by Thomas Mann
But the day after Frau Permaneder’s homecoming, a letter arrived for attorney-at-law Andreas Gieseke, summoning him to Meng Strasse. She received him alone, in the middle room along the corridor on the second floor, where a fire had been lit and where there was a massive table on which she had arranged, for some reason or other, an inkwell, pens, and a stack of white foolscap taken from the office downstairs. They sat down in two armchairs.
“Dr. Gieseke,” she said, crossing her arms, laying her head back, and staring at the ceiling, “you are a man who knows life well, both in a personal and a professional sense. I feel I can speak openly to you.” And then she revealed to him the whole story of Babbit and what had occurred in the bedroom. Dr. Gieseke regretted to say that neither the distressing incident on the stairs, nor the insult to which she had undoubtedly been subjected—but about which she refused to go into greater detail—offered sufficient grounds for divorce.
“Fine,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
Then she had him review for her the current legal grounds for divorce and followed with an open mind and definite interest a lengthy supplemental exposition on the law concerning dowries, after which she cordially but sedately dismissed Dr. Gieseke for now.
She went down to the ground floor and demanded to see Thomas in his private office.
“Thomas,” she said, “please write that man at once—I do not gladly speak his name. As to the status of my money, I have been informed in detail about that. He should state his position, one way or the other. But he shall not see me again. If he agrees to a legal divorce, fine—we shall demand a rendering of accounts and the restoration of my dot. Even if he refuses, we need not be dismayed, because you should know, Tom, that although Permaneder’s claim to my dot makes it his property in the eyes of the law—that much I will grant you—I nevertheless have certain substantive rights as well, thank God.”
The consul paced back and forth, his hands behind his back, his shoulders jerking nervously—the face she had made as she uttered the word dot had been so unutterably smug. He did not have time for this. He was buried under work. She should show a little patience, and think this over—another fifty times, if you please. His most immediate task was a trip to Hamburg—he would be leaving tomorrow, in fact, for a conference, for a disagreeable discussion with Christian, who had written that he needed financial help, a temporary loan, which Elisabeth would have to subtract from money set aside for his inheritance. His business was in dreadful shape, and although he was constantly complaining of his ailments, he was apparently amusing himself royally in restaurants, at the circus, and at the theater, and, to judge by debts that he had been able to pile up on the basis of his family’s good name and that were just now coming to light he was living far beyond his means. It was well known on Meng Strasse, in the Club, and all over town that the person responsible for all this was a woman by the name of Aline Puvogel, who lived alone with her two pretty children. Christian Buddenbrook was not the only merchant in Hamburg who maintained intimate and costly relations with this personage.
In short, apart from Tony’s wish for a divorce, there were a good many other unpleasant matters—the trip to Hamburg being the most urgent. In any case, it was likely that they would be hearing from Permaneder soon enough.
The consul left on his trip, and returned in an angry, depressed mood. And since there had been no news from Munich, he felt he had no choice but to take the first step. He wrote—a cool, businesslike, and slightly supercilious letter. He noted that it could not be denied that in her married life with Herr Permaneder Antonie had met with a series of grave disappointments. Without his going into detail, it was clear that she had not found the happiness she had hoped from her marriage. Any reasonable man would see that her wish to dissolve the union was justified. Her decision not to return to Munich appeared, unfortunately, to be irrevocable. And then followed the question as to how Permaneder intended to act in light of these facts.
Days of tense waiting followed, and then came Herr Permaneder’s reply, an answer that no one—not Andreas Gieseke, or Elisabeth, or Thomas, not even Antonie herself—had expected. In simple terms, he agreed to the divorce.
He wrote that he sincerely regretted what had happened, but that he respected Antonie’s wishes, realizing as he did that he and she “don’t rightly belong together.” If he had been a source of sorrow for her in the past few years, he hoped that she would try to forget and forgive. Since he would probably never see her and Erika again, he wished her and the child every possible happiness in the future—signed Alois Permaneder. In a postscript he expressly offered to make immediate restitution of her dowry. He could live without worry on his own income. He would need no extra time, since no business transactions were necessary. The house was paid for, and money was available upon demand.
Tony was almost a little ashamed and for the first time felt inclined to see something laudable in Herr Permaneder’s lack of passion when it came to money matters.
And now Dr. Gieseke had a new task. He took over the correspondence with the husband in regard to grounds for divorce, and “mutual irreconcilable incompatibility” was agreed on. The suit was filed—Tony’s second suit of divorce—and in the early phases she followed it with high seriousness, great eagerness, and considerable knowledge of the law. She spoke about it wherever she went, much to the consul’s annoyance on several occasions. In her present state, she was quite incapable of sharing his distress. She was caught up in terms like “proceeds,” “acquisitions,” “accesions,” “dotal rights,” and “tangible properties,” which she used constantly with both dignity and fluency, laying her head back and raising her shoulders slightly. In Dr. Gieseke’s brief of argument there was one paragraph that made the most profound impression on her; it dealt with certain “contingent assets” residing in the dotal property, which were to be regarded as a part of the dot and restored upon the dissolution of the marriage. She told all the world about these “assets,” which of course did not exist; she told Ida Jungmann, Uncle Justus, poor Klothilde, and the Ladies Buddenbrook from Breite Strasse, who, by the way, when they learned of these events had stared down into their laps, where their hands lay folded, and froze in ramrod astonishment that this satisfaction, too, had been granted to them; she told Therese Weichbrodt, whose lessons Erika Grünlich once again had the pleasure of attending, and even good Madame Kethelsen, who for more than one reason understood not the least part of it.
Then came the day when the divorce was granted by law and finalized, and Tony took care of the last essential formality—asking Thomas for the family papers and entering the new fact in her own hand. And now her task was to accustom herself to her new situation.
She did so with courage. With unruffled dignity she ignored the splendidly scornful barbs of the Ladies Buddenbrook; her eyes took on an unutterable chill whenever she met the Hagenströms and Möllendorpfs, staring over their heads; and she abstained entirely from the social whirl, which in any case had not been part of her parents’ home for years, but took place now at her brother’s home. She had her closest relatives—her mother, Thomas, and Gerda; she had Ida Jungmann and Sesame Weichbrodt, who was like a second mother to her; she had Erika, to whose elegant upbringing she devoted great care and in whose future, perhaps, she set her last secret hopes. This was her life. And time passed.
Later on, in some inexplicable way, various members of the family learned what the “name” was, the name that Herr Permaneder had so imprudently let slip. And what had he said? “Go to hell, you filthy sow, you slut!”
And so Tony Buddenbrook’s second marriage came to an end.
PART SEVEN
1
A CHRISTENING—a christening on Breite Strasse.
All the good things that Madame Permaneder envisioned when she was expecting are ready and waiting. Without the least rattle that could disturb the ceremony in the salon, the maid is finishing off the steamy hot chocolate with whipped cream, gingerly pouring it into a
great many cups crowded onto the huge round tea tray with gilded, shell-shaped handles. Meanwhile Anton the butler is slicing the towering layer cake and Mamselle Jungmann is arranging the candies and fresh flowers in silver dessert bowls; and, mustering everything one last time, she lays her head on her shoulder and spreads both pinkies as far as she can.
Once the ladies and gentlemen have made themselves comfortable in the sitting room and the salon, it will not be long before all these splendid things will be passed around, and one hopes there will be enough, since the whole family has gathered, though not the extended family, because through the Oeverdiecks there is a distant relationship to the Kistenmakers, and through them to the Möllendorpfs and so on. The line has to be drawn somewhere. The Oeverdiecks, however, are represented—by the octogenarian Dr. Kaspar Oeverdieck, the town’s mayor.
He arrived in his carriage and climbed the stairs supported by his cane and Thomas Buddenbrook’s arm. His presence enhances the dignity of the celebration. And there is no doubt—it is an occasion worthy of every dignity.
For in the salon is a table decorated with flowers to serve as an altar and, behind it, a young clergyman in black vestments with a starched snow-white ruff like a millstone around his neck; and he speaks, while a tall, strapping, well-nourished female, dressed in rich reds and golds, holds in her muscular arms a tiny something almost lost under all the lace and satin bows—an heir. A firstborn son, a Buddenbrook! Can anyone understand what that means?
Can anyone understand the hushed thrill with which the news, at first only a whispered hint, was borne from Breite to Meng Strasse? Or the silent elation that Frau Permaneder felt when she first heard it and embraced her mother, her brother, and—more gingerly—her sister-in-law? And now spring has come, the spring of 1861, and he is here and is about to receive the sacrament of holy baptism—the heir on whom so many hopes are pinned, about whom they have spoken for so long; after years of waiting and longing, of praying to God and hounding Dr. Grabow, he is here. And he looks so totally unimposing.
His tiny hands play with the gold braid on his nurse’s bodice, and his head, covered by a pale blue lace-trimmed bonnet, lies turned slightly to one side on the pillow; his eyes pay no attention to the pastor, but peer instead out into the room full of relatives—blinking, inspecting, almost precocious eyes, with very long lashes and irises whose lustrous, vague golden brown hovers between the pale blue of his father’s and the brown of his mother’s, depending on the light. But the corners are set deep on both sides of the nose, are tucked in bluish shadows, lending his little face—hardly a face at all yet—a peculiar look of premature age hardly suitable for a four-week-old baby. But God will see to it that this bodes nothing unfortunate, because his mother, who is certainly in good health, has the same trait. But no matter—he is alive, and he is a boy, which was the real cause for joy just four short weeks ago.
He is alive—but it might have turned out differently. The consul will never forget how four weeks ago good Dr. Grabow, finally able to take leave of mother and child, shook his hand and said, “You have reason to be very grateful, my friend, it was a close call.” The consul did not dare to ask how close a call it was. He simply puts aside the horrible thought that this tiny creature, for which he yearned in vain for so long, came into the world in almost eerie silence and very nearly met the same fate as Antonie’s second daughter. But he is well aware that four weeks ago both mother and child survived a precarious hour, and in his happiness he bends down tenderly to Gerda, who is seated next to Elisabeth Buddenbrook and leans back now in her easy chair, her patent-leather shoes crossed on a velvet cushion in front of her.
How pale she still is, and how exotically beautiful her pallor is in contrast to her heavy chestnut hair and mysterious eyes, which rest now on the preacher in a kind of half-veiled mockery. He is the Reverend Andreas Pringsheim, pastor marianus, who, although still very young, assumed the pastorate of St. Mary’s after old Kölling died unexpectedly. He holds his hands clasped fervently just below his upraised chin. He has short, curly blond hair and a bony, smooth-shaven face with an almost theatrical expression ranging from fanatical solemnity to radiant transfiguration. He comes from Franconia, where for several years he tended a little Lutheran flock in the midst of so many Catholics, and under the strain of producing a pure diction filled with pathos, he speaks a dialect peculiarly his own, a unique blend of long and dark vowels, which he often accents abruptly and flavors with an “r” rolled against his teeth.
He praises God with either a softly swelling or a suddenly loud voice, and the family listens: Frau Permaneder, wrapped in an earnest dignity that hides her delight and pride; Erika Grünlich, almost fifteen years old now, a robust young girl with a long braid coiled atop her head and her father’s pink complexion; Christian, who arrived only this morning from Hamburg and whose deep-set eyes rove from one side of the room to the other. Pastor Tiburtius and his wife have not let the long trip from Riga discourage them from being present at the ceremony: Sievert Tiburtius, who has laid the two strands of his long, scraggly beard over both shoulders and whose little gray eyes now and then unexpectedly grow larger and larger, sticking out until they almost pop; and Clara, who stares straight ahead, with dark, solemn, severe eyes, occasionally putting her hand to her brow, because there is pain in there. They have, moreover, brought the Buddenbrooks a splendid present: a huge, stuffed brown bear, standing on its hind legs, its jaws gaping wide; one of the pastor’s relatives shot it somewhere in Russia, and it now stands in the vestibule downstairs, a bowl for calling cards between its paws.
The Krögers’ son Jürgen, the postal official from Rostock, is home on a visit—a quiet man, dressed very simply. No one knows where Jakob is at present, except his weak-willed mother, née Oeverdieck, who is secretly selling off the family silver in order to send money to her disinherited son. The Ladies Buddenbrook are on hand, too, and their delight on this joyous family occasion is profound; this, however, does not prevent Pfiffi from remarking that the child looks rather sickly, an observation which her mother, née Stüwing, and her sisters, Friederike and Henriette, unfortunately feel duty-bound to endorse. Poor Klothilde—gray, gaunt, patient, and hungry—is moved both by Pastor Pringsheim’s words and by the anticipation of layer cake and chocolate. Those attending who are not members of the family are Herr Friedrich Wilhelm Marcus and Sesame Weichbrodt.
Now the pastor turns to the two godparents and instructs them as to their duties. Justus Kröger is one of them. Consul Buddenbrook refused to ask him at first. “Let’s not tempt the old man to commit some folly,” he said. “Every day there are the most dreadful scenes between him and his wife on account of his son. What little property he has left is melting away, and his worries are so great that he has started to be careless about how he dresses. And guess what will happen if we ask him to be a godparent. He’ll give the child an entire table service of pure gold and won’t even let us thank him for it.” But when Uncle Justus heard that someone else was to be the godparent—Stephan Kistenmaker, the consul’s friend, was mentioned—he was so hurt that they included him after all. And to Thomas Buddenbrook’s relief, the gold beaker he gave the child was not inordinately massive.
And the second godparent? It is this dignified old gentleman with snow-white hair, who is sitting in the most comfortable armchair, bent down over his cane and wearing a high neckband and a soft, black cloth coat with the tip of a red handkerchief peeking, as always, from its back pocket—it is Mayor Oeverdieck. What a coup, what a triumph! A great many people cannot understand how it was accomplished—good God, they were hardly related. The Buddenbrooks must have dragged the old man in by the hair. And, indeed, it was the result of a plot, a little scheme contrived by Madame Permaneder and the consul. Actually, it was only a joke at first, born out of the joy that both mother and child were safe and well. “It’s a boy, Tony! He should have the mayor for his godfather,” the consul shouted; but Tony picked up on the idea and developed it in earnest, an
d after due consideration Tom agreed to make the attempt. And so they hid behind Uncle Justus, who sent his wife to see her sister-in-law, who was the wife of Oeverdieck the lumber merchant, whose job it was to soften up her aged father-in-law. And then Thomas Buddenbrook did his part and paid a reverential visit to the head of state.
And now, while the nurse raises the baby’s bonnet, the pastor carefully dips his fingers in the silver basin—lined with gold—that has been set in front of him, and he sprinkles two or three drops of water on the sparse hair of this little Buddenbrook, while slowly and expressively speaking the baptismal names: Justus, Johann, Kaspar. This is followed by a short prayer, and the relatives file past, each congratulating the silent, indifferent creature with a kiss on the brow. Therese Weichbrodt is the last, and the nurse has to hold the baby down to her somewhat; but then Sesame gives him two kisses. Each pops softly, and in between she says, “You good chawld.”
It takes three minutes for them to group themselves in the salon and sitting room, and now the sweets are passed. Even Pastor Pringsheim sits there sipping at the layer of cool whipped cream above the hot chocolate; he is still dressed in his ruff and long robe, his broad, shiny black boots sticking out from under the hem, and he chats away with that same transfigured face, but in an easy conversational tone that is much more effective than his homily. Every gesture makes the explicit point: You see, I can put aside my priesthood and be a quite harmless and merry child of the world. He is an urbane, obliging man. When he speaks with old Madame Buddenbrook he is slightly unctuous; with Thomas and Gerda he is a man-of-the-world with polished gestures; with Frau Permaneder he takes a cheerful, hearty, roguish tone. Now and then, whenever he remembers to do so, he folds his hands in his lap, lays his head back, scowls, and makes a long face. When he laughs, he draws air in between his clenched teeth in a series of jerking hisses.