Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family

by Thomas Mann

  Everything about the institution was new, neat, and attractive. It had caught up with the times, and the gray, dilapidated walls of the former convent school, where the fathers of the present generation had pursued scientific learning, had been razed to make way for a splendid, new, airy edifice. It was all done in the old style—Gothic arches still sedately spanned corridors and arcades. But in terms of lighting and heating, of bright, spacious classrooms, cozy teachers’ lounges, and well-equipped, efficient lecture halls and labs for chemistry, physics, and drawing, it represented the latest in modern comfort.

  Hanno Buddenbrook wearily edged his way along one wall and looked around him. No, thank God, he saw no one. From a distant corridor he caught the echoing hubbub of students and teachers moving en masse toward the gym, where they would receive a little spiritual uplift for the week of work ahead. But here at the front of the building, everything was deathly silent, and even the wide linoleum-covered staircase was empty. He climbed it cautiously—on tiptoe, holding his breath, listening for any sound. His homeroom, for students in their sophomore year of the modern curriculum, was on the second floor, directly across from the stairs. The door was open. Standing on the last step now, he bent forward to look both ways down the corridor and its rows of classrooms, each with a porcelain plaque above the door; he took three quick, soundless strides forward and was in the room.

  It was empty. The curtains at the three wide windows were still closed, and the gas lamps hanging from the ceiling were lit and sputtering softly in the hushed room. Green shades diffused the light across three rows of two-seated desks made of light-colored wood, and across from them stood the teacher’s platform—looking dark, sturdy, and pedagogical—with a high blackboard behind it. Yellow wainscoting ran along the lower half of the walls; the upper half was bare plaster, decorated with a few maps. A second blackboard, set up on an easel, stood next to the platform.

  Hanno walked over to his desk, more or less in the middle of the room, shoved his satchel in the drawer, and sank down on the hard seat; stretching his arms out over the slanted top, he laid his head down. He felt a shiver of ineffable relief run through him. This bare, hard room was ugly, despicable, and a whole morning full of a thousand ominous dangers lay leaden on his heart. But for the moment he was safe and sound, and all the rest could take its course. And the first hour, religion with Herr Ballerstedt, was a rather harmless affair. The vibrating ribbons of paper tied to the circular opening in the wall above him showed that warm air was streaming into the room, and the gas lamps were helping to heat it as well. Oh, he stretched now and slowly let his sweaty, stiff limbs relax and thaw out. He could feel a delightful, unwholesome warmth rising to his head, making his ears hum and dimming his eyes.

  Suddenly he heard a sound behind him—he jerked up and whirled around to look. And there in the back row, a head and a pair of shoulders emerged—it was Kai, Count Mölln. Working his way up from behind his desk, the young gentleman scrambled to his feet, clapped his hands together softly to dust them off, and beamed as he strode now toward Hanno Buddenbrook.

  “Oh, it’s you, Hanno,” he said. “And here I crept to the back, because when you came in I thought you were an organ of the pedagogic body.”

  His voice was obviously changing and cracked when he spoke, which was not the case yet for his friend. And, like Hanno, he had grown considerably. But otherwise he was still very much the same. His suit was still an indeterminate color, with a button missing here and there, and the seat of his pants consisted of a large patch. As always, his hands were none too clean, but they were still narrow and exceptionally well formed, with long, slender fingers and tapering fingernails. His reddish-blond hair was still carelessly parted down the middle and fell across a flawless, alabaster forehead, beneath which deep-set but keen, bright blue eyes flashed. The contrast between his very unkempt appearance and the noble pedigree in the delicate bone structure of his face with its slightly aquiline nose and slightly pursed upper lip was more striking than ever.

  “Kai,” Hanno said, skewing his mouth slightly and rubbing his hand in the neighborhood of his heart, “how could you scare me like that! What are you doing up here? Why were you hiding from me? Did you get here late, too?”

  “Heaven forbid,” Kai replied. “I’ve been here for quite a while. It’s Monday morning, and I just couldn’t wait to get back to this fine institution—a feeling I’m sure you know best, my friend. No, I just stayed up here for the fun of it. Our high and august principal commands the day and deems it not abduction to drive the people to their prayers. And so I made sure that I kept right behind him the whole time. And at every turn he made, wherever he looked, I was always right behind our old mystagogue, until he started out of the room and I stayed here. But what about you?” he asked sympathetically and sat down gently beside Hanno on the bench. “You had to run the whole way, didn’t you? Poor fellow—you look frazzled. Your hair’s so wet it’s stuck to your forehead.” And he took a ruler from the desk and with a serious face carefully unstuck little Johann’s hair. “So you overslept, did you? Oh, what do you know—I seem to be sitting in Adolf Todtenhaupt’s place today,” he said, interrupting himself and looking all around, “in the consecrated seat at the head of the class. Well, it doesn’t matter for now. So you overslept, did you?”

  Hanno had laid his head down on his crossed arms again. “I went to the opera last night,” he said, heaving a sigh.

  “Oh, right, I’d forgotten about that. Was it beautiful?”

  Kai received no answer to his question.

  “You’ve got it good,” he went on, ignoring his silence. “You need to keep that in mind, Hanno. I’ve never been in a theater once, you know, and there’s not the least prospect I ever will, for years to come.”

  “If only there wasn’t this hangover afterward,” Hanno said gloomily.

  “Yes, I know all about that problem.” And Kai bent down to pick up his friend’s hat and coat, which had fallen to the floor beside the bench, and quietly took them out to hang them in the corridor.

  “I take it you don’t have the passage from the Metamorphoses down cold yet?” he asked as he came back in.

  “No,” Hanno said.

  “And presumably haven’t prepared for the test in geography?”

  “I haven’t worked on anything,” Hanno said.

  “No chemistry or English, either, then. All right! Well, that makes us bosom buddies, comrades-in-arms.” Kai was obviously relieved. “We’re in the same boat,” he declared cheerfully. “I didn’t do anything on Saturday, because the next day was Sunday, and nothing on Sunday for religious reasons. No, I’m kidding. Mainly because I had something better to do, of course,” he said, suddenly turning serious and blushing a little. “Yes, things could get lively today, Hanno.”

  “If I get another demerit,” Johann said, “I won’t pass; and I’m sure to get one if I get called on in Latin class. It’s the ‘B’s’ turn next, Kai, and there’s no way to prevent it.”

  “Let’s wait and see. Aha! Caesar comes to mind: ‘Though dangers have threatened me constantly from the rear, they need only see Caesar’s face …’ ” But Kai was unable to finish his oration. He was in a rather gloomy mood himself. He went up to the platform, sat down, and with a scowl began to rock in the armchair. Hanno Buddenbrook’s head still lay resting on his crossed arms. They sat like that for a while, opposite one another; neither spoke.

  Suddenly a dull droning came from somewhere; within thirty seconds it had grown to a roar that rolled menacingly toward them.

  “The people,” Kai said fiercely. “Lord, my God, how quickly have they done with it. Not even ten minutes knocked off the hour.”

  He stepped down from the platform and moved to the door so that he could blend in with the others as they arrived. But, as for Hanno, he simply lifted his head for a moment, made a wry face, and went on sitting there.

  And here they came, shuffling and stamping—a tumult of baritones and tenors, with sop
rano descants and cracking voices that leapt between the two. A great wave flooded up the steps and flowed out along the corridors, streaming into this room as well, which was suddenly filled with life, movement, and noise. Here they came, all the young men, Hanno and Kai’s schoolmates, the sophomores in the modern curriculum, about twenty-five of them, sauntering in with their hands in their pants pockets or swinging their arms—they took their seats and opened their Bibles. There were open, honest faces and closed, guarded ones; some looked hale and hearty and others more delicate; tall, strong rascals, who planned soon to be merchants or go to sea and who couldn’t care less about school; and little grinds, who were well ahead of their classmates, stars in any subject that required only memorization. Adolf Todtenhaupt, the head of the class, knew everything; he had never given a wrong answer in all his life. This was due partly to quiet, passionate hard work, and partly to the fact that his teachers avoided asking him anything he might not know. It would have pained and embarrassed them, would have shaken their belief in human perfectibility, to have met with silence from Adolf Todtenhaupt. He had a strange bumpy head and his blond hair was pasted to it like smooth, shiny glass; there were black rings around his gray eyes, and his long, brown hands stuck out from under coat sleeves that were too short but always brushed and spotless. He sat down beside Hanno Buddenbrook, smiled softly—and a little slyly—and said good morning to his neighbor, adopting the current slang by contracting the greeting to a sassy, casual monosyllable. Then, while everyone else around him went on chattering in low voices, he yawned and smiled and began to make entries in the attendance book, holding the pen absolutely correctly in his slender, extended fingers.

  Two minutes later, the sound of footsteps was heard out in the hall, and all the front-benchers rose unhurriedly from their seats; a few boys toward the rear followed their example, but the others were not about to be distracted from what they were doing and hardly even noticed Herr Ballerstedt enter the room, hang his hat on the door, and step up on the platform.

  He was a man in his forties, pleasantly stout, with a large bald head, a full reddish-blond, short-cropped beard, rosy cheeks, and an expression on his moist lips that was both unctuous and cozily sensual at the same time. He picked up his notebook and thumbed through it without saying a word. The order in his classroom left much to be desired, and so he raised his head, stretched an arm out over the lectern, and feebly waved a flaccid white fist up and down a few times, while his face slowly swelled and turned purple, making his beard look pale yellow; working his lips strenuously to no real purpose for a good thirty seconds, he finally managed nothing more than a forced moan of “Well …” He struggled a while longer to find some further reprimand, then at last turned back to his notebook, and imploded again in apparent satisfaction. This was typical of Herr Ballerstedt’s classroom method.

  At one time he had wanted to be a preacher, but, given his tendency to stutter and his fondness for the good things of this world, he had turned instead to pedagogy. He was a bachelor of some wealth—he wore a little diamond on one finger—and was thoroughly committed to good food and drink. He was the one teacher on the faculty who associated with his colleagues only on an official basis and spent most of his free time in the company of fashionable, unmarried men from the world of commerce—even with officers from the local garrison. He dined twice a day at the best restaurant in town and was a member of the Club. If he happened to meet any of his older students somewhere on the street at two or three in the morning, he would swell up, manage to blurt out “Good morning,” and let things go at that, for all parties concerned. Hanno Buddenbrook had nothing to fear from him and was almost never asked a question. Herr Ballerstedt had spent all too much time in the very human company of Uncle Christian to seek out any conflicts with his nephew in the classroom.

  “Well …” he said once more, gazing around the class and making another gesture with his feebly balled fist and flashing his diamond; he looked at his notebook. “Perlemann. A synopsis, please.”

  Somewhere in the class, Perlemann stood up—but not that anyone noticed. He was one of the smallest boys, one of the grinds. “The synopsis,” he said in a polite, low voice, thrusting his head forward with a nervous smile. “The book of Job is divided into three parts. First, Job’s condition before he found himself chastised by the rod of the Lord—chapter one, verses one through six. Second, the rod itself and what happened as a result—chapter …”

  “That’s correct, Perlemann,” Herr Ballerstedt interrupted him, touched by so much timid subservience, and jotted a good grade in his book. “Heinricy, continue.”

  Heinricy was one of the tall rascals who no longer cared about anything. He tucked the handy jackknife he had been playing with into his pocket, stood up noisily, pouted his lower lip, and cleared his throat with a rough, raw, manly growl. They were all unhappy that it was his turn now, in the wake of mild-mannered Perlemann. The students daydreamed and let their minds wander, lulled half asleep by the warm room and the soft hiss of the gas lamps. They were all still tired from Sunday; they had all crept from their warm beds on this cold foggy morning, with a sigh and chattering teeth. They would all have preferred it if little Perlemann had babbled away for the whole hour, whereas Heinricy was sure to pick a quarrel.

  “I was absent the day this was assigned,” he said with a rough edge to his voice.

  Herr Ballerstedt swelled up, waved his limp fist, worked his lips, raised his eyebrows, and stared young Heinricy straight in the eye. His head had turned purple again and he was quivering, straining to control himself, until he finally managed to say, “Well …”—and the spell was broken, the battle won. “One can never expect you to do any work,” he went on with easy eloquence now, “and you always have some excuse ready at hand, Heinricy. If you were sick and missed the last class, you certainly have had time in the past few days to find out what we have already covered. And if the first part is about Job’s condition before the chastising rod and the second about the chastising rod, you surely could have counted on your fingers and concluded that the third part is about his condition after he has encountered said tribulation. But you don’t apply yourself. It is not just that you are weak-willed—you never fail to excuse your weakness and justify it. But mark my word, as long as you continue in this, there can be no question of improvement—or of promotion. Be seated, Heinricy. Wasservogel, continue.”

  Thick-skinned and defiant, Heinricy sat down again with loud creaks and scrapes, muttered a wisecrack to his neighbor, and pulled out his handy jackknife again. Wasservogel stood up—a boy with inflamed eyes, a pug nose, cauliflower ears, and badly chewed fingernails. He completed the “synopsis” in his insipid nagging voice, and began to tell about Job, the man from the land of Uz and what had happened to him. He had placed an opened Old Testament against the back of the boy in front of him, and he read from it now with a look of total innocence and thoughtful concentration, then stared at a spot on the wall and provided a wretched modern German translation of what he had read, pausing frequently to give a squeaky cough. There was something absolutely repulsive about the boy, but Herr Ballerstedt praised him for his efforts. Wasservogel had it easy in life, because most of the teachers were quick to praise him for his achievements—just to prove to themselves and the other boys that they would never let his ugliness tempt them to be unjust.

  Religion class dragged on. Various boys were called upon to show what they knew about Job, the man from the land of Uz; and Gottlieb Kassbaum, the son of the unfortunate wholesaler Herr Kassbaum, was given an excellent grade despite his family’s shattered circumstances, because he was able to state definitely that Job’s substance consisted of seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred asses, and a very great household.

  Then they were allowed to open their Bibles, most of which were already open, and they began to read. Whenever there was a verse that Herr Ballerstedt felt needed some explanation, he would swell up, say, “Wel
l …,” and, after completing the other customary preliminaries, deliver a little lecture on the point in question, interspersed with general comments on morals. No one listened to him. Peace and drowsiness reigned in the room. With the help of the steady flow of heat and the gas lamps, the temperature had risen considerably and the air was rather stale from twenty-five breathing, sweating bodies. The warmth, the soft hiss of the gas flames, the monotone voice of someone reading aloud—it all wrapped itself around their bored brains and lulled them into stupefied daydreams. Lying open before Kai Mölln was not only the Bible, but also Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, and he read it, his head propped on one aristocratic but slightly dirty hand. Hanno Buddenbrook leaned back, sank down into his seat, and gazed with a slack mouth and hot, bleary eyes at the book of Job, its lines of print fusing into a black muddle. Sometimes he would recall the grail leitmotif or the “Wedding March,” and then his eyelids would sink slowly and he could feel sobs welling up from deep inside. And he prayed in his heart that this innocuous and peaceful first class would never end.

  But it did, of course—and as per schedule the shrill howls of the bell jangled and echoed through the corridors, wrenching twenty-five brains from cozy trances.

  “Enough for today,” Herr Ballerstedt said and had Todtenhaupt hand him the attendance book so that he could sign it as proof that he had fulfilled his duties.

  Hanno Buddenbrook closed his Bible, yawned nervously, and stretched till his muscles twitched. As he let his arms fall and relax, he automatically took a quick, labored breath to steady the beat of his heart, which had wavered and stopped for a second. Now came Latin. He threw an imploring look Kai’s way, but Kai was still immersed in reading his book and apparently had not even noticed that class was over. Hanno pulled his Ovid from his satchel, a paperbound book with a marbled cover, and opened it to the verses that were to be memorized for today. No, it was hopeless—a long, regular column of black lines, every fifth one numbered, and with little pencil marks scribbled everywhere, and the lines stared back at him, so obscure and unfamiliar that it was useless to try to learn a few of them. He could barely make out what they meant, let alone recite even a single one by heart. And he could not decipher one line of the passage that followed, which they were supposed to have translated for today.