The Magic Mountain

by Thomas Mann

  And indeed Naphta was clever at making his points, turning a hymn of praise into something diabolic and presenting himself as the incarnation of abiding, disciplined love, so that once again it had become a pure impossibility to decide where God and the Devil, life and death, were to be found. The reader can believe us when we say, however, that his opponent was man enough to respond with a brilliant comeback, which he then received in kind; and so it went for a while and the conversation flowed on into issues previously touched upon. But Hans Castorp was no longer listening, because at one point Joachim had mentioned that he was feeling feverish, almost certainly from his cold, but did not know what he should do, since colds were hardly reçus here. The two duelers passed over the remark, but Hans Castorp had, as we noted, been keeping a worried eye on his cousin, and now departed with him in the middle of a rebuttal, leaving it to the remaining audience, consisting of Ferge and Wehsal, to provide sufficient pedagogic impetus for a continuation of the argument.

  On the way home, he got Joachim to agree that official channels should be opened to deal with his cold and sore throat—this meant asking the bath attendant to inform the head nurse, which would then result in something being done for his sufferings. And it proved the thing to do. That very evening, right after supper, Adriatica knocked on Joachim’s door—Hans Castorp happened to be in the room with him—and asked in her squawky voice what the young officer’s problems and wishes were. “Sore throat? Hoarseness?” she repeated. “Man alive, what sort of antics are these?” She attempted to fix him with a piercing stare, and it was not Joachim’s fault their eyes did not meet—hers were the ones that wandered off. Experience had taught her that she was not meant to execute the procedure, but she kept trying. With the aid of a sort of metal shoehorn that she pulled from the bag hanging from her belt, she looked down into the patient’s throat, asking Hans Castorp to provide light with the nightstand lamp. Standing on her tiptoes and gazing at Joachim’s uvula, she said, “Man alive, tell me—have you ever swallowed the wrong way?”

  What did you answer to that? For the moment, as long as she was peering down his throat, there was no way to reply; but even when she had let him go, Joachim was still at a loss for an answer. Of course he had swallowed the wrong way now and then, eating or drinking something. That was the common fate of humanity—that couldn’t be what she meant by her question. So he asked her why she had asked, said he couldn’t remember the last time it happened.

  Well, fine; it was just something that occurred to her. He had caught a cold, she said—to the amazement of both cousins, since the word “cold” was taboo here at the Berghof. In such cases the director’s laryngoscope was sometimes required for a closer examination of the throat. As she departed, she left some Formamint, plus a bandage and some gutta-percha for moist compresses during the night; and Joachim made use of both and said he noticed definite relief from these remedies; and he continued to use them, especially since his hoarseness would not go away, indeed grew worse over the next few days, although his sore throat was gone, more or less.

  He had, by the way, only imagined that his fever came from his cold—the objective findings were as usual. Along with the results of the director’s examination, this meant that honor-loving Joachim would have to stay with his little extra therapy before he could rush off to the colors again. The October deadline passed quietly. No one mentioned it—not the director and not the cousins to one another; they simply ignored it in silence with downcast eyes. To judge from what the X-ray plate showed and what Behrens dictated to his psychoanalytic aide-de-camp during Joachim’s monthly checkup, it was only too clear that there could be no question of a departure, unless it was fraudulent, because this time it was a matter of Joachim’s remaining on duty up here with iron self-discipline, until he had been made fully weatherproof—only then could he fulfill his oath by service in the flatlands.

  This was the watchword, with which everyone pretended to be in silent agreement. The truth was, however, that no one was quite certain whether anyone else believed this watchword in the depths of his soul; and because of their doubts the cousins would turn their downcast eyes away—but only after their eyes had first met. This had happened often since the colloquy on literature, the day when Hans Castorp had first noticed a new light and the ominous expression deep in Joachim’s eyes. It happened once at the dinner table—when Joachim, still hoarse, quite unexpectedly choked on something, so violently he could hardly get his breath. And while Joachim gasped behind his napkin and Frau Magnus, his neighbor, pounded on his back in the time-honored fashion, the cousins’ eyes met in a way that frightened Hans Castorp even more than the incident itself, which of course could happen to anyone; and then Joachim lowered his eyes, hid his face in his napkin, and left the table and the dining hall to cough himself out elsewhere.

  He returned after ten minutes, a little pale, smiled, apologized for the disturbance he had caused, and then rejoined the others in disposing of the rich, heavy meal. This trivial incident was even forgotten afterward, was not mentioned once. But when the same thing happened again a few days later, not at dinner this time, but at their ample second breakfast, though without their eyes meeting—since Hans Castorp was bent down over his plate and went on eating, seeming to pay no attention—they could not avoid commenting on it after the meal; and Joachim cursed that damn woman, Fräulein Mylendonk, who had put a bug in his ear with that question of hers out of nowhere, had put notions in his head, had cast a spell on him, damn her. Yes, it was apparently the power of suggestion, Hans Castorp said—an amusing, though annoying instance of it. And from then on, once they had called the thing by its name, Joachim defended himself successfully against this sorcery, paid close attention at meals, and did not swallow the wrong way, or at least no more often than unbewitched people. It was nine or ten days later before it happened again, and there was no need to comment on it.

  All the same, he was summoned to Rhadamanthus out of turn. The head nurse had informed on him, which was really not all that foolish of her; there was a laryngoscope in the house, after all, and given Joachim’s stubborn hoarseness, which sometimes progressed to a total loss of voice for hours, and given his sore throat, which returned whenever he neglected to keep his throat moistened with medications that increased salivary flow, there seemed sufficient reason to take that ingenious instrument from the cupboard—not to mention the fact that although Joachim swallowed the wrong way with normal infrequency, he did so only because of the special care he took when eating, so that he was almost always slow to finish his meal.

  And so the director scoped, mirrored, and gazed deep and long down Joachim’s throat; immediately afterward, the patient appeared on Hans Castorp’s balcony, as explicitly requested, to give a report. It had been a ticklish nuisance, he confided in a half-whisper, since this was the main rest cure and silence was the rule. All Behrens had done was babble on about inflammation of this and that, had said that the throat would have to be painted every day and that he would start the procedure the next morning, since he first had to prepare the cauterant. So, then, inflammation, cauterization. Hans Castorp’s head was full of thoughts and associations that extended as far as people like the limping concierge and the woman who had kept one hand pressed to her ear for a whole week and was told nevertheless to set her mind at ease; there were questions on the tip of his tongue, but he could not get them out and decided instead to ask them of the director in private. His comments to Joachim were limited to an expression of satisfaction that the annoyance was under control now that the director had taken a hand in the matter. Behrens was a brick of a fellow and would come up with a cure. To which Joachim nodded without looking at his cousin, turned, and walked across to his own balcony.

  And how did things stand with honor-loving Joachim? In the last few days his glance had become very unsteady and reticent. Only recently Head Nurse Mylendonk had failed yet again in an attempt to fix his gentle, dark eyes with a piercing stare; but if she were to try he
r luck again, it was no longer absolutely certain how things would turn out. At any rate, he avoided such meetings of the eye, and even when they did occur (because Hans Castorp looked at him often), it did not make his cousin feel any better. Hans Castorp stayed behind on his balcony, depressed and sorely tempted to go see the boss then and there. But that was no good, since Joachim would have heard him get up, and so he decided he had best put it off and catch Behrens sometime later in the afternoon.

  But with no success. Strange. He found it impossible to get hold of the director, either that evening or for the next two whole days. Of course, Joachim was part of the problem, since he was not supposed to notice, but that did not begin to explain why he could not manage a conference, why, try as he might, he could not lay his hands on Rhadamanthus. Hans Castorp searched and asked for the director all over the sanatorium and was sent here or there, where he was sure to find him—only to discover he was no longer there. Behrens was present at one meal, but sat a good distance away, at the Bad Russian table, and vanished before dessert. A few times Hans Castorp saw him climbing the stairs or standing in the corridor talking with Krokowski, the head nurse, or another patient; he would watch and wait to buttonhole him. But he had looked away for just a moment, and Behrens was gone.

  On the fourth day he succeeded. From his balcony, he spotted his quarry in the garden, giving instructions to the gardener. Slipping hastily out of his blankets, he hurried downstairs. The director, his neck arched, was just rowing off toward home; Hans Castorp broke into a trot, even took the freedom of shouting—but got no response. He caught up at last, out of breath, and brought his man to a halt.

  “What are you doing here?” the director snapped, his eyes bulging. “Should I have someone give you a special copy of the house rules? As far as I know, it’s main rest cure. Your fever chart and your X-ray give you no particular right to go free-lance. We should erect a statue out here somewhere, a scarecrow divinity who will skewer anyone philandering about between two and four. Just what do you want?”

  “Herr Behrens, I simply must speak to you for a moment.”

  “So I’ve noticed, you’ve had your mind set on that for some time now. You’ve been setting traps for me, as if I were some young miss, or God knows what sort of object of your affections. What do you want from me?”

  “Beg your pardon, but it’s about my cousin, Herr Behrens. His throat is being painted. I’m sure things are progressing well. It is harmless, isn’t it, if I may ask?”

  “You want everything to be harmless, Castorp, that’s the sort of fellow you are. You’re not at all averse to getting involved in things that are not harmless, but then you treat them as if they were, and you think that will ingratiate you with God and man. You’re something of a coward, man, a phony, and if your cousin calls you a civilian, that’s merely a very euphemistic way of putting it.”

  “That may well be, Herr Behrens. There can be no question that I have many weaknesses of character. But that’s the point—there can be no question of that at the moment, and what I’ve been trying to get from you for three days now is simply—”

  “For me to tell you the sweet, sugary, diluted truth. You want to badger me and bore me, until I reinforce your damn phoniness so that you can enjoy your innocent sleep, while others wake and watch and let the gale winds blow.”

  “My, but you are being hard on me, Herr Behrens. It’s just the opposite, I wanted to—”

  “Yes, hard on you—and that’s not up your alley. Your cousin is quite a different sort of fellow, a man cut from different cloth. He knows what’s what. He knows and says nothing, do you understand? He doesn’t go around tugging on people’s sleeves, asking to be hoodwinked with harmlessness. He knew what he was doing, what he was risking, and that’s a man for you, who knows how to keep a stiff upper lip, to keep his mouth shut, which is a manly art, but not the sort nice little bipeds like yourself can understand. But this much I’ll tell you, Castorp, if you start making a scene, raise a hue and cry and give your civilian feelings free rein, I’ll hand you your walking papers. Because men want the company of men up here, if you understand me.”

  Hans Castorp was silent. His face, too, was blotchy now when it turned pale, his tan too coppery actually to lose color. Finally, his lips quivering, he said, “Thank you, Herr Behrens. I now know what’s what myself, since I assume you would not have spoken so—how shall I put it—impressively if things were not serious with Joachim. I dislike scenes and hues and cries myself—that was unfair of you. And when it comes to discretion, I can hold my own, I think I can assure you of that.”

  “You’re fond of your cousin, aren’t you, Hans Castorp?” the director asked, suddenly grasping the young man’s hand and gazing down at him from his blue, bloodshot, protruding eyes with their white lashes.

  “What can I say, Herr Behrens? Such a close relative and such a good friend and my comrade up here.” Hans Castorp gave a little sob and turned one heel up and out, so that the foot rested on just the toes.

  The director promptly dropped the hand. “Well, then be good to him for these next six to eight weeks,” he said. “Just give your native harmlessness free rein—that will please him best. And I will be here, too, to make things as comfortable as possible for an officer and a gentleman.”

  “It’s his larynx, isn’t it?” Hans Castorp asked with a nod to the director.

  “Laryngeal tuberculosis,” Behrens confirmed. “Rapid deterioration. And the tracheal membranes are already looking nasty, too. It may be that shouting orders at drill could have created a locus minoris resistentiae. But we’ll have to be ready for all sorts of diversions. Not much hope, my lad—none at all, actually. To be sure, we’ll do everything possible and feasible.”

  “His mother . . .” Hans Castorp said.

  “Later, later. No hurry. See to it that she slowly gets the picture, but with tact and taste. And now it’s off to rest-cure duty with you. He’s sure to notice. And it must be awkward to have people talking about you like this behind your back.”

  Every day Joachim went to have his throat painted. It was a beautiful autumn; his treatments often meant that he came late to dinner in his white flannels and blue coat, looking proper and military, offering curt, friendly, manly, unruffled greetings, begging to be excused for his tardiness, and then sitting down to his meal, which was now prepared especially for him since he could not eat the regular menu for fear of choking. He was served soups, stews, and porridges. His tablemates were quick to realize the situation. They responded to his greetings with poignant courtesy and warmth, addressing him as “Herr Lieutenant.” In his absence they asked Hans Castorp about him, and people even came over from other tables to ask. Frau Stöhr arrived wringing her hands and making uncultured lamentation. But Hans Castorp replied only in monosyllables, admitted the seriousness of the situation, but also lied to a certain extent—though honorably, out of a sense that one ought not to abandon Joachim so soon.

  They took their walks together, dutifully promenaded three times a day, but only the limited distance expressly prescribed by the director to avoid all unnecessary expenditure of energy. Hans Castorp walked on his cousin’s left—in days past they had taken up positions, right or left, as chance would have it; but Hans Castorp now kept consistently to the left. They did not speak much, only the phrases a normal day at the Berghof brought to their lips, nothing more. There was nothing to say about the topic that stood between them, particularly not for people so reserved by custom, who used first names only on the rarest of occasions. All the same, from time to time something would well up urgently inside Hans Castorp’s civilian breast, and he would be close to pouring out his feelings. But that was impossible. And what had welled up so painfully, so stormily, sank back and died away.

  Joachim walked beside him, his head bent low. He stared at the ground as if examining the soil. It was so strange. Here he walked, so proper and orderly, greeted passersby in his chivalrous way, paying strict attention, as always, to his
appearance and bienséance—and he belonged to the earth. Well, we all will belong to it sooner or later. But to belong to it when one is so young and has served the colors for such a short time and with such goodwill and joy, that is bitter—even more bitter and incomprehensible for Hans Castorp walking beside him, knowing everything, than for the man who belongs to the earth—whose proper, silent knowledge is actually more academic and less real to him, is less his concern than his companion’s. In fact, our dying is more a concern to those who survive us than to ourselves; for as a wise man once cleverly put it, as long as we are, death is not, and when death is, we are not; and even if we are unfamiliar with that adage, it retains its psychological validity. There is no real relationship between us and death; it is something that does not apply to us at all, but at best to nature and the world at large—which is why all creatures can contemplate it with composure, indifference, irresponsibility, and egoistic innocence. Hans Castorp saw a great deal of this innocence and irresponsibility in Joachim’s character during these weeks and understood that although his cousin knew, that did not mean it was difficult for him to observe a decorous silence about his knowledge, for his inner relationship to it was loose and merely theoretical; and in terms of any practical considerations, it was all ordered and governed by a healthy sense of propriety, which no more permitted a discussion of such knowledge than it does of any of the many indelicate functions we are quite aware condition life, but do not prevent us from preserving bienséance.