“But I ask you, what is there to stand in the way?”
“What stands in the way? Good God in heaven, I’ll tell you what stands in the way. Mountains stand in that fat man’s way, Thomas—mountains! But he can’t see them. He doesn’t even care, doesn’t even sense that they’re there. What is he, a dumb beast? The Hagenströms have been our foes since time out of mind. Old Hinrich played underhanded tricks on Grandfather and Father, and if Hermann hasn’t been able to do you any serious harm, if he hasn’t been able to put a spoke in your wheels, it’s because you haven’t given him a chance. When we were children, I slapped him right out in public, and I had my reasons—and his gracious, lovely sister, Julie, almost scratched my eyes out for it. That was just kid stuff—fine. But they have sneered and watched with pleasure every time we met with misfortune, and usually it was I who provided them their amusement. God has willed it to be so. You know best yourself about all the things Consul Hagenström has done to try to eclipse you in business, to do you harm—it’s not for me to tell you about that. And to cap it all, when Erika married well, it grated on him until he finally managed to get rid of Hugo and throw him into prison—by putting his brother up to it, that skirt-chaser, that lawyer from hell. And now they have the nerve, with no scruples at all, to—”
“Now, listen to me, Tony. First, we really have nothing significant to say about the matter, because we have settled accounts with Gosch, and it is up to him to do business as he pleases. I will admit that there’s a certain irony of fate in all this.”
“An irony of fate? Yes, Tom, that’s your way of putting it. But I call it a disgrace, a slap in the face, and that’s precisely what it would be. Don’t you realize what this means? Well, give it some thought, Thomas. It would mean that the Buddenbrooks are finished, over and done with—they’re pulling up stakes, and the Hagenströms are taking their place, with trumpets and drums. Never, Thomas, never will I play a role in this farce. Never will I offer my hand to that abomination. Just let him come, just let him dare come to see the house. I will not receive him, believe me! I shall sit in my room with my daughter and my granddaughter, and I shall turn the key and forbid him to enter—I swear I shall.”
“You will do what you think best, my dear, but first stop and think whether it might not be wise to preserve some social decorum. It would appear you believe that Consul Hagenström will be deeply hurt by your conduct, am I right? No, that’s wide of the mark, my girl. He would be neither pleased nor offended by it, he would merely be surprised—and coolly indifferent. The point is that you presume he harbors the same feelings against you and us that you have for him—wrong, Tony. He doesn’t hate you. Why should he hate you? He doesn’t hate anyone. He sits there in the lap of success and happiness, full of good cheer and general benevolence—please believe me. I have assured you on more than one occasion that he would greet you on the street in the most cordial way if you could bring yourself, just once, not to stare off into the distance with such a haughty, warlike look. It amazes him, and for about two minutes he senses a kind of placid, rather wry amazement. You can’t throw a man off balance whom no one ever gets the better of. And what do you accuse him of? Suppose he has eclipsed me in business and successfully opposed me now and then in public affairs—that’s perfectly fine. Then he must be a superior businessman and a better politician than I. That is certainly no reason to break into that strange, scornful laughter of yours. But to come back to the house—our old home has hardly any real importance whatever for the family—that has gradually been transferred to my own house. I say that to console you, no matter what happens. On the other hand, it is clear what got Consul Hagenström thinking about buying it. They have risen in life, their family is growing, they are related to the Möllendorpfs by marriage and are the equal of anyone in money and prestige. But they lack some outward sign of it, which until now they have deliberately and judiciously done without—the consecration of history, legitimation, if you will. They appear to have developed an appetite for it now, and they can procure some part of it by moving into a house—this house. Just watch, the consul will preserve almost everything just as it is. He won’t remodel, he will leave the Dominus providebit above the door. Although one ought to be fair and admit that he alone, and not the Lord, has provided the impetus behind the good fortunes of the firm of Strunck & Hagenström.”
“Bravo, Tom! Oh, it does me good to hear you say something nasty about him. That’s really all I want. Good Lord, if I had your brains, I would put him in his place—would I ever! But you just stand there.”
“So, you see, my brains don’t really help me much.”
“But you just stand there, I tell you, and talk about this matter with such incredible composure, explaining to me why Hagenström does what he does. But you can say whatever you like, you have a heart beating in your breast just as I do, and I simply do not believe that it leaves you as untouched as you pretend. You have all kinds of answers for my complaints—but perhaps you’re only trying to console yourself.”
“Now you’re getting flippant, Tony. What I ‘do’ is what counts—and you will please take note of that. All the rest is no one else’s business.”
“Tell me one thing, Tom, I beg you. Won’t it be like a nightmare?”
“Exactly like a nightmare.”
“Like something out of a delirious fever?”
“You could say that.”
“An absurd, howling farce?”
“Enough, enough.”
And Consul Hagenström came to Meng Strasse. He came in the company of Herr Gosch, who was slouched down like a conspirator, Jesuit hat in hand, peering in all directions at once and over the shoulder of the maid to whom he had given his calling card and who held the glass door open for him and the consul as they entered the landscape room.
Hermann Hagenström was the sort of imposing fellow familiar on the stock market of any great city; he was dressed in a thick, heavy fur coat that reached to his shoes and hung open to reveal a greenish yellow winter suit of durable English tweed. He was so extraordinarily fat that not only did he have a double-chin, but the whole lower half of his face was double as well, and his close-trimmed blond full beard could not hide the fact. When he frowned or raised his eyebrows in a certain way, thick folds appeared in the skin under his short-cropped hair. Drooping flatter than ever against his upper lip, his nose sucked air in and out of his mustache. Now and then his mouth had to lend its aid and would fall open for a copious draft of air—which was always accompanied by a soft smacking sound as his tongue gradually freed itself from his upper jaw and gullet.
Frau Permaneder flushed when she heard that old familiar sound. It called up visions of lemon buns, truffled sausage, and pâté de foie gras, which for one brief moment threatened to shake her stony dignity. Clad in an exquisite fitted black dress with flounces from hem to waist and a mourning bonnet perched prettily atop her combed-back hair, she was sitting on the sofa, her arms crossed, her shoulders slightly raised, and as the two gentlemen entered she made some cool, casual remark to her brother—the senator had not had the heart to leave her in the lurch at such a moment. But she remained seated, until after the senator had strode to the middle of the room to receive their guests, exchanging a friendly greeting with Gosch and a civil, correct one with the consul; she then stood up as well, managed a restrained bow intended for both of them at once, and, with her enthusiasm well in check, seconded her brother’s polite request that they have a seat—all the while keeping her eyes almost half closed in aloof indifference.
They sat there for a few minutes, during which the consul and the broker spoke by turns. With a show of appalling false humility and malicious cunning that deceived no one, Herr Gosch kindly begged them to forgive the inconvenience, but Consul Hagenström had expressed a wish to tour the premises with a view to eventual purchase of the house. And then the consul repeated the same thing in different words, in a voice that once again reminded Frau Permaneder of slathered lemon buns. Ye
s, indeed, once the idea had occurred to him, it had ripened quickly to a wish that he hoped he might be able to realize for himself and his family, provided, of course, that Herr Gosch did not intend to make all too great a profit from the sale—ha ha. Well, he did not doubt that the matter could be settled to the satisfaction of all parties concerned.
His demeanor was open, detached, and urbane—all of which was not lost on Frau Permaneder, particularly since he courteously directed his comments almost exclusively to her. In a tone that approached apology, he even went into some detail about his reasons for wanting to buy the house. “Room—more room,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it, Madame Permaneder, nor you, Senator Buddenbrook—but my house on Sand Strasse has grown utterly too small for us. Why, there are times when we can barely turn around in there. Not to mention trying to entertain—simply impossible. If just the family assembles—the Huneuses, the Möllendorpfs, my brother Moritz’s family—we’re utterly like sardines in a tin. And why live like that—don’t you agree?”
He spoke as if he were slightly indignant, and both the look on his face and his gestures seemed to say: “Surely you can see that I don’t have to put up with this—that would really be too stupid. Nevertheless, I do have the resources, thank God, to remedy the situation.”
“But I wanted to wait,” he went on. “I wanted to wait until Zerline and Bob would be needing a house, so that I could give them mine and then look about for something larger for myself. You do know, don’t you,” he interrupted himself, “that my daughter Zerline and Bob, the eldest son of my brother the lawyer, have been engaged for years now. They can’t put off the wedding all that much longer—two years at the most. They’re young, but so much the better. But the upshot is—why should I wait for them and miss a fine opportunity like the one presented to me at the moment? There’d be no conceivable point in that, utterly none.”
General concurrence from all quarters—and the conversation lingered for a while on the subject of the consul’s family and the approaching marriage; since such advantageous matches between cousins were not uncommon in the town, no one took offense at the idea. They inquired about the young people’s plans, which, even at this early stage, included the honeymoon. They were thinking of the Riviera, Nice and so on. Their hearts were set on it, and so why not, really? And the younger children were mentioned as well, and the consul spoke of them with gusto and delight, and yet casually and with shrugs of his shoulders. He himself had five children, and his brother, Moritz, four—sons and daughters. Yes, thank heavens, they were all flourishing. And why shouldn’t they, really? After all, life was good to them. Which brought him back to the topic of his growing family and his small house. “Yes, but this place here is quite another matter,” he said. “I couldn’t help noticing as I was walking upstairs—the house is a pearl, a pearl, no question about it, assuming such a comparison is possible on such a scale—ha ha! Why, these tapestries alone—I must admit madam, that I have been admiring the tapestries all the while I’ve been talking. A charming room, utterly charming. When I think that you’ve had the privilege of living your life here all these years …”
“With several interruptions—yes,” Frau Permaneder said in that peculiar throaty voice she knew how to use on occasion.
“Interruptions—yes,” the consul repeated with an obliging smile. He cast a glance at Senator Buddenbrook and Herr Gosch, and since the two gentlemen were deep in conversation, he drew his chair closer to Frau Permaneder’s spot on the sofa, and bent toward her until she could hear his nose puffing heavily very near her own. Too polite to pull back out of range of his breathing, she sat there as stiff and erect as possible and gazed down at him with lowered eyes. But he seemed not the least aware of the unpleasant, constrained situation he had put her in.
“Let me think, Madame Permaneder,” he said, “it seems to me that we struck a deal once before, didn’t we? Of course, back then it was only a matter of … now, what was it? Something good to eat, some sweets, wasn’t it? And now we’re talking about an entire house.”
“I don’t recall,” Frau Permaneder said, stiffening her neck even more—his face was unbearably, shockingly close to her own.
“You don’t recall?”
“No, to be quite honest, I don’t recall anything about sweets. I vaguely remember something about lemon buns with greasy sausage—some sort of truly ghastly morning snack. I don’t know whether it was mine or yours. We were mere children then. But as far as the house goes, that, of course, is entirely in Herr Gosch’s hands.”
She quickly threw her brother a look of gratitude, because he had seen her distress and now came to her rescue by inquiring whether the gentlemen would care to take a tour of the house. They promptly agreed, and they took their leave of Frau Permaneder for the present, saying that they hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her again before they departed. And then the senator escorted both guests out through the dining room.
He led them upstairs and down, showing them the rooms on the third floor and those that opened off the corridor on the second, as well as the layout of the ground floor, even the kitchen and the cellar. Their tour was during working hours, and they decided not to enter the offices and disturb the employees of the insurance company. They exchanged a few remarks about its new director, and when Consul Hagenström declared him to be an absolutely honest fellow for the second time, the senator fell silent.
They walked through the bare garden, which lay under a blanket of melting snow, took a quick look at the “Portal,” then turned back to the front courtyard; taking the narrow, flagstone path to the left of the scullery; passing between walls on either side, they entered the back courtyard, where the oak tree stood, and approached the back building. But there was nothing to see there but the dilapidation of long neglect. Grass and moss grew in the cracks between the cobblestones of the courtyard; the stairs were in total disrepair, and they barely disturbed the family of feral cats in the billiard hall—given the unsafe floor, they could only open the door and peer in.
Consul Hagenström said little and was obviously busy with calculations and plans. “Well, well,” he kept saying in a sort of cool protest—meaning that, should he become the owner, it could not, of course, be left in this state. He stood for a while on the hard clay floor and stared up at the empty granaries with the same look still on his face. “Well, well,” he said again, and now he set in motion the thick, frayed pulley rope—its rusty iron hook, which had hung motionless for years in the middle of the room, swayed like a pendulum. Then he turned around and left.
“Yes, my deepest thanks for you troubles, Senator Buddenbrook; we seem to have seen it all,” he remarked; but as they hastily found their way back to the main building, he hardly said another word, not even when the two guests returned to the landscape room and, without sitting down, took their leave of Frau Permaneder. Thomas Buddenbrook accompanied them down the stairs and across the entrance hall, where they said their goodbyes. But no sooner had Consul Hagenström stepped out into the street than he turned to his companion, the broker, and engaged him in what was obviously a very lively discussion.
The senator returned to the landscape room, where Frau Permaneder was sitting on the window seat, but without leaning back and with a very stern look on her face; she was knitting a black wool skirt for Elisabeth, her little granddaughter, and as she worked the large wooden needles she cast an occasional sidelong glance at the “window spy.” Thomas paced back and forth for a while, saying nothing, his hands in his pockets.
“Yes, I’ve left everything in the broker’s hands,” he said at last. “We’ll have to wait and see what comes of it. I think he’ll buy the whole thing, live up front here, and use the back lot for something else.”
She did not look at him, did not change her stiff upright position, did not stop her knitting—on the contrary, there was a marked increase in the speed at which the needles whirred in her hands.
“Oh, of course, he’ll buy it, the whole thing,
” she said—making use of the throaty voice again. “Why shouldn’t he buy it, really. There’s no point in not buying it, utterly none.”
Raising her brows, she looked down now through her pince-nez—she had to use it for handiwork now, although she had no idea how to put it squarely in place—and fixed her eyes sternly on her needles, which flew and clattered softly at a bewildering tempo.
CHRISTMAS CAME, the first Christmas without old Madame Buddenbrook. They celebrated the evening of December 24 at the senator’s home, but without the Ladies Buddenbrook from Breite Strasse and without the old Krögers. The traditional “children’s day” had been disbanded, and so Thomas Buddenbrook was not disposed to inviting and giving presents to all those whom the old woman had gathered about her at Christmas. Only Frau Permaneder, Erika Weinschenk, little Elisabeth, Christian, Klothilde of Johannis Cloister, and Mademoiselle Weichbrodt had been asked—although Sesame insisted that they join her in her overheated little parlor on the 25th, for gifts and the usual minor mishaps.
The band of “poor,” who had always gathered on Meng Strasse to receive shoes and woolens, was missing, and there were no carols by choirboys. They simply struck up “Silent night, holy night,” all by themselves in the salon, after which Therese Weichbrodt read the Christmas story with very precise diction—taking Gerda’s place, because she did not particularly enjoy that sort of thing. Then, while they sang the first verse of “O, Tannenbaum” in rather subdued voices, they moved through the rooms to the grand hall.
There was no particular reason for a happy celebration. Their faces were not exactly radiant with joy, and their conversation was not exactly spirited. And what did they talk about? There was not much good news in their world. They mentioned their late mother, talked about the sale of the house, about the sunny apartment that Frau Permaneder had rented in a bright, cheerful house beyond the Holsten Gate, facing the park on Linden Platz, and about what would happen when Hugo Weinschenk was set free again. Meanwhile little Johann played some piano pieces he had practiced with Herr Pfühl and accompanied his mother in a Mozart sonata—not without several mistakes but with a rich full sound. He was praised and kissed, but then Ida Jungmann had to put him to bed, because by evening he looked very pale and tired, the result of an intestinal infection he had barely got over.