Tonio Kröger 🎭✨ von Thomas Mann – Ein Meisterwerk der Literatur

Tauche ein in die faszinierende Welt von Tonio Kröger, dem gefeierten Werk von Thomas Mann! 🎙️ Dieses literarische Meisterstück begleitet den jungen Tonio Kröger auf seiner Reise durch die Herausforderungen des Lebens, der Kunst und der Identität. In dieser Geschichte geht es um die ewige Suche nach dem Sinn des Lebens und der Frage, was es bedeutet, wahrhaftig zu leben. 🌟

📚 Was erwartet dich in dieser Geschichte?
– Eine tiefgehende Reflexion über das Leben eines Künstlers
– Die Auseinandersetzung mit gesellschaftlichen Erwartungen und der eigenen Identität
– Ein packendes Drama, das die Konflikte zwischen Kunst und Alltag zeigt

🔔 Abonniere unseren Kanal, um keine weiteren Klassiker der Literatur zu verpassen! 📖💬

Verpasse nicht die Gelegenheit, mehr über Tonio Kröger zu erfahren und mit anderen Literaturfreunden darüber zu diskutieren! 🔥

Hier geht’s zum Abo: [https://bit.ly/HörbücherDeutsch](https://bit.ly/HörbücherDeutsch)

-Tonio Kröger 🎭✨ von Thomas Mann – Ein Meisterwerk der Literatur[https://youtu.be/IcM2Jj4I2-g]
-Unterm Birnbaum 🍃🌳 – Ein packendes Drama von Theodor Fontane[https://youtu.be/wblOI-IHBRM]

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**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:29 Chapter 1.
00:21:48 Chapter 2.
00:36:44 Chapter 3.
00:43:37 Chapter 4.
01:12:31 Chapter 5.
01:15:12 Chapter 6.
01:37:32 Chapter 7.
01:49:02 Chapter 8.
02:16:11 Chapter 9.

Tonio Kröger, a novel by Thomas Mann, takes us into the world of a young, sensitive artist struggling with his identity and society’s expectations. The title character, a poet from a good family, feels strange and alienated in the world of the rich and beautiful. In a story full of inner conflict and deep reflection on art, love, and life, we learn how Tonio searches for his purpose and sets himself apart from the world he simultaneously admires and rejects. Chapter 1. The winter sun shone only as a poor glow, milky and dull behind layers of clouds above the narrow town. It was wet and drafty in the gabled alleys, and occasionally a kind of soft hail fell, not ice, not snow. School was out. Across the cobbled courtyard and out of the gate streamed the hordes of the liberated, splitting and fleeing to the right and left. Older students held their packs of books pressed majestically against their left shoulders, rowing with their right arm against the wind toward lunch; younger children gaily set off into a trot, so that the ice slush splashed around and their academic paraphernalia rattled in their seal-pouches. But here and there, everyone tore off their caps with pious eyes at the Wotan hat and Jupiter beard of a measuredly striding headmaster… “Are you finally coming, Hans?” said Tonio Kröger, who had waited a long time on the causeway; smiling, he approached his friend, who was emerging from the gate, talking with other friends and already about to leave with them… “Why?” he asked, looking at Tonio… “Yes, that’s true! Now let’s walk a little further.” Tonio fell silent, and his eyes clouded over. Had Hans forgotten, or had he only now remembered, that they had planned to go for a short walk together this afternoon ? And he himself had been looking forward to it almost constantly since the appointment! “Yes, goodbye, you!” said Hans Hansen to his comrades. “Then I’ll walk a bit with Kröger.” — And the two turned left, while the others strolled right. Hans and Tonio had time to go for a walk after school because they both belonged to households where lunch wasn’t served until four o’clock . Their fathers were big merchants who held public office and were powerful in the city. For many generations, the Hansens had owned the extensive timber yards down by the river, where enormous sawmills hissed and split the logs . But Tonio was Consul Kröger’s son, whose grain sacks with the broad, black imprint of the company name could be seen carted through the streets day after day ; and his ancestors’ large old house was the most grand in the entire city… Friends constantly had to take off their caps because of their many acquaintances; indeed, some people greeted the fourteen-year-olds first… Both had their school bags slung over their shoulders, and both were well and warmly dressed: Hans in a short sailor’s overcoat, over which the wide, blue collar of his naval suit lay on the shoulders and back, and Tonio in a gray belted overcoat. Hans wore a Danish sailor’s cap with short ribbons, from beneath which a mop of his bast-blond hair protruded. He was extraordinarily handsome and well-built, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, with open and sharp-looking steel-blue eyes. But beneath Tonio’s round fur cap, from a brunette face with a very southern sharp features, dark and delicately shaded eyes with heavy lids peered out dreamily and a little timidly… His mouth and chin were unusually soft. He walked carelessly and unevenly, while Hans’s slender legs in their black stockings strode along so elastically and with perfect rhythm… Tonio didn’t speak. He felt pain. With his slightly slanted brows drawn together and his lips curled in a whistle, he gazed into the distance with his head tilted sideways. This posture and expression were peculiar to him. Suddenly, Hans slid his arm through Tonio’s and saw him from to the side, for he understood very well what it was all about. And although Tonio remained silent during the next few steps, he suddenly felt very soft-tempered. “I hadn’t forgotten, Tonio,” said Hans, looking down at the sidewalk in front of him, “I just thought that nothing would come of it today, because it’s so wet and windy. But that doesn’t bother me at all, and I think it’s great that you waited for me anyway. I thought you had gone home, and I was annoyed…” Everything in Tonio jumped and cheered at these words. “Yes, so we’ll go over the ramparts now!” he said in an agitated voice. “Over the Mühlenwall and the Holstenwall, and that’s how I’ll get you home, Hans… God forbid, it doesn’t matter at all that I ‘ll make my way home alone; Next time, you’ll accompany me.” Fundamentally, he didn’t believe very firmly what Hans had said, and he felt quite clearly that Hans placed only half as much importance on this walk together as he did. But he saw that Hans regretted his forgetfulness and was anxious to reconcile him. And he was far from intending to postpone the reconciliation… The fact was that Tonio loved Hans Hansen and had already suffered much for him. He who loves the most is the underdog and must suffer—his fourteen-year-old soul had already received this simple and harsh lesson from life; and he was such that he noted such experiences well, wrote them down in his mind, as it were, and took pleasure in them, without, of course, personally basing himself on them or deriving any practical benefit from them. It was also the case with him that he considered such teachings far more important and interesting than the knowledge that was forced upon him at school ; indeed, during lessons in the Gothic classroom vaults he usually occupied himself with feeling such insights to their very core and thinking them through completely. And this activity gave him a similar satisfaction to that when he walked around his room with his violin – for he played the violin – and let the notes, as soft as he was able to produce them, resonate into the rippling of the spring stream that danced up below in the garden beneath the branches of the old walnut tree… The fountain, the old walnut tree, his violin, and in the distance the sea, the Baltic Sea, whose summer dreams he was allowed to eavesdrop on during his holidays – these were the things he loved, with which he surrounded himself, as it were, and between which his inner life unfolded, things whose names can be used to good effect in verses and actually resounded again and again in the verses that Tonio Kröger sometimes composed . The fact that he owned a notebook of self-written verses had become known through his own fault and caused him great harm, both among his classmates and his teachers. Consul Kröger’s son , on the one hand, felt it was stupid and mean to take offense at this, and he despised both his classmates and his teachers for it, whose bad manners furthermore repelled him, and whose personal weaknesses he had a strangely penetrating insight into. On the other hand, however , he himself considered it excessive and truly inappropriate to write verses, and in a sense had to agree with all those who considered it a strange activity. But that, however, could not stop him. ..
Since he wasted his time at home, was slow and distracted in his lessons, and had a bad reputation with his teachers, he constantly brought home the most miserable grades, which made his father, a tall, carefully dressed gentleman with pensive blue eyes, who always wore a wildflower in his buttonhole, very angry and distressed. However, Tonio’s mother, his beautiful, black-haired mother, whose first name was Consuelo and who was so different from the other ladies in town, because her father she had once brought herself up from the very bottom of the map —his mother couldn’t care less about his report cards… Tonio loved his dark and fiery mother, who played the piano and mandolin so wonderfully, and he was glad that she didn’t grieve over his dubious position among people. On the other hand, however, he felt that his father’s anger was far more worthy and respectable, and although he was scolded by him, he was basically quite in agreement with him, while he found his mother’s cheerful indifference a little dissolute. Sometimes he thought something like: It’s just enough that I am as I am, and that I can’t and won’t change, careless, stubborn, and concerned with things that no one else thinks about. At least it’s appropriate that I be scolded and punished seriously for it, and not brushed over with kisses and music . We’re not gypsies in the green wagon, but decent people, Consul Kröger, the Kröger family… He often thought: Why am I so strange and at odds with everything, at odds with the teachers, and a stranger among the other boys? Look at them, the good students and those of solid mediocrity. They don’t find the teachers funny, they don’t compose verses, and only think things that one can simply think and say out loud. How orderly and at peace with everything and everyone they must feel! That must be good… But what about me, and how will all this turn out? This way of looking at himself and his relationship to life played an important role in Tonio’s love for Hans Hansen. He loved him first because he was handsome; but then because he seemed to be his own counterpart and opposite in every way. Hans Hansen was an excellent student and also a bright young fellow who rode, did gymnastics, and swam like a hero and enjoyed universal popularity . The teachers were almost affectionate towards him, calling him by his first name and supporting him in every way. His classmates were eager to please him, and on the street, gentlemen and ladies stopped him , took hold of the mop of bast-blond hair that spilled out from under his Danish sailor’s cap, and said: “Good day, Hans Hansen, with your lovely mop of hair! Are you still in first place? Say hello to Papa and Mama, my splendid boy…” That was Hans Hansen, and ever since Tonio Kröger had known him, he felt longing whenever he saw him, an envious longing that burned above his chest. If only he had such blue eyes, he thought, and lived in such order and happy company with everyone as you! You are always busy in a respectable and universally respected way. When you’ve finished your schoolwork, you take riding lessons or work with a fretsaw, and even on vacation, at the seaside, you’re occupied with rowing, sailing, and swimming , while I lie idle and lost in the sand, staring at the mysteriously changing expressions that flit across the sea’s face. But that’s why your eyes are so clear. To be like you… He didn’t try to become like Hans Hansen, and perhaps he wasn’t even very serious about this wish. But he longed painfully, just as he was, to be loved by him, and he wooed him in his own way: a slow and fervent, devoted, suffering, and melancholy way, but with a melancholy that can burn deeper and more consuming than any sudden passion one might have expected from his strange appearance. And his courting was not entirely in vain, for Hans, who, incidentally, respected a certain superiority in him, a fluency of speech that enabled Tonio to express difficult things, understood quite well that an unusually strong and tender feeling for him was alive here, proved himself grateful and brought him much happiness through his accommodation – but also much pain of jealousy, disappointment , and futile effort to establish a spiritual community. For The strange thing was that Tonio, who envied Hans Hansen’s way of life, constantly strove to draw him over to his own , which could only succeed for a few moments, and even then only seemingly… “I’ve just read something wonderful, something magnificent…” he said. They walked and ate together from a bag of fruit candies they had bought for ten pfennigs from the grocer Iwersen on Mühlenstraße . “You must read it, Hans; it’s Don Carlos by Schiller… I’ll lend it to you if you want…” “Oh no,” said Hans Hansen, “don’t bother, Tonio, it’s not for me. I’ll stick to my horse books, you know. There are some splendid illustrations in them, I tell you. If you ever come to see me, I’ll show them to you.” They are snapshots, and you see the horses trotting and galloping and leaping, in all the positions you don’t actually see because it goes too fast…” “In all the positions?” asked Tonio politely. “Yes, that’s fine. But as for Don Carlos, it’s beyond comprehension. There are passages in it, you should see, that are so beautiful that they give you a jolt, that it almost pops…” “Pops?” asked Hans Hansen… “Why?” “There’s, for example, the passage where the king wept because he was betrayed by the Marquis… but the Marquis only betrayed him for the sake of the prince, you understand, for whom he sacrificed himself. And now the news comes from the cabinet to the anteroom that the king has wept. Cried? The king wept? All the courtiers are terribly embarrassed, and it goes right through you, for he is a terribly rigid and strict king. But it’s so understandable that he cried , and I actually feel more sorry for him than the Prince and the Marquis put together. He’s always so alone and loveless, and now he thinks he’s found someone, and he betrays him…” Hans Hansen looked sideways into Tonio’s face, and something in that face must have drawn him to the subject, because he suddenly put his arm through Tonio’s again and asked: “How is he betraying him, Tonio?” Tonio began to move. “Yes, the thing is,” he began, “that all the letters to Brabant and Flanders…” “Here comes Erwin Jimmerthal,” said Hans. Tonio fell silent. May the earth swallow him up, he thought, this Jimmerthal! Why does he have to come and disturb us! If only he wouldn’t come with us and talk the whole way about his riding lesson… For Erwin Jimmerthal also had riding lessons. He was the bank director’s son and lived just outside the gate. With his crooked legs and slanted eyes, he came toward them through the alley, already without his schoolbag . “Good morning, Jimmerthal,” said Hans. “I’m going for a walk with Kröger…” “I have to go to town,” said Jimmerthal, “and get something. But I ‘ll walk a bit further with you… Those must be fruit candies you have there? Yes, thank you, I’ll eat a few. We have another lesson tomorrow, Hans.” — He was referring to the riding lesson. “Great!” said Hans. “I’m getting the leather gaiters now, you, because I got an A in the exercise the other day…” “You don’t have a riding lesson, do you?” asked Jimmerthal, and his eyes were just a pair of blank slits… “No,” answered Tonio with a very uncertain emphasis. “You should,” remarked Hans Hansen, “ask your father to get you a lesson too, Kröger.” “Yes…” said Tonio, both hastily and indifferently. For a moment , his throat tightened because Hans had called him by his surname; and Hans seemed to sense this, for he explained: “I call you Kröger because your first name is so crazy. Excuse me, but I don’t like it, Tonio… It’s not a name at all. Besides, it’s not your fault, heaven forbid!” “No, you’re probably called that mainly because it sounds so foreign and is something special…” said Jimmerthal, pretending to try to make things right. Tonio’s mouth twitched. He pulled himself together and said, “Yes, it’s a silly name. God knows, I’d rather be called Heinrich or Wilhelm, believe me. But it’s because one of my mother’s brothers, after whom I was baptized, is called Antonio; after all, my mother is from over there…” Then he fell silent and let the two talk about horses and leather goods. Hans had Jimmerthal under his arm and was speaking with a fluent sympathy that Don Carlos would never have been able to awaken in him … From time to time, Tonio felt the urge to cry tingling in his nostrils; he also had trouble controlling his chin , which was constantly trembling… Hans didn’t like his name—what could he do about it? His own name was Hans, and Jimmerthal was called Erwin. Admittedly, these were universally recognized names that didn’t seem strange to anyone. But Tonio was something foreign and special. Yes, there was something special about him in every way, whether he wanted it or not, and he was alone and excluded from the ordinary and ordinary, although he was no gypsy in a green carriage, but a son of Consul Kröger, from the Kröger family… But why did Hans call him Tonio while they were alone, when, when a third came along, he began to feel ashamed of him? Sometimes he was close to him and won over him, yes. How has he betrayed him, Tonio? he had asked, grabbing him. But when Jimmerthal had arrived, he had nevertheless breathed a sigh of relief, left him, and unnecessarily accused him of his strange nickname. How painful it was to have to see through all this!… Hans Hansen actually liked him a little when they were alone, he knew it. But when a third came along, he was ashamed and sacrificed him. And he was alone again. He thought of King Philip. The king wept… “God forbid,” said Erwin Jimmerthal, “now I really must go to town! Goodbye, you, and thanks for the fruit candies!” Then he jumped onto a bench by the path, walked along it with his crooked legs, and trotted away. “I like Jimmerthal!” said Hans emphatically. He had a spoiled and self-confident way of expressing his likes and dislikes , distributing them graciously, as it were… And then he continued talking about the riding lesson, since he was on the move. It was n’t that far to the Hansens’ house either; the walk over the ramparts didn’t take that long. They held on to their caps and bowed their heads against the strong, damp wind that creaked and groaned in the bare branches of the trees. And Hans Hansen spoke, while Tonio only occasionally added an artificial “Oh” and “Yeah,” without pleasure at the fact that Hans, in the heat of his speech , had caught up with him again, for that was only an apparent approach, without meaning. Then they left the ramparts not far from the station, saw a train puff past with clumsy haste, counted the carriages to pass the time, and waved to the man, muffled in his furs, sitting at the very back. And at Lindenplatz, in front of wholesaler Hansen’s villa, they stopped, and Hans demonstrated at length how amusing it was to stand on the garden gate and swing back and forth on its hinges until it screeched. But then he said goodbye. “Yes, now I must go in,” he said. “Goodbye, Tonio.” Next time, I’ll walk you home, rest assured.” “Goodbye, Hans,” said Tonio, “it was nice going for a walk.” Their hands, which clasped each other, were wet and rusty from the garden gate. But when Hans looked into Tonio’s eyes, something like remorseful reflection arose in his handsome face. “By the way, I’ll be reading Don Carlos next time!” he said quickly. “That part with the king in the cabinet must be splendid!” Then he took his briefcase under his arm and ran through the front garden. Before he disappeared into the house, he nodded back once more. And Tonio Kröger left, completely transfigured and elated. The wind carried him from behind, but it wasn’t just that he moved so easily. Hans would read Don Carlos, and then they would have something together that neither Jimmerthal nor anyone else could discuss! How well they understood each other! Who knew, perhaps he might even get him to write verses as well?… No, no, he did n’t want that! Hans shouldn’t become like Tonio, but remain as he was, as bright and strong as everyone loved him, and Tonio most of all! But reading Don Carlos wouldn’t hurt, anyway… And Tonio went through the old, squat gate, walked along the harbor and up the steep, drafty, and wet gabled alley to his parents’ house. Then his heart was alive; there was longing in it, and melancholy envy, and a little bit of contempt, and a complete chaste bliss. Chapter 2. The blonde Inge, Ingeborg Holm, the daughter of Doctor Holm, who lived on the market square, where the Gothic fountain stood, tall, pointed, and multifaceted, it was she whom Tonio Kröger loved when he was sixteen years old. How did that happen? He had seen her a thousand times; one evening, however, he saw her in a certain light, saw her laughing in a certain high-spirited way as she talked to a friend , tossing her head to the side, in a certain way bringing her hand—a not particularly slender, not particularly delicate little girl’s hand—to the back of her head , the white gauze sleeve slipping back from her elbow, heard her accentuate a word, an indifferent word, in a certain way , with a warm ring in her voice, and a rapture seized his heart, far stronger than the one he had sometimes felt before when he looked at Hans Hansen, back when he was still a small, stupid boy. That evening, he took her picture with him, with her thick blond braid, her long, laughing blue eyes, and the faint saddle of freckles above her nose. He couldn’t sleep because he heard the ringing in her voice, and he quietly tried to imitate the intonation with which she had pronounced the indifferent word, shuddering in the process. Experience taught him that this was love. But although he knew full well that love would bring him much pain, affliction, and humiliation, that it would also destroy peace and overfill the heart with melodies, leaving no peace to shape a thing round and serenely forge something whole from it, he nevertheless embraced it with joy, gave himself over to it completely, and nurtured it with the strength of his mind, for he knew that it made one rich and vibrant, and he longed to be rich and vibrant instead of serenely forging something whole… This, that Tonio Kröger lost himself to the merry Inge Holm, happened in the cleared-out salon of Consul Husteede, who had the occasion to give the dancing lesson that evening; for it was a private course attended only by members of the upper classes, and everyone gathered in turn at their parents’ homes to receive instruction in dancing and etiquette. But for this purpose, ballet master Knaak came every week especially from Hamburg. François Knaak was his name, and what a man he was! “I honor you,” he said, “my name is Knaak… And you don’t say this while bowing, but rather when you ‘re standing up straight again—subdued, yet clear. You don’t have to introduce yourself in French every day, but if you can do it correctly and flawlessly in this language, you’ll certainly not miss it in German.” How wonderfully the silky black frock coat clung to his ample hips! His trousers fell in soft folds onto his patent leather shoes, adorned with wide satin bows, and his brown eyes gazed around with a weary happiness at their own beauty… Everyone was overwhelmed by the excess of his self-assurance and propriety. He walked — and no one walked like him, elastic, undulating, swaying, royal — to the mistress of the house, bowed and waited for a hand to be offered to him. If he received it, he thanked them in a low voice, stepped back with a spring in his step, turned on his left foot, flung his right foot sideways off the ground with the toe pressed down, and strode off with quivering hips… One walked backward and bowed out the door when leaving a party; one did not drag a chair by grasping it by a leg or dragging it along the floor, but carried it lightly by the back and set it down noiselessly. One did not stand with one’s hands folded on one’s stomach and one’s tongue sticking out of the corner of one’s mouth; if one did so anyway, Mr. Knaak had a way of doing it the same way that preserved a disgust for this posture for the rest of one’s life … This was decorum. But as for dancing, Mr. Knaak mastered it to an even greater degree, if possible. In the cleared-out salon, the gas flames of the chandelier and the candles on the fireplace burned. The floor was sprinkled with talcum powder, and the students stood around in a silent semicircle. But beyond the portieres, in the adjoining room, the mothers and aunts sat on plush chairs, gazing through their lorgnettes at Mr. Knaak as he, in a stooped position, grasped the hem of his frock coat with two fingers each, and with springy legs, demonstrated the individual parts of the mazurka. But if he intended to completely astonish his audience, he would suddenly and for no apparent reason leap from the floor, whirling his legs around each other in the air with bewildering speed, as if trilling with them, after which he returned to this earth with a muffled but all- shaking thud… What an incomprehensible monkey, Antonio Kröger thought to himself. But he clearly saw that Inge Holm, the merry Inge, often followed Mr. Knaak’s movements with a self-absorbed smile, and this was not the only reason why all this wonderfully controlled physicality aroused something like admiration in him. How calm and unfazed Mr. Knaak’s eyes looked! They didn’t see into things to the point where they became complicated and sad; they knew nothing but that they were brown and beautiful. But that was why his bearing was so proud! Yes, one had to be stupid to be able to walk like him; and then one was loved, for one was lovable. He understood so well that Inge, the sweet, blond Inge, looked at Mr. Knaak the way she did. But would a girl never look at him like that? Oh yes, it did happen. There was Magdalena Vermehren, attorney Vermehren’s daughter, with the gentle mouth and the large, dark, bright eyes full of seriousness and enthusiasm. She often fell while dancing; but she came to him at the ladies’ choice. She knew he wrote verses; she had asked him twice to show them to her, and often she looked at him from afar with bowed head. But what did that matter to him? He, he loved Inge Holm, the blonde, cheerful Inge, who surely despised him because he wrote poetry… He looked at her, saw her narrow, blue eyes, full of happiness and mockery, and an envious longing, a bitter, urgent pain of being excluded from her and eternally a stranger to her, sat and burned in his chest… “First pair en avant!” said Mr. Knaak, and no words can describe how wonderfully the man produced the nasal sound. They were practicing quadrille, and to Tonio Kröger’s deep shock, he found himself in the same square as Inge Holm. He avoided her as much as he could, and yet he continually came near her; he prevented his eyes from approaching her, and yet his gaze continually fell upon her… Now she came gliding and running, holding the hand of the red-headed Ferdinand Matthiessen, threw back her braid, and, breathing heavily, stood opposite him. Mr. Heinzelmann, the pianist, grasped the keys with his bony hands, Mr. Knaak commanded, the quadrille began. She moved back and forth in front of him, forward and backward, striding and as he twirled, a scent emanating from her hair or the delicate white fabric of her dress sometimes touched him, and his eyes grew more and more misty. I love you, dear, sweet Inge, he said inwardly, and into these words he put all his pain at her being so eager and cheerful about it and not paying attention to him. A beautiful poem by Storm came to mind: “I want to sleep, but you must dance.” The humiliating absurdity of having to dance while making love tormented him… “First pair en avant!” said Mr. Knaak, for a new round was approaching. “Compliment! Moulinet des dames! Round the main round!” And no one can describe how gracefully he swallowed the silent e from the de. “Second pair en avant!” Tonio Kröger and his lady were next. “Compliment!” And Tonio Kröger bowed. “Moulinet des dames!” And Tonio Kröger, with bowed head and frowning brows, placed his hand on the hands of the four ladies, on Inge Holm’s, and danced moulinet. Giggles and laughter erupted all around. Mr. Knaak fell into a ballet pose expressing stylized horror. “Oh dear!” he cried. “Stop, stop! Kröger has wandered into the ladies! En arrière, Miss Kröger, back, fi donc! Everyone has understood now, except you . Shoo! Away! Back with you!” And he pulled out a yellow silk handkerchief and shooed Tonio Kröger back to his seat. Everyone laughed, the boys, the girls, and the ladies beyond the portieres, for Mr. Knaak had made something altogether too comical out of the incident, and everyone was having a great time, just like at the theater. Only Mr. Heinzelmann waited with a dry, businesslike expression for the signal to resume playing, for he had become hardened to Mr. Knaak’s influence. Then the quadrille continued. And then there was an intermission. The waiting girl clinked in through the door with a tea tray full of wine jelly glasses, and the cook followed with a load of plumcakes in her wake. But Tonio Kröger stole away, secretly went out into the corridor, and there, with his hands behind his back, stood in front of a window with a drawn blind, not considering that one couldn’t see anything through the blind, and that it was therefore ridiculous to stand there and pretend to look out. But he was looking within himself, where there was so much grief and longing. Why, why was he here? Why wasn’t he sitting in his room by the window , reading Storm’s Immensee, and gazing now and then into the evening garden, where the old walnut tree creaked heavily? That would have been his place. Let the others dance and be fresh and skilled at their work!… No, no, his place was still here, where he knew he was near Inge, even if he only stood alone from afar, trying to distinguish her voice in the humming, clinking, and laughter inside , which resonated with warm life. Your long , blue, laughing eyes, you blonde Inge! One can only be as beautiful and cheerful as you if one doesn’t read Immensee and never tries to be like that oneself; that’s the sad thing!… She would have to come! She would have to notice that he was gone, would have to sense how he felt, would have to follow him secretly, if only out of pity, would have to put her hand on his shoulder and say: Come in to us, be happy, I love you. And he listened behind him and waited with unreasonable anticipation for her to come. But she never came. Nothing like that happened on earth. Had she also laughed at him, like everyone else? Yes, she had , as much as he would have liked to deny it for her sake and his own. And yet, he had only danced along to the moulinet des dames out of absorption in her company. And what was the point of that? Perhaps one would stop laughing for once! Hadn’t a magazine recently accepted a poem from him, only to have it then folded before the poem could be published? The day would come when he was famous, when everything he wrote would be printed, and then one would see whether it made an impression on Inge Holm… It would make no impression. make, no, that was it. On Magdalena Vermehren, who always fell, yes, on her. But never on Inge Holm, never on the blue-eyed, cheerful Inge. And wasn’t it all in vain?… Tonio Kröger’s heart ached painfully at this thought. To feel how wonderful, playful and melancholy forces stir within you, and to know that those you long to be with stand before them in cheerful inaccessibility, that hurts greatly. But although he stood alone, excluded, and without hope before a closed blind, and in his sorrow acted as if he could see through it, he was nevertheless happy. For then his heart was alive . Warmly and sadly it beat for you, Ingeborg Holm, and his soul embraced your blonde, bright, and exuberantly ordinary little personality in blissful self-denial. More than once he stood with a flushed face in solitary spots where music, the scent of flowers, and the clinking of glasses only faintly penetrated, trying to distinguish your ringing voice in the distant festive noise, standing in pain for you and yet still being happy. More than once it hurt him that he could speak with Magdalena Vermehren, who was always falling over, that she understood him and laughed and was serious with him, while the blonde Inge, even when he sat beside her, seemed distant and strange and alien to him, for his language was not her language; and yet he was happy. For happiness, he told himself, is not being loved; that is a satisfaction for vanity tinged with disgust. Happiness is to love and perhaps to glimpse small, deceptive glimpses of the beloved object. And he wrote this thought down in his mind, thought it out completely, and felt it to its core. Loyalty! thought Tonio Kröger. I will be faithful and love you, Ingeborg, as long as I live! He was so well-meaning. And yet a faint fear and sadness whispered within him that he had completely forgotten Hans Hansen , even though he saw him every day. And it was ugly and pathetic that this quiet and somewhat malicious voice was right, that time passed and days came when Tonio Kröger was no longer as unconditionally prepared to die for the merry Inge as before, because he felt the desire and strength within himself to accomplish many remarkable things in the world in his own way . And he cautiously circled the sacrificial altar on which the pure and chaste flame of his love blazed, knelt before it, stoking and nurturing it in every way possible, because he wanted to be faithful. And after a while, imperceptibly, without notice or noise, it had nevertheless gone out. But Tonio Kröger stood for a while before the cold altar, full of astonishment and disappointment that faithfulness was impossible on earth. Then he shrugged his shoulders and went his way. Chapter 3. He walked the path he had to walk, somewhat carelessly and unevenly, whistling to himself, gazing into the distance with his head tilted sideways, and if he went astray, it was because for some people there is no such thing as a right path at all. If someone asked him what on earth he intended to become, he gave mixed answers, for he was wont to say, and had already written it down, that he bore within himself the potential for a thousand forms of existence, along with the secret awareness that they were essentially all impossibilities… Even before he left his narrow hometown, the clamps and threads that held him had quietly loosened. The old Kröger family had gradually fallen into a state of disintegration and disintegration, and people had reason to consider Tonio Kröger’s own being and character as characteristics of this state. His father’s mother, the head of the family, had died, and not long afterward, his father, the tall, thoughtful, meticulously dressed gentleman with the wildflower in his buttonhole, followed her in death . The large Kröger house, along with its dignified history, was up for sale, and the company was wiped out. Tonio’s mother, however, His beautiful, fiery mother, who played the piano and mandolin so wonderfully and who was indifferent to everything else, remarried a year later, to a musician, a virtuoso with an Italian name, whom she followed into the blue distance. Tonio Kröger found this a little dissolute; but was he called upon to prevent her? He wrote verses and couldn’t even answer what on earth he intended to become… And he left his angular hometown, around whose gable the damp wind whistled, left the fountain and the old walnut tree in the garden, the confidants of his youth, and left the sea, which he loved so much, and felt no pain in doing so. For he had grown up and was wise , had understood what was really going on with him, and was full of scorn for the clumsy and lowly existence that had kept him in his midst for so long. He surrendered himself completely to the power that seemed to him the most sublime on earth, to whose service he felt called, and which promised him majesty and honor, the power of spirit and word, which sits smilingly enthroned above unconscious and mute life. With his youthful passion , he surrendered to it, and it rewarded him with all it had to offer , relentlessly taking from him all that it usually takes in return. It sharpened his vision and allowed him to see through the grand words that swell human breasts; it opened to him human souls and his own, made him clairvoyant and showed him the inner workings of the world and all that lies beyond words and deeds. But what he saw was this: comedy and misery—comedy and misery. Then, with the torment and arrogance of knowledge, came loneliness, because he could not bear to be in the company of the harmless, with their cheerfully dark minds , and the mark on his forehead disturbed them. But his delight in words and form also grew ever sweeter, for he used to say, and had already written it down, that knowledge of the soul alone would infallibly make us gloomy if the pleasures of expression did not keep us awake and alert… He lived in large cities and in the South, from whose sun he hoped a more luxuriant maturation of his art; and perhaps it was his mother’s blood that drew him there. But since his heart was dead and without love, he became involved in adventures of the flesh, descended deep into lust and burning guilt, and suffered unspeakably in the process. Perhaps it was the inheritance of his father in him, the tall, thoughtful, cleanly dressed man with the wildflower in his buttonhole, that made him suffer so down there and sometimes stirred a faint, yearning memory within him of a pleasure of the soul that had once been his own , and which he could not find again in all his pleasures. A disgust and hatred of the senses seized him, along with a longing for purity and decent peace, even as he breathed the air of art, the warm and sweet, perfumed air of a perpetual spring, in which life stirs and brews and germinates in the secret ecstasy of procreation. Thus it came to pass that, tossed helplessly between stark extremes, between icy spirituality and consuming sensual fervor , he led an exhausting life, tormented by his conscience, a life of excess, dissolute, and extraordinary, which he, Tonio Kröger, fundamentally detested. What a blunder! he sometimes thought. How was it possible that I got caught up in all these eccentric adventures ? I’m not a gypsy in a green wagon, by birth… But as his health weakened, his artistry sharpened, becoming discerning, exquisite, precious, refined, irritable toward the banal, and extremely sensitive in matters of tact and taste. When he first appeared, there was much applause and joy among those concerned, for what he had delivered was a richly crafted work, full of humor and knowledge of suffering. And quickly his name, the same one his teachers had once scolded him with , became the same one he used to write his first rhymes. to the walnut tree, the fountain, and the sea, this sound compounded of south and north, this exotically tinged bourgeois name, a formula that signified excellence; for the painful thoroughness of his experiences was joined by a rare, tenaciously persevering, and ambitious diligence, which, in the struggle with the discerning irritability of his taste , produced unusual works under severe torment . He worked not like someone who works to live, but like someone who wants nothing but to work, because he considers himself worthless as a living human being, wishes only to be considered as a creator, and otherwise goes about gray and inconspicuous, like a make-up-free actor who is nothing as long as he has nothing to portray. He worked silently, withdrawn, invisible, and full of contempt for those little people to whom talent was a social ornament, who, whether rich or poor, went about wildly and raggedly or indulged in personal ties, were primarily happy, amiable, and artistically concerned with living, unaware that good works arise only under the pressure of a bad life, that he who lives does not work, and that one must be dead to be fully a creator. Chapter 4. “Am I disturbing you?” asked Tonio Kröger on the threshold of the studio. He held his hat in his hand and even bowed slightly, although Lizaveta Ivanovna was his friend, to whom he told everything. “Have mercy, Tonio Kröger, and come in without ceremony!” she answered with her bouncy accent. “It’s well known that you had a good upbringing and know what’s proper.” With that, she put her brush next to the palette in her left hand, handed him her right, and looked into his face, laughing and shaking her head. “Yes, but you’re working,” he said. “Let’s see… Oh, you’ve made progress.” And he looked alternately at the colored sketches leaning on chairs on either side of the easel and at the large canvas covered with a grid of square lines, on which, in the confused and shadowy charcoal design, the first patches of color were beginning to appear. It was in Munich, in a rear building on Schellingstrasse, several flights of stairs up. Outside, behind the wide north-facing window, there was a blue sky, birdsong, and sunshine, and the young, sweet breath of spring, which streamed in through an open hatch, mingled with the smell of fixative and oil paint that filled the spacious workroom. The golden light of the bright afternoon flooded the spacious bareness of the studio unhindered, freely illuminating the slightly damaged floor, the raw table under the window covered with bottles, tubes, and brushes, and the unframed studies on the unpapered walls; it illuminated the screen of cracked silk that bordered a small, stylishly furnished living and leisure corner near the door ; it illuminated the emerging work on the easel and, in front of it, the painter and the poet. She was probably about his age, a little over thirty. In her dark blue, stained pinafore dress, she sat on a low stool, resting her chin in her hand. Her brown hair, tightly styled and already slightly graying at the sides, covered her temples in gentle waves and framed her brunette, Slavic-shaped, infinitely sympathetic face with its snub nose, sharply defined cheekbones, and small, black, bright eyes. Tense, suspicious, and at the same time irritated, she examined her work with a sideways, narrowed gaze… He stood beside her, his right hand on his hip, his left hand twirling his brown mustache. His slanting brows were in a sinister, strained movement, and he whistled softly to himself, as usual. He was dressed extremely carefully and dignified, in a suit of calm gray and reserved cut. But in his worked forehead, above which his dark hair parted so extraordinarily simply and correctly, there was a nervous twitch, and the features of his southern-looking face were already sharp, as if traced and pronounced by a hard stylus, while his mouth seemed so gently outlined, his chin so softly formed… After a while, he stroked his forehead and eyes and turned away. “I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “Why shouldn’t you have, Tonio Kröger?” “I’ve just gotten up from my work, Lisaweta, and in my head it looks exactly like it does on this canvas. A framework, a pale draft soiled by corrections, and a few patches of paint, yes; and now I come here and see the same thing. And I also find here the conflict and contrast that tormented me at home,” he said, sniffing the air, “that tormented me at home. It’s strange. When a thought dominates you, you find it expressed everywhere; you can even smell it in the wind. Fixative and the aroma of spring, isn’t it? Art and—yes, what’s the other? Do n’t say nature, Lizaveta, nature isn’t exhaustive. Ah, no, I should have gone for a walk instead, although it’s questionable whether I would have felt better doing so! Five minutes ago, not far from here, I met a colleague, Adalbert, the novelist. God damn spring! he said in his aggressive style. It is and remains the most dreadful season of the year! Can you form a sensible thought, Kröger, can you work out the smallest point and effect with composure when your blood is tingling in an indecent way and a host of inappropriate sensations disturb you, which, as soon as you examine them, turn out to be utterly trivial and utterly useless stuff? As for me, I’m going to the café now. This is neutral territory, untouched by the changing seasons , you know, it represents, so to speak, the remote and sublime sphere of literature, where one is only capable of more refined ideas… And he went to the café; and perhaps I should have gone with him.” Lizaveta was amused. “That’s good, Tonio Kröger. That indecent tingling is good. And he’s right in a way, because work really isn’t particularly busy in spring. But now pay attention. I’ll still do this little thing here, this little punch line and effect, as Adalbert would say. Afterwards, we’ll go to the drawing room and have tea, and you can talk it over; because I can clearly see that you’re invited today. Until then, you’ll probably group yourselves together somewhere, for example, on that chest there, unless you’re afraid for your patrician clothes …” “Oh, leave me alone with my clothes, Lizaveta Ivanovna! Would you wish I were running around in a torn velvet jacket or a red silk waistcoat? As an artist, one is always sufficiently adventurous inside. Outwardly, one should dress well, for heaven’s sake, and behave like a decent person… No, I’m not drunk,” he said, watching her prepare a mixture on the palette. “You can hear that it’s only a problem and a contradiction that’s on my mind and has been bothering me in my work… Yes, what were we talking about just now? About Adalbert, the novelist, and what a proud and steadfast man he is. Spring is the most dreadful season, he said, and went into the café. Because you have to know what you want, don’t you? You see, spring makes me nervous too; the lovely triviality of the memories and feelings it awakens confuses me too; only I can’t bring myself to scold and despise it for it. For the thing is, I am ashamed of him, ashamed of his pure naturalness and his victorious youth. And I don’t know whether I should envy or despise Adalbert for knowing nothing about it… One works poorly in spring, certainly, and why? Because one feels. And because he is a bungler who believes that the creator may feel. Every genuine and sincere artist smiles at the naiveté of this botched error—melancholically, perhaps, but he smiles. For what one says can never be the main thing, but only the inherently indifferent material from which the aesthetic structure is to be assembled with playful and serene superiority . If you care too much about what you have to say, if your heart beats too warmly for it, you can be sure of a complete fiasco. You become pathetic, you become sentimental; something ponderous, clumsily serious, uncontrolled, unironic, unseasoned, boring, banal arises under your hands, and nothing but indifference among people, nothing but disappointment and misery for yourself is the end result… For that’s how it is, Lizaveta: Feeling, warm, heartfelt feeling, is always banal and useless, and artistic are merely the irritations and cold ecstasies of our corrupted, artistic nervous system. It is necessary that one be something extra-human and inhuman, that one stand in a strangely distant and uninvolved relationship to humanity, in order to be capable of, and even tempted to, play with it, to portray it effectively and tastefully. The talent for style, form, and expression already presupposes this cold and selective relationship to humanity, indeed, a certain human impoverishment and desolation. For healthy and strong feeling, it remains the case, has no taste. It’s over for the artist as soon as he becomes human and begins to feel. Adalbert knew that, and that’s why he went to the café, to that remote sphere, yes!’ ‘Well, God bless him, Batushka,’ said Lizaveta, washing her hands in a tin tub; ‘You don’t have to follow him.’ ‘No, Lizaveta, I don’t follow him, and that’s solely because I ‘m occasionally capable of feeling a little ashamed of the springtime of my artistry . You see, occasionally I receive letters from strangers, letters of praise and thanks from my audience, admiring letters from moved people. I read these letters, and I am overcome by emotion at the warm and awkward human feeling my art has evoked here; a kind of pity seizes me for the enthusiastic naiveté that speaks from the lines, and I blush at the thought of how sobered this honest man would be if he ever took a look behind the scenes, if his innocence ever understood that an upright, healthy, and decent person doesn’t write, mime, or compose at all… none of which prevents me from using his admiration for my genius to heighten and stimulate myself, from taking it tremendously seriously and making a face like a monkey playing the great man… Oh, don’t argue with me, Lizaveta! I tell you, I ‘m often deadly tired of portraying humanity without participating in it… Is the artist even a man? Just ask the woman ! It seems to me that we artists all share a little of the fate of those prepared papal singers… We sing quite touchingly beautifully. However—” “You should be a little ashamed of yourself, Tonio Kröger. Come and have tea now. The water will soon boil, and here are some papyrus. You stopped at the soprano part; and you just carry on. But you should be ashamed of yourself. If I didn’t know with what proud passion you are devoted to your profession…” “Don’t say anything about your profession, Lizaveta Ivanovna! Literature is n’t a profession at all, but a curse—just so you know. When does it begin to be felt, this curse? Early, terribly early. At a time when one should still reasonably live in peace and harmony with God and the world. You begin to feel marked, to feel yourself in an enigmatic contrast to the others, the ordinary, the orderly, the abyss of irony, disbelief, opposition, knowledge, feeling that separates you from people gapes deeper and Deeper, you are lonely, and from now on there is no more communication. What a fate! Supposing that your heart remained alive enough, loving enough, to feel it as terrible!… Your self-confidence is ignited because, among thousands, you sense the mark on your forehead and feel that no one misses it. I knew an actor of genius who, as a human being, had to struggle with a pathological self-consciousness and instability. His overstimulated sense of self, together with the lack of a role, of a dramatic task, caused this in this perfect artist and impoverished human being… With little perspicacity, you can distinguish an artist, a real one, not one whose civic vocation is art, but a predetermined and condemned one, from a crowd. The feeling of separation and disbelief, of being recognized and observed, something simultaneously regal and embarrassed, is in his face. In the features of a prince striding through a crowd in civilian clothes, one can observe something similar. But civilian clothes won’t help, Lizaveta! Disguise yourself, mask yourself, dress like an attaché or a guards lieutenant on leave: you’ll barely have to open your eyes or speak a word, and everyone will know that you’re not a human being, but something alien, strange, different… But what is an artist? Humanity’s complacency and cognitive inertia have proven themselves more stubborn on no other issue than this one. Such is a gift, say the good people who are under the influence of an artist humbly, and because, in their good-natured opinion, cheerful and sublime effects must also have cheerful and sublime origins, no one suspects that this may be a very badly conditioned, extremely questionable gift … We know that artists are easily hurt—well, we also know that this is not usually the case with people with a good conscience and a solidly founded sense of self… You see, Lizaveta, in the depths of my soul—translated into the spiritual realm—I harbor the same suspicion of the artist type that any of my honorable ancestors up there in the narrow city would have felt toward any juggler or adventurous artist who came into his house . Listen to this. I know a banker, a gray-haired businessman, who has the gift of writing novellas. He makes use of this gift in his leisure hours, and his works are sometimes quite excellent. Despite—I say despite—this sublime disposition, this man is not entirely blameless; on the contrary, he has already served a long prison sentence, and for good reasons. Indeed, it was actually only in prison that he became aware of his talent, and his experiences as a prisoner form the basic motif in all his productions. One could conclude from this, with some boldness, that it is necessary to be at home in some kind of penal institution in order to become a poet. But doesn’t the suspicion arise that his experiences in prison may have been less intimately intertwined with the roots and origins of his artistry than what brought him there? A banker who writes novellas—that’s a rarity, isn’t it? But a non-criminal, an upstanding and solid banker who wrote novellas—that doesn’t happen… Yes, you’re laughing now, and yet I’m only half-joking. No problem, none in the world, is more tormenting than that of artistry and its human impact. Take the most wondrous creation of the most typical and therefore most powerful artist, take such a morbid and deeply ambiguous work as Tristan and Isolde, and observe the effect this work has on a young, healthy, strongly normal-feeling person. You see elevation, strengthening, warm, righteous enthusiasm, stimulation perhaps to one’s own artistic creation… The good dilettante! In us artists sees it looks completely different than he, with his warm heart and honest enthusiasm, might dream of. I have seen artists swarmed and cheered by women and young men, while I knew about them… One always has the strangest experiences regarding the origins, the accompanying phenomena , and the conditions of artistry …” “With others, Tonio Kröger—forgive me—or not only with others?” He was silent. He furrowed his slanting brows and whistled to himself .
“I’ll ask for your cup, Tonio. It’s not strong. And take a new cigarette. Incidentally, you know very well that you look at things as they don’t necessarily need to be looked at…” “That is Horatio’s answer, dear Lisaweta. To look at things that way would be to look at them too closely, wouldn’t it?” “I say that one can look at them just as closely from another perspective , Tonio Kröger. I’m just a stupid, painting woman, and if I can offer you anything at all, if I can defend your own profession a little against you, then what I’m saying is certainly nothing new, but merely a reminder of what you yourself know very well… So: the purifying, sanctifying effect of literature, the destruction of passions through knowledge and the word, literature as the path to understanding, to forgiveness, and to love, the redeeming power of language, the literary spirit as the noblest manifestation of the human spirit , the man of letters as a perfect human being, as a saint— to view things in this way would mean not viewing them closely enough?’ ‘You have a right to speak so, Lizaveta Ivanovna, and indeed with regard to the work of your poets, to that adoring Russian literature, which truly represents the sacred literature of which you speak. But I haven’t ignored your objections ; they are part of what I have in mind today… Look at me. I don’t look particularly cheerful, do I? A bit old , sharp-witted, and tired, don’t you think? Well, to return to knowledge , one could imagine a person who, by nature trusting, gentle, well-meaning, and a little sentimental, would simply be worn down and ruined by psychological clairvoyance . Not allowing oneself to be overcome by the sadness of the world; observing, noticing, assimilating, even the most tormenting, and otherwise being in good spirits, already fully aware of one’s moral superiority over the abhorrent invention of existence—yes, of course! Yet sometimes, despite all the pleasures of expression, the matter gets a little too much for you. To understand everything would mean forgiving everything? I do n’t know. There is something I call disgust with knowledge, Lizaveta. The state in which it is enough for a person to see through something to feel sickened to the point of death and not at all reconciled —the case of Hamlet, the Dane, that typical man of letters. He knew what that means: to be called to knowledge without being born to it. To have clairvoyance even through the tearful veil of emotion , to recognize, notice, observe, and to have to put aside what one observes with a smile, even in moments when hands clasp, lips meet, when a person’s gaze, blinded by feeling, is broken—it is infamous, Lizaveta, it is vile, outrageous… but what good does it do to be outraged? Another, but no less lovable, side of the matter is, of course, the blasé attitude, indifference, and ironic weariness towards all truth, as it is a fact that nowhere in the world is life more silent and hopeless than in a circle of intelligent people who are already on the loose. All knowledge is old and boring. Speak out a truth, in the conquest and possession of which you perhaps take a certain youthful joy, and your ordinary enlightenment will be answered with a very brief exhalation through the nose… Ah yes, the Literature is tiring, Lizaveta! In human society , I assure you, it can happen that one is considered stupid because of sheer skepticism and abstinence from opinion, when in fact one is merely arrogant and despondent… This for your understanding. But as for the word, is this perhaps less a matter of salvation than of freezing and freezing the feeling? Seriously, there is something icy and outrageously presumptuous about this prompt and superficial disposal of feeling by literary language. If your heart is too full, if you feel too deeply moved by a sweet or sublime experience: nothing could be simpler! You go to a writer, and everything will be settled in the shortest possible time. He will analyze and formulate your matter for you, name it, express it, and get it talking; he will settle the whole thing for you forever , make you indifferent, and accept no thanks for it. But you will go home relieved, cooled, and clarified , and wonder what in the matter could have disturbed you with such sweet tumult just a moment ago. And you seriously want to stand up for this cold and vain charlatan? What has been spoken, so runs his creed, is settled. Once the whole world has been spoken, it is settled, redeemed, done with… Very good! But I am not a nihilist…” “You are not—” said Lizaveta… She was holding her spoonful of tea near her mouth and froze in that position. “Well… well… come to yourself, Lizaveta! I am not, I tell you, with regard to living feeling. You see, the literary man fundamentally does not understand that life can still continue to live, that it is not ashamed of it, after it has been spoken and settled. But lo and behold, despite all the redemption through literature, it sins incessantly; for all action is sin in the eyes of the spirit… I have reached my goal, Lizaveta. Listen to me. I love life— this is a confession. Take it and keep it—I have never confessed it to anyone. It has been said, it has even been written and printed, that I hate life, or fear it, or despise it , or abhor it. I was glad to hear this, it flattered me; but it is no less false for that. I love life… You are smiling, Lizaveta, and I know what about. But I implore you, do not mistake what I am saying for literature! Do not think of Cesare Borgia or any drunken philosophy that elevates him to its zenith! He is nothing to me, this Cesare Borgia; I think nothing of him, and I will never, ever understand how anyone could worship the extraordinary and demonic as an ideal. No, life, as it stands as an eternal antithesis to spirit and art —not as a vision of bloody grandeur and wild beauty, not as the unusual, does it present itself to us unusual people ; rather, the normal, the respectable, and the amiable is the realm of our longing, it is life in its seductive banality! He is far from being an artist, my dear, whose ultimate and deepest passion is the refined, the eccentric, and the satanic, who does not know the longing for the harmless, the simple, and the living, for a little friendship, devotion, intimacy, and human happiness—the furtive and consuming longing, Lizaveta, for the delights of ordinariness!… A human friend! Do you want to believe that it would make me proud and happy to have a friend among humans? But so far, I have only had friends among demons, goblins, profound monsters, and ignorant ghosts—that is, among literary figures . Sometimes I find myself on a podium, in a hall , facing people who have come to listen to me. You see, then it happens that I observe myself looking around the audience, catch myself secretly peering around the auditorium, with the question in my mind. Hearts, who it is who came to me, whose approval and thanks reach me, with whom my art creates an ideal union for me here… I do not find what I seek, Lizaveta. I find the flock and congregation that is so familiar to me, a gathering of early Christians, so to speak: people with clumsy bodies and delicate souls, people who always fall down, so to speak, you understand me, and for whom poetry is a gentle revenge on life—always only the suffering and yearning and the poor, and never any of the others, the blue-eyed, Lizaveta, who have no need of the mind!… And wouldn’t it ultimately be a regrettable lack of consistency to rejoice if it were otherwise? It is absurd to love life and yet strive with all the arts to win it over to one’s side, to win it over to the subtleties and melancholy, the entire sick nobility of literature. The realm of art is increasing, and that of health and innocence is decreasing on earth. What’s left of it should be carefully preserved, and one shouldn’t try to seduce people who would much rather read snapshots in horse books into poetry! After all, what sight could be more pitiable than that of life when it attempts to be an artist? We artists despise no one more thoroughly than the dilettante, the living person who believes he can, on top of that, be an artist for once. I assure you, this kind of contempt is among my most personal experiences. I’m in a good house, eating, drinking, and chatting; we get along perfectly, and I feel happy and grateful to be able to disappear for a while among harmless and respectable people, as their equal. Suddenly, this happened to me: an officer, a lieutenant, a handsome and sturdy man, whom I would never have suspected of acting unworthy of his attire, stands up and asks in unequivocal terms for permission to share with us some verses he has composed. He is granted this permission with a dismayed smile, and he carries out his plan by reading his work aloud from a piece of paper he had kept hidden in his coattails until then , something about music and love, in short, something as deeply felt as it is ineffective. Now, I beg everyone: a lieutenant! A master of the world! He truly wouldn’t need it…! Well, what must happen happens: long faces, silence, a little artificial applause, and deep discontent all around. The first psychological fact I become aware of is that I feel partly responsible for the disturbance this thoughtless young man has brought upon the group; And no doubt: I, too, whose craft he has bungled, am met with mocking and alienated glances. But the second is that this man, for whose being and character I had just felt the most sincere respect, suddenly sinks, sinks, sinks in my eyes… A pitying benevolence seizes me. I approach him, like several other courageous and good-natured gentlemen, and speak to him. Congratulations, I say, Lieutenant! What a fine talent! No, that was truly lovely! And it’s not far off that I pat him on the shoulder. But is benevolence the feeling one should feel toward a lieutenant?… His fault! There he stood, atoning in great embarrassment for the error that one might pluck a single leaf, a single one, from the laurel tree of art without paying for it with one’s life. No, I agree with my colleague, the criminal banker — –. But don’t you think, Lisaweta, that I ‘m displaying Hamlet-like talkativeness today?” “Are you finished now, Tonio Kröger?” “No. But I won’t say anything more.” “And that’s enough. — Are you expecting an answer?” “Do you have one?” “I think so. — I’ve listened to you carefully, Tonio, from beginning to end, and I want to give you the answer that fits everything that you said this afternoon, and which is the solution to the problem that has troubled you so much. Well then! The solution is that you, sitting there as you are, are quite simply a citizen.” “Am I?” he asked, sinking a little… “That hits you hard, isn’t it, and it must. And that’s why I want to soften the sentence somewhat, because that’s what I can do. You are a citizen on the wrong path, Tonio Kröger, — a misguided citizen.” — Silence. Then he stood up resolutely and reached for his hat and stick. “Thank you, Lizaveta Ivanovna; now I can go home in peace . I’m done for.” Chapter 5. Towards autumn, Tonio Kröger said to Lizaveta Ivanovna: “Yes, I’m going away now, Lizaveta; I need to get some fresh air, I’m leaving , I’m seeking a place of escape.” “Well, how then, dear father, do you deign to go to Italy again?” “God, do come with me to Italy, Lizaveta! I’m indifferent to Italy to the point of contempt! It’s been a long time since I imagined I belonged there. Art, isn’t it? Velvety-blue skies, hot wine , and sweet sensuality… In short, I don’t like it. I’ll give up. The whole bellezza makes me nervous. I also do n’t like all those terribly lively people down there with their black, animal-like eyes. These Romans have no conscience in their eyes… No, I’m going to Denmark for a bit.” “To Denmark?” “Yes. And I expect good things from it. I’ve never been up there by chance, despite being so close to the border throughout my youth , and yet I’ve always known and loved the country. I must have inherited this northern inclination from my father, for my mother was actually more into bellezza, insofar as she wasn’t completely indifferent to everything. But take the books written up there, those profound, pure, and humorous books, Lizaveta—I can’t beat them; I love them. Take the Scandinavian meals, those incomparable meals that can only be tolerated in strong salt air—I don’t know if I can tolerate them anymore—and which I know a little from home, because we eat just like that at home. Just take the names, the first names with which the people up there are adorned, and of which there are already many at home, a sound like Ingeborg, a harp stroke of the most flawless poetry. And then the sea— they have the Baltic Sea up there!… In a word, I’m going up, Lizaveta. I want to see the Baltic Sea again, hear those first names again, read those books on the spot; I also want to stand on the terrace of Kronborg, where the ghost came to Hamlet and brought misery and death upon the poor, noble young man…” “How are you going, Tonio, if I may ask? Which route are you taking?” “The usual one,” he said, shrugging and blushing visibly. “Yes, I’m touching on my—my starting point, Lizaveta, after thirteen years, and that can be quite comical.” She smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear, Tonio Kröger. And so go with God. Don’t forget to write to me, do you hear? I’m expecting an eventful letter from your trip to— Denmark…” Chapter 6. And Tonio Kröger drove north. He drove in comfort, for he used to say that someone who has so much harder time inside than other people has a just rightful claim to a little outward comfort, and he didn’t rest until the towers of the narrow city from which he had set out rose before him into the gray air. There he made a short, strange stop… A gloomy afternoon was already turning into evening when the train entered the narrow, smoky, so strangely familiar hall; the smoke still gathered in clumps under the dirty glass roof and drifted back and forth in stretched shreds, as it had done when Tonio Kröger, with nothing but mockery in his heart, had left here. — He looked after his Luggage, ordered that it be taken to the hotel, and left the station. Those were the two-horse, black, excessively tall and wide city cabs lined up outside! He didn’t take any of them; he just looked at them as he looked at everything, the narrow gables and pointed spires that greeted him over the nearest rooftops, the blond and casually clumsy people all around him with their broad yet rapid speech, and a nervous laughter rose within him that had a secret affinity with sobs. He walked , walked slowly, the incessant pressure of the damp wind on his face, over the bridge, on whose railings stood mythological statues, and for a while along the harbor. Good God, how tiny and angular the whole thing seemed! In all this time, had the narrow, gabled streets risen so cutely steeply up to the city ? The chimneys and masts of the ships rocked gently in the wind and twilight on the murky river. Should he go up that street, the one where the house he had in mind stood? No, tomorrow. He was so sleepy now. His head was heavy from the journey, and slow, foggy thoughts drifted through his mind. Sometimes during those thirteen years, when his stomach had been upset , he had dreamed that he was back home in the old, echoing house on the slanting street, that his father was there too , scolding him harshly for his degenerate lifestyle, which he had always found perfectly acceptable. And this present was no different from one of those beguiling and unbreakable dreams in which one can ask oneself whether this is illusion or reality, and inevitably decide with conviction for the latter, only to awaken in the end… He strode through the quiet, drafty streets, his head bowed against the wind, and walked as if sleepwalking in the direction of the hotel, the first in town, where he intended to spend the night. A bandy-legged man with a pole, at the top of which a small fire burned, preceded him with a swaying sailor’s step, lighting the gas lamps. How did he feel? What was all this that glowed so darkly and painfully beneath the ashes of his weariness, never becoming a clear flame ? Still, still, and not a word! No words! He would have gladly walked like this for a long time, in the wind through the dim, dreamily familiar alleys. But everything was so narrow and close together. They would soon be at their destination. In the upper town, there were arc lamps, and they were just glowing. There was the hotel, and there were the two black lions lying in front of it, the ones he had been afraid of as a child. They still looked at each other with an expression as if they were about to sneeze; but they seemed much smaller since then. Tonio Kröger walked between them . Since he came on foot, he was received without much ceremony. The doorman and a very fine gentleman dressed in black, who did the honors and constantly pushed his cuffs back into his sleeves with his little fingers, examined him scrutinizingly and weighing him up from head to boots, clearly striving to define him socially, to place him in a hierarchical and civic position, and to assign him a place in their esteem, without, however, being able to reach a reassuring result, which is why they opted for moderate politeness. A waiter, a gentleman with bread-blond whiskers, a tailcoat gleaming with age, and rosettes on his silent shoes, led him up two flights of stairs into a clean, old-fashioned room, behind whose window, in the twilight, opened a picturesque and medieval view of courtyards, gables, and the bizarre mass of the church near which the hotel was located. Tonio Kröger stood for a while in front of this window; then he sat down with his arms crossed on the spacious sofa, furrowed his brows, and whistled to himself. A light was brought, and his luggage arrived. At the same time, the gentleman laid down his The waiter placed the registration form on the table, and Tonio Kröger, with his head tilted to the side, drew something on it that looked like his name, status, and origin. He then ordered a little supper and continued to stare into space from the corner of his sofa. When the food was in front of him, he left it untouched for a long time, finally took a few bites and paced the room for another hour, occasionally stopping and closing his eyes. Then he undressed with slow movements and went to bed. He slept for a long time, with confused and strangely yearning dreams. When he awoke, he saw his room filled with broad daylight. Confused and hastily, he remembered where he was and went to open the curtains. The sky, already a little pale in late summer blue, was flecked with thin, wind-blown wisps of cloud; but the sun was shining over his hometown. He took even more care over his toilet than usual, washed and shaved as thoroughly as possible, and made himself as fresh and clean as if he were about to visit a good, upright house where it was important to make a smart and impeccable impression. And while he busied himself with dressing, he listened to the anxious pounding of his heart. How bright it was outside! He would have felt better if, like yesterday, twilight had fallen on the streets; but now he was about to walk through the clear sunshine, under the watchful eyes of people. Would he meet acquaintances, be stopped, questioned, and have to answer how he had spent these thirteen years? No, thank God, no one knew him anymore, and anyone who did remember him wouldn’t recognize him, for he had really changed a little in the meantime. He examined himself attentively in the mirror, and suddenly felt more secure behind his mask, behind his early-worked face, which was older than his years… He ordered breakfast and then went out, passing under the appraising gaze of the doorman and the fine gentleman in black through the vestibule and between the two lions into the open air. Where was he going? He hardly knew. It was like yesterday. No sooner had he seen himself surrounded again by that strangely dignified and utterly familiar gathering of gables, turrets, arcades, and fountains, no sooner had he felt the pressure of the wind, the strong wind, which carried with it a delicate and bitter aroma from distant dreams, on his face, than it settled around his senses like a veil and a web of mist… The muscles of his face relaxed; and with a stilled gaze, he observed people and things. Perhaps there, on that street corner, he would still awaken… Where was he going? It seemed to him as if the direction he was taking was connected to his sad and strangely remorseful dreams that night… He walked to the market, beneath the arched vaults of the town hall, where butchers weighed their wares with bloody hands, to the market square, where the Gothic fountain stood tall, pointed, and multiple. There he stopped in front of a house, a narrow and simple one, like many others, with a curved, openwork gable, and lost himself in the sight of it. He read the nameplate on the door and let his eyes rest for a moment on each window. Then he slowly turned to leave. Where was he going? Home. But he took a detour, took a stroll outside the gate because he had time. He walked along Mühlenwall and Holstenwall, holding his hat tightly against the wind that rustled and creaked in the trees. Then he left the ramparts not far from the station, saw a train puff past with clumsy haste , counted the carriages to pass the time, and watched the man sitting at the very last one. But at Lindenplatz, he stopped in front of one of the pretty villas that stood there, peered for a long time into the garden and up at the windows, and finally decided to swing the gate back and forth on its hinges, so that it shrieked. Then he looked at his hand for a while, which had become cold and rusty, and moved on, through the old, squat gate, along the harbor, and up the steep, drafty alley to his parents’ house. It stood enclosed by the neighboring houses, over which its gable towered, gray and solemn as it had been for three hundred years, and Tonio Kröger read the pious saying that stood in half-faded letters above the entrance. Then he breathed a sigh of relief and went inside. His heart beat fearfully, for he expected his father to emerge from one of the ground-floor doors he passed , wearing a counting jacket and holding a pen behind his ear, to stop him and sternly reprimand him for his extravagant lifestyle, which he would have considered perfectly acceptable. But he passed unmolested. The vestibule door wasn’t closed, but only ajar, which he found reprehensible, while at the same time he felt like he was in certain light dreams, in which obstacles vanish of their own accord and, favored by miraculous luck, one advances unhindered … The wide hall, paved with large, square stone tiles , echoed with his footsteps. Opposite the quiet kitchen, the strange, clumsy, but neatly varnished wooden rooms protruded from the wall at a considerable height, just as they had in ancient times: the maids’ quarters, which were accessible only by a kind of exposed staircase from the hall. But the large cupboards and the carved chest that had stood here were no longer there… The son of the house climbed the imposing staircase and leaned his hand on the white-lacquered, openwork wooden banister, raising it with each step and gently letting it fall back down with the next , as if timidly trying to recreate the former familiarity with this old, solid banister… But he stopped on the landing, in front of the entrance to the mezzanine. A white sign was attached to the door, reading in black letters : Public Library. Public Library? thought Tonio Kröger, for he decided that neither the people nor literature had any business here. He knocked on the door… A “Come in” sounded, and he followed. Excited and gloomy, he gazed into a most unseemly change. The floor was three rooms deep, the connecting doors of which stood open. The walls were covered almost to their entire height with uniformly bound books, standing in long rows on dark shelves. In each room, a frail man sat behind a kind of counter , writing. Two of them merely turned their heads toward Tonio Kröger, but the first one hurriedly stood up, leaning both hands on the tabletop, thrusting his head forward, pursing his lips, raising his eyebrows, and looking at the visitor with eagerly blinking eyes… “Excuse me,” said Tonio Kröger, without taking his eyes off the many books . “I’m a stranger here, I’m sightseeing. So this is the public library? Would you allow me to take a quick look at the collection?” “Gladly!” said the official, winking even more vigorously… “Certainly, anyone is free to do so. Just look around… Would you care for a catalog?” “Thank you,” replied Tonio Kröger. “I find it easy to get my bearings.” With that , he began to walk slowly along the walls, pretending to study the titles on the spines. Finally, he took out a volume, opened it, and stood with it at the window. This had been the breakfast room. They had eaten breakfast here in the morning , not upstairs in the large dining room, where white statues of gods emerged from the blue wallpaper … That room had served as a bedroom. His father’s mother had died there, old as she was, after a great struggle, for she was a pleasure-loving woman of the world and clung to life. And later, his father himself had breathed his last there. done, the tall, proper, somewhat melancholy and thoughtful gentleman with the wildflower in his buttonhole… Tonio had sat at the foot of his deathbed, with hot eyes, honest and completely surrendered to a silent and strong feeling, to love and pain. And his mother, too, had knelt by the bedside, his beautiful, fiery mother, completely dissolved in hot tears; whereupon she had departed with the southern artist into the blue distance… But back there, the smaller, third room, now also completely filled with books, guarded by a poor man, had been his own for many years. He had returned there after school, after taking a walk like this one; against that wall had stood his table, in whose drawer he had kept his first, heartfelt, and helpless verses… The walnut tree… A stabbing melancholy shot through him. He looked sideways out the window. The garden lay desolate, but the old walnut tree stood in its place, heavily creaking and rustling in the wind. And Tonio Kröger let his eyes slide back to the book he held in his hands, an outstanding work of poetry, and one he knew well. He gazed down at those black lines and phrases, followed for a while the artful flow of the recitation as it rose with creative passion to a point and effect, and then ended effectively… “Yes, that’s well done!” he said, put the work of poetry down, and turned away. Then he saw that the official was still standing upright, his eyes twinkling with an expression mixed with zeal for duty and thoughtful mistrust . “An excellent collection, I see,” said Tonio Kröger. “I ‘ve already gained an overview. I am very obliged. Adieu.” With that, he went out the door; But it was a dubious exit, and he clearly sensed that the official, full of unease about this visit, would stand there blinking for several minutes. He felt no inclination to go any further. He had been at home . Upstairs, in the large rooms behind the colonnade, strangers lived; he could see that; for the top of the stairs was closed off by a glass door that hadn’t been there before, and some kind of nameplate was on it. He left, went downstairs, across the echoing hall, and left his parents’ house. In a corner of a restaurant, he ate a heavy and fatty meal, withdrawn , and then returned to the hotel. “I’m finished,” he said to the fine gentleman in black. “I’m leaving this afternoon.” And he ordered his bill and the carriage that would take him to the harbor, to the steamer to Copenhagen. Then he went to his room and sat down at the table, sitting still and erect, resting his cheek on his hand and looking down at the table with unseeing eyes. Later, he settled his bill and prepared his things. At the appointed time, the carriage was announced, and Tonio Kröger stepped down, ready to travel. Downstairs, at the foot of the stairs, the fine gentleman in black was waiting for him. “Forgive me!” he said, pushing his cuffs back into his sleeves with his little fingers … “Forgive me, sir, for taking up another minute. Mr. Seehaase—the owner of the hotel—requests a few words. A formality… He’s back there… Would you be so kind as to trouble yourself with me… It’s just Mr. Seehaase, the owner of the hotel.” And with inviting gestures, he led Tonio Kröger to the back of the vestibule. There, indeed, stood Mr. Seehaase. Tonio Kröger knew him by sight from old times. He was short, fat, and bow-legged. His clipped whiskers had turned white; But he still wore a low-cut tailcoat and a green embroidered velvet cap. Incidentally, he was not alone. Next to him, at a small desk mounted on the wall, stood a policeman, helmet on his head, his gloved right hand resting on a He let the colorfully written paper that lay before him on the desk rest, and looked at Tonio Kröger with his honest soldier’s face as if he expected him to sink into the ground at the sight of him . Tonio Kröger looked from one to the other and settled down to wait. “You’re coming from Munich?” the policeman finally asked in a good-natured, ponderous voice. Tonio Kröger affirmed. “You’re traveling to Copenhagen?” “Yes, I’m on my way to a Danish seaside resort.” “Seaside resort? Yes, you must show your papers,” said the policeman, pronouncing the last word with particular satisfaction. “Papers…” He had no papers. He pulled out his wallet and looked inside; but apart from a few banknotes, there was nothing in it but the proofs of a novella he intended to finish at his destination. He didn’t like dealing with officials and had never had a passport issued… “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t carry any papers with me.” “Really?” said the policeman… “None at all? — What’s your name?” Tonio Kröger answered him. “Is that true too?!” asked the policeman, stretching up and suddenly opening his nostrils as wide as he could… “Absolutely true,” replied Tonio Kröger. “What are you then?” Tonio Kröger swallowed and stated his profession in a firm voice. — Mr. Seehaase raised his head and looked curiously up into his face. “Hmm!” said the policeman. “And you claim not to be identical with an individual named –” He said “individual” and then spelled out a very complicated and romantic name from the colorfully written paper , which seemed to be a strange mixture of the sounds of various races and which Tonio Kröger had forgotten again the next moment. “—who,” he continued, “of unknown parents and of indeterminate jurisdiction is being pursued by the Munich police for various frauds and other offenses, and is probably on the run to Denmark?” “I’m not just stating this,” said Tonio Kröger, shrugging nervously. This made a certain impression. “How? Oh, of course!” said the policeman. “But you ca n’t produce anything at all!” Mr. Seehaase also intervened, placating. “The whole thing is a formality,” he said, “nothing more! You must remember that the official is only doing his duty. If you could somehow identify yourself… A piece of paper…” Everyone was silent. Should he put an end to the matter by revealing himself , by revealing to Mr. Seehaase that he was no imposter of indeterminate jurisdiction, no Gypsy in a green car by birth , but the son of Consul Kröger, from the Kröger family? No, he had no desire to do that. And weren’t these men of bourgeois order fundamentally a little right? In a way, he completely agreed with them… He shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. “What do you have there?” asked the policeman. “There, in that wallet?” “Here? Nothing. It’s a correction,” answered Tonio Kröger. “Correction? Why? Let me see.” And Tonio Kröger handed him his work. The policeman spread it out on the desk and began to read. Mr. Seehaase also came closer and joined in the reading. Tonio Kröger looked over their shoulders and observed where they were. It was a good moment, a punchline and effect that he had worked out excellently. He was pleased with himself. “See!” he said. “It has my name on it. I have written this, and now it is being published, you understand.” “Well, that is enough!” said Mr. Seehaase decisively, gathered the sheets of paper , folded them, and handed them back to him. “That must be enough, Petersen!” he repeated briefly, furtively closing his eyes and shaking his head dismissively. “We must not let the gentleman Stop. The carriage is waiting. Please excuse this slight inconvenience, sir. The officer was only doing his duty, but I told him immediately that he was on the wrong track…’ So? thought Tonio Kröger. The policeman didn’t seem entirely in agreement; he objected to something about being an individual and showing. But Mr. Seehaase , with repeated expressions of regret, led his guest back through the vestibule, escorted him between the two lions to the carriage, and, with gestures of respect, closed the door behind him. And then the ridiculously high and wide cab rolled, stumbling, clanging, and noisily, down the steep streets to the harbor… This was Tonio Kröger’s strange stay in his hometown. Chapter 7. Night fell, and the moon was already rising with a swimming silver sheen when Tonio Kröger’s ship reached the open sea. He stood at the bowsprit, wrapped in his cloak against the wind, which was growing stronger and stronger, and gazed down at the dark movement and movement of the strong, smooth waves below, swaying around each other, meeting with a splash, shooting out in unexpected directions, and suddenly flaring with foam… A rocking and quietly delighted mood filled him. He had been a little dejected that they had wanted to arrest him as an imposter at home, yes, although he had found it somewhat acceptable . But then, after boarding, he had watched, as he sometimes had as a boy with his father, the loading of the goods with which, amid shouts a mixture of Danish and Low German , the deep belly of the steamer was filled; he had seen, in addition to the bales and crates, a polar bear and a Bengal tiger lowered into the water in thickly barred cages, presumably from Hamburg and destined for a Danish menagerie; and this had distracted him. Then, as the ship glided along the river between the shallow banks , he had completely forgotten Police Officer Petersen’s interrogation, and everything that had gone before—his sweet, sad, and remorseful dreams of the night, the walk he had taken, the sight of the walnut tree—had once again become strong in his soul. And now, as the sea opened up, he saw in the distance the beach where, as a boy, he had been privileged to eavesdrop on the sea’s summer dreams, saw the glow of the lighthouse and the lights of the spa where he had lived with his parents… The Baltic Sea! He leaned his head against the strong salt wind that blew freely and without hindrance, enveloping his ears and producing a mild dizziness, a muted numbness in which the memory of all evil, of torment and error, of wanting and struggling, languidly and blissfully drowned. And in the whooshing, clapping, foaming, and groaning all around him, he thought he heard the rustling and creaking of the old walnut tree, the screeching of a garden gate… It grew darker and darker. “The sea, God, just look at the sea,” a voice suddenly said with a heavy, sing-song accent, seeming to come from inside a barrel. He already knew it. It belonged to a reddish-blond, simply dressed man with reddened eyelids and a clammy, cold appearance, as if he had just taken a bath. At dinner in the cabin, he had been Tonio Kröger’s neighbor and, with timid and modest movements, had consumed astonishing quantities of lobster omelet. Now he leaned next to him on the parapet and gazed up at the sky, holding his chin between his thumb and forefinger . Without a doubt, he was in one of those extraordinary and festively contemplative moods in which the barriers between people melt away, in which the heart opens even to strangers, and the mouth speaks things from which it would otherwise shyly close itself… “Just look, sir, at the stars. There they are, glittering; God knows, the whole sky is full. And now I beg you, if When you look up and consider that many of them are supposed to be a hundred times larger than the Earth, how does that make sense? We humans invented the telegraph and the telephone and so many other modern achievements—yes, we did. But when we look up there, we must recognize and understand that we are basically vermin, miserable vermin and nothing more—am I right or wrong, sir? Yes, we are vermin!’ he answered himself, nodding humbly and contritely up to the firmament. Ouch… no, he has no literature in his body! thought Tonio Kröger. And immediately he remembered something he had recently read, an essay by a famous French author on cosmological and psychological philosophy; it was quite fine chatter . He gave the young man something like an answer to his deeply felt remark, and then they continued talking, leaning over the parapet, gazing out into the restlessly lit, turbulent evening. It turned out that his traveling companion was a young merchant from Hamburg, who was using his vacation for this pleasure trip … “I think you should,” he said, “take a little trip on the steamer to Copenhagen, and here I am now, and it’s quite nice so far. But that thing about the lobster omelets, that wasn’t right, sir, you’ll see, because the night will be stormy, the captain said so himself , and with such unpalatable food in your stomach, it’s no fun…” Tonio Kröger listened to all this obliging foolishness with a secret and friendly feeling. “Yes,” he said, “the food is generally too heavy up here.” That makes you lazy and melancholy.” “Wistful?” repeated the young man, looking at him in astonishment… “You’re a stranger here, sir?” he asked suddenly… “Ah yes, I come from far away!” answered Tonio Kröger with a vague and dismissive gesture. “But you’re right,” said the young man; “God knows, you’re right about being melancholy! I’m almost always melancholy, but especially on evenings like today, when the stars stretch across the sky.” And he supported his chin again with his thumb and forefinger. Surely he’s writing verses, thought Tonio Kröger, deeply and sincerely felt merchant verses… Evening drew on, and the wind had now become so strong that it made speech impossible. So they decided to get some sleep and wished each other goodnight. Tonio Kröger stretched out in his bunk on the narrow bed , but he found no rest. The harsh wind and its bitter aroma had strangely agitated him, and his heart was restless, as if in anxious anticipation of something sweet. The shaking that arose when the ship slid down a steep wave, the propeller working spasmodically out of the water, also made him feel severely nauseous. He dressed fully again and climbed out into the open. Clouds raced past the moon. The sea danced. Not round and even waves came along in order, but far away, in a pale and flickering light, the sea was torn, whipped, roiled, licking and leaping up in pointed, flame-like giant tongues, throwing up jagged and improbable shapes next to foam-filled crags and seeming to hurl the spray into the air in a frenzied game with the power of enormous arms . The ship was traveling at a heavy pace; Stamping, lurching, and groaning, it worked its way through the tumult, and sometimes one could hear the polar bear and the tiger, suffering from the sea, roaring within. A man in an oilcloth coat, the hood over his head and a lantern strapped around his body, walked back and forth on the deck with his legs wide apart, balancing laboriously. But there, back there , bent far over the side, stood the young man from Hamburg, taking it all in a bad way. “God,” he said in a hollow and wavering voice when he saw Tonio Kröger, “just look at the commotion of the Elements, sir!’ But then he was interrupted and turned hastily away.
Tonio Kröger held on to some taut rope and gazed out into all the unbridled exuberance. A shout of joy rose within him , and it seemed to him as if it were powerful enough to drown out storm and flood . A song to the sea, inspired by love, resounded within him. You, wild friend of my youth, so we shall be united once more… But then the poem was over. It was not finished, not rounded, and not serenely forged into something whole. His heart lived… He stood like that for a long time; then he stretched out on a bench by the cabin house and looked up at the sky where the stars flickered. He even dozed a little. And when the cold foam splashed in his face, it was like a caress to him in his half-sleep. Vertical chalk cliffs, ghostly in the moonlight, came into view and approached; That was Möen, the island. And again slumber intervened, interrupted by salty spray that bit sharply into his face and froze his features… When he fully awoke , it was already day, a light gray, fresh day, and the green sea was calmer. At breakfast, he saw the young merchant again, who blushed profusely, probably with shame at having uttered such poetic and shameful things in the dark, stroked his small reddish mustache with all five fingers and called out a sharp, soldierly morning greeting, only to then fearfully avoid him. And Tonio Kröger landed in Denmark. He arrived in Copenhagen, gave tips to anyone who acted as if they were entitled to them, wandered through the city from his hotel room for three days , carrying his travel booklet open before him, and behaved quite like a better foreigner, wishing to enrich his knowledge. He contemplated the King’s Neumarkt and the horse in its center, gazed respectfully up at the pillars of the Frauenkirche, stood for a long time before Thorwaldsen’s noble and lovely sculptures, climbed the Round Tower, visited castles, and spent two colorful evenings in Tivoli. But all this wasn’t really all he saw. On the houses, which often bore the very appearance of the old houses of his hometown with curved, openwork gables, he saw names familiar to him from days gone by, names that seemed to imply something tender and precious, and at the same time, something like reproach, lament, and longing for something lost. And everywhere, as he breathed the moist sea air with slow, thoughtful breaths , he saw eyes so blue, hair so blond, faces of the very kind and form he had seen in the strangely troubled and remorseful dreams of the night he had spent in his hometown . It could happen that in the open street, a glance, a ringing word, a burst of laughter struck him to the core… He didn’t endure long in the lively city. A restlessness, sweet and foolish, half memory and half expectation, moved him, along with the longing to lie quietly somewhere on the beach and not have to play the part of the busy tourists. So he boarded a ship again and, on a gloomy day, the sea was running black, northward along the coast of Zealand towards Helsingør. From there, he immediately continued his journey by carriage along the highway for another three-quarters of an hour, always a little above the sea, until he reached his final and true destination, the small white seaside hotel with green shutters, which stood in the middle of a settlement of low cottages and, with its wood-roofed tower, overlooked the Sound and the Swedish coast. Here he dismounted, took possession of the bright room that had been prepared for him, filled the shelf and locker with what he had brought with him, and prepared to live here for a while. Chapter 8. September was already approaching: there were not many guests left in Aalsgaard. At meals in the large, beamed dining room on the ground floor, whose high windows overlooked the glass veranda and the sea, the landlady presided. She was an elderly woman with white hair, colorless eyes, delicate rosy cheeks, and a restless, chirping voice, always trying to position her red hands on the tablecloth in a somewhat advantageous manner. A short-necked old gentleman with an ice-gray sailor’s beard and a dark-blue face was present, a fishmonger from the capital who spoke German. He seemed completely congested and prone to apoplexy, for he breathed short, gasping breaths, occasionally raising his ringed index finger to one nostril to pinch it shut and blow vigorously to give the other a little air. Nevertheless, he constantly spoke to the bottle of aquavit that stood before him at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Then only three tall American youths remained with their governor or tutor, who silently adjusted his glasses and played soccer with them during the day. They wore their reddish-yellow hair parted in the middle and had long, impassive faces. “Please give me the wurst things there!” said one. “That’s not wurst, that’s ham!” said another, and this was all that both they and the tutor contributed to the conversation; otherwise, they sat quietly and drank hot water. Tonio Kröger wouldn’t have wished for any other kind of table company . He enjoyed his peace, listened to the Danish guttural sounds, the bright and dull vowels in which the fishmonger and the landlady sometimes conversed, exchanged here and there a simple remark with the former about the barometer reading, and then rose to go down through the veranda to the beach again, where he had already spent long mornings. Sometimes it was quiet and summery there. The sea lay languid and smooth, in blue, bottle-green, and reddish stripes, shimmering with silvery reflections; the seaweed dried into hay in the sun, and the jellyfish lay there, evaporating. It smelled faintly rotten and also faintly of the tar of the fishing boat against which Tonio Kröger, sitting in the sand, leaned his back—facing the open horizon and not the Swedish coast; but the sea’s gentle breath swept over everything, pure and fresh. And gray, stormy days came. The waves bowed their heads like bulls locking their horns and raced furiously against the beach, which was washed high above and covered with glistening seaweed, mussels, and washed-up wood. Between the elongated wave crests, the valleys stretched out, foaming pale green, beneath the overcast sky . But where the sun rose behind the clouds, a whitish, velvety sheen lay on the water. Tonio Kröger stood enveloped in the wind and roar, lost in that eternal, heavy, deafening roar he loved so much. When he turned and walked away, everything around him suddenly seemed quite calm and warm. But behind him, he knew the sea was behind him; it called, beckoned, and greeted him. And he smiled. He walked inland, along meadow paths through the solitude, and soon a beech forest welcomed him, stretching hillily far into the landscape. He sat down in the moss, leaning against a tree, so that he could see a strip of sea between the trunks. Sometimes the wind carried the sound of the surf to him, like boards falling against each other in the distance. Crows cried above the treetops, hoarse, desolate , and lost… He held a book on his knees, but he didn’t read a single line of it. He enjoyed a profound oblivion, a liberated floating above space and time, and only occasionally did it seem as if his heart were pierced by a pain, a brief, stabbing feeling of longing or regret, whose name and origin he was too lazy and lost to question. Thus many days passed; he could not have said how many, and had no desire to know. But then came one day when something happened; it happened while the sun was in the sky and people were present, and Tonio Kröger wasn’t even that particularly surprised by it. The very beginning of this day was festive and delightful. Tonio Kröger awoke very early and quite suddenly, started from his sleep with a slight and vague start, and thought he was gazing into a miracle, a fairy-like magic of illumination. His room, with a glass door and balcony facing the Sound and divided into living and bedroom by a thin, white gauze curtain, was wallpapered in delicate colors and furnished with light, bright furniture, so that it always presented a bright and friendly appearance. But now his sleep-drunk eyes saw it lying before him in an unearthly transfiguration and illumination, bathed all over in an indescribably lovely and fragrant rose glow that gilded the walls and furniture and gave the gauze curtain a soft, red glow… For a long time, Tonio Kröger didn’t understand what was happening. But when he stood in front of the glass door and looked out, he saw that it was the sun rising. For several days, it had been dull and rainless; But now the sky stretched, shimmering clear as if made of taut, pale blue silk over sea and land, and, crossed and surrounded by clouds illuminated by red and gold, the sun’s disk rose solemnly above the shimmering, rippling sea, which seemed to shiver and glow beneath it … Thus the day began, and, confused and happy, Tonio Kröger dressed, had breakfast before everyone else down on the veranda, then swam a short distance out into the Sound from the small wooden bathing hut, and then took an hour-long walk along the beach. When he returned, several omnibus-like vehicles were stopped in front of the hotel, and from the dining room he noticed that in the adjoining drawing room, where the piano stood, as well as on the veranda and on the terrace in front of it, a large number of people, middle-class gentlemen, were sitting at round tables, enjoying beer and bread and butter, while having lively conversations. There were entire families, older people and younger people, even a few children. At second breakfast, the table was heavy with cold dishes, smoked meats, salted meats, and baked goods. Tonio Kröger inquired what was going on. “Guests!” said the fishmonger. “Day-trippers and ball guests from Helsingør! Yes, God save us, we won’t be able to sleep tonight! There will be dancing, dancing and music, and one must fear that it will last a long time. It’s a family gathering, a country outing and reunion, in short, a subscription or something similar, and they ‘re enjoying the beautiful day. They’ve come by boat and carriage, and now they’re having breakfast. Later they’ll travel further across the country, but they’ll be back in the evening, and then there’ll be dancing here in the hall. Yes, damn it, we won’t sleep a wink…” “That’s a nice change,” said Tonio Kröger. After that, nothing more was said for a long time. The landlady arranged her red fingers, the fishmonger blew through his right nostril to get some air, and the Americans drank hot water and made long faces. Then, all of a sudden, this happened: Hans Hansen and Ingeborg Holm walked through the hall. Tonio Kröger, in a pleasant state of tiredness after his bath and his brisk gait, leaned in his chair and ate smoked salmon on toast; he sat facing the veranda and the sea. And suddenly the door opened, and the two came in hand in hand, strolling and unhurried. Ingeborg, the blonde Inge, was dressed in light clothes, as she usually wore to her dancing lessons with Mr. Knaak. The light, flowered dress reached only to her ankles, and around her shoulders she wore a wide, white tulle trim with a pointed neckline that left her soft, supple neck free. Her hat hung from its tied ribbons over one arm. She was perhaps a little more grown-up than usual, and now wore her wonderful braid around her head; but Hans Hansen was just as always. He was wearing his sailor’s overcoat with the gold buttons, over which lay the broad, blue collar on his shoulders and back; he held his sailor’s cap with the short ribbons in his dangling hand and swung it carelessly back and forth. Ingeborg kept her narrow eyes averted, perhaps a little embarrassed by the people dining who were looking at her. But Hans Hansen now turned his head straight, in defiance of everyone, toward the breakfast table and, with his steely-blue eyes, examined one after the other with a defiant and somewhat contemptuous expression; he even let go of Ingeborg’s hand and swung his cap even more vigorously to show what kind of man he was. Thus, the two of them, with the still blue sea as a backdrop, passed before Tonio Kröger’s eyes, traversed the hall the length of its length, and disappeared through the opposite door into the piano room. This happened at half past eleven in the morning, and while the spa guests were still sitting at breakfast, the group broke up next door and on the veranda and left the hotel through the existing side entrance, without anyone having entered the dining room . Outside , one could hear people boarding cars amidst jokes and laughter, one vehicle after another creaking into motion on the country road and rolling away… “So they’ll be back?” asked Tonio Kröger… “They will!” said the fishmonger. “And God bless them. You ‘ve ordered music, you must know, and I’m sleeping here above the hall.” “That’s a nice change,” repeated Tonio Kröger. Then he stood up and left. He spent the day as he had spent the others, on the beach, in the forest, holding a book on his knees and squinting in the sun. He was occupied with only one thought: that they would return and hold a dance in the ballroom, as the fishmonger had promised; and he did nothing but look forward to this, with a joy so anxious and sweet he had not experienced in long, dead years. Once, through some combination of images, he fleetingly remembered a distant acquaintance, Adalbert, the novelist, who knew what he wanted and had gone to the coffee house to escape the spring air. And he shrugged his shoulders at him… Lunch was eaten earlier than usual, and supper was also taken earlier than usual, in the piano room, because preparations for the ball were already being made in the ballroom: everything was thrown into such festive disarray. Then, when it was already dark and Tonio Kröger was sitting in his room, the country road and the house came to life again . The day-trippers were returning; indeed, new guests were arriving by bicycle and carriage from the direction of Helsingør, and already down in the house one could hear a violin tuning and a clarinet performing nasal practice runs… Everything promised that there would be a brilliant ball. Now the small orchestra began a march: muted and timed, it sounded up: the dance opened with a polonaise. Tonio Kröger sat quietly for a while, listening. But when he heard the march tempo change to waltz time, he got up and crept silently out of his room. From the corridor where it was located, one could take a side staircase to the side entrance of the hotel, and from there, without touching a room, into the glass veranda. He took this path, quietly and stealthily, as if on forbidden paths, groping cautiously through the darkness, irresistibly drawn by this dull and blissfully lulling music, whose sounds reached him already clear and undimmed. The veranda was empty and unlit, but the glass door to the hall, where The door to the room , where the two large kerosene lamps, with their shiny reflectors, shone brightly, stood open. He crept there on tiptoe , and the mischievous pleasure of being able to stand there in the dark and unseen, eavesdropping on those dancing in the light, made his skin tingle. Hastily and eagerly, he cast his gaze out for the two he was seeking… The joy of the party seemed to have already unfolded quite freely, even though it had barely begun half an hour; but everyone had already arrived warm and stimulated, having spent the whole day together, carefree, together, and happy. In the piano room, which Tonio Kröger could see if he ventured a little further, several elderly gentlemen had gathered, smoking and drinking, playing cards; but others sat with their wives in the foreground on the plush chairs and along the walls of the hall, watching the dancing. They rested their hands on their spread knees and puffed out their cheeks with a prosperous expression, while the mothers, with bonnets on their heads, clasped their hands together beneath their breasts and, with heads tilted sideways, gazed into the throng of young people. A podium had been erected along one long wall of the hall, and there the musicians did their best. There was even a trumpet, which blew with a certain hesitant caution, as if afraid of its own voice, which nevertheless constantly broke and cracked… The couples moved around each other, undulating and circling, while others walked arm in arm around the hall. They weren’t dressed for a ball, but simply as if they were spending a summer Sunday outdoors: the gentlemen in provincially tailored suits, which one could see had been cared for all week, and the young girls in light and airy dresses with bouquets of wildflowers on their bodices. A few children were also in the hall, dancing among themselves in their own way, even when the music paused. A long-legged man in a swallow-tailed skirt, a provincial lion with glasses and blow-dried hair, a postal adjunct or something like that, and like the incarnation of a comic character from a Danish novel, seemed to be the festival organizer and commander of the ball . Busy, sweating, and fully engaged, he was everywhere at once, busily hopping around the hall, artfully stepping on tiptoe first and crossing his feet, which were in smooth and pointed military boots, intricately intricately. He swung his arms in the air, gave orders, called for music, clapped his hands, and all the while the ribbons of the large, colorful bow, which was pinned to his shoulder as a symbol of his dignity and to which he sometimes lovingly turned his head, fluttered behind him. Yes, they were there, the two who had passed Tonio Kröger today in the sunlight. He saw them again and was startled with joy when he saw them almost simultaneously. Here stood Hans Hansen, very close to him, near the door; legs apart and slightly bent over, he was slowly consuming a large piece of sand cake, cupping his hand under his chin to catch the crumbs. And there, against the wall, sat Ingeborg Holm, the blonde Inge, and the assistant was just slinking toward her to invite her to the dance with an exquisite bow, placing one hand behind her back and the other gracefully pushing it into his bosom. But she shook her head and indicated that she was too breathless and needed to rest a little, whereupon the assistant sat down beside her. Tonio Kröger looked at them, the two for whom he had long ago suffered love—Hans and Ingeborg. They were not so much by virtue of individual characteristics and the similarity of clothing, but by virtue of the sameness of race and type, of this light, steel-blue-eyed and blond-haired type, which conveyed an idea of ​​purity, uncloudedness, serenity and a simultaneously proud and simple, untouchable Caused brittleness… He looked at her, saw Hans Hansen standing there in his sailor suit, as bold and well-built as ever, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, saw Ingeborg, laughing in a certain cocky way, tossing her head to the side, in a certain way guiding her hand—a not particularly slender, not particularly delicate little girl’s hand—to the back of her head, the light sleeve slipping back from her elbow—and suddenly homesickness shook his chest with such pain that he involuntarily shrank further into the darkness so that no one would see his face twitching. Had I forgotten you? he asked. No, never! Not you, Hans, nor you, blonde Inge! It was you, after all, I worked for, and when I heard applause, I secretly looked around to see if you had shared in it… Have you read Don Carlos now, Hans Hansen, as you promised me at your garden gate? Don’t do it! I no longer demand it of you. What does the king have to do with you if he weeps because he ‘s lonely? You shouldn’t let your bright eyes become dull and dreamy from staring into verse and melancholy… To be like you! To begin again, to grow up like you, upright, joyful, and simple, upright, orderly, and in harmony with God and the world, to be loved by the harmless and happy, to take you as my wife, Ingeborg Holm, and have a son like you, Hans Hansen, — to live, love, and praise in blissful ordinariness, free from the curse of knowledge and creative torment !… To begin again? But it wouldn’t help. It would be the same again — everything would happen again as it happened. For some inevitably go astray because there is no right path for them at all. Now the music fell silent; there was an intermission, and refreshments were served. The assistant hurried around personally with a tea tray full of herring salad , serving the ladies. But before Ingeborg Holm, he even knelt as he handed her the bowl, and she blushed with joy. People in the hall now began to notice the spectator beneath the glass door , and strange, inquisitive glances met him from handsome, flushed faces ; but he nevertheless held his place. Ingeborg and Hans also glanced at him almost simultaneously, with that complete indifference that almost seems contemptuous . Suddenly, however, he became aware that from somewhere a gaze reached him and rested on him… He turned his head, and immediately his eyes met those whose touch he had felt. A girl stood not far from him, with a pale, narrow, and delicate face, which he had noticed earlier. She hadn’t danced much, the gentlemen hadn’t made much of an effort to attract her, and he had seen her sitting alone against the wall with her lips tightly closed. Now, too, she stood alone. She was dressed lightly and airily like the others, but beneath the transparent fabric of her dress, her bare shoulders shimmered, pointed and scantily clad, and her thin neck jutted so low between those miserable shoulders that the quiet girl seemed almost deformed. Her hands, clad in thin half-gloves, were held in front of her flat chest so that the fingertips gently touched. With bowed head, she looked up at Tonio Kröger with black, swimming eyes. He turned away… Here, very close to him, sat Hans and Ingeborg. He had sat down next to her, who was perhaps his sister, and surrounded by other rosy-cheeked human children, they ate and drank, chatted and enjoyed themselves, calling out teasing words to one another in ringing voices and laughing brightly into the air. Couldn’t he approach them a little? Couldn’t he address a joke to him or them that occurred to him, and which they would have to answer with at least a smile? It would make him happy, he longed for it; he would then be more content in his He returned to the room, aware of having established a small connection with the two. He thought about what he could say, but he couldn’t find the courage to say it. And it was the same as always: they wouldn’t understand him, would listen with surprise to what he could say. For their language was not his language. Now the dance seemed about to begin again. The assistant was in full swing. He hurried around, calling on everyone to join in, clearing chairs and glasses with the help of the waiter , giving orders to the musicians, and pushing individual dancers, who didn’t know where to go, by the shoulders in front of him. What were they up to? Four by four couples formed squares… A terrible memory made Tonio Kröger blush. They were dancing a quadrille. The music began, and the couples marched through each other, bowing. The assistant commanded; He commanded, by God, in French and delivered the nasal sounds in an incomparably distinguished manner. Ingeborg Holm danced close to Tonio Kröger, in the square immediately adjacent to the glass door. She moved back and forth in front of him, forward and backward, striding and turning; a scent emanating from her hair or the delicate fabric of her dress occasionally touched him, and he closed his eyes in a feeling that had always been so familiar to him, whose aroma and bitter charm he had faintly sensed during all these last days, and which now filled him once again with its sweet distress. What was it? Longing? Tenderness? Envy? Self-contempt?… Moulinet des dames! Did you laugh, blonde Inge, did you laugh at me when I danced moulinet and disgraced myself so miserably? And would you still laugh today, now that I’ve become something of a famous man? Yes, you would, and you would be three times right to do so! And if I, all by myself, had completed the nine symphonies, The World as Will and Representation and The Last Judgment, you would be eternally right to laugh… He looked at her, and a line of verse came to him that he hadn’t remembered for a long time, and yet was so familiar and related to him: “I would like to sleep, but you must dance.” He knew it so well, the melancholic, Nordic, intimately clumsy heaviness of feeling that spoke from it. Sleep… To long to be able to live simply and completely in the feeling that rests sweetly and languidly within itself without the obligation to become action and dance—and yet to dance, to have to perform the difficult, difficult, and dangerous knife dance of art nimbly and with presence of mind, without ever completely forgetting the humble absurdity that lay in having to dance while loving… Suddenly, the whole thing burst into a frenzied and exuberant movement. The squares had dissolved, and everyone was leaping and gliding around; the quadrille concluded with a gallop. The couples flew past Tonio Kröger to the frantic, quick beat of the music, chasing, hurrying, overtaking one another, with short, breathless laughter. One came along, swept along by the general chase, shrieking and rushing forward . The girl had a pale, delicate face and thin, overly high shoulders. And suddenly, right in front of him, there was a stumbling, slipping, and falling… The pale girl fell. She fell so hard and violently that it looked almost dangerous, and with her the gentleman. The gentleman must have hurt himself so badly that he completely forgot about his dancer, for, only halfway upright, he began to rub his knees with his hands, grimacing; and the girl, seemingly completely stunned by the fall, still lay on the ground. Then Tonio Kröger stepped forward, gently took her by the arms, and lifted her up. Exhausted, confused, and unhappy, she looked up at him, and suddenly her delicate face flushed with a dull blush. “Tak! Oh, many Tak!” she said, looking up at him with dark, swimming eyes. “You shouldn’t dance anymore, Miss,” he said gently. Then he looked back at them once more, at Hans and Ingeborg, and walked away, leaving the veranda and the ball and going up to his room. He was intoxicated by the party he hadn’t shared in, and tired of jealousy. As before, just as it had been before! With a flushed face, he had stood in a dark place, in pain for you, you blond, lively, happy ones, and then walked away alone. Someone would have to come now! Ingeborg would have to come now, would have to notice that he was gone, would have to follow him secretly, put her hand on his shoulder , and say: Come in to us! Be happy! I love you!… But she never came. Nothing like that happened. Yes, it was as it had been then, and he was as happy as he had been then. For his heart was alive. But what had happened during all the time in which he had become what he was now? — Stupidity; desolation; ice; and spirit! And art!… He undressed, lay down to rest, extinguished the light. He whispered two names into his pillow, those few chaste, Nordic syllables that described to him his true and original way of love, suffering, and happiness, life, the simple and heartfelt feeling, home. He looked back on the years since then until this day. He thought of the wild adventures of the senses, nerves, and thought that he had experienced, saw himself consumed by irony and spirit, desolate and paralyzed by knowledge, half-worn by the fevers and frosts of creation, helpless and tossed by conscience between stark extremes, between holiness and fervor , refined, impoverished, exhausted by cold and artificially exquisite exaltations, lost, devastated, tormented, sick—and sobbed with remorse and homesickness. Around him it was silent and dark. But from below, muffled and rocking, life’s sweet, trivial three-beat sounded up to him. Chapter 9. Tonio Kröger sat in the north and wrote to Lizaveta Ivanovna, his friend, as he had promised her. ” Dear Lizaveta down there in Arcadia, where I will soon return,” he wrote. “So here is something like a letter, but it will probably disappoint you, for I intend to keep it somewhat general . Not that I have absolutely nothing to tell, haven’t experienced this and that in my own way. At home, in my hometown, they even wanted to arrest me… but you shall hear about it in person. I sometimes have days now when I prefer to say something general in a good way rather than tell stories. Do you remember, Lizaveta, that you once called me a citizen, a lost citizen? You called me that in an hour when , seduced by other confessions I had previously let slip, I confessed my love for what I call life; and I wonder if you knew how true you were in saying this, how much my bourgeois life and my love of life are one and the same. This trip has given me cause to reflect on this… My father, you know, was of a Nordic temperament: contemplative, thorough, correct out of Puritanism, and inclined to melancholy; my mother , of vaguely exotic blood, beautiful, sensual, naive, at once careless and passionate, and possessed of an impulsive dissoluteness. Without a doubt, this was a mixture that contained extraordinary possibilities—and extraordinary dangers. What emerged was this: a bourgeois who strayed into art, a bohemian homesick for his upbringing, an artist with a guilty conscience. For it is my bourgeois conscience that makes me see in all artistry, all extraordinaryness, and all genius something deeply ambiguous, deeply disreputable, deeply doubtful, that fills me with this enamored weakness for the simple, the trusting, the pleasantly normal, the unnatural and the decent. I stand between two worlds, am at home in neither, and have consequently, a little difficult. You artists call me a bourgeois, and the bourgeois are tempted to arrest me… I don’t know which of the two offends me more bitterly. The bourgeois are stupid; but you worshippers of beauty, who call me phlegmatic and without longing, should consider that there is an artistry so deep, so inherent and destined, that no longing seems sweeter or more worthy of feeling than that for the delights of ordinariness. I admire the proud and cold, who adventure on the paths of great, demonic beauty and despise humanity— but I do not envy them. For if anything is capable of turning a man of letters into a poet, it is this bourgeois love of mine for the human, the living, and the ordinary. All warmth, all kindness, all humor comes from her, and it almost seems to me as if she were that love itself, of which it is written that one can speak with the tongues of men and angels, and yet without them one is merely sounding brass and a clanging cymbal. What I have done is nothing, not much, practically nothing. I will do better, Lizaveta,—this is a promise. As I write, the sea rushes up to me, and I close my eyes. I gaze into an unborn and shadowy world that wants to be ordered and formed; I see a swarm of shadowy human figures beckoning to me to banish and redeem them: tragic and ridiculous, and those who are both at once—and I am very fond of these. But my deepest and most secret love belongs to the blond and blue-eyed, the bright and lively, the happy, the amiable, and the ordinary. Do not scold this love, Lizaveta; It is good and fruitful. It contains longing, melancholy envy, a touch of contempt, and a whole chaste bliss. At the end of Tonio Kröger, we recognize the tragedy and the price of artistic creation. The inner turmoil that accompanies the protagonist culminates in the realization that true creativity and a fulfilling life are only possible in harmony with oneself and one’s own destiny. In this work, Thomas Mann shows us how art can be both a curse and a blessing, and makes us reflect on what it truly means to remain true to oneself.