Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family

by Thomas Mann

  And he did that as well, and they all got to know one another. The director had been born in Silesia, where his aging father still lived; his family apparently did not have to be taken into consideration, inasmuch as Hugo Weinschenk was a self-made man. His self-confidence was typical of such men—not something he was born to, but a little uncertain, a little exaggerated, a little mistrustful. His manners were not quite perfect, and his conversation was frankly clumsy. It was also true that his workaday frock coat had several shiny places, that his cuffs, fastened with the large jet buttons, were not quite fresh and clean, and that an accident had shriveled the nail on the middle finger of his left hand and turned it black. The effect, then, was rather unpleasant, but that did not prevent Hugo Weinschenk from being a hardworking, energetic, and respectable young man who earned twelve thousand marks courant a year—or from being, in Erika Grünlich’s eyes, a handsome man.

  Frau Permaneder quickly reviewed the situation and arrived at an assessment. She spoke openly to her mother and brother about it. It was clear that here was a meeting of interests that complemented one another. Like Erika, Herr Weinschenk had no social connections whatever; the two were meant for one another, were a match obviously made in heaven. If the director, who was nearing forty and whose hair was already flecked with gray, wished to establish a family, something quite appropriate to his position and means, the connection with Erika Grünlich would provide him an opening into one of the first families in town, securing him in his job and advancing his career. As to her daughter’s welfare, Frau Permaneder felt confident in saying that at least there was no chance of Erika’s meeting her own fate. Herr Weinschenk bore not the least resemblance to Herr Permaneder, and, in contrast to Bendix Grünlich, Hugo Weinschenk was a man with a steady job and a good salary, which by no means precluded a further career.

  In short, there was a great deal of good will on both sides. More afternoon visits by Herr Weinschenk followed in rapid succession, and in January, 1867, with a few brief, manly, and straightforward words, he made bold to ask for Erika Grünlich’s hand.

  From then on he was part of the family. He began to be included on “children’s day” and was courteously received by the bride’s relatives. No doubt he sensed at once that he was out of place, but he disguised his feelings by striking an even bolder pose; and Madame Buddenbrook, Uncle Justus, and Senator Buddenbrook—though hardly the Ladies Buddenbrook from Breite Strasse—were prepared to be tolerant of this diligent wage-earner, who might lack social graces but was a hard worker.

  And tolerance was needed. For instance, when the family was gathered around the dining-room table, someone would have to make a light, diverting comment to break the silence because the director was all too busy dallying with Erika’s cheeks or arms, or because he had asked whether orange marmalade was some kind of pudding—he said “puddin’,” with a perky stress on the first syllable—or because he ventured the opinion that Romeo and Juliet was a play by Schiller. He would offer such comments with self-assured vigor, while nonchalantly rubbing his hands and leaning back to one side against the arm of his chair.

  He got along best with the senator, who knew how to steer the conversation safely to politics and business and thus avoid any accidents. His relations with Gerda Buddenbrook, however, drove him to despair. He was so put off by this lady’s personality that he was incapable of finding a topic they both could talk about for even two minutes. He knew that she played the violin, and this fact had made a great impression on him; and so, whenever they met on Thursdays, he would confine himself to repeating his jocular question: “How’s the fiddle?” After the third time, Gerda Buddenbrook refrained from any reply.

  Christian, as was his habit, wrinkled his nose and watched his new relative, and the next day offered an exhaustive imitation of Hugo’s actions and speech. Consul Johann Buddenbrook’s younger son had recovered from his rheumatic fever in Oeynhausen, but a certain stiffness lingered in his limbs, and he was certainly not free of the periodic “ache” in his left side—where “all the nerves were too short”—or of any other of the ailments to which he felt himself disposed: difficulties in breathing and swallowing, irregular pulse, and a tendency to paralysis, or at least the fear of it. He hardly looked like a man in his late thirties. He was totally bald, with only a few thin, reddish hairs at his temples and across the back of his head; his small, round eyes, roving about restless and pensive, lay deeper than ever in their sockets. And his large, hooked nose was bonier than ever, jutting out even more prominently from between his gaunt, sallow cheeks and above his drooping reddish blond mustache. And his elegant trousers of durable English wool flapped around scrawny, bowed legs.

  Upon returning to his mother’s home, he moved into his old room off the corridor on the second floor, but spent more time at the Club than on Meng Strasse, because life was not made easy for him there. Rieke Severin, Ida Jungmann’s successor, who now managed the servants and looked after the household, was a stout twenty-seven-year-old woman from the country with red coarse-veined cheeks and pouting lips; and her peasant’s eye for hard facts told her that she needn’t have much regard for this idle teller of tales, who was foolish one day and ill the next, and whom the senator, the real head of the family, passed over with a raised eyebrow—so she simply neglected his needs. “Well, now, Herr Buddenbrook,” she would say, “I ain’t got time for you!” And Christian would wrinkle his nose and stare at her as if to say, “Aren’t you the least bit ashamed of yourself?” and go his stiff-kneed way.

  “Do you suppose I ever have a candle?” he asked Tony. “Very seldom. Most of the time I find my way to bed with a match.” Or, since his mother could give him only a little pocket money, he might declare, “Hard times. Yes, it was all very different in the old days. Why, just imagine—I often have to borrow five shillings for tooth powder.”

  “Christian!” Frau Permaneder cried. “How undignified! With a match? Five shillings? Please, don’t speak about it at least.” She was outraged, shocked, it was an insult to her most sacred feelings—but that changed nothing.

  Christian borrowed those five shillings for tooth powder from his old friend Andreas Gieseke, attorney for both civil and criminal law. He was lucky to have such a friend, it served him in good stead, because just last winter, when old Kaspar Oeverdieck had passed away in his sleep and Dr. Langhals had become mayor, Andreas Gieseke, the suitier who knew how to maintain his dignity, had been elected senator. But that had not changed the way he conducted his life. People knew that, in addition to the spacious townhouse in which he had resided since his marriage to Fräulein Huneus, he also owned a little, cozily furnished, vine-covered cottage in the suburb of Sankt Gertrud—its sole occupant an extraordinarily pretty, relatively young lady of unknown origins. Above the door was an ornate gilt inscription, just one shining word—“Quisisana”—and the idyllic little cottage was known all over town by that name, which everyone pronounced with soft “z”s and very indistinct “a”s. But as Andreas’s best friend, Christian Buddenbrook had gained entry to Quisisana, and there he met with the same sort of success that had been his in Hamburg with Aline Puvogel—and on various occasions in London, Valparaiso, and so many other spots on the globe. He had “told a story or two,” he had been “nice to her,” and now he visited the vine-covered cottage with the same regularity as Senator Gieseke himself. It is unclear whether this occurred with the knowledge and permission of the latter; it is certain, however, that Christian Buddenbrook found, at no expense whatever, the same homey diversions that Senator Gieseke spent a great deal of his wife’s money to enjoy.

  Shortly after Hugo Weinschenk’s engagement to Erika Grünlich, he offered his future brother-in-law a position in his insurance office; and, indeed, Christian did spend two weeks in the service of the Municipal Fire Insurance Company. But then, unfortunately, the work caused a flair-up not only of the old ache in his left side, but also of several other of those ailments so difficult to diagnose. There was also the problem
that the director was a very stern boss, and if Christian made a mistake he did not hesitate to tell his brother-in-law that he was as dense as a walrus—and Christian felt compelled to quit his job.

  But, for her part, Madame Permaneder was in such a happy, radiant mood that she was given to brilliant insights—such as: “This earthly life does have its good sides now and then.” And, indeed, she blossomed during these weeks filled with the invigorating bustle of a thousand things to plan, with worries about where the couple would live and the feverish task of putting together a trousseau—all of which so clearly brought to mind the days of her own first engagement that she could not help feeling younger and full of boundless optimism. Much of her earlier girlish charm and high spirits returned to her face and gestures. In fact, her boisterous merriment proved such a profanation of the atmosphere on one particular Jerusalem Evening that even Lea Gerhardt let her ancestor’s book fall to her lap and looked about the room with the large, oblivious, and mistrustful eyes of the deaf.

  Erika was not to be separated from her mother. With Hugo’s consent—indeed, at his express wish—it was decided that Frau Antonie, at least for the time being, would live with the Weinschenks, assisting the inexperienced Erika in managing a household—and it was this arrangement that produced in Tony the most exquisite feeling, as if there had never been a Bendix Grünlich or an Alois Permaneder, as if all the failures, disappointments, and sufferings of life were melting away, and as if she could begin anew with fresh hope. It is true that she reminded Erika to thank God for granting her the man she loved to be her husband, whereas she, Tony, had been forced by reason and duty to sacrifice her first and deeply felt love; and it is true that it was Erika’s name along with Hugo Weinschenk’s that she entered in the family records, her hand trembling for joy—but it was she, Tony Buddenbrook, who was the real bride. It was she who once again examined portieres and carpets with an expert hand, who rummaged through furniture and decorating shops, who was allowed once again to find and rent an elegant apartment. It was she who would once again leave the roomy but very pious home of her parents and no longer be merely a divorced woman; it was she who would once more be able to lift her head high and begin a new life that would act as a focus of attention and further the prestige of the family. Yes—but was it all a dream? Dressing gowns suddenly appeared—two dressing gowns, one for her and one for Erika, made of soft, knitted fabric, with broad trains and a band of close-set velvet bows, from neck to hem!

  But the weeks of Erika Grünlich’s engagement were passing quickly and would soon be over. The young couple paid calls to only a few houses, because the director, being a serious, hardworking man with little experience in society, was of a mind to devote his leisure hours to more intimate, homey activities. There had been an engagement dinner in the great salon of the house on Fischer Grube—attended by Thomas, Gerda, the future bride and groom, Friederike, Henriette, and Pfiffi, and a few close friends of the senator—during the course of which there was some embarrassment over the way the director kept tapping at Erika’s neck, much of which was bared by her rather low-cut gown. And now the wedding day drew near.

  The columned hall was the setting for the wedding, just as on that day long ago when Frau Grünlich had worn the myrtle. Frau Stuht from Glockengiesser Strasse, the lady who moved in the best circles of society, was there to help the bride arrange the pleats of her satin dress and trim it with sprays of green. Senator Buddenbrook gave the bride away, and Christian’s friend Senator Gieseke served as best man; two of Erika’s former friends from boarding school were the bridesmaids; Herr Hugo Weinschenk looked imposing and manly and stepped on Erika’s long trailing veil only once on the way to the improvised altar; Pastor Pringsheim, his hands clasped under his chin, presided over the ceremony with his unique air of transfigured solemnity; and everything was done as custom and dignity dictated. When the rings were exchanged and they both answered “Yes” in clear though slightly hoarse voices that echoed through the hushed hallway, Frau Permaneder wept audibly, overwhelmed by her past, present, and future—they were still the same innocent and open tears of her childhood. As always at such events, however, the Ladies Buddenbrook smiled rather sour smiles, although Pfiffi had attached a gold chain to her pince-nez in honor of the occasion. Mademoiselle Therese Weichbrodt, who with the years had shrunk to even shorter stature than before, was present as well. Sesame had pinned her oval brooch with the portrait of her mother at her thin neck, and she spoke with that exaggerated firmness meant to hide a deep rush of emotion: “Be heppy, you good chawld!”

  Then, surrounded by white gods, who still stood out against the blue wallpaper in the same serene poses as always, a substantial and sedate banquet was held, toward the end of which the newlyweds vanished to begin the honeymoon that would take them through several major cities. The wedding was in the middle of April; and for the next two weeks Frau Permaneder, with the assistance of Jakobs the upholsterer, completed one of her masterpieces, adding the final elegant touches to the spacious second-floor apartment she had rented for them in a house halfway down Becker Grube and topping it all off with a rich display of flowers to welcome the newlyweds on their return.

  And so began Tony Buddenbrook’s third marriage—and that was indeed the appropriate term for it. The senator himself had called it by that name one Thursday when the Weinschenks happened to be absent, and even Frau Permaneder had been delighted by it. All the worries of the household were hers, in fact, but she claimed all the joy and pride as well; and one day, when she chanced to meet Julie Möllendorpf, née Hagenström, on the street, she gazed straight at her with such a triumphant and defiant look that Frau Möllendorpf had no choice but to greet her first. The pride and joy on her face and in her movements became a kind of grave solemnity whenever she led visiting relatives through her new home—making Erika Weinschenk look like another admiring guest in her own house.

  Sweeping the train of her dressing gown behind her, her shoulders raised slightly, her head laid back, her basket of keys trimmed with velvet bows dangling from her arm—she was simply mad about velvet bows—Frau Antonie showed her visitors the furniture, the portieres, the translucent china, the dazzling silverware, and the large oil paintings that Herr Weinschenk had chosen, either still lifes of edibles or female nudes—both genres very much his taste; and her gestures seemed to say: “You see, I’ve accomplished all this for the third time in life. It is almost as elegant as it was with Grünlich, and certainly more elegant than with Permaneder.”

  Clad in black-and-gray-striped silk and giving off the discreet fragrance of patchouli, old Madame Buddenbrook came to visit; she let her pale eyes glide leisurely over everything and, without actually giving word to her admiration, showed that she approved and was quite satisfied. The senator came with his wife and child, and while he and Gerda silently shared their amusement at Tony’s blissful hauteur, he had all he could do to prevent his sister from gorging her adored little Hanno with dried currants and port. The Ladies Buddenbrook came and remarked in unison that it was all so beautiful that, given their own modest maidenly needs, they wouldn’t really want to live there. Poor Klothilde came—gray, patient, and gaunt—paid no attention to the teasing, and drank four cups of coffee, offering words of praise for everything in her usual amiable drawl. Now and then, when he found no one at the Club, Christian would drop by as well for a glass of Benedictine; he talked about his intention to act as the agent for a firm that sold champagne and cognac—he knew something about that and it would be easy, pleasant work, you were your own boss, you occasionally jotted down a few orders in your notebook, and, quick as a wink, you had made thirty thalers; he then immediately borrowed forty shillings from Frau Permaneder so that he could present a bouquet to the leading lady at the municipal theater, and by some association of ideas—God only knew what they were—found himself talking about “Maria” and the “depravities” of London, moved on to the story about the mangy dog that had been shipped in a box from Valparaiso to S
an Francisco, and, now that he was rolling, went on to tell a wealth of stories with such verve and wit that he could have entertained a whole crowded auditorium.

  He waxed enthusiastic, he was speaking in tongues now. He told his stories in English, Spanish, Plattdeutsch, and Hamburg dialect; he described knifings in Chile and robberies in Whitechapel, hit upon the notion of rummaging through his collection of comic songs, and now recited some and sang others, mugging like a professional comedian and displaying an especially whimsical talent for hand gestures.

  A walkin’ down the street,

  Just lazin’ through my day,

  I chanced to spot a lass

  Up ahead a way.

  In Paris togs she was,

  A bustle at the rear,

  A hat so grand on top,

  I said, “How do, my dear.”

  And ’cause she was so cute

  I offered her my arm.

  She turned and eyed me hard

  And spurned my manly charm:

  “Go home, my boy, and tend your farm.”

  And no sooner had he finished the song than he decided to tell about the Renz Circus and began by repeating the dialogue from the opening act of an English clown—did it so wittily that you would have thought you were sitting at ringside. First there was the usual hubbub behind the curtain, followed by “Open the door, will you!” and the rest of the brouhaha with the ringmaster, and then came a whole series of jokes, all of them told in a broad, whiny patois of English and German. There was the story of the man who swallowed a mouse in his sleep and decided to see a veterinarian, who suggested he swallow a cat. And the story about “my grandmother, and a right lively ol’ girl she was,” who encountered a thousand adventures on her way to the train station, only to arrive just in time to see the train pull out right in front of her nose—“and a right lively ol’ girl she was”; and as he delivered his punch line, Christian broke off and triumphantly shouted, “Music, Mr. Director, if you please!”—and, almost as if awakening from a dream, he seemed quite surprised when the music didn’t start.