The Magic Mountain

by Thomas Mann

  “He has already judged. He says I look charming in it.”

  “Did he say that? All the way to the end? Spoke the whole sentence all the way to the end so that you could understand it?”

  “Ah, it appears someone is in a bad mood. Someone wants to be malicious, sarcastic. Monsieur is trying to make fun of other people who are much greater and better and more humane than he and his . . . ami bavard de la Méditerranée, son maître grand parleur. But I will not permit someone to speak of my friend—”

  “Do you still have my interior portrait?” he interrupted in a melancholy voice.

  She laughed. “I will have to look for it.”

  “I carry yours here. And then I have a little stand on my chest of drawers where I put it at night and—”

  He did not finish. Peeperkorn was standing in front of him. He had been looking for his traveling companion; he had come through the portieres and stood now in front of the chair of the man he had seen chatting with her, stood there like a tower, right at our hero’s feet, so close in fact that Hans Castorp had trouble getting out of his chair to take a position between the two of them—once he realized, despite his sleepwalker gaze, that he should stand up to be polite. He had to slide out of it sideways, so that our three principal characters now stood in a triangle, the chair in the middle.

  Frau Chauchat complied with the demands of Western civilization and introduced the gentlemen to one another. An acquaintance from before, she said, referring to Hans Castorp—from her previous stay here. Herr Peeperkorn’s presence needed no further explanation. She said his name, and the Dutchman attentively turned his gaze to the young man, his eyes pale beneath the almost idol-like arabesques of his creased brow and temples, and extended a hand—the back of it was all freckles, a sea captain’s hand, Hans Castorp thought, if you discounted those lancelike nails. He was standing now directly under the influence of Peeperkorn’s massive personality (“personality”—one glance at him, and the word would not leave your mind; suddenly you knew what a personality was and the more you saw of him the more you were convinced that this was the only way a personality could look); and malleable youth felt crushed beneath the weight of this broad-shouldered, red-faced sixty-year-old, with white flames that encircled his head, painfully ragged lips, and a long, narrow beard that reached down to his high-buttoned, clerical-style vest. Peeperkorn was courtesy personified, by the way.

  “My dear sir,” he said, “by all means. No, permit me, sir—by all means. I am making your acquaintance this evening—the acquaintance of a promising young man—and I do so, my dear sir, quite deliberately, fully engaging all my energies. I like you, sir. I—don’t mention it. Settled. You appeal to me.”

  There was nothing one could say in return. His cultured gestures were all too peremptory—he liked Hans Castorp. And Peeperkorn drew appropriate conclusions, which he now made known or suggested by gestures that his traveling companion helpfully supplemented with spoken approximations.

  “My child,” he said, “fine, very fine. How would it be—I beg you to understand me correctly. Life is short, whereas our ability to meet its challenges is but—those are facts, my child. Laws. In-ex-or-a-bilities. In short, my child, in short and for good and all—” And he held his last expressive gesture, which both yielded to her and waived all responsibility for any substantial misinterpretation she might make despite his broad hints.

  Apparently Frau Chauchat had practice in determining the direction of his semiwishes. She said, “Why not? We could stay here awhile together, perhaps a game and a bottle of wine. Why are you standing there?” she asked, turning to Hans Castorp. “Look lively. We cannot leave it at just the three of us, we shall need company. Who is still in the salon? Invite whomever you find. Fetch a few friends from the balconies. We shall ask Dr. Ting-Fu from our table.”

  “Absolutely,” Peeperkorn said. “Agreed. Excellent. Hurry, young friend! Obey! We shall form our own little group. We shall play and eat and drink. We shall feel as if we—absolutely, young man!”

  Hans Castorp took the elevator to the third floor. He knocked at the door of A. K. Ferge, who then roused Ferdinand Wehsal and Herr Albin from their chairs in the lower lounging area. Prosecutor Paravant and both Magnuses were still in the lobby. Frau Stöhr and Fräulein Kleefeld were found in the salon, and it was there that a large card table was set up beneath the chandelier, with chairs and little serving tables set all around. Mynheer greeted each guest as he or she arrived, his pale, polite eyes gazing out from under an arabesque of attentively raised brows. They were twelve in all when they sat down, with Hans Castorp seated between their majestic host and Clavdia Chauchat. Cards and chips were set out once they had agreed on a few rounds of vingt et un, and Peeperkorn summoned the dwarf and in his imposing manner ordered wine, an ’06 Chablis, three bottles to start with, and some sweets—whatever dried fruits and pastries could be found. And when these good things arrived, he greeted them with gusto, rubbing his hands and attempting to share his emotions in a few words that broke off impressively, but nevertheless proved quite effective, at least as a general display of personality. He then laid both hands on his neighbor’s forearm, raised one forefinger with its lancelike nail, and, bathing in general approval, demanded they all pay particular attention to the splendid golden hue of the wine in their goblets, to the sugar sweated from the Malaga grapes, to a particular kind of salt and poppy-seed pretzel, which he termed “divine”—and then with one peremptory cultured gesture nipped in the bud any objection to so forceful a word. He took charge of the bank at first, but quickly gave it over to Herr Albin, remarking, if they understood correctly, that its duties prevented him from freely enjoying the occasion.

  The gambling was obviously of secondary importance to him. They would be playing for next to nothing, or so he exclaimed when they agreed to his suggestion of fifty centimes as the minimum wager—although that was a great deal for most of the participants. Prosecutor Paravant and Frau Stöhr blanched and flushed by turns, and she in particular would writhe in dreadful struggles trying to decide whether to buy another card at eighteen. She would squeal loudly whenever Herr Albin coldly and routinely dealt her one that was too high, dashing her hopes—and Peeperkorn would laugh heartily.

  “Squeal, madame, squeal,” he said. “The sound is shrill, yet full of life and emerges from deepest—but drink, regale your heart anew. “ And he poured for her, poured for his neighbor and himself, ordered three more bottles, and touched glasses with Wehsal and Frau Magnus—still wasting away on the inside—since these two seemed most in need of cheering up. Faces quickly took on higher and higher color from the truly marvelous wine—with the exception of Dr. Ting-Fu’s. It remained as yellow as ever, and the ratlike slits shone jet-black; stifling his giggles, he placed very high wagers—and had shamelessly good luck. And the others did not want to be left behind. His gaze floating vaguely, Prosecutor Paravant defied fate by betting ten francs on a less than promising first card, turned pale each time he paid for another, and won twice his money back, because Herr Albin had foolishly put his trust in the ace he had been dealt and doubled every bet. And the thrill was not limited to the person who instigated it. The whole table felt it; even Herr Albin—who wagered with the cold calculation of a croupier in a Monte Carlo casino, where he claimed to have been a regular patron—only partially mastered his agitation. Hans Castorp played for high stakes as well, as did Hermine Kleefeld and Frau Chauchat. They moved on to other games: tours; chemin de fer; ma tante, ta tante, and the ever-risky différence. And each time rascal luck tickled their nerves, there would be a moment of exaltation or despair, an eruption of anger or a hysterical fit of laughter, and all their outbursts were in genuine earnest and would have sounded no different had these been the ups and downs in life’s fortunes.

  And yet it was not only, not even primarily, the gambling and the wine that brought forth these high-tension emotions around the table and made faces flush and shining eyes grow wider, so that the whole p
arty was engaged in what might be called a common strenuous effort, all holding their breath in almost painful concentration on the moment. It was, rather, that all these effects could be traced to the influence of one masterful nature among those present, to the “personality” among them, to Mynheer Peeperkorn, who held the reins in his grandly gesticulating hands and bound them all to the spell of the hour with the drama of his countenance, with pale eyes gazing out from under the monumental creases of his brow, with words and compelling pantomime. What did he say? Nothing very intelligible, and even less so the more he drank. But they hung on his words, smiled and nodded and stared with raised eyebrows at that circle he formed with his forefinger and thumb while the other fingers stood erect like lances and his regal countenance labored to speak; they did not resist, they gladly allowed their emotions to wait upon him and abandoned themselves with a passion that went far beyond anything they would normally have trusted themselves to feel. It was too much for some of them, this abandonment. Frau Magnus, at least, felt indisposed and came close to fainting; she stoutly refused to return to her room, but did acquiesce to lie down on the chaise longue and let them apply a moist napkin to her brow. She soon rose, however, and returned to the group.

  Peeperkorn claimed her trouble was the result of insufficient nourishment. Raising one forefinger, he enlarged upon his theme in imposing, broken phrases. One must eat, eat properly, in order to give life’s demands their due, he informed them, and then ordered refreshments for everyone: a selection of meats and cold cuts, tongue, goose breast, and roast beef, sausages and ham—plates piled with delicacies and garnished with little balls of butter, radishes, and parsley until they resembled showy flowerbeds. But though they all helped themselves lustily to this repast (despite an ample supper, whose substantiality need not be described further), Mynheer Peeperkorn took only a few bites before declaring it to be “gimcrackery”—with a fury that betrayed the frightening unpredictability of such a masterful nature. And when someone tried to come to the defense of the fare, he exploded: his massive head swelled, he banged his fist on the table and pronounced it all a lot of damn garbage, reducing everyone to embarrassed silence, since he had paid for it and, as their host, could say what he pleased about his largesse.

  Anger, incomprehensible though it might be, looked splendid on him, by the way, as Hans Castorp in particular was forced to admit. It did not distort his features or diminish him as a man, and its very incomprehensibility—and no one would have had the impudence to attribute it to the quantities of wine he had enjoyed—lent him something grand and majestic, so that they all deferred to him and did not attempt another bite of food. It was Frau Chauchat who calmed her traveling companion. She patted his broad captain’s hand, still resting on the table where it had fallen, and coaxed him with the suggestion that one could always order something else, something warm, if he liked and if the chef could be talked into it. “My child,” he said, “fine.” And retaining his full dignity, he made an effortless transition from rage to composure and kissed Clavdia’s hand. He would like omelets for himself and his friends—a good omelette aux fines herbes for everyone, so that they might all give life’s demands their due. He sent a hundred francs along with his order to convince the kitchen staff to return to work.

  And his general delight in things returned completely when several steaming dishes appeared—canary yellow sprinkled with green—spreading the bland odor of eggs and butter through the room. They helped themselves along with Peeperkorn, who presided over their enjoyment and with fragments of phrases and compelling, cultured gestures exhorted them to appreciate, indeed fervently to savor, these gifts of God. He ordered Dutch gin, a round for everyone, and insisted that they all approach it with eager devotion and partake of its clear dew, from which rose the robust aroma of grain and the faint whiff of juniper.

  Hans Castorp smoked. Frau Chauchat likewise indulged in filter-tipped cigarettes that she took from a Russian enameled box decorated with a speeding troika, which she had laid within easy reach on the table; nor did Peeperkorn scold his neighbor for yielding to the pleasure, though he did not smoke himself, never had. If they understood him correctly, the consumption of tobacco was, in his opinion, one of those over-refined pleasures, the cultivation of which meant robbing the simpler gifts of life of their majesty—gifts and claims to which our emotional vigor scarcely did justice as it was. “Young man,” he said to Hans Castorp, fixing him with his pale gaze and subduing him with a cultured gesture, “young man—whatever is simple! Whatever is holy! Fine, you understand me. A bottle of wine, a steaming dish of eggs, pure grain spirits—let us first measure up to and enjoy such things before we—absolutely, my dear sir. Settled. I have known people, men and women, cocaine-sniffers, hashish-smokers, morphine addicts. Fine, my dear friend. Agreed. Let them. We should not reprove or judge. And yet for what should come first, for what is simple, grand, direct from the hand of God, for such things these people were all—settled, my friend. Condemned. Cast out. They failed to give such things their due. Whatever your name may be, young man—fine, I knew it, but have since forgotten—depravity lies not in cocaine, not in opium, not in vice as such. The unforgivable sin lies in—”

  He halted. Turning his face to his neighbor, he wrapped himself, tall and broad, in a grandly expressive silence that demanded understanding—one forefinger upraised; the mouth irregular and ragged beneath a naked, red upper lip still somewhat raw from shaving; the strained tracery of creases across the bare brow encircled by white flames; the little pale eyes held wide—and in his eyes Hans Castorp saw something like a flicker of terror at that crime, that one great sin, that unpardonable transgression, to which he had alluded and which, in trying to fathom its horror, he had condemned to silence with all the spellbinding energy of a vague but commanding personality . . . Objective, matter-of-fact terror, Hans Castorp thought, but personal terror, too, something to do with his own life, with the regal man himself. What Hans Castorp saw flickering there for just a moment, it seemed, was fear, not minor, everyday fear, but panic and dread; and despite all the reasons for his hostile feelings toward Frau Chauchat’s majestic traveling companion, Hans Castorp had by nature too much respect for others not to be shaken by what he saw.

  He lowered his eyes and nodded to give his majestic neighbor the satisfaction of having been understood. And then he said, “That is probably true. It may be a sin—and a token of our inadequacies—to indulge in refined tastes without having given the simple, natural gifts of life, the great and holy gifts, their due. That is your opinion, if I understand you correctly, Mynheer Peeperkorn. And although I had never thought of it that way before, now that you mention it, I can only concur with you wholeheartedly. It is probably all too seldom that full justice is done to such healthy and simple gifts of life. Certainly most people are too weak-willed and inattentive, too unscrupulous and emotionally drained, to do them justice—it is more than likely the case.”

  The grand man was highly gratified. “Young man,” he said, “agreed. Permit me to say—but not one word more. I beg you to drink with me, to quaff our glasses down to the last drop, arm in arm. That does not mean that I am offering you the brotherhood of informal pronouns—I was about to do so, but have reconsidered. That would be a bit too hasty.

  I shall more than likely do so, however, within the foreseeable future. Depend on it! But if you wish and insist on it now—”

  Hans Castorp’s gesture implied that he seconded the delay Peeperkorn had proposed.

  “Fine, young man. Fine, comrade. Inadequacies—fine. Fine and horrifying. Unscrupulous—very fine. Gifts—not so fine. Demands! Life’s holy, feminine demands upon our manly honor and vigor—”

  Hans Castorp was suddenly confronted with the realization that Peeperkorn was very drunk. And yet his drunkenness did not belittle or demean him, caused him no disgrace, but rather, when joined with the majesty of his nature, it only made him grander and more awe-inspiring. Even drunken Bacchus, Hans Castorp though
t, had propped himself on his exuberant companions without losing anything of his divinity, and ultimately it depended on who was drunk—a personality or a tinker. He steeled himself against any loss of respect for this overwhelming traveling companion, whose cultured gestures had grown flaccid and whose tongue was thick.

  “Brotherhood—,” Peeperkorn said, throwing his massive body back in free and proud intoxication and stretching one arm out over the table to bang it with a flaccidly clenched fist, “in the offing—in the near offing, though discreetly reconsidered for now, fine. Settled. Life, young man, is a woman, a woman sprawled before us, with close-pressed bulging breasts and a great, soft belly between those broad hips, with slender arms and swelling thighs, with eyes half-closed in mocking defiance, demanding our most urgent response, the proof or collapse of our resilient manly desire—collapse, young man, do you understand what that means? The defeat of feeling in the face of life, that is the inadequacy for which there is no pardon, no pity, no honor, but only merciless shame and scornful laughter—set-tled, young man, and spewed out again. Ignominy and disgrace are mild terms for such ruin and bankruptcy, for such ghastly humiliation. It is the end, the despair of hell itself, doomsday . . .”

  As he spoke, the Dutchman had thrown his massive body back farther and farther, while at the same time his regal head sank to his chest as if he were about to fall asleep. But at this last word, he raised his flaccid fist for two more heavy blows to the tabletop, and slight Hans Castorp, edgy from the gambling and wine and these very peculiar circumstances, flinched and gazed in frightened awe at this powerful man. “Doomsday”—the word fit him perfectly. Hans Castorp could not recall ever having heard anyone use the word, except perhaps in religion class; and it was no accident, he thought, for of all the people he knew, who among them was fit to release such a thunderbolt—or better, who had the stature for it? Little Naphta might have made use of it, but it would have been a usurpation, mere caustic chatter, whereas in Peeperkorn’s mouth the thunderbolt was trumpeted forth with its full crashing, booming, biblical impact. “My God—what a personality!” he thought for the hundredth time. “I have stumbled upon a personality, and he is Clavdia’s traveling companion.” Feeling rather tipsy himself, he spun his wineglass in place with one hand and thrust the other into his trouser pocket, squinting with one eye from the smoke of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Should he not have kept silent after the aforesaid thunderbolt? What could his prim voice accomplish? But discussion was a habit now, thanks to his democratic mentors—both were basically democratic, although the one struggled not to be—and he got caught up in one of his own ingenuous commentaries.