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was rather late, nearly eleven, when the party began to break up. They had reassembled in the landscape-room, and they all made their adieux at the same time. The Frau Consul, as soon as her hand had been kissed in farewell, went upstairs to see how Christian was doing. To Mamsell Jungmann was left the supervision of the maids as they set things to rights and put away the silver. Madame Antoinette retired to the entresol. But the Consul accompanied his guests downstairs, across the entry, and outside the house.

A high wind was driving the rain slantwise through the streets as the old Krögers, wrapped in heavy fur mantles, slipped as fast as they could into their carriage. It had been waiting for hours before the door. The street was lighted by the flickering yellow rays from oil lamps hanging on posts before the houses or suspended on heavy chains across the streets. The projecting fronts of some of the houses jutted out into the roadway; others had porticos or raised benches added on. The street ran steeply down to the River Trave; it was badly paved, and sodden grass sprang up between the cracks. The church of St. Mary’s was entirely shrouded in rain and darkness.

“Merci,” said Lebrecht Kröger, shaking the Consul’s hand as he stood by the carriage door. “Merci, Jean; it was too charming!” The door slammed, and the carriage drove off. Pastor Wunderlich and Broker Gratjens expressed their thanks and went their way. Herr Köppen, in a mantle with a fivefold cape and a broad grey hat, took his plump wife on his arm and said in his gruff bass: “G’night, Buddenbrook. Go in, go in; don’t catch cold. Best thanks for everything—

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RV 39 (BUDDENBROOKS) don’t know when I’ve fed so well! So you like my red wine at four marks? Well, g’night, again.”

The Köppens went in the same direction as the Krögers, down toward the river; Senator Langhals, Doctor Grabow, and Jean Jacques Hoffstede turned the other way. Consul Buddenbrook stood with his hands in his trousers pockets and listened to their footsteps as they died away down the empty, damp, dimly-lighted street. He shivered a little in his light clothes as he stood there a few paces from his own house, and turned to look up at its grey gabled façade. His eyes lingered upon the motto carved in the stone over the entrance, in antique lettering: Dominus providebit—“The Lord will provide.” He bowed his head a little and went in, bolting the door carefully behind him. Then he locked the vestibule door and walked slowly across the echoing floor of the great entry. The cook was coming down the stairs with a tray of glasses in her hands, and he asked her, “Where’s the master, Trina?”

“In the dining-room, Herr Consul,” said she, and her face went as red as her arms, for she came from the country and was very bashful.

As he passed through the dark hall, he felt in his pocket for the letter. Then he went quickly into the dining-room, where a few small candle-ends in one of the candelabra cast a dim light over the empty table. The sour smell of the onion sauce still hung on the air.

Over by the windows Johann Buddenbrook was pacing comfortably up and down, with his hands behind his back.

RV 39 (39)

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Johann, my son, where are you going?” He stood still and put his hand out to his son—his white Buddenbrook hand, a little too short, though finely modelled. His active figure showed indistinctly against the dark red curtains, the only gleams of white being from his powdered hair and the lace frill at his throat.

“Aren’t you sleepy? I’ve been here listening to the wind; the weather is something fearful. Captain Kloht is on his way from Riga. . . .”

“Oh, Father, with God’s help all will be well.”

“Well, do you think I can depend on that? I know you are on intimate terms with the Almighty—”

The Consul felt his courage rise at this display of good humour.

“Well, to get to the point,” he began, “I came in here not to bid you good night, but to—you won’t be angry, will you, Papa? . . . I didn’t want to disturb you with this letter on such a festive occasion. . . it came this afternoon. . . .”

“Monsieur Gotthold, voila!” The old man affected to be quite unmoved as he took the sealed blue paper. “Herr Johann Buddenbrook, Senior. Personal. A careful man, your step-brother, Jean! Have I answered his second letter, that came the other day? And so now he writes me a third.” The old man’s rosy face grew sterner as he opened the seal with one finger, unfolded the thin paper, and gave it a smart rap with the back of his hand as he turned about to catch the light from the candles. The very handwriting of this letter seemed to express revolt and disloyalty. All the Buddenbrooks wrote a fine, flowing hand; but these tall straight

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RV 41 (BUDDENBROOKS) letters were full of heavy strokes, and many of the words were hastily underlined.

The Consul had drawn back a little to where the row ofchairs stood against the wall; he did not sit down, as his father did not; but he grasped one of the high chair-backs nervously and watched the old man while he read, his lips moving rapidly, his brows drawn together, and his head on one side.

I am probably mistaken in entertaining any further hope of your sense of justice or any appreciation of my feelings at receiving no reply from my second pressing letter concerning the matter in question. I do not comment again on the character of the reply I received to my first one. I feel compelled to say, however, that the way in which you, by your lamentable obstinacy, are widening the rift between us, is a sin for which you will one day have to answer grievously before the judgment seat of God. It is sad enough that when I followed the dictates of my heart and married against your wishes, and further wounded your insensate pride by taking over a shop, you should have repulsed me so cruelly and remorselessly; but the way in which you now treat me cries out to Heaven, and you are utterly mistaken if you imagine that I intend to accept your silence without a struggle. The purchase price of your newly acquired house in the Mengstrasse was a hundred thousand marks; and I am aware that Johann, your business partner and your son by your second marriage, is living with you as your tenant, and after your death will become the sole proprietor of both house and business. With my step-sister in Frankfort, you have entered into agreements which are no concern of mine. But what does concern me, your eldest son, is that you carry your un-Christian spirit so far as to refuse me a penny of compensation for my share in the house. When you gave me a hundred thousand marks on my marriage and to set me up in business, and told me that a similar sum and no more should be bequeathed me by will, I said nothing, for I was not at the time sufficiently informed as to the amount

RV 41 (41)


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Author:Augusta Frederica Frere

Works

 * Wonder Castle: A Structure of Seven Stories (1853)
 * The Three Sons-in-Law (1861)

Short works

 * "Homburg During the War" in The Monthly Packet of Evening Readings (1870)

Songs

 * "Break, break, break" (1863), words by Alfred Tennyson
 * "Dreams at Dawn" (1863), words by Frere

title: Author:Augusta Frederica Frere


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RV 42 (BUDDENBROOKS) of your fortune. Now I know more: and not regarding my self as disinherited in principle, I claim as my right the sum of thirty-three thousand and three hundred and thirty-three marks current, or a third of the purchase price. I make no comment on the damnable influences which are responsible for the treatment I have received. But I protest against them with my whole sense of justice as a Christian and a business man. Let me tell you for the last time that, if you cannot bring yourself to recognize the justice of my claims, I shall no longer be able to respect you as a Christian, a parent, or a man of business.

“You will excuse me for saying that I don’t get much pleasure out of reading that rigmarole all over again.—Voila!” And Johann Buddenbrook tossed the letter to his son, with a contemptuous gesture. The Consul picked it up as it fluttered to his feet, and looked at his father with troubled eyes, while the old man took the long candle-snuffers from their place by the window and with angry strides crossed the room to the candelabrum in the corner.

“Assez, I say. N’en parlous plus! To bed with you—en avant!” He quenched one flame after another under the little metal cap. There were only two candles left when the elder turned again to his son, whom he could hardly see at the far end of the room.

“Eh bien—what are you standing there for? Why don’t you say something?”

“What shall I say, Father? I am thoroughly taken aback.”

“You are pretty easily taken aback, then,” Johann Buddenbrook rapped out irritably, though he knew that the reproach was far from being a just one. His son was in fact often his superior when it came to a quick decision upon the advantageous course.

“ ‘Damnable influences,’ ” the Consul quoted. “That is the first line I can make out. Do you know how it makes

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RV 43 (BUDDENBROOKS) me feel, Father? And he reproaches us with ‘unchristian behaviour!’ ”

“You’ll let yourself be bluffed by this miserable scribble, will you?” Johann Buddenbrook strode across to his son, dragging the extinguisher on its long stick behind him. “ ‘Unchristian behaviour!’ Ha! He shows good taste, doesn’t he, this canting money-grabber? I don’t know what to make of you young people! Your heads are full of fantastic religious humbug—practical idealism, the July Monarchy, and what not: and we old folk are supposed to be wretched cynics. And then you abuse your poor old Father in the coarsest way rather than give up a few thousand thaler. . . . So he deigns to look down upon me as a business man, does he? Well, as a business man, I know what faux-frais are!—Faux-frais,” he repeated, rolling the r in his throat. “I sha’n’t make this high-falutin scamp of a son any fonder of me by giving him what he asks for, it seems to me.”

“What can I say, Father? I don’t care to feel that he has any justification when he talks of ‘influences.’ As an interested party I don’t like to tell you to stick out, but—It seems to me I’m as good a Christian as Gotthold. . . but still. . .”

“ ‘Still’—that is exactly it, Jean, you are right to say ‘still.’ What is the real state of the case? He got infatuated with his Mademoiselle Stüwing and wouldn’t listen to reason; he made scene after scene, and finally he married her, after I had absolutely refused to give my consent. Then I wrote to him: ‘Mon très cher fils: you are marrying your shop—very well, that’s an end of it. We cease to be on friendly terms from now on. I won’t cut you off, or do anything melodramatic. I am sending you a hundred thousand marks as a wedding present, and I’ll leave you another hundred thousand in my will. But that is absolutely all you’ll get, not another shilling!’ That shut his mouth.—What have our arrangements got to do with him? Suppose you and your

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RV 60 (Rh) notwithstanding the Injury which the Principle of Virtue may possibly suffer, by the Increase of the selfish Passion, in the way we have been mentioning; 'tis certain, on the other side, that the Principle of Fear of future Punishment, and Hope of future Reward, how mercenary or servile soever it may be accounted, is yet, in many Circumstances,How advantageous. a great Advantage, Security, and Support to Virtue.

has been already consider'd, that notwithstanding there may be implanted in the Heart a real Sense of Right and Wrong a real good Affection towards the Species or Society; yet by the violence of Rage, Lust, or any other counterworking Passion, this good Affection may frequently be controul'd and overcome. Where therefore there is nothing in the Mind capable to render such ill Passions the Objects of its Aversion, and cause them earnestly to be oppos'd; 'tis apparent how much a good Temper in time must suffer, and a Character by degrees change for the worse. But if Religion interposing, creates a Belief that the ill Passions of this kind, no less than their consequent Actions, are the Objects of a Deity's Animadversion; 'tis certain, that such a Belief must prove a sea-


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RV 61 (Rh) sonable Remedy against Vice, and be in a particular manner advantageous to Virtue. For a Belief of this kind must be suppos'd to tend considerably towards the calming of the Mind, and disposing or fitting the Person to a better Recollection of himself, and to a stricter Observance of that good and virtuous Principle, which needs only his Attention, to engage him wholly in its Party and Interest.

as this Belief of a future Reward and Punishment is capable of supporting those who thro' ill Practice are like to apostatize from Virtue; so when by ill Opinion and wrong Thought, the Mind it-self is bent against the honest Course, and debauch'd even to an Esteem, and deliberate Preference of a vitious one; the Belief of the kind mention'd may prove on this occasion the only Relief and Safety.

, for instance, who has much of Goodness and natural Rectitude in his Temper, but withal, so much Softness, or Effeminacy, as unfits him to bear Poverty, Crosses or Adversity; if by ill Fortune he meets with many Trials of this kind, it must certainly give a Sourness and Distaste to his Temper, and make him exceedingly averse to that which he may falsly presume the occasion of such Cala- Rh


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RV 62 (Rh) mity or Ill. Now if his own Thoughts, or the corrupt Insinuations of other Men, present it often to his Mind, "That his is the occasion of this Calamity, and that if he were deliver'd from this Restraint of  and, he might be much happier:" 'tis very obvious that his Esteem of these good Qualitys must in proportion diminish every day, as the Temper grows uneasy, and quarrels with it-self. But if he opposes to this Thought the Consideration, "That Honesty carrys with it, if not a present, at least a future Advantage, such as to compensate that Loss of private Good which he regrets;" then may this injury to his good Temper and honest Principle be prevented, and his Love or Affection towards Honesty and Virtue remain as it was before.

the same manner, where instead of Regard or Love, there is rather an Aversion to what is good and virtuous, (as, for instance, where Lenity and Forgiveness are despis'd, and Revenge highly thought of, and belov'd) if there be this Consideration added, "That Lenity is, by its Rewards, made the cause of a greater Self-good and Enjoyment than what is found in Revenge;" that very Affection of Lenity and Mildness may come to be industriously nourish'd,


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RV 63 (Rh) and the contrary Passion depress'd. And thus Temperance, Modesty, Candour, Benignity, and other good Affections, however despis'd at first, may come at last to be valu'd for their own sakes, the contrary Species rejected, and the good and proper Object belov'd and prosecuted, when the Reward or Punishment is not so much as thought of.

in a civil or, we see that a virtuous Administration, and an equal and just Distribution of Rewards and Punishments, is of the highest service; not only by restraining the Vitious, and forcing them to act usefully to Society; but by making Virtue to be apparently the Interest of every-one, so as to remove all Prejudices against it, create a fair reception for it, and lead Men into that path which afterwards they cannot easily quit. For thus a People rais'd from Barbarity or despotick Rule, civiliz'd by Laws, and made virtuous by the long Course of a lawful and just Administration; if they chance to fall suddenly under any Misgovernment of unjust and arbitrary Power, they will on this account be the rather animated to exert a stronger Virtue, in opposition to such Violence and Corruption. And even where, by long and continu'd Arts of a prevailing Tyranny, such a People are at last totally oppress'd, the scatter'd Rh


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RV 44 (BUDDENBROOKS) sister do get a bit more, and the house has been bought out of your share?”

“Father, surely you can understand how painful my position is! I ought to advise you in the interest of family harmony—but. . .” The Consul sighed. Johann Buddenbrook peered at him, in the dim light, to see what his expression was. One of the two candles had gone out of itself; the other was flickering. Every now and then a tall, smiling white figure seemed to step momentarily out of the tapestry and then back again.

“Father,” said the Consul softly. “This affair with Gotthold depresses me.”

“What’s all this sentimentality, Jean? How does it depress you?”

“We were all so happy here to-day, Father; we had a glorious celebration, and we felt proud and glad of what we have accomplished, and of having raised the family and firm to a position of honour and respect. . . . But this bitter feud with my own brother, with your eldest son, is like a hidden crack in the building we have erected. A family should be united, Father. It must keep together. ‘A house divided against itself will fall.’ ”

“There you are with your milk-and-water stuff, Jean! All I say is, he’s an insolent young puppy.”

A pause ensued. The last candle burned lower and lower.

“What are you doing, Jean?” asked Johann Buddenbrook. “I can’t see you.”

The Consul said shortly, “I’m calculating.” He was standing erect, and the expression in his eyes had changed. They had looked dreamy all the evening; but now they stared into the candle-flame with a cold sharp gaze. “Either you give thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three marks to Gotthold, and fifteen thousand to the family in Frankfort—that makes forty-eight thousand, three hundred and thirty-five in all—or, you give nothing to Gotthold, and twenty-five thousand to the family in Frankfort. That means a gain of twenty

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RV 45 (BUDDENBROOKS) three thousand, three hundred and thirty-five for the firm. But there is more to it than that. If you give Gotthold a compensation for the house, you’ve started the ball rolling. He is likely to demand equal shares with my sister and me after your death, which would mean a loss of hundreds of thousands to the firm. The firm could not face it, and I, as sole head, could not face it either.” He made a vigorous gesture and drew himself more erect than before. “No, Papa,” he said, and his tone bespoke finality, “I must advise you not to give in.”

“Bravo!” cried the old man. “There’s an end of it! ''N’en parlous plus! En avant!'' Let’s get to bed.”

And he extinguished the last candle. They groped through the pitch-dark hall, and at the foot of the stairs they stopped and shook hands.

“Good night, Jean. And cheer up. These little worries aren’t anything. See you at breakfast!”

The Consul went up to his rooms, and the old man felt his way along the baluster and down to the entresol. Soon the rambling old house lay wrapped in darkness and silence. Hopes, fears, and ambitions all slumbered, while the rain fell and the autumn wind whistled around gables and street corners.

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was mid-April, two and a half years later. The spring was more advanced than usual, and with the spring had come to the Buddenbrook family a joy that made old Johann sing about the house and moved his son to the depths of his heart.

The Consul sat at the big roll-top writing-desk in the window of the breakfast-room, at nine o’clock one Sunday morning. He had before him a stout leather portfolio stuffed with papers, from among which he had drawn a gilt-edged notebook with an embossed cover, and was busily writing in it in his small, thin, flowing script. His hand hurried over the paper, never pausing except to dip his quill in the ink.

Both the windows were open, and the spring breeze wafted delicate odours into the room, lifting the curtains gently. The garden was full of young buds and bathed in tender sunshine; a pair of birds called and answered each other pertly. The sunshine was strong, too, on the white linen of the breakfast-table and the gilt-borders of the old china.

The folding doors into the bed-room were open, and the voice of old Johann could be heard inside, singing softly to a quaint and ancient tune:

A kind papa, a worthy man,

He rocks the baby in the cradle,

He feeds the children sugar-plums

And stirs the porridge with a ladle.

He sat beside the little green-curtained cradle, close to the Frau Consul’s lofty bed, and rocked it softly with one hand. Madame Antoinette, in a white lace cap and an apron over

RV 49 (49)


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 from thenceforth our author's hort model was to be the pattern in the mount, and the perfect tandard of politics for the future. His ytem lies in a little compas, it is no more but this,

 * That all government is abolute monarchy.

And the ground he builds on, is this,
 * That no man is born free.

§. 3. In this lat age a generation of men has prung up amongt us, that would flatter princes with an opinion, that they have a divine right to abolute power, let the laws by which they are contituted, and are to govern, and the conditions under which they enter upon their authority, be what they will, and their engagements to oberve them never o well ratified by olemn oaths and promies. To make way for this doctrine, they have denied mankind a right to natural freedom; whereby they have not only, as much as in them lies, expoed all ubjects to the utmot miery of tyranny and oppreion, but have alo unettled the titles, and haken the thrones of princes: (for they too, by thee mens ytem, except only one, are all born laves, and by divine right are ubjects to Adam ' s right heir;) as if they had deigned to make war upon all government, and ubvert the very foundations of human ociety, to erve their preent turn.

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RV 50 (BUDDENBROOKS) her striped frock, was busy with flannel and linen at the table. The old couple had given up their bedroom to the Frau Consul for the time being, to make things easier for the servants, and were sleeping in the unused room in the entresol.

Consul Buddenbrook gave scarcely a glance at the adjoining room, so absorbed was he in his work. His face wore an expression of earnest, almost suffering piety, his mouth slightly open, the chin a little dropped; his eyes filled from time to time. He wrote:

“Today, April 14, 1838, at six o’clock in the morning, my dear wife, Elizabeth Buddenbrook, born Kröger, was, by God’s gracious help, happily delivered of a daughter, who will receive the name of Clara in Holy Baptism. Yea, the Lord hath holpen mightily; for according to Doctor Grabow, the birth was somewhat premature, and her condition not of the best. She suffered great pain. Oh, Lord God of Sabaoth, where is there any other God save Thee? who helpest us in all our times of need and danger, and teachest us to know Thy will aright, that we may fear Thee and obey Thy commandments! O Lord, lead us and guide us all, so long as we live upon this earth.…” The pen hurried glibly over the paper, with here and there a commercial flourish, talking with God in every line. Two pages further on: “I have taken out,” it said, “an insurance policy for my youngest daughter, of one hundred and fifty thaler current. Lead her, O Lord, in Thy ways, give her a pure heart, O God, that she may one day enter into the mansions of eternal peace. For inasmuch as our weak human hearts are prone to forget Thy priceless gift of the sweet, blessed Jesus…” And so on for three pages. Then he wrote “Amen.” But still the faint scratching sound of the pen went on, over several more pages. It wrote of the precious spring that refreshes the tired wanderer, of the Saviour’s holy wounds gushing blood, of the broad way and the narrow way, and the glory of the Eternal God. It is true that after a while the Consul began to feel that he had written

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RV 51 (BUDDENBROOKS) enough; that he might let well enough alone, and go in to see his wife, or out to the counting-house. Oh, fie, fie! Did one so soon weary of communion with his Lord and Saviour? Was it not robbing his God to scant Him of this service? No, he would go on, as a chastisement for these unholy impulses. He cited whole pages of Scripture, he prayed for his parents, his wife, his children, and himself, he prayed even for his brother Gotthold. And then, with a last quotation and three final “Amens,” he strewed sand on the paper and leaned back with a sigh of relief.

He crossed one leg over the other and slowly turned the pages of the notebook, reading dates and entries here and there, written in his own hand, and thanking the Lord afresh as he saw how in every time of need and danger He had stretched out His hand to aid. Once he had lain so ill of small-pox that his life had been despaired of—yet it had been saved. And once, when he was a boy, a beer-vat had fallen on him. A large quantity of beer was being brewed for a wedding, in the old days when the brewing was done at home; and a vat had fallen over, pinning the boy beneath it. It had taken six people to lift it up again, and his head had been crushed so that the blood ran down in streams. He was carried into a shop, and, as he still breathed, the doctor and the surgeon were sent for. They told the father to prepare for the worst and to bow to the will of God. But the Almighty had blessed the work of healing, and the boy was saved and restored to health. The Consul dwelt a while upon this account, re-living the accident in his mind. Then he took his pen again and wrote after his last “Amen”: “Yea, O God, I will eternally praise Thee!”

Another time, his life had been saved from danger by water, when he had gone to Bergen, as a young man. The account read:

At high water, when the freight boats of the Northern Line are in, we have great difficulty getting through the press to our landing. I was standing on the edge of the scow, with

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RV 52 (BUDDENBROOKS) my feet on the thole-pins, leaning my back against the sailboat, trying to get the scow nearer in, when, as luck would have it, the oak thole-pins broke, and I went head over heels into the water. The first time I came up, nobody was near enough to get hold of me; the second time, the scow went over my head. There were plenty of people there anxious to save me, but they had to keep the sailboat and the scow off, so that I should not come up under them; and all their shoving would probably have been in vain if a rope had not suddenly broken on one of the sailboats belonging to the Line, so that she swung further out; and this, by the grace of God, gave me room enough to come up in free water. It was only the top of my head, with the hair, that they saw; but it was enough, for they were all lying on their stomachs with their heads sticking out over the scow, and the man at the bow grabbed me by the hair, and I got hold of his arm. He was in an unsafe position himself and could not hold me, but he gave a yell, and they all took hold of him around the waist and pulled. I hung on, though he bit me to make me let go. So they got me in at last.” There followed a long prayer of thanksgiving, which the Consul re-read with tear-wet eyes.

On another page he had said: “I could write much more, were I minded to reveal the passions of my youth. . . .” The Consul passed over this, and began to read here and there from the period of his marriage and the birth of his first child. The union, to be frank, could hardly be called a love-match. His father had tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out to him the daughter of the wealthy Kröger, who could bring the firm a splendid marriage portion. He had accepted the situation with alacrity; and from the first moment had honoured his wife as the mate entrusted to him by God.

After all, his father’s second marriage had been of much the same kind.

“ ‘A kind Papa, a worthy man.’ ”

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RISTOTLE was born at Stagira, a Macedonian city some two hundred miles to the north of Athens, in the year 384 B. c. His father was friend and physi- cian to Amyntas, King of Macedon and grandfather of Alex- ander. Aristotle himself seems to have become a member of the great medical fraternity of Asclepiads. He was brought up in the odor of medicine as many later philosophers were brought up in the odor of sanctity; he had every opportunity and encouragement to develop a scientific bent of mind; he was prepared from the beginning to become the founder of science.

We have a choice of stories for his youth. One narrative represents him as squandering his patrimony in riotous liv- ing, joining the army to avoid starvation, returning to Sta- gira to practice medicine, and going to Athens at the age of thirty to study philosophy under Plato. A more dignified story takes him to Athens at the age of eighteen, and puts him at once under the tutelage of the great Master; but even in this likelier account there is sufficient echo of a reckless and irregular youth, living rapidly. The scandalized reader may console himself by observing that in either story our philos- opher anchors at last in the quiet groves of the Academy.

Under Plato he studied eight-or twenty-years; and in- deed the pervasive Platonism of Aristotle's speculations--even of those most anti-Platonic-suggests the longer period. One

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RV 53 (BUDDENBROOKS) He could still hear old Johann softly humming in the bedroom. What a pity he had so little taste for those old records! He stood with both feet firmly planted in the present, and concerned himself seldom with the past of his family. Yet in times gone by he too had made a few entries in the gilt-edged book. The Consul turned to those pages, written in a florid hand on rather coarse paper that was already yellowing with age. They were chiefly about his first marriage. Ah, Johann Buddenbrook must have adored his first wife, the daughter of a Bremen merchant! The one brief year it had been granted him to live with her was the happiest of his life—“l’annee la plus heureuse de ma vie,” he had written there. The words were underlined with a wavy line, for all the world, even Madame Antoinette, to see.

Then Gotthold had come, and Josephine had died. And here some strange things had been written on the rough paper. Johann Buddenbrook must have openly and bitterly hated his child, even when, while still in the womb, it had caused its mother to faint and agonize under the lusty burden. It was born strong and active, while Josephine buried her bloodless face deeper in the pillows and passed away. Johann never forgave the ruthless intruder. He grew up vigorous and pushing, and Johann thought of him as his mother’s murderer. This was, to the Consul’s mind, incomprehensible. She had died, he thought, fulfilling the holy duty of a woman: “the love I bore to her would have passed over in all its tenderness to her child,” he said to himself. It had not been so. Later the father married again, his bride being Antoinette Duchamps, the daughter of a rich and much-esteemed Hamburg family, and the two had dwelt together with mutual respect and deference.

The Consul went on turning over the pages. There at the end were written the small histories of his own children: how Tom had had the measles, and Antonie jaundice, and Christian chicken-pox. There were accounts of various journeys he had taken with his wife, to Paris, Switzerland,

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 38 and ruled with uncontrolled power, though he left to the Khans, whom he set up or pulled down at pleasure, certain dignities and privileges which were nothing more than nominal.

We have seen already, how near the empire of Chaghatai came to being divided during the wars of Kaidu. This Prince was, as far as can be gleaned, one of the ablest of the Oktai line, and an active and determined soldier. During his struggles for supremacy, he held a large tract of country carved chiefly out of the Chaghatai appanage, though taken partly from that of Oktai. It is not clear what were the limits of the territory he held thus temporarily, and indeed it is probable that no actual limits were ever acknowledged. In all likelihood his power extended chiefly over certain tribes who were nomads, or dwellers in tents, and thus in the habit of moving their abodes when expedient; such movements, too, may have been more frequent than usual about Kaidu's period, for the tribesmen must have been constantly entangled in the prevailing wars, and subject therefore, to the changes of fortune of those with or against whom they had to serve. His dominion, consequently, would have been more tribal than territorial in its extent. At any rate it would seem that during Kaidu's last days—the period when he was allied with Borák—his power reached from the Talis River and Lake Bálkásh on the west, to Kara-Khoja (between Turfán and Hami) on the east, and that it thus included nearly the whole length of the Tian Shan mountains, together with the Zungar country on the north, and Kashghar, Yarkand, Aksu, etc., on the south of them. Although this wide tract never fell permanently to him or his race, his temporary hold over it seems to have assisted in marking it out as a self-contained eastern division of the Chaghatai realm, and the greater portion of it—all that lay to the north of the Tian Shan—acquired, about this time, the name of Moghulistan, or vulgarly "Jatah." It was, above all parts of that realm, the land of the purely nomad Moghul (or Mongol) tribes, as distinguished from the settled populations of Turkistan, Farghána, and Mávará-un-Nahr on the one hand, and the mountaineers of Hisar, Karatigin, Badakhshán, etc., on the other. It was the land to or from which the tent-dwelling population could migrate, and carry with them their only wealth—their flocks and herds—when safety or other interests demanded a move; and it became, moreover, as Mirza Haidar's history will show, a sort of refuge for the defeated and discontented among those tribes and the


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RV 54 (BUDDENBROOKS) Marienbad. Then the Consul turned back to the front of the book, to some pages written in bluish ink, in a hand full of flourishes, on paper that was like parchment, but tattered and spotted with age. Here his grandfather Johann had set down the genealogy of the main branch of the Buddenbrooks. At the end of the sixteenth century, the first Buddenbrook of whom they had knowledge lived in Parchim, and his son had been a Senator of Grabau. Another Buddenbrook, a tailor by trade, and “very well-to-do” (this was underlined) had married in Rostock and begotten an extraordinary number of children, who lived or died, as the case might be. And again, another, this time a Johann, had lived in Rostock as a merchant, from whom the Consul’s grandfather had descended, who had left Rostock to settle himself in this very town, and was the founder of the present grain business. There was much about him set down in detail: when he had had the purples, and when genuine small-pox; when he had fallen out of the malt-kiln and been miraculously saved, when he might have fallen against the beams and been crushed; how he had had fever and been delirious—all these events were meticulously described. He had also written down wise admonitions for the benefit of his descendants, like the following, which was carefully painted and framed, in a tall Gothic script set off with a border: “My son, attend with zeal to thy business by day; but do none that hinders thee from thy sleep by night.” He had also stated that his old Wittenberg Bible was to descend to his eldest son, and thence from first-born to first-born in each generation.

Consul Buddenbrook reached for the old leather portfolio and took out the remaining documents. There were letters, on torn and yellow paper, written by anxious mothers to their sons abroad—which the sons had docketed: “Received and contents duly noted.” There were citizens’ papers, with the seal and crest of the free Hansa town; insurance policies; letters inviting this or that Buddenbrook to become god-father for a colleague’s child; congratulatory epistles and occasional

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text: Cautionary Tales for Children/George

title: Cautionary Tales for Children/George


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RV 55 (BUDDENBROOKS) poems. Sons travelling for the firm to Stockholm or Amsterdam had written back, to the parent or partner at home, letters in which business was touchingly mingled with inquiries after wife and child. There was a separate diary of the Consul’s journey through England and Brabant; the cover had an engraving of Edinburgh Castle and the Grass-market. Lastly, there were Gotthold’s late angry letters to his father—painful documents, to offset which was the poem written by Jean Jacques Hoffstede to celebrate the house-warming.

A faint, rapid chime came from above the secretary, where there hung a dull-looking painting of an old market-square, with a church-tower that possessed a real clock of its own. It was now striking the hour, in authentic if tiny tones. The Consul closed the portfolio and stowed it away carefully in a drawer at the back of the desk. Then he went into the bed-chamber.

Here the walls and the high old bed were hung with dark flowered chintz, and there was in the air a feeling of repose, of convalescence—of calm after an anxious and painful ordeal. A mingled odour of cologne and drugs hung in the mild, dim-lighted atmosphere. The old pair bent over the cradle side by side and watched the slumbering child; and the Consul’s wife lay pale and happy, in an exquisite lace jacket, her hair carefully dressed. As she put out her hand to her husband, her gold bracelets tinkled slightly. She had a characteristic way of stretching out her hand with the palm upward, in a sweeping gesture that gave it added graciousness.

“Well, Betsy, how are you?”

“Splendid, splendid, my dear Jean.”

He still held her hand as he bent over and looked at the child, whose rapid little breaths were distinctly audible. For a moment he inhaled the tender warmth and the indescribable odour of well-being and herishing care that came up from the cradle. Then he kissed the little creature on the brow

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 are all born laves, and we mut continue o, there is no remedy for it; life and thraldom we enter'd into together, and can never be quit of the one, till we part with the other. Scripture or reaon I am ure do not any where ay o, notwithstanding the noie of divine right, as if divine authority hath ubjected us to the unlimited will of another. An admirable tate of mankind, and that which they have not had wit enough to find out till this latter age. For, however Sir Robert Filmer eems to condemn the novelty of the contrary opinion, Patr. p. 3. yet I believe it will be hard for him to find any other age, or country of the world, but this, which has aerted monarchy to be jure divino. And he confees, Patr. p. 4. That Heyward, Blackwood, Barclay, and others, that have bravely vindicated the right of kings in mot points, never thought of this, but with one conent admitted the natural liberty and equality of mankind.

§. 5. By whom this doctrine came at firt to be broached, and brought in fahion amongt us, and what ad effects it gave rie to, I leave to hitorians to relate, or to the memory of thoe, who were contemporaries with Sibthorp and Manwering, to recollect. My bufines at preent is only to conider what Sir Robert Filmer, who is allowed to have carried this argument farthet, and is uppoed to have brought it to perfection, has aid in it; for


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 Rh neighbouring nations, and the country that the true Moghul loved to call his own.

Thus, at the beginning of the fourteenth century, when the Khans of Chaghatai were rapidly declining in power, and could scarcely maintain themselves in their central kingdom of Mávará-un-Nahr, this eastern division, or Moghulistan, appears scarcely to have felt their sway. The hereditary Dughlát Amirs who, as we have seen, had been set up by Chaghatai, governed in detail, with more or less power, in the different cities and districts of the region south of the Tian Shan (or Eastern Turkistan), and left scarcely a trace behind them in any history but that of one of their own clan—Mirza Haidar. They acted in the name of the Chaghatai Khan of the time, and though nominally hereditary, they seem in practice to have held office very much at the pleasure of the tribesmen whose affairs they administered; while the popularity of each one probably depended more on the degree of independence he was able to secure for the small section that regarded him as its chief, than on his hereditary rights. Still in the early days, the power of some of them must have been considerable, and it seems to have risen in degree, as that of the Chaghatai Khans declined. They fought among themselves as a matter of course, and the people suffered, no doubt, from the consequent disorder. It would be quite natural therefore that Isán Bugha, a Moghul by descent, when forced to retire from Mávará-un-Nahr, should turn his steps towards Moghulistan, and its companion province south of the mountains.

Just at this point the histories of the period are discordant. As remarked above, the identity of Isán Bugha is to some extent uncertain. He is known to have been a son of Davá Khan, and is believed to have had some brothers. Abul Gházi Khan, the historian King of Khwárizm of the seventeenth century, speaks of him as "Il Khwája, surnamed Isán Bugha." On the other hand, Khwándamir makes Isán Bugha continue to reign over the western branch of the Chaghatai until his death, and alludes to one Imil Khwája (apparently another son of Dava) as haying established himself in Moghulistan. It is possible that Imil, or Il, may denote one and the same person;


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RV 56 (BUDDENBROOKS) and said softly: “God bless you!” He noticed how like to a bird’s claws were the tiny yellow, crumpled fingers.

“She eats splendidly,” Madame Antoinette said. “See how she has gained.”

“I believe, on my soul, she looks like Netta,” old Johann said, beaming with pride and pleasure. “See what coal-black eyes she has!”

The old lady waved him away. “How can anybody tell who she looks like yet?” she said. “Are you going to church, Jean?”

“Yes, it is ten o’clock now, and high time. I am only waiting for the children.”

The children were already making an unseemly noise on the stairs, and Clothilde could be heard telling them to hush. They came in in their fur tippets—for it would still be wintry in St. Mary’s—trying to be soft and gentle in the sick-room. They wanted to see the little sister, and then go to church. Their faces were rosy with excitement. This was a wonderful red-letter day, for the stork had brought not only the baby sister, but all sorts of presents as well. How tremendously strong the stork must be, to carry all that! There was a new seal-skin school-bag for Tom, a big doll for Antonie, that had real hair—imagine that!—for Christian a complete toy theatre, with the Sultan, Death, and the Devil; and a book with pictures for demure Clothilde, who accepted it with thanks, but was more interested in the bag of sweeties that fell to her lot as well.

They kissed their mother, and were allowed a peep under the green curtains of the baby’s bed. Then off they went with their father, who had put on his fur coat and taken the hymn book. They were followed by the piercing cry of the new member of the family, who had just waked up.

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Source for confirmation of garbled text
https://archive.org/details/dli.ernet.505621/page/45/mode/2up Piney5000 (talk) 19:59, 12 February 2024 (UTC)


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in the summer, sometimes as early as May or June, Tony Buddenbrook always went on a visit to her grandparents, who lived outside the Castle Gate. This was a great pleasure.

For life was delightful out there in the country, in the luxurious villa with its many outbuildings, servants’ quarters and stables, and its great parterres, orchards, and kitchen-gardens, which ran steeply down to the river Trave. The Krögers lived in the grand style; there was a difference between their brilliant establishment and the solid, somewhat heavy comfort of the paternal home, which was obvious at a glance, and which impressed very much the young Demoiselle Buddenbrook.

Here there was no thought of duties in house or kitchen. In the Mengstrasse, though her Mother and Grandfather did not seem to think it important, her Father and her Grandmother were always telling her to remember her dusting, and holding up Clothilde as an example. The old feudal feeling of her Mother’s side of the family came out strongly in the little maid: one could see how she issued her orders to the footman or the abigail—and to her Grandmother’s servants and her Grandfather’s coachman as well.

Say what you will, it is pleasant to awake every morning in a large, gaily tapestried bed-chamber, and with one’s first movements to feel the soft satin of the coverlet under one’s hand; to take early breakfast in the balcony room, with the sweet fresh air coming up from the garden through the open glass door; to drink, instead of coffee, a cup of chocolate handed one on a tray—yes, proper birthday chocolate, with

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RV 58 (BUDDENBROOKS) a thick slice of fresh cup-cake! True, she had to eat her breakfast alone, except on Sundays, for her grandparents never came down until long after she had gone to school. When she had munched her cake and drunk her chocolate, she would snatch up her satchel and trip down the terrace and through the well-kept front garden.

She was very dainty, this little Tony Buddenbrook. Under her straw hat curled a wealth of blonde hair, slowly darkening with the years. Lively grey-blue eyes and a pouting upper lip gave her fresh face a roguish look, borne out by the poise of her graceful little figure; even the slender legs, in their immaculate white stockings, trotted along over the ground with an unmistakable air of ease and assurance. People knew and greeted the young daughter of Consul Buddenbrook as she came out of the garden gate and up the chestnut-bordered avenue. Perhaps an old market-woman, driving her little cart in from the village, would nod her head in its big flat straw hat with its light green ribbons, and call out “Mornin’, little missy!” Or Matthiesen the porter, in his wide knee-breeches, white hose, and buckled shoes, would respectfully take off his hat as she passed.

Tony always waited for her neighbour, little Julie Hagenström; the two children went to school together. Julie was a high-shouldered child, with large, staring black eyes, who lived close by in a vine-covered house. Her people had not been long in the neighbourhood. The father, Herr Hagenström, had married a wife from Hamburg, with thick, heavy black hair and larger diamonds in her ears than any one had ever seen before. Her name was Semlinger. Hagenström was partner in the export firm of Strunck and Hagenström. He showed great zeal and ambition in municipal affairs, and was always acting on boards and committees and administrative bodies. But he was not very popular. His marriage had rather affronted the rigid traditions of the older families, like the Möllendorpfs, Langhals, and Buddenbrooks; and, for another thing, he seemed to enjoy thwarting their ideas

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 for from him every one, who would be as fahionable as French was at court, has learned, and runs away with this hort ytem of politics, viz. Men are not born free, and therefore could never have the liberty to chooe either governors, or forms of government. Princes have their power abolute, and by divine right; for laves could never have a right to compact or conent. Adam was an abolute monarch, and o are all princes ever ince.

IR Robert Filmer ' s great poition is, that men are not naturally free. This is the foundation on which his abolute monarchy tands, and from which it erects itelf to an height, that its power is above every power, caput inter nubila, o high above all earthly and human things, that thought can carce reach it; that promies and oaths, which tye the infinite Deity, cannot confine it. But if this foundation fails, all his fabric falls with it, and governments mut be left again to the old way of being made by contrivance, and the conent of men (Άνϧϛωπίνη ϰτίσιϛ) making ue of their reaon to unite together into ociety. To prove this grand poition of his, he tells us, p. 12. Men  Rh


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 376 rebellion gained so great a head, that he was able to send governors to Al-Ahwāz, Fars, and Kirmān, but not to his old province of Khorāsān, for there the Azd were held in check by Temīm. At Al-Baṣra all the adherents of Al-Ḥajjāj that fell into his hands were slain, but the chief men of the city, even such as favoured Yezīd, fearing to compromise themselves with the Court, made their escape to Al-Kūfa. Yezīd himself settled down inactive at Al-Baṣra, till tidings of an army 80,000 strong advancing from Syria under command of the veteran commander in Asia Minor and Armenia, Maslama, the Caliph’s brother, forced him to take the field. His brothers urged him to leave Al-ʿIrāḳ and occupy Khorāsān, or the strongholds in the nearer mountains, where the discontented would flock to him, and thus weary out the Syrian force; but he declined to be "like the bird that flies from hilltop to hilltop," and so moving forward he occupied Wāsiṭ. Maslama advanced on Al-Kūfa, where there was a strong party in favour of Yezīd; and having deposed the governor, with difficulty suppressed a rising. Then crossing the Euphrates, he took ground on the left bank of the river. Yezīd, leaving one of his brothers with a strong reserve at Wāsiṭ, marched against his enemy. Many Kūfaites of note, Temīm as well as Kelb, came over to him. A week passed in skirmishing and single combats. Then Yezīd wished to attack the Caliph's army by night, but was prevented by two religious fanatics who followed him. Next day he harangued his army, denouncing the Umeiyads as a godless race, against whom it were a more sacred duty to war than against the Turks, and thus bring back the pure observances of their holy faith,—words that must have sounded strange from the lips of the unprincipled worldling. On the other side, to nerve his men by making retreat impossible, Maslama set fire to the bridge behind them. The rebel army, unable to sustain the Syrian onset, fell back, Temīm showing them the way; and Yezīd, hearing that his favourite brother was killed, rushed upon the enemy’s ranks, crying that life after that was no longer worth living, and was slain. On this, his remaining brothers, unable to hold their position at Wāsiṭ, retired, after beheading all the prisoners in their hands, some thirty including the stadtholder, and, with wives and children,


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RV 59 (BUDDENBROOKS) at every turn—he would go to work in an underhand way to oppose their interests, in order to show his own superior foresight and energy. “Heinrich Hagenström makes trouble the whole time,” the Consul would say. “He seems to take a personal pleasure in thwarting me. To-day he made a scene at the sitting of the Central Paupers’ Deputation; and a few days ago in the Finance Department. . . .” “The old skunk!” Johann Buddenbrook interjected. Another time, father and son sat down to table angry and depressed. What was the matter? Oh, nothing. They had lost a big consignment of rye for Holland: Strunck and Hagenström had snapped it up under their noses. He was a fox, Heinrich Hagenström.

Tony had often heard such remarks, and she was not too well disposed toward Julie Hagenström; the two children walked together because they were neighbours, but usually they quarrelled.

“My Father owns a thousand thalers,” said Julchen. She thought she was uttering the most terrible falsehood. “How much does yours?”

Tony was speechless with envy and humiliation. Then she said, with a quiet, off-hand manner: “My chocolate tasted delicious this morning. What do you have for breakfast, Julie?”

“Before I forget it,” Julie would rejoin, “would you like one of my apples? Well, I won’t give you any!” She pursed up her lips, and her black eyes watered with satisfaction.

Sometimes Julie’s brother Hermann went to school at the same time with the two girls. There was another brother too, named Moritz, but he was sickly and did his lessons at home. Hermann was fair-haired and snub-nosed. He breathed through his mouth and was always smacking his lips.

“Stuff and nonsense!” he would say. “Papa has a lot more than a thousand thaler.” He interested Tony because of the luncheon he took to school: not bread, but a soft sort of

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RV 60 (BUDDENBROOKS) lemon bun with currants in it, and sausage or smoked goose between. It seemed to be his favourite luncheon. Tony had never seen anything like it before. Lemon bun, with smoked goose—it must be wonderful! He let her look into his box, and she asked if she might have some. Hermann said: “Not to-day, Tony, because I can’t spare any. But to-morrow I’ll bring another piece for you, if you’ll give me something.”

Next morning, Tony came out into the avenue, but there was no Julie. She waited five minutes, but there was no sign. Another minute—there came Hermann alone, swinging his lunch-box by the strap and smacking his lips.

“Now,” he said, “here’s a bun, with some goose between—all lean; there’s not a bit of fat to it. What will you give me for it?”

“A shilling?” suggested Tony. They were standing in the middle of the avenue.

“A shilling?” repeated Hermann. Then he gave a gulp and said, “No, I want something else.”

“What?” demanded Tony; for she was prepared to pay a good price for the dainty.

“A kiss!” shouted Hermann Hagenström. He flung his arms around Tony, and began kissing at random, never once touching her face, for she flung her head back with surprising agility, pushed him back with her left hand—it was holding her satchel—against his breast, while with her right hand she dealt him three or four blows in the face with all her strength. He stumbled backward; but at that moment sister Julie appeared from behind a tree, like a little black demon, and, falling upon Tony, tore off her hat and scratched her cheeks unmercifully. After this affair, naturally, the friendship was about at an end.

It was hardly out of shyness that Tony had refused the kiss. She was on the whole a forward damsel, and had given the Consul no little disquiet with her tomboy ways. She had a good little head, and did as well in the school as one could desire; but her conduct in other ways was far from

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RV 61 (BUDDENBROOKS) satisfactory. Things even went so far that one day the schoolmistress, a certain Fräulein Agathe Vermehren, felt obliged to call upon the Frau Consul, and, flushed with embarrassment, to suggest with all due politeness that the child should receive a paternal admonition. It seemed that Tony, despite frequent correction, had been guilty, not for the first time, of creating a disturbance in the street!

There was, of course, no harm in the fact that the child knew everybody in town. The Consul quite approved of this, and argued that it displayed love of one’s neighbour, a sense of human fellowship, and a lack of snobbishness. So Tony, on her way through the streets, chattered with all and sundry. She and Tom would clamber about in the granaries on the water-side, among the piles of oats and wheat, prattling to the labourers and the clerks in the dark little ground-floor offices; they would even help haul up the sacks of grain. She knew the butchers with their trays and aprons, when she met them in Broad Street; she accosted the dairy women when they came in from the country, and made them take her a little way in their carts. She knew the grey-bearded craftsmen who sat in the narrow goldsmiths’ shops built into the arcades in the market square; and she knew the fish-wives, the fruit- and vegetable-women, and the porters that stood on the street corners chewing their tobacco.

So far, this was very well. But it was not all.

There was a pale, beardless man, of no particular age, who was often seen wandering up and down Broad Street with a wistful smile on his face. This man was so nervous that he jumped every time he heard a sudden noise behind him; and Tony delighted in making him jump every time she set eyes on him. Then there was an odd, tiny little woman with a large head, who put up a huge tattered umbrella at every sign of a storm. Tony would harass this poor soul with cries of “Mushroom!” whenever she had the chance. Moreover, she and two or three more of her ilk would go to the door of a tiny house in an alley off John Street, where there lived an

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RV 62 (BUDDENBROOKS) old woman who did a tiny trade in worsted dolls; they would ring the bell and, when the old dame appeared, inquire with deceptive courtesy, if Herr and Frau Spittoon were at home—and then run away screaming with laughter. All these ragamuffinly tricks Tony Buddenbrook was guilty of—indeed, she seemed to perform them with the best conscience in the world. If one of her victims threatened her, she would step back a pace or two, toss her pretty head, pout with her pretty lip, and say “Pooh!” in a half mocking, half angry tone which meant: “Try it if you like. I am Consul Buddenbrook’s daughter, if you don’t know!”

Thus she went about in the town like a little queen; and like a queen, she was kind or cruel to her subjects, as the whim seized her.

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text: Cautionary Tales for Children/Charles Augustus Fortescue


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720–4] took ship by the gulf to a fortress in Kirmān, hoping that its governor, who owed his post to Yezīd, would give his family and kindred shelter. But they were mistaken; the brothers were put to death, and the women and children, in defiance of all Islāmic law, exposed for sale in Al-Baṣra; but a loyal servant of the Umeiyads, Al-Jarrāḥ ibn ʿAbdallah al-Ḥakami, did his duty and ransomed them. Their estates were, of course, confiscated. Equally cruel was the fate of the prisoners at Al-Kūfa, where 300 were by the Caliph's orders slain. In companies of twenty and thirty, they were brought out, some of them naked, and decapitated in cold blood. Thus the Caliph slaked his wrath against the faction hostile to Al-Ḥajjāj. And so perished the house of Al-Muhallab, none of whose descendants were meet representatives of that great man. The butcheries and contempt of human life we now so often read of, are a painful feature of the day. The cruel scene, however, is but a fit ending to the career of the man who drove the corn-mill of Jurjān with his victims' blood.

The services of Maslama in this dangerous rebellion, and in the campaign against the Greeks, were rewarded by the government of Al-ʿIrāḳ and Khorāsān. As his lieutenant at Merv, Maslama appointed his son-in-law Saʿīd, a weak man, called in derision Khodheina, from affecting in his dress the attire of a Persian lady. The choice was far from fortunate. There was a general rising of the hordes in Khojanda and Ferghāna, which became dangerous owing to Muslim inactivity. The tributary Soghdians, threatened by these, sought protection from Merv, but help being slow of coming, they meanwhile made overtures to the Turks, and between the two suffered grievously. When Muslim forces did arrive, the Soghdians returned at first to their allegiance. Information, however, having reached the Muslim general of the murder of an Arab (for numbers of Arabians and Persians had begun to settle in the land), he sent for the culprit, and slew him in his tent. The Soghdians retaliated by putting to death the Muslim prisoners in their hands; on which the general fell upon the Soghdian residents, who having been meanwhile disarmed had only staves wherewith to defend themselves. The whole, 3000 in number, fell by the


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verdict on the two sons of Consul Buddenbrook undoubtedly hit the mark.

Thomas had been marked from the cradle as a merchant and future member of the firm. He was on the modern side of the old school which the boys attended; an able, quick-witted, intelligent lad, always ready to laugh when his brother Christian mimicked the masters, which he did with uncanny facility. Christian, on the classical side, was not less gifted than Tom, but he was less serious. His special and particular joy in life was the imitation, in speech and manner, of a certain worthy Marcellus Stengel, who taught drawing, singing, and some other of the lighter branches.

This Herr Marcellus Stengel always had a round half-dozen beautifully sharpened pencils sticking out of his pocket. He wore a red wig and a light brown coat that reached nearly down to his ankles; also a choker collar that came up almost to his temples. He was quite a wit, and loved to play with verbal distinctions, as: “You were to make a line, my child, and what have you made? You have made a dash!” In singing-class, his favourite lesson was “The Forest Green.” When they sang this, some of the pupils would go outside in the corridor; and then, when the chorus rose inside: “We ramble so gaily through field and wood,” those outside would repeat the last word very softly, as an echo. Once Christian Buddenbrook, his cousin Jürgen Kröger, and his chum Andreas Giesake, the son of the Fire Commissioner, were deputed as echo; but when the moment came, they threw the coal-scuttle downstairs instead, and were kept in after school by Herr Stengel in consequence. But alas, by that time Herr

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RV 64 (BUDDENBROOKS) Stengel had forgotten their crime. He bade his housekeeper give them each a cup of coffee, and then dismissed them.

In truth, they were all admirable scholars, the masters who taught in the cloisters of the old school—once a monastic foundation—under the guidance of a kindly, snuff-taking old head. They were, to a man, well-meaning and sweet-humoured; and they were one in the belief that knowledge and good cheer are not mutually exclusive. The Latin classes in the middle forms were heard by a former preacher, one Pastor Shepherd, a tall man with brown whiskers and a twinkling eye, who joyed extremely in the happy coincidence of his name and calling, and missed no chance of having the boys translate the word pastor. His favourite expression was “boundlessly limited”; but it was never quite clear whether this was actually meant for a joke or not! When he wanted to dumbfound his pupils altogether, he would draw in his lips and blow them quickly out again, with a noise like the popping of a champagne cork. He would go up and down with long strides in his class-room, prophesying to one boy or another, with great vividness, the course which his life would take. He did this avowedly with the purpose of stimulating their imaginations; and then he would set to work seriously on the business in hand, which was to repeat certain verses on the rules of gender and difficult constructions. He had composed these verses himself, with no little skill, and took much pride in declaiming them, with great attention to rhyme and rhythm.

Thus passed Tom’s and Christian’s boyhood, with no great events to mark its course. There was sunshine in the Buddenbrook family, and in the office everything went famously. Only now and again there would be a sudden storm, a trifling mishap, like the following:

Herr Stuht the tailor had made a new suit for each of the Buddenbrook lads. Herr Stuht lived in Bell-Founders’ Street. He was a master tailor, and his wife bought and sold old clothes, and thus moved in the best circles of society. Herr

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RV 65 (BUDDENBROOKS) Stuht himself had an enormous belly, which hung down over his legs, wrapped in a flannel shirt. The suits he made for the young Masters Buddenbrook were at the combined cost of seventy marks; but at the boys’ request he had consented to put them down in the bill at eighty marks and to hand them the difference. It was just a little arrangement among themselves—not very honourable, indeed, but then, not very uncommon either. However, fate was unkind, and the bargain came to light. Herr Stuht was sent for to the Consul’s office, whither he came, with a black coat over his woollen shirt, and stood there while the Consul subjected Tom and Christian to a severe cross-examination. His head was bowed and his legs far apart, his manner vastly respectful. He tried to smooth things over as much as he could for the young gentlemen, and said that what was done was done, and he would be satisfied with the seventy marks. But the Consul was greatly incensed by the trick. He gave it long and serious consideration; yet finally ended by increasing the lads’ pocket-money—for was it not written: “Lead us not into temptation?”

It seemed probable that more might be expected from Thomas Buddenbrook than from his brother Christian. He was even-tempered, and his high spirits never crossed the bounds of discretion. Christian, on the other hand, was inclined to be moody: guilty at times of the most extravagant silliness, at others he would be seized by a whim which could terrify the rest of them in the most astonishing way.

The family are at table eating dessert and conversing pleasantly the while. Suddenly Christian turns pale and puts back on his plate the peach into which he has just bitten. His round, deep-set eyes, above the too-large nose, have opened wider.

“I will never eat another peach,” he says.

“Why not, Christian? What nonsense! What’s the matter?”

“Suppose I accidentally—suppose I swallowed the stone, and it stuck in my throat, so I couldn’t breathe, and I jumped

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RV 66 (BUDDENBROOKS) up, strangling horribly—and all of you jump up—Ugh. . . !” and he suddenly gives a short groan, full of horror and affright, starts up in his chair, and acts as if he were trying to escape.

The Frau Consul and Ida Jungmann actually do jump up.

“Heavens, Christian!—you haven’t swallowed it, have you?” For his whole appearance suggests that he has.

“No,” says Christian slowly. “No”—he is gradually quieting down—“I only mean, suppose I actually had swallowed it!”

The Consul has been pale with fright, but he recovers and begins to scold. Old Johann bangs his fist on the table and forbids any more of these idiotic practical jokes. But Christian, for a long, long time, eats no more peaches.

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now Château Desir was almost deserted. Mrs. Million continued her progress northward. The Courtowns and the Beaconsfields, and the Scropes, quitted immediately after Mr. Cleveland; and when the families that form the materiel of the visiting corps retire, the nameless nothings that are always lounging about the country mansions of the great, such as artists, tourists, litterateurs, and other live stock, soon disappear. Mr. Vivian Grey agreed to stay another fortnight, at the particular request of the Marquess.

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was not simply the weakness of age that made Madame Antoinette Buddenbrook take to her lofty bed in the bedchamber of the entresol, one cold January day after they had dwelt some six years in Meng Street. The old lady had remained hale and active, and carried her head, with its clustering white side-curls, proudly erect to the very last. She had gone with her husband and children to most of the large dinners given in the town, and presided no whit less elegantly than her daughter-in-law when the Buddenbrooks themselves entertained. But one day an indefinable malady had suddenly made itself felt—at first in the form of a slight intestinal catarrh, for which Dr. Grabow prescribed a mild diet of pigeon and French bread. This had been followed by colic and vomiting, which reduced her strength so rapidly as to bring about an alarming decline.

Dr. Grabow held hurried speech with the Consul, outside on the landing, and another doctor was called in consultation—a stout, black-bearded, gloomy-looking man who began going in and out with Dr. Grabow. And now the whole atmosphere of the house changed. They went about on their tip-toes and spoke in whispers. The wagons were no longer allowed to roll through the great entry-way below. They looked in each others’ eyes and saw there something strange. It was the idea of death that had entered, and was holding silent sway in the spacious rooms.

But there was no idle watching, for visitors came: old Senator Duchamps, the dying woman’s brother, from Hamburg, with his daughter; and a few days later, the Consul’s sister from Frankfort and her husband, who was a banker.

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 Very few days had passed, ere Vivian was exceedingly struck at the decided change which suddenly took place in his Lordship's general behaviour towards him.

The Marquess grew reserved and uncommunicative, scarcely mentioning "the great business," which had previously been the sole subject of his conversation, but to find fault with some arrangement, and exhibiting, whenever his name was mentioned, a marked acrimony against Mr. Cleveland. This rapid change alarmed, as much as it astonished Vivian, and he mentioned his feelings and observations to Mrs. Felix Lorraine. That lady agreed with him, that something certainly was wrong, but could not, unfortunately, afford him any clue to the mystery. She expressed the liveliest solicitude, that any misunderstanding should be put an end to, and offered her services for that purpose.

In spite, however, of her well-expressed an-

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 378 sword. Fighting went on more or less throughout the reign in these outlying provinces, but with no very marked results.

Maslama not sending on the surplus revenues of his province to Damascus, the government was given to ʿOmar ibn Hubeira, an ambitious scion of the Fezāra tribe, in reward for his military service. He had distinguished himself in the campaign against the Khawārij, and more recently on the northern border of Mesopotamia. He was a Ḳeisite of the Ḳeisites, and the Azd and Yemen suffered accordingly, especially in Khorāsān. The legacy bequeathed by Al-Ḥajjāj began to bear interest. Yezīd II. followed in the footsteps of Suleimān, and outside of Syria the government represented only a party—that of Ḳeis. The policy of extirpating the family of Al-Muhallab, a new departure in Islām, meant war upon the Yemen. In Asia Minor, the Muslim possessions were quiet. But towards the North-east several heavy, and not always fortunate, operations were carried on against the Khazar, Kipchak, and other hordes inhabiting the mountain region between the Black and Caspian seas. The first army sent thither suffered a bad defeat, losing their camp, and being driven out of the country. A second force under Al-Jarrāḥ retrieved the disaster, and occupied Balanjar and other important cities; but incautiously pressing their advance too far, were overtaken by winter, and were surrounded and cut off by Turkoman hordes. The Caliph promised fresh support, but dying shortly after, left the task to his Successor.

In Africa things went from bad to worse. The Caliph appointed one who had been a favourite secretary of


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RV 68 (BUDDENBROOKS) The illness lasted fourteen or fifteen days, during which the guests lived in the house, and Ida Jungmann had her hands full attending to the bedrooms and providing heavy breakfasts, with shrimps and port wine. Much roasting and baking went on in the kitchen.

Upstairs, Johann Buddenbrook sat by the sick-bed, his old Netta’s limp hand in his, and stared into space with his brows knitted and his lower lip hanging. A clock hung on the wall and ticked dully, with long pauses between; not so long, however, as the pauses between the dying woman’s fluttering breaths. A black-robed sister of mercy busied herself about the beef-tea which they still sought to make the patient take. Now and then some member of the family would appear at the door and disappear again.

Perhaps the old man was thinking how he had sat at the death-bed of his first wife, forty-six years before. Perhaps he recalled his frenzy of despair and contrasted it with the gentle melancholy which he felt now, as an old man, gazing into the face of his old wife—a face so changed, so listless, so void of expression. She had never given him either a great joy or a great sorrow; but she had decorously played her part beside him for many a long year—and now her life was ebbing away.

He was not thinking a great deal. He was only looking with fixed gaze back into his own past life and at life in general. It all seemed to him now quite strange and far away, and he shook his head a little. That empty noise and bustle, in the midst of which he had once stood, had flowed away imperceptibly and left him standing there, listening in wonder to sounds that died upon his ear. “Strange, strange,” he murmured.

Madame Buddenbrook breathed her last brief, effortless sigh; and they prayed by her side in the dining-room, where the service was held; and the bearers lifted the flower-covered coffin to carry it away. But old Johann did not weep. He only gave the same gentle, bewildered head-shake, and said,

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 xiety, Vivian had his own ideas on the subject; and, determined to unravel the affair, he had recourse to a person, with whom he seldom interchanged a sentencethe Marchioness.

"I hope your Ladyship is well to-day. I had a letter from Count Caumont this morning. He tells me, that he has got the prettiest poodle from Paris that you can possibly conceive! waltzes like an angel, and acts proverbes on its hind feet."

Her Ladyship's eyes glistened with admiration.

"I've told Caumont to send it me down immediately, and I shall then have the pleasure of presenting it to your Ladyship."

Her Ladyship's eyes sparkled with delight.

"I think," continued Vivian, "I shall take a ride to-day. By the bye, how's the Marquess? he seems in low spirits lately."

"Oh! Mr. Grey, I don't know what you've done to him," said her Ladyship, settling at least a dozen bracelets; "but—but—"

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RV 69 (BUDDENBROOKS) with the same half-smiling look: “Strange, strange!” It became his most frequent expression. Plainly, the time for old Johann too was near at hand.

He would sit silent and absent in the family circle; sometimes with little Clara on his knee, to whom he would sing one of his droll catches, like

“The omnibus drives through the town”

or perhaps

“Look at the blue-fly a-buzzin’ on the wall.”

But he might suddenly stop in the middle, like one aroused out of a train of thought, put the child down on the floor, and move away, with his little head-shake and murmur “Strange, strange!” One day he said: “Jean—it’s about time, eh?”

It was soon afterward that neatly printed notices signed by father and son were sent about through the town, in which Johann Buddenbrook senior respectfully begged leave to announce that his increasing years obliged him to give up his former business activities, and that in consequence the firm of Johann Buddenbrook, founded by his late father anno 1768, would as from that day be transferred, with its assets and liabilities, to his son and former partner Johann Buddenbrook as sole proprietor; for whom he solicited a continuance of the confidence so widely bestowed upon him. Signed, with deep respect, Johann Buddenbrook—who would from now on cease to append his signature to business papers.

These announcements were no sooner sent out than the old man refused to set foot in the office; and his apathy so increased that it took only the most trifling cold to send him to bed, one March day two months after the death of his wife. One night more—then came the hour when the family gathered round his bed and he spoke to them: first to the Consul: “Good luck, Jean, and keep your courage up!” And then to

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REQUENTLY during past years we have considered a Jack London issue of Overland Monthly. Numerous letters from London's admirers come to our desk urging such a number and asking that we re-publish those stories of his that first appeared in our columns. Recently we discussed the matter with a literary group, and on November 10 last received from Celeste G. Murphy, well-known writer and newspaper woman of Sonoma, a letter from which we quote:

""Would your magazine consider a Jack London Number with material and copy supplied by the Sonoma County Branch, American Pen Women? They are enthused over the idea, so write me your reaction.""

Immediately the wheels were put in motion. The kindly assistance of Charmian London was gladly given, and her article entitled "My Husband—An Old Contributor" is a valuable contribution to the symposium. In this she brings out interesting sidelights on the life of the famous author and his early connection with Overland Monthly.

Edith Granger Hawkes, President of the Sonoma Branch of the American Pen Women, is represented in the number through a noteworthy article in which the life of London is sketched in admirable fashion. Celeste G. Murphy, Vice-President of the organization, refers interestingly to the "Valley of the Moon" and reveals the inner literary yearnings of Jack London through an intimate introduction of readers to his wonderful library. Nell Griffith Wilson tells of a pilgrimage to Jack's grave and honors him with some strong verse. "Treasures From the Snark's Cruise" is the suggestive title of an article by Byrd Weyler Kellogg, of the Press-Democrat and Santa Rosa Republican. There are notable poems by Sarah Hammond Kelly and Grace Monroe Davis, while the highly artistic sketches by Grace Griffith Allison add much to the value of the issue.

The various pictures of Jack London and his wife, Charmian London, will be appreciated by our readers. Charmian London, herself an author of wide fame, has to her credit such volumes as "The Log of the Snark, ""Our Hawaii," "The New Hawaii" and "The Book of Jack London," a biography in two volumes. These volumes are vividly descriptive and are widely read and do credit to the name of London.

To those who have made possible this Jack London Number, we extend our sincere thanks. Overland Monthly admits pardonable pride in the part it played in the unfoldment of the genius of that artist-craftsman, Jack London. And too, the magazine rejoices that it continues to have a part in perpetuating the memory and the work of one of California's foremost literary sons. It bows as well to Charmian London—she who, as wife, associate and successor, has achieved literary fame in her own right.

It has been thought proper to include in this symposium the first published story from London's pen, "To the Man On Trail," which appeared originally in the Overland Monthly of January, 1899. From that time until 1916, London contributed to magazines and periodicals some 350 articles and stories, and sent out to the world half a hundred volumes,—a record difficult to parallel.


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 "But what, my lady?"

"He thinks—he thinks—"

"Thinks what, my lady?"

"That you've entered into a conspiracy, Mr. Grey."

"Entered into a conspiracy!"

"Yes! Mr. Grey, a conspiracy—a conspiracy against the Marquess of Carabas, with Mr. Cleveland. He thinks that you have made him serve your purpose, and that now you're going to get rid of him."

"Well, that s excellent; and what else does he think?"

"He thinks you talk too loud," said the Marchioness, still working at her bracelets.

"Well! that 's shockingly vulgar! Allow me to recommend your Ladyship to alter the order of those bracelets, and place the blue and silver against the maroon. You may depend upon it, that's the true Vienna order—and what else does the Marquess say?"

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RV 70 (BUDDENBROOKS) Thomas: “Be a help to your Father, Tom!” And to Christian: “Be something worth while!” Then he was silent, gazing at them all; and finally, with a last murmured “Strange!” he turned his face to the wall. . ..

To the very end, he did not speak of Gotthold, and the latter encountered with silence the Consul’s written summons to his father’s death-bed. But early the next morning, before the announcements were sent out, as the Consul was about to go into the office to attend to some necessary business, Gotthold Buddenbrook, proprietor of the linen firm of Siegmund Stüwing and Company, came with rapid steps through the entry. He was forty-six years old, broad and stocky, and had thick ash-blond whiskers streaked with grey. His short legs were cased in baggy trousers of rough checked material. On the steps he met the Consul, and his eyebrows went up under the brim of his grey hat.

He did not put out his hand. “Johann,” he said, in a high-pitched, rather agreeable voice, “how is he?”

“He passed away last night,” the Consul said, with deep emotion, grasping his brother’s hand, which held an umbrella. “The best of fathers!”

Gotthold drew down his brows now, so low that the lids nearly closed. After a silence, he said pointedly: “Nothing was changed up to the end?”

The Consul let his hand drop and stepped back. His round, deep-set blue eyes flashed as he answered, “Nothing.”

Gotthold’s eyebrows went up again under his hat, and his eyes fixed themselves on his brother with an expression of suspense.

“And what have I to expect from your sense of justice?” he asked in a lower voice.

It was the Consul’s turn to look away. Then, without lifting his eyes, he made that downward gesture with his hand that always betokened decision; and in a quiet voice, but firmly, he answered:

“In this sad and solemn moment I have offered you my

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RV 71 (BUDDENBROOKS) brotherly hand. But if it is your intention to speak of business matters, then I can only reply in my capacity as head of the honourable firm whose sole proprietor I have to-day become. You can expect from me nothing that runs counter to the duties I have to-day assumed; all other feelings must be silent.”

Gotthold went away. But he came to the funeral, among the host of relatives, friends, business associates, deputies, clerks, porters, and labourers that filled the house, the stairs, and the corridors to overflowing and assembled all the hired coaches in town in a long row all the way down the Mengstrasse. Gotthold came, to the sincere joy of the Consul. He even brought his wife, born Stüwing, and his three grown daughters: Friederike and Henriette, who were too tall and thin, and Pfiffi, who was eighteen, and too short and fat.

Pastor Kölling of St. Mary’s, a heavy man with a bullet head and a rough manner of speaking, held the service at the grave, in the Buddenbrook family burying-ground, outside the Castle Gate, at the edge of the cemetery grove. He extolled the godly, temperate life of the deceased and compared it with that of “gluttons, drunkards, and profligates”—over which strong language some of the congregation shook their heads, thinking of the tact and moderation of their old Pastor Wunderlich, who had lately died. When the service and the burial were over, and the seventy or eighty hired coaches began to roll back to town, Gotthold Buddenbrook asked the Consul’s permission to go with him, that they might speak together in private. He sat with his brother on the back seat of the high, ungainly old coach, one short leg crossed over the other—and, wonderful to relate, he was gentle and conciliatory. He realized more and more, he said, that the Consul was bound to act as he was doing; and he was determined to cherish no bitter memories of his father. He renounced the claims he had put forward, the more readily that he had decided to retire from business and live upon his inheritance and what capital he had left; for he had no joy

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 "He thinks you are generally too authoritative. Not that I think so, Mr. Grey; I'm sure your conduct to me has been most courteous—the blue and silver next to the maroon, did you say? Yes,—certainly it does look better.— I've no doubt the Marquess is quite wrong, and I dare say you'll set things right immediately. You'll remember the pretty poodle, Mr. Grey? and you'll not tell the Marquess I mentioned any thing."

"Oh! certainly not. I'll give orders for them to book an inside place for the poodle, and send him down by the coach immediately. I must be off now. Remember the blue and silver next to the maroon. Good morning to your Ladyship!"

"Mrs. Felix Lorraine, I am your most obedient slave," said Vivian Grey, as he met that lady on the landing-place;—"I can see no reason why I should not drive you this bright day

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 Bas Relief from Life by Finn Frolich


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RV 72 (BUDDENBROOKS) of the linen business, and it was going so indifferently that he could not bring himself to put any more money into it. . . . “His spite against our Father brought him no blessing,” the Consul thought piously. Probably Gotthold thought so too.

When they got back, he went with his brother up to the breakfast-room; and as both gentlemen felt rather chilly, after standing so long in their dress-coats in the early spring air, they drank a glass of old cognac together. Then Gotthold exchanged a few courteous words with his sister-in-law, stroked the children’s heads, and went away. But he appeared at the next “children’s day,” which took place at the Krögers’, outside the Castle Gate. And he began to wind up his business at once.

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 to the Elfin's Well; we have long had an engagement together."

The lady smiled a gracious assent; the pony phaeton was immediately ordered.

"How pleasant Lady Courtown and I used to discourse about martingales! I think I invented one, didn't I? Pray, Mrs. Felix Lorraine, can you tell me what a martingale is? for upon my honour I've forgotten, or never knew."

"If you found a martingale for the mother, Vivian, it had been well if you had found a curb for the daughter. Poor Cynthia! I had intended once to advise the Marchioness to interfere; but one forgets these things."

"One does.—Oh! Mrs. Felix,"' exclaimed Vivian, "I told your admirable story of the Leyden Professor to Mrs. Cleveland. It 's universally agreed to be the best ghost story extant.—I think you said you knew the Professor?"

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grieved the Consul sorely that the grandfather had not lived to see the entry of his grandson into the business—an event which took place at Easter-time of the same year.

Thomas had left school at sixteen. He was grown strong and sturdy, and his manly clothes made him look still older. He had been confirmed, and Pastor Kölling, in stentorian tones, had enjoined upon him to practice the virtues of moderation. A gold chain, bequeathed him by his grandfather, now hung about his neck, with the family arms on a medallion at the end—a rather dismal design, showing on an irregularly hatched surface a flat stretch of marshy country with one solitary, leafless willow tree. The old seal ring with the green stone, once worn, in all probability, by the well-to-do tailor in Rostock, had descended to the Consul, together with the great Bible.

Thomas’s likeness to his grandfather was as strong as Christian’s to his father. The firm round chin was the old man’s, and the straight, well-chiselled nose. Thomas wore his hair parted on one side, and it receded in two bays from his narrow veined temples. His eyelashes were colourless by contrast, and so were the eyebrows, one of which he had a habit of lifting expressively. His speech, his movements, even his laugh, which showed his rather defective teeth, were all quiet and adequate. He already looked forward seriously and eagerly to his career . It was indeed a solemn moment when, after early breakfast, the Consul led him down into the office and introduced him to Herr Marcus the confidential clerk, Herr Havermann the cashier, and the rest of the staff, with all of whom, naturally,

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RV 74 (BUDDENBROOKS) he had long been on the best of terms. For the first time he sat at his desk, in his own revolving chair, absorbed in copying, stamping, and arranging papers. In the afternoon his father took him through the magazines on the Trave, each one of which had a special name, like the “Linden,” the “Oak,” the “Lion,” the “Whale.” Tom was thoroughly at home in every one of them, of course, but now for the first time he entered them to be formally introduced as a fellow worker.

He entered upon his tasks with devotion, imitating the quiet, tenacious industry of his father, who was working with his jaws set, and writing down many a prayer for help in his private diary. For the Consul had set himself the task of making good the sums paid out by the firm on the occasion of his father’s death. It was a conception. . . an ideal. . . . He explained the position quite fully to his wife late one evening in the landscape-room.

It was half-past eleven, and Mamsell Jungmann and the children were already asleep in the corridor rooms. No one slept in the second story now—it was empty save for an occasional guest. The Frau Consul sat on the yellow sofa beside her husband, and he, cigar in mouth, was reading the financial columns of the local paper. She bent over her embroidery, moving her lips as she counted a row of stitches with her needle. Six candles burned in a candelabrum on the slender sewing-table beside her, and the chandelier was unlighted.

Johann Buddenbrook was nearing the middle forties, and had visibly altered in the last years. His little round eyes seemed to have sunk deeper in his head, his cheek-bones and his large aquiline nose stood out more prominently than ever, and the ash-blond hair seemed to have been just touched with a powder-puff where it parted on the temples. The Frau Consul was at the end of her thirties, but, while never beautiful, was as brilliant as ever; her dead-white skin, with a single freckle here and there, had lost none of its splendour, and the candle-light shone on the rich red-blond hair that

RV 74 (74)


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Page:Vivian Grey, Volume 2.djvu/46

 "Oh, well! I have seen him often, and heard the story from his own lips. And, as I mentioned before, far from being superstitious, he was an espri fort.—Do you know, Mr. Grey, I have such an interesting packet from Germany to-day; from my cousin. Baron Rodenstein; but I must keep all the stories for the evening;—come to my boudoir, and I will read them to you—there is one tale which I am sure will make a convert even of you. It happened to Rodenstein himself, and within these three months:" added the lady in a serious tone.—"The Rodensteins are a singular family. My mother was a Rodenstein.—Do you think this beautiful?" said Mrs. Felix, showing Vivian a very small miniature which was attached to a chain round her neck. It was the portrait of a youth habited in the costume of a German student. His rich brown hair was flowing over his shoulders, and his dark blue eyes beamed with such a look of mysterious inspira-

title: Page:Vivian Grey, Volume 2.djvu/46


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Page:William Muir, Thomas Hunter Weir - The Caliphate; Its Rise, Decline, and Fall (1915).djvu/410

 720–4] Al-Ḥajjāj as governor; and he, practising the harsh tactics he had learned of his master against the converted Berbers, roused an insurrection which, ending in his death, relaxed the bonds of discipline and attachment to the Court.

Spain, as a dependency of Africa, was in an even less satisfactory relation to the Caliphate. Its authority being mediate and intermittent, the governing hand, strong elsewhere, was for this great conquest changeful and often weak; while the leaders, though valiant in the field, were in the civil branch intent chiefly on their own aggrandisement. The Pyrenees had already been crossed by the Amir al-Ḥorr, perhaps under Suleiman, and in the year 100 the Muslim troops, attracted by the weakness of France, which was at the moment torn by internal discord, and by the hatred of the native race to their new masters from the north, made an inroad into its southern provinces. Ravaging the land as far as Nismes, they returned to Spain laden with booty. Tempted by this success, two or three years after, they again crossed the Pyrenees, stormed Narbonne, and garrisoned its fortress as their permanent headquarters. Under Samḥ ibn Mālik, ʿOmar's governor of Spain, they laid siege to Toulouse, but were forced to raise it on the approach of the enemy under Count Eudo, by whom they were put disastrously to flight. The scattered fragments rallied under the banner of the famous ʿAbd ar-Raḥmān ibn ʿAbdallah, and found a safe retreat in Narbonne. But the reverse, bruited far and wide, emboldened the northern Spaniards, who had already in the Asturias thrown off the yoke, to fresh efforts against the Muslims, on whom about this time they inflicted a serious defeat. The mountainous region was a source of strength to them; and there the seeds of a new power were being sown, which in the fulness of time brought Muslim rule to an end in Spain.

In a reign so weak and so unpopular, it is no wonder that intrigue on the part of the ʿAlids, and now also amongst the descendants of Al-ʿAbbās (of whose designs mention is now for the first time made), gained ground