He put a good mark down in his book, and Hanno Buddenbrook took his seat. He felt as Timm, the rhapsodist had felt before him—that he really deserved the praise which Dr. Mantelsack gave him. Yes, at the moment he was of the opinion that he was, if rather a dull, yet an industrious pupil, who had come off with honour, comparatively speaking. He was conscious that all his schoolmates, not excepting Hans Hermann Kilian, had the same view. Yet he felt at the same time somewhat nauseated. Pale, trembling, too exhausted to think about what had happened, he closed his eyes and sank back in lethargy.
Dr. Mantelsack, however, went on with the lesson. He came to the verses that were to have been prepared for today, and called up Petersen. Petersen rose, fresh, lively, sanguine, in a stout attitude, ready for the fray. Yet today, even today, was destined to see his fall. Yes, the lesson-hour was not to pass without a catastrophe far worse than that which had befallen the hapless, shortsighted Mumme.
Petersen translated, glancing now and then at the other page of his book, which should have had nothing on it. He did it quite cleverly: he acted as though something there distracted him—a speck of dust, perhaps, which he brushed with his hand or tried to blow away. And yet—there followed the catastrophe.
Dr. Mantelsack made a sudden violent movement, which was responded to on Petersen’s part by a similar movement. And in the same moment the master left his seat, dashed headlong down from his platform, and approached Petersen with long, impetuous strides.
“You have a crib in your book,” he said as he came up.
“A crib—I—no,” stammered Petersen. He was a charming lad, with a great wave of blond hair on his forehead and lovely blue eyes which now flickered in a frightened way.
“You have no crib in your book?”
“A crib, Herr Doctor? No, really, I haven’t. You are mistaken. You are accusing me falsely.” Petersen betrayed himself by the unnatural correctness of his language, which he used in order to intimidate the master. “I am not deceiving you,” he repeated, in the greatness of his need. “I have always been honourable, my whole life long.”
But Dr. Mantelsack was all too certain of the painful fact.
“Give me your book,” he said coldly.
Petersen clung to his book; he raised it up in both hands and went on protesting. He stammered, his tongue grew thick. “Believe me, Herr Doctor. There is nothing in the book—I have no crib—I have not deceived you—I have always been honourable—”
“Give me your book,” repeated the master, stamping his foot.
Then Petersen collapsed, and his face grew grey.
“Very well,” said he, and delivered up his book. “Here it is. Yes, there is a crib in it. You can see for yourself; there it is. But I haven’t used it,” he suddenly shrieked, quite at random.
Dr. Mantelsack ignored this idiotic lie, which was rooted in despair. He drew out the crib, looked at it with an expression of extreme disgust, as if it were a piece of decaying offal, thrust it into his pocket, and threw the volume of Ovid contemptuously back on Petersen’s desk.
“Give me the class register,” he said in a hollow voice.
Adolf Todtenhaupt dutifully fetched it, and Petersen received a mark for dishonesty which effectually demolished his chances of being sent up at Easter. “You are the shame of the class,” said Dr. Mantelsack.
Petersen sat down. He was condemned. His neighbour avoided contact with him. Everyone looked at him with a mixture of pity, aversion, and disgust. He had fallen, utterly and completely, because he had been found out. There was but one opinion as to Petersen, and that was that he was, in very truth, the shame of the class. They recognized and accepted his fall, as they had the rise of Timm and Buddenbrook and the unhappy Mumme’s mischance. And Petersen did too.
Thus most of this class of twenty-five young folk, being of sound and strong constitution, armed and prepared to wage the battle of life as it is, took things just as they found them, and did not at this moment feel any offence or uneasiness. Everything seemed to them to be quite in order. But one pair of eyes, little Johann’s, which stared gloomily at a point on Hans Hermann Kilian’s broad back, were filled, in their blue-shadowed depths, with abhorrence, fear, and revulsion. The lesson went on. Dr. Mantelsack called on somebody, anybody—he had lost all desire to test anyone. And after Adolf Todtenhaupt, another pupil, who was but moderately prepared, and did not even know what “patula Jovis arbore” meant, had been called on, Buddenbrook had to say it. He said it in a low voice, without looking up, because Dr. Mantelsack asked him, and he received a nod of the head for the answer.
And now that the performance of the pupils was over, the lesson had lost all interest. Dr. Mantelsack had one of the best scholars read at his own sweet will, and listened just as little as the twenty-four others, who began to get ready for the next class. This one was finished, in effect. No one could be marked on it, nor his interest or industry judged. And the bell would soon ring. It did ring. It rang for Hanno, and he had received a nod of
