Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family

by Thomas Mann

  Recalling his wife’s admonition, Johann Buddenbrook stayed close to his father-in-law, and, eyeing him anxiously, he finally asked, “I hope this little adventure isn’t upsetting you Father, is it?”

  Two disquietingly swollen bluish veins had appeared on Lebrecht Kröger’s brow, just below his snow-white toupee, and while one aged, aristocratic hand played with the iridescent buttons on his vest, the other, the one with a large diamond ring, lay trembling on his knee.

  “Poppycock, Buddenbrook!” he said with a strange weariness. “I’m bored, that’s all.” But then he betrayed himself by suddenly hissing, “Parbleu, Jean. What we ought to do is use some powder and lead to teach this infamous riffraff a little respect. It’s a mob! Rabble!”

  The consul murmured soothingly, “Yes, yes, you’re right there, it’s a rather undignified farce. But what can we do? Just keep our composure. Evening’s coming on. They’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Where’s my carriage? I demand my carriage!” Lebrecht Kröger commanded, beside himself now. His rage exploded, his whole body was quivering. “I ordered my carriage for five o’clock. Where is it? There’s not going to be a meeting, so what am I doing here? I am not about to be made a fool of. I want my carriage. Are they insulting my coachman? Go have a look, Buddenbrook.”

  “My dear father, for heaven’s sake, calm down. You’re getting yourself excited, which is not good for you. But of course I’ll go out and see about your carriage. I’ve had enough of the situation myself. I’ll speak to those people, ask them to go home.”

  And although Lebrecht Kröger protested—suddenly commanding in a cold, disdainful voice, “Do not compromise yourself, Buddenbrook. Wait, stay here!”—the consul strode rapidly across the room.

  Just before the consul reached the narrow green door, Siegismund Gosch caught up with him, grabbing his arm with a bony hand and asking in a horrible whisper, “Whither now, Herr Buddenbrook?”

  The broker’s face was a maze of a thousand deep lines of worry. His pointed chin was thrust upward toward his nose in a look of wild determination, his gray hair hung ominously over brow and temples, his head was tucked so deep into his shoulders that he had finally succeeded in looking like a hunchback—and he exclaimed, “Behold me now, prepared to speak unto the people.”

  The consul said, “No, it’s better that I should do that, Gosch. I probably have more acquaintances out there than you.”

  “So be it,” the broker responded in a flat voice. “You are a greater man than I.” But now, with a rising voice, he continued, “But I shall accompany you, I shall stand at your side, Consul Buddenbrook. Though the rage of unchained slaves may rend this body to shreds …”

  And as they went through the door, he said, “Oh, what a day! What a night!” Never had he been so happy as at that moment.

  “Behold, Herr Buddenbrook—the people!” They had passed down the hallway and, emerging through the main entrance, they stood now at the top of three narrow steps that led down to the sidewalk. And were greeted by a strange sight. The street itself was otherwise deserted, with only a few curious faces silhouetted against the light in the windows of the buildings, all staring down at the black mass of insurgents below. The crowd, however, was not much larger than the group assembled in the hall and consisted of young workers from the docks and warehouses, porters, schoolchildren, a few sailors from merchant ships—men and boys who lived in the alleys, lanes, mews, and courts of the less prosperous parts of town. Also present were three or four women, who apparently expected the enterprise to yield results similar to those envisioned by the Buddenbrooks’ own cook. Several insurrectionists had grown weary of standing and had sat down on the curb, feet in the gutter, to eat their sandwiches.

  It would soon be six o’clock, but although twilight was well advanced by now, the oil lamps still hung unlit on their chains above the street. This was an obvious and unprecedented disruption of public order, and for the first time that day Consul Buddenbrook truly lost his temper—and began to speak in curt and angry tones. “Folks, what sort of foolishness are you up to now?”

  The picnickers leapt to their feet. Those at the rear, on the other side of the street, stood on tiptoe. A few of the dockworkers, employees of the consul, removed their caps. They stood there attentively, nudging each other and whispering: “That’s Consul Buddenbrook. Consul Buddenbrook’s gonna give a talk. Shut your mouth, Krischan, I’ve seen him get madder than hell! That’s Gosch the broker. Lookathat! What an ass! Has he finally gone off the deep end?”

  “Corl Smolt,” the consul began again, directing his small, deep-set eyes at a bowlegged warehouse worker in his early twenties, who was standing directly below the stairs, with hat in hand and a mouth full of bread. “Now, speak up, Corl Smolt! It’s high time. You’ve been yowling all afternoon.”

  “Well, Consul, sir,” Corl Smolt managed, still chewing. “Things is … sorta … come to a pass. We’re makin’ a revolution.”

  “What sort of malarkey is that, Smolt!”

  “Well, Consul, sir, you may well say that, but things is come to a pass. We ain’t satisfied no more. We’re demandin’ a new ’rangement. Tain’t nothin’ more’n that, plain and simple.”

  “Now listen here, Smolt, and the rest of you! Whoever’s got any sense left will head on home and forget all this about revolution and upsetting public order.”

  “The sacred public order,” Herr Gosch interrupted with a hiss.

  “Public order, I said!” Consul Buddenbrook concluded. “The lamps haven’t even been lit yet. That’s carrying revolution just a bit too far.”

  But Corl Smolt had swallowed his mouthful by now, and, with the crowd behind him, he stood there, legs set firmly apart, and offered his objections. “Well, Consul, sir, you may well say that. But it’s ’cause of the gen’ral frenchies.”

  “Good Lord, you imbecile,” the consul shouted, so indignant now that he forgot to speak in Plattdeutsch. “What asinine absurdity.”

  “Well, Consul, sir,” Corl Smolt said, somewhat intimidated now. “That may be as may be. But there’s gonna be a revolution, sure as rain. There’s revolution everywhere, in Berlin and Paree.…”

  “Smolt, what is it you really want? Speak up, out with it!”

  “Well, Consul, sir, that’s just what I’m sayin’. We want a republic, plain and simple.”

  “But, you nincompoop—you already have one.”

  “Well, Consul, sir, then we want ’nother besides.”

  Several of those standing around him who knew better began to laugh haltingly, then heartily; and although only a few people had actually heard Corl Smolt’s reply, the merriment spread until the whole throng of republicans broke into broad, amiable laughter. A few curious faces now appeared at the windows of the assembly hall—some of the gentlemen had beer mugs in their hands. The only person disappointed and grieved by this turn of affairs was Siegismund Gosch.

  “So, then, folks,” Consul Buddenbrook said at last, “I think it’d be best if we all went home now.”

  Corl Smolt, totally dumbfounded at the effect his words had produced, replied, “Well, Consul, sir, that’s about it, and so we’ll let it rest for now, and ’m mighty happy to see you ain’t took it amiss, Consul, sir, so we’ll be seein’ you, Consul, sir.…”

  In the best of moods now, the crowd began to disperse.

  “Smolt, wait a minute,” the consul shouted. “Tell me, have you seen the Krögers’ carriage, the barouche that should have come in by way of the Burg Gate?”

  “ ’sindeed, Consul, sir. It’s come. It’s down below somewheres, turned in at the consul-sir’s own place, it did.”

  “Fine; then run down there quick, Smolt, and tell Jochen he’s to drive up here. His master wants to go home.”

  “Yes, sir, Consul, sir!” And, setting his cap back on his head and pulling its leather bill down over his eyes, Corl Smolt ran off down the street, teetering on his bowlegs.

  4

  WHEN CONSUL BUDDENBROO
K and Siegismund Gosch returned to the meeting room, it presented a much cozier scene than fifteen minutes before. Two large paraffin lamps had been lit on the speaker’s table, and the yellow light revealed gentlemen standing in groups, pouring bottles of beer into shiny mugs, toasting one another, and chatting noisily and jovially. Frau Suerkringel—the widow Suerkringel—had paid them a call, adopting them all in her openhearted fashion and persuading them that, since the siege could last a while yet, a little refreshment might be in order—and she made good use of the troubled times to sell a considerable quantity of her pale but strong beer. And just as the two negotiators entered, the serving boy, clad in shirtsleeves and a good-natured smile, was dragging in another round of bottles; and although the evening was now well advanced and it was much too late to give any attention to the revision of the constitution, no one was inclined to interrupt the get-together and go home. It was too late for coffee in any case.

  After the consul had shaken hands with several well-wishers who congratulated him on his success, he hurried over to his father-in-law. Lebrecht Kröger appeared to be the only man whose mood had not improved. He sat there on his chair—erect, cold, and aloof—and in response to the news that his carriage was waiting for him, he replied in a scornful voice that quivered more from bitterness than age, “The rabble deigns to permit me to return home, do they?”

  With stiff movements that betrayed nothing whatever of the charm and grace that he had always been known for, he let someone lay his fur coat over his shoulders, and when the consul offered to accompany him, he managed only a listless “Merci,” and slipped his arm under his son-in-law’s.

  The majestic carriage, with two large lanterns on its box, halted at the door outside, where, much to the consul’s profound satisfaction, the streetlamps were being lit. They both climbed in, and the carriage rolled off through the streets. Lebrecht Kröger sat on the consul’s right, a blanket spread over his knees; he did not lean back, but held himself bent forward at a slight angle with his eyes half closed; he said not a word, and beneath his white mustache two deep folds ran from the corners of his mouth to the tip of his chin. Fury at being humiliated gnawed at him, devoured him. He gazed with dull, cold eyes at the empty cushions opposite them.

  The streets were livelier than on a Sunday evening—everyone was in a holiday mood it seemed. The common folk, delighted at the happy outcome of their revolution, strolled about in an exuberant mood. Some were even singing. Here and there small boys threw their caps in the air and shouted “Hurrah!” as the carriage passed.

  “I really think you’ve let all this affect you far too much, Father,” the consul said. “When one considers what buffoonery the whole thing was—a farce.” And, trying to evoke some reply or comment from the old man, he began vigorously to address the general topic of revolution. “If the unpropertied masses would only realize how little they are helping their own cause these days. Oh, good Lord, it’s the same everywhere. I had a brief conversation with Gosch the broker this afternoon—such a bizarre man, who sees everything with the eyes of a poet and dramatist. You see, Father, the revolution in Berlin was rehearsed at the tea tables of aesthetes, and then had to be carried out by the people, at the risk of their own skins. But will it be worth the cost they’ve been asked to pay?”

  “I would appreciate it if you would open the window on your side,” Herr Kröger said.

  Johann Buddenbrook threw him a quick glance, then hurriedly lowered the pane. “Aren’t you feeling well, Father?” he asked worriedly.

  “No. Not at all,” Lebrecht Kröger replied sternly.

  “You need a bite to eat and some rest,” the consul said, and then he tucked the blanket more tightly around his father-in-law’s knees, just for something to do.

  Suddenly—the equipage was rattling down Burg Strasse now—something horrible happened. About fifteen yards on this side of the walls of the gate, which was just emerging from the shadows, they passed a band of noisy urchins at play—and a rock flew through the open window. It was a perfectly harmless stone, no bigger than a hen’s egg, flung from the hand of some Krischan Snut or Heine Voss in celebration of the revolution—certainly not out of malice and presumably not even aimed at the carriage. It entered soundlessly through the window, bounced soundlessly against the heavy padding of furs on Lebrecht Kröger’s chest, rolled just as soundlessly to the soft blanket on his knees, and finally came to rest on the floor.

  “Clumsy brats,” the consul said angrily. “Has everyone gone mad this evening? But it didn’t hurt you did it, Father?”

  Old man Kröger was silent, terrifyingly silent. It was too dark in the carriage to make out the expression on his face. He sat there with his back not touching the seat—straighter and stiffer than before. But then, from somewhere deep within, came one cold, heavy, slow word: “Rabble.”

  Worried that he might upset the old man even more, the consul did not reply. The carriage rolled through the echoing tunnel of the gate and onto the broad avenue; within three minutes they were alongside the wrought-iron fence with gilt-tipped railings that bounded the Kröger estate. Two lanterns topped with golden knobs were burning brightly at each side of the wide entrance to the chestnut-lined drive that led up to the terrace. The consul was horrified by what the light revealed of his father-in-law’s face. It was yellow, ragged, deeply furrowed. The cold, hard, disdainful set of the mouth had given way to the feeble, skewed, limp, stupid grin of an old man. The carriage pulled to a halt by the terrace.

  “Help me,” Lebrecht Kröger said—although the consul had already climbed out and pulled away the blanket and was offering the support of his arm and shoulder. He guided him slowly along a few Steps of gravel walk to the glistening white stairway that led to the dining room. At the base of the stairs the old man’s knees buckled. His head fell so hard against his chest that his lower jaw clattered loudly against his upper teeth. His eyes rolled back, and snapped.

  Lebrecht Kröger, the cavalier à la mode, had joined his fathers.

  5

  ONE YEAR and two months later—it was January, 1850—on a morning misty with snow, Herr and Madame Grünlich and their little three-year-old daughter were sitting at breakfast in their dining room—wainscoted in light-brown woods, on chairs that had cost twenty-five marks courant apiece.

  The panes of both windows were almost opaque with fog, and only blurred, naked trees and shrubs were still visible outside. The room was filled with a gentle, slightly fragrant warmth from the blaze burning in the low, green-tiled stove that stood in one corner, next to the door leading to the pensée room filled with foliage. Directly opposite, portieres of some green fabric had been pulled back to reveal the brown silk salon and a tall glass door—its cracks stuffed with rolls of cotton batting—with a view to the little terrace, which was now lost in the whitish-gray fog. A third door off to one side led out to the hallway.

  An embroidered green runner ran across the snow-white cloth of woven damask spread over the round table, which was set with gold-rimmed porcelain of such transparency that here and there it shimmered like mother-of-pearl. A samovar hummed. Rolls and slices of sweet bread lay in a shallow basket of fine silver shaped like a large, jagged-edged leaf rolled back on itself. Under the bell of one crystal dish was a mountain of rippled balls of butter, under another could be seen various kinds of cheese—yellow, white, and marbled green. There was even a bottle of red wine set before the master of the house, for Herr Grünlich ate a full breakfast.

  His side-whiskers had been freshly curled, and his face was especially pink this early in the morning. Dressed in a black coat and light trousers in a large check, he sat with his back to the salon and was dining on a lightly grilled chop. His wife found his English-style breakfast quite elegant, but also so disgusting that she could never bring herself to abandon her usual bread and soft-boiled egg for it.

  Tony was in her dressing gown; she was mad about dressing gowns. She found nothing more elegant than a tasteful negligee, and since
she had never been permitted to give free rein to this passion in her parents’ home, she indulged herself all the more as a married woman. She owned three of these supple, clinging garments, and had found that designing them required more taste, refinement, and imagination than was ever needed for a ball gown. This morning she was wearing her dark-red dressing gown, its color exactly matched to the tones of the wallpaper above the wainscoting, its texture softer than the softest cotton, and its large-flowered print embroidered everywhere with sprays of tiny glass pearls in the same hue. Dozens of red velvet ribbons ran down in a straight row from neckline to hem.

  She wore a dark red velvet bow in her heavy, ash-blond hair, which fell in curls over her brow. Although she was quite aware that she had already achieved the highpoint of her beauty, her slightly protruding upper lip had the same childish, naïve, and saucy effect as ever. The lids of her grayish blue eyes were pink from a splash of cold water. Her hands—those white, somewhat short, but delicately shaped fingers of the Buddenbrooks, with small wrists enclosed by the velvet cuffs of her sleeves—handled knife, fork, and cup with movements that for some reason seemed a little abrupt and hasty.

  Next to her little Erika sat in a towerlike highchair—a well-nourished child with short blond curls, dressed in a funny, formless pale blue jacket of knitted wool. She held her cup clasped in both hands; her face vanished into the cup, and she gulped at her milk, pausing now and then for little enthusiastic sighs.