by Thomas Mann
Unquestionably he had originally intended to conduct the audience standing and, as it simply concerned my presentation, to conclude it in a few minutes. If now it was extended and became more intimate, you may attribute that — I say this more to give you pleasure than to feed my own vanity — to the fluency of my speech, which perhaps entertained him, and the agreeableness of my general appearance.
The King, the ambassador, and I sat in leather armchairs in front of a marble fireplace with a screen before it. On the mantel there stood a pendulum clock, candelabra, and Oriental vases. We were in a spacious, handsomely furnished study, with two glass-front bookcases and a Persian rug of gigantic size. Two pictures in heavy gold frames hung on either side of the fireplace, one a mountain landscape, the other a painting of flowery fields. Herr von Hueon directed my attention to the paintings with his eyes, while gesturing toward the King, who was bringing over a silver cigarette-box from a carved smoking-table. I understood.
'Will Your Majesty,' I said, 'most graciously forgive me if I divert my attention momentarily from your person to these masterpieces that irresistibly draw my eyes? May I examine them more closely? Oh, that is painting! That is genius! I can't quite make out the signature, but both of them must be by the first artist of your country.'
'The first?' the King asked, smiling. 'That depends. The pictures are by me. That on the left is a view from the Serra da Estrella, where I have a hunting-lodge, the one on the right is an attempt to reproduce the mood of our marshy lowlands, where I often shoot snipe. You see I have tried to give some idea of the charm of the rock roses that in many places bedeck the plains.'
'One feels as though one could smell their perfume,' I said. 'Good God, before such accomplishment, dilettantism must blush.'
'Dilettantism is just what it is considered,' Dom Miguel replied, shrugging his shoulders, while I, as though by a great effort, tore myself away from his works and resumed my chair. 'People think a king capable of nothing but dilettantism. They at once remember Nero and his qualis artifex ambitions.'
'Miserable creatures,' I replied, 'who cannot free themselves from such a prejudice! They should rejoice at a stroke of fortune that unites the highest with the highest, the grace of exalted birth with the gifts of the Muses.'
His Majesty heard this with visible pleasure. He sat comfortably reclining in his chair, while the ambassador and I properly sat bolt upright in ours. The King remarked: 'I take great pleasure, dear marquis, in your responsiveness, in the unconstrained enjoyment with which you observe things, people, the world and its works, the engaging innocence with which you do this and for which you are to be envied. It is perhaps only at the social level which you occupy that this is possible. It is in the depths of society and at its highest pinnacle that one meets the ugliness and bitterness of life. Common man experiences it — and the ruler of a state, who breathes the miasmas of politics.'
'Your Majesty's observation,' I replied, 'is full of insight. Only I humbly beg you not to think that my own powers of observation are confined to a mindless enjoyment of surfaces without any attempt to penetrate to what is less agreeable inside. I offered Your Majesty my congratulations on the truly enviable lot of being the ruler of so glorious a country as Portugal. But I am not blind to certain shadows that threaten to dim your happiness and I know about the drops of gall and wormwood that malice has poured into the golden cup of your life. It is not unknown to me that here, too, even here — must I say, especially here? — certain elements are not wanting, elements that call themselves radical, no doubt because, like rats, they gnaw at the roots of society — horrible elements, if I may give moderate expression to my feelings of abhorrence, elements that welcome every embarrassment, every political or financial difficulty of the state, in order to make capital of them through their machinations. They call themselves men of the people, though their only connexion with the people consists in perverting their sound instinct and robbing them, to their own sorrow, of their natural belief in the necessity of a clearly defined social hierarchy. And how? By dinning into them the wholly unnatural notion of equality, which runs counter to the people's interests just because it is unnatural, and by attempting to mislead them through vulgar oratory into a belief in the necessity and desirability — leaving out the possibility — of abolishing the distinctions of birth and blood, the distinctions between rich and poor, nobleman and commoner, distinctions in whose defence Nature and beauty perpetually join hands. By his very existence the beggar, huddled in rags, makes as great a contribution to the colourful picture of the world as the proud gentleman who drops alms in his humbly oustretched hand, carefully avoiding, of course, any contact with it. And, Your Majesty, the beggar knows it; he is aware of the special dignity that the order of the world has allotted to him, and in the depths of his heart he does not wish things otherwise. It takes the instigation to rebellion by men of ill will to make him discontented with his picturesque role and to put into his head the contumacious notion that men must be equal. They are not equal, and they are born realizing that. Man comes into the world with an aristocratic point of view. That, young though I am, has been my experience. Whoever it may be — a minister, a member of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, or that other hierarchy, the Army, some honest noncommissioned officer in his barracks — he exhibits an infallible eye and instinct to distinguish the common substance from the fine, to recognize the clay of which one is made. ... Fine friends of the people indeed, those who take away from the ill-born and lowly their joy in what is above them, in wealth, in the noble manners and customs of the upper strata of society, and who change that joy into envy, greed, and rebellion! They rob the masses of religion, which keeps them within pious and happy bounds, and, in addition, pretend to them that everything can be accomplished by changing the form of the state; the monarchy must fall, and with the establishment of a republic, human nature will be transformed and happiness and equality will appear automatically. ... But it is time for me to beg Your Majesty not to take amiss this out-pouring that I have allowed myself.'
The King nodded to the ambassador with raised eyebrows, which greatly pleased the latter.
'Dear marquis,' His Majesty then said, 'you give expression to ideas that deserve only praise — ideas, moreover, that are not only appropriate to your origin but, allow me to say, do you personally and individually much credit. Yes, yes, I mean what I say. A propos, you mentioned the inflammatory rhetoric of the demagogues, their dangerous glibness. It is an unhappy fact that one encounters skill in speech principally among such people, lawyers, ambitious politicians, apostles of liberalism, and enemies of the established order. That order seldom finds defenders of intelligence and wit. It is a very comforting exception to hear the right side well and winningly presented for once.'
'I cannot say,' I replied, 'how very much honour and happiness the word "comforting" on Your Majesty's lips has given me. However ridiculous it may seem for a simple young nobleman to presume to think he could comfort a King, I confess that just this was my intention. And what prompted me to this attempt? Sympathy, Your Majesty. It is sympathy tinged with awe; if that is audacious, I should like to maintain that there is hardly any profounder combination of emotions than that of awe and sympathy. What I, in my youth, know about Your Majesty's troubles and about the enmity to which the principle you represent and even your exalted person are exposed, touches me deeply and I cannot refrain from wishing you every distraction possible from these troublous concerns and as much happy diversion as can be contrived. No doubt that is what Your Majesty looks for and finds in some measure in painting. Besides, I am happy to learn that you derive enjoyment from hunting.'
'You are right,' he said. 'I am happiest, I admit, when I am far from the capital and its political intrigues, under the open sky in field or on mountain, stalking or standing in a blind with a few tried and true friends. You are a huntsman, marquis?'
'I cannot say that I am, Your Majesty. Beyond question the chase is the most knightly form of d
iversion, but, on the whole, I am no lover of firearms and participate only infrequently, when invited. The part that gives me the greatest joy is observing the dogs in action. A fine leash of pointers or setters, every muscle tense with excitement, noses to the ground, tails waving — the proud parade step and high-held head with which one of them brings back a bird or rabbit — these are things I delight in watching. I confess, in short, that I am a dog-lover and have associated since childhood with these ancient friends of man. The affection in a dog's eye, his open-mouthed laughter when you joke with him — after all, he's the only animal that can laugh — his awkward tenderness, the elegance of his play, the springy beauty of his gait if he's a thoroughbred — all this warms my heart. In most cases there is hardly any sign left of his descent from wolf and jackal. As little sign, usually, as of the horse's descent from tapir and rhinoceros. Even the bog hounds of the lake-dweller period had ceased to show any similarity. And who would think of a wolf when looking at a spaniel, a dachshund, a poodle, a Scotty, which seems to walk on its belly, or a kindly Saint Bernard? And what variety there is in the species! No other has so much. A pig is a pig, an ox an ox. But would one ever believe that a Great Dane, big as a calf, is the same animal as a griffon? At the same time,' I chattered on, relaxing my posture now and leaning back in the chair — and the ambassador followed suit, 'at the same time, one has the impression that these creatures are not aware of their proportions, whether gigantic or tiny, and do not take them into account in their relations with one another. Love — Your Majesty, I hope, will forgive me for touching on this subject — obliterates all sense of what is fitting and not fitting. At home in the castle we have a Russian wolfhound called Fripon, a great gentlest man reserved in manner and of a sleepy arrogance of demeanour, related, no doubt, to the trivial size of his brain. On the other hand, there is Minime, my Mama's Maltese lap-dog, a little bundle of white silk hardly larger than my fist. One would think that Fripon would not be blind to the fact that in one particular relationship this trembling little princess would be no proper partner for him. However, at the times when her femininity asserts itself, although he is kept far away from her, his teeth commence to chatter from unrealizable love so that he can be heard rooms away.'
The King waxed merry over the chattering teeth.
'Oh, Your Majesty,' I hastened on, 'I must tell you that this precious little creature Minime has a constitution that is very ill-suited to her role as lap-dog.'
And then, dear Mama, I re-enacted, much better and with more ludicrous detail, my performance of the other evening, the portrayal of the, alas, recurrent tragedy in your lap, the cries of alarm, the ringing of bells; I imitated Adelaide's fluttering entrance, her unexampled affectation only augmented by the crisis, her bearing away of the squirming and disgraced favourite, and the doddering attempts of Radicule to come to your assistance with fire shovel and ash bucket. My success was all that had been hoped for, the King held his sides with laughter — and it is really a profound joy to see a crowned head, oppressed by worry over a subversive party in his country, surrender himself to such self-forgetful merriment. I do not know what those waiting in the anteroom may have made of this audience, but it is certain that His Majesty enjoyed to a quite remarkable degree the innocent diversion I offered him. Finally, however, the latter remembered that my name and that of the ambassador (who showed visible signs of pride at having so well served His Majesty's interests by introducing me) were not by any means the last on the list, and gave the signal that the audience was over by rising, meanwhile mopping his eyes. As we were making our deep farewell bows I heard, though apparently I was not intended to, the repeated 'Charmant, charmant!' with which the monarch expressed his appreciation to Herr von Hueon. And now, dear parents, here is something that will, I hope, make my small sin against piety and my arbitrary prolongation of my stay appear in a more favourable light. Two days later I received from the Court Chamberlain's office a little package that contained the insignia of the Portuguese Order of the Red Lion, second class, which His Majesty had been graciously pleased to bestow on me. This is worn round the neck on a crimson ribbon, and henceforth on formal occasions I shall not have to appear in unadorned evening clothes as I did at the ambassador's.
I know very well that one's true worth is not worn in enamel on one's shirt front, but deeper in the breast. But people — you have known them longer and better than I — people like to see the outward show, the symbol, the decoration worn in full view. I do not criticize them for this, I am full of kindly understanding of their needs. And it is my sympathy and love for my fellow men that makes me rejoice at being able to gratify their childish love of show in the future by wearing the Red Lion, second class.
Nothing further for today, dear parents. Only a fool gives more than he has. Soon there will be more reports of my experiences and adventures in the world, all of which I shall owe to your generosity. And if I were to receive a letter from you at the above address, assuring me of your good health, that would be the most precious possible addition to the well-being of
YOUR AFFECTIONATE AND TRULY OBEDIENT SON, LOULOU.
This letter covered a great number of sheets of the Savoy Palace Hotel's best note-paper. It was composed partly in French and partly in German, in the carefully imitated stiff back-hand and signed with the oval-encircled signature. Off it went to my parents in Castle Monrefuge in Luxemburg. I had taken pains with it, as my correspondence with this lady and gentleman who were so close to me was a matter of the deepest importance to me, and I awaited their answer with a tender curiosity, expecting it to come from the marquise. I had devoted several days to this little composition, which, by the way, aside from certain evasions at the start, was an altogether accurate report of my activities, even in the matter of Herr von Hueon's offering to present me to the King, thereby anticipating my request. The care I devoted to this report is all the more laudable because I had to steal time for it from my association with the Kuckuck family, which I had the greatest difficulty in keeping within the bounds of discretion. The occasion — who would have thought it? — was principally tennis, a sport in which I was as completely unskilled as in every other and which I played with Zouzou and her friends at the club.
My agreement to appear there was no small act of daring on my part. Betimes on the morning of the third day, however, I put in an appearance as agreed, wearing faultless sports attire — white flannels, snow-white shirt open at the neck, over which I wore a blue blazer, and those noiseless rubber-soled canvas shoes which give one a dancing movement. The well-kept double court not far from Zouzou's house was reserved for her and her friends by the day or hour. My mood was very much the same as when I had presented myself before the army medical commission: an adventurous though troubled determination filled my heart. Determination is all. Reassured by my convincing garb and winged shoes, I promised myself to play my part brilliantly in this game that I had watched and absorbed but had in fact never taken part in.
I arrived too early and found myself all alone at the scene. There was a small building where players could leave their coats and store their equipment. There I deposited my blazer and selected a racket and some of the lovely chalk-white balls. I began to practise playfully but self-confidently with these pretty objects. I bounced the ball on the surface of the racket, batted it to the ground, and scooped it up from the ground with the well-known light, shovelling motion. To limber up my arm and experiment with the force necessary in drives, I sent ball after ball over the net with forehand or backhand strokes — over the net when I could, that is, for most of the balls went into the net or far outside the opposite court; indeed, when I grew too enthusiastic they went straight over the back-stop.
I was thus engaged in a singles match against no one, enjoying the feel of the handsome racket, when Zouzou Kuckuck came up with two other people, also dressed in white, a boy and a girl who turned out not to be brother and sister, but cousins. If his name was not Costa, it was Cunha, and if her name
was not Lopes, it was Camöes — I no longer exactly recall. 'Look at that, the marquis is practising solo. He looks very promising,' Zouzou said derisively and introduced me to the charming young pair, whose charm, however, was far less than her own. After this, various other young folk arrived, members of the club with names like Saldacha, Vicente, de Menezes, Ferreira, and so forth. There were, all told, probably a dozen players, including myself, most of whom immediately sat down on the benches outside the enclosure to look on. Four of us went on to the court, Zouzou and I on opposite sides of the net. A gangling youngster climbed up on to the high umpire's seat to keep track of the points and faults, the games and sets.
Zouzou took up a position close to the net, while I resigned that place to my partner, a girl with a yellowish complexion and green eyes, and kept to the back of the court in concentrated alertness. Zouzou's partner, the small cousin, served first, hard. Springing toward the ball, I managed, with beginner's luck, to return it with great speed and precision, so that Zouzou remarked: 'Well, now!' After that I was guilty of a lot of nonsense — energetic leaping back and forth to conceal my total lack of skill — and this benefited our opponents; in a spirit of sheer bravado I also made sport of the game, seeming to take nothing seriously, and played jokes and tricks with the bouncing ball which aroused as much merriment in the onlookers as my hopeless errors. All this did not prevent my occasionally performing feats of pure genius which contrasted bafflingly with my obvious lack of skill and made the latter look like simple carelessness or an attempt to conceal my true abilities. Now and then I astonished the gallery by serves of uncanny speed, by returning a volley, by repeated impossible gets — all of which I owed to the physical inspiration of Zouzou's presence. I can still see myself receiving a deep forehand drive, one leg extended, the other knee bent, which must have made a very handsome picture, for it earned me applause from the gallery; I see myself leaping incredibly high, to the accompaniment of bravo's and hand-clapping, to smash back a ball that had gone way over my partner's head — and there were other wild and inspired triumphs as well.