The Magic Mountain Part 39

"Oh, please, please not! I promise to have proper regard for the circ.u.mstances, andthe-personalities."

"As one would expect, from a man without pa.s.sion!"

"Yes, you see-you mock at me when I-and then, when I-you say you will leave me-"

"Pray speak a little more connectedly, if you expect me to understand you."

"So I am not to have any benefit from all your practice in guessing the meaning of disconnected sentences? Is that fair, I ask-or I would if I did not know that it is not a matter of justice at all-"

"No, justice is a phlegmatic pa.s.sion. In contrast to jealousy-when phlegmatic people are jealous, they always make themselves ridiculous."

"There-ridiculous. Then grant me my phlegm. I repeat, how could I do without it?

For instance, how else could I have endured to wait so long?"

"I beg pardon?"

"Aussi longtemps pour toi."

"Voyons, mon ami mon ami. I say no more about the form of address you persist in, in your folly. You will tire of it-and then, I am not prudish, not an outraged middle-cla.s.s housewife-"

"No, for you are ill. Your illness gives you freedom. It makes you-wait, I must hunt for the word-it makes you-spirituelle!"

"We shall speak of that another time. It was something else I meant. Something I demand to hear. You shall not pretend I had anything to do with your waiting-if you did wait-that I encouraged you to it, or even permitted it. You must admit explicitly that the opposite was the case-"

"Certainly, Clavdia, with pleasure. You never asked me to wait, I did it on my own. I can quite understand your laying stress on the point-"

"Even when you make admissions, there is always some impertinence about them. You are impertinent by nature-not only with me, but in general-G.o.d knows why. Your admiration, your very humility, is an impertinence. Don't think I can't see it. I ought not to speak with you at all, and certainly not when you dare to talk about waiting for me. It is inexcusable that you are still here. You should have been long ago at your work, sur le chantier sur le chantier, or wherever it was."

"Now that, Clavdia, is not spirituel- spirituel-it even sounds conventional. You are just talking. You can't mean it in Settembrini's sense-and however else, then? I cannot take it seriously. I will not go off without permission, like my poor cousin, who, as you said he would, died because he tried to do service down below, and who knew himself, I suppose, that he would die, but preferred death to doing service up here any longer. Well, it was for that he was a soldier. But I am not. I am a civilian, for me it would be deserting the colours to do what he did, and go and serve the cause of progress down in the flat-land, despite what Behrens says. It would be the greatest disloyalty and ingrat.i.tude, to the illness, and its spirituel spirituel quality, and to my love for you, of which I bear scars both old and new-and to your arms I know so well, even admitting that it was in a dream, a highly quality, and to my love for you, of which I bear scars both old and new-and to your arms I know so well, even admitting that it was in a dream, a highly spirituel spirituel dream, that I learned to know them, and that you had no responsibility for my dream, and were not bound by it, nor your freedom infringed on-" dream, that I learned to know them, and that you had no responsibility for my dream, and were not bound by it, nor your freedom infringed on-"

She laughed, cigarette in mouth, so that the Tartar eyes became narrow slits; leaning back against the wainscoting, her hands resting on the bench on either side of her, one leg crossed over the other, and swinging,her foot in its patent-leather shoe. "Quelle generosite! Pauvre pet.i.t! Oh la la, vraiment- vraiment-Precisely thus I have always imagined un homme de genie!" un homme de genie!"

"Don't, Clavdia. I am no homme de genie- homme de genie-as little as I am a personality. Lord, no. But chance-call it chance-brought me up here to these heights of the spirit-you, of course, do not know that there is such a thing as alchemistic-hermetic pedagogy, transubstantiation, from lower to higher, ascending degrees, if you understand what I mean. But of course matter that is capable of taking those ascending stages by dint of outward pressure must have a little something in itself to start with. And what I had in me, as I quite clearly know, was that from long ago, even as a lad, I was familiar with illness and death, and had in the face of all common sense borrowed a lead pencil from you, as I did again on carnival night. But unreasoning love is spirituel; spirituel; for death is the for death is the spirituel spirituel principle, the principle, the res bina res bina, the lapis philosophorum lapis philosophorum, and the pedagogic principle too, for love of it leads to love of life and love of humanity. Thus, as I have lain in my loge, it has been revealed to me, and I am enchanted to be able to tell you all about it. There are two paths to life: one is the regular one, direct, honest. The other is bad, it leads through death-that is the spirituel spirituel way." way."

"You are a quaint philosopher," she said. "I will not a.s.sert that I have understood all your involved German ideas; but it sounds human and good, and you are good, a good young man. You have truly behaved en philosophe en philosophe, one must say that for you- " "Too much en philosophe en philosophe for your taste, eh, Clavdia?" for your taste, eh, Clavdia?"

"No more impertinences. They become tiresome. That you waited for me was silly-uncalled for. But you are not angry, because you waited in vain?"

"It was hard, Clavdia, even for a man phlegmatic in his pa.s.sions. Hard for me and hard of you to come back with him like that-for of course you knew through Behrens that I was here and waiting for you. But I have told you I regard it as a dream, what we had together, and I admit that you are free. And I waited after all not quite in vain, for here you are, we sit together as once we did, I can hear the piercing sweetness of your voice, known to my ear from so long ago; and beneath this flowing silk are your arms, your arms that I know-even though upstairs there lies your protector, in a fever, the mighty Peeperkorn, whose pearls you wear-"

"And with whom, for your own profit and enrichment, you have struck up such a friends.h.i.+p."

"Do not grudge me it, Clavdia, Settembrini reproached me with it too. But that is conventional prejudice. The man is a boon-for G.o.d's sake, is he not a personality? He is already old-yes; but even so, I could well understand how you as a woman could love him madly. You do love him madly?"

"All honour to thy philosophy, my little German Hanschen," she said, and lightly stroked his hair. "But I could not find it in my heart to speak to you of my love forhim. It would not be huma human."

"Ah, why not, Clavdia? It is my belief that love of humanity begins where poorspirited people believe it leaves off. We can speak quite quietly of him. You love him pa.s.sionately?"

She bent to toss her cigarette-end in the grate, and then sat with folded arms.

"He loves me," she said, "and his love makes me proud and grateful, and devoted to him. Tu peux comprendre cela Tu peux comprendre cela. Or else you are not worthy the friends.h.i.+p he feels for you. His feeling forced me to follow and serve him. What else could I do? You may judge. Is it possible for any human being to disregard his love?"

"Not possible," Hans Castorp confirmed. "No, of course, it was out of the question. How could a woman bring herself to disregard his feeling, and his anguish over that feeling-to forsake him, as it were, in his Gethsemane-" possible," Hans Castorp confirmed. "No, of course, it was out of the question. How could a woman bring herself to disregard his feeling, and his anguish over that feeling-to forsake him, as it were, in his Gethsemane-"

"Tu n'es pas du tout stupide," said she, her slanting eyes fixed in a reverie. "You understand things. 'Anguish over the feeling-' "

"Not much understanding is needed to know that you had to follow him-though, or rather because, there must be much that is troubling in his love."

"C'est exact. Troubling. There is much care with him, you know, many difficulties." She had taken his hand, and played absently with the fingers-but suddenly she knitted her brows, she looked up and said: "Mais-dis-moi: ce if est pas un peu-ordinaire un peu-ordinaire, que nous parlons de lui que nous parlons de lui, comme ca?" comme ca?"

"No, Clavdia. Surely not. Far from it. Surely it is no more than human. You love the word, and I love to hear you say it, in your quaint p.r.o.nunciation. My cousin Joachim did not like it-on military grounds. He thought it meant general licence and flabbiness; and in that sense, as an unlimited guazzabuglio guazzabuglio of self-indulgence, I have my own suspicions of it, I confess. But in the sense of freedom, goodness, of self-indulgence, I have my own suspicions of it, I confess. But in the sense of freedom, goodness, esprit esprit, then it is great, we can freely apply it to our talk about Peeperkorn and the care and pain he causes you. Of course, they are the result of his sore spot-his dread of denying the feelings, that makes him love so much what he calls the cla.s.sic gifts of life, the gift of Bacchus, liquid refreshment-we may speak of that in all reverence, for even in that weakness his scale is kingly and we shall lower neither him nor ourselves by speaking of it."

"It is not a question of us," she said. She had folded her arms again. "One would not be a woman if one were not willing to bear humiliation for the sake of a man like that, on the grand scale, as you say, when one is the object of his feeling and of his suffering from it."

"Absolutely, Clavdia. Well said. For then even the humiliation is on the grand scale, and from the height of it the woman can look down on poor creatures built on smaller lines, and speak to them with such contempt as was in your voice when you said, about the postage stamps: 'You ought to be more precise and dependable!' " "You are hurt? You must not be. Let us put those feelings away, send them to Jericho. Do you agree? I have been wounded too sometimes-I will confess it, since we are sitting together like this. I have been angry with your phlegm, and your being such friends with him, on account of your egoistic craving for experience. Yet I was glad too, and grateful for the respect you paid him. You were loyal; if you were a bit impertinent too, after all I could make allowance for that." "Very kind of you."

She looked at him. "You are incorrigible, it seems. And certainly I can't quite tell how much esprit esprit you have-but deep you are, a deep young man. Well, very good, one can do with it, and be friends. Shall we be friends, shall we make a league-not against but for him? Will you give me your hand on it? I am often frightened.- Sometimes I am afraid of the solitude with him-the inward solitude, you have-but deep you are, a deep young man. Well, very good, one can do with it, and be friends. Shall we be friends, shall we make a league-not against but for him? Will you give me your hand on it? I am often frightened.- Sometimes I am afraid of the solitude with him-the inward solitude, tu sais- tu sais-he is- frightening; sometimes I am afraid something may happen to him-it makes me shudder.-I should be glad to feel I had someone beside me. En fin- En fin-if you care to know-that was why I came back here with him-chez toi."

They sat knee to knee, he with his rocking-chair tipped toward her, she on her bench. Her last words were breathed close to his face, and she pressed his hand as she spoke. He said: "To me? Oh, Clavdia! That is beautiful beyond words! You came back to me with him? And yet will you say my waiting was silly and wrong and fruitless? It would be very inept of me to refuse, not to know how to value your friends.h.i.+p, friends.h.i.+p with me for his sake-"

She kissed him on the mouth. It was a Russian kiss, the kind that is exchanged in that spreading, soulful land, at high religious feasts, as a seal of love. But when a notoriously "deep" young man and a lady still young, and of such insinuating charm, exchange it, we are involuntarily reminded of Dr. Krokowski's ingenious if not wholly un.o.bjectionable method of treating the subject of love, in that slightly fluctuating sense, so that no one was ever quite sure whether it was earthly or heavenly, spiritual or fleshly love he had in mind. Are we so treating it, or were Clavdia Chauchat and Hans Castorp, when they exchanged their Russian kiss? But what will the reader say if we simply refuse to go into the question? To try to make a clean-cut distinction between the pa.s.sionate and the soulful-that would, no doubt, be a.n.a.lytical. But we feel that it would also be inept-to borrow Hans Castorp's useful word-and certainly not in the least "genial." For what would "clean-cut" be? The subject is so equivocal, the limits so fluctuating. We make bold to laugh at the idea. Is it not well done that our language has but one word for all kinds of love, from the holiest to the most l.u.s.tfully fleshly? All ambiguity is therein resolved: love cannot but be physical, at its furthest stretch of holiness; it cannot be impious, in its utterest fleshliness. It is always itself, as the height of shrewd "geniality" as in the depth of pa.s.sion; it is organic sympathy, the touching sense-embrace of that which is doomed to decay. In the most raging as in the most reverent pa.s.sion, there must be caritas caritas. The meaning of the word varies? In G.o.d's name, then, let it vary; That it does so makes it living, makes it human; it would be a regrettable lack of "depth" to trouble over the fact.

So while these youthful lips meet in their Russian kiss, let us darken our little stage and change the scene. For now, instead of the dimness of the hall we have the rather pensive light of a declining spring day in the season of melting snows; and our hero is seated in his wonted place at the bedside of Mynheer Peeperkorn, in friendly and respectful converse with that great man. Frau Chauchat, after the tea hour, at which she had appeared alone, as at the previous three meals, had gone shopping in the Platz, and Hans Castorp announced himself for his usual visit to the Dutchman. First of all to show him attention and help him pa.s.s the time; but also to be edified by the motions of the great man's personality. In short, out of "varying" motives, varying as life varies. Peeperkorn laid aside the Telegraaf Telegraaf and tossed the horn-rimmed eyegla.s.ses upon it. He reached his visitor a broad, sea-captain's hand, and his thick chapped lips, on which sat a distressed expression, moved vaguely. Red wine and coffee were as usual to hand; the coffee things stood on a chair, stained brown from recent use-Mynheer had taken his regular afternoon drink, hot and strong, with sugar and cream, and was in a perspiration. His face with its fringe of white hair was flushed, and little beads stood on brow and upper lip. and tossed the horn-rimmed eyegla.s.ses upon it. He reached his visitor a broad, sea-captain's hand, and his thick chapped lips, on which sat a distressed expression, moved vaguely. Red wine and coffee were as usual to hand; the coffee things stood on a chair, stained brown from recent use-Mynheer had taken his regular afternoon drink, hot and strong, with sugar and cream, and was in a perspiration. His face with its fringe of white hair was flushed, and little beads stood on brow and upper lip.

"I am sweating somewhat," he said. "Come in, young man, come in. On the contrary. Sit down. It is a sign of weakness when one takes a hot drink and sweats thereafter. Will you-quite right-a handkerchief-thank you." The flush soon faded and gave place to the yellowish pallor which was Mynheer's facial teint teint after a bad attack. The fever had been severe this morning, and in all three stages, the cold, the hot, the moist; Peeperkorn's little eyes looked tired beneath the lined, masklike brow. He said: "It is-by all means, young man. I would like to express my-the word is- Positively. Appreciative-very kind of you to visit an ailing old man-" after a bad attack. The fever had been severe this morning, and in all three stages, the cold, the hot, the moist; Peeperkorn's little eyes looked tired beneath the lined, masklike brow. He said: "It is-by all means, young man. I would like to express my-the word is- Positively. Appreciative-very kind of you to visit an ailing old man-"

"Not at all, Mynheer Peeperkorn. I am the one to be grateful, for permission to sit here a little; I get a great deal more out of it than you-I a.s.sure you my motives are not altruistic. But what sort of description is that of yourself-an ailing old man? It would never occur to anyone to call you that. It gives an entirely false picture." "Very good," responded Mynheer. He closed his eyes for a second or so, leaning his majestic head against the pillows, the chin raised, the fingers with their long nails folded on his kingly chest, the muscles of which showed beneath the tricot tricot s.h.i.+rt. "You are right, young man, or, rather, you mean it well. I am sure. It was pleasant yesterday-yes, yesterday afternoon, at that hospitable spot-the name of which I have now forgotten where we ate the excellent salami and scrambled eggs-and that sound native wine-" s.h.i.+rt. "You are right, young man, or, rather, you mean it well. I am sure. It was pleasant yesterday-yes, yesterday afternoon, at that hospitable spot-the name of which I have now forgotten where we ate the excellent salami and scrambled eggs-and that sound native wine-"

"It was gorgeous," Hans Castorp confirmed. "We certainly are filled up-the Berghof chef would not have been pleased to see us putting it in-one and all; he'd have felt insulted. That was genuine salami, the real thing; Herr Settembrini ate it with tears in his eyes. He is a patriot, you must know, a democratic patriot. He has consecrated his burgher's pike on the altar of humanity, so that salami may be taxed at the Brenner frontier."

"That is no matter," Peeperkorn declared. "He is most chivalrous and courteous and very affable in conversation-a gallant gentleman, though obviously unable to change his clothing with any frequency."

"None at all," said Hans Castorp, "none at all! I know him well, have been friendly with him for a long time; he was kind enough to take me up, because he found I was a 'delicate child of life.' That is an expression we use between us, the sense of which is not obvious without the context. He has taken much pains to influence me for my good. But never, summer or winter, have I seen him wear anything but those check trousers and that threadbare double-breasted coat. He wears the old things with great dignity, there is is something gallant about him, I agree with you there. The way he does it is a triumph over poverty-I like better to see it than little Naphta's elegance, that always seems suspicious-a work of darkness, as it were, and he gets the money for it in some hole-and-corner way, I understand." something gallant about him, I agree with you there. The way he does it is a triumph over poverty-I like better to see it than little Naphta's elegance, that always seems suspicious-a work of darkness, as it were, and he gets the money for it in some hole-and-corner way, I understand."

"A chivalrous and affable gentleman," repeated Peeperkorn, pa.s.sing over Hans Castorp's remarks about little Naphta. "But also-forgive me the reservation-not free from prejudice. Madame, my companion, has no great opinion of him-you may have seen. She feels little sympathy-no doubt because she perceives the same prejudice to exist toward herself. Not a word, young man. I am far from-comment on Herr Settembrini and your friendly feelings for him-No more! I should not think of saying that in any point-he has failed in any respect in knightly courtesy. My dear friend-irreproachable, very. But there is-a line drawn, a certain-a withdrawal- which makes comprehensible Madame Chauchat's-"

"Feeling against him. Perfectly natural. Perfectly justified. Pardon me, Mynheer Peeperkorn, for taking the words out of your mouth. I venture to do so in the consciousness that you will not misunderstand me. When one thinks how women are made (you smile, to hear a person of my youth and inexperience making general observations on this subject)-how dependent a woman's feeling for a man is upon his feeling for her-it is not surprising. Women, if you will permit me so to express myself, are creatures not of action but of reaction; they do not initiate, they are inactive in the sense that they are pa.s.sive. May I, even at the risk of being tiresome, try to follow that a little further? Woman, so far as I have been able to observe, regards herself, in a love-affair, as the object. She lets it come; she does not make a free choice, she only chooses on the basis of the man's having chosen, and even then, even then, I must repeat, her choice is suspect, it is prejudiced by the very fact that she has been chosen-provided, of course, the man is not too too poor a specimen, and even so-Good Lord, what unalloyed drivel I'm talking! But when one is young, everything seems new and astonis.h.i.+ng. You ask a woman: 'Do you love him?' And she tells you: 'He loves me so much!' and rolls her eyes up, or else rolls them down. Imagine an answer like that from one of us-if you will pardon me putting us in the same category. Perhaps there are men who would answer like that, but they are poorspirited creatures-their women wear the breeches, if you will forgive the expression. I should like to know what kind of self-apprais.e.m.e.nt is at the bottom of the feminine answer. Is it that the woman thinks she owes a man boundless devotion merely because he has conferred the favour of his choice upon so lowly a creature? Or does she see in the man's love an infallible sign of her personal excellence? I've often asked myself these questions, when I have been thinking quietly alone." poor a specimen, and even so-Good Lord, what unalloyed drivel I'm talking! But when one is young, everything seems new and astonis.h.i.+ng. You ask a woman: 'Do you love him?' And she tells you: 'He loves me so much!' and rolls her eyes up, or else rolls them down. Imagine an answer like that from one of us-if you will pardon me putting us in the same category. Perhaps there are men who would answer like that, but they are poorspirited creatures-their women wear the breeches, if you will forgive the expression. I should like to know what kind of self-apprais.e.m.e.nt is at the bottom of the feminine answer. Is it that the woman thinks she owes a man boundless devotion merely because he has conferred the favour of his choice upon so lowly a creature? Or does she see in the man's love an infallible sign of her personal excellence? I've often asked myself these questions, when I have been thinking quietly alone."

"Primitive-traditional mysteries you touch on there, young man, applying your glib little phrases to the sacred conditions of our existence," responded Peeperkorn. "Man is intoxicated by his desire, woman demands and expects to be intoxicated by it. Hence our holy duty of feeling, hence the shame in unfeelingness, in powerlessness to awaken the woman to desire. Will you take a gla.s.s of red wine with me? I will drink, for I am thirsty. I have given out a considerable amount of water to-day."

"Thanks, Mynheer Peeperkorn. I do not usually take anything at this hour; but I am always ready to drink a swallow or so to your health."

"Then take the winegla.s.s. There is only one, I will use the water-gla.s.s. It won't insult this simple wine to drink it out of an ordinary tumbler-" He poured out the wine, with Hans Castorp's help, as his hand trembled slightly, and drank thirstily, as though it had been water.

"That is refres.h.i.+ng," he said. "Won't you have some more? No? Permit me to fill my gla.s.s"-the second time, he spilled some wine; the turned-over sheet was stained with dark-red spots. "I repeat," he said, with one lancelike finger reared up, "I repeat, that therein lies our duty, our sacred duty to feel. Feeling, you understand, is the masculine force that rouses life. Life slumbers. It needs to be roused, to be awakened to a drunken marriage with divine feeling. For feeling, young man, is G.o.dlike. Man is G.o.dlike, in that he feels. He is the feeling of G.o.d. G.o.d created him in order to feel through him. Man is nothing but the organ through which G.o.d consummates his marriage with roused and intoxicated life. If man fails in feeling, it is blasphemy; it is the surrender of His masculinity, a cosmic catastrophe, an irreconcilable horror-" He drank.

"Permit me to relieve you of your gla.s.s," Hans Castorp said. "I find your train of thought highly edifying, Mynheer Peeperkorn. You are developing a theology there, in which you ascribe to man a highly honourable, if perhaps rather a one-sided religious function. There is, if I may say so, a certain austerity in your conception, it has its alarming side. Pardon me. All religious austerity is naturally somewhat alarming to people who are built on modest lines. I have no thought of criticizing the conception, I should like simply to return to your remark about certain prejudices, which, according to your observations, Herr Settembrini has on the subject of Madame. I have known Herr Settembrini for some time, more than a year, for years, in fact. And I can a.s.sure you that his prejudices, in so far as they exist, are in no case of a petty or bourgeois character. It would be absurd to think so. It can only be a question of prejudice in a general sense, impersonal, relating to certain pedagogic principles, which, in my character as a delicate child of life, Herr Settembrini has been at pains to-but that would lead us too far. It is a very complex subject, into which I could not-" "And you love Madame?" Mynheer suddenly asked. He turned toward his visitor that kingly countenance, with the sore, writhen mouth and the pale little eyes under the arabesque of lines on the brow.

Hans Castorp started. He stammered: "I-that is-I feel great respect for Frau Chauchat, certainly, in her character as-"