CHAPTER I

BUDDENBROOKS

·II·

Other Books by

THOMAS MANN

DEATH IN VENICE

ROYAL HIGHNESS

MAGIC MOUNTAIN

THOMAS MANN

BUDDENBROOKS

VOLUME TWO

[Illustration]

Translated from the German by H. T. Lowe-Porter

ALFRED·A·KNOPF·NEW YORK

1927

COPYRIGHT 1924, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

_Published, February, 1924_

_Second Printing, July, 1924_

_Third Printing, March, 1927_

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PART SEVEN

CHAPTER I

A christening--a christening in Broad Street!

All, everything is there that was dreamed of by Madame Permaneder in

the days of her expectancy. In the dining-room, the maid-servant,

moving noiselessly so as not to disturb the services in the next room,

is filling the cups with steaming hot chocolate and whipped cream.

There are quantities of cups, crowded together on the great round tray

with the gilded shell-shaped handles. And Anton the butler is cutting

a towering layer-cake into slices, and Mamsell Jungmann is arranging

flowers and sweets in silver dessert-dishes, with her head on one side,

and both little fingers stuck out.

Soon the company will have seated themselves in the salon and

sitting-room, and all these delicacies will be handed round. It is

to be hoped they will hold out, since it is the whole family which

has gathered here, in the broader, if not quite in the broadest sense

of the word. For it is, through the Överdiecks, connected distantly

with the Kistenmakers, and through them with the Möllendorpfs--and so

on. One simply must draw the line somewhere! But the Överdiecks are

represented, and, indeed, by no less a personage than the head of the

family, the venerable Doctor Kaspar Överdieck, reigning Burgomaster,

more than eighty years old.

He came in a carriage, and mounted the steps leaning on his staff and

Thomas Buddenbrook’s arm. His presence enhances the dignity of the

occasion--and, beyond a question, this occasion is worthy of every

dignity!

For within, in the salon, there is a flower-decked small table, serving

as an altar, with a young priest in black vestments and a stiff

snowy ruff like a millstone round his neck, reciting the service;

and there is a great, strapping, particularly well-nourished person,

richly arrayed in red and gold, bearing upon her billowing arms a

small something, half smothered in laces and satin bows: an heir--a

first-born son! A Buddenbrook! Do we really grasp the meaning of the

fact?

Can we realize the thrill of that first whisper, that first little hint

that travelled from Broad Street to Mengstrasse? Or Frau Permaneder’s

speechless ecstasy, as she embraced her mother, her brother, and--very

gently--her sister-in-law? And now, with the spring--the spring of the

year 1861--he has come: he, the heir of so many hopes, whom they have

expected for so many years, talked of him, longed for him, prayed to

God and tormented Dr. Grabow for him; at length he has come--and looks

most unimposing.

His tiny hands play among the gilt trimmings of his nurse’s waist;

his head, in a lace cap trimmed with pale blue ribbons, lies sidewise

on the pillow, turned heedlessly away from the preacher; he stares

out into the room, at all his relatives, with an old, knowing look.

Those eyes, under their long-lashed lids, blend the light blue of the

Father’s and the brown of the Mother’s iris into a pale, indefinite,

changeful golden-brown; but bluish shadows lie in the deep corners

on both sides of the nose, and these give the little face, which is

hardly yet a face at all, an aged look not suited to its four weeks of

existence. But, please God, they mean nothing--for has not his Mother

the same? And she is in perfectly good health. And anyhow, he lives--he

lives, and is a son; which was the cause, four weeks ago, for great

rejoicing.

He lives--and it might have been otherwise. The Consul will never

forget the grip of good Dr. Grabow’s hand, as he said to him, four

weeks ago, when he could leave the mother and child: “Give thanks

to God, my dear friend--there wasn’t much to spare.” The Consul

has not dared to ask his meaning. He put from him in horror the

thought that his son--this tiny creature, yearned for in vain so

many years--had slipped into the world without breath to cry out,

almost--_almost_--like Antonie’s second daughter. But he knows that

that hour, four weeks ago, was a desperate one for mother and child;

and he bends tenderly over Gerda, who reclines in an easy-chair in

front of him, next his Mother, her feet, in patent-leather shoes,

crossed before her on a velvet cushion.

How pale she still is! And how strangely lovely in her pallor, with

that heavy dark-red hair and those mysterious eyes that rest upon the

preacher in half-veiled mockery! Herr Andreas Pringsheim, _pastor

marianus_, succeeded thus young to the headship of St. Mary’s after

old Kölling’s sudden death. He holds his chin in the air and his

hands prayerfully folded beneath it. He has short, curly blond hair

and a smooth-shaven, bony face, with a somewhat theatrical range of

expression, from fanatical zeal to an exalted serenity. He comes from

Franconia, where he has been for some years, serving a small Lutheran

community among Catholics; and his effort after a clear and moving

delivery has resulted in exaggerated mannerisms; an _r_ rolled upon his

front teeth and long, obscure, or crudely accented vowel-sounds.

He gives thanks to God, in a voice now low and soft, now loud and

swelling--and the family listen: Frau Permaneder, clothed in a dignity

that hides her pride and her delight; Erica Grünlich, now almost

fifteen years old, a blooming young girl with a long braid and her

father’s rosy skin; and Christian, who has arrived that morning, and

sits letting his deep-set eyes rove from side to side all over the

room. Pastor Tiburtius and his wife have not shrunk from the long

journey, but have come from Riga to be present at the ceremony. The

ends of Sievert Tiburtius’ long, thin whiskers are parted over his

shoulders, and his small grey eyes now and then open wider and wider,

most unexpectedly, and grow larger and more prominent till they almost

jump out of his head. Clara’s gaze is dark and solemn and severe, and

she sometimes lifts her hand to a head that always seems to ache. But

they have brought a splendid present to the Buddenbrooks: a huge brown

bear stuffed in a standing position. A relative of the Pastor’s shot

him somewhere in the heart of Russia, and now he stands below in the

vestibule with a card-tray between his paws.

The Krögers have their son Jürgen visiting them; he is a post-office

official in Rostock, a quiet, simply-dressed man. Where Jacob is,

nobody knows but his mother, who was an Överdieck. She, poor, weak

woman, secretly sells the household silver to send money to the

disinherited son. And the ladies Buddenbrook are there, deeply

rejoiced over the happy family event--which does not prevent Pfiffi

from remarking that the child looks rather unhealthy: a view which

the Frau Consul, born Stüwing, and likewise Friederike and Henriette,

feel bound to endorse. But poor Clothilde, lean, grey, resigned, and

hungry, is moved by the words of Pastor Pringsheim and the prospect of

layer-cake and chocolate. The guests not belonging to the family are

Herr Friedrich Wilhelm Marcus and Sesemi Weichbrodt.

Now the Pastor turns to the god-parents and instructs them in their

duty. Justus Kröger is one. Consul Buddenbrook refused at first to ask

him. “Why invite the old man to commit a piece of folly?” he says. “He

has frightful scenes with his wife every day over Jacob; their little

property is slowly melting away--out of pure worry he is even beginning

to be careless in his dress! But you know what will happen: if we ask

him, he will send the child a heavy gold service and refuse to be

thanked for it!” But when Uncle Justus heard who was to be asked in his

place--Stephan Kistenmaker had been mentioned--he was so enormously

piqued that they had to ask him after all. The gold mug he presented

was, to Thomas’s great relief, not exaggeratedly heavy.

And the second god-father? It is this dignified old gentleman with the

snow-white hair, high neck-band, and soft black broadcloth coat with

the red handkerchief sticking out of the back pocket, sitting here

bent over his stick, in the most comfortable arm-chair in the house.

It is, of course, Burgomaster Dr. Överdieck. It is a great event--a

triumph! Good heavens, how could it have come about? he is hardly even

a relative! The Buddenbrooks must have dragged the old man in by the

hair! In fact, it _is_ rather a feat: a little intrigue planned by

the Consul and Madame Permaneder. At first it was merely a joke, born

of the great relief of knowing that mother and child were safe. “A

boy, Tony,” cried the Consul. “He ought to have the Burgomaster for

god-father!” But she took it up in earnest, whereupon he considered

the matter seriously and agreed to make a trial. They hid behind Uncle

Justus, and got him to send his wife to her sister-in-law, the wife of

Överdieck the lumber dealer. She accepted the task of preparing the old

father-in-law; then Thomas Buddenbrook made a visit to the head of the

state and paid his respects--and the thing was done.

Now the nurse lifts up the child’s cap, and the Pastor cautiously

sprinkles two or three drops out of the gilt-lined silver basin in

front of him, upon the few hairs of little Buddenbrook, as he slowly

and impressively names the names with which he is baptizing him:

Justus, Johann, Kaspar. Follows a short prayer, and then the relatives

file by to bestow a kiss upon the brow of the unconcerned little

creature. Therese Weichbrodt comes last, to whom the nurse has to stoop

with her burden; in return for which Sesemi gives him two kisses,

that go off with small explosions, and says, between them: “You good

che-ild!”

Three minutes later, the guests have disposed themselves in salon and

living-room, and the sweets are passed. Even Pastor Pringsheim, the

toes of his broad, shiny boots showing under his black vestments,

sits and sips the cool whipped cream off his hot chocolate, chatting

easily the while, and wearing his serene expression, which is most

effective by way of contrast with his sermon. His manner says, as

plainly as words: “See how I can lay aside the priest and become the

jolly ordinary guest!” He is a versatile, an accommodating sort of

man. To the Frau Consul he speaks rather unctuously, to Thomas and

Gerda like a man of the world, and with Frau Permaneder he is downright

jocose, making jokes and gesturing fluently. Now and then, whenever he

thinks of it, he folds his hands in his lap, tips back his head, glooms

his brows, and makes a long face. When he laughs he draws the air in

through his teeth in little jerks.

Suddenly there is a stir in the corridor, the servants are heard

laughing, and in the doorway appears a singular figure, come to offer

congratulations. It is Grobleben: Grobleben, from whose thin nose, no

matter what the time of year, there ever hangs a drop, which never

falls. Grobleben is a workman in one of the Consul’s granaries, and

he has an extra job, too, at the house, as boots. Every morning early

he appears in Broad Street, takes the boots from before the door, and

cleans them below in the court. At family feasts he always appears in

holiday attire, presents flowers, and makes a speech, in a whining,

unctuous voice, with the drop pendent from his nose. For this, he

always gets a piece of money--but that is _not_ why he does it!

He wears a black coat--an old one of the Consul’s--greased leather

top-boots, and a blue woollen scarf round his neck. In his wizened

red hand he holds a bunch of pale-coloured roses, which are a little

past their best, and slowly shed their petals on the carpet. He blinks

with his small red eyes, but apparently sees nothing. He stands still

in the doorway, with his flowers held out in front of him, and begins

straightway to speak. The old Frau Consul nods to him encouragingly and

makes soothing little noises, the Consul regards him with one eyebrow

lifted, and some of the family--Frau Permaneder, for instance--put

their handkerchiefs to their mouths.

“I be a poor man, yer honour ’n’ ladies ’n’ gentlemen, but I’ve a

feelin’ hairt; ’n’ the happiness of my master comes home to me, it do,

seein’s he’s allus been so good t’ me; ’n’ so I’ve come, yer honour

’n’ ladies ’n’ gentlemen, to congratulate the Herr Consul ’n’ the Frau

Consul, ’n’ the whole respected family, from a full hairt, ’n’ that

the child may prosper, for that they desarve fr’m God ’n’ man, for

such a master as Consul Buddenbrook there aren’t so many, he’s a noble

gentleman, ’n’ our Lord will reward him for all....”

“Splendid, Grobleben! That was a beautiful speech. Thank you very much,

Grobleben. What are the roses for?”

But Grobleben has not nearly done. He strains his whining voice and

drowns the Consul out.

“... ’n’ I say th’ Lord will reward him, him and the whole respected

family; ’n’ when his time has come to stan’ before His throne, for

stan’ we all must, rich _and_ poor, ’n’ one’ll have a fine polished

hard-wood coffin ’n’ ’tother ’n old box, yet all on us must come to

mother earth at th’ last, yes, we must all come to her at th’ last--to

mother earth--to mother--”

“Oh, come, come, Grobleben! This isn’t a funeral, it’s a christening.

Get along with your mother earth!”

“... ’n’ these be a few flowers,” concludes Grobleben.

“Thank you, Grobleben, thank you. This is too much--what did you pay

for them, man? But I haven’t heard such a speech as that for a long

time! Wait a minute--here, go out and give yourself a treat, in honour

of the day!” And the Consul puts his hand on the old man’s shoulder and

gives him a thaler.

“Here, my good man,” says the Frau Consul. “And I hope you love our

blessed Lord?”

“I be lovin’ him from my hairt, Frau Consul, thet’s the holy truth!”

And Grobleben gets another thaler from her, and a third from Frau

Permaneder, and retires with a bow and a scrape, taking the roses with

him by mistake, except for those already fallen on the carpet.

The Burgomaster takes his leave now, and the Consul accompanies him

down to his carriage. This is the signal for the party to break

up--for Gerda Buddenbrook must rest. The old Frau Consul, Tony, Erica,

and Mamsell Jungmann are the last to go.

“Well, Ida,” says the Consul, “I have been thinking it over: you took

care of us all, and when little Johann gets a bit older-- He still has

the monthly nurse now, and after that he will still need a day-nurse,

I suppose--but will you be willing to move over to us when the time

comes?”

“Yes, indeed, Herr Consul, if your wife is satisfied.”

Gerda is content to have it so, and thus it is settled.

In the act of leaving, however, and already at the door, Frau

Permaneder turns. She comes back to her brother and kisses him on both

cheeks, and says: “It has been a lovely day, Tom. I am happier than I

have been for years. We Buddenbrooks aren’t quite at the last gasp yet,

thank God, and whoever thinks we are is mightily mistaken. Now that we

have little Johann--it is so beautiful that he is christened Johann--it

looks to me as if quite a new day will dawn for us all!”

CHAPTER II

Christian Buddenbrook, proprietor of the firm of H. C. F. Purmeister

and Company of Hamburg, came into his brother’s living-room, holding

in his hand his modish grey hat and his walking-stick with the nun’s

bust. Tom and Gerda sat reading together. It was half-past nine on the

evening of the christening day.

“Good evening,” said Christian. “Oh, Thomas, I must speak with you at

once.--Please excuse me, Gerda.--It is urgent, Thomas.”

They went into the dark dining-room, where the Consul lighted a gas-jet

on the wall, and looked at his brother. He expected nothing good.

Except for the first greeting, he had had no opportunity to speak with

Christian, but he had looked at him, during the service, and noted that

he seemed unusually serious, and even more restless than common: in

the course of Pastor Pringsheim’s discourse he had left the room for

several minutes. Thomas had not written him since the day in Hamburg

when he had paid over into his brother’s hands an advance of 10,000

marks current on his inheritance, to settle his indebtedness. “Just go

on as you are going,” he had said, “and you’ll soon run through all

your money. As far as I am concerned, I hope you will cross my path

very little in future. You have put my friendship to too hard a test in

these three years.” Why was he here now? Something must be driving him.

“Well?” asked the Consul.

“I’m done,” Christian said. He let himself down sidewise on one of the

high-backed chairs around the dining-table, and held his hat and stick

between his thin knees.

“May I ask what it is you are done with, and what brings you to me?”

said the Consul. He remained standing.

“I’m done,” repeated Christian, shaking his head from side to side

with frightful earnestness and letting his little round eyes stray

restlessly back and forth. He was now thirty-three years old, but he

looked much older. His reddish-blond hair was grown so thin that nearly

all the cranium was bare. His cheeks were sunken, the cheek-bones

protruded sharply, and between them, naked, fleshless, and gaunt, stood

the huge hooked nose.

“If it were only this--!” he went on, and ran his hand down the

whole of his left side, very close, but not touching it. “It isn’t a

pain, you know--it is a misery, a continuous, indefinite ache. Dr.

Drögemuller in Hamburg tells me that my nerves on this side are all too

short. Imagine, on my whole left side, my nerves aren’t long enough!

Sometimes I think I shall surely have a stroke here, on this side, a

permanent paralysis. You have no idea. I never go to sleep properly. My

heart doesn’t beat, and I start up suddenly, in a perfectly terrible

fright. That happens not once but ten times before I get to sleep.

I don’t know if you know what it is. I’ll tell you about it more

precisely. It is--”

“Not now,” the Consul said coldly. “Am I to understand that you have

come here to tell me this? I suppose not.”

“No, Thomas. If it were only that--but it is not that--alone. It is the

business. I can’t go on with it.”

“Your affairs are in confusion again?” The Consul did not start, he did

not raise his voice. He asked the question quite calmly, and looked

sidewise at his brother, with a cold, weary glance.

“No, Thomas. For to tell you the truth--it is all the same now--I never

really was in order, even with the ten thousand, as you know yourself.

They only saved me from putting up the shutters at once. The thing

is--I had more losses at once, in coffee--and with the failure in

Antwerp-- That’s the truth. So then I didn’t do any more business; I

just sat still. But one has to live--so now there are notes and other

debts--five thousand thaler. You don’t know the hole I’m in. And on top

of everything else, this agony--”

“Oh, so you just sat still, did you?” cried the Consul, beside himself.

His self-control was gone now. “You let the wagon stick in the mud and

went off to enjoy yourself! You think I don’t know the kind of life

you’ve been living--theatres and circus and clubs--and women--”

“You mean Aline. Yes, Thomas, you have very little understanding for

that sort of thing, and it’s my misfortune, perhaps, that I have so

much. You are right when you say it has cost me too much; and it will

cost me a goodish bit more, for--I’ll tell you something, just here

between two brothers--the third child, the little girl, six months old,

she is my child.”

“You fool, you!”

“Don’t say that, Thomas. You should be just, even if you are angry, to

her and to--why shouldn’t it be my child? And as for Aline, she isn’t

in the least worthless, and you ought not to say she is. She is not

at all promiscuous; she broke with Consul Holm on my account, and he

has much more money than I have. That’s how decent she is. No, Thomas,

you simply can’t understand what a splendid creature she is--and

_healthy_--she is as _healthy_--!” He repeated the word, and held up

one hand before his face with the fingers crooked, in the same gesture

as when he used to tell about “Maria” and the depravity of London. “You

should see her teeth when she laughs. I’ve never found any other teeth

to compare with them, not in Valparaiso, or London, or anywhere else

in the world. I’ll never forget the evening I first met her, in the

oyster-room, at Uhlich’s. She was living with Consul Holm then. Well,

I told her a story or so, and was a bit friendly; and when I went home

with her afterwards--well, Thomas, that’s a different sort of feeling

from the one you have when you do a good stroke of business! But you

don’t like to hear about such things--I can see that already--and

anyhow, it’s over with. I’m saying good-bye to her, though I shall

keep in touch with her on account of the child. I’ll pay up everything

I owe in Hamburg, and shut up shop. I can’t go on. I’ve talked with

Mother, and she is willing to give me the five thousand thaler to start

with, so I can put things in order; and I hope you will agree to it,

for it is much better to say quite simply that Christian Buddenbrook

is winding up his business and going abroad, than for me to make a

failure. You think so too, don’t you? I intend to go to London again,

Thomas, and take a position. It isn’t good for me to be independent--I

can see that more and more. The responsibility--whereas in a situation

one just goes home quite care-free, at the end of the day. And I liked

living in London. Do you object?”

During this exposition, the Consul had turned his back on his brother,

and stood with his hands in his pockets, describing figures on the

floor with his foot.

“Very good, go to London,” he said, shortly, and without turning more

than half-way toward his brother, he passed into the living-room.

But Christian followed him. He went up to Gerda, who sat there alone,

reading, and put out his hand.

“Good night, Gerda. Well, Gerda, I’m off for London. Yes, it’s

remarkable how one gets tossed about hither and yon. Now it’s again

into the unknown, into a great city, you know, where one meets an

adventure at every third step, and sees so much of life. Strange--do

you know the feeling? One gets it here--sort of in the pit of the

stomach--it’s very odd.”

CHAPTER III

James Möllendorpf, the oldest of the merchant senators, died in a

grotesque and horrible way. The instinct of self-preservation became

very weak in this diabetic old man; and in the last years of his life

he fell a victim to a passion for cakes and pastries. Dr. Grabow, as

the Möllendorpf family physician, had protested energetically, and

the distressed relatives employed gentle constraint to keep the head

of the family from committing suicide with sweet bake-stuffs. But

the old Senator, mental wreck as he was, rented a room somewhere, in

some convenient street, like Little Groping Alley, or Angelswick, or

Behind-the-Wall--a little hole of a room, whither he would secretly

betake himself to consume sweets. And there they found his lifeless

body, the mouth still full of half-masticated cake, the crumbs upon his

coat and upon the wretched table. A mortal stroke had supervened, and

put a stop to slow dissolution.

The horrid details of the death were kept as much as possible from the

family, but they flew about the town, and were discussed at length

on the Bourse, in the club, and at the Harmony, in all the business

offices, in the Assembly of Burgesses--likewise at all the balls,

dinners, and evening parties, for the death occurred in February of

the year ’62, and the season was in full swing. Even the Frau Consul’s

friends talked about it, on the Jerusalem evenings, in the pauses

of Lea Gerhardt’s reading aloud; the little Sunday-school children

discussed it in awesome whispers as they crossed the Buddenbrook entry;

and Herr Stuht, in Bell-Founders’ Street, went into ample detail over

it with his wife, who moved in the highest circles.

But interest could not long remain concentrated upon the past. And even

with the first rumour of the old man’s death, the great question had at

once sprung up: who was to succeed him?

What suspense, what subterranean activity! A stranger, intent on the

sights of the mediaeval town, would have noticed nothing; but beneath

the surface there was unimaginable bustle and commotion, as one firm

and unassailable honest conviction after another was exploded; and

slowly, slowly the while, divergent views approached each other!

Passions are stirred, Ambition and Vanity wrestle together in silence.

Dead and buried hopes spring once more to life--and again are blasted.

Old Kurz, the merchant, in Bakers’ Alley, who gets three or four votes

at every election, will sit quaking at home on the fatal day, and

listen to the shouting, but he will not be elected this time either. He

will continue to take his walks abroad, displaying outwardly his usual

mingling of civic pride and self-satisfaction: but he will bear down

with him into the grave the secret chagrin of never having been elected

Senator.

James Möllendorpf’s death was discussed at the Buddenbrook Thursday

dinner-table; and Frau Permaneder, after the proper expressions of

sympathy, began to let her tongue play upon her upper lip and look

across artfully at her brother. The Buddenbrook ladies marked the

look. They exchanged piercing glances, and with one accord shut their

eyes and their lips tightly together. The Consul had, for a second,

responded to the sly smile his sister gave him, and then given the talk

another turn. He knew that the thought which Tony hugged to her breast

in secret was being spoken in the street.

Names were suggested and rejected, others came up and were sifted out.

Henning Kurz in Bakers’ Alley was too old. They needed new blood.

Consul Huneus, the lumber dealer, whose millions would have weighted

the scale heavily in his favour, was constitutionally ineligible, as

his brother already sat in the Senate. Consul Eduard Kistenmaker, the

wine dealer, and Consul Hermann Hagenström were names that kept their

places on the list. But from the very first was heard the name of

Thomas Buddenbrook; and as election-day approached, it grew constantly

plainer that he and Hermann Hagenström were the favoured candidates.

Hermann Hagenström had his admirers and hangers-on--there was no doubt

of that. His zeal in public affairs, the spectacular rise of the

firm of Strunck and Hagenström, the showy house the Consul kept, the

luxurious life he led, the pâtés-de-foie-gras he ate for breakfast--all

these could not fail to make an impression. This large, rather

over-stout man with the short, full, reddish beard and the snub nose

coming down flat on his upper lip, this man whose grandfather nobody

knew, not even himself, and whose father had made himself socially

impossible by a rich but doubtful marriage; this man had become a

brother-in-law of the Huneus’ and the Möllendorpfs, had ranged his

name alongside those of the five or six reigning families in the town,

and was undeniably a remarkable and a respected figure. The novel and

therewith the attractive element in his personality--that which singled

him out for a leading position in the eyes of many--was its liberal

and tolerant strain. His light, large way of making money and spending

it again differed fundamentally from the patient, persistent toil and

the inherited principles of his fellow merchants. This man stood on

his own feet, free from the fetters of tradition and ancestral piety;

and all the old ways were foreign to him. His house was not one of the

ancient patrician mansions, built with senseless waste of space, in

tall white galleries mounting above a stone-paved ground floor. His

home on Sand Street, the southern extension of Broad Street, was a

modern dwelling, not conforming to any set style of architecture, with

a simple painted façade, but furnished inside with every luxury and

planned with the cleverest economy of space. Recently, on the occasion

of one of his large evening parties, he had invited a prima donna from

the government theatre, to sing after dinner to his guests--among

them his witty, art-loving brother--and had paid her an enormous fee

for her services. Hermann Hagenström was not the man to vote in the

Assembly for the application of large sums of money to preserve and

restore the town’s mediaeval monuments. But it was a fact that he

was the first, absolutely the first man in town to light his house

and his offices with gas. Yes, if Consul Hagenström could be said

to represent any tradition whatever, it was the free, progressive,

tolerant, unprejudiced habit of thought which he had inherited from his

father, old Heinrich--and on this was based all the admiration people

undoubtedly felt for him.

Thomas Buddenbrook’s prestige was of a different kind. People honoured

in him not only his own personality, but the personalities of his

father, grandfather, and great-grandfather as well: quite apart from

his own business and public achievement, he was the representative of

a hundred years of honourable tradition. And the easy, charming way,

indeed, with which he carried the family standard made no small part

of his success. What distinguished him, even among his professional

fellow-citizens, was an unusual degree of formal culture, which,

wherever he went, aroused both wonder and respect in about equal

degrees.

On Thursdays at the Buddenbrooks’, the coming election received only

brief and passing comment in the presence of the Consul. Whenever it

was mentioned, the old Frau Consul discreetly averted her light eyes.

But Frau Permaneder, now and then, could not refrain from displaying

her astonishing knowledge of the Constitution. She had gone very

thoroughly into the decrees touching the election of a member of the

Senate, precisely as once she thoroughly informed herself on the laws

governing divorce. She talked about voting chambers, ballots, and

electors, she weighed all the possible eventualities, she could recite

verbatim and glibly the oath taken by the voters. She spoke of the

“free and frank discussion” which the Constitution ordains must be held

over each name upon the list of candidates, and vivaciously wished

she might be present when Hermann Hagenström’s character was being

pulled to pieces! A moment later she leaned over and began to count the

prune-pits on her brother’s dessert-plate: tinker, tailor, soldier,

sailor--finishing triumphantly with “senator” when she came to the last

pit. But after dinner she could not hold in any longer. She took her

brother’s arm and drew him into the bow-window.

“Oh, Tom! _Tom!_ Suppose you are really elected--if our coat-of-arms is

put up in the Senate-chamber at the Town Hall I shall just die of joy,

I know I shall. I shall fall dead at the news--you’ll see!”

“Now, Tony dear! Have a little self-control, a little dignity, I beg

of you. You are not usually lacking in dignity. Am I going around like

Henning Kurz? We amount to something even without the ‘Senator.’ And I

hope you won’t die, whichever way it turns out!”

And the agitations, the consultations, the struggles of opinion

took their course. Consul Peter Döhlmann, the rake with a

business now entirely ruined, which existed only in name, and the

twenty-seven-year-old daughter whose inheritance he was eating

up, played his part by attending two dinners, one given by Thomas

Buddenbrook and the other by Herman Hagenström, and both times

addressing his host, in his loud, resounding voice, as “Senator.” But

Siegismund Gosch, old Gosch the broker, went about like a raging lion,

and engaged to throttle anybody, out of hand, who wasn’t minded to vote

for Consul Buddenbrook.

“Consul Buddenbrook, gentlemen--ah, there’s a man for you! I stood at

his father’s side in the ’48, when, with a word, he tamed the unleashed

fury of the mob. His father, and his father’s father before him, would

have been Senator were there any justice on this earth!”

But at bottom it was not so much Consul Buddenbrook himself whose

personality fired Gosch’s soul to its innermost depths. It was rather

the young Frau Consul, Gerda Arnoldsen. Not that the broker had ever

exchanged a word with her. He did not belong to her circle of wealthy

merchant families, nor sit at their tables, nor pay visits to them.

But, as we have seen, Gerda Buddenbrook had but to arrive in the town

to be singled out by the roving fancy of the sinister broker, ever

on the look-out for the unusual. With unerring instinct he divined

that this figure was calculated to add content to his unsatisfied

existence, and he made himself the slave of one who had scarcely ever

heard his name. Since then he encompassed in his reveries this nervous,

exceedingly reserved lady, to whom he had not even been presented: he

lifted his Jesuit hat to her, on the street, to her great surprise, and

treated her to a pantomime of cringing treachery, gloating over her

the while in his thoughts as a tiger might over his trainer. This dull

existence would afford him no chance of committing atrocities for this

woman’s sake--ah, if it only would, with what devilish indifference

would he answer for them! Its stupid conventions prevented him from

raising her, by deeds of blood and horror, to an imperial throne!--And

thus, nothing was left but for him to go to the Town Hall and cast his

vote in favour of her furiously respected husband--and, perhaps, one

day, to dedicate to her his forthcoming transition of Lope de Vega.

CHAPTER IV

Every vacant seat in the Senate must, according to the Constitution,

be filled within four weeks. Three of them have passed, and this is

election-day--a day of thaw, at the end of February.

It is about one o’clock, and people are thronging into Broad Street.

They are thronging before the Town Hall, with its ornamental

glazed-brick façade, its pointed towers and turrets mounting toward

a whitish grey sky, its covered steps supported on outstanding

columns, its pointed arcades, through which there is a glimpse of the

market-place and the fountain. The crowd stands steadfastly in the

dirty slush that melts beneath their feet; they look into each other’s

faces and then straight ahead again, and crane their necks. For beyond

that portal, in the Council Room, in fourteen arm-chairs arranged in a

semicircle sit the electors, who have been chosen from the Senate and

the Assembly and await the proposals of the voting chambers.

The affair has spun itself out. It appears that the debate in the

chambers will not die down; the struggle is so bitter that up

to now not one single unanimous choice has been put before the

Council--otherwise the Burgomaster would at once announce an election.

Extraordinary! Rumours--nobody knows whence, nobody knows how--come

from within the building and circulate in the street. Perhaps Herr

Kaspersen, the elder of the two beadles, who always refers to himself

as a “servant of the State,” is standing inside there and telling what

he hears, out of the corner of his mouth, through his shut teeth, with

his eyes turned the other way! The story goes that proposals have

been laid before the sitting, but that each of the three chambers

has turned in a different name: namely Hagenström, Kistenmaker, and

Buddenbrook. A secret ballot must now be taken, with ballot-papers--it

is to be hoped that it will show a clear plurality! For people without

overshoes are suffering, and stamping their feet to warm them.

The waiting crowd is made up of all sorts and conditions. There are

sea-faring characters, with bare tattoed necks and their hands in the

pockets of their sailor trousers; grain-porters with their incomparably

respectable countenances, and their blouses and knee-breeches of black

glazed calico; drivers who have clambered down from their wagons of

piled-up sacks, and stand whip in hand to wait for the decision;

servant-maids in neckerchiefs, aprons and thick striped petticoats

with little white caps perched on the backs of their heads and

market-baskets hanging on their bare arms; fish and vegetable women

with their flat straw baskets--even a couple of pretty farm girls with

Dutch caps, short skirts, and long flowing sleeves coming out from

their gaily-embroidered stay-bodies. Mingled among these, burghers,

shop-keepers who have come out hatless from neighbouring shops to

exchange their views, sprucely-dressed young men who are apprentices in

the business of their fathers or their fathers’ friends--and schoolboys

with satchels and bundles of books.

Two labourers with bristling sailor beards, stand chewing their

tobacco; behind them is an excited lady, craning her neck this way

and that to get a glimpse of the Town Hall between their powerful

shoulders. She wears a long evening cloak trimmed with brown fur,

which she holds together from the inside with both hands. Her face is

well covered with a thick brown veil. She shifts her feet about in the

melting snow.

“Gawd! Kurz bain’t gettin’ it this time, nuther, be he?” says the one

labourer to the other.

“Naw, ye mutton-head, ’tis certain he bain’t. There’s no more talk o’

him. Th’ votin’s between Hagenström, Buddenbrook, ’n’ Kistenmaker. ’Tis

all about they,--now.”

“’Tis whether which one o’ th’ three be ahead o’ the others, eh?”

“So ’tis; yes, they do say so.”

“Then I’m minded they’ll be choosin’ Hagenström.”

“Eh, smarty--so they’ll be choosin’ Hagenström? Ye can tell that to

yer grandmother!” And therewith he spits his tobacco-juice on the

ground close to his own feet, the crowd being too dense to admit of

a trajectory. He takes hold of his trousers in both hands and pulls

them up higher under his belt, and goes on: “Hagenström, he’s a great

pig--he be so fat he can’t breathe through his own nose! If so be it’s

all o’er wi’ Kurz then I’m fer Buddenbrook. ’Tis a very shrewd chap.”

“So ’tis, so ’tis. But Hagenström, he’s got the money.”

“That bain’t the question--’tis no matter o’ riches.”

“’n’ then this Buddenbrook--he be so devilish fine wi’ his cuffs ’n’

his silk tie ’n’ his stickin’-out moustaches; hast seen him walk? He

hops along like a bird.”

“Ye ninny, that bain’t the question, no more’n th’ other.”

“They say his sister’ve put away two men a’ready.” The lady in the fur

cloak trembles visibly.

“Eh, that soart o’ thing--what do we know about it? Likely the Consul

he couldn’t help it hisself.”

The lady in the veil thinks to herself, “He couldn’t, indeed! Thank God

for that,” and presses her hands together, inside her cloak.

“’n’ then,” adds the Buddenbrook partisan, “didn’t the Burgomaster his

own self stan’ godfeyther to his son? Can’t ye tell somethin’ by that?”

“Yes, can’t you indeed?” thinks the lady. “Thank heaven, that did do

some good.” She starts. A fresh rumour from the Town Hall, running

zigzag through the crowd, has reached her ears. The balloting, it

seems, has not been decisive. Eduard Kistenmaker, indeed, has received

fewer votes than the other two candidates, and his name has been

dropped. But the struggle goes on between Buddenbrook and Hagenström.

A sapient citizen remarks that if the voting continues to be even, it

will be necessary to appoint five arbitrators.

A voice, down in front at the entrance steps, shouts suddenly: “Heine

Seehas is ’lected--’rah for Heine Seehas!” Heine Seehas, be it known,

is an habitual drunkard, who peddles hot bread on a little wagon

through the streets. Everybody roars with laughter, and stands on

tip-toe to see the wag who is responsible for the joke. The lady in the

veil is seized with a nervous giggle; her shoulders shake for a moment,

and then give a shrug which expresses as plainly as words: “Is this the

time for tom-foolery like that?” She collects herself again, and stares

with intensity between the two labourers at the Town Hall. But almost

at the same moment her hands slip from her cloak, so that it opens

in front, her figure relaxes, her shoulders droop, she stands there

entirely crushed.

Hagenström!--The word seems to have come from nobody knows where--down

from the sky, or up from the earth. It is everywhere at once. There is

no contradiction. So it is decided. Hagenström! Hagenström it is, then.

One may as well go home. The lady in the veil might have known. It was

ever thus. She will go home--she feels the tears rising in her throat.

This state of things has lasted a second or so, when there occurs a

shouting and a backward jostling of the throng. It runs through the

whole assemblage, as those in front press back those behind, and at the

same time something red appears in the doorway. It is the coats of the

beadles Kaspersen and Uhlefeldt. They are in full-dress uniform, with

white riding breeches, three-cornered hats, yellow gauntlet gloves,

and short dress swords. They appear side by side, and make their way

through the crowd, which falls back before them.

They move like fate: silent, resolved, inexorable, not looking to

right or left, with gaze directed toward the ground. They take,

according to instructions, the route marked out by the election. And

it is _not_ in the direction of Sand Street! They have turned to the

right--they are going down Broad Street!

The lady in the veil cannot believe her eyes. However, all about

her, people are seeing just what she sees; they are pushing on after

the beadles, and saying to each other: “It isn’t Hagenström, it’s

Buddenbrook!” And a group of gentlemen emerge from the portal, in

excited conversation, and hurry with rapid steps down Broad Street, to

be the first to offer congratulations.

Then the lady holds her cloak together and runs for it. She runs,

indeed, as seldom lady runs. Her veil blows up, revealing her flushed

face--no matter for that; and one of her furred goloshes keeps flapping

open in the sloppy snow and hindering her frightfully: yet she outruns

them all! She gains the house at the corner of Bakers’ Street, she

rings the alarm-bell at the vestibule door--fire, murder, thieves!--she

shouts at the maid who opens: “They’re coming, Kathrin, they’re

coming,” takes the stairs, and storms into the living-room. Her brother

himself sits there, certainly a little pale. He puts down his paper and

makes a gesture, almost as if to ward her off. But she puts her arms

about him, and repeats: “They’re coming, Tom, they’re coming! You are

the man--and Hermann Hagenström is out!”

That was Friday. On the following day, Senator Buddenbrook stood in the

Council Hall, in the seat of the deceased James Möllendorpf, and in the

presence of the City Fathers there assembled, and the Delegation of

Burgesses, he took the oath: “I will conscientiously perform the duties

of my office, strive with all my power for the good of the State,

faithfully obey the Constitution, honourably pursue the public weal,

and in the discharge of my office, regard neither my own advantage nor

that of my relatives and friends. I will support the laws of the State

and do justice on all alike, whether rich or poor. In all things where

secrecy is needful, I will not speak, and especially will I not reveal

what is given me to keep silent. So help me God!”

CHAPTER V

Our desires and our performance are conditioned by certain needs of

our nervous systems which are very hard to define in words. What

people called Thomas Buddenbrook’s “vanity”--his care for his personal

appearance, his extravagant dressing--was at bottom not vanity but

something else entirely. It was, originally, no more than the effort

of a man of action to be certain, from head to toe, of the adequacy

and correctness of his bearing. But the demands made by himself and by

others upon his talents and his capacities were constantly increased.

He was overwhelmed by public and private affairs. When the Senate

sat to appoint its committees, one of the main departments, the

administration of the taxes, fell to his lot. But tolls, railways, and

other administrative business claimed his time as well; and he presided

at hundreds of committees that called into play all the capacities

he possessed: he had to summon every ounce of his flexibility, his

foresight, his power to charm, in order not to wound the sensibilities

of his elders, to defer constantly to them, and yet to keep the reins

in his own hands. If his so-called vanity notably increased at the same

time, if he felt a greater and greater need to refresh himself bodily,

to renew himself, to change his clothing several times a day, all this

meant simply that Thomas Buddenbrook, though he was barely thirty-seven

years old, was losing his elasticity, was wearing himself out fast.

When good Dr. Grabow begged him to relax a little, he answered, “Oh,

my dear Doctor, I haven’t reached that point yet!” By which he meant

that he still had an interminable deal of work to do before he arrived

at the goal and could settle back to enjoy himself. The truth was,

he hardly believed himself in such a condition. Yet it drove him on,

it left him no peace. Even when he seemed to rest, as he sat with the

paper after dinner, a thousand ideas whirled about in his brain, while

the veins stood out on his temples, and he twisted the ends of his

moustaches with a certain still intensity of passion. He concentrated

with equal violence whether the subject of his thought was a business

manœuvre, a public speech, or a decision to renew his entire stock of

body linen, in order to be sure that he had enough, for a while, at

least.

If such wholesale buying afforded him passing relief and satisfaction,

he could indulge himself in it without scruple, for his business at

this time was as brilliant as ever it had been in his grandfather’s

day. The repute of the firm grew, not only in the town but round about,

and throughout the whole community he continued to be held in ever

greater regard. His talents were admitted on all hands, with admiration

or envy as the case might be; while he himself wrestled ceaselessly, at

times despairingly, to evolve an order and method of work which should

enable him to overtake the flights of his own restless imagination.

Thus, when, in the summer of 1863, Senator Buddenbrook went about with

his mind full of plans for the building of a great new house, it was

not arrogance which impelled him. He was driven by his own inability to

be quiet--which his fellow-burghers would have been right in ascribing

to his “vanity”--for it was another manifestation of the same thing.

To make a new home, and a radical change in his outward life; to pack

up, to re-install himself afresh, to weed out all the accumulations

of bygone years and set aside everything old or superfluous: all

this, even in imagination, gave him feelings of freshness, newness,

spotlessness, stimulation. All of which he must have craved indeed, for

he attacked the plan with great enthusiasm, and already had his eye on

a suitable location.

There was a property of considerable extent at the lower end of

Fishers’ Lane. The house, grey with age, in bad repair, was offered

for sale on the death of its owner, an ancient spinster, the relic

of a forgotten family, who had dwelt there alone. On this piece of

land the Senator thought to build his house; and he surveyed it with

a speculative eye when he passed the spot on his way to the harbour.

The neighbourhood was pleasant enough--good burgher-houses, the most

modest among them being the narrow little façade opposite, with a small

flower-shop on the ground floor.

He threw himself into the affair. He made a rough estimate of the

expense involved, and though the sum he fixed provisionally was by no

means a small one, he felt he could compass it without undue effort.

But then he would suddenly have the thought that the whole thing was

a senseless folly, and confess to himself that his present house had

plenty of room for himself, his wife, their child, and their servants.

But the half-conscious cravings were stronger; and in the desire to

have them strengthened and justified from outside, he first revealed

his plan to his sister.

“Well, Tony, what do you say to it? The whole house is a sort of

hand-box, isn’t it?--and the winding stair is really a joke. It isn’t

quite the thing, is it? and now that you’ve had me made Senator--in a

word, don’t you think I owe it to myself?”

Ah, in the eyes of Madame Permaneder, what was there he did not owe to

himself? She was full of practical enthusiasm. She crossed her arms on

her breast and walked up and down with her shoulders raised and her

head in the air.

“Of course you do, Tom; goodness gracious, yes! What possible objection

could there be? And when you have married an Arnoldsen, with a hundred

thousand thaler to boot-- I’m very proud to be the first you’ve told it

to. It was lovely of you. And if you do do it, Tom, why, you must do it

well, that’s what I say. It must be grand.”

“H’m, well, yes, I agree with you. I’m willing to spend something on

it. I’ll have Voigt, and we’ll go over the plans together. Voigt has a

great deal of taste.”

The second opinion which Thomas called in was Gerda’s. She praised

the idea unreservedly. The confusion of moving would not be pleasant,

but the prospect of a large music-room with good acoustic properties

impressed her most happily. As for the old Frau Consul, she was quite

prepared to think of the new house as a logical consequence of all

the other blessings which had fallen to her lot, and to give thanks

to God therefor, accordingly. Since the birth of the heir, and the

recent election, she gave freer expression to her motherly pride, and

had a way of saying “my son, the Senator,” which the Broad Street

Buddenbrooks found most offensive.

These aging spinsters felt that all too little shadow set off the

sunshine through which Thomas’s outward life ran its brilliant course.

It was no great consolation--at the Thursday family gatherings--to pour

contempt on poor, good-natured Clothilde. As for Christian--Christian,

through the good offices of Mr. Richardson, his former chief, had found

a situation in London, whence he had lately telegraphed a fantastic

desire to marry Fräulein Puvogel, an idea upon which his mother had

firmly set her foot--Christian now belonged, quite simply, to Jacob

Kröger’s class, and was, as it were, a dead issue. They consoled

themselves, to some extent, with the little weaknesses of the old Frau

Consul and Frau Permaneder. They would bring the conversation round to

the subject of coiffures: the Frau Consul was capable of saying, in the

blandest way, that she always wore “her” hair very simply, whereas it

was plain to any one gifted by God with intelligence, and certainly to

the Misses Buddenbrook, that the immutable red-blonde hair under the

old lady’s cap could no longer by any stretch be called “her” hair.

Still more gratifying was it to get Cousin Tony started on the subject

of those nefarious persons who had formerly had an influence on her

life. Teary Trietschke! Grünlich! Permaneder! Hagenström!--Tony, when

she was egged on to it, would utter these names into the air like so

many little trumpetings of disgust, with her shoulders well up. They

had a sweet sound in the ears of the daughters of Uncle Gotthold.

They could not dissimulate, and they would accept no responsibility for

omitting to say that little Johann was frightfully slow about learning

to walk and talk. They were really quite right: it was an admitted fact

that Hanno--this was the nickname adopted by the Frau Senator for her

son--at a time when he was able to call all the members of his family

by name with fair correctness, was incapable of pronouncing the names

Friederike, Henriette, and Pfiffi so that any one could understand what

he said. And at fifteen months he had not taken a single step alone.

The Misses Buddenbrook, shaking their heads pessimistically, declared

that the child would be halt and tongue-tied to the end of his days.

They later admitted the error of their gloomy prophecy; but nobody,

in fact, denied that Hanno was a little backward. His early infancy

was a struggle for life, and his family was in constant anxiety. At

birth he had been too feeble to cry out; and soon after the christening

a three-day attack of cholera-infantum was almost enough to still

for ever the little heart set pumping, in the first place, with such

difficulty. But he survived; and good Dr. Grabow did his best, by

the most painstaking care and nourishment, to strengthen him for the

difficult period of teething. The first tiny white point had barely

pricked through the gum, when the child was attacked by convulsions,

which repeated themselves with greater and greater violence, until

again the worst was to be feared. Once more the old doctor speechlessly

pressed the parents’ hands. The child lay in profound exhaustion, and

the vacant look in the shadowy eyes indicated an affection of the

brain. The end seemed almost to be wished for.

But Hanno regained some little strength, consciousness returned; and

though the crisis which he had survived greatly hindered his progress

in walking and talking, there was no longer any immediate danger to be

feared.

The child was slender of limb, and rather tall for his age. His

hair, pale brown and very soft, began to grow rapidly, and fell

waving over the shoulders of his full, pinafore-like frocks. The

family likenesses were abundantly clear, even now. From the first he

possessed the Buddenbrook hand, broad, a little too short, but finely

articulated, and his nose was precisely the nose of his father and

great-grandfather, though the nostrils would probably remain more

delicate. But the whole lower part of his face, longish and narrow,

was neither Buddenbrook nor Kröger, but from the mother’s side of the

house. This was true of the mouth in particular, which, when closed,

began very early to wear an anxious, woebegone expression that later

matched the look of his strange, gold-brown, blue-shadowed eyes.

So he began to live: brooded over by his father’s reserved tenderness,

clothed and nurtured under his mother’s watchful eye; prayed over by

Aunt Antonie, presented with tops and hobby-horses by the Frau Consul

and Uncle Justus; and when his charming little perambulator appeared on

the streets, it was looked after with interest and expectation. Madame

Decho, the stately nurse, had attended the child up to now; but it had

been settled that when they moved into the new house, not she, but Ida

Jungmann, should move in with them, and the latter’s place with the old

Frau Consul be filled by somebody else.

Senator Buddenbrook carried out his plans. He had no difficulty in

obtaining title to the property in Fishers’ Lane. The Broad Street

house was turned over to Gosch the broker, who dramatically declared

himself prepared to assume the task of disposing of it. Stephan

Kistenmaker, who had a growing family, and, with his brother Eduard,

made good money in the wine business, bought it at once. Herr Voigt

undertook the new building, and soon there was a clean plan to unroll

before the eyes of the family on Thursday afternoons, when they could,

in fancy, see the façade already before them: an imposing brick façade

with sandstone caryatides supporting the bow-window, and a flat roof,

of which Clothilde remarked, in her pleasant drawl, that one might

drink afternoon coffee there. The Senator planned to transfer the

business offices to his new building, which would, of course, leave

empty the ground floor of the house in Meng Street. But here also

things turned out well: for it appeared that the City Fire Insurance

Company wanted to rent the rooms by the month for their offices--which

was quickly arranged.

Autumn came, and the grey walls crumbled to heaps of rubbish, and

Thomas Buddenbrook’s new house rose above its roomy cellars, while

winter set in and slowly waned again. In all the town there was no

pleasanter topic of conversation. It was “tip-top”--it was the finest

dwelling-house far and wide. But it must cost like the deuce--the old

Consul would never have spent money so recklessly. Thus the neighbours,

the middle-class dwellers in the gabled houses, looking out at the

workmen on the scaffoldings, enjoying the sight of the rising walls,

and speculating on the date of the carpenters’ feast.

It came at length, and was celebrated with due circumstance. Up on the

flat-topped roof an old master mason made the festal speech and flung

the champagne bottle over his shoulder, while the tremendous wreath,

woven of roses, green garlands, and gay-coloured leaves, swayed between

standards, heavily in the breeze. The workmen’s feast was held at a

neighbouring inn, at long tables, with beer, sandwiches, and cigars;

and Senator Buddenbrook and his wife and his little son on Madame

Decho’s arm, walked through the narrow space between the tables and

bowed his thanks at the cheers they gave him.

When they got outside, they put little Hanno back into his carriage,

and Thomas and Gerda crossed the road to have another look at the red

façade with the white caryatides. They stood before the flower-shop

with the narrow door and the poor little show-window, in which only

a few pots of onions stood on a green glass slab. Iwersen, the

proprietor, a blond giant of a man, in a woollen jacket, was in the

doorway with his wife. She was of a quite different build, slender

and delicate, with a dark, southern-looking face. She held a four- or

five-year-old boy by one hand, while with the other she was pushing a

little carriage back and forth, in which a younger child lay asleep;

and she was plainly expecting a third blessing.

Iwersen made a low, awkward bow; his wife, continuing to push the

little carriage back and forth, looked calmly and observantly at the

Frau Senator with her narrow black eyes, as the lady approached them on

her husband’s arm.

Thomas paused and pointed with his walking-stick at the great garland

far above them.

“You did a good job, Iwersen,” said he.

“No, Herr Sen’tor. That’s the wife’s work. She’s the one fer these

affairs.”

“Oh,” said the Senator, raised his head with a little jerk, and gave,

for a second, a clear friendly look straight into Frau Iwersen’s face.

Then, without adding a word, he courteously waved his hand, and they

moved on their way.

CHAPTER VI

One Sunday at the beginning of July--Senator Buddenbrook had moved some

four weeks before--Frau Permaneder appeared at her brother’s house

toward evening. She crossed the cool ground floor, paved with flags and

decorated with reliefs by Thorwaldsen, whence there was a door leading

into the bureau; she rang at the vestibule door--it could be opened

from the kitchen by pressing on a rubber bulb--and entered the spacious

lobby, where, at the foot of the steps, stood the bear presented by

Tiburtius and Clara. Here she learned from Anton that the Senator was

still at work.

“Very good, Anton,” she said. “I will go to him.”

Yet she did not go at once into the office, but passed the door that

led into it and stood at the bottom of the splendid staircase, which as

far as the first storey had a cast-iron balustrade, but at the distance

of the second storey became a wide pillared balcony in white and gold,

with a great gilt chandelier hanging down from the skylight’s dizzy

height.

“Very elegant,” said Frau Permaneder, softly, in a tone of great

satisfaction, gazing up into this spacious magnificence. To her it

meant, quite simply, the power, the brilliance, and the triumph of the

Buddenbrook family. But now it occurred to her that she was not, in

fact, come upon a very cheerful errand, and she slowly turned away and

passed through the door into the office.

Thomas sat there quite alone, in his place by the window, writing a

letter. He glanced up, raised an eyebrow, and put out his hand to his

sister.

“’Evening, Tony. What’s the good word?”

“Oh, nothing very good, Tom. Oh, your staircase--it’s just _too_

splendid! Why are you sitting here writing in the dark?”

“It was a pressing letter. Well--nothing very good, eh? Come into the

garden, a little. It is pleasanter out there.”

As they crossed the entry, a violin adagio came trillingly down from

the storey above.

“Listen,” said Tony, and paused a moment. “Gerda is playing. How

heavenly! What a woman! She isn’t a woman, she’s a fairy. How is Hanno,

Tom?”

“Just having his supper, with Jungmann. Too bad he is so slow about

walking--”

“Oh, that will come, Tom, that will come. Are you pleased with Ida?”

“Why not?”

They crossed the flags at the back, leaving the kitchen on the right,

went through a glass door and up two steps into the lovely, scented

flower-garden.

“Well?” the Senator asked.

It was warm and still. The fragrance from the neat beds and borders

hung in the evening air, and the fountain, surrounded by tall pale

purple iris, sent its stream gently plashing heavenward, where the

first stars began to gleam. In the background, an open flight of steps

flanked by low obelisks, led up to a gravelled terrace, with an open

wooden pavilion, a closed marquee, and some garden chairs. On the left

hand was the property wall between them and the next garden; on the

right the side-wall of the next house was covered with a wooden trellis

intended for climbing plants. There were a few currant and gooseberry

bushes at the sides of the terrace steps, but there was only one tree,

a large, gnarled walnut by the left-hand wall.

“The thing is this,” answered Frau Permaneder, with some hesitation, as

the brother and sister began to pace the gravel path of the fore part

of the garden. “Tiburtius has written--”

“Clara?” questioned Thomas. “Please don’t make a long story of it.”

“Yes, Tom. She is in bed; she is very bad--the doctor is afraid of

tuberculosis--of the brain.--I can hardly speak the words. Here is

the letter Tiburtius wrote me, and enclosed another for Mother, which

we are to give her when we have prepared her a little. It tells the

same story. And there is this second enclosure, to Mother, from Clara

herself--written in pencil, in a shaky hand. And Tiburtius wrote that

she herself said they were the last she should write, for it seems the

sad thing is she makes no effort to live. She was always longing for

Heaven--” finished Frau Permaneder, and wiped her eyes.

The Senator walked at her side, his hands behind his back, his head

bowed.

“You are so quiet, Tom. But you are right--what is there to say? Just

now, too, when Christian lies ill in Hamburg--”

For this was, in fact, the state of things. Christian’s “misery” in

the left side had increased so much of late that it had become actual

pain, severe enough to make him forget all smaller woes. He was quite

helpless, and had written to his mother from London that he was coming

home, for her to take care of him. He quit his situation in London and

started off; but at Hamburg had been obliged to take to his bed; the

doctor diagnosed his ailment as rheumatism of the joints, and he had

been removed from his hotel to a hospital. Any further journey was

for the time impossible. There he lay, and dictated to his attendant

letters that betrayed extreme depression.

“Yes,” said the Senator, quietly. “It seems as if one thing just

followed on another.”

She put her arm for an instant across his shoulders.

“But _you_ musn’t give way, Tom. This is no time for you to be

down-hearted. You need all your courage--”

“Yes, God knows I need it.”

“What do you mean, Tom? Tell me, why were you so quiet Thursday

afternoon at dinner, if I may ask?”

“Oh--business, my child. I had to sell no very small quantity of grain

not very advantageously--or, rather, I had to sell a large quantity

very much at a loss.”

“Well, that happens, Tom. You sell at a loss to-day, and to-morrow you

make it good again. To get discouraged over a thing of that kind--”

“Wrong, Tony,” he said, and shook his head. “My courage does not go

down to zero because I have a piece of bad luck. It’s the other way on.

I believe in that, and events show it.”

“But what is the matter with it, then?” she asked, surprised and

alarmed. “One would think you have enough to make you happy, Tom.

Clara is alive, and with God’s help she will get better. And as for

everything else--here we are, walking about, in your own garden,

and it all smells so sweet--and yonder is your house, a dream of a

house--Hermann Hagenström’s is a dog-kennel beside it! And you have

done all that--”

“Yes, it is almost too beautiful, Tony. I’ll tell you--it is too

new. It jars on me a little--perhaps that is what is the matter with

me. It may be responsible for the bad mood that comes over me and

spoils everything. I looked forward immensely to all this; but the

anticipation was the best part of it--it always is. Everything gets

done too slowly--so when it is finished the pleasure is already gone.”

“The pleasure is gone, Tom? At your age?”

“A man is as young, or as old, as he feels. And when one gets one’s

wish too late, or works too hard for it, it comes already weighted with

all sorts of small vexatious drawbacks--with all the dust of reality

upon it, that one did not reckon with in fancy. It is so irritating--so

_irritating_--”

“Oh yes.--But what do you mean by ‘as old as you feel’?”

“Why, Tony--it is a mood, certainly. It may pass. But just now I feel

older than I am. I have business cares. And at the Directors’ meeting

of the Buchen Railway yesterday, Consul Hagenström simply talked

me down, refuted my contentions, nearly made me appear ridiculous.

I feel that could not have happened to me before. It is as though

something had begun to slip--as though I haven’t the firm grip I had

on events.--What is success? It is an inner, an indescribable force,

resourcefulness, power of vision; a consciousness that I am, by my mere

existence, exerting pressure on the movement of life about me. It is my

belief in the adaptability of life to my own ends. Fortune and success

lie with ourselves. We must hold them firmly--deep within us. For as

soon as something begins to slip, to relax, to get tired, _within

us_, then everything without us will rebel and struggle to withdraw

from our influence. One thing follows another, blow after blow--and

the man is finished. Often and often, in these days, I have thought

of a Turkish proverb; it says, ‘When the house is finished, death

comes.’ It doesn’t need to be death. But the decline, the falling-off,

the beginning of the end. You know, Tony,” he went on, in a still

lower voice, putting his arm underneath his sister’s, “when Hanno was

christened, you said: ‘It looks as if quite a new life would dawn for

us all!’ I can still hear you say it, and I thought then that you were

right, for I was elected Senator, and was fortunate in my business, and

this house seemed to spring up out of the ground. But the ‘Senator’

and this house are superficial after all. I know, from life and from

history, something you have not thought of: often, the outward and

visible material signs and symbols of happiness and success only show

themselves when the process of decline has already set in. The outer

manifestations take time--like the light of that star up there, which

may in reality be already quenched, when it looks to us to be shining

its brightest.”

He ceased to speak, and they walked for a while in silence, while the

fountain gently murmured, and a whispering sounded from the top of the

walnut tree. Then Frau Permaneder breathed such a heavy sigh that it

sounded like a sob.

“How sadly you talk, Tom. You never spoke so sadly before. But it

is good to speak out, and it will help you to put all that kind of

thoughts out of your mind.”

“Yes, Tony, I must try to do that, I know, as well as I can. And now

give me the enclosures from Clara and the Pastor. It will be best,

won’t it, for me to take over the matter, and speak to-morrow morning

with Mother? Poor Mother! If it is really tuberculosis, one may as well

give up hope.”

CHAPTER VII

“You don’t even ask me? You go right over my head?”

“I have done as I had to do.”

“You have acted like a distracted person, in a perfectly unreasonable

way.”

“Reason is not the highest thing on earth.”

“Please don’t make phrases. The question is one of the most ordinary

justice, which you have most astonishingly ignored.”

“Let me suggest to you, my son, that you yourself are ignoring the duty

and respect which you owe to your mother.”

“And I answer you, my dear Mother, by telling you that I have never for

a moment forgotten the respect I owe you; but that my attributes as a

son became void when I took my father’s place as head of the family and

of the firm.”

“I desire you to be silent, Thomas!”

“No, I will not be silent, so long as you fail to realize the extent of

your own weakness and folly.”

“I have a right to dispose of my own property as I choose!”

“Within the limits of justice and reason.”

“I could never have believed you would have the heart to wound me like

this!”

“And I could never have believed that my own Mother would slap me in

the face!”

“Tom! Why, Tom!” Frau Permaneder’s anguished voice got itself a

hearing at last. She sat at the window of the landscape-room, wringing

her hands, while her brother paced up and down in a state of high

excitement, and the Frau Consul, beside herself with angry grief, sat

on the sofa, leaning with one hand on its upholstered arm, while the

other struck the table to emphasize her words. All three wore mourning

for Clara, who was now no longer of this earth; and all three were pale

and excited.

What was going on? Something amazing, something dreadful, something

at which the very actors in the scene themselves stood aghast and

incredulous. A quarrel, an embittered disagreement between mother and

son!

It was a sultry August afternoon. Only ten days after the Senator had

gently prepared his mother and given her the letters from Clara and

Tiburtius, the blow fell, and he had the harder task of breaking to

the old lady the news of death itself. He travelled to Riga for the

funeral, and returned with his brother-in-law, who spent a few days

with the family of his deceased wife, and also visited Christian in the

hospital at Hamburg. And now, two days after the Pastor had departed

for home, the Frau Consul, with obvious hesitation, made a certain

revelation to her son.

“One hundred and twenty-seven thousand, five hundred marks current,”

cried he, and shook his clasped hands in front of him. “If it were the

dowry, even! If he wanted to keep the eighty thousand marks! Though,

considering there’s no heir, even that--! But to promise him Clara’s

whole inheritance, right over my head! Without saying aye, yes, or no!”

“Thomas, for our blessed Lord’s sake, do me some sort of justice,

at least. Could I act otherwise? Tell me, could I? She who has been

taken from us, and is now with God, she wrote me from her death-bed,

with faltering hand, a pencilled letter. ‘Mother,’ she wrote, ‘we

shall see each other no more on this earth, and these are, I know, my

dying words to you. With my last conscious thoughts, I appeal to you

for my husband. God gave us no children; but when you follow me, let

what would have been mine if I had lived go to him to enjoy during

his lifetime. Mother, it is my last request--my dying prayer. You

will not refuse it.’--No, Thomas, I did not refuse it--I could not. I

sent a dispatch to her, and she died in peace.” The Frau Consul wept

violently.

“And you never told me a syllable. Everybody conceals things from me,

and acts without my authority,” repeated the Senator.

“Yes, Thomas, I have kept silent. For I felt I _must_ fulfil the last

wish of my dying child, and I knew you would have tried to prevent me!”

“Yes! By God, I would have!”

“You would have had no right to, for three of my children would have

been on my side.”

“I think my opinion has enough weight to balance that of two women and

a degenerate fool.”

“You speak of your brother and sisters as heartlessly as you do to me.”

“Clara was a pious, ignorant woman, Mother. And Tony is a child--and,

anyhow, she knew nothing about the affair at all until now--or she

might have talked at the wrong time, eh? And Christian? Oh, he got

Christian’s consent, did Tibertius! Who would have thought it of him?

Do you know now, or don’t you grasp it yet--what he is, this ingenious

pastor? He is a rogue, and a fortune-hunter!”

“Sons-in-law are always rogues,” said Frau Permaneder, in a hollow

voice.

“He is a fortune-hunter! What does he do? He travels to Hamburg, and

sits down by Christian’s bed. He talks to him--‘Yes,’ says Christian,

‘yes, Tibertius, God bless you! Have you any idea of the pain I suffer

in my left side?’--Oh, the idiots, the scoundrels! They joined hands

against me!” And the Senator, perfectly beside himself, leaned against

the wrought-iron fire-screen and pressed his clenched hands to his

temples.

This paroxysm of anger was out of proportion to the circumstances.

No, it was not the hundred and twenty-seven thousand marks that had

brought him to this unprecedented state of rage. It was rather that his

irritated senses connected this case with the series of rebuffs and

misfortunes which had lately attended him in both public and private

business. Nothing went well any more. Nothing turned out as he intended

it should. And now, had it come to this, that in the house of his

fathers they “went over his head” in matters of the highest importance?

That a pastor from Riga could thus bamboozle him behind his back? He

could have prevented it if he had only been told! But events had taken

their course without him. It was this which he felt could not have

happened earlier--would not have dared to happen earlier! Again his

faith tottered--his faith in himself, his luck, his power, his future.

And it was nothing but his own inward weakness and despair that broke

out in this scene before mother and sister.

Frau Permaneder stood up and embraced her brother. “Tom,” she said,

“do control yourself. Try to be calm. You will make yourself ill.

Are things so very bad? Tibertius doesn’t need to live so very long,

perhaps, and the money would come back after he dies. And if you want

it to, it can be altered--can it not be altered, Mamma?”

The Frau Consul answered only with sobs.

“Oh, no, no,” said the Consul, pulling himself together, and making

a weak gesture of dissent. “Let it be as it is. Do you think I would

carry it into court and sue my own mother, and add a public scandal

to the family one? It may go as it is,” he concluded, and walked

lifelessly to the glass door, where he paused and stood.

“But you need not imagine,” he said in a suppressed voice, “that things

are going so brilliantly with us. Tony lost eighty thousand marks, and

Christian, beside the setting up of fifty thousand that he has run

through with, has already had thirty thousand in advance, and will need

more, as he is not earning anything, and will have to take a cure at

Öynhausen. And now Clara’s dowry is permanently lost, and her whole

inheritance besides for an indefinite period. And business is poor; it

seems to have gone to the devil precisely since the time when I spent

more than a hundred thousand marks on my house. No, things are not

going well in a family where there are such scenes as this to-day. Let

me tell you one thing; if Father were alive, if he were here in this

room, he would fold his hands and commend us to the mercy of God.”

CHAPTER VIII

Wars and rumours of war, billeting and bustle! Prussian officers tread

the parquetry floors of Senator Buddenbrook’s bel-étage, kiss the hand

of the lady of the house, and frequent the club with Christian, who is

back from Öynhausen. In Meng Street Mamsell Severin, Riekchen Severin,

the Frau Consul’s new companion, helps the maids to drag piles of

mattresses into the old garden-house, which is full of soldiers.

Confusion, disorder, and suspense reign. Troops march off through the

gate, new ones come in. They overrun the town; they eat, sleep, fill

the ears of the citizens with the noise of rolling drums, commands,

and trumpet calls--and march off again. Royal princes are fêted, entry

follows entry. Then quiet again--and suspense.

In the late autumn and winter the victorious troops return. Again they

are billeted in the town for a time, are mustered out and go home--to

the great relief of the cheering citizens. Peace comes--the brief

peace, heavy with destiny, of the year 1865.

And between two wars, little Johann played. Unconscious and tranquil,

with his soft curling hair and voluminous pinafore frocks, he played

in the garden by the fountain, or in the little gallery partitioned

off for his use by a pillared railing from the vestibule of the second

storey--played the plays of his four and a half years--those plays

whose meaning and charm no grown person can possibly grasp: which need

no more than a few pebbles, or a stick of wood with a dandelion for

a helmet, since they command the pure, powerful, glowing, untaught

and unintimidated fancy of those blissful years before life touches

us, when neither duty nor remorse dares to lay upon us a finger’s

weight, when we may see, hear, laugh, dream, and feel amazement, when

the world yet makes upon us not one single demand; when the impatience

of those whom we should like so much to love does not yet torment us

for evidence of our ability to succeed in the impending struggle. Ah,

only a little while, and that struggle will be upon us--and they will

do their best to bend us to their will and cut us to their pattern, to

exercise us, to lengthen us, to shorten us, to corrupt us....

Great things happened while little Hanno played. The war flamed up, and

its fortunes swayed this way and that, then inclined to the side of the

victors; and Hanno Buddenbrook’s native city, which had shrewdly stuck

to Prussia, looked on not without satisfaction at wealthy Frankfort,

which had to pay with her independence for her faith in Austria.

But with the failure in July of a large firm of Frankfort wholesale

dealers, immediately before the armistice, the firm of Johann

Buddenbrook lost at one fell sweep the round sum of twenty thousand

thaler.

PART EIGHT

CHAPTER I

When Herr Hugo Weinschenk--in his buttoned-up frock-coat, with his

drooping lower lip and his narrow black moustaches, which grew, in

the most masculine way imaginable, right into the corners of his

mouth; with both his fists held out in front of him, and making little

motions with his elbows at about the height of his waist--when Herr

Hugo Weinschenk, now for some time Director of the City Fire Insurance

Company, crossed the great entry in Meng Street and passed, with a

swinging, pompous stride, from his front to his back office, he gave an

impressive impersonation of an energetic and prosperous man.

And Erica Grünlich, on the other hand, was now twenty years old: a

tall, blooming girl, fresh-coloured and pretty, full of health and

strength. If chance took her up or down the stairs just as Herr

Weinschenk passed that way--and chance did this not seldom--the

Director took off his top-hat, displaying his short black hair, which

was already greying at the temples, minced rather more than ever at the

waist of his frock-coat, and greeted the young girl with an admiring

glance from his bold and roving brown eye. Whereat Erica ran away, sat

down somewhere in a window, and wept for hours out of sheer helpless

confusion.

Fräulein Grünlich had grown up under Therese Weichbrodt’s care and

correction: her thoughts did not fly far afield. She wept over Herr

Weinschenk’s top-hat, the way he raised his eyebrows at sight of her

and let them fall; over his regal bearing and his balancing fists. Her

mother, Frau Permaneder, saw further.

Her daughter’s future had troubled her for years; for Erica was

at a disadvantage compared with other young girls of her age. Frau

Permaneder not only did not go into society, she was actually at war

with it. The conviction that the “best people” thought slightingly

of her because of her two divorces, had become almost a fixed idea;

and she read contempt and aversion where probably there was only

indifference. Consul Hermann Hagenström, for instance, simple and

liberal-minded man that he was, would very likely have been perfectly

glad to greet her on the street; his money had only increased his

joviality and good nature. But she stared, with her head flung back,

past his “goose-liver-paté” face, which, to use her own strong

language, she “hated like the plague”--and her look, of course,

distinctly forbade him. So Erica grew up outside her uncle’s social

circle; she frequented no balls, and had small chance of meeting

eligible young gentlemen.

Yet it was Frau Antonie’s most ardent hope, especially after she

herself had “failed in business,” as she said, that her daughter might

realize her own unfulfilled dream of a happy and advantageous marriage,

which should redound to the glory of the family and sink the mother’s

failure in final oblivion. Tony longed for this beyond everything,

and chiefly now for her brother’s sake, who had latterly shown so

little optimism, as a sign to him that the luck of the family was not

yet lost, that they were by no means “at the end of their rope.” Her

second dowry, the eighteen thousand thaler so magnanimously returned

by Herr Permaneder, lay waiting for Erica; and directly Frau Antonie’s

practiced glance marked the budding tenderness between her daughter

and the Director, she began to trouble Heaven with a prayer that Herr

Weinschenk might be led to visit them.

He was. He appeared in the first storey, where he was received by

the three ladies, mother, daughter, and granddaughter, talked for

ten minutes, and promised to return another day for coffee and more

leisurely conversation.

This too came to pass, and the acquaintance progressed. The Director

was a Silesian by birth. His old father, in fact, still lived in

Silesia; but the family seemed not to come into consideration, Hugo

being, evidently, a “self-made man.” He had the self-consciousness of

such men: a not quite native, rather insecure, mistrustful, exaggerated

air. His grammar was not perfect, and his conversation was distinctly

clumsy. And his countrified frock-coat had shiny spots; his cuffs,

with large jet cuff-buttons, were not quite fresh; and the nail on the

middle finger of his left hand had been crushed in some accident, and

was shrivelled and blackened. The impression, on the whole, was rather

unpleasing; yet it did not prevent Hugo Weinschenk from being a highly

worthy young man, industrious and energetic, with a yearly salary of

twelve thousand marks current; nor from being, in Erica Grünlich’s

eyes, handsome to boot.

Frau Permaneder quickly looked him over and summed him up. She talked

freely with her mother and the Senator. It was clear to her that here

was a case of two interests meeting and complementing each other.

Director Weinschenk was, like Erica, devoid of every social connection:

the two were thus, in a manner, marked out for each other--it was

plainly the hand of God himself. If the Director, who was nearing the

forties, his hair already sprinkled with grey, desired to found a

family appropriate to his station and connections, here was an opening

for him into one of the best circles in town, calculated to advance him

in his calling and consolidate his position. As for Erica’s welfare,

Frau Permaneder could feel confident that at least her own lot would be

out of the question. Herr Weinschenk had not the faintest resemblance

to Herr Permaneder; and he was differentiated from Bendix Grünlich by

his position as an old-established official with a fixed salary--which,

of course, did not preclude a further career.

In a word, much good will was shown on both sides. Herr Weinschenk’s

visits followed each other in quick succession, and by January--January

of the year 1867--he permitted himself to make a brief and manly offer

for Erica Grünlich’s hand.

From now on he belonged to the family. He came on children’s day,

and was received civilly by the relatives of his betrothed. He must

soon have seen that he did not fit in very well; but he concealed

the fact under an increased assurance of manner, while the Frau

Consul, Uncle Justus, and the Senator--though hardly the Broad Street

Buddenbrooks--practised a tactful complaisance toward the socially

awkward, hard-working official.

And tact was needed. For pauses would come at the family table, when

Director Weinschenk tried to make conversation by asking if “orange

marmalade” was a “pudden”; when he gave out the opinion that Romeo and

Juliet was a piece by Schiller; when his manner with Erica’s cheek or

arm became too roguish. He uttered his views frankly and cheerfully,

rubbing his hands like a man whose mind is free from care, and leaning

back sidewise against the arm of his chair. Some one always needed to

fill in the pause by a sprightly or diverting remark.

He got on best with the Senator, who knew how to steer a safe course

between politics and business. His relations with Gerda Buddenbrook

were hopeless. This lady’s personality put him off to such a degree

that he was incapable of finding anything to talk about with her for

two minutes on end. The fact that she played the violin made a strong

impression upon him; and he finally confined himself, on each Thursday

afternoon encounter, to the jovial enquiry, “Well, how’s the fiddle?”

After the third time, however, the Frau Senator refrained from reply.

Christian, on the other hand, used to look at his new relative down

his nose, and the next day imitate him and his conversation with full

details. The second son of the deceased Consul Buddenbrook had been

relieved of his rheumatism in Öynhausen; but a certain stiffness of

the joints was left, as well as the periodic misery in the left side,

where all the nerves were too short, and sundry other ills to which

he was heir, as difficulty in breathing and swallowing, irregularity

of the heart action, and a tendency to paralysis--or at least to a

fear of it. He did not look like a man at the end of the thirties.

His head was entirely bald except for vestiges of reddish hair at the

back of the neck and on the temples; and his small round roving eyes

lay deeper than ever in their sockets. And his great bony nose and his

lean, sallow cheeks were startlingly prominent above his heavy drooping

red moustaches. His trousers, of beautiful and lasting English stuff,

flapped about his crooked emaciated legs.

He had come back once more to his mother’s house, and had a room on the

corridor of the first storey. But he spent more of his time at the club

than in Meng Street, for life there was not made any too pleasant for

him. Riekchen Severin, Ida Jungmann’s successor, who now reigned over

the Frau Consul’s household and managed the servants, had a peasant’s

instinct for hard facts. She was a thick-set country-bred creature,

with coarse lips and fat red cheeks. She perceived directly that it was

not worth while to put herself out for this idle story-teller, who was

silly and ill by turns, whom his brother, the Senator--the real head of

the family--ignored with lifted eyebrows. So she quite calmly neglected

Christian’s wants. “Gracious, Herr Buddenbrook,” she would say, “you

needn’t think as I’ve got time for the likes of you!” Christian would

look at her with his nose all wrinkled up, as if to say “Aren’t you

ashamed of yourself?” and go his stiff-kneed way.

“Do you think,” he said to Tony, “that I have a candle to go to bed by?

Very seldom. I generally take a match.” The sum his mother could allow

him was small. “Hard times,” he would say. “Yes, things were different

once. Why, what do you suppose? Sometimes I’ve had to borrow money for

tooth-powder!”

“Christian!” cried Frau Permaneder. “How undignified! And going to

bed with a match!” She was shocked and outraged in her deepest

sensibilities--but that did not mend matters.

The tooth-powder money Christian borrowed from his old friend Andreas

Gieseke, Doctor of Civil and Criminal Jurisprudence. He was fortunate

in this friendship, and it did him credit; for Dr. Gieseke, though as

much of a rake as Christian, knew how to keep his dignity. He had been

elected Senator the preceding winter, for Dr. Överdieck had sunk gently

to his long rest, and Dr. Langhals sat in his place. His elevation did

not affect Andreas Gieseke’s mode of life. Since his marriage with

Fräulein Huneus, he had acquired a spacious house in the centre of the

town; but as everybody knew, he also owned a certain comfortable little

vine-clad villa in the suburb of St. Gertrude, which was charmingly

furnished, and occupied quite alone by a still young and uncommonly

pretty person of unknown origin. Above the house door, in ornamental

gilt lettering, was the word “Quisisana,” by which name the retired

little dwelling was known throughout the town, where they pronounced it

with a very soft _s_ and a very broad _a_. Christian Buddenbrook, as

Senator Gieseke’s best friend, had obtained entry into Quisisana, and

been successful there, as formerly with Aline Puvogel in Hamburg, and

on other occasions in London, Valparaiso, and sundry other parts of the

world. He “told a few stories,” and was “a little friendly”; and now

he visited the little vine-clad house on the same footing as Senator

Gieseke himself. Whether this happened with the latter’s knowledge and

consent, is of course doubtful. What is certain is, that Christian

found there, without money and without price, the same friendly

relaxation as Dr. Gieseke, who, however, had to pay for the same with

his wife’s money.

A short time after the betrothal of Hugo Weinschenk and Erica Grünlich,

the Director proposed to his relative that he should enter the

Insurance office; and Christian actually worked for two weeks in the

service of the Company. But the misery in his side began to get worse,

and his other, indefinable ills as well; and the Director proved to

be a domineering superior, who did not hesitate, on the occasion of a

little misunderstanding, to call his relative a booby. So Christian

felt constrained to leave this post too.

Madame Permaneder, at this period of the family’s history, was in such

a joyful mood that her happiness found vent in shrewd observations

about life: how, when all was said and done, it had its good side.

Truly, she bloomed anew in these weeks; and their invigorating

activity, the manifold plans, the search for suitable quarters, and the

feverish preoccupation with furnishings brought back with such force

the memories of her first betrothal that she could not but feel young

again--young and boundlessly hopeful. Much of the graceful high spirits

of girlhood returned to her ways, and movements; indeed, she profaned

the mood of one entire Jerusalem evening by such uncontrollable

hilarity that even Lea Gerhardt let the book of her ancestor fall in

her lap and stared about the room with the great, innocent, startled

eyes of the deaf.

Erica was not to be parted from her mother. The Director agreed--nay,

it was even his wish,--that Frau Antonie should live with the

Weinschenks, at least at first, and help the inexperienced Erica with

her housekeeping. And it was precisely this which called up in her

the most priceless feeling, as though no Bendix Grünlich or Alois

Permaneder had ever existed, and all the trials, disappointments, and

sufferings of her life were as nothing, and she might begin anew and

with fresh hopes. She bade Erica be grateful to God, who bestowed upon

her the one man of her desire, whereas the mother had been obliged

to offer up her first and dearest choice on the altar of duty and

reason. It was Erica’s name which, with a hand trembling with joy,

she inscribed in the family book next the Director’s. But she, Tony

Buddenbrook, was the real bride. It was she who might once more ransack

furniture and upholstery shops and test hangings and carpets with a

practised hand; she who once more found and rented a truly “elegant”

apartment. It was she who was once more to leave the pious and roomy

parental mansion and cease to be a divorced wife; she who might

once more lift her head and begin a new life, calculated to arouse

general remark and enhance the prestige of the family. Even--was it a

dream?--dressing-gowns appeared upon the horizon: two dressing-gowns,

for Erica and herself, of soft, woven stuff, with close rows of velvet

trimming from neck to hem!

The weeks fled by--the last weeks of Erica Grünlich’s maidenhood. The

young pair had made calls in only a few houses; for the Director,

a serious and preoccupied man, with no social experience, intended

to devote what leisure he had to intimate domesticity. There was a

betrothal dinner in the great salon of the house in Fishers’ Lane, at

which, besides Thomas and Gerda, there were present the bridal pair and

Henriette, Friederike and Pfiffi Buddenbrook, and some close friends of

the Senator; and the Director continually pinched the bare shoulders of

his fiancée, rather to the disgust of the other guests. And the wedding

day drew near.

The marriage was solemnized in the columned hall, as on that other

occasion when it was Frau Grünlich who wore the myrtle. Frau Stuht from

Bell-Founders’ Street, the same who moved in the best circles, helped

to arrange the folds of the bride’s white satin gown and pin on the

decorations. The Senator gave away the bride, supported by Christian’s

friend Senator Gieseke, and two school friends of Erica’s acted as

bridesmaids. Director Hugo Weinschenk looked imposing and manly, and

only trod once on Erica’s flowing veil on the way to the improvised

altar. Pastor Pringsheim held his hands clasped beneath his chin, and

performed the service with his accustomed air of sweet exaltation;

and everything went off with dignity and according to rule. When the

rings were exchanged, and the deep and the treble “yes” sounded in

the hush (both a trifle husky), Frau Permaneder, overpowered by the

past, the present, and the future, burst into audible sobs: just the

unthinking, unembarrassed tears of her childhood. And the sisters

Buddenbrook--Pfiffi, in honour of the day, was wearing a gold chain to

her pince-nez--smiled a little sourly, as always on such occasions. But

Mademoiselle Weichbrodt, who had grown shorter with the lengthening

years, and had the oval brooch with the miniature of her mother around

her thin neck--Sesemi said, with the disproportionate solemnity which

hides deep emotion: “Be happy, you good che-ild!”

Followed a banquet, as solemn as solid, beneath the eyes of the white

Olympians, looking down composedly from their blue background. As it

drew toward its end, the newly wedded pair disappeared, to begin their

wedding journey, which was to include visits to several large cities.

All this was at the middle of April; and in the next two weeks, Frau

Permaneder, assisted by the upholsterer Jacobs, accomplished one of

her masterpieces: she moved into and settled the spacious first storey

which she had rented in a house half-way down Baker Alley. There, in a

bower of flowers, she welcomed the married pair on their return.

And thus began Tony Buddenbrook’s third marriage.

Yes, this was really the right way to put it. The Senator himself, one

Thursday afternoon when the Weinschenks were not present, had called

it that, and Frau Permaneder quite relished the joke. All the cares of

the new household fell upon her, but she reaped her reward in pride

and pleasure. One day she happened to meet on the street Frau Consul

Julchen Möllendorpf, born Hagenström, into whose face she looked

with a challenging, triumphant glance; it actually dawned upon Frau

Möllendorpf that she had better speak first, and she did. Tony waxed so

important in her pride and joy, when she showed off the new house to

visiting relatives, that little Erica, beside her, seemed but a guest

herself.

Frau Antonie displayed the house to their guests, the train of her

morning gown dragging behind her, her shoulders up and her head thrown

back, carrying on her arm the key-basket with its bow of satin ribbon.

She displayed the furniture, the hangings, the translucent porcelain,

the gleaming silver, the large oil paintings. These last had been

purchased by the Director, and were nearly all still-lifes of edibles

or nude figures of women, for such was Hugo Weinschenk’s taste. Tony’s

every movement seemed to say: “See, I have managed all this for the

third time in my life! It is almost as fine as Grünlich’s, and much

finer than Permaneder’s!”

The old Frau Consul came, in a black-and-grey striped silk, giving out

a discreet odour of patchouli. She surveyed everything with her pale,

calm eyes and, without any loud expressions of admiration, professed

herself pleased with the effect. The Senator came, with his wife and

child; he and Gerda hugely enjoyed Tony’s blissful self-satisfaction,

and with difficulty prevented her from killing her adored little Johann

with currant bread and port wine. The Misses Buddenbrook came, and were

unanimously of opinion that it was all very fine--of course, being

modest people themselves, they would not care to live in it. Poor,

lean, grey, patient, hungry Clothilde came, submitted to the usual

teasing, and drank four cups of coffee, praising everything the while,

in her usual friendly drawl. Even Christian appeared now and then, when

there was nobody at the club, drank a little glass of Benedictine, and

talked about a project he had of opening an agency for champagne and

brandy. He knew the business, and it was a light, agreeable job, in

which a man could be his own master, write now and then in a notebook,

and make thirty thaler by turning over his hand. Then he borrowed a

little money from Frau Permaneder to buy a bouquet for the leading lady

at the theatre; came, by God knows what train of thought, to Maria and

the depravity in London; and then lighted upon the story of the mangy

dog that travelled all the way from Valparaiso to San Francisco in a

hand-satchel. By this time he was in full swing, and narrated with such

gusto, verve, and irresistible drollery that he would have held a large

audience spell-bound.

He narrated like one inspired; he possessed the gift of tongues. He

narrated in English, Spanish, low German, and Hamburgese; he depicted

stabbing affrays in Chile and pick-pocketings in Whitechapel. He drew

upon his repertory of comic songs, and half sang, half recited, with

incomparable pantomime and highly suggestive gesture:

“I sauntered out one day,

In an idle sort o’ way,

And chanced to see a maid, ahead o’ me.

She’d such a charmin’ air,

Her back--was French--I’d swear,

And she wore her ’at as rakish as could be.

I says, ‘My pretty dear,

Since you an’ I are ’ere,

Perhaps you’d take me arm and walk along?’

She turned her pretty ’ead,

And looked--at me--and said,

‘You just get on, my lad, and hold your tongue!’”

From this he went off on an account of a performance at the Renz

Circus, in Hamburg, and reproduced a turn by a troupe of English

vaudeville artists, in such a way that you felt you were actually

present. There was the usual hubbub behind the curtain, shouts of

“Open the door, will you!” quarrels with the ring-master; and then,

in a broad, lugubrious English-German, a whole string of stories:

the one about the man who swallowed a mouse in his sleep, and went

to the vet., who advised him to swallow a cat; and the one about “my

grandmother--lively old girl, she was”--who, on her way to the railway

station, encounters all sorts of adventures, ending with the train

pulling out of the station in front of the nose of the “lively old

girl.” And then Christian broke off with a triumphant “Orchestra!” and

made as if he had just waked up and was very surprised that no music

was forthcoming.

But, quite suddenly, he stopped. His face changed, his motions relaxed.

His little deep round eyes began to stray moodily about; he rubbed his

left side with his hand, and seemed to be listening to uncanny sounds

within himself. He drank another glass of liqueur, which relieved him a

little. Then he tried to tell another story, but broke down in a fit of

depression.

Frau Permaneder, who in these days was uncommonly prone to laugh

and had enjoyed the performance hugely, accompanied her brother to

the door, in rather a prankish mood. “Adieu, Herr Agent,” said she.

“Minnesinger--Ninnysinger! Old goose! Come again soon!” She laughed

full-throatedly behind him and went back into her house.

But Christian did not mind. He did not even hear her, so deep was he in

thought. “Well,” he said to himself, “I’ll go over to Quisisana for a

bit.” His hat a little awry, leaning on his stick with the nun’s bust

for a handle, he went slowly and stiffly down the steps.