Buddenbrooks (7 page)

CHAPTER IV

IT was not simply the weakness of age that made Madame Antoinette Buddenbrook take to her lofty bed in the bed-chamber of the entresol, one cold January day after they had dwelt some six years in Meng Street. The old lady had re-mained hale and active, and carried her head, with its clustering white side-curls, proudly erect to the very last. She had gone with her husband and children to most of the large din-ners given in the town, and presided no whit less elegantly than her daughter-in-law when the Buddenbrooks themselves entertained. But one day an indefinable malady had suddenly made itself felt--at first in the form of a slight intestinal catarrh, for which Dr. Crabow prescribed a mild diet of pigeon and French bread. This had been followed by colic and vomiting, which reduced her strength so rapidly as to bring about an alarming decline. Dr. Grabow held hurried speech with the Consul, outside on the landing, and another doctor was called in consultation--a stout, black-bearded, gloomy-looking man who began going in and out with Dr. Grabow. And now the whole at-mosphere of the house changed. They went about on their tip-toes and spoke in whispers. The wagons were no longer allowed to roll through the great entry-way below. They looked in each others' eyes and saw there something strange. It was the idea of death that had entered, and was holding silent sway in the spacious rooms. But there was no idle watching, for visitors came: old Senator Duchamps, the dying woman's brother, from Ham-burg, with his daughter; and a few days later, the Consul's sister from Frankfort and her husband, who was a banker .67 The illness lasted fourteen or fifteen days, during which the guests lived in the house, and Ida Jungmann had her hands full attending to the bedrooms and providing heavy break-fasts, with shrimps and port wine. Much roasting and baking went on in the kitchen. Upstairs, Job ami Buddenbrook sat by the sick-bed, his old Netta's limp hand in his, and stared into space with his brows knitted and his lower lip hanging. A clock hung on the wall and ticked dully, with long pauses between; not so long, however, as the pauses between the dying woman's fluttering breaths. A black-robed sister of mercy busied herself about the beef-tea which they still sought to make the patient take. NoW and then some member of the family would appear at the door and disappear again. Perhaps the old man was thinking how he had sat at the death-bed of his first wife, forty-six years before. Perhaps he recalled his frenzy of despair and contrasted it with the gentle melancholy which he felt now, as an old man, gazing into the face of his old wife--a face so changed, so listless, so void of expression. She had never given him either a great joy or a great sorrow; but she had decorously played her part beside him for many a long year--and now her life was ebbing away. He was not thinking a great deal. He was only looking with fixed gaze back into his own past life and at life in gen-eral. It all seemed to him now quite strange and far away, and he shook his head a little. That empty noise and bustle, in the midst of which he had once stood, had flowed away imperceptibly and left him standing there, listening in wonder to sounds that died upon his ear. "Strange, strange," he murmured. Madame Buddenbrook breathed her last brief, effortless sigh; and they prayed by her side in the dining-room, where the service was held; and the bearers lifted the flower-covered coffin to carry it away. But old Johann did not weep. He only gave the same gentle, bewildered head-shake, and said, with the same half-smiling look: "Strange, strange!" It be-came his most frequent expression. Plainly, the time for old Johann too was near at hand. He would sit silent and absent in the family circle; some-times with little Clara on his knee, to whom he would sing one of his droll catches, like "The omnibus drives through the town" or perhaps "Look at the blue-fly a-buzzin' on the wall." But he might suddenly stop in the middle, like one aroused out of a train of thought, put the child down on the floor, and move away, with his little head-shake and murmur "Strange, strange!" One day he said: "Jean--it's about time, eh?" It was soon afterward that neatly printed notices signed by father and son were sent about through the town, in which Johann Buddenbrook senior respectfully begged leave to an-nounce that his increasing years obliged him to give up his former business activities, and that in consequence the firm of Johann Buddenbrook, founded by his late father anno 1768, would as from that day be transferred, with its assets and lia-bilities, to his son and former partner Johann Buddenbrook as sole proprietor; for whom he solicited a continuance of the confidence so widely bestowed upon him. Signed, with deep respect, Johann Buddenbrook--who would from now on cease to append his signature to business papers. These announcements were no sooner sent out than the old man refused to set foot in the office; and his apathy so in-creased that it took only the most trifling cold to send him to bed, one March day two months after the death of his wife. One night more--then came the hour when the family gath-ered round his bed and he spoke to them: first to the Consul: "Good luck, Jean, and keep your courage up!" And then to 59 Thomas: "Be a help to your Father, Tom!" And to Chris-tian: "Be something worth while!" Then he was silent, gazing at them all; and finally, with a last murmured "Strange!" he turned his face to the wall.... To the very end, he did not speak of Gotthold, and the lat-ter encountered with silence the Consul's written summons to his father's death-bed. But early the next morning, before the announcements were sent out, as the Consul was about to go into the office to attend to some necessary business, Got-thold Buddenbrook, proprietor of the linen firm of Siegmund St�and Company, came with rapid steps through the entry. He was forty-six years old, broad and stocky, and had thick ash-blond whiskers streaked with grey. His short legs were cased in baggy trousers of rough checked material. On the steps he met the Consul, and his eyebrows went up under the brim of his grey hat. He did not put out his hand. "Johann," he said, in a high-pitched, ralher agreeable voice, "how is he?" "He passed away last night," the Consul said,. with deep emotion, grasping his brother's hand, which held an umbrella. "The best of fathers!" Cotthold drew down his brows now, so low that the lids nearly closed. After a silence, he said pointedly: "Nothing was changed up to the end?" The Consul let his hand drop and stepped back. His round, deep-set blue eyes flashed as he answered, "Nothing." Gotthold's eyebrows went up again under his hat, and his eyes fixed themselves on his brother with an expression of suspense. "And what have I to expect from your sense of justice?" he asked in a lower voice. It was the Consul's turn to look away. Then, without lifting his eyes, he made that downward gesture with his hand that always betokened decision; and in a quiet voice, but firmly, he answered: "In this sad and solemn moment I have offered you my brotherly hand. But if it is your intention to speak of busi-ness matters, then I can only reply in my capacity as head of the honourable firm whose sole proprietor I have to-day be-come. You can expect from me nothing that runs counter to the duties I have to-day assumed; all other feelings must be silent." Gotthold went away. But he came to the funeral, among the host of relatives, friends, business associates, deputies, clerks, porters, and labourers that filled the house, the stairs, and the corridors to overflowing and assembled all the hired coaches in town in a long row all the way down the Meng-strasse. Cotthold came, to the sincere joy of the Consul. He even brought his wife, born St� and his three grown daughters: Friederike and Henriette, who were too tall and thin, and Pfiffi, who was eighteen, and too short and fat. Pastor Rolling of St. Mary's, a heavy man with a bullet head and a rough manner of speaking, held the service at the grave, in the Buddenbrook family burying-ground, outside the Castle. Gate, at the edge of the cemetery grove. He ex-tolled the godly, temperate life of the deceased and compared it with that of "gluttons, drunkards, and profligates"--over which strong language some of the congregation shook their heads, thinking of the tact and moderation of their old Pas-tor Wunderlich, who had lately died. When the service and the burial were over, and the seventy or eighty hired coaches began to roll back to town, Gotthold Buddenbrook asked the Consul's permission to go with him, that they might speak together in private. He sat with his brother on the back seat of the high, ungainly old coach, one short leg crossed over the other--and, wonderful to relate, he was gentle and conciliatory. He realized more and more, he said, that the Consul was bound to act as he was doing; and he was de-termined to cherish no bitter memories of his father. He renounced the claims he had put forward, the more readily that he had decided to retire from business and live upon his inheritance and what capital he had left; for he had no joy 71 of the linen business, and it was going so indifferently that he could not bring himself to put any more money into it.... "His spite against our Father brought him no blessing," the Consul thought piously. Probably Gotthold thought so too. When they got back, he went with his brother up to the breakfast-room; and as both gentlemen felt rather chilly, after standing so long in their dress-coats in the early spring air, they drank a glass of old cognac together. Then Got-thold exchanged a few courteous words with his sister-in-law, stroked the children's heads, and went away. But he ap-peared at the next "children's day," which took place at the Kr�s', outside the Castle Gate. And he began to wind up his business at once.

CHAPTER V

IT grieved the Consul sorely that the grandfather had not lived to see the entry of his grandson into the business--an event which took place at Easter-time of the same year. Thomas had left school at sixteen. He was grown strong and sturdy, and his manly clothes made him look still older. He had been confirmed, and Pastor K�ng, in stentorian tones, had enjoined upon him to practice the virtues of moder-ation. A gold chain, bequeathed him by his grandfather, now hung about his neck, with the family arms on a medallion at the end--a rather dismal design, showing on an irregularly hatched surface a flat stretch of marshy country with one solitary,. leafless willow tree. The old seal ring with the green stone, once worn, in all probability, by the well-to-do tailor in Rostock, had descended to the Consul, together with the great Bible. Thomas's likeness to his grandfather was as strong as Christian's to his father. The firm round chin was the old man's, and the straight, well-chiselled nose. Thomas wore his hair parted on one side, and it receded in two bays from his narrow veined temples. His eyelashes were colourless by contrast, and so were the eyebrows, one of which he had a habit of lifting expressively. His speech, his movements, even his laugh, which showed his rather defective teeth, were all quiet and adequate. He already looked forward seriously and eagerly to his career. It was indeed a solemn moment when, after early breakfast, the Consul led him down into the office and introduced him to Herr Marcus the confidential clerk, Herr Havermann the cashier, and the rest of the staff, with all of whom, naturally, 73 he had long been on the best of terms. For the first time he sat at his desk, in his own revolving chair, absorbed in copying, stamping, and arranging papers. In the afternoon his father took him through the magazines on the Trave, each one of which had a special name, like the "Linden," the "Dak," the "Lion," the "Whale." Tom was thoroughly at home in every one of them, of course, but now for the first time he entered them to be formally introduced as a fellow worker. He entered upon his tasks with devotion, imitating the quiet, tenacious industry of his father, who was working with his jaws set, and writing down many a prayer for help in his private diary. For the Consul had set himself the task of making good the sums paid out by the firm on the occasion of his father's death. It was a conception... an ideal.... He explained the position quite fully to his wife late one evening in the landscape-room. It was half-past eleven, and Mamsell Jungmann and the children were already asleep in the corridor rooms. No one slept in the second story now--it was empty save for an oc-casional guest. The Frau Consul sat on the yellow sofa beside her husband, and he, cigar in mouth, was reading the financial columns of the local paper. She bent over her embroidery, moving her lips as she counted a row of stitches with her needle. Six candles burned in a candelabrum on the slender sewing-table beside her, and the chandelier was un-lighted. Johann Buddenbrook was Hearing the middle forties, and had visibly altered in the last years. His little round eyes seemed to have sunk deeper in his head, his cheek-bones and his large aquiline nose stood out more prominently than ever, and the ash-blond hair seemed to have been just touched with a pDwder-puff where it parted on the temples. The Frau Consul was at the end of her thirties, but, while never beau-tiful, was as brilliant as ever; her dead-white skin, with a single freckle here and there, had lost none of its splendour, and the candle-light shone on the rich red-blond hair that was as wonderfully dressed as ever. Giving her husband a sidelong glance with her clear blue eyes, she said: "Jean, I wanted to ask you to consider something: if it would not perhaps be advisable to engage a man-servant. I have just been coming to that conclusion. When I think of my parents--" The Consul let his paper drop on his knee and took his cigar out of his mouth. A shrewd look came into his eyes: here was a question of money to be paid out. "My dear Betsy," he said--and he spoke as deliberately as possible, to gain time to muster his excuses--"do you think we need a man-servant? Since my parents' death we have kept on all three maids, not counting Mamsell Jungmann. It seems to me--" "Oh, but the house is so big, Jean. We can hardly get along as it is. I say to Line, 'Line, it's a fearfully long time since the rooms in the annexe were dusted'; but I don't like to drive the girls too hard; they have their work cut out to keep everything clean and tidy here in the front. And a man-servant would be so useful for errands and so on. We could find some honest man from the country, who wouldn't expect much.... Oh, before I forget it--Louise M�ndorpf is letting her Anton go. I've seen him serve nicely at table." "To tell you the truth," said the Consul, and shuffled about a little uneasily, "it is a new idea to me. We aren't either entertaining or going out just now--" "No, but we have visitors very often--for which I am not responsible, Jean, as you know, though of course I am al-ways glad to see them. You have a business friend from somewhere, and you invite him to dinner. Then he has not taken a room at a hotel, so we ask him to stop the night. A missionary comes, and stops the week with us. Week after next, Pastor Mathias is coming from Kannstadt. And the wages amount to so little--" "But they mount up, Betsy! We have four people here in the house--and think of the pay-roll the firm has!" "So we really can't afford a man-servant?" the Frau Con-sul asked. She smiled as she spoke, and looked at her hus-band with her head on one side. "When I think of all the servants my Father and Mother had--" "My dear Betsy! Your parents--I really must ask you if you understand our financial position?" "No, Jean, I must admit I do not. I'm afraid I have only a vague idea--" "Well, I can tell you in a few words," the Consul said. He sat up straight on the sofa, with one knee crossed over the other, puffed at his cigar, knit his brows a little, and mar-shalled his figures with wonderful fluency. "To put it briefly, my Father had, before my sister's mar-riage, a round sum of nine hundred thousand marks net, not counting, of course, real estate, and the stock and good will of the firm. Eighty thousand went to Frankfort as dowry, and a hundred thousand to set Gotthold up in business. That leaves seven hundred and twenty thousand. The price of this house, reckoning off what we got for the little one in Alf Street, and counting all the improvements and new furnishings, came to a good hundred thousand. That brings it down to six hun-dred and twenty thousand. Twenty-five thousand to Frank-fort, as compensation on the house, leaves five hundred and ninety-five thousand--which is what we should have had at Father's death if we hadn't partly made up for all these ex-penses through years, by a profit of some two hundred thou-sand marks current. The entire capital amounted to seven hundred and ninety-five thousand marks, of which another hundred thousand went to Gotthold, and a few thousand marks for the minor legacies that Father left to the Holy Ghost Hos-pital, the Fund for Tradesmen's Widows, and so on. That brings us down to around four hundred and twenty thousand, or another hundred thousand with your own dowry. There is the position, in round figures, aside from small fluctuations in the capital. You see, my dear Betsy, we are not rich. And while the capital has grown smaller, the running expenses have not; for the whole business is established on a certain scale, which it costs about so much to maintain. Have you followed me?" The Consul's wife, her needle-work in her lap, nodded with some hesitation. "Quite so, my dear Jean," she said, though she was far from having understood everything, least of all what these big figures had to do with her engaging a man-servant. The Consul puffed at his cigar till it glowed, threw back his head and blew out the smoke, and then went on: "You are thinking, of course, that when God calls your dear parents unto Himself, we shall have a considerable sum to look forward to--and so we shall. But we must not reckon too blindly on it. Your Father has had some heavy losses, due, we all know, to your brother Justus. Justus is certainly a charming personality, but business is not his strong point, and he has had bad luck too. According to all accounts he has had to pay up pretty heavily, and transactions with bankers make dear money. Your Father has come to the rescue several times, to prevent a smash. That sort of thing may happen again--to speak frankly, I am afraid it will. You will forgive me, Betsy, for my plain speaking, but you know that the style of living which is so proper and pleasing in your Father is not at all suitable for a business man. Your Father has nothing to do with business any more; but Justus--you know what I mean--he isn't very careful, is he? His ideas are too large, he is too impulsive. And your parents aren't saving anything. They live a lordly life--as their circumstances permit them to." The Frau Consul smiled forbearingly. She well knew her husband's opinion of the luxurious Kr� tastes. "That's all," he said, and put his cigar into the ash-receiver. "As far as I'm concerned, I live in the hope that God will preserve my powers unimpaired, and that by His gracious help I may succeed in reestablishing the firm on its old basis.... I hope you see the thing more clearly now, Betsy?" 77 "Quite, quite, my dear Jean," the Frau Consul hastened to reply; for she had given up the man-servant, for the evening. "Shall we go to bed? It is very late--" A few days later, when the Consul came in to dinner in an unusually good mood, they decided at the table to engage the M�ndorpfs' Anton.