Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann

Author:Thomas Mann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2014-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOUR

Every day now, the bare-skinned, fiery-cheeked god piloted his heat-breathing chariot across the sky’s expanse, his golden locks waving in the simultaneously storming east wind. Silky white radiance hung over the slow swells of the pontos. The sand was glowing hot. Before the changing huts, rust-colored canvas awnings were unfurled beneath the silvery glimmering blue of the ether, and the morning hours were passed in the sharply defined patches of shade they provided. Exquisite, too, was the night, when the park flora gave off soothing fragrances, the stars above danced in lines and the softly insistent murmur of the darkened sea conjured over the soul. Each evening contained the joyful promise of another sunny day of easily disposed leisure, a day made more attractive still by sweet fortune’s dense and infinite assortment of possibilities.

The guest so conveniently detained by mishap was not at all inclined to see the restoration of his possessions as a reason for resuming his departure. For two long days, he had endured no small privation and had been forced to wear his traveling clothes to meals in the large dining room. So when his misdirected baggage was finally deposited back in his room, he unpacked completely, filling the closet and bureau with his things, set for now on an unrestricted stay, content to be able again to pass the hours on the beach in his silk suit and appear for dinner at his small table in appropriate evening attire.

The comfortably constant rhythm of this existence had put him under its spell, and he was quickly captivated by the soft luxurious ease of his newfound way of life. And what a place it is that combines the charms of a cultivated Southern European seaside resort with the constant proximity of such a strange and wonderful city! Aschenbach was no great fun lover. Whenever and wherever it was necessary to stop working, recover his peace of mind and take a few days off, restlessness and dissatisfaction would soon compel him to resume his noble toil and devoutly austere daily routine. This had been especially true of him as a young man. Venice alone had enchanted him, relaxed his ambition and made him feel happy. There were times when he thought back: in the morning, as he sat before his hut in the shadow of the awning dreaming off into the blue of the southern sea, or on mild nights under the great starry sky, as he leaned back into the cushions of the gondola ferrying him home after a long evening on the Piazza, the bright lights and fluid melodies of serenades receding behind him. He thought back to his country house in the mountains, the site of his annual summer battles. He remembered the low drifting of the clouds over the yard, the power outages in the house after violent evening thunderstorms and the flight of the ravens he fed into the tops of the pines. And it seemed to him in such moments that he

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