Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann Page A

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.”
    â€œIndeed, as nature intends.”
    â€œAnd then there was also my happiness to think about.”
    â€œOf course. You found it, happiness . . .”
    â€œI 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 . . .”
    â€œThis isn’t the first time I’ve heard you describe little Anton as healthy, madam. He must be the veritable picture of health?”
    â€œHe certainly is. And it’s comical how much he resembles my husband!”
    â€œAha! — 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.”
    â€œYes. — And
you
are a thoroughly puzzling individual, Mr. Spinell, I assure you . . .”
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œSo 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:
    â€œVery well, thanks. What could be wrong with him? —He and my husband are both fine.”
    8
    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