by Thomas Mann
Because Lea Gerhardt was deaf, it was customary for her to read aloud on Jerusalem Evenings—the ladies thought she read most beautifully and touchingly. From her bag she would extract an ancient book that was considerably—in fact, ridiculously—longer than it was wide and bore on its first page an etching of her ancestor—with chubby cheeks no human ever had—and, holding it up in both hands, she would read very loudly so that she, too, might hear some of it, in a dreadful voice that sounded like the wind trapped in a chimney: “Though Satan should devour me …”
“Well, now,” Tony Grünlich thought, “what sort of Satan would want to devour you?” But she said nothing, just went on devouring her own pudding and wondering if there would ever come a day when she would be as ugly as the two Miss Gerhardts.
She was not happy; she was bored and annoyed by all these pastors and missionaries, whose visits had grown ever more frequent, it seemed, since the consul’s death, and who, in Tony’s opinion, had far too much to say in the house and received far too much money. This latter point concerned Thomas, too; but he held his peace about it, whereas his sister now and then would mutter something about those who devour widows’ houses and make long prayers.
She bitterly despised these gentlemen in black. As a mature woman who had learned something about life and was no longer a silly goose, she found herself incapable of believing in their spotless sanctity. “Good heavens, Mother,” she said, “I know one should not speak evil of one’s neighbor—I do, really. But one thing must be said nonetheless, and I would be surprised if life has not taught it to you as well. Not everyone who goes about in long clothing and cries, ‘Lord, Lord!’ is without blemish.”
It was unclear how Thomas felt about these truths, which his sister preached with such prodigious energy. Christian, however, had no opinion whatever; he confined himself to wrinkling up his nose and observing these gentlemen in order to imitate them later at the Club or for his family.
But it is true that Tony suffered the most from their sanctified guests. One day it verily came to pass that a missionary named Jonathan, who had served in both Syria and Arabia, a man with large, reproachful eyes and drooping, melancholy jowls, stepped up to her and demanded with mournful gravity that she decide whether the curls on her forehead, being the work of a curling iron, were consistent with Christian humility. Oh, he had no idea of Tony Grünlich’s sarcastic rhetorical powers. She was silent for several seconds, but you could see her brain working. Then it came to her. “Might I beg you, reverend sir, to worry about your own curls.” And she sailed away with her shoulders held high, her head tossed back, and her chin pressed lightly to her chest. Pastor Jonathan possessed very little hair on his head—indeed, one could say his skull was bare.
She once had an even greater triumph—over Pastor Trieschke from Berlin, whose nickname was Teary Trieschke, because every Sunday he would begin to weep at some point in his sermon. Teary Trieschke, who was notable for a pale face, red eyes, and the facial bone-structure of a horse, had spent eight or ten days at the Buddenbrooks’, taking turns with Klothilde as the winner in the eating contest, and now found occasion to fall in love with Tony. Not with her immortal soul, oh no, but with her upper lip, her full head of hair, her pretty eyes, and her fine figure. And this man of God, who had a wife and numerous children in Berlin, was impudent enough to commission Anton to climb to Madame Grünlich’s bedroom on the third floor and deliver a letter, a persuasive hodgepodge of Bible verses and strangely obsequious endearments. She found it as she was preparing for bed, read it, and marched with a firm stride downstairs to Madame Buddenbrook’s bedroom on the mezzanine, where, without the least embarrassment, she read the cleric’s epistle in a loud voice. From then on, Teary Trieschke was no longer welcome on Meng Strasse.
“They’re all like that,” Madame Grünlich said. “Ha! All of them. Heavens, what a goose I used to be, what a silly goose, Mama. But life has robbed me of my trust in my fellow man. Most of them are scoundrels. Yes, it’s true, sad to say.” And, raising her shoulders and directing her gaze heavenward, she added, “Grünlich!” And the name sounded like a fanfare, as if she had given a little blast on a trumpet.
6
SIEVERT TIBURTIUS was a small, narrow-shouldered man with a large head and a scraggly long blond beard that he parted in two strands and that for comfort’s sake he would sometimes lay to the sides, one strand to each shoulder. His round head was covered with countless tiny, woolly curls. His large ears stood way out, their rolled edges tucked inward and extending to points like a fox’s. His nose looked like a little flat button between his protruding cheekbones, and his gray eyes squinted and blinked in all directions a little stupidly, although at certain moments they could unexpectedly grow larger and larger, sticking out until they almost popped.
Pastor Tiburtius came from Riga and, after serving for several years in central Germany, had stopped off in town on his way home, where a pulpit had been offered him. Furnished with recommendations from a fellow clergyman, who had once enjoyed his share of the mock-turtle soup and ham with shallot sauce on Meng Strasse, he stopped to pay Madame Buddenbrook his respects and was invited to spend the rest of his stay, which would take a few days yet, in the spacious guest room along the corridor on the second floor.
But he stayed longer than expected. Eight days passed, and he still had not seen this or that interesting sight—the dance of death and the apostles on the clock of St. Mary’s, the town hall, the Seaman’s Guild, or the sun with movable eyes that hung inside the cathedral. Ten days passed, and he frequently mentioned his departure; but at the first word urging him to stay on, he would delay leaving again.
He was a better man than the Reverend Jonathan or Teary Trieschke. He was not in the least interested in the curls on Tony’s forehead and he wrote her no letters. But he was all the more attentive to Clara, her younger and more serious sister. In her presence—when she spoke, when she came or went—his eyes might unexpectedly grow larger and larger, protruding until they almost popped. He spent nearly his whole day with her, engaging her in religious and secular conversation or reading aloud to her in his high, cracking voice that bumped along in the droll accents of his Baltic homeland.
The very first day, he said, “Mercy me, Madame Buddenbrook, what a treasure, what a blessing from God you have in your daughter Clara. She is truly a splendid child.”
“How right you are,” Elisabeth replied. But he repeated this so often that her pale blue eyes began to look him up and down, discreetly examining him, and she brought him around to speaking in more detail of his family, his circumstances, and his prospects. It turned out that he came from a merchant family, that his mother had gone to her heavenly reward, that he had no brothers or sisters, and that his aged father had retired on an adequate income—the principal of which would one day belong to Pastor Tiburtius, although his ministerial duties alone would assure him a sufficient income.
As for Clara Buddenbrook, she was now eighteen years old and had grown to be a woman of austere and peculiar beauty—her dark hair was parted and pulled back smooth, her brown eyes were stern and yet somehow dreamy, her nose was slightly arched, her mouth closed a little too firmly, and her figure was tall and slender. At home, she was closest to her poor and equally pious cousin Klothilde, whose father had died recently and who was toying with the idea of “establishing” herself—which meant taking the few pennies and sticks of furniture that she had inherited and finding lodgings somewhere. Clara had none of Thilda’s patient, methodical, and hungry humility. On the contrary, her voice tended to assume a somewhat domineering tone when she spoke with the servants—or with her brothers and sister and mother, for that matter; there was something imperious about that alto sound, which she knew only to lower to emphasize her point, but never to raise at the end of a question, and it often took on a curt, hard, impatient, haughty timbre—especially on days when Clara had her headaches.
Before the death of the consul had shrouded the entire family in
mourning, she had participated with unapproachable dignity in the social life of her parents’ home and attended parties in the homes of those of equal rank. Elisabeth had watched her and could not deny that, despite a handsome dowry and Clara’s domestic talents, she would have a difficult time marrying the child off. She could not picture any of the skeptical, claret-drinking, jovial young merchants from their social circle taking his place at the side of her serious and God-fearing daughter, but she could definitely imagine a man of the cloth. And since that idea gave her considerable pleasure, Pastor Tiburtius’s delicate overtures were received with nicely tempered cordiality.
And, indeed, matters proceeded with great precision. On a warm, cloudless July afternoon, the family went for a walk. Madame Buddenbrook, Antonie, Christian, Clara, Thilda, Erika Grünlich, and Mamselle Jungmann—with Pastor Tiburtius in their midst—strolled to a country inn some distance beyond the Burg Gate, to sit at wooden tables under the trees and enjoy an afternoon snack of strawberries, sour cream, or groat pudding. And afterward, they wandered in the large gardens that stretched down toward the river, walking in the shade of all sorts of fruit trees, among currant and gooseberry bushes, between beds of asparagus and potatoes.
Sievert Tiburtius and Clara Buddenbrook held back a little. He was much shorter than she and had now taken off his floppy black straw hat and laid his parted beard on his shoulders, one strand to each side; and drying his brow with his handkerchief now and then, he engaged her in deep and gentle conversation, during the course of which they both came to a halt at one point and in a calm, serious voice Clara gave her consent to his proposal.
They all returned home to the pensive stillness of Sunday evening; and Madame Buddenbrook was sitting alone and rather weary in the landscape room when Pastor Tiburtius joined her, taking his seat in the summer twilight, and engaged her in deep and gentle conversation.
When he had finished, Madame Buddenbrook said, “Enough, my good Pastor Tiburtius. Your offer coincides with my own maternal wishes, and you certainly have not made a bad choice, I can assure you of that. Who would have thought that first your visit and then your longer stay here in our house would be so wonderfully blessed. I will not give you my final answer today, because it is only proper that I first write my son the consul, who as you know is in the Netherlands at present. You will depart for Riga tomorrow to assume your new duties, as God grants you life and health to do so, and we intend to spend a few weeks at the shore ourselves. You will receive word from me very soon, and God grant that we all shall see one another again.”
7
Amsterdam, 20 July ’56
Hotel Het Haasje
My dear Mother,
Your informative letter has just reached me, and I hasten to thank you most warmly for the consideration you have shown in asking my consent in the matter at hand; it goes without saying that I am not only happy to give it, but wish also to add my heartiest congratulations, being fully confident as I am that both you and Clara have made an excellent choice. I am familiar with the fine old name Tiburtius, and I am almost certain that Papa had business relations with Herr Tiburtius senior. Clara will at any rate find herself in pleasant surroundings, and the duties of a pastor’s wife are well suited to her temperament.
If I understand correctly, Tiburtius has now departed for Riga and is to visit his fiancée in August? Well, that will certainly make for festive times on Meng Strasse—even more festive than any of you might expect, because you have no idea what special reasons I have for being so delightfully surprised by news of Mademoiselle Clara’s engagement and for looking forward to what will be a very happy gathering. Yes, my dear good Mama, in submitting my solemn consent from here on the Amstel for Clara to enjoy future earthly happiness on the Baltic, I do so on one simple condition—that by return post I may receive from your pen just such a solemn consent to just such a happy enterprise. I would give three gold guldens to see your face, and even more to see our gallant Tony’s face, as you read these lines. But now let me come to the point.
My tidy little hotel is in the heart of the city, not far from the exchange, and has a lovely view of a canal; and the business I came here to attend to (primarily to establish a new and valuable connection, which as you know I always prefer to do in person) proceeded as I had hoped from the very first day. I have retained numerous acquaintanceships from my apprentice days here in the city, and although many families are now at the seashore, social obligations have laid claim to much of my time. I attended small evening affairs at the van Henkdoms’ and the Moelens’, and I had not been here three days before I had to don my finery to attend a banquet given in my honor, arranged quite out of season, by Herr van der Kellen, my former chief. And the lady I escorted to the table was—would you care to guess? Fräulein Arnoldsen, Tony’s roommate from boarding school, whose father, a notable merchant and an almost even more notable virtuoso on the violin, was likewise present, as were his married daughter and her husband.
I can recall quite well that Gerda—you will permit me to use her first name—made a very strong, indeed indelible, impression on me even when she was still just a girl attending Mademoiselle Weichbrodt’s school on Mühlenbrink. But now I have seen her again: taller, more beautiful, more mature and intelligent than ever. Spare me, please, any further description of her person, which might tempt me to become all too impetuous—you shall all soon be able to meet her face to face.
You may well imagine that many topics of conversation offered themselves as we dined; but no sooner was the soup course ended than we left old anecdotes behind and proceeded to more serious and fascinating subjects. I could not hold my own in matters musical, since, sadly, we Buddenbrooks know all too little about them; but I was more at home when speaking of Dutch painting, and we understood one another quite well when it came to literature.
Indeed, time took wing. After dinner I had her introduce me to Herr Arnoldsen senior, who responded with special politeness. Later, in the salon, he played several concert pieces, and Gerda performed as well. She looked so splendid, and although I have no notion of the finer points of violin playing, I do know that she was able to make her instrument (a genuine Stradivarius) sing—indeed, it almost brought tears to one’s eyes.
The following day I visited the Arnoldsens on Prinz Hendrik Kade. I was first received by an elderly lady who serves as a social companion and with whom I was forced to speak French; but then Gerda arrived and we chatted away, as we had the evening previous, for a good hour or more; except that this time we found ourselves drawn even closer to one another and strove to understand and know one another better. We spoke again of you, dear Mama, and of Tony, about our fine old town, and about my own occupation.
I made my decision that very day, and it was: this woman or none, now or never! I met her again on the occasion of a garden party given by my friend van Svindren; I was invited to a musical soirée at the Arnoldsens’, and in the course of the evening I ventured to sound the lady out with something close to a declaration, to which she responded very encouragingly. And only five days ago, I paid a morning visit to Herr Arnoldsen to ask permission to sue for his daughter’s hand. He received me in his private office. “My dear consul,” he said, “you are most welcome to try, as difficult as it will be for this old widower to separate himself from his daughter. But she? She has thus far held firm in her resolve never to marry. Do you have a chance?” And he was quite amazed when I replied that Fräulein Gerda had indeed already given me some cause for hope.
He gave her several days to consider the matter, and I believe that out of pure selfishness he even advised against it. But to no avail. I am the man she has chosen, and as of yesterday afternoon we are officially engaged.
No, my dear Mama, I am not asking you for a written blessing of our union, for I shall be leaving for home the day after tomorrow. But I am bringing with me the promise that all three Arnoldsens—Gerda, her father, and her married sister—will visit us in August. And then you will have no choic
e but to admit that she is the right woman for me. For you surely cannot object that Gerda is only three years younger than I, can you? You never expected, I hope, that I would bring home some young thing from the Möllendorpf-Langhals-Kistenmaker-Hagenström circle.
And as far as the “match” goes—ah, I’m almost afraid that Stephen Kistenmaker and Hermann Hagenström and Peter Döhlmann and Uncle Justus and the whole town will all give me sly winks when they hear of this match—because my future father-in-law is a millionaire. Good Lord, what is there to say? There are so many mixed emotions in all of us that can be read one way or the other. I adore Gerda Arnoldsen, ardently adore her, but I am not in the least inclined to delve deeper into myself to determine whether and to what extent the large dowry—a sum that someone cynically whispered in my ear on that first evening—contributed to my adoration. I love her, but it only makes me that much happier and prouder that at the same time I shall be gaining a significant source of capital for our firm.