by Thomas Mann
Suddenly there is a stir in the hallway, they can hear the servants laughing; and now at the doorway there appears a curious gentleman, who has come to offer his own congratulations. It is Grobleben—Grobleben, from the end of whose scrawny nose, no matter what the time of year, there always hangs a longish droplet that never seems to fall. Grobleben is a worker in one of the consul’s warehouses, and he is allowed to earn a little extra on the side by polishing his employer’s boots. He appears on Breite Strasse early every morning, picks up the shoes outside the door, and cleans them downstairs in the entrance hall. He appears at all family celebrations, however, dressed in his Sunday best, in order to present some flowers and to make a speech in his whining, sniveling voice—and all the while, the droplet dangles at the end of his nose. For this he then receives a small gift of money. But he doesn’t do it for that!
He has donned a black coat—one of the consul’s old ones—but still has on his greasy high-top boots and has wound a blue woolen scarf around his neck. In one of his gaunt red hands he holds a large bouquet of roses slightly past their prime—now and then a petal drifts slowly to the carpet. His small, inflamed eyes blink in all directions but apparently without seeing much of anything. He stays in the doorway, holds the bouquet out in front of him, and begins his speech at once, while old Madame Buddenbrook nods encouragement at every word and occasionally prompts him a little. The consul watches him with one pale eyebrow raised, and several other members of the family—Frau Permaneder, for instance—cover their mouths with handkerchiefs.
“I’m jist a poor man, ladies ’nd gents, but I got a tender heart, and the joy ’nd happiness what touches my master, Consul Buddenbrook, who’s alliz been good to me, why, that touches me, too, so I’m here to heartily ’gratulate Herr Buddenbrook ’nd his good wife ’nd the whole ’spectable fam’ly, ’nd to wish this here child a long, healthy life, ’cause they well deserve it, afore God and man they do, ’nd there ain’t many men like Herr Buddenbrook, no, sir, ’cause he’s a fine gen’leman ’nd the good Lord ’ll see to it he’s rewarded.…”
“Fine, Grobleben! That was a right fine speech! Many thanks, too, Grobleben. And now what did you plan to do with those roses?”
But Grobleben is not finished yet; he pushes his whiny voice up a notch until it drowns the consul out. “… ’nd the good Lord’ll see to it he’s rewarded, I say, him ’nd his whole fam’ly, when that day comes when we’re all astandin’ afore His throne, for the day’s acomin’ when the grave’ll take us all, rich ’nd poor alike, ’cause that’s as His holy will ’nd counsel wants it, ’nd the one he gits an old crate, and t’other he gits a fine polished coffin made o’ precious wood, but we’ll come to rot, we’ll all come to rot, to rot … to rot!”
“Now, now, Grobleben. We’re here for a christenin’, and you’re already at the rottin’.”
“ ’nd here’s some flowers for you, too,” Grobleben concludes.
“Thank you, Grobleben. You shouldn’t have. Why, they must have cost you a fortune. And I haven’t heard a speech like that in ages. So, here you are, and you have a right enjoyable day yourself.” And the consul puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a thaler.
“Here, my good man,” old Madame Buddenbrook says. “Do you love your Saviour?”
“Love ’im with all my heart, ma’am, that’s the gospel truth.” And Grobleben accepts her thaler as well, and a third from Madame Permaneder; and then, after much shuffling of his feet, he departs, so lost in thought that he takes his roses with him—at least those that are not lying on the carpet by now.
And now the mayor makes his move to leave, too—the consul escorts him down to his carriage. This is the sign for the other guests to say their goodbyes as well, because Gerda Buddenbrook needs her rest. The rooms quickly grow quiet. Old Madame Buddenbrook, Tony, Erika, and Mamselle Jungmann are the last to leave.
“Yes, Ida,” the consul says, “I’ve been thinking about it, and Mother has agreed. You’ve helped raise us all, but once little Johann is a bit older—he still has his nurse right now, and will probably need a day nurse for a while after that—would you like to move in here with us?”
“Yes, Consul Buddenbrook, I would. That’s if your wife is agreed.”
But Gerda is content with this idea as well, and so the suggestion becomes a settled plan.
As they are leaving, however, and still standing in the doorway, Frau Permaneder turns around once more. She goes back inside to her brother, kisses him on both cheeks, and says, “What a beautiful day, Tom. I’m so happy, happier than I’ve been for years. We Buddenbrooks aren’t on our last legs yet. And anybody who thinks we are is making a very big mistake, thank God. And now that little Johann is here—it’s so wonderful that we have another Johann again—I feel as if a whole new era is beginning.”
2
CLUTCHING HIS FASHIONABLE gray hat and yellow walking stick with the bust of a nun on the knob, Christian Buddenbrook, owner of the firm H. C. F. Burmeester & Co., Hamburg, entered the sitting room, where his brother was sitting reading with Gerda. It was nine-thirty on the same evening as the baptism.
“Good evening,” Christian said. “Thomas, I need to speak with you at once. Excuse us, Gerda. It is urgent, Thomas.”
They crossed to the dark dining room, where the consul lit one of the gas lamps on the wall and observed his brother. He had a bad feeling about this. Apart from their greeting that morning, he had not yet had an opportunity to speak with Christian; but he had watched him carefully during the festivities and noticed that he was unusually serious and uneasy, that in the course of Pastor Pringsheim’s homily he had inexplicably left the salon for several minutes. Thomas had not written Christian a single line since that day in Hamburg when he had personally delivered ten thousand marks courant to him, an advance on his inheritance to cover debts. “Just keep it up,” the consul had said, “and you’ll soon have emptied your piggy bank. For my part, I only hope that you will cross my path as little as possible in the future. You have put my friendship to a hard test over these past few years.” Why was he here now? Something very urgent must have driven him to it.
“Well?” the consul asked.
“I can’t go on,” Christian replied and sat down facing sideways on one of the high-backed chairs set around the dining table; he held his hat and walking stick between his knees.
“Might I ask what you can’t go on with, and what brings you here to me?” the consul said; he remained standing.
“I can’t go on,” Christian repeated, shaking his head back and forth with dreadful seriousness and letting his little, round, deep-set eyes wander about the room. He was now thirty-three years old, but he looked much older. His reddish-blond hair was so sparse now that almost all the skin on his skull was visible. The bones protruded above his sunken cheeks, and his naked, fleshless, gaunt nose jutted out between them in one huge hook.
“If only it were just this,” he continued, running his hand along his left side without touching his body. “It isn’t a pain, it’s an ache, you know, a constant, vague ache. Dr. Drögemüller in Hamburg told me that all the nerves on this side are too short. Just imagine, all the nerves on my left side are too short. It’s so strange—sometimes I’m certain it is going to go into spasms or some sort of paralysis, permanent paralysis. You have no idea—I never get a good night’s sleep. I start up in bed, because my heart isn’t beating and that simply terrifies me. And it doesn’t happen just once, but ten times before I finally fall asleep. I don’t know whether you know the feeling. Let me try to describe it precisely. It’s as if …”
“Spare me,” the consul said icily. “I don’t presume you’ve come here to tell me that?”
“No, Thomas, if only it were that; but it’s not just that. It’s my business. I can’t go on.”
“You’re in trouble again?” The consul didn’t bristle, didn’t even raise his voice. He asked the question quite calmly, observing his brother’s profile with a cold, weary eye.
“No, Thomas. To tell the truth—it doesn’t matter really—I never got out of trouble, even with the ten thousand a while back, as you well know. It only kept me from having to close up shop. The thing is—right after that I lost more money, in coffee. And then there was that bankruptcy in Antwerp. That’s the truth. After that, I didn’t really do much of anything, just lay low. But a man has to live on something, and now there are my IOUs and other debts. Five thousand thalers. Oh, you have no idea what bad shape I’m in. And to top it off, there’s this ache that …”
“So, you lay low!” the consul shouted, beside himself now. He had lost his self-control after all. “You just left the wagon there in the mud and sought to amuse yourself elsewhere. Do you think I’m blind, that I don’t know what kind of life you lead, in the theater and at the circus and in your clubs, you and your trashy women?”
“You mean Aline, don’t you? Yes, your tastes don’t run in that direction, and perhaps it’s my misfortune that mine do, far too much. Because you’re right, it does cost me a lot of money and will continue to do so, because I have to tell you something—this is just between us brothers—her third child, the little girl, the one born about six months ago, she’s mine.”
“You ass.”
“Don’t say that, Thomas. Do be just, even if you are angry, be just to her and to … Why shouldn’t it be mine? And as for Aline, she is certainly not trashy. I won’t allow you to call her that. She is quite particular about whom she lives with, and she broke off with Consul Holm just for me, and he has more money than I do, that’s how decent a woman she is. No, you have no idea, Thomas, what a splendid creature she is. She’s so healthy … so healthy.” Christian repeated the word, holding up his hand to his face, with the back facing out and his fingers cramped, just as he used to do when telling about “That’s Maria” and the “depravities” of London. “You should see her teeth when she laughs. I’ve never seen teeth like that in all the world, not in Valparaiso and not in London. I’ll never forget the evening I met her. I was at Uhlich’s, in the oyster bar. She was going with Consul Holm at the time; but I told a story or two and was nice to her. And so, when we ended up together later on—ah yes, Thomas. That’s quite a different feeling from the one you get making a good business deal. But, then, you don’t like to talk about such things, I can see it from your face—and it’s all over now, in any case. I’ll say my goodbyes to her, although I will stay in contact, because of the child. I’ll pay off everything in Hamburg, all my debts, you know, and then close up shop. I can’t go on. I’ve spoken with Mother, and she’s willing to advance me another five thousand thalers, so that I can put my affairs in order, and I’m sure you’ll agree to that, too, because it’s certainly better if we just say that Christian Buddenbrook is liquidating his business and going abroad, rather than that he’s bankrupt. You must admit I’m right there. I’m going back to London, Thomas—I’ll take a position in London. The independent life isn’t for me at all, I can see that more and more now—all that responsibility. When you’re an employee you can just go home each evening without a care. And I enjoyed my time in London, too. Do you have any objection?”
During the whole quarrel, the consul had stood with his back to his brother, his hands in his pockets, drawing little figures in the carpet with one foot.
“Fine, then, go to London,” he said curtly. And without turning even so much as halfway toward Christian again, he left him behind and strode back to the sitting room.
But Christian followed him. He walked over to Gerda, who was reading to herself now, and extended his hand to her. “Good night, Gerda. Yes, Gerda, I’ll be going off to London again soon. It’s so strange the way a man gets tossed about in life. And so back again into the great unknown, you know, off to the big city, where adventure meets you at every step and there’s so much to experience. It’s curious—do you know the feeling? It sits right here, sort of in your stomach—really quite curious.”
3
JAMES MÖLLENDORPF, the oldest of the merchant senators, died a grotesque and ghastly death. Diabetic and senile in his last years, he let his instincts of self-preservation desert him to the point where he succumbed more and more to his passion for cakes and pastries. Dr. Grabow, the Möllendorpf family physician, had protested with all possible energy, and the worried family had employed gentle force to cut off the old man’s supply of sweets. But what did the senator do? In his deteriorated mental state, he rented a room, a chamber, little more than a hole on some disreputable street—on Kleine Gröpel Grube, on Engelswisch or An der Mauer—and then slunk into his hideaway to eat his pastries. And it was there that they found his lifeless body, his mouth full of half-chewed cake, crumbs scattered over his coat and the grubby table. A fatal stroke had put an end to his slow deterioration.
The family kept the gruesome details of his death secret as best they could; but the story spread quickly through town and became the chief topic of conversation on the exchange, at the Club, at the Harmony, in offices, at town-council meetings, and at parties and balls. For the incident had occurred in February—February of 1862—and the social season was still in full swing. Even the women who gathered for Madame Buddenbrook’s Jerusalem Evenings would start to talk about Senator Möllendorpf’s death whenever Lea Gerhardt took a break in her reading; in fact, the little Sunday-school pupils whispered about it as they reverentially crossed the Buddenbrooks’ vast entrance hall; and Herr Stuht in Glockengiesser Strasse had an extended discussion about it with his wife, who moved in the highest social circles.
But people’s interest could not long remain concentrated on past events. With the very first rumors about the death of the old gentleman, a very important question had simultaneously arisen, and once he was resting under the earth, that question alone aroused general excitement: who would be his successor in the senate?
What suspense, what subterranean activity. A stranger, come to have a look at the town’s medieval sights and the charming environs, notices nothing—but what bustle, what agitation beneath the surface. And what a clash of opinions—solid, sound opinions without a trace of unwholesome skepticism. With much rumbling and blustering, convictions are tested and slowly, very slowly, move toward consensus. Passions are aroused. Ambition and vanity burrow in silence. Hopes long in their coffins awaken, stand up tall, and are disappointed. Henning Kurz, the old merchant from Becker Grube, who always gets three or four votes at every election, will once again sit at home on election day, trembling and awaiting the call. But he will not be elected this time, either; he will go on strolling down the street, tapping his walking stick, his face full of self-satisfaction and respectability. And he will carry to his grave his secret mortification that he was never elected senator.
When James Möllendorpf’s death was discussed at the Buddenbrook family dinner on Thursday, Frau Permaneder first expressed her regrets several times, but then she began to let the tip of her tongue play along her upper lip and cast her brother a sly look—which caused the Ladies Buddenbrook to exchange indescribably knowing glances, and then, simultaneously, as if on command, they closed their eyes and mouths firmly for one long second. The consul acknowledged his sister’s artful smile for a moment, but now changed the topic of conversation. He knew that people in town were openly talking about the same thought that Tony was blissfully turning over in her mind.
Names were suggested and rejected. Others emerged to be considered. Henning Kurz from Becker Grube was too old—it was high time for some fresh new energies. Consul Huneus the lumber merchant, whose millions would certainly have weighed in his favor, was constitutionally excluded because his brother was already a member of the senate. Consul Eduard Kistenmaker the wine merchant and Consul Hermann Hagenström held their own on the list. But from the very beginning, one name was constantly mentioned: Thomas Buddenbrook. And the closer election day drew near, the clearer it became that he and Hermann Hagenström had the best chances.
No doubt of it—Hermann Hagenström h
ad his supporters and admirers. His devotion to civic affairs, the stunning speed at which the firm of Strunck & Hagenström had prospered and grown, the luxurious life the consul led, his grand home, and the pâté de foie gras he ate for breakfast—it all could not help making an impression. This large, rather stout man with a reddish, short-cropped beard and somewhat flat nose that hung down over his upper lip; this man who had a grandfather that no one, not even he, had ever met, and a father who had come close to social ostracism because of his marriage to a wealthy but suspect woman; this man whose own marriage had nevertheless connected him with both the Huneuses and the Möllendorpfs, thereby placing his name on the list of five or six ruling families and making himself their equal—this man was undeniably an intriguing and respected figure in town. But the real novelty, the distinctive trait that made him so attractive and conspicuous a personage and singled him out for a leading position in the eyes of many people, was his liberal and tolerant nature. The easy, flamboyant way he earned and spent his money was very different from the dogged, patient labor based on strict traditional principles that characterized his fellow merchants. This man stood on his own feet, unencumbered by the chains of custom and reverence for the past—he was a stranger to anything old-fashioned. He did not live in one of the old patrician mansions that wasted absurd amounts of space with white enameled galleries above immense paved entrance halls. His new house on Sand Strasse—the southern extension of Breite Strasse—was free of old architectural strictures; it had a simple painted façade and cleverly utilized its space; the furnishings were luxurious, elegant, and comfortable. And then, just recently, he had thrown one of his grand evening parties and had invited a soprano from the municipal theater to sing after dinner for his guests—among them, his lawyer brother, so renowned for his wit and love of the arts; it was said he had paid the lady handsomely. He was not a man who would rise in the town council to endorse the appropriation of large sums for restoring and preserving the town’s medieval monuments. But it was a fact that he had been the first, absolutely the first, in town to illuminate his residence and office with gas. No doubt of it—if any tradition governed Consul Hagenström’s life, it was the totally open, progressive, tolerant, and unbiased outlook he had inherited from his father, old Hinrich Hagenström—and this formed the basis of the general admiration he enjoyed.