BUDDENBROOKS
me, now, how are you? What have you been doing all this time?”
He had drawn up a chair for his sister beside himself, and slowly drank his tea and ate a biscuit as they talked.
“Oh, Tom,” she answered. “What should I be doing? My life is over.”
“Nonsense, Tony—you and your life! But it is pretty tiresome, is it?”
“Yes, Tom, it is very tiresome. Sometimes I just have to shriek, out of sheer boredom. It has been nice to be busy with this house, and you don’t know how happy I am at your return. But I am not happy here—God forgive me, if that is a sin. I am in the thirties now, but I’m still not quite old enough to make intimate friends with the last of the Himmelsburgers, or the Miss Gerhardts, or any of mother’s black friends that come and consume widows’ homes. I don’t believe in them, Tom; they are wolves in sheep’s clothing—a generation of vipers. We are all weak creatures with sinful hearts, and when they begin to look down on me for a poor worldling I laugh in their faces. I’ve always thought that all men are the same, and that we don’t need any intercessors between us and God. You know my political beliefs. I think the citizens—”
“Then you feel lonely?” Tom asked, to bring her back to her starting-point. “But you have Erica.”
“Yes, Tom, and I love the child with my whole heart—although a certain person did use to declare that I am not fond of children. But you see—I am perfectly frank; I am an honest woman and speak as I think, without making words—”
“Which is splendid of you, Tony.”
“Well, in short—it is sad, but the child reminds me too much of Grünlich. The Buddenbrooks in Broad Street think she is very like him too. And then, when I see her before me I always think: ‘You are an old woman with a big daughter, and your life is over. Once for a few years you were alive; but now you can grow to be seventy or eighty years
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