by Thomas Mann
“I must insist that you not hide behind reservations and paradoxes, that you confess clearly and unambiguously that you are the blackest reactionary.”
“The first step toward true freedom and humanity would be to cast off your quaking fears of the term ‘reactionary.’ ”
“Well, then, enough,” Herr Settembrini declared with a slight quiver in his voice, pushing his plate and cup away—both empty now—and getting up from the silk sofa. “That is enough for today, enough for any one day, it seems to me. Professor, we thank you both for the tasty hospitality and the very scintillating conversation. The rest cure calls my friends back to the Berghof, but before they go, I would like to show them my monk’s cell upstairs. Come, gentlemen. Addio, padre!”
And now he had even called Naphta “padre”—Hans Castorp took note of it with raised brows. No one objected to Settembrini’s breaking up the party, taking charge of the cousins, or failing to suggest the possibility that Naphta might join them. The young people said their good-byes, likewise expressing their thanks, and were in turn encouraged to come again. They left with the Italian, but not before Hans Castorp was sent on his way with the loan of a crumbling paperback edition of De miseria humanae conditionis. To reach the almost ladderlike stairway to the top floor, they had to pass Lukaček’s door again and noticed the peevish tailor was still sitting on his table, working on the sleeved dress for the old lady. The top floor, by the way, was not a floor at all, it was simply a garret—with naked beams that supported the shingled roof, with the feel of a granary in summer and the odor of warm wood. The garret, however, had two small rooms that were both occupied by the republican capitalist—one serving as the bedroom, the other as the study of the literary contributor to the Sociology of Suffering. He cheerfully showed his lodgings to his young friends, called them private and cozy, thereby supplying them with the right words by which they could then praise his quarters—which they did in unison. They both found it quite charming—private and cozy, just as he had said. They stepped into the little bedroom—it had a small rag rug and a narrow, short bed set back in a dormer—then returned to the study, furnished no less sparely, but all the same with a certain chilly order about it, if not to say stateliness. Clumsy, old-fashioned rush-bottom chairs—four in all—were symmetrically arranged beside the doors, and the divan was also pushed against the wall, so that the middle of the room was taken up exclusively by the round table with its green cloth and a rather commonplace water carafe—either for decoration or refreshment—an upended glass over its neck. Books, some bound, some simply sewn, leaned tipsily against one another on a small bookshelf, and next to the open window stood a rickety, long-legged folding lectern with a little thick felt rug below, just large enough for one person to stand on. Hans Castorp struck a pose there for a moment, trying it out—it was Herr Settembrini’s working place, where great literature was being transformed into encyclopedic material from the viewpoint of human suffering. He propped his elbows on the slanting surface and offered his opinion that it was a private and cozy place to stand and work. He suggested that it must have been much the same when Lodovico’s father, with his long, finely chiseled nose, had once stood at his lectern in Padua—and learned that he was standing at the actual lectern of that deceased scholar, and indeed, that the rush-bottom chairs, the table, even the water carafe, had come down from him; not only that, but the rush-bottom chairs had also belonged to the Carbonaro grandfather and had once adorned the walls of his law office in Milan. That was impressive. The contours of the chairs suddenly took on a look of political agitation in the young men’s eyes, and Joachim got up from the one where he had been sitting cross-legged and unsuspecting, glanced at it mistrustfully—and did not sit back down. Hans Castorp, however, still standing at the lectern of Settembrini the elder, was pondering how the son now worked here to combine the politics of his grandfather and the humanism of his father into literature. Then all three of them left. The writer had offered to accompany the cousins home.
They said nothing for part of the way, but their silence was all about Naphta, and Hans Castorp could wait—he was certain that Herr Settembrini would come around to speaking of his housemate, that in fact he had come with them for that very purpose.
After a sigh that sounded like a preface to his remarks, the Italian began to speak. “Gentlemen—I would like to warn you.”
When he paused briefly at this point, Hans Castorp of course asked in feigned amazement, “Warn us about what?” He might just as easily have asked “about whom?” but he kept things impersonal as a way of demonstrating his total innocence, although even Joachim knew what was going on.
“About the person whose guests we just were,” Settembrini replied, “and to whom I introduced you, very much against my will and intentions. As you know, chance wished it otherwise. I could not help it, but I bear the responsibility and it weighs heavily on me. It is at the very least my duty to point out to you as young people certain intellectual risks you run in associating with that man and to beg you, moreover, to keep your relations with him within certain prudent limits. His form is logic, but his nature is confusion.”
Well, yes, that was true, Hans Castorp suggested, there was something a little uncanny about Naphta, he did say some rather strange things at times; it had almost sounded as if he really believed the sun revolved around the earth. But all in all, how could they, the cousins, ever have concluded it might be unadvisable to associate with one of his, Herr Settembrini’s, friends? He had said himself it was through him that they had made Naphta’s acquaintance; they had met him in his, Settembrini’s, company—and he took walks with him, came down to tea all on his own. All of which proved—
“To be sure, my good engineer, to be sure.” Herr Settembrini’s voice sounded gentle, resigned, but it had a slight quiver in it as well. “Such things can be said in reply, and you have so replied. Fine, I am ready to accept responsibility. I live under the same roof with the gentleman, it was inevitable that we would meet, that one thing would lead to another, that we would become acquainted. Herr Naphta is a man of intellect—and that is rare. He is loquacious by nature—and so am I. Let those who would judge me do so—I took advantage of the opportunity to cross intellectual swords with an opponent who is, after all, my equal. There is no one else, far and wide. In brief, it is true that I visit him, that he visits me, that we take our strolls together. We argue. We argue almost every day, to the point of drawing blood. And I must admit the very contrariness of his thoughts, their antipathy to my own, add a special allure to our meetings. I need the friction. Opinions cannot live unless they have the chance to do battle—and I am firm in mine. But could you claim the same for yourselves—you, lieutenant, or you, my good engineer? You enter the fray unarmed against such intellectual chicanery. If exposed to the influences of this half-fanatic, half-malicious humbug, both your minds and souls are in danger.”
Yes, yes, Hans Castorp said, that was probably true, his cousin and he, they were more or less prone to such spiritual dangers. It was the old story of life’s problem children—he understood. But on the other hand, one could just as easily quote that old motto of Petrarch’s, Herr Settembrini knew the one he meant. But in any case, the ideas Naphta advanced were well worth listening to: one had to be just. That part about communistic time, and how no one should be paid a bonus simply because it passed—that had been excellent. And then it had been very interesting to hear certain ideas on pedagogy, about which he probably would never have known a thing without Naphta.
Herr Settembrini pressed his lips together, and so Hans Castorp hurried to add that he himself, of course, would refrain from taking sides or endorsing any viewpoint, but he had found it worth listening to what Naphta said about the desires of youth. “But you must explain one thing for me,” he went on. “Well, your Herr Naphta— I call him ‘your Herr Naphta’ to indicate that I do not necessarily find myself in sympathy with him, but that on the contrary, my attitude is one of considerable re
servation—”
“Very wise of you!” Settembrini exclaimed gratefully.
“Well, he said a great many things about money, the soul of the state, as he put it, and spoke out against property, because it’s thievery, and against capitalist wealth in general, which he said, I believe, was fuel for the fires of hell—at least if I’m not mistaken that’s how he put it—and sang the praises of the medieval injunction against interest. And yet, he himself—excuse me, but he himself must be . . . It really is quite a surprise to enter that room—all that silk.”
“Ah, yes,” Settembrini said with a smile, “that sort of taste is very characteristic.”
“All the beautiful old furniture,” Hans Castorp went on, remembering. “The pietà from the fourteenth century, the Venetian chandelier, the little footman in livery, and as much chocolate layer cake as you could eat. Which means he must himself be—”
“Herr Naphta,” Settembrini replied, “is no more a capitalist than I.”
“But?” Hans Castorp asked. “I am waiting for the ‘but’ in your response, Herr Settembrini.”
“Well, those people never let any of their own starve.”
“Who are ‘those people’?”
“The fathers.”
“Fathers? Fathers?”
“I am speaking, my good engineer, of the Jesuits.”
There was a pause. The cousins were obviously taken aback.
“What? Good God in heaven!” Hans Castorp exclaimed. “I’ll be damned—so the man’s a Jesuit?”
“You have guessed it,” Herr Settembrini said delicately.
“No, I never—but, then, who would ever have thought it? So that’s why you called him padre?”
“That was just a little exaggerated courtesy,” Settembrini replied. “Herr Naphta is not a priest. His illness is to blame for his not having gone further by now. But he did complete his novitiate and take his first vows. Illness forced him to break off his theological studies. He then spent a few years serving at one of the Society’s schools as a prefect—a headmaster, a principal in charge of their young pupils. That suited his pedagogic interests. And he can continue to pursue them here, too, teaching Latin at the Fridericianum. He’s been here five years now. It’s not clear when or if he will be allowed to leave here. But he is a member of the Society, and even if the ties were looser, he still would lack for nothing. I told you that he is a poor man, by which I mean one without possessions. Regulations, of course. But the Society has unlimited wealth at its disposal and takes care of its own, as you saw.”
“I’ll be damned,” Hans Castorp muttered. “And I didn’t even know, never even thought that there still actually was such a thing. A Jesuit—so that’s it! But tell me one thing: if he’s so well taken care of by those people, why in the world would he live . . . I certainly don’t want to disparage your lodgings, Herr Settembrini, you have a very charming place there with Lukaček, it’s so nice and private, and especially cozy, too. But what I mean is—if Naphta is so flush, to use the vulgar term, why doesn’t he rent a different apartment, something grander, with a normal entrance and big rooms, in a large, fine home? There’s something almost furtive, even bizarre about the way he lives there in his little hole with all that silk.”
Settembrini shrugged. “He must have his reasons,” he said. “Perhaps it’s a matter of tact, or taste. I assume it eases his anticapitalist conscience to dwell in poor man’s quarters, and that he compensates for it by the style in which he lives. Discretion probably plays a role as well. It’s best not to flaunt the fact that the Devil is paying all your bills. You put on a nice unpretentious façade, and then behind it indulge your priestly penchant for silk.”
“How extraordinary,” Hans Castorp said. “I must admit, this is all absolutely new and exciting for me. No, we really are very grateful, Herr Settembrini, for your having introduced us. Believe you me, we shall be paying him many a nice visit. That’s absolutely certain. A relationship like that broadens one’s horizons in quite unexpected ways, gives one some insight into the world, into a kind of life about which one had not the vaguest. A proper Jesuit! And by saying ‘proper,’ it’s my way of reminding myself of what all is running through my mind right now, the things I’ll have to keep an eye on. What I am saying is: is he a proper one? I know well enough that you don’t think there can be anything proper about having the Devil pay all one’s bills. But what I mean goes beyond that to the next question: is he a proper Jesuit? That’s what is running through my mind. He said things—you know the things I mean—about modern communism and the godly zeal of the proletariat that cannot refrain from shedding blood. In short, things I won’t amplify on—but your grandfather with his citizen’s pike was a perfect little lamb in comparison, if you’ll pardon the expression. How does that work? Do his superiors agree with him? Does that square with Roman doctrine, for which the Society weaves its web of intrigue all around the world—or so I’m told? Isn’t it—what’s the word—heretical, unorthodox, incorrect? That’s what I’m wondering about in regard to Naphta, and I’d be glad to hear what you think.”
Settembrini smiled and said, “It’s very simple. Herr Naphta is first of all a Jesuit, a good and proper Jesuit. But second, he is a man of intellect—otherwise I would not seek out his company—and as such he is always looking for new combinations, adaptations, connections, modern permutations. You saw that even I was surprised by his theories. He had never before revealed so much of himself to me. I used the stimulus that your presence obviously provided to provoke him to speak his last word on certain matters. And it certainly turned out droll enough—ghastly in fact.”
“Yes, yes. But why didn’t he become a padre? He’s surely old enough.”
“I told you, it was his illness that temporarily prevented it.”
“Fine, but don’t you think that if he’s a Jesuit first and a man of intellect, with permutations, second—that the second part has something to do with his illness?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“No, wait, Herr Settembrini, all I mean is that he has a moist spot, and that prevents him from becoming a priest. But his permutations would probably have prevented it as well, and to that extent his permutations and his moist spot go together, so to speak. In his own way he’s one of life’s problem children, too, a handsome Jesuit with a little moist spot.”
They had reached the sanatorium. Before separating, they stood for a while in the fenced-in area out front, forming their own little group, while a few patients loitering at the main entrance watched them as they talked.
Herr Settembrini said, “To repeat myself, my young friends, I am warning you. I cannot prevent your cultivating this acquaintance now that it has been made, if curiosity impels you to do so. But arm your hearts and minds with mistrust, never let your critical resistance down. I will characterize the man for you in a single word. He is a voluptuary.”
The cousins grimaced. Then Hans Castorp asked, “A what? I beg your pardon, but he’s part of the Society. They have to take certain vows, as far as I know, and besides he’s so sickly and puny.”
“You are speaking foolishness, my good engineer,” Herr Settembrini responded. “His physical frailty has nothing to do with it. And as for his vows, there is such a thing as mental reservation. I spoke, however, in a broader, more intellectual sense, a perspective I assumed you would understand by now. You may still recall when I visited you in your room one day—long ago now, terribly long ago. You were just completing your period of bed rest after having been accepted as a patient.”
“But of course. You entered my room, it was dusk, and you turned on the light. I remember as if it were yesterday.”
“Good. And we started to chat—as happens frequently, thank God—about higher things. I believe, in fact, we spoke about life and death, about the dignity of death, to the extent that it is a constituent and prerequisite of life, and about how it can degenerate into something grotesque if we commit the abominable error of isolatin
g it as an intellectual principle. Gentlemen,” Herr Settembrini continued now, stepping very near to the young men, spreading the thumb and middle finger of his left hand into a wide fork, as if to concentrate their attention, and raising the forefinger of his right hand in warning, “imprint this on your minds: the intellect is sovereign, its will is free, it defines the moral world. If it isolates death in a dualistic fashion, then by that act of intellectual will, death becomes real in actual fact—actu, do you understand? It becomes a force of its own opposed to life, an antagonistic principle, the great seduction—and its kingdom is lust. And why lust, you ask? And I reply: Because it loosens and delivers, because it is a deliverance, and not deliverance from evil, but evil deliverance. It loosens morals and morality, it delivers from discipline and self-control, liberates for lust. In warning you about this man, with whom I have unwillingly made you acquainted, in demanding that you gird yourselves three times round with a critical spirit when you are dealing with him and discussing things, I do so because all his thoughts are of lust; they stand under the aegis of death, a most depraved force—just as I told you that day, my good engineer, I very clearly recall using that phrase, for I always keep in mind useful and apt words I have used on occasion—a most depraved force directed against morals, progress, labor, and life. And it is the sublime duty of the pedagogue to defend young souls against its mephitic breath.”
One could not speak in finer, clearer, more rounded phrases than Herr Settembrini. Hans Castorp and Joachim Ziemssen expressed their warmest thanks for what he had told them, took their leave, and climbed the stairs to the main entrance of the Berghof; and Herr Settembrini returned to his humanist’s lectern, one floor above Naphta’s silken cell.
The visit we have described here was the cousins’ first with Naphta. It was followed by two or three more, one in fact in the absence of Herr Settembrini; and each of them provided young Hans Castorp with a great many things to consider whenever the sublime image, now called homo Dei, hovered before his mind’s eye as he sat at his secluded spot in the blue-blossoming meadow and “played king.”
