Death in Venice and Other Tales

by Thomas Mann

  “The staahs, Lord, just look at the staahs,” a voice said suddenly in a Northern accent and a ponderous singsong rhythm that might have issued from a large, empty barrel. He recognized it immediately. It belonged to a reddish blond, plainly dressed man with red eyelids who looked damp and cold, as if he had just come in from a swim. At dinner in the ship’s mess he had sat next to Tonio Kröger, where, with a series of modest, unassuming maneuvers, he had consumed an extraordinary quantity of lobster omelet. Now he stood beside him, leaning on the railing and looking up at the heavens, his chin pinched between his thumb and index finger. No doubt he found himself in one of those extraordinary, solemnly tranquil moods in which the barriers between people are lowered, in which the heart opens up to strangers and the mouth utters sentiments it would otherwise find embarrassing . . .

  “Look, sir, just look at the staahs. All aglitter, by god, the whole sky’s full of them. Let me ask you: looking up at the sky, knowing that many of these staahs are supposedly a hundred times bigger than the earth, how does it make you feel? We human beings have invented the telegraph and the telephone and so many newfangled scientific wonders, to be sure, we’ve done that. But when we look up at the sky, we are forced to recognize and understaand that we are still worms, pathetic little worms and nothing more—am I right or am I wrong, sir? Indeed, we’re nothing but worms!” he said, answering himself as he nodded, humble and contrite, at the firmament above.

  Oh please . . . no, this man doesn’t have an ounce of literature in him, thought Tonio Kröger. And in that instant he was reminded of something he’d recently read, an essay by a famous French writer comparing cosmology and psychology. That had been a really fancy bit of palaver.

  He gave the young man something resembling an answer to his heartfelt remark, and then they continued their conversation, leaning out over the railing and staring into the uneasy evening, lit by turbulent waves. It turned out that his companion was a young businessman from Hamburg, who was using this cruise as a vacation . . .

  “You should take a little steamaah trip to Copenhagen,” he said. “No sooner do I think this than I’m standing here. So far, so good. But lobstaah omelet, that was a mistake, you wait and see, sir: this will be a staahmy night, the captain said it himself, and with such heavy food in your staamach, it’s not going to be an easy trip . . .”

  Tonio Kröger listened to all this solicitous nonsense with concealed affection.

  “That’s true,” he said. “The food up here is altogether too heavy. It makes one listless and depressed.”

  “Depressed?” the young man repeated, giving him a dumbfounded look . . . “You’re a stranger here then?” he asked suddenly . . .

  “Oh yes, I come from a long way off!” Tonio Kröger answered with a vague, evasive arm motion.

  “Anyway you’re right,” said the young man. “God knows, what you said about depressed is exactly right. I’m almost always depressed, but especially on nights like this when the staahs are in the sky.” And he rested his chin once more on his thumb and index finger.

  Surely he writes poems, thought Tonio Kröger, honest, heartfelt businessman’s poems.

  It was getting late and the wind had now grown so powerful that it impeded further conversation. Therefore they decided to catch a bit of sleep and wished each other good night.

  In his berth Tonio Kröger stretched out on the narrow bunk but couldn’t drift off. The strong wind and its sharp aftertaste had left him extremely flushed, and his heart was restless, as though he were anxiously awaiting something sweet. Moreover, the vibrations from the ship sliding down a steep ocean swell and the propeller as it emerged sputtering from the water made him terribly queasy. He got dressed again and climbed up onto the open deck.

  Clouds raced past the moon. The sea was dancing. No longer were smooth, even waves rolling at regular intervals; instead, at some distance in the pale, flickering light, the sea was torn, whipped, churned into a frenzy. Gigantic, sharp-crested tongues licked up like flames, leaping skyward, hurling spray and spitting out jagged, unlikely shapes between froth-filled chasms, as though somewhere below monstrous tentacles were playing some crazy game. The ship’s passage was slow. Pounding, swaying and sighing, it worked its way through the tumult, and at times the polar bear and the tiger could be heard growling in the hold, for the ship’s motion made them ill. A man in a slicker, his hood pulled up over his head and his lantern strapped around his waist, walked back and forth on deck. His feet were set wide as he struggled to maintain his balance. There in back, bent far over the ship’s side, was the young man from Hamburg getting sick. “Lord,” he said in a hollow, trembling voice, as he spotted Tonio Kröger, “just look at the elements. All in an uproar, sir!” But then he was interrupted and hastily turned away.

  Tonio Kröger held tight to the nearest taut line and gazed out into the unfettered exuberance. A cry of jubilation gathered inside him that almost felt strong enough to drown out the wind and the waves. A hymn to the sea, inspired by love, began to sound in his soul. Untamed friend from when I was young, now again we are as one . . . but that was as far as it went. The poem had never been finished, never been roundly formed or calmly forged into a whole. His heart was alive . . .

  For a long time he stood there like that; then he stretched out on a bench beside the small ship’s housing and gazed up at the sky, where the stars flickered. He even dozed off a bit. And when the cold froth occasionally sprayed in his face, it seemed, in his half-sleep, like a caress.

  Vertical limestone cliffs, ghostly in the moonlight, came into view and approached; that was Moen Island. And again he dozed off, roused periodically by salty showers of spray that stung at his face and numbed his features . . . By the time he was completely awake, it was already morning, a light gray, refreshing morning, and the green sea had calmed down. At breakfast he again saw the young businessman, who turned quite red, apparently embarrassed at having uttered, under the cover of darkness, such shamefully poetic sentiments. He brushed his small red mustache with upward strokes of all five fingers and barked out a brisk morning greeting, like a soldier, only to avoid his companion anxiously thereafter.

  And so Tonio Kröger landed in Denmark. He arrived in Copenhagen, giving a tip to anyone who acted as if he had a claim to one, and explored the city from his hotel for three days, holding his guidebook open before him and behaving like a genteel foreigner wishing to enhance his knowledge. He took in the Kongens Nytorv with the horse in the center, gazed respectfully at the pillars of the Fruekirke, stood for a long time before Thorwaldsen’s noble and charming sculptures, climbed to the top of the Circular Tower, visited castles and spent two lively evenings in the Tivoli. But this was not really what he saw.

  Many of the houses had exteriors with openwork bell gables exactly like the older ones in his hometown, and on their doorplates he recognized many of the names from those days, names that seemed to signify something delicate and priceless to him, yet nonetheless also brought a kind of recrimination, reproach and longing for what had been lost. And everywhere he went, inhaling the damp sea air in deliberate, pensive breaths, he saw eyes that were as blue, hair that was as blond, and faces that were of exactly the same type and shape as those he had glimpsed in his unusually tormented, remorseful dreams during that one night in his hometown. It happened several times that, in the middle of the streets, a glance, a melodic word, a peal of laughter cut him to the quick . . .

  He didn’t hold out for long in this cheerful city. Unrest—sweet and foolish, part recollection and part expectation—drove him on, along with the need to lie peacefully on the beach rather than to play the role of the avid sightseer. So one gloomy day (the sea turned black) he boarded another ship and sailed north along the coast of Zealand toward Elsinore. There he continued his journey without delay by carriage, traveling three quarters of an hour along the main coastal road, never more than a short distance above the sea, until he reached
his final and true destination amidst a small settlement of low-lying houses, the small white beachfront hotel with green shutters, whose shingled tower looked out upon the sound and the Swedish coastline. He disembarked, took possession of the sunny room reserved for him, filled the shelves and cupboards with the things he had brought along and prepared to live for a while in the place.

  8

  September was almost over, and there were not many visitors left at Aalsgaard. Meals were taken in the large, ground-floor dining room with its open crossbeams and its tall windows looking out on the enclosed veranda and the sea. The proprietress headed the table, an elderly spinster with white hair, colorless eyes, faintly rosy cheeks and an uncertain warble of a voice, who constantly twiddled her red hands, trying to find a somewhat advantageous pose for them on the tablecloth. Also present was an old gentleman with a short neck, an icy gray sailor’s beard and a dark bluish face, a fish merchant from the capital who spoke German. He seemed to be afflicted with congenital congestion and suffered periodic sinus attacks, for he would occasionally put a ringed index finger up to one of his nostrils, press it shut and snort vigorously through the other to clear the passages. This didn’t prevent him, however, from constantly addressing the aquavit bottle that was kept in front of him at lunch and dinner, even at breakfast. Lastly there were three tall American boys together with a chaperon or tutor who always tugged at his glasses, never said anything and spent his days kicking around a ball with them. Their reddish blond hair was parted in the middle, and their faces were long and expressionless. “Please give me the wurst-things there!” one of them would say in English. “That’s not wurst, that’s schinken!” one of the others would reply—that was all they and their tutor ever contributed to mealtime conversation. Otherwise they just sat mute, drinking warm water.

  Tonio Kröger could not have wished for better company. He enjoyed the peace and quiet: he would take in the guttural consonants and bright, sorrowful vowels of the Danish language during the brief conversations between the fish merchant and the lady of the house, occasionally exchange a couple of words with the man about the current state of the barometer and then excuse himself, walking through the veranda down to the beach, where he spent many an idle morning hour.

  Sometimes it was still and summery there. The sea lay lazy and smooth in blue, bottle green and reddish streaks, with sparkling reflections of silvery light playing over its surface, as the seaweed withered to hay in the sun and jellyfish dried out in the sand. It always smelled slightly of decay and also slightly of tar from the fishing boat against which Tonio Kröger leaned so as to have the open horizon, not the Swedish coast, in view while he sat in the sand. But the gentle breath from the sea nonetheless swept pure and fresh over everything.

  And then there were gray, stormy days. The waves lowered their heads like bulls preparing their horns for the charge and ran furiously at the beach, awash and covered with dripping-wet seaweed, mussels and driftwood. Between the long swells great troughs formed, pale green and frothy under the overcast sky, while there beyond the clouds, where the sun was shining, a bright velvet gleam blanketed the water’s surface.

  Tonio Kröger stood surrounded by the roaring of the wind and surf, absorbed by this timeless, profound, deafening din he loved so very much, and when he turned to go, everything around him suddenly seemed so calm and warm. But at his back he always sensed the sea, calling out its greetings, tempting him. And he smiled.

  He walked inland across the solitude of fields and was soon swallowed by beech forest, such as stretched out for miles over this hilly region. He sat down on a bed of moss and leaned against a tree, so positioned that a strip of ocean was visible through the other trunks. Now and then the wind carried over the noise of the surf, a sound like distant wooden planks falling against each other. Crow caws above the treetops, hoarse, desolate and forlorn . . . he held a book propped upon his knees but didn’t read a single line. He savored a deep oblivion, floating weightlessly over space and time, and only occasionally did his heart shudder with sorrow, pierced by a short stab of longing or regret, whose name and origin he was too lethargic and distracted to question.

  Many a day passed like this, although he couldn’t have said how many and felt no need to find out. Then, however, came a special day when something different took place. It took place under sunny skies and in the presence of others, and Tonio Kröger wasn’t even particularly amazed.

  The day even began as something festive and delightful. Tonio Kröger awoke very early, quite abruptly, his sleep broken by a delicate, indefinite anxiety, to the sight of a miracle, a display of light conjured up by magic fairies. His room, which had a glass door, a sound-facing balcony and a thin white gauze curtain between the living and sleeping areas, was papered in delicate colors and decorated with small, cheery furniture: thus it always looked bright and hospitable. But at that moment, it had been supernaturally transfigured and illuminated before his sleepy eyes, dipped again and again in an ineffably fair and misty rose-colored light that gave the walls and furniture a golden tint and made the gauze curtain glow in mild pink . . . For a long time Tonio Kröger couldn’t comprehend what was happening. But as soon as he went to the glass door and looked outside, he saw that it was the sun on the rise.

  It had been overcast and rainy for several days, but now the sky was spread out like tightly spanned, pale blue silk, shimmering and clear, over land and sea. The sun, streaked and bordered by clouds shining red and gold, rose solemnly above the flickering ripples of the water, which seemed to shudder and begin glowing beneath it . . . That was how the day began, and, dumbfounded with joy, Tonio Kröger threw on his clothes, ate breakfast before everyone else downstairs on the veranda, swam for some distance in the sound in front of the small wooden changing hut, then took an hour’s walk on the beach. When he returned to the hotel, several omnibus carriages stood out front, and from the dining room he could see, both in the adjacent piano parlor and on the terraced veranda, great numbers of people in basic middle-class attire sitting at round tables consuming buttered bread and beer and carrying on animated conversations. There were whole families present, with older and younger members, even a few children.

  At his second breakfast—the table was heavy with cold dishes, smoked goods, salted foods and pastries—Tonio Kröger inquired what was going on.

  “Guests!” said the fish merchant. “Visitors from Elsinore on an excursion, ball guests. Yes, God help us, we won’t get any sleep, not tonight! There’ll be dancing, dancing and music, and you have to think it will go on for quite some time. It’s a family gathering, a country outing followed by a reunion back here, essentially a package deal, or something similar, to take advantage of the nice weather. They’ve come by boat and carriage, and now they’re eating breakfast. Later they’re going on a bit further by land, but they’ll return this evening for dancing and other amusements here in the dining room. Yes, damn it all to hell, we won’t be able to sleep a wink . . .”

  “It’s a nice change,” said Tonio Kröger.

  After that nothing more was said for quite some time. The proprietress fidgeted with her red fingers, the fish merchant snorted through one nostril to clear the passages and the Americans drank warm water and stared with their long faces.

  Then all of a sudden it happened: Hans Hansen and Ingeborg Holm walked through the dining room. —

  Tonio Kröger, pleasantly tired from his swim and brisk walk, was reclining in a chair eating smoked salmon on toast—he sat facing the veranda and the sea. Suddenly the door opened, and the two of them entered, hand in hand, leisurely strolling. Ingeborg—blond Inge—was dressed in bright colors, just as she usually had been during Mr. Knaak’s dance lessons. She wore a lightweight floral dress above the ankle, and around her shoulders was a broad white tulle collar with a low neckline that exposed her soft, supple throat. Her hat was dangling from its two tied ribbons from one of her arms. She had perhaps gotten a bit large
r since then, and her fabulous ponytail was now braided around her head, but Hans Hansen was the same as ever. He was dressed in his fisherman’s jacket with the golden buttons, its wide blue collar folded back over the shoulders, and in one hand he held his sailor’s cap by its short straps, swinging it back and forth at his side without a care. Ingeborg kept her long horizontal eyes averted, probably vaguely embarrassed at the stares of the diners. Hans Hansen, however, turned toward the breakfast buffet, his head straight and defiant, his steel blue eyes measuring each of the guests in turn, mustering them with a certain contempt. He even let go of Ingeborg’s hand so that he could swing his cap back and forth more vigorously, to demonstrate what kind of a man he was. Thus, against the backdrop of the calm sea growing ever bluer, the two of them passed before Tonio’s eyes. They walked the length of the dining room and disappeared through the opposite door into the piano parlor.

  This happened at around eleven-thirty in the morning, and while the regular hotel guests remained seated over their breakfast, the party in the next room and on the veranda got up and departed. They left the hotel by the side door, which also served as an entrance and exit, not one of them setting foot in the dining room proper. They could be heard getting into their carriages, joking and laughing, and then came sounds of one vehicle after another beginning to grind its way down the gravel road and into the distance . . .

  “So they’re coming back?” asked Tonio Kröger.

  “That they are!” said the fish merchant. “And it’s a crying shame. They’ve arranged for music, I should point out, and I sleep directly above the dining room.”

  “It’s a nice change,” Tonio Kröger repeated. Then he stood up and went.

  He spent the day as he had spent all the others, on the beach and in the woods, propping a book on his knees and squinting into the sun. He thought of only one thing, that they would return and that there would be dancing and other amusements in the dining room, as the fish merchant had promised. He did nothing else but look forward to it with the sort of anxiously sweet anticipation he hadn’t once felt in all these long lifeless years. At one point that day, thanks to some chain of associations, he briefly recalled a distant acquaintance, the writer Adalbert, who had known what he wanted and had taken refuge in a coffeehouse to escape the spring air. And he shrugged his shoulders at the memory . . .