by Thomas Mann
“I have more serious things to think about than your ailments. And in any case, my own health is …”
“No, Thomas, you’re in splendid health! You would not be sitting here acting like this if it were not quite excellent in comparison with my own.”
“I may be less healthy than you.”
“You may be what? No, now that’s going too far! Tony! Gerda! He says that he’s less healthy than I. What? Perhaps it was you who came close to death in Hamburg from rheumatic fever. Perhaps it’s you who has to endure torments, indescribable torments, all over your body after every little distraction. Perhaps it’s you whose nerves are all too short on the left side. Specialists have assured me that it’s the case with me. Perhaps you are the one who experiences things like coming into a room at dusk and seeing a man sitting on the sofa, nodding at you, when there’s no one there at all.”
“Christian!” Frau Permaneder cried in horror. “What are you saying? My Lord, what are you two arguing about, really? You act as if it’s an honor for one to be in worse health than the other. If that’s the issue, Gerda and I might have a word to say, too, unfortunately. And Mother lying in the next room!”
“You still don’t see it, do you?” Thomas Buddenbrook shouted vehemently. “That all these discomforts are the end result, the harvest of your vices, your indolence, your constant self-observation. Work! Stop pampering and indulging your condition—stop talking about it. And if you are crazy—and let me make it clear that I don’t think that’s out of the question—I will be incapable of shedding one tear over it. Because it’s your fault, your fault alone.”
“No, you won’t even shed a tear when I die.”
“You’re not going to die,” the senator said scornfully.
“I’m not going to die? Fine, I won’t die, then. Well, we’ll see which of us dies first! Work?—If only I could. But, good God in heaven, what if I can’t do steady work? I can’t do the same thing over and over for a long time without getting ill. And if you’ve been able to do it, still can do it, then be glad you can, but don’t sit in judgment—it’s not a virtue on your part. God gives the strength to some, and not to others. But that’s the way you are, Thomas,” he went on, still bent over the table, rapping it with his finger even more fiercely now, his face twisted into a grimace. “You’re self-righteous. Oh, but wait, that isn’t what I wanted to say, that isn’t what I want to reproach you for. I don’t even know where to begin, and anything I might say would only be a thousandth part—no, a millionth part—of what I have in my heart against you. You’ve won yourself a place in life, a position of honor, and now you stand here, so cold and self-assured, and reject anything that might confuse you for even a moment and throw you off balance. Because the most important thing for you is balance. But it’s not the most important thing, not before God! You’re an egotist, that’s what you are. I still can feel some love for you when you rant and rave and stamp your feet and thunder and put me down. But the worst thing is your silence, the worst thing is when you suddenly dry up after I’ve said something, you pull back, so elegant and unruffled, and refuse all responsibility, leaving the other fellow helpless in his shame. You’re a man without sympathy, love, or humility. Oh!” he suddenly cried, throwing his hands behind his head and then shoving them forward, as if to ward off the whole world. “I’ve had it up to here with all your tact and discretion and balance, with your poise and dignity—I’m sick to death of it.” And this last cry was so genuine, so heartfelt, and so emphatic in its disgust and weariness that it was indeed something of a crushing blow—and Thomas actually sank back a little and lowered his eyes for a while, speechless and spent.
“I have become what I am,” Thomas said at last, with emotion in his voice, “because I did not want to become like you. If I have inwardly shrunk away from you, it was because I had to protect myself from you, because your nature and character are a danger to me. I am speaking the truth.”
He was silent for a moment and then went on in a curter, firmer tone: “But we have wandered away from the subject at hand. You have made a little speech about my character, a somewhat rambling speech, but one that contains some kernel of truth, perhaps. The issue, however, is not me, but you. You are thinking of marrying, and I would like to convince you for good and all, if I can, that it is impossible to do so in the manner you plan. First, the interest that I will be able to pay you on your capital is hardly an encouraging sum.”
“Aline has been able to put quite a bit aside herself.”
The senator swallowed hard and controlled himself. “Hmm—‘put aside.’ It is your intention, then, to merge Mother’s inheritance with this lady’s savings?”
“Yes. I want to have a home and someone who will show some sympathy when I am ill. And we’re well suited to each other. We’ve both made our blunders.”
“So you also intend to adopt any children there may be—which is to say, legitimate them?”
“I do indeed.”
“So that, after your death, your estate would go to those people?”
As he said it, Frau Permaneder laid a hand on his arm and whispered imploringly, “Thomas, Mother is lying in the next room!”
“Yes,” Christian replied, “that’s only proper.”
“Well, you are not going to do any of it,” the senator shouted and leapt to his feet. Christian stood up, too; he stepped behind his chair, gripped it with one hand, pressed his chin against his chest, and stared at his brother—half outraged, half apprehensive.
“You are not going to do it,” Thomas Buddenbrook repeated, almost mad with rage—pale, trembling, his hands jerking. “As long as I walk this earth, I swear to you that it will not happen. Just watch out—be careful. More than enough money has been lost by misfortune, stupidity, and mischief, without your throwing a quarter of Mother’s estate in the lap of this female and her bastards. Not when another quarter of it has already been wheedled out of her by Tiburtius. You have already disgraced this family enough, sir, without your forcing us to have a courtesan for a sister-in-law and giving her children our name. I forbid it, do you hear? I forbid it!” he shouted in a booming voice that made the room ring and sent Frau Permaneder sobbing to one corner of the sofa. “And don’t you dare act against my will, I’m warning you. Up till now I have merely despised and ignored you. But if you challenge me, push things to extremes, we shall see who comes out the worst for it. I’m telling you—be careful. I shall be ruthless. I’ll have you declared incompetent, I’ll have you locked up, I’ll destroy you! Do you understand me?”
“And I’m telling you—” Christian began, and then the whole thing degenerated into an out-and-out row, a shabby, useless, deplorable quarrel without any real point, with no purpose except to injure and draw blood with words. Christian returned to the topic of his brother’s character and searched the distant past for traits and embarrassing anecdotes that were meant to prove Thomas’s egotism—things Christian had never forgotten, but had carried around inside him, drenching them in his own bitterness. And the senator retorted with scorn and threats, in terms so exaggerated that he was sorry for them ten minutes later. Gerda had propped her head daintily in her hand and watched the two with inscrutable eyes and an ambiguous look on her face.
In her despair, Frau Permaneder kept repeating, “And Mother lying in the next room—and Mother lying in the next room.”
Christian, who had been pacing the room during this last part of the exchange, finally retreated from the field of battle. He was wrought up, incensed—his mustache was disheveled, his eyes were red, his coat hung open, his hand dangled beside him trailing a handkerchief. “Fine, fine! We shall see!” he shouted and walked to the door—and slammed it behind him.
In the sudden silence, the senator stood tall and erect for a moment, staring at the door through which his brother had vanished. Then he sat down without saying anything, hastily gathered the papers together, and in a few dry words took care of what still had to be taken care of. Now he leane
d back and ran the tips of his mustache through his fingers, lost in thought.
Frau Permaneder’s heart was pounding with apprehension. The question, the great question, could not be put off any longer. She had to speak up—and he had to give her an answer. But was he in any kind of mood to respond with gentleness and family feeling?
“Oh—and Tom,” she began, first gazing down into her lap and then making a shy attempt to read his face, “what about the furniture? Of course, you’ve given careful thought to everything that is to belong to us—I mean to Erika, her baby, and me—but is it all to stay here? With us? I mean—what about the house?” she asked, wringing her hands—but not so that anyone could see.
The senator did not answer at once, but was lost in gloomy introspection and continued to twirl his mustache. Then he gave a deep sigh and sat up straight. “The house?” he said. “It belongs to us all, of course, to you, to Christian, to me—and, strangely enough, to Pastor Tiburtius as well, as a part of Clara’s share of the inheritance. It’s not for me alone to decide—I’ll need your consent. But obviously the thing to do is to sell as soon as possible,” he concluded with a shrug. And yet a look skittered across his face as if he were terrified by his own words.
Frau Permaneder’s head dropped, then sank; her hands, which she had been holding tightly pressed together, fell slack. “Our consent,” she said after a pause—it sounded sad, even a little bitter. “Good Lord, Tom, you know very well that you’ll do what you think is right, and that the rest of us won’t be able to withhold our consent for long. But if we might say just one word, and plead with you …” She went on now almost in a monotone, and her upper lip began to quiver. “The house—Mother’s house! Our parents’ house! Where we have all been so happy. And we’re supposed to sell it.…”
The senator shrugged his shoulders again. “Please believe me, my dear girl, when I say that I feel only too deeply any objection you can raise. But those are not arguments against it, only sentimentalities. There is no doubt what must be done. Here we have this large piece of real estate—and what are we to do with it? For years now, ever since Father’s death, the back building has been falling apart. There’s a family of feral cats living in the billiard room, and you can’t step out into the room for fear of going through the floor. Yes, if only I hadn’t built the house on Fischer Grube. But I did, and now what am I to do with it? Would you prefer I sell it instead? But just stop and think—to whom? I would lose half the money I put into it. Oh, Tony, we have enough real estate, we have more than enough—warehouses and two huge homes. The ratio between our real estate and our liquid capital is all out of balance. No, we must sell, sell!”
But Frau Permaneder was not listening. She sat there, bent down, withdrawn into herself, her moist eyes staring at nothing.
“Our house,” she murmured. “I can remember the housewarming. We weren’t any bigger than this. The whole family was there. And Uncle Hoffstede read a poem. It’s still in the family papers. I know it by heart—‘foam-born Venus.’ And the landscape room. And the dining room. And now strangers …”
“Yes, Tony, that’s just what the people who had to give up the house back then must have thought when Grandfather bought it. They had lost their money and had to move away, and they’re all dead and gone now. There’s a time for everything. Let us rejoice and thank God that we haven’t yet come to the same pass as the Ratenkamps back then, and that we take our leave from the house under more favorable circumstances.”
He was interrupted by a sob—a painfully drawn-out sob. Frau Permaneder was so caught up in her woe that she didn’t even remember to dry the tears streaming down her cheeks. She sat bent over, almost drawn up into a crouch, and didn’t even notice when a warm drop fell on her hands, lying limp in her lap. “Tom,” she said with soft, touching determination, recovering her voice despite the tears that threatened to choke it, “you can’t know how I feel at this moment, you can’t know. Your sister’s life has not been an easy one, life has dealt harshly with her. Everything imaginable has rained down on me—and I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. But I have endured it all—the trouble with Grünlich and with Permaneder and with Weinschenk—and I never lost heart, Tom. Because, whenever God smashed my life into little pieces, I was never completely lost. I knew there was a place, a safe harbor, so to speak, where I could find a home and be taken in, where I could flee from all the calamities of life. And even now, when everything fell apart and they led Weinschenk off to prison—‘Mother,’ I said, ‘can we move back in here with you?’ ‘Yes, children, come home.’ When we were little and we’d play tag, there was always a home, a little marked-off spot that you could run to when you were in trouble and about to be caught, a place where no one could touch you and you could catch your breath in peace. Mother’s house, this house was that little marked-off spot for me, Tom. And now, and now … to sell it …”
She leaned back, hid her face in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly.
Tom pulled one of her hands away and took it in his own. “I know, dear Tony, I know it all. But we’ll be reasonable, just a little reasonable, won’t we? Our dear mother is gone now—we can’t call her back. What are we to do? It’s madness to hold on to the house, it’s just dead capital—and it’s my job to know about such things, isn’t it? Are we supposed to turn it into a tenement? You find it difficult to imagine strangers living here; but it will be better if you don’t have to watch. You and your loved ones can rent a pretty little house or an apartment somewhere outside the town gates, for instance. Or would you rather live here together with a lot of renters? And you still have your family—Gerda and me and the Buddenbrooks from Breite Strasse and the Krögers, even Mademoiselle Weichbrodt, not to speak of Klothilde, although I’m not sure whether she still enjoys our company. She’s grown very exclusive since she’s become a member of the Johannis Cloister.”
With a sigh that was half a laugh, she turned away and pressed her handkerchief more firmly to her eyes, like a pouting child when someone has tried to make it forget the hurt with a joke. But then she resolutely dried her eyes, sat up, and, as always when dignity and character were called for, laid her head back and simultaneously tried to press her chin against her chest.
“Yes, Tom,” she said, and with blinking, tear-stained eyes she stared out the window now, serious and composed. “I will be sensible—I already am. You must forgive me—and you, too, Gerda—for crying like that. It just comes over me—it’s a weakness. But they are only outward tears, believe me. You know very well that I’m a woman who has been steeled by life. Yes, Tom, I can see what you mean by dead capital, I’m intelligent enough for that. I can only repeat that you must do what you think is right. You will have to think and act for us all, because Gerda and I are just women, and Christian—well, God bless him. We cannot oppose you, because any objections we might raise aren’t arguments, just sentimentalities, that’s clear as day. Whom do you suppose you’ll sell it to, Tom? Do you think the sale will move along quickly?”
“Ah, my dear, if only I knew. In any case, I have already had a few words today with Gosch, the old broker. He didn’t seem averse to taking on the task.”
“That would be good, very good. Siegismund Gosch has his weaknesses. Those translations from the Spanish that people talk about—I can’t recall the poet’s name—that’s really quite odd, you must admit, Tom. But he was a friend of Father’s and he’s an honest man, absolutely honest. And everyone knows he has a good heart. He’ll understand that this is no routine sale, no ordinary house. What are you thinking of asking, Tom? A hundred thousand marks courant would be the minimum, wouldn’t it?”
“A hundred thousand marks courant is really the minimum,” she said, her hand on the door, as her brother and his wife started down the stairs. Then, left alone, she stood quietly in the middle of the room, her folded hands hanging in front of her, but with palms facing downward, her perplexed eyes searching all around her. She kept shaking her head—a little cap of bl
ack lace sat prettily atop it—and then, under the burden of thoughts, she slowly let it sink farther and farther down onto one shoulder.
3
IT WAS LITTLE JOHANN’S DUTY to say goodbye to his grandmother’s mortal remains—his father had ordered him to do it. He was afraid, but he hadn’t objected, hadn’t said a word, not a peep. The day after old Madame Buddenbrook had wrestled with death, the senator had been sitting at the table with his wife, and he had made some harsh comments—quite deliberately in the presence of his son, it seemed—about the way Uncle Christian had behaved, slinking away to bed just when his mother’s suffering had been at its worst. “Those were just nerves, Thomas,” Gerda had replied; but, with a glance at Hanno, which the boy did not fail to notice, he had responded in an almost stern voice that there could be no excuse for such behavior. His dear mother had suffered so much that it was almost shameful to sit there and feel none of her pain, let alone to be so cowardly as to avoid the comparatively minor distress that came from having to watch her struggles. Hanno concluded from this that he did not dare object to paying his respects at the open casket.
On the day of the funeral, he walked between his mother and father through the columned hall and into the dining room. It looked as unfamiliar as it did when they entered it each Christmas Eve. Straight ahead, set on a black pedestal, was the copy of Thorvaldsen’s Christ that had always stood out in the corridor; it shimmered white now against a semicircle of alternating large, dark green potted plants and tall silver candlesticks. Fluttering in the draft, black crape hung from all the walls, covering both the sky-blue background and the smiling white gods, who had always looked down on their happy family gatherings around the table. Little Johann stood beside the bier in his sailor suit, a wide band of crape around his sleeve; surrounded by his relatives dressed in black, he was dazed by the perfume drifting up from the host of bouquets and wreaths and blending with another, stranger, and yet curiously familiar odor that was faintly noticeable now and then, whenever he took a deep breath. And he looked down at the inert figure that lay stretched out before him, so stern and solemn among all that white satin.