Death in Venice and Other Stories Read Free Page A

like
Geist
(mind, spirit, imagination) which need to be rendered by various English equivalents and recurring terms like
Zügellosigkeit
(abandon) in “Death in Venice,” which function as quasi-symphonic motifs and therefore must be signaled with one and the same English word. In general, I have opted for a temporally neutral vocabulary, avoiding words not in currency during Mann’s day but resisting deliberate archaism, which inevitably rings precious and false. Temporal neutrality of course itself entails distortion, but it is, I believe, the most acceptable approach to a work foreign to its audience not only in language but in time.
    All these strategic decisions have been made with one ultimate goal: to allow the contemporary American reader to experience Mann much as a contemporary German reader would. The reader should not approach Mann—in translation, or in German for that matter—expecting to experience anything immediately obvious. Puzzling out Mann is an intrinsic part of reading his work. I hope the present edition is one that helps the reader to do this and contributes in some way to a deeper appreciation of Mann’s uniquely enigmatic work.
    â€”Jefferson S. Chase
Nottingham,1998

Tobias Mindernickel
    1
    A mong the streets that head up the rather steep hill from the quayside to the middle of town, there is one called
Grauer Weg
. About halfway along on the right, if one is walking from the river, comes number 47, a narrow drab gray building utterly indistinguishable from its neighbors. The ground floor is home to a small shop, where, along with the usual, one can find galoshes and castor oil. Past the main hall, which looks out on a small courtyard populated by cats, a narrow wooden staircase with footworn treads and an unspeakably dank, seedy smell leads to the upper floors. On the second-floor left is a cabinetmaker; second-floor right, a midwife. On the third-floor left is a cobbler; third-floor right, a lady who immediately starts up a loud singing whenever she hears footsteps on the stairs. The fourth-floor left is empty, but on the fourth-floor right lives a man by the name of Mindernickel, who, on top of that, is called Tobias. An intriguing story is connected to this man that just has to be told, for it is both intriguing and scandalous beyond measure.
    Mindernickel’s appearance is eye-catching, quite odd, indeed ridiculous. If you see him, for example, out on a walk, hauling his gaunt frame up the hill with the help of a cane, he will invariably be dressed in black, from head to toe. He always wears an old-fashioned coarse top hat with a curved brim, a threadbare overcoat that fits too tightly and an equally shabby pair of trousers, frayed atthe cuffs and so short you can see the rubber trim of his boots—though it should also be noted that he keeps his attire immaculately brushed. His haggard neck, jutting out of a low turn-down collar, looks even longer than it actually is. His hair is gray and slicked back severely at the temples, and the wide brim of his hat casts a shadow upon a pale clean-shaven face with sunken cheeks, swollen eyes that rarely lift from the ground and two deep, sullen lines that connect his nose and perennially frowning mouth.
    Mindernickel seldom leaves his room—with good reason. No sooner does he appear on the street than a large group of children gathers, trailing at his heels for some distance, laughing, jeering, singing “Hah, hah, Tobias,” often tugging at his coattails, while people emerge from their houses to make jokes at his expense. Undeterred, he proceeds on his walk, putting up no resistance, just timorously glancing around, his head pressed into his shoulders and his neck craned, like a person hurrying through a downpour without an umbrella. And although they’re all laughing in his face, these people standing at their front doors, he still greets the odd one with humble courtesies. Further on, after the children