This year the Buddenbrooks took no holiday during Christian’s and
Clara’s vacation. The Consul said he was too busy; but it was Tony’s
unsettled affair as well, that kept them lingering in Mengstrasse.
A very diplomatic letter, written by the Consul himself, had been
dispatched to Herr Grünlich; but the progress of the wooing was
hindered by Tony’s obstinacy. She expressed herself in the most
childish way. “Heaven forbid, Mamma,” she would say. “I simply can’t
en_dure_ him!” with tremendous emphasis on the second syllable. Or she
would explain solemnly, “Father” (Tony never otherwise said anything
but “Papa”), “I can never yield him my consent.”
And at this point the matter would assuredly have stuck, had it not
been for events that occurred some ten days after the talk in the
breakfast-room--in other words, about the middle of July.
It was afternoon--a hot blue afternoon. The Frau Consul was out, and
Tony sat with a book alone at the window of the landscape-room, when
Anton brought her a card. Before she had time to read the name, a young
man in a bell-skirted coat and pea-green pantaloons entered the room.
It was, of course, Herr Grünlich, with an expression of imploring
tenderness upon his face.
Tony started up indignantly and made a movement to flee into the next
room. How could one possibly talk to a man who had proposed for one’s
hand? Her heart was in her throat and she had gone very pale. While
he had been at a safe distance she had hugely enjoyed the solemn
conferences with her Father and Mother and the suddenly enhanced
importance of her own person and destiny. But now, here he was--he
stood before her. What was going to happen? And again she felt that she
was going to weep.
At a rapid stride, his head tipped on one side, his arms outstretched,
with the air of a man who says: “Here I am, kill me if you will!” he
approached. “What a providence!” he cried. “I find you here, Antonie--”
(He said “Antonie”!)
Tony stood erect, her novel in her right hand. She stuck out her lips
and gave her head a series of little jerks upward, relieving her
irritation by stressing, in that manner, each word as she spoke it.
She got out “What is the matter with you?”--But the tears were already
rising. And Herr Grünlich’s own excitement was too great for him to
realize the check.
“How could I wait longer? Was I not driven to return?” he said in
impassioned tones. “A week ago I had your Father’s letter, which filled
me with hope. I could bear it no longer. Could I thus linger on in
half-certainty? I threw myself into a carriage, I hastened hither, I
have taken a couple of rooms at the City of Hamburg--and here I am,
Antonie, to hear from your lips the final word which will make me
happier than I can express.”
Tony was stunned. Her tears retreated abashed. This, then, was the
effect of her Father’s careful letter, which had indefinitely postponed
the decision. Two or three times she stammered: “You are mistaken--you
are mistaken.”
Herr Grünlich had drawn an arm-chair close to her seat in the window.
He sat down, he obliged her to sit as well, and, bowing over her
hand, which, limp with indecision, she resigned to him, he went on
in a trembling voice: “Fräulein Antonie, since first I saw you, that
afternoon,--do you remember that afternoon, when I saw you, a vision of
loveliness, in your own family circle?--Since then, your name has been
indelibly written on my heart.” He went back, corrected himself, and
said “graven”: “Since that day, Fräulein Antonie, it has been my only,
my most ardent wish, to win your beautiful hand. What your Father’s
letter permitted me only to hope, that I implore you to confirm to
me now in all certainty. I may feel sure of your consent--I may be
assured of it?” He took her other hand in his and looked deep into her
wide-open, frightened eyes. He had left off his worsted gloves to-day,
and his hands were long and white, marked with blue veins. Tony stared
at his pink face, at his wart, at his eyes, which were as blue as a
goose’s.
“Oh, no, no,” she broke out, rapidly, in terror. And then she added,
“No, I will never yield my consent.” She took great pains to speak
firmly, but she was already in tears.
“How have I deserved this doubt and hesitation?” he asked in a lower,
well-nigh reproachful tone. “I know you are a maiden cherished and
sheltered by the most loving care. But I swear to you, I pledge you my
word of honour as a man, that I would carry you in my arms, that as
my wife you would lack nothing, that you would live in Hamburg a life
altogether worthy of you--”
Tony sprang up. She freed her hand and, with the tears rolling down her
cheeks, cried out in desperation, “No, no! I said _no_! I am refusing
you--for heaven’s sake, can’t you understand?” Then Herr Grünlich rose
up too. He took one backward step and stretched out his arms toward
her, palms up. Seriously, like a man of honour and resolution, he spoke.
“Mademoiselle Buddenbrook, you understand that I cannot permit myself
to be insulted?”
“But I am not insulting you, Herr Grünlich,” said Tony, repenting her
brusqueness. Oh, dear, oh dear, _why_ did all this have to happen to
her? Such a wooing as this she had never imagined. She had supposed
that one only had to say: “Your offer does me great honour, but I
cannot accept it,” and that would be an end of the matter. “Your offer
does me great honour,” she said, as calmly as she could, “but I cannot
accept it. And now I must go; please excuse me--I am busy--” But Herr
Grünlich stood in front of her.
“You reject me?” he said gloomily.
“Yes,” Tony said; adding with tact, “unfortunately.”
Herr Grünlich gave a gusty sigh. He took two big steps backward, bent
his torso to one side, pointed with his forefinger to the carpet and
said in an awful voice: “Antonie!” Thus for the space of a moment
they stood, he in a posture of commanding rage, Tony pale, weepy, and
trembling, her damp handkerchief to her mouth. Then he turned from her
and, with his hands on his back, measured the room twice through, as if
he were at home. He paused at the window and looked out into the early
dusk. Tony moved cautiously toward the glass doors, but she got only as
far as the middle of the room when he stood beside her again.
“Tony!” he murmured, and gently took her hand. Then he sank, yes, he
sank slowly upon his knees beside her! His two gold whiskers lay across
her hand!
“Tony!” he repeated. “You behold me here--you see to what you have
brought me. Have you a heart to feel what I endure? Listen. You behold
a man condemned to death, devoted to destruction, a man who--who will
certainly die of grief,” he interrupted himself, “if you scorn his
love. Here I lie. Can you find it in your heart to say: ‘I despise
you’?”
“No, no,” Tony said quickly in a consoling tone. Her tears were
conquered, pity stirred. Heavens, how he must adore her, to go on
like that, while she herself felt completely indifferent! Was it to
her, Tony Buddenbrook, that all this was happening? One read of it
in the novels. But here in real life was a man in a frock-coat, on
his knees in front of her, weeping, imploring. The idea of marrying
him was simply idiotic, because she had found him silly; but just at
this moment he did not seem silly; heavens, no! Honourable, upright,
desperate entreaty were in his voice and face.
“No, no,” she repeated, bending over him quite touched. “I don’t
despise you, Herr Grünlich. How can you say such a thing? Do get
up--please do!”
“Then you will not kill me?” he asked again; and she answered, in a
consoling, almost motherly tone, “No, no.”
“That is a promise!” he cried, springing to his feet. But when
he saw Tony’s frightened face he got down again and went on in a
wheedling tone: “Good, good, say no more, Antonie. Enough, for this
time. We shall speak of this again. No more now--farewell. I will
return--farewell!” He had got quickly to his feet. He took his broad
grey hat from the table, kissed her hand, and was out through the glass
doors in a twinkling.
Tony saw him take his stick from the hall and disappear down the
corridor. She stood, bewildered and worn out, in the middle of the
room, with the damp handkerchief in one of her limp hands.