by Thomas Mann
“No, we mostly crocheted.”
“But still—”
“Yes, we crocheted and chattered, my six friends and I—”
“How beautiful! Good Lord! think of it, how beautiful!” cried Herr Spinell again, his face quite distorted with emotion.
“Now, what is it you find so particularly beautiful about that, Herr Spinell?”
“Oh, there being six of them besides you, and your being not one of the six, but a queen among them … set apart from your six friends. A little gold crown showed in your hair—quite a modest, unostentatious little crown, still it was there—”
“Nonsense, there was nothing of the sort.”
“Yes, there was; it shone unseen. But if I had been there, standing among the shrubbery, one of those times, I should have seen it.”
“God knows what you would have seen. But you were not there. Instead of that, it was my husband who came out of the shrubbery one day, with my father. I was afraid they had been listening to our prattle—”
“So it was there, then, madame, that you first met your husband?”
“Yes, there it was I saw him first,” she said, in quite a glad, strong voice; she smiled, and as she did so the little blue vein came out and gave her face a constrained and anxious expression. “He was calling on my father on business, you see. Next day he came to dinner, and three days later he proposed for my hand.”
“Really? It all happened as fast as that?”
“Yes. Or, rather, it went a little slower after that. For my father was not very much inclined to it, you see, and consented on condition that we wait a long time first. He would rather I had stopped with him, and he had doubts in other ways too. But—”
“But?”
“But I had set my heart on it,” she said, smiling; and once more the little vein dominated her whole face with its look of constraint and anxiety.
“Ah, so you set your heart on it.”
“Yes, and I displayed great strength of purpose, as you see—”
“As I see. Yes.”
“So that my father had to give way in the end.”
“And so you forsook him and his fiddle and the old house with the overgrown garden, and the fountain and your six friends, and clave unto Herr Klöterjahn—”
“ ‘And clave unto’—you have such a strange way of saying things, Herr Spinell. Positively biblical. Yes, I forsook all that; nature has arranged things that way.”
“Yes, I suppose that is it.”
“And it was a question of my happiness—”
“Of course. And happiness came to you?”
“It came, Herr Spinell, in the moment when they brought little Anton to me, our little Anton, and he screamed so lustily with his strong little lungs—he is very, very strong and healthy, you know—”
“This is not the first time, madame, that I have heard you speak of your little Anton’s good health and great strength. He must be quite uncommonly healthy?”
“That he is. And looks so absurdly like my husband!”
“Ah! … So that was the way of it. And now you are no longer called by the name of Eckhof, but a different one, and you have your healthy little Anton, and are troubled with your trachea.”
“Yes. And you are a perfectly enigmatic man, Herr Spinell, I do assure you.”
“Yes. God knows you certainly are,” said Frau Spatz, who was present on this occasion.
And that conversation, too, gave Herr Klöterjahn’s wife food for reflection. Idle as it was, it contained much to nourish those secret thoughts of hers about herself. Was this the baleful influence which was at work? Her weakness increased and fever often supervened, a quiet glow in which she rested with a feeling of mild elevation, to which she yielded in a pensive mood that was a little affected, self-satisfied, even rather self-righteous. When she had not to keep her bed, Herr Spinell would approach her with immense caution, tiptoeing on his great feet; he would pause two paces off, with his body inclined and one leg behind him, and speak in a voice that was hushed with awe, as though he would lift her higher and higher on the tide of his devotion until she rested on billowy cushions of cloud where no shrill sound nor any earthly touch might reach her. And when he did this she would think of the way Herr Klöterjahn said: “Take care, my angel, keep your mouth closed, Gabriele,” a way that made her feel as though he had struck her roughly though well-meaningly on the shoulder. Then as fast as she could she would put the memory away and rest in her weakness and elevation of spirit upon the clouds which Herr Spinell spread out for her.
One day she abruptly returned to the talk they had had about her early life. “Is it really true, Herr Spinell,” she asked, “that you would have seen the little gold crown?”
Two weeks had passed since that conversation, yet he knew at once what she meant, and his voice shook as he assured her that he would have seen the little crown as she sat among her friends by the fountain—would have caught its fugitive gleam among her locks.
A few days later one of the guests chanced to make a polite inquiry after the health of little Anton. Herr Klöterjahn’s wife gave a quick glance at Herr Spinell, who was standing near, and answered in a perfunctory voice:
“Thanks, how should he be? He and my husband are quite well, of course.”
* * *
There came a day at the end of February, colder, purer, more brilliant than any that had come before it, and high spirits held sway at Einfried. The “heart cases” consulted in groups, flushed of cheek, the diabetic general carolled like a boy out of school, and the gentlemen of the rebellious legs cast aside all restraint. And the reason for all these things was that a sleighing party was in prospect, an excursion in sledges into the mountains, with cracking whips and sleigh-bells jingling. Dr. Leander had arranged this diversion for his patients.
The serious cases, of course, had to stop at home. Poor things! The other guests arranged to keep it from them; it did them good to practice this much sympathy and consideration. But a few of those remained at home who might very well have gone. Fräulein von Osterloh was of course excused, she had too much on her mind to permit her even to think of going. She was needed at home, and at home she remained. But the disappointment was general when Herr Klöterjahn’s wife announced her intention of stopping away. Dr. Leander exhorted her to come and get the benefit of the fresh air—but in vain. She said she was not up to it, she had a headache, she felt too weak—they had to resign themselves. The cynical gentleman took occasion to say:
“You will see, the dissipated baby will stop at home too.”
And he proved to be right, for Herr Spinell gave out that he intended to “work” that afternoon—he was prone thus to characterize his dubious activities. Anyhow, not a soul regretted his absence; nor did they take more to heart the news that Frau Magistrate Spatz had decided to keep her young friend company at home—sleighing made her feel sea-sick.
Luncheon on the great day was eaten as early as twelve o’clock, and immediately thereafter the sledges drew up in front of Einfried. The guests came through the garden in little groups, warmly wrapped, excited, full of eager anticipation. Herr Klöterjahn’s wife stood with Frau Spatz at the glass door which gave on the terrace, while Herr Spinell watched the setting-forth from above, at the window of his room. They saw the little struggles that took place for the best seats, amid joking and laughter; and Fräulein von Osterloh, with a fur boa round her neck, running from one sleigh to the other and shoving baskets of provisions under the seats; they saw Dr. Leander, with his fur cap pulled low on his brow, marshalling the whole scene with his spectaclelenses glittering, to make sure everything was ready. At last he took his own seat and gave the signal to drive off. The horses started up, a few of the ladies shrieked and collapsed, the bells jingled, the short-shafted whips cracked and their long lashes trailed across the snow; Fräulein von Osterloh stood at the gate waving her handkerchief until the train ro
unded a curve and disappeared; slowly the merry tinkling died away. Then she turned and hastened back through the garden in pursuit of her duties; the two ladies left the glass door, and almost at the same time Herr Spinell abandoned his post of observation above.
Quiet reigned at Einfried. The party would not return before evening. The serious cases lay in their rooms and suffered. Herr Klöterjahn’s wife took a short turn with her friend, then they went to their respective chambers. Herr Spinell kept to his, occupied in his own way. Towards four o’clock the ladies were served with half a litre of milk apiece, and Herr Spinell with a light tea. Soon after, Herr Klöterjahn’s wife tapped on the wall between her room and Frau Spatz’s and called:
“Shan’t we go down to the salon, Frau Spatz? I have nothing to do up here.”
“In just a minute, my dear,” answered she. “I’ll just put on my shoes—if you will wait a minute. I have been lying down.”
The salon, naturally, was empty. The ladies took seats by the fireplace. The Frau Magistrate embroidered flowers on a strip of canvas; Herr Klöterjahn’s wife took a few stitches too, but soon let her work fall in her lap and, leaning on the arm of her chair, fell to dreaming. At length she made some remark, hardly worth the trouble of opening her lips for; the Frau Magistrate asked what she said, and she had to make the effort of saying it all over again, which quite wore her out. But just then steps were heard outside, the door opened, and Herr Spinell came in.
“Shall I be disturbing you?” he asked mildly from the threshold, addressing Herr Klöterjahn’s wife and her alone; bending over her, as it were, from a distance, in the tender, hovering way he had.
The young wife answered:
“Why should you? The room is free to everybody—and besides, why would it be disturbing us? On the contrary, I am convinced that I am boring Frau Spatz.”
He had no ready answer, merely smiled and showed his carious teeth, then went hesitatingly up to the glass door, the ladies watching him, and stood with his back to them looking out. Presently he half turned round, still gazing into the garden, and said:
“The sun has gone in. The sky clouded over without our seeing it. The dark is coming on already.”
“Yes, it is all overcast,” replied Herr Klöterjahn’s wife. “It looks as though our sleighing party would have some snow after all. Yesterday at this hour it was still broad daylight, now it is already getting dark.”
“Well,” he said, “after all these brilliant weeks a little dullness is good for the eyes. The sun shines with the same penetrating clearness upon the lovely and the commonplace, and I for one am positively grateful to it for finally going under a cloud.”
“Don’t you like the sun, Herr Spinell?”
“Well, I am no painter … when there is no sun one becomes more profound…. It is a thick layer of greyish-white cloud. Perhaps it means thawing weather for tomorrow. But, madame, let me advise you not to sit there at the back of the room looking at your embroidery.”
“Don’t be alarmed; I am not looking at it. But what else is there to do?”
He had sat down on the piano-stool, resting one arm on the lid of the instrument.
“Music,” he said. “If we could only have a little music here. The English children sing darky songs, and that is all.”
“And yesterday afternoon Fräulein von Osterloh rendered ‘Cloister Bells’ at top speed,” remarked Herr Klöterjahn’s wife.
“But you play, madame!” said he, in an imploring tone. He stood up. “Once you used to play every day with your father.”
“Yes, Herr Spinell, in those days I did. In the time of the fountain, you know.”
“Play to us today,” he begged. “Just a few notes—this once. If you knew how I long for some music—”
“But our family physician, as well as Dr. Leander, expressly forbade it, Herr Spinell.”
“But they aren’t here—either of them. We are free agents. Just a few bars—”
“No, Herr Spinell, it would be no use. Goodness knows what marvels you expect of me—and I have forgotten everything I knew. Truly, I know scarcely anything by heart.”
“Well, then, play that scarcely anything. But there are notes here too. On top of the piano. No, that is nothing. But here is some Chopin.”
“Chopin?”
“Yes, the Nocturnes. All we have to do is to light the candles—”
“Pray don’t ask me to play, Herr Spinell. I must not. Suppose it were to be bad for me—”
He was silent; standing there in the light of the two candles, with his great feet, in his long black tail-coat, with his beardless face and greying hair. His hands hung down at his sides.
“Then, madame, I will ask no more,” he said at length in a low voice. “If you are afraid it will do you harm, then we shall leave the beauty dead and dumb that might have come alive beneath your fingers. You were not always so sensible; at least not when it was the opposite question from what it is today, and you had to decide to take leave of beauty. Then you did not care about your bodily welfare; you showed a firm and unhesitating resolution when you left the fountain and laid aside the little gold crown. Listen,” he said, after a pause, and his voice dropped still lower; “If you sit down and play as you used to play when your father stood behind you and brought tears to your eyes with the tones of his violin—who knows but the little gold crown might glimmer once more in your hair….”
“Really,” said she, with a smile. Her voice happened to break on the word, it sounded husky and barely audible. She cleared her throat and went on:
“Are those really Chopin’s Nocturnes you have there?”
“Yes, here they are open at the place; everything is ready.”
“Well, then, in God’s name, I will play one,” said she. “But only one—do you hear? In any case, one will do you, I am sure.”
With which she got up, laid aside her work, and went to the piano. She seated herself on the music-stool, on a few bound volumes, arranged the lights, and turned over the notes. Herr Spinell had drawn up a chair and sat beside her, like a music-master.
She played the Nocturne in E-flat major, opus 9, number 2. If her playing had really lost very much then she must originally have been a consummate artist. The piano was mediocre, but after the first few notes she learned to control it. She displayed a nervous feeling for modulations of timbre and a joy in mobility of rhythm that amounted to the fantastic. Her attack was at once firm and soft. Under her hands the very last drop of sweetness was wrung from the melody; the embellishments seemed to cling with slow grace about her limbs.
She wore the same frock as on the day of her arrival, the dark, heavy bodice with the velvet arabesques in high relief, that gave her head and hands such an unearthly fragile look. Her face did not change as she played, but her lips seemed to become more clear-cut, the shadows deepened at the corners of her eyes. When she finished she laid her hands in her lap and went on looking at the notes. Herr Spinell sat motionless.
She played another Nocturne, and then a third. Then she stood up but only to look on the top of the piano for more music.
It occurred to Herr Spinell to look at the black-bound volumes on the piano-stool. All at once he uttered an incoherent exclamation, his large white hands clutching at one of the books.
“Impossible! No, it cannot be,” he said. “But yes, it is. Guess what this is—what was lying here! Guess what I have in my hands.”
“What?” she asked.
Mutely he showed her the title-page. He was quite pale; he let the book sink and looked at her, his lips trembling.
“Really? How did that get here? Give it me,” was all she said; set the notes on the piano and after a moment’s silence began to play.
He sat beside her, bent forward, his hands between his knees, his head bowed. She played the beginning with exaggerated and tormenting slowness, with painfully long pauses between the single figures. The
Sehnsuchtsmotiv, roving lost and forlorn like a voice in the night, lifted its trembling question. Then silence, a waiting. And lo, an answer: the same timorous, lonely note, only clearer, only tenderer. Silence again. And then, with that marvelous muted sforzando, like mounting passion, the love-motif came in; reared and soared and yearned ecstatically upward to its consummation, sank back, was resolved; the cellos taking up the melody to carry it on with their deep, heavy notes of rapture and despair.
Not unsuccessfully did the player seek to suggest the orchestral effects upon the poor instrument at her command. The violin runs of the great climax rang out with brilliant precision. She played with a fastidious reverence, lingering on each figure, bringing out each detail, with the self-forgotten concentration of the priest who lifts the Host above his head. Here two forces, two beings, strove towards each other, in transports of joy and pain; here they embraced and became one in delirious yearning after eternity and the absolute…. The prelude flamed up and died away. She stopped at the point where the curtains part, and sat speechless, staring at the keys.
But the boredom of Frau Spatz had now reached that pitch where it distorts the countenance of man, makes the eyes protrude from the head, and lends the features a corpse-like and terrifying aspect. More than that, this music acted on the nerves that controlled her digestion, producing in her dyspeptic organism such malaise that she was really afraid she would have an attack.
“I shall have to go up to my room,” she said weakly. “Goodbye; I will come back soon.”
She went out. Twilight was far advanced. Outside the snow fell thick and soundlessly upon the terrace. The two tapers cast a flickering, circumscribed light.
“The Second Act,” he whispered, and she turned the pages and began.
What was it dying away in the distance—the ring of a horn? The rustle of leaves? The rippling of a brook? Silence and night crept up over grove and house; the power of longing had full sway, no prayers or warnings could avail against it. The holy mystery was consummated. The light was quenched; with a strange clouding of the timbre the death-motif sank down: white-veiled desire, by passion driven, fluttered towards love as through the dark it groped to meet her.
