by Thomas Mann
“Is that right? Yes, I’ve got a headache, and as far as I can see, it won’t be going away all that quickly, because today is going to be something of a drain on me.”
“Can well believe it, Senator. People are quite enthusiastic, quite enthusiastic. You need only glance out the window when I’m done, Senator. Flags everywhere. And the Wullenwever and the Friederike Oeverdieck are moored down at the foot of Fischer Grabe, banners aflying.”
“Well, then, better make it quick, Wenzel. I haven’t any time to lose.”
The senator did not reach for his office jacket today, but for a black cutaway coat that went well with his light-colored trousers and revealed his white piqué vest. He could expect visitors this morning. He cast a quick glance in the dresser mirror, gave the long tips of his mustache a last stroke with the curling iron, and turned to go with a sigh. The dance was about to begin—if only this day were behind him. Would he have a single moment alone, a single moment to let the muscles of his face relax? He would be receiving guests all day and be called upon to respond to the congratulations of a hundred people with tact and dignity, to find for each the polite, appropriate word with just the right nuances—respectful, serious, friendly, ironic, witty, considerate, sincere. This was to be followed by a banquet in the town-hall wine cellar, lasting from early afternoon until well into the evening.
He did not really have a headache. He was merely tired. The refreshment of sleep was no sooner past than he felt his old indefinite gloom weighing down on him again. Why had he lied? Might it not be because his conscience always bothered him for feeling so down? But why? Why? But he had no time to worry about that now.
As he entered the dining room, Gerda greeted him cheerfully. She, too, was already dressed for receiving guests. She was wearing a flowing plaid skirt, a white blouse, and a light silk short-waisted jacket of the same color as her rich chestnut hair. She smiled, showing her large, regular teeth—whiter even than her lovely face—and her eyes, those close-set, enigmatic brown eyes with bluish shadows, were smiling today as well.
“I’ve been up and about for hours—and you can tell by that alone how excited I am to wish you all the best.”
“What do you know! A hundred years even make an impression on you, do they?”
“The profoundest impression! But it may be it’s simply because everything is so festive. What a day! This, for example”—and she pointed toward the breakfast table crowned with flowers from the garden—“is Fräulein Jungmann’s handiwork. And you are sadly mistaken if you think you can have your tea now. The most important members of the family are waiting in the salon, with a gift for the occasion, in which I’ve had a small part myself. Now, listen, Thomas, this is, of course, only the first of the stream of visitors that will be arriving today. I’ll manage for a while, but around noon I’m going to beat a retreat, let me tell you. Although the barometer has fallen a little, the sky is still shamelessly blue, which looks wonderful with all the flags—and the whole town is full of flags—but it will be dreadfully hot. Now, come along. You’ll have to wait for breakfast. You should have got up earlier. Now you’ll have to deal with the first wave of emotion on an empty stomach.”
Elisabeth Buddenbrook, Christian, Klothilde, Ida Jungmann, Frau Permaneder, and Hanno were gathered in the salon, and the latter two were supporting, not without some difficulty, the family’s gift for the occasion, a large memorial plaque.
Deeply moved, Madame Buddenbrook embraced her eldest child. “My dear son, this is a beautiful day … a beautiful day,” she repeated. “We must never cease to thank God with all our hearts, to praise Him for all His mercies … for all His mercies.” She wept.
The senator felt himself go weak in her embrace. It was as if something deep within him had worked itself free and left him. His lips trembled. He felt an enervating urge to remain there in his mother’s arms, at her breast, where the gentle scent of perfume lingered on the soft silk of her dress, to close his eyes and never to have to see or say anything more. He kissed her and pulled himself up erect to shake the hand of his brother, who returned the gesture with the same half-distracted, half-embarrassed look he always wore for festive occasions. Klothilde said something amiable in her drawling way. Fräulein Jungmann, however, confined herself to a very deep bow, while her hand played with the silver watch chain dangling at her flat chest.
“Come here, Tom,” Frau Permaneder said, her voice shaking. “Hanno and I can’t hold this much longer.” She was supporting the plaque by herself now, because Hanno didn’t have that much strength in his arms, and she looked so thrilled and was straining so hard that she might have been a martyr in ecstasy. Her eyes were moist, her cheeks flushed, and the tip of her tongue played along her upper lip, giving her a look that was part desperation, part mischief.
“Yes, and now you two,” the senator said. “What’s that you have there? Come on, let go, we’ll prop it up here.” He leaned the plaque against the wall next to the piano, and stood there before it, surrounded by his family.
Framed in heavy, carved walnut and covered with glass were the portraits of the four owners of the firm of Johann Buddenbrook, each with name and dates printed in gold leaf beneath it. The portrait of Johann Buddenbrook, the founder, had been done from an old oil painting—a tall, serious-looking old gentleman, his lips set tight, his eyes gazing out stern and strong-willed from above his jabot; there was the broad, jovial face of Jean Jacques Hoffstede’s friend Johann Buddenbrook; there was Consul Johann Buddenbrook, with his wide, creased mouth and his large, strongly hooked nose, his chin tucked in his high collar, his intelligent eyes, which hinted at religious fervor, fixed on his audience; and finally there was Thomas Buddenbrook himself, at a somewhat younger age. A stylized golden ear of grain twined its way among the portraits, and at the bottom, likewise in gilt letters, the years 1768 and 1868 stood side by impressive side. And above it all, written in the tall Gothic script of a hand familiar to his descendants, was the motto: “My son, show zeal for each day’s affairs of business, but only for such that make for a peaceful night’s sleep.”
His hands behind his back, the senator examined the plaque for a long time. “Yes, yes,” he suddenly said in a slightly mocking tone, “a good night’s sleep is a fine thing.” Then, turning to his assembled relatives, he said seriously, if perhaps a little perfunctorily, “My heartfelt thanks to you all, my dear family. It’s a very beautiful and thoughtful gift. What do you think—where should we hang it? In my office?”
“Yes, Tom, right above the desk in your office,” Frau Permaneder replied and gave her brother a hug. Then she pulled him over to the bay window and pointed outside.
Bicolor flags floated from every building beneath the deep blue summer sky—all the way down Fischer Grube, from Breite Strasse to the docks, where the Wullenwever and the Friederike Oeverdieck lay under full flag in honor of their owner.
“The whole town is like that,” Frau Permaneder said, and her voice trembled. “I’ve already been out for a walk, Tom. Even the Hagenströms have hung a flag. They had no choice—ha! I would have broken every window in the house.”
He smiled and pulled her back into the room; they stood beside the table.
“And here are telegrams, Tom, only the first, personal ones, of course, from family members. The ones from business friends have been delivered to the office.”
She opened a few of the cables: from relatives in Hamburg and Frankfurt, from Herr Arnoldsen and his family in Amsterdam, from Jürgen Kröger in Wismar. Frau Permaneder suddenly blushed. “In his own way, he’s a good man,” she said, and passed the telegram to her brother. It was signed: Permaneder.
“But it’s getting late,” the senator said, flipping open the cover on his pocket watch. “I would like some tea. Won’t you all join me? The house is going to be as crowded as a chicken coop soon enough.”
His wife, who had given a signal to Ida Jungmann, held him back. “Just a moment, Thomas. You know that Hanno has to go for his private
lessons. He would like to recite a poem. Come here, Hanno. Now, just as if no one were here—but don’t get too excited.”
So that he would not fall behind the rest of his class, little Johann had to be tutored privately in arithmetic even during vacation—and July was certainly vacation. Somewhere in the suburb of Sankt Gertrud, in a hot little room that did not smell all that good, a man with a red beard and dirty fingernails was waiting for him, to drill him in those maddening multiplication tables. But first it was his duty to recite a poem for his father, the poem he had painfully learned by heart while sitting with Ida on his third-floor “balcony.”
Dressed in his Danish sailor outfit, with white trim at the neck and a thick knotted sailor’s tie fluffed at the wide linen collar, he leaned against the piano, crossing his thin legs, his head and upper body turned slightly to one side in a pose that was both shy and full of an unconscious grace. His long hair had finally been cut two or three weeks before—not only his classmates had been making fun of him, but his teachers as well. But there was still a full, wavy growth on top, which fell down over his temples and delicate brow. He kept his eyelids lowered, so that his long, brown lashes fell across the bluish shadows around his eyes, and he held his tight-closed lips a little askew.
He knew quite well what would happen. He would start to cry, and then he would be unable to finish his poem—a poem that tugged at his heart, just like the music on Sundays, when Herr Pfühl, the organist at St. Mary’s would play the organ in that special, thrilling way. He would cry, just as he always did when someone demanded that he perform, drilled him, tested his abilities and cleverness, the way Papa loved to do. If only Mama had not said anything about getting excited. It was meant to encourage him, but it had been the wrong thing to say, he could feel it. There they stood, watching him. They were afraid for him and were waiting for him to cry—how was it possible not to cry? He raised his lashes and searched for Ida’s eyes. She was playing with her watch chain and nodded to him now in her dour, goodhearted way. He was overcome with a tremendous urge to snuggle up against her, to have her lead him away, and then the only thing he would hear would be her deep, comforting voice saying, “Hush now, Hanno, my boy, you don’t have to recite.”
“Now, son, let’s hear your poem,” the senator said bluntly. He had sat down in an armchair beside the table and was waiting. He was not smiling at all—no more today than on any other occasion. Raising one eyebrow, he earnestly measured little Johann with scrutinizing, even cold, eyes.
Hanno stood up straight. He ran his hand over the smooth, polished surface of the piano, let his eyes glide shyly over the faces of all those present, and, encouraged a little by the gentleness shining in his grandmother’s and Aunt Tony’s eyes, he began in a low but slightly hard-edged voice: “ ‘The Shepherd’s Sunday Song’ … by Uhland.”
“Oh, my dear boy, that’s not the way,” the senator cried. “Don’t hang on to the piano—fold your hands in front of you and stand up tall. And speak right out. That’s the first thing. Here, stand between the portieres. And now hold your head up, and let your arms hang quietly at your sides.”
Hanno took a position on the threshold to the sitting room and let his arms hang down, but he lowered his eyelashes until the others could no longer see his eyes. More than likely, they were already swimming with tears.
“This is the Lord’s own day,” he said very softly.
Which only made his father’s voice sound that much louder when he interrupted. “A recitation begins with a bow, son. And much louder. Now, start again, please—‘The Shepherd’s Sunday Song.’ ”
It was a cruel thing to do, and the senator knew that in doing it he had robbed the child of his last remnant of composure and self-control. But the lad shouldn’t let that happen to him. He shouldn’t let himself get confused. He had to learn to be strong and manly. “ ‘Shepherd’s Sunday Song!’ ” he said again encouragingly—and remorselessly.
But it was all over for Hanno. His head had sunk to his chest, and he was clutching at the brocade of the portieres now, the bluish veins visible on his pale little right hand where it emerged from the tight-fitting, navy-blue cuff embroidered with an anchor. “In meadows wide alone I stand,” he managed, and then it was most definitely over. He was swept away by the sad mood of the poem. He felt terribly, overwhelmingly sorry for himself; his voice gave out for good and he could not stop the tears from rolling from under his eyelashes. Suddenly he wanted so much for it to be night, one of those nights when he was lying in bed with a sore throat and a slight fever, and Ida would come to give him something to drink and lovingly lay a fresh compress across his brow. He leaned to one side and, laying his head down against his hand, still clutching the portieres, he sobbed.
“Well, this is no fun,” the senator said in a gruff, annoyed voice and stood up. “What are you crying about? Although it’s enough to make us all cry that you couldn’t put forth the effort to please me a little on a day like today. Are you a little girl? What’s to become of you if you keep on like this? Do you think you can still break into tears when you grow up and have to give a speech to people?”
Never, Hanno thought in despair, I’ll never give a speech to anyone!
“Think it over till this afternoon,” the senator concluded. And as Ida Jungmann knelt down beside her charge to dry his eyes, speaking to him in a voice half reproachful and half consoling, Thomas returned to the dining room.
While he hastily ate his breakfast, his mother, Tony, Klothilde, and Christian said their goodbyes. They were to have their noonday meal here with Gerda—plus the Krögers, the Weinschenks, and the Ladies Buddenbrook—whereas, for better or for worse, the senator would have to dine at the town-hall wine cellar, although he did not intend to stay there all that long and hoped to find his family still here when he returned home this evening.
Sitting alone at the flower-bedecked table, he drank scalding tea from his saucer, quickly ate an egg, and then stopped on the stairs to take a few puffs on a cigarette. When he reached the foot of the stairs, where the brown bear stood on its hind legs collecting calling cards, he ran into Grobleben, who had just come in from the garden and now entered the front hall, wearing his wool shawl—in the middle of summer—with one boot pulled over his left hand, a polishing brush in his right, and a long drop dangling from his nose.
“Well, sir, Senator Buddenbrook, one hundurd years … Now, the one he’s poor, and t’other, he’s rich, but …”
“That’s fine, Grobleben, right you are.” And the senator slipped a coin into the hand holding the brush, then strode across the entrance hall and through the reception room opening off it. As he entered the outer office, the cashier, a tall man with loyal eyes, greeted him with carefully prepared phrases expressing the best wishes of the entire office staff. The senator responded with two short words of thanks and sat down at his desk by the window. He had barely begun to scan the newspapers laid out for him and to open his mail when there was a knock at the door leading to the front hallway—and the first well-wishers arrived.
It was a delegation of warehouse workers—six bowlegged men, all big as bears, their mouths turned down at the corners in token of their vast integrity, their hands fiddling with the caps they held before them. Spraying brown tobacco juice about the room and constantly hitching at his trousers, their spokesman went on about “hundurd years” and “many a hundurd years more” in a frantic voice. The senator promised them a considerable bonus for the coming week and sent them on their way.
Civil servants arrived to congratulate their boss in the name of all those who worked in the tax office. At the door, they ran into a delegation of sailors, led by two helmsmen from the Wullenwever and the Friederike Oeverdieck, the firm’s two ships now lying moored at the docks. And then came representatives of the grain haulers, dressed in black shirts, breeches, and top hats. And individual citizens arrived as well. Herr Stuht, the master tailor from Glockengiesser Strasse, appeared in a black coat that he had pulled on o
ver his woolen shirt. There were various neighbors as well—Iwersen, the owner of the flower shop, offered his congratulations. An old mailman, a true eccentric with a white beard, rings in both ears, and rheumy eyes—whom on his good days the senator made a point of greeting as Herr Postmaster—stuck his head in the door and called, “That ain’t why I come by, Senator Buddenbrook, ’tain’t it at all. I know people’re sayin’ ev’rybody what comes by gets a little sumpin’, but that ain’t why I’m here.” All the same, he gratefully accepted the coin. There was no end to it. At ten-thirty, the housemaid came in to tell him that his wife was now receiving the first guest in the salon.
Thomas Buddenbrook left his office and hurried up the stairs. At the entrance to the salon he stopped at the mirror for half a minute to set his tie straight and to take a whiff of eau de cologne from his scented handkerchief. He looked pale—even though his whole body was perspiring, his hands and feet were cold. Receiving all those guests in his office had almost completely drained him. He took a deep breath and entered the sun-drenched room to greet Consul Huneus—whose wholesale lumber business had made him a millionaire five times over—his wife, their daughter, and her husband, Senator Andreas Gieseke. Like many of the town’s first families, these ladies and gentlemen had interrupted their July vacation in Travemünde and returned to town for the express purpose of celebrating the Buddenbrook anniversary.
They had not been sitting for three minutes in their stylish easy chairs—all gentle curves and light colors—when Consul Oeverdieck, the son of the deceased mayor, and his wife, née Kistenmaker, arrived. And as Consul Huneus was on his way out, he was met by his brother, who was worth only four million but bore the title of senator.
The round dance had begun. The large white door, topped by the bas-relief of cupids playing instruments, seldom remained closed for more than a moment, so that there was an almost unbroken view of the stairwell flooded with light and of the stairway itself—an unending parade of guests moved up and down it. The salon was large enough, however, to accommodate little groups that formed for conversation, so that the number of arrivals was much greater than that of departures; and once the maid had given up trying to open and close the door and simply left it open, the guests spilled out into the parqueted corridor.