Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family
The most heartfelt greetings as well from your mother, Thomas, Christian, Clara, and Klothilde (who has spent the last few weeks at Grudging with her father), and from Mamselle Jungmann as well. We all look forward to the moment when we may embrace you once again.
As always with love,
Your Father
11
IT WAS POURING RAIN. Heaven, earth, and sea melted into one another, while gusts of wind picked up the rain and drove it against the windows until drops became streams that ran down the panes, making it impossible to see out. From the chimneys came voices of lament and despair.
Shortly after lunch, when Morten Schwarzkopf stepped out on the porch with his pipe to have a look at the skies, he discovered a gentleman standing there in a long, narrow, yellow-plaid ulster and a gray hat; a closed carriage, its top glistening with rain and its wheels spattered with mud, stood waiting in front of the house. Morten stared in bewilderment at the gentleman’s pink face—and muttonchops that looked as if they had been powdered with the same dust used to gild walnuts at Christmas.
The gentleman in the ulster looked at Morten as if he were a servant—eyes squinted slightly but not really seeing him—and asked in a gentle voice, “Might I speak with the harbor pilot?”
“But of course,” Morten stammered, “I think my father is …”
And now the gentleman fixed his eyes on him—eyes as blue as a goose’s.
“Are you Herr Morten Schwarzkopf?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Morten replied, trying to give his face a stern, determined look.
“Why, look, it is indeed!” the gentleman in the ulster remarked, and then continued: “Would you be so good as to announce me to your father, young man. My name is Grünlich.”
Morten led the gentleman across the porch and down the hall, opened the door to his father’s office, and returned to the parlor to inform his father, who now left the room. The younger Schwarzkopf sat down at the round table, propped his elbows on it, and, without so much as a glance at his mother, who was busy darning stockings by the dim light of the window, appeared to immerse himself in the “pitiful local rag,” whose only news was Consul Such-and-such’s silver anniversary. Tony was resting upstairs in her room.
The harbor pilot entered his office with the bearing of a man satisfied with the hearty lunch he has just eaten. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, revealing the full curve of his white vest. His frosty sailor’s beard contrasted sharply with his red face. His tongue was contentedly wandering among his teeth, causing his dignified mouth to assume the most extraordinary positions. He gave a brief, jerky bow, as if to say: “That’s how it’s done.”
“Good afternoon,” he said. “At your service, sir.”
For his part, Herr Grünlich made a very deliberate bow, and said softly, while turning the corners of his mouth down just a little, “Huh-uh-hmm.”
The office was a rather small room, with wainscoting a few feet up the walls, the rest unpapered plaster. The curtains at the window, where rain drummed incessantly, were yellow with smoke. To the right of the door was a long rough desk covered with papers, and above it was pinned a large map of Europe and a smaller map of the Baltic. A trim model ship under full sail hung from the middle of the ceiling.
The harbor pilot motioned for his guest to take a seat near the door, on the sofa covered with cracked black oilcloth, and sat down himself in a wooden armchair, folding his hands across his stomach. Herr Grünlich sat at the edge of the sofa—back straight, hat on knee, ulster still buttoned tight.
“To repeat,” he said, “my name is Grünlich, from Hamburg—Grünlich. By the way of introduction, might I mention that I call myself a close business friend of Consul Buddenbrook the wholesale merchant.”
“My pleasure. It’s an honor to meet you, Herr Grünlich. But won’t you make yourself a little more comfortable? A glass of grog after your trip? I’ll just tell the kitchen.…”
“I take the liberty of informing you,” Herr Grünlich said very calmly, “that my time is limited, that my carriage awaits, and that I have had no choice but to come here to speak but a very few words with you.”
“At your service, sir,” Herr Schwarzkopf said again, a little intimidated—and now came a pause.
“Herr Captain,” Herr Grünlich began, setting his head back a little and giving it a determined shake. But then he fell silent again to enhance the effect of this form of address; he closed his mouth firmly, as if tugging the strings tight on a purse.
“Herr Captain,” he repeated, and then quickly went on, “the matter that has brought me here directly concerns the young lady who has resided in your home for some weeks now.”
“Mamselle Buddenbrook?” Herr Schwarzkopf asked.
“Indeed,” Herr Grünlich replied—his voice devoid of expression, his head lowered, and little hard lines forming at the corners of his mouth. “I … find myself constrained to reveal to you”—his voice took on a casual lilt now, and his eyes wandered about the room, fixing briefly with great attention on each point before taking a final leap to the window—“that some time ago I asked for the hand of Demoiselle Buddenbrook in marriage, that I possess the fullest consent of both parental parties, and that, although a formal betrothal has not yet taken place, the young lady has acknowledged in unambiguous terms my claim to her hand.”
“Good God, you don’t say?” Herr Schwarzkopf replied cheerily. “I didn’t know a thing about it. Congratulations, Herr … Grünlich, my heartiest congratulations. You’ve got a good thing there, something really solid.”
“Much obliged,” Herr Grünlich said, laying cold emphasis on both words. “But what brings me here to you,” he continued in that same high lilting voice, “as regards this matter, my good Herr Captain, is the fact that certain grave difficulties have newly arisen to hinder this alliance, and that these difficulties … have their source in your household—?” He gave an interrogatory lift to these last words, as if to say, “Can what these ears have heard really be possible?”
Herr Schwarzkopf’s sole reply was to raise his gray eyebrows very high and grab both arms of his chair in his tanned, hairy sailor’s hands.
“Yes. Indeed. So I hear,” Herr Grünlich said with grim certainly. “I hear that your son—a studiosus medicinae, I believe—has allowed himself—quite out of ignorance, of course—to encroach upon my rights. I hear that he has used the young lady’s presence here to wrest from her certain promises.…”
“What?” the harbor pilot shouted, grabbing even more tightly to the arms of his chair and then jumping up. “Well, we’ll soon see … By God, we’ll just see about that.” And he was at the door in two strides; he flung it open and called down the hall in a voice that would have outboomed the wildest seas, “Meta! Morten! Come here! Come in here, both of you!”
“It would cause me keen regret,” Herr Grünlich said with a delicate smile, “if in exerting my prior claims I may be countering your own paternal intentions, Herr Captain.”
Diederich Schwarzkopf whirled around and stared hard at him, wrinkles forming all around his sharp blue eyes, as if he were trying in vain to understand this remark.
“Sir!” he said in a voice that sounded as if his throat had just been seared by a strong pull of grog. “I’m a simple man and don’t know much about innuendies [sic] and other such refinements, but if you just might be implying … Well, all I have to say to you is that you’re barking up the wrong tree and are badly mistaken about my principles. I know who my son is, and I know who Mamselle Buddenbrook is, and there’s too much self-respect and too much pride in these old bones, sir, for me to be having any paternal intentions. Ah, so here you are—well, speak up and answer me! What is going on here, huh? What is this I’ve just heard?”
Frau Schwarzkopf and her son were standing in the doorway—the former quite unsuspecting and busy setting her apron to rights, Morten with the look of an impenitent sinner. Herr Grünlich had not risen when they entered—by no means—but just sat there
calmly in his buttoned-up ulster, holding his straight-backed pose on the edge of the sofa.
“So you have been behaving like a silly fool?” the harbor pilot snapped at Morten.
The young man kept one thumb wedged between the buttons of his jacket; he scowled, even puffed out his cheeks in defiance. “Yes, Father,” he said, “Fräulein Buddenbrook and I …”
“Well, I’ve got just one thing to say to you—that you’re an idiot, a nincompoop, a silly ass. And it’s back to Göttingen with you tomorrow, do you hear, tomorrow morning! And this whole thing is childishness and damn tomfoolery. And there’s an end to it!”
“Diederich, good heavens,” Frau Schwarzkopf said, folding her hands. “You can’t just brush it off like that! Who knows …” She stopped right there, and in her face they saw a beautiful dream collapsing in ruins.
“Would the gentleman like to speak with the young lady?” the harbor pilot said in a gruff voice, turning to Herr Grünlich.
“She’s in her room. She’s sleeping,” Frau Schwarzkopf explained, her voice filled with compassion.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Herr Grünlich said with a little sigh of relief and stood up. “But I must repeat in any case that my time is limited, and that my carriage awaits. Permit me,” he went on, executing a full sweep of his hat in Herr Schwarzkopf’s direction, “to express to you, Herr Captain, my fullest satisfaction with and appreciation for your manly, high-principled conduct. My compliments. It was an honor. Adieu.”
Diederich Schwarzkopf did not offer to shake hands; he simply let his heavy frame jerk forward briefly, as if to say: “That’s how it’s done.”
Herr Grünlich strode with measured steps between Morten and his mother and out the door.
12
THOMAS APPEARED with the Krögers’ carriage. This was the day.
The young man arrived about ten o’clock in the morning and had a bite to eat with the family in the parlor. They sat there together as they had on that first day; except that summer was over and it was too cold and windy to sit out on the porch—and that Morten wasn’t there. He was in Göttingen. Tony and he hadn’t even been able to say a real goodbye. The harbor pilot had stood beside them and said: “Well, there’s an end to it.”
At eleven o’clock brother and sister climbed into the carriage—Tony’s large trunk was already strapped on at the rear. She was pale, and even in her soft fall jacket she shivered from the cold, from exhaustion, the excitement of the journey, and a sadness that from time to time would suddenly rise up and expand painfully inside her chest. She kissed little Meta, squeezed Frau Schwarzkopf’s hand, and nodded to Herr Schwarzkopf who said, “Now, don’t go forgetting us, mamselle. And no harm meant, eh? So, then, have a good trip and give my best to your good father, the consul, and his wife.”
Then the door catch snapped into place, the heavy bays pulled, and the three Schwarzkopfs waved their handkerchiefs.
Tony tucked her head into a corner of the carriage and gazed out the window. The sky was overcast with white clouds, the Trave broken by little waves scurrying before the wind. Now and then little drops pricked at the windowpane. At the entrance to Front Row people were sitting on their stoops and mending nets; barefoot children came running up, curious to have a peek into the carriage. They would be staying here.
Once the carriage had left the last houses behind, Tony bent forward to have a final look at the lighthouse; then she leaned back and closed her tired, burning eyes. She had hardly slept all night she was so upset, had risen early to finish packing her trunk, and hadn’t wanted any breakfast. Her mouth tasted dry and stale. She felt so weak that she didn’t even try to hold back the tears that slowly welled into her eyes again and again.
She had only to close her eyes and she was back on the porch in Travemünde. She saw Morten Schwarzkopf—he was so real, and he spoke to her, bending forward in that special way of his, now and then turning his kind, probing eyes to gaze at someone else; he smiled, and wasn’t even aware of how beautiful his teeth were. And it made her feel quite calm and serene. She could recall everything, all their many conversations, everything he had said, everything she had learned, and she found happy consolation in her solemn promise that she would keep all this in her heart forever as something sacred and inviolable. That the King of Prussia had committed a great injustice, that the local Advertiser was a pitiful rag, even that they had renewed the Confederation’s laws dealing with universities four years ago—those would be cherished and consoling truths, a secret treasure that she could enjoy whenever she liked. In the middle of the street, at home with her family, at the dinner table—she would think of them. Who knew? Perhaps she would follow the path laid out for her and marry Herr Grünlich, she didn’t care one way or the other. But whenever he would speak to her, she would suddenly be able to think: “I know something you don’t. The nobility, as an institution, is despicable.”
She smiled contentedly to herself. But then, suddenly, in the sound of the wheels she heard with perfect, unbelievably vivid clarity the sound of Morten’s voice; she could make out every word he said in his kindly, somewhat ponderous and scratchy voice, heard it with very own ears—“We’ll both have to sit on the stones today, Fräulein Tony”—and that brief memory overwhelmed her. She felt her chest contract with pain and grief, she didn’t try to stop the burst of tears. Tucked in her corner, she held her handkerchief to her face with both hands and wept bitterly.
Thomas gazed somewhat helplessly out onto the road, a cigarette in his mouth. “Poor Tony,” he said at last, patting her jacket sleeve. “I feel so very sorry for you.… I really do understand, you know. But what else is there to do? We simply have to get through it. Believe me, I know what it is.”
“Oh, you don’t know anything, Tom,” Tony sobbed.
“Now, don’t say that. It’s absolutely certain, for example, that I’ll be going to Amsterdam at the start of next year. Papa has found a position for me, with Kellen & Co. I’ll have to say goodbye for a long, long time.”
“Oh, Tom, saying goodbye to your parents and sisters and brothers—that’s nothing!”
“Right,” he said, drawing out the word somewhat. He sighed, as if he wanted to say more, but then he was silent. Letting his cigarette wander from one corner of his mouth to the other, he lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side. After a while he tried again. “It won’t last forever. Things take care of themselves. You’ll forget.…”
“But I don’t want to forget!” Tony cried in despair. “Forget? Is that any comfort?”
13
THEN CAME THE FERRY, then Israelsdorfer Allee, then Jerusalem Hill, Castle Yard. The carriage passed through the Burg Gate, on its right the towering walls of the prison; it rolled down Burg Strasse and crossed the Koberg. Tony looked at the gray gabled buildings, the oil lamps strung across the streets, the Holy Ghost Hospital—the lindens out front had lost most of their leaves already. Good Lord, it was all just as it had been before. It had stood here, immutable and venerable, and all the while she had thought of it as an old, easily forgotten dream. These gray gables were tradition, something old and trustworthy, and they had taken her back in, and here she would live again. She was not crying now; she looked about her with curiosity. The pain of parting was almost numbed by these streets and these old familiar faces. At that moment—the carriage was rattling along Breite Strasse—Matthiesen the grain hauler passed them and doffed his homely top hat with a deep sweep of his hand, and his gruff face was so full of respect it seemed to say, “I swear I’m at the bottom of the ladder.”
The carriage turned onto Meng Strasse, and the heavy bays came to a halt, snorting and stamping, in front of the Buddenbrook house. Tom attentively helped his sister climb down, while Anton and Lina came hurrying out to unstrap the trunk. But they had to wait before they could enter the house. Three huge delivery wagons were lined up, moving slowly, one after another, into the passage; each was stacked high with full sacks of grain, all of them stamped “
Johann Buddenbrook” in large black letters. They rumbled and swayed ponderously along the large echoing passageway and down the low steps into the courtyard. Some of the grain was to be unloaded in the back building, and the rest would find its way to the “Whale,” the “Lion,” or the “Oak.”
The consul emerged from his office, his quill behind one ear, just as brother and sister entered the passage, and he stretched his arms out to his daughter. “Welcome home, my dear Tony!”