
Albrecht van der Qualen, a pale, dark-eyed gentleman whom several physicians have given only a few months to live, wakes aboard the Berlin-Rome express as it halts at a medium-sized station he does not recognize. Long in the habit of losing track of hours, dates, and even years, letting "all things float in the air," he feels only a vague satisfaction at not knowing where he is. Though his ticket is booked through to Florence, he steps off the train on impulse, checks his red travelling-bag, plaid rug, and silver-handled umbrella in the station cloakroom, lights a cigar, and walks out into the unnamed city. He crosses a bridge over a turbid river, passes through streets as the arc-lamps flare on in the fog, and drifts from the center of the city toward its outskirts, reflecting on his freedom from obligation to anyone, God included. On a quiet suburban street he finds a house with a sign advertising rooms to let. A tall, gaunt old woman with a bird-like face and a mosslike patch of eruptions on her forehead answers his knock, silently shows him a small suite, a plain bedroom with red-lacquered wicker chairs, a washstand, and a large mahogany bed, and offers it for his questioning glance. He takes the rooms, arranges for his luggage to be fetched from the station, washes, and goes out to dine in the city, eating vegetable soup, a beefsteak with egg, stewed fruit, wine, and cheese. Returning to his lodgings at night, he notices a foursquare wardrobe standing in a niche opposite a second door leading to the adjoining, separately-let flat; opening it, he finds it empty but backed only by a sheet of grey canvas tacked to its corners, with no true back panel. He retires, undresses, and when he goes to hang up his overcoat and hat, discovers the wardrobe's door open and the grey canvas loosened at one corner: within stands a naked young woman of extraordinary, almost unbearable beauty, clutching a hook at the top of the wardrobe, her brown hair loose on her shoulders, her black eyes unfocused and dreamlike. Van der Qualen, far from alarmed, offers her brandy; she declines to answer and instead asks if she should tell him a story. She settles into the wardrobe, clasping her knee, and tells a tale in a soft voice, part prose and part verse of unusual sweetness, about two lovers walking on a heath whose embrace ends in one stabbing the other with a knife "for good reasons." When she finishes, she lifts the loosened corner of the canvas and vanishes. From that night on, she appears in the wardrobe regularly, always telling melancholy, comfortless stories that nonetheless soothe and slow his heart. Sometimes his desire overcomes him and he reaches for her, and she does not resist; but afterward she withholds herself and her stories for some nights before gradually resuming. The narrator leaves open how long this continues, how many evenings, days, weeks, or months Van der Qualen remained in that house and city, and even raises the possibility that he never really left the train at all, that he might still be asleep in his compartment being carried by the express across the mountains, concluding again that all things must float in the air.
By Thomas Mann · First published 1899 · Genre: Literary Fiction, Magical Realism, Psychological Fiction · 4,119 words
It was cloudy, dusky, and cool when the Berlin-Rome express entered a railway station of medium size. In a first-class compartment, with lace covers over the backs of the broad plush seats, a lone traveller straightened himself up: Albrecht van der Qualen. He awoke. He experienced a sickly taste in his mouth, and his body was full of that not very agreeable feeling which is evoked by a standstill after a long journey, the silencing of the rhythmic rolling thud, the stillness which affords such a marked contrast to the noises without, the calls and signals.
The Wardrobe is listed on Textopian as a short story by Thomas Mann, dated 1899 CE.
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terminal illness · supernatural apparition · mysterious woman · wardrobe · desire and longing · dream and reality · melancholy · story within story · unnamed city · train journey · alienation · sensuality