and there.'
'Très amusant. You are a magician. But I am inconveniencing you. I shall leave you to — But no, let us join forces. I cannot invite you to my table, it's too small. But I see you have room. I have had my dessert, but if it is agreeable to you, I'll have my coffee here. Or do you yearn for solitude?"
'Not a bit. You are welcome here, marquis,' I replied casually. And, turning to the waiter: 'A chair for this gentleman!' I was at pains not to show that I was flattered or to say anything about the honour he was doing me, but contented myself with calling his proposal a good one. He sat down opposite me and while I finished ordering my dinner and he was served with coffee and a fine, he continued to watch me earnestly, bending slightly forward across the table. Obviously my double life fascinated him and he was eager to understand it better.
'My presence doesn't disturb you while you're eating?' he asked. 'I should hate to be a bother. Least of all do I want to appear importunate, which is always a sign of bad upbringing. A cultivated man passes lightly over everything, accepts events without asking questions. That marks a man of the world, such as I ostensibly am. All right, then, such as I am. But on many occasions — the present one, for example — I realize that I am a man of the world without knowledge of the world, without that experience of life which alone justifies us in accepting events of all kinds with the worldly man's light touch. There is no pleasure in playing that role if you are really ignorant... You will understand that our meeting here strikes me as remarkable as well as pleasant and it makes me eager to understand. Admit that your phrases about "going on concurrently" and "here and there" contain something intriguing — to one who is inexperienced. For God's sake, go on eating and don't say a word! Let me do the talking while I try experimentally to picture the way of life of a contemporary who is obviously far more a man of the world than I am. Voyons! You come, as one now sees not for the first time but really always has seen, of a good family — with us members of the nobility, forgive the hard word, one simply says "of family"; only the bourgeois can come of a good family. Comical world! A good family, then and you have chosen a career which will doubtless lead to a goal appropriate to your origin, to attain which it is important that you work your way up from the ranks and temporarily occupy positions which might deceive someone of less penetration into thinking that he was dealing with a person of the lower classes instead, so to speak, of a gentleman in disguise. Am I right? A propos: it is nice of the English to have spread the word "gentleman" around the world. Thanks to them, we have a designation for a man who is not a nobleman, to be sure, but deserves to be, deserves it more than many a one who is styled "Hochgeboren", whereas the gentleman is only called "Hochwohlgeboren" — "only" — and has a "wohl" to make it more explicit. ... To your "Wohl"! I'll order something to drink at once; that is, if you have emptied your half-bottle, we'll order a whole one together. ... The "Hochgeboren" and "Hochwohlgeboren" make an exact analogy to "family" and "good family". ... My, how I chatter! It's just so you may eat in peace and not bother about me. Don't take the goose, it's not well roasted. Take the leg of lamb; my experience confirms what the maître assured me of — it has been soaked in milk for the right length of time. .. . Enfin! What was I saying about you? While your service in the ranks makes you appear to be a member of the lower classes — this must afford you a good deal of amusement, I imagine — you naturally keep a firm inner hold on your position as a gentleman and from time to time return to it outwardly, as you are doing tonight. Very, very nice. But completely new to me and startling — which shows you how little one knows about human life even when one is a man of the world. Technically, if you'll pardon my asking, the "here and there" cannot be entirely easy. You have money of your own, I assume — observe I do not ask, I assume what is perfectly clear. So you are in a position to keep up your wardrobe as a gentleman in addition to your working-livery, and the interesting thing about it is that you appear as much at home in the one as in the other.'
'Clothes make the man, marquis — or perhaps the other way around: the man makes the clothes.'
'And I have sketched your way of life with approximate truth?'
'Very accurately.' And I told him that I did indeed possess some means — oh, very modest ones — and that I kept a small apartment in the city, where I accomplished those changes in my appearance which I now had the pleasure of permitting him to observe.
I was well aware that he was observing my table manners and, without affectation, I preserved a certain well-bred formality, sitting upright with my elbows close to my sides. That my behaviour interested him was betrayed by his casual observations about foreign eating-habits. In America, he remarked, Europeans were recognized by the fact that they raised their forks with their left hands. The American cut his food first, then laid his knife aside and ate with his right hand. 'Th
ere's something childish about it, isn't there?' However, he knew this only by hearsay. He had never been over there, nor had he any desire at all to travel — none whatever — not the slightest. Had I seen something of the world?
'My God, no, marquis — and yet in another sense, yes! Nothing except a few attractive Taunus spas and Frankfurt on the Main. But then Paris. And Paris is a great deal.'
'Paris is everything!' he said with emphasis. 'To me it is everything, and I would rather die than leave it, but I shall have to, nevertheless. I shall have to travel, more's the pity, entirely against my wishes and inclinations. The son of the house, dear Kroull. I don't know to what extent you still are that and tied to the apron strings — after all, you only come of a good family, but I, hélas, of family....'
Almost before I had finished my Pèche Melba he had ordered the bottle of Lafite that was meant for both of us.
'I'll just begin on this,' he said. 'When you're through with your coffee, join me. If I have too much of a start, we'll order another.'
'Well, marquis, you already have a good start. When you were in my hands at the Saint James and Albany you used to be moderate.'