The Magic Mountain

by Thomas Mann

  For the gas fireplace behind the semicircle was putting out heat.

  A mystic consecration? Oh no, it was all too noisy, too preposterous there in the reddish darkness, to which their eyes had gradually become so accustomed that they could more or less take in the whole room. The music and their cries were reminiscent of a Salvation Army revival meeting, even for someone like Hans Castorp, who had never attended services held by those high-spirited enthusiasts. There was nothing ghostly about the scene, and if its effects were mystical and mysterious, if they aroused pious feelings in anyone, then it was only in a natural, organic sense—and we have already noted the more precise, intimate context involved. Elly’s efforts came in waves, followed by pauses during which she would fall limply to one side of her chair, in a fully inaccessible state that Dr. Krokowski called “deep trance.” Then she would straighten up and begin to moan; she tossed back and forth, pushed and wrestled with her monitors, whispered hot babble in their ears, made a series of sidelong whiplash movements as if trying to fling something out of her, gnashed her teeth, and once even bit Hans Castorp’s sleeve.

  This went on for an hour or more. Then the leader of the session found that it would be in the interest of all present to allow for a pause. Wenzel the Czech, who toward the end had provided a little change of pace by shutting off the gramophone and plunking his mandolin quite adeptly, now laid his instrument down. With a sigh, they all let go of one another’s hands. Dr. Krokowski walked over to the wall to turn on the chandelier. There was a flare of blinding white, and all the night-eyes squinted stupidly. Elly went on slumbering; she was bent forward, her face almost in her lap. They noticed that she was busy doing something rather curious, an activity with which the others seemed familiar, but that caught Hans Castorp’s attention, and he watched in amazement: for several minutes she reached out her cupped hand until it was at about her hip, then pulled it back—stretched it out and with a ladling or raking motion, pulled it back, as if she were collecting or gathering something. Then after a series of jerks she came to, blinked—her eyes, too, squinting stupidly into the light—and smiled.

  She smiled, an affected and somewhat reserved smile. Their pity for her labors did indeed seem to have been wasted. She did not look particularly exhausted. Perhaps she did not even remember any of it. She sat in the chair reserved for patients at the back of the doctor’s wide desk, near the window, between it and the folding screen arranged around the chaise longue; she had turned the chair enough so that she could brace one arm on the desktop and look out into the room. And there she sat, the object of sympathetic glances and occasional encouraging nods, and said not a word during the entire intermission, which lasted fifteen minutes.

  It was a real intermission—everyone was relaxed and mildly satisfied with the work thus far accomplished. The gentlemen’s cigarette cases clicked. People smoked with gusto and in scattered groups discussed how the session was going. They were a long way from feeling discouraged about it, from any sense that they might have to contemplate its ending in failure. There were sufficient signs to counter all such despondency. Those who had been sitting at the far end of the semicircle, near the doctor, all agreed that several times they had clearly felt the cool draft that regularly prepared the way for any phenomena and that originated with the medium herself, always streaming in one particular direction. Others claimed to have seen little flecks of white light, shifting points of concentrated energy that had appeared repeatedly along the folding screen. In short, no giving up! No faint hearts! Holger had given his word, and they had no right to doubt he would keep it.

  Dr. Krokowski gave the signal for the session to resume. While the others took their seats again, he personally led Elly back to her chair of martyrdom, stroking her hair as she sat down. Everything went just as before; Hans Castorp asked to be relieved of his post as primary monitor, but was refused this request by their leader. It was important to him, the doctor said, that the person who had expressed the wish be afforded proof, by the direct evidence of the senses, that all fraudulent manipulation of the medium was out of the question. And so Hans Castorp resumed his peculiar position in front of Elly. The light was reduced to a dim red. The music started up again. Once more, there were several minutes of Elly’s jerky spasms and pumping motions; but this time it was Hans Castorp who announced, “Trance!” The scandalous birthing proceeded.

  But with what terrible difficulties! It did not seem to want to proceed at all—and how could it? What madness! What sort of motherhood was this? A delivery—how and from what? “Help, help,” the child moaned, her labor pains threatening now to become a futile, dangerous constant cramp, known to obstetricians as eclampsia. She called for the doctor at one point, asked him to lay hands on her. Which he did, urging her on in pithy phrases. This magnetization, if that is what it was, gave her strength for further struggles.

  And so the second hour passed. Eyes weaned from daylight again grew somewhat accustomed to the dim illumination; and the room was filled alternately with mandolin plunking and gramophone melodies from the album of light favorites. Then something happened—and Hans Castorp was the cause. He made a suggestion, expressed a wish, a thought, that he had been entertaining for some time, actually from the very start, and that quite possibly should have been offered before now. Elly was in her “deep trance,” her face resting in her tightly held hands, and Herr Wenzel was about to change records or turn one over, when our friend began to say, with some determination, that he had a suggestion to make—insignificant, really, but then it might be useful, in his opinion. He had . . . that is, the house record library contained one particular piece, “Valentin’s Prayer” from Gounod’s Faust, baritone and orchestra, very attractive. He, Hans Castorp, suggested they might try playing it just once.

  “And why is that?” the doctor asked from somewhere in the red darkness.

  “A matter of mood, of an emotional state,” the young man replied. The spirit of the piece was peculiar, quite special. He was merely suggesting they give it a try. It was not out of the question, in his view, that the spirit or character of the music might shorten the current proceedings.

  “Is the recording here?” the doctor asked.

  No, it wasn’t. But Hans Castorp could fetch it right away.

  “What are you thinking of!” Krokowski rejected the idea out of hand. What? Hans Castorp wanted to leave and come back, go fetch something and then have them pick up their labors where they had left off? That was inexperience speaking. No, it was absolutely impossible. It would ruin everything, they would have to begin all over again. And scientific accuracy likewise prohibited even thinking of engaging in any such arbitrary departure and return. The door was locked. He, the doctor, had the key in his pocket. And in short, if the record was not readily available, then they would have to—he was still speaking when the Czech interjected from beside the gramophone.

  “The record is here.”

  “Here?” Hans Castorp asked.

  Yes, here. Faust, “Valentin’s Prayer.” Here, he could see for himself. Somehow it had got put into the album of light favorites, rather than in the green album of arias, number two, where it properly belonged. How extraordinary, how fortunate, by accident or carelessness it had landed in the frothier stuff and only needed to be put on.

  And what did Hans Castorp say to that? He said nothing. It was the doctor who said, “Well, then, all the better,” and several people echoed him. The needle made its whetting sound, the cover was lowered. And to the chords of a chorale, a male voice began to sing, “And now since I must leave—”

  No one spoke. They listened. The moment the music began, Elly took up her labors again. She started up in her chair, shuddered, groaned, pumped, and put her slippery wet hand to her brow. The record continued to play. It came to the middle section with the bouncing rhythm, the passage about battle and danger—gallant, devout, and French. Then it moved on to the finale, the reprise, with augmented orchestra swelling in massive tones: “O Lo
rd of heaven, hear my prayer.”

  Hans Castorp was occupied with Elly. She reared back, drawing air in through her constricted throat, sank forward again with a long sigh, and crouched there without a sound. He was bending worriedly down over her, when he heard Frau Stöhr say in a whimpering peep: “Ziems—sen!”

  He did not straighten up. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He heard another cold, deep voice reply: “I’ve been watching him for some time now.”

  The record had come to an end, the last chords of brass had died away. But no one turned off the machine. The needle moved to the middle of the disk and scratched idly in the silence. Now Hans Castorp lifted his head, and without having to search, his eyes looked in the right direction.

  There was one more person than before in the room. There, off to the side of the semicircle, in the background, where the red light was swallowed up in night that the eye could barely pierce, between the doctor’s wide desk and the folding screen, there on the patient’s chair turned toward the room, where Elly had sat during the pause—there sat Joachim. It was Joachim with the shadowy hollow cheeks and warrior’s beard from his final days, with lips arched proud and full. He sat leaning back, one leg crossed over the other. Although whatever that was on his head cast a long shadow, his emaciated face visibly bore the stamp of suffering and the same austere, earnest expression that had made him look so manly. Two deep creases were engraved on his brow between the eyes, which had sunk deep into their bony sockets, although that did not distract from the tenderness of the gaze that came from those beautiful, large, dark eyes, directed in friendly silence at Hans Castorp, at him alone. His one minor sorrow of long ago, his protruding ears, was not noticeable under whatever that strange, unidentifiable thing was that he had on his head. Cousin Joachim was not in civvies; his saber appeared to be leaning against his crossed thigh and he held the hilt in both hands; also discernible, or so it seemed, was a holster attached to his belt. But this was no proper dress uniform he was wearing—no flash of color, no shiny buttons. It had a narrow tuniclike collar and side pockets, and a cross was dangling farther down. Joachim’s feet seemed very large, his legs very thin—and they looked as if they had been wrapped, more for sport than for any military reason. And what was that thing on his head? It looked as if Joachim had plopped a bit of field gear, a cooking pot, down over his head and then fastened it under his chin with a strap. The effect was properly warlike, and yet it was like something out of the past, a sixteenth-century lansquenet perhaps—strange.

  Hans Castorp could feel Ellen Brand’s breath on his hands, could hear Hermine Kleefeld breathing rapidly next to him. Otherwise, there was no other sound except the incessant whetting scrape of the record still rotating beneath the needle that no one had bothered to lift. He did not look around to any of his fellow guests, did not want to see them, to know anything about them. Bending forward and leaning out to see past the hands and head on his knees, he stared into red darkness at the visitor in the chair. For a moment he thought he would throw up. His throat contracted and cramped in four or five fervent sobs. “Forgive me!” he whispered to himself, and then the tears came to his eyes and he saw nothing more.

  He heard a voice murmur: “Speak to him.” Dr. Krokowski’s baritone called him calmly and solemnly by name and repeated his command. But instead of obeying it, he pulled his hands from under Elly’s face and stood up.

  Dr. Krokowski called out his name again, this time in a stern voice of warning. But with a few quick strides, Hans Castorp was already at the door; with a flick of his hand, he turned on the white light.

  Ellen Brand had recoiled in shock, and now lay twitching in Fräulein Kleefeld’s arms. The patient’s chair was empty.

  Hans Castorp walked over to Krokowski, who stood there protesting loudly, came up very close to him, tried to say something, but no words would come from his lips. With a brusque, demanding gesture he held out his hand. Taking the key, he nodded menacingly several times directly in the doctor’s face, turned on his heels, and left the room.

  THE GREAT PETULANCE

  And as one little year succeeded another, a ghost began to walk the Berghof, one whom Hans Castorp suspected was a direct descendent of that demon we have already called by its malicious name. With the irresponsible curiosity of the tourist thirsting for knowledge, he had studied that old demon, indeed had found potentialities within himself for lively participation in the monstrous acts of homage paid to it by the world all about him. Like the old demon, this new one had always been around, sprouting up here and there to hint at its presence, but as it spread now, it became clear that by temperament Hans Castorp was less suited for worship of this creature. All the same, the moment he let himself go the least little bit, he noted to his horror that his words, gestures, and expression, too, had succumbed to an infection no one in the place could escape.

  What was it, then? What was in the air? A love of quarrels. Acute petulance. Nameless impatience. A universal penchant for nasty verbal exchanges and outbursts of rage, even for fisticuffs. Every day fierce arguments, out-of-control shouting-matches would erupt between individuals and among entire groups; but the distinguishing mark was that bystanders, instead of being disgusted by those caught up in it or trying to intervene, found their sympathies aroused and abandoned themselves emotionally to the frenzy. They turned pale and quivered. Eyes flashed insults, mouths wrenched with passion. They envied the active participants their right to use the occasion to shout. An aching lust to join them tormented both body and soul, and whoever lacked the strength to flee to solitude was drawn into the vortex, beyond all help. Frivolous conflicts multiplied throughout the Berghof, with recriminations exchanged right in front of the authorities, who attempted to arbitrate but could themselves lapse into bellowing abuse with frightful ease. And anyone who left the sanatorium with his soul more or less intact could never know in what condition he might return. Seated at the Good Russian table was a quite elegant provincial lady from Minsk, still young and only slightly ill—she had been sentenced to three months, no more—who one day went down into town to shop for French blouses. She got into such a wrangle with the saleswoman that she arrived home in a state of wild agitation, suffered a hemorrhage, and was soon diagnosed as incurable. Her husband was summoned and told that she would have to stay here now for good and all.

  That is just one example of what was going around. We shall reluctantly supply others. Some readers will recall the student, or former student, with the thick circular glasses, who sat at Frau Salomon’s table—the gaunt young lad who had the habit of chopping all the food on his plate into a hodgepodge, propping his elbows on the table, and wolfing it down, while occasionally pushing his napkin up behind his thick glasses. And he had sat there all this time, still a student or former student, wolfing down his food and wiping his eyes, without ever giving anyone cause to pay him more than fleeting attention. But now, one morning at first breakfast, quite surprisingly, out of the blue so to speak, he had a fit, a seizure, arousing general commotion and bringing the entire dining hall to its feet. It suddenly grew loud in that part of the hall—there he sat, pale and shouting—shouts directed at the dwarf, who was standing beside him. “You’re lying!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “That tea is cold. The tea you brought me is ice-cold. I don’t want it. Before you lie to me again, just see for yourself if it isn’t lukewarm dishwater no respectable human being could possibly drink! How dare you bring me ice-cold tea! Where did you get the notion—what made you think you could serve me this tepid bilge with even a glimmer of hope I would drink it? I won’t drink it! I will not!” he howled and began to drum both fists on the table, setting all the dishes rattling and dancing. “I want hot tea! Piping hot tea—before God and man, that is my right. I don’t want this, I want it boiling hot. I’ll die on the spot before I take one swallow of this—you damned cripple!” he suddenly shrieked, flinging off the last bit of self-control and breaking through to the madness of utter license. He raised a fis
t at Emerentia and literally bared his frothing teeth. Then he went on drumming, stamping his feet now, howling, “I won’t. I will not!”—and the reaction in the hall was the usual. Tense and terrible sympathy went out to the raving boy. Some people had jumped up and were watching him, their fists doubled now, too, their teeth clenched, their eyes blazing. Others sat there pale, with downcast eyes, quivering. And they were still sitting like that long after the student had sunk back in exhaustion, gazing at his new cup of tea without taking a sip.