by Thomas Mann
“Oh, heaven forbid,” Tony cried, and there was sudden outrage even in the “oh.” “Marry Herr Grünlich, what nonsense! I was constantly making fun of him with sarcastic comments. I can’t imagine how he can even stand me. He must have some pride.”
And with that, she began dripping honey on her slice of country bread.
3
THAT YEAR the Buddenbrooks took no holiday trip during Christian and Clara’s school vacation. The consul explained that he was much too busy—but the unresolved issue of Antonie was likewise a reason for them to wait out the summer on Meng Strasse. The consul had sent a diplomatic letter to Herr Grünlich; but progress in the matter was hindered by Tony’s stubbornness, which took the most childish forms. “Heaven forbid, Mama!” she would say, “I can’t stand him”—with as much stress as possible on the penultimate word. Or she would declare solemnly: “Father”—usually Tony called him “Papa”—“I will never consent to his proposal.”
And the whole affair would probably have remained stuck right there for some time, if it had not been for an event that occurred in the middle of July, some ten days after the conversation in the breakfast room.
It was afternoon, a warm afternoon with a blue sky. Madame Buddenbrook had gone out, and Tony was sitting alone, reading, at the window in the landscape room, when Anton presented her with a calling card. Before she even had time to read the name, a gentleman appeared in the room—wearing a bell-shaped coat and pea-colored trousers. It was, obviously, Herr Grünlich, and his face bore an expression of tender supplication.
Tony sat up on her bench in horror, then started forward as if intending to flee from the room. How could she possibly speak to a man who had asked for her hand in marriage? Her heart was pounding clear up in her throat, and she had turned ashen. As long as she had been sure that Herr Grünlich was at a safe distance, she had actually enjoyed the earnest exchanges with her parents and the sudden importance attached to herself and her decision. But here he was again now! Standing right in front of her! What would happen? She felt as if she was going to burst into tears again.
Herr Grünlich approached her now, with tripping steps, his arms widespread, his head tilted to one side in the pose of a man who wishes to say, “Here I am! Slay me if you will!” Instead he cried, “What a stroke of Providence! To find you here, Antonie!” He called her “Antonie.”
Tony was standing in front of the window seat, her book still in her right hand, and, pouting her lips and raising her head a little more with each word to emphasize her outrage, she said, “What—do—you—think—you’re—doing!”
But tears were welling up within her all the same.
Herr Grünlich, however, was at too great an emotional pitch to notice her protest.
“How could I wait any longer? Had I any choice but to return?” he asked fervently. “A week ago I received the letter from your dear father, and that letter filled me with hope. How could I remain any longer in this uncertainty, Fräulein Antonie? I could bear it no more. I threw myself into the next coach. Hastened here as fast as I could. I have taken a couple of rooms at the City of Hamburg Inn … and here I am, Antonie, to hear from your own lips that last, decisive word that will make me happier than I can possibly express.”
Tony went rigid; she was so stunned that her tears vanished. So this had been the effect of her father’s discreet letter, which was meant to postpone any decision indefinitely. She stammered the same sentence three or four times: “You’ve made a mistake. You’ve made a mistake.”
Herr Grünlich had pulled an armchair over near her window seat; he sat down now, forcing her to take her seat again as well; bending forward, he took her hand, limp with helplessness, in his own and continued in an impassioned voice, “Fräulein Antonie, since that first moment, that first afternoon—you recall that afternoon, do you not?—when there in the circle of your family I first saw you, an elegant, unimaginable vision of loveliness, your name has been written”—he corrected himself—“engraved on my heart in indelible letters. Since that day, Fräulein Antonie, my sole, my ardent wish had been to gain your beautiful hand until death do us part. And your dear father’s letter awakened within me a hope, which you will now make a happy certainty, will you not? Surely I may count upon the fact that you share such feelings, that you do return them.” And here his free hand grasped her other hand and he gazed deeply into her eyes, wide with fright. He was not wearing worsted gloves today; his long hands were threaded with strong blue veins.
Tony stared at his pink face, first at the wart beside his nose and then into his eyes, which were as blue as a goose’s.
“No, no!” she erupted in dismay. Then she added, “I will not give my consent to your proposal!” She was trying to speak firmly, but she was crying now.
“What have I done to deserve such doubt and hesitation?” he asked, his voice sinking deeper until it was almost a reproach. “You are a young lady who has been pampered and watched over with loving care, but I swear to you, pledge you my word as a gentleman, that I would cater to your every whim, that you would lack nothing as my wife, that in Hamburg you would lead the life you truly deserve.”
Tony leapt up, pulling her hands away, and, amid a flood of tears, she shouted in total desperation, “No! No! I told you no! I’ve turned you down. Good God in heaven, don’t you understand?”
And now Herr Grünlich stood up, too. He took a step back, spread his arms wide, displaying both palms to her, and spoke with all the seriousness a man of honor and determination can muster: “You realize, Mademoiselle Buddenbrook, do you not, that I cannot allow myself to be insulted in this fashion?”
“But I am not insulting you, Herr Grünlich,” Tony said, now regretting that she had lost her temper. Good God, why was this happening to her! She had not imagined courtship quite this way. She had thought you had only to say, “I am honored by your offer, but I cannot accept it,” and that would be that.
“I am honored by your offer,” she said, as calmly as she could, “but I cannot accept it. There, and now I must go. Please excuse me, I am very busy.”
But Herr Grünlich blocked her exit. “You are rejecting me?” he asked in a flat, unemotional voice.
“Yes,” Tony said; and by way of precaution she added, “unfortunately.”
And Herr Grünlich heaved a huge sigh, stepped back two more giant steps, bent his torso to one side, and, leaning askew from the waist up, pointed toward the carpet and cried in a dreadful voice, “Antonie!”
They both stood like this for a moment, facing one another—he in a pose of honest and imperious rage; Tony pale, trembling, tearful, a moist handkerchief pressed to her mouth. Finally he turned around, put his hands behind his back, and paced the length of the room twice, as if he were quite at home here. Then he stopped at the window and gazed out into the early dusk.
Tony walked slowly and rather gingerly toward the glass door. She got only as far as the middle of the room—and there was Herr Grünlich beside her.
“Tony,” he said in a low voice, gently grasping her hand. And then he sank—sank!—slowly to the floor on one knee. Both tawny, golden muttonchops fell across her hand. “Tony,” he repeated, “behold me here. You have brought me to this. Do you have a heart, a feeling heart? Hear me out. You see before you a devastated man, a man who will perish, if”—he hastily interrupted himself—“indeed, a man who will surely die of grief, if you reject his love for you. Here I lie. Can you find it in your heart to say: ‘I despise you’?”
“No, no!” Tony replied, her voice suddenly consoling. Her tears had stopped, and compassion and pity welled up within her. Lord, how very much he must love her to take this so far, when all it aroused in her was a queer feeling of indifference. Was it possible that this was happening to her? You read about this sort of thing in novels, but now here in the flesh was a man in a frock coat, on his knees, begging. The thought of marrying him had simply seemed absurd, because she found Herr Grünlich silly. But, by God, at that moment
he was not silly at all. There was such sincere anguish in his voice and in his face, such honesty and despair in his pleas.…
“No, no,” she repeated, so touched that she bent down to him, “I don’t despise you, Herr Grünlich. How can you say such a thing? Now, do stand up, please.”
“You do not wish to slay me?” he asked again.
And in a comforting, almost maternal tone, she repeated, “No, no.”
“You’ve given your word!” Herr Grünlich cried, jumping to his feet. But the moment he saw Tony pull back in shock, he was on his knees again and, to calm her, said in an anxious voice, “Fine, fine.… Not another word, Antonie. Enough for now about all this, I beg you. We shall speak of it again, some other day. Some other day. But farewell for now. I shall return. Farewell.”
He quickly got to his feet, grabbed his large gray hat from the table, kissed her hand, and hurried out through the glass door.
Tony watched him pick up his cane in the columned hall and disappear down the corridor. Totally confused and exhausted, she stood there in the middle of the room, her moist handkerchief dangling from a limp hand.
4
CONSUL BUDDENBROOK said to his wife: “If only I could think of some reason, however delicate, Tony might have for deciding against this alliance. But she is a child, Bethsy; she enjoys her fun, dancing at balls, being courted by young men, relishes it all, because she knows she’s pretty and comes from a good family. Of course, it may be that secretly, unconsciously, she is looking on her own—but I know her, she hasn’t found her own heart yet, as the saying goes. And if you were to ask her, she would toss her head and think long and hard—and there wouldn’t be anyone. She is a child, a chickadee, a flighty young thing. If she would say yes, she could take her place in the world, set herself up quite nicely, which is what she really wants, and within a matter of days she would love her husband. He’s no Apollo, heaven knows, no Apollo. But he is certainly more than presentable, and there’s no use demanding a sheep with five legs, if you’ll permit me a businessman’s turn of phrase. And if she wants to wait until someone comes along who is both handsome and a good match—well, God help us all! Tony Buddenbrook can always find something. Of course, on the other hand … there is some risk, and, to use another business expression, just because you cast a net doesn’t mean you’ll catch any fish. I had a long talk with Herr Grünlich yesterday morning—he is indeed a most insistent suitor—and I saw his books, he spread them out for me himself. Books, my dear Bethsy, worthy of framing! I told him how delighted I was. Still a young enterprise—but he is doing quite well, quite well. His assets come to about 120,000 thalers, and that is obviously only the start, for he turns a tidy profit every year. And I asked the Duchamps, too, and what they said didn’t sound bad. Although they are not familiar with his circumstances, he lives like a gentleman, moves in the best society, and it is well known that his business is flourishing, branching out in all directions. And what I’ve learned from several other people in Hamburg—from Kesselmeyer the banker, for instance—was quite satisfactory as well. In brief, Bethsy, I can only sincerely wish that this marriage take place, to the benefit of both our family and the firm. Heaven knows, I am very sorry that the child finds herself in such a difficult position, besieged on all sides, walks around depressed and not talking to anyone. But I simply cannot bring myself to reject Grünlich out of hand. And one more thing, Bethsy, and I cannot say it too often: in the last few years we have, Lord knows, not been expanding to any appreciable extent. Not that things have been going badly, God forbid—no, hard work does have its honest reward. The business goes on quietly—all too quietly, and even that is only because I exercise great prudence. We have not moved ahead, not really, since Father passed on. These are definitely not good times for merchants. In brief, there is little cause for rejoicing. Our daughter is of a marriageable age and has the opportunity of making a match that anyone can see is both advantageous and honorable—and she should do it! It is not advisable to wait, not advisable, Bethsy! Do have a talk with her. I tried my best to persuade her this afternoon.”
Tony was under siege, the consul was right about that. She no longer said no, but—God help her—neither could she bring herself to say yes. She herself didn’t even understand why, struggle as she might, she could not give her consent.
Meanwhile her father would take her aside for a serious word, or her mother would ask her to have a seat beside her and then press her finally to make a decision. Uncle Gotthold and his family had not been told about all this, because they always seemed somehow to snicker at life on Meng Strasse. But Sesame Weichbrodt had heard about the whole affair and offered good advice, impeccably enunciated. Even Mamselle Jungmann said, “Tony, my child, there’s nothing to worry about, you’ll still be in the best society.” And Tony could not visit that silk salon she so admired in the villa beyond the Burg Gate without Madame Kröger’s starting in: “A propos, I’ve heard something about an affair. I do hope you’ll listen to reason, child.”
One Sunday, as she was sitting in St. Mary’s with her parents and brothers, Pastor Kölling expanded in strong words on a text that said that a woman should leave father and mother and cleave to her husband—and suddenly became so emphatic that Tony stared up at him in alarm to see if he might be looking at her. But no, thank God, his head was turned in the other direction and he was just preaching away in general across the throng of worshipers; and yet it was only too clear that this was a new assault and that every word was meant for her. For a young woman, a mere child who as yet had neither will nor wisdom of her own, to oppose the loving advice of her parents was an offense such as the Lord would spew from His mouth—and at this last phrase, one of those that Pastor Kölling greatly admired and used with enthusiasm, Tony saw him make a dreadful sweep of his arm and turn to look right through her. Tony saw her father, who was sitting next to her, raise one hand, as if to say, “Not so rough …” But there was no doubt that Pastor Kölling was in collusion with him or her mother. She turned red and cowered in her seat, feeling as if every eye were watching her. The next Sunday, she flatly refused to go to church.
She wandered the house not saying a word, seldom laughed, completely lost her appetite; and sometimes she would heave a great heartbreaking sigh, as if wrestling with a decision, and then gaze wretchedly at her family. You couldn’t help pitying her. She even lost weight—and the glow in her cheeks.
At last the consul said: “This can’t go on, Bethsy, we can’t mistreat the child. She has to get away for a while, calm down, and collect her thoughts. You’ll see, she’ll come to reason. I can’t leave the office, and the children’s vacation is almost over … but we can all get along quite well here at home. Old Schwarzkopf from Travemünde happened to stop by yesterday—Diederich Schwarzkopf, the harbor pilot. I dropped a few hints, and it turned out he would be happy to have the lass stay with them a while. I’ll pay him a little something for it. She’ll have a nice, cozy place to stay, can go swimming and get some fresh air and sort things out. Tom can ride with her, so everything is arranged. And the sooner the better.…”
Tony was delighted with the idea, and said so. True, she hardly ever saw Herr Grünlich, but she knew he was in town, negotiating with her parents and waiting. Good Lord, he could appear at any moment—stand there shouting and begging. She would feel much safer in a strange house in Travemünde. So she packed her trunk quickly and cheerfully, and on the last day of July she climbed aboard the majestic Kröger equipage with Tom as her chaperon, said her goodbyes in the best of moods, and gave a great sigh of relief as they drove out through the Burg Gate.
5
THE ROAD TO TRAVEMÜNDE goes straight ahead, then comes a ferry, and then it’s straight ahead again—they both knew the way well. The gray road glided swiftly along as the hoofs of Lebrecht Kröger’s massive Mecklenburg bays rang out hollow and regular, but the sun burned hot and the unexciting landscape was veiled in dust. They had eaten an early dinner at one o’clock and had de
parted at two on the dot, which meant they would arrive shortly after four—because, if a trip took four hours in a hired carriage, the Krögers’ driver, Jochen, made a point of doing it in two.
Tony fell into a dreamy half-sleep, her head nodding under a big, flat straw hat and a gray parasol, which she had propped against the folded-back carriage top. Her twine-gray parasol was trimmed with cream-colored lace and matched her simple, close-fitting dress; she had daintily crossed her feet in front of her to show off her white stockings and the crisscross lacing on her shoes. She leaned back, elegant and comfortable, as if born to ride in this carriage.
Tom, an impeccably dressed twenty-year-old in a blue-gray suit, had shoved his straw hat back and was smoking Russian cigarettes. He was not very tall, but his mustache had begun to grow out thick and dark, darker than his hair and eyelashes. With one eyebrow raised slightly as always, he gazed out across the clouds of dust and passing roadside trees.
Tony said, “I’ve never been so happy to go to Travemünde in all my life—for all kinds of reasons. Don’t make fun of me, Tom. I wish I could leave a certain set of gold muttonchops several miles farther behind me. And it will be a whole new Travemünde, right on Front Row with the Schwarzkopfs. I won’t pay any attention to the social whirl at the spa. I know all that quite well enough already. And I’m not in the mood for it anyway. Besides, it’s all so public, and there’s certainly nothing shy about the man. Just watch, he’ll pop up one day right beside me, smiling his gracious smile.”
Tom threw his cigarette away and took another from his case, its lid decoratively inlaid with a scene of wolves attacking a troika—the gift of one of the consul’s Russian clients. Tom had a passion for these little strong cigarettes with a yellow mouthpiece; he smoked one after another and had the bad habit of inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs and slowly letting it cascade out as he spoke.
