Free Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann Page A

fifteen or twenty paces from her, he sank to his knees, sank silently to his knees. His long black coat spread out on the floor around him. He held his hands folded over his mouth, and his shoulders twitched.
    She sat there, her hands in her lap, leaning forward away from the piano, gazing at him. A vague smile of distress lay upon her face, and her eyes peered pensively, so intently into the gloom that they succumbed to their tendency to wander.
    In the distance the jingling of sleigh bells, the crack of whips and the confusion of human voices drew nearer.
    9
    The sleigh ride, which long remained a topic of conversation for all, had taken place on February the 26th. On the 27th, a day of thaw, when everything softened and began to drip, splash and flow, Mr. Klöterjahn’s wife felt splendid. On the 28th she coughed up a little blood . . . oh, nothing serious, but it was blood. At the same time she felt weaker than ever before and had to remain in bed.
    Dr. Leander gave her an examination, his face remaining stone cold throughout the entire procedure. Then he ordered exactly what was prescribed by science: little bits of ice, morphine and complete rest. Moreover, on the following day, citing his excessive workload, he gave up responsibility for her case and transferred it to Dr. Müller, who in his gentle way dutifully and contractually took over her care. He was a quiet, pale, insignificant, melancholy man whose unassuming and thankless ministrations were directed at the quite nearly recovered and the terminally ill.
    The opinion he expressed above all was that the Klöterjahn couple had been separated for too long. It was highly advisable that, if his booming business would allow, Mr. Klöterjahn should pay another visit toEinfried. He could be written, perhaps a short telegram could be sent . . . And it would certainly bolster the young mother’s spirits and strength, if he brought little Anton along—not to mention that it would be extraordinarily interesting for the doctors to make healthy little Anton’s acquaintance.
    And behold, Mr. Klöterjahn appeared. He had received Dr. Müller’s short telegram and had come down from the Baltic coast. He got out of his carriage and ordered some coffee and buttered rolls, looking quite annoyed.
    â€œSir,” he said. “What’s going on? Why have I been summoned to my wife’s side?”
    â€œBecause I felt it would be advisable,” Dr. Müller answered, “for you to be near your good wife at present.”
    â€œAdvisable . . . Advisable . . . But is it necessary? I’m thinking of the expense, sir. Times are tough, and trains cost a lot. Couldn’t this day’s traveling have been avoided? I wouldn’t say a word if it were the lungs; but since, thank God, it’s only the trachea . . .”
    â€œMr. Klöterjahn,” said Dr. Müller gently, “first of all the trachea is a very important organ . . .” He said “first of all” by mistake, despite the fact that no “second of all” was to follow.
    Arriving along with Mr. Klöterjahn at Einfried, despite expense, was a curvaceous thing dressed entirely in red, tartan and gold, and it was she who carried in her arms Anton Klöterjahn, Jr., healthy little Anton. Yes, he was here, and there was no denying that he was indeed the absolute picture of health. Rosy and white, dressed in clean fresh clothes, fat and fragrant, he weighed heavily on the bare red arm of his gold-braided nanny, devouring great quantities of milk and diced meat, howling and indulging his every instinct.
    From the window in his room the writer Spinell had witnessed the arrival of the baby Klöterjahn. With a strange, veiled, but nonetheless sharp look, he had stared at the infant as the latter was brought from the carriage to the clinic and had maintained his position for a long time afterward with no