by Thomas Mann
Gotthold Buddenbrook
“Forgive me if I take no pleasure in reading this rigmarole aloud to you again.—Voilà!” And Johann Buddenbrook grimly tossed the letter to his son.
The consul grabbed the paper just as it fluttered past his knees and with bewildered, sad eyes watched his father start pacing again. The old man was fuming as he reached for a candle-snuffer that lay on the windowsill and strode smartly to the candelabrum at the opposite corner of the table.
“Assez! N’en parlons plus, that’s what I say. Period. Let’s go to bed. En avant!” One flame after another vanished, never to rise again, under the little metal cone at the end of the rod. Only two candles were still burning when the old man turned back to his son, barely visible at the far end of the room.
“How do you see it, then? What do you say? You have to say something, you know!”
“What can I say, Father? I’m baffled.”
“You’re easily baffled!” In his rage Johann Buddenbrook let it fly, although he knew that there was little truth in the remark and that his son and partner often outdid him when it came to seizing the advantage.
“Harmful and damnable influences—” the consul continued. “That’s the first bit I can even make out. You have no idea how that torments me, do you, Father? And he calls us un-Christian!”
“You can be bullied by his miserable scribblings—is that it?” Johann Buddenbrook walked over angrily, dragging the candlesnuffer behind him. “Un-Christian! Ha! Very tasteful, I must say—pious and money-hungry. You young people are a pretty lot, aren’t you? Your heads full of fancies and Christian humbuggery. What idealism! And we old folks are heartless scoffers. And then there’s the July Monarchy and practical ideals. And rather than pass up a few thousand thalers, write your old father a letter chock-full of the rudest insults. And, being a man of business, he deigns to despise me. Well, as a man of business myself, I can count my losses. I know what faux frais are—faux frais!” he repeated, rolling the “r” like a furious Parisian. “Demeaning myself by yielding won’t make a more devoted son of the rascal.”
“What can I say, Father! I’m not going to let him be proved right about ‘influences.’ I have my interests as a partner, and for that reason alone, shouldn’t I advise you to stick to your guns? And yet—and I’m as good a Christian as Gotthold—and yet …”
“And yet! How right you are to add ‘and yet,’ Jean. Egad! How do things really stand? Back when he was so infatuated with Mamselle Stüwing, making scene after scene and entering into this mésalliance despite my strictest prohibition, I wrote him a letter: Mon très cher fils, marry your shop. Fine. I shall not disinherit you, there will be no melodramatics, but our friendship is at an end. Here is 100,000 as a dowry, and I’ll leave another 100,000 in my will, and that’s all. That takes care of you, there’ll not be a penny more. And he didn’t say a word. What concern is it of his if we’ve had success in business? If you and your sister get a sizable amount more? If a house is bought from an inheritance that is yours to begin with?”
“If you only understood, Father, what a dilemma I find myself in. For the sake of peace in the family, I really should advise … but …” The consul sighed softly and leaned back against the chair. Johann Buddenbrooks propped himself on his candle-snuffer and gazed attentively into the shadows, trying to make out the expression on his son’s face. One of the two candles sputtered and died of its own accord. The last flame was flickering behind him. Now and then a tall, white figure emerged from the wallpaper, smiled a gentle smile, and vanished again.
“Father, I find this whole affair with Gotthold so depressing,” the consul said softly.
“Nonsense, Jean, no sentimentalities! What depresses you about it?”
“Father—we sat here so cheerful this evening, it was such a lovely celebration, we were so happy and proud of our accomplishments, of having achieved something, of having brought our firm and our family to new heights, to a full measure of recognition and respect. But this acrimony with my brother, your eldest son, Father—let us not have a hidden crack that runs through the edifice we have built with God’s gracious help. A family has to be united, to hold together, Father; otherwise evil will come knocking at the door.”
“Humbug, Jean! The tomfoolery of an obstinate boy.”
There was a pause—the last flame burned lower and lower.
“What are you doing, Jean?” Johann Buddenbrook asked. “I can’t see you.”
“I’m figuring,” the consul said dryly. The candle flared and revealed him standing up straight; he stared into the dancing flame, his eyes colder and more alert than they had been all afternoon. “On the one hand: you give Gotthold 33,335 and Frankfurt 15,000; that comes to a total of 48,335. On the other hand: you simply give Frankfurt 25,000, which means the firm comes out 23,335 to the good. But that is not all. Assuming that you compensate Gotthold for his share in the house, the dam will be broken, meaning that he will never be satisfied and that after your death he can claim a portion of the inheritance equal to what my sister and I receive, bringing with it the loss of hundreds of thousands for the firm—lost capital that will no longer be available to me as its sole owner. No, Papa,” he concluded with an energetic wave of a hand and stood up taller still, “I must advise against your giving in.”
“Well, then, that’s that! N’en parlons plus! En avant! Let’s go to bed.”
The metal cone extinguished the final flame. They strode through the thick darkness of the columned hall and shook hands on the landing to the third floor.
“Good night, Jean. Courage, do you hear? These are mere annoyances. Until breakfast, then.”
The consul climbed the stairs to his living quarters, and the old man groped his way down along the banister to the mezzanine. Then the rambling old house lay tightly wrapped in darkness and silence. Pride, hope, and fear all slept, while rain pelted the deserted streets and an autumn wind whistled around corners and gables.
PART TWO
1
TWO AND A HALF years later, spring arrived earlier than ever—it was only the middle of April—and at the same time an event occurred that set old Johann Buddenbrook humming with delight and gave his son great cause to rejoice.
On a Sunday morning, around nine o’clock, the consul was sitting near the window of the breakfast room at the large brown secretary, whose rounded top he had rolled back by tripping a tiny mechanism. A heavy leather writing case filled with papers lay before him; but he had taken out one gilt-edged notebook with an embossed cover and was now bent over it, writing impatiently in his fine, tiny, hurried hand—so intent that he halted only to dip his quill in the heavy metal inkwell.
Both windows stood open, their curtains gently and soundlessly billowed now and then by a fresh spring breeze laden with the delicate spices of the garden, where the first buds were warmed by a gentle sun and a few birds answered one another in small, pert voices. The sunlight came to dazzling rest behind him on the breakfast table’s white linen cloth, sprinkled here and there with crumbs, and its rays gamboled in sparkling little twists and leaps along the gold rims of the bowl-shaped cups.
Both panels of the door to the bedroom were open as well, and through them came the audible voice of Johann Buddenbrook softly singing a comical old song to himself:
A proper man, a gentleman,
A man of splendid poses;
He rocks the baby, cooks the soup,
And smells of orange and roses.
He was sitting beside a small cradle draped in green silk that stood next to his daughter-in-law’s elevated bed, and with one hand he kept it rocking at an even pace. To make things easier for the servants, the consul and his wife had moved down to the mezzanine, and for the time being his father and mother were sleeping in the third room, where Madame Antoinette, an apron over her striped dress and a lace bonnet set atop her thick white curls, now sat busily folding flannels and linens at a table.
Consul Buddenbrook cast hardly a glance into t
he adjoining room; he was too busy with the task he had set for himself. The look on his face was one of earnest, almost pained piety. His mouth was slightly open, his chin dropped a little, and his eyes misted over now and then. He wrote:
“Today, the 14th of April 1838, at six o’clock in the morning, my dear wife, Elisabeth, née Kröger, was most happily and with God’s gracious help delivered of a baby daughter, who shall be christened with the name of Clara. God was indeed gracious, despite Dr. Grabow’s pronouncement that the birth was somewhat too early, and even though matters had not stood at the best beforehand and Bethsy endured great pain. Ah, where is there such a God as Thou art, Lord of Sabaoth, Thou who helpest in all dangers and afflictions, and who teachest us to know Thy will aright, that we may fear Thee and be found faithful to Thy will and commandments! Ah Lord, direct and guide us all for as long as we live on this earth.…”—The pen hurried along, smooth and agile, here and there executing a commercial curlicue while addressing God in line after line.
Two pages later, it read: “I have had a policy written for my youngest daughter in the amount of 150 courant-thalers. Lead her, O Lord, in Thy ways, and give her a pure heart, that she may one day enter the mansions of eternal peace. For we well know how difficult it is to believe with all one’s soul that sweet Jesus is ours alone, for how small are our earthly hearts.…” Three pages later, the consul added his “amen,” but the pen continued to glide, gently rustling across several more pages, describing the precious fount that quenches the thirst of the weary wanderer, the sacred and bloody wounds of the Redeemer, the narrow way and the broad way, and God’s great glory. It cannot be denied that after one or another of these statements the consul sensed that enough was enough and he should put his pen aside and go in to his wife, or to his office. But how could he! Was he so quickly weary of communing with his Creator and Redeemer? To break off now would be as good as stealing from the Lord. No, no, as chastisement for such ungodly desires he quoted more long passages from Holy Scripture, prayed for his parents, his wife, his children, and himself, prayed as well for his brother, Gotthold—and finally, after one last Bible verse and a final threefold amen, he dusted the page with gold-sand and leaned back with a sigh of relief.
He now crossed his legs and paged slowly back through the notebook, stopping here and there to read a paragraph of dates and reflections in his own hand, and to take grateful pleasure in how God’s hand had always and visibly blessed him in all dangers. He had been so ill with smallpox that everyone had given up all hope for his life, but he had been saved. Once—he had been a mere boy—he was watching the preparations for a wedding and, in the time-honored custom, a great deal of beer was being brewed at home, with a large beer-vat set up on end outside the door. Well, it toppled over, the base striking the boy with such force and making such a racket that neighbors came running to their doors, and it had taken six of them to set it right again. His head had been crushed under it, and blood was streaming down his whole body. He was carried into a shop, and since there was a little life left in him, a doctor and a surgeon were sent for. But his father was told to resign himself to God’s will, that the boy couldn’t possibly live. But listen to this: God the Almighty had blessed their treatment and brought him back to complete health!—And as he relived this accident, the consul reached again for his quill and wrote a last amen: “Yea, Lord, I shall praise Thee forever!”
Another time, when as a very young man he visited Bergen, God had saved him from drowning. “As it was high tide,” it read, “and the ships of the northern line had arrived, we were having considerable difficulty working our way among the other boats to our landing, and it happened that I was standing on the edge of a scout, my feet braced against its oarlocks and my back against our ship, as I tried to bring the scout in closer; unfortunately the oaken oarlocks against which my feet are braced break off and I tumble into the water. I come up the first time, but no one is near enough to grab hold of me; I come up the second time, but the scout passes above my head. There were enough people who would gladly have rescued me, but they were busy shoving in an attempt to keep the scout and the ship from passing over me, and all their shoving would have been to no avail if at just that moment a line from one of the northern-line ships had not broke of its own, allowing the ship to swing out and away, and so by God’s Providence I found some room, and although when I came up the third time only my hair was visible, nevertheless, since all those on the scout were lying with their heads out over water, some here, some there, one fellow at the bow managed to grab me by the hair, while I grasped his arm. But as he could not hold on, he screamed and bellowed so loudly that the others heard and came so quickly to grab him by the hips and held so tightly that he did not lose ground. And I, too, held fast, though his teeth were set in my arm, so that eventually he could help me as well.…” And then followed a very long prayer of thanksgiving, which the consul skimmed with tears in his eyes.
“Were I of a mind to disclose them,” read another passage, “I could provide particulars of my passions.…” Well, the consul passed over that, and began instead to read a few lines here and there from the days of his marriage and the birth of his first child. The alliance, if he were honest, had not been exactly what one might call marriage for love. His father had tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out to him that the daughter of wealthy old Kröger would bring a handsome dowry into the firm; and he had concurred with all his heart and ever since had honored his wife as a companion entrusted to him by God.
It had been no different with his father’s second marriage.
A proper man, a gentleman,
A man of splendid poses …
he was still warbling softly in the bedroom. It was regrettable that he had little use for all these old records and papers. He stood with both feet in the present and worried little about the family’s past, although at one time he had contributed a few entries to the heavy gilt-edged notebook in his own somewhat ornate hand, most of them, however, concerning his first marriage.
The consul opened to pages already turning yellow and of stiffer, coarser paper than those he had added. Yes, Johann Buddenbrook’s love for his first wife, the daughter of a merchant in Bremen, must have truly been touching, and the one brief year he had been allowed to spend at her side had apparently been the finest of his life. “L’année la plus heureuse de ma vie,” it said, underscored with a sinuous line, despite the danger that Madame Antoinette might read it.
But then Gotthold had come along, and the child had been Josephine’s undoing. The coarse paper revealed some curious remarks on the subject. Johann Buddenbrook appeared to have felt an honest and bitter hatred of this new creature from the moment his first brash movements began to cause his mother such terrible pain—to have hated him when he came into the world, healthy and lively, whereas Josephine had died, her bloodless head buried in her pillows, and never to have forgiven this unscrupulous intruder, growing up so robust and carefree, for the murder of his mother. The consul could not comprehend that. She died, he thought, while fulfilling the higher duty of women, and I would have tenderly transferred my love for her to the child she had paid for with her life, a gift left to me as she departed. His father, however, had seen in his eldest son only the person who had wickedly destroyed his happiness. Later, he had married Antoinette Duchamps, the daughter of a rich and highly respected Hamburg family, and the two had lived side by side, attentive and respectful of one another.
The consul paged back and forth in the notebook. He read, at the very end, the little entries about his own children, when Tom had had the measles and Antonie, jaundice, and how Christian had survived chickenpox; he read about the various trips to Paris, Switzerland, and Marienbad that he and his wife had taken, and then opened to the torn and foxed parchment pages that old Johann Buddenbrook, his father’s father, had filled with elaborate curlicues executed in pale gray ink. These entries began with an extensive genealogy, tracing the family’s main line—how at the end of
the sixteenth century the oldest known Buddenbrook had lived in Parchim and his son had become an alderman in Grabau. How, later, another Buddenbrook, a merchant tailor by trade, had married a woman from Rostock, “had done very well”—this was underlined—and sired a remarkable number of children, some of whom, as fate would have it, lived, others of whom did not. And how another, who called himself Johan, had remained in Rostock as a merchant. And finally how after many years the consul’s grandfather had arrived here to found their grain business. Dates were known and recorded for this ancestor: duly entered were the dates when he had a case of boils and when he had genuine pox; there were tidy entries for when he had fallen from the fourth story onto the drying-room floor, and lived to tell of it, although he struck a great many beams on the way down, and for when he had been delirious with a high fever. And he had added many a fine exhortation for his descendants, one sentence of which stood out because it was carefully framed and executed in tall Gothic script: “My son, show zeal for each day’s affairs of business, but only for such that make for a peaceful night’s sleep.” And then came an elaborate proof that the old Wittenberg Bible was indeed his, and that it should be passed on to his firstborn and from him to his eldest son.