On a spring afternoon of the year 19--, when our continent lay under such threatening weather for whole months, Gustav Aschenbach, or von Aschenbach as his name read officially after his fiftieth birthday, had left his apartment on the Prinzregentenstrasse in Munich and had gone for a long walk. Overwrought by the trying and precarious work of the forenoon--which had demanded a maximum wariness, prudence, penetration, and rigour of the will--the writer had not been able even after the noon meal to break the impetus of the productive mechanism within him, that _motus animi continuus_ which constitutes, according to Cicero, the foundation of eloquence; and he had not attained the healing sleep…
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