Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann

affects me this way. You wouldn’t believe it . . .”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œYes. But why do you ask?”
    â€œBecause 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 . . .”
    â€œIs 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 . . .”
    â€œHow beautiful!” said Mr. Spinell, hunching his shoulders. “Did you sit and sing?”
    â€œNo, mostly we crocheted.”
    â€œNonetheless . . . nonetheless . . .”
    â€œYes, we crocheted and gossiped, my six friends and I . . .”
    â€œHow beautiful! Lord, do you hear, how beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Spinell, his face quite distorted.
    â€œWhat do you find so beautiful
about that
, Mr. Spinell?”
    â€œOh, 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 . . .”
    â€œBut that’s nonsense. There was no crown . . .”
    â€œYes there was. It sparkled there, hidden. I wouldhave seen it, seen it sitting clearly on your head, had I been lurking in the bushes . . .”
    â€œGod 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 . . .”
    â€œSo it was there that you first met your husband, madam?”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œIs that so! Did everything happen that quickly?”
    â€œYes . . . 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 . . .”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œAha, you wanted to.”
    â€œYes, and I showed him that my mind was firmly made up and that my intentions were honorable, as you see . . .”
    â€œAs I see. Certainly.”
    â€œ. . . So that my father finally had to give in.”
    â€œSo 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.”
    â€œ ‘Follow