It was mid-April, two and a half years later. The spring was more advanced than usual, and with the spring had come to the Buddenbrook family a joy that made old Johann sing about the house and moved his son to the depths of his heart. The Consul sat at the big roll-top writing-desk in the window of the breakfast-room, at nine o’clock one Sunday morning. He had before him a stout leather portfolio stuffed with papers, from among which he had drawn a gilt-edged notebook with an embossed cover, and was busily writing in it in his small, thin, flowing script. His hand hurried over the paper, never pausing except to dip his quill in the ink. Both the windows were open, and the spring breeze wafted delicate odours into the room, lifting the curtains gently. The garden was full of young buds and bathed in tender sunshine; a pair of birds called and answered each other pertly. The sunshine was strong, too, on the white linen of the breakfast-table and the gilt-borders of the old china. The folding doors into the bedroom were open, and the voice of old Johann could be heard inside, singing softly to a quaint and ancient tune: A kind papa, a worthy man, He rocks the baby in the cradle, He feeds the children sugar-plums And stirs the porridge with a ladle. He sat beside the little green-curtained cradle, close to the Frau Consul’s lofty bed, and rocked it softly with one hand. Madame Antoinette, in a white lace cap and an apron over her striped frock, was busy with flannel and linen at the table. The old couple had given up their bedroom to the Frau Consul for the time being, to make things easier for the servants, and were sleeping in the unused room in the entresol. Consul Buddenbrook gave scarcely a glance at the adjoining room, so absorbed was he in his work. His face wore an expression of earnest, almost suffering piety, his mouth slightly open, the chin a little dropped; his eyes filled from time to time. He wrote: