Death in Venice and Other Tales

by Thomas Mann

  “Yes, imagine,” she said involuntarily. “I’m from Bremen.”

  “I was there once,” he remarked contemplatively.

  “My God, you’ve even been there? No, really, Mr. Spinell, I believe you’ve seen everything from Tunis to Spitzbergen!”

  “Yes, I was there once,” he repeated. “For a couple of brief hours one evening. I recall an old, narrow street with the moon shining down oblique and strange upon the gabled rooftops. Then I was in a cellar that smelled of wine and mildew. I have a vivid memory of that . . .”

  “Really? Where might that have been? You see, it was in just such a gray-gabled house, an old merchant’s house with an echoing wooden hallway and a whitewashed gallery, that I was born.”

  “So your good father is a businessman?” he asked with some hesitation.

  “Yes. But he’s an artist too; actually he’s first and foremost an musician.”

  “Aha! Aha! Of what sort?”

  “He plays the violin . . . but that doesn’t tell the whole story. The way he plays it, Mr. Spinell, that’s the thing! There are certain notes I cannot so much as hear without feeling the extraordinary sting of tears in my eyes. Nothing else affects me this way. You wouldn’t believe it . . .”

  “I believe it! Oh, to think I wouldn’t believe it! Tell me, madam: your family must be an old one? Surely there have been many generations that have lived, worked and passed on under that gray-gabled roof?”

  “Yes. But why do you ask?”

  “Because it is not uncommon for an ancient family with a background in mundane, middle-class practicality to transcend its origins in art during its final days . . .”

  “Is that so?—Well, as far as my father is concerned, he’s certainly more of a musician than most who go by the name and earn their keep from it. I only play a little piano. Nowadays they have expressly forbidden me to play; but back then, at home, I still did. My father and I, we played together . . . Yes, I have fond memories of all those years, especially of the garden, our garden behind the house. It was pathetically weed-infested and overgrown, and its walls were crumbling and covered by moss, but that was precisely its charm. In its center was a fountain with a thick ring of irises around it. Every summer I spent many a long hour there with my friends. We would all sit on little garden stools around the fountain . . .”

  “How beautiful!” said Mr. Spinell, hunching his shoulders. “Did you sit and sing?”

  “No, mostly we crocheted.”

  “Nonetheless . . . nonetheless . . .”

  “Yes, we crocheted and gossiped, my six friends and I . . .”

  “How beautiful! Lord, do you hear, how beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Spinell, his face quite distorted.

  “What do you find so beautiful about that, Mr. Spinell?”

  “Oh, just this, that there were six beside you, that you weren’t included in their number, but instead stood out from amongst them as the obvious queen . . . that you were distinguished from your six friends. A small golden crown, utterly inconspicuous but deeply significant, sat on your head and sparkled . . .”

  “But that’s nonsense. There was no crown . . .”

  “Yes there was. It sparkled there, hidden. I would have seen it, seen it sitting clearly on your head, had I been lurking in the bushes . . .”

  “God only knows what you would have seen. But you weren’t lurking there; it was my current husband who one day emerged with my father from those bushes. I’m afraid they heard all sorts of gossip . . .”

  “So it was there that you first met your husband, madam?”

  “Yes, that was where I first met him!” she said in a loud and happy voice, and as she smiled, the little blue vein over her eyebrow stood out, strained and uncanny. “He was visiting my father on business, you see. The very next day he was invited to dinner, and just three days later he asked for my hand.”

  “Is that so! Did everything happen that quickly?”

  “Yes . . . well, from that point on, things went a bit more slowly. My father was firmly set against it, you see, and insisted on more time to think things over. In the first place, he would have rather kept me by his side, and he had other objections as well. But . . .”

  “But?”

  “But I truly wanted to,” she said with a smile, and again the little pale blue vein, together with an expression of strain and sickness, dominated her sweet face.

  “Aha, you wanted to.”

  “Yes, and I showed him that my mind was firmly made up and that my intentions were honorable, as you see . . .”

  “As I see. Certainly.”

  “. . . So that my father finally had to give in.”

  “So then you left him and his violin, left the old house, the overgrown garden, the fountain and your six friends, to follow after Mr. Klöterjahn.”

  “ ‘Follow after’ . . . what a strange way you have of expressing yourself, Mr. Spinell! It’s almost biblical! —Yes, I left it all, just as nature intends.”

  “Indeed, as nature intends.”

  “And then there was also my happiness to think about.”

  “Of course. You found it, happiness . . .”

  “I found it, Mr. Spinell, in that hour when little Anton was first brought to me, that hour when our little Anton cried out at the top of his little lungs, strong and healthy as he is . . .”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard you describe little Anton as healthy, madam. He must be the veritable picture of health?”

  “He certainly is. And it’s comical how much he resembles my husband!”

  “Aha! — Yes, and so it came to pass. And now your name is no longer Eckhof but something else, and you have little Anton and a minor tracheal condition.”

  “Yes. — And you are a thoroughly puzzling individual, Mr. Spinell, I assure you . . .”

  “Yes, so help me God, you are that!” said Mrs. Spatz who, incidentally, was still present.

  This conversation also internally preoccupied Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife. As trivial as it had been, it concealed something at its core that fueled her reflections about herself. Was this the pernicious influence under which she had come? She grew weaker and often ran a fever, a quiet heat that surrounded her with a feeling of gently being borne upward and left her in a meditative, fragile, complacent, somewhat prickly frame of mind. In those moments when she wasn’t confined to her bed, when Mr. Spinell would tiptoe over with the utmost care on his immense feet, stand at two steps’ remove and talk in his supplicant’s hushed tone, one leg behind the other, bent over at the waist, as if he were lifting her aloft, gently, with timid reverence, to lay her down on a bed of cloudy pillows, where no shrill sounds or earthly contact could reach her . . . she would always remember the way Mr. Klöterjahn always said “Careful, Gabriele, take care, my angel, keep your lips closed!” It was like a hard and well-meaning clap on the shoulder. But she would then shrink back from the memory of him and rest, high aloft in her weakness, on the cloudy pillows that Mr. Spinell had dutifully prepared her.

  One day, without occasion, she returned to the brief conversation she had had with him about her family and her childhood.

  “So is it really true, Mr. Spinell,” she asked, “that you would have seen the crown?”

  And even though their little chat had taken place fourteen days earlier, he knew immediately what she meant and passionately reassured her that, back then, as she had sat around the fountain amidst her six friends, he would have seen the little crown sparkling, seen it secretly sparkling on her head.

  A few days later, out of politeness, another patient inquired how everything was with little Anton back at home. She shot a nimble glance at Mr. Spinell, who was nearby, and answered, in a slightly bored tone of voice:

  “Very well, thanks. What could be wrong with him? —He and my husband are both fine.”

  8

&
nbsp; At the end of February, on a frosty day purer and brighter than any that had come before, Einfried was ruled by high spirits. The heart patients jabbered amongst themselves with flushed cheeks, the diabetic general was humming tunes like a schoolboy and the gentlemen with the spastic legs were beside themselves with glee. What was going on? Nothing less than the undertaking of a communal excursion, consisting of a sleigh ride in the mountains, with several vehicles, under the jingle of bells and cracking of whips. Dr. Leander had ordered it for the amusement of his patients.

  Of course the “serious cases” had to remain at home. Poor “serious cases”! The others concurred in this decision and agreed not to let on about the whole business; it felt uncommonly good to be in the position of showing a little pity and consideration. But even among those who could well have taken part in the fun, there were several who opted not to. Miss von Osterloh, for her part, was immediately excused. No one as overburdened with duties as she was could seriously consider going on a sleigh ride. The maintenance of the house absolutely required her presence, and to make a long story short, she stayed behind at Einfried. Moreover, there was universal disappointment among those concerned when Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife announced that she, too, wished to stay at home. In vain Dr. Leander argued for the benefits of a refreshing trip; she declared that she wasn’t in the mood, that she had a migraine and felt exhausted, and he finally gave in. The cynical joker, however, took the opportunity to remark:

  “You watch, now the Rotten Infant won’t come either.”

  And he was proven right, for Mr. Spinell let it be known that he intended to work that afternoon—he was quite fond of using the word “work” for his dubious activity. Not a single soul mourned his absence, and equally little regret was expressed when Mrs. Spatz decided to keep her young friend company since, as she said, sleigh rides always made her seasick.

  Immediately after the main meal, which had been moved forward that day to around twelve o’clock, the sleighs pulled up in front of Einfried, and the patients, wrapped up warmly, full of curiosity and excitement, made their way in lively groups through the garden. Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife stood with Mrs. Spatz behind the glass door leading to the terrace, Mr. Spinell at the window of his room, to watch their departure. They saw how the guests laughed and argued briefly with one another over the best seats, saw how Miss von Osterloh ran with a fur boa around her neck from one sleigh to the next, shoving baskets of provisions under the seats, saw how Dr. Leander, a fur hat pulled over his forehead, his glasses reflecting the sunlight, surveyed the situation one last time, then too took his seat and gave the signal to depart . . . The horses started, a couple of ladies shrieked and toppled backwards, the bells jingled, the short-handled whips cracked and their long lashes dragged in the snow behind the runners. Miss von Osterloh stood at the garden gate waving her handkerchief until the party glided out of sight around a bend in the road and their gleeful shouts died away. Then she went back through the garden to catch up with her duties. The two ladies left the glass door, and almost simultaneously Mr. Spinell stepped back from his point of vantage.

  Silence prevailed at Einfried. The expedition was not expected to be back before nightfall. The “serious cases” lay in their rooms, suffering. Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife and her mentor went on a short walk, after which both returned to their quarters. Mr. Spinell stayed in his room as well, occupying himself in his own way. At around four o’clock the ladies were each brought a half-liter of milk, while Mr. Spinell took his usual weak tea. A short time later, Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife tapped on the wall separating her room from Mrs. Spatz’s and said:

  “Should we go down to the sitting room, Mrs. Spatz? I just don’t know what to do with myself any more up here.”

  “Just a second, dear!” answered the magistrate’s wife. “I’ll just put on my boots, if you don’t mind. I’ve been lying on my bed, you see.”

  As was only to be expected, the sitting room was empty. The ladies sat down by the fireplace. Mrs. Spatz stitched flowers on a piece of evenweave, and Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife, too, completed a couple of stitches, whereupon she let her needlework drop into her lap and sat staring out over the armrest of her chair, daydreaming. Finally she made a remark hardly worth her opening her mouth for, and to her dismay, Mrs. Spatz asked “What?” and she had to repeat the entire sentence. Mrs. Spatz asked again, “What?” At that moment, however, steps could be heard in the outside foyer. The door opened, and Mr. Spinell came into the room.

  “Am I disturbing?” he asked softly, still on the threshold, looking exclusively at Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife and bowing at the waist in a kind of gentle, hovering way . . . The young woman answered:

  “Oh, why, not at all! In the first place this room is a designated open port, Mr. Spinell, and secondly, there’s nothing to disturb. I have the distinct impression I’m boring Mrs. Spatz . . .”

  He had nothing to say to this, so he smiled instead, baring his decayed teeth, and under the eyes of the ladies walked over to the glass door, his steps extremely self-conscious. There he stopped and stared outside with his back rather impolitely toward them. Then he turned halfway around, continuing to stare out into the garden, and said:

  “The sun has disappeared. The sky has clouded over little by little. It’s already beginning to get dark.”

  “Yes, there are shadows everywhere,” answered Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife. “It seems our sleigh riders will get their snow after all. Yesterday at this time it was still broad daylight, but today it’s already getting dark.”

  “Oh,” he said, “after the extreme brightness of these past weeks, the darkness is good for the eyes. I’m almost grateful to this sun, which lights up the beautiful and vulgar with the same obtrusive clarity, for finally hiding its face a bit.”

  “You’re not fond of the sun, Mr. Spinell?”

  “Well, I’m not a painter . . . People turn inward in the absence of sun. — There’s a thick pale gray line of clouds. Perhaps that means a thaw tomorrow. In any case, I wouldn’t recommend straining your eyes on your needlepoint all the way over there, madam.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m in no danger of that. But what is there to do?”

  He had sat down on the rotating stool in front of the piano, one arm resting on the instrument’s lid.

  “Music . . .” he said. “If only we had some music now! Sometimes the English children sing little Negro songs, but that’s about it.”

  “Yesterday afternoon Miss von Osterloh thrashed her way through ‘The Monastery Bells,’” Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife remarked.

  “But you play, madam,” he said in a pleading tone, standing up . . . “You used to play duets every day with your father.”

  “Yes, Mr. Spinell, but that was then. In the days of the fountain, you know . . .”

  “Do it now!” he requested. “Play a few bars just this once! If you only knew how I long . . .”

  “Both our family doctor and Dr. Leander have expressly forbidden it, Mr. Spinell.”

  “They’re not here, either of them! We’re free . . . You’re free, madam. A few meager chords . . .”

  “No, Mr. Spinell, you won’t get anywhere with that. Who knows what kind of miracles you expect from me! I’ve forgotten everything, believe me. There’s hardly a thing I still know by heart.”

  “Oh, then just play this ‘hardly a thing’! And besides, there’s some sheet music here somewhere. Here it is, on top of the piano. No, this is nothing. But here’s some Chopin . . .”

  “Chopin?”

  “Yes, the nocturnes. The only thing left is for me to light the candles . . .”

  “Don’t get the idea I’m going to play, Mr. Spinell! I’m not allowed to. What if it damages my health?” —

  He fell silent. He stood with his immense feet, his long black jacket and his gray-haired, weak-jawed, beardless face in the light of the two candles on the piano, letting his hands dang
le at his sides.

  “I won’t ask you again,” he said at last, softly. “If you’re afraid of damaging your health, madam, then let the beauty that might have sounded under your fingers remain dead and mute. You weren’t always so reasonable, at least not conversely when it came to renouncing beauty. You didn’t worry about your health and showed much more daring and determination about following your will, when you forsook your childhood fountain and laid aside the little golden crown. . . . Hear me out,” he said after a short pause, lowering his voice even further. “If you sit down here and play as you did before, when your father stood beside you drawing those notes from his violin which always made you cry, then maybe it will appear once more, secretly sparkling on your head, the little, golden crown . . .”

  “Really?” she asked with a smile . . . By chance, her voice failed her when she said this word, so that the first half came out hoarse and the second was utterly toneless. She cleared her throat and then said:

  “Are those truly Chopin’s nocturnes you have there?”

  “They truly are. They’re open and everything is ready.”

  “Well, then, by God, I will play one of them,” she said. “But only one, you hear? You’ll have heard enough of me then forever, anyway.”

  With that, she got up, laid her needlepoint down at her side and walked over to the piano. She took a seat on the stool, which had a couple of bound volumes of music on top, adjusted the candelabras and flipped through the sheet music. Mr. Spinell had pulled up a chair and sat there next to her like a music teacher.