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Satana

His age would have been hard to estimate; it must have lain somewhere between thirty and forty, for although his general appearance had a youthful effect, the hair at his temples was already threaded with silver and noticeably thinned higher up: two bald inlets ran in beside the narrow, scant parting and heightened the forehead. His suit, these wide, pale-yellow checked trousers and a fleecy, too-long coat with two rows of buttons and very large lapels, was far from raising any claim to elegance; his roundly turned-up standing collar, too, showed itself already somewhat roughened at the edges from frequent washing, his black necktie was worn, and apparently he wore no cuffs at all - Hans Castorp recognized this from the slack way in which the sleeves hung about his wrists. Nevertheless he saw quite well that he had a gentleman before him; the cultivated expression of the stranger's face, his free, indeed beautiful bearing, left no doubt of it. This mixture, however, of shabbiness and grace, together with black eyes and the softly curved mustache, at once reminded Hans Castorp of certain foreign musicians who played in the courtyards at home at Christmastime and held out their floppy hats with upturned velvet eyes so that people might throw ten-pfennig pieces into them from the windows. "A barrel-organ man!" he thought. And so he was not surprised at the name he heard when Joachim rose from the bench and, in some embarrassment, made the introduction:

"My cousin Castorp - Herr Settembrini."

Hans Castorp too had risen in greeting, the traces of his excess of merriment still on his face. But the Italian, in courteous words, begged both of them not to let themselves be disturbed in their comfort and compelled them back to their places, while he himself remained standing before them in his pleasing pose. He smiled as he stood there and looked at the cousins, at Hans Castorp in particular; and this fine, somewhat mocking deepening and curling of one corner of his mouth under the full mustache, there where it bent upward in a handsome curve, had a peculiar effect: it urged, so to speak, intellectual clarity and watchfulness, and sobered the intoxicated Hans Castorp on the instant, so that he felt ashamed. Settembrini said:

"The gentlemen are in high spirits - with reason, with reason. A splendid morning! The sky is blue, the sun laughs -" and with a light and successful sweep of his arm he raised his small yellowish hand toward the heavens, while at the same time sending an oblique, cheerful glance up there as well. "One might in fact forget where one is."

He spoke without foreign accent; only by the precision of his articulation might one possibly have recognized the foreigner. His lips formed the words with a certain pleasure. One heard him with enjoyment.

"And the gentleman has had a pleasant journey to us?" he turned to Hans Castorp… "Is one already in possession of one's judgment? I mean: has the gloomy ceremony of the first examination already taken place?" - Here he should have fallen silent and waited, if he cared to hear; for he had put his question, and Hans Castorp was preparing to answer. But the stranger at once went on asking: "Did it turn out leniently? From your urge to laugh -" and he was silent for a moment while the curl of the corner of his mouth deepened, "heterogeneous conclusions can be drawn. How many months have our Minos and Radamanth imposed upon you?" - The word "imposed" came off as especially droll in his mouth. - "Shall I estimate? Six? Or straightaway nine? One is not stingy…"

Hans Castorp laughed in astonishment, while trying to recall who Minos and Radamanth had been again. He answered:

"But how so? No, you are mistaken, Herr Septem-"

"Settembrini," the Italian corrected clearly and with swing, bowing humoristically.

"Herr Settembrini - pardon me. No, then, you are mistaken. I am not ill at all. I am only visiting my cousin Ziemßen for a few weeks and mean, on this occasion, to recover a little myself as well -"

"Upon my word, you are not one of ours? You are healthy, you are merely attending here as a guest, like Odysseus in the realm of shades? What boldness, to descend into the depths where the dead dwell void and senseless -"

"Into the depths, Herr Settembrini? I must protest! Why, I climbed up to you some five thousand feet -"

"It only seemed so to you! On my word, it was an illusion," said the Italian with a decisive gesture of the hand. "We are deeply fallen beings, are we not, Lieutenant," he turned to Joachim, who was not a little pleased by this form of address but tried to conceal it and answered with composure:

"We probably have become a little simple-minded, really. But one can, after all, pull oneself together again."

"Yes, I trust you to do it; you are a decent man," said Settembrini. "So, so, so," he said three times, with a sharp s, turning back toward Hans Castorp, and then clicked his tongue just as many times softly against the upper palate. "Look, look, look," he said after this, again three times and with a sharp s-sound, gazing so fixedly into the newcomer's face that his eyes took on a fixed and blind adjustment, and then, enlivening his gaze again, continued:

"Quite voluntarily, then, you come up to us fallen ones and intend to grant us the pleasure of your company for a time. Well, that is fine. And what term have you envisaged? I am not asking delicately. But I should like to hear how much one dictates to oneself when one has the determining of it and not Radamanth!"

"Three weeks," said Hans Castorp with somewhat vain ease, since he noticed that he was being envied.

"O dio, three weeks! Did you hear, Lieutenant? Is there not something almost impertinent about saying: I am coming here for three weeks and then leaving again? We do not know the measure of weeks, my dear sir, if I may instruct you. Our smallest unit of time is the month. We reckon in the grand style - that is a privilege of the shades. We have others too, and they are all of similar quality. May I ask what profession you practice down below in life - or rather, perhaps, for what profession you are preparing yourself? You see, we put no fetters on our curiosity. We count curiosity too among our privileges."

"Most willingly," said Hans Castorp. And he gave information.

"A shipbuilding engineer! But that is magnificent!" cried Settembrini. "Be convinced that I find that magnificent, although my own abilities lie in another direction."

"Herr Settembrini is a man of letters," Joachim said by way of explanation and with some embarrassment. "He wrote the obituary for Carducci for German newspapers - Carducci, you know." And he became still more embarrassed, since his cousin looked at him in surprise and seemed to say: What do you know about Carducci? No more than I do, I should think.

"That is correct," said the Italian, nodding. "I had the honor of telling your countrymen of the life of that great poet and freethinker when it had been completed. I knew him; I may call myself his pupil. In Bologna I sat at his feet. To him I owe whatever education and cheerfulness I call my own. But we were speaking of you. A shipbuilding engineer! Do you know that you are visibly growing taller in my eyes? Suddenly you sit there as the representative of a whole world of labor and practical genius!"

"But Herr Settembrini - I am really still a student and only just beginning."

"Certainly, and every beginning is hard. Indeed, all work that deserves the name is hard, is it not?"

"Yes, the devil knows it!" said Hans Castorp, and it came from his heart.

Settembrini quickly raised his brows.

"You even call upon the devil," he said, "to confirm that? The bodily Satan himself? Do you know, too, that my great teacher addressed a hymn to him?"

"Allow me," said Hans Castorp, "to the devil?"

"To him himself. It is sometimes sung in my homeland on festive occasions. O salute, o Satana, o Ribellione, o forza vindice della Ragione… A glorious song! But this devil was hardly the one you had in mind, for he stands on excellent terms with labor. The one you meant, and who detests labor because he has cause to fear it, is presumably that other one of whom it is said that one should not offer him even one's little finger -"

All this had a quite peculiar effect on good Hans Castorp. He did not understand Italian, and the rest was no more comfortable for him. It had the flavor of a Sunday sermon, although it was delivered in a light and jesting conversational tone. He looked at his cousin, who lowered his eyes, and then said:

"Ah, Herr Settembrini, you take my words much too exactly. That business with the devil was only a figure of speech of mine, I assure you!"

"Someone must have wit," said Settembrini, gazing melancholically into the air. But enlivening himself again, growing cheerful and gracefully changing course, he continued:

"In any case I conclude, no doubt rightly, from your words that you have chosen a profession as strenuous as it is honorable. My God, I am a humanist, a homo humanus; I understand nothing of ingenious matters, however sincere the respect I pay you. But I can well imagine that the theory of your field requires a clear and sharp head, and its practice a whole man - is it not so?"

"Certainly it is so, yes, I can absolutely agree with you there," Hans Castorp answered, involuntarily making an effort to speak a little eloquently. "The demands are colossal nowadays; one must not make oneself too clearly aware of how severe they are, or one could truly lose courage. No, it is no joke. And if one is not the strongest, either… I am here only as a guest, but I am not exactly the strongest myself, and I would have to lie if I wanted to claim that working agreed with me so excellently. On the contrary, it takes quite a bit out of me, I must say. I actually feel really healthy only when I am doing nothing at all -"

"For example now?"

"Now? Oh, now I am still so new up here - a little confused, as you can imagine."

"Ah - confused."

"Yes, I did not sleep quite properly either, and then first breakfast was really too abundant… I am used to a proper breakfast, of course, but today's was, it seems, too compact for me, too rich, as the English say. In short, I feel somewhat oppressed, and in particular my cigar did not want to taste right this morning - imagine! That happens to me practically never, only when I am seriously ill - and today it tasted like leather. I had to throw it away; there was no point in forcing it. Are you a smoker, if I may ask? No? Then you cannot imagine what an annoyance and disappointment that is for someone who from youth on has been so particularly fond of smoking, as I have…"

"I am without experience in this field," Settembrini replied, "and besides, in this inexperience I find myself in no poor company. A series of noble and sober spirits have detested smoking tobacco. Carducci did not love it either. But in our Radamanth you will find understanding. He is an adherent of your vice."

"Well - vice, Herr Settembrini…"

"Why not? One must designate things with truth and force. That strengthens and heightens life. I too have vices."

"And Hofrat Behrens is a cigar connoisseur, then? A delightful man."

"You find? Ah, then you have already made his acquaintance?"

"Yes, earlier, as we were leaving. It was almost something like a consultation, but sine pecunia, you know. He saw at once that I am rather anemic. And then he advised me to live here exactly as my cousin does, to lie a great deal on the balcony, and I am to start measuring myself at once too, he said."

"Truly?" cried Settembrini… "Excellent!" he cried upward into the air, leaning back with laughter. "How does it go in your master's opera? 'The birdcatcher, that am I, always merry, heisa, hopsassa!' In short, this is very amusing. You will follow his advice? Doubtless. How could you not. A devil of a fellow, this Radamanth! And really 'always merry,' though at times a little forced. He inclines to melancholy. His vice does not agree with him - otherwise, incidentally, it would not be a vice - smoking tobacco makes him melancholy, which is why our venerable head nurse has taken charge of his supplies and allots him only small daily rations. It is said to occur that he succumbs to temptation and steals from her, and then he falls into melancholy. In a word: a confused soul. You know our head nurse already too? No? But that is a mistake! You do wrong not to seek her acquaintance. Of the family of von Mylendonk, my dear sir! She differs from the Medicean Venus in that, where the goddess has her bosom, she is accustomed to wear a cross…"

"Ha, ha, excellent!" laughed Hans Castorp.

"Her Christian name is Adriatica."

"That too?" cried Hans Castorp… "Listen, that is remarkable! Von Mylendonk and then Adriatica. It sounds as if she must have been dead long ago. It has an outright medieval feel."

"My honored sir," Settembrini answered, "there is much here that 'has a medieval feel,' as you are pleased to express yourself. I for my part am convinced that our Radamanth made this petrifaction the head overseer of his palace of terrors solely from artistic feeling for style. He is an artist, you see - you do not know that? He paints in oils. What would you have, that is not forbidden, is it; everyone is free… Frau Adriatica tells anyone who wants to hear it, and the others as well, that a Mylendonk was abbess of a convent foundation at Bonn on the Rhine in the middle of the thirteenth century. She herself cannot have seen the light of the world long after that date…"

"Ha, ha, ha! I find you rather mocking, Herr Settembrini."

"Mocking? You mean: malicious. Yes, malicious I am, a little," said Settembrini. "My sorrow is that I am condemned to waste my malice on such wretched objects. I hope you have nothing against malice, Engineer? In my eyes it is the most brilliant weapon of reason against the powers of darkness and ugliness. Malice, my dear sir, is the spirit of criticism, and criticism means the origin of progress and enlightenment." And in an instant he began to speak of Petrarch, whom he called the "father of the modern age."

"But we must go now to the rest cure," said Joachim with composure.

The man of letters had accompanied his words with graceful movements of the hands. Now he rounded off this play of gestures with a motion pointing toward Joachim and said:

"Our lieutenant drives us to duty. Let us go, then. We have the same road - 'rightward, which strives upward to the walls of mighty Dis.' Ah, Virgil, Virgil! My gentlemen, he is unsurpassed. I believe in progress, certainly. But Virgil commands epithets such as no modern has…" And as they set out on the way home, he began to recite Latin verses in Italian pronunciation, but broke off when some young girl, a daughter of the little town, it seemed, and by no means especially pretty, came toward them, and shifted into a rakish smile and trill. "T, t, t," he clicked. "Ei, ei, ei! La, la, la! You sweet little beetle, will you be mine? Just look, 'her eye sparkles in slippery light,'" he quoted - God knew what it was - and sent a kiss after the embarrassed back of the girl.

Now that is a real windbag, Hans Castorp thought, and he remained of that opinion when Settembrini, after his gallant fit, began again to make medical satire. He had chiefly fixed upon Hofrat Behrens, needling the size of his feet and dwelling on his title, which he had received from a prince suffering from cerebral tuberculosis. The whole district still spoke today of the scandalous way of life of this prince, but Radamanth had closed one eye, both eyes, every inch a Hofrat. Did the gentlemen, incidentally, know that he was the inventor of the summer season? Yes, he, and no other. To merit its crown. Formerly, in summer, only the truest of the true had held out in this valley. Then "our humorist," with incorruptible clarity of vision, had recognized that this deficiency was nothing but the fruit of a prejudice. He had established the doctrine that, at least so far as his institute was concerned, the summer cure was not only no less recommendable but even especially effective and downright indispensable. And he had known how to bring this theorem before the public, had composed popular articles about it and launched them into the press. Since then business had gone as briskly in summer as in winter. "Genius!" said Settembrini. "In-tu-i-tion!" he said. And then he dragged the other sanatoria of the place over the coals and praised, in biting fashion, the acquisitive spirit of their proprietors. There was Professor Kafka… Every year, at the critical time of the snowmelt, when many patients demanded to leave, Professor Kafka found himself forced to travel away quickly for another week, promising to arrange the discharges after his return. But then he stayed away for six weeks, and the poorest souls waited, while, let it be noted in passing, their bills increased. Kafka allowed himself to be summoned as far as Fiume, but he did not travel before five thousand good Swiss francs had been secured, over which fourteen days passed. One day after the arrival of the Celebrissimo the patient then died. As for Doctor Salzmann, he said of Professor Kafka that he did not keep his syringes clean enough and gave the sick mixed infections. He drove on rubber tires, said Salzmann, so that his dead would not hear him - while Kafka in turn asserted that at Salzmann's the patients were forced to take "the vine's enlivening gift" in such quantities - likewise for the sake of rounding out their bills - that people died like flies, and not of phthisis but of drinker's liver…

So it went on, and Hans Castorp laughed heartily and good-naturedly at this torrent of nimble-tongued slanders. The Italian's suada sounded peculiarly pleasant in its absolute purity and correctness, free of every dialect. The words came plump, neat, and as if newly created from his mobile lips; he enjoyed the cultivated, bitingly agile turns and forms of which he made use, indeed even the grammatical inflection and variation of the words, with an obvious pleasure that communicated itself and put one in good humor, and he seemed far too clear and present in spirit ever to misspeak even once.

"You speak so drolly, Herr Settembrini," said Hans Castorp, "so vividly - I do not know what to call it."

"Plastic, eh?" replied the Italian, fanning himself with his handkerchief, although it was rather cool. "That will be the word you are looking for. I have a plastic way of speaking, you mean to say. But stop!" he cried. "What do I see! There walk our judges of hell! What a sight!"

The walkers had already passed back around the bend in the path. Was it owing to Settembrini's speeches, to the downward slope of the road, or had they in truth gone less far from the sanatorium than Hans Castorp had believed - for a path we take for the first time is considerably longer than the same path once we already know it - in any case, the march back had proceeded with surprising speed. Settembrini was right: it was the pair of doctors who down there on the open space were striving along the rear of the sanatorium, the Hofrat in front in his white coat, with protruding nape and hands moving like oars, Dr. Krokowski in his black overshirt on his trail and looking about him all the more self-consciously because clinical custom compelled him, on service errands, to keep behind the chief.

"Ah, Krokowski!" cried Settembrini. "There he goes and knows all the secrets of our ladies. One is requested to observe the fine symbolism of his clothing. He wears black in order to indicate that his most proper field of study is the night. This man has only one thought in his head, and it is dirty. Engineer, how is it that we have not yet spoken of him at all! You have made his acquaintance?"

Hans Castorp answered yes.

"Well, and? I am beginning to suspect that he too pleased you."

"I really do not know, Herr Settembrini. I have only encountered him fleetingly so far. And then I am not very quick with judgment either. I look at people and think: So that is how you are? Very well."

"That is dull-wittedness!" answered the Italian. "Judge! Nature gave you eyes and understanding for that. You found that I spoke maliciously; but if I did so, perhaps it was not without pedagogical intent. We humanists all have a pedagogical vein… My gentlemen, the historical connection between humanism and pedagogy proves their psychological one. One should not take from the humanist the office of education - one cannot take it from him, for only with him lies the tradition of the dignity and beauty of man. Once he relieved the priest, who in murky and man-hating times was permitted to arrogate to himself the guidance of youth. Since then, my gentlemen, absolutely no new type of educator has arisen. The humanistic Gymnasium - call me reactionary, Engineer, but in principle, in abstracto, I beg you to understand me properly, I remain its adherent…"

Even in the elevator he continued expounding this and fell silent only when the cousins left the lift on the second floor. He himself rode on to the third, where, as Joachim related, he occupied a small room at the back.

"He probably has no money?" asked Hans Castorp, who was accompanying Joachim. It looked exactly the same at Joachim's as over in his own room.

"No," said Joachim, "he probably has not. Or only just enough to pay for his stay here. His father was already a man of letters too, you know, and I believe his grandfather as well."

"Yes, then," said Hans Castorp. "Is he actually seriously ill?"

"It is not dangerous, so far as I know, but stubborn and keeps coming back. He has had it for years already and was away for a while in between, but soon had to enlist again."

"Poor fellow! And he seems so enthusiastic about working. He is tremendously talkative while he is at it; he moves from one thing to another so easily. With the girl he was somewhat impertinent, it embarrassed me for a moment. But what he said afterward about human dignity sounded splendid, quite like at a ceremonial occasion. Are you often together with him?"