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 HISTORY OF KEDAH.

An Arab voyager Ibn Khordadzbeh (846 A.D.) wrote in his Kitab al-masalik wa-l mamalik of an island called "Kilah" which contained tin mines and bamboo forests. Another Arab voyager Sulaiman (851 A.D), edited about 920 A.D. by one Abu Zaid of Siral, wrote of "Kalah-bar," as "a dependency of Zabej," which is probably Srivijaya i.e. Palembang—Chao Ju Kua in 1250 A.D. recorded that Langkasuka (i.e. Kedah), Trengganu, Pahang and Kelantan were all subject to l'alembang. ("Encyclopaedie van Nederlandsch-Indie" sub "Tochten," "Livres du Merveilles de-l'Inde, Leyden 1883-6, pp. 255-26 and Reinaud's "Relations des voyages faits par les Arabes et les Persans," pp. LXII, LXXXV, 17, 93, 94.) Ibi Muhalhal, who flourished abont 941 A.D. (but whose account is of doubtful authenticity), describos "Kalah" as the last place visited by ships going eastward, a great city with high walls and gardens and canals, where are the mines of lead or tin "called kala'i, which is found in no part of the world except Kalah;" a place famous for the best "swords" in India; its inhabitants were Buddhists. "Kilah" or "Kalah" is generally identified as Kedah: the mention of tin-mines places it certainly in the Malay Peninsula, as Bangka was discovered much later. And probably this "Kalah" is identical with "Kora" or "Kala" of the Chinese chronicles of the T'ang Dynasty (618-916):—pp. 241-3, Vol. 1, Series II, "Essays relating to Indo-China": "Kora" had a king whose family-name was Sri Pura and his personal name Misi Pura; "the dead were buried and their ashes put into a jar and sunk in the sea; the customs of the people were about the same as in Siam."

The history of the Liang dynasty (502-665 A.D.) (ib. pp. 135-7) gives an account of a country called Langgasu or Langga, whose people said that their country had been established 400 years earlier its inhabitants were ardent Buddhists. This, it is sometimes said, is a reference to Langkasuka, the old name of Kedah recorded in the Hikayat Marong Mahawangsa and in popular folk-tales ("Fasciculi Malayenses," pt. II (a), pp. 25-6; Skeat's "Fables from an Eastern Forest," pp. 49-51 and 81) "Kedah may very well be the old native name of the country and Langkasuka its literary name. Many places in Further India and the Islands bear two names: thus, Pegu was styled Hamsawati, Tumasik was called Singapura: similarly Siak (in Sumatra) is known as Seri Indrapura, and many other such instances could be given. All this merely illustrates the varnish of Indian culture, which spread over these regions during the first dozen centuries or so of our era."


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 TAJU'S-SALATIN.

Dutch scholars have done much towards preparing a history of Malay literature, but as Dr. Ph. S. van Ronkel, the successor of van Ophuijsen in the chair of Malay at Leiden, points out in the paper (Tijdschrift Ind. T. L. en Vk., deel NVJ) which I here summarize, a great deal remains to be studied not only as to the spread of tales in the Archipelago itself but as to the source and date of borrowings from Arab, Persian and Indian literature. Brandes has studied the sources of the Hikayat Bayan Budiman, the Hikayat Kalila dan Damina, the Hikayat Gholam and the Hikayat Bakhtiar: van Ronkel has written a book on the ''Ht. Amir Hamza and papers on the Taju's-Salatin, the Ht. Gul Bakawali (Le Roman de la Rose dans la literature malaise), the Ht. Tamim ad-dari and the Ht. Sama'un'' and above all an exhaustive catalogue of the great collection of Malay MSS, in the possession of the Batavian Society, of which it suffices to say that it is a worthy counterpart of Juynboll's catalogue of the Malay MSS. at Leiden. Gradually material for a history is being accumulated. But the field is dreary and the labourers are few.

Early scholars supposed that Malay borrowings were from the Arabic. Now we know that not even all Malay theological works were translated from the Arabic. India has been the source of much Malay literature and of popular mysticism:—vide Snouck Hurgronje's book on "The Achehnese." For a long time Persian was the official language of India, especially of northern India. To the Persian language, but not therefore to direct Persian influence, Malay is indebted for its script, the name of its vowel points, certain loan-words and many legends and romances. Sometimes the borrowing has been direct, sometimes by way of some Indian translation. The comparison of Malay romances with Hindustani and Tamil literature might well engage the interest of our local students of those languages.

For the Taju's-Salatin, van Ronkel alludes to the eulogies unduly bestowed on this work by Roorda van Eysinga, its first editor, and by the grammarian Werndly. That sound scholar van der Tuuk gave a note of warning and criticized the poorness of van Eysinga's text: a criticism repeated by Blagden and myself on p. 189 of our "Malay Reader" (Clarendon Press).

Werndly and van Eysinga call the author Bokhari of Johore. The true explanation is that he was" a Bokhari," a native of Bokhara, practising the trade of a jauhari "a jeweller."

Ethé in his account of modern Persian literature speaks of a Bokhari Jauhari mentioned in the literary biography of Suhuf

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 SIDI, SIAMANG, ADUNADA

On page 605 of Skeat's "Malay Magic," under LXX occur the lines:—

Bukan-nya aku yang bĕrburu, Pawang Sidi yang bĕrburu; Bukan-uya uku yang punya anjing, Pawang Sakti yang punya anjing.

on page 640, under CXCIX

Maalim Saidi yang punya lawar Maalim Karimun yang mĕnawar

—in a Perak MS. Charm-book, Maalim Karimum is found on page 607 (LXXIII)

Bukan aku yang bĕrburu, To patek Sung Sidi yang bĕrburu:

on page 589, XV

Aku-lah yang bĕrnama Dato Mĕntala Guru Sakti di-rumah: Sĕdang Sidi nama-nya aku:

on page 607, LXXVI

O sĕrba Saidi Tuan patek yang punya rusa:

on page 590, XVIII

Bĕrkat Sidi těrjali sĕndiri, Mĕnjadikan sakalian alam.

Now in all the above quotations Sidi is taken to be the name of a person; and in some cases is confused with the Arabic saidi 'lord,' either by the Malay pawang or by his European transcriber. But clearly sĕrba Saidi is a very doubtful phrase in the context, if it is to be rendered "all sorts of Lords;" and běrkal Sidi těrjali sěndiri, if it referred to a pawang, would ascribe to him preposterous powers. However in the first of the quotations, sidi


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 The Genealogy of Malacca's Kings from a copy of the Bustanu's-Salatin.

This interesting and important passage was copied for the late Mr. W. Barnes from a copy of the Bustanu's-Salatin belonging, it is said, to H. H. the late Sultan of Pahang, when H. H. was still Tengku Besar. Apparently it had been the intention of Mr. Barnes to offer it to the Society, but death frustrated him.

The interest of the passage lies in the light it throws on Malay history. Firstly, it gives the variant list of the kings of Singapore and Malacca, to which Wilkinson drew attention on pp. 15 and 21 of his History, Part 1, Papers on Malay Subjects Kuala Lumpur, F.M.S. 1908. It gives the orthodox list of the Malacca royal house down to the date of the Portuguese conquest and then continuing their history down to the birth of Sultan Iskandar Ala'u'd-din Mughayat Shah II of Acheen (1636-1641) it throws light on the earlier history of Palang and Johor.

It had been the intention of Mr. Barnes to compare this version with the version of the Bustanu's-Salatin at Leyden, but it is hard for Europeans in the East to find time and opportunity for such comparative work. Print our local manuscripts, when obtainable and once in print passages can easily be compared. Mr. Barnes had got one variant version, the source of which I have been unable to trace: its variants I have cited in foot-notes.

The Bustanu's-Salatin was composed at Acheh by Shaikh Nuru'd-din Muhammad Jilani ibni Hasanji ibni Muhammad Hamid a'r-Raniri, who also composed an ''Ht. Iskandar Dzu'l-Karnain in Malay as he tells us on p. 14, vol. II of Wilkinson's edition of the Bustanu's-Salatin'': in 1634. he had translated the Siratul-mustakim into Malay. (Vide also Snouck Hurgrouje's "The Achehnese." vol. I, p. 12). After the fall of Pasai, Malacca, and after the conquest of Malacca. Acheen became the centre of Muhammadan religion and learning. It was Sultan Iskandar the second of Acheen and Shaikh Nuru'd-din who sent the Babu'n-Nikah, the Siratu'l-mustakim and a complimentary letter to the Raja of Kedah on the establishment of Islam in that country: so the "Kedah Annals" tell us.

Possibly some of the historical detail given in this passage has been added by a later hand.

Mr. R. J. Wilkinson printed 2 vols, of the Bustanu's-Sabatin (American Mission Press, Singapore, 1900), but most unfortunately his MS. was lost before the rest, which contains the chapters on


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 Ibrahim as a court panegyrist under the Seljukian princes, Malik-shah (1152), Muhammad (1153-1160), Sulaiman Shah and Arslan Shah bin Tughrul (1161-1176), who wrote an epic called Hikayat-i Amir Ahmad u Mahisti. But to judge from references to books in the Taju's-Salatin, this man lived too early to be our author.

The introduction to the Taju's-Salatin acknowledges indebtedness to many sources. These sources have Arabic titles, but some are well-known Persian works found also in Arabic, and some Persian translations from the Arabic. One of the sources given is the Akhlaq-i-Muhsini, written in 1494 by Husain bin Ali alwaiz al Kashifi.

On page 43 (van Eysinga's text) the author quotes from the Tanhibu'l-Ghafilin; probably an Arabic religious tract translated into Persian—there are several works of that name, Persian, one Hindustani and at least one in Malay (van Ronkel's "Catalogus" of MSS. at Batavia, p. 412; and a Malay version has been printed at Mecca and is on sale in Singapore). The Sijar ul Muluk, a well-known Persian work composed by the famous Vizier Nizam 'l Mulk, born in 1017, is referred to on pp. 65 and 203. A Persian ethical treatise (Ethé p. 347) is cited on p. 116. A Persian verse is quoted on p. 117 out of the Secrets of Attar, a Persian work by the famous mystic and poet, Abu Hamid Muhammad bin Abibakr Ibrahim Farid ud Din Attar, a dealer in perfumery who died 114 years old in 1230. On p. 151 is mentioned the famons Persian romance of Mahmud and Avaz: the oldest version is by Fashru'd Din Ali Safi (died 1532), but there are others by Anisi (died 1605), Zulali (composed 1593-1615), Mirza Muhammad Ali Saib (d. 1677) and later by Mir Abu Talib. On the same page are mentioned the "Arab story" of Laila wa Majnun and the "Persian stories" of Khusran wa Shirin, and of Yusof and Zulaikha. The story of Khusrau and Shirin is told in verse by Fashru'd Din Asad Nizani and by many later writers. Firdausi and earlier authors have told the story of Yusof and Zulaikha.

The introduction to the Taju's-Salatin, the type of book, the names of princes and ministers are all Persian. In Persian more than in Arabic ethical treatises one fonds verses, stories and texts from the Koran introduced. The verses in the book are all in forms of Persian prosody, the mathnawi, ruba'i, ghozal: they are mostly didactic or sing the praises of the first four khalifs or of the merits of the author's work. On p. 7 Kayomarz the first of the old kings of Persia is mentioned as a son of Adam. Cf. also p. 103.

Sometimes a Persian word is explained, e.g. on p. 134, by a later hand, The Persian word for the New Year is used. There are Persian forms of the genitive: e.g. Omari-Abdul-Aziz.

The chronogram in the introduction gives 1012 A.H. (1603 A.D.) as the date of composition.

Though no Persian original has been discovered, clearly the book is of Persian origin and, considering there was no direct Persian influence on the Malays, probably was derived from India.


text: Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society/Volume 81/Taju's-Salatin


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 NOTES ON DIPTEROCARPS.

This note deals, with the shape of the mature embryo, and with the characters of the seedling in a small number of species of the order Dipterocarpaceae: it deals also in a lesser measure with the position which the flowers assume when open. The observations were made and are recorded because it is believed that by a full knowledge of the morphology of the young plant, light will be cast upon the tangle which the genera of the order now present. In a lesser measure the position of the flower may possibly assist; and at any rate information concerning it is worth collecting.

Most of the facts in this note were got together by visits to Penang in the months of July, October and December, 1918: such as were not, are enumerated in the footnote* below. It happened that the year, 1918, was unusually favourable to the Dipterocarps in Penang, where almost every local species flowered and there Mr. Mohamed Haniff, of the Waterfall Gardens, observed and collected for me between my visits. To him for very much assistance, I tender my best thanks. I tender my best thanks, also, to Dr. F. W. Foxworthy, Mr. W. E. Kinsey and other Forest Officers for supplies of fresh seed from several parts of the Peninsula, which seed was put into cultivation in the Botanic Gardens, Singapore. No cultivation, however, returned the equivalent of days spent in the forests when the seeds were falling and germinating under natural conditions; for the seedling is so exacting in its demands that without experimenting on a very large scale cultivation often fails to supply adequate material.

The forest is undoubtedly the place in which to study the Dipterocarps. The earlier investigators were not able to realise that fully, not even collectively, and have left much to be done. The first of the workers worked, perforce, in European institutions remote from tropical nature, with material preserved by drying and chiefly collected by others. They constructed such


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 On A Collection of Birds from N. E. Sumatra.

,

,

Since the publication of the first part of this paper (antea pp. 14-133), we have been favoured with a further series of birds by Heer A. C. F. A. van Heyst which, containing as it does, a considerable number of species not included in his former consignments, incrits description in detail. In addition we have received a copy of a paper by Dr. L. F. de Beaufort and Dr. L. P. de Bussy "Vogels van de Oostkust van Sumatra" (Bijdragen tot de Dierkunde uitgegeven door het Koningklijk Zoölogisch Genootschap "Naturis Artis Magistra" te Amsterdam, xxi, pp. 229 to 276 (1918?) which deals with a large collection of birds made in precisely the same localities as that of Heer van Heyst. We have quoted this article throughout as "de Beaufort and de Bussy p.—."

As the area covered by the political division known as the Sumatran East Coast Residency has now been explored in some detail, at least as regards its ornithology, we have indicated briefly the total number of species definitely known to occur in the area to which no great additions, except Limicoline, coastal and migrant forms are now to be expected, with the possible exception of such species as thrushes, warblers and white-eyes which may perhaps be found on the summits of the highest mountains above 5,000 feet which have not yet been dealt with.

We have throughout, where necessary, quoted the first part of this paper as "antea p. ."

Two new forms Pycnonotus bimaculatus baral, inhabiting West Java and the whole of the upland areas of Sumatra and Cryptolopha montis inornata, known as yet only from the Battak High lands are here described and a new name Tephrodornis pelvica frelensis given to the Wood Shrike inhabiting Eastern Sumatra and the Southern Malay Peninsula, while the additions listed raise the number of definitely recorded Sumatran species to 548.

Heer van Heyst has forwarded as the following additional account of the type of country collected over.

"The district of Deli can be subdivided into

(i). Low land up to about 100 m. (225 feet), once covered with sea.

(ii). Hill land from 100-400 m. (325-1,300 feet).


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 The Tomb of Mansur Shah, Sultan of Malacca, 1459-? 1475 A. D.

When I was last in Europe, Mr. Blagden gave me a transcript of the inscription on a tomb purporting to be that of Sultan Mansur Shah, one of the rulers of Malacca before the advent of the Portuguese. Mr. Hervey had got two the inscriptions transcribed and had told Mr. Blagden that the tomb still existed. Mr. Blagden asked me if I could trace, it. On a visit to Malacca, I found the two stones of the tomb placed against the wall of the Residency: Mr. Wolferstan kindly arranged for them to be photographed and undertook to take steps for their preservation. The photographs have been reproduced for its Journal.

An account of Sultan Mansur Shah's reign will be found on pp. 24-26 of Wilkinson's "History, Part I" in the Papers on Malay Subjects" (F. M. S. Govt. Press, Kuala Lumpur).

According to Hervey's version, the inscription of the face at the bottom (or left) of Plate I should be deciphered as follows:—

"Hadze raudzat al-mukaddasat wa'l-daulat al-tamih, al-matharat al-Sultan al-munawar al-adil al-malik al-badzil al-Sultan al-marhum Mansur Shah, kad antakala min dar al-mahal ila dar al-wirad yaum al-arbaa sanat dua Rajab wa thamanin wa thaman mi'ah."

The translation is.

"This is the tomb of the illustrious high and righteous glorious and just Sultan, the beneficent prince, the ruler loved of God, Mansur Shah. He departed this mortal abode for the abode of bliss on Wednesday, the second day of the month of Rejab in the year of the Hegira 880."

The inscription on the two edges of the tomb is deciphered:— which means [sic]

"Al-asma' al-dufana' al-Sultan al-Ali."

"The name of the deceased, the most exalted Sultan."

The 2nd of Rějab 880 A.II. = Wednesday, Nov. 1, 1475 A.D. But unfortunately the bottom line of the inscription would seem to have been chipped and damaged since Hervey's day. If the date is correct, the tomb will be the oldest known relic in Malacca, perhaps with the exception of the Hindu makara at the foot of the Residency hill.


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Jour. R. Asiatic Society, Straights Branch.

TOMBSTONE OF SULTAN MANSUR.


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48 It is fair to add that a local Arab pundit to whom photos of the tomb were submitted could not make the above version out of the inscription and failed to give an intelligible interpretation. It would require a scholar acquainted with the carved Arabic script of that period to give a final interpretation: possibly Hervey got his version from such a scholar but there is no record. The hole in the other stone finds a parallel in the hole of the Pengkalan Kempas tomb.


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Jour. R. Asiatic Society, Straights Branch.

TOMBSTONE OF SULTAN MANSUR.


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had come, Christmas had passed. It was January, 1875. The snow, which covered the foot-walks in a firm-trodden mass, mingled with sand and ashes, was piled on either side of the road in high mounds that were growing greyer and more porous all the time, for the temperature was rising. The pavements were wet and dirty, the grey gables dripped. But above all stretched the heavens, a cloudless tender blue, while millions of light atoms seemed to dance like crystal motes in the air.

It was a lively sight in the centre of the town, for this was Saturday, and market-day as well. Under the pointed arches of the Town Hall arcades the butchers had their stalls and weighed out their wares red-handed. The fish-market, however, was held around the fountain in the market-square itself. Here fat old women, with their hands in muffs from which most of the fur was worn off, warming their feet at little coal-braziers, guarded their slippery wares and tried to cajole the servants and housewives into making purchases. There was no fear of being cheated. The fish would certainly be fresh, for the most of them were still alive. The luckiest ones were even swimming about in pails of water, rather cramped for space, but perfectly lively. Others lay with dreadfully goggling eyes and labouring gills, clinging to life and slapping the marble slab desperately with their tails—until such time as their fate was at hand, when somebody would seize them and cut their throats with a crunching sound. Great fat eels writhed and wreathed about in extraordinary shapes. There were deep vats full of black masses of crabs fram the Baltic. Once in a while a big flounder

RV 274 (274)


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RV 275 (BUDDENBROOKS) gave such a desperate leap that he sprang right off his slab and fell down upon the slippery pavement, among all the refuse, and had to he picked up and severely admonished by his possessor.

Broad Street, at midday, was full of life. Schoolchildren with knapsacks on their backs came along the street, filling it with laughter and chatter, snowballing each other with the half-melting snow. Smart young apprentices passed, with Danish sailor caps or suits cut after the English model, carrying their portfolios and obviously pleased with themselves for having escaped from school. Among the crowd were settled, grey-bearded, highly respectable citizens, wearing the most irreproachable national-liberal expression on their faces, and tapping their sticks along the pavement. These looked across with interest to the glazed-brick front of the Town Hall, where the double guard was stationed; for the Senate was in session. The sentries trod their beat, wearing their cloaks, their guns on their shoulders, phlegmatically stamping their feet in the dirty half-melted snow. They met in the centre of their beat, looked at each other, exchanged a word, turned, and moved away each to his own side. Sometimes a lieutenant would pass, his coat-collar turned up, his hands in his pockets, on the track of some grisette, yet at the same time permitting himself to be admired by young ladies of good family; and then each sentry would stand at attention in front of his box, look at himself from head to foot, and present arms. It would be a little time yet before they would perform the same salute before the members of the Senate, the sitting lasted some three quarters of an hour; it would probably adjourn before that.

But one of the sentries suddenly heard a short, discreet whistle from within the building. At the same moment the entrance was illumined by the red uniform of Uhlefeld the beadle, with his dress sword and cocked hat. His air of preoccupation was simply enormous as he uttered a stealthy “Look out” and hastily withdrew. At the same moment ap-

RV 275 (275)


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RV 276 (BUDDENBROOKS) proaching steps were heard on the echoing flags within.

The sentries front-faced, inflated their chests, stiffened their necks, grounded their arms, and then, with a couple of rapid motions, presented arms. Between them there had appeared, lifting his top hat, a gentleman of scarcely medium height, with one light eyebrow higher than the other and the pointed ends of his moustaches extending beyond his pallid cheeks. Senator Thomas Buddenbrook was leaving the Town Hall to-day long before the end of the sitting. He did not take the street to his own house, but turned to the right instead. He looked correct, spotless, and elegant as, with the rather hopping step peculiar to him, he walked along Broad Street, constantly saluting people whom he met. He wore white kid gloves, and he had his stick with the silver handle under his left arm. A white dress tie peeped forth from between the lapels of his fur coat. But his head and face, despite their careful grooming, looked rather seedy. People who passed him noticed that his eyes were watering and that he held his mouth shut in a peculiar cautious way; it was twisted a little to one side, and one could see by the muscles of his cheeks and temples that he was clenching his jaw. Sometimes he swallowed, as if a liquid kept rising in his mouth.

“Well, Buddenbrook, so you are cutting the session? That is something new,” somebody said unexpectedly to him at the beginning of Mill Street. It was his friend and admirer Stephan Kistenmaker, whose opinion on all subjects was the echo of his own. Stephan Kistenmaker had a full greying beard, bushy eyebrows, and a long nose full of large pores. He had retired from the wine business a few years back with a comfortable sum, and his brother Edouard carried it on by himself. He lived now the life of a private gentleman; but, being rather ashamed of the fact, he always pretended to be overwhelmed with work. “I’m wearing myself out,” he would say, stroking his grey hair, which he curled with the tongs. “But what’s a man good for, but to wear himself out?” He stood hours on ’Change, gesturing imposingly, but doing no

RV 276 (276)


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RV 277 (BUDDENBROOKS) business. He held a number of unimportant offices, the latest one being Director of the city bathing establishments; but he also functioned as juror, broker, and executor, and laboured with such zeal that the perspiration dripped from his brow. “There’s a session, isn’t there, Buddenbrook—and you are taking a walk?”

“Oh, it’s you,” said the Senator in a low voice, moving his lips cautiously. “I’m suffering frightfully—I’m nearly blind with pain.”

“Pain? Where?”

“Toothache. Since yesterday. I did not close my eyes last night. I have not been to the dentist yet, because I had business in the office this morning, and then I did not like to miss the sitting. But I couldn’t stand it any longer. I’m on my way to Brecht.”

“Where is it?”

“Here on the left side, the lower jaw. A back tooth. It is decayed, of course. The pain is simply unbearable. Good-bye, Kistenmaker. You can understand that I am in a good deal of a hurry.”

“Yes, of course—don’t you think I am, too? Awful lot to do. Good-bye. Good luck! Have it out—get it over with at once—always the best way.”

Thomas Buddenbrook went on, biting his jaws together, though it made the pain worse to do so. It was a furious burning, boring pain, starting from the infected back tooth and affecting the whole side of the jaw. The inflammation throbbed like red-hot hammers; it made his face burn and his eyes water. His nerves were terribly affected by the sleepless night he had spent. He had had to control himself just now, lest his voice break as he spoke.

He entered a yellow-brown house in Mill Street and went up to the first storey, where a brass plate on the door said, “Brecht, Dentist.” He did not see the servant who opened the door. The corridor was warm and smelled of beefsteak and cauliflower. Then he suddenly inhaled the sharp odour

RV 277 (277)


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RV 278 (BUDDENBROOKS) of the waiting-room into which he was ushered. “Sit down! One moment!” shrieked the voice of an old woman. It was Josephus, who sat in his shining cage at the end of the room and regarded him sidewise out of his venomous little eyes.

The Senator sat down at the round table and tried to read the jokes in a volume of Fliegende Blätter, flung down the hook, and pressed the cool silver handle of his walking-stick against his cheek. He closed his burning eyes and groaned. There was not a sound, except for the noise made by Josephus as he bit and clawed at the bars of his cage. Herr Brecht might not be busy; but he owed it to himself to make his patient wait a little.

Thomas Buddenbrook stood up precipitately and drank a glass of water from the bottle on the table. It tasted and smelled of chloroform. Then he opened the door into the corridor and called out in an irritated voice: if there were nothing very important to prevent it, would Herr Brecht kindly make haste—he was suffering.

And immediately the bald forehead, hooked nose, and grizzled moustaches of the dentist appeared in the door of the operating-room. “If you please,” he said. “If you please,” shrieked Josephus. The Senator followed on the invitation. He was not smiling. “A bad case,” thought Herr Brecht, and turned pale.

They passed through the large light room to the operating-chair in front of one of the two largest windows. It was an adjustable chair with an upholstered head-rest and green plush arms. As he sat down, Thomas Buddenbrook briefly explained what the trouble was. Then he leaned back his head and closed his eyes.

Herr Brecht screwed up the chair a bit and got to work on the tooth with a tiny mirror and a pointed steel instrument. His hands smelled of almond soap, his breath of cauliflower and beefsteak.

“We must proceed to extraction,” he said, after a while, and turned still paler. RV 278 (278)


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RV 279 (BUDDENBROOKS) “Very well, proceed, then,” said the Senator, and shut his eyes more tightly.

There was a pause. Herr Brecht prepared something at his chest of drawers and got out his instruments. Then he approached the chair again.

“I’ll paint it a little,” he said; and began at once to apply a strong-smelling liquid in generous quantities. Then he gently implored the patient to sit very still and open his mouth very wide—and then he began.

Thomas Buddenbrook clutched the plush arm-rests with both his hands. He scarcely felt the forceps close around his tooth; but from the grinding sensation in his mouth, and the increasingly painful, really agonizing pressure on his whole head, he was made amply aware that the thing was under way. Thank God, he thought, now it can’t last long. The pain grew and grew, to limitless, incredible heights; it grew to an insane, shrieking, inhuman torture, tearing his entire brain. It approached the catastrophe. ‘Here we are, he thought. Now I must just bear it.’

It lasted three or four seconds. Herr Brecht’s nervous exertions communicated themselves to Thomas Buddenbrook’s whole body, he was even lifted up a little on his chair, and he heard a soft, squeaking noise coming from the dentist’s throat. Suddenly there was a fearful blow, a violent shaking as if his neck were broken, accompanied by a quick cracking, crackling noise. The pressure was gone, but his head buzzed, the pain throbbed madly in the inflamed and ill-used jaw; and he had the clearest impression that the thing had not been successful: that the extraction of the tooth was not the solution of the difficulty, but merely a premature catastrophe which only made matters worse.

Herr Brecht had retreated. He was leaning against his instrument-cupboard, and he looked like death. He said: “The crown—I thought so.”

Thomas Buddenbrook spat a little blood into the blue basin at his side, for the gum was lacerated. He asked, half

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RV 280 (BUDDENBROOKS) dazed: “What did you think? What about the crown?”

“The crown broke off, Herr Senator. I was afraid of it.—The tooth was in very bad condition. But it was my duty to make the experiment.”

“What next?”

“Leave it to me, Herr Senator.”

“What will you have to do now?”

“Take out the roots. With a lever. There are four of them.”

“Four. Then you must take hold and lift four times.”

“Yes—unfortunately.”

“Well, this is enough for to-day,” said the Senator. He started to rise, but remained seated and put his head back instead.

“My dear Sir, you mustn’t demand the impossible of me,” he said. “I’m not very strong on my legs, just now. I have had enough for to-day. Will you be so kind as to open the window a little?”

Herr Brecht did so. “It will be perfectly agreeable to me, Herr Senator, if you come in to-morrow or next day, at whatever hour you like, and we can go on with the operation. If you will permit me, I will just do a little more rinsing and pencilling, to reduce the pain somewhat.”

He did the rinsing and pencilling, and then the Senator went. Herr Brecht accompanied him to the door, pale as death, expending his last remnant of strength in sympathetic shoulder-shruggings.

“One moment, please!” shrieked Josephus as they passed through the waiting-room. He still shrieked as Thomas Buddenbrook went down the steps.

With a lever—yes, yes, that was to-morrow. What should he do now? Go home and rest, sleep, if he could. The actual pain in the nerve seemed deadened; in his mouth was only a dull, heavy burning sensation. Home, then. He went slowly through the streets, mechanically exchanging greetings with those whom he met; his look was absent and wander-

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RV 281 (BUDDENBROOKS) ing, as though he were absorbed in thinking how he felt.

He got as far as Fishers’ Lane and began to descend the left-hand sidewalk. After twenty paces he felt nauseated. “I’ll go over to the public house and take a drink of brandy,” he thought, and began to cross the road. But just as he reached the middle, something happened to him. It was precisely as if his brain was seized and swung around, faster and faster, in circles that grew smaller and smaller, until it crashed with enormous, brutal, pitiless force against a stony centre. He performed a half-turn, fell, and struck the wet pavement, his arms outstretched.

As the street ran steeply down hill, his body lay much lower than his feet. He fell upon his face, beneath which, presently, a little pool of blood began to form. His hat rolled a little way off down the road; his fur coat was wet with mud and slush; his hands, in their white kid gloves, lay outstretched in a puddle.

Thus he lay, and thus he remained, until some people came down the street and turned him over.

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mounted the main staircase, holding up her gown in front of her with one hand and with the other pressing her muff to her cheek. She tripped and stumbled more than she walked; her cheeks were flushed, her capote sat crooked on her head, and little beads stood on her upper lip. . . . Though she met no one, she talked continually as she hurried up, in whispers out of which now and then a word rose clear and audible and emphasized her fear. “It’s nothing,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything. God wouldn’t let anything happen. He knows what he’s doing, I’m very sure of that. . . . Oh, my God, I’ll pray every day—” She prattled senselessly in her fear, as she rushed up to the second storey and down the corridor.

The door of the ante-chamber opened, and her sister-in-law came toward her. Gerda Buddenbrook’s lovely white face was quite distorted with horror and disgust; and her close-set, blue-shadowed brown eyes opened and shut with a look of anger, distraction, and shrinking. As she recognized Frau Permaneder, she beckoned quickly with outstretched atms and embraced her, putting her head on her sister-in-law’s shoulder,

“Gerda! Gerda! What is it?” Frau Permaneder cried. “What has happened? What does it mean? They said he fell—unconscious? How is he?—God won’t let the worst happen, I know. Tell me, for pity’s sake!”

But the reply did not come at once, She only felt how Gerda’s whole form was shaken. Then she heard a whisper at her shoulder.

“How he looked,” she heard, “when they brought him! His whole life long, he never let any one see even a speck

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RV 283 (BUDDENBROOKS) of dust on him.—Oh, it is insulting, it is vile, for the end to have come like that!”

Subdued voices came out to them, The dressing-room door opened, and Ida Jungmann stood in the doorway in a white apron, a basin in her hands. Her eyes were red. She looked at Frau Permaneder and made way, her head bent. Her chin was trembling.

The high flowered curtains stirred in the draught as Tony, followed by her sister-in-law, entered the chamber. The smell of carbolic, ether, and other drugs met them. In the wide mahogany bed, under the red down coverlet, lay Thomas Buddenbrook, on his back, undressed and clad in an embroidered nightshirt. His half-open eyes were rolled up; his lips were moving under the disordered moustaches, and babbling, gurgling sounds came out. Young Dr. Langhals was bending over him, changing a bloody bandage for a fresh one, which he dipped into a basin at the bedside, Then he listened at the patient’s chest and felt his pulse.

On the bed-clothes at the foot of the bed sat little Johann, clutching his sailor’s knot and listening broodingly to the sounds behind him, which his father was making. The Senator’s bemired clothing hung over a chair.

Frau Permaneder cowered down at the bedside, seized one of her brother’s hands—it was cold and heavy—and stared wildly into his face. She began to understand that, whether God knew what he was doing or not, he was at all events bent on “the worst”!

“Tom!” she clamoured, “do you know me? How are you? You aren’t going to leave us? You won’t go away from us? Oh, it can’t be!”

Nothing answered her, that could be called an answer. She looked imploringly up at Dr. Langhals. He stood there with his beautiful eyes cast down; and his manner, not without a certain self-satisfaction, expressed the will of God.

Ida Jungmann came back into the room, to make herself useful if she could. Old Dr, Grabow appeared in person,

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RV 284 (BUDDENBROOKS) looked at the patient with his long, mild face, shook his head, pressed all their hands, and then stood as Dr. Langhals stood. The news had gone like the wind through the whole town. The vestibule door rang constantly, and inquiries after the Senator’s condition came up into the sick-chamber. It was unchanged—unchanged. Every one received the same answer.

The two physicians were in favour of sending for a sister of charity—at least for the night. They sent for Sister Leandra, and she came, There was no trace of surprise or alarm in her face as she entered. Again she laid aside her leather bag, her outer hood and cloak, and again she set to work in her gentile way.

Little Johann sat hour after hour on the bed-clothes, watching everything and listening to the gurgling noises. He was to have gone to an arithmetic lesson; but he understood perfectly that what was happening here was something over which the worsted-coats had no jurisdiction. He thought of his lessons only for a moment, and with scorn. He wept, sometimes, when Frau Permaneder came up and pressed him to her; but mostly hie sat dry-eyed, with a shrinking, brooding gaze, and his breath came irregularly and cautiously, as if he expected any moment to smell that strange and yet familiar smell.

Toward four o’clock Frau Permaneder took a sudden resolve. She asked Dr. Langhals to come with her into the next room; and there she folded her arms and laid back her head, with the chin dropped.

“Herr Doctor,” she said, “there is one thing you can do, and I beg you to do it. Tell me the truth. I am a woman steeled by adversity; I have learned to bear the truth. You may depend upon me. Please tell me plainly: Will my brother be alive to-morrow?”

Dr. Langhals turned his beautiful eyes aside, looked at his fingernails, and spoke of our human powerlessness, and the impossibility of knowing whether Frau Permaneder’s

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RV 285 (BUDDENBROOKS) brother would outlive the night, or whether he would be called away the next minute.

“Then I know what I have to do,” said she; went out of the room; and sent for Pastor Pringsheim.

Pastor Pringsheim appeared, without his vestments or neckruff, in a long black gown. He swept Sister Leandra with an icy stare, and seated himself in the chair which they placed for him by the bedside. He asked the patient to recognize and hear him. Then, as this appeal was unsuccessful, he addressed himself at once to God and prayed in carefully modulated tones, with his Frankish pronunciation, with emphasis now solemn and now abrupt, while waves of fanaticism and sanctimony followed each other across his face. He pronounced his r in a sleek and oily way peculiar to himself alone, and little Johann received an irresistible impression that he had just been eating rolls and coffee.

He said that he and the family there present no longer importuned God for the life of this dear and beloved sufferer, for they saw plainly that it was God’s will to take him to Himself. They only begged Him for the mercy of a gentle death. And then he recited, appropriately and with effect, two of the prayers customary on such occasions. Then he got up. He pressed Gerda Buddenbrook’s hand, and Frau Permaneder’s, and held little Johann’s head for a moment between both his hands, regarding the drooping eyelashes with an expression of the most fervent pity. He saluted Ida Jungmann, stared again at Sister Leandra, and took his leave.

Dr. Langhals had gone home for a little. When he came back there had been no change. He spoke with the nurse, and went again. Dr. Grabow came once more, to see that everything was being done. Thomas Buddenbrook went on babbling and gurgling, with his eyes rolled up. Twilight was falling. There was a pale winter glow at sunset, and it shone through the window upon the soiled clothing lying across the chair. RV 285 (285)


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RV 286 (BUDDENBROOKS) At five o’clock Frau Permaneder let herself be carried away by her feelings, and committed an indiscretion. She suddenly began to sing, in her throaty voice, her hands folded before her.

“Come, Lord,”

she sang, quite loud, and they all listened without stirring.

“Come, Lord, receive his failing breath;

Strengthen his hands and feet, and lead him unto death.”

But in the devoutness of her prayer, she thought only of the words as they welled up from her heart, and forgot that she did not know the whole stanza; after the third line she was left hanging in the air, and had to make up for her abrupt end by the increased dignity of her manner. Everybody shivered with embarrassment. Little Johann coughed so hard that the coughs sounded like sobs. And then, in the sudden pause, there was no sound but the agonizing gurgles of Thomas Buddenbrook.

It was a relief when the servant announced that there was something to eat in the next room. But they had only begun, sitting in Gerda’s bedroom, to take a little soup, when Sister Leandra appeared in the doorway and quietly beckoned.

The Senator was dying. He hiccoughed gently two or three times, was silent, and ceased to move his lips. That was the only change. His eyes had been quite dead before.

Dr. Langhals, who was on the spot a few minutes later, put the black stethoscope to the heart, listened, and, after this scientific test, said “Yes, it is over.”

And Sister Leandra, with the forefinger of her gentle white hand, softly closed the eyes of the dead.

Then Frau Permaneder flung herself down on her knees by the bed, pressed her face into the coverlet, and wept aloud, surrendering herself utterly and without restraint to one of those refreshing bursts of feeling which her happy

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RV 287 (BUDDENBROOKS) nature had always at its command. Her face still streamed with tears, but she was soothed and comforted and entirely herself as she rose to her feet and began straightway to occupy her mind with the announcements of the death—an enormous number of elegant cards, which must be ordered at once.

Christian appeared. He had heard the news of the Senator’s stroke in the club, which he had left at once. But he was so afraid of seeing some awful sight that he went instead for a long walk outside the walls, and was not to be found. Now, however, he came in, and on the threshold heard of his brother’s death.

“It isn’t possible,” he said, and limped up the stairs, his eyes rolling wildly.

He stood at the bedside between his sister and his sister-in-law; with his bald head, his sunken cheeks, his drooping moustaches, and his huge beaked nose, he stood there on his bent legs, looking a little like an interrogation-point, and gazed with his little round deep eyes into his brother’s face, as it lay so silent, so cold, so detached and inaccessible. The corners of Thomas’s mouth were drawn down in an expression almost scornful. Here he lay, at whom once Christian had flung the reproach that he was too heartless to weep at a brother’s death. He was dead now himself: he had simply withdrawn, silent, elegant, and irreproachable, into the hereafter. He had, as so often in his life, left it to others to feel put in the wrong. No matter now, whether he had been right or wrong in his cold and scornful indifference toward his brother’s afflictions, the “misery,” the nodding man, the spirit bottle, the open window. None of that mattered now; for death, with arbitrary and incomprehensible partiality, had singled him out, and taken him up, and given him an awesome dignity and importance. And yet Death had rejected Christian, had held him off, and would not have him at any price—would only keep on making game of him and mocking him with all these tricks and antics which nobody took seriously. Never in his life had Thomas Buddenbrook so im-

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- 9 - 0.020/-0.025 inch deep. Radial fractures occurred at each end of both the pieces examined. There were numerous cracks in the groove that appeared to be typical of brittle, intergranular cracks that occur while metal is at a high temperature. The surfaces of the groove and a portion of the circumferential fractures, about 0.1 inch, adjacent to the groove were coated with a black, high temperature oxide scale. Distinct temper colors on circumferential fracture started at the edge of the black scale and extended to the backface of the disk. Temper colors on the radial fractures extended 0.6-0.9 inch from the circumferential fracture. These temper colors indicate that an abnormal temperature gradient existed at the time the fractures occurred. The maximum temperature was at the groove and the gradient extended through the disk to the backface and to about one inch radially from the groove.

The circumferential fracture surface, near the groove, showed evidence of a brittle intergranular type separation, while the fracture adjacent to the backface of the disk showed evidence of a tensile shear failure. There was no evidence of fatigue or corrosion.

Examination of the microstructure of the metal on a section through the groove, and the circumferential fracture, revealed evidence of a heat affected zone in the metal adjacent to the groove. The temperature in this zone had been high enough to change the etching characteristics and reduce the hardness of the metal. The evidence indicated that the metal had been heated to 1,700°F or higher. Hardness testing of the metal 0.1 inch from the groove was found to be around 149-184 on the Brinnell scale. Hardness testing of disk material remote from the groove area gave Brinnell readings of 336-362 compared to the specification of 302-388 Brinnell.

The engine, less exhaust case, was returned to the manufacturer where it was disassembled and examined under Board supervision. Special attention was given to the operating position of the low pressure turbine assembly. The wear pattern was measured on the low pressure compressor turbine drive shaft and found to be 3.233-3.257 inches long. Measurements of similar drive shafts in the Pan American jet overhaul base ranged from 3.120-3.212 inches with an average of 3.159 inches. Comparative measurements of the wear pattern on 3 drive shafts in Pratt and Whitney production engines ranged from 3.151-3.170 and averaged 3.162 inches.

The three knife edges on the second stage turbine seal left only two tracks on the shoulder of the low pressure compressor turbine drive shaft beginning 0.350 inch aft of the front shoulder. A survey of similar drive shafts revealed three tracts on the shoulder. Tracks on the No. 4-1/2 seal liner of the accident engine were compared to a production engine and estimated to be 0.250-0.040 inch forward of similar marks on the production engine. The third and fourth stage inner sealing ring track marks were comparable to similar marks on other engines.

A review of the carrier's jet engine buildup procedures for this engine was conducted, and depositions taken from the personnel who assembled the engine. The low pressure turbine shaft was installed twice in the course of determining the correct size shaft positioning spacer. This spacer determines the actual


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RV 288 (BUDDENBROOKS) pressed his brother as at this hour. Success is so definite, so conclusive! Death alone can make others respect our sufferings; and through death the most pitiable sufferings acquire dignity. “You have won—I give in,” Christian thought. He knelt on one knee, with a sudden awkward gesture, and kissed the cold hand on the coverlet. Then he stepped back and moved about the room, his eyes darting back and forth.

Other visitors eame—the old Krögers, the Misses Buddenbrook, old Herr Marcus. Poor Clothilde, lean and ashen, stood by the bed; her face was apathetic, and she folded her hands in their worsted gloves. “You must not think, Tony and Gerda,” said she, and her voice dragged very much, “that I’ve no feeling because I don’t weep. The truth is, I have no more tears.” And as she stood there, incredibly dry and withered, it was evident that she spoke the truth.

Then they all left the room to make way for an elderly female, an unpleasant old creature with a toothless, mumbling jaw, who had come to help Sister Leandra wash and dress the corpse.

Gerda Buddenbrook, Frau Permaneder, Christian, and little Johann sat under the big gas-lamp around the centre-table in the living-room, and worked industriously until far on into the evening. They were addressing envelopes and making a list of people who ought to receive announcements. Now and then somebody thought of another name. Hanno had to help, too; his handwriting was plain, and there was need of haste,

It was still in the house and in the street. The gas-lamp made a soft hissing noise; somebody murmured a name; the papers rustled. Sometimes they looked at each other and remembered what had happened.

Frau Permaneder scratched busily. But regularly once every five minutes she would put down her pen, lift her clasped hands up to her mouth, and break out in lamentations. “I can’t realize it!” she would cry—meaning that she was

RV 288 (288)


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RV 289 (BUDDENBROOKS) gradually beginning to realize. “It is the end of everything,” she burst out another time, in sheer despair, and flung her arms around her sister-in-law’s neck with loud weeping. After each outburst she was strengthened, and took up her work again.

With Christian it was as with poor Clothilde. He had not shed a tear—which fact rather mortified him. It was true, too, that his constant preoccupation with his own condition had used him up emotionally and made him insensitive. Now and then he would start up, rub his hand over his bald brow, and murmur, “Yes, it’s frightfully sad.” He said it to himself, with strong self-reproach, and did his best to make his eyes water.

Suddenly something happened to startle them all: little Johann began to laugh. He was copying a list of names, and had found one with such a funny sound that he could not resist it. He said it aloud and snorted through his nose, bent over, sobbed, and could not control himself. The grown people looked at him in bewildered incredulity; and his mother sent him up to bed.

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had died of a bad tooth. So it was said in the town. But goodness, people don’t die of a bad tooth! He had had a toothache; Herr Brecht had broken off the crown; and thereupon the Senator had simply fallen in the street. Was ever the like heard?

But however it had happened, that was no longer the point. What had next to be done was to send wreaths—large, expensive wreaths which would do the givers credit and he mentioned in the paper: wreaths which showed that they came from people with sympathetic hearts and long purses. They were sent. They poured in from all sides, from organizations, from families and individuals: laurel wreaths, wreaths of heavily-scented flowers, silver wreaths, wreaths with black bows or bows with the colours of the City on them, or dedications printed in heavy black type or gilt lettering. And palms—simply quantities of palms.

The flower-shops did an enormous business, not least among them being Iwersen’s, opposite the Buddenbrook mansion. Frau Iwersen rang many times in the day at the vestibule door, and handed in arrangements in all shapes and styles, from Senator This or That, or Consul So-and-So, from office staffs and civil servants. On one of these visits she asked if she might go up and see the Senator a minute. Yes, of course, she was told; and she followed Frau Permaneder up the main staircase, gazing silently at its magnificence.

She went up heavily, for she was, as usual, expecting. Her looks had grown a little common with the years; but the narrow black eyes and the Malay cheek-bones had not lost their charm. One could still see that she must once have

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RV 291 (BUDDENBROOKS) been exceedingly pretty. She was admitted into the salon, where Thomas Buddenbrook lay upon his bier.

He lay in the centre of the large, light room, the furniture of which had been removed, amid the white silk linings of his coffin, dressed in white silk, shrouded in white silk, in a thick and stupefying mingling of odours from the tube-roses, violets, roses, and other flowers with which, he was surrounded. At his head, in a half-circle of silver candelabra, stood the pedestal draped in mourning, supporting the marble copy of Thorwaldsen’s Christ. The wreaths, garlands, baskets, and bunches stood or lay along the walls, on the floor, and on the coverlet. Palms stood around the bier and drooped over the feet of the dead. The skin of his face was abraded in spots, and the nose was bruised. But his hair was dressed with the tongs, as in life, and his moustache, too, had been drawn through the tongs for the last time by old Herr Wenzel, and stuck out stiff and straight beyond his white cheeks. His head was turned a little to one side, and an ivory cross was stuck between the folded hands.

Frau Iwersen remained near the door, and looked thence, blinking, over to the bier. Only when Frau Permaneder, in deep black, with a cold in her head from much weeping, came from the living-room through the portieres and invited Frau Iwersen to come nearer, did she dare to venture a little farther forward on the parquetry floor. She stood with her hands folded across her prominent abdomen, and looked about her with her narrow black eyes: at the plants, the candelabra, the bows and the wreaths, the white silk, and Thomas Buddenbrook’s face. It would be hard to describe the expression on the pale, blurred features of the pregnant woman. Finally she said “Yes—” sobbed just once, a brief confused sound, and turned away.

Frau Permaneder loved these visits. She never stirred from the house, but superintended with tireless zeal the homage that pressed about the earthly husk of her departed brother. She read the newspaper articles aloud many times

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RV 292 (BUDDENBROOKS) in her throaty voice: those same newspapers which at the time of the jubilee had paid tribute to her brother’s merits, now mourned the irreparable loss of his personality. She stood at Gerda’s side to receive the visits of condolence in the living-room and there was no end of these; their name was legion. She held conferences with various people about the funeral, which must of course be conducted in the most refined manner. She arranged farewells: she had the office staff come in a body to bid their chief good-bye. The workmen from the granaries came too. They shuffled their huge feet along the parquetry floor, drew down the corners of their mouths to show their respect, and emanated an odour of chewing tobacco, spirits, and physical exertion. They looked at the dead lying in his splendid state, twirled their caps, first admired and then grew restive, until at length one of them, found courage to go, and the whole troop followed shuffling on his heels. Frau Permaneder was enchanted. She asserted that some of them had tears running down into their beards. This simply was not the fact; but she saw it, and it made her happy.

The day of the funeral dawned. The metal casket was hermetically sealed and covered with flowers, the candles burned in their silver holders, the house filled with people, and, surrounded by mourners from near and far, Pastor Pringsheim stood at the head of the coffin in upright majesty, his impressive head resting upon his ruff as on a dish.

A high-shouldered functionary, a brisk intermediate something between a waiter and a major-domo, had in charge the outward ordering of the solemnity. He ran with the softest speed down the staircase and called in a penetrating whisper across the entry, which was filled to overflowing with tax-commissioners in uniform and grain-porters in blouses, knee-breeches, and tall hats: “The rooms are full, but there is a little room left in the corridor.”

Then everything was hushed. Pastor Pringsheim began to speak. He filled the whole house with the rolling periods

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RV 293 (BUDDENBROOKS) of his exquisitely modulated, sonorous voice. He stood there near the figure of Thorwaldsen’s Christ and wrung his hands before his face or spread them out in blessing; while below in the street, before the house door, beneath a white wintry sky, stood the hearse drawn by four black horses, with the other carriages in a long row behind it. A company of soldiers with grounded arms stood in two rows opposite the house door, with Lieutenant von Throta at their head. He held his drawn sword on his arm and looked up at the bow-window with his brilliant eyes. Many people were craning their necks from windows nearby or standing on the pavements to look.

At length there was a stir in the vestibule, the lieutenant’s muffled word of command sounded, the soldiers presented arms with a rattle of weapons, Herr von Throta let his sword sink, and the coffin appeared. It swayed cautiously forth of the house door, borne by the four men in black cloaks and cocked hats, and a gust of perfume came with it, wafted over the heads of bystanders. The breeze ruffled the black plumes on top of the hearse, tossed the manes of the horses standing in line down to the river, and dishevelled the mourning hat-scarves of the coachmen and grooms. Enormous single flakes of snow drifted down from the sky in long slanting curves.

The horses attached to the hearse, all in black trappings so that only their restless rolling eyeballs could be seen, now slowly got in motion. The hearse moved off, led by the four black servants. The company of soldiers fell in behind, and one after another the coaches followed on. Christian Buddenbrook and the pastor got into the first; little Johann sat in the second, with a well-fed Hamburg relative. And slowly, slowly, with mournful long-drawn pomp, Thomas Buddenbrook’s funeral train wound away, while the flags at half-mast on all the houses flapped before the wind. The office staff and the grain-porters followed on foot.

The casket, with the mourners behind, followed the well

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RV 294 (BUDDENBROOKS) known cemetery paths, past crosses and statues and chapels and hare weeping-willows, to the Buddenbrook family lot, where the military guard of honour already stood, and presented arms again. A funeral march sounded in subdued and solemn strains from behind the shrubbery.

Once more the heavy gravestone, with the family arms in relief, had been moved to one side; and once more the gentlemen of the town stood there, on the edge of the little grove, beside the abyss walled in with masonry into which Thomas Buddenbrook was now lowered to join his fathers. They stood there with bent heads, these worthy and well-to-do citizens: prominent among them were the Senators, in white gloves and cravats. Beyond them was the throng of officials, clerks, grain-porters, and warehouse labourers.

The music stopped. Pastor Pringsheim spoke. While his voice, raised in blessing, still lingered on the air, everybody pressed round to shake hands with the brother and son of the deceased.

The ceremony was long and tedious. Christian Buddenbrook received all the condolences with his usual absent, embarrassed air. Little Johann stood by his side, in his heavy reefer jacket with the gilt buttons, and looked at the ground with his blue-shadowed eyes. He never looked up, but bent his head against the wind with a sensitive twist of all his features.

RV 294 (294)


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text: Buddenbrooks/Volume 2/Part 10/Chapter 1

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text: Buddenbrooks/Volume 2/Part 10/Chapter 7

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text: Buddenbrooks/Volume 2/Part 10/Chapter 8

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sometimes happens that we may recall this or that person whom we have not lately seen and wonder how he is. And then, with a start, we remember that he has disappeared from the stage, that his voice no longer swells the general concert—that he is, in short, departed from among us, and hes somewhere ouside the walls, beneath the sod.

Frau Consul Buddenbrook, she that was a Stüwing, Uncle Gotthold’s widow, passed away. Death set his reconciling and atoning seal upon the brow of her who in her life had been the cause of such violent discord; and her three daughters, Friederike, Henriette, and Pfiffi, received the condolences of their relatives with an affronted air which seemed to say: “You see, your persecutions have at last brought her down to her grave!” As if the Frau Consul were not as old as the hills already!

And Madame Kethelsen had gone to her long rest. In her later years she had suffered much from gout; but she died gently and simply, resting upon a childlike faith which was much envied by her educated sister, who had always had her periodic attacks of rationalistic doubt, and who, though she grew constantly smaller and more bent, was relentlessly bound by an iron constitution to this sinful earth.

Consul Peter Döhlmann was called away. He had eaten up all his money, and finally fell a prey to Hunyadi-Janos, leaving his daughter an income of two hundred marks a year. He depended upon the respect felt in the community for the name of Döhlmann to insure her being admitted into the Order of St. John.

Justus Kröger also departed this life, which was a loss,

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RV 298 (BUDDENBROOKS) for now nobody was left to prevent his wife selling everything she owned to send money to the wretched Jacob, who was still leading a dissolute existence somewhere in the world.

Christian Buddenbrook had likewise disappeared from the streets of his native city. He would have been sought in vain within her walls. He had moved to Hamburg, less than a year after his brother’s death, and there he united himself, before God and men, with Fräulein Aline Puvogel, a lady with whom he had long stood in a close relationship. No one could now stop him. His inheritance from his mother, indeed, half the interest of which had always found its way to Hamburg, was managed by Herr Stephan Kistenmaker—in so far as it was not already spent in advance. Herr Kistenmaker, in fact, had been appointed administrator by the terms of his deceased friend’s will. But in all other respects Christian was his own master. Directly the marriage became known, Frau Permaneder addressed to Frau Aline Buddenbrook in Hamburg a long and extraordinarily violent letter, beginning “Madame!” and declaring in carefully poisoned words that she had absolutely no intention of recognizing as a relative either the person addressed or any of her children.

Herr Kistenmaker was executor and administrator of the Buddenbrook estate and guardian of little Johann. He held these offices in high regard. They were an important activity which justified him in rubbing his head on the Bourse with every indication of overwork and telling everybody that he was simply wearing himself out. Besides, he received two per cent. of the revenues, very punctually. But he was not too successful in the performance of his duties, and Gerda Buddenbrook soon had reason to feel dissatisfied.

The business was to close, the firm to go into liquidation, aud the estate to be settled within a year. This was Thomas Buddenbrook’s wish, as expressed in his will. Frau Permaneder felt much upset. “And Hanno? And little Johann—what about Hanno?” She was disappointed and grieved

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10 The epilogue to this action might have been easily foreseen. British troops were demanded to assist in the work of carnage. The situation thus created naturally afforded a splendid opportunity for a still louder and more pathetic wail than ever that over the Bashi-Bazouks—a wail alone comparable in its intensity of anguish to the cry of the Nile crocodile in its midnight lair. “Gordon abandoned!” welled up from the organs of Tory-Jingo, Whig-Jingo, and—save the mark!—Democratic-Jingo indifferently. Here was indeed a triumph for the market-hunter. The Pall Mall, St. James's Times, and Telegraph chanting in militant harmony. An expedition could not start at once owing to the climate, but the trick was done nevertheless. A Government whose sole policy is “office” cannot afford to disregard the plainly-expressed wishes of the bulk of the upper and wealthy middle classes, its masters, even if its members individually wish to do so, which, inasmuch as they themselves belong to those classes, is intrinsically improbable. However that may be, nay, however much the Government as a Government even, would have preferred to keep out of the present quagmire, its hand was forced. A pledge was given, an expedition prepared, and at the earliest opportunity, despatched for the ostensible purpose of rescuing the “Christian hero”—who had professedly gone out on a “pacific mission,” with loud protestations of his power by personal influence alone to effect the object of this mission—and to rescue him from a situation he had deliberately created by his aggressive action. Such are the facts which have led up to the Soudan War. Who cannot see in them the hand of that providence that rules our civilisation—the great god Capital, acting through his angels and ministering spirits of the bourgeois press?

Khartoum has fallen amid massacre (we are told). Gordon is killed. Who is to blame? We answer proximately Gordon himself, and ultimately the English capitalist class. Had it not been for the latter Gordon would never have been sent out. Had it not been for Gordon's inducements the inhabitants of Khartoum would never have fought against their own countrymen, and thus excited the fury of the Mahdi's victorious troops. What quarrel had they with the Mahdi? Little doubt but they would have gladly accepted the deliverance from the tyranny of the Pachas he came to offer, but for the gold and promises proffered by English spread-eagelism through its representative, Gordon.

Of course we must have the regulation gush, the regulation mock heroics, the regulation howl of indignation, the regulation yell for the re-establishment of British prestige. Spartanlike bravery, truly, to slaughter ill-armed and ill-disciplined barbarians with the odds, as proved again and again, a hundred to one in favour of your coming out with a whole skin. It may be excellent sport, rather better than pigeon shooting, to catch hordes of Arabs in a trap as at Kirbekan, and then mow them down while they are trying to escape; but do not call it fighting, and spare us talk about its involving prestige.

Let the working classes of England remember that this organised brigandage was deliberately planned from the beginning, and that Gordon's “pacific mission” was only too obviously a blind. Had the relief of the garrisons been really an object of solicitude it could have been easily effected even when the “hero” was already shrieking for British troops to help him “smash the Mahdi.” Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, not a “Christian hero,” perhaps, but an honest man, and one whose disinterested love for the Arab race is beyond question, was in a position to guarantee successful negotiations, had the opportunity been given him of making them. But such an issue was not quite good enough for the “influential” public for which the Pall Mall Gazette and its congeners write. Annexation would have thereby indefinitely postponed, and the syndicate of stock-jobbers wanted to “leave their damnable faces and begin” at the earliest possible juncture. And they have got their way.E. BELFORT BAX.

a country like Russia, where all manifestations of public opinion are checked, and every exposure of public wrongs considered as a crime, the clandestine papers have a twofold interest. Whilst tracing the progress of the revolutionary idea, and furthering this by means of propaganda, such publications are at the same time the only windows through which one can have insight into the internal conditions of the country, as no other publications are allowed to lay bare the truth.

A paper like Narodnaia Volia's Messenger—a large review, published abroad, and having no urgent questions of daily politics to deal with—is particularly adapted to this double office. It is from that point of view that the paper has particular claims upon the attention of foreign readers. Let us, then, gather up some hints as to the actual condition of Russia as reflected in the newly-published number of Narodnaia Volia's paper.

The movement first. Arrests, sentences, deportations, executions—here is the only measure of the intensity of a struggle carried on by conspiracy. If this is so, we may fairly presume the battle to be as fierce and unrelenting as ever. There are arrests everywhere. In some of the principle cities of the empire the number of arrests is very considerable. In St. Petersburg it reached 200 in a few months; in Moscow 250 for the year 1884. In Odessa in a few days there were 65 arrests. Hardly a single considerable city has been spared. Every class, every grade of society, is represented in the lists of proscription. There are numbers of students and young people generally, but these make no more than half of the whole number of victims. Workmen and magistrates, tradespeople and men of the liberal professions, functionaries of the government, professors of the universities, painters, singers, stage-players, members of municipalities or provincial assemblies, men of letters, men of the sword—all society is faithfully represented. No clas—hardly a section of a class—is missing. There is even a clergyman (John Voinoff, of Toula) arrested for having proclaimed from the pulpit that “it is a sin to call the present emperor ‘pious,’ because he is the most impious of all the tzars, having inflicted loss and sorrow on all honest families.” For Russia such a fact is the same as if a Turkish pasha proclaimed the sultan a scoundrel. The general discontent, the growth of opposition and the spreading of revolutionary tendencies through all the country are obvious.

But what is more alarming still for our present masters is the fact that the revolution is in a fair way to inflame a large part of the class that is now the only support of the Government—the army. The progress of revolutionary ideas in the army is certainly a point of great interest. But I will not dwell on this subject, already exposed by M. Tichomiroff to the readers of Socialist papers.

I pass to the general condition of Russia. Many interesting documents received by the editors give us a picture of the corruption at which official circles have arrived. A full account of the last disorders of Kieff University, so misrepresented in official reports, shows us what the head of a learned body and who is but a common informer, sending denunciations even against the chief of the Kieff police, M. Mastizky, accusing him of helping the Socialist propaganda. And when this rector be his pusillanimity and lying, produced a student “rebellion,” the government, without asking information even from the Governor-General of the province, expelled 1,000 students from the university.

The general administration is represented by a series of extracts from the private reports presented to the emperor by Senator Polov-Zeff. It is shown to demonstration how in Russia every swindler can obtain complete immunity if he contrives to make a partner of some police-agent. And as there is no country where you cannot find a heap of swindlers anxious to take advantage of impunity, it results that Russia is given as a prey, not to a reactionary policy, but to a gang of rogues who, under the cover of imperial irresponsibility, are plundering the country, ruining the state, and reducing to a chronic starvation the too patient peasantry.

But even the bovine endurance of Russian peasants seems to have its limits. At the same time that in the upper strata of the nation we witness the progress of revolutionary movement, there are facts showing that in the lower strata not all is quiet and safe. The marshalls of the nobility of the districts Uffa, Sterlitamak, Belebeier, Birsk and Slatoustorsk, have stated in the name of their electors, that the nobility of their respective districts are quite unable to enjoy their landed property. peasants of Russian as well as Bashkir origin, who commit from time to time acts of plunder on their property, have within the last two years declared open war against them. In open daylight in bands of 50, 80, even 100 men, armed with axes, clubs and guns, they come, take possession of the land and behave themselves as masters. They mow down dozens of acres of grass and cut entire forests of wood, carrying their booty on cars (under escort) to their respective villages. At the slightest sign of resistance from the manager, proprietor, servants, or representatives of local authority, the peasants use arms, inflicting severe injuries or death upon their enemies, and plunder or burn the buildings. There are many cases where their audacity goes further. The peasants turn out the third labourers of the proprietors and begin to work on their own account large pieces of land belonging to landlords. Sometimes they are still bolder. To M. Rall, for instance, they sent a message intimating him that they had passed at their meeting a resolu-


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RV 299 (BUDDENBROOKS) that her brother had passed over his son and heir and had not wished to keep the firm alive for him to step into, She wept for hours to think that one should dispose thus summarily of that honourable shield, that jewel cherished by four generations of Buddenbrooks: that the history of the firm was now to close, while yet there existed a direct heir to carry it on. But she finally consoled herself by thinking that the end of the firm was not, after all, the end of the family, and that her nephew might as easily, in a new and different career, perform the high task allotted to him—that task being to carry on the family name and add fresh lustre to the family reputation. It could not be in vain that he possessed so much likeness to his great-grandfather.

The liquidation of the business began, under the auspices of Herr Kistenmaker and old Herr Marcus; and it took a most deplorable course. The time was short, and it must be punctiliously kept to. The pending business was disposed of on hurried and unfavourable terms. One precipitate and disadvantageous sale followed another. The granaries and warehouses were turned into money at a great loss; and what was not lost by Herr Kistenmaker’s over-zealousness was wasted by the procrastination of old Herr Marcus. In town they said that the old man, before he left his house in winter warmed not only his coat and hat, but his walking-stick as well. If ever a favourable opportunity arose, he invariably let it slip through his fingers. And so the losses piled up. Thomas Buddenbrook had left, on paper, an estate of six hundred and fifty thousand marks. A year after the will was opened it had become abundantly clear that there was no question of such a sum.

Indefinite, exaggerated rumours of the unfavourable liquidation got about, and were fed by the news that Gerda Buddenbrook meant to sell the great house. Wonderful stories flew about, of the reasons which obliged her to take such a step; of the collapse of the Buddenbrook fortune. Things were thought to look very badly: and a feeling began

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RV 300 (BUDDENBROOKS) to grow up in the town, of which the widowed Frau Senator became aware, at first with surprise and astonishment, and then with growing anger. When she told her sister-in-law, one day, that she had been pressed in an unpleasant way for the payment of some considerable accounts, Frau Permaneder had at first been speechless, and then had burst out into frightful laughter. Gerda Buddenbrook was so outraged that she expressed a half-determination to leave the city for ever with little Johann and go back to Amsterdam to play duets with her old father. But this called forth such a storm of protest from Frau Permaneder that she was obliged to give up the plan for the time being.

As was to be expected, Frau Permaneder protested against the sale of the house which her brother had built. She bewailed the bad impression it would make and complained of the blow it would deal the family prestige. But she had to grant that it would be folly to continue to keep up the spacious and splendid dwelling that had been Thomas Buddenbrook’s costly hobby, and that Gerda’s idea of a comfortable little villa outside the wall, in the country, had, after all, much to commend it.

A great day dawned for Siegismund Gosch the broker. His old age was illumined by an event so stupendous that for many hours it held his knees from trembling. It came about that he sat in Gerda Buddenbrook’s salon, in an easy-chair, opposite her and discussed tête-a-tête the price of her house. His snow-white locks streamed over his face, his chin protruded grimly, he succeeded for once in looking thoroughly hump-backed. He hissed when he talked, but his manners were cold and businesslike, and nothing betrayed the emotions of his soul. He bound himself to take over the house, stretched out his hand, smiled cunningly, and bid eighty-five thousand marks—which was a possible offer, for some loss would certainly have to be taken in this sale. But Herr Kistenmaker’s opinion must be heard; and Gerda Buddenbrook had to let Herr Gosch go without making the bargain. Then

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 "Did any of you look into the window?" asked the inspector.

"Certainly not, your worship!" answered Ephraim, the gardener, a little gray-haired old man, who looked like a retired sergeant. "Who's going to look in, if all their bones are shaking?"

"Ah, Marcus Ivanovitch, Marcus Ivanovitch!" sighed the inspector, looking at the window, "I told you you would come to a bad end! I told the dear man, but he wouldn't listen! Dissipation doesn't bring any good!"

"Thanks to Ephraim," said Psyekoff; "but for him, we would never have guessed. He was the first to guess that something was wrong. He comes to me this morning, and says: 'Why is the master so long getting up? He hasn't left his bedroom for a whole week!' The moment he said that, it was just as if some one had hit me with an ax. The thought flashed through my mind, 'We haven't had a sight of him since last Saturday, and to-day is Sunday'! Seven whole days—not a doubt of it!"

"Ay, poor fellow!" again sighed the inspector. "He was a clever fellow, finely educated, and kind-hearted at that! And in society, nobody could touch him! But he was a waster, God rest his soul ! I was prepared for anything since he refused to live with Olga Petrovna. Poor thing, a good wife, but a sharp tongue! Stephen!" the inspector called to one of his deputies, "go over to my house this minute, and send Andrew to the captain to lodge an information with him! Tell him that Marcus Ivanovitch has been murdered. And run over to the orderly; why should he sit there, kicking his heels? Let him come here! And go as fast as you can to the examining magistrate, Nicholas Yermolaïyevitch. Tell him to come over here! Wait; I'll write him a note!"

The inspector posted sentinels around the wing, wrote a letter to the examining magistrate, and then went over to the director's for a glass of tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a stool, carefully nibbling a lump of sugar, and swallowing the scalding tea.


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RV 301 (BUDDENBROOKS) it appeared that Herr Kistenmaker was not minded to allow any interference in what he considered his prerogative. He mistrusted Herr Gosch’s offer; he laughed at it, and swore that he could easily get much more. He continued to swear this, until at length he was forced to dispose of the property for seventy-five thousand marks to an elderly spinster who had returned from extended travel and decided to settle in the town.

Herr Kistenmaker also arranged for the purchase of the new house, a pleasant little villa for which he paid rather too high a price, but which was about what Gerda Buddenbrook wanted. It lay outside the Castle Gate, on a chestnut-bordered avenue; and thither, in the autumn of the year 1876, the Frau Senator moved with her son, her servants, and a part of her household goods—the remainder, to Frau Permaneder’s great distress, being left behind to pass into the possession of the elderly gentlewoman.

As if these were not changes enough, Mamsell Jungmann, after forty years in the service of the Buddenbrook family, left it to return to her native West Prussia to live out the evening of her life. To tell the truth, she was dismissed by the Frau Senator. This good soul had taken up with little Johann when the previous generation had outgrown her. She had cherished him fondly, read him fairy stories, and told him about the uncle who died of hiccoughs. But now little Johann was no longer small. He was a lad of fifteen years, to whom, despite his lack of strength, she could no longer be of much service; and with his mother her relations had not for a long time been on a very comfortable footing. She had never been able to think of this lady, who had entered the family so much later than herself, as a proper Buddenbrook; and of late she had begun, with the freedom of an old servant, to arrogate to herself exaggerated authority. She stirred up dissension in the household by this or that encroachment; the position became untenable; there were disagreements—and though Frau Permaneder made an impas-

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 "Aw, I bet he ain't so hot," answered Tony stubbornly.

"Well, maybe not," conceded Vyvyan, "but at least he can give a girl somp'm more substantial than kisses Whenever you get a flock o' dough, kid, an' a big car, why come around and then maybe I'll talk to you."

She laughed again and stepped out to the curb as a big shiny limousine drew up with a rush and stopped. Tony started after her. Then he paused as he recognized the man at the wheel of that car. It was Al Spingola! A heavy-set, swarthy man with hard, reckless dark eyes and a cruel mouth with thick, brutal lips, handsomely dressed in gray and with an enormous diamond glittering in his tie. As every one knew, the most important part of his dress lay snugly against his hip, a snubnosed blue steel revolver seldom seen, but when it was, sure to be heard and felt by somebody. Tony realized that for him to say another word to Vyvyan then would be certain death. Not at the moment, of course, because that place was too public. But within a few days his body would be found in an alley somewhere.

Spingola glanced at Tony as the girl climbed into the car. And the boy felt cold and nervous

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 until the expensive machine purred away at high speed. Spingola, like other of his ilk, always drove at high speed, thereby lessening his availability as a target.

Tony watched the car race away, then he put on his cap and lighted a cigarette. Walking around the corner to a pool room which was his main hang-out, he sat down in one of the high chairs to think out this thing that was his first adult problem. Usually his mind, even though uneducated, was alert and precise, its processes rapid and sound. But now it was dulled by the gnawing, overpowering hunger of his first great passion. Of course he had had any number of affairs with the neighborhood girls; no boy as good-looking as he could help that. But somehow they hadn't satisfied him. He wanted something bigger, more mature than the shallow, entirely physical emotion that these girls offered. He was shockingly old for his age, as is almost every boy from such an environment. He looked twenty-five with his wise eyes, cynical mouth and well-developed beard that left a heavy pattern on his swarthy cheeks. And he possessed more actual knowledge of mankind and its vagaries than most men acquire in a lifetime. You could have set him down flat broke in any city in the

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RV 302 (BUDDENBROOKS) sioned plea in her behalf, as for the old house and the furniture, old Ida had to go.

She wept bitterly when the hour came to bid little Johann farewell. He put his arms about her and embraced her. Then, with his hands behind his back, resting his weight on one leg while the other poised on the tips of the toes, he watched her out of sight; his face wore the same brooding, introspective look with which he had stood at his father’s death-bed, and his grandmother’s bier, witnessed the breaking-up of the great household, and shared in so many events of the same kind, though of lesser outward significance. The departure of old Ida belonged to the same category as other events with which he was already familiar: breakings-up, closings, endings, disintegrations—he had seen them all. Such events did not disturb him—they had never disturbed him. But he would lift his head, with the curling light-brown hair, inflate one delicate nostril, and it was as if he cautiously sniffed the air about him, expecting to perceive that odour, that strange and yet familiar odour which, at his grandmother’s bier, not all the scent of the flowers had been able to disguise.

When Frau Permaneder visited her sister-in-law, she would draw her nephew to her and tell him of the Buddenbrook family past, and of that future for which, next to the mercy of God, they would have to thank little Johann. The more depressing the present appeared, the more she strove to depict the elegance of the life that went on in the houses of her parents and grandparents; and she would tell Hanno how his great-grandfather had driven all over the country with his carriage and four horses. One day she had a severe attack of cramps in the stomach because Friederike, Henriette, and Pfiffi had asserted that the Hagenströms were the crême de la crême of town society.

Bad news came of Christian. His marriage seemed not to have improved his health. He had become more and more subject to uncanny delusions and morbid hallucina-

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RV 303 (BUDDENBROOKS) tions, until finally his wife had acted upon the advice of a physician and had him put into an institution. He was unhappy there, and wrote pathetic letters to his relatives, expressive of a fervent desire to leave the establishment, where, it seemed, he was none too well treated. But they kept him shut up, and it was probably the best thing for him. It also put his wife in a position to continue her former independent existence without prejudice to her status as a married woman or to the practical advantages accruing from her marriage.

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 world and he wouldn't have missed a meal. Nor would he have needed to steal; stealing was the way of people without brains. He held a contempt for thieves; particularly those of the "petty larceny" variety.

"Say!" whispered a surly voice in his ear.

Tony looked up into a rat face topped by a dirty, rumpled checked cap.

"Well?" he said coldly.

"Some of us are goin' out and knock over some gas stations," answered the other boy hoarsely. "Want to come along?"

"No."

"It'll be an even split all round."

"No, I said. I ain't riskin' a pinch for a coupla bucks."

"Aw, there'll be more'n that, Tony. All them places got fifty, sixty bucks layin' around. An' there'll only be about four of us."

"Screw!" snarled Tony. "Before I paste you one."

The other boy hurried away, muttering to himself. To the other boys who loafed around this pool room, Tony was a puzzle. They never became intimate with him the way they did with each other. Somehow it just never occurred to them to

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alarm-clock went off with cruel alacrity. It was a hoarse rattling and clattering that it made, rather than a ringing, for it was old and worn out; but it kept on for a painfully long time, for it had been thoroughly wound up.

Hanno Buddenbrook was startled to his inmost depths. It was like this every morning. His very entrails rebelled, in rage, protest, and despair, at the onslaught of this at once cruel and faithful monitor standing on the bedside table close to his ear. However, he did not get up, or even change his position in the bed; he only wrenched himself away from some blurred dream of the early morning and opened his eyes.

It was perfectly dark in the wintry room. He could distinguish nothing, not even the hands on the clock. But he knew it was six o'clock, because last night he had set his alarm for six. Last night— And as he lay on his back, with his nerves rasped by the shock of waking, struggling for sufficient resolution to make a light and jump out of bed, everything that had filled his mind yesterday came gradually back into his consciousness.

It was Sunday evening; and after having been maltreated by Herr Brecht for several days on end, he had been taken as a reward to a performance of Lohengrin. He had looked forward for a whole week to this evening with a joy which absorbed his entire existence. Only, it was a pity that on such occasions the full pleasure of the anticipation had to be marred by disagrecable commonplaces that went on up to the very last minute. But at length Saturday came, school was over for the week, and Herr Brecht’s little drill had

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 do so. They realized the difference; so did he. But neither of them knew the reason. A psychologist would have explained it by saying that Tony had a "mental percentage" on the others, that it was the difference between a man destined for leadership and men destined to run in the pack.

Most of the boys in the neighborhood made illegal forays nightly. Never in their own ward, of course, because that would have alienated the alderman. Whereas when they made raids only in outside wards, their own alderman—in case they were arrested—would come down to the station, tell what fine reputations they had in their neighborhood, and help get them out. Then on election day, each hoodlum not only voted fifteen or twenty times, but hordes of them swept through the ward and threatened everybody with dire reprisals if the alderman were not reëlected by a handsome majority. And the people, realizing the truth of these threats, reëlected the alderman, even though they knew he was a grand old thug.

Tony always refused to join these nightly expeditions for ill-gotten gains. "Petty larceny stuff," as he contemptuously referred to their depredations, did not interest him. He wanted to be a "big shot," a leader, perhaps a politician. He

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RV 305 (BUDDENBROOKS) bored and buzzed away in the mouth for the last time. Now everything was out of the way and done with—for he had obstinately put off his preparation for Monday until after the opera. What was Monday to him? Was it likely it would ever dawn? Who believes in Monday, when he is to hear Lohengrin on Sunday evening? He would get up early on Monday and get the wretched stuff done—and that was all there was to it. Thus he went about free from care, fondled the coming joy in his heart, dreamed at his piano, and forgot all unpleasantness to come.

And then the dream became reality. It came over him with all its enchantment and consecration, all its secret revelations and tremors, its sudden inner emotion, its extravagant, unquenchable intoxication. It was true that the music of the overture was rather too much for the cheap violins in the orchestra; and the fat conceited-looking Lohengrin with straw-coloured hair came in rather hind side foremost in his little boat. And his guardian, Herr Stephan Kistenmaker, had sat in the next box and grumbled about the boy’s being taken away from his lessons and having his mind distracted like that. But the sweet, exalted splendour of the music had borne him away upon its wings.

The end had come at length. The singing, shimmering joy was quenched and silent. He had found himself back home in his room, with a burning head and the consciousness that only a few hours of sleep, there in his bed, separated him from dull everyday existence. And he had been overpowered by an attack of the complete despondency which was all too familiar an experience. Again he had learned that beauty can pierce one like a pain, and that it can sink profoundly into shame and a longing despair that utterly consume the courage and energy necessary to the life of every day. His despondency weighed him down like mountains, and once more he told himself, as he had done before, that this was more than his own individual burden of weaknesses that rested upon him: that his burden was one which he had borne upon

RV 305 (305)


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 had a hunger for command, for power, for wealth. And he meant to have it all. In the meantime, though he had no job that anybody knew of and although he refused to fall in with the criminal ways of his neighbors, he dressed better than they and seemed to have all the money he needed. Many of the boys wondered about that, but inasmuch as he chose to volunteer nothing, it was likely to remain a mystery for, in that neighborhood, one did not inquire into the source of income of even an intimate friend. And Tony had no intimate friends.

There was a sudden commotion at the front door of the pool-room and several burly men came in. Some of the people already present tried to escape by the back door, only to be confronted and driven back in by other burly men coming in there. Detectives, of course, going to look over the crowd.

Knowing that they had nothing on him, Tony watched with faint amusement and a large sense of virtue while the dicks when through the poorly-lighted, smoke-filled room, tapping hips, asking questions, occasionally bestowing a hard, backhand slap on the ugly mouth of some hoodlum who tried to talk back. As he had expected, they made no move to molest him.

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