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- Herausgeber: e-artnow
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Thomas Mann's 'Buddenbrooks' is a grand narrative sweeping through four generations of a bourgeois German family in the 19th century. It meticulously chronicles the decline of the Buddenbrooks, a once-flourishing merchant dynasty, contrasting economic success with personal disintegration. Mann's astute portrayal of characters, combined with a keen understanding of societal transformation, is enriched by his celebrated literary style, a masterful blend of realist detail and philosophical investigation. The novel operates within the broader literary context of realism and naturalism, illuminating the transformations brought on by industrialization, and the fragility of human ambition in times of change. Born into a family akin to the novel's protagonists, Thomas Mann drew on his personal experiences and acute observations of his own family's evolution to craft this saga. His upbringing in Lübeck, a prominent merchant town, deepened his insights into both the grandeur and vulnerability inherent in such family enterprises. Mann's deft engagement with themes of decline and change reflects both personal introspection and a reaction to broader socio-economic shifts, creating a work of profound depth and resonance. To readers embarking on 'Buddenbrooks,' Mann's compelling narrative offers not only an engrossing family story but also a profound exploration of societal dynamics and personal aspirations. It is a testament to his narrative prowess and his unmatched ability to transform the personal into the universal. As a winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, Mann's 'Buddenbrooks' stands as an essential cornerstone for those interested in exploring the intricate dance between societal transformation and familial fate, promising a rich and engaging literary journey. This translation has been assisted by artificial intelligence. This translation has been assisted by artificial intelligence.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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Buddenbrooks
Table of Contents
Part One
Chapter One
"What is that? What is that...?"
"Well, what the devil, c'est la question, ma très chère demoiselle!"
Mrs. Buddenbrook, sitting next to her mother-in-law on the straight, white lacquered sofa decorated with a golden lion's head and covered with light yellow upholstery, glanced at her husband, who was sitting in an armchair next to her, and came to the aid of her little daughter, whom her grandfather was holding on his knees by the window.
"Tony!" she said, "I believe that God..."
And little Antonie, eight years old and delicately built, wearing a dress made of very light iridescent silk, her pretty blond head turned slightly away from her grandfather's face, looked intently into the room with her gray-blue eyes, deep in thought and without seeing anything, and repeated once more: "What is that?" she said slowly. "I believe that God," she added quickly, her face brightening, "...created me along with all creatures," she had suddenly found her way and now, beaming with happiness and unstoppable, she recited the entire article, faithfully following the catechism as it had just been revised and republished in 1835 with the approval of a high and wise senate. When you were in motion, she thought, it was a feeling like when you rode down the "Jerusalem Mountain" in winter on a small hand sled with your brothers: your thoughts just flew away, and you couldn't stop even if you wanted to.
"Plus clothes and shoes," she said, "food and drink, house and yard, wife and children, fields and livestock..." At these words, however, old M. Johann Buddenbrook simply burst out laughing, his bright, stifled chuckle that he had secretly kept in reserve. He laughed with pleasure at being able to mock the catechism, and had probably only conducted the little examination for this purpose. He inquired about Tony's fields and cattle, asked how much she would take for a sack of wheat, and offered to do business with her. His round, rosy-cheeked, good-natured face, which he could not, with the best will in the world, make look malicious, was framed by snow-white powdered hair, and something like a very faint hint of a pigtail fell onto the wide collar of his mouse-gray coat. At seventy years of age, he had remained faithful to the fashion of his youth; he had only dispensed with the braid trim between the buttons and the large pockets, but he had never in his life worn long trousers. His broad, double chin rested on the white lace jabot with an expression of contentment.
Everyone had joined in his laughter, mainly out of deference to the head of the family. Mme. Antoinette Buddenbrook, born Duchamps, giggled in exactly the same way as her husband. She was a corpulent lady with thick, white curls above her ears, wearing a black and light gray striped dress without adornment, which betrayed simplicity and modesty, and with still beautiful and white hands, in which she held a small velvet pompadour on her lap. Over the years, her facial features had become strangely similar to those of her husband. Only the shape and lively darkness of her eyes spoke a little of her origins; she was descended on her grandfather's side from a French-Swiss family and was a native of Hamburg.
Her daughter-in-law, Consul Elisabeth Buddenbrook, born Kröger, laughed the sputtering Kroger laugh and tucked in her chin as the Krogers did. Like all Krögers, she was extremely elegant in appearance, and although she could not be called a beauty, her bright and thoughtful voice and her calm, confident, and gentle movements gave everyone a feeling of clarity and trust. Her reddish hair, which was wound into a small crown at the top of her head and styled in wide artificial curls over her ears, was matched by an extraordinarily delicate white complexion with scattered small freckles. The characteristic feature of her face, with its slightly too long nose and small mouth, was that there was absolutely no indentation between her lower lip and chin. Her short bodice with puffed sleeves, which was joined to a tight skirt made of light, flowery silk, revealed a neck of perfect beauty, adorned with a satin ribbon on which a composition of large diamonds sparkled.
The consul leaned forward in his chair with a somewhat nervous movement. He wore a cinnamon-colored coat with wide lapels and club-shaped sleeves that closed tightly around his hands just below the joints. His matching trousers were made of a white, washable fabric and had black stripes on the outside. His chin nestled in a stiff choker collar, around which was folded a silk cravat that flowed down amply over his flowered waistcoat... He had his father's slightly deep-set, blue, attentive eyes, although their expression was perhaps more dreamy; but his features were more serious and sharper, his nose was prominent and curved, and his cheeks, down to the middle of which ran blond, curly beard streaks, were much less full than those of the old man.
Madame Buddenbrook turned to her daughter-in-law, squeezed her arm with one hand, looked at her lap with a chuckle, and said:
"Always the same, mon vieux, Bethsy...?" "Always," she pronounced it as "Olwais."
The consul's wife merely threatened her with her delicate hand, so that her gold bracelet clinked softly; and then she made a peculiar gesture with her hand from the corner of her mouth up to her hairstyle, as if she were brushing back a stray strand of hair that had strayed there.
But the consul said with a mixture of accommodating smile and reproach in his voice:
"But Father, you are once again making light of the most sacred things!"
They were sitting in the "landscape room" on the first floor of the spacious old house on Mengstraße, which the Johann Buddenbrook company had purchased some time ago and which the family had not yet lived in for long. The strong and elastic wallpaper, set slightly away from the walls, leaving an empty space, showed extensive landscapes, delicately colored like the thin carpet that covered the floor, idylls in the style of the 18th century, with cheerful winegrowers, busy farmers, pretty shepherdesses with ribbons in their hair, holding clean lambs in their laps at the edge of a reflecting pool or kissing tender shepherds ... A yellowish sunset usually dominated these pictures, matching the yellow covering of the white-lacquered furniture and the yellow silk curtains in front of the two windows.
In relation to the size of the room, there was not much furniture. The round table with thin, straight legs lightly ornamented with gold did not stand in front of the sofa, but against the opposite wall, opposite the small harmonium, on whose lid lay a flute case. Apart from the stiff armchairs distributed regularly along the walls, there was only a small sewing table by the window and, opposite the sofa, a fragile luxury secretary desk covered with knick-knacks.
Through a glass door opposite the windows, one could see into the semi-darkness of a columned hall, while to the left of the entrance was the tall, white double door to the dining room. On the other wall, however, in a semicircular niche and behind an ornate openwork door made of polished wrought iron, the stove crackled.
For it had turned cold early. Outside, across the street, the leaves of the small lime trees surrounding St. Mary's Church had already turned yellow in mid-October, the wind whistled around the mighty Gothic corners and angles of the church, and a fine, cold rain was falling. For the sake of Madame Buddenbrook, the elder, double windows had already been installed.
It was Thursday, the day on which the family regularly gathered every other week; but today, in addition to the family members who lived in the city, a few good friends of the family had also been invited for a very simple lunch, and now, at around four o'clock in the afternoon, they were sitting in the gathering twilight, waiting for the guests to arrive...
Little Antonie had not let her grandfather disturb her sled ride, but had only pouted, pushing her slightly protruding upper lip even further over her lower lip. Now she had reached the foot of "Jerusalem Mountain," but unable to suddenly stop the smooth ride, she shot a little past her destination...
"Amen," she said, "I know something, Grandfather!"
" Tiens! She knows something!" cried the old gentleman, pretending to be consumed with curiosity. "Did you hear that, Mama? She knows something! Can't anyone tell me..."
"If it's a warm strike," said Tony, nodding her head with every word, "then lightning strikes. But if it's a cold strike, then thunder strikes!"
Then she crossed her arms and looked at the laughing faces like someone who is sure of her success. But Mr. Buddenbrook was angry at this wisdom; he demanded to know who had taught the child this stupidity, and when it turned out to be Ida Jungmann, the governess from Marienwerder who had recently been hired for the little ones, the consul had to defend Ida.
"You are too strict, Papa. Why shouldn't one be allowed to have one's own whimsical ideas about such things at this age..."
»Excusez, mon cher!… Mais c'est une folie! You know that such clouding of children's minds annoys me! What, the thunder strikes? Then let the thunder strike right away! Don't come to me with your Prussian woman…«
The thing was that the old gentleman was not very fond of Ida Jungmann. He was not a narrow-minded man. He had seen a bit of the world, had traveled to southern Germany in a four-horse carriage in 1813 to buy grain as a military supplier for Prussia, had been to Amsterdam and Paris, and, being an enlightened man, did not consider everything outside the gates of his gabled hometown to be reprehensible. Apart from business dealings, however, in social relations he was more inclined than his son, the consul, to draw strict boundaries and treat strangers with hostility. So when one day his children brought this young girl—she was only twenty years old—home with them from a trip to West Prussia, an orphan, the daughter of an innkeeper who had died in Marienwerder shortly before the Buddenbrooks arrived, the consul had to face his father for this pious prank, during which the old gentleman spoke almost exclusively French and Low German ... Incidentally, Ida Jungmann had proven herself to be efficient in the household and in dealing with the children, and with her loyalty and Prussian notions of rank, she was basically the best person for her position in this house. She was a person of aristocratic principles who made a strict distinction between the upper and lower classes, between the middle class and the lower middle class. She was proud to belong to the upper class as a devoted servant and did not like it when Tony befriended a schoolmate who, in Miss Jungmann's estimation, could only be classified as belonging to the lower middle class...
At that moment, the Prussian woman herself appeared in the columned hall and entered through the glass door: a rather tall, bony girl in a black dress, with straight hair and an honest face. She was leading little Klothilde by the hand, an extremely thin child in a flowered calico dress, with dull, ashen hair and the quiet expression of an old maid. She came from a completely impoverished branch of the family, was the daughter of a nephew of old Mr. Buddenbrook who lived near Rostock as an estate inspector, and was raised here in the house because she was the same age as Antonie and a willing creature.
"Everything is ready," said Mamsell Jungmann, purring the r in her throat, for she had originally been unable to pronounce it at all. "Klothildchen has helped a lot in the kitchen, Trina has hardly had anything to do..."
Mr. Buddenbrook smiled mockingly into his jabot at Ida's strange pronunciation, but the consul stroked his little niece's cheek and said:
"That's right, Thilda. Pray and work, that's the motto. Our Tony should take a leaf out of your book. She is all too often inclined to idleness and exuberance..."
Tony hung her head and looked up at her grandfather from below, for she knew that he would defend her, as usual.
"No, no," he said, "chin up, Tony, courage! One thing does not suit everyone. To each his own. Thilda is good, but we are not to be despised either. Am I speaking reasonably, Bethsy?"
He turned to his daughter-in-law, who tended to agree with his taste, while Mme. Antoinette, more out of prudence than conviction, usually took the consul's side. Thus, the two generations shook hands, as it were, in a chassez croisez.
"You are very kind, Papa," said the Consul's wife. "Tony will strive to become a wise and capable woman... Have the boys come back from school?" she asked Ida.
But Tony, who was looking through the window at the "spy" from her grandfather's knee, called out almost simultaneously:
"Tom and Christian are coming up Johannisstraße... and Mr. Hoffstede... and Uncle Doctor..."
The carillon of St. Mary's began to play a chorale: pang! ping, ping – pung! The big and the little bell' announced, the one in lively, the other in dignified tones, that it was four o’clock, the bell of the vestibule door also rang shrill across the large hallway, whereupon it was indeed Tom and Christian who arrived, together with the first guests, Jean Jacques Hoffstede, the poet, and Doctor Grabow, the family doctor.
Chapter Two
Mr. Jean Jacques Hoffstede, the town poet, undoubtedly had a few verses in his pocket for the present occasion. He was nearly as old as Johann Buddenbrook, and dressed in much the same style except that his coat was green instead of mouse-coloured. But he was thinner and more agile than his old friend and had small, quick, greenish eyes and a long, pointed nose.
"Thank you very much," he said, after shaking hands with the gentlemen and paying the ladies—especially the consul's wife, whom he greatly admired—a few of his most exquisite compliments, compliments that the younger generation simply could not muster anymore, accompanied by a pleasantly quiet and engaging smile. "Thank you very much for the kind invitation, my dear friends. These two young men," and he pointed to Tom and Christian, who were standing next to him in blue smocks with leather belts, "were met by the doctor and me in Königstraße as they were coming back from their studies. Splendid boys, Mrs. Consul? Thomas is a solid and serious young man; he must become a merchant, there is no doubt about that. Christian, on the other hand, seems to me to be a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, a little incroyable... But I make no secret of my enthusiasm. He will study, I think; he is witty and brilliant ..."
Mr. Buddenbrook helped himself to his golden snuffbox.
"What a rascal he is! Shouldn't he become a poet right away, Hoffstede?"
Miss Jungmann drew the curtains, and soon the room was bathed in the somewhat restless but discreet and pleasant light of the candles in the crystal chandelier and the candlesticks on the secretary.
"Well, Christian," said the consul's wife, her hair shining golden, "what did you learn this afternoon?" And it turned out that Christian had had writing, arithmetic, and singing lessons.
He was a seven-year-old boy who already resembled his father in an almost ridiculous way. He had the same fairly small, round, deep-set eyes, the same strongly protruding, curved nose was already recognizable, and a few lines below his cheekbones already indicated that the shape of his face would not always retain its current childlike fullness.
"We have been laughing dreadfully," he began to babble, his eyes darting from one person to another in the room. "Listen to what Mr. Stengel said to Siegmund Köstermann." He leaned forward, shook his head, and spoke emphatically into the air: "Outwardly, my dear child, outwardly you are smooth and sleek, yes, but inwardly, my dear child, you are black and a fool..." And he said this with a face that expressed such convincing comedy in its displeasure at this "external" smoothness and sleekness that everyone burst out laughing.
"Young rascal!" repeated old Buddenbrook, chuckling. But Mr. Hoffstede was beside himself with delight.
"Charming!" he exclaimed. "Unsurpassable! One must know Marcellus Stengel! Exactly like that! No, it's too delicious!"
Thomas, who lacked such talent, stood next to his younger brother and laughed heartily and without envy. His teeth were not particularly beautiful, but small and yellowish. But his nose was strikingly finely cut, and he strongly resembled his grandfather in his eyes and the shape of his face.
Some had taken seats on the chairs and sofa, chatting with the children, talking about the early cold, the house... Mr. Hoffstede admired a magnificent inkwell made of Sevres porcelain in the shape of a black-spotted hunting dog on the secretary's desk. Dr. Grabow, a man of the consul's age, with a long, kind, and gentle face smiling from between his sparse sideburns, looked at the cakes, currant bread, and variously filled salt cellars displayed on the table. It was the "salt and bread" that had been sent to the family by relatives and friends when they moved house. But since it was important to show that the gift did not come from humble quarters, the bread consisted of sweet, spiced, and heavy pastries, and the salt was enclosed in solid gold.
"I'll have my work cut out for me," said the doctor, pointing to the sweets and threatening the children. Then, nodding his head, he lifted up a solid container for salt, pepper, and mustard.
"From Lebrecht Kröger," said Mr. Buddenbrook with a smile. "Always generous, my dear relative. I did not give him anything like this when he built his garden house in front of the castle gate. But that's how he always was... noble! Generous! An à la mode gentleman..."
The bell had rung several times throughout the house. Pastor Wunderlich arrived, a stocky old gentleman in a long black coat, with powdered hair and a white, comfortably cheerful face, in which a pair of gray, lively eyes twinkled. He had been a widower for many years and considered himself one of the bachelors of the old days, like the tall broker, Mr. Grätjens, who came with him and constantly held one of his gaunt hands rolled up like a telescope in front of his eyes, as if examining a painting; he was a widely recognized art connoisseur.
Senator Dr. Langhals and his wife also arrived, long-time friends of the family, not to mention the wine merchant Köppen with his large, dark red face sitting between his highly padded sleeves, and his equally corpulent wife...
It was already after half past four when the Krögers finally arrived, both the elderly couple and their children, Consul Kröger and and his Jakob and Jürgen, who were the same age as Tom and Christian. And almost at the same time as them, the parents of Mrs. Kröger arrived, the timber merchant Oeverdieck and his wife, an elderly, affectionate couple who used to call each other the most romantic pet names in front of everyone.
"Fine people arrive late," said Consul Buddenbrook, kissing his mother-in-law's hand.
“And they’re all fine folks too!” and Johann Buddenbrook made a sweeping gesture with his arm over the Kröger relatives as he shook the old man's hand…
Lebrecht Kröger, the à la mode gentleman, a tall, distinguished figure, still had lightly powdered hair, but was dressed fashionably. Two rows of gemstone buttons sparkled on his velvet coat. Justus, his son, with a small side-whiskers and a pointed upturned moustache, closely resembled his father in figure and manner; he also had the same round and elegant hand movements.
They did not sit down, but stood together in a preliminary and casual conversation, awaiting the main event. And Johann Buddenbrook, the elder, offered Madame Köppen his arm, saying in an audible voice:
"Well, if we all have an appetite, mesdames et messieurs..."
Miss Jungmann and the maid had opened the white double doors to the dining room, and slowly, with confident leisure, the company moved across; one could expect a hearty meal at the Buddenbrooks'...
Chapter Three
When everyone began to leave, the younger master of the house reached for his left breast pocket, where a piece of paper was rustling. The social smile suddenly disappeared from his face, giving way to a tense and worried expression, and a few muscles twitched at his temples as if he were clenching his teeth. He took a few steps toward the dining room, but then held back and looked for his mother, who was one of the last to cross the threshold, standing next to Pastor Wunderlich.
"Excuse me, dear Pastor... Just a word, Mama!" And while the pastor nodded cheerfully, Consul Buddenbrook urged the old lady back into the landscape room and to the window.
"To be brief, a letter has arrived from Gotthold," he said quickly and quietly, looking into her questioning, dark eyes and pulling the folded and sealed paper out of his pocket. "That's his handwriting... It's the third letter, and only the first one has been answered by Papa... What should we do? It arrived at two o'clock, and I should have given it to Father long ago, but should I spoil his mood today? What do you say? There's still time to ask him to come out..."
"No, you're right, Jean, wait!" said Madame Buddenbrook, grabbing her son's arm with a quick movement, as was her habit. "What could it say?" she added sadly. "The boy won't give in. He's fixated on this compensation for his share of the house... No, no, Jean, not yet... Tonight, perhaps, before bedtime..."
"What to do?" repeated the consul, shaking his bowed head. "I myself have often wanted to ask Papa to give in... It shouldn't look as if I, the stepbrother, had settled in with my parents and was plotting against Gotthold... I must avoid giving the impression of playing this role, even towards my father. But if I'm to be honest... I am, after all, an associate. And then Bethsy and I are paying a normal rent for the second floor for the time being... As for my sister in Frankfurt, well, that's been arranged. Her husband is already receiving, while Papa is still alive, a lump sum, only a quarter of the purchase price of the house... It's a favorable deal that Papa has handled very smoothly and well, and which is highly gratifying for the company. And if Papa is so dismissive toward Gotthold, it's because..."
"No, nonsense, Jean, your position on the matter is quite clear. But Gotthold believes that I, his stepmother, only care for my own children and deliberately alienate him from his father. That's the sad thing..."
"But it's his fault!" exclaimed the consul, almost loudly, then moderating his voice with a glance toward the dining room. "It's his fault, this sad situation! Judge for yourself! Why couldn't he be reasonable! Why did he have to marry that Miss Stüwing and the... shop..." The consul laughed angrily and embarrassedly at this word. "It's a weakness, Father's aversion to the shop; but Gotthold should have respected this little vanity..."
"Oh, Jean, the best thing would be for Papa to give in!"
"But can I advise that?" whispered the consul, gesturing excitedly to his forehead. "I am personally interested, and therefore I would have to say: Father, pay. But I am also an associate, I have to represent the interests of the company, and if Papa does not believe he has an obligation to an unobedient and rebellious son to withdraw the sum from the operating capital ... It's more than eleven thousand Kuranttaler. That's a lot of money... No, no, I can't advise it... but I can't advise against it either. I don't want to know anything about it. Only the scene with Papa is désagréable to me ..."
"It's late, Jean. Come now, they're waiting..."
The consul tucked the paper into his breast pocket, offered his arm to his mother, and side by side they crossed the threshold into the brightly lit dining room, where the guests had just finished seating themselves around the long table.
Against the sky-blue background of the wallpaper, white statues of gods stood out almost plastically between slender columns. The heavy red window curtains were closed, and in every corner of the room eight candles burned on a tall, gilded candelabra, apart from those that stood in silver candlesticks on the table. Above the massive sideboard, opposite the landscape room, hung a large painting, an Italian gulf, whose blue hazy tone was extremely effective in this lighting. Mighty, stiff-backed sofas in red damask stood against the walls.
Every trace of concern and anxiety had disappeared from Madame Buddenbrook's face as she sat down between old Kröger, who presided at the window side, and Pastor Wunderlich.
" Bon appétit!" she said with her short, quick, cordial nod, letting her gaze glide quickly over the entire table down to the children...
Chapter Four
"As I said, hats off to Buddenbrook!" Mr. Köppen's powerful voice drowned out the general conversation as the maid with bare red arms, a thick striped skirt, under her little white cap at the back of her head, with the help of Mamsell Jungmann and the consul's daughter from upstairs, had served the hot herb soup with toasted bread, and everyone began to spoon it up carefully.
"Well done! Such spaciousness, such nobility... I must say, this is a place to live, I must say..." Mr. Köppen had not socialized with the previous owners of the house; he had not been rich for long, did not come from a patrician family, and unfortunately had not yet been able to wean himself off certain dialect weaknesses, such as the repetition of "I must say." He also said "Achung" instead of "Achtung."
"It didn't cost any money," remarked Mr. Grätjens dryly, who should know, and looked closely at the gulf through his cupped hand.
As far as possible, a colorful row had been formed, with the chain of relatives interrupted by family friends. However, this had not been strictly enforced, and the old Oeverdiecks sat almost on each other's laps as usual, nodding intimately to each other. Old Kröger, however, sat enthroned high and straight between Senator Langhals and Madame Antoinette, distributing his hand gestures and reserved jokes to the two ladies.
"When was the house built?" asked Mr. Hoffstede across the table to old Buddenbrook, who was chatting with Madame Köppen in a jovial and somewhat mocking tone.
" In the year... wait a minute... around 1680, if I'm not mistaken. My son knows more about such dates, by the way..."
"Eighty-two," confirmed the consul, leaning forward, who was seated further down the table, without a female companion, next to Senator Langhals. "It was completed in the winter of 1682. That's when Ratenkamp & Komp. began its spectacular rise... It's sad to see the company decline over the last twenty years..."
There was a general pause in the conversation that lasted half a minute. Everyone looked at their plates and thought of this once-glorious family who had built and lived in the house and who had moved away, impoverished and run-down...
"Well, it's sad," said the broker Grätjens; "when you consider the madness that led to the ruin... If only Dietrich Ratenkamp hadn't taken Geelmaack on as a partner back then! God knows, I threw my hands up in horror when he started managing the business. I know from the best source, ladies and gentlemen, how horribly he speculated behind Ratenkamp's back and issued bills of exchange here and acceptances there in the company's name... In the end, it was all over... The banks were suspicious, there was no cover... You have no idea... Who even checked the warehouse? Geelmaack, perhaps? They lived there like rats, year in, year out! But Ratenkamp didn't care about anything..."
"He was paralyzed," said the consul. His face had taken on a gloomy and closed expression. Leaning forward, he stirred the spoon in his soup and now and then let a brief glance from his small, round, deep-set eyes wander up to the upper end of the table.
"He walked as if under pressure, and I think one can understand that pressure. What prompted him to join forces with Geelmaack, who brought in very little capital and who no one spoke highly of? He must have felt the need to shift some of the terrible responsibility onto someone else because he sensed that the end was inevitable... This company had run itself into the ground, this old family was passé. Wilhelm Geelmaack certainly only gave the final push towards ruin..."
"So you are of the opinion, dear Consul," said Pastor Wunderlich with a thoughtful smile, pouring red wine into his wife's glass and his own, "that even without the arrival of Geelmaack and his wild behavior, everything would have turned out the way it did?"
"Probably not," said the consul thoughtfully, without addressing any particular person. "But I believe that Dietrich Ratenkamp had to join forces with Geelmaack, necessarily and inevitably, in order for fate to be fulfilled... He must have acted under the pressure of an inexorable necessity... Ah, I am convinced that he was half aware of his associate's activities, that he was not completely ignorant of the conditions in his camp. But he was paralyzed..."
"Well, assez, Jean," said old Buddenbrook, putting down his spoon. "That's one of your idées ..."
The consul raised his glass to his father with a distracted smile. But Lebrecht Kröger said:
"No, let's stick with the happy present!"
He carefully and elegantly grasped the neck of his white wine bottle, on whose cork stood a small silver stag, tilted it slightly to one side, and examined the label attentively. "C.F. Köppen," he read and nodded to the wine merchant; "ah yes, what would we be without you!"
The Meissen plates with gold rims were changed, with Madame Antoinette closely observing the girls' movements, and Mamsell Jungmann shouted orders into the megaphone that connected the dining room with the kitchen. The fish was passed around, and while Pastor Wunderlich served himself with caution, he said:
"This cheerful gathering is not entirely a matter of course. The young people who are now rejoicing here with us old folks probably don't think that it could ever have been any different ... I must say that I have often taken a personal interest in the fortunes of our Buddenbrooks ... Whenever I see these things before my eyes" – and he turned to Madame Antoinette, taking one of the heavy silver spoons from the table – "I cannot help wondering whether they are among the pieces that our friend, the philosopher Lenoir, sergeant of His Majesty Emperor Napoleon, held in his hands six years ago... and I remember our encounter in Alfstraße, Madame ..."
Madame Buddenbrook looked down with a smile that was half embarrassed, half reminiscent. Tom and Tony, down below, who didn't like fish and had been listening attentively to the grown-ups' conversation, called up almost in unison: "Oh yes, tell us, Grandma!" But the pastor, who knew that she did not like to talk about this incident, which was a little embarrassing for her, began instead with the old little story that the children would have gladly heard for the hundredth time, and which perhaps one or two of them had not yet heard...
"In short, imagine this: it is a November afternoon, cold and rainy, God have mercy, I am coming up Alfstraße from an official business and thinking about the bad times. Prince Blücher was gone, the French were in the city, but there was little sign of the prevailing excitement. The streets were quiet, people sat in their houses and kept to themselves. Master butcher Prahl, who had stood in front of his door with his hands in his pockets and said in his booming voice, 'That's too bad, that's too bad!' had simply been slapped in the face... Well, I think you should go and see the Buddenbrooks; a word of encouragement might be welcome; the man is lying there with a boil on his head, and Madame will have to deal with the billeting."
"Then, at that very moment, who do I see coming toward me? Our esteemed Madame Buddenbrook. But in what condition? She is rushing through the rain without a hat, she has barely thrown a shawl around her shoulders, she is stumbling more than walking, and her hair is a complete mess... No, that's true, Madame! It was hardly even hair anymore."
"What a pleasant surprise!' I say and take the liberty of holding her by the sleeve, as she doesn't see me at all, because I have a bad feeling about this... 'Where are you going in such a hurry, my dear?' She notices me, she looks at me, she blurts out: 'It's you... Farewell! It's all over! I'm going down to the Trave!'"
"Take care!" I say, feeling myself turn pale. "This is not the place for you, my dear! But what has happened?" And I hold her as firmly as respect allows. "What has happened?" she cries, trembling. "You're standing on the silverware, Wunderlich! That's what happened! And Jean is lying there with a rose in his head and can't help me! And he couldn't help me even if he were on his feet! You're stealing my spoons, my silver spoons, that's what happened, Wunderlich, and I'm going into the Trave!"
"Well, I hold our friend, I say what one says in such cases, 'Courage,' I say, 'my dearest!' and 'Everything will be all right!' and 'Let's talk to the people, pull yourself together, I implore you, and let's go!' And I lead her up the street to her house. In the dining room upstairs, we find the militia, as Madame left them, about twenty men, busying themselves with the large chest where the silverware is kept."
"Whom should I speak to?" I ask politely, "gentlemen?" Well, they start laughing and shout, "All of us, Papa!" But then one steps forward and introduces himself, a man as tall as a tree, with a black waxed moustache and large red hands peeking out from his cuffed sleeves. 'Lenoir,' he says, saluting with his left hand, because in his right he is holding a bundle of five or six silver spoons, 'Lenoir, sergeant. What does the gentleman want?'"
"Officer!" I say, aiming for the point d'honneur. "Is it appropriate for someone in your illustrious position to be concerned with such matters? ... The city has not closed its doors to the emperor ..." "What do you want?" he replies. "This is war! People need such utensils ..."
"You should be considerate," I interrupt him, because an idea occurs to me. "This lady," I say, because what else can one say in such a situation, "the mistress of the house, she is not German, she is almost your compatriot, she is French..." "What, French?" he repeats. And what do you think this old warhorse added? "An emigrant, then?" he said. "But then she is an enemy of philosophy!"
"I am stunned, but I swallow my laughter. 'You are,' I say, 'a man of intellect, as I can see. I repeat that it seems to me unworthy of you to concern yourself with such matters! He is silent for a moment; but then, suddenly, he blushes, throws his six spoons into the chest, and exclaims: 'But who told you that I intended anything else with these things than to look at them a little?! Pretty things, those! If one or the other of the people should take a piece with them as a souvenir...'"
"Well, they still took enough souvenirs with them, no appeal to human or divine justice could help... They probably knew no other god than this terrible little man..."
Chapter Five
"Did you see him, Pastor?"
The plates were changed again. A colossal, brick-red, breaded ham appeared, smoked, cooked, accompanied by a brown, sour shallot sauce and such quantities of vegetables that everyone could have been satisfied with a single bowl. Lebrecht Kröger took over the carving. With his elbows raised casually and his long index fingers stretched straight out behind his knife and fork, he carefully cut down the juicy pieces. Consul Buddenbrook's masterpiece, the "Russian pot," a sparkling and spirituous-tasting mixture of preserved fruits, was also served.
No, Pastor Wunderlich regretted never having seen Bonaparte. But old Buddenbrook and Jean Jacques Hoffstede had seen him face to face; the former in Paris, immediately before the Russian campaign, during a parade in the courtyard of the Tuileries Palace, the latter in Danzig...
"God, no, he didn't look pleasant," he said, raising his eyebrows as he put a bite of ham, Brussels sprouts, and potato, which he had composed on his fork, into his mouth. "By the way, he is said to have behaved quite cheerfully in Danzig. A joke was told at the time... He gambled all day with the Germans, and not in a harmless way, but in the evening he played with his generals. 'N'est-ce pas, Rapp,'he said, grabbing a handful of gold from the table, 'les Allemands aiment beaucoup ces petits Napoléons?''Oui, Sire, plus que le Grand!' replied Rapp..."
Amidst the general merriment that ensued – for Hoffstede had told the anecdote beautifully and even imitated the emperor's facial expressions a little – old Buddenbrook said:
"Well, joking aside, with all due respect to his personal greatness... What a nature!"
The consul shook his head seriously.
"No, no, we younger people no longer understand the veneration of the man who murdered the Duke of Enghien, who slaughtered eight hundred prisoners in Egypt..."
"All of that may be exaggerated and falsified," said Pastor Wunderlich. "The duke may have been a reckless and rebellious man, and as for the prisoners, their execution was probably the well-considered and necessary decision of a proper council of war..." And he told of a book that had been published a few years ago, which he had read, the work of a secretary to the emperor, which deserved full attention...
"In any case," insisted the consul, trimming a candle that flickered in the candlestick before him. "I don't understand it, I don't understand the admiration for this inhuman being! As a Christian man, as a man of religious sentiment, I find no place in my heart for such a feeling."
His face had taken on a quiet and enthusiastic expression, and he had even tilted his head slightly to one side—while it truly looked as if his father and Pastor Wunderlich were smiling very quietly at each other.
"Yes, yes," smiled Johann Buddenbrook, "but the little Napoleons weren't bad, were they? My son is more enthusiastic about Louis Philippe," he added.
"Enthusiastic?" Jean Jacques Hoffstede repeated a little mockingly... "A curious combination! Philippe Égalité and rapture..."
"Well, it seems to me that we have, by God, a lot to learn from the July Monarchy, by God..." The consul spoke earnestly and eagerly. "The friendly and helpful relationship of French constitutionalism to the new practical ideals and interests of the time... is something so extremely gratifying..."
"Practical ideals... well, yes..." During a pause, which he allowed his jaw to rest, old Buddenbrook played with his golden box. "Practical ideals... no, I'm not for them at all!" He fell back into dialect out of annoyance. "Now trade schools and technical schools and commercial schools springing up on every corner, and high school and classical education are suddenly nonsense, and everyone thinks of nothing but mines ... and industry ... and making money ... Good, all that, very good! But a little stupid, on the other hand, in the long run – right? I don't know why it's an affront to me ... I didn't say anything, Jean ... the July Monarchy is a good thing ..."
Senator Langhals, however, as well as Grätjens and Köppen, sided with the consul ... Yes, truly, one must have the utmost respect for the French government and similar efforts in Germany ... Mr. Köppen said "Attention" again. He had become even redder during the meal and sniffed audibly; Pastor Wunderlich's face, however, remained white, refined, and alert, even though he drank one glass after another in complete comfort.
The candles burned slowly, slowly down, and now and then, when their flames flickered to the side in the draft, a fine wax scent wafted across the table.
They sat on heavy chairs with high backs, dined on heavy, good food with heavy silver cutlery, drank heavy, good wines with it, and expressed their opinions. They soon got down to business and, without realizing it, fell more and more into dialect, into this comfortably ponderous way of expressing themselves, which seemed to combine commercial brevity with affluent nonchalance and was occasionally exaggerated with good-natured self-irony. They didn't say "on the stock exchange," they simply said "on the exchange"... pronouncing the r like a short ä and making a pleased face to go with it.
The ladies had not followed the dispute for long. Madame Kröger led the conversation by explaining in the most appetizing manner the best way to cook carp in red wine... "When they are cut into neat pieces, my dear, put them in the casserole with onions, cloves, and rusks, and then add a little sugar and a spoonful of butter to the fire... But don't wash it, dear, leave all the blood in, for God's sake..."
Old Kröger interjected the most pleasant jokes. Consul Justus, his son, however, who was sitting next to Doctor Grabow further down near the children, had struck up a teasing conversation with Mamsell Jungmann; she narrowed her brown eyes and, as was her habit, held her knife and fork straight up, moving them slightly back and forth. Even the Oeverdiecks had become quite loud and lively. The old consul's wife had invented a new term of endearment for her husband: "You good little darling!" she said, shaking her bonnet with warmth.
The conversation flowed into one topic when Jean Jacques Hoffstede brought up his favorite subject, the trip to Italy he had taken fifteen years ago with a wealthy relative from Hamburg. He talked about Venice, Rome, and Vesuvius, he spoke of the Villa Borghese, where the late Goethe had written part of his Faust, he raved about Renaissance fountains that provided cooling, about well-trimmed avenues where it was so pleasant to stroll, and someone mentioned the large, overgrown garden that the Buddenbrooks owned just behind the castle gate...
"Yes, my word!" said the old man. "I'm still annoyed that I couldn't bring myself to have it tidied up a bit back then! I walked through it again recently—it's a shame, this jungle! What a lovely property it would be if the grass were well-kept and the trees were neatly trimmed into cones and cubes..."
But the consul protested vehemently.
"For God's sake, Dad! I enjoy wandering through the undergrowth there in summer, but it would spoil everything for me if the beautiful, free nature were cut down so miserably..."
"But if the great outdoors belongs to me, don't I have the right to arrange it as I please..."
"Oh, Father, when I lie there in the tall grass under the overgrown bushes, I feel as if I belong to nature and have no right over it whatsoever..."
"Krischan, don't tease me too much," cried old Buddenbrook suddenly, "Thilda, it doesn't hurt... pack like seven threshers, the girl..."
And truly, it was astonishing to see the abilities this quiet, thin child with the long, elderly face developed when eating. When asked if she would like a second helping of soup, she replied slowly and humbly: "Y-e-s, p-l-e-a-s-e!" She had chosen two of the largest pieces of fish and ham, along with a large pile of side dishes, leaning carefully and short-sightedly over her plate, and she ate everything without haste, quietly and in large bites. She responded to the old master of the house's words only with a drawn-out, friendly, surprised, and simple: "God—On-k-el?" She did not allow herself to be intimidated; she ate, even though it did not agree with her and even though she was being mocked, with the instinctively exploitative appetite of a poor relative at a rich dinner table, smiling insensitively and covering her plate with good things, patient, tenacious, hungry, and thin.
Chapter Six
Now came, in two large crystal bowls, the "Plettenpudding," a layered mixture of macaroons, raspberries, biscuits, and egg cream; but at the lower end of the table, things began to heat up, for the children had been given their favorite dessert, the burning plum pudding.
"Thomas, my son, be so kind," said Johann Buddenbrook, pulling his large bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. "In the second cellar on the right, the second compartment, behind the red Bordeaux, two bottles, you understand?" And Thomas, who was well versed in such tasks, ran off and returned with the dusty, cobweb-covered bottles. But no sooner had the golden-yellow, grape-sweet old Malvasier flowed from its inconspicuous casing into the small dessert wine glasses than the moment came when Pastor Wunderlich rose and, as the conversation fell silent, began to toast in pleasant turns of phrase, glass in hand. He spoke with his head tilted slightly to one side, a subtle and playful smile on his white face, moving his free hand in delicate little gestures, in the free and comfortable tone of conversation that he also loved to use in the pulpit ... "And now, my good friends, let us empty a glass of this fine wine together to the welfare of our esteemed hosts in their new, magnificent home—to the welfare of the Buddenbrook family, both those present and those absent... vivant!"
"The absent members?" thought the consul as he bowed before the glasses raised to him. "Does that mean only those in Frankfurt and perhaps the Duchamps in Hamburg, or does old Wunderlich have ulterior motives...?" He stood up to clink his glass with his father's, looking him warmly in the eyes.
But now the broker Grätjens rose from his chair, and that took some time; but when he had finished, he dedicated a glass with his somewhat shrill voice to the Johann Buddenbrook company and its continued growth, prosperity, and success, to the honor of the city.
And Johann Buddenbrook thanked him for all the kind words, first as head of the family and second as senior head of the trading house—and sent Thomas for a third bottle of Malvasia, because the calculation that two would suffice had proved to be wrong.
Lebrecht Kröger also spoke. He took the liberty of remaining seated, because that made a more accommodating impression, and only gestured graciously with his head and hands as he offered his toast to the two ladies of the house, Mme. Antoinette and the consul's wife.
But when he had finished, when the plum pudding had almost been eaten and the Malvasier was running low, Mr. Jean Jacques Hoffstede slowly rose, cleared his throat, and amid a general "Ah!" ... the children downstairs applauded with joy.
"Yes, excusez! I couldn't help myself..." he said, lightly touching his pointed nose and pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket... A deep silence spread through the room.
The sheet he held in his hands was delightfully colorful, and from an oval formed on the outside by red flowers and many golden flourishes, he read the words:
"On the occasion of the friendly participation in the joyful inauguration celebration of the newly acquired house with the Buddenbrook family. October 1835."
And then he turned and began in his already somewhat trembling voice:
He bowed, and unanimous, enthusiastic applause broke out.
"Charming, Hoffstede!" exclaimed old Buddenbrook. "Cheers! No, that was delightful!"
But when the consul's wife drank with the poet, a very delicate blush colored her delicate complexion, for she had noticed the polite reverence he had shown her in "Venus Anadyomene"...
Chapter Seven
The general merriment had now reached its peak, and Mr. Köppen felt a distinct need to unbutton a few buttons on his waistcoat; but unfortunately that was not possible, for not even the old gentlemen allowed themselves such liberties. Lebrecht Kröger sat just as upright in his seat as he had at the beginning of the meal, Pastor Wunderlich remained pale and dignified, old Buddenbrook had leaned back a little, but maintained the finest decorum, and only Justus Kröger was visibly a little drunk.
Where was Dr. Grabow? The consul's wife rose very discreetly and left, for down there the seats of Mamsell Jungmann, Dr. Grabow, and Christian had become vacant, and from the portico came what sounded almost like suppressed wailing. She quickly left the hall behind the waitress who had served butter, cheese, and fruit—and sure enough, there in the semi-darkness, on the round upholstered bench that ran around the central column, little Christian was sitting, lying, or crouching, moaning softly and heartbreakingly.
"Oh my God, Madam!" said Ida, who was standing with the doctor, "Christian, the little boy, is so ill..."
"I feel sick, Mama, I feel damn sick!" whimpered Christian, his round, deep-set eyes darting restlessly back and forth above his oversized nose. He had uttered the word "damn" only out of sheer desperation, but the consul's wife said:
"When we use such words, God punishes us with even greater nausea!"
Dr. Grabow felt his pulse; his kind face seemed to have become even longer and milder.
"A slight indigestion... nothing serious, Mrs. Consul!" he reassured her. And then he continued in his slow, pedantic official tone: "It would be best to put him to bed... a little children's powder, perhaps a cup of chamomile tea to induce perspiration... And a strict diet, Mrs. Consul? As I said, a strict diet. A little pigeon, a little French bread..."
"I don't want any pigeon!" Christian cried, beside himself. "I never want to eat anything again! I feel sick, I feel damn sick!" The strong words seemed to bring him relief, he uttered them with such fervor.
Dr. Grabow smiled to himself, an indulgent and almost melancholic smile. Oh, the young man would eat again! He would live like everyone else. Like his fathers, relatives, and acquaintances, he would spend his days sitting and consuming four times as many exquisite and delicious things ... Well, Godspeed! He, Friedrich Grabow, was not the one who would overturn the lifestyles of all these good, wealthy, and comfortable merchant families. He would come when he was called and recommend a strict diet for a day or two—a little pigeon, a slice of French bread... yes, yes—and assure them with a clear conscience that it meant nothing this time. Young as he was, he had held the hand of many a brave citizen who had eaten his last leg of smoked meat, his last stuffed turkey, and, whether suddenly and unexpectedly in his office chair or after some suffering in his sturdy old bed, had commended himself to God. A stroke, they said, paralysis, a sudden and unexpected death... yes, yes, and he, Friedrich Grabow, could have counted them all, the many times when "it was nothing," when he might not even have been called, when only perhaps after dinner, when he had returned to the office, a slight, strange dizziness had made itself felt... Well, God rest their souls! He, Friedrich Grabow, was not the one who spurned the stuffed turkeys. That breaded ham with shallot sauce today had been delicious, damn it, and then, when everyone was already breathing heavily, the Pletten pudding—macaroons, raspberries, and egg foam, yes, yes... "Strict diet, as I said, Mrs. Consul? A little pigeon, a little French bread..."
Chapter Eight
Inside the dining room, everyone was getting ready to leave.
"Bon appétit, mesdames et messieurs, blessed meal! Over there, a cigar awaits for enthusiasts and a sip of coffee for all of us and, if Madame is generous, a liqueur... The billiards, in the back, are at everyone's disposal, as you know; Jean, you will take the lead to the rear building... Madame Köppen, the honor..."
Chatting, satisfied and in high spirits, exchanging wishes for a blessed meal, they made their way back through the large double doors into the landscape room. But the consul did not go over there first, instead immediately gathering the billiard-loving gentlemen around him.
"Don't you want to risk a game, Father?"
No, Lebrecht Kröger stayed with the ladies, but Justus could go to the back... Senator Langhals, Köppen, Grätjens, and Doctor Grabow also stayed with the consul, while Jean Jacques Hoffstede wanted to follow: "Later, later! Johann Buddenbrook wants to play the flute, I have to wait for that... Au revoir, messieurs..."
As they walked through the portico, the six gentlemen could still hear the first notes of the flute ringing out in the landscape room, accompanied by the consul's wife on the harmonium, a small, bright, graceful melody that floated meaningfully through the spacious rooms. The consul listened as long as he could hear anything. He would have loved to stay in the landscape room, sitting in an armchair, lost in his dreams and feelings as he listened to the music, but his duties as host...
"Bring a few cups of coffee and cigars to the billiard room," he said to the maid who was crossing the forecourt.
"Yes, Line, coffee, you? Coffee!" repeated Mr. Köppen in a voice that came from a full stomach, and tried to pinch the girl's red arm. He pronounced the K at the back of his throat, as if he were already swallowing and tasting it.
"I'm convinced that Madame Köppen saw us through the glass panes," remarked Consul Kröger.
Senator Langhals asked, "So that's where you live, Buddenbrook?"
On the right, the staircase led up to the second floor, where the consul's and his family's bedrooms were located; but there was also a row of rooms on the left side of the vestibule. The gentlemen smoked as they descended the wide staircase with its white-lacquered, openwork wooden banister. The consul stopped on the landing.
"This mezzanine floor has three rooms," he explained; "the breakfast room, my parents' bedroom, and a little-used room facing the garden; a narrow passageway runs alongside it as a corridor... But come on! – Yes, you see, the transport carts pass through the hallway and then drive through the entire property to the bakery pit."
The wide, echoing hallway below was paved with large, square stone tiles. Office rooms were located at the vestibule door and at the other end, while the kitchen, from which the sour smell of shallot sauce still emanated, was located to the left of the staircase, on the way to the cellars. Opposite it, at a considerable height, strange, clumsy but neatly painted wooden rooms protruded from the wall: the girls' chambers, which could only be reached from the hallway by a kind of exposed, straight staircase. A pair of enormous old cupboards and a carved chest stood next to them.
Through a tall glass door, one stepped over a few very flat, passable steps into the courtyard, where the small washhouse was located on the left. From here, one could look into the beautifully landscaped garden, now autumnal gray and damp, whose beds were protected from the frost with straw mats, and which was enclosed at the back by the "portal," the Rococo façade of the garden house. The gentlemen, however, turned left from the courtyard onto a path that led between two walls through a second courtyard to the rear building.
There, slippery steps led down to a cellar-like vault with a clay floor, which was used as a storeroom, and from the highest floor of which a rope hung down for hauling up the sacks of grain. But they climbed the clean staircase on the right to the first floor, where the consul opened the white door to the billiard room for his guests.
Mr. Köppen threw himself exhausted onto one of the stiff chairs that stood against the walls of the wide, bare, and austere-looking room.
"I'll watch for now!" he exclaimed, brushing the fine raindrops from his coat. "The devil take me, what kind of journey through your house is this, Buddenbrook!"
Similar to the landscape room, the stove burned behind a brass grate. Through the three tall, narrow windows, one could see damp red roofs, gray courtyards, and gables...
"A game of billiards, Senator?" asked the consul as he took the cues from the racks. Then he went around and closed the pockets of the two billiard tables. "Who wants to join us? Grätjens? The doctor? All right. Grätjens and Justus, then take the other one... Köppen, you have to play."
The wine merchant stood up and listened, his mouth full of cigar smoke, to a strong gust of wind whistling between the houses, driving the rain against the windows and howling in the stovepipe.
"Damn!" he said, blowing the smoke away. "Do you think the Wullenwewer can get to port, Buddenbrook? What awful weather..."
Yes, the news from Travemünde was not the best; this was also confirmed by Consul Kröger, who was chalking the leather of his cane. Storms on all coasts. In the year
