oor. But the
great wardrobes and the carved chest that used to stand here were
gone ... The son of the house set foot upon the mighty staircase and
rested his hand upon the white enameled, fretwork banister, lifting it,
however, at each step and then gently dropping it again at the next
one, as if he were timidly trying to see whether his former familiarity
with this respectable old banister could be restored ... On the first
landing, before the entrance to the so-called "intermediate story," he
stood still. A white door-plate was fastened to the door, and on it
could be read in black letters: People's Library.

People's Library? thought Tonio Kroeger, for it seemed to him that
neither the people nor literature had any business here. He knocked on
the door, heard "Come in," and obeyed. With gloomy curiosity he looked
in upon a most unseemly alteration.

The apartment was three rooms deep, and the connecting doors were open.
The walls were covered almost to the top with books in uniform
bindings, which stood in long rows on dark shelves. In each room a
needy looking individual sat writing behind a sort of counter. Two of
them merely turned their heads toward Tonio Kroeger, but the first one
stood up hastily, rested both hands on the table before him, thrust his
head forward, pursed his lips, drew up his eyebrows, and looked at the
visitor with rapidly winking eyes ...

"Excuse me," said Tonio Kroeger, without turning his eyes from the many
books. "I am a stranger here, and am taking a look at the city. So this
is the People's Library? Would you permit me to look into the
collection a little?"

"Willingly," said the official, winking still more vehemently ...

"Certainly, that is every one's privilege. Please look around ... Should
you care for a catalogue?"

"Thank you," said Tonio Kroeger, "I can easily find my bearings." And he
began to walk slowly along the walls, pretending to be reading the
titles on the backs of the books. Finally he took out a volume, opened
it, and went to the window with it.

This had been the breakfast room. Here they had breakfasted, not
upstairs in the great dining-room, where white gods stood out on the
blue wall-paper ... That room had served as a bed-chamber. His father's
mother had died there in bitter anguish, old as she was, for she was a
pleasure-loving woman of the world and clung to life. And later his
father too had breathed his last sigh there, the tall, correct,
somewhat