Conditions

Part One, Chapter One

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

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

Mrs. Senator Buddenbrook and her mother-in-law sat side by side on a white-lacquered sofa upholstered in pale yellow satin, its back decorated with a gilded lion's head. She glanced at her husband, who sat beside her in an armchair, then came to her little daughter's rescue. The girl was perched on her grandfather's knee in front of the window.

She prompted her, "Tony! 'I believe that God...'"

Eight-year-old little Antonie was petite, dressed in a shimmering silk dress. Her golden-haired little head strained to turn away from her grandfather's face, while her blue-gray eyes wandered blankly about the room. She repeated, "What comes next?" Then, slowly, she recited, "'I believe that God...'" Her eyes brightened, and she quickly finished the sentence: "'...created me and all living creatures.'" Now that she had found her stride, she could not help beaming with delight as she recited the catechism passage word for word in one breath.

The catechism she was reciting had only recently been revised and published, in 1835, with the approval of a very wise city council. Once she got off to a good start, she thought, it was like sledding down Jerusalem Hill in winter with her brother: there was no stopping, and no time to think.

She went on, "'He created clothes and shoes, food and drink, house and home, wife and children, fields and livestock...'" She had just reached this point when old Johann Buddenbrook suddenly burst into loud, irrepressible laughter. In truth, he had been holding it in for some time. He was delighted to have found an opportunity to poke fun at the catechism. Perhaps that was precisely why he had decided to test his little granddaughter. He asked her how much a sack of grain cost, inquired how much land and how many livestock there were, and began haggling with her. His face was round and ruddy... no amount of bluster could make it look stern... framed by powdered white hair, with a braid-like lock falling over the wide collar of his gray squirrel-fur coat. Though he was nearly seventy, he still dressed in the style of his youth; only the gold and silver braid between the buttons and the pockets was gone. As for trousers, he had never worn them in his life. His double chin, formed by his stoutness, rested comfortably on his white cravat.

Everyone laughed along with him, but only out of respect for the head of the family. The old Mrs. Buddenbrook, née Antoinette Duchamps, giggled too, with an expression exactly like her husband's. She was a stout woman, her thick white curls pressed down over her ears. She wore a black-and-gray striped dress that reflected her naturally plain disposition. Her especially delicate, white hands rested neatly on her lap, holding a velvet sewing bag. As the years passed, her face had grown more and more like her husband's. It was a curious thing. Only the shape of her eyes and their dark, lively gaze revealed the Latin blood that made up half her heritage. Though born in Hamburg, she had French-Swiss blood running through her veins on her grandfather's side.

Mrs. Senator Buddenbrook was her daughter-in-law, née Kröger. Her laugh could be said to have inherited the Kröger family tradition: first her lips gave a little pop, then she tucked her chin against her chest. Like all the Krögers, she could not be called beautiful, but her bearing was remarkably graceful. Her calm, gentle movements and her clear, lilting voice inspired everyone's affection and confidence. Her light-red hair was braided into a bun atop her head, while loose, ample curls fell over her ears, perfectly complementing her fair, faintly freckled complexion. Her nose was a little too long, and her mouth was small; the absence of a hollow between her lower lip and chin was one of her distinctive features. She wore a short, fitted bodice with high puffed sleeves, over a close-fitting, brightly patterned silk skirt. Her flawless neck emerged from the collar, adorned with a satin ribbon strung with glittering diamonds.

The senator sat in an armchair, leaning forward slightly with an impatient air. He wore a cinnamon-colored coat with broad lapels and sleeves that narrowed toward the cuffs, tight below the wrists. His slim trousers were made of white linen, with black braid sewn along the seams. A high, stiff collar gripped his chin, and over it he wore a silk cravat, puffed out to cover the exposed portion of his flowered waistcoat... His blue, slightly sunken eyes were bright and lively, like his father's, though there seemed to be a dreamy quality in them. His face was more angular and severe than his father's, his nose high and hooked, and his face—half-hidden behind golden curls of beard—was less full than the old man's.

Mrs. Buddenbrook rested her hand on her daughter-in-law's arm and gave her a gentle smile. "He's always like that, the old fellow, isn't he, Bethsy?"

When she said "always," she pronounced the i like ü.

The senator's wife only gestured in reply, and the gold bracelet on her arm gave a soft chime. Then, with a habitual motion, she swept her hand from the corner of her mouth to her temple, as though brushing back a stray lock of hair.

The senator, meanwhile, said with half a smile and half a reproach, "Father, you're always making jokes about sacred things!..."

They were sitting in a "landscape room" on the second floor of a spacious old house on Meng Street, which the Johann Buddenbrook Company had recently purchased. The family had not been living there long. Heavy, resilient tapestries hung on all four walls, with a little space between the hangings and the walls. Woven into them were broad landscapes in soft colors, chosen to harmonize with the thin carpet on the floor. These pastoral scenes were in the style of the eighteenth century: merry grape-pickers, shepherdesses wearing colorful ribbons, industrious peasants. The shepherdesses either sat beside clear streams with white lambs in their arms or kissed handsome shepherd boys... To match the yellow covers on the lacquered furniture and the yellow satin curtains at the two windows, most of the scenes were tinted with the dusky glow of a setting sun.

There was not much furniture in the room, at least not for its enormous size. A round table on slender legs inlaid with gold was not set in front of the sofa, but stood against the wall opposite a harmonium, on which rested a case for a flute. Apart from a row of high-backed chairs spaced evenly along the walls, the only other pieces were a small sewing table by the window and a delicate, ornate little desk displaying antique curios, opposite the sofa.

A glass door faced the wall with the windows. Through it, one could see a dim, columned hall; the tall white double doors on the left led to the dining room. In the semicircular fireplace on another wall, logs crackled behind a shining wrought-iron screen.

That year, the cold had come unusually early. It was only the middle of October, yet the leaves on the little linden trees around the courtyard of St. Mary's Church across the street were already yellowing. A cold wind whistled from behind the church's Gothic spires and buttresses. Fine, chilly raindrops drifted through the air. Because of Mrs. Buddenbrook, the house had been fitted with double windows.

It was Thursday, and according to the family's custom, the relatives gathered every other week on that day. But today, besides the relatives who lived in town, they had invited a few close friends for a light meal. So now... at around four in the afternoon, the whole family sat waiting for their guests in the fading twilight... The little Antonie's grandfather had not managed to interrupt her sledding game. He had merely made her already pouty upper lip stick out a little farther. By now, she had reached the bottom of Jerusalem Hill, but even she could not stop the sled from skidding out of bounds.

"Now I know something else too, Grandpa!"

"Just look at that!" the old man cried, pretending to be astonished. "She knows something else too! Didn't you hear, Mama?

"She knows a thing or two! Can't you tell me..."

"If something catches fire," Tony said, nodding with every word, "it must have been struck by lightning. If nothing catches fire, then it was struck by thunder!"

She folded her arms and looked around at the beaming faces, quite certain that everyone would admire her. But old Mr. Buddenbrook thought little of her display of cleverness. He wanted to know who had taught the child such nonsense. In the end, it turned out to be the person recently hired from Marienwerder to look after the children: Miss Ida Jungmann. The senator was then obliged to say a few kind words on the governess's behalf.

"Father, you're being too strict. Even if the child is showing off a little, children of that age should be allowed to have their own ideas about such things!"

"Sorry, my dear, but that's sheer nonsense! I don't want children's heads stuffed with all sorts of rubbish! You know that! What, thunder strikes things? Remember, don't upset me with that Prussian woman of yours!"

The old gentleman and Ida Jungmann did not get along. He had seen a great deal of the world and was not narrow-minded. As early as 1813, he had traveled to southern Germany in a four-horse carriage to buy provisions for the Prussian soldiers, since he had been dealing in army supplies at the time. He had also been to Amsterdam and Paris. He was a very open-minded man and did not condemn everything beyond the gates of his hometown. But setting business dealings aside, in social matters he drew stricter boundaries than his senator son, and was always cool toward "outsiders." So, when his children returned from a trip to West Prussia with the girl they had brought home, who was barely twenty, the old man flew into a rage at the senator's charitable deed. As he ranted, he spoke almost entirely in French and Low German dialect. Ida was the daughter of an innkeeper, who had died shortly before the Buddenbrooks arrived in Marienwerder. Ida was capable, especially in housekeeping and caring for children. Her loyalty and her Prussian sense of rank also made her well suited to her position in the household. She was full of aristocratic notions and drew a sharp distinction between high society, the common classes, and the middle class. If Tony befriended a schoolmate from a family she considered merely well-to-do middle-class, she was most displeased... At that moment, the Prussian girl happened to come in through the glass door from the columned hall. She was tall, dressed in black, with sleek hair and an honest-looking face. She led by the hand an extremely thin little girl named Clothilde. Clothilde wore a small print dress, and her ashen hair had not a glimmer of shine. Her face had the pinched look of an old maid. She came from a poor branch of the family: the daughter of the nephew who managed a farm near Rostock. Since she was about the same age as Antonie and was obedient, the Buddenbrooks had taken on the duty of raising her.

"Everything's ready," Miss Jungmann said. She could not pronounce the r properly, and when she tried, it came out as a little gurgle in her throat. "Little Clothilde has been such a help in the kitchen. Trina has practically had nothing to do..."

Old Mr. Buddenbrook gave a little laugh behind his cravat at Ida's peculiar pronunciation. The senator, however, stroked his little niece's cheek and said, "You did well, Tilda. One ought to work and pray. Our Tony should learn from you. She's very lazy and proud..."

Tony lowered her head and rolled her eyes up at her grandfather, knowing he would defend her as usual.

"Lift your head," he said. "Don't be like that, Tony. Be brave! You can't please everyone. People aren't all alike. Tilda's a good child, but that doesn't mean we're any worse. Bethsy, am I right?"

Since his daughter-in-law always supported his opinions, he asked for her view. Mrs. Antoinette, however, always sided with the senator, less out of admiration for him than out of good sense. Thus the two generations joined hands in turn, like partners in a dance.

"Father, you're so good to her!" Mrs. Senator said. "Tony must try to grow into a sensible, thrifty woman... Have the children finished school?" she asked Ida.

Tony, who sat on her grandfather's knee watching the reflection in the window, cried out at almost the same time, "Tom and Christian are coming down Johann Street, and Uncle Doctor, and Mr. Hoffstede!"

The bells of St. Mary's Church began to ring: ding-dong! Ding-dong! Their rhythm was so irregular that for a moment no one could tell what they were ringing for, yet their sound was deeply solemn. When the great and little bells rang out together, joyfully and solemnly announcing four o'clock, the doorbell below rang out clearly too, its sound carrying all the way inside. Sure enough, Tom and Christian had arrived, bringing the first guests with them: the poet Jean-Jacques Hoffstede and their family doctor, Mr. Grabow.