The fact was that Thomas Buddenbrook, at forty-eight, had begun to count his days more and more, to reckon with the approach of death.

His physical health had grown worse. He had little appetite and trouble sleeping; chills, which had always been a problem, now forced him to consult Dr. Langhals on several occasions. But he never managed to follow the doctor’s medical advice. His strength of will, shaky now after years of fussy, harassed inactivity, was no longer up to the task. He had begun to sleep very late of a morning, although each evening he would angrily resolve to rise early and take the walk before his morning tea that the doctor had suggested. But he actually followed through only two or three times – and it was much the same with everything else. All of this meant a constant strain on his will, and it brought him neither success nor a sense of satisfaction – only gnawed away at his self-respect and left him feeling desperate. He was not about to try to give up the narcotic pleasure of his pungent little Russian cigarettes – he had smoked them in great quantities since his youth. He told Dr. Langhals straight out, right to his conceited face, “You see, doctor, it is your duty to forbid me my cigarettes, a very easy and very pleasant duty indeed. But obeying that prohibition is up to me – you must realize that. No, we shall work together on my health, but the roles have been unevenly divided, and I end up with much the larger share of work to do. Don’t laugh – that’s not a joke. A man is so dreadfully alone. And so I smoke. May I offer you one?” And he held out his Russian nielloed case.