Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family

by Thomas Mann

  Hanno Buddenbrook loved him in that moment and fixed his eyes on that helpless, contorted face. But Wasservogel’s grunts were growing ever louder and more realistic. Suddenly a whole handful of peas pelted the window, bounced off it, and rattled across the floor.

  “It’s hailing,” someone said in a loud, clear voice. And Herr Modersohn apparently believed this, because he immediately retreated to his platform and asked for the attendance book. He needed it not because he wanted to give anyone a demerit, but because, although he had taught the class five or six times now, he knew only a very few students and had to call out names at random from the written list.

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

  “Absent,” a whole chorus of voices shouted at once. And all the while there sat Feddermann at his desk, big as life, flicking peas in all directions.

  Herr Modersohn blinked and managed to find another name in his book. “Wasservogel,” he said.

  “Deceased!” Petersen called out in a fit of gallows humor. And, sliding their feet, grunting, crowing, and laughing derisively, they all confirmed that Wasservogel was dead.

  Herr Modersohn blinked again, looked around, pulled a peevish face, and gazed back at his attendance book, running his little, clumsy hand down to the name he now decided to call. “Perlemann,” he said, without much confidence.

  “He’s gone mad, unfortunately,” Kai Mölln said in a clear, firm voice, and amid the growing pandemonium, Petersen’s madness was likewise confirmed.

  Herr Modersohn now stood up and called above the racket, “Buddenbrook, as punishment you will have an extra homework assignment. If you laugh once more, I will have to give you a demerit.”

  Then he sat down again.—And it was true, Buddenbrook had laughed at Kai’s joke, was seized by a fit of stifled, violent laughter that he could not control. It was a good joke, the humor of the “unfortunately” sent him into convulsions. But when Herr Modersohn barked at him, he calmed down and gazed in gloomy silence at the young teacher. At that moment he took in everything about the man: the few pathetic hairs of his beard that did not even cover the skin underneath; his bright, brown, hopeless eyes; the two sets of cuffs at the wrist of each little, clumsy hand, or so it seemed, because his shirtsleeves were as long and wide as the cuffs themselves; the whole wretched, forlorn figure. And he saw inside him, too. Hanno Buddenbrook was almost the only student whom Herr Modersohn knew by name, and he used that knowledge against him—constantly calling him to order, assigning him extra homework as punishment, and tyrannizing him in general. He only knew Buddenbrook’s name because Hanno was so quiet that he stood out from the rest of the class; and he took advantage of Hanno’s gentleness by exercising his authority over him, because he would not have dared do it with the loud, impudent boys. “People are so mean that they even make it impossible for you to pity them,” Hanno thought. “I don’t join the others in tormenting and bullying you, Herr Modersohn, because I think it’s brutal, ugly, and cheap. And how do you repay me? But that’s how it is, always will be, everywhere on earth,” he thought, and felt fear and nausea rising up within him again. “And to think that I can see right through you with such revolting clarity.”

  Finally Herr Modersohn found a student who was neither dead nor mad and was willing to recite the poem in English. It was called “The Monkey,” a childish bit of hokum that they demanded be memorized by young men whose main interest was to get on with the serious things in life, whether on the high seas or in the office.

  Monkey, little merry fellow,

  Thou art nature’s punchinello.…

  There were endless stanzas, and Kassbaum read them directly from his book—there was no need to stand on ceremony with Herr Modersohn. The noise had only grown worse. Every foot was in motion, scraping the dusty floor. The cock crowed, the pig grunted, peas flew. Twenty-five boys were drunk on anarchy. The undisciplined instincts of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds were roused now. Pages with obscene drawings were held up for all to see and passed around, eliciting lewd laughter.

  Suddenly everything was silent. The recitation faltered and broke off. Herr Modersohn himself sat up and listened. How charming—clear, bell-like, dainty tones floated up from the back of the room and filled the silence with a sweet, graceful, tender melody. Someone had brought a music box and it was playing “Du, du liegst mir am Herzen,” in the middle of English class. But just as the delicate strains died away something truly dreadful happened—it burst over them like an unexpected, fierce storm, overwhelmed them, paralyzed them.

  There had been no knock at the door, it was simply flung open wide, and something tall and monstrous entered, it growled and snarled, and with a single sidelong stride there it stood now right before their desks. It was the Lord God.

  Herr Modersohn turned ash-gray and dragged his professorial chair down from the platform, all the while dusting it with his handkerchief. The students had leapt to their feet as one man. They pressed their arms to their sides, rocked forward on the balls of their feet, bowed their heads, and bit their tongues in a frenzy of servility. Deep silence reigned. Someone sighed from the strain of his exertions—and then everything was quiet again.

  Director Wulicke reviewed the saluting ranks for a long time, and then he raised his arms with their funnel-shaped, dirty cuffs and lowered them again, fingers spread wide, like someone about to attack a piano keyboard. “Sit down,” he said in his contrabass voice.

  The students sank into their seats. Herr Modersohn’s hands trembled as he pulled his chair over, and the director sat down beside the platform. “Please continue,” he said; and it sounded as horrifying as if he had said, “We shall see now, and woe to anyone who …”

  It was obvious what had happened. Herr Modersohn was supposed to demonstrate his teaching style, present a model lesson, and show what his sophomores had learned in six or seven hours under his instruction. This would decide Herr Modersohn’s future, his very existence. He was a sad sight to behold as he stood there beside his platform, and now he called upon someone to recite “The Monkey.” So far today it had been only the students who were tested and evaluated, but now the teacher would be examined right along with them. Oh, and things went badly for both parties. Director Wulicke’s sudden appearance was a surprise attack, and except for two or three students, no one was prepared. Herr Modersohn could not possibly ask Adolf Todtenhaupt, who knew everything, to recite for a whole hour. And since they could not read “The Monkey” directly from their books with the director present, the recitation was a fiasco; and when they moved on to Ivanhoe, only young Count Mölln could translate a little of it, because he actually had some interest in the novel. The rest of them coughed and stammered and poked ineptly at the words. Hanno Buddenbrook was called on as well and could not get beyond the first line. Director Wulicke roared a sound that sounded like someone scraping violently at the deepest note on a contrabass. Herr Modersohn wrung his little, clumsy, ink-stained hands and kept wailing, “And it’s always gone so well. It’s always gone so well before.”

  He was still saying the same thing, half to his students and half to the director, when the bell rang. But the Lord God stood there erect and dreadful in front of his chair; he crossed his arms, nodded disdainfully, and glared out over the students’ heads. And then he demanded the attendance book and slowly entered a demerit next to the names of all those whose performance had been unsatisfactory or worse—a good six or seven students in all. Herr Modersohn could not be given a demerit, but he was in worse shape than any of them. There he stood, a pale, broken, ruined man. Hanno Buddenbrook was among those who were given demerits. “I will destroy the careers of every one of you,” Director Wulicke added. And then he vanished.

  The bell rang; class was over. Of course it had to turn out like this. It always did. When your fear was at its height, things went well, or almost—as if to mock you. But when you suspected nothing awful would happen, then misfortune struck. It was definite now—Hanno
would be held back at Easter. He stood up and walked out of the room with a weary look in his eyes; he rubbed his tongue against his bad molar.

  Kai came over and put his arm around him, and they walked together down to the courtyard, surrounded by their classmates, who were excitedly discussing today’s dramatic events. Kai looked anxiously and lovingly into Hanno’s eyes and said, “Forgive me, Hanno, for translating just now instead of keeping quiet and getting a demerit, too. It’s all so cruel.”

  “Didn’t I answer what patula Jovis arbore, glandes means?” Hanno replied. “It’s just how things are, Kai. It doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  “Yes, I suppose one must. But the Lord God wants to destroy your career. You will just have to submit to your fate, I suppose, Hanno, seeing as how it is his unsearchable will. ‘Career’—what a lovely word! Herr Modersohn’s career is shot now, too. He will never be a professor, the poor fellow. Yes, there are ‘teaching assistants’ and there are ‘professors,’ you see, but in our system there are no ‘teachers.’ This is a distinction not easily understood, because it is a matter for mature adults only, for those who have grown wise with years. One ought to be able to say that someone either is a teacher or he isn’t. But I don’t understand how one can skip the title entirely. You could, of course, present the issue to the Lord God or Herr Marotzke as a topic of discussion. And what would happen? They would take it as an insult and trample you underfoot for insubordination, because you have presented them with a much higher opinion of their profession than they could ever have themselves. Well, let them—come on, they’re just thickheaded rhinoceroses.”

  They strolled across the courtyard, and Hanno listened with delight to Kai’s banter, which was intended to help him forget his demerit.

  “You see, here is a door, a courtyard door, it is open, beyond it lies the street. What would happen if we were to step out there and stroll up and down the sidewalk for a while? It’s still recess; we have another six minutes, and we could be back in time. But the fact is: it’s impossible. Do you understand? Here is the door, it is open, there are no bars, no barriers, nothing—just a threshold. And nevertheless it is impossible, the very idea of leaving for just one second is impossible. Well, let’s disregard that and take another example. It would be quite absurd to say, if asked the time, that it is now about eleven-thirty. No, it is time for geography. That’s reality. But now my question, for one and all, is: Is this life? With everything totally warped out of shape. Oh, good God, if only the institution would release us from its loving embrace.”

  “Right, and then what? No, forget it, Kai, it would be the same then, too. What would you do? We live a sheltered life here at least. Since my father died, Herr Stephan Kistenmaker and Pastor Pringsheim have taken on the job of asking me every day what I want to be. I don’t know. I don’t have an answer for them. I can’t be anything. I’m afraid of the whole idea.”

  “Stop it. What kind of gloomy talk is that? What about your music?”

  “What about my music, Kai? There’s nothing there. Am I supposed to tour and play concerts? First, they would never let me, and second, I’ll never be good enough for that. I can’t do much of anything except improvise a little when I’m alone. And touring would probably be awful, too. It’s different with you. You have more courage. You just walk around, laughing at the whole thing and challenging them with your ideas. You want to write, to tell people beautiful and strange stories—fine, that amounts to something. And you’re sure to become famous, because you’re so clever. And why is that? You’re happier. Sometimes, during class, we look at each other for moment, like we did this morning when Herr Mantelsack gave Petersen a demerit for using a pony. We’re thinking the same thing, but you just make a funny face and hold on to your pride. I can’t do that. It wears me out. I just want to go to sleep and not have to deal with it. I want to die, Kai! No, I won’t amount to anything. I can’t even bring myself to want anything. I don’t want to be famous. The idea scares me, as if it meant doing something wrong. I’ll never amount to anything, you can be sure of that. I’ve heard that, during a confirmation class recently, Pastor Pringsheim said that they might as well give up on me, that I came from a degenerate family.”

  “Did he really say that?” Kai asked, paying close attention now.

  “Yes. He means my Uncle Christian, locked up in an asylum in Hamburg. He’s right, too. They should give up on me. I would be so grateful. I worry about so many things, and everything is so hard for me. For instance, I cut my finger or hurt myself some way—and it’s a wound that heals for other people in a week, but it takes four weeks with me. It just won’t heal, it gets infected, gets really ghastly, and gives me all kinds of trouble. The other day Herr Brecht told me that my teeth look horrible, that they’re all deteriorating and wearing down, not to mention the ones he’s already pulled. That’s how things stand now. And what will I bite with when I’m thirty, or forty? I’ve lost all hope.”

  “Come on,” Kai said and picked up the pace of their stroll. “And now tell me a little about your piano playing. I have an idea for a wonderful story, you know, absolutely wonderful. Maybe I’ll start on it later, during drawing class. And are you going to play the piano this afternoon?”

  Hanno was silent for a moment. A bleak, confused, feverish look came to his eyes. “Yes, I’ll probably improvise a while,” he said, “although I shouldn’t. I should practice my études and sonatas and then stop. But I’ll probably improvise. I can’t seem not to, even though it makes everything worse.”

  “Worse?”

  Hanno didn’t reply.

  “I know what you’re thinking when you improvise,” Kai said. And then neither of them spoke.

  They were at a difficult age. Kai had turned beet-red and was staring at the ground, but without lowering his head. Hanno looked pale and very serious; he kept casting Kai enigmatic, sidelong glances.

  Then Herr Schlemiel rang the bell, and they went back upstairs.

  And now came geography and a test, a very important test about the province of Hesse-Nassau. A man with a red beard and a brown long-tailed coat came in. His face was pasty, and his hands had large pores and not a single hair. This was Dr. Mühsam, the witty professor. He suffered from occasional hemorrhaging of the lungs and always spoke in an ironic tone of voice, because he considered himself as clever as he was sickly. He had set up a kind of Heinrich Heine museum at home, a collection of papers and memorabilia, all of it related in some way to that brash and frail poet. He now drew the borders of Hesse-Nassau on the blackboard and asked the gentlemen please to list in their bluebooks the province’s important features, if any. He seemed to want to mock both his students and the province of Hesse-Nassau; but all the same, this was a very important test, and one they had all dreaded.

  Hanno Buddenbrook knew nothing about Hesse-Nassau, or not much, or next to nothing. He tried to take a peek at Adolf Todtenhaupt’s bluebook; but although he was supercilious, melancholic, and ironic, Heinrich Heine kept a restless eye on every movement. He noticed immediately and said, “Herr Buddenbrook, I am tempted to have you close your examination book, but I greatly fear that I would only be doing you a favor. Continue, please.”

  This remark contained two jokes. First, that Dr. Mühsam had addressed Hanno as “Herr” Buddenbrook, and second, the part about doing him a favor. Hanno Buddenbrook went on stewing over his examination book, but in the end he delivered only one, almost blank page. Then he left with Kai.

  They had survived the day. Happy the lad who had made it through safely, whose conscience was not burdened by a demerit. He could now go sit in Herr Drägemüller’s room and draw with a free and cheerful heart.

  The art room was large and well lighted. Plaster casts of classical statuary were set out on a shelf that went clear around the room, and there was a large cupboard with all sorts of wooden blocks and dollhouse furniture that likewise served as models. Herr Drägemüller was a squat man with a full, rounded beard and a cheap, slick, brown wig t
hat stuck out at the back of his neck, declaring itself an obvious fake. He owned two wigs, one with longer, one with shorter hair; whenever he had his beard trimmed, he would don the short-haired one. He was a man with several droll eccentricities. He called lead pencils “leads.” And wherever he went he exuded the oily odor of spirits, and some boys said that he drank kerosene. His finest hours were when he was allowed to substitute in some other class besides drawing. Then he would lecture on Bismarck, and, gesturing in long, emphatic, corkscrew arcs that started at his nose and ended at his shoulder, he would speak of Social Democrats with hate and fear in his voice. “We must stick together,” he would tell his students, grabbing one of them by the arm. “Socialism is at the gates!” There was something stilted and fussy about him. Exuding the strong odor of spirits, he would sit down beside a student, tap him on the forehead with his signet ring, blurt out a few words—like “Perspective!” “Light and shade!” “Use your lead!” “Socialism!” “Stick together!”—and then scurry away.

  Kai worked on his new literary project the whole hour, and Hanno kept himself occupied by conducting an orchestral overture. Then class was over. They gathered their things from upstairs; the gates were opened and they were free to go home.

  Carrying their books under their arms, Hanno and Kai walked in the same direction as far as the little, red-brick suburban villa. Young Count Mölln had to walk a good distance by himself after that, all the way to his father’s manor house. And he wasn’t even wearing an overcoat.