The Magic Mountain

by Thomas Mann

  What was this?

  A man joined the ranks of Berghof society, a thirty-year-old former businessman, who had wandered from sanatorium to sanatorium for years now with his fever. The man was an anti-Semite, on principle and as a matter of sport. His opposition to Jews was a cheerful obsession—this acquired hostility was the pride and content of his life. He had been a businessman, he was one no more, he was nothing in this world, but he had remained an anti-Semite. He was seriously ill, his cough sat heavy on him, and at times it sounded as if a lung were sneezing, a singular, high, brief, uncanny sound. But he was not a Jew, and that was the positive thing about him. His name was Wiedemann, a Christian name—nothing unclean about his name. He subscribed to a newspaper call The Aryan Light, and made speeches, as follows:

  “I arrive at Sanatorium X in the town of Y. I decide I shall claim a spot in the common lounging area—and who is lying in the chair on my left? Why, Herr Hirsch! And on my right? Herr Wolf! But of course I departed immediately,” and so forth.

  “Serves you right,” Hans Castorp thought with distaste.

  Wiedemann had a quick, furtive glance. He truly looked as if a very real tassel were dangling just in front of his nose and he was constantly squinting at it, was unable to see beyond it. The erroneous belief that possessed him had become an itch of mistrust, a restless paranoia that drove him to pluck out any uncleanness that lay hidden or disguised in his vicinity, to hold it up to public disgrace. He taunted, he cast suspicions, he foamed at the mouth wherever he went. And in short, his days were filled with exposing to ridicule every form of life that did not possess the one merit he could call his own.

  The emotional circumstances we have been describing exacerbated the man’s illness beyond measure; and since he could not fail to encounter forms of life here that displayed the imperfection of which he, Wiedemann, was free, those same circumstances led to a dreadful scene that Hans Castorp witnessed and that shall have to serve as one more example of what we are describing.

  For there was another man present—and there was nothing about him that needed unmasking, the case was clear. The man’s name was Sonnenschein; and since one could not have a filthier name than that, from Wiedemann’s very first day here Sonnenschein became the tassel in front of his nose, at which he squinted furtively and maliciously, batting at it with his hand, less to push it aside than to start it swinging so that it could annoy him all the more.

  Sonnenschein, like Wiedemann a businessman born and bred, was also seriously ill and almost pathologically sensitive. A friendly man, certainly not stupid and even rather playful by nature, he hated Wiedemann for his taunts and the way he batted that tassel, until it was almost a sickness with him as well. One afternoon everyone gathered in the lobby because Wiedemann and Sonnenschein had run afoul of one another and were going at it like savage beasts.

  What a horrible, wretched sight they were. They scuffled like little boys, but with the desperation of grown men who have come to such a pass. They clawed faces, pinched noses, clutched throats, all the while punching away at one another, grappling, rolling about on the floor in terribly dead earnest; they spat, kicked, grabbed, trounced, whacked, and frothed at the mouth. Clerks from the management office came running and with some difficulty separated the two bitten and scratched opponents. Drooling and bleeding, his face doltish with rage, Wiedemann stood there with his hair literally standing on end. Hans Castorp had never seen the phenomenon before, had never believed it could really occur—but Herr Wiedemann’s hair stood up stiff and straight as nails. And he staggered away like that, while Herr Sonnenschein—with one eye turning black now and a bloody patch in the curly black hair that wreathed his head—was led away to the office, where he sat down, hid his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

  That was the Wiedemann-Sonnenschein affair. Everyone who witnessed it was still quivering hours later. In contrast to such misery, it is a comparative pleasure to tell about a genuine “affair of honor” that belongs to this same period and that definitely deserves the name, absurdly so, given the solemn formality with which it was carried out. Hans Castorp was not present at its various phases, but only learned about the complicated and dramatic course of events from documents, affidavits, and official minutes devoted to the affair, copies of which were circulated not only in the Berghof, not only in Davos, in the canton of Graubünden, in Switzerland, but also abroad, were sent as far as America, and were made available for study to persons who, one can be sure, would not and could not pay one whit of attention to the matter.

  It was a Polish affair, a fracas of honor, which arose in the bosom of the Polish contingent that had recently found its way to the Berghof, a little colony that now occupied the Good Russian table. (Hans Castorp, we may interpose here, was no longer seated there, but had with time moved on to Hermine Kleefeld’s table, from there to Frau Salomon’s, then on to Fräulein Levi’s.) This contingent was decked out so elegantly, so gallantly, that one could only raise one’s eyebrows and prepare oneself for most any eventuality. It included one married couple, one young miss, who stood on cordial terms with one of the gentlemen, and then a whole group of cavaliers. Their names were von Zutawski, Cieszynski, von Rosinski, Michael Lodygowski, Leo von Asarapetian, and the like. Over champagne in the Berghof restaurant, a certain Japoll had, in the presence of two other cavaliers, made remarks, unrepeatable remarks, concerning both the wife of Herr von Zutawski and the young lady, whose name was Krylow and who was intimately associated with Herr Lodygowski. Measures were taken, certain formal actions resulted, all of which were contained in the written materials later distributed or sent by mail. Hans Castorp read:

  “Affidavit, translated from the Polish original: On 27 March 19—, Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski approached Herr Dr. Anton Cieszynski and Herr Stefan von Rosinski with the request to call upon Herr Kasimir Japoll in his name and to demand satisfaction from same in the manner prescribed by the law of honor for ‘gross insult and slander’ inflicted by Herr Kasimir Japoll upon Herr von Zutawski’s wife, Jadwiga von Zutawski, during a conversation with Herr Janusz Teofil Lenart and Herr Leo von Asarapetian.

  “When only a few days ago, Herr von Zutawski learned of that aforesaid conversation, which took place toward the end of November, he promptly took timely steps to ascertain beyond doubt the full factual nature of the insult. Yesterday, 27 March 19—, the insult and slander were confirmed orally by Herr Leo von Asarapetian, a direct witness to said conversation, during the course of which those insulting words and insinuations were uttered; thereupon . Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski felt constrained to apply without delay to the undersigned and authorize them to begin proceedings as prescribed by the law of honor against Herr Kasimir Japoll.

  “The undersigned wish to make the following statement:

  “1. On the basis of an affidavit prepared by one party on 9 April I 9—summarizing the testimony given in Lemberg by Herr Zdzistaw Zygulski and Herr Tadeusz Kadyj concerning a suit brought by Herr Ladislaw Goduleczny against Herr Kasimir Japoll, and further on the basis of a decision rendered in that suit by the Court of Honor in Lemberg on 18 June 19—, both documents being in complete agreement in stating that Herr Kasimir Japoll ‘cannot be regarded as a gentleman as a result of repeated conduct that is irreconcilable with the definition of honor,’

  “2. the undersigned, drawing full consequences from the aforementioned documents, declare it impossible for Herr Kasimir Japoll ever to be capable of affording satisfaction.

  “3. For their part, they likewise consider it inadmissible to pursue any affair of honor, or to mediate therein, with a man who stands outside the definition of honor.

  “4. In consideration of these facts, the undersigned wish to inform Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski that it would be pointless to pursue a suit against Herr Kasimir Japoll before a court of honor, and suggest he prosecute the matter in the criminal courts in order to prevent further insult from a person who is so fully incapable of providing satisfaction.” —Dated and signed:
Dr. Anton Cieszynski, Stefan von Rosinski.” Further, Hans Castorp read:

  “Affidavit

  “of witnesses concerning events transpiring between Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski and Herr Michael Lodygowski, parties of the first part,

  “and Herr Kasimir Japoll and Herr Janusz Teofil Lenart, parties of the second part, in the bar of the Kurhaus in Davos, on 2 April 19—, between 7:30 and 7:45 p.m.

  “Inasmuch as Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski, having received and duly considered the declaration pertaining to the matter of Herr Kasimir Japoll, dated 28 March 19—and signed by his representatives, Herr Dr. Anton Cieszynski and Stefan Rosinski, had come to the conclusion that the suggested pursuit of criminal prosecution of Herr Kasimir Japoll for ‘gross insult and slander’ of his wife, Jadwiga, would provide him no satisfaction,

  “1. since there was legitimate reason to believe that Herr Kasimir Japoll would not appear in court and that, Herr Japoll being a citizen of Austria, any further pursuit would not only be made more difficult, but indeed almost impossible as well, and

  “2. since no legal sentence imposed could compensate for the insult Herr Kasimir Japoll had slanderously brought upon the name and house of Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski and his wife, Jadwiga,

  “Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski chose the shortest, and in his considered opinion most thorough and, given the circumstances, most appropriate course of action, after having been indirectly informed that Herr Kasimir J apoll intended to leave the aforementioned town the following day,

  “and therefore on 2 April 19—, between 7:30 and 7:45 p.m., in the presence of his wife, Jadwiga, Herr Michael Lodygowski, and Herr Ignaz von Mellin, administered several slaps to the face of Herr Kasimir Japoll, who was sitting and drinking alcoholic spirits with Herr Janusz Teofil Lenart and two unidentified young women in the American Bar of the Kurhaus.

  “Immediately thereafter, Herr Michael Lodygowski also slapped Herr Kasimir Japoll, stating that this was in payment for the gross insult rendered to Fräulein Krylow and himself.

  “Herr Michael Lodygowski then promptly slapped Herr Janusz Teofil Lenart for the objectionable injury he had done to Herr and Frau von Zutawski, whereupon,

  “without a moment lost, Herr Stanislaw von Zutawski repeatedly delivered a series of slaps to the face of Herr Janusz Teofil Lenart for the latter’s slanderous defamation of both his wife, Jadwiga, and Fräulein Krylow.

  “Herr Kasimir Japoll and Herr Janusz Teofil Lenart remained fully passive during the entire course of these events.” —Dated and signed: Michael Lodygowski, Ign. v. Mellin.”

  Normally Hans Castorp would surely have laughed at this rapid-fire sequence of formal slaps, but his own inner state prevented that. He trembled as he read and was profoundly stirred by the rigid, but impressive antitheses so evident from the pages of these documents: impeccable deportment on the one side and rascally, disreputable laxness on the other. It was how they all felt. The Polish affair of honor was everywhere studied with great passion, and people clenched their teeth when they discussed it. A counterblast distributed by Herr Kasimir Japoll had a somewhat sobering effect, however, since it pointed out that von Zutawski had been perfectly aware that at one point some arrogant stuffed shirts in Lemberg had declared him, Japoll, incapable of providing satisfaction, and so all those prompt and timely measures had been merely for show, since von Zutawski had to have known from the start that it would never come to a duel. And he had also refrained from filing suit for one reason alone: because as he and everyone else knew perfectly well, his wife, Jadwiga, had provided him with a whole collection of horns, proof of which he, Japoll, could have effortlessly provided—nor, for that matter, would a court appearance by Fräulein Krylow have redounded to her honor. Moreover, only his, Japoll’s, inability to provide satisfaction had been confirmed in a court of law, not however that of Lenart, who had likewise taken part in said conversation; and so in hiding behind the court’s decision, von Zutawski had avoided any risk. He preferred not to say anything about Herr Asarapetian’s role in the whole affair. But as for the scene in the bar of the Kurhaus, he, Japoll, despite his wit and sharp tongue, was a man in very frail health; von Zutawski, his friend, and the unusually robust Frau von Zutawski, had had the physical advantage of him, particularly since the two young ladies, who had been in his and Lenart’s company, although very amusing creatures, were as easily frightened as chickens; and so in order to avoid an ugly brawl and public scandal, he had bidden Lenart, who had wanted to defend himself, to remain calm and for God’s sake simply to put up with this fleeting social contact with Herr von Zutawski and Herr Lodygowski, which had not hurt in any case and had been taken by those seated in the vicinity as a bit of friendly teasing.

  That was Japoll—but there wasn’t much to salvage there. His revisions only superficially disturbed the pretty contrast of honor and shabbiness apparent in the affidavits of the opposing side, particularly since he did not have at his disposal the Zutawskian party’s duplicating machinery, but could only circulate a few typed carbon copies of his rejoinder. Everyone, however, received the affidavits, even people quite removed from the matter. Naphta and Settembrini, for example, had likewise been sent copies—Hans Castorp saw them in their hands, and noted to his surprise that they, too, examined them with sour and strangely intense faces. He had at least expected Herr Settembrini to respond with the jaunty mockery he had been unable to summon himself, given his own inner state. But the infection Hans Castorp knew was going round had even influenced the Freemason’s clear intellect, robbing him of his laughter, leaving him seriously vulnerable to the inflammatory charms of slaps exchanged in the name of honor; in addition, though he had his good days, which were more like teasing setbacks, the old affirmer of life had turned gloomy watching the inexorable deterioration in his health; feeling intensely ashamed, he cursed it and despised himself when it forced him to take to his bed every few days now.

  His housemate and antagonist was doing no better. In Naphta’s organic interior, the illness that had been the physical cause—or, must we say, pretext—for the premature end to his career in the order was making rapid strides, and the elevated and spare conditions under which he lived could not arrest its spread. He, too, was often confined to bed; the cracked-porcelain sound in his voice rattled more loudly now when he spoke, and as his fever rose, he spoke more—and more caustically and cuttingly than ever. Those idealistic powers of resistance to illness and death, whose defeat by the overwhelming forces of base nature so pained Herr Settembrini, were absolutely alien to little Naphta; and his method for coping with the deterioration of his body was not sorrow and gloom, but scornful high spirits and an unparalleled aggressiveness, a mania for intellectual doubt, negation, and confusion, all of which severely aggravated the other man’s melancholy and daily intensified their intellectual arguments. Hans Castorp, of course, could only speak of those at which he was present. But he was fairly sure that he did not miss out on any that required the presence of a pedagogic object to ignite a meaningful colloquy. And although he did not spare Herr Settembrini, but let the Italian worry that he found Naphta’s malice worth listening to, he nevertheless had to admit that it was now out of control, indeed often went beyond the bounds of a sane, healthy mind.

  This sick man possessed neither the energy nor the goodwill to rise above his sickness, but saw the world in its image, under its sign. To the fury of Herr Settembrini, who would have loved to have escorted his pupil from the room or at least to have held his ears shut, Naphta declared matter to be much too paltry a substance for the Spirit ever to be realized within it. The attempt was pure folly. What was the result? An ugly caricature. The real outcome of the vaunted French Revolution had been the capitalist bourgeois state—a fine how-do-you-do, which people hoped to improve upon by making the abomination universal. The world republic, that would certainly be a blessing! Progress? Ah, that was like the proverbial patient who keeps shifting in bed, hoping each new position will bring relief. The unadmitted, s
ecret, universal desire for war was another manifestation. It would come, war would, and that was fine, although it would bring forth very different things from what its organizers expected. Naphta loathed the bourgeois state and its love of security. He found occasion to express this loathing one autumn afternoon when, as they were walking along the main street, it suddenly began to rain and, as if on command, there was an umbrella above every head. That was a symbol of cowardice and vulgar effeminacy, the end product of civilization. An incident like the sinking of the Titanic was atavistic, true, but its effect was most refreshing, it was handwriting on the wall. Afterward, of course, came the hue and cry for more security in shipping. There was always immense outrage when “security” was threatened. How pitiful, but such weak-willed humanitarianism squared very nicely with the wolfish cruelty and villainy of slaughter on the economic battlefield known as the bourgeois state. War, war! He was all for it—the universal lust for war seemed quite honorable in comparison.

  But the moment Herr Settembrini introduced the word “justice” into the conversation, recommending that high principle as the means by which to prevent catastrophes, both domestic and foreign, Naphta—who only a moment before had declared the spiritual as too good ever to find earthly expression worthy of it—endeavored to cast doubt on the very notion of the spiritual and to revile it. Justice—was that a concept worthy of our adoration? Something divine? An idea of the first order? God and nature were both unjust, they had their favorites, chose to be gracious at random, adorned one man with precarious honors and the next with an easy, but ordinary fate. And for the man who would act? For him justice was, on the one hand, a paralyzing weakness, the very essence of doubt, and on the other hand, it was a trumpet call to reckless deeds. In order to remain within the sphere of morality, man was constantly correcting one meaning of “justice” with the other—so how could there be anything absolute and radical about the concept? And in any case, one was “just” either on the basis of one given standpoint or on the basis of the other. The rest was liberalism, and no one was going to fall for that nowadays. Justice was, of course, one more empty husk of bourgeois rhetoric, and in order to act one first had to know, above all else, which justice was meant: the one that gave every man his due, or the one that was meted out equally to all.