Death in Venice and Other Stories (10 page)

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.

Then, not far from the train station, they turned away from the levees to watch a train puff by in unceremonious haste, idly counting the number of cars and waving to the man who sat wrapped in fur atop of the very last one. And when they arrived at
Lindenplatz
, they stopped before the timber wholesaler Hansen's villa, and Hans gave an extensive demonstration of the fun that could be had swinging back and forth on the bottom rail of the iron gate so that its hinges squeaked in that special way. After this he said good-bye.

“Well, I have to go in now,” he said. “Adieu, Tonio. Next time I'll walk you home, you can count on it.”

“Adieu, Hans,” said Tonio. “It was a nice walk.”

Their hands, as they shook them, were wet and covered with rust from the iron gate. As Hans looked Tonio in the eye, however, something like thoughtful regret came over his handsome face.

“By the way, I'll read
Don Carlos
soon!” he said hastily. “All that about the king in his cabinet sounds fabulous!” Then he tucked his schoolbag under his arm and ran across the front yard. Before disappearing into his house, he turned around and nodded once more.

Tonio Kröger walked away from that spot thoroughly transfigured and elated. The wind was pushing him from behind, but that was hardly the only reason for the wings on his heels.

Hans was going to read
Don Carlos
, and then they would have something to talk about just between the two of them, without Jimmerthal or anyone else! How well they understood each other! Who knew, maybe he could even get Hans to write poems? . . . No, no, he didn't want that! Hans must never become like Tonio; he should stay as he was, so bright and strong, beloved by all, Tonio more than anyone! But it wouldn't hurt for him to read
Don Carlos
 . . . And Tonio passed through the squat old city gate, walked along the ships' landing, up the steep, drafty, damp, gable-lined little street until he reached his family's house. His heart was alive then; there was longing in it and somber jealousy and a tiny bit of contempt and an utterly innocent sense of bliss.

2

Blond Inge—Ingeborg Holm, the daughter of Dr. Holm who lived by the marketplace, near the tall Gothic fountain with its many spires—she was the one whom Tonio Kröger loved at the age of sixteen.

How did it happen? He had seen her a thousand times; but one evening he saw her lit up a certain way, saw how in conversation with a friend she gave her head a certain exuberant toss sideways as she laughed, and how she lifted her hand—the not especially slender or delicately formed hand of a mere girl—to the back of her head so that her sleeve of white gauze slid up from the elbow. He also heard how she pronounced some word, some meaningless word, so that a certain warm music entered her voice, and his heart was filled with delight far greater than that which he had occasionally felt earlier at the sight of Hans Hansen, back when he had still been a foolish little boy.

On this particular evening he took away her image—her thick blond ponytail, her long horizontal blue eyes full of laughter and the faintly outlined bridge of freckles at her nose—and was unable to sleep. Still hearing the musical quality in her voice, he tried softly to imitate
the way she had pronounced that meaningless word, shuddering as he did. Experience told him that this was love. And although he knew only too well that love would invariably bring him great pain, hardship and humiliation, that it would moreover destroy his peace of mind and flood his heart with melodies, without bringing the composure necessary to form something well-rounded and calmly forge it into a whole, he nonetheless gladly accepted this new love. He abandoned himself to it and nourished it with every strength in his disposition, for he knew that it enriched and inspired, and he longed to be enriched and inspired, instead of calmly forging something whole.

The site where Tonio fell head over heels for carefree Ingeborg Holm was the empty salon of Mrs. Husteede, the Consul's wife, whose evening it was to host the dance lessons. It was a private course, attended only by children from the best families, and they assembled in each one of their parents' houses in turn to receive instruction in dance and etiquette. To these ends Mr. Knaak, the ballet instructor, came every week specially from Hamburg.

Francois Knaak was his name, and what a man he was!
“J'ai l'honneur de me vous representer,”
he would say,
“mon nom est Knaak
 . . . This is not to be said as one bows, but rather after one is again standing upright—not too loudly but still audibly. It's not every day that one is called upon to introduce oneself in French, but if one can do it correctly in that language, one can be sure it will never fail one in German either.” How magnificently his black silk tails clung to his corpulent hips! The soft folds of his trousers tumbled down on his patent leather shoes, which sported wide satin bows, and his brown eyes glanced around with weary satisfaction at their own beauty.

Everyone was overwhelmed by his more than ample self-assurance and his command of form. He would walk up to the lady of the house—as no one else
could
walk, nimbly striding and swaying like a king—then bow and wait for her to extend her hand. When he had received
it, he would thank her in a soft voice, skip back and turn on his left foot, kicking his right up to the side, tip down, and strutting away with undulating hips.

Upon taking one's leave, one walked backwards in an extended bow, and if one brought up a chair, one didn't grab it by the leg or drag it across the floor but carried it by the back and set it down silently. When standing, one didn't fold one's hands over one's belly and let one's tongue loll in the corner of one's mouth—if one did do so, Mr. Knaak had such a talent for mimicry that for the rest of one's life one couldn't witness such behavior without feeling slightly ill . . .

So much for etiquette. In dancing, Mr. Knaak had attained, if possible, an even higher degree of mastery. In a salon emptied of furniture, gaslights burning in the chandelier, candles flickering on the fireplace, the pupils stood around on a floor strewn with talcum powder in a silent semicircle. In the adjoining room, beyond the
portières
, mothers and aunts sat on upholstered chairs and watched through their lorgnettes as Mr. Knaak, gracefully inclined, took up the ends of his tails between two fingers and skipped about demonstrating the various steps of the mazurka. When he really wanted to impress his audience, he would kick himself suddenly and inexplicably up from the floor, twirl his legs around in the air with blinding speed and trill his lips in time, coming down to earth with a muffled thud that shook everything where it stood . . .

Look at him, making a monkey of himself, Tonio Kröger thought. He couldn't help noticing, however, that Inge Holm, carefree Inge, often followed Mr. Knaak's movements with a faraway smile, and that wasn't the only reason that such displays of magnificent physical prowess ultimately wrung something like admiration from him. How calm and imperturbable Mr. Knaak's eyes were! They never penetrated the surface, never reached the point where things became complicated and sad; they knew only that they were brown and beautiful. And that was precisely the reason for his proud demeanor! You had to be stupid in order to strut
around like that; you were loved for it because you were indeed loveable. He understood only too well why Inge—sweet, blond Inge—looked at Mr. Knaak the way she did. But did that mean no girl would ever look at him that way?

Oh, it did happen. There was Magdalena Vermehren, the daughter of Attorney Vermehren, with her gentle lips and large, dark, glassy eyes that were so serious and romantic. She often fell while dancing, and it was she who approached him during the ladies' choice. She knew that he wrote poems, she had asked him twice if he would show them to her, and she often stared up at him from afar, head held low. But what good was that?
He
loved Inge Holm—carefree, blond Inge—who surely despised him for writing bits of poetry . . . He stared at her long horizontal blue eyes, which were full of happiness and mockery, and a jealous longing, a bitter and insistent pain at being isolated from her as an eternal stranger, sat in his breast and burned . . .

“First couple,
en avant!
” said Mr. Knaak, and words cannot describe how magnificently the man pronounced these nasal vowels. They were practicing the quadrille, and to Tonio Kröger's profound horror, he found himself in the same square as Inge Holm. He avoided her as best as he could, yet he was always near her; he refused to let his eyes seek her out, yet his gaze constantly encountered her . . . Here she came, gliding hand in hand with redheaded Ferdinand Matthiessen, running Tonio's way, where, throwing back her ponytail and panting, she took up position. Mr. Heinzelmann, the pianist, placed his bony hands on the keys, Mr. Knaak issued instructions and the quadrille began.

She swayed from side to side in front of him, forward and backward, stepping and turning, her hair—or maybe it was the delicate white material of her dress—giving off an aroma that sometimes drifted over to him. Sorrow increasingly clouded his eyes. I love you, dear sweet Inge, he said to himself, putting into these words all the hurt he felt because she was eagerly and happily concentrating on her dance steps and took no notice of him at all.
He thought of a beautiful poem by Theodor Storm—”I would sleep, and yet you must dance”—and was tortured by the humiliating senselessness of having to dance when one was in love . . .