Death in Venice and Other Tales, Page 4

  Mr. Klöterjahn did not stay long at Einfried. He had escorted his wife there, but after a week had passed, after he saw that she was well housed and in good hands, his time was up. Equally important duties—his bouncing baby boy, his likewise booming business—called him back home, obliging him to depart. He left his wife behind to enjoy the best of care.

  4

  Spinell was the name of that writer who had for some weeks now been living at Einfried—Detlev Spinell—and his appearance was rather remarkable.

  Picture a dark-complected man in his early thirties, of stately frame, whose hair has begun to go noticeably gray at the temples and whose round, white, somewhat bloated face is without a trace of beard. It wasn’t just clean-shaven—one would have been able to see some stubble. On the contrary, it was soft, bleary and boyish, nourishing only the occasional patch of down. And that looked very odd. The expression in his glassy, doe-brown eyes was mild, his nose squat and a bit too fleshy. What’s more, this Mr. Spinell had an arched Roman-looking upper lip that was perished like leather, big decaying teeth and feet of unusual dimensions. One of the gentlemen with the spastic legs, a cynical joker, had dubbed him, behind his back, the “Rotten Infant,” but that was spiteful and less than accurate.—He went around in fine, stylish clothes, always with a long black jacket and a colorful spotted vest.

  He was unsociable, sharing nothing of himself with a single soul. Only occasionally a congenial, affable, even exuberant mood could steal over him: this happened invariably when Mr. Spinell was in an aesthetic frame of mind, when the sight of something beautiful—the harmony of two colors, an exquisitely sculpted vase or the sunset shining over the mountains—inspired him. His amazement on such occasions often turned vocal. “How beautiful,” he’d say, tilting his head to one side, raising his shoulders, spreading his fingers and crinkling his nose and lips. “Lord, just look how beautiful!” He was capable of blindly hugging the most dignified personages, ladies as well as gentlemen, when he got carried away in such moments . . .

  On the table in his room, permanently on display for anyone caring to visit, was the book he had written. It was a novel of moderate length, complete with an utterly inscrutable cover illustration. It was printed on a kind of paper like that used to filter coffee, in a typeface whose every letter looked like a Gothic cathedral. Miss von Osterloh had looked through it once during an idle fifteen minutes and pronounced it “quite sophisticated,” which verdict was her euphemism for “inhumanly boring.” It was set in chic salons and luxurious boudoirs crammed with precious objects—Gobelin tapestries, ancient furniture, exquisite china, priceless materials and objets d’art of every sort. Loving care had been lavished on the descriptions of these things, and upon reading them you could picture Mr. Spinell crinkling his nose and exclaiming “How beautiful! Lord, just look how beautiful!” . . . Incidentally, it was remarkable that he hadn’t published any other books besides this one since he appeared to be an avid writer. He spent the better part of every day writing away in his room and had an extraordinary number of letters posted, one or two almost every day—the absurd and amusing fact being that he rarely received any himself . . .

  5

  Mr. Spinell was seated across from Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife at dinner. During the first meal the couple attended, he arrived a bit late in the large dining room, which was located on the ground floor of the side wing. He murmured a soft greeting to all present and took his seat, whereupon Dr. Leander, without much ceremony, introduced him to the newly arrived guests. He bowed, then began to eat, apparently somewhat self-conscious, for the movements of the large, well-formed white hands that poked out from his extremely tight sleeves while maneuvering knife and fork were rather affected. Later on he relaxed and, by turns, calmly observed Mr. Klöterjahn and his wife. Mr. Klöterjahn addressed him during the course of the meal with several questions and remarks concerning the layout and climate at Einfried, and his wife interspersed two or three words in her charming way, which Mr. Spinell returned politely. His voice was mild and quite pleasant, although he had a rather cumbersome, slurping manner of speech, as if his teeth were getting in the way of his tongue.

  After dinner, the party having adjourned to the sitting room and Dr. Leander having specially inquired as to whether the new guests had enjoyed their meal, Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife asked about her opposite at table.

  “What was the gentleman’s name?” she asked . . . “Spinelli? I couldn’t make it out.”

  “Spinell . . . not Spinelli, madam. He’s not Italian, not at all. Born in Lemberg, as far as I know . . .”

  “A writer you say? Is that right?” Mr. Klöterjahn asked; his hands were thrust in the pockets of his comfortable English trousers, and he turned his ear toward the doctor and opened his mouth, as some people do, when listening intently.

  “Well, I don’t know—he writes . . .” Dr. Leander answered. “He has, I believe, published a book, some kind of novel, but I don’t really know.”

  This repeated “I don’t know” was meant to indicate that Dr. Leander didn’t think much of the writer and disclaimed any responsibility for him.

  “But that’s very interesting!” Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife said. She had never met a writer face to face.

  “Oh, indeed,” Dr. Leander responded amiably. “He supposedly enjoys something of a reputation . . .” After that nothing more was said about the writer.

  A bit later, when the new guests had retired and Dr. Leander too was ready to leave the sitting room, Mr. Spinell stopped him and made inquiries of his own.

  “What was the name of that couple?” he asked . . . “Of course I couldn’t understand a word.”

  “Klöterjahn,” Dr. Leander said, trying to leave.

  “What is the man’s name?”

  “Their name is Klöterjahn!” said Dr. Leander, brushing past him. — He didn’t think very much at all of the writer.

  6

  Have we gotten to the point when Mr. Klöterjahn returned home? Yes, indeed, he was back on the Baltic coast with his business and his baby, that selfish and vigorous little creature who had cost his mother much suffering and a minor tracheal condition. She, the young wife, however, stayed behind at Einfried, and Mrs. Spatz immediately attached herself as her mentor. That didn’t prevent Mrs. Klöterjahn, however, from enjoying good relations with the other patients at the clinic. This was the case, for example, with Mr. Spinell, who, right from the start and to everyone’s amazement (since he had shared nothing of himself with a single soul), proved extraordinarily helpful and devoted, and with whom she, for her part, during the few free hours she had in her strict daily regimen, didn’t object to chatting.

  He would approach her with extreme delicacy, like a supplicant, never speaking except in carefully hushed tones, so that the magistrate’s wife, who had an ear condition, could rarely make out anything of what he said. He would tiptoe on his immense feet over to the chair where Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife leaned back, fragile and smiling. There he would stand at two steps’ remove, one leg behind the other, bent over at the waist, talking in his rather cumbersome, slurping manner, speaking softly but urgently, prepared at any moment to withdraw and disappear should any sign of fatigue or annoyance cross her face. But he didn’t annoy her at all; she encouraged him to sit with her and the magistrate’s wife. She would ask him some question or other, then listen with an inquisitive smile, for he often gave such amusing and strange answers as she had never before heard.

  “Why exactly are you at Einfried?” she asked. “What treatments do you need, Mr. Spinell?”

  “Treatment? . . .Oh, I’m getting a little electricity. It’s not worth mentioning, though. I’ll tell you, madam, why I’m really here—because of the decor.”

  “Ah!” said Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife, bracing her chin in her hand and turning toward him with the sort of exaggerated enthusiasm people show toward children who have something to tell.

&nbs
p; “Yes, madam. Einfried is pure Empire. It used to be an estate, a royal summer residence, I’m told. This side wing is certainly a later addition, but the main building is authentic. There are times when I simply cannot do without Empire, when I absolutely must have it, if I’m to feel even moderately well. Clearly one feels one way amidst furniture that is sinfully soft and comfortable, altogether differently amidst the austere lines of these tables, chairs and draperies . . . This brightness and severity, this cold, blunt simplicity and reserved exactitude—they impart composure, madam, and dignity. The result is an inner cleansing and convalescence, a moral elevation. Of that I’m absolutely sure . . .”

  “Yes, it’s strange how that is,” she said. “I think I can understand what you mean, if I try.”

  Here he responded that it wasn’t worth the effort, and they shared a laugh. Mrs. Spatz, the magistrate’s wife, laughed too and agreed that it was strange, but she didn’t say she understood what he meant.

  The sitting room was spacious and well furnished. The tall white French doors to the adjacent billiard room were wide open, beyond which the gentlemen with the spastic legs and others were amusing themselves. On the other end of the sitting room, a glass door looked out on the broad terrace and the garden. Off to the side stood a piano. There was also a card table with green felt, at which the diabetic general and a couple of the other gentlemen were playing whist. Ladies sat reading and doing needlework. A cast-iron stove supplied the room’s heat, but over in front of the stylish decorative fireplace, its imitation coals pasted over with red-hot strips of paper, were the comfortable places to sit and chat.

  “You’re an early riser, Mr. Spinell!” said Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife. “Two or three times now I’ve noticed you leaving the house at seven-thirty in the morning.”

  “An early riser? Alas, not as you mean it, madam. The truth is that I get up early because I’m actually a late sleeper.”

  “You must explain that, Mr. Spinell!”—Mrs. Spatz, too, wanted it explained.

  “Well now . . . true early risers, it seems to me, have no need of getting up so early. Conscience, madam . . . conscience is a terrible thing! I and my kind, we battle it our entire lives wherever we go and have enough trouble deceiving it now and then, occasionally letting it seem to have its way. We’re useless creatures, my kind and I. Except for our few good hours, we wear ourselves ragged and drive ourselves sick just thinking how useless we are. We hate all that is useful, we know how base and ugly it is, and we defend this piece of wisdom in the way people only defend those pieces of wisdom they absolutely require. Still, bad conscience gnaws away at every square inch of us. What’s more, the whole tenor of our inner existence, our world-view, our work habits . . . have a terribly unwholesome, undermining and exhaustive effect, exacerbating the situation. There are minor palliatives of course—without them we simply couldn’t endure. For many of us, a well-regulated, hygienically strict regimen is an absolute necessity. An early start, horrifically early, a cold bath and a walk out in the snow . . . Then we can perhaps feel a tiny bit content with ourselves for an hour or so afterward. But if I gave in to my true nature, I’d lie in bed until afternoon, you can believe me. It’s actually hypocrisy for me to get up so early.”

  “Not at all, how so? I’d call it self-discipline . . . isn’t that right, Mrs. Spatz?” —Mrs. Spatz, too, called it self-discipline.

  “Hypocrisy or self-discipline, madam, take your pick. I have such terrible predisposition toward the honest truth that I . . .”

  “But that’s exactly it. Surely you plague yourself too much.”

  “You’re right, madam, I do plague myself a lot.”

  The good weather continued. The landscape—mountains, house and garden—lay white, hard and clear in the windless air and light frost, the dazzling brilliance and blue-colored shadows, while a delicate blue sky, in which a myriad of twinkling little particles and glowing crystals seemed to dance, arched flawlessly over everything. During this time Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife felt tolerably well; she had no fever, hardly coughed at all and felt only the mildest aversion to food. She would sit for hours, as per doctor’s orders, on the sunny frost of the terrace. She would sit in the snow, tightly bundled in blankets and furs, optimistically inhaling the pure icy air, doing all she could for her ailing trachea. While there she would sometimes notice Mr. Spinell, also dressed warmly, wearing fur-lined boots that gave his feet surreal dimensions, as he strolled across the garden. He would walk tentatively through the snow, feeling his way forward, his arms set in a cautious and rigidly graceful position, and upon approaching the terrace, he would offer his supplicant’s greetings and ascend the bottom steps for a short conversation.

  “This morning on my walk I saw a beautiful woman . . . Lord, she was beautiful!” he said, tilting his head to the side and splaying his fingers.

  “Really, Mr. Spinell? Do describe her to me!”

  “No, I can’t. If I did, I would give you a false picture. I only glanced at the lady out of the corner of my eye as we passed; I never saw her really. But this fleeting shadow was enough to excite my imagination, so that I took away an image of her that is very beautiful . . . Lord, how beautiful!”

  She laughed. “Is that how you look at beautiful women, Mr. Spinell?”

  “Certainly, madam, and better I should do that than stare them crassly in the face, ogling reality, to ingrain upon myself the impression of a flawed actuality . . .”

  “Ogling reality . . . what a strange turn of phrase. Just the sort of thing a writer would say, Mr. Spinell! But it’s made an impression on me, I must tell you. There’s much in it that I too can halfway understand. There’s something independent and free, announcing its disregard for reality, even though reality is what’s most respectable. Indeed reality is the very essence of respectability . . . And I sense also that there’s something beyond grasping, something more delicate . . .”

  “I know of only one face,” he said suddenly with an unusual joyous lilt in his voice, raising his clenched hands to his shoulders and displaying his rotten teeth in an exalted smile . . . “I know of only one face whose reality is so glorious that it would be a sin for my imagination to try to improve upon it, a face I could look at, could contemplate, not for minutes or hours, but my whole life through, losing myself entirely in it and forgetting everything on earth . . .”

  “Yes, certainly, Mr. Spinell. Only Miss von Osterloh does have awful jug ears.”

  He gave no reply and bowed deeply. When he stood upright again, his eyes came to rest, with a pained and sorrowful look, on the strange little vein branching out, pale blue and sickly, across the otherwise unblemished perfection of her practically transparent forehead.

  7

  An oddball, a true oddball! Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife would occasionally reflect. And she had plenty of time for reflection. Perhaps it was that the change of climate had begun to lose its effect, or perhaps she had come under some directly pernicious influence. Whatever the reason, her health had worsened and full tracheal convalescence seemed a long way off, for she felt weak and tired, had no appetite and often ran a fever. Dr. Leander had most urgently recommended rest, quiet and caution. So, even when she was not required to lie down, she would sit, disregarded needlework in her lap, in the company of Mrs. Spatz, keeping still and pursuing this or that line of thought.

  He certainly made her think, this peculiar Mr. Spinell, but strangely, not so much about him as about herself. For some reason, he brought out in her an unusual curiosity, a heretofore unknown interest in her own person. One day in conversation he had remarked:

  “Yes, indeed, women are a true riddle . . . although it’s hardly an original thought, you can’t help but stand back and wonder. You take a marvelous creature, a sylph, a mere wisp, a fairy-tale figure from a dream. And what does she do? She goes out and gives herself to some young marketplace Hercules or butcher’s apprentice. She walks with him arm in
arm, maybe even leans her head on his shoulder and looks around with a sly smile, as if to say: go ahead and rack your brains over this latest development! — And we do indeed rack our brains.”

  This remark preoccupied Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife on more than one occasion.

  On another day, to Mrs. Spatz’s astonishment, the following exchange took place between them.

  “Pardon me if it’s somewhat forward, but may I ask you a question? What’s your name, your real one?”

  “But my name is Klöterjahn, Mr. Spinell!”

  “Hmm—I know that. Or better yet: I refuse to accept it. I mean of course your own name, your maiden name. In all fairness you’ll have to admit, madam, that anyone who thinks you should be called ‘Mrs. Klöterjahn’ deserves a good flogging.”

  She laughed so heartily that the little blue vein above her eyebrow stood out with alarming prominence, giving her sweet, delicate face a certain deeply unsettling expression of strain and exertion.

  “No, I don’t. Really, Mr. Spinell! A flogging? Do you find Klöterjahn so terrible?”

  “Yes indeed, madam. I’ve hated this name with all my heart from the moment I heard it. It’s ridiculous, terribly ugly. It’s a vile practice to insist on convention so strictly as to call you by your husband’s name.”

  “Well now, and ‘Eckhof’? Is Eckhof any better? My father’s name is Eckhof.”

  “There, you see! Eckhof is something else entirely! There was even once a great actor named Eckhof. Eckhof passes muster. — But you spoke only of your father. Is your good mother . . .”

  “Yes. My mother died when I was young.”

  “Aha. Do tell me a little more about yourself, if I may be so bold. Should you find it tiresome, you’re under no obligation: you can just rest, and I’ll go on with those stories about Paris from the other day. But you could speak very softly. In fact, if you whisper, it would only make everything even more beautiful . . . You were born in Bremen?” And he asked her this question almost silently, with an expression of profound reverence, as if Bremen were an incomparable city full of untellable adventure and secret delights, which cloaked anyone born there in a mysterious aura of majesty.