Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann Read Free Book Online Page A

well; she had no fever, hardly coughed at all and felt only the mildest aversion to food. She would sit for hours, as per doctor’s orders, on the sunny frost of the terrace. She would sit in the snow, tightly bundled in blankets and furs, optimistically inhaling the pure icy air, doing all she could for her ailing trachea. While there she would sometimes notice Mr. Spinell, also dressed warmly, wearing fur-lined boots that gave his feet surreal dimensions, as he strolled across the garden. He would walk tentatively through the snow, feeling his way forward, his arms set in a cautious and rigidly graceful position, and upon approaching the terrace, he would offer his supplicant’s greetings and ascend the bottom steps for a short conversation.
    â€œThis morning on my walk I saw a beautiful woman . . . Lord, she was beautiful!” he said, tilting his head to the side and splaying his fingers.
    â€œReally, Mr. Spinell? Do describe her to me!”
    â€œNo, I can’t. If I did, I would give you a false picture. I only glanced at the lady out of the corner of my eye as we passed; I never saw her really. But this fleeting shadow was enough to excite my imagination, so that I took away an image of her that is very beautiful . . . Lord, how beautiful!”
    She laughed. “Is that how you look at beautiful women, Mr. Spinell?”
    â€œCertainly, madam, and better I should do that than stare them crassly in the face, ogling reality, to ingrain upon myself the impression of a flawed actuality . . .”
    â€œOgling reality . . . what a strange turn of phrase. Just the sort of thing a writer would say, Mr. Spinell! But it’smade an impression on me, I must tell you. There’s much in it that I too can halfway understand. There’s something independent and free, announcing its disregard for reality, even though reality is what’s most respectable. Indeed reality is the very essence of respectability . . . And I sense also that there’s something beyond grasping, something more delicate . . .”
    â€œI know of only one face,” he said suddenly with an unusual joyous lilt in his voice, raising his clenched hands to his shoulders and displaying his rotten teeth in an exalted smile . . . “I know of only one face whose reality is so glorious that it would be a sin for my imagination to try to improve upon it, a face I could look at, could contemplate, not for minutes or hours, but my whole life through, losing myself entirely in it and forgetting everything on earth . . .”
    â€œYes, certainly, Mr. Spinell. Only Miss von Osterloh does have awful jug ears.”
    He gave no reply and bowed deeply. When he stood upright again, his eyes came to rest, with a pained and sorrowful look, on the strange little vein branching out, pale blue and sickly, across the otherwise unblemished perfection of her practically transparent forehead.
    7
    An oddball, a true oddball! Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife would occasionally reflect. And she had plenty of time for reflection. Perhaps it was that the change of climate had begun to lose its effect, or perhaps she had come under some directly pernicious influence. Whatever the reason, her health had worsened and full tracheal convalescence seemed a long way off, for she felt weak and tired, had no appetite and often ran a fever. Dr. Leander had most urgently recommended rest, quiet and caution. So, even when she was not required to lie down, she would sit, disregarded needlework in her lap, in the company of Mrs. Spatz, keeping still and pursuing this or that line of thought.
    He certainly made her think, this peculiar Mr. Spinell,but strangely, not so much about him as about herself. For some reason, he brought out in her an unusual curiosity, a heretofore unknown interest in her own person. One day in conversation he had remarked:
    â€œYes, indeed, women are a true