Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family

by Thomas Mann

  The morning’s heavy fog had turned to snow, which fell in large, soft flakes and turned to slush on the ground. They parted at the gate to the Buddenbrooks’ front yard; Hanno was already halfway across the yard when Kai came running back and laid an arm around his neck. “Don’t get too down. Maybe you’d better not play,” he said softly. Then his slender, disheveled figure vanished in a flurry of snow.

  Hanno left his books in the bowl that the bear held out for him in the hallway and went into the living room to greet his mother. She was sitting on the chaise longue, reading a book in a yellow binding. As he strode across the carpet, she looked up at him with her blue, close-set eyes with bluish shadows that lingered at the corners. He stood in front of her now, and she took his head between her hands and kissed him on the forehead.

  He went up to his room, where Fräulein Clementine had set out a little lunch for him; he washed and ate. When he was done he went to his writing desk and took out a pack of those little, pungent Russian cigarettes, to which he was no stranger now, either, and began to smoke. Then he sat down at his harmonium and played something challenging and austere, a fugue by Bach. At last he clasped his hands behind his head and looked out the window at the tumbling, silent snow. There was nothing else to look at—no elegant garden, no splashing fountain beneath his window. The view was cut off by the gray wall of the neighboring villa.

  They ate dinner at four—just Gerda Buddenbrook, little Johann, and Fräulein Clementine, all by themselves. Afterward, Hanno went to the salon and got things ready for their music session; he sat at the piano and waited for his mother. They played a Beethoven sonata, opus 24. And in the adagio, the violin sang like an angel. All the same, Gerda was not satisfied; she took her instrument from under her chin, looked crossly at it, and said that it wasn’t in tune. She decided to play no more and went upstairs to rest.

  Hanno stayed behind in the salon. He walked over to the glass door leading to a narrow veranda and gazed out at the soggy front yard for a few minutes. But suddenly he stepped back and yanked the cream-colored curtains across the door, casting the room in a yellowish twilight. He walked hastily to the piano. He stood there for a while, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular—slowly they darkened, dimmed, misted over. He sat down and began to improvise.

  He introduced a very simple theme, nothing really, a fragment of a nonexistent melody, a figure of a bar and a half; he first let it ring out in the bass, with a power one would not have expected of him, and it sounded like a chorus of trombones, imperiously announcing some fundamental principle, an opening onto what was yet to come—and with no clear indication of what it really meant. But when he repeated and harmonized it high in the treble, in tone colors like frosted silver, its essence was revealed to be a simple resolution, a yearning, painful descent from one key to another—a short-winded, paltry invention, which gained its strange, mysterious, momentous quality from the pretentious, resolute solemnity of its definition and presentation. And now followed agitated runs, a restless, syncopated coming and going, a searching and wandering, rent by shrieks, like a soul tormented by sounds that will not ebb into silence, but only repeat themselves in new harmonies, new questions and laments, new desires, demands, and promises. The syncopations grew more and more violent, helplessly jostled about by scurrying triplets. The intruding shrieks of fear, however, took form, closed ranks, became a melody—and then came the moment when they achieved mastery as a fervent, plaintive chorus of woodwinds raised in strong yet humble song. The prodding, faltering, straying, flagging uncertainty yielded and was conquered. In simple, determined rhythms, a contrite chorale resounded like a child’s prayer. And ended in a churchly cadence. And now a fermata, and silence. But wait, suddenly, very softly, in tone colors like frosted silver, the first theme returned, that paltry invention, that silly or mysterious pattern, that sweet, painful descent from one key to another. And there arose a great rebellion and a wild, frantic commotion, dominated by fanfarelike accents, declarations of savage determination. What was happening? What was coming now? It rang out like bugles sounding the charge. And then its forces seemed to assemble, concentrate themselves; firmer rhythms joined together and a new theme established itself, an impudent improvisation, a kind of hunting song, daring and stormy—but not joyful. At its heart was a desperate defiance; its signal calls were also cries of fear, and again and again, under it all, were heard the wrenched, bizarre harmonies of the first theme, that enigmatic theme, so distraught, demented, and sweet. And now began an inexorable succession of episodes, whose meaning and nature were obscure, a picaresque adventure of sound, rhythm, and harmony, which Hanno himself did not control, but merely let take shape under his busy fingers, each episode a new experience that he had not heard coming. He sat bent down over the keys, his lips parted, a distant, rapt look in his eyes, and his brown hair fell down over his temples in soft curls. What was happening? What was he feeling? Was this his way of overcoming dreadful obstacles? Was he slaying dragons, scaling mountains, swimming great rivers, walking through fire? And, like shrill laughter or some inscrutable promise of blessing, that first theme wound its way through everything—a fragment, nothing really, a descent from one key to another. Yes, it roused itself again now to new violent exertions, pursued by mad octave runs that fell away screaming; and a slow, unyielding surge began its ascent, a chromatic struggle upward, full of wild, irresistible desire, abruptly interrupted by bursts of appalling, taunting pianissimi, as if the ground were slipping away underfoot and the long slide down into lust had begun. Suddenly it seemed as if one could hear, very soft and far away, the censure of those first chords of contrite, suppliant prayer; but then, immediately, a flood of ascending cacophony pounced on it, gathered into a solid mass that trundled forward, fell back, scrambled up again, subsided, ceaselessly struggling to reach the ineffable goal that had to come, had to come now, at this moment, at this terrifying pinnacle, while unbearable anguish panted on all sides. And it came, it could not be held back any longer, the convulsions of desire could not be prolonged; it came—like curtains ripping open, doors flinging wide, thorny hedges sundering, walls of flame collapsing. Resolution, dissolution, fulfillment, perfect contentment burst overhead—and in ravished exultation everything untangled into a beautiful chord that descended now with a sweet, yearning ritardando into another chord. It was the theme, the first theme again! And what happened now was a celebration, a triumph, an unrestrained orgy of that same theme, reveling in all conceivable nuances, spilling through every octave, weeping, fluttering in a tremolando, singing, rejoicing, sobbing, marching victorious and laden with all the bluster, tinkling chimes, and churning pomp of a great orchestra. It was the fanatical cult of nothing, of a fragment of melody, a brief bar and a half of childish, harmonic invention—and there was something brutal and doltish about it, and something ascetic and religious at the same time, something like faith and self-renunciation; but there was also something insatiable and depraved beyond measure in the way it was savored and exploited. It sucked hungrily at its last sweet drops with almost cynical despair, with a deliberate willing of bliss and doom, and it fell away in exhaustion, revulsion, and surfeit, until finally, finally, in the languor that followed, all its excesses trickled off in a long, soft arpeggio in the minor, modulated up one key, resolved to the major, hesitated, and died a wistful death.

  Hanno sat very still for a moment, his chin on his chest, his hands in his lap. Then he stood up and closed the keyboard. He was very pale, his knees had gone weak, his eyes burned. He went into the adjoining room, stretched out on the chaise longue, and lay there for a long time without stirring a muscle.

  Later that evening there was supper, followed by a game of chess with his mother, ending in a draw. But well after midnight, he was still sitting in his room by candlelight, at his harmonium and he played it, but only in his mind—noise was not allowed at this hour. Of course he fully intended to get up at half past five and do his most pressing homework.

  This w
as one day in the life of little Johann.

  3

  TYPHOID RUNS the following course:

  In the incubation period, a person feels depressed and moody, and this quickly grows worse, to the point of acute despondency. At the same time he is overcome by physical lassitude, which affects not only his muscles and tendons, but also the function of all internal organs, and most especially the stomach, which rebels and refuses to accept any food. There is a great desire for sleep, but, despite extreme weariness, such sleep is restless, shallow, and nervous and leaves the patient unrefreshed. He experiences headaches, and his mind feels numb, edgy, and dazed, with occasional spells of dizziness. A vague ache invades the limbs. Sporadic nosebleeds occur, for no apparent reason. This is the initial phase.

  Then comes a chill that shakes the whole body and sets the teeth chattering—the signal for the onset of fever, which climbs to its height almost immediately. Small, lentil-sized red spots appear on the skin of the chest and stomach, which disappear under the pressure of a finger, but immediately return. The pulse races, up to a hundred beats a minute. This lasts for a week, with the body temperature hovering at about 104 degrees.

  In the second week, the headache and pain in the limbs go away, but the dizziness increases significantly, with such a humming and buzzing in the ears that it can even render the patient deaf. The face assumes an idiotic expression. The mouth hangs open now, and the eyes are dim and apathetic. Consciousness is clouded; the patient wants only to sleep, but more often than not he sinks into a kind of leaden stupor without really sleeping. And then the room is filled with his babblings and loud, excited fantasies. Limp and helpless now, he becomes disgustingly incontinent. His gums, his teeth, and his tongue are covered with a blackish coating that turns his breath foul. The abdomen is distended and he lies motionless on his back. He sinks deeper into his bed and spreads his knees wide. His vital signs are rapid, shallow, and labored, both respiration and pulse, which can rise to one hundred twenty faint, fluttering beats a minute. The eyelids are half closed, and the cheeks are no longer flushed with fever as at the start, but have taken on a bluish color. The lentil-sized red spots on the chest and stomach have multiplied. The body temperature rises to 105 degrees.

  In the third week, the debilitation is at its worst. The loud fits of delirium have ceased, and no one can say whether the patient’s mind has sunk into the void of night or if it has become a stranger to his body and has turned away to wander in distant, deep, silent dreams, unmarked by visible signs or audible sounds. The body lies in total apathy. This is the moment of crisis.

  In some individuals, special circumstances can make diagnosis more difficult. Let us assume, for example, that the symptoms of the incubation stage—moodiness, fatigue, lack of appetite, restless sleep, headaches—are usually present even when the patient, on whom his family pins all its hopes, is moving about in good health. And when such symptoms suddenly grow worse, they are hardly taken to be something out of the ordinary. What, then? A capable physician with a good medical education—a man like Dr. Langhals, for instance, handsome Dr. Langhals, with his little hands, thick with black hair—would nevertheless quickly be able to call the problem by its proper name; and the appearance of those nasty red spots on the chest and stomach will provide the conclusive evidence. He will have no doubt about what measures are to be taken, what medications administered. He will make sure that the patient’s room is as large and well ventilated as possible and that its temperature does not exceed sixty-three degrees. He will insist on absolute cleanliness and attempt to prevent bedsores as long as possible—though in some cases it is not possible for long—by ordering that the patient’s position be constantly shifted. He will arrange for the oral cavity to be cleansed frequently with moistened linen cloths; as for medication, he will prescribe a mixture of iodine, iodide of potassium, quinine, and an antipyretic; and above all, since the stomach and intestines are seriously affected, he will prescribe a light but very nourishing diet. He will fight the hectic fever with frequent baths, into which the patient is to be placed up to his neck every three hours, without exception, night and day, and during which cold water is to be slowly added at the foot of the tub. After each bath the patient is to be given a restorative, a stimulant such as cognac or even champagne.

  All such therapies, however, are a matter of blind chance, employed more or less just in case they might have some effect, but with no certainty that there is any value, point, or purpose in them. For there is one thing that Dr. Langhals does not know, one question that he cannot answer, and so he gropes in the dark. Until the third week, until the decisive crisis, the question of either-or hovers in the air, and he cannot possibly tell whether in this case the disease he calls “typhus” is an inconsequential mishap, the result of an infection that might perhaps have been avoided and that can be combated with the resources of science—or if it is quite simply a mode of dissolution, the garment in which death has clad itself, though it could just as easily have chosen some other disguise, and for which there is no known remedy.

  Typhoid runs the following course:

  As he lies in remote, feverish dreams, lost in their heat, the patient is called back to life by an unmistakable, cheering voice. That clear, fresh voice reaches his spirit wandering along strange, hot paths and leads it back to cooling shade and peace. The patient listens to that bright, cheering voice, hears its slightly derisive admonishment to turn back, to return to the regions from which it calls, to places that the patient has left so far behind and has already forgotten. And then, if there wells up within him something like a sense of duties neglected, a sense of shame, of renewed energy, of courage, joy, and love, a feeling that he still belongs to that curious, colorful, and brutal hubbub that he has left behind—then, however far he may have strayed down that strange, hot path, he will turn back and live. But if he hears the voice of life and shies from it, fearful and reticent, if the memories awakened by its lusty challenge only make him shake his head and stretch out his hand to ward them off, if he flees farther down the path that opens before him now as a route of escape—no, it is clear, he will die.

  4

  IT IS NOT RIGHT, it is not right, Gerda!” old Fräulein Weichbrodt said in sad reproach, for probably the hundredth time. She had taken a place on the sofa this evening, joining Gerda Buddenbrook, Frau Permaneder, her daughter, Erika, poor Klothilde, and the three Ladies Buddenbrook from Breite Strasse, who all sat around the table in the center of the living room of her former student. The green ribbons of her bonnet were draped over her childlike shoulders, and she had to lift one of those shoulders very high whenever she wanted to make a gesture with her arm above the level of the tabletop; at age seventy-five, she was thinner than ever.

  “It is not right, I tell you. It is not the right thing to do, Gerda,” she repeated, her voice quavering with emotion. “Here I am with one foot in the grave, with so little time left to me, and you want to leave me—to leave us—to move away and leave us behind forever. If it were merely a trip, a visit to Amsterdam—but to leave us forever!” She shook her old birdlike head, and her clever brown eyes gazed at Gerda in distress. “It is true that you have lost a great deal.…”

  “No, she has lost everything,” Frau Permaneder said. “We cannot think only of ourselves. Gerda wishes to leave, and she will leave, there is nothing we can do. She came here with Thomas, twenty-one years ago now, and we have all loved her, although she probably always thought of us as something of a bother. Yes, we were a bother, Gerda, don’t dispute it. But Thomas is gone now—everyone is gone now. And what are we to her? Nothing. It hurts a great deal—but go with God’s blessing, Gerda, and with our thanks for not having left earlier, when Thomas died.”

  It was after supper on an evening in autumn. Well supplied with the blessings of Pastor Pringsheim, little Johann (Justus, Johann, Kaspar) had been lying at rest for six months now, out there at the edge of the little woods, under the sandstone cross and the family crest. Rain ru
stled in the almost leafless tress along the street in front of the house. Sometimes gusts of wind drove the rain against the windowpane. All eight ladies were dressed in black.

  It was a little family gathering for the purpose of saying goodbye—goodbye to Gerda Buddenbrook, who was about to leave the town for good and return to Amsterdam, where, as once long ago, she would play duets with her father. No duties held her here now. Frau Permaneder had run out of objections to Gerda’s decision. She had resigned herself to it, but deep inside she was profoundly unhappy. If the senator’s widow had remained here in town, she would have retained her station and rank in society and kept her fortune here as well—and the family name would have retained a little of its prestige. But, be that as it may, Frau Antonie was determined to hold her head high, as long as she remained on this earth and there were eyes to see her. Her grandfather had driven all over the country in a coach-and-four.

  Despite the troubled life she had led, despite her bad digestion, she did not look fifty. Her complexion had lost some of its glow and there was a hint of soft down on her cheek; there were even several hairs on her upper lip—Tony Buddenbrook’s pretty upper lip. But there was not a single gray thread in the smoothly combed hair under her mourning cap.

  Just as she had accepted all things in this world, poor Klothilde, her cousin, now accepted Gerda’s departure with gentle calm. She had quietly eaten her supper, and had not been shy about heaping her plate, and now she sat there, ashen and skinny as always, adding a few drawling, amiable words.

  Erika Weinschenk, who was thirty-one now, was likewise not a woman to get upset about her aunt’s leaving. She had known heavier burdens, and had learned to bear them with resignation early on. Her tired, watery-blue eyes—Herr Grünlich’s eyes—said that she had learned to submit to life’s disappointments, and her composed, sometimes slightly whiny voice said as much as well.