“Kesselmeyer, you’ve eaten at my table.…”
“Enough about your table. I’ll come for my answer in eight days. I’m walking into town. A little exercise would do me a great deal of good. Good morning, my friend. A very good morning.”
And it looked as if Herr Kesselmeyer was departing—and, indeed, he did. The sound of his strange, shuffling steps in the hallway conjured up the picture of his departure, arms rowing.
When Herr Grünlich entered the pensée room, Tony was standing there with the bronze watering can in her hand. She looked him straight in the eye.
“Why are you standing there? What are you staring at?” he asked, baring his teeth, tracing vague designs in the air with his hands, rocking his upper body back and forth. His pink face was incapable of turning totally pale. It was splotched with red, as if he had scarlet fever.
7
CONSUL JOHANN BUDDENBROOK arrived at the villa at two in the afternoon; dressed in a gray overcoat, he entered the Grünlichs’ salon and embraced his daughter with a certain painful fervor. He was pale and looked older. His small eyes lay deep in their sockets, his large nose jutted out sharply between his fallen cheeks, his lips seemed to have grown thinner, and what had once been curly side-whiskers running from his temples to mid-cheek was now a beard that covered his chin and lower jaw and extended halfway down over his stiff collar and necktie—and it was as gray as the hair on his head.
The consul had just gone through several difficult and exhausting days. Thomas had fallen ill, was hemorrhaging at the lung; he had received news of his son’s misfortune in a letter from Herr van der Kellen. He had left the office in the prudent hands of his chief clerk, and hurried off to Amsterdam with all deliberate speed. It turned out that his son’s illness had not involved any immediate danger, but that it was very wise to send him at once to a health spa in the mountains in the south of France; and as luck would have it, Herr van der Kellen’s young son had also been planning a vacation, and as soon as Thomas was up to it, the two young men left together for Pau.
But no sooner had the consul returned home than he had been met with another blow, which for the moment had shaken his firm to its foundations: the bankruptcy in Bremen, which had meant the loss of eighty thousand marks in “cold cash.” And how? Discounted checks drawn on the Westfahl Brothers had bounced—liquidation had already begun. Not that he had been unable to cover them; the firm had at once shown what it could do, without any hesitation or embarrassment. But that had not prevented the consul from having to experience the sudden cold reserve and mistrust that such a calamity, such a drain on capital, usually elicits from banks, “friends,” and foreign firms.
Well, he had pulled himself erect, had taken stock of the situation, confronted it calmly, and begun to set things in order. But then, in the middle of that battle, in the middle of all the dispatches, letters, and calculations, this had befallen him as well. Grünlich, B. Grünlich, his daughter’s husband, was insolvent, and in a long, confused letter that was one endless lamentation, he had begged, implored, whined for help in the amount of 100,000 to 120,000 marks. The consul had briefly explained the situation to his own wife, though sparing her the worst details, and in a cold, noncommittal letter he informed Herr Grünlich that he would meet with him, together with his banker, Herr Kesselmeyer, at the former’s home—and left for Hamburg.
Tony received him in the salon. She loved to receive visitors in the brown silk salon and decided to make no exception in her father’s case, for although the exact nature of the current situation was unclear to her, she had a keen and solemn sense of its importance. She looked pretty but serious, and was wearing a pale gray dress with lace at the bodice and cuffs, belled sleeves, a hoop skirt with a long train, all in the latest fashion, and a small diamond clasp at the throat.
“Hello, Papa, it’s so good to see you again at last. And how is Mama? Have you had good news from Tom? Take off your coat, and do sit down, dear Papa. Would you like to freshen up? I have had the guest room made ready for you. Grünlich is just finishing dressing.”
“Let him be, child; I’ll wait for him down here. You know, don’t you, that I’ve come to have a talk with your husband, a very, very serious talk, my dear Tony? Is Herr Kesselmeyer here?”
“Yes, he is, Papa, he’s sitting in the pensée room, looking at our album.”
“Where is Erika?”
“Upstairs, with Thinka in the nursery. She’s doing very well. She’s giving her doll a bath. Not with water, of course—it’s a wax doll. So she just pretends.”
“But of course.” The consul sighed and continued, “I suppose I cannot assume that you have been informed, my dear child, about the situation … about your husband’s situation.”
He had sat down in one of the easy chairs set around the large table, whereas Tony made a little stool for herself of three silk pillows, piling one atop another, at his feet. The fingers of her right hand toyed carefully with the diamonds at her throat.
“No, Papa,” Tony replied, “I must admit I know nothing at all. Good heavens, I’m such a silly goose, you know. I have no idea. I did happen to hear a little of a recent conversation between Kesselmeyer and Grünlich. But at the end it sounded to me as if Herr Kesselmeyer was just joking again. He always says the most ridiculous things. And I did hear your name mentioned once or twice.”
“You heard them mention my name? In what connection?”
“Oh, I don’t know what the connection was, Papa. Grünlich has been very cross the last few days, absolutely insufferable, I must say! Until yesterday. Yesterday he was very sweet, asked me ten or twelve times whether I loved him, and if I would put in a good word for him if he asked something of you.”
“Ah …”
“Yes. He told me that he had written you, that you’d be coming. And it’s so good to have you here. It’s all a bit mysterious. Grünlich has set up the big green card table—there are all kinds of papers and pencils on it—where you’re supposed to have a conference with him and Kesselmeyer.”
“Listen to me, my dear child,” the consul said, stroking her hair. “I have to ask you something, something very serious. Now, tell me: you do love your husband with all your heart, don’t you?”
“Of course, Papa,” Tony said with a dissembling, childlike face, the same one she used to wear if someone asked her, “Now, you won’t tease the old woman who sells dolls again, will you, Tony?” The consul said nothing for a moment or two.
“You love him so much,” he asked again, “that you could not live without him, no matter what, is that right? Even if, should it be God’s will, his situation were to change and he were no longer in a position to surround you with all these things?” And he let his hand wander hastily over the furniture and portieres, the gilt tableclock on the mirrored whatnot stand—and finally down over her dress.
“Of course, Papa,” Tony repeated in the reassuring tone that she almost always used if someone spoke to her about serious things. She looked past her father’s face to the window, where a heavy veil of delicate mist was descending soundlessly. Her face had the same wide-eyed expression that children put on when someone reading a fairy tale to them is tactless enough to insert some general remarks on morals and duty—a mixture of embarrassment and impatience, piety and boredom.
For one whole minute, the consul watched her silently, opening and closing his eyes as he pondered all this. Was he satisfied with her answer? He had weighed the matter well both at home and on his way here.
It is easy to understand that Johann Buddenbrook’s first and most candid impulse was to do everything possible to avoid a payment in any amount to his son-in-law. But when he recalled how strongly he had advocated this marriage, to use a mild term, when he remembered the look the child had given him as she said goodbye after her wedding and asked him, “Are you proud of me?”—then he had to admit his own rather heavy guilt in regard to his daughter’s situation and to tell himself that this matter would have to be decided entir
ely as she wanted. He was well aware that she had not agreed to the marriage out of love, but he thought it possible that four years of a life together and the birth of a child might have changed a great many things, that Tony might feel bound to her husband now, body and soul, and reject any notion of separation for reasons both Christian and worldly. In that case, the consul decided, he would have to make the best of it and hand over whatever sum was necessary. To be sure, honor and duty, both as a Christian and as a wife, demanded that Tony follow the spouse entrusted to her into any misfortune, no matter what; but if it became evident that this was indeed her decision, then he did not feel justified in asking her to forgo, through no fault of her own, all the amenities and comforts of a life she had known since earliest childhood; he would be duty-bound to avoid a catastrophe and to keep B. Grünlich afloat no matter what the cost. In brief, the upshot of all his reflections was a desire to take his daughter and her child home with him and let Herr Grünlich go his way. God forbid that such an awful thing should happen. But just in case, he had given much thought to the section of the legal code that permitted divorce should a husband prove incapable of supporting his wife and children. And above all, he had to sound out his daughter’s true feelings.
“I can see,” he said, continuing to stroke her hair, “I can see, my dear child, that you are moved by fine and worthy principles. All the same … I cannot assume, I’m sorry to say, that you see these matters as they must be seen: that is, as fact. I have not asked you what you might do in such-and-such a case, but, rather, what you will do, here and now. I have no idea what you may know or suspect about the present situation. But it is my sad duty to tell you that your husband has been obliged to stop all payments and is no longer able to carry on his business. You do understand me, don’t you?”
“Grünlich is bankrupt?” Tony asked softly, rising halfway from her pillows and quickly grasping her father’s hand.
“Yes, my child,” he said earnestly. “You hadn’t suspected it?”
“I didn’t suspect anything definite,” she stammered. “Then Kesselmeyer wasn’t joking?” she continued, staring down at her brown carpet. “O God!” she suddenly cried and sank back onto her pillows. And at that moment everything locked inside the word “bankrupt” suddenly opened up before her, all the vague, terrible things that she had felt as a small child. Bankrupt—that was something more ghastly than death, it was chaos, collapse, ruin, disgrace, humiliation, despair, and misery. “He’s bankrupt,” she said again, so cast down and crushed by that fateful word that the idea never occurred to her that there might be some help, not even from her father.
He watched her, his eyebrows raised—his small, deep-set eyes weary and sad, but also betraying the extraordinary suspense of this moment. “And so I’m asking you, my dear Tony,” he said gently, “if you are prepared to follow your husband into poverty?” He realized at once that he had instinctively chosen the cruel word “poverty” in order to intimidate her, and quickly added, “He can always work his way up again.…”
“Of course, Papa,” Tony answered. But she broke into tears nonetheless. She sobbed into her batiste handkerchief trimmed with lace and bearing the monogram AG. She still cried just as she had as a child—openly and without any posturing. The way her upper lip quivered was inexpressibly touching.
Her father continued to probe her with his eyes. “And you are quite serious about that, my child?” he asked. He felt as helpless as she.
“But don’t I have to?” she sobbed. “I have to.”
“Certainly not,” he said vigorously. But, feeling guilty, he immediately corrected himself: “I certainly would not force you to do so, my dear Tony. If it were the case, however, that your feelings do not bind you unswervingly to your husband …”
She looked at him with tearful, uncomprehending eyes. “What do you mean, Papa?”
The consul twisted back and forth a little, and found a way out. “My dear child, believe me when I say that I would find it very painful to see you exposed to all the hardships and insults that would result from your husband’s misfortune, which would mean immediately dissolving both his business and your household. It is my wish to spare you the initial unpleasantnesses and to take you and our little Erika home for now. Am I right to think you would be grateful for that?”
Tony was silent for a moment and dried her tears. She first breathed fussily on her handkerchief and then pressed it to her eyes to keep them from turning red. And then she asked in a firm tone, but without raising her voice, “Papa, is Grünlich to blame? Are his misfortunes the result of his own carelessness and dishonesty?”
“That’s very likely,” the consul said. “That is … no, I don’t really know, my child. I told you that I still have to discuss the matter with him and his banker.”
Tony did not appear to have paid any attention to his answer. She was resting against her silk pillows, an elbow on one knee, her chin in her hand, her head sunk low—but she let her eyes drift up, dreamily scanning the room. “Oh, Papa,” she said softly, her lips barely moving, “looking back now, wouldn’t it have been better if …”
The consul could not see her face; but it bore the same expression it had on many a summer evening, when she would lean against the little window of her room in Travemünde. Her arm was resting on her father’s knee now, her hand dangling limply in the air. But that hand betrayed an infinitely sad and soft surrender to memories, to sweet longings that drifted into the distance.
“Better?” Consul Buddenbrook asked. “If none of this had happened, my child?” He was ready to admit with all his heart that it would have been better if this marriage had not taken place.
But Tony only sighed and said, “Oh, never mind.” She seemed to be wrapped up in thoughts that swept her so far away that the word “bankrupt” was as good as forgotten.
The consul felt it necessary to put into words things he would rather have merely agreed to. “I think I can guess your thoughts, dear Tony,” he said. “And I do not hesitate, for my part, to admit that at this moment I sincerely regret the step that seemed to me so wise and beneficial four years ago. I truly believe, before God, that I am guilty of no sin. I believe I did my duty in trying to arrange for you a life suitable to your station. Heaven has decided otherwise. Please don’t think that your father acted out of carelessness or gambled with your happiness without due thought. Grünlich approached me as a man with the best recommendations—a pastor’s son, a Christian and urbane man. Later, I made inquiries as to his business, and the responses sounded as favorable as could be. I examined his circumstances. All that is still murky to me—murky and needs to be explained yet. But you don’t blame me, do you?”
“No, Papa. How could you even say that? You mustn’t take it to heart so. Poor Papa, you look so pale—should I have a cordial brought for you?” She had laid her arm around his neck and kissed him now on the cheek.
“No thanks,” he said. “There, there. It’s all right, thanks. Yes, the last few days have been exhausting. But what’s a man to do? I’ve had a great deal of worry. These are trials sent by God. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel some guilt about you, my child. Everything depends now on the question I’ve already put to you, but which you have not yet answered adequately. Tell me frankly, Tony—have you learned to love your husband over the years of marriage?”
Tony began to weep again. Holding her batiste handkerchief to her eyes with both hands now, she managed to say amid her sobs, “Oh! How can you ask, Papa? I never loved him. I’ve always loathed him. Don’t you know that?”
It would be difficult to describe the play of emotions on Johann Buddenbrook’s face. There was shock and sadness in his eyes, but he pressed his lips together hard, creating folds along his cheeks and at the corners of his mouth, an expression he usually reserved for the completion of a profitable business deal. He said softly, “Four years …”
Tony’s tears suddenly ceased. Her moist handkerchief still in her hand, she sat upright on her
pillows and said angrily, “Four years. Yes! And sometimes during those four years he would spend an evening with me, reading his paper.”
“But God gave you both a child,” the consul said, deeply touched.
“Yes, Papa. And I love Erika very much. Although Grünlich claims I’m not fond of children. I would never part with her, never. But Grünlich—no! Grünlich—no! And now he’s bankrupt. Oh, Papa, if you want to take me and Erika home with you, I’d be so happy! So now you know.”
The consul pressed his lips together again; he was thoroughly satisfied. He still had not addressed the main point, true—but given the resolve that Tony had now shown, there was not much risk involved.
“All the same,” he said, “you seem to have fully forgotten, my child, that help might be possible. And by that I mean from your father, who has already admitted that he cannot help feeling some guilt in this matter. And in case, well, in case you would want him to, expect him to … he would intervene, would prevent a total collapse and cover your husband’s debts as best he could to keep the business afloat.”
He watched her intently, and the look on her face filled him with satisfaction—it was a look of disappointment.
“How much are we talking about, in fact?” she asked.
“What does that have to do with it, my child? It’s a large sum, a very large sum.” And Consul Buddenbrook nodded several times, as if staggered by the burden of even thinking of such a sum. “Moreover,” he continued, “I cannot conceal from you that the firm has suffered other losses, quite apart from this matter, and that losing such a sum would be a blow from which it would recover with very, very great difficulty. I mention that in no way to …”