Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family

by Thomas Mann

  “What?” Morten asked in his ponderous voice. But then, as if awakening from some profound reverie, he quickly said, “Going. That’s the Bürgermeister Steenbock, heading for Russia. I wouldn’t want to be on it,” he added after a pause. “Things there must be even more atrocious than they are here.”

  “Oh,” Tony said, “and now you’re about to start in on the nobility again, Morten, I can see it in your face. That’s not very nice of you. Have you ever known a single one?”

  “No!” Morten cried, close to rage. “Thank God!”

  “Right, so you see? But I have. Just a girl of course, Armgard von Schilling, who lives over there, the one I told you about. Well, now, she had a kinder heart than you or I, she hardly knew what her von meant, she ate plain old sausage and talked about her cows.”

  “Of course there are exceptions, Fräulein Tony,” he said heatedly. “But listen to me now. You’re a young lady, and you see everything from a personal angle. You know a young noblewoman and say: My, what a fine person she is. Of course. But you don’t have to know a single one of them to condemn the lot. It’s a matter of principle, you see, it’s the institution itself. So what do you have to say to that? Nothing. How can anyone, simply by virtue of being born noble and special, look with disdain down at us others, who no matter what we achieve can never reach their heights?” Morten spoke out of naïve and goodhearted outrage. He tried to make little gestures with his hands, saw himself how awkward they were, and gave that up. But he went on speaking. He was rolling now. He sat bent forward, one thumb wedged between the buttons on his jacket, a kind but defiant look in his eyes. “We are the bourgeoisie—the third estate, as they call us now—and what we want is a nobility of merit, nothing more. We don’t recognize this lazy nobility we now have, we reject our present class hierarchy. We want all men to be free and equal, for no one to be someone else’s subject, but for all to be subject to the law. There should be an end of privileges and arbitrary power. Everyone should be treated equally as a child of the state, and just as there are no longer any middlemen between the layman and his God, so each citizen should stand in direct relation to the state. We want freedom of the press, of employment, of commerce. We want all men to compete without any special privileges, and the only crown should be the crown of merit. But we have been enslaved, bound and gagged.… What was it I was going to say? Oh yes, now pay attention. Four years ago they renewed the Confederation’s laws dealing with the university and the press—fine laws those are! No truth can be written or taught that might not agree with the established order of things. Do you understand? Truth is suppressed, cannot get a hearing. And why? For the sake of an antiquated, idiotic, enfeebled class that, as everyone knows, will have to be done away with sooner or later. I don’t think you have any notion of how beastly that is. Force—the application of dumb, brutal, instantaneous force by the police—without any understanding of intellectual matters, of new ideas. But apart from all that, I have just one thing to say: The King of Prussia committed a great injustice back then, in 1813, during the French occupation. He called us to arms and promised us a constitution. And we came, and we liberated Germany.”

  Tony, who had been watching him, chin in hand, from the side, wondered for one brief, solemn moment if he really might have helped drive out Napoleon.

  “But do you suppose he honored his promise? Oh no! Our present king is a fine orator, a dreamer, a romantic like you, Fräulein Tony. For there is one thing we must keep in mind: if philosophers and poets have finally put aside or dismissed some idea, some point of view, some principle, a king is sure to come along who has just discovered it, who believes it to be the latest and best idea, something he has to believe and act on. That’s how things are in a monarchy. Kings are not just men, they are perfectly mediocre men, always bringing up the rear several miles behind. Ah, Germany is just like some student in a fraternity back in the days of the Wars of Liberation, some brave and enthusiastic young fellow, who has turned into a wretched philistine.”

  “Yes,” Tony said, “that’s all very fine. But let me ask you one thing. What does it matter to you? You’re not even a Prussian.”

  “Ah, it’s all the same, Fräulein Buddenbrook—and, yes, I intentionally used your last name. Actually I should call you Demoiselle Buddenbrook, to do you full justice. Do people here enjoy any more freedom, equality, or fraternity than in Prussia? Barriers, social distance, aristocracy—here as well as there. Your sympathies are with the nobility—and do you want me to tell you why? Because you’re an aristocrat yourself. Ah yes, didn’t you know that? Your father is a great sovereign, and you are a princess, separated by an abyss from all us others, who don’t belong to your circle of ruling families. Sure, you can go for a walk along the shore with one of us for a little relaxation, but when you return to that circle of the chosen with their privileges, then it’s off to sit on the stones.” His voice had grown strangely impassioned.

  “Morten,” Tony said sadly, “you really were angry when you went to sit on the stones. I asked you to let me introduce you.…”

  “Oh, you’re taking it all too personally again, like the young lady you are, Fräulein Tony. I’m speaking in general. I said that there is no more equality among people here than in Prussia. But if I were to speak personally,” he went on now in a more gentle voice, but that strange passion had not gone out of it, “then I would not be speaking about the present, but about the future, perhaps, when as Madame Such-and-such you will vanish for good and all into your elegant world and … it’s off to sit on the stones for the rest of one’s life.”

  He fell silent, and Tony was silent, too. She was no longer looking at him, but in the other direction, at the plank wall beside her. There was a rather long, uneasy pause.

  “Do you remember,” Morten began again, “how I once told you that there was a question I wanted to ask you? Yes, well, you should know that it’s something I’ve been thinking about since the afternoon you first arrived. Don’t guess. You can’t possibly know what it is. I’ll ask some other time, when the opportunity presents itself; there’s no hurry, it really is none of my business, I’m merely curious. No, for today I’ll just let you in on a secret … something quite different. Look at this.”

  Morten pulled out the end of a narrow, gaily striped ribbon from his jacket pocket, and gazed with both expectation and triumph into Tony’s eyes.

  “It’s very pretty,” she said, not understanding. “What does it mean?”

  “It means that I belong to a fraternity in Göttingen—and now you know. I have a cap with these colors, too, but while I’m on vacation, my skeleton is wearing it along with his police uniform. Because I wouldn’t dare be seen with it here, you see. I can depend on you not to say anything, can’t I? If my father ever learned about this, it would be a disaster.”

  “Not a word, Morten. No, you can count on me. But I don’t really know anything about what it means. Have you all sworn to overturn the nobility? What is it you want?”

  “We want freedom!” Morten said.

  “Freedom?” she asked.

  “Why, yes, freedom, you know, freedom,” he repeated, gesturing somewhat awkwardly but enthusiastically toward the sea—not in the direction where the coast of Mecklenburg hemmed in the bay, but to the open water, where ruffling bands of green, blue, yellow, and gray grew thinner and thinner, extending as far as the eye could see toward the grand blur of the horizon.

  Tony followed the gesture with her eyes, and they gazed together into the same distance—it would not have taken much for their two hands, lying side by side on the bench, to have joined. They said nothing for a long time. And while the sea murmured ponderously and peacefully below, Tony suddenly felt herself united with Morten in a great, vague, yearning, intuitive understanding of what “freedom” meant.

  9

  ISN’T IT REMARKABLE, Morten, how you can’t get bored at the beach? Try lying on your back for three or four hours anywhere else—not doing anything, not thinking a
bout anything.”

  “Yes, yes. Although I must admit that I used to be bored now and then, Fräulein Tony; but that was several weeks ago.”

  Autumn arrived, the first strong winds had begun to blow. Gray, thin, tattered clouds scudded across the sky. The dark, tossing sea was dotted everywhere with foam. Great waves rolled toward the shore with inexorable, appalling, silent power, pitched forward majestically, the swells shining like dark green metal, and plunged raucously onto the sand.

  The season was definitely over. There were only a few wicker chairs left on the deserted section of the beach that had been populated by the crowd of bathers—even some of the pavilions had been dismantled. But Tony and Morten spent their afternoons in the remote spot where the yellow clay cliffs began and the waves flung their spray high against Seagull Rock. Morten had built her a tall fortress of firmly packed sand; and there she lay on her back in her soft gray fall jacket with large buttons, her feet crossed to reveal her strap shoes and white stockings. Morten lay on his side, turned toward her, his chin propped in one hand. Now and then a gull would dart across the open water, shrieking in its search for prey. They watched as walls of water streaked green with sea-grass moved toward the cliffs, only to burst against the boulders opposite them—in a wild, eternal, deafening tumult that swallowed every word and destroyed all sense of time.

  Finally Morten stirred as if rousing himself and asked, “And so you’ll be leaving soon, Fräulein Tony?”

  “No … why?” Tony responded absent-mindedly, not really comprehending his question.

  “Well, good Lord, it’s the tenth of September. My vacation will soon be over in any case. How long can this last? Are you looking forward to parties in town? So tell me—I suppose the gentlemen you dance with are very charming? No, that’s not what I wanted to ask. There’s just one question I want you to answer,” he said, shifting his chin in his hand and gazing at her with sudden resolve. “It’s the question I’ve been saving for so long now, you remember? Well, then—who is Herr Grünlich?”

  Tony winced, looked straight at him, and then let her eyes wander about like someone reminded of a distant dream. At the same time she felt reawakening within her the same emotion that she had toyed with during the days of Herr Grünlich’s courtship: a sense of personal importance.

  “That’s what you wanted to know, Morten?” she asked solemnly. “Well, then, let me tell you. I felt terribly embarrassed, I assure you, when Thomas mentioned that name my first afternoon here; but since you’ve already heard it anyway … Enough.—Herr Grünlich, Bendix Grünlich, is a business friend of my father, a well-to-do merchant from Hamburg, who came to town and asked for my hand. Oh no!” she said, hastily countering a gesture Morten had made. “I refused him, I could not bring myself to consent to his proposal of marriage.”

  “And why not, if I might ask?” Morten said ineptly.

  “Why not? Good Lord, because I couldn’t stand him!” she cried, close to fury. “You should have seen him, the way he looked, the way he acted. He had these gold muttonchops—totally unnatural. I’m sure he curls and powders them with the same dust they use to gild walnuts at Christmas. And he was devious besides. He fawned on my parents, shamelessly echoed their every word.”

  Morten interrupted her: “But there’s one more thing you have to tell me. What does … what does ‘Those add a rare, ornamental touch’ mean?”

  Tony broke into a nervous giggle. “Yes, that’s just how he talked, Morten. He didn’t say: ‘Those look lovely,’ or ‘That works nicely in this room,’ but ‘That adds a rare, ornamental touch.’ That’s just how silly he was, I swear. And unbelievably persistent. He wouldn’t let me alone, although I never treated him with anything but sarcasm. There was one scene when he came close to tears. I ask you—a man who weeps?”

  “He must have admired you greatly,” Morten said softly.

  “But what concern is that of mine?” she cried in amazement, turning to him on her pile of sand.

  “You are cruel, Fräulein Tony. Are you always cruel? Tell me—you couldn’t stand this Herr Grünlich, but have you ever been fond of anyone else? Sometimes I think: Does she have a cold heart? But there is one thing I must tell you … something so true that I can swear to it: there is nothing silly about a man who weeps because you will have nothing to do with him. That’s all. I am not sure, not sure in the least, that I might not do the same. You see, you’re a spoiled, elegant creature. Do you always mock the people who lay themselves at your feet? Do you really have a cold heart?”

  And now, after her brief, initial gaiety, Tony’s upper lip began to quiver. She stared at him with large, sad eyes that slowly began to glisten with tears, and said, “No, Morten, do you believe that of me? You mustn’t believe that of me.”

  “I don’t, I don’t believe it!” Morten cried with a laugh that betrayed both his deep affection and barely stifled exultation. He rolled over now so that he was lying close beside her on his stomach; and, propping himself on his elbows, he took one of her hands in his, and his kindly steel-blue eyes gazed deep into hers with rapturous fervor. “And you … you won’t mock me if I tell you that …”

  “I know, Morten,” she interrupted him, very softly, staring down at her free hand, her fingers slowly sifting the soft, white sand.

  “You know! And what about you … you, Fräulein Tony?”

  “Yes, Morten. I think a great deal of you, too. I’m very fond of you, fonder than of anyone else I know.”

  He sat up and attempted a few gestures with his arms, not really knowing what to do. He leapt to his feet, but immediately sat back down and cried in a wavering voice that first faltered, broke, and then, in its joy, found itself again, “Ah, thank you, thank you! You see, I’m happier now than I have ever been in my life.” He began to kiss her hands.

  Suddenly he said more softly, “You’ll soon be going back to town, Tony, and my vacation is over in two weeks as well and I’ll be returning to Göttingen. But will you promise me that you won’t forget our afternoon here on the beach—until I come back, have become a doctor, and can plead our cause with your father, however difficult that may be? And that in the meantime you won’t pay any attention to any Herr Grünlichs? Oh, it won’t be long, you’ll see. I’ll work like, like … and it won’t be hard at all.”

  “Yes, Morten,” she said happily and dreamily, gazing at his eyes, at his mouth and his hands, which were holding her own.

  He pulled one of them closer to his chest and asked in a subdued, pleading voice, “And to seal that promise, won’t you … may I not …”

  She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him—but silently moved the upper part of her body a little closer to him on their cushion of sand, and Morten kissed her slowly and formally on the mouth. Then they both looked down in different directions at the sand—embarrassed beyond measure.

  10

  Dearest Demoiselle Buddenbrook,

  How long it has been since the undersigned was last permitted a glimpse of that most enchanting of faces. These few lines are penned to say that that same face has not ceased to float before his mind’s eye, that during all the suspense and anxiety of the last weeks he has never ceased to recall how last he saw it on that precious afternoon in your parents’ salon, when you let slip that half-promise with such modesty, and yet to what blissful effect. Long weeks have passed, during which you have withdrawn from the world, seeking to collect and know your thoughts, and one would presume that one may now hope one’s period of trial is past. The undersigned makes bold, dearest demoiselle, deferentially to send you this little ring, enclosed as a pledge of his undying tenderness. With his most devoted compliments and kissing your hand most affectionately, he remains

  Your most obedient servant,

  Grünlich

  Dear Papa,

  Heavens, I am so angry! I just received the enclosed letter and ring from Grünlich, and my head hurts I am so upset, and I know no other course than to send them both back to you. Grünlich refus
es to understand, and his poetic description of my “promise” is simply not true, and I implore you immediately to make it very clear to him that I am a thousand times less inclined to consent to his proposal than I was six weeks ago, and that he should finally leave me in peace—he really is making a fool of himself. I know I can tell you, my dearest father, that I have pledged my heart to someone else, who loves me and whom I love beyond anything I can say. Oh, Papa, I could write pages and pages about him. I am speaking of Morten Schwarzkopf, who intends to become a doctor and, as soon as he is one, to ask for my hand. I know that by family custom I should marry a merchant, but as a scholar Morten is an equally respectable gentleman. He is not wealthy, something I know is important for you and Mama, and I may be young, but I do know one thing, dear Papa: that life has taught many people that riches do not always make for happiness. With a thousand kisses I remain

  Your obedient daughter

  Antonie

  P.S. The ring is not quality gold, and it is rather small, I notice.

  My dear Tony,

  Your letter duly received. As regards its contents, I should tell you that I did not fail dutifully to communicate to Herr Grünlich your view of the situation in an appropriate manner. The result of which, however, truly shocked me. You are a grown young lady and find yourself at such a serious crossroads in life that I do not scruple to point out the consequences that might result from any frivolous step on your part. Upon hearing what I had to say, Herr Grünlich became quite desperate, crying that he loved you so much and the pain of losing you would be so great that he was prepared to take his own life if you were to persist in your decision. Inasmuch as I cannot take seriously what you have written about another attachment, I would ask you to master your agitation about the ring you were sent and to weigh all this most seriously one more time. My Christian convictions, dear daughter, tell me it is our duty to have regard for the feelings of others, for we do not know whether one day you may not be held answerable before the Highest Judge because the man whom you have stubbornly and coldly scorned has been guilty of the sin of taking his own life. I would like you to recall, however, something that I have impressed upon you often enough in conversation, and which the present occasion allows me to repeat in writing. For, although the words we speak are more vivid and immediate, the written word has the advantage of having been chosen with great care and is fixed in a form that its author has weighed and considered, so that it may be read again and again to cumulative effect. We are not born, my dear daughter, to pursue our own small personal happiness, for we are not separate, independent, self-subsisting individuals, but links in a chain; and it is inconceivable that we would be what we are without those who have preceded us and shown us the path that they themselves have scrupulously trod, looking neither to the left nor to the right, but, rather, following a venerable and trustworthy tradition. Your path, it seems to me, has been obvious for many weeks now, its course clearly defined, and you would surely not be my daughter, the granddaughter of your grandfather, who rests now in God, indeed would not be a worthy link in our family’s chain if, of your own accord and out of stubbornness and frivolity, you seriously intended to follow an aberrant path of your own. I beg you, my dear Antonie, to ponder these things in your heart.