Thus, when, in the summer of 1863, Senator Buddenbrook went about with his mind full of plans for the building of a great new house, it was not arrogance which impelled him. He was driven by his own inability to be quiet--which his fellow-burghers would have been right in ascribing to his “vanity”--for it was another manifestation of the same thing. To make a new home, and a radical change in his outward life; to pack up, to re-install himself afresh, to weed out all the accumulations of bygone years and set aside everything old or superfluous: all this, even in imagination, gave him feelings of freshness, newness, spotlessness, stimulation. All of which he must have craved indeed, for he attacked the plan with great enthusiasm, and already had his eye on a suitable location. There was a property of considerable extent at the lower end of Fishers’ Lane. The house, grey with age, in bad repair, was offered for sale on the death of its owner, an ancient spinster, the relic of a forgotten family, who had dwelt there alone. On this piece of land the Senator thought to build his house; and he surveyed it with a speculative eye when he passed the spot on his way to the harbour. The neighbourhood was pleasant enough--good burgher-houses, the most modest among them being the narrow little façade opposite, with a small flower-shop on the ground floor. He threw himself into the affair. He made a rough estimate of the expense involved, and though the sum he fixed provisionally was by no means a small one, he felt he could compass it without undue effort. But then he would suddenly have the thought that the whole thing was a senseless folly, and confess to himself that his present house had plenty of room for himself, his wife, their child, and their servants. But the half-conscious cravings were stronger; and in the desire to have them strengthened and justified from outside, he first revealed his plan to his sister. “Well, Tony, what do you say to it? The whole house is a sort of hand-box, isn’t it?--and the winding stair is really a joke. It isn’t quite the thing, is it? and now that you’ve had me made Senator--in a word, don’t you think I owe it to myself?” Ah, in the eyes of Madame Permaneder, what was there he did not owe to himself? She was full of practical enthusiasm. She crossed her arms on her breast and walked up and down with her shoulders raised and her head in the air. “Of course you do, Tom; goodness gracious, yes! What possible objection could there be? And when you have married an Arnoldsen, with a hundred thousand thaler to boot-- I’m very proud to be the first you’ve told it to. It was lovely of you. And if you do do it, Tom, why, you must do it well, that’s what I say. It must be grand.” “H’m, well, yes, I agree with you. I’m willing to spend something on it. I’ll have Voigt, and we’ll go over the plans together. Voigt has a great deal of taste.”