“I entirely agree with you, my good friend. This important matter must
be settled. In short, then: the usual dowry of a young girl of our
family is seventy thousand marks.”
Herr Grünlich cast at his future father-in-law a shrewd, calculating
glance--the glance of the genuine man of business.
“As a matter of fact,” he said--and this “matter of fact” was of
precisely the same length as his left-hand whisker, which he was
drawing reflectively through his fingers; he let go of the end just as
“of fact” was finished.
“You know, my honoured father,” he began again, “the deep respect I
have for traditions and principles. Only--in the present case is not
this consideration for the tradition a little exaggerated? A business
increases--a family prospers--in short, conditions change and improve.”
“My good friend,” said the Consul, “you see in me a fair-dealing
merchant. You have not let me finish, or you would have heard that I
am ready and willing to meet you in the circumstances, and add ten
thousand marks to the seventy thousand without more ado.”
“Eighty thousand, then,” said Herr Grünlich, making motions with his
mouth, as though to say: “Not _too_ much; but it will do.”
Thus they came to an affectionate settlement; the Consul jingled his
keys like a man satisfied as he got up. And, in fact, his satisfaction
was justified; for it was only with the eighty thousand marks that they
had arrived at the dowry traditional in the family.
Herr Grünlich now said good-bye and departed for Hamburg. Tony as yet
realized but little of her new estate. She still went to dances at the
Möllendorpfs’, Kistenmakers’, and Langhals’, and in her own home; she
skated on the Burgfield and the meadows of the Trave, and permitted the
attentions of the young gentlemen of the town. In the middle of October
she went to the betrothal feast at the Möllendorpfs’ for the oldest son
of the house and Juliet Hagenström. “Tom,” she said, “I won’t go. It
is disgusting.” But she went, and enjoyed herself hugely. And, as for
the rest, by the entry with the pen in the family history-book, she had
won the privilege of going, with the Frau Consul or alone, into all the
shops in town and making purchases in a grand style for her trousseau.
It was to be a brilliant trousseau. Two seamstresses sat all day in
the breakfast-room window, sewing, embroidering monograms, and eating
quantities of house-bread and green cheese.
“Is the linen come from Lentföhr, Mamma?”
“No, but here are two dozen tea-serviettes.”
“That is nice. But he promised it by this afternoon. My goodness, the
sheets still have to be hemmed.”
“Mamsell Bitterlich wants to know about the lace for the pillow-cases,
Ida.”
“It is in the right-hand cupboard in the entry, Tony, my child.”
“Line--!”
“You could go yourself, my dear.”
“Oh, if I’m marrying for the privilege of running up and down stairs--!”
“Have you made up your mind yet about the material for the
wedding-dress, Tony?”
“Moiré antique, Mamma--I won’t marry without moiré antique!”
So passed October and November. At Christmas time Herr Grünlich
appeared, to spend Christmas in the Buddenbrook family circle and also
to take part in the celebration at the Krögers’. His conduct toward
his bride showed all the delicacy one would have expected from him.
No unnecessary formality, no importunity, no tactless tenderness. A
light, discreet kiss upon the forehead, in the presence of the parents,
sealed the betrothal. Tony sometimes puzzled over this, the least
in the world. Why, she wondered, did his present happiness seem not
quite commensurate with the despair into which her refusal had thrown
him? He regarded her with the air of a satisfied possessor. Now and
then, indeed, if they happened to be alone, a jesting and teasing mood
seemed to overcome him; once he attempted to fall on his knees and
approach his whiskers to her face, while he asked in a voice apparently
trembling with joy, “Have I indeed captured you? Have I won you for my
own?” To which Tony answered, “You are forgetting yourself,” and got
away with all possible speed.
Soon after the holidays Herr Grünlich went back to Hamburg, for
his flourishing business demanded his personal attention; and the
Buddenbrooks agreed with him that Tony had had time enough before the
betrothal to make his acquaintance.
The question of a house was quickly arranged. Tony, who looked forward
extravagantly to life in a large city, had expressed the wish to
settle in Hamburg itself, and indeed in the Spitalstrasse, where Herr
Grünlich’s office was. But the bridegroom, by manly persistence, won
her over to the purchase of a villa outside the city, near Eimsbüttel,
a romantic and retired spot, an ideal nest for a newly-wedded
pair--“_procul negotiis_.”--Ah, he had not yet forgotten quite all his
Latin!
Thus December passed, and at the beginning of the year ’46 the wedding
was celebrated. There was a splendid wedding feast, to which half the
town was bidden. Tony’s friends--among them Armgard von Schilling,
who arrived in a towering coach--danced with Tom’s and Christian’s
friends, among them Andreas Gieseke, son of the Fire Commissioner
and now _studiosus juris_; also Stephan and Edward Kistenmacher, of
Kistenmacher and Son. They danced in the dining-room and the hall,
which had been strewn with talc for the occasion. Among the liveliest
of the lively was Consul Peter Döhlmann; he got hold of all the
earthenware crocks he could find and broke them on the flags of the big
passage.
Frau Stuht from Bell-Founders’ Street had another opportunity to mingle
in the society of the great; for it was she who helped Mamsell Jungmann
and the two seamstresses to adjust Tony’s toilette on the great day.
She had, as God was her judge, never seen a more beautiful bride.
Fat as she was, she went on her knees; and, with her eyes rolled up
in admiration, fastened the myrtle twigs on the white moiré antique.
This was in the breakfast-room. Herr Grünlich, in his long-skirted
frock-coat and silk waistcoat, waited at the door. His rosy face had
a correct and serious expression, his wart was powdered, and his
gold-yellow whiskers carefully curled.
Above in the hall, where the marriage was to take place, the family
gathered--a stately assemblage. There sat the old Krögers, a little
ailing both of them, but distinguished figures always. There was
Consul Kröger with his sons Jürgen and Jacob, the latter having come
from Hamburg, like the Duchamps. There were Gottfried Buddenbrook
and his wife, born Stüwing, with their three offspring, Friederike,
Henriette, and Pfiffi, none of whom was, unfortunately, likely to
marry. There was the Mecklenburg branch, represented by Clothilde’s
father, Herr Bernhard Buddenbrook, who had come in from Thankless and
looked with large eyes at the seignorial house of his rich relations.
The relatives from Frankfort had contented themselves with sending
presents; the journey was too arduous. In their place were the only
guests not members of the family. Dr. Grabow, the family physician,
and Mlle. Weichbrodt, Tony’s motherly friend--Sesemi Weichbrodt, with
fresh ribbons on her cap over the side-curls, and a little black
dress. “Be happy, you good child,” she said, when Tony appeared at
Herr Grünlich’s side in the hall. She reached up and kissed her with
a little explosion on the forehead. The family was satisfied with the
bride: Tony looked pretty, gay, and at her ease, if a little pale from
excitement and tension.
The hall had been decorated with flowers and an altar arranged on
the right side. Pastor Kölling of St. Mary’s performed the service,
and laid special stress upon moderation. Everything went according
to custom and arrangement, Tony brought out a hearty yes, and Herr
Grünlich gave his little ahem, beforehand, to clear his throat.
Afterward, everybody ate long and well.
While the guests continued to eat in the salon, with the pastor in
their midst, the Consul and his wife accompanied the young pair, who
had dressed for their journey, out into the snowy, misty air, where the
great travelling coach stood before the door, packed with boxes and
bags.
After Tony had expressed many times her conviction that she should soon
be back again on a visit, and that they too would not delay long to
come to Hamburg to see her, she climbed in good spirits into the coach
and let herself be carefully wrapped up by the Consul in the warm fur
rug. Her husband took his place by her side.
“And, Grünlich,” said the Consul, “the new laces are in the small
satchel, on top. You take a little in under your overcoat, don’t you?
This excise--one has to get around it the best one can. Farewell,
farewell! Farewell, dear Tony. God bless you.”
“You will find good accommodation in Arensburg, won’t you?” asked the
Frau Consul. “Already reserved, my dear Mamma,” answered Herr Grünlich.
Anton, Line, Trine, and Sophie took leave of Ma’am Grünlich. The coach
door was about to be slammed, when Tony was overtaken by a sudden
impulse. Despite all the trouble it took, she unwound herself again
from her wrappings, climbed ruthlessly over Herr Grünlich, who began to
grumble, and embraced her Father with passion. “Adieu, Papa, adieu, my
good Papa.” And then she whispered softly: “Are you satisfied with me?”
The Consul pressed her without words to his heart, then put her from
him and shook her hands with deep feeling.
Now everything was ready. The coach door slammed, the coachman cracked
his whip, the horses dashed away so that the coach windows rattled; the
Frau Consul let fly her little white handkerchief; and the carriage,
rolling down the street, disappeared in the mist.
The Consul stood thoughtfully next to his wife, who drew her cloak
about her shoulders with a graceful movement.
“There she goes, Betsy.”
“Yes, Jean, the first to leave us. Do you think she is happy with him?”
“Oh, Betsy, she is satisfied with herself, which is better; it is the
most solid happiness we can have on this earth.”
They went back to their guests.