by Thomas Mann
“But wait,” Hans Castorp said, holding up a forefinger next to one bloodshot eye. “You said that a minute is as long as it seems to you while you’re measuring your temperature, correct?”
“A minute is as long as . . . it lasts, as long as it takes a second hand to complete a circle.”
“But how long that takes can vary greatly—according to how we feel it! And in point of fact . . . I repeat, in point of fact,” Hans Castorp said, pressing his forefinger so firmly against his nose that its tip was folded to one side, “that’s a matter of motion, of motion in space, correct? Wait, hear me out! And so we measure time with space. But that is the same thing as trying to measure space with time—the way uneducated people do. It’s twenty hours from Hamburg to Davos—true, by train. But on foot, how far is it then? And in our minds—not even a second!”
“Listen here,” Joachim said, “what’s wrong with you? I think being up here with us is getting to you.”
“Just be quiet. My mind is very clear today. So then, what is time?” Hans Castorp asked, bending the tip of his nose so forcefully to one side that it turned white and bloodless. “Will you please tell me that? We perceive space with our senses, with vision and touch. But what is the organ for our sense of time? Would you please tell me that? You see, you’re stuck. But how are we ever going to measure something about which, precisely speaking, we know nothing at all—cannot list a single one of its properties. We say time passes. Fine, let it pass for all I care. But in order to measure it . . . no, wait! In order for it to be measurable, it would have to flow evenly, but where is it written that it does that? It doesn’t do that for our conscious minds, we simply assume it does, just for the sake of convenience. And so all our measurements are merely conventions, if you please.”
“Fine,” Joachim said, “then it’s probably also just a convention that my thermometer has risen four and a half lines above normal. And because of those four little lines I have to loaf around here and can’t go on active duty—and that’s a disgusting fact all to itself.”
“Are you at ninety-nine point five?”
“It’s already going back down.” And Joachim entered it on his chart. “Yesterday evening it was almost a hundred point four—your arrival did that. Whenever anyone gets a visitor, his temperature goes up. But that’s a good thing, really.”
“And I’ll go now,” Hans Castorp said. “My head is full of all kinds of ideas about time—a whole complex of thoughts, let me tell you. But I don’t want to get you worked up over them, not when your temperature’s already too high. I’ll keep it all in mind, and we can talk about it later then, after second breakfast perhaps. You will call me when it’s time to eat? I’ll go take my rest cure now, too—it can’t hurt, thank goodness.” And with that he slipped past the glass divider across to his own balcony, where someone had placed an unfolded lounge chair and a table. He fetched his Ocean Steamships and his traveling blanket, a lovely plaid of dark reds and greens, and noticed that his room had been nicely tidied up. And now he stretched out.
But he soon had to put up his sunshade, the blazing glare was unbearable the moment you lay down. Still it was terribly pleasant just to lie there, Hans Castorp discovered at once to his delight—he could not remember ever having used a more comfortable lounge chair. The frame, a little old-fashioned in design—but that was only a stylish touch, really, since the chair was obviously new—was made of polished reddish-brown wood, and the mattress, covered with a soft cottonlike fabric, actually consisted of three thick cushions that reached from the foot of the chair up over the back. And then, attached to a string and slipped into an embroidered linen case was a roll for your neck, neither too firm nor too soft, and it simply worked wonders. Hans Castorp propped one elbow on the broad, smooth surface of the chair arm, and lay there blinking, not even bothering to entertain himself with Ocean Steamships. Seen through the arches of the balcony, the hard, barren landscape lay under the bright sun like a framed painting. Hans Castorp regarded it pensively. Suddenly it came to him—and he said aloud into the silence, “That was a dwarf who served us at breakfast.”
“Shh,” Joachim said. “You have to be quiet. Yes, a dwarf. So what?”
“Nothing. Just that we hadn’t spoken about it.”
And then he went on dreaming. It was already ten o’clock when he lay down. An hour passed. It was an ordinary hour, neither long nor short. And when it was over, a gong rang out in the building and across the garden—first distant, then nearer, then distant again.
“Breakfast,” Joachim said, and you could hear him getting up.
Hans Castorp ended his rest cure for now, too, and went back into the room to get ready. The cousins met in the corridor and went downstairs.
Hans Castorp said, “Well, that felt marvelous just lying there. What sort of chairs are those? If they’re for sale up here, I’ll take one with me back to Hamburg, they’re simply heavenly. Or do you think that Behrens has them made up according to his own specifications?”
Joachim did not know. They hung up their coats and for the second time today they entered the dining hall, where the meal was in full swing.
The room glistened with white from all the milk—a large glass at every place, a good pint of it at least.
“No,” Hans Castorp said, taking his seat again at the end of the table between the seamstress and the Englishwoman and conscientiously unfolding his napkin—although he was still weighed down by his first breakfast. “No,” he said, “God help me, but I do not drink milk, and certainly not now. Is there some porter, perhaps?” And he turned to ask this question politely and gently of the dwarf. There was no porter, unfortunately. But she promised him some Kulmbach beer, and indeed she brought it. It was thick and black, with a foamy brown head, and was an excellent substitute for porter. Hans Castorp drank thirstily from the tall pint glass. He ate cold cuts on toast. There was more oatmeal on the table and lots of butter and fruit again. He at least let his eyes pass over it all, since he was incapable of helping himself to any of it. And he observed the other guests, too—the crowd was beginning to sort itself out for him and individuals were emerging.
His own table was full, except for the seat at the head opposite him, which, as he was told, was reserved for the doctors. Because whenever their schedules allowed, the physicians took part in communal meals, but at a different table every time—and a place was kept free for them at the head of each one. Neither of them was present at the moment; word was that they were operating. The young man with the moustache entered again, his chin pressed to his chest, and sat down with a worried, self-absorbed look on his face. The very blond, gaunt young woman took her seat and spooned down her yogurt again, as if this were the only thing she ever ate. Next to her this time was a chipper little old lady, who spoke to the silent young man in a steady flow of Russian, to which his only reply was a worried expression and a nod of the head—and that same look on his face as if he had something foul-tasting in his mouth. Across from him, on the other side of the old lady, yet another young girl was seated—she was pretty, with a rosy complexion, prominent breasts, chestnut hair nicely coiffed and waved, round, brown, childlike eyes, and a little ruby on her pretty hand. She laughed a great deal and likewise spoke Russian, only Russian. Her name was Marusya, Hans Castorp heard someone say. He also happened to notice that Joachim would lower his eyes with a stern look whenever she laughed or spoke.
Settembrini came in by way of the side entrance, and twirling his moustache all the while, he strode to his seat, which was catercorner from Hans Castorp’s. His tablemates broke into peals of laughter as he sat down—presumably he had made one of his malicious remarks. And Hans Castorp also recognized the members of the Half-Lung Club. Doltish-eyed Hermine Kleefeld shoved her way to her table, over near one of the doors opening onto the veranda, and greeted the thick-lipped lad who had hitched his jacket up so unbecomingly. At the table set crosswise on his right sat Fräulein Levi with the ivory complexion and, next to her, plum
p, freckled Frau Iltis and a group of others whom Hans Castorp did not know.
“Those are your neighbors,” Joachim said softly to his cousin and bent his head forward. Passing very close to Hans Castorp was a couple making for the last table on the right—the Bad Russian table, that was—where a family with an ugly boy was already seated, all of them wolfing down great mounds of oatmeal. The man was slightly built and had gray, hollow cheeks. He wore a brown leather jacket, and on his feet were boxy felt boots with clasp buckles. His wife, likewise small and slim, wore a hat with a bouncing feather and minced ahead on tiny, high-heeled boots of red Russia leather; around her neck was draped a shabby feather boa. Hans Castorp stared at the two of them with a tactlessness that was quite foreign to him and that even he found brutal—although what was really brutal about it was the sudden pleasure he took in it. His gaze was simultaneously blunt and piercing. And when at that same moment the glass door on his left slammed shut with a bang and a rattle, just as it had at first breakfast, he did not flinch as he had earlier that morning, but merely grimaced languidly. And just as he was about to turn his head to look in that direction, he suddenly found that it was simply too much trouble and not worth the effort. And so he did not determine this time, either, who it was that was so sloppy about the door.
The fact was that his breakfast beer, which normally had only a slightly befuddling effect on the young man, had completely stupefied and lamed him—it was as if he had been struck a blow across his brow. His eyelids were leaden; his tongue simply would not obey the simplest thoughts when he tried out of courtesy to chat with the Englishwoman; even shifting the direction of his eyes demanded a great struggle with himself. Added to all of which, the ghastly flush he had experienced yesterday had returned to his face in full force—his cheeks felt puffy from the heat, he was breathing heavily, his heart was pounding like a hammer wrapped in cloth. But despite it all, he was not suffering particularly—primarily because his head felt as if he had just taken two or three deep breaths of chloroform. Dr. Krokowski had appeared for breakfast and taken the seat opposite him at the head of the table; but, as if in a dream, he barely noticed the fact, although the doctor looked him in the eye, repeatedly and sharply, while carrying on a conversation in Russian with the ladies on his right, during which the younger ones—that is, Marusya with her rosy complexion and the gaunt yogurt-eater—kept their eyes cast down in meek embarrassment. It goes without saying that Hans Castorp kept his dignity, preferring to say not a word once his tongue had proved refractory and handling his knife and fork with special decorum. When his cousin nodded to him and stood up, he did the same; after bowing blindly to his tablemates, he followed Joachim, taking deliberate, careful steps as he went.
“When is the next rest cure?” he asked as they left the building. “That’s the best thing here, as far as I can see. I wish I were lying in my splendid lounge chair again right now. Are we going to walk far?”
ONE WORD TOO MANY
“No,” Joachim said, “we don’t dare go very far. Around this time I always take just a short walk down through Davos-Dorf and on into Platz, if I have time. You can window-shop and watch people and buy whatever you need. Not to worry, we’ll lie down for an hour before dinner, and then again till four.”
They walked down the drive in the sunshine and crossed the brook and the narrow-gauge tracks; the line of mountains above the valley’s western slope rose directly ahead of them, and Joachim supplied their names: Little Schiahorn, the Green Towers, and Dorfberg. Across the way, a little distance up the hill, was the walled cemetery of Davos-Dorf—and Joachim pointed it out as well with his walking stick. And now they were on the main road, which was set one terrace-level above the valley floor.
One could not really call Dorf a village; at least, nothing except the name itself was left now. It had been devoured by the resort spreading relentlessly toward the entrance to the valley, and that part of the settlement called Davos-Dorf merged imperceptibly, without transition, into what was called Davos-Platz. Hotels and boardinghouses, all of them amply equipped with covered verandas, balconies, and rest-cure arcades, lay on both sides, as well as private homes with rooms for rent. Here and there new buildings were under construction, but sometimes the line of houses was broken by an open space that allowed a view of the valley’s green meadows.
In his desire for his customary and cherished stimulant, Hans Castorp had lit another cigar; and, thanks apparently to the beer he had drunk and much to his indescribable satisfaction, now and then he was able to whiff something of the aroma he craved—but only rarely and faintly, to be sure. It was a strain on his nerves just to try to detect a hint of his usual enjoyment—and that repulsive leathery taste predominated. Unwilling to accommodate himself to such failure, he struggled for a while to find a pleasure that either was totally denied him or simply teased him with a distant inkling of itself, and finally out of weary disgust he tossed the cigar aside. Despite his dazed state, he felt courtesy demanded that he carry on a conversation, and for that purpose he tried to recall the excellent things he had wanted to say about “time” earlier. Except it turned out that he had forgotten every bit of the whole “complex”—not one single thought about time still resided in any corner of his brain. And so instead he began to speak about bodily functions, although in a rather strange fashion.
“When do you take your temperature again?” he asked. “After dinner? Yes, that’s a good idea. The organism is at the height of its activity, so it would register then. For Behrens to demand that I ought to take mine, too—now listen, that was surely just meant as a joke. Why, Settembrini laughed his head off at the notion. There would be absolutely no point in it. I don’t even own a thermometer.”
“Well,” Joachim said, “that’s no problem whatever. You need only to buy one. There are thermometers for sale here everywhere, in almost any shop.”
“But why should I? No, the rest cure, that’s not a half-bad idea, and I’ll probably go along with it. But keeping track of my temperature would be too much for a visitor, I’ll leave that to the rest of you up here. If I only knew,” Hans Castorp continued, pressing his hands to his breast like a man in love, “why my heart keeps pounding the whole time—it’s so disconcerting. I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while now. Because, you see, your heart pounds when you’re looking forward to some joyous event or if you’re afraid—when your emotions are stirred up, isn’t that right? But if your heart starts pounding all by itself, for no earthly reason, of its own accord, so to speak, I find that downright bizarre, if you see what I mean? It’s as if the body were going off on its own and no longer had any connection to your soul, more or less like a dead body that is not really dead—even though there is no such thing—and goes on living a very active life, but all of its own accord. The hair and the nails keep on growing, and for that matter, in terms of the chemistry and physics, or so I’ve heard, it’s a regular hustle and bustle there inside.”
“What sort of an expression is that,” Joachim reprimanded him discreetly. “ ‘A regular hustle and bustle!’ ” And perhaps he was revenging himself a little for the rebuke he had received earlier today for his “glockenspiel.”
“But it’s true! It is a regular hustle and bustle. Why are you so offended by that?” Hans Castorp asked. “And anyway, I only mentioned it incidentally. All I was trying to say is that it’s bizarre and upsetting when the body goes off on its own accord, living with no connection to one’s soul and putting on airs—like a heart pounding for no purpose whatever. One literally searches for some reason for it, some emotional stimulus, a feeling of joy or fear, that could justify it, so to speak—at least that’s how it is with me, I can only speak for myself.”
“Yes, yes,” Joachim said with a sigh, “it’s probably much like having a high fever. There’s quite a hustle and bustle—to use your expression—going on in your body in that case, too, and it may well be that one automatically looks around for some emotional stimulus, as you put it,
to provide at least a halfway reasonable explanation for all the hustle and bustle. But we’re talking about such unpleasant things,” he said in a quivering voice and then broke off. To which Hans Castorp merely gave a shrug—in perfect imitation of the shrug he had first seen Joachim give the evening before.
They walked along in silence for a while.
Then Joachim asked, “Well, how do you like the people here? I mean the ones at our table?”
Hans Castorp’s face showed his indifference as he reviewed them in his mind. “Oh, Lord,” he said, “they don’t seem very interesting to me. There are more interesting people sitting at some of the other tables, I think, but maybe I’m just imagining that. Frau Stöhr should get her hair washed, it’s so greasy. And little Mazurka, or whatever her name is, seems pretty silly to me. She keeps stuffing her handkerchief in her mouth because she’s constantly giggling.”
Joachim laughed out loud at the bungled name. “ ‘Mazurka’—that’s splendid!” he cried. “Her name’s Marusya, if you please—it’s about the same as our Marie. Yes, she really is too enthusiastic,” he said. “When she has every reason to be more sedate, because she’s more than a little ill.”
“You’d never know it,” Hans Castorp said. “She’s in such good shape. You’d never take her for someone with a weak chest.” And he tried to catch his cousin’s eye, but discovered that Joachim’s tanned face looked all blotchy, the way tanned faces do when the blood rushes out of them, and that he had wrenched his mouth into a peculiar, woeful expression that gave Hans Castorp a vague fright and caused him immediately to change the subject. He asked about certain other people and tried to forget both Marusya and Joachim’s expression—and was totally successful at it. The Englishwoman with the rose-hip tea was named Miss Robinson.