The majestic coach, with two large lanterns on the box, stood in the street, where, to the Consul’s great satisfaction, the lamps were now being lighted. They both got in. Silent and stiffly erect, with his eyes half-closed, Lebrecht Kröger sat with the rug over his knees, the Consul at his right hand, while the carriage rolled through the streets. Beneath the points of the old man’s white moustaches two lines ran down perpendicularly from the corners of his mouth to his chin. He was gnawed by chagrin at the insult that had been offered him, and he stared, weary and chilled, at the cushions opposite.
There was more gayety in the streets than on a Sunday evening. Obviously a holiday temper reigned. The people, delighted at the successful outcome of the revolution, were out in the gayest mood. There was singing. Here and there youngsters shouted “Hurrah!” as the carriage drove past, and threw their caps into the air.
“I really think, Father, you let the matter affect you too much,” the Consul said. “When one thinks of it, what a tom-fool business the whole thing was—simply a farce.” In order to get some reply from the old man he went on to talk about the revolution in lively tones. “When the propertyless class begin to realize how little they serve their own ends—why, good heavens, it’s the same everywhere. I was talking this afternoon with Gosch the broker, a wonderful man, looking at everything with the eyes of a poet and writer. You see, Father, this revolution was made at the aesthetic tea-tables of Berlin. Then the people take their own skin to market—for, of course, they will be the ones to pay for it!”
“It would he a good thing if you would open the window on your side,” said Herr Kröger.
Johann Buddenbrook gave him a quick glance and let the glass down hastily.
“Aren’t you feeling well, dear Father?” he asked anxiously.
“Not at all,” answered Lebrecht Kröger severely.
“You need food and rest,” the Consul said; and in order to
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