# Buddenbrooks/Volume 1/Part 5/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
Some six months later Consul Buddenbrook returned with his bride from Italy. The March snows lay in Broad Street as the carriage drove up at five o’clock before the front door of their simple painted façade. A few children and grown folk had stopped to watch the home-coming pair descend. Frau Antonie Grünlich stood proudly in the doorway, behind her the two servant-maids, with white caps, bare arms, and thick striped skirts—she had engaged them beforehand for her sister-in-law. Flushed with pleasure and industry, she ran impetuously down the steps; Gerda and Thomas climbed out of the trunk-laden carriage wrapped in their furs; and she drew them into the house in her embrace.
“Here you are! You lucky people, to have travelled so far in the world. ‘Knowest thou the house? High-pillared are its walls!’ Gerda, you are more beautiful than ever; here, I must kiss you—no, so, on the mouth. How are you, Tom, old fellow?—yes, I must kiss you too. Marcus says everything has gone well here. Mother is waiting for you at home, but you can first just make yourselves comfortable. Will you have some tea? Or a bath? Everything is ready—you won’t complain. Jacobs did his best—and I have done all I could, too.”
They went together into the vestibule, and the servants brought in the luggage with the help of the coachman. Tony said: “The rooms here in the parterre you will probably not need for the present. For the present,” she repeated, running her tongue over her upper lip. “Look, this is pretty,” and she opened a door directly next the vestibule. “Simple oak furniture, ivy at the windows. Over there, the ​other side of the corridor, is another room, a larger one. Here on the right are the kitchen and larder. But let’s go up. I will show you everything.” They went up the stairs, which were covered with a dark red runner. Above, behind a glass partition, was a narrow corridor which led to the dining-room. This had dark red damask wall-paper, a heavy round table upon which the samovar was steaming, a massive sideboard, and chairs of carved nut-wood, with rush seats. Then there was a comfortable sitting-room upholstered in grey, separated by portières from a small salon with a bay-window and furniture in green striped rep. A fourth of this whole storey was occupied by a large hall with three windows.
Then they went into the sleeping-room, on the right of the corridor. It had flowered hangings and solid mahogany beds. Tony passed on to a small door with open-work carving in the opposite wall, and displayed a winding stair leading from the bed-room to the lower floors, the bathroom, and the servants’ quarters.
“It is pretty here. I shall stop here,” said Gerda, and sank with a deep breath into the reclining chair beside one of the beds.
The Consul bent over and kissed her forehead. “Tired? I feel like that too. I should like to tidy up a bit.”
“I’ll look after the tea,” said Tony Grünlich, “and wait for you in the dining-room.”
The tea stood steaming in the Meissenware cups when Thomas entered. “Here I am,” he said. “Gerda would like to rest a little. She has a headache. Afterward we will go to Meng Street. Well, how is everything, my dear Tony—all right? Mother, Erica, Christian? But now,” he went on with his most charming manner, “our warmest thanks—Gerda’s too—for all your trouble, you good soul. How pretty you have made everything! Nothing is missing.—I only need a few palms for my wife’s bay-window; and I must look about for some suitable oil paintings. But tell ​me, now, how are you? What have you been doing all this time?”
He had drawn up a chair for his sister beside himself, and slowly drank his tea and ate a biscuit as they talked.
“Oh, Tom,” she answered. “What should I be doing? My life is over.”
“Nonsense, Tony—you and your life! But it is pretty tiresome, is it?”
“Yes, Tom, it is very tiresome. Sometimes I just have to shriek, out of sheer boredom. It has been nice to be busy with this house, and you don’t know how happy I am at your return. But I am not happy here—God forgive me, if that is a sin. I am in the thirties now, but I’m still not quite old enough to make intimate friends with the last of the Himmelsburgers, or the Miss Gerhardts, or any of mother’s black friends that come and consume widows’ homes. I don’t believe in them, Tom; they are wolves in sheep’s clothing—a generation of vipers. We are all weak creatures with sinful hearts, and when they begin to look down on me for a poor worldling I laugh in their faces. I’ve always thought that all men are the same, and that we don’t need any intercessors between us and God. You know my political beliefs. I think the citizens—”
“Then you feel lonely?” Tom asked, to bring her back to her starting-point. “But you have Erica.”
“Yes, Tom, and I love the child with my whole heart—although a certain person did use to declare that I am not fond of children. But you see—I am perfectly frank; I am an honest woman and speak as I think, without making words—”
“Which is splendid of you, Tony.”
“Well, in short—it is sad, but the child reminds me too much of Grünlich. The Buddenbrooks in Broad Street think she is very like him too. And then, when I see her before me I always think: ‘You are an old woman with a big daughter, and your life is over. Once for a few years you were alive; but now you can grow to be seventy or eighty years ​old, sitting here and listening to Lea Gerhardt read aloud. That is such an awful thought, Tom, that a lump comes in my throat. Because I still feel so young, and still long to see life again. And besides, I don’t feel comfortable—not only in the house; but in the town. You know I haven’t been struck blind. I have my eyes in my head and see how things are; I am not a stupid goose any more, I am a divorced woman—and I am made to feel it, that’s certain. Believe me, Tom, it lies like a weight on my heart, to know that I have besmirched our name, even if it was not any fault of mine. You can do whatever you will, you can earn money and be the first man in the town—but people will still say: ‘Yes, but his sister is a divorced woman.’ Julchen Möllendorpf, the Hagenström girl—she doesn’t speak to me! Oh, well, she is a goose. It is the same with all families. And yet I can’t get rid of the hope that I could make it all good again. I am still young—don’t you think I am still rather pretty? Mamma cannot give me very much again, but even what she can give is an acceptable sum of money. Suppose I were to marry again? To confess the truth, Tom, it is my most fervent wish. Then everything would be put right and the stain wiped out. Oh, if I could only make a match worthy of our name, and set myself up again—do you think it is entirely out of the question?”
“Not in the least, Tony. Heaven forbid! I have always thought of it. But it seems to me that in the first place you must get out a little, have a little change, and brighten up a bit.”
“Yes, that’s it,” she cried eagerly. “Now I must tell you a little story.”
Thomas was well pleased. He leaned back in his chair and smoked his second cigarette. The twilight was coming on. “Well, then, while you were away, I almost took a situation—a position as companion in Liverpool! Would you have thought it was shocking? Oh, I know it would have been undignified! But I, was so wildly anxious to get away. The ​plan came to nothing. I sent my photograph to the lady, and she wrote that she must decline my services, because I was too pretty—there was a grown son in the house. ‘You are too pretty,’ she wrote! I don’t know when I have been so pleased.”
They both laughed heartily.
“But now I have something else in mind,” went on Tony. “I have had an invitation, from Eva Ewers, to go to Munich. Her name is Eva Niederpaur now; her husband is superintendant of a brewery. Well, she has asked me to visit her, and I think I will take advantage of the invitation. Of course, Erica could not go with me. I would put her in Sesemi Weichbrodt’s pension. She would be well taken care of. Have you any objection?”
“Not at all. It is necessary, in any case, that you should make some new connections.”
“Yes, that’s it,” she said gratefully. “But now, Tom. I have been talking the whole time about myself; I am a selfish thing. Now, tell me your affairs. Oh, Heavens, how happy you must be.”
“Yes, Tony,” he said with emphasis. There was a pause. He blew out the smoke across the table and continued: “In the first place, I am very glad to be married and set up an establishment. You know I should not make a good bachelor. It has a side to it that suggests loneliness and also laziness—and I am ambitious, as you know. I don’t feel that my career is finished, either in business or—to speak half jestingly—in politics. And a man gains the confidence of the world better if he is a family man and a father. Though I came within an ace of not doing it, after all! I, am a bit fastidious. For a long time I thought it would not be possible to find the right person. But the sight of Gerda decided me. I felt at once that she was the only one for me: though I know there are people in town who don’t care for my taste. She is a wonderful creature; there are few like her in the world. She is nothing like you, Tony, to be sure. You are simpler, ​and more natural too. My lady sister is simply more temperamental,” he continued, suddenly taking a lighter tone. “Oh, Gerda has temperament too—her playing shows that; but she can sometimes be a little cold. In short, she is not to be measured by the ordinary standards. She is an artist, an individual, a puzzling, fascinating creature.”
“Yes, yes,” Tony said. She had given her brother the closest attention. It was nearly dark, and she had not thought of lighting the lamps.
The corridor door opened, and there stood before them in the twilight, in a pleated pique house-frock, white as snow, a slender figure. The heavy dark-red hair framed her white face, and blue shadows lay about her close-set brown eyes. It was Gerda, mother of future Buddenbrooks.