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

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.
    â€œAm 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:
    â€œOh, 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 withhis back rather impolitely toward them. Then he turned halfway around, continuing to stare out into the garden, and said:
    â€œThe sun has disappeared. The sky has clouded over little by little. It’s already beginning to get dark.”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œOh,” 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.”
    â€œYou’re not fond of the sun, Mr. Spinell?”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œMusic . . .” he said. “If only we had some music now! Sometimes the English children sing little Negro songs, but that’s about it.”
    â€œYesterday afternoon Miss von Osterloh thrashed her way through ‘The Monastery Bells,’” Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife remarked.
    â€œBut you play, madam,” he said in a pleading tone, standing up . . . “You used to play duets every day with your father.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Spinell, but that was then. In the days of the fountain, you know . . .”
    â€œDo it now!” he requested. “Play a few bars just this once! If you only knew how I long . . .”
    â€œBoth our family doctor and Dr. Leander have expressly forbidden it, Mr. Spinell.”
    â€œThey’re not here, either of them! We’re free . . . You’re free, madam. A few meager chords . . .”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œOh, 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 . . .”
    â€œChopin?”
    â€œYes, the nocturnes. The only thing left is for me to light the candles . . .”
    â€œDon’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