Mario and the Magician
39 pages
English

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39 pages
English

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Description

Mario and the Magician  is one of Mann's most political stories. Mann openly criticizes  fascism, a choice which later became one of the grounds for his exile to Switzerland following Hitler's rise to power. The magician, Cipolla, is analogous to the looming specter of fascism emergent in that era. The story was especially timely, considering the tensions in Europe when it was written; Mussolini was urging Italians to recapture the glory of the Roman Empire. The end of the story represents Mann's changing political views; he moved from staunch support of the  Kaiser  during his early life to a belief in progressive, democratic values in Europe and a desire to rid the continent of fascist influences.

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Publié par
Date de parution 23 novembre 2021
Nombre de lectures 0
EAN13 9781774644874
Langue English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Mario and the Magicians
by Thomas Mann

First published in 1930
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Mario and the Magicians
and
Early Sorrow




by Thomas Mann
{6}
{7}
{8}
{9}
EARLY SORROW
T HE principal dish at dinner had been croquettes made of turnip greens.So there follows a trifle, concocted out of one of those dessert powderswe use nowadays, that taste like almond soap. Xaver, the youthfulmanservant, in his outgrown striped jacket, white woollen gloves, andyellow sandals, hands it round, and the “big folk” take this opportunityto remind their father, tactfully, that company is coming to-day.
The “big-folk” are two, Ingrid and Bert. Ingrid is brown-eyed, eighteenand perfectly delightful. She is on the eve of her exams; and willprobably pass them, if only because she knows how to wind masters, andeven headmasters, round her finger. She does not, however, mean to use {10} her certificate once she gets it; having leanings towards the stage, onthe ground of her ingratiating smile, her equally ingratiating voice,and a marked and irresistible talent for burlesque. Bert is blond andseventeen. He intends to get done with school somehow, anyhow, and flinghimself into the arms of life. He will be a dancer, or a cabaret actor,possibly even a waiter—but not a waiter anywhere else save at “Cairo,”the night club, whither he has once already taken flight, at five in themorning, and been brought back crestfallen. Bert bears a strongresemblance to the youthful manservant, Xaver Kleinsgutl, of about thesame age as himself; not because he looks common—in features he isstrikingly like his father, Professor Cornelius—but by reason of anapproximation of types, due in its turn to far-reaching compromises inmatters of dress and bearing generally. Both lads wear their heavy hair {11} very long on top, with a cursory parting in the middle; and give theirheads the same characteristic toss to throw it off the forehead. Whenone of them leaves the house, by the garden gate, bareheaded in allweathers, in a blouse coquettishly girt with a leather strap, and sheersoff bent well over with his head on one side; or else mounts hispush-bike—Xaver makes free with his employers’, of both sexes, or even,in acutely irresponsible mood, with the professor’s own—Dr. Corneliusfrom his bedroom window cannot, for the life of him, tell whether he islooking at his son or his servant. Both, he thinks, look like youngmoujiks. And both are impassioned cigarette-smokers; though Bert has notthe means to compete with Xaver, who smokes as many as thirty a day, ofa brand named after a popular cinema star. The big folk call theirfather and mother the “old folk”—not behind their backs, but as a form {12} of address and in all affection: “Hullo, old folks,” they will say;though Cornelius is only forty-seven years old and his wife eight yearsyounger. And the professor’s parents, who lead in his household thehumble and hesitant life of the veritably old, are on the big folk’slips the “ancients.” As for the “little folk,” Ellie and Snapper, whotake their meals upstairs with blue-faced Ann—so-called because of herprevailing facial hue—Ellie and Snapper follow their mother’s exampleand address their father by his first name, Abel. Unutterably comic itsounds, in its pert, confiding familiarity; particularly on the lips, inthe sweet accents, of five-year-old Eleanor, who is the image of FrauCornelius’ baby pictures, and whom the professor loves above everythingelse in the world.
“Darling old thing,” says Ingrid affably, laying her large but shapelyhand on his, as he presides in proper middle-class style over the family {13} table, with her on his left and the mother opposite: “Parent mine, mayI ever so gently jog your memory, for you have probably forgotten: thisis the afternoon we were to have our little jollification, ourturkey-trot with eats to match. You haven’t a thing to do but just bearup and not funk it; everything will be over by nine o’clock.”
“Oh—ah!” says Cornelius, his face falling. “Good!” he goes on, and nodshis head to show himself in harmony with the inevitable. “I onlymeant—is this really the day? Thursday, yes. How time flies! Well, whattime are they coming?”
“Half-past four they’ll be dropping in, I should say,” answers Ingrid,to whom her brother leaves the major rôle in all dealings with thefather. Upstairs, while he is resting, he will hear scarcely anything,and from seven to eight he takes his walk. He can slip out by theterrace if he likes. {14}
“Tut!” says Cornelius deprecatingly, as who should say, “Youexaggerate.” But Bert puts in: “It’s the one evening in the week Wanjadoesn’t have to play. Any other night he’d have to leave by half-pastsix, which would be painful for all concerned.”
Wanja is Ivan Herzl, the celebrated young leading man at theStadttheater. Bert and Ingrid are on intimate terms with him, they oftenvisit him in his dressing-room and have tea. He is an artist of themodern school, who stands on the stage in strange and, to theProfessor’s mind, utterly affected dancing attitudes, and shriekslamentably. To a professor of history, all highly repugnant; but Berthas entirely succumbed to Herzl’s influence, blackens the lower rim ofhis eyelids—despite painful but fruitless scenes with the father—andwith youthful carelessness of the ancestral anguish declares that notonly will he {15} take Herzl for his model if he becomes a dancer, but incase he turns out to be a waiter at “Cairo” he means to walk preciselythus.
Cornelius slightly raises his brows and makes his son a littlebow—indicative of the unassumingness and self-abnegation befitting hisage. You could not call it a mocking bow, or suggestive in any specialsense. Bert may refer it to himself, or equally to his so talentedfriend.
“Who else is coming?” next inquires the master of the house. Theymention various people, names all more or less familiar, from the city,from the suburban colony, from Ingrid’s school. They still have sometelephoning to do, they say. They have to phone Max. This is MaxHergesell, an engineering student; Ingrid utters his name in the nasaldrawl which according to her is the traditional intonation of all theHergesells. She goes on to parody it in the most {16} abandonedly funny andlife-like way, and the parents laugh until they nearly choke over thewretched trifle. For even in these times when something funny happenspeople have to laugh.
From time to time the telephone bell rings in the Professor’s study, andthe big folk run across knowing it is their affair. Many people had togive up their telephones, the last time the price rose; but so far theCorneliuses have been able to keep theirs, just as they have kept theirvilla, which was built before the war, by dint of the salary Corneliusdraws as Professor of History—a million marks, and more or less adaptedto the chances and changes of post-war life. The house is comfortable,even elegant, though sadly in need of repairs that cannot be made forlack of materials, and at present disfigured by iron stoves with longpipes. Even so, it is still the proper setting of the upper middleclass, {17} though they themselves look odd enough in it, with their wornand turned clothing and altered way of life. The children, of course,know nothing else; to them it is normal and regular, they belong bybirth to the “villa proletariat.” The problem of clothing troubles themnot at all. They and their like have evolved a costume to fit the time,by poverty out of taste for innovation: in summer it consists ofscarcely more than a belted linen smock and sandals. The middle-classparents find things rather more difficult.
The big folk’s table napkins hang over their chair-backs, they talk withtheir friends over the telephone. These friends are the invited guestswho have rung up to accept or decline or arrange: and the conversationis carried on in the jargon of the clan, full of slang and high spirits,of which the old folk understand hardly a word. These consult together {18} meantime about the hospitality to be offered to the impending guests.The Professor displays a middle-class ambitiousness: he wants to serve asweet—or something that looks like a sweet—after the Italian salad andbrown bread sandwiches. But Frau Cornelius says that would be going toofar. The guests would not expect it, she is sure—and the big folk,returning once more to their trifle, agree with her.
The mother of the family is of the same general type as Ingrid, thoughnot so tall. She is languid, the fantastic difficulties of thehousekeeping have broken and worn her. She really ought to go and take acure, but feels incapable; the floor is always swaying under her feet,and everything seems upside down. She speaks of what is uppermost in hermind: the eggs, they simply must be bought to-day. Six thousand marksapiece they are, and just so many are to {19} be had on this one day of theweek at one single shop fifteen minutes’ journey away. Whatever elsethey

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