Conditions

Part One, Chapter One

"What comes next?... What comes next?..."

"Goodness, what a mystery, what comes next, my dear little girl!"

Frau Consul Buddenbrook sat beside her mother-in-law on a long, white-painted sofa upholstered in pale yellow satin, its backrest adorned with a gilded lion's head. She glanced at her husband, who sat in an armchair nearby, to come to the rescue of her little daughter, who was currently perched on her grandfather's knee by the window.

"Tony!" she prompted. "'I believe that God...'"

Eight-year-old little Antonie was petite, dressed in a shimmering thin silk frock. Her small head, with its golden-yellow hair, struggled to turn away from her grandfather's face, her blue-gray eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. She repeated, "What comes next?" and then recited slowly: "'I believe that God...'" Her eyes brightened, and she rattled off the rest of the sentence: "'...created me and all living creatures.'" Having found her rhythm, she couldn't help but beam with joy, reciting the entire passage of the catechism in one breath without a single mistake. This catechism had been newly revised and published in the year of our Lord 1835, with the approval of a very sensible city council. Once she had a smooth start, she thought, it was just like sledding down "Jerusalem Hill" with her brother in winter: there was no stopping, and no time to think.

She continued, "'Created clothing and footwear, food and drink, house and home, fields and livestock...'" Just as she reached this point, old Herr Johann Buddenbrook suddenly burst into laughter, loud and irrepressible. In truth, he had been holding it back for some time. He felt quite pleased, having finally found an opportunity to make a joke out of the catechism. Perhaps that was exactly why he had chosen to quiz his little granddaughter. He asked her the price of a sack of wheat, inquired about the number of fields and livestock, and began to haggle with her. He had a round, ruddy face—a face that no amount of posturing could ever make look stern—framed by snow-white, powdered hair, with a lock resembling a pigtail hanging over the wide collar of his mouse-gray coat. Though he was nearly seventy, his attire remained in the style of his youth; only the gold and silver ribbons between the buttons and coat pockets were missing, and as for trousers, he had never worn them in his life. His double chin, formed by his stoutness, rested comfortably on a white pleated jabot.

Everyone laughed along with his laughter, though it was merely out of respect for the head of the family. Old Frau Antoinette Buddenbrook, née Duchamps, also giggled, her expression identical to her husband's. She was a plump woman with thick, white curly hair pressed down to her ears, dressed in a gray-black striped garment that reflected her naturally simple character. Her hands, exceptionally delicate and fair, held a velvet sewing bag as they rested on her lap. It was a strange thing that as the years went by, her face grew increasingly similar to her husband's. Only the shape of her eyes and their dark, lively gaze betrayed a hint of the Latin blood in her veins. Although she was born in Hamburg, her grandfather's side carried French-Swiss heritage.

Frau Consul Elisabeth Buddenbrook was her daughter-in-law, née Kröger. Her laugh could be said to be a legacy of the Kröger family: it began with a soft pop of the lips, followed by pressing her chin against her chest. Like all the Krögers, though she could not be called a beauty, her manner was extremely elegant. Her quiet, serene, and gentle movements, and her clear, modulated voice, could win everyone's affection and trust. Her light-red hair was braided into a bun atop her head, with the sides curled loosely to cover her ears, matching her fair, slightly freckled skin perfectly. Her nose was perhaps a trifle too long, her mouth rather small, and the lack of a dimple between her lower lip and chin was a distinct feature of her features. She wore a short, tight-fitting bodice with puffed sleeves, and beneath it, a form-fitting, brightly patterned silk skirt. Her flawless neck emerged from the collar, adorned with a ribbon strung with a strand of sparkling diamonds.

The Consul sat in his armchair, leaning slightly forward with an air of impatience. He wore a cinnamon-colored coat with wide lapels and cuffs that were narrow at the bottom and tightly bound below the wrists. His slim trousers were made of white linen, with black ribbons sewn along the seams. A high, stiff collar bound his chin tightly, and over it was a silk cravat that puffed out to cover the exposed portion of his patterned vest... His blue, slightly sunken eyes were bright and piercing, much like his father's, though they seemed to carry a dreamier quality. His face was more angular and severe than his father's, with a high, hooked nose, and his face, half-hidden behind golden-yellow curly whiskers, was not as full as the old man's.

Old Frau Buddenbrook placed her hand on her daughter-in-law's arm and said with a gentle smile, "He is always like this, old fellow, isn't he, Bethsy?"

When she pronounced the word "always," she turned the 'i' into a 'ü'.

The Frau Consul merely made a gesture in response, her gold bracelet clinking softly against her arm; then she performed a habitual movement, sweeping her hand from the corner of her mouth to her temple as if to tuck away a stray lock of hair.

At this, the Consul said, half-smiling and half-reproachful: "Father, you are always making jokes about sacred things!..."

They were sitting in a "landscape room" on the second floor of a large, old mansion on Meng Street, a property recently purchased by the Johann Buddenbrook Company, and the family had not been living there for long. The walls of the room were hung with heavy, resilient tapestries, with a proper gap left between the fabric and the wall. The tapestries were woven with large landscape scenes in soft colors, coordinated with the thin carpet on the floor. These pastoral scenes were in the style of the eighteenth century: merry grape-pickers, shepherdesses with colorful headbands, and industrious farmers. These shepherdesses were either sitting by crystal-clear brooks, cradling white lambs in their arms, or kissing handsome shepherd boys... To match the yellow covers on the painted furniture and the yellow satin curtains on the two windows, these scenes were mostly bathed in a dim, golden sunset glow.

The furniture in the room was sparse, at least in comparison to the vast size of the chamber. A round table with slender legs inlaid with gold thread was not placed in front of the sofa, but against the wall opposite an organ, upon which sat a box for a flute. In the room, apart from a row of high-backed chairs arranged evenly along the walls, there was only a small sewing table by the window and an exquisite, ornate little writing desk opposite the sofa, displaying antique trinkets.

A glass door faced the wall with the windows, looking out into a dim, pillared hall; to the left, tall white double doors led to the dining room. In a semi-circular fireplace on another wall, firewood crackled behind a gleaming wrought-iron grate.

The weather had turned cold unusually early that year. It was only mid-October, yet the leaves of the small linden trees around the courtyard of St. Mary's Church across the street were already withered and yellow, and cold winds whistled from behind the Gothic spires and corners of the church. A cold, fine drizzle drifted in the air. Because of old Frau Buddenbrook, the house had been fitted with double-paned windows.

It was Thursday, and according to the family custom, the relatives gathered every two weeks; but today, in addition to the relatives living in the city, they had invited several close friends for a light meal; so at this moment... around four o'clock in the afternoon, the whole family sat in the gathering twilight, waiting for their guests... Little Antonie's grandfather had not managed to interrupt her sledding game, only succeeding in making her already upturned upper lip pout even further. By now, she had reached the foot of "Jerusalem Hill," but even she could not stop the sled that had slid out of bounds.

"Amen, I know more than that, Grandpa!" she said.

"Look at that!" She knew more! The old man shouted, feigning curiosity. "Did you hear that, Mother? She knows a thing or two! Can't you tell me..."

"If something catches fire," Tony said, nodding with every word, "it must be lightning. If it doesn't catch fire, it's a thunderbolt!"

She crossed her arms and looked around at the smiling faces, quite certain she would receive everyone's praise. However, old man Buddenbrook did not approve of this display of precociousness; he wanted to know who had taught the child such nonsense. It turned out to be the governess recently hired for the children from Marienwerder... Fräulein Ida Jungmann. The Consul had to put in a few good words for the governess.

"Father, you are too harsh. Even if the child is a bit self-important, a child of this age should be allowed to have her own thoughts on these matters!"

"Excuse me, my dear, but this is rubbish! I don't like filling a child's head with this sort of clutter! You know that! What, thunderbolts striking things? Remember, don't annoy me with that Prussian woman of yours!"

The old gentleman did not get along with Ida Jungmann. He was a man of the world, not narrow-minded. As early as 1813, he had traveled to southern Germany in a four-horse carriage to buy grain for the Prussian soldiers, as he was dealing in military grain supplies at the time. He had also been to Amsterdam and Paris. He was a very enlightened man and did not condemn everything outside the gates of his hometown. Yet, business dealings aside, in social matters, he preferred to draw a stricter line than his son the Consul, and he was always indifferent toward "outsiders." Thus, when his son returned from a trip to West Prussia and brought home this twenty-year-old girl, the old man had flown into a rage over the Consul's act of kindness. When he lost his temper, he spoke almost entirely in French and North German dialect. Ida was the daughter of an innkeeper whose father had passed away shortly before the Buddenbrook party arrived in Marienwerder. Ida was capable, especially in housework and childcare, and her loyalty and Prussian sense of rank made her very suitable for her current position in the family. She was obsessed with social hierarchy, clearly distinguishing between the upper class, the common folk, and the middle class. If Tony made friends with a classmate from a family she deemed merely "well-to-do middle class," she would be very displeased... This Prussian lady happened to walk in through the glass door of the pillared hall at that moment. She was a tall girl, dressed in black, with sleek hair and an honest appearance. She was leading a very thin little girl named Clothilde by the hand. Clothilde wore a small calico dress, her dusty-colored hair devoid of any luster, and she bore the bitter look of an old maid. She was the daughter of a nephew who worked as a farm manager in Rostock, a distant, impoverished relative. Since she was about the same age as Antonie and obedient, the Buddenbrook family had taken on the obligation of raising her.

"Everything is ready," Fräulein Jungmann said. She could not pronounce the 'r' sound, and when she tried, it was merely a rumble in her throat. "Little Clothilde really helped a lot in the kitchen; Trina had almost nothing to do..."

Old Buddenbrook couldn't help but chuckle behind his pleated jabot at Ida's strange pronunciation; the Consul, however, stroked his little niece's cheek and said, "You did well, Tilda, one should work and pray. Our Tony should learn from you; she is very lazy and proud..."

Tony lowered her head and rolled her eyes at her grandfather, for she knew that, as always, he would speak up for her.

"Chin up," he said, "don't be like that, Tony, be brave! One cannot please everyone. People are different. Tilda is a good child, but we are not inferior to her, are we? Bethsy, am I right?"

Because his daughter-in-law always supported his opinions, he sought her agreement. Frau Antoinette, however, always stood on the Consul's side, doing so less out of admiration than out of her own cleverness. The two generations danced this way, crossing hands like a waltz.

"Father, you are so good to her!" the Frau Consul said. "Tony must strive to be a wise and thrifty woman... Are the children back from school yet?" she asked Ida.

Tony, who was sitting on her grandfather's knee looking at the mirror reflecting the window, shouted almost simultaneously: "Tom and Christian are coming down Johann Street, and Uncle Doctor, and Herr Hoffstede."

The bells of St. Mary's Church began to ring: Ding-dong! Ding-dong! They rang without rhythm, so that one could not immediately tell the purpose, yet the sound was very solemn. When the large and small bells rang together in a joyous yet solemn chorus to announce four o'clock, the doorbell at the main entrance below rang out clearly, the sound carrying all the way inside. It was indeed Tom and Christian, and they had brought the first of the guests: the poet... Jean-Jacques Hoffstede and the family's consulting physician, Grabow.