Rebecca SC French 602F2576 MA in German Studies - Rhodes ...

Rebecca S.C. French 602F2576 

MA in German Studies 

German Studies, School of Languages, 

Rhodes University 

Field of Research: Modern German Exile Literature 

(1933-1945) 

Title: "The devil in disguise — a comparative study of 

Thomas Mann's Doktor Faustus (1947) and Klaus Mann's 

Mephisto (1936), focussing on the role of art as an allegory of 

the rise and fall of Nazi Germany." 

To be submitted in fulfilment of the requirements of a 

Master's degree by full thesis. 

Supervisor: Ms Undine S. Weber 

Date of submission: 15 December 2008 

Date of submission of corrections/ revisions: 30 March 2009

Abstract 

This thesis compares the novels Doktor Faustus: das Leben des deutschen Tonsetzers 

Adrian Leverkühn, erzählt von einem Freunde (Thomas Mann) and Mephisto: Roman 

einer Karriere (Klaus Mann), insofar as they are portrayals of the situation in 

Germany during the Third Reich. Essentially a comparative study, I explore 

similarities and differences – thematic and conceptual – by situating both novels in 

their socio-historical moment (Chapter 1), exploring their conceptions of German 

national identity (Chapter 2), tracing intertextual connections to other works (Chapter 

3), and, finally, examining their understanding of and reliance on art as insofar as it 

provides the allegorical framework for their respective portrayals of Nazi Germany 

(Chapter 4). 

i

Table of Contents 

Abstract p. i 

Acknowledgements 

Introduction pp. 1 – 3 

p. ii (not included) 

Chapter 1: Socio-historical context pp. 4 – 21 

Chapter 2: The Question of Identity pp. 22 – 39 

Chapter 3: Intertextuality pp. 40 – 66 

Chapter 4: The role of art pp. 67 – 87 

Conclusion pp. 88 – 93 

Bibliography pp. 94 – 104

INTRODUCTION 

This thesis is essentially an exploration of the similarities and differences – contextual, 

philosophical, intertextual and methodological/ procedural – between the novels Doktor Faustus 

(1947) and Mephisto (1936). Of great academic interest is the fact that not only are both novels 

adaptations of the well-known Faust legend, but also that they were written by a father and son, 

namely Thomas and Klaus Mann respectively. Furthermore, it can be pointed out that to date, 

fairly little has been written about the contemporaneous allegorical portrayal by this father and 

son of Hitler‟s rise to power and life in Germany during this regime. This relative lack of 

comparative literature is, on the one hand, understandable, particularly since the legacy of 

Thomas Mann overshadows that of his son Klaus 1 ; however, despite their differences in 

approach, both authors use similar themes of artistic genius, collaboration with the devil in his 

various guises and subsequent compromising success as the primary allegory for the question of 

personal and national culpability in the rise and fall of Germany through its „pact‟ with Hitler. 

At the outset, it is important to motivate my reference to these two novels as allegories. 

Following Cuddon‟s definition (1998: 20), on the one hand, an allegory is a story (verse or 

prose) of indeterminate length with two (or even more) parallel levels of meaning and 

interpretation. Mikics (2007: 8), on the other hand, further identifies allegory with the tendency 

to “turn abstract concepts or features into characters”. Both these definitions will apply to the 

novels under discussion. 

Doktor Faustus and Mephisto date from a period of seemingly inexhaustible interest in German 

history – the years between 1933 and 1947. In revisiting the topic of National Socialism and its 

effects on a Volk and Land, it becomes clear that it is not only of enduring significance to 

academics and intellectuals (as illustrated by the dates of publication of some of the sources in 

my bibliography, ranging from 1941-2008), but also to present-day German writers, who are 

clearly still grappling with that period in their history, as can be seen for example, in the work of 

Günter Grass and Uwe Timm 2 . 

1 It is interesting to consider that, while not pursuing the same genres as his father, Klaus may well have continued 

to produce prolifically, had he not chosen to end his life at the age of 43, and thus have built up a legacy comparable 

to that of his father. 

2 See: Grass, G. 2002. Im Krebsgang. Göttingen: Steidl. Timm, U. 2003. Am Beispiel meines Bruders (2005). 

Köln: Kiepenheuer & Witsch Verlag. 

1

Thomas Mann‟s focus in Doktor Faustus was very much on the inner life of his characters, and 

by extension the „German soul‟. Klaus Mann, on the other hand, preferred to draw attention to 

more external aspects. The novel Mephisto draws neither on theories of human nature or of art, 

nor on the rich heritage of German history for its substance; as a roman à clef, it relies more on 

biographical intertextuality for its impact, conveying to the reader a subtler and perhaps more 

historically connected variation on the Faust theme. It reveals a certain tendency towards the 

prophetic in that it talks of events which had not yet unfolded in 1936, showing K. Mann‟s 

remarkable insight into the Nazi ideology. 

Chapter 1 discusses the cultural milieu and socio-historical context from and within which these 

two novels were conceived. Outlining some of the political, social and artistic events and trends 

which „paved the way‟ for the establishment of the Third Reich – from Imperial Germany, World 

War I and the 1918 revolution, through the years of the Weimar Republic, Nazi Revolution and 

World War II – I draw attention to what Beddow (1994: 93f.) refers to as the “radical and 

comprehensive cultural crisis” which was “the prime feature of contemporary Western history” 

and had its roots in the collapse, amongst the European bourgeoisie, of liberal humanism. In 

fact, Thomas Mann, noticing what he called the “kulturelle Gesamtkrise”, (Mann, Th. 1949: 60) 

particularly as reflected in music, decided to base his Faustus novel on precisely this concern of 

“die Nähe der Sterilität.” (Mann, Th. 1949: 60) 

The Faust legend has, over the centuries since Europe first became acquainted with it, been 

adapted for and portrayed in just about every art form. Intriguing to me was that at least 16 of 

the major Faust adaptations have been produced by Germans, which supports Bishop‟s claim that 

the Faust figure and his story are generally considered as specifically “Teutonic” (2006: 235). It 

was this notion of a specifically German Faust that led me to explore a notion of German 

identity, which is the focus of Chapter 2. With reference to the ideas of Ernst Renan and 

Siobhan Kattago on the concepts of „nation‟ and „national identity‟, I trace the origins and 

manifestations of both the German self-conception and its key traits as have been attributed by 

others. Since the principal sectors of society encountered in these two novels are the Künstler, 

the Bürger and the émigré, the focus is on examining, through certain characters in the novels, as 

well as details of the authors‟ personal lives, the elements regarded as particular to each. An 

important element of this self-conception is, as formulated by Vaget (2001: 21f.), Thomas 

Mann‟s portrayal of “der deutsche Selbstwiderspruch” or “innerer Zwiespalt”, which is traced to, 

amongst other, Nietzsche and his notion of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Doktor Faustus, 

2

although it chronologically follows Mephisto, spans a broader time frame, thus providing a 

deeper insight into the developments of the German nation and the heart of its people, its 

interests, concerns and attitudes. 

In terms of a theoretical framework within which to compare these two novels, I turned to the 

theory of intertextuality, which forms the basis of the research presented in Chapter 3. In 

undertaking his own version of the Faust legend, Thomas Mann‟s intention was to produce a 

novel about a national culture and an epoch, and thus turned to the history, biographies, 

philosophies, literature and music of his nation. His reliance on the writings of, for example, 

Nietzsche and Adorno, and on the music of Wagner, Beethoven and Schönberg, once brought to 

light, enables the reader to more fully appreciate and understand the depth and scope of his 

insight into his Volk. Klaus Mann‟s novel, on the other hand, focuses instead on the lives of its 

various characters – in almost every character there is to be found a real-life counterpart, which 

lends it a certain „juiciness‟ found in most key-novels. Further instances of intertextuality 

encountered in Mephisto include the poetry of Baudelaire, the fiction of the Marquis de Sade, 

and biographical details of Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch. 

The roots of the cultural crisis mentioned earlier can be traced to the collapse, amongst the 

European bourgeoisie, of liberal humanism. Chapter 4 examines the role of art within this 

humanist ideology and seeks to show why music and theatre, as portrayed in Doktor Faustus and 

Mephisto respectively, are ideal art forms to employ as allegorical depictions of a current reality. 

Situating the Western aesthetic consciousness within the ancient Greek tradition, I explore 

elements of the Greek classical theory to better understand the nature and function of art, in so 

far as Thomas Mann would go on to depict this as having changed. Important here is the music 

of Richard Wagner, whom I discuss at some length and with reference to Hegel/ Adorno‟s 

negative dialectic, in order to demonstrate the accuracy of Thomas Mann‟s portrayal of a 

necessary „evolution‟ from high culture to barbarism. Drawing on examples from Mephisto, as 

well as from the writings of Erika and Klaus Mann, I also discuss in this chapter the problem of 

art production in a totalitarian regime. 

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Chapter 1: Socio-historical context (Imperial Germany to post-Nazi Germany) 

In this chapter, I provide an overview of significant historical events – political changes and 

artistic trends – which occurred over an approximately 50-year period in the build-up to the 

establishment of a National Socialist government. This will serve to situate these two novels 

within their proper contexts, to highlight some of the concerns and preoccupations of the 

fictional characters, and thereby ensure a fuller appreciation of the depth and scope of Doktor 

Faustus, on the one hand, and of the penetrating, indeed almost prophetic, insight of Mephisto, 

on the other hand. 

Pre-World War I: Imperial Germany 1871-1914 

Imperial Germany, unified in 1871 by Bismarck and Wilhelm I, was characterised by its 

paradoxical nature, manifest in the fact that it did not fully assume its identity as nation-state 

until around the time of the First World War. (Abrams in Bartram (ed.) 2004: 16) There were 

numerous factors – political and sociological, internal and external – which hindered a smooth 

transition from Confederation to Empire, and which I shall explore insofar as they are pertinent 

to what was, in Thomas Mann‟s words, “das kerndeutsche Auseinanderfallen von nationalem 

Impuls und dem Ideal politischer Freiheit” (Mann 1992: 21). 

The very title of nation-state is problematic when applied to Imperial Germany: born out of the 

French Revolution, „nation‟ stood for everything that was radical and free. On the French 

domestic front, this freedom translated into a unified populace; outside of France this idea of 

unity extended to include “ein[en…] Begriff, der das Menschheitliche einschließt” (Mann 1992: 

23). Mann attributed France‟s winning political spirit to this felicitous unity; similarly, he traced 

everything that was constrictive and depressing about German patriotic enthusiasm back to 

Germany‟s failure to ever form such a unity. (Mann 1992: 23) Factors which could have 

promoted unity in Germany, such as the spread of modernisation – in particular its belated 

industrialisation – only deepened the divisions in every sphere of life. A working class and its 

politics emerged, as well as a sophisticated bourgeoisie, together with economic growth spurts, 

to a certain extent revision of traditional gender roles, the spread of education and urbanisation 

(Abrams in Bartram 2004: 16). Although the predominance of the German language gave rise to 

a certain sense of unity in Germany, the reality of industrial progress, inasmuch as it required 

4

foreign labour 3 to meet the demands of a growing market, highlighted the Imperial structure‟s 

inherent contradictions. These included authoritarian and elitist rule over a pseudo-democratic 

constitution, a manipulative and repressive domestic policy which sought to resist the effects of 

that very modernisation which was being pursued for economic gain, and the ostracism of whole 

communities who had ethnic, cultural or ideological allegiances that were incompatible with the 

demands of the new Germany. (Abrams in Bartram 2004: 16f.) Thomas Mann, in his 1945 

essay Deutschland und die Deutschen, describes Bismarck‟s empire as a supreme power 

structure intent on European hegemony, having nothing to do with democracy or the concept of 

„nation‟ insofar as it might imply democracy; both its character and the threat it posed grew out 

its combination of stalwart contemporaneity, sophisticated efficiency and nostalgia for times past 

– all in all, a “hochtechnisierte[r] Romantizismus” (Mann 1992: 33). This longing for simpler 

times is reminiscent of “Hitler‟s volkish [sic] appeal to primitive origins” (Cobley 2002: 55); as 

Kurzke (in Koopmann 1990: 703) points out, Mann‟s essay, Bruder Hitler (1938), portrays 

Hitler as a “verhunzter Künstler, der […] das Wunder der wiedergeborenen Unbefangenheit 

verkündet, aber die neue Naivität und Handlungssicherheit diktatorisch verordnet und so in 

ihrem Wesen zerstört.” This return to simplicity is expressed in Doktor Faustus as the return, 

specifically of music, to barbarism in order to rediscover culture. (Mann, Th. 1948: 431) Klaus 

Mann, in Mephisto (2006: 205), also refers to “[d]ie drohende Barbarei” facing the “geistige[ ] 

Teil des Bürgertums” and which would bring about “Verfinsterung und Rückschlag [...] während 

es sich selber frech „Erwachen‟ und „nationale Revolution‟ zu nennen wagt.” There is further 

mention in Mephisto of the “radikale[ ] Rechten, die täglich die Erneuerung deutscher Kultur 

durch die Rückkehr zum volkhaft Echten […] zornig propagieren”. (Mann, K. 2006: 214) 

The many confrontations between the Reich and its so-called Feinde, the repressive legislations 

of the Sozialistengesetz 4 and Kulturkampf 5 , and the language laws prohibiting the use of 

languages other than German in schools all pointed to an underlying sense of unease and 

mistrust, which was not much relieved by the resignation of Bismarck in 1890. (Abrams in 

Bartram 2004: 17) As mentioned above, industrialisation prompted changes in gender relations. 

Middle-class women, who, until around the turn of the century, had no access to equal education 

or professional employment and could generally only gain economic security through marriage, 

began to openly challenge the patriarchal bourgeoisie; a high point was in 1908 when Prussia 

lifted the ban on women‟s involvement in political organisations and meetings. (Hackett 1976: 

3 from, for example, Denmark, Poland, the Netherlands and France 

4 Legislation whereby all socialist activities were outlawed. 

5 The anti-Catholic campaign headed mainly by the German Liberals. 

5

online) The fact that women were now free to join political parties did not, however, change 

much for women belonging to other language groups, since this new law contained a clause 

stipulating that all such political meetings be held in German. (Hackett 1976: online) Most of 

the political activity in which women were now involved was exercised through the women‟s 

branch of the SPD and it was under SPD rule, following the removal of the Kaiser and the 

founding of a parliamentary constitution, that women were finally granted full suffrage in 1918. 

(Evans 1980: 535) 

These strides of progress and accompanying tensions played out in the cultural domain too, 

where early Modernism was taking root, encouraged by the dynamic of change that was driving 

along progress in other spheres, as discussed above. As Butler (1994: xvf.) points out, it must be 

acknowledged that many Modernist achievements were recognisably German in their inspiration. 

Indeed, the underlying influence in the development of this movement, namely a pervasive sense 

of doubt towards traditional views, can be expressed in the following quote: “What is needed 

above all is an absolute scepticism toward all inherited concepts.” (Nietzsche 1968: 409) There 

arose a gradual (artistic) withdrawal from social consensus and, by extension, its implied 

morality; the image of the conscientiously critical artist living on the margin of society comes to 

mind. Nietzsche‟s influence is not to be underestimated – his nihilistic philosophy encouraged 

many to embrace an autonomous subjectivism, reinforced by the writings of Bergson (Essai sur 

les données immédiates de la conscience, 1889) and echoed in Freud‟s Traumdeutung (1900), 

the latter advocating a “revolutionary dependence upon self-analysis.” (Butler 1994: 4) In the 

domain of writing this manifested in the continuation of 19 th century French Symbolist poetry, 

which Rimbaud and Mallarmé encouraged in its development of a language which would move 

beyond the principles of everyday speech, a mode many felt was no longer adequately 

communicating reality. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, in Ein Brief (1902), expresses through the 

characters of Philip Chandos and Francis Bacon this insufficiency of public language and 

ordinary syntax and the subsequent recourse to often elusively subjective writing. (Schultz 1961: 

1f.) The poetry of Mallarmé and Apollinaire and the writings of Rimbaud, characterised by 

typographical rearrangement, free verse and an alogical association of ideas, incarnate this 

“revolt of literature against language.” (Butler 1994: 4; 9) 

The non-verbal arts of music and painting also embraced this new outlook. Debussy, in his 1894 

Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune, based on a poem of Mallarmé, translates this “innovatory 

reaction against the ossified formal prescriptions of the past” (Butler 1994: 11) into music by 

6

abandoning plot, thematic development and (conventionally) logical harmonic progressions in 

favour of a subjective, mood-driven flow of harmony, inevitably fragmentary and quite 

unpredictable. The Post-Impressionist/ early Expressionist painters embraced this individualism 

by experimenting with both old and new techniques. (Butler 1994: 14) As an example, 

Cézanne‟s Apples and Oranges (c.1899) is similarly subjective in its inconsistent and non-realist 

perspective of the still-life composition: once one can move beyond noticing and being disturbed 

by the dish of fruit seemingly about to slide off the exaggeratedly sloping table, it becomes 

apparent that the overall image is in fact deeply and subjectively abstract. (Butler 1994: 12f.) 

Increasingly, the Modernist aesthetic came to demand an understanding on the part of the 

audience of the message or idea behind the work and the appreciation of art gradually became 

synonymous with not only perceiving the image and appreciating its technical value but also 

understanding the theory behind it. (Butler 1994: 20f.) 

It must be mentioned here that although Modernism grew out of a desire to break with the past, 

the major Modernists displayed a great respect for the accomplishments of conservative 

traditionalism. Kramer (1973: 38f.) refers to the dual aspects of a “radicalism that cancels all 

debts to the past in the pursuit of a new vision” and a respect for “the continuity of culture”. The 

early paintings of Matisse and Kandinsky, for example, display a remarkably detailed 

appreciation of earlier forms. (Butler 1994: 25) Over time, Matisse‟s influence on Kandinsky 

became less recognisable as Kandinsky leaned further towards a Symbolist mode of thought, 

placing greater emphasis on the metaphoric functions of colour and line; he was to become one 

of the founding fathers of Expressionism and 20 th century Abstract Art. His view that “Art […] 

has lost its ideal” (Eberle 1985: 3) expressed the dilemma of the modern artist: Nietzsche‟s 

legacy of negation of all external appearances in favour of the „inner urge‟ of subjectivity meant 

an artistic move away from external cares and a focus inwards; the artist now sought to replace 

nature, the “fallible creator” (Eberle 1985: 3), with his own control over colour and form. 

Kandinsky himself saw his art as that which would emerge from his (the artist‟s) elemental core 

when the ground began to shift beneath his feet; he believed that support would be found in the 

force of one's physical nature. (Eberle 1985: 3) The „deformed‟ human images in his (and other 

Expressionist) paintings are deformed through emotion, transformed into primitive, joyous, wild 

creatures of nature. (Eberle 1985: 3) This return to nature is characteristic of Expressionism – in 

its idyllic depictions of nature scenes lies a protest against urban life; Eberle (1985: 7) sums up 

the theme of Expressionism as “nature and instinctive humanity versus technology and 

civilisation”. It was precisely this sense of technology as something essentially alien that led 

7

many Germans, including Thomas Mann, to later see the First World War as a purge and 

liberation from a “horrid world” (Mann in Eberle 1985: 4). 

Kandinsky‟s later artistic abstraction came to be mirrored in the music of Arnold Schönberg, as 

Franz Marc described in a letter to a fellow-painter after hearing a concert of Schönberg‟s music 

in 1911: “I was constantly reminded of Kandinsky‟s large Composition, which also permits no 

trace of tonality […] and also of Kandinsky‟s „jumping spots‟ […]. Schönberg seems […] to be 

convinced of the irresistible dissolution of the European laws of art and harmony.” (Marc in 

Butler 1994: 47) This “dissolution of laws”, when viewed as an evolutionary rather than 

revolutionary process, as did Schönberg, could be extended to culture and society in general, and 

explored via the concept of dialectics, more specifically Theodor Adorno‟s analysis of Georg 

Hegel‟s subject/object dialectic. A sincere philosophical idealist and monist, Hegel believed that 

everything existed in the mind and viewed the notion of truth as a complete or whole system – 

more specifically, the one complete system. Within this system of truth is contained a set of 

propositions which ensures its holism; this must understandably include both true and false 

propositions for it to indeed be complete and the problem thus arises of how to distinguish what 

is true from what is false, the subjective from the objective 6 . (Flew 1984: 139) Despite its 

seemingly opposing (truth) values, the system, when thus complete, can reconcile contradictions 

and incarnates Hegel‟s monism model – it is reality, the one reality. (Flew 1984: 139) This 

resolution of contradictions happens according to the process of dialectics, which in Flew (1984: 

140) is explained as “a process of argument that proceeds by triads, each triad consisting of 

thesis, antithesis and synthesis.” The Hegelian influence decreased in Germany due to adverse 

political conditions around the 1840s, but the first decade of the 20 th century saw it revived. 

(Flew 1984: 143) Thomas Mann‟s own view was that Hegel, through his dialectical philosophy, 

bridged the gulf created by the Enlightenment and the French Revolution between reason and 

history, thus reconciling reason and reality. (Mann 1992: 33) While Mann was not liberal in his 

political views before World War I, his own view of society was shaped by the liberal bourgeois 

assumption that freedom for all could be achieved in the alignment of the autonomous subject 

and the social collective. (Cobley 2002: 53) Adorno, on the other hand, saw social development 

residing in the dialectical interplay of subject and object – contained in this is a process of 

reversal, which, although it implies development, does not necessarily suggest progress. (Cobley 

2002: 53) 

6 Here, subjective is seen as that which is within the mind, and objective as that which is outside of it. 

8

Hegel viewed art as a form of thought, a way of grasping reality and presenting it via the senses. 

(Flew 1984: 142) For Thomas Mann, art‟s (and therefore the artist‟s) role was that of a personal 

conscience and he viewed it almost as a religious vocation rather than a political or social duty. 

(Pizer 1993: 104f.) This idea was supported by Adorno, who saw art not as that which could 

grant us access to universal truths, but rather as that which could “alert us to the untruths 

blinding us to our social and cultural situation.” (Cobley 2002: 54, original emphasis) In 

addition to Mann‟s vocation-like view of art, there is an element of military duty: in his 1914 

Gedanken im Kriege, he paints the artist as having the same virtues as the warrior, some of 

which include “integrity, precision, […]; bravery, […]; a disdain of what in middle-class life is 

known as „security‟” (Mann in Eberle 1985: 4). Recalling the Modernist emphasis on 

autonomous subjectivity, this rapprochement of the artist to the mass of men that was the body of 

soldiers is somewhat at odds with the image of the removed, high-minded artist. We see many 

of Thomas Mann‟s protagonists 7 facing this Künstler-Bürger dilemma: as an artist, it is 

necessary to maintain an autonomous distance from society in order to fulfil that role of critical 

personal conscience; however, to adequately and honestly represent and convey social reality it 

is equally important to have a finger on the pulse of society, to have experienced what life, in all 

its beauty and cruelty, has to offer. It can be said that Leverkühn is Mann‟s only pure 

Künstlerfigur in that he successfully lives out the Modernist ideal of artistic autonomous 

subjectivity by shutting out the world – a self-imposed exile. The fact that this exile is partly due 

to his temperament and tendency to migraines and partly to the terms of his diabolical pact must 

be explored in greater depth, and I shall do so at a later stage. It is interesting to consider, 

however, what Mann seems to be implying by having his only „natural born‟ Künstler, i.e. one 

who is not, in his nature, drawn to people, necessarily turn to supernatural means to perfect his 

art form. I shall return to this in Chapter 2. 

Theodor Adorno‟s expertise in the fields of philosophy, sociology and music afforded him a 

uniquely holistic insight into society, in particular the condition and role of culture. He was 

particularly outspoken on the issue of the mass culture industry, of which he saw jazz as “a kind 

of mythic archetype.” (Gunster 2000: 42) Before looking into the rise of the mass culture 

industry in Germany towards the end of the 19 th century, it is useful to first briefly explore the 

SPD and the role this political party played in the development of a working-class culture which 

stood in counterposition to the culture of the bourgeoisie. As Trommler (1983: 61) points out, 

during the time of the Wilhelmine Empire the SPD‟s main focus was the maintenance of its 

7 E.g. Tonio Kröger, Thomas and Hanno Buddenbrook, Hans Castorp, Gustav von Aschenbach, Adrian Leverkühn. 

9

adversarial relationship to state and society, with the result that very little time or energy was left 

to pursue any independent cultural ideas or new social norms. What further reinforced this 

confrontation with the state was the fact that the SPD, in its search for a basis on which to found 

its Kulturpolitik, turned to the German bourgeois legacy which had been abandoned after the loss 

of the 1848 revolution – in particular the idealism and classicism of Goethe, Fichte and Schiller. 

(Trommler 1983: 61) Aside from their belief that the bourgeoisie had betrayed the ideals of its 

classical poets and philosophers and that they, the socialists, would be the ones to truly realise 

this “poetic vision of a harmonious society” (Trommler 1983: 61), the SPD realised that this 

would also bring a sense of superiority to the workers. (Trommler 1983: 62) What was thus 

envisaged was “an independent culture of the working class for the working class which, 

transcending „bourgeois-capitalist‟ culture, would at the same time incorporate into itself the 

latter‟s best tradition, albeit revalued.” (Dowe in Trommler 1983: 58; original emphasis) While 

there were such movements as a Deutscher Arbeitersängerbund, the Freie Volksbühne and the 

Arbeiter-Turn und Sport-Bund [sic], all founded between 1890 and 1893 (Trommler 1983: 58; 

64), it was the explosion of the mass book market amongst the lower-classes in the 1870s that 

was to have the most lasting influence, as it “inaugurated the modern era of popular culture” in 

Germany. (Fullerton 1977: 276) What started as weekly door-to-door instalments of rather 

tasteless „colporteur novels‟ 8 eventually became the story booklets, newspapers and magazines 

that have since become the chief reading matter in Germany. (Trommler 1983: 64) 

It was not only in painting, music and literature that changes were taking place. With regard to 

theatre, apart from opera and ballet productions, it was the above-mentioned Freie Volksbühne, 

established in 1890 with the approval of prominent Social Democrats and a vision of “a new 

theatre for the new art, the art of truth and reality, the art of emancipation and of social 

regeneration” (Hart in Lidtke 1974: 23), that would most influence the development of German 

drama and dramatic theory in the 20 th century. (Diamond 1980: 733) The types of plays that 

were initially produced there were generally on opposite ends of the scale, since Bruno Wille and 

Franz Mehring, the first two chairmen, had widely differing views on what would best pave the 

way to their envisaged new theatre. (Diamond 1980: 734) Wille, on the one hand, saw (his 

own) contemporary and socially pertinent plays as the key to proletarian self-liberation, while 

8 Although the name “colporteur” originally referred to old-style salesmen of devotional and altogether more serious 

books, who would trudge through rural Germany with heavy wooden chests containing their wares, it was popularly 

applied to the more aggressive and often less scrupulous salesmen of the new, more tasteless reading material. 

(Fullerton 1977: 267) The set formula included gory details, thrilling romance and swash-buckling action, all of 

which had to proceed at a fast pace and be resolved, within a few instalments, in a manner that would satisfy the less 

refined expectations of the lower classes. 

10

Mehring, on the other hand, saw the idealism of eighteenth century classics as the source of 

inspiration for the people in order that they may break free from their oppression at the hands of 

society. (Diamond 1980: 734) In what can be seen as a progression from Naturalist to 

Expressionist theatre, the pursuit of the above “new theatre for the new art […] of emancipation 

and of social regeneration” encountered several obstacles. According to Willett (1984: 29), 

although the first Expressionist plays date from around 1912, they were only staged at the end of 

the First World War. Interestingly, it was not just the fact of the war that delayed the production 

of these plays; there was reluctance on the part of the playwrights to give voice to their highly 

emotive scripts. (Gordon 1975: 35) Their fears of imperfection, particularly in the acting, were 

not altogether unjustified and Gordon goes on to connect this to the difficulty in encompassing 

and portraying the changing face of the Expressionist hero. From “Nietzschean Nay-Sayer, […] 

the destroyer of all bourgeois traditions” around 1914, to “apostle of peace; […] a lover of 

Mankind” around 1917, to “Übermensch/Gandhian manqué”, enlightened hero sans social or 

political clout around 1922 (Gordon 1975: 35) – the Expressionist New Man moved between 

extremes. In portraying such an ideal type, the actors were to strive for “the final removal of all 

corporal disguises – clothing, skin – in order to uncover the actor's own Seele” (Gordon 1975: 

35). It is easy to see how these highly charged and emotionally intense roles could potentially 

fall short of the desired levels of credibility or sustainability. Interestingly, Kandinsky, in 

addition to being an Expressionist painter, was also involved in theatre innovation and even 

wrote a scenario, The Yellow Sound. Although this scenario was never staged, the abstract 

performance theories behind it were recognised by a Munich producer as “the basis for „The 

Expressionist Theatre‟” (Gordon 1975: 43) and are particularly impressive since the scenario was 

written as early as 1909. 

World War I and the German Revolution of 1918/1919 

Shortly before the outbreak of World War I, there appeared to be a heightened sense of unity in 

Imperial Germany. (Abrams in Bartram 2004: 18) Many, including Thomas Mann 9 , had 

celebrated the Empire‟s unique alternative to the political systems on either side of it – Russian 

autocracy on the one hand and materialist western democracy on the other. Germany's “Third 

Way” was, however, somewhat of a contradiction: astonishingly progressive in matters 

economic and technological, but rather philistine in its approach to Kulturleben and attitude to 

political change. (Orlow 1982: 189f.) The social polarisation that was so evident on many levels 

was simultaneously alleviated and reinforced by the establishment of numerous (separate) 

9 See his Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, published, ironically, in the year of the German Revolution (1918). 

11

networks – socialists, Catholics, women, Poles and even the youth 10 sought to both make their 

presence felt and lessen their sense of isolation. The strategic response of the ruling elite to this 

threat of political change took the form of striking displays of military power and monarchical 

grandeur, which included colonial acquisition 11 , an increasingly aggressive sense of nationalism, 

and military aggrandisement, all of which served, if only temporarily, to conceal the widening 

gulfs of this social polarisation which threatened to bring about political upheaval. (Abrams in 

Bartram 2004: 18) By the time the war broke out in 1914 Germany seemed to have attained a 

level of unity, but as the war dragged on it became apparent, not only to the Germans at home 

but also to those abroad in combat, that this sense of national accord was in fact a shattering 

illusion. (Abrams in Bartram 2004: 18) 

The disappointment and resentment experienced by German workers towards the ruling classes 

at their failure to effect domestic reforms (especially in fields of economics, administration and 

justice), together with a general sense of war-weariness and yearning for peace led many to join 

the revolution that arose in November 1918 following the naval mutinies in Kiel. The leaders of 

this revolution, many of them SPD members, were looked upon by many as those who would 

implement these reforms; their aims, however, were defensive and sought to “preserve the 

elusive national unity of the Reich” (Orlow 1982: 199) rather than overthrow it. The concept of 

nationalism was, for them, synonymous with that of democracy, and greatly influenced by the 

Enlightenment values of reason and rationality and a belief in linear progress. (Orlow 1982: 

194) 

As previously mentioned, many intellectuals were of the opinion that the war could provide 

necessary release from the “stale and overly capitalistic [sic] society” (Pfanner 1994: 279) that 

was late Wilhelmine Germany and which stemmed from what Max Beckmann saw as the 

repression of human freedom and instinct by technology and civilisation 12 . This enthusiastic 

anticipation of the war as a purging of humanity and an expression of mistrust of material values 

was paralleled in the work of many avant-garde Expressionists, who produced works of a 

10 Mention is made in Doktor Faustus of the increasingly-felt presence of the youth, when one of Leverkühn‟s 

companions on a camping trip, the young Deutschlin, comments that the “Jugendgedanke ist ein Vorrecht und 

Vorzug unseres Volkes, des deutschen, - […d]ie deutsche Jugend repräsentiert, eben als Jugend, den Volksgeist 

selbst, den deutschen Geist, der jung ist und zukunftsvoll, - unreif”. (Mann 1948: 184) 

11 Imperial Germany, the late-comer to Europe‟s scramble for colonial territory, founded almost all of its colonies in 

the last two decades of the 19 th century, which did much for the Empire‟s sense of national pride and power. 

12 Beckmann depicted this struggle in his 1913 painting Sinking of the „Titanic‟, where the desperate and futile 

struggle of the ship‟s victims in the icy water and on overcrowded lifeboats mirrors modern man‟s fight for life in 

technologically advanced society. An important element to this theme is the blind (and betrayed) trust on the part of 

both groups of victims in the security of their surroundings. 

12

adically political nature, particularly during the 1918/1919 revolution. Thomas Mann‟s 

thoughts on the matter, published in his Gedanken im Kriege (1914), trace this dissatisfaction 

with the status quo, by no means unique to Germany at the time but surfacing across Europe 13 , to 

what was essentially a materialization of the eternal opposites of nature and mind, in this case 

manifesting as the opposition of culture and civilisation. (Eberle 1985: 4) One would not 

immediately see these two as standing in sharp contrast to each other, however Mann‟s case is 

quite convincing: culture involved art, war, magic and genius. Civilisation, on the other hand 

was “reason, enlightenment, mildness and manners, scepticism, dissolution – mind. Yes, the 

mind is civil, bourgeois: it is the sworn enemy of the instincts, the passions; it is anti-demonic, 

anti-heroic; and I am only apparently contradicting myself when I add that it is, moreover, anti- 

genius” (Mann in Eberle 1985: 4). Mann would go on to explore this opposition in great depth 

in his Doktor Faustus, where we see all the above elements combine to form an interesting and 

sinister portrayal of a nation so wracked by the intimate interplay of opposites that shaped its 

core. 

Playwrights around the time of the post-war Revolution were dabbling in Expressionism as well 

as themes of a more overtly political nature. We encounter in Mephisto the character of Oskar 

H. Kroge, who was “sehr beliebt und angesehen in Frankfurt a.M. und überall dort im Lande, wo 

man an den kühnen Experimenten eines geistigen Theaters Anteil nahm. […Er] gehörte zu den 

aktivisten und erfolgsreichsten Vorkämpfern des dramatischen Expressionismus.” (Mann, K. 

2006: 29f.) 

One of the most important stages for these performances was Max Reinhardt‟s Großes 

Schauspielhaus (the so-called „theatre of 5000‟) in Berlin, where classical, revolutionary and 

Expressionist spectacles were staged from 1919 to 1923, when the venture collapsed. (Willet 

1984: 29f.) Smaller Volkstheater were alive and well and housing such productions as Die 

Wandlung an “anti-war drama” (Willet 1984: 29) written by Ernst Toller, a poet and leading 

Munich revolutionary, who had, a few months prior to the play being staged, been arrested for a 

reward of 10,000 marks, convicted of high treason and imprisoned for 5 years. (Willet 1984: 32) 

His alleged treason lay in the fact that he had supported the counter-revolution, which had 

attempted to carry out the November Revolution according to Bolshevik principles. (Willet 

1984: 32) 

13 Manifest particularly in the emergence of the Futurist movement in Italy and the Cubist movement in France. 

13

The Weimar Republic 1919-1933 

The founding of the Weimar Republic in the town where Goethe spent his later years symbolised 

the “new Germany‟s” rejection of Berlin-centred Prussian militarist tradition in favour of a 

return to the ideals of German classical humanism. (Drew 1962: 89) Weimar Germany‟s newly- 

embraced democracy, despite the powerful opposition it faced, was to a large extent the driving 

force of society, and the shift in focus from individual to community was embraced by many as a 

logical and productive step in the process of democratisation. (Drew 1962: 89) Although this 

period is often equated with progress and cultural modernity, there were many elements of 

tension, conflict and instability that helped pave the way for the National Socialists to seize 

power in 1933 and it is for this reason that many refer to the Weimar years as the time of dancing 

on the volcano 14 . 

The Treaty of Versailles had burdened Germany with not only the guilt for causing the war, but 

also considerable financial reparations, and had taken away much of its foreign territory. 

(Abrams in Bartram 2004: 19) Germany was forced to turn to the United States for financial aid, 

since its neighbouring countries were also suffering great financial loss after the war. This 

proved disastrous for Germany when the Wall Street crash of October 1929 plunged the United 

States into bankruptcy, forcing it to demand immediate repayment of all loans. This was 

naturally impossible and Germany duly declared its bankruptcy. 

Weimar culture did, for a short time, blossom, thanks to the spirit of the 1918 Revolution, 

whereby Wilhelmine barriers to innovation and experimentation were removed. (Orlow 1982: 

201) Many had visions of major reform and some radical ideas did briefly surface, particularly 

with regard to education, only to be opposed both by bourgeois intellectuals and social 

democrats. (Orlow 1982: 200f.) Conflict arose from other quarters too – the realities of a 

technological society, the tensions and buzz of city life and, more notably, the influence of 

American mass culture, introduced through the popular pamphlet literature of Buffalo Bill and 

Nick Carter and the jazz, cinema and dance of the Golden Twenties all contributed to the move 

away from traditional German culture towards the end of the 1920s. 

In Drew‟s opinion (1962: 90), the main achievement of Weimar Republic culture was the 

“restoration of the musical theatre as a moral institution”, by which I understand him to mean not 

14 See, for example, Klaus Mann‟s Der Vulkan (1939) and Dancing on the Volcano: Essays on the Culture of the 

Weimar Republic (1994), edited by Thomas W. Kniesche and Stephen Brockmann. 

14

so much the musical advance that was so evident in the Schönberg School, where the main focus 

was the reconstruction of the musical language (Drew 1962: 90), but rather the interaction 

between music and theatre. This calls to mind the Wagnerian ideal of the Gesamtkunstwerk, 

where a theatrical production would include every aspect of the arts, from music, painting and 

acting to poetry and prose, to create a total work of art. 

Vienna, traditionally one of the hubs of culture – Mozart, Felix Salten (author of what Disney 

turned into Bambi), Gustav Klimt, to mention but a few names associated with the city – and seat 

of many of the progressive institutions of the time, is often the focal point for any study of 

cultural advances of the time. Its legacy of musical activity and genius is particularly impressive 

and pertinent to this research, in that it was the seat of the Schönberg School; however those 

whom Drew (1969: 90f.) considers the era‟s masters of music, those whom he sees as having 

exerted a positive influence on the next generation, were in fact German. Kurt Weill, Paul 

Hindemith and Ernst Křenek 15 were all inspired by Brecht‟s idea of Gebrauchsmusik – music 

written with a political or social purpose. Following Drew‟s criterion of exerting a positive 

influence on the younger generation, Richard Strauss and Hans Pfitzner, two perhaps better- 

known German composers of the time, do not rank as highly as the three mentioned above – 

although Strauss was still widely admired, he was by then quite isolated and Pfitzner, with his 

aggressively reactionary opinions, had lost much of the esteem won by his great 1917 opera 

Palestrina, in which the theme of “das Problem der Inspiration” (Vaget 2006: 232) is explored. 

Vaget goes as far as to say that of all the composers who played a role in Thomas Mann‟s life 

and work, Pfitzner was by far the most enduringly influential. (Vaget 2006: 203) While Richard 

Wagner and perhaps Gustav Mahler are generally more immediately identified as significant 

influences in Mann‟s life and work, Vaget‟s comment about Pfitzner is not to be discredited, 

considering that the theme of inspiration/ creation and the difficulties surrounding it is one that 

has come to be so closely associated with Mann. Incidentally, an ironic turn of events was the 

fact that Pfitzner was rumoured to be vehemently opposed to Thomas Mann and his ideas, which 

Vaget suggests was possibly due to Pfitzner‟s own initial complicity with National Socialism and 

subsequent „guilty conscience‟, rather than any actual antipathy towards Mann. (Vaget 2001: 

16f.) 

15 Weill is best known for his collaborations with Bertolt Brecht, in particular the 1928 Dreigroschenoper; 

Hindemith for his neoclassical explorations of dissonance, strongly reminiscent of Bach in their contrapuntal 

complexity. Křenek was born in Vienna, but had no desire to return to Austria after his studies. His opera, Karl V 

(1931-1933), is written entirely in the 12-tone mode of Schönberg. All three composers fled Nazi persecution and 

moved to the USA, where, with the exception of Hindemith, they spent the rest of their lives. 

15

Weimar Republic architecture is also worth mentioning here, since the fact that the progressive 

Bauhaus architectural movement was founded in the same city, in the same year, as the new 

Republic established a neat link between political and cultural life. This link, however, proved 

not much more than a theoretical one, as is clearly shown by the government‟s subsequent move 

to Berlin and the forced relocation in 1925 of the Bauhaus to Dessau by the reactionary local 

government. (Drew 1962: 89) There is a group of four German artists who, although not 

Expressionists, were influenced by this movement and went on to become known as the Weimar 

Artists: Otto Dix, George Grosz, Oskar Schlemmer and Max Beckmann. They volunteered for 

the war in 1914 and were each so deeply affected by the experience of the war that their fame 

has come to lie in the fact that their art reflects the impact of the war on their Weltanschauungen, 

and the fact that they were declared “degenerate” by the Nazis some years later. (Eberle 1985: 

vii) During the Weimar years, Beckmann taught at the Frankfurt Städelschule, Dix held a chair 

at the Dresden Academy and Schlemmer taught at the Weimar Bauhaus from 1920 and followed 

the move to Dessau in 1925. (Eberle 1985: viii) Walter Gropius, founder of the Bauhaus and 

described as “one of the few actual inventors of modern architecture […] and the most famous 

architectural teacher […]” (Marston Fitch 1960: 7) also devoted time and study to the field of 

theatre design, and some of his theories were implemented at the City Theatre in Jena 16 and the 

stage in the Dessau Bauhaus building 17 . His influence at the time was not limited to Germany – 

two theatres were built abroad according to his designs – one in England in 1936 and one in 

Massachusetts in 1948. (Cole 1963: 312) As with music, architecture saw a move towards 

functionalism, a stripping away of unnecessary features to draw attention to the basic structure 

and function of a building – a “purification of the surface” (Ward 2001: 47). 

The Nazi Revolution, Third Reich, World War II and beyond: 1933-1947 

The shifting trends in the political and cultural spheres of Imperial and Weimar Germany, as 

shown, exacerbated what was an already volatile atmosphere. It is often asked how a system as 

extreme and simultaneously primitive and sophisticated as Nazism could have taken root as 

deeply as it did in a people of such sensitivity and refinement. Orlow (1982: 202) suggests that 

the 1918 revolutionaries may not have appreciated the danger of desiring a political tabula rasa, 

16 

Here, in 1923, the theatre was stripped of all interior and exterior decoration and the seating was staggered. (Cole 

1963: 312) 

17 

Here, two columns were constructed on each side of the stage to form tripartite proscenium openings with 

traverse curtains closing off sections of the stage area. Suspended screens and other pieces of scenery were fixed to 

four rows of overhead tracks in the stage ceiling. The whole stage could be raised one platform height or assembled 

to form different levels, thanks to a set of modular platform units. (Cole 1963: 312) 

16

as it is only logical that the removal of any barriers necessarily opens the floodgates to all 

manner of influence. In this case the removal of conservative Wilhelmine barriers in favour of 

(Social) democratic movements and ideas also allowed for a casting-off of traditional wariness 

towards the “considerably less positive forces” (Orlow 1982: 202) of political chauvinism and 

anti-Semitism. These influences started gaining credibility in the military during the war, when 

senior officers encouraged mass participation in the rising political body of the new right wing. 

According to Orlow (1982: 202), General Ludendorff and his advisors went as far as propagating 

an image of the German government as owing its greatness to the attitudes of anti-Semitism and 

anti-democracy. After the war these forces took on an unrestrained life of their own and Orlow 

(1982: 203) supports Hannah Arendt‟s conclusion that the “cradle of the specifically German 

forms of fascism” lay in the demise of traditional conservatism. The image of the German nation 

as racially superior Übermenschen and the “cult of the warrior as amoral superman” (Orlow 

1982: 202) came to the fore with the rise of Nazism around the time of the Depression. 

Although this is to some extent understandable, considering that Germany now found itself in 

terrible circumstances and in need of something or someone who would lift it out of its dire 

straits, the analytical conclusion that fascism ultimately succeeded due to “the political 

immaturity of a people that suddenly found itself subject rather than object of political decisions” 

(Preuss in Orlow: 203) rings true and recalls a further statement by the character of Deutschlin in 

Doktor Faustus with reference to the immaturity of the German youth as representative of the 

German spirit itself: “Die deutschen Taten geschahen immer aus einer gewissen gewaltigen 

Unreife”. (Mann 1948: 184) 

To examine the state of theatre during the Second World War, it is good to first explore the link 

between art and politics, or, in this case, more specifically between theatre and fascism. Diana 

Taylor (1998), in a review of Fascism and Theatre: Comparative Studies on the Aesthetics and 

Politics of Performance in Europe 1925-1945, provides an overview of the various elements 

which universally link performance and politics. She commends the comprehensive definition of 

fascism as found in Roger Griffin‟s opening essay and which I include here below: 

[Fascism] emerges when populist ultra-nationalism combines with the myth of a radical crusade 

against decadence and for renewal in every sphere of national life. The result is an ideology 

which operates as a mythic force celebrating the unity and sovereignty of the whole people 

(except, of course, for those considered its internal enemies) in a specifically anti-liberal and anti- 

Marxist sense. It is also anti-conservative, for, even when the mythic values of the nation's 

history or prehistory are celebrated […,] the stress is on living out „eternal‟ values in a new 

society. The hallmark of the fascist mentality is the sense of living at the watershed between two 

ages and of being engaged in the frontline of the battle to overcome degeneration through the 

creation of a rejuvenated national community, an event presaged by the appearance of a new 

17

„man‟ embodying the qualities of the redeemed nation. (Griffin in Berghaus 1996: 13; original 

emphasis) 

It is clear from this definition that there are two core elements to fascism – a sense of 

dissatisfaction with the status quo and subsequent longing for social rejuvenation, and an appeal 

to national and personal pride, which manifests in the call to “do one‟s duty” and be part of the 

renewal. We encounter an example of this attitude in Mephisto, through the character of the 

young Nazi Party member and fellow-actor of Hendrik Höfgen, Hans Miklas. Miklas explains to 

Barbara, Hendrik‟s wife, what he finds most appealing in Hitler‟s message: 

Unser Führer wird dem Volk die Ehre wiedergeben! […] Wir ertragen nicht länger die Schande 

dieser Republik, die vom Ausland verachtet wird. Wir wollen unsere Ehre zurückhaben – jeder 

anständige Deutsche verlangt das, und anständige Deutsche gibt es überall, selbst hier, an diesem 

bolschewistischen Theater. […] Deutschland [hat] seine Ehre verloren […]– und eben die kann 

uns der Führer – nur der Führer – wieder verschaffen! (Mann, K. 2006: 169; original emphasis) 

Of course the personification of this misguided pride is the figure of the charismatic fascist 

leader, who seduces the nation into “an emotional state of total identification with him and, by 

extension, his project” (Taylor 1998: 160); who, in contemporary psychological terms, could be 

said to be suffering from a „Messiah complex‟. Kurzke, drawing on Thomas Mann‟s 1938 essay 

Bruder Hitler, refers to Hitler as having been a “beifallsüchtiger Narziß”, a “kalter Schauspieler, 

der […] als Massenpsychologe bewußt die Effekte plant, die das Volk zum Glauben an ihn 

verleiten.” (Kurzke in Koopmann 1990: 702ff.). 

There seems to be a general consensus that the only truly fascist states were those under the 

leadership of Mussolini and Hitler, although some include Spain‟s Falange under Primo de 

Riviera and then under Franco. Fascist leaders were well aware of theatre‟s potential 

contribution to their project – in fact Mussolini is said to have claimed that “theatre is one of the 

most direct means of reaching the heart of the people” (Taylor 1998: 160). They saw theatre as a 

valuable conduit for national re-education and the ideal instrument for promoting and fostering a 

sense of community as held together by a shared vision and national pride. (Taylor 1998: 160) 

Klaus Mann‟s protagonist in Mephisto emphatically expresses this conviction: “[J]edes Regime 

braucht das Theater!” (Mann, K. 2006: 387) An important element to be considered is that for 

theatre to reach and influence as many people as possible, it had to communicate and appeal to 

what the majority would respond to – as Mussolini said, theatre had to give dramatic expression 

to collective passions. (Taylor 1998: 160) There was a set formula that playwrights were 

advised to follow: “The hierarchy, […] the return to the hero, the protagonist, the saint, the 

saviour, against a background of the faithful masses.” (Wahnón in Berghaus 1996: 200) These 

18

grand visions were never quite realised, however, mostly due to the fact that the „masses‟ at 

which these ideas were directed were not the social groups who regularly attended stage 

productions. Theatre at that time catered to the petite and middle bourgeoisie, where life 

revolved around achieving and leading a „white picket fence‟ suburban existence. (Wahnón in 

Berghaus 1996: 200) Further impediments to the “fascistisation of the masses” (Thompson in 

Berghaus 1996: 109) included: space limitations – the thousand-strong audiences envisaged by 

political leaders could never be accommodated in traditional theatre houses; participation 

limitations – political rituals and sporting events during that period were highly participatory, 

thus reinforcing a sense of unity, while traditional plays required from their audiences a strictly 

passive role; avoidance of conflict – for an art form that thrives on dialogue, conflict and crisis, 

the attempts to promote, in theatre, a “monolithic vision of harmonious unity” (Thompson in 

Berghaus 1996: 109) by cutting out all conflict effectively rendered the entire project ineffective 

and rather boring. (Thompson in Berghaus 1996: 109) 

The question then arises that if theatre was potentially the most valuable instrument of the fascist 

regime, as many believed it to be, why did it not accomplish even half of what had been 

envisaged? The limitations and obstacles mentioned above do not adequately account for the 

almost total lack of authentically fascist plays. Berghaus (1993: 14) suggests that the key to this 

puzzle lies in the fact that although a complex theory of fascist theatre was developed through 

the 1930s, the actual practice fell far short of what leaders had hoped to achieve: genuinely 

fascist theatre was generally produced by amateurs and thus usually of an embarrassingly poor 

quality. The State then had to intervene and ban the productions, for fear that the effect on 

audiences may be detrimental to their cause. (Berghaus 1993: 14) Since the visualization of 

politics was of such great importance to the fascist ideology (Betts 2002: 546f.), the true face, 

then, of fascist „theatre‟ can be said to have existed in the arena of performance, more 

specifically the Nazi Party rallies and conventions. Stollmann goes as far as to say that these 

political events were the “greatest aesthetic accomplishments” (1978: 44) of National Socialism 

and concrete elements of this aesthetization included the uniforms, songs and harmonious 

machine-like sense of order of the pompous rituals. (Stollmann 1978: 57) 

Theatre was not the only art form in Germany to suffer at the hands of untalented producers. 

The only literature tolerated was rooted in and had to portray the “framework of the fascist […] 

reality” (Stollmann 1978: 59) – and thus failed, due to the illusory nature of this so-called 

19

eality 18 . Academic publications were generally feeble and stereotypical, while in the fine arts 

all Modernist tendencies were rejected and many paintings relegated to the (in)famous 1937 

Entartete Kunst exhibition in Munich. There is reference in Doktor Faustus to the extreme 

censorship: “[…] für den Augenblick besteht ja noch nicht die geringste Aussicht, daß meine 

Schrift das Licht der Öffentlichkeit erblicken könnte, - es sei denn, daß sie durch ein Wunder 

unsere umdrohte Festung Europa zu verlassen und denen draußen einen Hauch von den 

Geheimnissen unserer Einsamkeit zu bringen vermöchte”. (Mann 1948: 9) 

The State went as far as imposing a ban on art criticism – clearly an attempt to cover up the 

mediocre quality of art produced, and also quite revealing of the extent to which politics had 

assumed control over cultural life. (Stollmann 1978: 46) Kurzke (in Koopmann 1990: 703), 

with reference to Mann‟s essay Bruder Hitler, mentions in this regard the hatred of “Analyse und 

[…] zersetzende Kritik” and attributes it to the fascist view of art being dominated by the 

“Wunsch nach Vereinfachung der Seele”. According to Stollmann, an authentic National 

Socialist aesthetic never really existed; it was rather a case of fascism appropriating existing 

artistic material and techniques and “exaggerating, primitivizing and brutalizing” (Stollmann 

1978: 42) them. Stollmann (1978: 50ff.) goes on to explore the decreasing social function of art 

throughout the 19 th century: the artist losing his social critique function, the sense of conquered 

alienation impressed upon the bourgeois youth and unemployed in particular by National 

Socialism, and, most importantly, the rapid and rising spread of capitalism, which introduced to 

art the idea of value abstraction, were all significant factors in the long-term failure of a National 

Socialist aesthetic. I have already referred to the illusory nature of fascism, which Stollmann 

further attributes to the need to “rescue the capitalist economy in Germany from the crisis” 

(Stollmann 1978: 53). The National Socialist solution to the crisis, which I understand as the 

years leading up to and immediately after the Great Depression, was to reconcile the (National) 

socialist illusion with “precisely that reality from which art had fled” (Stollmann 1978: 53). 

This, however, did not lead to a radical restructuring of reality; instead the flight of art from 

capitalism into autonomy was subsumed by the pseudo-socialism of the petite bourgeoisie. 

(Stollmann 1978: 53) We now see that this “terror-filled reign of illusion over reality” 

(Stollmann 1978: 53) was in fact a complete move away from the humanist ideals that had 

formed the Western aesthetic theory, in favour of a different kind of autonomy fraught with its 

own contradictions. Evidence of such contradictions can be found in the prologue to Mephisto, 

18 Stollmann situates the illusory nature of fascism in the fact that in establishing itself as a state of consciousness, 

fascism combines first and foremost a denial of reality, along with complete self-surrender and a “blind drive to 

action in order to affirm itself and its power” (1978: 56). 

20

where a young guest at the 43 rd birthday party of the Ministerpräsident finds himself in awe of, 

and yet ill at ease with the splendour of the occasion: 

„Wo bin ich nur?‟ dachte der junge Herr [... .] „Der Ort an dem ich mich befinde, ist ohne Frage 

sehr lieblich und verschwenderisch ausgestattet; dabei aber auch etwas grauenhaft. Diese schön 

geputzten Menschen sind von einer Munterkeit, die nicht gerade vertrauenerweckend wirkt. Sie 

bewegen sich wie die Marionetten – sonderbar zuckend und eckig. In ihren Augen lauert etwas, 

ihre Augen haben keinen guten Blick, es gibt in ihnen so viel Angst und so viel Grausamkeit. Bei 

mir zu Hause schauen die Leute auf eine andere Art – sie schauen freundlicher und freier, bei mir 

zu Hause. Man lacht auch anders, bei uns droben im Norden. Hier haben die Gelächter etwas 

Höhnisches und etwas Verzweifeltes; etwas Freches, Provokantes, und dabei etwas 

Hoffnungsloses, schauerlich Trauriges. So lacht doch niemand, der sich wohl fühlt in seiner 

Haut. So lachen doch Männer und Frauen nicht, die ein anständiges, vernünftiges Leben 

führen…‟ (Mann, K. 2006: 8f.) 

Further irreconcilable issues included the impossibility of achieving personal happiness versus 

the seemingly unlimited potential of industrial and technological advance; the unity of social 

labour versus the inner isolation of the individual; the hoped-for and “materially achievable 

development of all human capabilities and needs” (Stollmann 1978: 54) versus the reality, which 

can at best be described as a “stunted progress” (Stollmann 1978: 54). 

Having traced some of the major artistic and political moments and trends as pertinent to the 

historical context of the novels under discussion, I now turn to explore elements of national and 

personal identity, in so far as these will contribute to an overall understanding of how these 

novels were shaped by, and themselves went on to encapsulate, the nation in which they were 

created. 

21

Chapter 2: The Question of Identity 

Considering that at the time these two novels were written, there was a general preoccupation, 

indeed, obsession, on a national level, with the criteria for German identity, I now turn to a 

theoretical and contextual exploration of German identity. This is also pertinent to the novels 

themselves, since both contain examples of various seemingly typical traits. While Thomas and 

Klaus Mann were both concerned with the notion of a German identity and its many facets, they 

focussed on and related to different aspects, as will be discussed further on in this chapter. 

The notion of national identity is, according to Siobhan Kattago, a distinctly modern one, born 

out of the conception of „nation‟ as a cultural and political entity. (Kattago 2001: 21) The 

search to capture and understand the identity of a people is a delicate and often futile one. One 

not only runs the risk of stereotyping, thereby overlooking the more subtle influences and traits, 

but because identity is such a fluid and evolving concept, it has also become difficult to isolate 

what it is that makes a people who and what they are. 

The term „identity‟ does not necessarily refer to a homogenous entity but a “multiplicity of often 

contradictory and competing identities” (Kattago 2001: 2). This raises the interesting viewpoint 

that there are always two faces to national identity – the nation‟s self-image and its image as held 

and/or formed by others. In the words of Kattago, identity is “defined by both an external and an 

internal Other” (Kattago 2001: 24). The self-image is constructed by either adopting or rejecting 

elements of another (country‟s) ideology or image, or by recognising and then either affirming or 

distancing oneself from one‟s own cultural heritage. (Kattago 2001: 21) The narration of 

collective identity starts with a moment of national awakening which is then passed on by 

repetitive commemoration in folklore or legends, recovered from forgetfulness or even invented 

to suit present needs. (Kattago 2001: 21) When looking at the term „nation‟ during the late 19 th 

and early 20 th centuries, influential during Thomas and Klaus Mann‟s times, we come across the 

definition by Ernst Renan, distinguished French historian and philosopher, given during a lecture 

at the Sorbonne in 1882, where he described „nation‟ not as based on a common ethnicity, 

language, or religion but rather as something more transcendental - the possession of a rich 

legacy of memories as well as the present-day desire to maintain and add to the value of that 

heritage. (Renan in Kattago 2001: 22) The essence of nationhood can thus be situated both in the 

past and in the present. The focus of these collective memories usually falls on glorious 

moments of heroism or the shared suffering of the community, and these are what cement the 

22

sense of unity. Also to be included in Renan‟s account of national identity, as related by Kattago 

(2001: 22), is the importance of knowing how to forget – “Forgetting, I would even go as far as 

to say historical error, is a crucial factor in the creation of a nation.” The ambiguous nature of 

the relationship between actively remembering and encouraging a „selective amnesia‟ reflects the 

fact that nationhood, although embedded in the past, is a present-day choice in which one 

consents to continuing a common or community-centred life. 

When looking at the key elements which constitute the identity of the German people, we come 

across the witty remark that “there is no German identity other than the very search for an 

identity”. (Seeba 1989: 149) For the purposes of this research, however, the concepts and traits 

stereotypically associated with being German – aesthetic sensitivity and a love for order and 

beauty, idealism, precision and thoroughness, punctuality, Gemütlichkeit – will be explored from 

the point of view of the first half of the 19 th century, often known as the Biedermeier years. 

German nationalists of this time showed great appreciation for their mixed cultural and ethnic 

heritage 19 and were not averse to assimilating foreign influences. (Vick 2003: 242) This is 

interesting when one considers that in more recent popular memory, the Germans are associated 

most strongly with an obsessive preoccupation with racial and cultural purity. Although the 

origins of Germanic ethnic and cultural purity, as attributed to that people, can be traced as far 

back as the 2 nd century AD 20 , Vick explores two important early 19 th century German figures in 

nationalist and romantic culture to show that the autarkic and exclusionist image associated with 

Germanic history is not, in fact, altogether accurate. These figures are shown as acknowledging 

their mixed heritage and cautiously welcoming foreign influence, while at the same time not 

altogether letting go of the Tacitean myth of the ideal Volk that was their origin. Johann 

Gottfried Herder and Friedrich Schlegel, for example, struck a balance between revering the 

“rude but innocent Nordic barbarians” (Vick 2003: 243), who had brought down the decadent 

Roman Empire, and stressing the ethnic and even linguistic intermixing between the Germanic 

people and other tribes during the Middle Ages. (Vick 2003: 243) Worth brief mention is the 

Judeo-Christian legacy, which, together with the influence of antiquity, greatly shaped the 

cultural destiny of the German people – one need only look at the ecclesial music of Bach and 

19 Vick (2003: 243) specifically refers to the contact between the Germanic and other tribes during the Migration 

Period as well as the significant Slavic presence in Germany during the Middle Ages. 

20 In the Germania of Tacitus, 2 nd century Roman aristocrat and annalist, we find an almost mythical depiction of the 

tall, fair-haired Teutonic warriors of the North as belonging to a people that had maintained its ancestral purity 

(racial and cultural) in the lands it had always inhabited, this depiction serving as a contrast to the corrupt Rome of 

that time. (Vick 2003: 242) 

23

Mozart, the great works of German Classicism which relied on the ancient Greek forms for 

inspiration, or the traces of Roman law in Germany‟s present legal system for evidence of this. 

The Nibelungenlied, a Germanic medieval epic penned around 1200, must be mentioned as an 

important influence on the German sense of identity. The protagonists in this epic, the 

Burgundians, were portrayed as having descended from the supernatural race of the Nibelungen, 

and this mythical origin greatly appealed to mid-19 th century Germany (when the epos as a genre 

was rediscovered) and was „resurrected‟ as Germany‟s own Iliad – a national legend later 

adapted by Wagner for the stage and produced as an opera in the style and on the grand scale one 

has come to typically associate with him. Originally a tragic saga of friendship, cruelty and 

revenge, great love, loyalty and betrayal, it was gradually appropriated by nationalist causes, 

who regarded many of the ideals and values it depicted as model German virtues – and promoted 

them as such. Martin Jones (2008: online) describes how this nationalist appropriation reached a 

peak in 1943 when Hermann Göring compared the German forces facing defeat at the Battle of 

Stalingrad to the Burgundian warriors who die in the great hall of Attila the Hun in the final 

section of the epos. The best-known of these „model German‟ virtues is Nibelungentreue, 

understood as an unshakeable and single-minded loyalty – even unto death – and inspired by the 

character Hagen. Hagen, physically superior, cunning and wise, capable of affection but just as 

easily capable of cold-blooded infanticide, a self-serving liar and perjurer, himself possessed that 

loyalty towards his personal mission of revenge, as well as inspiring amongst his followers the 

same implacable fidelity, even to the point of certain and brutal death. Some suggest that Hagen 

is beyond moral reproach, being a descendent of supernatural beings and thus not mortal. 

(Unknown author: online reference 9) It is thus clear that any deep-seated association and 

identification with the Nibelungen myth could be potentially dangerous – and, during the Nazi 

years, was just that – with its notions of invulnerability, superiority, and striving to attain a goal 

at all costs. This particular myth will be further discussed in Chapter 4. 

It was around the time of the French Revolution of 1789 that the idea of „nation‟, with the focus 

on common ancestry, became a popular and accepted form of individual and collective identity, 

notably in France. This carried over to the independence movement in North America; here, 

however, the focus was more on common vision and goals rather than ethnic extraction. 

(Fulbrook 1998: 6) The French focus on common ancestry has remained more or less intact to 

this day and we see a similar reliance on “principles of descent” (Fulbrook 1998: 6) in the British 

24

case for nationality/ nationhood. While, until recently 21 , German nationality was determined on 

the basis of the ius sanguinis, it could be argued that, when viewed alongside the examples of 

French and British “principles of descent” just mentioned, and the North American “common 

vision as theoretical unifier” outlook, the German case managed to tread the middle ground, with 

its ability to assimilate foreign cultural ideas and practices on the one hand, and its 

acknowledged pride in the mythic purity of the attributed Tacitean depiction on the other hand. 

The image of the German nation during the Weimar Republic as enlightened and cosmopolitan 

authority on matters cultural did, to a great extent, owe its stability to the fact that this middle 

ground had been preserved, nurtured and explored. It is often asked how a nation as stable and 

authoritative could subsequently have deteriorated into tyrannical totalitarianism – Thomas 

Mann‟s own view was that the suffering and humiliation of having lost World War I undermined 

this stability to the extent that the vision and charisma of one man was able to fan the almost 

extinguished embers of German pride into the raging inferno of “hysterische Barbarei, […] einen 

Rausch und Krampf von Überheblichkeit und Verbrechen […]” that we now call National 

Socialism. (Mann 1992: 36) 

From what we have seen above on the mixed heritage of the German Volk, it is not altogether 

surprising to hear of concepts like “der deutsche Selbstwiderspruch” or “innerer Zwiespalt” 

when referring to the nature of the German character. (Vaget in Röcke 2001: 21f.) Sebastian 

Haffner, during his émigré years in England, made reference to this „Doppelnatur‟ in his 1940 

book entitled Germany: Jekyll and Hyde. This work, together with Erich Kahler‟s Der deutsche 

Charakter in der Geschichte Europas (1937) greatly informed Thomas Mann‟s view of 

Germany's history and its unique psychology, and both feature prominently as sources for 

Mann‟s 1947 Entstehung des Doktor Faustus. (Vaget 2001: 21f.) Kahler refers to Emperor Otto 

III as symbolic figure of this “Selbst-Antipathie”, calling him the “Knotenpunkt” of German 

history and seeing in him the conflicting forces of the nationalistic versus the universalist, the 

German versus the European. (Vaget 2001: 22) The latter conflict raises the question of 

Germany‟s relationship to the rest of Europe – was Germany to become European, or was 

Europe to become German? Thomas Mann‟s choice of hometown for Adrian Leverkühn, the 

fictional town of Kaisersaschern, modelled on his own hometown Lübeck and fictional burial 

place of Otto III, is no coincidence; the implied hereditary traits of the so-called 

cosmopolitanism in a nightcap, the combination of “„altdeutsche[m] Provinzialismus‟ und 

21 German citizenship laws changed in 1999/ 2000 to accommodate cases based on ius soli. The naturalization 

process has subsequently become more stringent, requiring tests in the area of language, civic and cultural values, 

and also a denunciation of any previous/other nationality. (Bundesministerium des Inneren website) 

25

„Gesinnungskosmopolitismus‟”, firmly fixes the notion of the German Doppelnatur in the 

reader‟s mind. (Vaget 2001: 22) 

Among Thomas Mann‟s ideas on what constituted his nation‟s identity we find the description of 

„the German‟ as being more fixed and reflective, more ironic and sceptical (Heilbut 1995: 291) 

than others. He has the narrator Zeitblom refer to qualities of the German character such as 

“Biederkeit, […] Gläubigkeit, […] Treue- und Ergebenheitsbedürfnis” (Mann 1948: 50), while 

the character Deutschlin describes a further “auszeichnend deutsche Gabe”, namely that of 

“Religiosität, [...] die Unmittelbarkeit, der Mut und die Tiefe des personalen Lebens, der Wille 

und das Vermögen, die Naturhaftigkeit und das Dämonische des Daseins [...] in voller Vitalität 

zu erfahren und zu durchleben.“ (Mann 1948: 186) The fact that this novel was conceived of as 

a “Kultur- und Epochenroman” (Mann 1949: 41), a “Seelen- und Epochengemälde” (Mann 

1949: 45) further justifies my reference to them. 

As most recognisable trait he names the difficult-to-translate Innerlichkeit, manifestations of 

which include tenderness, an unworldly tendency to contemplation, devotion to (almost piety 

towards) nature, a pure and deeply serious state of mind and conscience. (Mann 1965: 127f.) 

The fruits of this temperament: German metaphysics and German music. Mann (1965: 127f.) 

goes on to particularly extol the virtues of the German Lied and commend it as a unique national 

moment. Most telling of the importance, in Mann‟s eyes, of music in the German identity is his 

statement that were Faust to be the representative of the German soul, he would have to be 

musical, for the Germans‟ relationship with the world is a musical one. (Mann 1945: 15) He 

equates music with mystery and abstraction (Mann 1945: 15), expanding on his idea of the 

German Seele as being not just capable of but also inclined to plumbing the very depths of 

human and metaphysical reality. This reverent, indeed, almost religious, attitude towards art is 

further established when Mann, in the Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, recalls Fichte‟s quote 

that “der Deutsche – und nur er – [treibt] die Kunst als eine Tugend und eine Religion” (Mann in 

Heimendahl 1998: 61; original emphasis). I shall return to this notion of art as religion in 

Chapter 4. 

Mann was not the first to write on the intimate relationship between the German identity and 

German music – according to Vaget (2006: 21) this connection can be traced to the 17 th century 

Jesuit scholar Athanasius Kirchner, whose pioneering expertise and knowledge extended, in the 

style of a true uomo universale, not unlike Goethe‟s, to just about every field of knowledge, from 

26

mathematics, the natural sciences and even medicine, to languages, music and philosophy. 

Simply following the historical succession of such great names as Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, 

Strauss, Wagner, Pfitzner and Schönberg would lead one to the logical conclusion that music is 

indeed “die deutscheste der Künste” (Mann in Vaget 2006: 23). The “schönste, gesellig 

verbindendste, […] tiefste, bedeutendste Musik […]” (Mann, M. 1965: 132) has become a 

significant legacy for the Western world. A lovely anecdote related in Erika and Klaus Mann‟s 

Escape to Life: Deutsche Kultur im Exil on the occasion of a New York music evening attended 

by Germans in exile, describes Albert Einstein‟s view on the matter: “Das ist Deutschland […,] 

das ist das wahre und das beste Deutschland; was für ein Glück, daß wir es überall wiederfinden, 

wo solche Musik gemacht wird[.]” The programme for that evening included Mozart, 

Beethoven and Brahms. 

This special connection between the German Seele and musicality takes a chilling turn when, as 

Mann puts it, “solche Musikalität der Seele sich in anderer Sphäre teuer bezahlt” – this other 

sphere to which he refers being that of the political, or, in his own words “d[ie] Sphäre des 

menschlichen Zusammenlebens”; he goes as far as to call music a “dämonisches Gebiet” and an 

obstacle to German humanity. (Mann, M. 1965: 131ff.) Balzac‟s quip (1839): “Les Allemands, 

s‟ils ne savent pas jouer des grands instruments de la Liberté, savent jouer naturellement de tous 

les instruments de musique.” (Mann, M. 1965: 132), amusement aside, hints at a connection, 

already quite clear in the mid-19 th century and before Thomas Mann‟s time, between Germany‟s 

relationship with music and its engagement with the concept of freedom. 

Thomas Mann himself was widely admired for embodying “a whole country and its national 

traditions”; his work is also celebrated for the sensitivity and accuracy with which it represents 

the German nation. (Mayer 1968: 47) Kurzke (in Koopmann 1990: 720) recalls Mann‟s quote 

that “Wo ich bin, ist die deutsche Kultur”, which, although reminiscent of Louis XIV‟s 

(in)famous “L‟état c‟est moi”, should be understood as the identification of a reflecting, cultured 

German with his country, and as such provides us with glimpse into the national psyche. His 

own perception of his and his nation‟s Jekyll-and-Hyde-nature can be traced through many of his 

writings, more notably in his Entstehung des Doktor Faustus, where he rejects the notion of a 

„good‟ and „bad‟ Germany, preferring the more holistic view that “das Böse gleich auch das Gute 

sei, das Gute auf Irrwegen und im Untergang [...]” (Mann 1949: 108). We here find echoes of 

Hegel‟s model of monism, more specifically as formulated by Adorno to explain that opposites 

27

are mutually constitutive – the one cannot exist without the other; the one, by virtue of its 

existence, gives meaning to the other. 

As indicated in Chapter 1, the political atmosphere from Imperial Germany to immediate post- 

Nazi Germany was permeated with an underlying sense of unease at the conflicting value- 

systems of those in power and those aspiring to power, and many of the general populace. We 

see conflict on the cultural front with the emergence of the Avant-Garde movement, a movement 

which sought to cancel “all debts to the past in the pursuit of a new vision”, while at the same 

time remaining committed to “the continuity of culture” (Kramer 1973: 38f.). Also mentioned in 

Chapter 1 was the conflict within the artistic genius – the idea of the vocational calling to be 

society‟s conscience and, as such, to necessarily maintain a certain distance from that society. 

Thomas Mann‟s own preoccupation with this theme led him to explore, through the characters in 

his Künstlerromane, what it is that constitutes the ideal artistic figure. A reliance on Nietzsche, 

in particular his treatment of the Greek Classical Tragedy with its notions of the Apollonian and 

Dionysian ideals, manifests itself in Mann‟s representation of the inner artistic conflicts. 

Nietzsche, in his own work, refers to a “Widerspruch leibhaft und beseelt” when talking about 

the lot of the “sogenannte[ ] Genie” (Nietzsche 1980: 210). 

This oft-cited artistic dilemma can essentially be understood as a struggle between the innate, 

opposing forces of rationality and nature. Both forces are equally creative and powerful; each is 

capable of driving the artist to great heights. Characterised by its rational outlook, the 

Apollonian ideal is often associated with the more structured and formal arts of writing, 

architecture and sculpture, whereas the Dionysian ideal is linked to the arts of singing, dancing 

and music and characterised by a state of wild and ecstatic abandon. (Kurzke 1991: 124) 

Nietzsche often refers to this Dionysian ideal in his writings about and emphasis on the will to 

live and the importance of taking pleasure in life and art. Echoes of Schopenhauer are to be 

heard in his writings on the aesthetic pleasure to be found in a well-structured architectural or 

sculptural form, such as was perfected by the ancient Greeks; there is likewise a trace of the 

Dionysian in his statement that the beauty of art is to be found in its emulation of nature. 

(Schopenhauer 1958: 312ff.; 315) It seems logical that by attaining a balance between the two 

ideals, the artist would succeed in producing a more rounded and holistic work of art, art that not 

only portrays real life but also provides an ideal or model towards which one should strive. The 

Greek Tragedy, in virtue of its having attained just such a synthesis, albeit slightly in favour of a 

Dionysian predominance (Young 1992: 29), came to be viewed by Richard Wagner and later by 

28

Nietzsche as the highest conceivable form of art (Coolidge 1941: 462). It is interesting that 

Coolidge (1941: 463; 465) goes on to point out that the “inevitable conclusion would seem to be 

that any attempt at a synthesis of Apollonian and Dionysian ideals […] can never be more than 

partially and temporarily successful” and furthermore that the “evidence available would seem to 

imply that synthesis is likely to be temporary and – even when temporarily prevailing – more 

apparent than real.” Although more prevalent in the work of Thomas Mann, there is allusion to 

the theme of the Dionysian forces, as associated with the art form of dancing, at play in the life 

of Hendrik Höfgen, as seen in a comment passed by the character of Rose Bernhard, secretary to 

the business manager of the Berlin theatre, upon seeing Höfgen dance: “Es ist etwas 

Bacchantisches an diesem Menschen.” (Mann, K. 2006: 196) 

This struggle to strike a balance brings us to the portrayal of artistic figures in the work of 

Thomas Mann. The permanent oscillation “between aesthetic and bourgeois aspirations” 

(Cobley 2002: 48) is characteristic of Mann‟s earlier artist-novels. His artist-figures negotiate 

alternating phases of immersion in and withdrawal from society and the dilemma is then usually 

solved by the artist either rejecting the bourgeois ethic altogether or by allowing it to shape his 

aesthetic model. (Cobley 2002: 48) As illustrations of this we see, on the one hand, Tonio 

Kröger, who (especially at the end of the novella) successfully combines artistic distance and a 

reliance on real life and his bourgeois circumstances to produce his art, and on the other hand 

Adrian Leverkühn, who is, for various reasons, unable to participate fully in „normal‟ life and 

retreats into near solitude in order to produce his art. Leverkühn, who could be said to personify 

Mann‟s own frustration with and despair at the irretrievable loss of artistic autonomy, enters into 

his pact with the devil and subsequently successfully introduces a new and, to many ears, 

shocking form of music. At the time of his writing Doktor Faustus, both real life and the 

aesthetic model had become unusable sources of inspiration due to their contamination by fascist 

ideology. 

For a better appreciation of Th. Mann‟s œuvre as the embodiment of that duality inherent in our 

understanding of Deutschsein, we have to expand on the artist-bourgeois-dichotomy. Dating 

back to the medieval order of classes, the term Bürger refers to an educated, free city dweller 

with an active profession (Kurzke 1991: 4ff.). In the 18 th century, the term acquired a legal 

definition – that of a citizen bound to other citizens through a social contract. Over the centuries, 

this class was finding itself increasingly financially comfortable and therefore able to invest 

more time and resources in its leisure and recreation, which led to the emergence of a bourgeois 

29

Geistesleben. This, in turn, saw intellectual pursuits gaining a wider following; resulting in 

increased numbers of teachers, librarians, and lawyers. Hans Dieter Heimendahl traces Thomas 

Mann‟s “Konzeption einer […] bürgerlichen Lebensform” to Georg Lukács, in particular, the 

latter‟s analysis of the Bürger as ultimately striving towards “[beruflichen] Vollkommenheit”, in 

the pursuit of which he practises “die strengste Lebens- und Arbeitsdisziplin.” (1998: 67f. 

footnote 97) This pseudo-asceticism, this “Verzichten auf allen Glanz des Lebens” can be seen 

as the origin of the many other traits and values now commonly associated with Bürgertum – 

punctuality, industriousness, financial prudence, moderation and honour through duty. The 

conflict at the heart of the artist‟s dilemma, as discussed above, is analysed by Heimendahl 

(1998: 67f. footnote 97), with reference to Georg Lukács, as stemming from the desire to view 

artistic production as a “bürgerliche[ ] Beruf”. By this I understand him to mean any attempt to 

apply the above-described work ethic to a pursuit which is in essence completely different. As 

Heimendahl (1998: 67f. footnote 97) explains, “[f]ür den Künstler, der seinen Beruf als 

bürgerlichen Beruf verstehen will, ergebe sich jedoch der Widerspruch, daß die künstlerische 

Produktion sich in der Sache bürgerlichen Wertvorstellungen – also quasi kunsthandwerklichen 

Meisterschaftsbegriffen – entziehe.” Heimendahl (1998: 69) goes on to point out Mann‟s 

observation on the “Verwandlung des deutschen Bürgers in den Bourgeois”, in which he refers 

to the “Entmenschlichung und Entseelung” of the former in the process of “Verhärtung zum 

kapitalistisch-imperialistischen Bourgeois”. 

In France, a distinction was emerging between the „bourgeois‟ and the „citoyen‟, the former 

being used in the economical/ contractual sense, and the latter coming to refer to the politically 

more liberal, even bordering on revolutionary, members of society. Around the time of the 

Second World War, there was, however, to emerge in Germany a group who were not unlike the 

citoyens of the French Revolution – namely, the émigrés, amongst which Klaus Mann is also to 

be included. This will be discussed at a later stage. 

Generally dated between 1815 and 1848, the Restauration 22 spanned the period of great 

transition from the collapse of the Napoleonic era and the Congress of Vienna to the outbreak of 

22 There are, in fact, three other names associated with this Restauration period: Biedermeier, Junges Deutschland, 

and Vormärz. It is to the cultural/artistic sphere that the three other terms commonly refer, each bearing a slightly 

different connotation. Biedermeier (1815-1848) generally conjures images of the „good, old days‟ where 

domesticity, comfort and conviviality were nostalgically extolled; Vormärz, of which the Junges Deutschland forms 

a part, has more bearing on the subtly but rapidly changing literary situation in which socio-political awareness 

played an increasingly important role, with concerns like a rising capitalistic mass market and a more politicised 

readership. (Vaßen 1979: 13f.; Pohl [no year]: online) 

30

the European Revolution. As the term alone indicates, it promoted the restoration of a political 

state of affairs, the “rejuvenation of German monarchies” (Zantop 1987: 578). Amidst the 

tensions arising from, on the one hand, the “culmination of the tradition of bureaucratic 

absolutism that had been building in most German states for a century or more”, and, on the 

other hand, the growing participation by the general public in politics (Sheehan 1973: 583), a 

very distinct artistic and cultural moment was developing. Situated directly between the 

Romantic and Realist movements, Biedermeier art is first and foremost characterised by its 

representatively bourgeois themes and elements. While I do not agree with Vaßen‟s claim 

(1979: 12) that the Romantic Movement, particularly its literature, was almost exclusively 

dominated by figures from the nobility, it is worth noting that the Biedermeier artist, and in 

particular author, came from the ranks of the Bürgertum. Amongst the generally conservative 

Bürger, disappointed by the failed political endeavours of their leaders, a sense of political 

resignation set in, together with a marked withdrawal into the private sphere – indeed, “Flüchten 

aus der Wirklichkeit” (Hanson 1983: 495) would not be too strong a term. Inspiration was 

drawn from day-to-day bourgeois life and its aspirations and these were depicted in a decidedly 

idyllic and sentimental light. The value in pursuing intellectual and artistic activities for their 

own sake rather than for material gain became a characteristic sentiment amongst this class. In 

addition to the rising popularity of coffeehouses and theatres as meeting places for like-minded 

people, Hausmusik evenings provided an opportunity for more intimate and convivial gatherings, 

once again reinforcing the central place of the home in Biedermeier social life. There are 

numerous descriptions of such gatherings in Doktor Faustus, particularly as hosted by the Rodde 

salon, where a varied and ever-changing selection of guests often gather “um 9 Uhr oder später 

zum Musizieren, Theetrinken und Plaudern” (Mann, Th. 1948: 307), the Schlaginhaufens, where 

Zeitblom and his viola d‟amore are welcome guests (1948: 425), and the evenings spent at Herr 

Sixtus Kridwiß, described as a “Treffpunkt führender oder doch eingeweihter und am geistigen 

Leben beteiligter Köpfe” (1948: 554). 

This was also the time of the dilettante and the dandy, with a seemingly inexhaustible stream of 

works by artists of every genre and competence. (Böhmer 1977: 154ff.) Fashion, in its eternal 

striving to elevate itself to an art form, saw some creations more ridiculous than sublime – 

Germany itself was not invulnerable to the influence of the English Prince of Dandies, George 

Bryan “Beau” Brummel. (Böhmer 1977: 162) 

31

The Vormärz period can be divided into two parts: Junges Deutschland, which roughly spanned 

1825-1834/5, and Vormärz from 1835-1848. These Vormärz years, which, although might have 

seemed like a “Rückzug in die Innerlichkeit” (Vaßen 1979: 6), were distinct from the 

Biedermeier precisely in that their representatives had more radical and reactionary political 

views. Caught between, on the one hand, no foreseeable opportunity for active participation in 

political life and, on the other hand, economic, technological and industrial progress, the 

frustrated liberal bourgeoisie and students, together with the slowly rising proletariat, found 

themselves making history in 1835, when, for the first time, the Bundestag banned all writings of 

the Junges Deutschland. (Pohl [no year]: online). This authoritarian reaction was, of course, to 

be repeated in subsequent years, most notably and pertinently to this thesis, in the Nazi years. 

Heinrich Heine is commonly identified as an author pertaining to Junges Deutschland, 

publishing much not only in the way of journalistic/ essay-type pieces 23 , but also Briefe and 

Reisebriefe 24 . In addition to the aforementioned genres, poetry gained increasing popularity in 

literary circles. (Vaßen 1979: 113) In its various forms (e.g. ballad, epic, poetry cycles) it 

provided a welcome form of entertainment, providing distraction from, and, to some extent, 

elevation of monotonous provincial German life. (Vaßen 1979: 113) One area worth particular 

mention is the Vormärz political lyric, which, due to strict censorship and extensive repression in 

1830‟s Germany, saw its bourgeois authors resorting to depictions of and artistic engagement 

with foreign freedom movements 25 to address, via circumvention, their own political situation. It 

became apparent to the authorities that the increasingly politically aware public was further 

encouraged in its endeavours by the repression; subsequently stricter censorship regulations only 

served to reinforce the sense of solidarity amongst the bourgeoisie. Furthermore, the political 

lyric itself, by virtue of its direct approach to current events, was imminently suited to the task of 

political propaganda tool and made use of and promoted the distribution means available – 

flyers, posters, paperbacks – to further its cause. (Vaßen 1979: 114) Other publication 

highlights in 1848 include Geschichte der deutschen Sprache (Jacob Grimm) and Manifest der 

Kommunistischen Partei (Marx and Engels). (Vaßen 1979: 328) 

The fact that the authors and poets of the Restauration were either contemporaries or immediate 

successors of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe must also be considered. There was a definite sense, 

23 See his Deutschland. Ein Wintermärchen. (1844) 

24 See, for example, the completed 3-part Reisebilder (1827-1830). 

25 For example the Greek (1821-1929) and Polish (c.1830) Revolutions. 

32

among these writers, that they would never be regarded as more than epigoni 26 in the wake of the 

phenomenal successes of Goethe, particularly his classical literature. This, together with the 

reality and immediacy of the political situation, led to the gradual but definite shift towards a 

style now known as Bürgerlicher Realismus, of which the early Thomas Mann, along with 

Theodor Fontane, Theodor Storm and Wilhelm Raabe, are regarded as examples. Characteristic 

of realism was the view that art could no longer exist for its own sake and this, together with the 

Vormärz „legacy‟ of immediate and direct involvement in political concerns, created room for 

more socially relevant art. Literature now displayed more restrained emotion but richer and 

more detailed descriptions, as well as a more subjective and introspective interaction with the 

outer world. (Grabert et al. 1978: 205f.) 

The identity of the Bürger I have described is personified in Mann‟s Doktor Faustus narrator 

Serenus Zeitblom, Leverkühn‟s steadfast and faithful friend. A humanist with a sound, 

traditional, classical education, sensitive and loyal, a teacher devoted, but by no means limited 

to, his area of knowledge, content in his marriage, comfortably-situated and well-regarded in his 

social circle, politically conservative and reserved in his views, Zeitblom conveys the very 

essence of the way of being and of interacting with the world that is readily identified as 

bürgerlich. There is, however, one aspect in which Zeitblom fails to fully embody the Bürger 

identity – that of his Roman Catholic faith. Heimendahl elaborates on the specifically Protestant 

core of the Bürger, basing his exploration on Thomas Mann‟s discussion of Nietzsche in his 

Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen. There is repeated reference to the seemingly inseparable 

constellation “Bürgerlichkeit - Deutschtum - Protestantismus” (1998: 72) and he quotes Mann on 

Nietzsche and the “ethische[ ] Tragödie seines Lebens, dieses unsterblichen europäischen 

Schauspiels von Selbstüberwindung, Selbstzüchtigung, Selbstkreuzigung, – wo anders sind sie 

zu finden, als in dem Protestantismus des Naumburger Pastorsohnes [.]” In my view, however, 

what „saves‟ Zeitblom from exclusion from the ranks of the rein Bürgerliche is what appears to 

be his primary commitment to humanism, in his own words: “[meine katholische Herkunft hat] 

selbstverständlich meinen inneren Menschen gemodelt und beeinflußt, jedoch ohne daß sich aus 

dieser Lebenstönung je ein Widerspruch zu meiner humanistischen Weltanschauung [...] ergeben 

hätte.“ (Mann, Th. 1948: 16) 

26 Karl L. Immerman‟s novel Die Epigonen (1836) would go on to give its name to this group of “postclassical 

writers” (Friederich 1961: 160). 

33

Mann himself, in addition to being recognisably bürgerlich according to the above „criteria‟, is 

further described by Martini (1968: 517) as having: “[…] die Anlage reizbarer Sensibilität, die 

Phantasie, Musik und verletzlichen Nerven”; the latter being quite a dandyish trait and 

reminiscent of the emerging cult of decadence around the turn of the century. Although not 

primarily a teacher 27 , Mann‟s knowledge extended, as does that of his narrator Zeitblom, who 

confesses his “Liebe zu den „besten Künsten und Wissenschaften” (Mann, Th. 1948: 16), far 

beyond his particular field of expertise, namely literature – he had a very deep love for and 

understanding of music; he engaged with philosophical concerns; despite proclaiming himself as 

„unpolitical‟, he went on to publish his thoughts and views on political issues in his 

Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen 28 . However, threatening this exemplary bürgerliche – even 

Apollonian – existence was his own struggle with the Dionysian Künstler demons – an aspect of 

which was, in his case, his latent homosexuality. In addition to deeply hurting and publicly 

humiliating his wife and family, openly displaying and embracing such a lifestyle would clearly 

not only be illegal (§175 of the Strafgesetzbuch), but also be at odds with the ethos to which he 

and his society subscribed. And thus, in a further expression of his appreciation and 

acknowledgement of the bürgerliche value of Selbstüberwindung, which he also termed 

Entsagung or “innerweltliche […] Askese” (Mann, M. 1965: 133f.), he engages with these 

demons in his writing (Martini 1968: 517), which is precisely what he has his few balanced and 

successful artist figures, such as Tonio Kröger, do. 

It can be asked to what extent Klaus Mann „inherited‟ or participated in his father‟s views on the 

Bürger identity. Despite his essentially rebellious attitude towards the mores and values of this 

sector of society, examples of which will be mentioned throughout the following chapters, the 

foundations laid during his upbringing in the very model of a German bürgerliches Elternhaus 

both informed his work, in that they provided a framework within which to situate his ideas and 

portrayals, and, perhaps to some extent provided choice fodder for a naturally rebellious 

temperament. 29 

27 During his exile years in the USA he did accept appointment as Lecturer in the Humanities at Princeton 

University from 1938-1940. (Vaget 1990: 70) 

28 Incidentally, as Vaget (in Röcke 2001: 23) comments, recent political approaches to Doktor Faustus tend to either 

emphasise Mann as having remained “[ein] hoffnungslos Unpolitisch[r ]”, or emphasise the fact that the novel was 

written in exile and should thus be regarded “als Werk eines seinem Lande entfremdeten Exilanten”. 

29 The play “Knorke”, as encountered in Mephisto (2006: 86), is described by the narrator as a satirical portrayal of 

precisely this echelon - “das deutsche Bürgertum unter Wilhelm II.” 

34

The cumulative effects of World Wars I and II more or less shattered the identity which was 

constructed as laid out above and is to our minds dignified and genteel. The complete 

devastation of World War II – lives lost, homes destroyed, ruling systems abolished, economies 

in ruin and the sheer despair of the survivors – together with the cultural and intellectual vacuum 

that occurred as a result of the exile (voluntary and forced) of many of Germany‟s foremost 

intellectuals and artists before and during the Nazi years, created circumstances under which any 

connection with and continuation of past identity was nearly impossible. 

I have already alluded to, in this chapter, the notion of art as being an imitation of life. From 

this, I find it fruitful to explore the situation of post-war German art and artists by seeking 

portrayals of (post-war) German identity through the works and characters of its authors. One 

such author I wish to briefly exemplify is Wolfgang Koeppen – in particular, his novel Tauben 

im Gras. 

Published in 1951 and now generally classified as the first novel in a trilogy (the other two 

novels being Das Treibhaus and Der Tod in Rom), Tauben im Gras offers a personification of 

this post-war identity dilemma in the character of Edwin, a fictitious, ageing author, counted 

amongst the living greats, classically trained, traditional and conservative in his political and 

cultural outlook – an authentic representative of bürgerliche high-culture. He is seen by many, 

including Schmidt (2003: 128), as a Mannian type, in the fact that he bears many of Thomas 

Mann‟s personal traits. Edwin‟s sexuality is also brought into the spotlight and reference is 

made to his suppressed homosexual tendencies, thus drawing a further parallel with Thomas 

Mann. Through Edwin and his failure to successfully live out his bourgeois identity in post-war 

Germany, we see a representation of the wider problem of an entire generation and class unable 

to identify with their former lives. Another character, that of the younger writer Philipp, 

illustrates a similar problem of identification – once relatively prolific and successful, we see 

him now avoiding his study and his typewriter at all costs, unable to engage with and reclaim his 

former identity. 

As is apparent from the themes and portrayals in their respective writings, Thomas and Klaus 

Mann focus on and interact with different aspects of their national and personal identities. While 

Thomas Mann was concerned with exploring the Bürger and the Künstler identities, both of 

which betrayed his own struggle with these facets, K. Mann‟s work is more candidly 

autobiographical, with many of his plays and stories containing recognisable elements from his 

35

life and personal battles. One of the most significant concerns in K. Mann‟s life was the fact that 

he felt he was always regarded as the son of Thomas Mann rather than an author in his own right. 

Viereck (2004: xlv) relates an anecdote from when they were serving in the Psychological 

Warfare Brigade (PWB) together in Rome in 1944 and he quipped to K. Mann that one day when 

he died, his obituary notice would commence with “the son of Thomas Mann etc.”, to which 

Klaus apparently responded with a hearty laugh. The reader is not surprised when Viereck goes 

on to tell of the morning he picked up a newspaper and read the headline “SON OF THOMAS 

MANN COMMITS SUICIDE”. (Viereck 2004: xlv) 

Thomas Mann himself was aware of this particular difficulty of his son‟s, as intimated in a letter 

written to a friend following Klaus‟s unsuccessful suicide attempt in 1948. He refers to the 

feelings of guilt arising from the fact that “meine Existenz von vornherein einen Schatten auf die 

seine warf” (Krüll 1994: 16), and elsewhere mentions how “[s]eine Sohnschaft mag ihm in der 

Frühe Spaß gemacht haben; später hat sie ihn belastet.” (Krüll 1994: 18) Mann‟s ambivalence 

towards his son‟s work and talent is quoted in Krüll (1994: 19): “Und wieviele Raschheiten und 

Leichtigkeiten seinem Werk […] abträglich sein mögen, ich glaube ernstlich, daß er zu den 

Begabtesten seiner Generation gehörte, vielleicht der Allerbegabteste war.” 

Krüll (1994: 15) points to further indications of a difficult relationship between this father and 

son pair. In his diary entry on the night he received news of Klaus‟s suicide, Thomas Mann 

betrays, in Krüll‟s opinion, a surprising lack of fatherly grief and a “seltsam vorwurfsvolle[n] 

Klang” in his sorrow for his wife and daughter‟s anguish: “[Klaus] hätte es ihnen nicht antun 

dürfen.” (Krüll 1994: 15) He did not interrupt his lecture tour in Stockholm to attend the funeral 

and Krüll (1994: 16) goes as far as to suggest, based on her interpretation of various letters, that 

“[d]ie Eltern, die Geschwister, die Freunde […] ihn eigentlich schon aufgegeben [,…] sich von 

ihm zurückgezogen [hätten]”. 

A central theme in particularly his earlier work is sexual identity – the play Anja und Esther and 

his „coming out‟ novel Der fromme Tanz, both released in 1925, contain if not quite an analysis 

of, then certainly a creative exploration of youthful homosexuality. In his 1926 Kindernovelle, 

on the other hand, he develops “Phantasien über das Intimleben seiner Eltern.” (Krüll 1994: 

299) Although I am hesitant to accord sexual orientation an overly important role in personal 

identity, I think the fact that K. Mann belonged to a circle of young, worldly, sexually and 

narcotically experimental „Golden Twenties‟ artists, together with the fact that he was the 

36

homosexual son of a (relatively) secretly homosexual man, and that his sister Erika was herself at 

least bisexual, certainly lends this aspect of his identity a significance and impact it would 

otherwise not necessarily have. 

In a collection of obituaries compiled by Erika a year after Klaus‟s death, Thomas Mann, in the 

preface, refers to his son as “Eine[n], dem Todessehnsucht früh im Herzen keimte”. (Krüll 1994: 

17) Thomas Mann goes on to speculate that this longing for death, which would feature so 

prominently in his son‟s personal writings (diaries, correspondence), was brought on by the 

transition from childhood to adulthood. (Krüll 1994: 17) Interestingly, it is not simply Klaus‟s 

coming of age that marks the end of his childhood – in Thomas Mann‟s opinion, “[s]ie endete, 

diese spielerisch-übermütige und begabte Kindheit, eigentlich erst mit dem Exil.” (Krüll 1994: 

17) 

This last idea brings us to an important cross-section of the German population at this point in 

history, namely the community of German émigrés. During the time of National Socialism, this 

community consisted not only of those who had been deprived of their German nationality 

because their views opposed those of the authorities, but also of those who had made the 

decision to leave, both as a statement of protest and for their safety, and those who went into 

what is known as the innere Emigration – a decision to remain in the country but to withdraw 

from public life. (Zühlsdorff 2004: viif.) Amongst the earliest fighters against early National 

Socialism during the Weimar Republic were writers such as Ernst Toller, scientists such as 

Theodor Lessing, journalists like Berthold Jacob and artists such as Georg Grosz. Their weapons 

– satire and irony, contempt and mockery, and, most powerful: “the pathos of despair”. 

(Zühlsdorff 2004: x) 

Countries which opened their borders to the more than 10,000 exiled German intellectuals who 

left between 1933 and 1939 included France (Heinrich and Thomas Mann), the Netherlands 

(Klaus Mann in 1936), the USA (Hannah Arendt; Theodor Adorno; Thomas and Klaus Mann 

both received citizenship in the 1940s; Albert Einstein), England (Sebastian Haffner; Sigmund 

Freud) and Brazil (Stefan Zweig). As is generally the case under such circumstances, there was, 

among the exiled German intellectuals, a natural tendency to cling to what was familiar and 

maintain and develop the same interests and concerns as before; for those who had gone into 

exile in the USA, a body was formed in 1936, by and for Germans – the Deutsche Akademie der 

Künste und Wissenschaften im Exil. Its founder, Prince Hubertus zu Löwenstein, had, as his 

37

vision and mission, the construction of a “territory of the German spirit” outside Germany, which 

would, as it were, keep the intellectual and cultural embers aglow until Germany was no longer 

occupied by the enemy and the “Future Reich” could be established in its place. (Zühlsdorff 

2004: xii) Thomas Mann was appointed first president of the Academy Senat and members 

included Lion Feuchtwanger, Max Reinhardt, Robert Musil, Bruno Frank, Franz Werfel and 

Peter de Mendelssohn, to mention but a few. (Zühlsdorff 2004: xiii) The Academy, together 

with its aid organisation, the American Guild for German Cultural Freedom 30 , undertook to 

protect and promote “Germany‟s whole imperilled cultural tradition”, and some of its practical 

tasks included: 

- the provision of subsidies to cover printing costs 

- financial aid for needy intellectuals, irrespective of religion or political affiliation, to 

encourage them to continue their work 

- sponsoring prizes for art and literature. (Zühlsdorff 2004: xiii) 

While it was mostly the younger and/or lesser-known authors and intellectuals who initially 

required financial assistance, towards the end of the 1930s hardship had spread and intensified so 

that even established writers such as Joseph Roth and Annette Kolb were receiving scholarships 

of $30 a month to tide them over. 

By the end of 1940 the Guild had to cease activity, due to financial shortfall. To some, this 

short-lived endeavour may have seemed a failure, but in the eyes of many, its greatest 

achievement was that inasmuch as it was “the last bastion and the last institution of a humane 

German culture”, it “retarded that often fatal feeling of alienation” (Zühlsdorff 2004: xiii) 

amongst the émigré artists. Their sense of national identity, and perhaps even individual 

identity, was indeed influenced and marked by their years in exile. Some, like Thomas Mann, 

chose not to return to Germany, despite the many appeals 31 from their fatherland to return home 

and help rebuild German cultural life. 

It is interesting to regard post-1945 Germany in the light of Renan‟s idea of nationhood, as 

discussed at the beginning of this chapter, conceived of as actively remembering as well as 

30 The Guild, largely through the tireless efforts of its acting secretary Volkmar Zühlsdorff, arranged rescue 

operations mainly in France to save the lives of those exiled intellectuals in danger of being handed over to the 

Gestapo. This entailed arranging visas for entry into the US, passage on ships, and all the fundraising necessary to 

carry out these projects. 

31 See, for example, documents such as Das Münchner Memorandum, “An unsere Emigranten: ein Ruf des „anderen 

Deutschland‟ über die Grenzen”, Die Würzburger Umfrage, Die Augsburger Umfrage, Die Münchner Umfrage, Die 

Nürnberge Umfrage and Die Regensburger Umfrage, all of which detail attempts to understand reasons for 

remaining in the country of exile and also to persuade émigrés to return. (Hermand, Lange 1999: pp. 58-199) 

38

forgetting. Germany, following the collapse of the Third Reich, sought to focus on rebuilding 

and reclaiming itself, but its restructuring, first into Allied zones and then into FRG and GDR, 

could be seen as having only achieved further division and estrangement from a cohesive sense 

of nationhood. Betts (2002: 543) refers to the fact that the GDR sought to create a distinct 

political and cultural identity, basing it on the “vaunted and often mythic heritage of antifascist 

resistance and non-complicity”, and “officially denouncing the Third Reich as the natural 

offspring of „fascist capitalism‟”. Reunification following the collapse of the Berlin Wall nearly 

twenty years ago, while repairing a physical and economic divide, in effect brought about a 

marked cultural division with the emergence of what is now referred to as Ostalgie, a sentimental 

nurturing of „lost aspects‟ of GDR identity. This sense of fragmentation could perhaps be seen 

as having been alleviated by the common „bond‟ of Vergangenheitsbewältigung, a burdensome 

addition to the make-up of German identity as seen during the second half of the 20 th century. 

The strong feelings of guilt and shame, both on a national and personal level and encouraged by 

the rest of the world, became, for more than one generation, an integral part of what it was to be 

German. 32 It is only recently that a new generation of Germans 33 has felt entitled to justly 

„claim‟ the sufferings of its own people at the hands of the Nazis, Allies and, of course, the 

Russians. 

The glimpses I have provided into these facets of German identity – Bürger, émigré, Künstler, as 

personified in Thomas and Klaus Mann, as well as the more individual aspects pertaining to their 

personal lives – pave the way for the exploration, in the following chapter, of the theory of 

intertextuality as a means whereby the Deutschsein of the Faustian figure will become firmly 

established in the reader‟s mind. 

32 A rather humorous take on this is the well-known “Whatever you do, don‟t mention the war” Fawlty Towers 

episode, where Basil Fawlty, in his overzealous attempts to avoid any mention of the Germans‟ role in WWII 

around a group of German hotel guests, instead becomes the perfect case study for Freudian slips or parapraxis, with 

his every utterance on the most innocuous topics conveying an accusatory jibe. 

33 See, for example, the 1998 bestseller Der Verlorene (Lost) by Hans Ulrich Treichel. 

39

Chapter 3: Intertextuality 

One of the more exciting aspects of this research has been exploring the wealth of information 

contained in the intertextual elements present in both novels. The process can be likened to that 

of examining an intricately woven tapestry in order to better understand its „mechanics‟ and to 

appreciate the different colours and textures that went into creating it. 

Intertextuality as a theory 

It is useful to examine the theories of intertextuality through their evolution over the years since 

the term intertextualité was first coined, rather casually, by Julia Kristeva in 1967 when referring 

to the work of the Russian post-formalist Mikhail Bakhtin. (Bisschoff in Cloete 1992: 187) 

According to Plett (1991: 3), there are several (often confusingly different) ways of 

understanding the notion of intertextuality. Most simply stated, it can be seen as the structural 

and material relations between texts. Materially, these relations can take the form of allusion, 

quotation, paraphrasing, translation or cento; structurally, the genres of parody, travesty and 

collage inherently lend themselves to intertextual interpretation. (Plett 1991: 4f.) Charles 

Grivel, in his statement “Il n‟est de texte que d‟intertexte”, went as far as to situate and connect 

all texts within a “universe of texts” (Grivel in Plett 1991: 17). Stephen Heath (1972: 24) thus 

sees a constant evolution at work in literary production: “Far from being the unique creation of 

the author as originating source, every text is always other texts that it remakes, comments, 

displaces, prolongs, reassumes.” This evolution constitutes what Plett calls “a perennial 

interplay between identity and difference” (Plett 1991: 17), with each text, by virtue of its very 

existence, potentially being both relator and relatee 34 . 

How does one come to terms with the actual meaning of a text? On a Derridean reading, since 

language (and, by extension, texts) as a structure cannot allow us direct contact with the world 35 , 

any attempt at an objective analysis of meaning will prove fruitless. (Jones, R.: online) Derrida 

would have us unpack the very structure of a text and its language only to discover “a 

multiplicity of interpretations”. (Jones, R.: online) Some may find the overall reading 

experience marred by a constant search for comparisons to and links with other texts, and it can 

be argued that the fact that a work can be traced to other works might detract from its own merit. 

34 These are my own terms and refer to, respectively, that text which relates to previous texts, and, that text which in 

its turn becomes the “precursor of subsequent texts” (Plett 1991: 17). 

35 According to deconstructionist theory, our experience and interpretation of the world is mediated and structured 

by language and text. (Jones, R.: online) 

40

This recalls the main idea in Roland Barthes‟ famous 1967 essay “The Death of the Author”, 

which describes how “[…] a text is not a line of words releasing […] the „message‟ of the 

Author […,] but a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, 

blend and clash” (Barthes 1987: 146). This idea, also expressed as the decentering of the 

subject (or author), went on to become a main feature of poststructuralism, along with the 

notions of primacy of theory and the fundamental importance of the reader. (Jones, R.: online) 

Another definition of intertextuality as a background of “one or more texts which the reader must 

know in order to understand a work of literature in terms of its overall significance” (Riffaterre 

in Norton & Still 1990: 56), suggests that a text‟s meaning is to be found in its differences with 

and resemblances to other texts. (Van Boheemen in Bal 1981: 122) Bakhtin himself made the 

point quite strongly in his view that a text “lives only by coming into contact with another text” 

(Bakhtin in Bauman 2004: 4). 

Stevie Bolduc, in a fascinating paper on intertextuality as encountered in Thomas Mann‟s Tristan 

and Wagner‟s Tristan und Isolde, explores Ducrot and Todorov‟s notion that intertextuality as a 

tool must apply and include meanings both prior to and following the reader‟s encounter with a 

text at a specific point in time. Reminiscent of the poststructuralist view on the importance of 

the reader, Ducrot and Todorov describe the essential reader-writer relation, in which “two 

productivities […] intersect, creating a new space with their intersection.” (Bolduc 1983: 82) 

This “new space” becomes the locus of limitless interpretations, particularly once we are aware 

of literary elements that can be explored – the name of a character or his life circumstances, the 

setting of a novel, a style of writing or a genre. 

Thus, what started out as a “form of protest against established cultural and social values” and 

went on to be used by “even conservative literary scholars to exhibit their alleged modernity” 

(Plett 1991: 3), intertextuality has come to be regarded as a tool possibly essential, but 

undoubtedly beneficial to literary criticism and analysis. 

Essential to presenting a complete picture in this research, it is good to mention the theories of 

intertextuality as applied to the worlds of theatre and music. Since theatrical productions, 

specifically non-musical productions for stage, are generally text-based, one would assume and 

apply the same principles as those relevant to literary intertextuality. Similar structural and 

material relations would apply – genres such as parody or satire, tools such as allusion (whether 

41

paraphrasing or the mimicking of physical characteristics) or translation. While the term 

“intertextuality” may seem somewhat inappropriate, these accounts and methods of shared and 

sharing meaning can be successfully applied to the realm of music, a notion that Bolduc (1983: 

83) pursues in some detail. The borrowing of musical themes or leitmotivs is an obvious 

example of musical intertextuality. Bolduc (1983: 83) refers to additional potentially intertextual 

elements such as compositional structure – e.g. Wagnerian 3-part operatic arrangement, or 

perhaps the A-B-A sonata form. There are also many ways in which musical content – e.g. 

sections of a libretto, chordal or cadential progressions, the use of major/minor modes for 

symbolism and colour – can be borrowed and adapted. 

Intertextuality in Doktor Faustus and Mephisto 

In Doktor Faustus and Mephisto, it is clear right from the start that there are intertextual depths 

to be plumbed. The titles alone, in their allusion to the Faust theme, give us an indication of 

what to expect – demonic pacts, evil, and a hope of redemption. Since the Faust theme 

originated in Germany 36 and has grown to be seen by some as specifically “Teutonic” (Bishop 

2006: 235), we also expect a distinctive connection with Germany. The Faust theme has, over 

the centuries, been often revisited by artists of all genres, with further versions of the legend 

extending to works of opera, classical and contemporary music, poetry, film and even, in more 

recent years, Japanese manga. (Bishop 2006: 235) Some examples of well-known adaptations 

include Robert Schumann‟s Scenes from Goethe‟s Faust (1843-53), Charles Gounod‟s 1859 

opera Faust, and F.W. Murnau‟s 1926 silent film of the same title. The experimental play 

Bootleg Faust (1999), directed by Meng Jinghui, saw Goethe‟s legend transported to modern-day 

China, incorporating both traditional and modern theatrical tools and diverse dramatic devices, as 

well as culture-specific satire, and proved a roaring success in Beijing. (Online reference 10) 

Further 20 th century productions which allude to the Faust theme include the 1958 play Damn 

Yankees, John Grisham‟s 1992 bestseller The Firm, and the Hollywood films The Devil‟s 

Advocate (1997) and Bedazzled (a 2000 remake of the 1967 original). 

In undertaking his own version of the Faustus legend, Thomas Mann‟s intention was to produce 

a novel about a culture and an epoch, a Seelengemälde. (Mann, Th. 1949: 41, 45) His 

mechanism was “[das] Aufmontieren von faktischen, historischen, persönlichen, ja literarischen 

36 Following the publication in Frankfurt of the anonymously written Faustbuch in 1587, the tale then found its way 

to England, where it was adapted for the stage by Christopher Marlowe between 1588 and 1593. (Beddow 1994: 

11f) The 17 th and 18 th centuries saw the corrupted puppet-play versions of Marlowe‟s theatre piece return to 

Germany, and it was from this form that Goethe was first inspired to write his magnificent two-part play Faust. 

(Beddow 1994: 18) 

42

Gegebenheiten” (Mann, Th. 1949: 33). This montage technique has come to be particularly 

associated with Mann; in fact he himself indicates his reliance on it for incorporating details 

about Nietzsche‟s life into that of his Faustian protagonist Leverkühn. (Mann, Th. 1949: 33f.) 

Montage, a form of literary collage, is a manifestation of what theorists call “relativistic 

intertextuality” which, although more prominent in postmodernism, is indeed found in certain 

aspects of modernism and most valued for the way its structure facilitates unlimited thematic, 

symbolic, and conceptual combinations. (Plett 1991: 19) 

We thus see in Doktor Faustus a varied intertextual network, ranging from references to factual 

and historical, literary and personal events, all of which combine to weave a rich tapestry of 

personalities, incidents, emotions, ideas and opinions. Nearly every chapter contains one or 

often several instances of intertextuality, all of which contribute to making it a work of 

magnificent scope and depth to which no thesis or single book can do proper justice. Mephisto, 

on the other hand, is intertextually interesting in terms of Klaus Mann‟s thematic and character 

allusions – references to the writings of Baudelaire, Sade and von Sacher-Masoch, and the 

persons of Gustaf Gründgens and various Nazi officials respectively. 

Doktor Faustus 

As discussed in Chapter 2, the „national psyche‟ Thomas Mann sought to portray in Doktor 

Faustus was deeply rooted in cultural expression and intellectual exploration and it is therefore 

understandable that Mann would rely on the lives, writings and innovations of fellow-Germans 

to account for the condition of his people. Those whose names he mentions in his Entstehung as 

having provided inspiration include Friedrich Nietzsche, Hugo Wolf, J.W. von Goethe, Theodor 

Adorno, Robert Schumann, Richard Strauss, Arnold Schönberg and Richard Wagner. 

Furthermore, there are references to his own writings, particularly his 1918 collection of essays 

Die Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, which Frances Lee finds to be the “primary substance 

of” and an “invaluable backdrop to” Doktor Faustus. (Lee 2007: 2) 

From all this, we can extract different intertextual areas to explore – biographical, philosophical, 

literary and musical. 

Doktor Faustus: Biographical intertextuality 

Mann‟s “much-vaunted montage technique” (Cobley 2002: 47), as the tool for his seamless 

literary tapestry, successfully weaves details about the life of Friedrich Nietzsche into that of 

43

Adrian Leverkühn. More obvious parallels include the almost verbatim account of the encounter 

in brothels where both Nietzsche and Leverkühn contract syphilis from a prostitute; the period of 

24 years stipulated in Leverkühn‟s diabolical pact which corresponds quite accurately to the 

number years it takes for syphilis to reach the tertiary phase (characterised by serious damage to 

internal organs, not the least of which is the brain) where dementia can set in (Hutto: online); and 

descriptions of syphilitic symptoms. Similar, too, are the periods of frenzied, disease-induced 

inspiration and productivity, descriptions of the physical and mental demise of a once-great 

mind, and minor details about dietary requirements, taken from Nietzsche‟s letters. (Mann, Th. 

1949: 34) 

Worth mention here is the link between eros and thanatos, which Heilbut explores in his 1996 

book Eros and Literature. These two terms can be broadly defined, respectively, as sexual love 

(or the instinct for self-perpetuation) and the death instinct. In many of Mann‟s novels these two 

instincts are linked in such a way that sexual desire or expression often results in death – 

ironically, that which seeks to propagate life in fact brings about its end. Schopenhauer, who 

saw the denial of the universal will to live as a compassionate solution to the misery and pain of 

life (Luke 1998: xi), would perhaps hold that sexual desire, as a manifestation of the universal 

life force, inevitably leads to death. Nietzsche, on the other hand, by universally affirming this 

will to live and calling for an all-encompassing acceptance of life in all its glory and misery, 

would hold that it is the denial (as opposed to the suppression) of eros that leads to death (Luke 

1998: xiif.) Schopenhauerian figures such as Adrian Leverkühn are therefore “required” to be 

celibate, in fact almost asexual, to live up to the demands of the artistic calling. Mann alludes to 

this by having the devil forbid Leverkühn, as part of their pact, any love “insofern sie wärmt” in 

his life. (Mann, Th. 1948: 385) At the same time, however, the artist needs that initial 

“injection” of Life in order to start the creative process within himself. The creative life of 

Adrian Leverkühn, while not stagnant before his infection with syphilis, certainly becomes 

sharply focussed, more productive – in fact, all-consuming – once the disease enters his system. 

Thomas Mann (1949: 85) mentions “das Auseinanderfallen von Sexus und Eros, und die 

geheime Dämonie des Ganzen”, and also cites “de[n] Durst eines stolzen und von Sterilität 

bedrohten Geistes nach Enthemmung um jeden Preis” (Mann, Th. 1949: 31, my emphasis). 

Leverkühn is well aware of this, as is shown in the fact that he intentionally seeks out the 

infected prostitute, which Mann (1948: 384) has the devil refer to when describing how 

Leverkühn ran into the arms of “meiner Kleinen, der Esmeralda” and how he came by “die 

44

Illumination, das Aphrodisiacum des Hirns, nachdem es [ihn] mit Leib und Seel und Geist so gar 

verzweifelt verlangte” This, of course, recalls Nietzsche‟s own “conscious attempt to contract 

venereal disease as a kind of intellectual aphrodisiac” (Fetzer 1996: page unknown, my 

emphasis). 

Mann, from his readings of the letters of Hugo Wolf, found further inspiration for his musical 

genius. (Mann, Th. 1949: 21, 28) Wolf (1860-1903), an Austrian musician and composer, was 

known especially for his intensely expressive Lieder. He experienced several bursts of 

extraordinary productivity, which, not entirely unexpectedly, are generally attributed to his 

having become infected with syphilis. 

Ludwig von Beethoven, another truly gifted and prolific composer and one who features 

prominently in Doktor Faustus, was also rumoured to have suffered from syphilis. (Vaget 2006: 

366) While this may be somewhat sensationalist, I find it interesting and quite relevant to my 

research, since Mann relies so heavily on the legacy and legend of Beethoven and also makes 

such clear connections between Leverkühn and other artists suffering from syphilis. 

Although intertextually more present in the ideas and theories of music and culture Mann 

conveys through the character of Wendell Kretzschmar, Leverkühn‟s music teacher, we find 

references to the person of Theodor Adorno, most notably to his teaching style: “the permanent 

accompaniment and interruption of the prelude through explanatory comments, captures 

„Adorno‟s idiosyncrasy‟.” (Jendreieck in Cobley 2002: 48) 

Thomas Mann‟s beloved grandson Fridolin, or Frido, as he was affectionately known, served as 

the model for the character of Nepomuk, nicknamed Echo. (De Mendelssohn 1977: 115) This 

young nephew of Leverkühn comes to stay with him for a few months, bringing light and joy to 

the lives of all he encounters, but contracts meningitis and suffers an intensely painful death – 

punishment to Leverkühn, perhaps, for not having heeded the conditions of his pact: love, 

“insofern sie wärmt” (Mann, Th. 1948: 385) is forbidden him. 

Doktor Faustus: Philosophical intertextuality 

Unmistakably recognisable as influenced by Nietzsche are the parallels in opinions expressed by 

some of the characters, as well as the narrative approaches and themes of the novel. Beddow 

(1994: 8) refers to the theme of “disablement through excessive consciousness” which forms an 

45

integral part of the psychology of most of Mann‟s characters. He goes on to describe the 

obsession of modern intellectuals with the acquisition of knowledge and how this “excessive 

awareness” undermined vitality and suppressed spontaneity through the focus on absolute 

strength of will. (Beddow 1994: 8) In the chasm that came to exist between thinking and action, 

a dangerous intellectual pride and tendency to rationalise could easily take root, whereby one 

could effectively absorb into and process within the intellect any situation that would otherwise 

require definite action, echoing Rey‟s account of “the German sin: apostasy through arrogance 

and pride” (Rey 1950: 24). Cobley (2002: 44, 51) goes as far as to causally connect 

“modernity‟s privileging of reason” and the “specifically German characteristic […] of a 

tendency toward theoretical abstraction” so typical of liberal-humanism with fascism and the 

Holocaust. 

Beddow suggests that in Doktor Faustus we see the culmination of parody and perspectivism, in 

that Mann presents to the reader a multitude of characters – their perceptions, experiences, 

opinions – none of whose individual viewpoints are validated. (Beddow 1994: 9) This 

technique of perspectivist parody is the literary correlative of Nietzsche‟s notion that because 

there are no eternal facts, the historical thinker must recognize that he can possess no superior 

knowledge and therefore relativise all viewpoints and opinions, “consciously „citing‟ them as 

phenomena with a cultural history and so foregrounding their appeal to our interest rather than 

their claims to validity”. (Beddow 1994: 8f.) Further Nietzschean ideas include the general 

intellectual irony towards art, or, stated differently, the tendency to parody, displayed by 

Leverkühn in his work, and which Zeitblom describes as a “stolze Auskunft vor der Sterilität, 

mit welcher Skepsis und geistige Schamhaftigkeit, der Sinn für die tötliche Ausdehnung des 

Bereichs des Banalen eine große Begabung bedrohten” (Mann, Th. 1948: 235). Rey (1950: 21) 

suggests that this threat of sterility resides in “healthy mediocrity”, which only a “higher 

embodiment of the humanist ideal” could escape to pursue a “new level of artistic experience 

and expression”. This „higher embodiment‟ might be what Nietzsche had in mind with his 

conception of the Übermensch. 

Since Zeitblom refers repeatedly to Leverkühn as a genius, it is useful here to explore 

Nietzsche‟s account of the (aesthetic) genius, whom he sees as existing in a state of 

“physiologischer Widerspruch”. (Nietzsche 1980: 210) With a lexicon including words like 

“wild[ ]”, “unordentlich[ ]”, “unwillkürliche Bewegung”, “unglücklich”, “etwas Phantastisches 

und Unvernünftiges” (Nietzsche 1980: 210), Zeitblom‟s musings on the subject make a clear 

46

philosophical connection, including phrases like “das Demonische und Widervernünftige”, “eine 

leises Grauen erweckende Verbindung [mit] dem unteren Reich”, “verderbliches [Genie]”, “de[r] 

sünd-und krankhaften Brand natürlicher Gaben” (Mann, Th. 1948: 11). Mann has Zeitblom 

describe a dispute between Inez Rodde and her soon-to-be fiancé Helmut Institoris 37 on this 

topic, citing the “immer prekäre[s] Gleichgewicht von Vitalität und Infirmität, das offenbar das 

Genie ausmacht” (Mann, Th. 1948: 445). Kemal (1998: 270) also attributes to Nietzsche the 

description of a genius as being no different to the rest of us in terms of possessing a unique gift 

or talent not available to others, but rather by virtue of his single-minded and determined use of 

the talent. Nietzsche would also require of the genius that for his work to be aesthetically 

valuable, it would have to be accessible enough for its audience to actively engage with it. 

(Kemal 1998: 270) Both these ideas feature prominently in Doktor Faustus, with descriptions of 

Leverkühn‟s absolute dedication to his art and disciplined work ethic, although Zeitblom insists 

that Leverkühn was different from the start, not like anyone else he knew – a man set apart by his 

innate coldness, his “Mangel an „Seele‟, […] sein „Unmenschtum‟ und „verzweifelt Herz‟” and 

tendency towards isolation. (Mann, Th. 1949: 81) The question of the accessibility of his art is 

an important one – there are references to the audience‟s (specifically Zeitblom‟s) reproachful 

reception of Leverkühn‟s unfamiliar and sinister music. (Mann, Th. 1948: 570) These negative 

reactions mirror comments passed after hearing a performance of Schönberg, Webern or Berg‟s 

music – words like “hideous”, “joyless, gloomy‟, “tragicomic spectacle”, “as disquieting an 

experience as meeting a respected family found in a state of half-maudlin, half-truculent 

intoxication”, and many others which describe the sense of general “emotional disturbance” 

aroused by this music. (Butler 1994: 77) There is even an account of a doctor giving his 

judgement that “such music was damaging to listeners‟ nervous systems, and could lead to 

„severe depression‟” (Butler 1994: 77). An exception to this is what Zeitblom describes as the 

“spürsinnige[ ] Aufgeschlossenheit jüdischer Kreise für das Schaffen Leverkühns” (Mann, Th. 

1948: 15). Was this because the Jews, as a people, had insight into what this music represented? 

Daniel Barenboim, world-renowned pianist and conductor, in a recent interview, refers to his 

belief that “Juden hatten immer eine Hochachtung vor der geistigen Kreativität des Menschen” 

and that “die Musik etwas Besonderes war für das europäische Judentum”. (Der Spiegel 

34/2008, p. 141) Following the allegory of music representing the Nazi regime, one could say 

that Mann might have been suggesting that the Jews, unlike other audiences who could not move 

37 The name of this character is so similar to that of Heinrich Institoris, one of the (in)famous German inquisitors 

and witch-hunters of the Middle Ages, that I immediately set off in search of biographical connections. I am, 

however, not convinced of the plausibility of any such. 

47

eyond their aesthetic repulsion, were the only ones to see Leverkühn‟s music for what it was – 

an intentional break with beauty and goodness, replaced with a calculated act of barbarism. 

Leverkühn‟s style of music, a style which only really fully developed in Germany around 1950 

(Pepper 1997: 34f.), some years after Mann‟s publication of his novel, is characteristic of the 

musical avant-garde. Serial music was characterised by the premise that the real importance in 

new music lay in the analytical thought that went into composing it, the “integrity with which it 

expresses the composer‟s personal vision”, rather than in the experience of hearing it. (Butler 

1994: 72) The fact that musical value now lay in a work‟s innovation and representation of a 

trend or development calls into question the application of Nietzsche‟s criteria for aesthetic value 

on the basis of a work‟s accessibility to its audience. 

Of further relevance is the idea that the “undermined vitality” discussed earlier could explain the 

need for the artist to resort to desperate measures to overcome his sterility – an idea explored by 

Nietzsche in his analysis of culture. (Beddow 1994: 10) The fact that Mann‟s Faustian artist 

draws his inspiration from a scandalous and shameful disease makes a direct break with 

Romanticism, which sought to portray artistic inspiration in a “quasi-divine” (Beddow 1994: 10) 

light. This rebellion against Romanticism is also distinctly reminiscent of Nietzsche, who 

reportedly took great delight in “uncovering degraded and degrading origins for things generally 

treated with piety” – a tendency he referred to as his “evil eye”. (Beddow 1994: 10) 

Paradoxically, it was precisely the Romantic Movement that placed great emphasis on the role of 

illness and disease, “hallucinatory madness” being “a defining subject of Romantic Literature” 

(Baines 1998: 798). Quotes such as “Das Klassische nenne ich das Gesunde, und das 

Romantische das Kranke” (Goethe in Bartels 1905: 418), and “Romanticism bears in its heart the 

germ of morbidity, as the rose bears the worm; its innermost character is seduction, seduction to 

death” (Th. Mann in Meyers 1983: 54), allude to the Romantic fascination with “the conditions 

that are profoundly related and interlaced with morbid phenomena” and which make it 

“impossible to be an artist and not be sick” (Th. Mann in Meyers 1983: 55). 

This connection between disease and genius, first explored in the writings of Max Nordau during 

the “worm-eaten” (Soder 1991: 477, 480) fin de siècle period, has surfaced not only in Thomas 

Mann‟s oeuvre, but also in the broader 20 th century modernist canon. Virginia Woolf‟s 1930 

essay “On Being Ill”, specifically refers to “the tremendous spiritual change” and “the 

undiscovered countries that are then disclosed” when “the lights of health go down”. (Woolf 

48

1967: 193) A book published in 1940 entitled Tuberculosis and Genius explores the lives of 

many literary geniuses whose most prolific years were those in which they were suffering from 

tuberculosis. The brief discussion of Robert Louis Stevenson draws attention to the ambiguity of 

the diseased genius – to what extent is the necessary social isolation and physical inactivity 

responsible for the “expansion of [the literary genius‟s] extraordinary intellectual capacity” and 

to what extent is it due to “the toxins of the tubercle bacillus [which] serve as a real mental 

stimulation” (Spellman 1941: 377)? The protagonist of Der Tod in Venedig, Gustav von 

Aschenbach, succumbs to the cholera epidemic while in Venice and this raises the question of to 

what extent his brief creative spell is due to the inspiration of his muse (and therefore 

psychological) or to the temporary feverish delirium that is part of the debilitating course of the 

illness (and therefore physiological). Here, there was still room for ambiguity as to the role of 

disease in the artistic genius‟s life; by the time Mann wrote Doktor Faustus 35 years later, 

ambiguity and irony no longer served their purpose. 

As already discussed in chapters one and two, Hegel‟s philosophical influence in this novel is 

most evident in Mann‟s application of the dialectical interplay of opposites, in particular, 

Adorno‟s view that opposites are mutually constitutive. A manifestation of this includes the 

inherent contradictions in the Doppelnatur of the German identity, of which Vaget portrays 

Leverkühn as the embodiment, describing him as both “Repräsentant” and “Antipode”. (Vaget 

2001: 22) 

Briefly examining some of Mann‟s Künstler figures will further illustrate the difficulties 

presented by this Zwiespalt. In Der kleine Herr Friedemann, we see Johannes Friedemann, a 

self-styled epicurean who, after an adolescent romantic disappointment, embraces voluntary 

asceticism and succeeds for a while, but ultimately fails when faced with Life (the universal life- 

drive, an integral part of which is sexuality) in the form of a young woman. Already mentioned 

is Gustav von Aschenbach from Der Tod in Venedig, celebrated author and the very model of 

everything that was respectable and admired in traditional, cultural and intellectual German 

society. While on a trip to Venice, embarked upon to recover from an illness and overcome a 

spell of lack of creativity, he becomes infatuated and eventually obsessed with a young boy, 

Tadzio. He experiences a brief period of creative release, soon after which his mental state 

seems to completely deteriorate. The fact that he produces some of his best work with Tadzio as 

his (somewhat unsuspecting) muse illustrates the Nietzschean theme of Life as being necessary 

for artistic inspiration. By having Aschenbach‟s death ultimately caused, on a surface level, by 

49

an outside force, namely cholera, Mann calls to mind the idea that if passions are not controlled, 

fate will, if necessary, impose death in order to subjugate the will. 

There is further mention of Nietzschean ideas: “Der fast unschlichtbare Konflikt zwischen der 

Hemmung und dem produktiven Antriebe mitgeborenen Genies, zwischen Keuschheit und 

Leidenschaft” (Mann, Th. 1948: 235f.) – direct correspondence to Nietzsche‟s idea of the 

Apollonian and Dionysian drives and further illustration of the minefield of contradictions at 

play here. 

Next to Nietzsche, perhaps the most important philosophical intertextual thread to explore is that 

which leads to Theodor Adorno. His writing is notoriously difficult to engage with – in fact, 

renowned musicologist Rose Subotnik went as far as to call it “impossibly contorted” (Subotnik 

in Steinberg 1992: 17). 

Regarded by Mann as a “Helfer, Ratgeber, […] Instruktor” (Mann, Th. 1949: 41), many critics 

would go on to describe Adorno as more of a “collaborator” (Cobley 2002: 44), indeed, even co- 

author (Vaget 2001: 24). Adorno‟s thoughts on the situation and future of music, as set out in his 

1949 Philosophie der neuen Musik, are most evident in the Beethoven-lectures delivered by 

Kretzschmar. Hansjörg Dörr claims that Mann‟s novel bears a very close structural and thematic 

resemblance to Adorno‟s essay on Beethoven‟s late style and that Mann did not give full credit 

where due. (Dörr in Cobley 2002: 45) One idea on which Mann and Adorno did disagree, 

however, was that of the composer‟s role in modern music – Mann chose to emphasise the all- 

important subjectivity so characteristic of Expressionism, while Adorno cited the “historical 

development of music” as the reason for the diminishing possibility for the composer to allow 

his subjective ideas or decisions to form his work. (Kraus 2008: 170) 

The heart of Adorno‟s contribution to Doktor Faustus lies in Mann‟s implementation of what is 

now commonly referred to as Adorno‟s negative dialectic. In its simplest form, this is a process 

whereby subject and object are dialectically involved in a process of development but not 

necessarily progress. (Cobley 2002: 53) By virtue of the contradictory nature of opposites, all 

purported syntheses must be viewed with suspicion, particularly since, on a socio-political level, 

synthesis would usually entail the subject being effortlessly absorbed into the object. (Cobley 

2002: 53) Since, to Adorno‟s Marxist mind, these totalities could be either fascist or capitalist 

50

(Cobley 2002: 53), this theoretical account of what happens to the individual in a totalitarian 

regime bears obvious significance in the case of National Socialism. 

Due to the historical contemporaneity of Beethoven (1770-1827) and Hegel (1770-1831), 

Adorno regarded tonal music and German philosophical idealism, respectively, as reflections of 

a social modernity in crisis; he in fact came to see Beethoven, in his struggle in the later period to 

preserve the dynamic tension between musical subject and object, as a musical Hegel. (Cobley 

2002: 56) Adorno's analysis of the final piano sonata, Op. 111, entire passages of which are 

borrowed by Mann and appear in Doktor Faustus, where Mann went so far as to name the arietta 

theme in Op. 111 after Adorno‟s middle name “Wiesengrund”, can be said to review the state of 

liberal humanism at the time of writing the novel. Thus, the crisis in music portrayed in Doktor 

Faustus, when explored via Adorno's negative dialectic, is a powerful allegory for the crisis in 

the “bourgeois-capitalist social order” (Cobley 2002: 57) from which fascism arose. Otherwise 

stated, the history of German music could thus be interpreted as a paradigm for the political 

history of Germany. (Vaget 2006: 380) 

The influence of the Danish Christian thinker and philosopher Søren Kierkegaard is, according to 

Koopmann (1990: 492), evident in Mann‟s decision to make his Faustian artist figure a musician 

(as opposed to an author or any other kind of artist). Koopmann bases this connection on the fact 

that one of the principle themes of the novel – that of “Die Musik als dämonische Sphäre” 

(Mann, Th. 1949: 94) – facilitates the metaphor of music as the “psychisches Äquivalent des 

Deutschen”. (Koopmann 1990: 492) It is telling that Leverkühn is busy reading Kierkegaard 

(on Mozart‟s Don Juan) when the devil appears to him. (Mann, Th. 1948: 346) Anderson 

(2007: 227) points out Kierkegaard‟s belief in divine intervention in the pairing of author and 

subject, citing Mozart and Don Giovanni as an example; here, however, the author-subject pair 

(Leverkühn and Love‟s Labour‟s Lost) is demonically inspired. Kierkegaard is further connected 

with Leverkühn in his understanding of the Faustian figure as being subjectively orientated, 

withdrawn, suffering a torment whose “origin is essentially inward and whose resolution must be 

[…] essentially inward” (Williams 1953: 255f.). These are characteristics easily identifiable 

with Leverkühn, as Zeitblom describes him at the beginning of the novel: 

Wem hätte er sein Herz eröffnet, wen jemals in sein Leben eingelassen? Das gab es bei Adrian 

nicht. [...] Seine Gleichgültigkeit war so groß, daß er kaum jemals gewahr wurde [...] in welcher 

Gesellschaft er sich befand [... .] Um ihn war Kälte [.] (Mann, Th. 1948: 13f.; original emphasis). 

51

Doktor Faustus: Literary intertextuality 

As already mentioned, the most immediate intertextual source for Thomas Mann‟s Faustus novel 

is the legend of the Faust figure, a legend which had, by the time Mann started writing his 

version, been in circulation for almost four centuries. The many common elements, particularly 

as shared by the Goethe‟s two-part play and Mann‟s novel, are initially quite evident. Both 

introduce a protagonist who has an insatiable desire for new knowledge and is willing to pay the 

greatest price to secure this. One of the main themes in Goethe‟s Faust (part two) is a dialectic 

engagement between “polare[ ] Lebens- und Kunsttendenzen” – here presented in the union of 

Helen of Troy and Faust, which produces a son, symbolising a synthesis of antiquity (the 

Classical) and the Romantic. (Cardinal 1949: 452) Both Mann and Goethe address the area of 

aesthetics – Mann‟s entire novel is a discourse on the condition and fate of aesthetics in general 

and music in particular, while Goethe, in part two, through this synthesis of Classical and the 

Romantic, can be said to have Faust‟s hunger for knowledge cross over into the realm of 

aesthetics. The role of music, while most obviously striking in Mann‟s Faustian drama, is also 

pertinent to Goethe‟s drama, with musical indications appearing countless times in his director‟s 

comments. A further shared theme is that both Faust figures are, whether directly or indirectly, 

guilty of “[…] prämeditierte[n], vom Teufel verlangte[n] Mord” (Mann, Th. 1949: 36) – in the 

case of Faust: Gretchen‟s mother and brother, Gretchen herself and their infant, to mention but 

four; in the case of Leverkühn: Rudi Schwerdtfeger and perhaps Echo, for whose death 

Leverkühn feels responsible (Mann, Th. 1948: 724). A further link between Goethe‟s and 

Mann‟s accounts is the club- or dragging foot, a physical characteristic attributed to the devil – in 

Goethe it is Mephistopheles and in Mann it is the figure of Schleppfuss, lecturer in conceptions 

of evil at Halle. (Anderson 2007: 157) There is also a Biblical allusion to Esau, who, like the 

Faustian figure, sold his most precious possession – in his case his birthright – for temporal 

fulfilment in the form of food. Most interesting is Oswald Spengler‟s 1918 promotion of “diesen 

„deutschen‟ Faust zum Repräsentanten der gesamten abendländischen Kultur”, specifically 

referring to Faust‟s ultimately redeeming characteristic – that of his constant and restless 

striving, and the subsequent ideological appropriation by National Socialist forces of this new 

Faustian conception (Stern 1965: 524). Klaus Mann refers to this appropriation in Mephisto, 

although rather ironically, since it is in reference to the role of Mephistopheles and not Faust that 

the director of the Prussian State Theatre, Herr von Muck, tells protagonist Hendrik Höfgen that 

he is glad to see him in this “ewigen, tief deutschen Rolle” (Mann, K. 2006: 251). Furthermore, 

there is mention of it being Mephistopheles who resides in the heart of every true German: 

“Wenn wir nichts hätten als die faustische Seele – wo kämen wir denn da hin? […] Nein nein – 

52

der Mephisto, das ist auch ein deutscher Nationalheld.” (Mann, K. 2006: 276) This echoes once 

again the “das Gute” and “das Böse” described by Thomas Mann (1949: 108) as residing in the 

“Doppelnatur des deutschen Charakters” (Röcke 2001: 21f.). 

Doktor Faustus: Musical intertextuality 

Following Vaget‟s conclusion that “der Geist, in dem Leverkühn‟s Werk konzipiert ist, 

antizipiert den Geist des faschistischen Deutschland” (Vaget 2001: 19), I now turn to music to 

trace and explore the Geist to which he refers for intertextual connections. 

Vaget (2001: 19) names Richard Wagner as the paradigm for the way “[d]as Weltmachtstreben 

Deutschlands” was “vorgebildet im Weltmachtstreben der deutschen Musik”. Thomas Mann‟s 

own passion for Wagner‟s music is well-known and, according to Vaget (2006: 146), even came 

to be seen as “eine Belastung, […] ein Handikap für seine Reputation als genuiener Vertreter der 

literarischen Moderne”. Mann never renounced his „Wagner-Nietzsche-Schopenhauer trinity‟, a 

constellation clearly recognisable in Der kleine Herr Friedemann, specifically the inclusion of 

Mann‟s favourite Wagner opera Lohengrin 38 as catalyst for Friedemann‟s descent into Dionysian 

downfall. 

The work of Beethoven, in particular his final piano sonata, Op. 111, features prominently in this 

novel. As already mentioned, using Kretzschmar‟s lectures in Chapter 8 of the novel on the life 

and music of Beethoven as a foil to Adorno‟s thoughts and writings, Mann presents a systematic 

apology for the development (or demise, depending on one‟s outlook) of music from the tonality 

of Romanticism into the atonality of Schönberg – otherwise stated, the move from what was 

considered highly cultured to the primitive or barbaric. With regard to music, the term 

“barbarism” is most commonly used when referring to techniques that bring about “hypnotic 

patterns of rhythm”, “percussive dissonance”, “the use of unresolved appoggiaturas, which […] 

give it an edge of hysteria” (Butler 1994: 131). This recalls Leverkühn‟s horrific work 

Apocalypsis con Figuris, as described by Zeitblom in part three of Chapter 34, in terms such as 

“eine anti-kulturelle, ja anti-humane Dämonie”, “etwas Beklemmendes, Gefährliches, 

Bösartiges”, “unheimlich”, “[m]arkerschütternd[ ]” (Mann, Th. 1948: 571f.). 

38 Vaget (2006: 150) quotes Mann on Lohengrin: “[ihn] lernte ich am ehesten kennen, habe ihn unzählige Male 

gehört und weiß ihn nach Wort und Musik noch heute fast auswendig”. 

53

Two contemporaries of Mann, the composers Richard Strauss and Hans Pfitzner, feature 

prominently in Doktor Faustus, the former actually being named in the novel, and the latter 

alluded to. (Vaget 2006: 223) The connection with Strauss, who was appointed head of the 

Reichsmusikkammer by Goebbels in 1933 (without being consulted!) and accepted, deciding to 

remain distinctly apolitical, is important mainly because of his opera Salome, which premiered in 

1905 in Dresden. Mann refers to this when he has Leverkühn attend this opening night with 

Kretzschmar and then attend the Austrian premier in Graz six months later, making Salome the 

only contemporary work to have made such a lasting impression on Leverkühn that he would 

make the effort to see it twice. (Vaget 2006: 224) A further interesting and somewhat sinister 

historical detail is the fact that the youthful Hitler attended the Graz premier too – a rather direct 

link on the part of Mann between Leverkühn, Strauss and Hitler. (Vaget 2006: 226) The myth 

of Salome as source of syphilis on earth, as presented in the fin de siècle play by Panizza entitled 

“The Council of Love” (Gilman 1993: 199), bears greater significance when one reads that it is 

in pursuit of his Esmeralda, the Spanish prostitute he first encountered in Leipzig, that 

Leverkühn travels to Graz. (Mann, Th. 1948: 238) Mann further has his experience of Salome 

serve to characterise and musically/historically situate Leverkühn as a “post-Straussian” – a term 

which signifies a definite break with late Romanticism. (Vaget 2006: 224f.) 

Hans Pfitzner‟s subtler role mainly hinges on the connections between his opera Palestrina, 

loosely based on the composer, and the Italian town Palestrina, named for the composer, where 

Leverkühn‟s encounter and pact with the devil takes place. Pfitzner‟s earlier works bear clear 

stylistic and tonal evidence of the Romantic Wagnerian legacy, but he broke away from this with 

Palestrina, an opera about the problem of inspiration. It must be understood that although the 

opera was biographically based, this problem of inspiration was also significant on a meta-level 

and had largely to do with living in a “zum Epigonentum verurteilten Periode der 

Musikgeschichte” (Vaget 2006: 231). Vaget here refers to the experiences of composers post- 

Wagner, who, not unlike authors and poets living immediately post-Goethe, keenly felt that they 

were living in a time where the (musical) high point had been passed and that there was nothing 

left to write. This all echoes the problem facing music of what new composition techniques and 

subject matter lay in store once the post-Romantic orchestral possibilities had been exhausted, as 

implied in Chapter 18 of the novel. A further reference to Pfitzner is found in Chapter 34 (part 

3), where Zeitblom describes the narrator in the first performance in 1926 of Leverkühn‟s 

Apocalypse oratorio as a “Tenorist[ ] eunuchalen Typs namens Erbe” (Mann, Th. 1948: 576). 

54

There is little doubt that the model for this tenor was Karl Erb, who played the title role in 

Pfitzner‟s 1917 premier of Palestrina. 

Chapter 19 describes Leverkühn‟s inclusion of a musical cryptogram alluding to his Esmeralda 

in the Brentano Lied cycle, with the note pattern H-E-A-E-Es appearing in variations throughout 

the cycle. Hetaera Esmeralda, a poisonous butterfly first described in the novel by Leverkühn‟s 

father (Chapter 3), notable for its survival mechanism – mimicry – becomes Leverkühn‟s 

nickname for the Spanish prostitute. In musical terms, mimicry could manifest as variation or 

repetition of form, “vielfache[ ] harmonische[ ] und rhythmische[ ] Einkleidungen” (Mann, Th. 

1948: 240) – one of the basic premises of atonal music. Robert Schumann is cited by Vaget 

(2006: 39) as the model for this in, for example, the recurrent A-S-C-H pattern in his Carnaval 

Op. 9 (Sams 1966: 400). Furthermore, he is said to have admitted that “some extra-musical 

stimulus was nearly always necessary to start his musical imagination working at all”, these 

stimuli being verbal (Sams 1966: 392f.), although there is also some allusion to the fact that 

Schumann may or may not himself have suffered from syphilis. (Vaget 2006: 366) 

The final composer I want to discuss is Arnold Schönberg. His system of 12-tone music, also 

known as atonal music, and which I will very briefly discuss below, is the new composition form 

Mann has Leverkühn develop. Schönberg‟s earliest works show his “mastery of the romantic 

musical idiom” (Bokina 1988: 183) but he found that neither the classical nor romantic paradigm 

could address “the problem of the appropriate relationship between aesthetic means and ends in a 

thoroughly contemporary manner” (Bokina 1988: 183) and he thus went on to explore and 

develop a new type of music. The basic rule it follows is that in a row of 12 notes (the chromatic 

scale); no note may be repeated before each other note has been played. Rufer (1961: 84) 

explains the 6 premises of the system: 

1. A 12-note series consists of all twelve notes of the chromatic scale, arranged in a specific 

order. 

2. No note within the series is repeated. 

3. There are four forms in which each series can be used: the prime (or original) form, 

retrograde (the prime in reverse order), inversion (prime in melodic inversion) and 

retrograde inversion (inversion in reverse order). 

4. The whole series or parts of it can be stated horizontally (i.e. in the melody line) or 

vertically (i.e. in the harmonic line). 

5. Each of the four forms can be transposed to begin on any note of the chromatic scale. 

55

6. Conventional practice is to use only one series in a work. 

Schönberg viewed the characteristic dissonance of his music, a music that is formulated entirely 

by strict laws and mathematically calculated combinations and variations, as an “emancipation 

from traditional tonal constraints” (Butler 1994: 49). However, despite claims of atonal music 

being an entirely emancipated form of composition, it is in fact constrained by composition laws; 

the difference is that these laws are not those of traditional tonal harmony. Similar to pre-serial 

music, the harmonic progression of which is determined and controlled by tonal laws and can 

usually be „predicted‟ by the accustomed or educated ear, serial music is constrained by 

mathematical laws, and its serial (as opposed to harmonic) progression can be determined via a 

process of elimination of all the possible patterns. This tension between harmonic freedom 

within a highly organised form once again introduces the dialectical framework discussed earlier. 

Recognising this dialectic in music – a tension which Beethoven resolved in his use of (free) 

thematic variation within the (fixed) sonata form (Lee 2007: 91) – enables one to recognise how 

Mann conceived of music as allegory for his country‟s socio-political circumstances, showing 

that reason, together with humanist man‟s cosmic centrality and independence had been 

dethroned by “the elementary forces of barbarism”. (Rey 1950: 22f.) 

Adorno‟s central role in the writing of the novel is once again reaffirmed by the fact that 

Leverkühn‟s description in Chapter 22 of his 12-tone system of musical composition is directly 

borrowed from Adorno‟s Philosophie der neuen Musik – more specifically, his chapter on 

Schönberg. Adorno particularly appreciated Schönberg‟s theoretical framework for his new 

music, as is evident in his comment that Schönberg was the ideal of “the artist working 

autonomously from the structures of capitalist society, the only way in which it is possible to 

maintain the critical, enlightening power of music.” (Washburne & Derno 2004: 164) What is 

most striking about this new music, as it is explained by Leverkühn, is how its total reliance on 

structure, organisation, form, regularity, provides the necessary (and only) solution to the threat 

of stagnation resulting from the reliance on freedom, individualism, subjectivity of (late) 

Romanticism. We once again hear echoes of the dialectic of subject(ivity)-object(ivity) raised 

earlier, now with the latter coming to the fore and usurping the former. 

There arose, however, a bizarre dispute initiated by Schönberg against Mann, on the dual 

grounds that Mann appropriated Schönberg‟s intellectual property without acknowledging its 

source, and that Schönberg‟s historical standing would be tarnished because of the association of 

56

himself with a (fictional) composer of evil music. (Vaget 2006: 385ff.) Mann‟s justification for 

having nowhere cited Schönberg as source? Schönberg‟s thoughts and his own “ad hoc-Version 

davon treten so weit auseinander, daß es, von der Stillosigkeit abgesehen, in meinen Augen fast 

etwas von Kränkung gehabt hätte, im Text seinen Namen zu nennen” (Mann, Th. 1949: 36). In 

1951, however, at Schönberg‟s insistence, Mann included in the third edition of Doktor Faustus 

a statement crediting him as original source of his adaptation of the 12-tone system. (Vaget 

2006: 385) 

The question arises as to why Mann chose this specific style of music to serve as the allegory for 

a Germany which had fled from a seemingly stable culture and identity into chaos and ruin. As 

Osterle (1969: 19) suggests, Leverkühn‟s “programmatic revocation” of Beethoven‟s Ninth 

Symphony in the oratorium Apocalipsis cum figuris, captures the theme of absolute rejection of 

the spirit of the past, in so far as the Ninth Symphony was said to express the hopes of humanity. 

Aside from Mann‟s own deep appreciation and understanding of music, such that it would seem 

natural for him to turn to music, the fact that 12-tone music, in virtue of its harmonic deviance – 

some may even say perversion – is able to arouse and articulate that visceral wartime despair and 

horror which evade all verbal expression, makes it a powerful means of formulating and 

conveying his message. 

Mephisto 

As we have seen from all the above on Thomas Mann‟s way of approaching and writing a novel, 

he was very much focussed on the inner workings of his characters, the inner life of the German 

soul. Klaus Mann, on the other hand, preferred to draw attention to more external aspects, with 

less reliance on inner monologue and first-person narrative. The novel Mephisto relies neither 

on philosophies of human nature or of art, nor on the rich heritage of German history for its 

depth. As a roman à clef 39 , it relies more on biographical intertextuality for its impact, 

conveying to the reader a subtler and perhaps more realistic variation on the Faust theme by 

incorporating details about real-life contemporaries of Klaus Mann. 

Mephisto: Biographical intertextuality 

Despite several claims by Klaus Mann to the contrary, Mann‟s fellow actor and one-time brother 

in law Gustaf Gründgens is commonly held to be the model for Mephisto‟s protagonist Hendrik 

39 Klaus Mann himself on more than one occasion vehemently denied that Mephisto was based on the life or work of 

any one person; however there are many who, in my opinion justifiably, choose to view it as a key novel. 

57

Höfgen. A description of Gründgens‟ interpretation of Jakob in Anja und Esther, as found in K. 

Mann‟s second autobiography Der Wendepunkt, is undeniably reminiscent of descriptions of 

Höfgen in his various roles: “[Er] war brilliant, witzig, blasiert, mondän. [… Er war] düster und 

dämonisch, […] müde und dekadent, […] von überströmender Lebendichkeit, [...] er war alles 

und nichts.” (Krüll 1994: 316) Von Maltzan (2001: 16) draws attention to a quote from the 

autobiography‟s English translation, Turning Point: “[…] I decided to portray Mephisto- 

Gründgens in a satirical novel. I thought it […] necessary to expose […] the abject type of the 

treacherous intellectual who prostitutes his talent for […] some tawdry fame and transitory 

wealth.” This figure‟s Faustian tendencies are further alluded to in Klaus Mann‟s explanation 

that his book was written “gegen den Karrieristen; […] der den Geist verkauft und verraten hat” 

(Naumann 2006: 87). Indeed, the full title of the novel, Mephisto. Roman einer Karriere, 

reinforces this. Von Maltzan (2001: 132) further highlights Höfgen as a type with the following 

quote from Wendepunkt: “Der Komödiant wird zum […] Symbol eines durchaus 

komödiantischen, zutiefst unwahren, unwirklichen Regimes.” The sense of suspended reality 

surrounding this regime as being mirrored in the bubble-like existence of Höfgen is further 

illustrated by the following quote from the novel: 

[I]mmer im Zustand höchster hysterischer Spannung genießt und erleidet der Schauspieler 

Höfgen ein Schicksal, das ihm außerordentlich scheint und das doch nichts ist als die vulgäre, 

schillernde Arabeske am Rande eines todgeweihten, dem Geist entfremdeten, der Katastrophe 

entgegentreibenden Betriebes. (Mann, K. 2006: 212) 

Despite these and other disclaimers, the Hanseatic Supreme Court in Hamburg passed a ban on 

the novel in 1966 throughout the entire Federal Republic of Germany, on the basis of its 

defamation of Gründgens. (Naumann 2006: 164) An attempt to overturn the ban in 1968 was 

denied, despite the fact that Gründgens had then been dead for 5 years, and it was not until 1981 

that the Rowohlt publishing house succeeded in bringing out a new edition without legal 

consequences. (Naumann 2006: 164) 

Besides Gründgens, there are similar allusions to others from his close circle. It could be argued 

that his sister, Erika, in her brief marriage to Gründgens, is the prototype for Barbara Bruckner, 

who is married to Höfgen for a short time. Furthermore, K. Mann‟s own one-time fiancée, 

Pamela Wedekind, could be said to have inspired the character of Nicoletta von Niebuhr, in her 

brief marriage to a man more than double her age and one who had written a piece which she 

performed on stage – for Wedekind, this man was Carl Sternheim; for Nicoletta, Theophil 

Marder. 

58

There is a biographical reference, too, in the character of the Propagandaminister, referred to in 

the novel as “Klumpfuß” (Mann, K. 2006: 21) and “de[r] Hinkende[ ]” (Mann, K. 2006: 354), to 

Joseph Goebbels, Hitler‟s minister of propaganda, who was also known to have a club foot 

(Addington 1973: 479). 

Protagonist Höfgen is portrayed throughout the novel as opportunistically insinuating himself in 

the higher Nazi circles, going so far as to acquire a patron – the influential (and colossally 

overweight) Ministerpräsident, who is also described as the “Fliegergeneral” (Mann, K. 2006: 

18) and as having outlandishly garish taste in clothing (Mann, K. 2006: 23). Gründgens, too, 

was viewed as a career opportunist, particularly when he became protégé of the notorious 

Hermann Göring, commander of the Luftwaffe, who was extravagant in his clothing tastes and, 

being rather corpulent, was also called (behind his broad back, of course) „der Dicke‟. 

Gründgens‟ ambition and connections saw him reach the top – the position of “Intendant des 

Berliner Schauspielhauses”. (Krüll 1993: 391) Klaus Mann portrays Höfgen as similarly 

ambitious, not content until he acquires the title of Head of the Berlin State Theatre, while 

turning a blind eye to many around him who suffer and are killed for their anti-fascist 

sentiments. 

Mephisto: Literary intertextuality 

Apart from the title‟s allusion to Goethe‟s Faust, the inclusion by Klaus Mann of several 

passages from the play, in particular the fact that Höfgen‟s real success arises from his playing 

the role of Mephisto in Faust, reinforce the connection between his novel and Goethe‟s play. 

The obvious common theme of ambition and the desire for its satisfaction (be it of knowledge or 

in a career) is met by the shared theme of the “good angel” – the upright and virtuous woman 

who offers some form of redemption to the fallen man. In Faust‟s case, this is the young and 

pious Gretchen, through whose intercession his soul is finally redeemed; in Höfgen‟s case, this is 

his first wife Barbara, to whom he refers explicitly as “mein guter Engel”. (Mann, K. 2006: 105) 

Their marriage is, however, never consummated and ends in divorce. In addition to Goethe‟s 

Faust, Fitzsimmons (2001: 19) points out intertextual links with his Wilhelm Meister. By 

introducing the story of Hendrik Höfgen with a quote about integrity from Wilhelm Meister, 

Klaus Mann sets the tone for a novel about an actor‟s ambition and advancement and alludes to 

the fact that issues of loyalty and honour will arise: “Alle Fehler des Menschen verzeih‟ ich dem 

Schauspieler, keine Fehler des Schauspielers verzeih‟ ich dem Menschen.” (Mann, K. 2006: 6) 

59

Fitzsimmons (2001: 20ff.) further points out several structural parallels between Mephisto and 

Faust. Both commence with a prologue – Goethe‟s in heaven, Klaus Mann‟s in an allegorical 

hell, namely the Berlin Opera House on the occasion of the prime minister‟s birthday in 1936 – 

the glory days of Nazi supremacy. While Goethe‟s prologue chronologically precedes the story 

of Faust and provides the background to what is to follow, Mann‟s prologue situates Höfgen 

several years on in his success, in the peak of his triumphant Nazi years, after which the first 

chapter then goes back in time to chronicle his rise to power. These, and numerous other parallel 

transpositions (which Fitzsimmons refers to as “transmutations”) of Goethe‟s prologue, serve to 

create “a panoply of parodied hypotexts to levy a radical satire”. (Fitzsimmons 2001: 18) 

The sexual twist in the plot – Höfgen‟s affair with Juliette Martens, a dancer of mixed parentage 

(German father, black African mother) – alludes to theme of deviant sexuality as explored by the 

Austrian writer Leopold von Sacher-Masoch in his 1869 Venus im Pelz. Chapter 2 of K. Mann‟s 

novel, which introduces Juliette, is entitled Die Tanzstunde and describes the nature of their 

relationship – Höfgen comes to her for dance lessons, telling her “Ich hole bei dir meine Kraft” 

(Mann, K. 2006: 79). She is described by the narrator as the “Herrin” and he the “Schüler” 

(Mann, K. 2006: 73), terms which immediately evoke images of domination and masochism 40 . 

Juliette humiliates Höfgen in many ways – calling him by his real (as opposed to stage) name, 

the “abgelegte[ ] und verhaßte[ ] Heinz” (Mann, K. 2006: 69); by insulting him verbally with 

names like “du komisches Stückchen Elend”, “Affe”, “der drolligste kleine Dreckhaufen” 

(Mann, K. 2006: 77, 79, 81); and the reader is not altogether surprised when a red whip surfaces, 

a gift from Höfgen and one which Juliette has no reservations about using on him (Mann, K. 

2006: 74, 77). Von Sacher-Masoch‟s predilection for furs and whips is well documented, both in 

his own writings and more notably in his first wife‟s memoirs, entitled The Confessions of 

Wanda von Sacher-Masoch. Although his wife‟s real name was Aurora, after their marriage in 

1873 he preferred to call her Wanda, the name of the female protagonist and dominatrix in Venus 

im Pelz; this is echoed in Höfgen‟s decision to call Juliette not by her real name, but by her stage 

name, Princess Tebab. Further explicit allusions to Venus im Pelz include the narrator referring 

to Juliette as Höfgen‟s “Schwarze Venus” (Mann, K. 2006: 70) and mentioning her wearing a 

“graues Pelzjäckchen” (Mann, K. 2006: 74). 

40 The term, coined in 1886 by the psychiatrist Richard von Krafft-Ebing in his work Psychopathia Sexualis and 

derived from the name of von Sacher-Masoch, denotes (sexual) pleasure brought about by the infliction of pain/ 

humiliation on oneself. 

60

The writings of Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) feature prominently in Klaus Mann‟s Faustus 

novel, specifically in the relationship between Höfgen and Juliette. The love of Baudelaire‟s life 

– a métisse named Jeanne Duval – was the inspiration behind many of the poems in Les Fleurs 

du Mal, most notably the Vénus Noire cycle, as Angela Carter has shown in her collection of 

short stories entitled Black Venus (Schmid: online). Höfgen quotes Hymne à la Beauté from Les 

Fleurs du Mal to Juliette during their dancing lesson : “Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de 

l‟abîme – ô Beauté ? ” (Mann, K. 2006: 79). These poetic images firmly establish in the 

reader‟s mind the ambivalent nature of their relationship. Other poems from the cycle, with titles 

such as La Serpent qui danse, which portrays Duval‟s dancing as a source of sensual ecstasy for 

Baudelaire, and Parfum exotique, where Baudelaire refers to Duval‟s intoxicating scent (Schmid: 

online), are intertextually present in the Tanzstunde chapter, with Mann‟s references to Juliette‟s 

rhythmic and mesmerising dancing (Mann, K. 2006: 76f.) and her “wild[en], aber durchaus nicht 

süßen Geruch” which mingles “auf erregende und peinigende Art” with her cheap perfume 

(Mann, K. 2006: 69). 

Another author whose ideas on sexuality are, next to those of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, 

incorporated in Mephisto is the Marquis de Sade. His graphic and gratuitous descriptions of 

sadist 41 encounters, while not intertextually present per se in Mephisto, are alluded to in the fact 

that the only sexual relationship that is satisfying to the “leidenssüchtigen” (Mann, K. 2006: 218) 

Höfgen is one that involves a game of power, pain and a woman named Juliette – the eponymous 

anti-heroine of Sade‟s infamous Juliette. Seduced at the tender age of 13 by an older woman, 

Sade‟s Juliette learns the tricks of the sadist trade from her sexual relationship with Madame de 

Clairwil, who displays Faustian tendencies herself in her sworn hatred of religion as well as her 

broad knowledge of science. (Fitzsimmons 2001: 24) The use of the whip, which in Sade‟s 

novel is recommended to Juliette by Clairwil to “break in” her victim, likening the latter‟s 

writhing to “voluptuous dancing”, and to serve as a “matchless restorative, supplying new 

vitality to the frame wearied by overindulgence” 42 (Sade 1968: 286f.), reinforces the intertextual 

connection between Sade and Mann. 

An interesting point to explore is the fact that the Faustian pact alluded to by the novel‟s title 

never explicitly occurs. Klaus Mann, while entitling his seventh chapter “Der Pakt mit dem 

41 The term sadism, introduced in a later edition of Krafft-Ebing‟s Psychopathia Sexualis, denotes (sexual) pleasure 

brought about by either inflicting or watching the infliction of pain upon another person. 

42 This last quote is particularly pertinent when one reads Juliette‟s comment that Höfgen “[ ]ist seit voriger Woche 

noch etwas dicker geworden” and how she then cracks her whip against her boots for added emphasis. (Mann 2006: 

75) 

61

Teufel”, nowhere offers any single incarnation of the devil but prefers to create an undefined and 

ambiguous evil presence. Thomas Mann, on the other hand, would eleven years later dedicate an 

entire chapter to describing in fine detail the encounter and contract with the devil in physical 

form. However, it is precisely because Klaus Mann does not define his devil that the reader may 

find his Faust novel the more realistic of the two being compared, since everyday life might offer 

not just one but many devils in various disguises. Furthermore, in creating such an ambiguous 

malevolent presence, Klaus Mann‟s readers encounter more than one character that could fit the 

profile of the original Mephistopheles. There is much to support the case for Juliette being this 

Faust‟s demonic inspiration – apart from the quote already mentioned about him drawing his 

strength from her, there are references to her as a “böse Person” (Mann, K. 2006: 67) and to her 

face as being “auf eine schlimme Art attraktiv” 43 (Mann, K. 2006: 71). The most vivid allusion 

to her metaphorical darkness is the following passage: 

Ihr Gesicht stand vor ihm wie die schreckliche Maske eines fremden Gottes: Dieser thront mitten 

im Urwald, an verborgener Stelle, und was er fordert mit seinem Zähneblecken und Augenrollen, 

das sind Menschenopfer. Man bringt sie ihm, zu seinen Füßen spritzt Blut, er schnuppert mit der 

eingedrückten Nase den süß-vertrauten Geruch, und er wiegt ein wenig den majestätischen 

Oberkörper nach dem Rhythmus des wild bewegten Tamtams. Um ihn vollführen seine 

Untertanen den verzückten Freudentanz. Sie schleudern die Arme und Beine, sie hüpfen, 

schaukeln sich, taumeln; aus ihrem Gebrüll wird Wonnegestöhn, aus dem Gestöhn wird ein 

Keuchen, und schon sinken sie ihn, lassn sich fallen vor den Füßen des schwarzen Gottes, den sie 

lieben, den sie ganz bewundern – wie Menschen nur den lieben und ganz bewundern können, 

dem sie das Kostbarste geopfert haben: Blut. (Mann, K. 2006: 76) 

These images are even more disturbing when one recalls that in the first, anonymously written 

Faust tale from 1587 (Anonymous 1968: 150f.) as well as in Marlowe‟s version, first published 

in 1604 (Marlowe 1962: 103f.), Faust dies an excruciatingly painful death, involving torture and, 

obviously, much bloodshed. 

Fitzsimmons (2001: 22) mentions a further parallel with Goethe‟s Faust which supports the view 

that it may be Juliette who is the incarnation of evil. Upon Faust‟s wishing for a “Zaubermantel” 

to take him to “fremde Länder” (Goethe 1971: Part I l1122, 3) (in order to escape the adulating 

crowds), there appears to him a black poodle, winding a snare around him. Klaus Mann 

“transforms Faust‟s return to his study accompanied by the poodle into Höfgen‟s euphoric return 

for an assignation with Juliette.” (Fitzsimmons 2001: 22) Fitzsimmons (2001: 22) goes on to 

interpret Mann‟s replacement of the well-known black poodle with a black woman as a parody 

of the “medieval European iconography of Satan as a black man”. Juliette, in her here-construed 

43 Robin Smyth‟s 1995 translation is perhaps more explicit: he limits “böse Person” to her “malevolent voice” (p. 

47) and renders the description of her face as being “evilly attractive” (p. 49). 

62

ole as Mephistopheles, displays a further trait associated with the devil – a keen insight into the 

victim‟s (in this case the Faust figure‟s) hidden fears. She knows all too well how horrified 

Höfgen would be were she to attend one of his performances at the theatre, and she playfully 

threatens to surprise him by arriving, sitting in the stalls and laughing out loud when makes his 

entrance on stage (Mann, K. 2006: 79). His reaction – “Dabei hatte er erschreckt die Augen 

geöffnet und sich halb aufgerichtet” (Mann, K. 2006: 79) – proves that she truly is the “oldest 

friend of insight”, a term Fitzsimmons (2001: 24) attributes to Nietzsche in reference to the devil. 

The last of the many intertextual threads explored by Fitzsimmons (2001) that I want to mention 

is the connection with two works of Heinrich Heine, both of which serve to further implicate 

Juliette Martens in her demonic role. Heine‟s 1851 ballet Doktor Faust features an incarnation 

of Mephistopheles as a ballerina, who, with the help of dance lessons and her magic wand, turns 

Faust into a virtuoso dancer. (Fitzsimmons 2001: 25) The parallel imagery with K. Mann‟s 

whip-wielding tap dancer is evident. Heine‟s Atta Troll features three intertextual Juliettes: the 

by-now familiar she-devil figure of Salome, a dancer; the character of the so-called black 

Mumma, also a dancer of sorts, who, apart from being racially identifiable with Juliette, is also 

objectified in that “sie manchmal cancanier[t]” and dances with “gemütlos frechen Steißwurf[ ]” 

(Heine 1971: 497, l22, 23); and the French girl Juliette, who ridicules the dancing of Dark Atta: 

“Selbst Juliette lacht herunter vom Balkone ob den Sprüngen der Verzweiflung” (Heine 1971: 

499, l74-76). This last quote recalls Höfgen being ridiculed by his Princess Tebab during their 

Tanzstunde, when she shouts at him “Schneller, schneller! […] Was hast du denn in den 

Knochen? Und du willst ein Mann sein? Du willst ein Schauspieler sein und dich auch noch für 

Geld sehen lassen?” (Mann, K. 2006: 77) 

As we have seen, Juliette Martens is, on the one hand, Mephistopheles to Höfgen‟s Faust, 

supplying him with what he needs to achieve the pinnacle of success; on the other hand, she is 

Faust to Höfgen‟s Mephistopheles, looking to him for some form of deliverance from her life as 

she knows it. In the light of a Sadean reading, too, the role of this Juliette is all the more 

ambiguous because she is “empower[ed] […] with features of both the tribade, Madame de 

Clairwil, and the prostitute, Juliette”, thus “enhancing her Faust/Mephistopheles indeterminacy”. 

(Fitzsimmons 2001: 24) The case for Höfgen as being the devil figure in this novel, although 

reinforced by his chillingly sensational on-stage incarnation of evil, and by the fact that he is to 

some extent accountable, by his ultimate silence, for the death of Otto Ulrichs, is nevertheless 

weaker than the case for other characters. Despite his almost effortless and seemingly natural 

63

portrayal of Mephistopheles, such that after watching his premiere performance, former 

colleague Dora Martin matter-of-factly says to him “Ich nehme es niemandem übel, daß er ist, 

wie er ist.” (Mann, K. 2006: 223), he lacks, in my view, both the courage and the fervour of 

belief in any system or idea that would be required of a genuine servant of evil. In having 

Höfgen (who is generally to be regarded as the one seduced by power) play Mephistopheles (the 

seducer) so convincingly 44 , Klaus Mann makes excellent use of the literary device of irony, 

which, to some extent, is itself ironic, since it is his father who is generally hailed as the master 

of irony. 

Juliette is not the only „candidate‟ for the role of the devil in this novel. The fat and cruel 

Ministerpräsident fulfils the function of Mephistopheles in that it is he who facilitates Höfgen‟s 

rise to power by first securing him the role of Mephisto and eventually the position of Head of 

the Berlin State Theater. The fact that Höfgen is described, at the end of Chapter 7, the “devil‟s 

pact” chapter, as thinking to himself after shaking the hand of the Ministerpräsident “Jetzt habe 

ich mich beschmutzt, […j]etzt habe ich mich verkauft, [… j]etzt bin ich gezeichnet!” (Mann, K. 

2006: 262f.), further supports the case for the Ministerpräsident being the devil to Höfgen‟s 

Faust. Interestingly, the Ministerpräsident is also described as having a “guten Engel” (Mann, 

K. 2006: 25) – namely his second wife, the former-actress Lotte Lindenthal. This, however, is in 

my opinion not sufficient to cast him into a similar Faust/ Mephistopheles ambiguity. 

At the heart of Höfgen‟s weakness lies his obsession with power, manifest in both his public and 

private life. In fact, the entire novel can be seen as a study on power, which von Maltzan (2001) 

has shown in the title of her critical analysis of masochism and power. Through his assorted 

characters, Klaus Mann offers variations on the common theme of the pursuit of influence and 

recognition at the expense of human dignity. There are three identifiable levels of interaction on 

which the pursuit of power is portrayed in Mephisto – social, sexual and individual – and 

mention must here be made of the 1981 film adaptation by István Szabó, since its 

cinematographic techniques depict these spheres of interaction quite remarkably. Various scenes 

stand out which inspire dreadful awe at the power of the political elite, particularly the 

Ministerpräsident‟s grand-scale birthday party, and the final scene where Höfgen is throw into a 

state of panic by the blinding spotlights his patron casts onto him. Hendrik‟s superior attitude 

towards other actors, while obvious in the novel from the narrator‟s descriptions of his dealings 

44 In the following quote, the narrator not only dissolves any distinction between the actor Höfgen and his stagepersona 

Mephistopheles, but also indicates the level of intimacy and the power-play dynamic between Hendrik and 

his patron: “Mephistopheles flirtete und scherzte mit dem Mächtigen” (Mann, K. 2006: 264). 

64

with them, really comes alive in the film when one sees the changes in Klaus Maria Brandauer‟s 

facial expressions. Although Szabó does change some details about Hendrik and Juliette‟s 

relationship, the power struggle between them becomes especially interesting when one explores 

the connection attributed to Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer between Sade and Hitler‟s 

Nazism. Geoffrey Roche (online) claims that for Adorno and Horkheimer, Sade actually 

anticipates the “murderous cynicism of the Nazis” in that his “instrumental exploitation” is a 

clear result of the “collapse of Enlightenment reason”. Szabó does well to allude to this by 

making the changes referred to – for example the actress playing Juliette, Karin Boyd, has a 

much lighter skin colour than Mann‟s Juliette, which immediately detracts somewhat from her 

supposedly proud and royal African heritage and thus strips her of whatever power such an 

heritage may have afforded her. 45 In the film she is meeker and more physically submissive than 

her literary self – one way in which the film portrays this is by often depicting her in more 

vulnerable poses and as occupying the “weaker” position in the screen frame – for example she 

will be sitting undressed, in the bottom left corner of the screen below the fully-dressed and 

standing Höfgen (Fitzsimmons 2001: 16). On the individual level, Hendrik‟s desire and constant 

striving to see himself achieve the best is well portrayed in the film by, once again, having access 

to Klaus Maria Brandauer, the actor‟s, physical expressions. 

Where this novel, particularly through Szabó‟s film adaptation, succeeds as an allegory perhaps 

in a more accessible way than Doktor Faustus is in the way it accounts for the relative ease with 

which Nazism briefly triumphed. By having a protagonist who is not entirely unfamiliar as a 

type, namely the deeply egocentric actor who conceals his insecurity by being a social 

chameleon to pursue success at all costs, one is compelled to identify with the character, to ask 

oneself how different one really is from this character. Szabó‟s own comment on this, and 

particularly on his decision to remove the fetishist aspect of Höfgen and Juliette‟s relationship, 

was that he wanted to show how evil (specifically that of Nazism) results from the “distortion of 

the human spirit”, “the perversion of the soul” and is not simply the result of sexual perversion. 

(Szabó 1982: 17) 

Thomas Mann, upon finishing Doktor Faustus in 1947, was afforded, with hindsight, an 

understanding of how Nazi Germany took root and developed and he could thus explore his 

45 It is likely that, growing up in South Africa, one is more sensitive to the differences in skin tone and colour 

between an African and a person of mixed race – what we in South Africa would refer to as „coloured‟. The 

difference in skin tone and colour between Karen Boyd and Klaus Mann‟s original conception of Juliette may in fact 

not have been noticed by a European or American film audience of the 1980s. 

65

version of the demonic pact in much greater detail. Klaus Mann‟s Mephisto, on the other hand, 

is condensed in order to present the reader with more outward and obvious manifestations of an 

unholy alliance between the individual and a thinly disguised dark force. The fact that Mephisto 

was published in 1936 – merely one year after the anti-Jewish Nuremberg Laws were issued, and 

several years before the full extent of the horrors of that era was made known – lends Klaus 

Mann a somewhat prophetic status. 

Having explored several of the inherent intertextual references in these novels, the case for both 

being regarded as allegorical representations of socio-political circumstances is all the more 

viable. Bearing in mind that an allegory unfold on two levels and that it tends to represent 

abstract features or concepts as characters, it is clear that by delving into the details of the events 

taking place in Höfgen‟s professional and personal life, Klaus Mann presents an allegorical 

analysis of the political situation of his time. Thomas Mann, too, creates a plausible parallel 

examination of the life and progression of Germany towards a dictatorship by having Leverkühn 

and his life examined in great detail. The fact that Klaus Mann has the idiosyncrasies of his 

protagonist revealed by a critical narrator, who, while not entirely objective, is certainly not blind 

to the faults and failings of Leverkühn, renders the parallel with the changing political climate 

more immediate and accessible. The fact that our only access to Leverkühn is mediated through 

the (subjective and more favourably biased) Zeitblom renders the allegory by no means less 

striking or fitting, but certainly more ambiguous. 

What remains now is to show how and why Thomas and Klaus Mann‟s fictionally portrayed art 

forms, as informed by and/ or practised according to the long-standing Western aesthetic 

tradition, were ideal allegorical tools, and this is what is explored in Chapter 4. 

66

Chapter 4: The Role of Art 

The foundation on which both novels are based – or, rather, on which the successful employment 

of their respective art forms as allegories is based – is that of the nature and function of art. I 

therefore discuss, in this chapter, various aspects of aesthetic theory which pertain to the nature 

and function of art, and then go on to show how, according to the criteria implied by these 

aspects, the art forms portrayed in the novels succeed in their allegorical functions. 

Since any discussion of art will necessarily entail examining aspects of aesthetic theory, 

including notions of beauty, a brief exploration of the classical Greek theory of art is useful, as it 

is the tradition which has formed and informed Western aesthetic consciousness. In the 

following quote from Doktor Faustus we see just how central a position the realm of the 

aesthetic occupies in the psyche and make-up of „the German‟, as expounded by the narrator 

Zeitblom: 

Man tut sehr unrecht, im Ästhetischen einen engen und gesonderten Teilbezirk des Humanen zu 

sehen. Es is viel mehr als das, es ist im Grunde alles in seiner gewinnenden oder befremdenden 

Wirkung, wie denn ja auch bei dem Dichter da das Wort „Grazie‟ den allerweitesten Sinn hat. 

Ästhetische Erlöstheit oder Unerlöstheit, das ist das Schicksal, das entscheidet über Glück oder 

Unglück, über das gesellige Zuhausesein auf Erden oder heillose, wenn auch stolze 

Vereinsamung, und man muß nicht Philolog sein, um zu wissen, daß das Häßliche das Verhaßte 

ist. Durchbruchsbegierde aus der Gebundenheit und Versiegelung im Häßlichen, – sage mir 

immerhin, daß ich Schlafstroh dresche, aber ich fühle, habe immer gefühlt und will es gegen viel 

derben Augenschein vertreten, daß dies deutsch ist kat‟ exochen [sic], tief deutsch, die Definition 

des Deutschtums geradezu, eines Seelentums, bedroht von Versponnenheit, Einsamkeitsgift, 

provinzlerischer Eckensteherei, neurotischer Verstrickung, stillem Satanismus... (Mann, Th. 

1948: 474f.) 

Mann‟s claim that the aesthetic “ist im Grunde alles”, alludes to the medieval aesthetic 

philosophy of Aquinas, as influenced by his teacher, Albertus Magnus, on various aspects of the 

aesthetic, particularly the latter‟s remark that “among things existing at present, there is none 

which does not have a share in beauty and good[.]” (Albertus Magnus in Margolis 2001: 33) 

Mann‟s mention of “das Häßliche” also recalls Aquinas (as quoted in Margolis 2001: 34) on the 

nature of beauty, namely that one of the conditions to be fulfilled in order for something to be 

beautiful, is that it possess integrity or perfection – “for what is defective is, in consequence, 

ugly”. A third idea that links Thomas Mann to the writings of Aquinas is evident in the 

following excerpt from Sammael/ Satan‟s conversation with Leverkühn, to be read in the light of 

Aquinas‟s “conviction that art cannot create new forms [, a view which is] entirely 

unsympathetic to modern conceptions of the fine arts” (Margolis 2001: 34): 

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Nimm gleich einmal den Einfall, - was ihr so nennt, was ihr seit hundert oder zweihundert Jahren 

so nennt, - denn früher gab‟s die Kategorie ja garnicht, so wenig wie musikalisches 

Eigentumsrecht und alldas. Der Einfall also, eine Sache von drei, vier Takten, nicht wahr, mehr 

nicht. Alles Übrige ist Elaboration, ist Sitzfleisch. Oder nicht? Gut, nun sind wir aber experte 

Kenner der Literatur und merken, daß der Einfall nicht neu ist, daß er garzu sehr an etwas 

erinnert[;] ein geänderter Einfall, ist das überhaupt noch ein Einfall? (Mann, Th. 1948: 367) 

Having established Mann‟s connection to particular elements of the medieval aesthetic 

philosophy, I now turn to the classical aesthetic theory of the ancient Greeks, since this is what 

significantly influenced and formed the two “leading figures of [W]estern Christian Aesthetics” 

(Margolis 2001: 27), namely Aquinas and Augustine 46 . This will furthermore serve to unpack 

the notions of both the creation of and the experience of art, as well as situate both novels firmly 

within an artistic tradition. 

Condensing a combination of Platonic and Pythagorean aesthetic formulations, Tatarkiewicz 

(1970: 47ff.) presents the essentials of the classical (Greek) theory in a set of propositions, some 

of which treat of beauty, some of which treat of art. Since the substance of beauty is “the 

proportions of parts” (Tatarkiewicz 1970: 48; original emphasis), one associates with the 

concept of beauty notions of symmetry and harmony. Furthermore, beauty also consists in the 

measure of an object‟s appropriateness to its end – a relative beauty, as opposed to the more 

absolute beauty of proportion. (Tatarkiewicz 1970: 48) We see from the above that beauty is 

both an objective property, to be apprehended by the mind, the cognitive faculty, as well as a 

subjective reaction, and thus apprehended by the senses. (Tatarkiewicz 1970: 48) 

Tatarkiewicz (1970: 48) describes the Greek concept of art (technê) as including the exercising 

of both “mental” skills (the liberal arts), and “manual” skills (the vulgar arts). Essential to this 

understanding is that all arts are based on their own rules and regulations, viewing the artist not 

as a creator or inventor, but as more of a discoverer, reliant not so much on inspiration as on 

knowledge. Furthermore, that which is produced without recourse to the applicable rules is not 

art. Although he does not discuss explicitly the connection between beauty and art, Tatarkiewicz 

does mention that beauty is first and foremost a property of Nature, and also to be found in the 

arts. (Tatarkiewicz 1970: 48) Since the arts can either “produce new things which do not exist 

in Nature or imitate those which do exist” (Tatarkiewicz 1970: 49), the question is raised of 

whether productive (as opposed to imitative) art could possess beauty beyond that of its 

46 Although Augustine predates Aquinas by some 800 years, as a Neoplatonist, he, too, relied on the ancient Greek 

notions of aesthetics, and is generally considered as the starting point for the dating of medieval philosophy. See: 

Margolis, 2001. 

68

adherence to its rules, since, as not having its origin in Nature, it might not be able to access 

beauty as a property of Nature. Tatarkiewicz (1970: 49) also introduces the notion of truth when 

discussing imitative art – the measure of faithfulness to the imitated reality (truth) was the 

measure of adherence to the rule. 

Alexander Sesonske (1956: 345f.) traces to Plato two sets of beliefs about the connection 

between art and truth. There is, on the one hand, the view that if art were to be concerned with 

truth, it would then be competing with science as a discoverer and disseminator of knowledge. 

On the other hand, there is the assertion that divorcing art and truth would leave no room for art 

to be much more than a giver of pleasure. As Sesonske further points out, regardless of the 

above differences, the common acknowledgement is that there is some connection between art 

and truth. He goes on to propose “at least three kinds of truths which are aesthetically relevant 

[…:] surface truths, embedded truths, and embodied truths.” (Sesonske 1956: 345) Since these 

propositions date from within a decade of the deaths of both Thomas (1955) and Klaus Mann 

(1949), they could be said to be if not representative of, then certainly not incongruous with the 

general mode of thinking on these matters. 

Asking whether the aesthetic experience is in any way enhanced by the presence of truths, he 

cites literature as an example of where the first kind of relevant truth may be encountered – the 

sense of satisfaction arising from an awareness that the (surface) assertions in a text we are 

reading are true. (Sesonske 1956: 349) More important than surface truths are the so-called 

embedded truths – those which can be found in, for example, metaphor. Their value lies in “the 

act of creative discovery” being guided by “our faith that there are truths embedded” (Sesonske 

1956: 350). Noteworthy here is that it is both the cognitive as well as the emotional element that 

are of “central importance in the aesthetic experience” (Sesonske 1956: 351). The third group of 

truths present in art are those communicated not in single sentences or figures, but by the work as 

a whole – so-called embodied truths of experience. Sesonske (1956: 351) quotes C. Day Lewis 

that these are “the great general truths which are perpetually fertilizing poetry”. All three notions 

of truth as contained in art are relevant to this research, since both Doktor Faustus and Mephisto 

deal with fictional depictions of an historical moment, which could be said to correspond to the 

notion of surface truths; allegorical (and hence a form of metaphorical) portrayal, to that of 

embedded truths; and embodied truths, for the experiences related in the novels are within the 

sphere of those terrible „general truths‟ of history and identity which have indeed fertilised the 

soil of German artistic production over the last 60 years. 

69

All of the above, together with the following excerpts from Alan Goldman‟s chapter on „The 

Aesthetic‟ (2001: 188), serve to highlight some of the elements involved in aesthetic experience. 

Great art challenges our intellects as well as our perceptual and emotional 

capacities. 

All great art works, whether they are uplifting or depressing, arousing or calming, 

engage us in this way. 

While the purpose of art may not be pleasure in the narrow sense, it is the 

enjoyment, refreshment, and enlightenment that such experience provides. 

To meet all these challenges simultaneously is to experience aesthetically. 

Of course, the field of debate and discussion on aesthetics and the question of what constitutes 

art is vast and beyond the scope of this research. Important here is that the experience and act of 

creating and experiencing art involve both the cognitive and emotional capacities. 

Having touched on the nature of art, in particular the role of beauty, I now turn to its function, 

again relying on the classical theory from which Western aesthetics developed. Aristotle‟s view 

that “each art ought to produce, not any […] pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it” (Poetics, 

XXVI: online) can be said to indicate one aspect of its function, namely that of awakening in the 

audience a sense of apposite enjoyment or delight. Conlon (1990: 101), discussing the function 

of art, refers to Plato‟s mimetic theory when stating that art is essentially a representation and 

reflection of the realities – both good and bad – of the world; fundamentally, art reveals that 

which is already there. It is on this point that I wish to discuss Ayn Rand, controversial 20 th 

century cultural icon, author, philosopher and founder of objectivism. Rand, who was somewhat 

scorned for having “dabbled” in so many fields – literature, film, philosophy, aesthetics – 

expounds an aesthetic theory which has been criticised as a set of sweeping generalisations. 

However, the fact that she consolidates and incorporates many different views on aesthetics 

(from elements of the Classical to elements of the psychoanalytical) and assigns art the “duty” of 

having a specific cognitive function struck me as valuable in the context of particularly Doktor 

Faustus. 

In her 1965 essay “The Psycho-Epistemology of Art”, Rand formulates a view that art is 

necessary for “the preservation and survival of [man‟s] consciousness” (Rand 1975: 17). She 

bases this on a parallel – just as the function of language is to convert abstractions into “a 

manageable number of specific units”, so too does art convert “man‟s metaphysical abstractions 

into […] specific entities open to man‟s direct perception”. (Rand 1975: 20) She goes on to 

70

define art as “the indispensable medium for the communication of a moral ideal”, but denies 

morality any causal role, situating the primary focus of art as metaphysical rather than ethical. 

(Rand 1975: 21f.) The fundamental purpose of art is thus not didactic, but rather “to hold up to 

man a concretized image of his nature and his place in the universe” (Rand 1975: 22). Thomas 

Mann‟s own view on the morality of art is expressed clearly in the Betrachtungen, where, as 

Heimendahl (1998: 61) points out, “„Moral‟ erscheint als ein anderes Wort für Wahrheit.” It 

comes as no surprise that the artist is thus to be seen as somebody holding up a universal mirror, 

which brings us back to Thomas Mann‟s conception of the artist, personified in the character of 

Tonio Kröger, as having the task of “das Menschliche darzustellen” (Mann, Th. 1973: 31). 

Interestingly, Klaus Mann‟s understanding of himself as an artist living in “Krisenzeiten” was 

that he saw himself and his fellow artists and intellectuals as faced with the task of rediscovering 

“den Sinn für absolute ethisch-religiöse Werte”, for if this is not achieved, “so werden wir dem 

Totalitätsanspruch der Macht des Staates auf die Dauer nichts entgegenzusetzen haben.” (Von 

Maltzan 2001: 8) 

Taking, then, as our point of departure that the function of art is to represent to man the reality of 

which he finds himself a part, we can now turn to discuss the specific art forms of music and 

theatre. 

As mentioned in my second chapter, music has often been considered the “deutscheste der 

Künste” (Mann, Th. in Vaget 2006: 23) 47 . Its central place in the German conception of identity 

meant it was eminently suited to representing the „evolution‟ from what was highly cultured and 

civilised to the barbaric. Music itself is depicted by Thomas Mann in its own „evolution‟ from 

what seemed to be the high-point of formal beauty and graceful expression to locus of evil, and it 

is precisely this function of music, and by extension, art, to represent reality, that assures its 

success as an allegorical art form in this novel. The following excerpt from Doktor Faustus 

highlights some of the issues at play in this „evolution‟, in a discussion between Zeitblom, 

Leverkühn, Schwerdtfeger and Schildknapp on the “Entromantisierung der Musik” (Mann, Th. 

1948: 494): 

Wir sprachen von der Vereinigung des Avancierten mit dem Volkstümlichen, von der Aufhebung 

der Kluft zwischen Kunst und Zugänglichkeit, Hoch und Niedrig, wie sie einmal von der 

Romantik, literarisch und musikalisch, in gewissem Sinne geleistet worden, – worauf dann 

wieder eine tiefere Trennung und Entfremdung denn je, zwischen dem Guten und dem Leichten, 

dem Würdigen und dem unterhaltenden, dem Fortschrittlichen und dem allgemein Genießbaren 

47 See also, for example: Potter, Pamela 1998. Most German of the Arts: Musicology and Society from the Weimar 

Republic to the End of Hitler‟s Reich. New Haven and London: Yale University Press. 

71

das Schicksal der Kunst geworden sei. War es Sentimentalität, daß es die Musik – und sie stand 

für alles – mit wachsender Bewußtheit verlangte, aus ihrer Respektsvereinsamung zu treten, 

Gemeinschaft zu finden, ohne gemein zu werden, und eine Sprache zu reden, die auch der 

musikalisch Unbelehrte verstand, wie er Wolfschlucht, Jungfernkranz, Wagner verstanden hatte? 

Auf jeden Fall war nicht Sentimentalität das Mittel zu diesem Ziel, sondern weit eher die Ironie, 

der Spott, der, die Luft reinigend, sich gegen das Romantische, gegen Pathos und Prophetie, 

Klangrausch und Literatur zu einer Fronde verband mit dem Objektiven und Elementaren, will 

sagen: mit der Wiederentdeckung der Musik selbst als Organisation der Zeit. Ein heikelstes 

Beginnen! Denn wie nahe lag nicht falsche Primitivität, also Romantisches wiederum. Auf der 

Höhe des Geistes zu bleiben; die gesiebtesten Ergebnisse europäischer Musikentwicklung ins 

Selbstverständliche aufzulösen, daß jeder das Neue fasse; sich zu ihrem Herrn zu machen, indem 

man sie ungefangen als freies Baumaterial verwendete und Tradition spüren ließ, umgeprägt ins 

Gegenteil des Epigonalen; das Handwerk hochgetrieben wie es war,, durchaus unauffällig zu 

machen und alle Künste des Kontrapunkts und der Instrumentation verschwinden und 

verschmelzen zu lassen zu einer Einfachheitswirkung, sehr fern von Einfalt, einer intellektuell 

federnden Schlichtheit, – das schien die Aufgabe, das Begehren der Kunst. (Mann, Th. 1948: 

492f.) 

It is precisely this last statement of Leverkühn‟s on what he perceives to be the task and desire of 

art that leads me to believe that Mann, in having him compose the kind of music he does, assigns 

him a more significant artistic responsibility. I will argue this based on a view put forward by 

Ayn Rand in her 1971 essay entitled “Art and Cognition”. 

The central premise in her view on music relies on her understanding of the notion of integration 

as a function of man‟s consciousness. Integration 48 , which originates as the automatic 

“response” of a child‟s brain to sensory input, becomes a volitional act of the mature brain, 

where the adult chooses to expand his „stored‟ concepts to include further concepts. We thus see 

that automatic integration ceases in adult life. The one exception to this model is music – Rand 

sees music as raw sense data, notes in a certain kind of succession which the ear and brain 

unconsciously process and turn into concepts. 49 Essentially, this depends upon the sound-wave 

frequencies and mathematical ratios which make up a melody. (Rand 1975: 57) Since 

“[s]ensations are man‟s first contact with reality” (1975: 59), it is easy to see how music would 

be the ideal gauge of social reality. As Jones (1994: 19) formulates it, “[m]usic acts directly on 

the soul”. The following quote from Rand‟s 1971 essay establishes the link to Doktor Faustus: 

A man‟s acceptance or rejection of [a specific piece of] music depends on whether it calls upon or 

clashes with, confirms or contradicts, his mind‟s way of working. The metaphysical aspect of the 

48 

Rand defines this as being the process whereby the brain organises into concepts all sensory data received. (1975: 

57) 

49 

The question arises as to whether her definitions and theories are universally applicable. To what extent is 

cultural „pre-conditioning‟ responsible for the cognitive apprehension of sensory data? How would a people in a 

remote jungle react to being exposed to Mozart or a celebrated piece of Western art? I will, however, not be 

addressing this question, since this research focuses only on Western aesthetic consciousness and art as developed 

and formed by the classical Greek tradition. 

72

experience is the sense of a world which he is able to grasp, to which his mind‟s working is 

appropriate. (Rand 1975: 59) 

Mann, as I mention in my third chapter, makes a point of describing the reactions of Leverkühn‟s 

audiences, these ranging from the intellectual appreciation of Jewish circles (Mann, Th. 1948: 

15) to the disbelief and rejection thereof by bürgerliche society (Mann, Th. 1948: 570). By 

having Leverkühn compose music which, by virtue of its lack of melodic line, is not 

automatically integrated by the ear and brain, Mann accords him the responsibility of 

„reformatting‟ or reprogramming his audiences‟ cognitive functions. It could be further argued 

that in portraying the evolution of music from the tonality of late-period Beethoven to the 

disconcerting atonality of Leverkühn/Schönberg as the inevitable outcome of a dialectical 

process, Mann is suggesting the necessity of a cognitive shift if one is to recognize that this is 

valid art in as far as it represents metaphysical reality. It was not merely society which had 

changed, nor music which had changed; rather, the metaphysical schema which art had mirrored 

for so long was now shown to have a different source, inspiration, life-blood. To understand this 

new metaphysics, aesthetic paradigms would need to shift. 

Rand (1975: 70), as part of her discussion on art in all its forms, cites music and/or literature as 

the foundation of all the performing arts, the “primary art which provides the metaphysical 

element and enables the performance to become a concretization of an abstract view of man.” It 

is on this basis that I apply her model to K. Mann‟s Mephisto. Examining Höfgen as an artist 

according to Rand‟s criteria, I believe he succeeds on two levels: as an actor, for the very nature 

of his craft is representative, his every participation in his art form an instance of portrayal; 

secondly, his temperament (by nature he is prone to justification and rationalisation of his 

cowardly actions) facilitates the process whereby his survival in the current political climate 

depends on his ability to mirror the social reality, to be as those around him are, even to the point 

of (self-) deception. Höfgen, on more than one occasion, although probably unintentionally so, 

does indeed “hold up to man a concretized image of his nature and his place in the universe” 

(Rand 1975: 22). A striking example is the satirical play Knorke: 

“Knorke” gehörte in einen Zyklus von satirischen Stücken, die das deutsche Bürgertum unter 

Wilhelm II. schilderten und verhöhnten. Held der Komödie war der Emporkömmling, der mit 

dem zynisch verdienten Geld, mit dem ordinären Elan seines Wesens und einer skrupellosen, 

niedrigen, selbstbewußten Intelligenz sich Macht und Einfluß in den höchsten Kreisen erobert. 

Knorke war grotesk, aber auch imposant. Er repräsentierte den parvenuhaft emporschießenden, 

vitalen, ganz dem Geist entfremdeten bourgeoisen Typus. Höfgen versprach großartig zu werden 

in dieser Rolle. Er hatte ihre grausam schneidenden Akzente und zuweilen ihre beinahe rührende 

Hilflosigkeit. Alles brachte er mit: die unsichere, aber zunächst blendende Grandezza der 

Haltung und der Gebärde; die gemeine, grauenhaft geschickte Rhetorik dessen, der alle 

73

hineinlegt, um nur selbst nach oben zu kommen; die fahle, starre, fast heroische Miene des vom 

Ehrgeiz Besessenen, und sogar noch den entsetzensvollen Blick auf den eigenen Aufstieg, der gar 

zu schwindelnd ist und jäh enden könnte. (Mann, K. 2006: 86f.) 

This role turns out to be personally prophetic and representative of the path his own life will 

take. Of great irony is furthermore that he is more than once referred to as “die Inkarnation des 

Bösen” (Mann, K. 2006: 197) – for his role in the play Die Schuld, and in his most successful act 

of holding up this “concretized image of his nature and his place in the universe”– 

Mephistopheles in Goethe‟s Faust. 

As both these novels treat of art during a decisive and distinctive political moment, I now turn to 

explore the relationship between art and politics, more specifically, how art can be either a 

channel of resistance to political power or be in its service. 

The idea of resistance to political authority as a movement or historical phenomenon, while not 

uniquely so, is one that has come to be firmly associated with fascist Germany and, as such, can 

be designated by the term Widerstand. (Geulen 1996: 9) As earlier mentioned, both Thomas 

Mann and Theodor Adorno advocated the involvement of particularly the artist in shedding light 

on what was being withheld from the realm of public knowledge. Klaus Mann‟s own views on 

this, as apparent in his exile and resistance activities, are discussed further on in this chapter. 

With reference to Foucault‟s theory of power, Geulen (1996: 9) identifies three „options for 

action‟ within a conventional totalitarian state: escape, collaboration 50 or resistance. Since 

escape removes one from the totalitarian situation, those remaining within the system are left 

with an apparently simplistic dichotomy: opposition or complicity. Apparently simplistic 

because, as Geulen points out, “anything short of total collaboration […] must count as 

resistance, even and precisely if it involves degrees of complicity.” (Geulen 1996: 9) Geulen 

(1996: 4f.), once again referring to Foucault, comments on the very nature of resistance as 

“complicitous and compromised”, “forever impure, always infected, […] and undermined by 

what is [being] resisted”. 

Many plays produced by approved (non-banned) writers during the so-called Third Reich were 

generally inferior and thus often cancelled. Portrayed in Mephisto through the character of Otto 

Ulrichs, the idea of the theatre as locus of resistance features prominently, and we see Höfgen 

regularly being harassed to commit to joining Ulrichs‟ “Revolutionäre[s] Theater”. (Mann, K. 

50 Geulen clarifies “collaboration” as enthusiastic cooperation. (1996: 9) 

74

2006: 85f.) However, as Geulen (1996: 12) points out, although theatrical performance as ideal 

locus of resistance is plausible, the boundaries between resistance and collaboration become 

blurred once one takes into account the “intrinsically ambiguous space” of performance and role- 

play. Höfgen is, of course, the perfect example as presented by the narrator when describing 

Höfgen‟s portrayal of Mephistopheles – unlike descriptions of his other roles, where there is 

reference to Hendrik‟s success as or outstanding interpretation of a certain character, there is 

now reference to striking theatrical techniques of either “Hendrik-Mephisto” or “Höfgen- 

Mephistopheles” (Mann, K. 2006: 219f.). Höfgen, by virtue of his outstanding artistry and the 

character of Mephistopheles as furnished by Goethe‟s excellent play, is indeed crossing the 

“intrinsically ambiguous space” and becoming Mephisto, tainting his success by embracing 

cynical opportunism. 

There is further ambiguity evident in other areas of his life, in his own attitude and behaviour 

towards those around him. We see him at times avoiding Ulrichs and his attempts to discuss 

their collaboration in his theatre venture – “[j]ede Woche erfand Höfgen eine andere Ausrede” 

(Mann, K. 2006: 85) – while at other times seeming to nurture a “revolutionäre Gesinnung” – 

“[er pflegt], eifrig und geschickt, die Freundschaft mit Otto Ulrichs” (Mann, K. 2006: 216). He 

adapts his every expression and gesture to his audience, never relinquishing his façade. This is 

evident in the way he courts Barbara Bruckner, carefully and cunningly manipulating their 

process of acquaintance: “Barbara erfuhr von Hendrik, was er sie erfahren lassen wollte”, he 

relates his childhood and family stories in “dramatisch ausgeschmückter Form”. (Mann, K. 

2006: 107) We see this in the fact that he appeals to almost every sector of society; he is the 

“Liebling der links-bürgerlichen und linken Blätter” as well as the “Favorit der großen jüdischen 

Salons […,] denn die jüdische Berliner Elite „trägt blond‟” (Mann, K. 2006: 214). An exception 

to this pattern of behaviour is Juliette. Their power-play dynamic makes it occasionally 

impossible for him to lie to her, as we see when he breaks the news to Juliette of his feelings for 

Barbara – despite his every intention to remain calm and steady, “seine Stimme zitterte, kein 

aasiges Lächeln wollte ihm gelingen, [er wurde] abwechselnd bleich und rot, große 

Schweißtropfen standen auf seiner Stirn.” (Mann, K. 2006: 105) He nevertheless succeeds in 

arranging his life and the lives of those around him in such a way as to bring him maximum 

advantage, eventually justifying his complex motives and successfully pulling the proverbial 

wool over his own eyes and embracing ambiguity to the extent that he seems genuinely surprised 

to realise that “[e]s geht in der Welt wirklich zu wie in den Filmen und Stücken, deren Held [er] 

75

so häufig gewesen [ist].” (Mann, K. 2006: 231) He in fact becomes thoroughly oblivious to 

what is happening around him, in so far as it does not directly affect him: 

Bemerkte er, wie die Straßen von Berlin sich verändert hatten? Sah er die braunen und die 

schwarzen Uniformen, die Hakenkreuzfahnen, die marschierende Jugend? Hörte er die 

kriegerischen Lieder, die auf den Straßen, aus den Radioapparaten, von der Filmleinwand 

klangen? Achtete er auf die Führerreden mit ihren Drohungen und Prahlereien? Las er die 

Zeitungen, die beschönigten, verschwiegen, logen und doch noch genug des Entsetzlichen 

verrieten? Kümmerte er sich um das Schicksal der Menschen, die er früher seine Freunde 

genannt hatte? Er wußte nicht einmal, wo sie sich befanden. Vielleicht saßen sie an irgendeinem 

Caféhaustisch in Prag, Zürich oder Paris, vielleicht wurden sie in einem Konzentrationslager 

geschunden, vielleicht hielten sie sich in einer Berliner Dachkammer oder in einem Keller 

versteckt. Hendrik legte keinen Wert darauf, über diese düsteren Einzelheiten unterrichtet zu 

sein. „Ich kann ihnen doch nicht helfen‟: dies war die Formel, mit der er jeden Gedanken an die 

Leidenden von sich wies. „Ich bin selbst in ständiger Gefahr - wer weiß, ob nicht Cäsar von 

Muck morgen schon meine Verhaftung durchsetzen wird. Erst wenn ich meinerseits definitiv 

gerettet bin, werde ich anderen vielleicht nützlich sein können! (Mann, K. 2006: 244f.) 

Höfgen‟s attitude brings to mind an aspect of art which has, to my mind, become increasingly 

prevalent through the last century – the notion of art as a flight or refuge from reality. While this 

does recall the tendency of Biedermeier art of “Flüchten aus der Wirklichkeit” (Hanson 1983: 

495), as discussed in Chapter 2, the last hundred years have seen art coming to terms with the 

explosion of the mass culture industry and having to participate in the value abstraction of art as 

determined by consumers and not the autonomous artist. In what could be termed a perversion 

or overturning of its previous function of mirroring reality, one now sees a demand for 

representations of an alternative reality, usually completely removed from the reality in which 

the consumer/ audience resides, thus providing a form of escapism. The noose tightens, 

however, and the novel draws to a close with Höfgen envying one such as Otto Ulrichs (Mann, 

K. 2006: 387), who had rejected the false security and allure of ambiguity in his allegiances, 

preferring to „take a stand‟ – a decision for which he was eventually tortured to death. Betraying 

the self-pitying victim-mentality which is at the core of his nature, Höfgen envies the dead 

Ulrichs not for having died believing in a cause, but for having “keine Schmerzen mehr zu 

ertragen”, for being “erlöst von der Einsamkeit dieses bitteren Lebens” (Mann, K. 2006: 387f.). 

Returning to Geulen‟s notion of escape, collaboration or resistance as the only means of reaction 

to a totalitarian regime, it could be argued that emigration under such circumstances is 

effectively the equivalent of escape. Consequently, those who chose emigration would be 

excluded from being labelled part of any resistance effort. Golo Mann (1968: 39f.) insisted that 

(literature in) exile was not to be seen as heroism, since many writers who chose to remain in 

76

Germany 51 displayed the same unwavering courage as those who had left. This is a very delicate 

perspective to negotiate, particularly in the light of popular opinion on Thomas Mann‟s well- 

publicised leaving Germany in 1933. Apart from the pre-war periodicals, which, according to 

Humble (1994: 353), became the “principal means by which the exile diaspora maintained a 

degree of contact and cohesion”, literature by German émigrés was largely autobiographical 

(Mann, G. 1968: 38) and shared a sense of isolation and displacement, resulting from their 

rejection of the German State in its current form and, in turn, its rejection of them (Mann, G. 

1968: 36f.). Interestingly, although the emigration of writers was a political event right from the 

start, the literature itself had no real political influence – neither in the Heimat nor in the country 

of exile, where, as guests, émigrés “will always remain unheeded” (Mann, G. 1968: 38f.). 

Klaus Mann‟s resistance stance while still living in Germany was not as bold as that of his sister, 

Erika, who in 1932 was publicly boycotted and then excluded, with threats of violence, from a 

Theaterfestspiel for having expounded her political views at a peaceful women‟s demonstration. 

(Krüll 1994: 351) Her famous Pfeffermühle political cabaret, which opened on 1 January, 1933, 

a mere 29 days before Hitler‟s Machtübernahme (Mann, E. & K. 1991: 40), proved a massive 

success, with Erika usually filling the roles of playwright, director, actress and manager. 

Following the arrest of some of her friends for expressing anti-Nazi sentiments, she and her 

troupe fled to Switzerland on 13 March 1933, while Klaus fled to Paris, thus signalling the 

beginning of their exile years. Erika and the Pfeffermühle went on to stage a total of 1034 

performances throughout Europe until 1937, when the final performance played in translation to 

a New York audience. (Krüll 1994: 352ff.) Erika remained in the USA, working as a (war) 

correspondent, in which capacity she would later return to Germany to cover the Nuremberg 

Trials. (Krüll 1994: 396) 

Klaus, having left Germany in 1933, lived mainly in Amsterdam before moving to the USA in 

1938. He was very productive during his exile years, writing not only novels (Flucht in den 

Norden, 1934; Symphonie Pathétique, 1935; Mephisto, 1936; Der Vulkan, 1939) but also 

establishing exile journals (Die Sammlung; Decision). (Krüll 1994: 360; 395) Although neither 

journal survived beyond two years, they were both significant insofar as they facilitated, as did 

other periodicals, debate and correspondence on “important political and strategic differences”, 

as well as encouraging anti-Fascist sentiments through the genres of prose, drama and poetry. 

(Humble 1994: 353) Klaus also volunteered for the US Army from 1943-1945 (Krüll 1994: 

51 The so-called innere Emigranten. 

77

396), a very bold and outspoken line of resistance. His duties as Sergeant in the US 

Psychological Warfare Branch (PWB) are described by Viereck (2004: xlv) as including the 

interviewing of new German prisoners as well as the unmasking of covert Nazi leaders. Viereck 

(2004: xlv) also refers to K. Mann as “the bravest and most perceptive of [his] PWB colleagues”, 

making special mention of Mann‟s decency and “valuable understanding of the enemy”. 

There was, in addition to writers conveying resistance by leaving Germany as emigrants, the 

option of innere Emigration, as mentioned in my chapter two. Osterle (1968: 4) refers to the 

“incredible provincialization of intellectual life” that occurred as a result of the departure, en 

masse, of the “liberal and socialist intelligentsia”. Those who remained and attempted to 

incorporate their resistance views in their work were, according to Osterle (1968: 5) mainly 

rebellious nationalists or Christian writers, who, due to increasingly threatening censorship, had 

to resort to creative literary camouflage to subtly express their opposition. Some chose to write 

about past heroes who contrasted starkly with the Nazi leaders; others preferred to portray 

despot-figures – the well-known Ernst Jünger 52 novel Auf den Marmorklippen (1939) is a good 

example. There were also those who, in a sense, withdrew, in that they sought to rather 

“preserve their integrity by contemplating their inner life and the timeless beauty of nature.” 

(Osterle 1968: 5) Osterle goes on to cite Das einfache Leben (1939) by Ernst Wiechert as an 

example from this category. The problem we encounter in this instance is that in spite of its 

intentions to oppose the regime, the phenomenon of innere Emigration inadvertently contributed 

to the “façade of spiritual freedom and cultural continuity”; the tranquil, meditative works 

created the illusion that peace and harmony were still to be found under the cruelty of Nazi 

dictatorship. (Osterle 1968: 5) 

As representatives of their Vaterland‟s “moral and social conscience”, emigrant writers were 

concerned with enlightening the world about the reality of life in “that country which had 

undertaken to turn the wheel of history backward with the utmost brutality.” (Osterle 1968: 7) It 

is in this regard that particularly Heinrich Mann was vocal in his resistance. Having spoken out 

in his writings and in public lectures against impending fascism, he left Germany for France in 

1933 and continued to determinedly oppose his country, most notably in his capacity as president 

of the newly-formed Schutzverband Deutscher Schriftsteller. (Krüll 1994: 356f.) His famous 

52 Although he never openly supported Nazism, Jünger is criticised by some for his aloofness and style of writing, 

which may have made Nazism look attractive. See, for example, Neaman (1999: 57), who refers to the “protofascist 

language of higher/lower, ethical purity, and natural social rank” which dominates texts such as Heliopolis 

(1949) and Auf den Marmorklippen. 

78

novel Henri Quatre (1935-38) is cited by Osterle (1968: 11) as an example of one of the 

emergent trends in emigrant literature – the revival of the historical novel. 53 While, as Osterle 

(1968: 11) mentions, historical novels no doubt provided a form of escapism, they were also 

valuable in so far as they “hel[d] up the mirror of history to the distorted face of the present”. 

Ricarda Huch is cited in Erika and Klaus Mann‟s Escape to Life: Deutsche Kultur im Exil as an 

example of an author who turned to writing about historical themes, themes which, in their 

representations and reflections, touched on aspects relevant to the current-day, and which were 

not always pleasing to the “Herren in Berlin”. (Mann, E. & K. 1991: 122) 

Worth special mention here is Thomas Mann‟s ambitious work, the Joseph tetralogy (1933- 

1943), comprising Die Geschichten Jaakobs, Der junge Joseph, Joseph in Ägypten, and Joseph 

der Ernährer, with whose protagonist (Joseph) Mann closely identified on many levels. (Krüll 

1994: 372) Not only was it, as Krüll (1994: 371) points out, an attempt to come to terms with 

both his childhood and his emigration experiences 54 , but the very fact that it explored and 

expounded the feats and personal greatness of a Jewish hero can, in my opinion, be seen as an act 

of rejection of a regime which went out of its way to destroy the Jewish nation and everything 

associated with it. Th. Mann‟s further contributions to émigré resistance include, as mentioned 

in chapter two, membership of several organisations engaged in aiding “Bedrohte und 

Gestrandete” (Krüll 1994: 375), authoring open letters and delivering public addresses, and the 

famous monthly Deutsche Hörer! radio broadcasts – a total of 58 altogether. (Krüll 1994: 375) 

While it is likely that, generally speaking, art created to collaborate with a political agenda will 

be unsophisticated, impersonal and, to a great extent, contrived, it is not as straightforward in the 

case of art that is appropriated by a regime and exploited for propaganda purposes. In Escape to 

Life, Erika and Klaus Mann recount a visit with an old friend, referred to as Otto X, still living in 

Germany, in which the problem of National Socialist art production is discussed. The siblings 

Mann remark that from their exile perspective in Zurich, it seems that “das Kunstwerk, das für 

den nationalsozialistischen Geist wirklick repräsentativ wäre, noch nicht geschaffen worden 

[ist]”, despite the Nazis‟ claims of “die echten deutschen Talente” having been infamously 

suppressed in the Weimar Republic. (Mann, E. & K. 1991: 120f.) Furthermore, as their friend 

53 The second trend can be identified as the Zeitroman – a novel portraying contemporary German society. Klaus 

Mann‟s Der Vulkan (1939) would be a good example of this. 

54 Not the least of these worth mentioning is that he (and Katia) played the role of “Ernährer” - financial, publicityrelated, 

moral support – to many emigrants, particularly Klaus, during the years of American exile. (Krüll 1994: 

374f.) 

79

states, it is precisely the kind of literature that Goebbels and Rosenberg 55 praise “am lautesten” 

that bores the public “am meisten”. (Mann E. & K. 1991: 121) We see mention of this in 

Mephisto, where the narrator relates the difficulties “Intendant Höfgen” faces in finding plays to 

produce in his beautiful theatres: 

Fast alle modernen Stücke, die bis Januar 1933 in den Spielplan einer anspruchsvollen deutschen 

Bühne gehört hatten […] wurden wegen zersetzend kulturbolschewistischen Geistes scharf und 

mit Empörung abgelehnt: […d]ie jüngeren Dramatiker von Talent waren beinah ausnahmslos 

emigriert oder lebten in Deutschland nicht anders denn in der Verbannung. […] Die 

nationalsozialistischen Dichter – forsche Knaben in schwarzen oder braunen Uniformen – 

schrieben Dinge, von denen jeder, der etwas vom Theater verstand, sich mit Grausen abwandte. 

(Mann, K. 2006: 331f.) 

Those few pieces that did show a hint of talent were usually “patriotische Tragödien, die das 

Machwerk hysterischer Gymnasiasten zu sein schienen” and the results of which “fielen 

jämmerlich aus.” (Mann, K. 2006: 332) This is reinforced in the words of Zeitblom, following a 

disagreement with Leverkühn on the future of art: 

Eine Kunst, die „ins Volk geht‟, die Bedürfnisse der Menge, des kleinen Mannes, des 

Banausentums zu den ihren macht, gerät ins Elend, und es ihr zur pflicht zu machen, etwa von 

Staates wegen; nur eine Kunst zuzulassen, die der kleine Mann versteht, ist schlimmstes 

Banausentum, und der Mord des Geistes. (Mann, Th. 1948: 495; original emphasis) 

Erika, Klaus and Otto X go on to discuss, with great disgust, the appropriation by the Nazis of 

Rilke as “der große Sudetendeutsche [sic] Dichter”; the thought of Rilke, who had once 

famously remarked that he felt more at home in “Frankreich, Skandinavien, Rußland, der 

Schweiz, der Tschechoslowakei […] als irgendwo in Deutschland” now being misused for Nazi 

propaganda purposes is recorded as having literally filled the siblings Mann with “Brechreiz”. 

(Mann, E. & K. 1991: 124) 

Looking back to the period following the Franco-Prussian war, we see Nietzsche warning against 

the tendency to identify military with cultural achievement – a direct condemnation of 

Bismarck‟s attempts to use the German cultural tradition as the basis for declaring France‟s 

political inferiority. (Newman 1984: 15) We see an instance of this anti-French legacy in 

Mephisto, when the narrator relates what has become of Hans Miklas, former fellow-actor of 

Höfgen, fired following an ultimatum issued by Höfgen to Kroge, the theatre director – “Wenn 

[Miklas] an diesem Theater bleibt, werde ich es verlassen.” (Mann, K. 2006: 177) Miklas, duly 

fired, goes on to work “mit den Jugendorganisationen der nationalsozialistischen Bewegung”, 

55 Alfred Rosenberg was editor in chief of the official Nazi newspaper “Der Völkische Beobachter” and held the 

specially created position of Beauftragter des Führers für die Überwachung der gesamten geistigen und 

weltanschaulichen Schulung und Erziehung der NSDAP. (Viereck 2004: 219) 

80

where “seine Tätigkeit ist [...], für Freilichtbühnen und Versammlungssäle Fest- und Werbe- 

Spiele mit dem „Jungvolk‟ seines „Führers‟ einzustudieren[.]” (Mann, K. 2006: 220) We read 

directly after this of how, under his direction, the young men “[i]m Sprechchor brüllen […], daß 

sie siegreich die Franzosen schlagen und ihrem Führer stets die Treue wahren wollen[.]” This 

confirms the validity of Nietzsche‟s fear that the cultural realm would be completely 

overpowered and eventually eradicated by the military sphere. (Newman 1984: 15) It seems 

here that the relationship between culture and power, between art and politics, was perceived as 

one whereby power not only drew its strength from, but also expressed its might in culture. 

Vaget (2001: 19) reinforces this when he refers to the fact that the “Weltmachtstreben 

Deutschlands ist vorgebildet im Weltmachtstreben der deutschen Musik”. It is on this point that 

I now wish to discuss Richard Wagner and his music, particularly the role it played in 

contributing to the Nazi conception of German identity. 

Jones describes Plato‟s visionary outlook on the connection between music and the state, or 

otherwise stated, music and politics: “[Plato banned] the playing of certain modes in his ideal 

republic in the certainty that the disorder this music introduced into the soul would soon put the 

state in jeopardy of insurrection.” (1994: 19) Regarded by Vaget (2001: 19) as the paradigm of 

the previously-mentioned “Weltmachtstreben”, Wagner, in his music, conveyed the 

“Welteroberungstendenz und unerhörten „Weltruhmesglanz‟” that no doubt helped secure his 

place as Hitler‟s Liebling. Wagner‟s reputation as “nationalkultureller Heros” is cited by 

Bollenbeck (2001: 42) as a significant part of what prompted Thomas Mann to finally leave 

Germany, since it was his perceived tarnishing of the untouchable Wagnerian legacy during his 

Festrede on the 50 th anniversary of Wagner‟s death that drove the so-called Richard-Wagner- 

Stadt München to issue a protest against Mann. In this protest the R-W-S München 

„excommunicated‟ Mann “unter Berufung auf den „wertbeständigen deutschen Geistesriesen‟ 

Wagner”. (Bollenbeck 2001: 43) An incident related in Mephisto illustrates this very attitude – 

almost reverent – towards Wagner and his legacy, as conveyed through the character of Cäsar 

von Muck, “repräsentativer Dichter der aufstrebenden nationalsozialistischen Bewegung, in 

dessen Dramen erwürgte Juden und erschossene Franzosen die Pointen des Dialogs ersetzen”. 

(Mann, K. 2006: 214) Von Muck heavily criticises a new production of a Wagner opera in 

which Höfgen “Sensation gemacht hat”, seeing in it nothing but “übelste Asphalt-Kunst, 

zersetzendes Experiment, durchaus jüdisch beeinflußt und freche Schändung deutschen 

Kulturgutes.” (Mann, K. 2006: 214) He is particularly scathing of Höfgen and his unchecked 

cynicism in daring to take on, under the guise of presenting “dem Kufürstendammpublikum eine 

81

neue Unterhaltung”, “den ehrwürdigsten, größten der deutschen Meister – […] Richard 

Wagner.” (Mann, K. 2006: 214) 

What was it about Wagner‟s music that so nourished the hearts and ideals of patriots and 

extremist nationalists alike? Born out of his contact with the Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin 

and brief involvement with the 1849 May uprising in Dresden (Jones 1994: 128), Wagner‟s 

music could be said to have incorporated and conveyed every frustration and longing connected 

with those years of thwarted revolution. Jones (1994: 61), with reference to Schopenhauer‟s 

conception of music as the immediate expression of the will, insightfully summarises the 

situation as one where reason was now subject to music – direct upheaval of the 

Christian/Socratic age in which music was subject to reason. Nietzsche saw the revolution of his 

post-Christian age – the “transvaluation of all values […,] the „lust of hell‟” – as imminent in 

Wagner‟s music drama, in particular the “deranged chromaticism” of Tristan und Isolde. (Jones 

1994: 61) In Tristan, Wagner, at the expense of melody – the cornerstone of musical order – 

achieves stunning sensual effect, what Jones (1994: 128) refers to as “something perilously close 

to emotion without order”. This is precisely what Nietzsche initially found so appealing in 

Wagner‟s music – it gave voice to his own revolutionary yearnings. (Jones 1994: 102) 

The notion of „revolution‟ features quite prominently in this discussion of Wagner and his music. 

As the high point of musical Romanticism, his music achieved revolution and upheaval through 

what Leverkühn refers to as its “Durchbruch […] aus geistiger Kälte in eine Wagniswelt neuen 

Gefühls” (original emphasis); what of the artist who succeeds in bringing this about? – “ihn 

sollte man wohl den Erlöser der Kunst nennen.” (Mann, Th. 1948: 494) The „redemptive‟ 

potential of music is, however, jeopardised, as described by Leverkühn: 

Ist es nicht komisch, daß die Musik sich eine Zeitlang als ein Erlösungsmittel empfand, während 

sie doch selbst, wie alle Kunst, der Erlösung bedarf, nämlich aus einer feierlichen Isolierung, die 

die Frucht der Kultur-Emanzipation, der Erhebung der Kultur zum Religionsersatz war, – aus 

dem Alleinsein mit einer Blidungselite, „Publikum‟ genannt, die es bald nicht mehr geben wird, 

die es schon nicht mehr gibt, sodaß also die Kunst bald völlig allein, zum Absterben allein sein 

wird, es sei denn, sie fände den Weg zum „Volk‟, das heißt, um es unromantisch zu sagen: zu den 

Menschen?“ (Mann, Th. 1948: 494) 

Leverkühn goes on to „prophesy‟ that 

[d]ie ganze Lebensstimmung der Kunst […] sich ändern [wird], und zwar ins Heiter- 

Bescheidenere[... .] Viel melancholische Ambition wird von ihr abfallen und eine neue 

Unschuld, ja Harmlosigkeit ihr Teil sein. Die Zukunft wird in ihr, sie selbst wird wieder in sich 

die Dienerin sehen an einer Gemeinschaft, die weit mehr als „Bildung‟ umfassen und Kultur nicht 

haben, vielleicht aber eine sein wird. […E]ine Kunst ohne Leiden, seelisch gesund, unfeierlich, 

untraurig-zutraulich, eine Kunst mit der Menschheit auf Du und Du... . (Mann, Th. 1948: 495) 

82

In Zeitblom‟s view, however, “Kunst ist Geist, und der Geist braucht sich ganz und garnicht auf 

die Gesellschaft, die Gemeinschaft verpflichtet zu fühlen, – er darf es nicht, meiner Meinung 

nach, um seiner Freiheit, seines Adels willen.” (Mann, Th. 1948: 495) 

A direct connection between Hitler and Wagner was stated by Mann in his 1949 letter to Emil 

Preetorius 56 (later published as an essay entitled Wagner und kein Ende) – “gewiß, es ist viel 

„Hitler‟ in Wagner” (Vaget 2006: 164). Mann cast Hitler as a Wagnerian type, recognising in his 

career “die Märchenhaften Züge einer Wagner-Figur” such as Siegfried. (Vaget 2006: 164) The 

works Der Ring des Nibelungen and Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg are singled out by Mann as 

containing anticipatory elements of the Nazi Geist (Vaget 2006: 164), possibly because of, in the 

case of Der Ring, the grand-scale renaissance in Bayreuth of what was considered a truly 

German legend and the majesty and glory of a truly German hero – the blond Siegfried. Viereck 

(2004: 139) claims that it was Wagner who “almost single-handedly steeped all Germany in the 

tales of Siegfried, his wonderful sword, the horrible capitalistic [sic] dragon, the not quite Aryan 

little dwarfs with their hoard of corrupting gold.” This invincible German hero could only be 

struck down by a stab in the back, a metaphor which Hitler applied to Germany‟s 1918 defeat as 

having supposedly been caused by the backstabbing “Jews and democrats at home”. (Viereck 

2004: 139) Thus we see how it is possible for the Volk to have gullibly followed the Nazi vision 

for a new Germany, as Viereck (2004: 139) quotes from Elmer Davis: “three generations of 

Germans have been conditioned by (Wagner‟s) Ring operas to the conviction that the German 

Hero can never be struck down except by a stab in the back.” 

In the case of Die Meistersinger, we see the celebration of what were perceived as deeply 

German qualities or traits as embodied in the figure of Hans Sachs. It is not surprising that the 

by-now familiar “Dualität von irdischem Dasein und ästhetischer Erhebung” of the 

“Außenseiterkünstler[ ]” (Schubert 1983: 214) features prominently. Viereck (2004: lii) quotes 

Thomas Mann‟s 1940 letter to the editor of Common Sense, in which Mann notes Nietzsche‟s 

reaction to Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg: “Meistersinger – a lance against civilisation. The 

German against the French.” Mann, in the same letter, also refers this as an ominous indication 

that Die Meistersinger was “destined to become the favo[u]rite opera of our wretched Herr 

Hitler.” (Mann, Th. in Viereck 2004: lii) Viereck (2004: 224f.) cites several instances of 

56 Interestingly, Vaget (2006: 165) sees in Preetorius a model for the character of Sixtus Kridwiß, the 

“präfaschistische[n] Münchner” intellectual in Doktor Faustus. 

83

Rosenberg‟s reliance on Wagnerian ideals of the Nordic (and thus superior) race, as conveyed in, 

for example, Tristan and Die Meistersinger, and goes on to show how these and similar 

Wagnerian notions were so influential in the development of a recognisable Nazi „philosophy‟. 

Viewing music and its progression in a dialectical light, it is inevitable that the pendulum must 

eventually swing in the opposite direction. The antithesis of such emancipated and abandoned 

emotion must necessarily be as extreme in its divergence – Wagnerian Romanticism‟s libertine 57 

origins must inevitably give rise to the “musical totalitarianism” of Schönberg‟s dodecaphony. 

(Jones 1994: 129) The “emotion without order” of Tristan cannot but lead to the “order without 

emotion” (Jones 1994: 128) of twelve-tone music. Somewhat disconcerting, in the light of Th. 

Mann‟s fictional adaptation of it, is Schönberg‟s own comment on his „discovery‟ of the twelve- 

tone system, calling it one that would guarantee “die Vorherrschaft der deutschen Musik für die 

nächsten hundert Jahre.” (Vaget 2001: 19) This is distinctly reminiscent of Wagner‟s 

paradigmatic “Weltmachtstreben der deutschen Musik” (Vaget 2001: 19) and to my mind 

reinforces the allegorical use of music intended by Mann. 

Neither art nor human history are exempt from dialectical shifts – as Mann explains, with 

allegorical reference to the diminished 7 th chord that opens Beethoven‟s final piano sonata Op. 

111, “[der verminderte Septimakkord] hat [sein spezifisches Gewicht] verloren - durch einen 

historischen Prozeß, den niemand umkehrt.” (Mann, Th. 1948: 371) One can regard these shifts 

in a negative light – as processes of decay and degeneration; or a positive light – as processes of 

renewal. The former view is strikingly portrayed in Klaus Mann‟s Faust novel, in its 

descriptions of moral and societal decay: 

Wehe, dieses Land ist beschmutzt, und niemand weiß, wann es wieder rein werden darf – durch 

welche Buße und durch welch gewaltigen Beitrag zum Glück der Menschheit wird es sich 

entsühnen können von so riesiger Schande? Mit dem Blut und den Tränen spritzt der Dreck von 

allen Straßen aller seiner Städte. Was schön gewesen ist, wurde besudelt, was wahr gewesen ist, 

wurde niedergeschrien von der Lüge. (Mann, K. 2006: 225) 

It could similarly be argued that the latter view is suggested in Doktor Faustus, if one regards 

Leverkühn as the „prophet‟ and introducer of the atonal antithesis to Romanticism‟s thesis. It is 

possible that in ending his final composition, the D. Fausti Weheklag, on what can be referred to 

as the „hopeful high G‟ note of a cello (Mann, Th. 1948: 745), Leverkühn is expressing hope or 

dialectical faith in an eventual synthesis. 

57 While this term may, at first, seem excessive, I believe Mann himself expresses these sentiments in his Pro and 

Contra Wagner, referring to Tristan as “that most sublime and dangerous of Wagner‟s works” and characterising it 

by “its sensuous-suprasensuous passion, its lascivious desire for bed” (1985: 83). 

84

A final aspect to discuss here is what has already been briefly mentioned elsewhere – the notion 

of culture as a substitute for religion 58 , of art itself as a form of religion. Art‟s „connection‟ with 

religion, or the very idea that it could have any claim to intimately associate itself with religion, 

can be traced to the medieval marrying of Aristotelian philosophy and Christian doctrine, where 

Aquinas once again emerges as a leading figure. Here, Beauty, Goodness and Truth are 

conceived of as unified and unconditional transcendental attributes 59 of the absolute – in the case 

of a Christian framework, this may be seen as God. As previously argued, with reference to Ayn 

Rand, art is a manifestation or representation of a metaphysical reality; in the case of a Christian 

Weltanschauung, it is clear how art would then be representative of these particular conceptions 

of reality. Indeed it is from within, and in portrayal of, this Christian metaphysical schema that 

some of the greatest art in the Western world has been produced – Botticelli, Bach, Dante (whom 

Th. Mann quotes at the start of Doktor Faustus), to mention but a few artists. Insofar as the 

decline of the Christian West, with its inherited medieval metaphysical schema supporting the 

indivisibility of the transcendentals, has been observed over the last two centuries, particularly 

following the Enlightenment, an „unravelling‟ of this schema has occurred, and we see Kant as 

the first to refer to Beauty as being disconnected from Truth and Goodness. He refers to the 

judgement of Beauty as a judgement of taste (Crawford 2001: 51), thus according it a 

predominantly subjective nature. Our „cult of beauty‟ has its roots in this separation of Beauty 

from the other two transcendentals, and it being regarded as an end in itself, giving rise to the 

notion of art for art‟s sake. As Crawford (2001: 63) points out, the legacy of Kant‟s aesthetic 

theory, as expounded in the Critique of Judgement, plays an important role in the aesthetic 

theories of Hegel, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, as well as the writings of many 20 th century 

authors, amongst whom I believe Thomas Mann and, despite the much smaller œuvre, his son 

Klaus, may be counted. 

Heimendahl (1998: 64) quotes from Thomas Mann‟s Betrachtungen on faith and the nature of 

God, of whom Mann conceives in a distinctly pagan light: 

[D]er wahre Glaube ist keine Doktrin und keine verstockte und rednerische Rechthaberei. Er ist 

nicht der Glaube an irgendwelche Grundsätze, Worte und Ideen wie Freiheit, Gleichheit, 

Demokratie, Zivilisation und Fortschritt. Es ist der Glaube an Gott. Was aber ist Gott? Ist er 

nicht die Allseitigkeit, das plastische Prinzip, die allwissende Gerechtigkeit, die umfassende 

Liebe? Der Glaube an Gott ist der Glaube an die Liebe, an das Leben und an die Kunst. 

58 „Religion‟, in this discussion, refers specifically to Christianity, the legacy of which can be seen as the 

predominant cultural and spiritual framework of the West. 

59 Subsequently referred to as the transcendentals. 

85

If we consider the notion of Schicksal on a par with the Roman fatum 60 , then we may conclude 

that here German culture, as represented by Thomas Mann, is distancing itself from its Christian 

heritage, in favour of a reliance on mythology 61 . As Mann, through the character of Zeitblom, 

muses on the use of this word, 

das „Schicksal‟ (wie „deutsch‟, dies Wort, ein vor-christlicher Urlaut, ein tragisch-mythologischmusikdramatisches 

Motiv!) [...,] wozu wir begeistert (ganz allein begeistert) aufbrachen – erfüllt 

von der Gewißheit, daß Deutschlands säkulare Stunde geschlagen habe [.] (Mann, Th. 1948: 463) 

If art is to be an expression of a metaphysical reality, its inspiration must come from within the 

workings and projections of that reality. I have already discussed the music of Leverkühn as an 

expression of a changed metaphysical reality; as such, his source of inspiration must logically 

have changed, too. The discussion on inspiration, as expounded in the „conversation‟ between 

Leverkühn and Sammael/ Satan in chapter 25 of Doktor Faustus, reveals the view that 

inspiration is beyond or outside of the scope of God. As Sammael says: 

Eine wahrhaft, beglückende, entrückende, zweifellose und gläubige Inspiration, eine Inspiration, 

bei der es keine Wahl, kein Bessern und Basteln gibt, bei der alles als seliges Diktat empfangen 

wird, der Schritt stockt und stürzt, sublime Schauer den Heimgesuchten vom Scheitel zu den 

Fußspitzen überrieseln, ein Tränenstrom des Glücks ihm aus den Augen bricht, - die ist nicht mit 

Gott, der dem Verstande zuviel zu tun übrig läßt, die ist nur mit dem Teufel, dem wahren Herrn 

des Enthusiasmus möglich. (Mann, Th. 1948: 367f.) 

Sammael, revealing his role as facilitator of this changed inspiration, explains: 

Wir entbinden nur und setzen frei. Wir lassen die Lahm- und Schüchternheit, die keuschen 

Skrupel und Zweifel zum Teufel gehen. Wir pulvern auf und räumen, bloß durch ein Bißschen 

Reiz-Hyperaemie, die Müdigkeit hinweg, – die kleine und die große, die private und die der Zeit. 

(Mann, Th. 1948: 366) 

Similarly, Höfgen, by „sealing his pact‟ with the devil in the Minister-Loge immediately 

following his performance as Mephistopheles, can be said to have embraced his new form of 

inspiration, as personified in the character of the Ministerpräsident. 

Klaus Mann‟s depiction of the new metaphysical reality carries through this same theme of 

diabolical inspiration and reign: 

Wehe, der Himmel über diesem Lande ist finster geworden. Gott hat sein Antlitz weggewendet 

von deisem Lande, ein Strom von Blut und Tränen ergießt sich durch die Straßen aller seiner 

Städte. [...] Die dreckige Lüge maßt sich die Macht an in diesem Lande. Sie brüllt in den 

60 As in Virgil‟s Aeneis. 

61 In connection with this, Beddow (1994: 4) draws attention to what he refers to as “Mann‟s fascination with myth 

as a repository of stability in change” and it is thus not altogether surprising that his work generally reveals a 

dependence on mythological elements. As further examples – the notions of the Apollonian/ Dionysian; Beddow‟s 

reference to the Joseph tetralogy (1994: 4); extensive reference to individual mythological figures in Doktor Faustus 

(e.g. p.599), as well as in Death in Venice (e.g. the end of Chapter 4) to mention but a few. 

86

Versammlungssälen, aus den Mikrophonen, aus den Spalten der Zeitungen, von der 

Filmleinwand. Sie reißt das Maul auf, und aus ihrem Rachen kommt ein Gestank wie von Eiter 

und Pestilenz: der vertreibt viele Menschen aus diesem Lande, wenn sie aber gezwungen sind zu 

bleiben, dann ist das Land ein Gefängnis für sie geworden – ein Kerker, in dem es stinkt. Wehe, 

die Apokalyptischen Reiter sind unterwegs, hier haben sie sich niedergelassen und aufgerichtet 

ein gräßliches Regiment. Von hier aus wollen sie die Welt erobern: denn dahin geht ihre Absicht. 

Sie wollen herrschen über die Länder und über die Meere auch. Überall soll ihre Mißgestalt 

verehrt und angebetet werden. Ihre Häßlichkeit soll bewundert sein als die neue Schönheit. 

(Mann, K. 2006: 225f.) 

Leverkühn and Höfgen embrace and make use of their tainted talents and succeed, whether 

deliberately or unintentionally, in using these to convey a reflection of their “Vaterland, über dem 

der Himmel finster geworden ist und von dem Gott sein Antlitz zürnend weggewendet hat.” (Mann, K. 

2006: 226) 

87

CONCLUSION 

Over the last decades, Thomas and Klaus Mann have been extensively, though by no means 

exhaustively, researched. In the course of this project, however, I became aware of several 

avenues of interest which, in addition to the shared Faust theme, provided much food for thought 

and fodder for research. 

While, of course, neither Klaus nor Thomas Mann were dedicated historiographers, what they 

offer in their Faust novels are great insights into the workings of history. As Hayden White, in 

his controversial Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth Century Europe (1973) 

showed, historiographers have often used various modes of emplotment – namely romance, 

comedy, tragedy and satire 62 – to illustrate and convey historical events (Korhonen 2006: 11), 

thus not only drawing on literary genres and tropes (irony, synecdoche, metaphor and 

metonymy), but also, in essence, performing a “literary operation” (White 1978: 85). The 

relationship between historiographers and writers could thus be expressed as one of mutual 

inversion in that historiographers employ literary techniques while writers use history as their 

setting. 

History is one of the „others‟ of literature inasmuch as literature is understood to be identifiable 

with fiction. Because history wishes to make true statements about the real world, not an 

imaginary or illusory world. Secondly, history is literature‟s other inasmuch as literature is 

understood to be identifiable with figuration, figurative language, and metaphor, rather than with 

literal speech, unambiguous assertion, and free or poetic (rather than bound) utterance. 

[...However,] literature – in the modern period – has regarded history not so much as its other as, 

rather, its complement in the work of identifying and mapping a shared object of interest, a real 

world which presents itself to reflection under so many different aspects that all of the resources 

of language – rhetorical, poetical, and symbolic – must be utilized to do it justice. (White 2006: 

25) 

Applying this notion of an inverse relationship between historiography, history and literature to 

the fiction of Thomas and Klaus Mann, specifically the novels Doktor Faustus and Mephisto, 

gives rise to several interesting questions. Their use of what we, half a century later, consider to 

be a historical setting leads us to consider to what extent, if at all, they could be regarded as 

historians. That era, now considered a pivotal point in history, cannot, for them, be regarded as 

such, since that was the very period in which they lived and about which they wrote. Can the 

events taking place around one, irrespective of their magnitude and impact, be referred to as 

history if they are situated more in the present than in the past? Can the fictional portrayal of 

62 If one were to apply these modes of emplotment to the two novels under discussion, Mephisto would be classified 

as a satire, while Doktor Faustus could be construed as a type of anti-romance. 

88

such events, undertaken at the very time they are unfolding, be classified as historical? 

Furthermore, since literature that is placed within an historical setting generally has the benefit of 

being in a position of retrospection and thus better able to perceive and offer insights, I find it all 

the more extraordinary that the insights, particularly as offered in Doktor Faustus, and the 

projections, such as are found in Mephisto, ring so true and are so profoundly „historical‟ in their 

grounding. Thomas Mann‟s mechanism for paralleling the historical aspects of Germany‟s 

demise alongside that of Leverkühn is his use of Zeitblom as narrator. His own three-fold 

intention, as conveyed in the Entstehung, was to use a narrator, “[um] das Dämonische durch ein 

exemplarisch undämonisches Mittel gehen zu lassen” (Mann, Th. 1949: 32). Unlike the narrator 

in Mephisto, who is an unidentified, omniscient third-person voice, Zeitblom is one of the main 

characters in the novel, somewhat verbose and emotionally unrestrained at times, deeply attached 

to Leverkühn and thus unreliable. It is, however, precisely because of these „human failings‟ that 

Zeitblom is a valuable „mirror‟ held up by Mann both to reflect particularly the Bürger identity 

as discussed in Chapter 2, and to serve as a counter-figure to Leverkühn, in whom we do not see 

the face of humanity. Mann further saw his narrator Zeitblom as a tool which would provide him 

with the necessary distance from his protagonist 63 , and would enable the story to unfold in what 

can be termed polyphonic time frames. (Mann, Th. 1949: 32) 

Considering that the historical setting of both novels transported the original 16 th century Faust 

legend four centuries into the future, the socio-historical context, with reference to political and 

artistic trends, as outlined in Chapter 1, served to provide a new framework within which to 

situate these evolved, modern-day Fausts. Our contemporary protagonists, Leverkühn and 

Höfgen, despite their reliance on previous legends as discussed in Chapter 3, break with tradition 

in that both are artist figures – inspiration- and success-driven respectively – unlike their 

academically motivated predecessors as portrayed by Marlowe and Goethe. Furthermore, both 

modern-day Faust novels are directly concerned with political questions and it can be asked why 

a 20 th century political Faust novel is so effective in its use of an artist-figure protagonist. There 

is first and foremost the view that, as both Thomas and Klaus Mann advocated, the artist has a 

social responsibility, an idea which Zeitblom and Leverkühn explore: “Kunst und Künstler 

[konnten] als Seismographen kommenden Unheils dienen [, ... denn] bei einem Volk von der Art 

des unsrigen [...] ist das Seelische immer das Primäre und eigentlich Motivierende; die politische 

Aktion ist zweiter Ordnung, Reflex, Ausdruck, Instrument.” (Reed, T.J. in Koopmann 1990: 

63 We read in the Entstehung that Leverkühn was a character very close to Mann‟s heart: “Ich […] gestand ihm, dass 

ich […] nie eine Imagination geliebt hätte wie ihn.” (Mann, Th. 1949: 80) 

89

130) Apart from the previously-mentioned factors of ambiguity between performance and 

reality, the Künstlerproblematik, and the art forms chosen as being well-suited to allegorical 

implementation, there is also something to be said for the idea that, as Kurzke (in Koopmann 

1990: 703) quotes from Mann‟s Bruder Hitler, “[d]ie Keimzelle der Faschismustheorie ist die 

Künstlerproblematik”. 

As mentioned in my introduction, there is a relative lack of comparative literature on these two 

novels. What I saw as a potentially fruitful avenue to explore was that of identifying and 

examining those elements of the Faust legend which both authors recognised as speaking 

particularly to the German heart. This gave rise to Chapter 2, where, with reference to 

caricatures and types portrayed in the two novels, as representative of the Bürger, Künstler and 

émigré identities, I attempted to isolate those particular traits which could account for the view 

shared by Thomas and Klaus Mann that Germany/ „the German‟ possessed the Faustian tendency 

to pursue at all costs the satisfaction sought by each. In the case of Leverkühn, this satisfaction 

comes in the form of release from his creative impotence; in the case of Höfgen, the fulfilment of 

his career ambitions. 

In Chapter 4, by examining formative aesthetic theories alongside the art forms portrayed in 

these two novels, I sought to show how music, as demonically inspired, and theatre, as locus of 

ambiguity, fulfil the allegorical function assigned them by Thomas and Klaus Mann respectively. 

I was interested to explore medieval aesthetics, particularly its application of the transcendental 

attributes of Beauty, Truth and Goodness to the music of Leverkühn, as triggered by my reading 

of the diverse reactions of his audiences. Those who are reported by Zeitblom as having been 

repulsed or horrified by it could perhaps be said to be reacting to its lack of what they are 

accustomed to perceiving as beauty. In addition to the perceived absence of beauty in his work, 

it can also be said that it neither reflects nor points towards goodness. Recalling the notions of 

Beauty, Truth and Goodness as they relate to art, it could thus be argued that the validity as „art‟ 

of Leverkühn‟s music, insofar as art is an instance of the three transcendentals, is dubious on two 

counts. However, bearing in mind the Thomist conditions for beauty – that an object possess a) 

the integrity or perfection proper to itself; b) its proper proportion; and c) its proper clarity 

(Margolis 2001: 34; my emphasis) – I believe his music succeeds according to all three criteria, 

since it is in each instance true to its nature. Furthermore, the case for his music „qualifying‟ as 

art is strengthened by the fact that it can be seen, in a Randian light, as pointing to, or 

90

epresentative of, a metaphysical truth, thus securing the presence of two of the three 

transcendentals. 

Linked with the above-mentioned idea of integrity is that of intellectual honesty. Unlike 

Leverkühn, who operates under no illusions as to the nature and origin of his artistic production, 

and can thus be said to possess intellectual honesty, Höfgen prefers to embrace the ambiguity 

that so characterises both his life and his art form hovering between being a Faust or a 

Mephistopheles. Continuing the idea mentioned above of the evolution of the Faust figure over 

the centuries, we can explore a further comparison between our contemporary protagonists and 

their predecessors – the question of redemption. While both the chapbook Faust and Marlowe‟s 

Faust die a gruesome death and are fetched by the devil at the end of the agreed 24 years, there is 

some room for ambiguity, since the friends of Marlowe‟s protagonist arrange a religious 

ceremony/ funeral, hinting at the theme of salvation. Goethe‟s Faust, however, is explicitly 

granted salvation and snatched from the clutches of hell by God‟s angels, and his quality of 

constant Streben is identified as being, quite literally, his one redeeming characteristic: “Wer 

immer strebend sich bemüht / den können wir erlösen” (Goethe 1897: Part II l11936, 7). If we 

compare Leverkühn and Höfgen on this count, we find that Leverkühn can indeed be said to 

strive in that he remains intellectually honest and does not exempt himself from suffering – 

chapters 34 and 35 detail his attachment to, and eventually helpless spectatorship at the horrid 

sickness and death of little Echo. In his private gathering, which almost takes the form of a 

confession, shortly before his withdrawal from public life, he alludes to this quality of striving: 

“Vielleicht auch siehet Gott an, daß ich schwere gesucht und mirs habe sauer werden lassen, 

vielleicht, vielleicht wird mirs angerechnet und zugute gehalten sein, daß ich mich so befleißigt 

und alles zähe fertig gemacht [habe]”. (Mann 1948: 761) Höfgen, on the other hand, while he 

certainly does strive to attain his ambitions, is relatively unmoved by the sufferings of those 

around him, as mentioned in previous chapters of this thesis. We are thus more inclined to 

condemn Höfgen; Leverkühn, however, evades our judgement and remains a thoroughly 

ambiguous character. 64 

Furthermore, the fact that Leverkühn holds the above-mentioned public confession, while he 

neither asks forgiveness of God nor of man, could be said to merit his absolution in that he is 

expressing remorse. During his conversation with Sammael, Leverkühn himself states that the 

64 An interesting point to consider here is whether or not any judgement/ condemnation of the protagonists on the 

part of the reader is indeed justified, since neither narrator paints an entirely honest portrait of his subject, but is 

prejudiced – in the case of Mephisto, negatively prejudiced, and in Doktor Faustus, positively so. 

91

“contritio ohne jede Hoffnung und als völliger Unglaube an die Möglichkeit der Gnade und 

Verzeihung, als die felsenfeste Überzeugung des Sünders, er habe es zu grob gemacht, und selbst 

die unendliche Güte reiche nicht aus, seine Sünde zu verzeihen, - erst das ist die wahre 

Zerknirschung”. (Mann 1948: 382) 

These sentiments are again expressed by Leverkühn during his confession: “Meine Sünde ist 

größer, denn daß sie mir könnte verzeiehen werden […;] da seht ihr, daß ich verdammt bin, und 

ist kein Erbarmen für mich”. (Mann 1948: 761f.) Interesting is the use of the term “contrition” 

in this context. If one takes into account that the definition of contrition is “sorrow of the soul 

and detestation for the sin committed” (Catechism § 1451), which “arises from a love by which 

God is loved above all else” (Catechism § 1452), it seems Leverkühn is in actual fact expressing 

attrition, which is “born of the consideration of sin‟s ugliness or the fear of eternal damnation 

[and which can] initiate an interior process which, under the prompting of grace, will be brought 

to completion by sacramental absolution [but which by itself] cannot obtain the forgiveness of 

grave sins” (Catechism § 1453). Sammael points out to Leverkühn that, from a Protestant 

perspective, this “Attritionslehre ist wissenschaftlich überholt” and thoroughly antiquated (Mann 

1948: 381), and this could be the reason he succumbs to despair and rejects the notion of God‟s 

mercy being greater than any sin. 

There is much that can still be explored on the aesthetic conceptions inherent in particularly 

Thomas Mann‟s Faustus novel. It would be interesting to trace further connections, or apply 

further elements of medieval aesthetics to his implied claims about art. 

An examination, in the light of Hayden White‟s Metahistory, of not only Doktor Faustus and 

Mephisto, but also the broader œuvre of both authors, could certainly be pursued in greater 

depth, since both Thomas and Klaus Mann were prominent in their cultural, political and social 

engagement, and thus well-positioned to contribute, in a literary capacity, to our knowledge and 

understanding of both German and European history. 

The theory of intertextuality and the varied occurrences examined in this research have provided 

a tool for not only understanding each novel in isolation, but also for comparison with the many 

other versions of the Faust legend. I believe it is precisely the fact that Thomas and Klaus Mann 

rely so heavily on the various forms of intertextuality as discussed in Chapter 3, that enables 

92

them to almost indiscernibly dissolve the distinctions between history and literature, fiction and 

biography, art and reality. 

The common function as allegory of the rise and fall of Nazi Germany, together with the reliance 

on art and the specific art forms chosen, situate these two novels firmly in the twentieth century, 

and thus prove the timelessness and warning that are at the heart of the Faust legend – in the 

words of Friedrich Nietzsche: 

Nicht die Nothdurft, nicht die Begierde, – nein, die Liebe zur Macht ist der Dämon der 

Menschen. Man gebe ihnen Alles, Gesundheit, Nahrung, Wohnung, Unterhaltung, – sie sind und 

bleiben unglücklich und grillig: denn der Dämon wartet und wartet und will befriedigt sein. 

Morgenröthe (1881) 

93

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