Death in Venice and Other Stories by Thomas Mann Page A

dreams he was permitted to listen in on every vacation—these were the things he loved, the things he surrounded himself with, the things amidst which his inner life played itself out. They were all things with names that could be used to good effect in poetry and that did indeed keep recurring in the actual poems Tonio Kröger wrote from time to time.
    This—the fact that he had written a notebook full of poems—had through his own negligence become public knowledge and had greatly harmed his reputation among his classmates and teachers. On the one hand, Consul Kröger’s son found it stupid and vulgar to be put off by poetry, and he despised them accordingly, both his classmates and his teachers, whose ill manners in other areas repulsed him too and whose own personal shortcomings he perceived with unusual penetrating clarity. On the other hand, he also found something extravagant and actually unbecoming in the writing of poetry and had to agree partially with all those who considered it a dubious activity. That alone, however, wasn’t enough to make him desist . . .
    Since he squandered his free time after school, was slow and disinterested in the classroom and possessed a poor reputation among his teachers, he always brought home the most miserable report cards. These drew the ire and consternation of his father, a tall, meticulously attired gentleman with thoughtful blue eyes, who always wore a wildflower in his buttonhole. With Tonio’smother, his beautiful, dark-haired mother, it was different. Her first name was Consuelo, and she was unlike the other ladies of the city in every respect, having been brought there by his father one day long ago from somewhere at the very bottom of the map. She could have cared less about his grades . . .
    Tonio loved his dark, fiery mother, who played piano and mandolin so marvelously, and was glad that she didn’t fret about his dubious standing in society. On the other hand, he sensed that his father’s anger was much more respectable and decent and, though constantly scolded by him, ultimately saw everything through his father’s eyes, whereas he found his mother’s cheerful indifference a bit disreputable. His thoughts often ran something like: I have gone on long enough being the way I am—negligent, contrary, fascinated by things no one else thinks about—with no desire or capacity to change. At least, it’s only natural that people scold and punish me seriously for it, instead of looking past the problem with kisses and music. We’re not gypsies in some green wagon; we’re respectable people, Consul Kröger’s family,
the
Krögers . . . On more than one occasion he had also thought: why am I so obstinate, so quick to contradict, so at odds with my teachers and outcast from the other boys? Just look at them, the students at the head of the class and the good, solid average ones. They don’t find the teachers ridiculous; they don’t write poems; they only think about things that people do think about, things that can be said out loud. How proper they must feel, existing in harmony with everything and everyone around them! That must be nice . . . What’s wrong with me? What end will this come to?
    This way of looking at himself and his position in life played a major part in Tonio’s love for Hans Hansen. He loved him first of all because he was handsome, but also because he appeared in every respect to be the reverse and opposite of himself. Hans Hansen was an excellent student and a fun-loving fellow to boot, who rode horses, played sports, swam like a champion and enjoyed universal popularity. The teachers doted on him withsomething approaching tender fondness, addressing him by his first name and giving him every encouragement. His classmates vied for his favor, and on the street gentlemen and ladies would stop him, tug the shock of raffia blond hair that