ompatibility between citizen and
artist, between the instinct for conformity and the will to be
different, he fights this battle again and again, and bitter meditation
upon it has given him the themes of his principal works.

Mann's chief work, indubitably one of the best German novels of the
last decades, is entitled _The Buddenbrooks_, _the Degeneration of a
Family_ (1901). The book would perhaps never have been written without
the example of Zola in _Les Rougon-Macquart_, but it is far from being
a mere copy; for a much more personal conception of the subject and a
tone of narration in which the finest irony is mingled raise it far
above the arid level of the _roman experimental_. In four generations,
whose representatives are placed before us with uncommon plasticity and
lifelikeness, the decaying family slowly passes across the stage. From
generation to generation the robust, sober business sense is poisoned
with a greater and greater infection of morbid feelings and
hypersensitive nerves, until finally the vitality of the family goes
out like a burnt-up candle.

The great novel was followed by a collection of short stories,
_Tristan_ (1903), from which we have selected _Tonio Kroeger_. A tragedy
of the Renaissance, _Fiorenza_ (1905), develops the dualism between
real life and artistic existence, between the proud joy of living and
ascetic hostility to life, in two brothers of the house of Medici,
Lorenzo and Girolamo, who are suitors for the hand of one and the same
woman. The following novel, _His Royal Highness_ (1909), shows how a
prince, educated in aloofness from life, is saved from a living death
through love for an American heiress. Finally, there appeared only last
year a masterpiece in the most exquisite style, the narrative _Death in
Venice_ (1913). It is a heart-felt confession, taking as its theme
the chilling apprehension of approaching old age and death. In the
late-awakening impulse of love for a young boy there is here a
generally misunderstood symbol of longing for life. The figure of the
hero, Gustav Aschenbach, evidently furnishes a key to unlock many mysteries
in the artistic work of the author:

He never knew the leisure, never the careless unconcern of youth. When
in his thirty-fifth year he fell ill in Vienna, a keen observer once
remarked about him in company, "You see, Aschenbach has always lived
like this"--and he clenched his left fist--"never this way"--and he let
his open hand dangl