Buddenbrooks

by Thomas Mann

  “God knows they do, Herr Buddenbrook, you’ve never spoken a truer word. And as far as the Hamburg line goes—it wasn’t three days ago that Mayor Oeverdieck said to me, ‘Once we get to the point where we can purchase a suitable site for a station in Hamburg, we’ll send Consul Buddenbrook. Consul Buddenbrook’s better at such negotiations than many a lawyer.’ Those were his very words.”

  “Well, that’s very flattering, Wenzel. But put a little more lather here on my chin—it needs to be shaved cleaner. Yes, in point of fact, we need to get moving there. Not that I have anything against Oeverdieck, but he’s getting up in years, and if I were mayor things would all move a little more quickly, I think. I can’t tell you what satisfaction it gives me to see that they’ve finally begun work on the gas lanterns and are getting rid of those ghastly oil lamps hanging from chains. I must admit that I had a little something to do with that project. Oh, the things that need to be done! Because the times are changing, Wenzel, and we have a great many responsibilities in light of the new age ahead. When I think of my early boyhood—well, you know better than I how things looked around here back then. No sidewalks, grass growing a foot high between the cobblestones, and houses with bays and stoops and benches jutting out into the streets. And the buildings from the Middle Ages disfigured with all sorts of lean-tos, and just crumbling away—although people had money and no one was starving. But the city itself didn’t have a penny and just muddled along, as my brother-in-law, Permaneder, would say, and repairs were out of the question. Those were happy, easygoing times back then, when my grandfather’s crony good old Jean Jacques Hoffstede strolled about and translated little off-color poems from the French. But things couldn’t go on like that forever. So much has changed and will have to go right on changing. We no longer have thirty-seven thousand inhabitants, but well over fifty now, as you know, and the whole nature of the town is changing. We have new construction and expanding suburbs and good streets, and we can afford to restore the grand monuments from our past. But those are mere externals. The most important matters still lie ahead of us, my good Wenzel. Which brings me right back to the ceterum censeo of my late father: the Customs Union. Wenzel, we have to join the Customs Union—that shouldn’t even be an issue, and I need you all to help me fight for it. Believe me, as a merchant I know more about it than any diplomat, and in this case any fears about losing our independence and freedom are ridiculous. It would open up the interior, Mecklenburg and Schleswig-Holstein, to us, and that is all the more desirable since we no longer control the northern trade as completely as we once did. But enough—the towel, please, Wenzel,” the consul concluded.

  And then, after something was said about the current price of rye—fifty-five thalers and still falling, damn it—and perhaps a comment made about some event in the life of one of the town’s families, Herr Wenzel vanished down the ground-floor hall to empty his shiny shaving bowl out on the cobblestones, and the consul climbed back up the spiral stairs to his bedroom, where Gerda was awake now. Then he would kiss her on the forehead and dress.

  These little morning conversations with the astute barber acted as the prelude to busy, active days, filled to overflowing with thinking, speaking, dealing, writing, calculating, moving here and there about town. As a result of his travels, his knowledge, and his interests, Thomas Buddenbrook had the least provincial mind of any of the men around him, and he was certainly the first to realize the limits of the world in which he moved. But out in the broad expanses of his Fatherland, the renewal in public affairs that had accompanied the years of revolution had given way to a period of lethargy, stagnation, and regression much too dreary to occupy a lively mind. Thomas, however, had imagination enough to adopt as his personal precept the old maxim that all human endeavor is merely symbolic, and to place all his aspirations, abilities, enthusiasm, and active energies both at the service of this small community, where the name Buddenbrook placed him in the first ranks, and at the service of that name and the family firm he had inherited—indeed, he had imagination enough to take seriously his ambition of attaining greatness and power in this small sphere and at the same time to smile at himself for being so ambitious.

  Anton always served him his breakfast in the dining room, and as soon as he had eaten he would finish dressing and walk to his office on Meng Strasse. He seldom stayed there much over an hour; he would write two or three urgent letters and telegrams, give an order here, an instruction there, nudging, as it were, the great wheel of industry and leaving its further revolutions to the watchful eye and sidelong glances of Herr Marcus.

  He would appear and often speak at meetings and assemblies, spend some time under the Gothic arches of the exchange on the market square, make a tour of inspection along the docks and in the warehouses, negotiate with the captains of the ships he owned. Interrupted only by a quick second breakfast with his mother and by dinner with Gerda, after which he might spend a half-hour on the sofa with a cigar and a newspaper, he kept busy at his work until well into the evening—if not his firm’s affairs, then customs, taxes, railroads, new construction, the post, the care of the poor. He even learned a thing or two about matters that were normally the concern of “professionals,” and quickly showed that he had special talents in the arena of higher finance.

  He was careful not to neglect his social duties. Granted, his punctuality in such matters left much to be desired. It never failed—his wife would be sitting, dressed and ready, in the carriage, and he would appear at the very last moment, a half-hour late, cry, “I’m sorry, Gerda—business,” and hastily change into a frock coat. But when they arrived at the dinner or ball or soirée, he knew how to be an amiable conversationalist and show a lively interest in everything. And the entertainments he and his wife provided were the equal of those in other wealthy homes. His kitchen and wine cellar were considered “tip-top”; he was admired as a polite, attentive, tactful host; and the wit he displayed in his toasts was well above average. He spent his quiet evenings at home with Gerda, smoking and listening to her play the violin or reading a book aloud with her—German, French, or Russian stories that she had picked out.

  He worked hard, and success was his. His standing in town grew, and, despite the capital lost through setting Christian up on his own and Tony’s second marriage, the firm had several excellent years. Nevertheless, there were a few things that could sap his courage for hours on end, dulling the sharpness of his mind and casting him into gloom.

  There was, for example, Christian in Hamburg, whose partner, Herr Burmeester, had died suddenly of a stroke in that spring of 1858. His heirs had drawn their money out of the business, and the consul strongly advised Christian not to continue with only his own funds, because he knew quite well how difficult it was to keep a large-scale business going once its capital was suddenly reduced. But Christian insisted on remaining independent and assumed both the assets and the liabilities of H. C. F. Burmeester & Co.—and it was to be feared that unpleasant events lay ahead.

  And then there was the consul’s sister Clara in Riga. It was perhaps no matter that her marriage with Pastor Tiburtius had not been blessed with children, particularly since Clara Buddenbrook had never wanted them and almost certainly had very few of the requisite maternal talents. But, to judge from her husband’s letters, her health was not of the best; and the headaches from which she had suffered as a child now appeared with periodic regularity and had grown almost unbearable.

  That was disquieting. And even at home, there was a third worry—the perpetuation of the family name was still not assured. Gerda responded to this issue with a sovereign indifference that came very close to repugnance. Thomas was distressed, but said nothing. His mother, Madame Buddenbrook, however, took the matter in hand, pulling Grabow aside to ask, “Just between us, doctor, something must be done, don’t you think? A little mountain air in Bad Kreuth or a little sea air in Glücksburg or Travemünde doesn’t seem to have had any effect. What do you suggest?” And since in this case his usual remed
y of “a strict diet, a little squab, a little French bread” did not seem to be quite aggressive enough as a treatment, Grabow prescribed a trip to Pyrmont and Schlangenbad.

  Those were three of his worries. And Tony? Poor Tony!

  8

  SHE WROTE:

  And she doesn’t understand when I say “croquettes” because they call them “patties” here; and when she says “snappers” it isn’t easy for an ordinary Christian to realize that she means “green beans”; and if I say “fried potatoes,” she keeps yelling “Huh?” until I say “home fries,” which is what they call them here, and “Huh?” means “Beg your pardon?” And she’s the second maid already. I took the liberty of firing the first one, a girl named Kathi, because she was always rude; or at least it seemed to me that she was, although in hindsight I may have been mistaken, because one is never quite sure here whether people are being rude or friendly. My new maid, who is named Babette, which rhymes with “rabbit,” is quite a pleasant-looking girl, with something Mediterranean about her, as is common here, with black hair and black eyes and teeth that one can only envy. And she’s cooperative, even prepares some of our northern dishes, under my direction; yesterday, for instance, we had sorrel and raisins, but Permaneder was so upset with this vegetable dish of mine (although he did pick out the raisins with his fork) that he wouldn’t speak to me the rest of the day, just grumbled to himself. And I can tell you, Mother, that life isn’t always easy here.

  If only it had been just “snappers” and sorrel that made Tony’s life so bitter. But before the honeymoon was over, she had been Struck a blow so unforeseen, so startling, so incomprehensible that it had robbed her of every joy in life. She could not get over it. This is what had happened.

  The Permaneders had been living together in Munich as man and wife for several weeks when Consul Buddenbrook finally was able to convert into cash the amount specified in his father’s will for his sister’s dowry, a total of fifty-one thousand marks courant, which sum was then converted into guldens and was received intact by Herr Permaneder, who then transferred it to secure and profitable investments.

  But then, without the least hesitation or embarrassment, he had turned to his wife and said, “Tony gal”—he called her “Tony gal”—“Tony gal, that’ll do it. We don’t need nothin’ more. I’ve plugged away all my life, and now I want my peace ’n’ quiet. Damn if I don’t. We’ll rent out the ground floor, and the third floor, and we’ve got ourselves a nice ’partment here, ’n’ we can eat our ham hocks ’n’ don’t need all the rest of the fancy fiddle-faddle. And I can spend my evenin’s at the Hofbräuhaus. I’m not much for puttin’ on the dog or scrimpin’ and sockin’ away the money. I want to take things easy. So, startin’ t’morrow mornin’, I’m callin’ it quits. I’m retirin’.”

  “Permaneder!” she had cried, and for the first time it had the throaty sound she had reserved for Herr Grünlich’s name until now.

  But all he said in reply was, “Oh, cut that out, and hush up now.” And then an argument had unfolded that was so serious and violent that it could only undermine the happiness of any marriage at such an early stage. He remained the victor. Her passionate opposition was crushed beneath his desire for “takin’ things easy,” and the upshot of all this was that Herr Permaneder withdrew the capital he had invested in the hops business and it was now Herr Noppe’s turn to draw a blue line through the “& Co.” on his calling card. And, like the majority of his friends, he now spent his evenings at his regular table in the Hofbräuhaus, playing cards and drinking his three liters of beer, and he limited his modest business activities as a landlord to raising rents and quietly snipping coupons.

  Madame Buddenbrook was simply informed of the matter. But Frau Permaneder’s pain was evident in the letters she wrote her brother about what had happened. Poor Tony—her worst fears had been more than realized. She had known all along that Herr Permaneder had none of the industriousness that her first husband had displayed far too much of. But that he should so totally dash all the hopes she had shared with Mamselle Jungmann on the evening before her engagement, that he could fail so completely to recognize the obligations he had assumed in marrying a Buddenbrook—no, she had never dreamed of that.

  But she had to make the best of things, and her family at home could see from her letters that she had resigned herself to her fate. Life drifted on rather monotonously with her husband and Erika, who went to school now; she took care of the household, remained on friendly footing with the people they had found to rent the floors above and below them, and with the Niederpaurs on Marienplatz. She wrote now and then about attending the Court Theater with her friend Eva, because Herr Permaneder didn’t like that sort of thing. It also turned out that, although he had lived in his “good ol’ Munich” for more than forty years now, he had never seen the inside of the Pinakothek.

  The days passed—but for Tony any genuine joy in her new life had faded since the day when Herr Permaneder had received her dowry and retired. There was nothing to hope for. She would never be able to write home about some success, some turn for the better. Things would remain the way they were now—with no real worries, but limited and far from “elegant”—and they would never change for the rest of her life. She felt it as a burden. And from her letters it was clear that her mood, which was anything but elated, made it that much more difficult for her to adapt to life in southern Germany. She could deal with minor matters. She had learned to communicate with her maid and the delivery men, could say “patties” instead of “croquettes,” and no longer served her husband chilled fruit soup after he had called it “revoltin’ goo.” But for the most part she remained a stranger in her new home, primarily because it was a source of constant and never-ending humiliation to realize that being a born Buddenbrook was not in the least remarkable here in the south. She wrote in one of her letters about how some bricklayer, holding a mug of beer in one hand and a radish by the tail in the other, had stopped her on the street and asked, “ ’xcuse me, neighbor, got the time?”—and although she made a joke of it, the undertone of outrage was palpable, and there could be no doubt that she had tossed her head back and refused to answer the man with so much as a glance. It was not just this lack of a sense of reserve or formal manners, however, that she found alien and disagreeable; although she did not taste deeply of the life and temper of Munich, she was surrounded by the atmosphere of a large city full of artists and people who seemed to have nothing to do, and her own mood often made it difficult for her to breathe in such slightly decadent air, to bear all this with good humor.

  The days passed—but then, suddenly, it looked as if there might be some happiness in store for her after all, the very same happiness for which they waited in vain on Breite Strasse and Meng Strasse. Not long after New Year’s Day, 1859, the hope that Tony would be a mother for the second time became a certainty.

  Her letters almost quivered with joy now and overflowed with high spirits and the sort of childish, momentous phrases she had not used for a long time. Madame Buddenbrook, who no longer liked to travel—apart from her summer journeys, which were more and more restricted to the shores of the Baltic in any case—wrote to say she was sorry that she would be unable to visit her daughter at this time, but assured her that God would lend His aid. Tom wrote to say that both he and Gerda would attend the christening, and Tony’s head was full of plans for an elegant reception. Poor Tony! The reception turned out to be a very sad affair, and the christening, which in her mind’s eye she had seen as a gala occasion for flowers, candies, and chocolate, was never to take place. The child, a little girl, was destined to experience a mere quarter-hour of existence—during which the doctor struggled in vain to keep the little ill-adapted organism functioning—and then was no longer a participant in life.

  When they arrived in Munich, Consul Buddenbrook and his wife discovered that even Tony was not entirely out of danger. This delivery had been much more difficult for her than the first, and for several days she w
as unable to take any nourishment—she had always suffered from occasional nervous upsets of her digestion. But in time she recovered, and the Buddenbrooks could depart with their minds at ease in that regard at least—though not without some apprehension, because it had been only too clear to them, and in particular to the consul’s observant eye, that not even shared suffering had been able to bring husband and wife any closer together.

  Not that Herr Permaneder did not have a good heart. He was terribly shaken at the sight of his lifeless child, and great tears fell from his swollen eyes and rolled down his pudgy cheeks and into his frayed mustache. And with heavy sighs he managed to say several times, “Oh my, what a pain, what a pain in th’ ol’!” But as far as Tony could see, it was not long before he was “takin’ things easy” again. His evenings at the Hofbräuhaus soon helped him over his suffering, and with the contented, kindly, half-grumpy, half-doltish fatalism expressed in those words “it’s a pain in th’ ol’,” he “muddled” through.

  From that point on, Tony’s letters never lost a sense of hopelessness, which sometimes would even break into lament. “Oh, Mother,” she wrote, “everything happens to me! First Grünlich and then the bankruptcy and then Permaneder’s retirement and now this dead child. What have I done to deserve such misfortune!”

  But when the consul read such letters in private at home, he could not help smiling, because, despite all the pain such words expressed, he could hear an undertone of almost comical pride, and he knew that Tony Buddenbrook, whether as Madame Grünlich or as Madame Permaneder, was still a child, that she met all these very adult experiences with something like incredulity, and that she experienced them with a child’s gravity and a child’s sense of importance and—most of all—a child’s inner powers to overcome them.