Death in Venice and Other Tales, Page 2

  Mann’s ironic, disengaged but precise treatment of the most personal and explosive subject matter is the basis of his literary achievement. His importance to both German and world literature—as well as the status of the former within the latter—can hardly be overestimated. Unlike its English, French, Russian, and American counterparts, nineteenth-century German literature, with its emphasis on poetry and ornate novellas, produced no monumental novels of lasting international reputation. In fact, if we ignore the existence of several excellent and innovative writers (Heinrich Heine, Annette von Droste-Hülshoff, Theodor Fontane), Mann can be said to have rescued German literature from a relatively fallow period. In scope and stylistic mastery, though not in content, Buddenbrooks can be compared to the great novels of Balzac and Flaubert, Dickens and Eliot, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Yet in Buddenbrooks and in his remarkable series of short stories, Mann progresses beyond the bourgeois concerns and mimetic techniques of Realism to expose the precarious psychological foundations of Western civilization, uncovering in the process the often dubious aspects of literary creativity itself. In doing so, he was perfectly attuned to what the social theorist E. J. Hobsbawm calls “The Age of Extremes,” the twentieth century—a century of rupture between the individual and society, a century of unprecedented improvement in Western standards of living and almost unthinkable bureaucratized destruction.

  The present edition has been selected and translated with this connection between author and society in mind. “Death in Venice” is, of course, a natural selection and among Germans “Tonio Kröger” and “Tristan” also have the status of classics in their own right. “Man and Dog,” one of Mann’s most everyday, realistic works, is also one of his most underrated—valuable for its mastery of parataxis and as a companion piece to “Death in Venice,” its immediate predecessor. The remaining three short stories have been included because they contain themes also found in Mann’s longer works. “The Child Prodigy” is a quasi-clinical case study of the conflict between commercialism and art in twentieth-century cultural production. “Hour of Hardship,” narrated from Schiller’s point of view, reveals Mann’s fascination with the role of sickness and self-transcendence in artistic genius. Finally, “Tobias Mindernickel” introduces Mann’s strange preoccupation with house pets (specifically dogs) as mirrors of mankind’s ambiguous attitudes toward the unthinking, amoral vitality of the Schopenhauerian will. All three reflect and interact with Mann’s “major” works and shed considerable light on his creative development.

  My translations focus not only on content but also seek to render the complexity of Mann’s style into contemporary American English. For all his stylistic elegance, Mann writes anything but standard German literary prose and is therefore among the most difficult writers to translate. Because Mann’s long, complex sentences are written to be puzzled out, I have retained his paratactic syntax, rather than broken up the German into easily digestible units. I have also tried to preserve Mann’s often idiosyncratic emphasis within sentences, which is crucial to our ability to follow their sense. This is not just a question of following original word order. Owing to the differences between English and German, reproduction of emphasis often involves reformulation: the insertion of introductory, emphatic phrases, for instance, or the use of dashes to capture the interjectory character of the German relative clause. At the same time, the syntactic differences between German and English occasionally require the shortening, even elision of phrases to avoid overloading individual sentences—Mann’s prose is ponderous, but rarely clumsy. Rhetorical techniques such as assonance, alliteration, and rhyme are also crucial to reproducing the literary quality of Mann’s work. In order to compensate for inevitable translation loss in this regard, I have not shied away from pursuing occasional felicitous opportunities in English for typically Mannian effects. In terms of word choice, I have sought to compensate for the drift caused by inexact vocabulary equivalents by striking a balance between the particularizing and the general. Moreover, I have made a distinction between those multipurpose German words 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.

  —Jefferson S. Chase Nottingham, 1998

  Tobias Mindernickel

  1

  Among 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 at the 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 have run back home, in streets where he’s unknown and rarely attracts a second glance, his behavior doesn’t alter significantly. He continues to glance around in fear and scurry along his way, huddled, as though he felt a thousand scornful stares upon him, and when he does timorously and hesitantly lift his g
aze from the ground, one notices something strange. He’s unable to look with any steadiness or determination at other people or even at inanimate objects. As strange as this may sound, he seems to lack that natural sovereignty of sensory perception that allows the individual to gaze out upon external phenomena. He seems to feel a sense of inferiority toward any and all such outside presence, and his aimlessly wandering eyes can’t help but grovel before man and thing . . .

  How to explain this person, who is so constantly alone and seems so extraordinarily sad? His decisively bourgeois attire, along with his genteel habit of delicately rubbing his chin, would indicate that he rejects any affiliation with the class of society in whose midst he lives. God only knows what hardships he has had to endure. From his face, it looks as though life itself had reared back in contemptuous laughter and punched him with all its might . . . On the other hand, it’s quite possible that he’s never suffered any such blows of fate, that he’s simply unequal to the task of being a man. The tortured submissiveness and vacuity of his appearance convey the disagreeable impression that nature has denied him the strength, equilibrium and spine necessary to exist with his head held upright.

  Having completed his huddled walk on his black cane to the center of town, he will make his way home to Grauer Weg to be received by the howling children. He’ll climb up the musty stairs to his room, which is poorly furnished and void of decoration, the only object of any value or beauty being the sturdy Empire commode with the heavy metal handles. In front of his lone window, whose view is abruptly cut off by the gray wall of the neighboring house, there is a flowerpot full of soil in which nothing at all grows. Nonetheless Tobias Mindernickel will occasionally go over and examine it, sniffing at the barren soil. — Off to the side is a dark little sleeping alcove. — Back in his room, Tobias will lay his hat and cane atop the table, sit down upon his dusty-smelling sofa with its green upholstery, put his hand to his chin and stare with raised eyebrows at the ground in front of him. This would seem to be his sole purpose on earth.

  As far as Mindernickel’s character is concerned, it’s difficult to say, although the following incident appears to speak in his favor. One day, as the odd little man left the house with the usual gang of children trailing behind him, laughing and shouting out insults, a boy of about ten tripped over another’s foot and fell so hard on the cobblestones that he bloodied his nose and cut his forehead. He lay there in tears. Tobias immediately turned, hurried back to the fallen child, crouched down and began to comfort him in a mild, quavering voice. “You poor boy,” he said. “Have you hurt yourself? Why, you’re bleeding! Just look at the blood running down his forehead! How miserable you look lying there! Of course when it hurts so, the poor child starts crying! How I feel for you! It was your own fault, but let me bandage your head with my handkerchief . . . So, there we are! Now let’s pull ourselves together and stand on our feet . . .” And having spoken these words of consolation and indeed made a bandage from his very own handkerchief, he gently lifted the boy and continued on. At that particular moment, however, he seemed utterly transformed in both posture and expression. He walked firm and upright, taking deep breaths, his chest swelling under his tight-fitting overcoat. His eyes were wide and had begun to twinkle, gazing at people and things with assurance, while a contented smile of sorrow played over his lips . . .

  This incident had the short-term result that the denizens of Grauer Weg relented somewhat in their gleeful insults. After a little while, however, they forgot about the surprising behavior of this errant, huddled man, and a chorus of healthy, cheerful, cruel young throats again sang out behind him: “Hah, hah, Tobias!”

  2

  One sunny morning around eleven, Mindernickel left the house and proceeded across town to the Lerchenberge, that gradual slope that provides the best grounds in the city for an afternoon stroll and that, even before noon, was well visited by a number of carriages and pedestrians out to enjoy the excellent spring weather. Beside the broad main esplanade stood a man under a tree with a young game dog on a leash. He was displaying it to all passers-by, obviously in hope of finding an interested buyer. It was a handsome, healthy little animal, yellow in color, approximately four months old, with one black ear and a black ring around one eye.

  When Tobias first saw them, at ten steps’ remove, he stopped short, rubbed his chin repeatedly and stared thoughtfully at the owner and the little dog, who was alertly wagging his tail. A moment later, with the handle of his cane pressed to his mouth, he started out again. He made three circles around the tree where the man was leaning, then finally approached and asked, never taking his eyes off the animal, in a soft and flustered voice: “How much is the dog?”

  “Ten marks,” answered the man.

  At first Tobias said nothing. Then he repeated, hesitantly, “Ten marks?”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  With that, Tobias removed a leather pouch from his pocket, took out a five-mark note together with one three- and one two-mark coin, and hastily handed the money to the seller. He then grabbed the leash, this huddled man, timorously glanced around as several witnesses to the transaction broke out in laughter, and began to pull the whimpering, struggling animal urgently along behind him. The dog put up a fight for the entire duration of their way, digging its front paws into the ground and looking up with frightened, searching eyes at his new master. The latter, however, continued to pull at the leash, mute and insistent, and managed to proceed back through town and start down the hill.

  The street kids of Grauer Weg gave a terrific noise when Tobias appeared with the dog, but he lifted the animal and, cradling him in his arms, hurried through the mockery, the insults, the laughter and the tugging at his coattails up the three flights of stairs to his room. There he set the still whimpering creature on the ground, patted him affectionately and said in a condescending tone: “There, there, there’s no reason to be afraid of me, you silly thing. That’s not necessary.”

  With that, he pulled out a commode drawer, removed a plate of boiled meat and potatoes and tossed some to the animal, which ceased its whining and devoured the meal, happily wagging its tail and slobbering.

  “By the way, your name is Esau,” said Tobias. “Do you understand? Esau. The simple sounds should be easy for you to remember . . .”

  And pointing to the ground before him, he called out in a tone of command: “Esau!”

  The dog, probably expecting something more to eat, did in fact come, and Tobias patted his side in approval, saying, “Well done, my friend. You’ve earned my praise.”

  Then he took a couple of steps back, once more pointed to the floor and called out: “Esau!”

  And the animal, whose spirits had perked up, again sprang forward and licked his master’s boot.

  Tobias, tireless in his joy at issuing commands and seeing them executed, must have repeated this exercise thirteen or fourteen times. The dog, however, did finally get tired. It seemed he wanted to stop and digest his food. He lay down on the floor in the typically graceful, alert pose of a game dog, both of his long and delicately formed front paws stretched out beside one another.

  “Again!” ordered Tobias. “Esau!”

  But Esau turned his head and remained where he was.

  “Esau!” Tobias repeated, imperiously raising his voice. “You must come at my command, even if you’re tired!”

  But Esau rested his head on his paws and gave no sign of coming at all.

  “Listen here,” said Tobias in a quiet but terribly menacing tone. “Obey my commands, or you’ll find out how unwise it is to challenge me!”

  The animal hardly moved its tail.

  At that Mindernickel was seized by anger, a boundless, disproportionate, fully irrational anger. Beside himself with indignant rage, he grabbed his black cane, lifted Esau by the scruff of the neck and gave the yowling animal a thrashing, repeating over and over in a terrible hiss: “So you refuse to
obey? You dare to disobey me?”

  Finally he tossed his cane aside, set the whimpering dog back on the ground and began to pace the room in long strides, his hands behind his back, drawing deep breaths, occasionally casting a proud and angry glance down at Esau. After parading about for some time, he stopped before the animal, which lay on its back making pleading motions with its front legs. He folded his arms across his chest and spoke with the horribly cold, hard gaze and tone Napoleon had used in confronting the regiment that had lost its standard in battle: “How have you conducted yourself, if I may ask?”

  Happy for even this bit of reconciliation, the dog crawled nearer, pressed himself against his master’s leg and looked up at him with bright beseeching eyes.

  For a long while Tobias looked down without a word, observing the humble creature; but then, with the warmth of Esau’s body against his leg tugging at his heart, he picked him back up.

  “All right, I’ll take pity on you,” he said. And as the good-natured animal began to lick his face, his mood swung full round, becoming melancholy and sentimental. He hugged the dog to his chest with a love full of sorrow, tears flooding his eyes, and repeated, his voice faltering, never finishing the sentence, over and over:

  “You see, you’re my only . . . my only . . .” Then he laid Esau gently on the sofa, sat down beside him, put his hand to his chin and gazed at the animal, his eyes calm and mild.

  3

  From then on Tobias Mindernickel left the house even less often than previously, for he felt no desire to show himself in public with Esau. He devoted all his attention to the dog: morning, noon and night Tobias did nothing but feed him, wipe his eyes, issue commands, scold him and talk to him like a human being. The only thing was that Esau didn’t always conduct himself as his master would have wished. As long as the dog, lethargic from the lack of fresh air and freedom, lay on the sofa staring up at his face with melancholy eyes, Tobias had no complaints. He would sit there, calm and content, patting Esau’s back and consoling him: “Why do you look up at me with such sorrow, my poor little friend? Yes, indeed, the world is a sad place, you feel it, too, even at your young age . . .”