The Magic Mountain

  For God’s sake, didn’t he see?—Feet first! She set up a dreadful ruckus, and the bed had to be changed around at once, even though her pillow then faced the light, which was very disruptive to sleep.

  None of that was really serious; it said very little to Hans Castorp’s spiritual needs. A horrible incident at a meal one day, however, did make an impression on the young man. A new patient, a teacher named Popóv, a gaunt, silent fellow, who now sat at the Good Russian table next to his equally gaunt, silent young bride, turned out to be an epileptic and right in the middle of a meal had a violent fit, falling to the floor with that demonic, inhuman shriek we have all often heard described, and lay there next to his chair, flailing arms and legs about in the most ghastly writhings. What made matters worse was that the fish course had just been served, and it was feared that Popóv might choke on a bone. The uproar was indescribable. The ladies, with Frau Stöhr in the vanguard—though Mmes. Salomon, Redisch, Hessenfeld, Magnus, Iltis, Levi, et al. hardly took second place to her—fell victim to a whole variety of “conditions,” with several of them coming close to imitating Herr Popóv. Shrieks rang out—everywhere, nothing but eyes squeezed tight, mouths agape, and twisted torsos. Only one lady preferred to faint quietly. Since they had all been surprised in the middle of chewing and swallowing, choking attacks were common. Some diners made for available exits, including the doors to the veranda, although it was very damp and cold outside. The whole incident, however, took on its own unique, scandalous character, quite apart from the horror of it, primarily because most people could not help associating it with Dr. Krokowski’s most recent lecture. In his address the previous Monday (dealing, as always, with love as a force conducive to illness), the psychoanalyst had made special mention of epilepsy, which in preanalytic days had been seen variously as a holy, indeed prophetic affliction or as a sign of demonic possession, but which he described in half poetic, half ruthlessly scientific terms as the equivalent of love, an orgasm of the brain—in brief, made it sound so suspect that his audience was now forced to see Popóv’s performance as an illustration of the lecture, a dissolute revelation, a mysterious scandal. The covert flight of the ladies was therefore also an expression of a certain modesty. The director himself was present at the meal, and it was he who, together with Nurse Mylendonk and a few stalwart young diners, carried the ecstatic teacher just as he was—blue, stiff, contorted, and still foaming at the mouth—from the dining hall to the lobby, where the doctors, the head nurse, and other personnel were observed working over the unconscious man for a while, after which he was carried away on a litter. But within a very short time, Herr Popóv was seen sitting serenely beside his equally serene young wife at the Good Russian table, and he finished his midday meal as if nothing had happened.

  Hans Castorp had sat through the incident with every outward sign of concerned horror, but ultimately—God help him!—not even this event seemed all that serious. To be sure, Popóv might have choked to death on his mouthful of fish; but, in fact, he had not choked to death and despite all his unconscious cavorting rage had evidently quietly managed to keep from doing so. And then there he sat cheerfully finishing his meal and pretending as if he had never carried on like a crazy drunkard gone berserk—presumably did not even recall what had happened. Nor was there anything to inspire greater reverence for suffering in his appearance; in its own way, this incident, too, bolstered Hans Castorp’s impression that he was being exposed up here, against his will, to frivolous slovenliness, and, counter to all local custom, he hoped to offset this process by paying closer attention to those seriously ill and moribund.

  On the same floor as the cousins, not far from their own rooms, a young lady named Leila Gerngross lay dying, or so they were told by Sister Alfreda. She had suffered four severe hemorrhages over the last ten days, and her parents had come here with the idea of taking her back home while she still lived; but that did not appear to be a feasible plan—the director said that poor Fräulein Gerngross ought not to be moved. She was sixteen or seventeen years old. Hans Castorp saw a genuine opportunity to realize his plan to send a potted plant and best wishes for recovery. True, it was not Leila’s birthday, nor would she, in all probability, live until her next one, which Hans Castorp learned on inquiry was not until spring—yet that did not seem an obstacle to his mission of mercy. On a noonday walk with his cousin, he stopped in a flower shop near the spa hotel; he eagerly breathed in the moist, earthy, aroma-laden air and purchased a pretty potted hydrangea, which he instructed be delivered to the dying girl’s room, enclosing a card, left unsigned, on which he wrote, “From two fellow guests, with best wishes for recovery.” Pleasantly giddy from the odor of plants and the sultry warmth of the shop, which made his eyes water after the cold outdoors, he completed the transaction with a happy, pounding heart, construing his modest effort as bold, adventurous, and helpful, and secretly ascribing symbolic importance to it.

  Leila Gerngross did not enjoy the luxury of private nursing, but was under the direct care of Fräulein von Mylendonk and her doctors; but Sister Alfreda looked in on her occasionally as well, and she reported to the young men how their act of thoughtfulness had been received. Despite her straitened, hopeless condition, the girl had taken childlike pleasure in the strangers’ good wishes. The plant stood beside her bed, she caressed it with her eyes and hands, saw to it that it was kept watered, and even during some of the worst coughing fits to which she was subject, she kept her tormented eyes trained on it. Her parents, retired Major Gerngross and his wife, were likewise touched and pleased, but since they had no friends whatever in the house, they could not even hazard a guess as to the givers. Under such circumstances, Nurse Schildknecht had no longer been able to refrain from lifting the veil of anonymity and disclosing the donors’ names. She brought the cousins the thanks of the three Gerngrosses—as well as a request that they might all meet. The next day, with the nurse leading the way, the two cousins tiptoed into Leila’s chamber of suffering.

  The dying girl was a charming young thing—blond, with eyes the exact color of forget-me-nots—who looked fragile, but not all that pathetic, despite a dreadful loss of blood and only meager remnants of lung tissue still available for labored breaths. She thanked them, chatting in a rather monotone but pleasant voice. A rosy glow came to her cheeks and lingered there. After first offering an explanation for his actions—almost an apology, really, since he felt that was expected—both to her and to her parents, Hans Castorp now paid his tender respects in a hushed, emotional voice. It would not have taken much—the impulse was certainly there at least—for him to have knelt on one knee beside the bed; but he did hold Leila’s hand in his for a long time—a hot hand that was not merely damp, but downright wet, for the child was perspiring excessively, her sweat glands producing so much water that her flesh would have shriveled and dried out long before this had she not managed to keep pace with her body’s transudation by thirstily downing great quantities of lemonade, a full carafe of which stood on her nightstand. Grief-stricken as they were, her parents held up their end of the brief conversation, as good manners demanded, inquiring about the cousins’ own circumstances and making other conventional remarks. The major was a broad-shouldered man with a low brow and bristling moustache—a hulk, who quite obviously was innocent of his daughter’s susceptibilities and organic biases. It was apparent, rather, that his wife was the guilty party—a small woman with a decidedly consumptive look about her and a conscience evidently weighed down by the dowry she had brought into the marriage. When after ten minutes Leila showed signs of fatigue, or, to be more precise, of overexcitement—her rosy cheeks turned redder, her forget-me-not eyes took on an alarming gleam—and Sister Alfreda began to signal with admonishing glances, the cousins took their leave; Frau Gerngross accompanied them out into the hall, where she broke into self-recriminations that had an odd effect on Hans Castorp. In her remorse, she assured them that it was her fault, her fault alone; the poor child could only have got it from
her, her husband was not involved, had played no part in it whatever. But she swore that she had been infected only temporarily, very slightly and superficially, for just a brief time as a young girl. Then she had got over it, had totally recovered, the doctors said—because she had wanted so much to marry, to live and to marry, and she had succeeded, had been completely cured, was perfectly healthy when she married her dear, robust husband, who had never given a thought to such a thing happening. But as unsullied and strong as he was, his influence had not been able to prevent this misfortune. How awful, then, that what had been buried and forgotten had reappeared in the child, who had not got over it, but was succumbing to it, whereas she, the mother, had escaped and lived on into mature adulthood. The poor little thing was dying, the doctors had given up all hope. And it was all due to her former life—she alone was to blame.

  The young men tried to comfort her, said something about the possibility of a happy turn for the better. But the major’s wife merely sobbed and thanked them once again for everything, for the hydrangea, for diverting the child by their visit, for providing her a little happiness. There the poor thing lay in her lonely torments, while other young girls were enjoying life and dancing with handsome young men—no illness ever took away that desire. They had brought a ray of sunshine into her life—good God, probably the last. The hydrangea had made her the belle of the ball and a chat with two handsome cavaliers had been a nice little flirt for her—as a mother, Frau Gerngross had not failed to notice that.

  Hans Castorp was embarrassed by this last remark, particularly by the word “flirt,” which Frau Gerngross pronounced incorrectly, supplying it with a German vowel so that it sounded like “fleert”—that annoyed him no end. Nor was he a handsome cavalier, but had visited little Leila out of medical and spiritual conviction, as a protest against the prevailing egotism of the place. In brief, he was a little disgruntled by the turn things had taken, or at least by what the major’s wife had to say, but otherwise very excited and pleased at having carried out his plan. Two things in particular lingered in his mind and heart: the earthy odor of the flower shop and Leila’s wet hand. And now that a beginning had been made, he arranged an appointment that very day with Sister Alfreda to visit her patient, Fritz Rotbein, who like his nurse was terribly bored, even though, to judge by all the evidence, he had only a short time left.

  There was nothing for it—good Joachim would have to come along. Hans Castorp’s impulse for altruistic enterprise was stronger than his cousin’s reluctance—manifest primarily in Joachim’s silence and lowered gaze—because, barring an admission of a lack of Christian charity, he had no cogent explanation to offer. Hans Castorp saw that clearly, and used it to his advantage. He understood very well the military nature of that reluctance. But what if he himself felt excited and pleased by such plans, what if he found them useful? Why then, he would have to ignore Joachim’s silent resistance. He discussed with him whether they ought to send young Fritz Rotbein flowers as well, or perhaps take some with them, even though they were dealing with a moribund male. He wanted very much to do it; flowers, he said, were simply proper; he had been especially pleased by his hydrangea gambit—the purple blossoms, the nice full shape. And so he decided that Rotbein’s sex was offset by his terminal condition and that a gift of flowers did not require a birthday, particularly since a dying person surely ought to be treated as if every day were his birthday. And with that in mind and his cousin at his side, he again sought out the warm, earthy-scented air of the flower shop; carrying a dewy bouquet of fragrant roses, carnations, and wallflowers, he entered Herr Rotbein’s room, ushered in by Alfreda Schildknecht, who had first announced the two young men’s visit.

  Barely twenty years old, but already graying and balding, the patient was emaciated, his skin waxen; he had large hands, large ears, a large nose; grateful to the point of tears for this diversion and their encouraging words, he actually wept a little out of weakness as he greeted them and accepted the bouquet. Almost immediately, however, in a voice close to a whisper, he turned the conversation to the European flower business and the current boom it was enjoying, especially the nurseries in Nice and Cannes, which daily exported flowers by mail and by the trainload in all directions, to wholesale markets in Paris and Berlin, even supplied Russia. For he was a businessman, and that was where his interests would remain as long as he lived. His father, who manufactured dolls in Coburg, had sent him to England for commercial training, he whispered, and it was there that he had taken ill. His fever had been diagnosed as typhoid in nature and treated accordingly, which meant a diet of broths that had caused him to lose far too much weight. They had let him eat up here, and he had certainly done so, had sat there in his bed, trying to nourish himself by the sweat of his brow. Except it had been too late; his intestine had also been infected, unfortunately, and all the tongue and smoked eel sent him from home had done no good—he could not digest a thing anymore. Now his father was on his way here from Coburg. Behrens had sent him a telegram—because they wanted to take more decisive action, a rib resection, to try it at least, although the chances for success were diminishing. Rotbein whispered all this in a very businesslike voice, viewing even the operation itself as a matter of business—as long as he lived he would regard things from that point of view. The total cost, he whispered, including the spinal anesthetic, would come to one thousand francs, since almost the entire rib cage was involved, six to eight ribs, and the question now was whether it could be seen as a promising investment. Behrens was trying to persuade him, but the doctor’s self-interest was only too clear—whereas his own interests seemed more ambiguous, and one could not be sure if it might not be wiser to die in peace with ribs intact.

  It was hard to advise him. The cousins suggested that one must also take into consideration the director’s splendid talents as a surgeon. They finally agreed that the elder Rotbein, who was already chugging his way here, should have the last word. As they left, young Fritz wept a little again, and although it was only out of weakness, the tears he shed stood in curious contradiction to the dry, businesslike way he spoke and thought. He begged the gentlemen to visit him again, and they gladly promised they would—but never had the chance. The doll-manufacturer arrived that same evening, and the next morning the operation was performed, after which young Fritz was no longer able to receive visitors. Two days later, as Hans Castorp and Joachim were passing Rotbein’s room, they noticed it was being fumigated. Sister Alfreda had already packed her bag and departed from the Berghof, having received an urgent call to report to another moribund patient at a different sanatorium. Tucking the cord of her pince-nez behind her ear with a sigh, she had hurried off to nurse him—it was the only prospect that had opened up for her.

  On your way to the dining hall or the outdoors, you sometimes saw an empty room, a “vacated” room, ready for fumigation, with furniture piled high and both doors flung wide open—a sight that spoke volumes, and yet was so normal that it said very little, especially when at some point you yourself had taken possession of just such a fumigated, “vacated” room and now called it home. Sometimes, however, you knew who had lived in a particular room, and that always made you stop and think—as was the case both on that occasion and eight days later, when Hans Castorp saw Leila Gerngross’s room in the same state. At first his mind rebelled against the commotion he saw inside the room. He was still standing there observing, perplexed and lost in thought, when the director happened by.

  “Good day, Director Behrens. I was just standing here watching them fumigate,” Hans Castorp said. “Little Leila . . .”

  “Hm yes—” Behrens replied with a shrug. After a period of silence, during which he let this gesture take effect, he added, “You did a proper bit of courting there at the end—got in just under the wire, didn’t you? I like that about you—taking on my little lung-whistlers in their cages, seeing as you’re in relatively robust health yourself. A nice trait. No, no—you cannot deny it, it’s a very pretty trait in you
r character. Would you like me to introduce you to some patients now and then? I’ve plenty of other caged finches here—that’s if you’re still interested. For instance I’m just about to look in on ‘Lady Overblown.’ Do you want to come along? I’ll introduce you as a fellow sufferer.”