Now and then relatives came over to little Johann, and laying an arm on his shoulder and stroking his sailor-suit collar, they would examine his presents and admire them with the ironic exaggeration adults typically show for the treasures of children. Only Uncle Christian was free of this adult arrogance. He sauntered over to Hanno’s chair—he wore a new diamond ring, a gift from his mother—and he was as delighted with the puppet theater as his nephew.
“By George, that’s a dandy!” he said, raising and lowering the curtain; he took a step back to size up the scenery. He fell silent, looking strangely serious, as if troubled by something, and his eyes wandered about the room, “Did you ask for it?—I see, so you asked for this, did you?” he suddenly said. “Now, why was that? Where did you get that idea? Have you ever been to the theater?—Oh, you saw Fidelio, did you? Yes, they did it well. And now you want to stage it yourself, is that it? Put on your own operas? It impressed you that much, did it? Well, listen to me, boy, let me give you some advice. Don’t spend your time thinking too much about such things—theater and all that. It won’t get you anywhere—trust your uncle. I’ve always been too interested in the stage myself, and I’ve never amounted to much. I’ve made some big mistakes, let me tell you.”
He lectured his nephew with sober insistence, while Hanno looked up at him in curiosity. But then, after a pause, during which his bony, gaunt face brightened again as he examined the theater, he suddenly brought one of the figures forward on the stage and, in a hollow, croaking vibrato, began to sing, “Oh, what horrible offenses!” And then he pushed the harmonium stool over in front of the stage, sat down, and began putting on an opera, singing and gesticulating, now waving his arms in imitation of the conductor, now playing the various roles. Several members of the family gathered behind him, laughing and shaking their heads in amusement. Hanno watched with genuine delight. After a while, however, to everyone’s surprise, Christian suddenly stopped. He fell silent and a restless, earnest look passed over his face; he rubbed his hand across his bald head and then down his whole left side. He turned around now to his audience—his nose wrinkled up, his face drawn and anxious.
“You see, as usual I have to stop,” he said. “The same old punishment. I can never have a little fun without paying for it. It’s not a pain, really, it’s an ache, a vague ache, because all these nerves here are too short. They’re all simply too short.”
But his relatives took his complaints no more seriously than his jokes and said little or nothing in reply. They casually drifted away again. Christian sat staring mutely at the theater for a while, blinking his eyes as if deep in thought. Then he got up again.
“Well, my boy, have fun with it,” he said, stroking Hanno’s hair. “But not too much. And don’t neglect your schoolwork because of it, do you hear? I’ve made my share of mistakes.… But now I’m off to the Club. I’m going to the Club for a bit,” he called to the other adults. “They’re having a Christmas party, too. Until later.” And he left, walking down the columned hall on stiff, bowed legs.
Since they had all eaten lunch earlier than usual today, they consumed large amounts of cookies and tea. But no sooner had they finished than a large crystal bowl filled with a yellow, grainy puree was passed around: almond crème, a mixture of eggs, ground almonds, and rosewater. It tasted quite wonderful, but one spoonful too much and you ended up with the most awful stomach ache. Nevertheless, even though Madame Buddenbrook begged them “to leave a little corner for dinner,” they helped themselves freely. And Klothilde performed miracles. In grateful silence, she spooned up almond crème as if it were porridge. And now came little glasses of sabayon to refresh their palates—served with English plum cake. Gradually they drifted back into the landscape room and, setting their plates down, gathered in little groups around the table.
Hanno stayed behind in the dining room alone. Little Elisabeth had been taken home, but for the first time he was to be allowed to stay for Christmas dinner on Meng Strasse. The servants and the “poor” had departed with their gifts, and out in the columned hall Ida Jungmann was chatting with Rieke Severin—although, as a governess, Ida as usual preserved a proper social distance when talking with a domestic. The candles on the tall tree had burned down and gone out, leaving the manger in darkness; but a few candles were still burning on the trees on the table; now and then a sprig would crackle as it was singed by a nearby flame, adding to the fragrance that filled the room. The least breath of air brushing the trees made the tinsel shudder and tinkle in metallic whispers. It was still enough again now to hear the barrel organ’s soft tones floating in from a distant street on the cold night air.
Hanno surrendered himself to the scents and sounds of Christmas. His head propped in one hand, he read his mythology book and, giving the day its due, mechanically snacked on candy, marzipan, almond crème, and plum cake. The heavy uneasiness of an overfilled stomach blended with the sweet excitement of the evening to create a sense of melancholy bliss. He read about Zeus’s struggles to become ruler of the gods, and now and then he would listen for a moment to the conversation in the living room, an extended discussion about Aunt Klothilde’s future.
Klothilde was by far the happiest person in the house that night. She accepted their congratulations and the general teasing with a smile that turned her ash gray face radiant. When she spoke her voice would break with sheer joy. She had been accepted by the Johannis Cloister. Working quietly behind the scenes on the board of directors, the senator had got her admitted, although certain gentlemen had muttered in private about nepotism. They were talking now about this meritorious institution, the equal of any home for aristocratic ladies in Mecklenburg, Dobbertin, or Ribnitz, which offered suitable care and a dignified old age for indigent spinsters from established families. Poor Klothilde was now assured a small but secure pension, which would increase with the passing years, and when, as an old woman, she had finally moved into the highest bracket, she would even be given a quiet, tidy apartment in the cloister.
Little Johann spent a few minutes with the adults, but soon returned to the dining room—it was not so bright now and its glories were not so bewildering and intimidating as before, lending it a whole new charm. He found a strange delight in roaming about as if this were a half-darkened stage after the curtain had fallen and he could peek behind the scenery—he took a closer look at the tall tree’s lilies with their golden stamens, picked up the animal and human figurines of the crèche, located the candle that had illumined the transparent star above the stable of Bethlehem, and raised the long panel of white cloth to look at all the boxes and packing paper piled under the table.
Besides, the conversation in the landscape room was becoming less and less interesting. Gradually, ineluctably, it had turned to the one dreadful theme that had been on everyone’s mind all evening, but about which they had all been silent until now, out of respect for the festivities—Herr Weinschenk’s trial. Hugo Weinschenk gave a little survey of the matter, with a kind of wild cheerfulness in his expression and gestures. The trial was now in recess because of the holidays, but he reported in detail the testimony of various witnesses, was very lively in his censure of Dr. Philander, the presiding judge, whose biases were only too obvious, and with masterful scorn he criticized the mocking tone that the prosecutor, Dr. Hagenström, had thought appropriate when addressing him or witnesses in his defense. But Breslauer had very wittily weakened various pieces of incriminating evidence and had assured him in no uncertain terms that there was no reason at present even to think of a conviction. Now and then the senator would ask a polite question, and Frau Permaneder, who was sitting on the sofa with her shoulders raised high, would mutter occasionally, calling dreadful curses down on Moritz Hagenström. The others, however, said not a word. Their silence was so profound that Hugo Weinschenk gradually fell silent himself; and whereas in the next room time sped past for Hanno on angels’ wings, a heavy, oppressive, anxious silence lay over the landscape room—and continued until Christian re
turned at half past eight from the Club’s Christmas party for bachelors and suitiers.
A cold cigar butt was wedged between his lips, and his cheeks were flushed. He entered by way of the dining room and, stepping into the landscape room, said, “Well, children, the tree still looks gorgeous. Weinschenk, we really should have invited Breslauer to join us this evening—I’m sure he’s never seen anything like it.”
His mother cast him a silent, reproachful glance. But the candid, questioning look on his face was one of perfect incomprehension. At nine o’clock they sat down to dinner.
As always on Christmas Eve, the table had been set in the columned hall. Madame Buddenbrook said the traditional grace with great fervor: “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest and bless what Thou hast given us.” As always on Christmas Eve, she concluded with a little admonition, the primary thrust of which was that on this holy night they should remember all those who were not as fortunate as the Buddenbrook family. And once this was taken care of, they sat down with a good conscience to a lengthy meal, which began with carp in drawn butter and a vintage Rhenish wine.
The senator slipped a few of the fish scales into his wallet so that it would not lack for money throughout the coming year, but Christian remarked gloomily that that was never any help. Consul Kröger had long since dispensed with such precautionary measures. He no longer had any reason to fear the fluctuations of the market—his ship had arrived safely in harbor, even if with only a shilling or two. The old gentleman sat as far away as possible from his wife, with whom he had spoken hardly a single word for years, because she persisted in secretly sending money to disinherited Jakob, who at present was in London, Paris, or America—only she knew for sure. They were on the second course, and the conversation had turned to absent members of the family; he scowled forbiddingly when he noticed the boy’s weak-willed mother dry her eyes. They spoke of relatives in Frankfurt and Hamburg, even mentioned Pastor Tiburtius in Riga without ill-will; and the senator and his sister, Tony, privately raised their glasses in a toast to Herr Grünlich and Herr Permaneder, who in some sense were still part of the family.
The turkey, stuffed with chestnuts, raisins, and apples, was praised by all. Comparisons were made with birds of years past, and it was concluded that this was the largest in a long time. There were roast potatoes, plus two kinds of vegetables and two kinds of stewed fruit, the bowls heaped so full that each looked like a hearty filling main course, rather than a side dish. They drank vintage red wine from the house of Möllendorpf.
Little Johann sat between his parents and managed to force down a piece of white meat and some dressing. He certainly could not eat as much as Aunt Thilda, and he felt tired and a little queasy. But all the same, he was proud that he was allowed to dine with the adults, proud that one of those tasty buns strewn with poppyseed had been placed on his napkin, too, and that there were three wine glasses set at his place, whereas normally he drank from the little gold beaker that Uncle Kröger had given him at his christening. But then, when Uncle Justus began pouring some oily, yellow Greek wine in the smallest glasses and the iced meringues appeared—red, white, and brown—his appetite returned. He ate a red one, although it hurt his teeth something awful, and then half of a white, and had to sample at least a little of the brown one, filled with chocolate ice cream. He nibbled on a little waffle, too, and sipped at the sweet wine while he listened to Uncle Christian, who was talking now.
He told about the Christmas party at the Club, which had been very festive. “Good God,” he said in the same tone of voice he used when speaking of Johnny Thunderstorm, “those fellows were drinking brandy smash like water!”
“How awful!” Madame Buddenbrook said curtly, lowering her eyes.
But he paid no attention. His eyes began to roam, and his thoughts and memories were so vivid that they flitted like shadows across his face. “Do any of you know,” he asked, “what it’s like when you’ve drunk too much brandy smash? I don’t mean being drunk, but what it’s like the next day. The aftereffects are curious and disgusting—yes, curious and disgusting at the same time.”
“Reason enough for a precise description, I suppose,” the senator said.
“Assez, Christian, we are not the least bit interested,” Elisabeth Buddenbrook said.
But he paid no attention. One of his idiosyncrasies was that at such moments he was impervious to all objections. He was silent for a while, but then suddenly what he had to say appeared to have ripened, and he went on. “You go around feeling rotten,” he said and turned a wrinkled-up nose to his brother. “Your head aches and your bowels are not in good shape—but, then, that’s the case on other occasions as well. But you feel dirty”—and here Christian screwed up his face and rubbed his hands together—“you feel dirty, as if you needed a bath. You wash your hands, but that does no good, they still feel clammy and unclean, and your fingernails are oily somehow. You take a bath, but that doesn’t help, your whole body feels sticky and grubby. There’s something annoying about your whole body, it itches, you’re disgusted with yourself. Do you know the feeling, Thomas, do you know it?”
“Yes, yes,” the senator said with a dismissive wave of his hand. But, with an extraordinary tactlessness that had grown only worse over the years, Christian went right on—never stopping to think that the entire explanation was embarrassing everyone at the table, that it was totally out of place in such surroundings on such an evening—and described the wretched condition that resulted from overdoing the pleasures of brandy smash, until finally he decided that he had presented it in sufficient detail and gradually lapsed into silence.
Before the last course of butter and cheese was served, old Madame Buddenbrook used the opportunity for another little speech. Even though not everything had turned out over the years quite the way one, out of shortsightedness, might have wished, she said, nevertheless there still remained such manifold and obvious blessings that their hearts should be filled with gratitude. Indeed, the interplay of moments of happiness and affliction only proved that God had never lifted His hand from the family, but that He had guided, and would continue to guide, its fortunes according to His deep and wise plan, which one ought never make bold to fathom out of impatience. And now, with hopeful hearts, they ought to raise a toast in harmony to the family’s health and to its future, to a future that would still continue long after its oldest members present this evening had gone to their rest in the coolness of the grave.—And so, then, a toast to the children, to whom this holiday truly belonged.
And since the Weinschenks’ daughter was no longer present, it was little Johann who had to make the round of the table all alone, and while they all exchanged a general toast, he had to lift his glass with each, starting with his grandmother and ending with Mamselle Severin. When he came to his father, the senator touched his glass to his son’s and gently raised the boy’s chin to look into his eyes. But he did not find them, because Hanno had let his long, golden-brown lashes fall deep, deep—until they covered the delicate bluish shadows beneath his eyes.
Therese Weichbrodt, however, took his head in both hands, kissed him on each cheek with a soft popping sound, and said in a voice so sincere that God Himself would have found it irresistible, “Be heppy, you good chawld!”
An hour later, Hanno lay in his bed, which had recently been placed in a little room off the third-floor corridor, just to the left of the senator’s dressing room. He was lying on his back, out of deference to his stomach, which was not on good terms with all the things it had been forced to take in over the course of the evening; but he looked up with bright eyes as good old Ida, already dressed in her nightgown, entered from her room with a water glass, which she swirled in little circles as she brought it to him. He quickly drank the bicarbonate, made a face, and fell back into his bed.
“I think I’m really going to have to throw up now, Ida.”
“There, there, Hanno. Just lie still on your back. But you see now, don’t you? Who kept trying to warn you with lit
tle signals? And who wouldn’t listen? The little boy, that’s who.”
“Yes, well, maybe I’ll be all right after all. When will my presents arrive, Ida?”
“In the morning, my boy.”
“Have them brought up here. So I can have them right away!”
“All right, Hanno, but first you have to get a good night’s sleep.” And she kissed him, put out the light, and left.
He was alone, and as he lay there quietly enjoying the beneficial effects of the bicarbonate, he closed his eyes and saw again the dining room full of gifts, glowing in all its brilliance. Somewhere in the distance he could hear choirboys singing “Shout for joy, Jerusalem,” and he saw his theater, his harmonium, and his mythology book—the whole glittering scene. His head buzzed with a gentle fever, and under the disquieting pressure of his upset stomach, his heartbeat was slow, strong, and irregular. He lay there for a long time feeling queasy, excited, weary, anxious, and happy, and could not fall asleep.
And tomorrow there would be a third Christmas party, when presents were opened at Therese Weichbrodt’s—and he looked forward to it as a kind of little burlesque farce. Therese Weichbrodt had closed her boarding school for good the previous year, so that, although Madame Kethelsen continued to live upstairs, Therese had the whole ground floor of the little house on Mühlenbrink to herself. The infirmities caused by her deformed, fragile little body had grown worse in the last few years, and, with meek Christian resignation, Sesame Weichbrodt trusted that she would soon be called to her heavenly reward. Which was why, for several years now, she had assumed that every Christmas would be her last and tried to lend the festivities in her little, dreadfully overheated home all the luster that her diminished energies permitted. She did not have the means to buy much, and so each year she gave away another portion of her modest possessions and set under her tree whatever she could possibly do without: knickknacks, paperweights, pincushions, glass vases, and scraps of her library, old books with odd shapes and whimsical bindings—The Secret Journal of a Student of Himself, Hebel’s Alemannic Poems, Krummacher’s Parables. Hanno had already been given an edition of the Pensées by Blaise Pascal, which was so tiny that you could not read it without a magnifying glass.