by Thomas Mann
“Yes,” he said, “as far as that goes, the spa gardens are teeming with people from Hamburg. Consul Fritsche, who recently bought the place, is one himself. Business is splendid at present, Papa says. All the same, you’ll miss out on quite a few things if you don’t join in just a little. Peter Döhlmann will be there, of course; he’s never in town this time of the year; his business just trots along on its own like an old hound dog, I guess. Strange. Well … Uncle Justus is sure to come out on Sundays and pay a visit to the roulette tables. And then there’s the Möllendorpfs and the Kistenmakers—all at full strength, I would think—and the Hagenströms.…”
“Ha!—Naturally. How could we do without Sarah Semlinger.”
“Her name’s Laura, my girl, let’s be fair.”
“And Julie, of course. They say Julie’s going to announce her engagement to August Möllendorpf this summer, and Julie is sure to do it. And then they’ll be accepted at last. You know, Tom, it’s simply outrageous, the way these families just move into town.…”
“Yes, but, good Lord, Strunck & Hagenström have built up a fine business; and that’s the main thing.”
“But of course! And we all know how they’ve built it up. With their elbows, do you hear—not an ounce of culture or refinement. That Hinrich Hagenström. Grandfather said he could make oxen give milk, those were his very words.”
“Yes, yes, yes, but what’s the difference. The main thing is that he’s making money. And as far as the engagement goes, it’s a very nice piece of business, too. Julie ends up a Möllendorpf, and August moves into a pretty job.”
“Oh, you just want to annoy me, Tom, that’s all. I loathe those people.”
Tom began to laugh. “Good Lord, we’ll have to get used to them all the same, you know. As Papa said recently, they’re the up-and-coming families—whereas the Möllendorpfs, for example. And one can’t deny that the Hagenströms are hard workers. Hermann is already indispensable in the firm, and Moritz graduated at the top of his class, despite his bad lungs. They say he’s very clever and is going to study law.”
“How nice, Tom. But I’m glad that there are at least some other families that don’t have to kowtow to them, and that, for instance, we Buddenbrooks …”
“Now, now,” Tom said, “let’s not boast. Every family has its weak points.” And with a glance at Jochen’s broad back, he lowered his voice. “Lord only knows, for example, what’s going on with Uncle Justus. Papa just shakes his head when he speaks of him, and Grandfather Kröger has had to help out a couple of times now with some very large sums, I think. And things are not quite what they should be with our cousins, either. Jürgen is supposed to go to university, but he still hasn’t taken his finals. And I’ve heard Dahlbeck & Co. in Hamburg is not at all satisfied with Jakob. He can never make ends meet, despite the big allowance he gets; and what Uncle Justus won’t give him, Aunt Rosalie will. No, I think it’s best we not cast any stones. And if you want to balance the scales with the Hagenströms, then you had best marry Grünlich.”
“Did I get into this carriage with you to talk about him? Yes, yes, I probably ought to marry him. But I don’t want to think about that now. I simply want to forget it. And so now we’re on our way to the Schwarzkopfs’. As far as I know, I’ve never met them. They’re nice people, you say?”
“Oh, Diederich Schwarzkopf—now, there’s a right tol’rable ol’ gent. Not that he always talks that way, only when he’s had more than five glasses of grog. He was visiting the office once, and we all went down to the Seaman’s Guild together. He drank like a fish. His father was born on a Norwegian ship, and ended up a captain on the same line. Diederich has had a good education; harbor pilot is a very responsible and rather well-paid position. He’s an old salt, but always polite to the ladies. Watch out, he’ll try to flirt with you.”
“Pooh! And his wife?”
“I don’t know his wife myself. She’s pleasant enough, I’m sure. And there’s a son, too, who was one or two years ahead of me in school and is at university, I think. Look, there’s the sea! Less than fifteen minutes now …”
They drove down an avenue lined by beech trees, right beside the sea, which lay blue and peaceful in the sun. Then came the round, yellow lighthouse, and for a while they watched the bay and the breakwater, the red roofs of the little town and its little harbor, the sails and tackle of the boats. Then they passed the first houses, left the church behind them, and rolled along Front Row, until they reached a pretty little house that had a porch overgrown with grapevine.
Captain Schwarzkopf was standing at the door, and as the carriage approached he doffed his seaman’s cap. He was a stocky, broad-shouldered man with a red face, watery-blue eyes, and a frosted, bristly beard that ran in a fan shape from ear to ear—but the firm red curve of his upper lip was clean-shaven. There was dignity and honesty in his mouth, which was turned down around a wooden pipe. A white piqué vest shimmered under an open coat trimmed with gold braid. He stood there, legs set wide apart, and had something of a paunch.
“It’s a genuine honor for me, mamselle. Suits us just fine that you’re willing to put up with us for a time.” He carefully helped Tony out of the carriage. “My compliments, Herr Buddenbrook. The consul’s doing well, I hope? And your good mother? It’s a genuine pleasure. Well, come on in, lady and gent. My wife’s put together something like a little snack. Just head on down to Pedderson’s Inn,” he said to the driver, who had carried their baggage into the house, “your horses’ll be nicely taken care of there. You are spending the night with us, aren’t you, Herr Buddenbrook? So, and why not? The horses’ll have to catch a bit of breath at least, and you won’t make it back to town before dark.”
“You know, staying here will be at least as pleasant as at the spa hotel,” Tony said, fifteen minutes later, as they took their coffee on the veranda. “The air is simply marvelous! You can smell the seaweed from here. I’m so dreadfully happy to be in Travemünde again.”
She could look out between the vine-clad columns of the porch onto the wide river shining in the sun, its boats and docks, and on across to the ferry landing on Priwall, the peninsula that jutted out from Mecklenburg. The big, bowl-shaped cups rimmed with blue were so unusual, so crude in comparison with their dainty old porcelain at home; but the table looked inviting—a bouquet of wildflowers had been set at Tony’s place—and the trip had made her hungry.
“Yes, Mamselle will see, she’ll get to feeling better here,” the mistress of the house said. “She’s looking just a tad peaked, if I might put it that way. That’s what comes of city air, and, then, all those balls and parties.…”
Frau Schwarzkopf, the daughter of a pastor from Schlutup, looked to be about fifty; she was a head shorter than Tony and rather slight of build. Her hair was black, smooth, and freshly put up in a large-meshed net. She wore a dark brown dress trimmed with white crocheted cuffs and a small collar. She was tidy, gentle, and friendly, and warmly recommended her homemade raisin bread, which lay in a boat-shaped basket, surrounded by cream, sugar, butter, and honey still in the comb. The breadbasket was trimmed with pearl embroidery, the handiwork of Meta, who was sitting beside her mother, a polite little eight-year-old in a plaid frock and with flaxen hair tied up in a stiff pigtail.
Frau Schwarzkopf apologized for the room that was to be Tony’s and that she had already used to freshen up a bit. It was furnished so simply.…
“Pooh, sweet as it can be,” Tony said. It had a view to the sea, that was the main thing. And with that she dipped her fourth slice of raisin bread in her coffee. Tom was talking with the old man about the Wullenwever, which was in town for repairs.
Suddenly a young man of about twenty came up onto the porch, book in hand. He doffed his gray felt hat, blushed, and made a somewhat awkward bow.
“Well, my lad,” the pilot captain said, “you’re late getting home.” Then he introduced him to them. “This is my son”—and he mentioned the name, but Tony did not catch it. “Studying to be a docto
r, spending his vacation here with us.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Tony said, just as she had been taught. Tom stood up and shook hands. Young Schwarzkopf bowed again, put his book down, and blushed as he took a seat at the table.
He was of average height, rather slender, and as blond as could be. The beginnings of a mustache were barely visible and as colorless as the short-cropped hair on his longish head; all of which was a perfect match for his extraordinarily pale complexion—skin like translucent porcelain that turned red at the slightest provocation. His eyes were a somewhat darker blue than his father’s, but they had the same kindly, if not lively, way of appraising things; the features of his face were regular and rather pleasing. As he began to eat, he displayed a set of unusually well-formed, closely set teeth so shiny that they sparkled like polished ivory. And he was dressed in a gray, high-buttoned jacket with flaps over the pockets and an elastic band across the back.
“Yes, I really must apologize for being so late,” he said. He spoke somewhat ponderously and his voice was a little scratchy. “I’ve been reading out on the beach and simply didn’t keep track of the time.” He fell silent, but as he chewed, he would glance now and then at Tony and Tom, checking them over.
Later, when at Frau Schwarzkopf’s urging Tony helped herself to more, he said, “You can trust that honey, Fräulein Buddenbrook. It’s a pure product of nature. You know what you’re eating there. You have to eat right, you know. This sea air will cause you to lose weight. It accelerates the metabolism. And if you don’t eat enough, you’ll just waste away.” He had a naïve and agreeable way of bending forward when he spoke, though sometimes he might not be looking at the same person he was talking to.
His mother listened to him fondly, and then searched Tony’s face for the impression his words had made.
But old Schwarzkopf said, “Don’t go putting on airs, doc, with your metabolism. We don’t want to know about it.” And the young man laughed and looked again at Tony’s plate—and blushed.
The harbor pilot mentioned his son’s first name several times, but Tony could never quite catch it. It was something like “Moore” or “Mort”—it was impossible to tell, given the old man’s broad Plattdeutsch accent.
The table had been cleared; Diederich Schwarzkopf was sitting there comfortably squinting into the sun, his jacket wide open to reveal his shimmering vest, he and his son had lit their stubby wooden pipes, and Tom was occupied with his cigarettes—and now the young men found themselves engaged in lively reminiscences of their school days, even Tony joined in with enthusiasm. They quoted Herr Stengel: “You were asked to draw a line, and what have you done? You have made a stroke!” What a shame Christian wasn’t there; he could have done it much better.
At one point Tom pointed to the vase of wildflowers in front of Tony and remarked, “Herr Grünlich would say: Those add a rare, ornamental touch.”
Tony, red with rage, poked him in the ribs, and her eyes glided shyly in the direction of young Schwarzkopf.
Coffee had been served unusually late, and they went on sitting there for a long time, too. It was already half past six, and the Priwall peninsula had begun to sink beneath the oncoming dusk, when the old captain finally rose from the table. “Well, you’ll have to excuse me, ladies and gents,” he said. “I’ve got some things to do down at the pilots’ office. We’ll eat at eight, if that’s all right by you. Or maybe even a little later for once—what do you think, Meta? But, say now”—and he used that first name again—“don’t just sit around here doing nothing. Why don’t you go occupy yourself with your bones. Mamselle Buddenbrook’ll be wanting to unpack, I suppose. Or you two young folks can take a walk along the beach if you like. Just don’t get in their way, son.”
“Good heavens, Diederich, why can’t the lad sit here for a while if he likes,” Frau Schwarzkopf said, remonstrating gently. “And why shouldn’t he join them on the beach if he wants to? He’s on vacation, Diederich. Why shouldn’t he enjoy spending some time with our visitors?”
6
WHEN TONY AWAKENED the next morning in her little, tidy room with its chintz-covered furniture, she had that prickly, happy feeling one has when one opens one’s eyes and finds life has begun a new chapter.
She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees and throwing back her tousled head, squinted into the narrow, blinding streak of daylight pouring into the room through the closed shutters, and lazily unpacked all yesterday’s adventures.
She gave barely a thought to Herr Grünlich. The city, that ghastly scene in the landscape room, her parents’ and Pastor Kölling’s reprimands—that all lay far behind her. She would wake up every morning here without a care in the world. These Schwarzkopfs were marvelous people. Yesterday evening there had even been orange punch and a toast to the fine time they would spend together. They had had such fun. Old Schwarzkopf had entertained them with sea yarns, and the younger one had told them about Göttingen, where he was studying. But how odd that she still didn’t know his first name. She had paid close attention, but it had not been mentioned once during dinner, and it hadn’t seemed quite proper to ask at that point. She concentrated hard—Lord, what was young Schwarzkopf’s name? Moore … Mort …? Whatever it was, Moore or Mort, she had liked him. He had such a good-natured, mischievous laugh, and when he had asked for water by using a couple of letters with some numbers added, his father had been simply furious. Yes, that was the scientific formula for water—though not for this water, because the formula for the liquid of Travemünde would be much more complicated. Why, you might discover a jellyfish in it any second. The authorities, now, they had their own definition of pure water. And this earned him another rebuke from his father, for speaking in such disparaging tones about the authorities. Frau Schwarzkopf had kept searching Tony’s face for some sign of admiration, and she had to admit that he was very amusing, so learned and funny at the same time. He had paid rather a lot of attention to her, the young man had. She had complained that when she ate her head always got hot, that she thought she had too much blood. And what was his answer? He had eyed her critically and said: Yes, the arteries at her temples were swollen, but that did not rule out that she might not have enough blood or blood corpuscles in her head. She might even have a touch of anemia.
The cuckoo jumped from its little wooden house and gave four bright, mellow calls. “Seven, eight, nine”—Tony counted along—“on your feet!” And with that she sprang from her bed and threw open the shutters. The sky was lightly overcast, but the sun was shining. She looked out across the Leuchtenfeld flats and the lighthouse to the ruffled sea, bordered on the right by the curving coast of Mecklenburg and then extending out in bands of green and blue until it merged with the hazy horizon. I’ll go swimming later, Tony thought, but first a good breakfast, so that my metabolism doesn’t make me waste away. And she made quick, happy work of washing and dressing.
It was a little after nine-thirty when she left her room. The door to the room where Tom had slept stood open; he had ridden back to town very early. Even upstairs here, where there were only bedrooms, Tony could smell coffee—that seemed to be the little house’s characteristic odor, and it grew stronger as she came down the staircase with its simple, unbroken wooden railing and followed the hallway that led past the parlor, the dining room, and the harbor pilot’s private office. Feeling fresh and in the best of moods, she walked out onto the porch in her white piqué dress.
Frau Schwarzkopf was sitting with her son at the coffee table, which had already been partially cleared. She was wearing a blue-checked apron over her brown dress. There was a basket of keys in front of her.
“A thousand pardons for not waiting for you, Mamselle Buddenbrook,” she said as she stood up. “We get up early, we simple folks do. There’s a hundred things to be done. Schwarzkopf is in his office already. But you won’t take it amiss, will you, mamselle?”
Tony made her own apologies. “You mustn’t believe I always sleep this late. I’m quite ashamed
of myself, but that punch last night …”
And the young man of the house began to laugh. He was standing behind the table now, his stubby pipe in his hand, a newspaper spread open before him.
“Yes, it’s your fault,” Tony said. “Good morning. You kept toasting glasses with me. But all I deserve now is some cold coffee. I should already have had my breakfast and taken my swim.”
“No, such an early swim wouldn’t be good for a young lady. The water was still quite cold at seven this morning, you know—fifty-two degrees. A little bracing coming from a warm bed.”
“And how would you know if I like lukewarm water, monsieur?” And Tony took her place at the table. “You’ve kept the coffee warm for me, Frau Schwarzkopf. But I can certainly pour it for myself, many thanks.”
The mistress of the house watched her guest take the first bite. “And Mamselle slept well her first night here? Heaven knows, the mattress is just seaweed—we’re simple folk. But now enjoy your breakfast and the rest of the morning. I’m sure Mamselle had plans to meet some of her friends on the beach? If you’d like, my son can walk you there. I’m sorry I can’t spend more time with you, but I really must look after lunch. We’ll be having bratwurst. We’ll do our best to feed you.”
“I’ll just have some of the honeycomb,” Tony said, when the two were alone. “After all, you know what you’re eating there.”
Young Schwarzkopf stood up again and laid his pipe on the porch railing.
“Oh, go ahead and smoke. Really, it doesn’t bother me in the least. By the time I get to the breakfast room at home, it always smells of Papa’s cigar smoke. Tell me,” she suddenly asked, “is it true that an egg is as nutritious as a quarter-pound of meat?”
He blushed all over. “Are you trying to tease me, Fräulein Buddenbrook?” he asked with a laugh that was half annoyance. “My father rapped my knuckles last night for putting on airs with my scientific lingo, as he put it.”
