His voice cracked as he spoke, because it was changing, which

Hanno’s had not yet begun to do. He had kept pace with Hanno in his

growth, but his looks had not altered, and he still wore a dingy

suit of no particular colour, with a button or so missing and a big

patch in the seat. His hands, too, were not quite clean; narrow and

aristocratic-looking though they were, with long, slender fingers

and tapering nails. But his brow was still pure as alabaster beneath

the carelessly parted reddish-yellow hair that fell over it, and the

glance of the sparkling blue eyes was as keen and as profound as ever.

In fact, the contrast was even more striking between his neglected

toilette and the racial purity of his face, with its delicate bony

structure, slightly aquiline nose, and short upper lip, upon which the

down was beginning to show.

“Oh, Kai,” said Hanno, with a wry face, putting his hand to his heart.

“How can you frighten me like that? What are you doing up here? Why are

you hiding? Did you come late too?”

“Dear me, no,” Kai said. “I’ve been here a long time. Though one

doesn’t much look forward to getting back to the old place, when Monday

morning comes round. _You_ must know that yourself, old fellow. No, I

only stopped up here to have a little game. The deep one seems to be

able to reconcile it with his religion to hunt people down to prayers.

Well, I get behind him, and I manage to keep close behind his back

whichever way he turns, the old mystic! So in the end he goes off,

and I can stop up here. But what about you?” he said sympathetically,

sitting down beside Hanno on the bench. “You had to run, didn’t you?

Poor old chap! You look perfectly worn out. Your hair is sticking to

your forehead.” He took a ruler from the table and carefully combed

little Johann’s hair with it. “You overslept, didn’t you? Look,” he

interrupted himself, “here I am sitting in the sacred seat of number

one--Adolf Todtenhaupt’s place! Well, it won’t hurt me for once, I

suppose. You overslept, didn’t you?”

Hanno had put his head down on his arms again. “I was at the opera

last night,” he said, heaving a long sigh.

“Right--I’d forgot that. Well, was it beautiful?”

He got no answer.

“You are a lucky fellow, after all,” went on Kai perseveringly. “I’ve

never been in the theatre, not a single time in my whole life, and

there isn’t the smallest prospect of my going--at least, not for years.”

“If only one did not have to pay for it afterwards,” said Hanno

gloomily.

“The headache next morning--well, I know how that feels, anyhow.” Kai

stooped and picked up his friend’s coat and hat, which lay on the floor

beside the bench, and carried them quietly out into the corridor.

“Then I take for granted you haven’t done the verses from the

_Metamorphoses_?” he asked as he came back.

“No,” said Hanno.

“Have you prepared for the geography test?”

“I haven’t done anything, and I don’t know anything,” said Hanno.

“Not the chemistry nor the English, either? _Benissimo!_ Then there’s

a pair of us--brothers-in-arms,” said Kai, with obvious gratification.

“I’m in exactly the same boat,” he announced jauntily. “I did no

work Saturday, because the next day was Sunday; and I did no work on

Sunday, because it was Sunday! No, nonsense, it was mostly because I’d

something better to do.” He spoke with sudden earnestness, and a slight

flush spread over his face. “Yes, perhaps it may be rather lively

to-day, Hanno.”

“If I get only one more bad mark, I shan’t go up,” said Johann; “and

I’m sure to get it when I’m called up for Latin. The letter B comes

next, Kai, so there’s not much help for it.”

“We shall see: What does Caesar say? ‘Dangers may threaten me in the

rear; but when they see the front of Caesar--’” But Kai did not finish.

He was feeling rather out of sorts himself; he went to the platform and

sat down in the master’s chair, where he began to rock back and forth,

scowling. Hanno still sat with his forehead resting on his arms. So

they remained for a while in silence.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a dull humming was heard, which

quickly swelled to a tumult of voices, approaching, imminent.

“The mob,” said Kai, in an exasperated tone. “Goodness, how fast they

got through. They haven’t taken up ten minutes of the period!”

He got down from the platform and went to the door to mingle with the

incoming stream. Hanno, for his part, lifted up his head for a minute,

screwed up his mouth, and remained seated.

Stamping, shuffling, with a confusion of masculine voices, treble

and falsetto, they flooded up the steps and over the corridor. The

classroom suddenly became full of noise and movement. This was the

lower second form of the _Realschule_, some twenty-five strong,

comrades of Hanno and Kai. They loitered to their places with their

hands in their pockets or dangling their arms, sat down, and opened

their Bibles. Some of the faces were pleasant, strong, and healthy;

others were doubtful or suspicious-looking. Here were tall, stout,

lusty rascals who would soon go to sea or else begin a mercantile

career, and who had no further interest in their school life; and

small, ambitious lads, far ahead of their age, who were brilliant in

subjects that could be got by heart. Adolf Todtenhaupt was the head

boy. He knew everything. In all his school career he had never failed

to answer a question. Part of his reputation was due to his silent,

impassioned industry; but part was also due to the fact that the

masters were careful not to ask him anything he might not know. It

would have pained and mortified them and shaken their faith in human

perfectibility to have Adolf Todtenhaupt fail to answer. He had a head

full of remarkable bumps, to which his blond hair clung as smooth as

glass; grey eyes with black rings beneath them, and long brown hands

that stuck out beneath the too short sleeves of his neatly brushed

jacket. He sat down next Hanno Buddenbrook with a mild, rather sly

smile, and bade his neighbour good morning in the customary jargon,

which reduced the greeting to a single careless monosyllable. Then he

began to employ himself silently with the class register, holding his

pen in a way that was incomparably correct, with the slender fingers

outstretched; while about him people yawned, laughed, conned their

lessons, and chattered half aloud.

After two minutes there were steps outside. The front rows of pupils

rose, and some of those seated farther back followed their example.

The rest scarcely interrupted what they were doing as Herr Ballerstedt

came into the room, hung his hat on the door, and betook himself to the

platform.

He was a man in the forties, with a pleasant _embonpoint_, a large

bald spot, a short beard, a rosy complexion, and a mingled expression

of unctuousness and sensuality on his humid lips. He took out his

notebook and turned over the leaves in silence; but as the order in

the classroom left much to be desired, he lifted his head, stretched

out his arm over the desk, and waved his flabby white fist a few times

powerlessly in the air. His face grew slowly red--such a dark red

that his beard looked pale-yellow by contrast. He moved his lips and

struggled spasmodically and fruitlessly for half a minute to speak,

and finally brought out a single syllable, a short, suppressed grunt

that sounded like “Well!” He still struggled after further expression,

but in the end gave it up, returned to his notebook, calmed down, and

became quite composed once more. This was Herr Ballerstedt’s way.

He had intended to be a priest; but on account of his tendency to

stutter and his leaning toward the good things of life he had become

a pedagogue instead. He was a bachelor of some means, wore a small

diamond on his finger, and was much given to eating and drinking.

He was the head master who associated with his fellow masters only

in working hours; and outside them he spent his time chiefly with

the bachelor society of the town--yes, even with the officers of the

garrison. He ate twice a day in the best hotel and was a member of the

club. If he met any of his elder pupils in the streets, late at night

or at two or three o’clock in the morning, he would puff up the way he

did in the classroom, fetch out a “Good morning,” and let the matter

rest there, on both sides. From this master Hanno Buddenbrook had

nothing to fear and was almost never called up by him. Herr Ballerstedt

had been too often associated with Hanno’s Uncle Christian in all too

purely human affairs, to make him inclined to conflict with Johann in

an official capacity.

“Well,” he said, looked about him once more, waved his flabby fist with

the diamond upon it, and glanced into his notebook. “Perlemann, the

synopsis.”

Somewhere in the class, up rose Perlemann. One could hardly see that he

had risen; he was one of the small and forward ones. “The synopsis,”

he said, softly and politely, craning his neck forward with a nervous

smile. “The Book of Job falls into three sections. First, the condition

of Job before he fell under the chastening of the Lord: Chapter One,

Verses one to six: second, the chastening itself, and its consequences,

Chapter--”

“Right, Perlemann,” interrupted Herr Ballerstedt, touched by so

much modesty and obligingness. He put down a good mark in his book.

“Continue, Heinricy.”

Heinricy was one of the tall rascals who gave themselves no trouble

over anything. He shoved the knife he had been playing with into his

pocket, and got up noisily, with his lower lip hanging, and coughing

in a gruff voice. Nobody was pleased to have him called up after the

gentle Perlemann. The pupils sat drowsing in the warm room, some of

them half asleep, soothed by the purring sound of the gas. They were

all tired after the holiday; they had all crawled out of warm beds that

morning with their teeth chattering, groaning in spirit. And they would

have preferred to have the gentle Perlemann drone on for the remainder

of the period. Heinricy was almost sure to make trouble.

“I wasn’t here when we had this,” he said, none too respectfully.

Herr Ballerstedt puffed himself up, waved his fist, struggled to speak,

and stared young Heinricy in the face with his eyebrows raised. His

head shook with the effort he made; but he finally managed to bring out

a “Well!” and the spell was broken. He went on with perfect fluency.

“There is never any work to be got out of you, and you always have

an excuse ready, Heinricy. If you were ill the last time, you could

have had help in that part; besides, if the first part dealt with

the condition before the tribulation, and the second part with the

tribulation itself, you could have told by counting on your fingers

that the third part must deal with the condition after the tribulation!

But you have no application or interest whatever; you are not only

a poor creature, but you are always ready to excuse and defend your

mistakes. But so long as this is the case, Heinricy, you cannot expect

to make any improvement, and so I warn you. Sit down, Heinricy. Go on,

Wasservogel.”

Heinricy, thick-skinned and defiant, sat down with much shuffling and

scraping, whispered some sort of saucy comment in his neighbour’s ear,

and took out his jack-knife again. Wasservogel stood up: a boy with

inflamed eyes, a snub nose, prominent ears, and bitten fingernails. He

finished the summary in a rather whining voice, and began to relate

the story of Job, the man from the land of Uz, and what happened to

him. He had simply opened his Bible, behind the back of the pupil

ahead of him; and he read from it with an air of utter innocence and

concentration, staring then at a point on the wall and translated what

he read, coughing the while, into awkward and hesitating modern German.

There was something positively repulsive about Wasservogel; but Herr

Ballerstedt gave him a large meed of praise. Wasservogel had the knack

of making the masters like him; and they praised him in order to show

that they were incapable of being led away by his ugliness to blame him

unjustly.

The lesson continued. Various pupils were called up to display their

knowledge touching Job, the man from the land of Uz. Gottlob Kassbaum,

son of the unfortunate merchant P. Philipp Kassbaum, got an excellent

mark, despite the late distressing circumstances of his family, because

he knew that Job had seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels,

five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred asses, and a large number of

servants.

Then the Bibles, which were already open, were permitted to be opened,

and they went on reading. Wherever Herr Ballerstedt thought explanation

necessary, he puffed himself up, said “Well!” and after these customary

preliminaries made a little speech upon the point in question,

interspersed with abstract moral observations. Not a soul listened. A

slumberous peace reigned in the room. The heat, with the continuous

influx of warm air and the still lighted gas burners, had become

oppressive, and the air was well-nigh exhausted by these twenty-five

breathing and steaming organisms. The warmth, the purring of the gas,

and the drone of the reader’s voice lulled them all to a point where

they were more asleep than awake. Kai, Count Mölln, however, had a

volume of Edgar Allan Poe’s _Tales_ inside his Bible, and read in it,

supporting his head on his hand. Hanno Buddenbrook leaned back, sank

down in his seat, and looked with relaxed mouth and hot, swimming eyes

at the Book of Job, in which all the lines ran together into a black

haze. Now and then, as the Grail _motif_ or the Wedding March came into

his mind, his lids drooped and he felt an inward soothing; and then he

would wish that this safe and peaceful morning hour might go on for

ever.

Yet it ended, as all things must end. The shrill sound of the bell,

clanging and echoing through the corridor, shook the twenty-five brains

out of their slumberous calm.

“That is all,” said Herr Ballerstedt. The register was handed up to

him and he signed his name in it, as evidence that he had performed his

office.

Hanno Buddenbrook closed his Bible and stretched himself, yawning. It

was a nervous yawn; and as he dropped his arms and relaxed his limbs

he had to take a long, deep breath to bring his heart back to a steady

pulsation, for it weakly refused its office for a second. Latin came

next. He cast a beseeching glance at Kai, who still sat there reading

and seemed not to have remarked the end of the lesson. Then he drew out

his Ovid, in stitched covers of marbled paper, and opened it at the

lines that were to have been learned by heart for to-day. No, it was no

use now trying to memorize any of it: the regular lines, full of pencil

marks, numbered by fives all the way down the page, looked hopelessly

unfamiliar. He barely understood the sense of them, let alone trying to

say a single one of them by heart. And of those in to-day’s preparation

he had not puzzled out even the first sentence.

“What does that mean--‘_deciderant, patula Jovis arbore glandes_’?”

he asked in a despairing voice, turning to Adolf Todtenhaupt, who sat

beside him working on the register.

“What?” asked Todtenhaupt, continuing to write. “The acorns from the

tree of Jupiter--that is the oak; no, I don’t quite know myself--”

“Tell me a bit, Todtenhaupt, when it comes my turn, will you?” begged

Hanno, and pushed the book away. He scowled at the cool and careless

nod Todtenhaupt gave by way of reply; then he slid sidewise off the

bench and stood up.

The scene had changed. Herr Ballerstedt had left the room, and his

place was taken by a small, weak enervated little man who stood

straight and severe on the platform. He had a sparse white beard and

a thin red neck that rose out of a narrow turned-down collar. He held

his top-hat upside down in front of him, clasped in two small hands

covered with white hair. His real name was Professor Hückopp, but he

was called “Spider” by the pupils. He was in charge of classrooms and

corridors during the recess. “Out with the gas! Up with the blinds! Up

with the windows!” he said, and gave his voice as commanding a tone as

possible, moving his little arm in the air with an awkward, energetic

gesture, as if he were turning a crank. “Everybody downstairs, into the

fresh air, as quick as possible!”

The gas went out, the blinds flew up, the sallow daylight filled the

room. The cold mist rushed in through the wide-open windows, and the

lower second crowded past Professor Hückopp to the exit. Only the head

boy might remain upstairs.

Hanno and Kai met at the door and went down the stairs together, and

across the architecturally correct vestibule. They were silent. Hanno

looked pathetically unwell, and Kai was deep in thought. They reached

the courtyard and began to stroll up and down across the wet red tiles,

among school companions of all ages and sizes.

A youthful looking man with a blond pointed beard kept order down here:

Dr. Goldener, the “dressy one.” He kept a _pensionnat_ for the sons

of the rich landowners from Mecklenburg and Holstein, and dressed, on

account of these aristocratic youths, with an elegance not apparent

in the other masters. He wore silk cravats, a dandified coat, and

pale-coloured trousers fastened down with straps under the soles of

his boots, and used perfumed handkerchiefs with coloured borders.

He came of rather simple people, and all this elegance was not very

becoming--his huge feet, for example, looked absurd in the pointed

buttoned boots he wore. He was vain of his plump red hands, too, and

kept rubbing them together, clasping them before him, and regarding

them with every mark of admiration. He carried his head laid far back

on one side, and constantly made faces by blinking, screwing up his

nose, and half-opening his mouth, as though he were about to say:

“What’s the matter now?” But his refinement led him to overlook all

sorts of small infractions of the rules. He overlooked this or that

pupil who had brought a book with him into the courtyard to prepare a

little at the eleventh hour; he overlooked the fact that one of his

boarding-pupils handed money to the porter, Herr Schlemiel, and asked

him to get some pastry; he overlooked a small trial of strength between

two third-form pupils, which resulted in a beating of one by the other,

and around which a ring of connoisseurs was quickly formed; and he

overlooked certain sounds behind him which indicated that a pupil who

had made himself unpopular by cheating, cowardice, or other weakness

was being forcibly escorted to the pump.

It was a lusty, not too gentle race, that of these comrades of

Hanno and Kai among whom they walked up and down. The ideals of

the victorious, united fatherland were those of a somewhat rude

masculinity; its youth talked in a jargon at once brisk and slovenly;

the most despised vices were softness and dandyism, the most admired

virtues those displayed by prowess in drinking and smoking, bodily

strength and skill in athletics. Whoever went out with his coat-collar

turned up incurred a visit to the pump; while he who let himself be

seen in the streets with a walking-stick must expect a public and

ignominious correction administered in the drill-hall.

Hanno’s and Kai’s conversation was in striking contrast to that which

went on around them among their fellows. This friendship had been

recognized in the school for a long time. The masters suffered it

grudgingly, suspecting that it meant disaffection and future trouble.

The pupils could not understand it, but had settled down to regarding

it with a sort of embarrassed dislike, and to thinking of the two

friends as outlaws and eccentrics who must be left to their own

devices. They recognized, it is true, the wildness and insubordination

of Kai, Count Mölln, and respected him accordingly. As for Hanno

Buddenbrook, big Heinricy, who thrashed everybody, could not make up

his mind to lay a finger on him by way of chastisement for dandyism or

cowardice. He refrained out of an indefinite respect and awe for the

softness of Hanno’s hair, the delicacy of his limbs, and his sad, shy,

cold glance.

“I’m scared,” Hanno said to Kai. He leaned against the wall of the

school, drawing his jacket closer about him, yawning and shivering,

“I’m so scared, Kai, that it hurts me all over my body. Now just

tell me this: is Herr Mantelsack the sort of person one ought to be

afraid of? Tell me yourself! If this beastly Ovid lesson were only

over! If I just had my bad mark, in peace, and stopped where I am, and

everything was in order! I’m not afraid of that. It is the row that

goes beforehand that I hate!”

Kai was still deep in thought. “This Roderick Usher is the most

remarkable character ever conceived,” he said suddenly and abruptly.

“I have read the whole lesson-hour. If ever I could write a tale like

that!”

Kai was absorbed in his writing. It was to this he had referred when

he said that he had something better to do than his preparation, and

Hanno had understood him. Attempts at composition had developed out of

his old propensity for inventing tales; and he had lately completed

a composition in the form of a fantastic fairy tale, a narrative of

symbolic adventure, which went forward in the depths of the earth

among glowing metals and mysterious fires, and at the same time in the

souls of men: a tale in which the primeval forces of nature and of the

soul were interchanged and mingled, transformed and refined--the whole

conceived and written in a vein of extravagant and even sentimental

symbolism, fervid with passion and longing.

Hanno knew the tale well, and loved it; but he was not now in a frame

of mind to think of Kai’s work or of Edgar Allan Poe. He yawned again,

and then sighed, humming to himself a _motif_ he had lately composed on

the piano. This was a habit with him. He would often give a long sigh,

a deep indrawn breath, from the instinct to calm the fluctuating and

irregular action of his heart; and he had accustomed himself to set

the deep breathing to a musical theme of his own or some one else’s

invention.

“Look, there comes the Lord God,” said Kai. “He is walking in his

garden.”

“Fine garden,” said Hanno. He began to laugh nervously, and could not

stop; putting his handkerchief to his mouth the while and looking

across the courtyard at him whom Kai called the Lord God.

This was Director Wulicke, the head of the school, who had appeared in

the courtyard: an extremely tall man with a slouch hat, a short heavy

beard, a prominent abdomen, trousers that were far too short, and very

dirty funnel-shaped cuffs. He strode across the flagstones with a face

so angry in its expression that he seemed to be actually suffering,

and pointed at the pump with outstretched arm. The water was running!

A train of pupils ran before him and stumbled in their zeal to repair

the damage. Then they stood about, looking first at the pump and then

at the Director, their faces pictures of distress; and the Director,

meanwhile, had turned to Dr. Goldener, who hurried up with a very red

face and spoke to him in a deep hollow voice, fairly babbling with

excitement between the words.

This Director Wulicke was a most formidable man. He had succeeded

to the headship of the school after the death, soon after 1871, of

the genial and benevolent old gentleman under whose guidance Hanno’s

father and uncle had pursued their studies. Dr. Wulicke was summoned

from a professorship in a Prussian high school; and with his advent an

entirely new spirit entered the school. In the old days the classical

course had been thought of as an end in itself, to be pursued at one’s

ease, with a sense of joyous idealism. But now the leading conceptions

were authority, duty, power, service, the career; “the categorical

imperative of our philosopher Kant” was inscribed upon the banner which

Dr. Wulicke in every official speech unfurled to the breeze. The school

became a state within a state, in which not only the masters but the

pupils regarded themselves as officials, whose main concern was the

advancement they could make, and who must therefore take care to stand

well with the authorities. Soon after the new Director was installed in

his office the tearing down of the old school began, and the new one

was built up on the most approved hygienic and aesthetic principles,

and everything went swimmingly. But it remained an open question

whether the old school, as an institution, with its smaller endowment

of modern comfort and its larger share of gay good nature, courage,

charm, and good feeling, had not been more blest and blessing than the

new.

As for Dr. Wulicke himself personally, he had all the awful mystery,

duplicity, obstinacy, and jealousy of the Old Testament God. He was as

frightful in his smiles as in his anger. The result of the enormous

authority that lay in his hands was that he grew more and more

arbitrary and moody--he was even capable of making a joke and then

visiting with his wrath anybody who dared to laugh. Not one of his

trembling creatures knew how to act before him. They found it safest

to honour him in the dust, and to protect themselves by a frantic

abasement from the fate of being whirled up in the cloud of his wrath

and crushed for ever under the weight of his righteous displeasure.

The name Kai had given Dr. Wulicke was known only to himself and

Hanno, and they took the greatest pains not to let any of the others

overhear it, for they could not possibly understand. No, there was

not one single point on which those two stood on common ground with

their schoolfellows. Even the methods of revenge, of “getting even,”

which obtained in the school were foreign to Hanno and Kai; and they

utterly disdained the current nicknames, which did not in the least

appeal to their more subtle sense of humour. It was so poor, it showed

such a paucity of invention, to call thin Professor Hückopp “Spider”

and Herr Ballerstedt “Cocky.” It was such scant compensation for their

compulsory service to the state! No, Kai, Count Mölln, flattered

himself that he was not so feeble as that! He invented, for his own and

Hanno’s use, a method of alluding to all their masters by their actual

names, with the simple prefix, thus: Herr Ballerstedt, Herr Hückopp.

The irony of this, its chilly remoteness and mockery, pleased him very

much. He liked to speak of the “teaching body”; and would amuse himself

for whole recesses with imagining it as an actual creature, a sort of

monster, with a repulsively fantastic form. And they spoke in general

of the “Institution” as if it were similar to that which harboured

Hanno’s Uncle Christian.

Kai’s mood improved at sight of the Lord God, who still pervaded the

playground and put everybody in a pallid fright by pointing, with

fearful rumblings, to the wrapping papers from the luncheons which

strewed the courtyard. The two lads went off to one of the gates,

through which the masters in charge of the second period were now

entering. Kai began to make bows of exaggerated respect before the

red-eyed, pale, shabby-looking seminarists, who crossed over to go to

their sixth and seventh form pupils in the back court. And when the

grey-haired mathematics master, Herr Tietge, appeared, holding a bundle

of books on his back with a shaking hand, bent, yellow, cross-eyed,

spitting as he walked along, Kai said, “Good morning, old dead man.” He

said this, in a loud voice and gazed straight up into the air with his

bright, sharp gaze.

Then the bell clanged loudly, and the pupils began to stream through

the entrances into the building. Hanno could not stop laughing. He was

still laughing so hard on the stairs that his classmates looked at him

and Kai with wonder and cold hostility, and even with a slight disgust

at such frivolity.

There was a sudden hush in the classroom, and everybody stood up, as

Herr Professor Mantelsack entered. He was the Professor _ordinarius_,

for whom it was usual to show respect. He pulled the door to after him,

bowed, craned his neck to see if all the class were standing up, hung

his hat on its nail, and went quickly to the platform, moving his head

rapidly up and down as he went. He took his place and stood for a while

looking out the window and, running his forefinger, with a large seal

ring on it, around inside his collar. He was a man of medium size, with

thin grey hair, a curled Olympian beard, and short-sighted prominent

sapphire-blue eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. He was dressed in an

open frock-coat of soft grey material, which he habitually settled at

the waist with his short-fingered, wrinkled hand. His trousers were,

like all the other masters’, even the elegant Dr. Goldener’s, far too

short, and showed the legs of a pair of very broad and shiny boots.

He turned sharply away from the window and gave vent to a little

good-natured sigh, smiling familiarly at several pupils. His mood was

obviously good, and a wave of relief ran through the classroom. So

much--everything, in fact--depended on whether Dr. Mantelsack was in a

good mood! For the whole form was aware that he gave way to the feeling

of the moment, whatever that might happen to be, without the slightest

restraint. He was most extraordinarily, boundlessly, naïvely unjust,

and his favour was as inconstant as that of fortune herself. He had

always a few favourites--two or three--whom he called by their given

names, and these lived in paradise. They might say almost anything

they liked; and after the lesson Dr. Mantelsack would talk with them

just like a human being. But a day would come--perhaps after the

holidays--when for no apparent reason they were dethroned, cast out,

rejected, and others elevated to their place. The mistakes of these

favourites would be passed over with neat, careful corrections, so that

their work retained a respectable appearance, no matter how bad it

was; whereas he would attack the other copy-books with heavy, ruthless

pen, and fairly flood them with red ink, so that their appearance was

shocking indeed. And as he never troubled to count the mistakes, but

distributed bad marks in proportion to the red ink he had expended,

his favourites always emerged with great credit from these exercises.

He was not even aware of the rank injustice of this conduct. And if

anybody had ever had the temerity to call his attention to it, that

person would have been for ever deprived of even the chance of becoming

a favourite and being called by his first name. There was nobody who

was willing to let slip the chance.

Now Dr. Mantelsack crossed his legs, still standing, and began to turn

over the leaves of his notebook. Hanno Buddenbrook wrung his hands

under the desk. B, the letter B, came next. Now he would hear his name,

he would get up, he would not know a line, and there would be a row, a

loud, frightful catastrophe--no matter how good a mood Dr. Mantelsack

might be in. The seconds dragged out, each a martyrdom. “Buddenbrook”--

Now he would say “Buddenbrook.” “Edgar,” said Dr. Mantelsack, closing

his notebook with his finger in it. He sat down, as if all were in the

best of order.

What? Who? Edgar? That was Lüders, the fat Lüders boy over there by

the window. Letter L, which was not next at all! No! Was it possible?

Dr. Mantelsack’s mood was so good that he simply selected one of his

favourites, without troubling in the least about whose turn it was.

Lüders stood up. He had a face like a pug dog, and dull brown eyes. He

had an advantageous seat, and could easily have read it off, but he was

too lazy. He felt too secure in his paradise, and answered simply, “I

had a headache yesterday, and couldn’t study.”

“Oh, so you are leaving me in the lurch, Edgar,” said Dr. Mantelsack

with tender reproach. “You cannot say the lines on the Golden Age? What

a shocking pity, my friend! You had a headache? It seems to me you

should have told me before the lesson began, instead of waiting till

I called you up. Didn’t you have a headache just lately, Edgar? You

should do something for them, for otherwise there is danger of your not

passing. Timm, will you take his place?”

Lüders sat down. At this moment he was the object of universal hatred.

It was plain that the master’s mood had altered for the worse, and

that Lüders, perhaps in the very next lesson, would be called by his

last name. Timm stood up in one of the back seats. He was a blond

country-looking lad with a light-brown jacket and short, broad fingers.

He held his mouth open in a funnel shape, and hastily found the place,

looking straight ahead the while with the most idiotic expression. Then

he put down his head and began to read, in long-drawn-out, monotonous,

hesitating accents, like a child with a first lesson-book: “_Aurea

prima sata est ætas!_”

It was plain that Dr. Mantelsack was calling up quite at random,

without reference to the alphabet. And thus it was no longer so

imminently likely that Hanno would be called on, though this might

happen through unlucky chance. He exchanged a joyful glance with Kai

and began to relax somewhat.

But now Timm’s reading was interrupted. Whether Dr. Mantelsack could

not hear him, or whether he stood in need of exercise, is not to be

known. But he left his platform and walked slowly down through the

room. He paused near Timm, with his book in his hand; Timm meanwhile

had succeeded in getting his own book out of sight, but was now

entirely helpless. His funnel-shaped mouth emitted a gasp, he looked at

the _Ordinarius_ with honest, troubled blue eyes, and could not fetch

out another syllable.

“Well, Timm,” said Dr. Mantelsack. “Can’t you get on?”

Timm clutched his brow, rolled up his eyes, sighed windily, and said

with a dazed smile: “I get all mixed up, Herr Doctor, when you stand so

close to me.”

Dr. Mantelsack smiled too. He smiled in a very flattered way and said

“Well, pull yourself together and get on.” And he strolled back to his

place.

And Timm pulled himself together. He drew out and opened his book

again, all the time apparently wrestling to recover his self-control

and staring about the room. Then he dropped his head and was himself

again.

“Very good,” said the master, when he had finished. “It is clear that

you have studied to some purpose. But you sacrifice the rhythm too

much, Timm. You seem to understand the elisions; yet you have not been

really reading hexameters at all. I have an impression as if you had

learned the whole thing by heart, like prose. But, as I say, you have

been diligent, you have done your best--and whoever does his best--;

you may sit down.”

Timm sat down, proud and beaming, and Dr. Mantelsack gave him a good

mark in his book. And the extraordinary thing was that at this moment

not only the master, but also Timm himself and all his classmates,

sincerely felt that Timm was a good industrious pupil who had fully

deserved the mark he got. Hanno Buddenbrook, even, thought the same,

though something within him revolted against the thought. He listened

with strained attention to the next name.

“Mumme,” said Dr. Mantelsack. “Again: _aurea prima_--”

Mumme! Well! Thank Heaven! Hanno was now in probable safety. The lines

would hardly be asked for a third time, and in the sight-reading the

letter B had just been called up.

Mumme got up. He was tall and pale, with trembling hands and

extraordinarily large round glasses. He had trouble with his eyes, and

was so short-sighted that he could not possibly read standing up from

a book on the desk before him. He had to learn, and he had learned.

But to-day he had not expected to be called up; he was, besides,

painfully ungifted; and he stuck after the first few words. Dr.

Mantelsack helped him, he helped him again in a sharper tone, and for

the third time with intense irritation. But when Mumme came to a final

stop, the _Ordinarius_ was mastered by indignation.

“This is entirely insufficient, Mumme. Sit down. You cut a disgraceful

figure, let me tell you, sir. A _cretin_! Stupid and lazy both--it is

really too much.”

Mumme was overwhelmed. He looked the child of calamity, and at this

moment everybody in the room despised him. A sort of disgust, almost

like nausea, mounted again in Hanno Buddenbrook’s throat; but at the

same time he observed with horrid clarity all that was going forward.

Dr. Mantelsack made a mark of sinister meaning after Mumme’s name, and

then looked through his notebook with frowning brows. He went over,

in his disgust, to the order of the day, and looked to see whose turn

it really was. There was no doubt that this was the case: and just as

Hanno was overpowered by this knowledge, he heard his name--as if in a

bad dream.

“Buddenbrook!” Dr. Mantelsack had said “Buddenbrook.” The scale was in

the air again. Hanno could not believe his senses. There was a buzzing

in his ears. He sat still.

“Herr Buddenbrook!” said Dr. Mantelsack, and stared at him sharply

through his glasses with his prominent sapphire-blue eyes. “Will you

have the goodness?”

Very well, then. It was to be. It had to come. It had come differently

from his expectations, but still, here it was, and he was none the less

lost. But he was calm. Would it be a very big row? He rose in his place

and was about to utter some forlorn and absurd excuse to the effect

that he had “forgotten” to study the lines, when he became aware that

the boy ahead of him was offering him his open book.

This boy, Hans Hermann Kilian, was a small brown lad with oily hair and

broad shoulders. He had set his heart on becoming an officer, and was

so possessed by an ideal of comradeship that he would not leave in the

lurch even little Buddenbrook, whom he did not like. He pointed with

his finger to the place.

Hanno gazed down upon it and began to read. With trembling voice,

his face working, he read of the Golden Age, when truth and justice

flourished of their own free will, without laws or compulsions.

“Punishment and fear did not exist,” he said, in Latin. “No threats

were graven upon the bronze tablets, nor did those who came to petition

fear the countenance of the judges....” He read in fear and trembling,

read with design badly and disjointedly, purposely omitted some of the

elisions that were marked with pencil in Kilian’s book, made mistakes

in the lines, progressed with apparent difficulty, and constantly

expected the master to discover the fraud and pounce upon him. The

guilty satisfaction of seeing the open book in front of him gave him

a pricking sensation in his skin; but at the same time he had such a

feeling of disgust that he intentionally deceived as badly as possible,

simply to make the deceit seem less vulgar to himself. He came to the

end, and a pause ensued, during which he did not dare look up. He felt

convinced that Dr. Mantelsack had seen all, and his lips were perfectly

white. But at length the master sighed and said:

“Oh, Buddenbrook! _Si tacuisses!_ You will permit me the classical

thou, for this once. Do you know what you have done? You have conducted

yourself like a vandal, a barbarian. You are a humourist, Buddenbrook;

I can see that by your face. If I ask myself whether you have been

coughing or whether you have been reciting this noble verse, I should

incline to the former. Timm showed small feeling for rhythm, but

compared to you he is a genius, a rhapsodist! Sit down, unhappy wretch!

You have studied the lines, I cannot deny it, and I am constrained

to give you a good mark. You have probably done your best. But tell

me--have I not been told that you are musical, that you play the

piano? How is it possible? Well, very well, sit down. You have worked

hard--that must suffice.”

He put a good mark down in his book, and Hanno Buddenbrook took his

seat. He felt as Timm, the rhapsodist had felt before him--that he

really deserved the praise which Dr. Mantelsack gave him. Yes, at

the moment he was of the opinion that he was, if rather a dull, yet

an industrious pupil, who had come off with honour, comparatively

speaking. He was conscious that all his schoolmates, not excepting

Hans Hermann Kilian, had the same view. Yet he felt at the same time

somewhat nauseated. Pale, trembling, too exhausted to think about what

had happened, he closed his eyes and sank back in lethargy.

Dr. Mantelsack, however, went on with the lesson. He came to the verses

that were to have been prepared for to-day, and called up Petersen.

Petersen rose, fresh, lively, sanguine, in a stout attitude, ready for

the fray. Yet to-day, even to-day, was destined to see his fall. Yes,

the lesson-hour was not to pass without a catastrophe far worse than

that which had befallen the hapless, short-sighted Mumme.

Petersen translated, glancing now and then at the other page of his

book, which should have had nothing on it. He did it quite cleverly:

he acted as though something there distracted him--a speck of dust,

perhaps, which he brushed with his hand or tried to blow away. And

yet--there followed the catastrophe.

Dr. Mantelsack made a sudden violent movement, which was responded

to on Petersen’s part by a similar movement. And in the same moment

the master left his seat, dashed headlong down from his platform, and

approached Petersen with long, impetuous strides.

“You have a crib in your book,” he said as he came up.

“A crib--I--no,” stammered Petersen. He was a charming lad, with a

great wave of blond hair on his forehead and lovely blue eyes which now

flickered in a frightened way.

“You have no crib in your book?”

“A crib, Herr Doctor? No, really, I haven’t. You are mistaken. You

are accusing me falsely.” Petersen betrayed himself by the unnatural

correctness of his language, which he used in order to intimidate the

master. “I am not deceiving you,” he repeated, in the greatness of his

need. “I have always been honourable, my whole life long.”

But Dr. Mantelsack was all too certain of the painful fact.

“Give me your book,” he said coldly.

Petersen clung to his book; he raised it up in both hands and went on

protesting. He stammered, his tongue grew thick. “Believe me, Herr

Doctor. There is nothing in the book--I have no crib--I have not

deceived you--I have always been honourable--”

“Give me your book,” repeated the master, stamping his foot.

Then Petersen collapsed, and his face grew grey.

“Very well,” said he, and delivered up his book. “Here it is. Yes,

there is a crib in it. You can see for yourself; there it is. But I

haven’t used it,” he suddenly shrieked, quite at random.

Dr. Mantelsack ignored this idiotic lie, which was rooted in despair.

He drew out the crib, looked at it with an expression of extreme

disgust, as if it were a piece of decaying offal, thrust it into his

pocket, and threw the volume of Ovid contemptuously back on Petersen’s

desk.

“Give me the class register,” he said in a hollow voice.

Adolf Todtenhaupt dutifully fetched it, and Petersen received a mark

for dishonesty which effectually demolished his chances of being sent

up at Easter. “You are the shame of the class,” said Dr. Mantelsack.

Petersen sat down. He was condemned. His neighbour avoided contact with

him. Every one looked at him with a mixture of pity, aversion, and

disgust. He had fallen, utterly and completely, because he had been

found out. There was but one opinion as to Petersen, and that was that

he was, in very truth, the shame of the class. They recognized and

accepted his fall, as they had the rise of Timm and Buddenbrook and the

unhappy Mumme’s mischance. And Petersen did too.

Thus most of this class of twenty-five young folk, being of sound and

strong constitution, armed and prepared to wage the battle of life as

it is, took things just as they found them, and did not at this moment

feel any offence or uneasiness. Everything seemed to them to be quite

in order. But one pair of eyes, little Johann’s, which stared gloomily

at a point on Hans Hermann Kilian’s broad back, were filled, in their

blue-shadowed depths, with abhorrence, fear, and revulsion. The lesson

went on. Dr. Mantelsack called on somebody, anybody--he had lost all

desire to test any one. And after Adolf Todtenhaupt, another pupil, who

was but moderately prepared, and did not even know what “_patula Jovis

arbore_” meant, had been called on, Buddenbrook had to say it. He said

it in a low voice, without looking up, because Dr. Mantelsack asked

him, and he received a nod of the head for the answer.

And now that the performance of the pupils was over, the lesson had

lost all interest. Dr. Mantelsack had one of the best scholars read

at his own sweet will, and listened just as little as the twenty-four

others, who began to get ready for the next class. This one was

finished, in effect. No one could be marked on it, nor his interest or

industry judged. And the bell would soon ring. It did ring. It rang for

Hanno, and he had received a nod of approbation. Thus it was.

“Well!” said Kai to Hanno, as they walked down the Gothic corridor with

their classmates, to go to the chemistry class, “what do you say now

about the brow of Caesar? You had wonderful luck!”

“I feel sick, Kai,” said little Johann, “I don’t like that kind of

luck. It makes me sick.” Kai knew he would have felt the same in

Hanno’s place.

The chemistry hall was a vaulted chamber like an amphitheatre with

benches rising in tiers, a long table for the experiments, and two

glass cases of phials. The air in the classroom had grown very hot and

heavy again; but here it was saturated with an odour of sulphuretted

hydrogen from a just-completed experiment, and smelled abominable. Kai

flung up the window and then stole Adolf Todtenhaupt’s copy-book and

began in great haste to copy down the lesson for the day. Hanno and

several others did the same. This occupied the entire pause till the

bell rang, and Dr. Marotzke came in.

This was the “deep one,” as Kai and Hanno called him. He was a

medium-sized dark man with a very yellow skin, two large lumps on his

brow, a stiff smeary beard, and hair of the same kind. He always looked

unwashed and unkempt, but his appearance probably belied him. He taught

the natural sciences, but his own field was mathematics, in which

subject he had the reputation of being an original thinker. He liked

to hold forth on the subject of metaphysical passages from the Bible;

and when in a good-natured or discursive mood, he would entertain the

boys of the first and second forms with marvellous interpretations of

mysterious passages. He was, besides all this, a reserve officer, and

very enthusiastic over the service. As an official who was also in the

army, he stood very well with Director Wulicke. He set more store by

discipline than any of the other masters: he would review the ranks of

sturdy youngsters with a professional eye, and he insisted on short,

brisk answers to questions. This mixture of mysticism and severity was

not, on the whole, attractive.

The copy-books were shown, and Dr. Marotzke went around and touched

each one with his finger. Some of the pupils who had not done theirs at

all, put down other books or turned this one back to an old lesson; but

he never noticed.

Then the lesson began, and the twenty-five boys had to display their

industry and interest with respect to boric acid, and chlorine, and

strontium, as in the previous period they had displayed it with

respect to Ovid. Hans Hermann Kilian was commended because he knew

that BaSO_{4}, or barytes, was the metal most commonly used in

counterfeiting. He was the best in the class, anyhow, because of his

desire to be an officer. Kai and Hanno knew nothing at all, and fared

very badly in Dr. Marotzke’s notebook.

And when the tests, recitation, and marking were over, the interest in

chemistry was about exhausted too. Dr. Marotzke began to make a few

experiments; there were a few pops, a few coloured gases; but that was

only to fill out the hour. He dictated the next lesson; and then the

third period, too, was a thing of the past.

Everybody was in good spirits now--even Petersen, despite the blow

he had received. For the next hour was likely to be a jolly one. Not

a soul felt any qualms before it, and it even promised occasion for

entertainment and mischief. This was English, with Candidate Modersohn,

a young philologian who had been for a few weeks on trial in the

faculty--or, as Kai, Count Mölln, put it, he was filling a limited

engagement with the company. There was little prospect, however, of his

being re-engaged. His classes were much too entertaining.

Some of the form remained in the chemistry hall, others went up to

the classroom; nobody needed to go down and freeze in the courtyard,

because Herr Modersohn was in charge up in the corridors, and he never

dared send any one down. Moreover, there were preparations to be made

for his reception.

The room did not become in the least quieter when it rang for the

fourth hour. Everybody chattered and laughed and prepared to see some

fun. Count Mölln, his head in his hands, went on reading Roderick

Usher. Hanno was audience. Some of the boys imitated the voices of

animals; there was the shrill crowing of a cock; and Wasservogel, in

the back row, grunted like a pig without anybody’s being able to see

that the noise came from his inside. On the blackboard was a huge

chalk drawing, a caricature, with squinting eyes, drawn by Timm the

rhapsodist. And when Herr Modersohn entered he could not shut the door,

even with the most violent efforts, because there was a thick fir-cone

in the crack; Adolf Todtenhaupt had to take it away.

Candidate Modersohn was an undersized, insignificant looking man.

His face was always contorted with a sour, peevish expression, and

he walked with one shoulder thrust forward. He was frightfully

self-conscious, blinked, drew in his breath, and kept opening his mouth

as if he wanted to say something if he could only think of it. Three

steps from the door he trod on a cracker of such exceptional quality

that it made a noise like dynamite. He jumped violently; then, in these

straits, he smiled exactly as though nothing had happened and took

his place before the middle row of benches, stooping sideways, in his

customary attitude, and resting one palm on the desk in front of him.

But this posture of his was familiar to everybody; somebody had put

some ink on the right spot, and Herr Modersohn’s small clumsy hand got

all inky. He acted as though he had not noticed, laid his wet black

hand on his back, blinked, and said in a soft, weak voice: “The order

in the classroom leaves something to be desired.”

Hanno Buddenbrook loved him in that moment, sat quite still, and looked

up into his worried, helpless face. But Wasservogel grunted louder

than ever, and a handful of peas went rattling against the window and

bounced back into the room.

“It’s hailing,” somebody said, quite loudly. Herr Modersohn appeared to

believe this, for he went without more ado to the platform and asked

for the register. He needed it to call the names from, for, though he

had been teaching the class for five or six weeks, he hardly knew any

of them by name.

“Feddermann,” he said, “will you please recite the poem?”

“Absent,” shouted a chorus of voices. And there sat Feddermann, large

as life, in his place, shooting peas with great skill and accuracy.

Herr Modersohn blinked again and selected a new name. “Wasservogel,” he

said.

“Dead,” shouted Petersen, attacked by a grim humour. And the chorus,

grunting, crowing, and with shouts of derision, asseverated that

Wasservogel was dead.

Herr Modersohn blinked afresh. He looked about him, drew down his

mouth, and put his finger on another name in the register. “Perlemann,”

he said, without much confidence.

“Unfortunately, gone mad,” uttered Kai, Count Mölln, with great clarity

and precision. And this also was confirmed by the chorus amid an

ever-increasing tumult.

Then Herr Modersohn stood up and shouted in to the hubbub:

“Buddenbrook, you will do me a hundred lines imposition. If you laugh

again, I shall be obliged to mark you.”

Then he sat down again. It was true that Hanno had laughed. He had been

seized by a quiet but violent spasm of laughter, and went on because he

could not stop. He had found Kai’s joke so good--the “unfortunately”

had especially appealed to him. But he became quiet when Herr Modersohn

attacked him, and sat looking solemnly into the Candidate’s face. He

observed at that moment every detail of the man’s appearance: saw every

pathetic little hair in his scanty beard, which showed the skin through

it; saw his brown, empty, disconsolate eyes; saw that he had on what

appeared to be two pairs of cuffs, because the sleeves of his shirt

came down so long; saw the whole pathetic, inadequate figure he made.

He saw more: he saw into the man’s inner self. Hanno Buddenbrook was

almost the only pupil whom Herr Modersohn knew by name, and he availed

himself of the knowledge to call him constantly to order, give him

impositions, and tyrannize over him. He had distinguished Buddenbrook

from the others simply because of his quieter behaviour--and of this he

took advantage to make him feel his authority, an authority he did not

dare exert upon the real offenders. Hanno looked at him and reflected

that Herr Modersohn’s lack of fine feeling made it almost impossible

even to pity him! “I don’t bully you,” he addressed the Candidate,

in his thoughts: “I don’t share in the general tormenting like the

others--and how do you repay me? But so it is, and so will it be,

always and everywhere,” he thought; and fear, and that sensation almost

amounting to physical nausea, rose again in him. “And the most dreadful

thing is that I can’t help seeing through you with such disgusting

clearness!”

At last Herr Modersohn found some one who was neither dead nor crazy,

and who would take it upon himself to repeat the English verse. This

was a poem called “The Monkey,” a poor childish composition, required

to be committed to memory by these growing lads whose thoughts were

already mostly bent on business, on the sea, on the coming conflicts of

actual life.

“Monkey, little, merry fellow,

Thou art nature’s punchinello....”

There were endless verses--Kassbaum read them, quite simply, out of

his book. Nobody needed to trouble himself about what Herr Modersohn

thought. The noise grew worse and worse, the feet shuffled and scraped

on the dusty floor, the cock crowed, the pig grunted, peas filled the

air. The five-and-twenty were drunk with disorder. And the unregulated

instincts of their years awoke. They drew obscene pictures on pieces of

paper, passed them about, and laughed at them greedily.

All at once everything was still. The pupil who was then reciting

interrupted himself; even Herr Modersohn got up and listened. They

heard something charming: a pure, bell-like sound, coming from the

bottom of the room and flowing sweetly, sensuously, with indescribably

tender effect, on the sudden silence. It was a music-box which somebody

had brought, playing “_Du, du, liegst mir am Herzen_” in the middle

of the English lesson. But precisely at that moment when the little

melody died away, something frightful ensued. It broke like a sudden

storm over the heads of the class, unexpected, cruel, overwhelming,

paralyzing.

Without anybody’s having knocked, the door opened wide with a great

shove, and a presence came in, high and huge, growled, and stood with a

single stride in front of the benches. It was the Lord God.

Herr Modersohn grew ashy pale and dragged down the chair from the

platform, dusting it with his handkerchief. The pupils had sprung up

like one man. They pressed their arms to their sides, stood on their

tip-toes, bent their heads, and bit their tongues in the fervour of

their devotion. The deepest silence reigned. Somebody gasped with the

effort he made--then all was still again.

Director Wulicke measured the saluting columns for a while with his

eye. He lifted his arm with its dirty funnel-shaped cuff, and let it

fall with the fingers spread out, as if he were attacking a keyboard.

“Sit down,” he said in his double-bass voice.

The pupils sank back into their seats. Herr Modersohn pulled up the

chair with trembling hands, and the Director sat down beside the dais.

“Please proceed,” he said. That was all, but it sounded as frightful

as if the words he uttered had been “Now we shall see, and woe to him

who--”

The reason for his coming was clear. Herr Modersohn was to give

evidence of his ability to teach, to show what the lower second had

learned in the six or seven hours he had been with them. It was a

question of Herr Modersohn’s existence and future. The Candidate was a

sorry figure as he stood on the platform and called again on somebody

to recite “The Monkey.” Up to now it had been only the pupils who were

examined, but now it was the master as well. Alas, it went badly on

both sides! Herr Director Wulicke’s appearance was entirely unexpected,

and only two or three of the pupils were prepared. It was impossible

for Herr Modersohn to call up Adolf Todtenhaupt for the whole hour

on end; after “The Monkey” had been recited once, it could not be

asked for again, and so things were in a bad way. When the reading

from Ivanhoe began, young Count Mölln was the only person who could

translate it at all, he having a personal interest in the novel. The

others hemmed and hawed, stuttered, and got hopelessly stuck. Hanno

Buddenbrook was called up and could not do a line. Director Wulicke

gave utterance to a sound that was as though the lowest string of his

double-bass had been violently plucked, and Herr Modersohn wrung his

small, clumsy, inky hands repeating plaintively over and over. “And it

went so well--it always went so well!”

He was still saying it, half to the pupils and half to the Director,

when the bell rang. But the Lord God stood erect with folded arms

before his chair and stared in front of him over the heads of the

class. Then he commanded that the register be brought, and slowly

marked down for laziness all those pupils whose performances of the

morning had been deficient--or entirely lacking--six or seven marks at

one fell swoop. He could not put down a mark for Herr Modersohn, but he

was much worse than the others. He stood there with a face like chalk,

broken, done for. Hanno Buddenbrook was among those marked down. And

Director Wulicke said besides, “I will spoil all your careers for you.”

Then he went.

The bell rang; class was over. It was always like that. When you

expected trouble it did not come. When you thought all was well--then,

the catastrophe. It was now impossible for Hanno to go up at Easter.

He rose from his seat and went drearily out of the room, seeking the

aching back tooth with his tongue.

Kai came up to him and put his arm across his shoulders. Together they

walked down to the courtyard, among the crowd of excited comrades,

all of whom were discussing the extraordinary event. He looked with

loving anxiety into Hanno’s face and said, “Please forgive, Hanno, for

translating. It would have been better to keep still and get a mark.

It’s so cheap--”

“Didn’t I say what ‘_patula Jovis arbore_’ meant?” answered Hanno.

“Don’t mind, Kai. That doesn’t matter. One just mustn’t mind.”

“I suppose that’s true. Well, the Lord God is going to ruin your

career. You may as well resign yourself, Hanno, because if it is His

inscrutable will--. Career--what a lovely word ‘career’ is! Herr

Modersohn’s career is spoilt too. He will never get to be a master,

poor chap! There are assistant masters, you may know, and there are

head masters; but never by any chance a plain master. This is a

mystery not to be revealed to youthful minds; it is only intended for

grown-ups and persons of mature experience. An ordinary intelligence

might say that either one is a master or one is not. I might go up

to the Lord God or Herr Marotzke and explain this to him. But what

would be the result? They would consider it an insult, and I should be

punished for insubordination--all for having discovered for them a much

higher significance in their calling than they themselves were aware

of! No, let’s not talk about them--they’re all thick-skinned brutes!”

They walked about the court; Kai made jokes to help Hanno forget his

bad mark, and Hanno listened and enjoyed.

“Look, here is a door, an outer door. It is open, and outside there

is the street. How would it be if we were to go out and take a little

walk? It is recess, and we have still six minutes. We could easily be

back in time. But it is perfectly impossible. You see what I mean? Here

is the door. It is open, there is no grating, there is nothing, nothing

whatever to prevent us. And yet it is impossible for us to step outside

for even a second--it is even impossible for us to think of doing so.

Well, let’s not think of it, then. Let’s take another example: we don’t

say, for instance, that it is nearly half-past twelve. No, we say,

‘It’s nearly time for the geography period’! You see? Now, I ask, is

this any sort of a life to lead? Everything is wrong. Oh, Lord, if the

institution would just once let us out of her loving embrace!”

“Well, and what then? No, Kai, we should just have to do something

then; here, at least we are taken care of. Since my Father died Herr

Stephan Kistenmaker and Pastor Pringsheim have taken over the business

of asking me every day what I want to be. I don’t know. I can’t answer.

I can’t be anything. I’m afraid of everything--”

“How can anybody talk so dismally? What about your music?”

“What about my music, Kai? There is nothing to it. Shall I travel round

and give concerts? In the first place, they wouldn’t let me; and in

the second place, I should never really know enough. I can play very

little. I can only improvise a little when I am alone. And then, the

travelling about must be dreadful, I imagine. It is different with

you. You have more courage. You go about laughing at it all--you have

something to set against it. You want to write, to tell wonderful

stories. Well, that _is_ something. You will surely become famous, you

are so clever. The thing is, you are so much livelier. Sometimes in

class we look at each other, the way we did when Petersen got marked

because he read out of a crib, when all the rest of us did the same.

The same thought is in both our minds--but you know how to make a face

and let it pass. I can’t. I get so tired of things. I’d like to sleep

and never wake up. I’d like to die, Kai! No, I am no good. I can’t want

anything. I don’t even want to be famous. I’m afraid of it, just as

much as if it were a wrong thing to do. Nothing can come of me, that

is perfectly sure. One day, after confirmation-class, I heard Pastor

Pringsheim tell somebody that one must just give me up, because I come

of a decayed family.”

“Did he say that?” Kai asked with deep interest.

“Yes; he meant my Uncle Christian, in the institution in Hamburg. One

must just give me up--oh, I’d be so happy if they would! I have so many

worries; everything is so hard for me. If I give myself a little cut

or bruise anywhere, and make a wound that would heal in a week with

anybody else, it takes a month with me. It gets inflamed and infected

and makes me all sorts of trouble. Herr Brecht told me lately that all

my teeth are in a dreadful condition--not to mention the ones that have

been pulled already. If they are like that now, what will they be when

I am thirty or forty years old? I am completely discouraged.”

“Oh, come,” Kai said, and struck into a livelier gait. “Now you must

tell me something about your playing. I want to write something

marvellous--perhaps I’ll begin it to-day, in drawing period. Will you

play this afternoon?”

Hanno was silent a moment. A flush came upon his face, and a painful,

confused look.

“Yes, I’ll play--I suppose--though I ought not. I ought to practise my

sonatas and études and then stop. But I suppose I’ll play; I cannot

help it, though it only makes everything worse.”

“Worse?”

Hanno was silent.

“I know what you mean,” said Kai after a bit, and then neither of the

lads spoke again.

They were both at the same difficult age. Kai’s face burned, and he

cast down his eyes. Hanno looked pale and serious; his eyes had clouded

over, and he kept giving sideways glances.

Then the bell rang, and they went up.

The geography period came next, and an important test on the kingdom

of Hesse-Nassau. A man with a red beard and brown tail-coat came in.

His face was pale, and his hands were very full of pores, but without

a single hair. This was “the clever one,” Dr. Mühsam. He suffered from

occasional haemorrhages, and always spoke in an ironic tone, because it

was his pose to be considered as witty as he was ailing. He possessed

a Heine collection, a quantity of papers and objects connected with

that cynical and sickly poet. He proceeded to mark the boundaries of

Hesse-Nassau on the map that hung on the wall, and then asked, with a

melancholy, mocking smile, if the gentlemen would indicate in their

books the important features of the country. It was as though he meant

to make game of the class and of Hesse-Nassau as well; yet this was an

important test, and much dreaded by the entire form.

Hanno Buddenbrook knew next to nothing about Hesse-Nassau. He tried

to look on Adolf Todtenhaupt’s book; but Heinrich Heine, who had a

penetrating observation despite his suffering, melancholy air, pounced

on him at once and said: “Herr Buddenbrook, I am tempted to ask you to

close your book, but that I suspect you would be glad to have me do so.

Go on with your work.”

The remark contained two witticisms. First, that Dr. Mühsam addressed

Hanno as Herr Buddenbrook, and, second, that about the copy-book. Hanno

continued to brood over his book, and handed it in almost empty when he

went out with Kai.

The difficulties were now over with for the day. The fortunate ones who

had come through without marks, had light and easy consciences, and

life seemed like play to them as they betook themselves to the large

well-lighted room where they might sit and draw under the supervision

of Herr Drägemüller. Plaster casts from the antique stood about the

room, and there was a great cupboard containing divers pieces of

wood and doll-furniture which served as models. Herr Drägemüller was

a thick-set man with a full round beard and a smooth, cheap brown

wig which stood out in the back of the neck and betrayed itself. He

possessed two wigs, one with longer hair, the other with shorter; if

he had had his beard cut he would don the shorter wig as well. He was

a man with some droll peculiarities of speech. For instance, he called

a lead pencil a “lead.” He gave out an oily-alcoholic odour; and it

was said of him that he drank petroleum. It always delighted him to

have an opportunity to take a class in something besides drawing. On

such occasions he would lecture on the policy of Bismarck, accompanying

himself with impressive spiral gestures from his nose to his shoulder.

Social democracy was his bugbear--he spoke of it with fear and

loathing. “We must keep together,” he used to say to refractory

pupils, pinching them on the arm. “Social democracy is at the door!”

He was possessed by a sort of spasmodic activity: would sit down next

a pupil, exhaling a strong spirituous odour, tap him on the forehead

with his seal ring, shoot out certain isolated words and phrases like

“Perspective! Light and shade! The lead! Social democracy! Stick

together!”--and then dash off again.

Kai worked at his new literary project during this period, and Hanno

occupied himself with conducting, in fancy, an overture with full

orchestra. Then school was over, they fetched down their things, the

gate was opened, they were free to pass, and they went home.

Hanno and Kai went the same road together as far as the little red

villa, their books under their arms. Young Count Mölln had a good

distance farther to go alone before he reached the paternal dwelling.

He never wore an overcoat.

The morning’s fog had turned to snow, which came down in great white

flocks and rapidly became slush. They parted at the Buddenbrook gate;

but when Hanno was half-way up the garden Kai came back to put his arm

about his neck. “Don’t give up--better not play!” he said gently. Then

his slender, careless figure disappeared in the whirling snow.

Hanno put down his books on the bear’s tray in the corridor and went

into the living-room to see his mother. She sat on the sofa reading a

book with a yellow paper cover, and looked up as he crossed the room.

She gazed at him with her brown, close-set, blue-shadowed eyes; as he

stood before her, she took his head in both her hands and kissed him on

the brow.

He went upstairs, where Fräulein Clementine had some luncheon ready

for him, washed, and ate. When he was done he took out of his desk a

packet of little biting Russian cigarettes and began to smoke. He was

no stranger to their use by now. Then he sat down at the harmonium and

played something from Bach: something very severe and difficult, in

fugue form. At length he clasped his hands behind his head and looked

out the window at the snow noiselessly tumbling down. Nothing else was

to be seen; for there was no longer a charming little garden with a

plashing fountain beneath his window. The view was cut off by the grey

side-wall of the neighbouring villa.

Dinner was at four o’clock, and Hanno, his mother, and Fräulein

Clementine sat down to it. Afterward Hanno saw that there were

preparations for music in the salon, and awaited his mother at the

piano. They played the Sonata Opus 24 of Beethoven. In the adagio the

violin sang like an angel; but Gerda took the instrument from her chin

with a dissatisfied air, looked at it in irritation, and said it was

not in time. She played no more, but went up to rest.

Hanno remained in the salon. He went to the glass door that led out on

the small verandah and looked into the drenched garden. But suddenly

he took a step back and jerked the cream-coloured curtains across the

door, so that the room lay in a soft yellow twilight. Then he went

to the piano. He stood for a while, and his gaze, directed fixed and

unseeing upon a distant point, altered slowly, grew blurred and vague

and shadowy. He sat down at the instrument and began to improvise.

It was a simple _motif_ which he employed--a mere trifle, an unfinished

fragment of melody in one bar and a half. He brought it out first,

with unsuspected power, in the bass, as a single voice: indicating

it as the source and fount of all that was to come, and announcing

it, with a commanding entry, by a burst of trumpets. It was not quite

easy to grasp his intention; but when he repeated and harmonized it

in the treble, with a timbre like dull silver, it proved to consist

essentially of a single resolution, a yearning and painful melting

of one tone into another--a short-winded, pitiful invention, which

nevertheless gained a strange, mysterious, and significant value

precisely by means of the meticulous and solemn precision with which

it was defined and produced. And now there began more lively passages,

a restless coming and going of syncopated sound, seeking, wandering,

torn by shrieks like a soul in unrest and tormented by some knowledge

it possesses and cannot conceal, but must repeat in ever different

harmonies, questioning, complaining, protesting, demanding, dying

away. The syncopation increased, grew more pronounced, driven hither

and thither by scampering triplets; the shrieks of fear recurred,

they took form and became melody. There was a moment when they

dominated, in a mounting, imploring chorus of wind-instruments that

conquered the endlessly thronging, welling, wandering, vanishing

harmonies, and swelled out in unmistakable simple rhythms--a crushed,

childlike, imposing, imploring chorale. This concluded with a sort of

ecclesiastical cadence. A _fermate_ followed, a silence. And then,

quite softly, in a timbre of dull silver, there came the first _motif_

again, the paltry invention, a figure either tiresome or obscure,

a sweet, sentimental dying-away of one tone into another. This was

followed by a tremendous uproar, a wild activity, punctuated by notes

like fanfares, expressive of violent resolve. What was coming? Then

came horns again, sounding the march; there was an assembling, a

concentrating, firm, consolidated rhythms; and a new figure began, a

bold improvisation, a sort of lively, stormy hunting song. There was

no joy in this hunting song; its note was one of defiant despair.

Signals sounded through it; yet they were not only signals but cries

of fear; while throughout, winding through it all, through all the

writhen, bizarre harmonies, came again that mysterious first _motif_,

wandering in despair, torturingly sweet. And now began a ceaseless

hurry of events whose sense and meaning could not be guessed, a

restless flood of sound-adventures, rhythms, harmonies, welling up

uncontrolled from the keyboard, as they shaped themselves under Hanno’s

labouring fingers. He experienced them, as it were; he did not know

them beforehand. He sat a little bent over the keys, with parted lips

and deep, far gaze, his brown hair covering his forehead with its soft

curls. What was the meaning of what he played? Were these images of

fearful difficulties surmounted flames passed through and torrents

swum, castles stormed and dragons slain? But always--now like a yelling

laugh, now like an ineffably sweet promise--the original _motif_ wound

through it all, the pitiful phrase with its notes melting into one

another! Now the music seemed to rouse itself to new and gigantic

efforts: wild runs in octaves followed, sounding like shrieks; an

irresistible mounting, a chromatic upward struggle, a wild relentless

longing, abruptly broken by startling, arresting pianissimi which gave

a sensation as if the ground were disappearing from beneath one’s

feet, or like a sudden abandonment and sinking into a gulf of desire.

Once, far off and softly warning, sounded the first chords of the

imploring prayer; but the flood of rising cacophonies overwhelmed them

with their rolling, streaming, clinging, sinking, and struggling up

again, as they fought on toward the end that must come, must come this

very moment, at the height of this fearful climax--for the pressure

of longing had become intolerable. And it came; it could no longer be

kept back--those spasms of yearning could not be prolonged. And it came

as though curtains were rent apart, doors sprang open, thorn-hedges

parted of themselves, walls of flame sank down. The resolution, the

redemption, the complete fulfilment--a chorus of jubilation burst

forth, and everything resolved itself in a harmony--and the harmony,

in sweet _ritardando_, at once sank into another. It was the _motif_,

the _first motif_! And now began a festival, a triumph, an unbounded

orgy of this very figure, which now displayed a wealth of dynamic

colour which passed through every octave, wept and shivered in tremolo,

sang, rejoiced, and sobbed in exultation, triumphantly adorned with

all the bursting, tinkling, foaming, purling resources of orchestral

pomp. The fanatical worship of this worthless trifle, this scrap of

melody, this brief, childish harmonic invention only a bar and a half

in length, had about it something stupid and gross, and at the same

time something ascetic and religious--something that contained the

essence of faith and renunciation. There was a quality of the perverse

in the insatiability with which it was produced and revelled in:

there was a sort of cynical despair; there was a longing for joy, a

yielding to desire, in the way the last drop of sweetness was, as it

were, extracted from the melody, till exhaustion, disgust, and satiety

supervened. Then, at last; at last, in the weariness after excess, a

long, soft arpeggio in the minor trickled through, mounted a tone,

resolved itself in the major, and died in mournful lingering away.

Hanno sat still a moment, his chin on his breast, his hands in his lap.

Then he got up and closed the instrument. He was very pale, there was

no strength in his knees, and his eyes were burning. He went into the

next room, stretched himself on the chaise-lounge, and remained for a

long time motionless.

Later there was supper, and he played a game of chess with his mother,

at which neither side won. But until after midnight he still sat in

his room, before his harmonium, and played--played in thought only,

for he must make no noise. He did this despite his firm intention to

get up the next morning at half-past five, to do some most necessary

preparation.

This was one day in the life of little Johann.

CHAPTER III

Cases of typhoid fever take the following course.

The patient feels depressed and moody--a condition which grows rapidly

worse until it amounts to acute despondency. At the same time he is

overpowered by physical weariness, not only of the muscles and sinews,

but also of the organic functions, in particular of the digestion--so

that the stomach refuses food. There is a great desire for sleep,

but even in conditions of extreme fatigue the sleep is restless

and superficial and not refreshing. There is pain in the head, the

brain feels dull and confused, and there are spells of giddiness. An

indefinite ache is felt in all the bones. There is blood from the nose

now and then, without apparent cause.-- This is the onset.

Then comes a violent chill which seizes the whole body and makes the

teeth chatter; the fever sets in, and is immediately at its height.

Little red spots appear on the breast and abdomen, about the size of a

lentil. They go away when pressed by the finger, but return at once.

The pulse is unsteady; there are about a hundred pulsations to the

minute. The temperature goes up to 104°. Thus passes the first week.

In the second week the patient is free from pain in the head and

limbs; but the giddiness is distinctly worse, and there is so much

humming in the ears that he is practically deaf. The facial expression

becomes dull, the mouth stands open, the eyes are without life. The

consciousness is blurred, desire for sleep takes entire possession

of the patient, and he often sinks, not into actual sleep, but into

a leaden lethargy. At other intervals there are the loud and excited

ravings of delirium. The patient’s helplessness is complete, and

his uncleanliness becomes repulsive. His gums, teeth, and tongue are

covered with a blackish deposit which makes his breath foul. He lies

motionless on his back, with distended abdomen. He has sunk down in

the bed, with his knees wide apart. Pulse and breathing are rapid,

jerky, superficial and laboured; the pulse is fluttering, and gallops

one hundred and twenty to the minute. The eyelids are half-closed, the

cheeks are no longer glowing, but have assumed a bluish colour. The red

spots on breast and abdomen are more numerous. The temperature reaches

105.8°.

In the third week the weakness is at its height. The patient raves

no longer: who can say whether his spirit is sunk in empty night or

whether it lingers, remote from the flesh, in far, deep, quiet dreams,

of which he gives no sound and no sign? He lies in total insensibility.

This is the crisis of the disease.

In individual cases the diagnosis is sometimes rendered more difficult;

as, for example, when the early symptoms--depression, weariness,

lack of appetite, headache and unquiet sleep--are nearly all present

while the patient is still going about in his usual health; when they

are scarcely noticeable as anything out of the common, even if they

are suddenly and definitely increased. But a clever doctor, of real

scientific acumen--like, for example, Dr. Langhals, the good-looking

Dr. Langhals with the small, hairy hands--will still be in a position

to call the case by its right name; and the appearance of the red spots

on the chest and abdomen will be conclusive evidence that his diagnosis

was correct. He will know what measures to take and what remedies to

apply. He will arrange for a large, well-aired room, the temperature

of which must not be higher than 70°. He will insist on absolute

cleanliness, and by means of frequent shifting and changes of linen

will keep the patient free from bedsores--if possible; in some cases it

is not possible. He will have the mouth frequently cleansed with moist

linen rags. As for treatment, preparations of iodine, potash, quinine,

and antipyrin are indicated--with a diet as light and nourishing as

possible, for the patient’s stomach and bowels are profoundly attacked

by the disease. He will treat the consuming fever by means of frequent

baths, into which the patient will often be put every three hours, day

and night, cooling them gradually from the foot end of the tub, and

always, after each bath, administering something stimulating, like

brandy or champagne.

But all these remedies he uses entirely at random, in the hope that

they may be of some use in the case; ignorant whether any one of

them will have the slightest effect. For there is one thing which

he does not know at all; with respect to one fact, he labours in

complete darkness. Up to the third week, up to the very crisis of the

disease, he cannot possibly tell whether this illness, which he calls

typhoid, is an unfortunate accident, the disagreeable consequence of

an infection which might perhaps have been avoided, and which can be

combated with the resources of medical science; or whether it is, quite

simply, a form of dissolution, the garment, as it were, of death. And

then, whether death choose to assume this form or another is all the

same--against him there is no remedy.

Cases of typhoid take the following course:

When the fever is at its height, life calls to the patient: calls

out to him as he wanders in his distant dream, and summons him in no

uncertain voice. The harsh, imperious call reaches the spirit on that

remote path that leads into the shadows, the coolness and peace. He

hears the call of life, the clear, fresh, mocking summons to return

to that distant scene which he has already left so far behind him,

and already forgotten. And there may well up in him something like

a feeling of shame for a neglected duty; a sense of renewed energy,

courage, and hope; he may recognize a bond existing still between him

and that stirring, colourful, callous existence which he thought he had

left so far behind him. Then, however far he may have wandered on his

distant path, he will turn back--and live. But if he shudders when he

hears life’s voice, if the memory of that vanished scene and the sound

of that lusty summons make him shake his head, make him put out his

hand to ward it off as he flies forward in the way of escape that has

opened to him--then it is clear that the patient will die.

CHAPTER IV

“It is not right, it is not right, Gerda,” said old Fräulein

Weichbrodt, perhaps for the hundredth time. Her voice was full of

reproach and distress. She had a sofa place to-day in the circle that

sat round the centre-table in the drawing-room of her former pupil.

Gerda Buddenbrook, Frau Permaneder, her daughter Erica, poor Clothilde,

and the three Misses Buddenbrook made up the group. The green

cap-strings still fell down upon the old lady’s childish shoulders; but

she had grown so tiny, with her seventy-five years of life, that she

could scarcely raise her elbow high enough to gesticulate above the

surface of the table.

“No, it is not right, and so I tell you, Gerda,” she repeated. She

spoke with such warmth that her voice trembled. “I have one foot in the

grave, my time is short--and you can think of leaving me--of leaving

us all--for ever! If it were just a visit to Amsterdam that you were

thinking of--but to leave us for ever--!” She shook her bird-like old

head vigorously, and her brown eyes were clouded with her distress. “It

is true, you have lost a great deal--”

“No, she has not lost a great deal, she has lost everything,” said Frau

Permaneder. “We must not be selfish, Therese. Gerda wishes to go, and

she is going--that is all. She came with Thomas, one-and-twenty years

ago; and we all loved her, though she very likely didn’t like any of

us.--No, you didn’t, Gerda; don’t deny it!--But Thomas is no more--and

nothing is any more. What are we to her? Nothing. We feel it very much,

we cannot help feeling it; but yet I say, go, with God’s blessing,

Gerda, and thanks for not going before, when Thomas died.”

It was an autumn evening, after supper. Little Johann (Justus, Johann,

Kaspar) had been lying for nearly six months, equipped with the

blessing of Pastor Pringsheim, out there at the edge of the little

grove, beneath the sandstone cross, beneath the family arms. The rain

rustled the half-leafless trees in the avenue, and sometimes gusts of

wind drove it against the window-panes. All eight ladies were dressed

in black.

The little family had gathered to take leave of Gerda Buddenbrook, who

was about to leave the town and return to Amsterdam, to play duets once

more with her old father. No duties now restrained her. Frau Permaneder

could no longer oppose her decision. She said it was right, she knew

it must be so; but in her heart she mourned over her sister-in-law’s

departure. If the Senator’s widow had remained in the town, and kept

her station and her place in society, and left her property where it

was, there would still have remained a little prestige to the family

name. But let that be as it must, Frau Antonie was determined to hold

her head high while she lived and there were people to look at her. Had

not her grandfather driven with four horses all over the country?

Despite the stormy life that lay behind her, and despite her weak

digestion, she did not look her fifty years. Her skin was a little

faded and downy, and a few hairs grew on her upper lip--the pretty

upper lip of Tony Buddenbrook. But there was not a white hair in the

smooth coiffure beneath the mourning cap.

Poor Clothilde bore up under the departure of her relative, as one must

bear up under the afflictions of this life. She took it with patience

and tranquillity. She had done wonders at the supper table, and now

she sat among the others, lean and grey as of yore, and her words were

drawling and friendly.

Erica Weinschenk, now thirty-one years old, was likewise not one to

excite herself unduly over her aunt’s departure. She had lived through

worse things, and had early learned resignation. Submission was her

strongest characteristic: one read it in her weary light-blue eyes--the

eyes of Bendix Grünlich--and heard it in the tones of her patient,

sometimes plaintive voice.

The three Misses Buddenbrook, Uncle Gotthold’s daughters, wore their

old affronted and critical air; Friederike and Henriette, the eldest,

had grown leaner and more angular with the years; while Pfiffi, the

youngest, now fifty-three years old, was much too little and fat.

Old Frau Consul Kröger, Uncle Justus’ widow, had been asked too, but

she was rather ailing--or perhaps she had no suitable gown to put on:

one couldn’t tell which.

They talked about Gerda’s journey and the train she was to take;

about the sale of the villa and its furnishings, which Herr Gosch had

undertaken. For Gerda was taking nothing with her--she was going away

as she had come.

Then Frau Permaneder began to talk about life. She was very serious and

made observations upon the past and the future--though of the future

there was in truth almost nothing to be said.

“When I am dead,” she declared, “Erica may move away if she likes. But

as for me, I cannot live anywhere else; and so long as I am on earth,

we will come together here, we who are left. Once a week you will come

to dinner with me--and we will read the family papers.” She put her

hand on the portfolio that lay before her on the table. “Yes, Gerda, I

will take them over, and be glad to have them. Well, that is settled.

Do you hear, Tilda? Though it might exactly as well be you who should

invite us, for you are just as well off as we are now. Yes--so it goes.

I’ve struggled against fate, and done my best, and you have just sat

there and waited for everything to come round. But you are a goose, you

know, all the same--please don’t mind if I say so--”

“Oh, Tony,” Clothilde said, smiling.

“I am sorry I cannot say good-bye to Christian,” said Gerda, and

the talk turned aside to that subject. There was small prospect of

his ever coming out of the institution in which he was confined,

although he was probably not too bad to go about in freedom. But the

present state of things was very agreeable for his wife. She was, Frau

Permaneder asserted, in league with the doctor; and Christian would, in

all probability, end his days where he was.

There was a pause. They touched delicately and with hesitation upon

recent events, and when one of them let fall little Johann’s name, it

was still in the room, except for the sound of the rain, which fell

faster than before.

This silence lay like a heavy secret over the events of Hanno’s last

illness. It must have been a frightful onslaught. They did not look in

each other’s eyes as they talked; their voices were hushed, and their

words were broken. But they spoke of one last episode--the visit of the

little ragged count who had almost forced his way to Hanno’s bedside.

Hanno had smiled when he heard his voice, though he hardly knew any

one; and Kai had kissed his hands again and again.

“He kissed his hands?” asked the Buddenbrook ladies.

“Yes, over and over.”

They all thought for a while of this strange thing, and then suddenly

Frau Permaneder burst into tears.

“I loved him so much,” she sobbed. “You don’t any of you know how

much--more than any of you--yes, forgive me, Gerda--you are his

mother.--Oh, he was an angel.”

“He is an angel, now,” corrected Sesemi.

“Hanno, little Hanno,” went on Frau Permaneder, the tears flowing down

over her soft faded cheeks. “Tom, Father, Grandfather, and all the

rest! Where are they? We shall see them no more. Oh, it is so sad, so

hard!”

“There will be a reunion,” said Friederike Buddenbrook. She folded her

hands in her lap, cast down her eyes, and put her nose in the air.

“Yes--they say so.--Oh, there are times, Friederike, when that is no

consolation, God forgive me! When one begins to doubt--doubt justice

and goodness--and everything. Life crushes so much in us, it destroys

so many of our beliefs--! A reunion--if that were so--”

But now Sesemi Weichbrodt stood up, as tall as ever she could. She

stood on tip-toe, rapped on the table; the cap shook on her old head.

“It _is so_!” she said, with her whole strength; and looked at them all

with a challenge in her eyes.

She stood there, a victor in the good fight which all her life she had

waged against the assaults of Reason: hump-backed, tiny, quivering with

the strength of her convictions, a little prophetess, admonishing and

inspired.

THE END

A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET

_This book is composed on the Linotype in Bodoni, so-called after its

designer, Giambattista Bodoni (1740-1813) a celebrated Italian scholar

and printer. Bodoni planned his type especially for use on the more

smoothly finished papers that came into vogue late in the eighteenth

century and drew his letters with a mechanical regularity that is

readily apparent on comparison with the less formal old style. Other

characteristics that will be noted are the square serifs without fillet

and the marked contrast between the light and heavy strokes._

[Illustration]

SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED

BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.,

BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · PAPER MANUFACTURED

BY W. C. HAMILTON

& SONS, MIQUON, PA., AND

FURNISHED BY W. F.

ETHERINGTON & CO., NEW

YORK · BOUND BY H.

WOLFF ESTATE,

NEW YORK.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Subscripted characters are surrounded by brackets and preceded by an

underscore: BaSO_{4}

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the

public domain.