Death in Venice and Other Stories

by Thomas Mann

  Tonio Kröger

  1

  The winter sun appeared as but a weak spot of brightness over the cramped city, milky-white and dull behind layers of clouds. It was wet and drafty in the narrow gable-lined streets, and a kind of soft hail, neither ice nor snow, fell intermittently.

  School was done for the day. Throngs of liberated schoolchildren streamed out over the cobblestone schoolyard and through the iron gate, scattering and hurrying off in various directions. The older ones proceeded with dignity, their bookbags pressed high against their left shoulders, their right arms flailing in the wind as they steered their way home for their afternoon meal. The younger population broke into a happy trot, spraying icy slush all around, while the paraphernalia of knowledge rattled in their sealskin knapsacks. Here and there, however, they all stopped to gaze up with pious eyes and doff their caps before the Wotan’s hat and Jove’s beard of a deliberately striding master teacher . . .

  “Are you ready yet, Hans?” said Tonio Kröger, who had been waiting for some time on the curb. Smiling, he walked over to his friend, who was on his way through the gate. He was talking to some other classmates and was about to leave with them.

  “Huh?” he said, looking at Tonio . . . “Oh yes, that’s right! Well, sure, let’s take a little walk.”

  Tonio said nothing, and his eyes clouded over. Had Hans forgotten, had he only just remembered that they wanted to take a short walk together that afternoon? And here he had been looking forward to it practically nonstop from the moment they had made their plan!

  “All right, adieu, fellows!” Hans Hansen said to his classmates. “I’m going to go a ways with Kröger.” —And the two of them turned left, while the others ambled off to the right.

  Hans and Tonio had time for an after-school walk because they both came from households where the family didn’t sit down to its main meal until four o’clock. Their fathers were important businessmen who held public office and were very influential in the city. For many generations the Hansens had owned the great timber yards down by the river, where giant mechanical saws hissed and spat as they cut tree trunks into lumber. Tonio, on the other hand, was the son of Consul Kröger, whose sacks of grain with the big black firm insignia could be seen being transported through the streets, day in, day out, and whose large ancestral home was the most magisterial in the entire city . . . Such was the number of their family acquaintances that the two friends constantly had to doff their caps; in fact, many people rushed up to pay first respects to this pair of fourteen-year-olds.

  Both had their schoolbags slung over their shoulders, and both were warmly dressed in fine clothes: Hans in a short fisherman’s jacket with the wide blue collar of his sailor suit folded down over the shoulders and back, Tonio in a gray belted peacoat. Hans wore a Danish sailor’s cap with short ribbons from which a shock of raffia blond hair poked out. He was extraordinarily handsome and well built, broad in the shoulders, thin at the waist, with incisive steely blue eyes set wide apart. Underneath Tonio’s round fur hat, two dark, delicately shadowed eyes with heavy lids peered out drowsily and somewhat timidly from his brunet face with its sharply defined, Mediterranean-looking features . . . The cast of his mouth and chin was unusually soft. He walked listlessly and unevenly, while the Hansen boy’s trim black-stocking-clad legs marched along in nimbly unerring step.

  Tonio didn’t speak. He was in pain. Knitting his rather crooked brows, holding his lips pursed in a whistle and his head at an angle, he stared into the distance. This was his typical carriage and demeanor.

  Suddenly Hans locked arms with Tonio and looked sideways over at him, for he understood quite well what this was all about. And although Tonio said nothing as they took their next steps, his anger instantaneously melted.

  “I hadn’t forgotten, you know, Tonio,” said Hans, staring down at the pavement before him. “I just thought our walk today would be off because it’s so cold and windy. A bit of cold and wind doesn’t bother me, though, and I think it’s fabulous that you waited for me. I was getting annoyed because I thought you had gone home . . .”

  At these words, everything inside Tonio leapt with joy.

  “Yes, well, then, let’s walk along the levees!” he said, emotion in his voice. “Along Mühlenwall and Holstenwall, and then I’ll walk you home . . . I don’t mind going on alone from there, not at all. Next time we can go my way.”

  At heart, he didn’t really believe what Hans had told him, and he felt quite sure that this private walk was only half so important to his companion as it was to him. But he saw too that Hans rued his forgetfulness and was trying hard to make it up to him. And the last thing he wanted was to forestall their reconciliation . . .

  The fact was that Tonio was utterly smitten with Hans Hansen and had already suffered quite a bit on his account. The one who loves most becomes subordinate and must suffer—his fourteen-year-old soul had already learned this simple yet hard lesson from life. And it was in his nature to record experiences like this, making mental notes and savoring them somewhat, although he never applied them to his own person or benefited from them in any practical way. It was also in his nature to find these sorts of lessons much more important and interesting than any of the knowledge forced on him in school. Indeed, he spent most of his classroom hours under those vaulted Gothic arches plumbing the emotional depths of such insights, thinking them through to their logical conclusion. This pursuit gave him a feeling of satisfaction much like the one he got wandering around his room with his violin (for he played the violin), producing the softest notes he could to accompany the rippling water of the fountain, which danced its way skyward under the branches of the old walnut tree down in the garden . . .

  The fountain, the old walnut tree, his violin and the sea in the distance, the Baltic Sea, whose summer dreams he was permitted to listen in on every vacation—these were the things he loved, the things he surrounded himself with, the things amidst which his inner life played itself out. They were all things with names that could be used to good effect in poetry and that did indeed keep recurring in the actual poems Tonio Kröger wrote from time to time.

  This—the fact that he had written a notebook full of poems—had through his own negligence become public knowledge and had greatly harmed his reputation among his classmates and teachers. On the one hand, Consul Kröger’s son found it stupid and vulgar to be put off by poetry, and he despised them accordingly, both his classmates and his teachers, whose ill manners in other areas repulsed him too and whose own personal shortcomings he perceived with unusual penetrating clarity. On the other hand, he also found something extravagant and actually unbecoming in the writing of poetry and had to agree partially with all those who considered it a dubious activity. That alone, however, wasn’t enough to make him desist . . .

  Since he squandered his free time after school, was slow and disinterested in the classroom and possessed a poor reputation among his teachers, he always brought home the most miserable report cards. These drew the ire and consternation of his father, a tall, meticulously attired gentleman with thoughtful blue eyes, who always wore a wildflower in his buttonhole. With Tonio’s mother, his beautiful, dark-haired mother, it was different. Her first name was Consuelo, and she was unlike the other ladies of the city in every respect, having been brought there by his father one day long ago from somewhere at the very bottom of the map. She could have cared less about his grades . . .

  Tonio loved his dark, fiery mother, who played piano and mandolin so marvelously, and was glad that she didn’t fret about his dubious standing in society. On the other hand, he sensed that his father’s anger was much more respectable and decent and, though constantly scolded by him, ultimately saw everything through his father’s eyes, whereas he found his mother’s cheerful indifference a bit disreputable. His thoughts often ran something like: I have gone on long enough being the way I am—negligent, contrary, fascinated by things no one else thinks ab
out—with no desire or capacity to change. At least, it’s only natural that people scold and punish me seriously for it, instead of looking past the problem with kisses and music. We’re not gypsies in some green wagon; we’re respectable people, Consul Kröger’s family, the Krögers . . . On more than one occasion he had also thought: why am I so obstinate, so quick to contradict, so at odds with my teachers and outcast from the other boys? Just look at them, the students at the head of the class and the good, solid average ones. They don’t find the teachers ridiculous; they don’t write poems; they only think about things that people do think about, things that can be said out loud. How proper they must feel, existing in harmony with everything and everyone around them! That must be nice . . . What’s wrong with me? What end will this come to?

  This way of looking at himself and his position in life played a major part in Tonio’s love for Hans Hansen. He loved him first of all because he was handsome, but also because he appeared in every respect to be the reverse and opposite of himself. Hans Hansen was an excellent student and a fun-loving fellow to boot, who rode horses, played sports, swam like a champion and enjoyed universal popularity. The teachers doted on him with something approaching tender fondness, addressing him by his first name and giving him every encouragement. His classmates vied for his favor, and on the street gentlemen and ladies would stop him, tug the shock of raffia blond hair that poked out from his Danish sailor’s cap and say: “Good day, Hans Hansen, with the nice shock of hair! Are you still primus? Say hello to Papa and Mama, my fine young man . . .”

  That was Hans Hansen, and ever since they had known each other, the mere sight of him had filled Tonio Kröger with longing, a jealous longing that sat somewhere above the breast and burned. Oh, to have your blue eyes, he thought, to live as peacefully and happily with the entire world as you do! You are always doing something respectable and generally considered worthwhile. After your homework, you take riding lessons or make something with your fretsaw. Even during vacation by the sea, your time is spent rowing, sailing and swimming, while I lie around in the sand, idly daydreaming and staring at the mysterious shifting expressions that flit across the face of the ocean. That’s why your eyes are so bright. Oh, to be like you . . .

  He made no attempt to become like Hans Hansen, and perhaps this wish was never meant very seriously. But he felt an anguished desire to be loved by him for what he was, and he vied for such love in his own way, in slow, heartfelt, solicitous, long-suffering melancholy, although it was a melancholy that could burn more brightly and more intensely than any of the impetuous passion one might have expected from his foreign appearance.

  And his overtures were not entirely in vain, for Hans, who incidentally respected Tonio for a certain mastery, a skill with words that allowed him to express complicated things, clearly understood that an extraordinarily strong and tender affection was alive for him. He did his best to show his gratitude and was the cause in Tonio of much delight at reciprocated interest, but also of much jealous dismay and disappointment at his ultimately fruitless efforts to establish a deeper bond between them. For the strangest thing was that Tonio, who envied Hans Hansen and the life he led, was nonetheless constantly trying to convert him to his own ways, an enterprise that could succeed at best for isolated moments and even then only superficially . . .

  “I’ve just been reading something wonderful, something splendid . . .” said Tonio Kröger. They walked along sharing a bag of fruit drops they had bought for ten pfennigs at Iversen’s store on Mühlenstraße. “You must read it, Hans. It’s Schiller’s Don Carlos . . . I’ll lend it to you, if you want . . .”

  “Oh no,” said Hans Hansen. “Forget it, Tonio. That’s not for me. I’ll stick to my horse books. There are some fabulous illustrations in them, I tell you. Sometime when you’re at my house, I’ll show them to you. They have stop-action photographs where you can see the animals at a trot, a gallop or a jump, in all the positions too fast to be made out with the naked eye . . .”

  “In all the positions?” Tonio asked, to be polite. “That’s swell. But Don Carlos, now that beats everything. There are parts, you’ll see, that are so beautiful they send a chill up your spine. At the same time they’re like a small explosion . . .”

  “An explosion?” asked Hans Hansen. “How so?”

  “Well now, there’s the part where the king breaks down because he’s been betrayed by the marquis . . . although the marquis has only betrayed him out of love, you see, because he’s sacrificing himself for the prince. And then the news makes its way from the royal cabinet into the anteroom that the king is in tears. ‘In tears?’ ‘The king in tears?’ None of the courtiers know what to say, and it’s really moving because the king is such a terribly strict, strong man. You can easily understand why he breaks down and cries, though, and I actually feel sorrier for him than the prince and the marquis put together. He’s always so alone and unloved, and just when he thinks he’s found someone, that person betrays him . . .”

  Hans Hansen looked him sideways in the eye, and something he saw must have won him over, for he suddenly hooked arms again with Tonio and asked:

  “So what sort of a betrayal is it, Tonio?”

  This roused Tonio’s excitement.

  “Yes, well, you see,” he began, “the thing is that all the letters to Brabant and Flanders . . .”

  “Look, here comes Erwin Jimmerthal!” said Hans.

  Tonio fell silent. Why, he thought, I wish the earth would just open up and swallow him, this Jimmerthal! Why does he have to come along and bother us? Please don’t let him walk the whole way with us and talk about riding lessons . . . for Erwin Jimmerthal also took riding lessons. He was the son of a bank director and lived just outside the city walls. With his crooked legs and slits for eyes, he was coming, already rid of his schoolbag, up the avenue.

  “Hi, Jimmerthal,” said Hans. “I’m on a little walk with Kröger . . .”

  “I have to go into town to get something,” said Jimmerthal, “but I’ll walk with you a little ways . . . Hey, are those fruit drops you have there? Sure, thanks. I’ll have a couple. So we have lessons again tomorrow, Hans.” — Riding lessons were meant.

  “Fabulous!” said Hans. “My parents are buying me leather gaiters, you know, because I got top marks on the exertitium the other day . . .”

  “You probably don’t take riding lessons, do you, Kröger?” Jimmerthal asked, his eyes nothing more than a pair of blank slits.

  “No . . .” answered Tonio in an uncertain tone.

  “You should ask your father,” Hans Hansen chipped in, “to let you take lessons too, Kröger.”

  “Sure . . .” said Tonio both quickly and indifferently. He was choked up for a moment because Hans had addressed him by his last name. Hans seemed to sense this, adding by way of explanation:

  “I have to call you Kröger because your first name is so strange. No offense, but I just don’t like it. Tonio . . . what sort of a name is that? It’s not your fault, but . . .”

  “No, you were probably given that name because it’s got something foreign and exceptional . . .” said Jimmerthal, acting as if he were putting the best face on the matter.

  Tonio’s lips trembled. He collected himself and said:

  “Yes, it’s a silly name. God knows I’d rather be called Heinrich or Wilhelm, you can believe me. It’s because I was named after my mother’s brother, who’s called Antonio; my mother’s from abroad, you see . . .”

  Then he fell silent, letting the other two boys talk on about horses and leather riding gear. Hans had hooked Jimmerthal by the arm and was speaking with a lively enthusiasm that could have never been awakened in him for Don Carlos . . . From time to time Tonio felt an urge to cry making its way upward and tickling his nose; he also had difficulty controlling his chin, which was on the verge of twitching . . .

  Hans just didn’t like Tonio’s name—what could be done
about it? His own was Hans, and Jimmerthal’s was Erwin, fine, those were normal names that no one found alienating. “Tonio,” however, was something foreign and exceptional. Yes, there was always something exceptional about him, regardless of what he might have wanted himself; he was isolated, outcast from normal everyday people, despite the fact that he was Consul Kröger’s son, one of the Krögers, not some gypsy in a green wagon . . . But why did Hans call him Tonio so long as they were alone together only to be ashamed whenever someone else appeared? At times he was so close to him, won over, no doubt about it. What sort of a betrayal, Tonio? Hans had asked and then took his arm. Nonetheless he had breathed a sigh of relief when Jimmerthal had showed up. He had abandoned him, throwing his alien name in his face for no reason. How painful it was to have to see through it all! . . . In his heart, he knew that, as long as they were alone, Hans Hansen was somewhat fond of him. But as soon as a third person appeared, he would feel ashamed and give him up. And he would be alone again. He thought of King Philip. The king in tears . . .

  “Jesus,” said Erwin Jimmerthal, “now I really have to get going! Adieu, fellows, thanks for the fruit drops.” With that he jumped on a bench by the side of the avenue, ran with his crooked legs along its surface and trotted off.

  “I don’t mind Jimmerthal one bit,” said Hans emphatically. He had a spoiled way of self-consciously announcing his likes and dislikes, as if generously conferring them . . . Then, since he was already warm on the subject, he went on talking about his riding lessons. They weren’t far from the Hansens’ residence; the walk along the levees didn’t take all that long. They held on tightly to their caps and bent their heads against the strong, damp wind creaking and groaning among the bare branches of the trees. Hans Hansen kept on talking, Tonio adding only an occasional forced “Aha” and “I see” and feeling no pleasure when Hans, carried away by his monologue, again took him by the arm, for this was only a semblance of intimacy, without significance.