And tact was needed. For pauses would come at the family table, when
Director Weinschenk tried to make conversation by asking if “orange
marmalade” was a “pudden”; when he gave out the opinion that Romeo and
Juliet was a piece by Schiller; when his manner with Erica’s cheek or
arm became too roguish. He uttered his views frankly and cheerfully,
rubbing his hands like a man whose mind is free from care, and leaning
back sidewise against the arm of his chair. Some one always needed to
fill in the pause by a sprightly or diverting remark.
He got on best with the Senator, who knew how to steer a safe course
between politics and business. His relations with Gerda Buddenbrook
were hopeless. This lady’s personality put him off to such a degree
that he was incapable of finding anything to talk about with her for
two minutes on end. The fact that she played the violin made a strong
impression upon him; and he finally confined himself, on each Thursday
afternoon encounter, to the jovial enquiry, “Well, how’s the fiddle?”
After the third time, however, the Frau Senator refrained from reply.
Christian, on the other hand, used to look at his new relative down
his nose, and the next day imitate him and his conversation with full
details. The second son of the deceased Consul Buddenbrook had been
relieved of his rheumatism in Öynhausen; but a certain stiffness of
the joints was left, as well as the periodic misery in the left side,
where all the nerves were too short, and sundry other ills to which
he was heir, as difficulty in breathing and swallowing, irregularity
of the heart action, and a tendency to paralysis--or at least to a
fear of it. He did not look like a man at the end of the thirties.
His head was entirely bald except for vestiges of reddish hair at the
back of the neck and on the temples; and his small round roving eyes
lay deeper than ever in their sockets. And his great bony nose and his
lean, sallow cheeks were startlingly prominent above his heavy drooping
red moustaches. His trousers, of beautiful and lasting English stuff,
flapped about his crooked emaciated legs.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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