Death in Venice and Other Stories

by Thomas Mann

  But sometimes he does catch the mouse, to my distress, since as soon as he gets hold of his prey, he’s merciless, eating it alive, fur and bones and all. Perhaps the unlucky creature was betrayed by its instincts and chose a spot for his hole that was too soft, too easily exposed and unearthed. Perhaps it didn’t tunnel far enough down and then was too scared to correct its mistake. Perhaps it lost its head and tried to hide a few inches below the surface, its beady eyes bulging in horror as the terrible snorting drew near. Whatever the reason, the iron claws ultimately uncover it and toss it in the air—up into the light of day, you hapless little mouse! You were right to be afraid, and it’s a good thing that your overwhelming, fully justified fear seems to have left you only half-conscious, for you’re about to be ground into meal. By now he’s got it by the tail. He dashes it against the ground two or three times, and a faint squeak—the last sound this godforsaken mouse is destined ever to make—can be heard. Then Baushan snaps it up between his jaws and into his white teeth. Legs spread wide, front paws braced outward and neck inclined, he jerks his head forward as he chews, shifting his grip on his prey with every bite and moving it around in his mouth. The little bones crack, and for a second a scrap of fur hangs from the corner of his mouth, to be licked away. Then the whole business is over, and Baushan takes up a joyous victory dance around me as I stand leaning on my cane in the very spot from where I’ve watched the whole proceeding. “Well, you’re a fine one!” I tell him, nodding in horrified recognition of his achievement. “You murderer, you cannibal!” He dances in double-time at these words—he does everything but laugh out loud. I continue on my way down the path, somewhat chilled by what I’ve witnessed yet also inwardly bemused by life’s crude sense of humor. It’s part of the natural order of things that mice with faulty instincts get pulverized. Nonetheless, I prefer it in such instances if I’ve only been a spectator and haven’t actually assisted the natural order of things with my walking stick.

  It’s a shock when the pheasant suddenly bursts from the bushes where it had been asleep or, if awake, hiding, and from where it has been flushed out, after a bit of sniffing, by Baushan’s game-dog nose. Flapping and beating, crying and clucking in terrified outrage, the great rust-colored bird takes to the air with its long tail feathers. Dropping its dung onto the woods below, as fearful as a silly chicken, it flees into a nearby tree and continues making a racket, while Baushan, braced against the tree trunk, barks furiously up at it. “Up and off!” his barking says. “Keep flying, you silly object of desire, so that I can chase you.” And the pheasant cannot withstand this powerful voice. With a rustle it forsakes its perch and continues its arduous flight through the treetops, squawking and carping all the while, with the stoic and silent Baushan giving hot pursuit at ground level.

  This is Baushan’s idea of bliss—he wants and knows no other. What would happen if he ever caught one of these birds? There’s no need to speculate. Once I actually saw him stumble across a pheasant—it must have been fast asleep, its heavy wings unable to lift it in time. He got hold of it between his claws, then stood there as the discouraged victor and had no idea what to do. One wing splayed out, its neck craned sideways, the creature lay in the grass, shrieking and shrieking, sounding for all the world like a little old lady being murdered in the bushes, which foul deed I came running to prevent. But I was soon convinced that no one was in any danger: Baushan’s transparent helplessness—his half-curious, half-disgusted expression as he looked sideways down upon his prisoner—assured me of that. The womanly screeching at his feet seemed to grate on his nerves, and the entire incident was more a source of embarrassment than triumph. Was it just his concern for honor and a bit of schadenfreude that made him pick at his prey? I think I saw him pluck out a couple of feathers—using his lips, not his teeth—and toss them aside with a contemptuous jerk of his head. Then he walked off, letting the bird go, not out of pride, but boredom, because the situation as it stood seemed to him to have nothing more to do with the joyful art of the hunt. Never have I seen such an astonished bird! It had no doubt bid farewell to life, and for a while it apparently no longer knew what to make of its own continuing existence, lying there as though dead for quite some time. After that, it reeled a bit on the ground, swooped up into a tree, seemed about to fall back to earth, then finally came to and made for the horizon on its arduously flapping wings. It was no longer shrieking; its beak was shut. Silently, it flew over the park, the river and the woods beyond, on and on, as far as it could, and I’m sure it has never returned.

  But there are many more like it in these parts, and Baushan hunts them in the best sporting tradition. The only blood he sheds is that of the mice he eats, and this is but a superficial by-product of his real activity—the finding of scents, the flushing of game, the running and the chasing—as anyone who witnessed him during this splendid game could attest. How handsome he becomes! How idealized, how perfect! Thus the young hayseed from the highlands becomes perfect and exemplary. Thus the Alpine deerhunter comes into his own. Everything fine, authentic and superlative in him rises to the surface during these hunting hours and is displayed in all its glory. That’s why he insists so vehemently on our hunts and suffers so deeply if they pass without turning up anything. He’s no pinscher; he’s a game dog and tracker, as good as any in the book, and self-satisfaction speaks from every one of the masculine and primal warrior poses he strikes in rapid succession. There’s little I find so delightful as to see him trotting jauntily through the brush, then suddenly stopping as though chained to the spot, one paw delicately raised and inwardly bowed, clever, alert, all his features beautifully taut! He’s whimpering. He’s stepped on something like a thorn and is crying out. But that, too, is nature, that, too, the appealing license of handsome simplicity, which can only momentarily undermine his dignity. A second later his full glory has been restored.

  I look at him and recall a time when he in fact did lose all his pride and dignity, sinking back into the physical and emotional depths of our first encounter in the innkeeper’s kitchen, which it had cost him such struggle to overcome and replace with confidence in himself and the world. I don’t know what was wrong with him—to this day it remains a mystery—but he was bleeding, sometimes from the mouth, sometimes from the nose or the throat. He left behind drops of blood wherever he went: on the grass of our hunting ground, the straw in his doghouse, the floor of whatever rooms he was in. Although he didn’t appear to be injured in any way, his muzzle often looked as though it had been smeared with red paint. When he sneezed, blood would shoot from his nostrils, and he would walk through it, leaving behind brick red paw prints at every step. Careful examination yielded no answer, only multiplied worries. Was he consumptive? Or afflicted with some other unknown ailment, to which his breed was susceptible? When this unsettling, as well as unclean, symptom didn’t go away after a few days, it was decided to take him to the veterinary clinic.

  The next day around noon, in a friendly but firm manner, I as master forced him into his muzzle, that mask of leather straps he so singularly abhors and always tries to remove by shaking his head and scraping with his paw. I put him on his woven leash and led him down the lane to the left, through the Englischer Garten and along another street to the university, where we walked through the main gate and crossed the campus. We were received in a waiting room, where a number of people sat along the walls, each of them holding a dog on a leash, just as I was, dogs of various sizes and breeds, all looking depressed as they measured one another through their leather visors. There was a granny with her distemperate pug, a servant in a livery with a tall, snow-white Afghan that from time to time let out an aristocratically hoarse cough, a rural-looking man with a dachshund that must have been headed for some sort of orthopedic exhibition, since the attachment of his feet to his body was utterly deviant, twisted and cockeyed, and many others. One by one they were all admitted by the busy veterinary assistant into the adjacent examination room, whose door was fina
lly opened for Baushan and me as well.

  The professor was a white-lab-coated man well on in years, with gold-rimmed glasses, curly hair and a manner so expert, friendly and mild that in a medical emergency I would have entrusted myself or any of my family to him without hesitation. He smiled paternally at the patient, who sat before him gazing up sideways with a trusting look, and listened to me recount his symptoms. “He has handsome eyes,” the doctor said, neglecting to pay tribute to Baushan’s beard, then declared himself ready to undertake an on-the-spot examination. With the help of the assistant, Baushan, too astonished to resist, was spread out atop a table. I was moved to see the doctor applying his black stethoscope and conscientiously subjecting the striped little body to auscultation, just as I have had done to me on more than one occasion. He listened to Baushan’s rapidly beating canine heart, listened to the activity of his internal organs from various positions. Then, putting his stethoscope under his arm so as to free his hands, he examined Baushan’s eyes, nose and oral cavity, whereupon he made his preliminary diagnosis. The dog was somewhat tense and anemic, he said, but otherwise in good health. The source of the bleeding was uncertain. The problem might be epistaxis or hematemesis. At the same time he couldn’t rule out tracheal or pharyngeal hemorrhage. For now it was probably most accurate to speak of a case of hemoptysis. It would be best to keep the animal under close observation. I was to leave him behind and check back in a week.

  Enlightened, I thanked the doctor and gave Baushan a farewell pat on the shoulder. I watched the attendant lead the latest admittee across the courtyard toward the entrance of the opposite building and noticed how Baushan looked back at me, confused and frightened. He should have felt flattered, as I couldn’t help but feel, that the doctor had pronounced him tense and anemic. Who would have believed when he was born that he would ever receive such a diagnosis or be the object of such educated, exact scrutiny?

  From this point on, though, my walks were like food without spice, and I hardly enjoyed them at all. No storm of mute joy enveloped me when I left the house, no proud eagerness for the hunt as I went on my way. The park seemed desolate. I was bored. I couldn’t refrain from interrupting the observation week by making telephone inquiries. The answer, communicated by a subordinate, was that the patient was doing well under the circumstances—but for better or worse those circumstances were left unspecified. And when the weekday on which I had delivered Baushan came round once more, I set out again for the clinic.

  With the help of many ornately lettered signs and pointing fingers, I found my way without getting lost directly to the entrance of the department where Baushan was being kept, and, heeding the instructions on the door, walked in without knocking. The medium-size room that received me was reminiscent of the predators’ house at the zoo, as was the general atmosphere, although the odor of wild beasts mingled with those of various sweet-smelling medicines—an oppressive and unsettling perfume. Cages, almost all occupied, ran along the walls. Deeply pitched barking greeted me from one of them, at whose open door a man stood, apparently an attendant, going about his work with a rake and a shovel. Not wanting to interrupt his labor, he was content to exchange greetings and left me to my own devices.

  Having spotted Baushan at first glance through the open door, I walked over to him. He lay there behind kennel bars on a bed consisting of ground-up bark or something similar, which contributed its own peculiar aroma to the pervasive animal odors and various chemical smells. He lay there like a leopard, a very tired, disinterested and morose leopard. I was taken aback by the sullen indifference with which he met my arrival. He thumped his tail once or twice weakly on the floor, his head only lifting from his paws at my first words, before immediately drooping back down to stare gloomily off to one side. An earthenware bowl full of water had been set out for him at the back of his cage. Attached to the outside was a partially pretyped, partially handwritten chart in a frame that, in addition to Baushan’s name, breed, sex and age, contained a graph of his daily temperature. “Bastard pointer,” it said. “Name: Baushan. Male. Two years old. Brought in on this and that date for observation. Symptoms: occult hemorrhaging.” Then came the pen-drawn graph of his temperature, whose oscillations were minimal, and numerical entries reflecting his heart rate. That meant the doctors were taking his temperature and pulse—in this respect, at least, he was getting the attention he required. His spirits, however, worried me.

  “Is that one yours?” asked the attendant, who had walked over in the meantime, tools in hand. He wore a gardener’s apron and was a stocky fellow with a full beard, red sideburns and moist, rather bloodshot brown eyes, in whose loyal glassy stare there was something itself decidedly doglike.

  I answered in the affirmative, referring him to my initial instructions and the information I’d received by telephone, and then declared that I’d come to find out how things stood. The man glanced at the chart. Yes, indeed, the dog was suffering from occult hemorrhages, he said, and it was always a lengthy process to determine where they came from.

  Then that still hadn’t been settled?

  No, they still didn’t know anything definite. But the dog was being kept under observation, as prescribed.

  And the hemorrhages were continuing?

  Yes, they occurred every now and again.

  And when they did, they were observed?

  Exactly.

  Did he have a fever? I asked, trying to decipher the chart on the cage.

  No, he had no fever. The dog’s body temperature was normal, as was his pulse, ninety beats per minute, just right—any slower would be problematic, and if they were much slower, he would have to be put under closer observation. Except for the occult hemorrhages the dog was in great shape. For the first twenty-four hours or so, he’d howled a lot, but afterward he’d adapted. Of course he wasn’t eating much, but then again he wasn’t getting any exercise, and loss of appetite was, of course, relative to how much he usually ate.

  What were they feeding him?

  Gruel, said the man. But as he said, Baushan never ate much of it.

  “He looks depressed,” I said, feigning expertise.

  Yes, he sure did, but that didn’t mean anything. After all, it wasn’t much fun for a dog to be cooped in there under observation. All of them were depressed to varying degrees—at least those that were well behaved. Some turned mean and took to biting. But he couldn’t say that about that one there. He was well behaved: he’d never take to biting, not if you kept him under observation until the end of his days.

  I agreed with the man on this point, but with a worried and indignant heart. How long, I asked, did they mean to keep Baushan here?

  The man glanced back down at the chart. Another week for further observation, he said, was what the professor had indicated. In a week I could come back and ask again. That would make two weeks in total: by then they should be able to tell me something concrete about the dog’s condition and suggest a cure for the occult hemorrhages.

  I left, after trying once more to revive Baushan’s spirits by calling out his name. My departure affected him as little as my arrival. Loathing and bitter despair seemed to have descended upon him. “Since you proved capable,” his behavior seemed to say, “of putting me in this cage, I see I can no longer count on you.” Was it not inevitable that he should become deluded and lose faith in reason and justice? What had he done to deserve that I should not only consent to his fate but also actively bring it about? My intentions had been only the best. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, and while that didn’t seem to have bothered him, I had thought it wise for the appropriate branch of medicine to have a look at him, a dog of good house, and had been proud to hear him pronounced tense and anemic like some adolescent count. And this was how it had to end! How could I make him understand that it was an honor to be the object of such attention, to be treated like a jaguar and be deprived of fresh air, sunshine and freedom behind the bars of a cag
e, to be plagued by a thermometer day in, day out?

  Thus I questioned myself on my way home, and whereas I had theretofore only regretted Baushan’s absence, I now experienced both anxiety about him, about his state of mind, and nebulous feelings of guilt. Was it ultimately just proud, selfish snobbery that had made me bring him to the university clinic? And was that not also perhaps bound up with the secret wish to get rid of him for a while, an inquisitive craving to be liberated from his constant watchful eye, to see how it would feel simply to turn right or left, with utter peace of mind, exciting neither joy nor bitter disappointment in the living world around me? Indeed, ever since Baushan had been interned, I had enjoyed an undeniable and almost forgotten feeling of inner freedom. No one intruded upon me through the glass door with a martyred expression of waiting. No one approached with a timidly raised paw designed to touch my heart, draw a sympathetic smile and move me to immediate departure. Whether I went to the park or remained in my study was of interest to no one. It was easy, relaxing, and had the charm of novelty. Without the usual prodding, however, I seldom took my habitual walks. I felt less healthy, and as my own condition noticeably began to resemble Baushan’s in his cage, I concluded that the bonds of sympathetic affinity were more conducive to my well-being than the egocentric freedom for which I had longed.

  The second week too ran its course, and I stood again on the appointed day with the round-bearded attendant before Baushan’s cage. Its occupant lay on his side, stretched out in some arbitrary position on his bed of crushed bark, pieces of which clung to his fur. His head was slung back, and he was staring at the limestone wall at the rear of his cell, his eyes glassy and dull. He didn’t move. He could hardly be seen to breathe. Only intermittently did his chest heave in a sigh that revealed every one of his ribs, to fall again with a low, heartrending whimper resonating from his vocal cords. His legs seemed to have grown too long for his body, his paws disproportionately large—the result of his terrible emaciation. His fur was rumpled, extremely dishevelled and, as previously mentioned, dirty from rolling around on the crushed bark. He took no notice of me, indeed seemed unwilling ever again to take notice of anything.