3
AS THE PARTY began to move toward the dining-room, Consul Buddenbrook’s hand went to his left breast-pocket and fingered a paper that was inside. The polite smile had left his face, giving place to a strained and care-worn look, and the muscles stood out on his temples as he clenched his teeth. For appearance’s sake he made a few steps toward the dining-room, but stopped and sought his mother’s eye as she was leaving the room on Pastor Wunderlich’s arm, among the last of her guests.
“Pardon me, dear Herr Pastor … just a word with you, Mamma.” The Pastor nodded gaily, and the Consul drew his Mother over to the window of the landscape-room.
“Here is a letter from Gotthold,” he said in low, rapid tones. He took out the sealed and folded paper and looked into her dark eyes. “That is his writing. It is the third one, and Papa answered only the first. What shall I do? It came at two o’clock, and I ought to have given it to him already, but I do not like to upset him today. What do you think? I could call him out here.…”
“No, you are right, Jean; it is better to wait,” said Madame Buddenbrook. She grasped her son’s arm with a quick, habitual movement. “What do you suppose is in it?” she added uneasily. “The boy won’t give in. He’s taken it into his head he must be compensated for his share in the house. … No, no, Jean. Not now. To-night, perhaps, before we go to bed.”
“What am I to do?” repeated the Consul, shaking his bent head. “I have often wanted to ask Papa to give in. I don’t like it to look as if I had schemed against Gotthold and worked myself into a snug place. I don’t want Father to look at it like that, either. But, to be honest … I am a partner, after all. And Betsy and I pay a fair rent for the second storey. It is all arranged with my sister in Frankfort: her husband gets compensation already, in Papa’s lifetime – a quarter of the purchase price of the house. That is good business: Papa arranged it very cleverly, and it is very satisfactory from the point of view of the firm. And if Papa acts so unfriendly to Gotthold –”
“Nonsense, Jean. Your position in the matter is quite clear. But it is painful for me to have Gotthold think that his step-mother looks out after her own children and deliberately makes bad blood between him and his father!”
“But it is his own fault,” the Consul almost shouted, and then, with a glance at the dining-room door, lowered his voice. “It is his fault, the whole wretched thing. You can judge for yourself. Why couldn’t he be reasonable? Why did he have to go and marry that Stüwing girl and … the shop.…” The Consul gave an angry, embarrassed laugh at the last word. “It’s a weakness of Father’s, that prejudice against the shop; but Gotthold ought to have respected it. …”
“Oh, Jean, it would be best if Papa would give in. ”
“But ought I to advise him to?” whispered the Consul excitedly, clapping his hand to his forehead. “I am an interested party, so I ought to say, Pay it. But I am also a partner. And if Papa thinks he is under no obligation to a disobedient and rebellious son to draw the money out of the working capital of the firm … It is a matter of eleven thousand thaler, a good bit of money. No, no, I cannot advise him either for or against. I’d rather wash my hands of the whole affair. But the scene with Papa is so désagréable –”
“Late this evening, Jean. Come now; they are waiting.”
The Consul put the paper back into his breast-pocket, offered his arm to his mother, and led her over the threshold into the brightly lighted dining-room, where the company had already taken their places at the long table.
The tapestries in this room had a sky-blue background, against which, between slender columns, white figures of gods and goddesses stood out with plastic effect. The heavy red damask window-curtains were drawn; stiff, massive sofas in red damask stood ranged against the walls; and in each corner stood a tall gilt candelabrum with eight flaming candles, besides those in silver sconces on the table. Above the heavy sideboard, on the wall opposite the landscape room, hung a large painting of an Italian bay, the misty blue atmosphere of which was most effective in the candle-light.
Every trace of care or disquiet had vanished from Madame Buddenbrook’s face. She sat down between Pastor Wunderlich and the elder Kröger, who presided on the window side.
“Bon appetit! ” she said, with her short, quick, hearty nod, flashing a glance down the whole length of the table till it reached the children at the bottom.
4
“OUR BEST RESPECTS to you, Buddenbrook – I repeat, our best respects!” Herr Köppen’s powerful voice drowned the general conversation as the maid-servant, in her heavy striped petticoat, her fat arms bare and a little white cap on the back of her head, passed the potage aux fines herbes and toast, assisted by Mamsell Jungmann and the Frau Consul’s maid from upstairs. The guests began to use their soup-spoons.
“Such plenty, such elegance! I must say, you know how to do things! – I must say –” Herr Köppen had never visited the house in its former owner’s time. He did not come of a patrician family, and had only lately become a man of means. He could never quite get rid of certain vulgar tricks of speech – like the repetition of “I must say”; and he said “respecks” for “respects.”
“It didn’t cost anything, either,” remarked Herr Gratjens drily – he certainly ought to have known – and studied the wall-painting through the hollow of his hand.
As far as possible, ladies and gentlemen had been paired off, and members of the family placed between friends of the house. But the arrangement could not be carried out in every case; the two Överdiecks were sitting, as usual, nearly on each other’s laps, nodding affectionately at one another. The elder Kröger was bolt upright, enthroned between Madame Antoinette and Frau Senator Langhals, dividing his pet jokes and his flourishes between the two ladies.
“When was the house built?” asked Herr Hoffstede diagonally across the table of old Buddenbrook, who was talking in a gay chaffing tone with Madame Köppen.
“Anno … let me see … about 1680, if I am not mistaken. My son is better at dates than I am.”
“Eighty-two,” said the Consul, leaning forward. He was sitting at the foot of the table, without a partner, next to Senator Langhals. “It was finished in the winter of 1682. Ratenkamp and Company were just getting to the top of their form. … Sad, how the firm broke down in the last twenty years!”
A general pause in the conversation ensued, lasting for half a minute, while the company looked down at their plates and pondered on the fortunes of the brilliant family who had built and lived in the house and then, broken and impoverished, had left it.
“Yes,” said Broker Gratjens, “it’s sad, when you think of the madness that led to their ruin. If Dietrich Ratenkamp had not taken that fellow Geelmaack for a partner! I flung up my hands, I know, when he came into the management. I have it on the best authority, gentlemen, that he speculated disgracefully behind Ratenkamp’s back, and gave notes and acceptances right and left in the firm’s name. … Finally the game was up. The banks got suspicious, the firm couldn’t give security. … You haven’t the least idea … who looked after the warehouse, even? Geelmaack, perhaps? It was a perfect rats’ nest there, year in, year out. But Ratenkamp never troubled himself about it.”
“He was like a man paralysed,” the Consul said. A gloomy, taciturn look came on his face. He leaned over and stirred his soup, now and then giving a quick glance, with his little round deep-set eyes, at the upper end of the table.
“He went about like a man with a load on his mind; I think one can understand his burden. What made him take Geelmaack into the business – a man who brought painfully little capital,