A tepid storm wind had risen. It was raining sparsely and at intervals,
but the air was damp, thick, and filled with the smell of things
rotting. All around him he heard a fluttering, pattering, and swishing;
and under the fever of his cosmetics it seemed to him as though evil
wind-spirits were haunting the place, impure sea birds which rooted and
gnawed at the food of the condemned and befouled it with their
droppings. For the sultriness destroyed his appetite, and the fancy
suggested itself that the foods were poisoned with contaminating
substances. Tracking the boy one afternoon, Aschenbach had plunged deep
into the tangled centre of the diseased city. He was becoming uncertain
of where he was, since the alleys, waterways, bridges, and little
squares of the labyrinth were all so much alike, and he was no longer
even sure of directions. He was absorbed with the problem of keeping the
pursued figure in sight. And, driven to disgraceful subterfuges,
flattening himself against walls, hiding behind the backs of other
people, for a long time he did not notice the weariness, the exhaustion,
with which emotion and the continual suspense had taxed his mind and his
body. Tadzio walked behind his companions. He always allowed the
governess and the nunlike sisters to precede him in the narrow places;
and loitering behind alone, he would turn his head occasionally to look
over his shoulder and make sure by a glance of his peculiarly dark-grey
eyes that his admirer was following. He saw him, and did not betray him.
Drunk with the knowledge of this, lured forward by those eyes, led
meekly by his passion, the lover stole after his unseemly hope--but
finally he was cheated and lost sight of him. The Poles had crossed a
short arching bridge; the height of the curve hid them from the pursuer,
and when he himself had arrived there he no longer saw them. He hunted
for them vainly in three directions, straight ahead and to either side
along the narrow dirty wharf. In the end he was so tired and unnerved
that he had to give up the search.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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