The Magic Mountain

by Thomas Mann

  It turned out to be very difficult to liberate himself from the bonds that had woven around him and still tried to hold him down; but the impulse to counter them proved stronger. Hans Castorp propped himself on his elbows, valiantly pulled his knees up, tugged, shoved, wriggled himself to his feet. He stamped the snow with his skis, hugged himself, beat his ribs, shook his shoulders, while his eyes searched excitedly and eagerly here, there, everywhere in the sky, as soft blue peered through the gray-blue gauze of the clouds, now drifting aside to reveal the narrow sickle of the moon. Gentle dusk was falling. No wind, no snow. The whole mountain face opposite, including its ridge of rough firs, was visible now, lay peaceful before him. Shadows now reached halfway up it; but the upper portion was bathed in softest pink. What was happening, what was the world up to? Was it morning? Had he lain there in the snow all night without freezing to death, despite what the books said? No body parts were frostbitten, nothing broke off with a tinkle as he stamped and shook and hugged—and not feebly, either—trying at the same time to fathom his situation. Ears, fingertips, and toes were numb, but nothing more, no worse than they often were after a stay on his balcony on a winter night. He managed to pull out his watch. It was ticking. It had not stopped the way it did if he forgot to wind it of an evening. It wasn’t five yet—not by a long shot. Not for another twelve, thirteen minutes. Amazing! Could it be that he had lain there in the snow for only ten minutes or a little longer, had fantasized all those daredevil thoughts, those images of happiness and horror, while the hexagonal monster moved on as quickly as it had come? Well, then, he had been remarkably lucky in terms of getting home. Because his dreams and fantasies had twice taken a turn to bring him back to life: once in horror, the second time out of joy. It seemed that life meant well by its highly confused problem child.

  Whatever the case might be, whether it was morning or afternoon (but without doubt it was still late afternoon or early evening), there was nothing about the external circumstances or his own personal condition to prevent him from skiing back home, and that is what Hans Castorp did—boldly making a beeline, so to speak, speeding toward the valley, where lights were already burning when he arrived, although a trace of daylight reflecting off the snow had been quite enough to light his way. He came down Brämenbühl, following along the edge of the forest, and was in Dorf by half past five; he stored his equipment at the grocer’s, rested a bit in Herr Settembrini’s garret, and gave him a full report of how he had been overtaken by the snowstorm. The humanist was duly horrified. He flung one hand high above his head, scolded him roundly for such dangerous folly, and promptly lit the spluttering fire of his little alcohol stove and brewed some strong coffee for the exhausted engineer—which did not prevent Hans Castorp from falling asleep in his chair.

  An hour later he was cradled in the highly civilized atmosphere of the Berghof. He did justice to his supper. His dream was already beginning to fade. And by bedtime he was no longer exactly sure what his thoughts had been.

  A GOOD SOLDIER

  Hans Castorp had been receiving word from his cousin right along, at first high-spirited good news, then less favorable reports, until finally they were only feeble attempts at concealing a truly sad state of affairs. The series of postcards had begun with the cheerful announcement that Joachim had assumed his duties with all due fervent ceremony, during which, as Hans Castorp replied in his card, he presumably had sworn poverty, chastity, and obedience. The joyous mood continued: each new stage of his smoothly advancing career—made all the easier by his passionate love for what he was doing and the sympathy of his superiors—was hailed with a new postcard. Since Joachim had spent a few semesters at the university, he was excused both from officer’s school and service as an ensign. He was promoted to the rank of noncommissioned officer at New Year and sent a photograph of himself with his stripes. Every one of his brief dispatches glowed with his delight in the hierarchy of which he was now a part—rigidly honorable, ironclad, and, in its own doggedly humorous way, flexibly humane. He provided anecdotes about his sergeant, a surly, fanatical soldier, who was caught in the awkward position of dealing with a younger, fallible subordinate, who nevertheless already visited the officer’s casino and was destined to be his superior one day. It was a crazy, droll situation. He also mentioned that he had been put on the list of candidates for the officer’s exam. By the beginning of April, Joachim was a lieutenant.

  There was obviously no happier man, no one who could have been more at home in this style of life or have found in it a greater fulfillment of his wishes. He took a kind of embarrassed delight in telling about the first time he had approached the town hall in dress uniform and had waited until he was well past before saluting to release the sentry from stiff attention. He wrote about the little annoyances and satisfactions of duty, about the rattlingly splendid esprit de corps and the sly loyalty of his orderly, about comic incidents during drills or classes, about inspections and regimental love feasts. He occasionally mentioned social events as well—visits, banquets, balls. But not a word about his health.

  Until late spring. And then he wrote that he had taken to his bed—had, sad to say, been put on sick list: a cold, a fever, a matter of a few days. He was back on duty at the beginning of June, but by the middle of the month he had to “rest on his oars” again, and he complained bitterly about his bad luck; he could not hide his fears that he might miss taking part in major maneuvers in early August, to which he had so been looking forward. Nonsense, by July he was hale and hearty again, for several weeks, until a major physical suddenly loomed up ahead—ordered because of the cursed fluctuations in his temperature. A great deal would depend on its outcome. Hans Castorp heard nothing about the results of this exam for a good while, and when he finally did, it was not in a letter from Joachim—perhaps because he was not in any condition to write or was simply too ashamed—but in a telegram from his cousin’s mother, Frau Ziemssen. She announced: “Doctors compelled to put Joachim on medical furlough of several weeks. Alps suggested, immediate departure advised, reserve two rooms. Reply prepaid. Aunt Luise.”

  It was the end of July when Hans Castorp stepped out on his balcony and hastily skimmed this dispatch, then read and reread it. And as he did, he nodded lightly, not just with his head, but with his whole upper body, and said between clenched teeth: “Yes, yes, yes. I see, I see, I see.” Suddenly he was overcome with joy: “Joachim is coming back!” But then he fell silent again and thought: “Hmm, hmm, serious news. You could even call it a nice mess. Damn, it all went quickly—already ripe for home! His mother’s coming along”—he called her “his mother,” not “Aunt Luise,” any sense of kinship, of family relationships, having dwindled imperceptibly until such people were almost strangers—“that does give one pause. And just before those maneuvers that the good man was so hot for. Hmm, hmm, isn’t that a pretty twist, a nasty twist, a hard fact to contradict all ideals. The body triumphs, has other plans than the soul, and gets its way—quite a comedown for high-minded types who teach that the body must obey the soul. It seems they don’t know what they’re talking about, because if they were right, a case like this would cast a dubious light on the soul. Sapienti sat, I know what I’m saying. For the question I am raising here is whether it is not wide of the mark to see them as opposites, and whether they aren’t in cahoots instead, haven’t rigged the game—which never occurs to the high-minded types, luckily for them. Not that I would want for the world to insult you, my good Joachim, or your zealot’s love of duty. What you do, you do in all honesty—but I ask you, what is honesty, if the body and soul are in cahoots? Could it be you have not forgotten certain refreshing fragrances, prominent breasts, and pointless giggles that await you at Frau Stöhr’s table? Joachim is coming back!” he thought yet again and experienced a shiver of joy. “He’ll be arriving in bad shape, apparently, but we two shall be together again. I won’t have to live quite so much to myself now. That’s good. Although everything can’t be just like before. His room is occ
upied, after all—Mrs. Macdonald coughs away in that hollow cough of hers and keeps her little son’s photograph next to her on the table, or clutches it in her hand. But she’s in the last stages, and if the room hasn’t been reserved for anyone else, why then . . . but for now, it will have to be another one. Twenty-eight is vacant, as far as I know. I’ll go see management right away, and Behrens, too, for sure. This is news—sad in one sense, but spiffing in another. Big news, in any case. I’ll just wait for my ‘d’gods’ comrade, he’ll be here any moment, since it’s already half past three, I notice. I want to ask him if in light of this case he’s still of the opinion that the body is secondary.”

  He visited the management office before tea. The room he had in mind, down the corridor from his own, was available. Frau Ziemssen could likewise be accommodated. He hurried to see Behrens. He met him in the lab, a cigar in one hand, a test tube with a foul-colored liquid in the other.

  “Director Behrens, what do you think has happened?” Hans Castorp began.

  “More trouble as always,” the pneumotomist replied. “This is Rosenheim from Utrecht,” he said, pointing to the test tube with his cigar. “Ten on the Gaffky. And who comes storming in here but Schmitz, the manufacturer, complaining that Rosenheim has been spitting on the walkways—with ten on the Gaffky. And I’m supposed to scold him. And if I scold him, he’ll blow up, because he’s testy beyond belief—and has rented three rooms for his family. I can’t send him packing, because then I’ll have the administration down on me. So you see the fracases a fellow is constantly getting involved in, even when he would much rather keep quiet and go his pure and spotless way.”

  “What a stupid affair,” Hans Castorp said, with the insight of a chummy old-timer. “I know both gentlemen. Schmitz is always so proper and pushy, and Rosenheim is sloppy to excess. But hygiene is probably not the only reason for friction, I would say. Schmitz and Rosenheim are both friends of Doña Perez from Barcelona, who sits at Kleefeld’s table—that’s more than likely at the root of the matter. I suggest a general reminder about the prohibition against spitting, and then wink at the rest.”

  “Of course I wink at the rest. I’m getting blepharospasmosis from all the winking I do. But what brings you down here?”

  And Hans Castorp divulged his sad, but for all that, spiffing news.

  Not that the director was in the least surprised. He would not have been in any case; Hans Castorp had kept him informed right along about Joachim’s condition—whether he had inquired or not—and the bed rest in May had been signal enough.

  “Aha,” Behrens replied. “Well, now. And what did I tell you? What were my very words to both you and him—not ten but a hundred times? So there you are. He had his way, his heaven on earth for nine months. But not a totally detoxified heaven on earth, and there’s scant blessing in that—but the escape artist wouldn’t believe old man Behrens. And you should always believe old man Behrens, otherwise you end up the worse for wear and don’t realize it until it’s too late. And so he made lieutenant—no objections there. But what good did it do him? The Lord God searches the heart and sees not rank or station, we all stand naked before Him, from general down to lowly private.” He rambled on like this for a while, rubbing his eyes with the same gigantic hand in which he held his cigar, but finally said that Hans Castorp had bothered him enough for now. There were diggings to be had for Ziemssen, he presumed, and the moment the engineer’s cousin arrived he should take to his bed forthwith. As far as he, Behrens, was concerned, he bore no grudges, but held his paternal arms wide, was ready to kill a fatted calf for the prodigal.

  Hans Castorp telegraphed back. He also told anyone who would listen that his cousin was returning, and all those who knew Joachim were both sad and happy to hear the news, and were sincere in both emotions, because Joachim’s orderly, chivalrous demeanor had won him general goodwill; and a common response, though left unspoken, was that Joachim was the best of the lot up here. We looked no one square in the eye, but we assume there were many who felt a certain satisfaction in Joachim’s having to leave his soldierly profession and resume an orderly, horizontal life with the rest of us up here. Frau Stöhr, as we know, had felt that way from the first; she found her own vulgar skepticism, with which she had sent Joachim on his way down to the flatlands, confirmed, and did not mind praising herself for it. “Rotten, rotten,” she said. She had known there was something rotten about the whole affair from the first and could only hope that Ziemssen’s obstinacy had not turned it putrid—“putrid,” she said, in her infinite vulgarity. It was really much wiser to stick to one’s guns, the way she did—she, too, had a life down in the flatlands, in Cannstatt, to be precise, a husband and two children, but she knew how to contain herself.

  There was no further reply, either from Joachim or Frau Ziemssen. Hans Castorp was left uncertain of the day and hour of their arrival—which is why he was not at the station to meet them, when, three days after he had sent off his telegram, they were suddenly simply there. Laughing excitedly, Lieutenant Joachim burst in on his cousin, who was in the midst of his evening rest-cure duties.

  They had arrived on the same train that had brought Hans Castorp two years before—years neither short, nor long, simply without time, rich with experience and yet null and void. It was even the same time of year, exactly the same: one of August’s first days. As noted, Joachim’s mood was cheerful, ebullient in fact, as he entered Hans Castorp’s room, or rather exited it, having stridden double-time across it to step out onto the balcony and greet his cousin with a smile. His breath came quick, muffled, ragged. His long journey was behind him—the road that led through many a landscape and across the lake that was like a sea, and then squeezed its way, up, up, to this place again. And there he stood now as if he had never left, and was received by his relative, who rose halfway out of the horizontal to shout his hellos and well-well’s. His color was ruddy—perhaps from life in the open air, perhaps from the flush of travel. Not even bothering to look at his own room, he had hurried directly to room 34 to greet his companion from the old days, which were now present days again. His mother had gone to see to her toilette. They were going to have dinner in ten minutes—in the restaurant, of course. Hans Castorp would have to eat a bite with them, or at least have a sip of wine. And Joachim dragged him along to room 28, where everything was just the same as on the evening of Hans’s arrival, except the other way around: Joachim chatted away feverishly, washed his hands in the sparkling basin, and Hans Castorp watched—amazed, by the way, and to some extent disappointed, to see his cousin in civvies. There was no visible trace of Joachim’s new career, he remarked. He had been picturing him as an officer, in his uniform, and here he stood in dull gray, like everyone else. Joachim laughed, told him he was naive. No, he had left his uniform at home. Uniforms had their problems. You couldn’t pop in just anywhere wearing a uniform. “I see, thanks for letting me know,” Hans Castorp said. But Joachim was obviously unaware of any possible insult in his explanation, and now inquired about the residents of the Berghof and the latest news—not only without any arrogance, but indeed with the insistent animation of the traveler come home. Then Frau Ziemssen appeared through the door connecting the rooms, greeted her nephew in the manner people often choose on such occasions, that is, she pretended to be pleasantly surprised to find him here, although her surprise betrayed a certain melancholy, was muffled by strain and silent worry—about Joachim evidently. They then took the elevator down.

  Luise Ziemssen had the same beautiful, black, gentle eyes as Joachim. Her hair was black, too, though mixed with gray now, the coiffure held firmly in place by an almost invisible hairnet, befitting, somehow, her whole personality—which was composed, gently restrained, and friendly in a formal sort of way—and lending a certain dignity to her obviously simple nature. It was clear, as Hans Castorp was not surprised to discover, that she did not understand, was in fact slightly offended by Joachim’s good cheer, his rapid breathing, his impulsive words—behavior t
hat presumably contradicted his disposition at home or during the trip. Their arrival here was a sad one for her, and she believed she should act accordingly. She could not reconcile herself to Joachim’s turbulent emotions, to his sense of having returned home, which for the moment outweighed everything else and inspired him to breathe drunkenly of the old air again—our incomparably light, empty, incendiary air up here. This was all obscure to her. “My poor boy,” she thought, and watched while her poor boy abandoned himself to exuberant exchanges with his cousin, reliving a hundred memories, asking a hundred questions, and throwing himself back in his chair with a laugh at every answer. Several times she said, “Now, children!” And then finally she said something meant to sound happy, but it emerged as a dismayed, gentle rebuke: “I’ve truly not seen you like this for ages, Joachim. It seems we had to travel all the way here to get you back to how you were on the day of your promotion. “ Which, of course, put an end to Joachim’s exuberance. His mood turned sour, he came back to earth, fell silent, ate none of his dessert, even though a very tasty chocolate soufflé with whipped cream was served (but Hans Castorp ate it for him, though only an hour had passed since his more than ample supper), and finally did not even dare look up—quite probably because of the tears in his eyes.