Oh yes, that was the question, had always been the right question, for as long as he could remember. Life was hard, and business, as it took its ruthless, unsentimental course, was the epitome of life in general. Did Thomas Buddenbrook stand with both feet firmly planted in that hard, practical life—as had his father before him? He had often enough had reason to doubt it. From adolescence on, he had often enough had to revise his own feelings when confronted by that life—dealing hard blows, taking hard blows, yet never feeling them to be hard, but perfectly natural. Would he never completely learn that lesson?
He remembered the impression that the catastrophe of ’66 had made on him, and he called to mind the overwhelming, unspeakable emotional pain. He had lost a great deal of money—but that had not been what was so unbearable. For the first time in his life he had been forced to experience personally and completely just how cruel and brutal business can be, had watched as all his better, gentler, and kinder sentiments had slunk away before the raw, naked, absolute instinct of self-preservation, had seen his friends, his best friends, respond to his misfortune not with sympathy, not with compassion, but with suspicion—cold, dismissive suspicion. But had he not always known that? Was it his place to be astonished by it? And later, in better and stronger hours, how ashamed he had been of those sleepless nights of outrage and disgust, when he lay there feeling irreparably violated by the ugly and shameless cruelty of life.
How foolish all that had been. How ridiculous such feelings, such sensitivities had been. How could he have entertained them in the first place? And so, to ask the question once again: was he a practical man or a tenderhearted dreamer?
Oh, he had asked himself that question a thousand times, and responded in one way in his strong and optimistic moments, and in another when he was weary. But he was too perceptive and honest not to admit the truth—he was a mixture of both.
All his life he had presented himself to other people as a man of action; but to the extent that they were correct in that judgment, was not action—to use the adage from Goethe he loved to quote—a result of his own deliberate plan? He had his record of past achievements, but had that record not risen from an enthusiasm, an impetus, provided by his own powers of reflection? And if he was despondent now, if his energies seemed spent—though not, God grant, forever—was that not the logical consequence of this untenable condition, this unnatural and exhausting contradiction inside him? Would his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather have bought the entire Pöppenrade harvest? That made no difference, no difference at all. But that they had been practical men—stronger, more open to life, more natural—whole, full men, that much was certain.
A great uneasiness came over him, a need for movement, space, and light. He pushed his chair back, crossed to the salon, and lit several gas jets on the chandelier above the center table. He stood there, slowly, compulsively twirling one tip of his long mustache and vacantly gazing at the luxurious room all around him. Together with the sitting room, it took up the whole front of the house, its furnishings were all gentle curves and light colors; but the large grand piano, Gerda’s violin case atop it, the end tables stacked with her music, the carved music stand and the bas-relief above the door with cupids happily playing instruments revealed that it was essentially a music room. The bay at the window was filled with palm trees.
Senator Buddenbrook stood there motionless for two or three minutes. Then he pulled himself together, returned by way of the sitting room to the dining room, and lit the gas jets there, too. He moved toward the buffet and drank a glass of water to calm his heart—or perhaps just for something to do. Then, with his hands behind his back, he moved deeper into the house. The smoking room was wainscoted and had dark furniture. He automatically opened the cigar cabinet, but immediately closed it again and then lifted the lid of a small oak chest on the card table—inside were playing cards, scoring pads, and similar items. He let a few ivory game markers run through his fingers; they clattered into the chest, and he closed the lid again as he turned to leave.
A little den with a stained-glass window opened off the smoking room. It was empty except for a nest of light serving tables, a liqueur cabinet on top. From here one entered the grand hall with its vast parquet floor and four high windows, with wine-red curtains and a view to the garden; this room, too, ran the full width of the house. It was furnished with a few heavy, low sofas in the same red as the curtains and a number of high-backed chairs that stood stiffly along the walls. There was a fireplace with imitation coals and stripes of shiny reddish-gold paper that seemed to glow behind the screen. Two tall, massive Chinese vases were set on the marble mantel, above which hung a mirror.
Now the whole floor was illuminated by a few gas jets, as if a party had just ended and the last guest had departed. The senator strode the length of the grand hall, stood there at the window opposite the den, and stared out into the garden.
The moon stood high and looked small among the fluffy clouds; the fountain leapt upward into the silence beneath the overhanging branches of the walnut tree. Thomas looked across to the pavilion at the far end, to the little glistening white terrace with its two obelisks; he studied the gravel paths, which had been raked just recently, the formal flower beds, and the lawn. But this delicate, quiet symmetry did anything but calm him—it annoyed and offended him. He held the window catch tight in one hand, laid his brow against the pane, and let his thoughts take their agonizing course again.
Where was all this getting him? He remembered a remark that he had made to his sister just now, recalled that he had no sooner said it than he had been annoyed at himself—it was so totally irrelevant. He had been talking about Count Strelitz, about the landed aristocracy, and had very clearly and explicitly voiced his opinion that the producer’s social position was undeniably superior to that of the wholesaler. Was that true? Oh, good God, it made not the least difference if it was true or not. But was it his place in life to express such an idea, to consider it, even to entertain it in the first place? Could he ever explain to his father, his grandfather, or any of his fellow merchants how he could play with such an idea, let alone put it into words? A man who stands firmly in his profession, unshaken by doubts, knows only one thing, understands only one thing, values only one thing—his profession.
He felt the blood suddenly rise to his head, felt himself blushing at a second memory, which lay much farther in the past. He saw himself walking with his brother, Christian, in the garden of the house on Meng Strasse, caught up in a quarrel, in one of their deeply regrettable, heated disputes. With his usual compromising indiscretion, Christian had made a careless remark for a great many people to hear—a remark that had shocked him, made him angry, absolutely furious, and for which he had called him to account. Actually, Christian had said, every businessman is basically a swindler. And now? Was that insipid, contemptible remark really all that different from the one he had just allowed himself to make to his sister? He had been outraged, had furiously protested. But what had sly little Tony said? The only person who gets upset and angry …
“No!” the senator suddenly said in a loud voice, jerking his head up and letting go of the window catch, literally pushing himself back. And then he said, just as loudly, “No more of this!” He cleared his throat now to shake the unpleasant effect of the sound of his own solitary voice, turned around, and began to pace rapidly back and forth through all the rooms, his head lowered, his hands behind his back.
“No more of this!” he repeated. “There must be an end to it. I am frittering away my time, sinking into a bog—I’m getting worse than Christian.” Oh, how immensely grateful he felt that he was no longer caught up in uncertainty about himself. It lay in his own hands to correct the situation. By sheer force! He would see, he would see what sort of an offer was being made. The harvest, the entire harvest of Pöppenrade? “I’ll do it!” he said in a passionate whisper, even shaking the extended forefinger of one hand. “I’ll do it!”
It was most as
suredly what people called a coup, wasn’t it? It was an opportunity simply to take an investment of, say, forty thousand marks courant and—exaggerating just a bit—to double it, right? Yes, it was a cue, a signal, that he should rouse himself. The point was that this was a beginning, a first stroke, and the risks connected with it were a further refutation of all his moral scruples. If he succeeded, his fortunes were restored, and he would be daring again, would hold fast to good luck and power again, keep it clasped inside him with a strong, elastic grip.
No, this catch would slip through the fingers of Messrs. Strunk & Hagenström—unfortunately for them. There was another firm in town that had the upper hand, thanks to personal connections in this case. In fact, the personal element was the decisive factor here. It was not an ordinary business deal to be handled coolly and by following the usual rules. Tony’s status as middleman in initiating it lent it, rather, the character of a private matter, which needed discretion and tact. Oh no, Hermann Hagenström would hardly be the man for that. Thomas had a businessman’s sense for market conditions, and by God he would know how to use them later, too, when it came time to sell. And, on the other hand, he was doing this hard-pressed landed aristocrat a favor, one which, given Tony’s friendship with Armgard von Maiboom, he alone was called to do. And so he would write—write before the evening was out—not on the firm’s letterhead, but on his personal stationery, with only “Senator Buddenbrook” printed at the top—write with utmost tact and inquire whether a visit would be welcome within a day or two. A ticklish matter, all the same. The ground was rather slippery and he would have to move with a good deal of grace—which made it that much more suited to him.
And he hastened his strides now and began to breathe harder. He sat down for a second, leapt up, and started wandering through all the rooms again. He thought the whole matter through one more time, thought of Herr Marcus, of Hermann Hagenström, Christian, and Tony, saw the ripe, golden harvest of Pöppenrade waving in the wind, fantasized anew about how the fortunes of his firm would revive after this coup, angrily cast all scruples aside, shook his finger again, and said, “I’ll do it!”
Frau Permaneder opened the dining-room door and called out, “Good night.” He answered without realizing it. Gerda, who had said goodbye to Christian at the door, entered the room now, and her exotic, close-set brown eyes had taken on the enigmatic shimmer that music always seemed to leave behind. The senator stood there mechanically, asking mechanical questions about the Spanish virtuoso and how the concert had gone and assuring her that he was about to go to bed himself.
He did not go to bed, however. He began wandering the rooms again. He thought of the sacks of wheat, rye, oats, and barley that would fill the “Lion,” the “Whale,” the “Oak,” and the “Linden,” reflected on the offer he planned to make—and it would certainly not be an indelicate offer. Around midnight he went downstairs to the office, and by the light of Herr Marcus’s stearin candle he wrote a letter to Herr von Maiboom of Pöppenrade in one draft, and as he reread it, his head pounding and feverish, it seemed to him the best, most tactful letter he had ever written.
This was on the night of May 27. The next day he adopted a light, humorous tone to tell his sister that he had looked at the matter from all sides and that he couldn’t simply turn the man down flat and leave him to the mercy of the nearest cutthroat. On May 30, he departed for Rostock, from where he hired a carriage for a trip to the country.
For the next few days, he was in a splendid mood—there was freedom and a bounce in his step, kindness in his expression. He teased Klothilde, laughed heartily at Christian, joked with Tony; and on Sunday he spent a whole hour playing with Hanno on the third-floor “balcony,” helping his son hoist tiny sacks of grain to the top of a little red-brick warehouse, all the while imitating the hollow, drawling shouts of the workers. And on June 3, he gave a speech in the assembly on the most boring topic in the world, some tax problem or other, and it was so excellent and witty that it met with agreement on all points and made a laughing-stock of his opponent, Consul Hagenström.
5
IT WOULD NOT have taken much, and the senator—out of negligence, or was it intentional?—would simply have passed over a fact that Frau Permaneder, the most faithful and enthusiastic caretaker of the family records, now proclaimed to all the world: those documents assigned July 7, anno domini 1768, as the date on which the firm had been founded. The hundredth anniversary would soon be upon them.
It almost seemed as if Thomas was offended when, in a trembling voice, Tony called his attention to the matter. His soaring mood had not lasted long. All too soon, he had grown quiet again, perhaps quieter than before. He would suddenly grow uneasy, get up from his work in the office, and walk in the garden alone; stopping every now and then as if something were blocking his path or holding him back, he would sigh and cover his eyes with his hand. He said nothing, spoke openly to no one—and to whom could he speak? For the first time in his life, Herr Marcus had lost his temper—a most amazing sight—when his partner mentioned in passing the deal he had made with Herr von Maiboom; Herr Marcus had declined to share in any profits and absolved himself of all responsibility. But one Thursday evening, when his sister, Frau Permaneder, had been saying goodbye to him out on the street and made some reference to the harvest, he had given himself away by simply squeezing her hand and adding, “Oh, Tony, I should have resold it right away.” Then he dropped her hand, abruptly turned around to walk away, and left Frau Antonie standing there, shocked and dumbfounded. That sudden squeeze he had given her hand was very close to a burst of despair; those whispered words were filled with a fear that had been pent up inside him for a long time now. But when Tony tried to bring up the subject again at the next opportunity, he wrapped himself in even more intransigent silence, ashamed of having let his guard down in a display of momentary weakness and embittered by his inability to justify the whole enterprise even to himself.
And now he said stodgily and peevishly, “Oh, my dear, I wish we could ignore the whole thing.”
“Ignore it, Tom? Impossible! Unthinkable! Do you think you can simply sweep it under the rug? Do you think the whole town can forget the importance of the day?”
“I’m not saying it can be done. I’m just saying I would prefer it if we could observe the day in some quiet fashion. It’s a fine thing to celebrate the past when one is feeling good about the present and the future. It’s pleasant to remember your forefathers when you know that you are of one mind with them and are sure that you have always acted as they would have had you act. If only the anniversary had come at a better time—but, to put it bluntly, I’m not in the mood to celebrate it.”
“You mustn’t talk like that, Tom. You don’t mean that and you know perfectly well that it would be a shame, a dreadful shame, to let the hundredth anniversary of the firm of Johann Buddenbrook pass without a peep. You’re just a little nervous right now, and I know why, too. Although there’s really no reason for you to be that way. But once the day is here, you’ll be as happy and excited as the rest of us.”
She was right—the day could not be passed over in silence. It was not long before a notice appeared in the Advertiser, promising a lengthy recapitulation of the history of the distinguished old firm on the day of its anniversary—though its admirers in commercial circles hardly needed their attention called to the fact. Within the family, Uncle Justus was the first to mention the upcoming event one Thursday evening; but the moment the dessert dishes had been cleared, Frau Permaneder saw to it that the venerable leather writing case with the family documents was solemnly brought out; and, as a kind of foretaste to the celebration, she made sure that everyone became intimately reacquainted with all the facts known about the life of the first Johann Buddenbrook, the founder of the firm and Hanno’s great-great-grandfather. With pious fervor she read it all aloud: when he had a case of boils and when he had genuine pox, when he had fallen from the fourth story onto the drying-room floor and when he had been de
lirious with a high fever. She simply could not get enough. She followed the story back to the sixteenth century, to the oldest known Buddenbrook, the man who had been an alderman in Grabau, and to the merchant tailor in Rostock who “had done very well”—this was underlined—siring a remarkable number of children, some of whom had lived, some of whom had not. “What a splendid man!” she cried and began to read aloud from some of the old yellowed, tattered letters and festive poems.
NATURALLY, the first person to offer his congratulations on the morning of July 7 was Herr Wenzel.
“Yes, Senator Buddenbrook, one hundred years,” he said, balancing the razor in his red hands and deftly stropping it. “And if I may say so, I’ve shaved this fine family for a good half of them, and a man learns a great deal when he’s the first to speak to the head of the firm each morning. Your late father, the consul, was always most talkative early in the day, and he’d always ask me, ‘Wenzel,’ he’d ask, ‘what do you say about rye? Should I sell or do you think the price will go back up?’ ”
“Yes, Wenzel, I cannot imagine the whole enterprise without you. As I’ve often told you before, there’s something very fascinating about your profession. When you’ve finished your rounds each morning, you’re wiser than any of us. Because you’ve had your razor to the throats of the owners of almost all the leading firms and know what sort of mood each is in. We can all only envy you for that—it’s very interesting information.”
“Some truth in that, Senator Buddenbrook. But as far as the senator’s mood goes, if I may say so—the senator’s looking a bit pale again this morning.”