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    Death in Venice
    Death in Venice
    Death in Venice
    Ebook93 pages2 hours

    Death in Venice

    By Thomas Mann

    3.5/5

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    First published in 1912, “Death in Venice” is Thomas Mann’s novella concerning Gustav von Aschenbach, a famous middle-aged author who in order to alleviate a terrible case of writer’s black decides to go on holiday. Gustav first travels to the coast of Austria-Hungary but soon is overcome with the feeling that he is meant to travel to Venice. On Lido Island he takes up residence in a suite at the Grand Hotel des Bains. During dinner one evening at the hotel he sees a family at a table nearby and becomes fascinated by the beauty of their adolescent fourteen year old boy named Tadzio. His interest in Tadzio at first enlivens in him an uplifting and artistic spirit, however as the days pass his interest begins to grow into an unhealthy obsession. As the weather in Venice turns hot and humid, Gustav, feeling his health to be in decline, decides to travel to a cooler locale, however a mix up with his luggage, draws him back to the hotel and Tadzio, which he inwardly rejoices. Though Gustav never acts on his feelings regarding the boy he nevertheless feels himself drawn down a path of ruinous inward desire. A classic depiction of emotional suffering, “Death in Venice” brilliantly depicts the tragic intensity of inner psychological torment. This edition follows the translation of Martin C. Doege.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJun 1, 2018
    ISBN9781420958188
    Author

    Thomas Mann

    Thomas Mann was a German novelist, short story writer, social critic, philanthropist, and essayist. His highly symbolic and ironic epic novels and novellas are noted for their insight into the psychology of the artist and the intellectual. Mann won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1929.

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    Reviews for Death in Venice

    3.5/5

    1,121 ratings42 reviews

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    • 3/5
      At first, it was quite boring. After that, it became interesting with all the details about Venice, it was like I was there again. I felt how every word of his is making my heart warmer. And then there was this love about that boy that I couldn't understand. Was it father-son love, or was it some kind of wrong love, if you know what I mean. The ending was expected and disappointing.
    • 3/5
      I must admit to a dose of uneasiness with the protagnist's creepy paiderastial stalking, but I put it down to a sign of the times much like one would with the stalker-story lyrics in Daddy Cool's "Come Back Again". But as Appelbaum (the translator) suggests in the notes, in basing the novel on an the author's personal experience, Mann "preserved his decorum and his wits, or we would never have had a story", so the reader need not get too morally involved in the details. At first glance some recurring grotesque characters belie the Dionysion versus Appolonian development of the plot as Aschenbach's infatuation takes over. The title, of course, does not hide the ending. Nonetheless, Mann's interweaving of Greek mythology in support of the central theme neatly presents German philosophy in this rather deep novella. I have started to watch the 1971 movie based on this novel but I must say I am glad (as always) at having read the book first - the mythological figures which one can re-imagine after my initial reading of the characters is most certainly lost in the opening scenes of the movie - but that should come as no surprise.
    • 3/5
      Not gay enough.
      lol jk
      I can see why people make comparisons about Death In Venice to Lolita (Tadzio is basically the male version of Lolita) but the themes are so different, so idk. It's not even really about erotic obsession. Will probably reread at some point when I'm more interested in the "dignity of the author" rather than the gheyness.
      Oh yeah, and this? Totally autobiographical. You know Mann totally had a boner for some teenage Polish boy.
    • 3/5
      This edition was a collection of 7 of Mann's short stories, of which Death in Venice was the last. The others were 'Little Herr Freidemann', 'The Joker', 'The Road to the Churchyard', 'Gladius Dei', 'Tristan', and 'Tonio Kroeger'.I started off with very high hopes - I loved the first story 'Little Herr Friedemann', about a disabled young man whose unrequited love for the wife of the town's new lieutenant-colonel ends tragically. It was beautifully written and very compelling.Unfortunately, as I worked my way through the stories I grew more and more disenchanted with them. The majority of the stories felt like they were building up to a great twist which never happened. More often than not they ended with the inner turmoil and wrangling of the protagonist about either his own soul or that of society in general. Mann was heavily influenced by Freud and Neitzsche, and in many stories there was a lot of psychological introspection and classical allusions which grew tiring after a while.As 'Death in Venice' is the most well known of Mann's short stories, I expected that the best had been kept till last, but alas by the time I'd got to it I was worn down by the ever decreasing circles of the previous stories and found it over-hyped. His obsession with the young boy in Venice didn't engage me - I again felt there was too much psycho-babble which distracted from the story and the emotions of the protagonist.Perhaps if I'd read the story 'Death in Venice' in isolation I'd have enjoyed it more, but I just felt there was too much repetition of the same theme throughout most of the stories. I almost feel disappointed that this is my conclusion; there is no doubt that Mann can be an exquisite writer, and each story started with a fantastically imaginative setting. I just wish that he'd concentrated more on the plot and less on the philosophising.I can see how many would enjoy his work, but this just wasn't for me.
    • 4/5
      A compact novella without a wasted word or image, Death in Venice is clearly the work of a master--but it is a master whose obsession with myth and "grand" themes leaves behind much of the particular, humor, quirkiness and irony that I would generally prefer to find in a book. So no particular judgment on the merits, really just a matter of not being entirely to my taste.
    • 3/5
      So this tale is brief, somewhere between a short story and a novella. The first portion introduces the main character and discusses his views on literature, some of which are striking and some of which are gobbledygook. The setting then changes to Venice, where the main character falls in love with a fourteen year-old boy. Though you could argue the love stems from the perspective of a lover of beauty, or the old pining for the virtues of the young, the clearest explanation is that the main character feels romantic love towards the young boy. This is by no means a death-stroke to a story; Lolita dealt with a similar premise, and the crowning achievement of that novel was that it made you sympathize with the main character even with his reprehensible behavior and views. Once you took the time to consider the situation in the abstract the main character's behavior became abhorrent, but before that occurred the narrative made you sympathize with a character who was engaged in some of the most terrible actions possible, forcing you to re-examine your sympathies and they ways that fiction and point-of-view can warp your perspective.

      Here the narrative spurs no such higher-level analysis. Instead we are left with the narrative of an old man pining for the underage boy from afar, then meeting his fate. This makes for less than an appealing story, and the prose does not make up for this defect. This novella isn't horrible, but you're better-off rereading Lolita or reading anything with a character that is more dynamic. I will probably try another Thomas Mann work (likely The Magic Mountain), but this book has tempered my expectations.
    • 5/5
      A great book with a very appropriate ending. Very beautifully written.
    • 4/5
      Some brilliant classics never age. Their eternal conflicts remain relevant and their complexity is sufficient to provide a challenge with each reading. Death in Venice is one of those.In this novella, Mann investigates the battle between the mind and the body, the head and the heart, the noble and the savage. Gustav von Aschenbach, an aging writer, has dedicated his life to intellectual pursuits, living each day on the highest plane of a carefully-controlled artistic and spiritual life. But a sudden desire for the exotic takes him to Venice, where his life of dignity and restraint falls away. Caught by lust in a climate of decadence and disease, he is helpless to resist the lure of hedonism that finally spells his doom.
    • 4/5
      I liked and disliked this book. Mann has his character, Aschenbach, preach a little more than I like, preaching his thoughts about beauty and writing and control. That's what I disliked. For the first third of the book, I could barely force myself to keep reading.Then Aschenbach falls in love and begins to tail the object of his affection all over Venice. The story takes a different turn and the writing moves from a rant about virtue to a real story. Venice is beautifully depicted and Aschenbach becomes a real, brilliant, tortured human being. That's what I liked.
    • 4/5
      4/20. A gorgeous, sensual, intellectually brilliant novella. The caveat is simple: the second chapter is torture. Torture. You have to trust Mann to know what he's doing, and sure enough, he does, and soon we're plunged into the vivid, sweltering world of venice, whose influence slowly overcomes Aschenbach's moralistic, rational thoughts and plunge him into a dionysion revel of passion and sensuous emotion. Watch out for the many red-haired men, and be prepared for the last chapter, when the whole novel seems to plunge into a bachanaid. Here's how it works: at first, I had to force myself to read it (coincides with rationalist part of Aschenbach's mind) with thoughts of "famous novel, famous novelist, I'm sure it gets better ARGH!" Then I had to force myself to stop (coincides with passionate overthrow of reason). A brilliant construction.
    • 4/5
      Very good, but also very heavy stuff. It was an intelligent, very well written novella that I enjoyed reading. I recommend it to the philosophical thinker or someone in the mood for a more serious read. :)
    • 4/5
      Strange desire for death, strange compulsion for beauty.
    • 3/5
      Gustav von Aschenbach, a lonely German author, decides to take a long vacation in Venice, away from the drudgery of his normal life. In Venice he spies a young Polish boy, vacationing with his family. von Aschenbach becomes obsessed with this beautiful young boy trying to catch sight of him all over the city. Many people compare this to Lolita except von Aschenbach is a pedophile interested in young boys. Although he is definitely attracted to the boy, he never really approaches him, or crosses that line where he plots a seduction. For me, the story was just ok, but I really enjoyed the intro to this audiobook. Author Michael Cunningham who discusses the new translation of this German novella and all the nuances and little decisions involved in creating a good translation of a classic
    • 4/5
      According to modern writing standards, the language can come off as contrived. I enjoyed the depth of writing and the use of imagery.
    • 1/5
      This is a book which I really struggled to finish as on numerous occasions was so tempted to just pack it in. I was certainly grateful that it only ran to 64 pages. I found myself reading nearly every paragraph twice as each seemed so conveluted. I believe in free speech and not in censorship so have no real problem with the subject matter even if it does smack of paedophilia, which to every right-minded person should be abhorant. All the same I am amazed that a book like this was ever published but then perhaps paedophilia was not as well publized by the press as it is today. I believe that Mann himself struggled with his own sexuality so perhaps this book is a symbol of that inner struggle.I did not like the main character much and felt him conceited and self-centred. The writing style and plot was painfully slow. I am not too great on my Greek mythology so struggled to the relevance on more than one occasion and the ending seemed somewhat inadequate.On the whole not my type of book and not one that will live long in the memory. If truth be told it felt like a book written with the express aim of winning a literary prize, to satisfy the so called intelligenzia rather than for the pleasure of the general public but at least it was so short
    • 4/5
      I actually liked this one more than I thought I was going to. At first I thought I was going to be turned off by the topic, an older man chasing after a young boy, which I will admit is somewhat creepy. However, once you get past that the you find that the book has many layers. To get the most out of the book one should have some passing knowledge of Nietzsche's Birth of Tragedy, as one of the central themes is how Aschemback goes from Appolonian restrained life to a Dionysian one of obsession once he meets Tadzio and how he struggles and is eventually doomed by this. There was also nice irony in that the inspiration for Ashenmack's urge to travel came from a personification of Death and that when he finally reaches Venice he's ferried across the lagoon by a representation of Charon who ironically says that you will pay. In fact Aschemback is visited many times throughout the book by personifications of Death each representing a point where he could turn back, yet as Aschemback slips deeper into the Dionysian mode he ignores the warnings. Overall if you can get past the creepy man stalking a young boy and look at it through its Greek & Nietzsche influences you will find a very enjoyable book.
    • 2/5
      Another classic book I felt I should read... Well, I read it. And you can get the same emotional impact by reading the Wikipedia article.
    • 4/5
      The Book Report: I feel a complete fool providing a plot precis for this canonical work. Gustav von Ascherbach, literary lion in his sixties, wanders about his home town of Munich while struggling with a recalcitrant new story. His chance encounter with a weirdo, though no words are exchanged between them, ignites in Herr von Ascherbach the need to get out of town, to get himself to the delicious fleshpots of the South. An abortive stay in Illyria (now Bosnia or Montenegro or Croatia, no knowing which since we're not given much to go on) leads him to make his second journey to Venice. Arriving in the sin capital of the early modern world, and even in the early 20th century possessed of a louche reputation, brings him into contact with two life-changing things: A beautiful teenaged boy, and cholera. I think the title fills you in on the rest.My Review: I know this was written in 1911-1912, and is therefore to be judged by the standards of another era, but I am bone-weary of stories featuring men whose love for other males brings them to disaster and death. This is the story that started me on that path of dislike. Von Ascherbach realizes he's in love for the first time in his pinched, narrow life, and it's with a 14-year-old boy; his response is to make himself ridiculous, following the kid around, staying in his Venetian Garden of Eros despite knowing for sure there's a cholera epidemic, despite being warned of the dangers of staying, despite smelling decay and death and miasmic uccchiness all around, because he's in love. But with the wrong kind of person...a male. Therefore Mann makes him pay the ultimate price, he loses his life because he gives in and falls hopelessly, stupidly in love. With a male. Mann makes his judgment of this moral turpitude even more explicit by making it a chaste, though to modern eyes not unrequited, love between an old man and a boy. Explicit references to Classical culture aside, the entire atmosphere of the novel is quite evidently designed to point up the absurdity and the impossibility of such a love being rewarding or rewarded. It's not in the least mysterious what Mann's after: Denial, denial, denial! It's your only salvation, faggots! Deny yourself, don't let yourself feel anything rather than feel *that*!This book offends my sensibilities. Gorgeously built images and sonorously elegant sentences earn it all of its points.
    • 3/5
      Another book that has been luking on my shelves for years. I did try to read this book when I first got it but could not get past the first chapter - I found it tedious and overblown. On trying for a second time I found myself enjoying the intellectual challenge of the writing although perhaps not the the central focus of the storyline - ageing German intellectual falls in love and starts stalking a Polish adolescent he encounters during a summer stay in the increasingly pestilential city of Venice. Some heavyhanded use of repeating motifs but overall worth the effort.
    • 3/5
      Book Description One of the most famous literary works of the 20th century, the novella Death in Venice" embodies themes that preoccupied Thomas Mann (18751955) in much of his work; the duality of art and life, the presence of death and disintegration in the midst of existence, the connection between love and suffering, and the conflict between the artist and his inner self. Mann's handling of these concerns in this story of a middle-aged German writer, torn by his passion for a Polish youth met on holiday in Venice, resulted in a work of great psychological intensity and tragic power. It is presented here in an excellent new translation with extensive commentary on many facets of the story.

      My Review I did not really care much for this novella by Thomas Mann which is considered a classical masterpiece. It is a very disturbing short story about Aschenbach, a famous writer, and his fascination for a beautiful 14 year-old young boy. Although he only stalks the boy, his death is a result of his obsession by not leaving Venice during an outbreak of cholera. There is lots of symbolism in the work and for being written in 1911 the subject matter of male heterosexuality was unheard of. I would like to read other books by Thomas Mann because I do believe him to be a talented writer but I think the subject matter turned me off from really liking this one. I would recommend it to those who would like to read about the destruction powers of the mind that could live within us."
    • 5/5
      Stars for Mann's novella are superfluous. It needs no recommendation. This new translation, by Michael Heim, does deserve the accolade of a five star rating. In his brief introduction Michael Cunninham makes the persuasive point that Heim presents a subtly new reading of the original in which Aschenbach, ageing disgracefully, achieves a perversely heroic status.
    • 4/5
      This book by Thomas Mann is a novella that can give the reader a taste of the author's style. Thomas Mann writes with beauty and depth. The story is of an older artist, author who is suffering from writer's block. He decides to travel. At first he goes one place but "it isn't right" or he still can't write, so off to Venice he goes. On the way, he is annoyed by an older man trying to look young and hang out with youth. In Venice, he again feels suffocated and thinks to leave but circumstances occur and he stays where is obsession with a adolescent youth takes away any sense, logic and replaces it with passion and poor judgement. Nothing ever occurs, yet this love affair of the mind, leads to decay and death. A short but powerful story.
    • 3/5
      I appreciated the beauty of the writing. The descriptions at times were stunning, but the initial coolness in the writing meant I struggled to feel sympathy with the characters. Aschenbach is self centred and leaves no room for anyone else's emotions, but his descent into obsession and his surrender to passion was compelling and I ended by finding him very human. I thought Mann cleverly drew parallels between Ancient Greek society and that of early 20th century Europe, but it felt more like an intellectual exercise than a novel at times. The motifs of death, fate, obsession and trying to stir up passion in a regulated heart were interesting, but real feelings seldom broke through the cleverness, and only really succeeded towards the end. That kept me from loving the book.
    • 4/5
      How I wish I discovered Mann earlier
    • 2/5
      a 160 page celebration of a pederast and his target. I find it interesting that Mann is revered as an author, but most people would be hard-pressed to come up with 3 books that he wrote. I found this book unimaginative and prone to rambling. Not my idea of a good book.
    • 4/5
      This one creeps up on you slowly throughout. It begins very slowly and frankly rather tediously, with the author spending a large number of words on very little. But the protagonist's obsessions, with the young boy he stalks, and with his fear of and longing for oblivion, gradually take over the narrative, and his mental decay mirrors the physical decay of Venice and the growing menace of the disease plaguing the city. Leave quite an emotional impact.
    • 3/5
      I'm not sure what the problem was with this audiobook & myself, but I just couldn't get into it. Perhaps I was distracted while listening & didn't get a full appreciation, but I honestly just couldn't wrap my head around it & when the ending came, rather abruptly, I had to rewind several times to be sure it really was the end. And still, I was left with a dazed look on my face. Having not previously read this or any translation of it, I think I may have been better off not going with the audio.
    • 4/5
      Portuguese translation of the german original Der Tod in Venedig. The story of a forbidden and self-destructive passion of an old writer by a boy incarnating his ideal of classical beauty. A poignant portrait of love and decadence.
    • 5/5
      A literary achievement with the psychology of Tolstoy and a Greek commitment to the story itself; and that is not the only thing about this book that is 'Greek'. A treatise on Death, Life, Sex, Desire, and Fear which is both enticing and terrifying, and for the self-same reason.Here is the face of wretched animal man, teeth bared and cloudy desperation mocking the vision. Mann's most succinct and powerful images and meanings are always reversed, for the sense that the raw and brutal emotion herein is become feral is mitigated by the fact that it is twisted back upon the self as only such a morally indistinct, labyrinthine mass may so twist.Eminently pleasing and disturbing, this battle between the barely-restrained Epicurean and the resignedly Absurdist meets the latter's comic fruition in the former's faux-tragic inaccessibility.
    • 4/5
      This is a strange, creepy little novel. I can't decided if the character Aschenbach is really a pedophile or just enthralled with the youth and beauty of a teenage boy that has been lost to him for years.

    Book preview

    Death in Venice - Thomas Mann

    cover.jpg

    DEATH IN VENICE

    By THOMAS MANN

    Translated by MARTIN C. DOEGE

    Death in Venice

    By Thomas Mann

    Translated by Martin C. Doege

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5817-1

    eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-5818-8

    This edition copyright © 2018. Digireads.com Publishing.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

    Cover Image: a detail of The Ducal Palace; Le Palais Ducal, c. 1915 (oil, pen and india ink on canvas), by Henri Eugene Augustin Le Sidaner (1862-1939) / Private Collection / Photo © Christie's Images / Bridgeman Images.

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    Chapter I

    Chapter II

    Chapter III

    Chapter IV

    Chapter V

    Chapter I

    Gustav Aschenbach, or von Aschenbach, as his official surname had been since his fiftieth birthday, had taken another solitary walk from his apartment in Munich’s Prinzregentenstraße on a spring afternoon of the year 19—, which had shown the continent such a menacing grimace for a few months. Overexcited by the dangerous and difficult work of that morning that demanded a maximum of caution, discretion, of forcefulness and exactitude of will, the writer had been unable, even after lunch, to stop the continued revolution of that innermost productive drive of his, that motus animi continuus, which after Cicero is the heart of eloquence, and had been thwarted trying to find that soothing slumber which he, in view of his declining resistance, needed so dearly. Therefore he had gone outside soon after tea, hoping that fresh air and exertion would regenerate him and reward him with a productive evening.

    It was early May, and, after some cold and wet weeks, a faux midsummer had begun. The Englische Garten, although only slightly leafy, was humid as in August and had been teeming with carriages and strollers where it was close to the city. At the Aumeister, where increasingly serene paths had led him, he had surveyed the popular and lively Wirtsgarten, on the bounds of which some cabs and carriages were parking, he had started his saunter home across the fields outside of the park while the light was fading, and waited, since he felt exhausted and a thunderstorm seemed imminent over Föhring, for the tram which was to carry him in a straight line back to the city. He happened to find the station and its surroundings completely deserted. Neither on the paved Ungererstraße, on which the lonely-glistening rails stretched towards Schwabing, nor on the Föhringer Chaussee a cart could be seen; nothing stirred behind the fences of the stonecutters, where crosses, commemorative plates, and monuments for sale formed a second, uninhabited cemetery and the Byzantine edifice of the mortuary chapel on the other side of the street lay silent in the last light of the parting day. Its front wall, decorated with Greek crosses and emblems in bright colors, furthermore sports symmetrically aligned biblical inscriptions concerning the afterlife, such as: THEY ENTER THE HOUSE OF GOD or THE ETERNAL LIGHT MAY SHINE UPON THEM; and the waiter for a time had found a reasonable entertainment in reading the phrases and letting his mind’s eye wander in their iridescent mystery, when he, returning from his reverie, had noticed a man in the portico, close to the apocalyptic beasts which guard the staircase, whose wholly unusual appearance steered his thoughts into a completely different direction.

    Whether he had emerged from inside of the hall through the bronze gates or had approached undetected from outside remained an enigma. Aschenbach, without giving particularly deep thought to the question, tended to assume the former. Not very tall, thin, beardless and strikingly round-nosed, the man belonged to the red-headed type and had its milk-like and freckled skin. Obviously he was not Bavarian: the broad and straight-rimmed bast hat which covered his head gave him the air of the foreign and far-traveled. Of course he wore the common kind of rucksack strapped on his shoulders, a yellowish suit of loden fabric, as it appeared, a gray coat over the left underarm, which he had stemmed into his side, and in the right hand a stick with an iron tip, which he had pushed diagonally into the ground and on which he, feet crossed, leaned with his hip. With raised head, so that on his scrawny neck which stuck out from his sport shirt the Adam’s apple projected forcefully and well-defined, he looked into the distance, with colorless, red-lashed eyes between which there were two vertical, definite furrows, which strangely complemented his short and stubby nose. His demeanor—and perhaps his elevated and elevating standpoint contributed to this impression—was that of cool survey, audacious, even wild; because, be it that he was grimacing against the brightness of the setting Sun or that it was a more permanent physiognomic disfigurement, his lips seemed too short, the teeth were entirely uncovered, so that they, quite long and bare to the gums, gleamed white between his lips.

    Possibly Aschenbach had not exerted much discretion in his half-distracted and half-inquisitive study of the foreigner; because suddenly he noticed the other one returning his glances and in such a war-like fashion, so straight into the eye, so obviously determined to carry this to the extremes and to force the other one’s gaze to retreat, that Aschenbach, slightly embarrassed, turned around and began ambling along the fences, with the passing decision not to regard that person again. He had forgotten him the very next minute. If it was the wayfarer-like air of the foreigner working on his imagination or some other corporeal or mental influence that caused it: a strange distention of his soul unexpectedly made itself known, a sort of roving unrest, a juvenile thirst for the distant, a feeling, so novel and yet so long-forgotten that he, hands on his back and his eyes fixed at the ground, stood transfixed to probe that emotion and its nature and aim. It was wanderlust, nothing more; but verily coming in the form of a fit and ardently intensified, even to the point of an illusion. Because he saw, as a sample of of all those wonders and horrors of the diversity on Earth which his desire was suddenly able to imagine, an enormous landscape, a tropical swamp under a moist and heavy sky, wet, lush, and unhealthy, a primordial wilderness of islands and mud-bearing backwaters that men avoid. The shallow islands, the soil of which was covered with leafs as thick as hands, with enormous ferns, with juicy, macerated and wonderfully flowering plants, ejected upwards hairy palm trunks, and strangely formless trees, whose roots sprung from the trunks and connected to the water or the ground through the air, formed disorienting arrangements. On the brackish, glaucously-reflecting stream milk-white, bowl-sized flowers were floating; high-shouldered birds of all kinds with shapeless beaks were standing on tall legs in the shallow water and looked askance unmoving, while through vast reed fields there sounded a clattering grinding and whirring, as if by soldiers in their armaments; the onlooker thought he felt the tepid and mephitic odor of that unrestrained and unfit wasteland, which seemed to hover in a limbo between creation and decay, between the knotty trunks of a bamboo thicket he for a moment believed to perceive the phosphorescent eyes of the tiger—and felt his heart beating with horror and mysterious yearning. Finally the hallucination vanished, and Aschenbach, shaking his head, resumed his promenade along the fences of the stonecutters.

    He had, as far

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