How did it actually appear to young Hans Castorp? As if the seven weeks that he had now demonstrably and without any doubt already spent with those up here had only been seven days? Or, on the contrary, did it seem to him that he had been living in this place much, much longer than was actually the case? He asked himself about it, both internally and by asking Joachim about it, but he couldn’t come to a decision. Both were probably the case: in retrospect, the time spent here seemed unnaturally short and unnaturally long at the same time, but just how it really was, that’s not how it seemed to him – whereby it is assumed that time is nature at all, and that it it is permissible to connect the concept of reality with it.

In any case, October was just around the corner, it could come any day. It was easy for Hans Castorp to figure that out, and what’s more, it was pointed out to him by conversations he listened to with fellow patients. “Do you know that in five days the first one will come again?” he heard Hermine Kleefeld say to two young gentlemen of her company, the student Rasmussen and the thick-lipped man whose name was Gänser. After the main meal, people stood around between the tables in the haze of food, chatting and hesitant to go into the rest cure. “The first of October, I saw it on the calendar in administration. This is the second of its kind that I’ve spent in this place of pleasure. Fine, the summer is over, as far as it was there, you’ve been cheated of it, just as you’ve been cheated of life, on the whole and in general.half her lungs, shaking her head and turning her eyes, veiled in stupidity, to the ceiling. “Merry, Rasmussen!” she said at this, and slapped her comrade on the falling shoulder. “You’re joking!” “I only know a few,” Rasmussen replied, hands hanging like flippers at chest level; “But they don’t want to happen to me, I’m always so tired.” “No dog would like to,” said Gänser between his teeth, “live much longer like that or something like that.” And they laughed, shrugging their shoulders.

But Settembrini had also been standing nearby, his toothpick between his lips, and on going out he said to Hans Castorp:

“Don’t believe them Engineer, never believe them when they scold! They all do without exception, although they only feel too much at home. They lead a dissolute life and even lay claim to pity, they think they are entitled to bitterness, to irony, to cynicism! ‘At this place of pleasure!’ Is it perhaps not a place of pleasure? I want to think that it is one, and in the most dubious sense of the word! ‘Betrayed,’ says this woman; ‘cheated of life in this place of pleasure.’ But release her to the plain, and her way of life down there will leave no doubt that she is anxious to come up again as soon as possible. Ah yes, the irony! Beware of the irony that thrives here, engineer! Beware of this mental attitude at all! Where it is not a straight and classic means of eloquence, not for a moment misunderstood by the sane mind, it becomes licentiousness, an obstacle to civilization, an unclean flirtation with stagnation, non-spirit, vice. Since the atmospherein which we live, the growth of this marsh plant is obviously very favorable, I hope or must fear that you understand me.”

In fact, the Italian’s words were of the kind that only seven weeks ago in the lowlands would have been mere sound to Hans Castorp, but for the meaning of which his stay up here had made his mind receptive: receptive in the sense of intellectual understanding, not necessarily also in that of sympathy, which perhaps means even more. For although in his heart of hearts he was glad that Settembrini, in spite of everything that had happened, continued to speak to him as he did, continued to teach and warn him and tried to influence him, his comprehension was failing even to the point of judging his words and withholding his approval, at least to some degree. “Look,” he thought, “he speaks of irony in much the same way as he does of music, the only thing missing is that he calls it ‘politically suspect’ from the moment it ceases to be a ‘straight and classic teaching tool’. But an irony that is ‘not for a moment misleading’ – what kind of irony would that be, I ask in God’s name, if I’m supposed to have a say? It would be a drought and a schoolmaster’s job!” – That’s how ungrateful young people are when they educate themselves. She accepts presents and then criticizes the present.

Putting his rebelliousness into words would have seemed too adventurous to him. He confined his objections to Herr Settembrini’s judgment of Hermine Kleefeld, which he considered unjust, or which he, for some reason, wanted to appear so.

“But the young lady is ill!” he said. “She is truly and truly seriously ill and has every reason to be in despair! What do you actually want from her?”

“Sickness and despair,” said Settembrini, “are also often only forms of debauchery.”

“And Leopardi,” thought Hans Castorp, “who expressly despaired even of science and progress? And he himself, the schoolmaster? He’s sick too, and keeps coming up, and Carducci wouldn’t take much pleasure in him.” Aloud he said:

“You are good. The young lady can bite the dust every day, and that’s what you call licentiousness! You’ll have to explain yourself in more detail. If you said to me: sickness is sometimes the result of debauchery, that would be plausible…”

“Very plausible,” Settembrini interjected. “My goodness, would you mind if I stopped there?”

“Or if you said: illness must sometimes serve as a pretext for licentiousness – I would put up with that too.”

” Grace tanto! “

“But sickness a form of debauchery? That is to say: not created out of licentiousness, but licentiousness itself? That’s paradoxical!”

“Oh, please, engineer, no insinuations! I despise the paradoxes, I hate them! Let me tell you about the paradox everything I said to you about irony, and a lot more besides! The paradox is the poisonous flower of quietism, the shimmering of the spirit that has become putrid, the greatest debauchery of all! Incidentally, I note that you are once again defending the disease…”

“No, what you say interests me. It’s almost reminiscent of what Dr. Krokowski puts forward in his montages. He also explains the organic disease as a secondary phenomenon.”

“Not a very pure idealist.”

“What do you have against him?”

“Just this.”

“Are you feeling bad about the analysis?”

“Not every day. – Very bad and very good, both alternately, engineer.”

“How am I to understand that?”

“Analysis is good as a tool of enlightenment and civilization, good insofar as it shatters foolish beliefs, dissolves natural prejudices, and subverts authority, good, in other words, in liberating, refining, humanizing, and ripening servants to freedom. It is bad, very bad, insofar as it prevents action, damages life at its roots and is incapable of shaping it. Analysis can be a very unsavory thing, as unsavory as death, to which it may actually belong, – akin to the grave and its disreputable anatomy…”

“Well roared, lion,” Hans Castorp could not help but think, as usual when Herr Settembrini uttered something pedagogical. But he only said:

“We recently did light anatomy in our basement on the ground floor. Behrens called it that when he X-rayed us.”

“Ah, you have climbed this station too. Well, what?

“I saw the skeleton of my hand,” said Hans Castorp, trying to recall the sensationsthat had risen in him at this sight. “Have you had yours shown to you?”

“No, I’m not the least bit interested in my skeleton. And the medical result?”

“He saw strands, strands with knots.”

“Devil Servant.”

“That’s what you called Hofrat Behrens before. What do you mean by that?”

“Be sure it’s a chosen term!”

“No, you are unfair, Mr. Settembrini! I admit that the man has his weaknesses. Even I don’t like the way he talks in the long run; there is something violent about her at times, especially when you remember that he had the great grief of losing his wife up here. But what a deserving and respectable man he is all things considered, a benefactor to suffering humanity! I ran into him the other day, just coming out of an operation, a rib resection, something that was by hook or by crook. It made a great impression on me to see him coming from his difficult, useful work, which he knows so well. He was still very hot and had lit a cigar as a reward. I was jealous of him.”

“That was nice of you. But your sentence?”

“He didn’t give me a specific deadline.”

“Not bad either. So let’s lie down, engineer. Let’s take up our positions.”

They said goodbye in front of number 34.

‘Now go up to your roof, Mr Settembrini. It must be more fun lying like that in company than alone.Are you talking? Are they interesting people you are taking a cure with?”

“Oh, they’re all Parthians and Scythians!”

“You mean Russians?”

“And Russian women,” said Mr. Settembrini, and the corner of his mouth tightened. “Adieu, engineer!”

That was said with meaning, undoubtedly. Hans Castorp entered his room in confusion. Did Settembrini know how things were with him? He had probably traced it educationally and followed the paths that his eyes took. Hans Castorp was angry with the Italian and also with himself for uncontrollably inviting the stab. While he gathered his writing things to take with him to the rest cure – because now there was no hesitation, the letter home, the third, had to be written – he continued to get angry, mumbling this and that to himself against this windbag and reasoner who meddled in things that were none of his business while he himself sang to the girls in the street – and no longer felt like writing, – this organ grinder had literally spoiled his mood with his allusions. But one way or the other, he had to have winter gear, money, underwear, shoes, in short, everything he would have taken with him if he had known that he was not coming for three midsummer weeks, but … but for an as yet indefinite period of time that but in any case it would extend a bit into the winter, yes, as the concepts and time conditions were with us up here, would probably even include it. This, at least as a possibility, wanted to be communicated home. It applied but for an indefinite period of time, which would at least extend a little way into winter, yes, as the concepts and time conditions were here up here, would probably even include it. This, at least as a possibility, wanted to be communicated home. It applied but for an indefinite period of time, which would at least extend a little way into winter, yes, as the concepts and time conditions were here up here, would probably even include it. This, at least as a possibility, wanted to be communicated home. It appliedto do all the work this time, to give those down there the right wine and not to fool themselves or them any longer …

It was in this spirit that he wrote, observing the technique that he had seen Joachim practice several times: in a deck chair, with a fountain pen, the briefcase on his knees. He wrote to James Tienappel, who was closest to him of the three uncles, on a letter from the institution, a supply of which lay ready in the desk drawer, and asked him to brief the consul. He spoke of an unfortunate incident, of fears that had come true, of the need, declared by the doctor, to spend part of the winter, maybe all of it, up here, because cases like his were often more stubborn than those that started out more pompously, and it is still important to intervene emphatically and to take precautions once and for all. From this point of view, he said was it fortunate and fortunate that he happened to come upstairs now and was asked to be examined; for otherwise he would have remained in the dark about his condition for a long time and perhaps later been informed about it in a much more sensitive way. As far as the probable duration of the cure is concerned, one should not be surprised that he will probably have to beat the winter out of his head and will not be able to return to the plain sooner than Joachim. The concepts of time here are different from those that are otherwise valid for bathing trips and spa stays; the month is the smallest unit of time, so to speak, and individually it plays no role at all… to be examined; for otherwise he would have remained in the dark about his condition for a long time and perhaps later been informed about it in a much more sensitive way. As far as the probable duration of the cure is concerned, one should not be surprised that he will probably have to beat the winter out of his head and will not be able to return to the plain sooner than Joachim. The concepts of time here are different from those that are otherwise valid for bathing trips and spa stays; the month is the smallest unit of time, so to speak, and individually it plays no role at all… to be examined; for otherwise he would have remained in the dark about his condition for a long time and perhaps later been informed about it in a much more sensitive way. As far as the probable duration of the cure is concerned, one should not be surprised that he will probably have to beat the winter out of his head and will not be able to return to the plain sooner than Joachim. The concepts of time here are different from those that are otherwise valid for bathing trips and spa stays; the month is the smallest unit of time, so to speak, and individually it plays no role at all… that he would probably have to get through the winter and be able to return to the plain sooner than Joachim. The concepts of time here are different from those that are otherwise valid for bathing trips and spa stays; the month is the smallest unit of time, so to speak, and individually it plays no role at all… that he would probably have to get through the winter and be able to return to the plain sooner than Joachim. The concepts of time here are different from those that are otherwise valid for bathing trips and spa stays; the month is the smallest unit of time, so to speak, and individually it plays no role at all…

It was cool, he wrote in his paletot, wrapped in a blanket,with red hands. Sometimes he looked up from his paper, which was covered with sensible and persuasive sentences, and looked at the familiar landscape, which he hardly saw anymore, this stretched valley with the now glassy-pale mountain debris at the end, the brightly populated bottom, which sometimes gleamed in the sun, and the partly rough forest, partly meadow meadows, from which came the bells of cows. He wrote with increasing ease and no longer understood how he could have been afraid of the letter. As he wrote, he himself understood that nothing could be more plausible than his explanations, and that they would of course meet with the most complete agreement at home. A young man of his class and circumstances did something for himself when it proved expedient, he made use of the comforts specially provided for his own kind. That’s how it should be. If he had gone home – he would have been sent up again on his report. He asked that what he needed be sent to him. Finally, he also asked for regular transfers of the necessary funds; everything can be covered with 800 marks a month.

He signed. That was done. This third letter home was lengthy, it lasted – not according to the concepts of the time from below, but according to the prevailing ones here; he fortified Hans Castorp’s liberty . This was the word he used, not explicitly, not by even forming his syllables inwardly, but he felt its widest sense, as he had learned to do during his sojourn here–a sense that went with that , which Settembrini attached to this word, had little to do with it, – and a wave of theFright and excitement swept over him, making his chest tremble as he sighed.

His head was full of blood from writing, his cheeks were burning. He took Mercury from the lamp-table and measured himself as if there was an opportunity to seize. Mercury rose to 37.8.

“See?” thought Hans Castorp. And he added the postscript: “The letter was a strain on me. I measure 37.8. I see that for the time being I must keep very quiet. You must excuse me if I seldom write.” Then he lay and raised his hand toward the sky, inside out, just as he held it behind the fluorescent screen. But the light of heaven left their form of life untouched, their substance became even darker and more opaque in front of its brightness, and only their outermost outlines showed reddish light. It was the hand of life that he was accustomed to seeing, cleaning, using – not that alien scaffolding that he sees on the screen – the analytical pit that he saw open at the time had closed again.