“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 to-day, 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 not face it either.” He made a vigorous gesture and drew himself more erect than before. “No, Papa,” he said, and his tone bespoke finality, “I must advise you not to give in.” “Bravo!” cried the old man. “There’s an end of it! _N’en parlons plus! En avant!_ Let’s get to bed.” And he extinguished the last candle. They groped through the pitch-dark hall, and at the foot of the stairs they stopped and shook hands. “Good night, Jean. And cheer up. These little worries aren’t anything. See you at breakfast!” The Consul went up to his rooms, and the old man felt his way along the baluster and down to the entresol. Soon the rambling old house lay wrapped in darkness and silence. Hopes, fears, and ambitions all slumbered, while the rain fell and the autumn wind whistled around gables and street corners. PART TWO CHAPTER I