“You will excuse me for saying that I don’t get much pleasure out of reading that rigmarole all over again.—Voilà!” And Johann Buddenbrook tossed the letter to his son, with a contemptuous gesture. The Consul picked it up as it fluttered to his feet, and looked at his father with troubled eyes, while the old man took the long candle-snuffers from their place by the window and with angry strides crossed the room to the candelabrum in the corner.
“Assez, I say. N’en parlons plus! To bed with you—en avant!” He quenched one flame after another under the little metal cap. There were only two candles left when the elder turned again to his son, whom he could hardly see at the far end of the room.
“Eh bien—what are you standing there for? Why don’t you say something?”
“What shall I say, Father? I am thoroughly taken aback.”
“You are pretty easily taken aback, then,” Johann Buddenbrook rapped out irritably, though he knew that the reproach was far from being a just one. His son was in fact often his superior when it came to a quick decision upon the advantageous course.
“ ‘Damnable influences,’ ” the Consul quoted. “That is the first line I can make out. Do you know how it makes me feel, Father? And he reproaches us with ‘unchristian behaviour!’ ”
“You’ll let yourself be bluffed by this miserable scribble, will you?” Johann Buddenbrook strode across to his son, dragging the extinguisher on its long stick behind him. “ ‘Unchristian behaviour!’ Ha! He shows good taste, doesn’t he, this canting money-grabber? I don’t know what to make of you young people! Your heads are full of fantastic religious humbug—practical idealism, the July Monarchy, and whatnot: and we old folk are supposed to be wretched cynics. And then you abuse your poor old Father in the coarsest way rather than give up a few thousand thaler. … So he deigns to look down upon me as a business man, does he? Well, as a business man, I know what faux-frais are!—Faux-frais,” he repeated, rolling the r in his throat. “I shan’t make this highfalutin scamp of a son any fonder of me by giving him what he asks for, it seems to me.”
“What can I say, Father? I don’t care to feel that he has any justification when he talks of ‘influences.’ As an interested party I don’t like to tell you to stick out, but—It seems to me I’m as good a Christian as Gotthold … but still. …”
“ ‘Still’—that is exactly it, Jean, you are right to say ‘still.’ What is the real state of the case? He got infatuated with his Mademoiselle Stüwing and wouldn’t listen to reason; he made scene after scene, and finally he married her, after I had absolutely refused to give my consent. Then I wrote to him: ‘Mon très cher fils: you are marrying our shop—very well, that’s an end of it. We cease to be on friendly terms from now on. I won’t cut you off, or do anything melodramatic. I am sending you a hundred thousand marks as a wedding present, and I’ll leave you another hundred thousand in my will. But that is absolutely all you’ll get, not another shilling!’ That shut his mouth.—What have our arrangements got to do with him? Suppose you and your sister do get a bit more, and the house has been bought out of your share?”
“Father, surely you can understand how painful my position is! I ought to advise you in the interest of family harmony—but. …” The Consul sighed. Johann Buddenbrook peered at him, in the dim light, to see what his expression was. One of the two candles had gone out of itself; the other was flickering. Every now and then a tall, smiling white figure seemed to step momentarily out of the tapestry and then back again.
“Father,” said the Consul softly. “This affair with Gotthold depresses me.”
“What’s all this sentimentality, Jean? How does it depress you?”
“We were all so happy here today, Father; we had a glorious celebration, and we felt proud and glad of what we have accomplished, and of having raised the family and firm to a position of honour and respect. … But this bitter feud with my own brother, with your eldest son, is like a hidden crack in the building we have erected. A family should be united, Father. It must keep together. ‘A house divided against itself will fall.’ ”
“There you are with your milk-and-water stuff, Jean! All I say is, he’s an insolent young puppy.”
A pause ensued. The last candle burned lower and lower.
“What are you doing, Jean?” asked Johann Buddenbrook. “I can’t see you.”
The Consul said shortly, “I’m calculating.” He was standing erect, and the expression in his eyes had changed. They had looked dreamy all the evening; but now they stared into the candle-flame with a cold sharp gaze. “Either you give thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three marks to Gotthold, and fifteen thousand to the family in Frankfort—that makes forty-eight thousand, three hundred and thirty-five in all—or, you give nothing to Gotthold, and twenty-five thousand to the family in Frankfort. That means a gain of twenty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-five for the firm. But there is more to it than that. If you give Gotthold a compensation for the house, you’ve started the ball rolling. He is likely to demand equal shares with my sister and me after your death, which would mean a loss of hundreds of thousands to the firm. The firm could not face it, and I, as sole head, could
