by Thomas Mann
Madame Buddenbrook was busy reading two letters. Tony wrote about how little Erika was thriving happily, and Christian was eager to report about his life and doings in London, though without any mention of his work in Mr. Richardson’s office. Now approaching her mid-forties, Elisabeth bitterly complained about how fair women were doomed to age so quickly. The delicate complexion that went so well with her reddish hair had lost its glow over the years, despite all the lotions she had applied; and even her hair would have begun its inexorable turn to gray if she had not prevented the worst for now by applying a tinting remedy, available, thank God, from Paris. Elisabeth was determined never to be a white-haired lady. And if the day should arrive when dye no longer sufficed, she would wear a wig of the same color as the hair of her youth. Set atop her always artfully coiffed hair was a small silk bow, surrounded by white lace: the beginning, the least hint, of a matron’s cap. Her silk skirt billowed wide around her, her bell-shaped sleeves were lined with stiff muslin. And as always a pair of gold bracelets tinkled softly at her wrist. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
Suddenly they heard the noise of shouts and screams, some kind of insolent yowling, plus whistles and the stamping of a great many feet on pavement—coming closer now and growing.
“Mama, what’s that?” Clara asked, looking first into the “spy” and then out the window. “All those people … what are they doing? Why are they so happy?”
“My God!” Elisabeth cried, leaping up and nervously casting her letters aside. She hurried to the window. “Can it be … Oh my God, it’s the revolution, it’s the masses.”
The fact was that there had been unrest in the streets all day. That same morning, the display window of Benthien Clothiers had been shattered by a stone, although God only knew what Herr Benthien’s window had to do with politics.
“Anton?!” Elisabeth cried in a tremulous voice into the dining room, where the butler was busy with the silver. “Anton, go downstairs and bolt the front door. The masses are here.…”
“Yes, Madame Buddenbrook,” Anton said. “But do I dare risk it? I’m a house servant, and if they see me in my livery …”
“Wicked people,” Klothilde said in sorrow, drawing out the words, but without putting her needlework down. At that moment, the consul came striding down the columned hallway and entered through the glass door. He had his hat in hand and his overcoat was flung over his arm.
“You’re going out there, Jean?” Elisabeth asked in horror.
“Yes, my dear, I have to attend a council meeting.”
“But the masses, Jean, the revolution …”
“Oh, good Lord, it isn’t as serious as that, Bethsy. We are in God’s hands. They’ve already moved past the house. I’ll go out through the back building.”
“Jean, if you love me at all—do you really intend to expose yourself to danger, to leave us alone here? Oh, I’m so afraid, I’m so afraid.”
“Dearest, I beg you, don’t get overwrought like this. The people will kick up a bit of a rumpus in front of the town hall or on the market square. And it may cost the government a few windowpanes, that’s all.”
“Where are you going, Jean?”
“To a council meeting. I’m late already, I was delayed in the office. It would be disgraceful if I were to miss the meeting. Do you imagine this will stop your father—old as he is?”
“Yes, well, then, go with God, Jean. But be careful, I beg you, do take care. And keep an eye on my father. If something were to happen to him …”
“Not to worry, my dear.”
“When will you be back?” Elisabeth called after him.
“Oh, around four-thirty, five o’clock. It depends. There are some important items on the agenda—it all depends.”
“Oh, I’m so afraid, I’m so afraid,” Madame Buddenbrook said once more, glancing helplessly about and pacing back and forth in the room.
3
CONSUL BUDDENBROOK strode hurriedly across his extensive property. As he emerged on Becker Grube, he heard footsteps behind him and spotted Gosch the broker, a picturesque figure wrapped in a long coat, who was also heading up the steep hill for the meeting. Doffing his Jesuit hat with one long, skinny hand and smoothly executing a gesture of deference with the other, he said in a stifled but fierce voice, “My salutations … Consul Buddenbrook.”
Siegismund Gosch the broker was a bachelor, about forty years old, and, despite appearances, the most honest and kindhearted man in the world; but he was an aesthete, an original thinker. His clean-shaven face was marked with sharp features—an arching nose, a jutting pointed chin, and a wide, down-turned mouth, its thin lips pressed tight, giving him a wicked look. He strove to give the impression of being a wild, handsome, scheming devil, to play the role of a wicked, crafty, interesting villain, somewhere between Mephistopheles and Napoleon—and he pulled it off rather well. His gray hair was combed down over his brow for sinister effect. He regretted not being hunchbacked. He was an exotic and attractive character among the bourgeois inhabitants of the old commercial town. And yet he was one of them, because he managed his small, respectable brokerage business in the best, modest middle-class fashion. But in his dark, narrow office there was a large bookcase filled with poetical works in all languages, and it was rumored that for the last twenty years he had been working on a translation of the complete plays of Lope de Vega. On one occasion he had played Domingo in an amateur production of Schiller’s Don Carlos. It had been the highpoint of his life. No vulgar word had ever passed his lips, and he even spoke the kind of phrases common in business conversation with clenched teeth and a face that seemed to say: “Scoundrel, ha! I curse thy forebears in their graves!” He was, in many ways, the heir and successor to Jean Jacques Hoffstede; except that there was something more somber and pathetic about him, and he was totally incapable of the droll joviality that old Johann Buddenbrook’s friend had managed to salvage from the previous century. At the exchange one day, he lost six and a half thalers courant at one blow on two or three stocks he had bought on speculation. His dramatic sensitivities overcame him and he gave a performance. He sank down onto a bench in the pose of a man who has lost the battle of Waterloo, pressing a clenched fist to his brow, rolling his eyes blasphemously, and repeating several times over: “Ha, curses!” He was, in reality, bored by the small, steady, secure commissions he made on the sale of this or that piece of real estate, but this loss, this tragic blow that heaven had struck against him, the great schemer, was pure joy, a source of happiness on which he feasted for weeks afterward. If someone said, “I hear you’ve been unlucky, Herr Gosch. I’m very sorry,” he would reply, “Oh, worthy friend, uomo non educato dal dolore riman sempre bambino!” As might be expected, no one understood this. Was it from Lope de Vega? But one thing was certain—Siegismund Gosch was a learned and remarkable man.
“What times we live in,” he said to Consul Buddenbrook and bent down over his cane as they made their way up the street, side by side. “Times of tempest and trouble.”
“You’re right about that,” the consul replied. “The times are troubled. Things will be tense at today’s meeting. Restricted voting rights …”
“Oh no, listen,” Herr Gosch went on. “I’ve been out and about all day. I have been observing the rabble. There are splendid fellows among them, their eyes flaming with hatred and excitement.”
Johann Buddenbrook broke into a laugh. “You certainly are something, my friend. You seem to take some sort of pleasure in this, don’t you? No, if you’ll permit me, it’s all childishness. What do these people want? A bunch of ill-mannered young fellows who are taking this opportunity to kick up something of a rumpus.”
“True enough. And yet one cannot deny—I was there when Berkemeyer the butcher’s apprentice threw the stone at Herr Benthien’s window. He was like a panther!” Herr Gosch spoke this last word with his teeth clenched especially tight, and then continued, “Oh, one cannot deny that the whole affair has its sublime side. At last, som
ething different, you see, something out of the ordinary, powerful—a savage storm, a tempest. Ah, the masses are ignorant, I know that. And yet my heart, this heart of mine, is with them.” They were now almost at the door of the austere yellow building where the council held its meetings in the ground-floor assembly room.
This room was part of a beer-and-dance hall that belonged to the widow Suerkringel, but it was made available to the gentlemen of the council on certain days. The main entrance led into a narrow, stone-paved hallway, on the right of which was the restaurant, smelling of beer and food, and on the left a door of green-painted planks, with neither handle nor lock, and so narrow and low that no one would have expected such a large room behind it. The room was cold, bare, barnlike, with whitewashed walls and ceiling, exposed beams, and three rather high, curtainless windows, the panes divided in four by green crosses. Opposite the windows, ranks of seats rose to form an amphitheater, at the bottom of which stood a table, covered by a green cloth and furnished with a large bell, documents, and writing utensils for the chairman, recording clerk, and whatever members of the senate delegation might be present. On the wall across from the door were several high racks hung with coats and hats.
As the consul and his companion passed one behind the other through the narrow door into the hall, they were met with a confusion of voices. The room was filled with men with hands thrust into their trouser pockets, crossed behind their backs, or thrown into the air—all standing in little groups and arguing. Of the 120 members of the council, it looked as if about a hundred had gathered. A number of the representatives from the countryside had decided to stay at home, given current circumstances.
Closest to the door stood a group of less important men: two or three shopkeepers; a high-school teacher; Herr Mindermann, the orphanage director; and Herr Wenzel, the well-liked barber. Herr Wenzel—a small sturdy man with an intelligent face, a black mustache, and red hands—had shaved the consul that very morning, but here he was his equal. He shaved only men from the best circles—shaved nothing but Möllendorpfs, Langhalses, Buddenbrooks, and Oeverdiecks—and he owed his election to the council to his omniscience in local affairs, to his affability and good manners, to his obvious self-confidence despite his lower social status.
“Have you heard the latest, Consul Buddenbrook?” he shouted to his patron, his eyes anxious and earnest.
“What is it I should know, my dear Wenzel?”
“Something no one could have known anything about this morning, beg the consul’s pardon. The latest word is that the mob isn’t headed for the town hall or the market square. They’re coming here to threaten the council. Rübsam the newspaper editor is the instigator.”
“Oh my, impossible!” the consul said. He pushed his way between two groups at the front, to the middle of the room, where he saw his father-in-law standing with two senators, Dr. Langhals and James Möllendorpf. “Is it really true, gentlemen?” he asked, shaking their hands.
And, indeed, the whole council was talking about it: the rioters were heading this way, were already within earshot.
“Rabble!” Lebrecht Kröger said with cold disdain. He had come in his equipage. Under normal circumstances, the tall, distinguished figure of the former “cavalier à la mode” would have revealed that he was beginning to bend beneath the burden of his eighty years; but today he stood quite erect, his eyes half closed, the corners of his mouth turned down in elegant disdain, the short tips of his white mustache turned straight up. Two rows of jeweled buttons sparkled on his black velvet vest.
Not far from this group could be seen Hinrich Hagenström—a portly, square-framed gentleman, whose reddish beard was turning gray; his frock coat was open, and a heavy watch chain was draped across his blue-checkered vest. He was standing with his partner, Herr Strunck, and made no effort to greet the consul.
And then there was Benthien the clothier, a prosperous-looking man, who had gathered a large number of men around him, describing for them in exact detail what had happened to his windowpane. “A brick, half a brick, gentlemen! Crashed right through and landed on a role of green ribbed silk. Riffraff! And now the government will deal with them.”
From some corner of the room came the incessant voice of Herr Stuht from Glockengiesser Strasse, a black coat pulled on over his woolen shirt, who was deeply involved in the discussion and kept repeating with great indignation, “Outrageous infamy!” (He pronounced it “iffamy,” however.)
Johann Buddenbrook worked his way about the room, greeting first his old friend C. F. Köppen, and then the latter’s competitor, Consul Kistenmaker. He shook Dr. Grabow’s hand and exchanged a few words with Gieseke, the chief of the fire department, with Voigt the contractor, with Dr. Langhals, today’s presiding chairman and brother of the senator, with merchants, teachers, and lawyers.
The meeting had not yet been opened, but the debate was extraordinarily lively. The gentlemen cursed Rübsam—ink-slinger and editor—who they all knew had incited the mob. But to what end? They had assembled to determine whether to retain restricted voting rights or to introduce universal franchise. The senate had already proposed the latter. But what did the masses want? They wanted their hands on these gentlemen’s throats, that was all. Damn it, this was the unholiest mess in which these gentlemen had ever found themselves. They surrounded members of the senate delegation to hear their opinions. They also surrounded Consul Buddenbrook, who was sure to know how Mayor Oeverdieck felt about the matter, because the previous year Senator Dr. Oeverdieck, a brother-in-law of Consul Justus Kröger, had become president of the senate and mayor—and that meant that the Buddenbrooks were now related to the mayor, which greatly enhanced the esteem in which they were held.
There was a sudden surge in the tumult outside—the revolution had reached the windows of the assembly hall. The excited exchange of opinions inside stopped short. Hands folded over their stomachs and, mute with shock, they stared at one another or toward the windows, where they could see raised fists and hear boisterous hoots, inane and deafening yowls that filled the air. But then, quite unexpectedly, as if the rebels were suddenly appalled at their own behavior, it was as quiet outside as it was in the hall; and the deep hush that fell over everything was broken only by the sound of one word, spoken slowly and with cold intensity, emanating from somewhere in the bottom rows, where Lebrecht Kröger had taken his seat: “Rabble!”
And from some other corner, a hollow, indignant voice echoed, “Outrageous iffamy!”
And suddenly the trembling, hasty, furtive voice of Benthien the clothier floated out over the assembly: “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Listen to me. I know this building well. There is a trapdoor in the attic—I used to shoot cats through it as a boy. We can easily climb out onto the next roof and save our skins.”
“Base cowardice,” Gosch the broker hissed between his teeth. Head lowered and arms crossed, he was leaning on the speaker’s table and staring grimly at the windows.
“Cowardice, sir? What do you mean? Good God, they’re throwing bricks. And I’ve had a bellyful of it.”
At that moment the sound outside swelled again, but instead of returning to its initial fever pitch, it rumbled low and steady in a patient singsong, almost a merry buzz, broken now and then by whistles and what were clearly shouts of “The vote!” and “Our rights!” The council listened attentively.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Langhals, the presiding chairman, said after a while, in a subdued voice audible to the whole assembly, “I assume I have your consent to open this meeting?”
But even this humble request received not the least support from any quarter.
“Ain’t gonna get me to agree to that,” someone said with the kind of honest resolve that brooks no objection. It was Pfahl, a farmer from the Ritzerau district, deputy for the village of Klein Schretstaken. No one could recall ever having heard his voice in debate before; but in the present situation the opinion of even the simplest man carried great weight. With sure political instinct, the intrepid Herr P
fahl had given voice to the view of the entire council.
“Heaven help us,” said Herr Benthien in exasperation. “They can see the top rows of seats from the street. People are throwing bricks. Good God! No, no—I’ve had a bellyful.”
“That damn door is so small,” Köppen the wine merchant blurted out in despair. “If we try to get out, we’ll more’n likely get squeezed to death.”
“Outrageous iffamy,” Herr Stuht said in a hollow voice.
“Gentlemen,” the chairman began insistently again, “I beg you to reconsider. I am required to present the final minutes of this meeting to the mayor within three days. And the town expects them in print, too. I would at least like to proceed to a vote as to whether the meeting is to be opened.”
But although a few gentlemen agreed with the chairman, no one was prepared to move the order of the day. It was pointless to call for a vote. The mob should not be incited further. No one knew just what the mob wanted—so it was better not to antagonize it by a decision one way or the other. They had better wait, not make any moves. The clock of St. Mary’s struck half past four.
They bolstered one another in their decision to wait it out patiently. They began to get used to the noise outside—it swelled, ebbed, paused, started up again. They began to calm down, to make themselves comfortable on the lower rows of benches and chairs. Native enterprise began to stir among these industrious men—here and there a business conversation was ventured, here and there a deal was even struck. The brokers sat down with the wholesalers. These beleaguered gentlemen chatted like people sitting out a violent thunderstorm together, speaking of this and that, but pausing now and then with serious and respectful faces to listen to the thunder. Five o’clock came, five-thirty—dusk fell. Now and then someone might sigh that his wife had coffee waiting for him at home, which Herr Benthien would take as a cue to mention the trapdoor again. But most of them agreed with Herr Stuht, who declared with a fatalistic shake of his head, “I’m too fat for that!”