by Thomas Mann
Tony would have liked to express her outrage in stronger, franker terms, but the air of mourning still lay heavy over the room. The consul had been dead for two weeks now—it was half past five in the afternoon of the day on which the will was to be read. Madame Buddenbrook had invited her brother to Meng Strasse to join with Thomas and Herr Marcus, the chief clerk, in a discussion of the provisions in the deceased’s will and of the general financial situation; and Tony had let it be known that she would likewise be taking part in the conference. She owed both the firm and the family that much, she had said, and she was anxious to give the meeting the character of a formal family council. She had drawn the curtains, and although the two paraffin lamps on the dining table provided sufficient light, she had lit every candle on the tall gold-plated candelabra. The dining table was pulled out to its full extent and covered with a green cloth, and Tony had made sure that plenty of writing paper and sharpened pencils had been distributed around it—though no one was exactly sure what they might be needed for.
Her black dress made her look young and slender. Although she perhaps felt the grief of the consul’s death more than the others, after having been so close to him in recent years, and although she had twice shed bitter tears today at the thought of him, it was probably the prospect of a little family council, of an earnest little conference in which she would play a dignified role, that gave such a glow to her pretty cheeks, such liveliness to her eyes, such a sense of satisfaction and importance to her movements. Her mother, however, did not look well; she was exhausted by grief, apprehension, and the thousand sad formalities of a funeral. Framed by a black lace bonnet, her face looked paler than ever, and her bright-blue eyes were dulled. But there was not a strand of white to be seen in her smoothly parted, reddish blonde hair. Was that still the Parisian tint, or was it a wig now? Only Mamselle Jungmann knew, and she would never have betrayed the secret, even to the other ladies of the house.
They were sitting at one end of the dining room table and waiting for Thomas and Herr Marcus to arrive from the office. The painted gods atop their pedestals stood out white and proud against the sky-blue background.
Elisabeth said, “The thing is, my dear Justus, I asked you to come because—to be brief, it’s about Clara, our youngest. My dear, departed Jean left it to me to choose a guardian. The girl will require one for another three years yet. I know that you do not like to be burdened with extra responsibilities; you have your duties to your wife and your sons.…”
“To my son, Bethsy.”
“Yes, yes, Justus, but as Christians we must be merciful—as we forgive our debtors, the prayer says. We must always remember our gracious Father in heaven.”
Her brother gave her a somewhat puzzled look. Until now, such phrases had been known to come only from the mouth of the late consul.
“But enough,” she continued. “There are as good as no obligations involved. I should like to ask you as a favor to be her guardian.”
“With pleasure, Bethsy, I’ll do it gladly. Might I not see my ward? She’s a good child, though a little too serious.”
Clara was called. And when she entered, black and pale, she moved with slow reserve. Since her father’s death, her days had been spent alone in her room in almost ceaseless prayer. Her dark eyes were inert; she seemed frozen with grief and the fear of God.
Uncle Justus, still a gallant man, strode toward her and almost bowed as he took her hand and spoke a few well-chosen words. After returning her mother’s kiss with rigid lips, she left again.
“And how is dear Jürgen doing?” Elisabeth said, picking up the conversation again. “How does he like it in Wismar?”
“Fine,” Justus Kröger replied, sitting down with a shrug. “I think he’s found his place at last. He’s a good lad, Bethsy, an honorable lad. But when he failed his exams a second time, it was probably for the best. He didn’t enjoy the law, and his position with the post office in Wismar is quite suitable. But tell me, I hear Christian will be coming home.”
“Yes, Justus, he’s coming, and may God protect him at sea. Oh, it takes such a dreadfully long time. Although I wrote him the very next day after Jean’s death, he still doesn’t have the letter. And then it will take another two months, I suppose, for his ship to sail all that way. But he has to come, I truly need him, Justus. Tom says that Jean would never have permitted him simply to abandon his post in Valparaiso. But I ask you, it’s almost eight years now since I’ve seen him—and under the circumstances. No, I want them all with me now, at this difficult time. It’s only natural for a mother to want that.”
“Of course, of course,” Consul Kröger said, for tears had come to her eyes.
“And Thomas agrees with me now,” she continued, “because where would Christian be better off than in his own father’s firm, in Tom’s firm? He can live here, work here. Oh, I worry constantly that the climate there may be bad for him.”
And now Thomas Buddenbrook, accompanied by Herr Marcus, entered the dining room. Friedrich Wilhelm Marcus, long-time chief clerk of the late consul, was a tall man; today he wore a long-tailed brown coat with mourning crape. He spoke very softly, hesitantly, almost stuttered as he considered each word for a second; and he had a habit of extending the first two fingers of his left hand and slowly, cautiously stroking the unkempt, reddish brown mustache that hid his mouth; or sometimes he would carefully rub his hands together while his round, brown eyes wandered off discreetly to one side, lending him a confused and distracted look—whereas in fact he was always studiously analyzing the matter at hand.
Thomas Buddenbrook was now head of a large concern at a very young age, and there was a dignity in his face and in his carriage. But he was pale, and his hands in particular were as white as the cuffs visible at the end of his black sleeves, almost frosty white; and his carefully manicured oval fingernails had the bluish tone they sometimes took on when his hands were this cold and dry. On one finger could be seen the bright green gemstone of the large signet ring he had now inherited. Sometimes he would unconsciously cramp his hands a little, and at that moment they expressed something indescribable—a dismissive sensibility, an almost anxious reticence, that was somehow ill-suited to him and quite untypical of the effect broad, stolid Buddenbrook hands had always made, even given their long, delicate fingers.
Tom’s first concern was to open the folding doors to the landscape room to get the benefit of the warmth of the fire burning behind the wrought-iron grate of the stove there. Then he shook hands with Consul Kröger, sat down at the table beside Herr Marcus, and, raising an eyebrow, looked across in some surprise at his sister Tony. But the way she tossed her head back and pressed her chin to her chest stifled any comment he might have made about her presence.
“We cannot call you Consul Buddenbrook yet, I suppose?” Justus Kröger asked. “Are the Netherlands still waiting in vain for you to represent them, Tom, my boy?”
“Yes, Uncle Justus; I thought it better this way. You see, I could have taken on the consulate at once, right along with all my other duties. But, first of all, I’m still rather young—and, then, I had a talk with Uncle Gotthold, and he was very happy to accept the position himself.”
“Very wise, my boy. Very politic. The gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Herr Marcus,” Elisabeth said, “my dear Herr Marcus.” And she stretched out a hand to him, the palm turned up as far as possible, which he then slowly took with a cautious, polite, sidelong glance. “I asked you to come up because—but, then, you know what this is about, and I know that you are in agreement with us. My late husband expressed the wish in his last testament that, upon his passing, you would no longer be employed as an outsider, but would offer your steadfast services and proven abilities to the firm as a partner.”
“But of course, certainly, Madame Buddenbrook,” Herr Marcus said. “I give you my most humble assurances that I am deeply grateful and know to appreciate the honor which you have tendered my person, inasmuch as such resources as I may b
ring to the firm are but limited indeed. Before God and my fellow man, I know no better course than to accept with gratitude the offer which you and your son have made me.”
“That’s fine, Marcus, and my hearty thanks for your willingness to assume some of the responsibilities that otherwise might prove too much for me,” Thomas responded quickly, and casually offered his partner a hand across the table—for the matter had been settled for some time, and all this was a mere formality.
“Fast friends are fast parted—so, now, don’t spoil our little chitchat here, you two,” Consul Kröger said. “Shall we work our way through the provisions now, children? I only have to keep an eye on my ward’s dowry, the rest is no concern of mine. Have you a copy of the will there, Bethsy? And you, Tom, have you worked up some rough figures?”
“I have those in my head,” Thomas said, leaning back, staring across to the landscape room and letting his yellow pencil sweep back and forth over the tabletop—and now he began to explain how matters stood.
The truth was that the consul had left behind a much more considerable fortune than anyone would have imagined. To be sure, his eldest daughter’s dowry had been forfeited, and the losses the firm had suffered in that bankruptcy in Bremen in 1851 had been a heavy blow. The unrest and conflicts in both 1848 and the present year of 1855 had cost the firm as well. But the Buddenbrook share in the Kröger estate of 400,000 marks courant had come to 300,000—because Justus had already spent most of his inheritance. And although Johann Buddenbrook was forever complaining in typical businessman’s fashion, all the losses had been balanced out over the past fifteen years by a profit of some 30,000 thalers courant. Apart from real estate, then, the family fortune came to some 750,000 marks courant, in round numbers.
Even Thomas, with all his access to the daily course of business, had been left in the dark by his father about the size of the estate. His mother accepted the sum with calm discretion. Tony gazed straight ahead with the most charming and uncomprehending dignity, although she was unable to suppress a look of anxious doubt that said: “Is that a lot? Really a lot? Are we very rich now?” Herr Marcus sat there and slowly—and absent-mindedly, or so it seemed—rubbed his hands. And Consul Kröger was obviously bored. But the mere naming of this sum filled Tom with a nervous, compelling pride that almost made him look out of sorts.
“But we ought to have made a million long before this,” he said, his voice edgy with excitement, his hands trembling. “In his best days, Grandfather had a good 900,000 at his disposal. And what efforts we have made since then—all the sweet triumphs, the fine coups now and then. Plus Mama’s dowry. And Mama’s inheritance. But it is constantly being split up. Good Lord, it’s the nature of things, I suppose. Do forgive me if at this moment I speak only from the viewpoint of the firm and not of the family—but these dowries, these disbursements to Uncle Gotthold and to Frankfurt, these hundreds of thousands that had to be withdrawn from our capital. And in those days, the head of the firm had only a stepbrother and a sister, only those two. But enough of all that. We have our work cut out for us, Marcus.”
The longing for action, victory, and power, the urge to force good fortune to its knees, blazed in his eyes briefly and fiercely. He felt the whole world looking expectantly at him to see if he would know how to further the interests of both the old firm and the family, and not just preserve their prestige. On the floor of the exchange he had seen the sidelong glances measuring him, had seen the jovial, skeptical, and slightly mocking eyes of businessmen that seemed to ask: “So you think you can bring it off, too, my boy?” And he thought, “I can.”
Friedrich Wilhelm Marcus cautiously rubbed his hands. And Justus Kröger said, “Steady now, Tom, my boy, steady. The times aren’t what they once were, when your grandpapa was supplying the Prussian army.”
And now began a lengthy discussion of the larger and smaller bequests in the will, in which they all took part—with Consul Kröger keeping everyone in a good mood by constantly calling Tom “His Highness the Reigning Prince” or saying things like: “But of course the warehouses will remain with the Crown, as tradition dictates.”
On the whole, as was to be expected, the will’s provisions were aimed at keeping the estate together as best as possible, making Frau Elisabeth Buddenbrook virtually the universal heir and retaining all assets within the business—in which regard, Herr Marcus gave notice that as a partner he would be strengthening the firm’s capital by 120,000 courant. Thomas’s private fortune was tentatively set at 50,000, and an equal sum was put aside for Christian, should he at some point establish himself independently. Justus Kröger was all ears when the following clause was read: “The fixing of the sum to be applied as a dowry for my dearly beloved younger daughter, Clara, in the event of her marriage is left to the judgment of my dearly beloved wife.” “Let’s say 100,000,” he suggested, leaning back, crossing his legs, and using both hands to turn up the ends of his short mustache. He was fairness personified. But they decided on the traditional sum of 80,000 marks courant.
“Should my dearly beloved elder daughter, Antonie, enter into a second marriage,” the will continued, “and in light of the fact that 80,000 marks courant were already expended for her first marriage, the dowry may not exceed the sum of 17,000 thalers courant.” Frau Antonie pushed back the sleeves of her blouse with a graceful though impatient gesture, stared up at the ceiling, and cried, “Grünlich—ha!” It sounded like a war cry, a little trumpet blast. “Do you know the facts in the case, Herr Marcus? We are sitting quite innocently in the garden one afternoon, by the ‘Portal.’ You know what I mean by the ‘Portal,’ do you not, Herr Marcus? Fine. And who should appear but this person with golden muttonchops. What a scoundrel.”
“Yes, yes,” Thomas said. “We’ll speak of Herr Grünlich later, all right?”
“Fine, fine; but you must admit I’m right, Tom. You’re a clever fellow, and although I was a silly goose not so very long ago, it’s been my experience, you know, that things do not always turn out fairly and squarely in life.”
“Yes,” Tom said. And they moved on to other details, noting the instructions about the large family Bible, the consul’s diamond studs, and a great many other small items.
Justus Kröger and Herr Marcus stayed for supper.
2
IN EARLY FEBRUARY, 1856, after an absence of eight years, Christian Buddenbrook returned to his hometown, arriving in the post coach from Hamburg. He was dressed in a yellow plaid suit that certainly hinted at the tropics and carried a swordfish sword and a long stalk of sugarcane. He looked half embarrassed and half preoccupied as he stiffly returned his mother’s embrace.
He had the same look the morning after his arrival, when the family walked to the cemetery outside the Burg Gate to lay a wreath on the grave. They all stood together on the gravel path in front of the huge grave cover with the family crest chiseled into the stone and surrounded by the names of those who rested there; rising behind it was a marble cross silhouetted against the little woods, leafless now in winter. They were all there, except Klothilde, who had gone to Grudging to nurse her sick father.
Tony laid the wreath over the golden letters of her father’s name, which had only recently been added to the stone, and despite the snow she knelt down on the grave to pray softly; her black veil fluttered about her, and her broad skirt lay spread out beside her in soft, picturesque folds. God alone knew how much of this molded pose was grief and piety—and how much was the vanity of a pretty woman. Thomas was not in the mood to think about that. Christian, however, gazed at his sister from one side with a mixture of mockery and misgiving, as if he wanted to say, “Can you really justify that? Won’t you be ashamed, too, when you stand up again? How unpleasant!” Tony caught his look as she got up, but she wasn’t embarrassed in the least. She tossed her head back, set her veil and skirt to rights, and with dignified self-composure turned to leave—which was an obvious relief to Christian.
Given his fanatical love of God and the cr
ucified Saviour, the late consul was probably the first of his lineage to know and cultivate feelings that were out of the ordinary, more differentiated, alien to his solid middle-class heritage. But his two sons were the first Buddenbrooks who were uneasy and frightened by the naïve and frank display of such feelings. To be sure, Thomas felt the pain of his father’s death more acutely than his grandfather had felt the loss of his. But he was not the sort to sink to his knees beside a grave; no, he was not like his sister, not like Madame Grünlich, who loved to lay her head on the table, after the main course and before dessert, and sob like a child, her words blending with her tears as she recalled the person and personality of her dear, departed father. Tom responded to such effusions with tactful gravity, with reserved nods and composed silence. And yet, at moments when no one had so much as mentioned his dead father, tears would slowly fill his eyes—with no change at all in his facial expression.
Christian had a different reaction. He simply could not maintain his composure whenever his sister broke into one of her naïve and childish outbursts. It was clear he wanted to hide from them—he would bend down over his plate, turn his head away, even interrupt her in a low, tormented voice, saying over and over, “Good God, Tony!”—and his large nose would screw up into a thousand wrinkles. In fact, the moment conversation turned to his late father, he was obviously embarrassed and uneasy, and it seemed that he feared not just some indelicate expression of deep or solemn emotion, but that he feared and avoided all feeling.
No one had seen him shed a tear over the death of his father. And his long absence alone did not explain it. The strangest thing was, however, that, in contrast to his customary distaste for such remarks, he was forever pulling his sister Tony aside and asking her again to tell him in vivid, precise detail about the events of that dreadful afternoon—and Madame Grünlich had a wonderful gift for lively narration.