“Very nice man,” said Hans Castorp when, after a friendly greeting with the limping concierge, who was sorting letters in his box, they stepped out through the portal. The portal was situated on the south-eastern flank of the whitewashed building, the central part of which was a story higher than the two wings and topped by a short clock tower covered with slate-colored sheet iron. You didn’t touch the fenced-in garden when you left the house here, but were immediately outside, in the face of sloping mountain meadows, which consisted of isolated, moderately tall spruces and crooked pines that crouched on the ground. The route they took – actually it was the only one that came into consideration, except for the road that descended to the valley – led it slightly uphill to the left at the back of the sanatorium, past the kitchen and utility side, where iron rubbish bins stood on the bars of the basement stairs, ran a good distance in the same direction, then described a sharp knee and led more steeply to the right up the sparsely wooded slope. It was a hard, reddish-colored, still somewhat damp path, at the edge of which there were sometimes boulders. The cousins ​​were by no means alone on the promenade. Guests who finished their breakfast immediately after them followed on their heels, and whole groups, on the way back, met them with the stomping footsteps of dismounting people. then described a sharp knee and led steeper to the right up the sparsely wooded slope. It was a hard, reddish-colored, still somewhat damp path, at the edge of which there were sometimes boulders. The cousins ​​were by no means alone on the promenade. Guests who finished their breakfast immediately after them followed on their heels, and whole groups, on the way back, met them with the stomping footsteps of dismounting people. then described a sharp knee and led steeper to the right up the sparsely wooded slope. It was a hard, reddish-colored, still somewhat damp path, at the edge of which there were sometimes boulders. The cousins ​​were by no means alone on the promenade. Guests who finished their breakfast immediately after them followed on their heels, and whole groups, on the way back, met them with the stomping footsteps of dismounting people.

“Very nice man!” repeated Hans Castorp. “He has such a snappy way of speaking, I enjoyed listening to him. ‘mercury cigar’ for ‘thermometer’ is excellent,I got it right away … But I’ll light up a real one now,” he said, stopping, “I can’t take it anymore! I haven’t smoked a decent smoke since noon yesterday… Excuse me!’ And he took out of his automobile leather case, adorned with a silver monogram, a copy of Maria Mancini, a beautiful top tier copy, flattened on one side, which he particularly liked , cropped the tip with a small, square-edged instrument that he wore on his watch chain, lit his pocket fuse and lit the rather long, blunt-ended cigar with a few devoted puffs. he said. “Now, for my part, we can continue the stroll. Of course you don’t smoke because you’re so keen on beer.”

“I never smoke,” replied Joachim. “Why should I smoke here in particular.”

“I don’t understand that!” said Hans Castorp. “I don’t understand how someone can’t smoke – he’s depriving himself, so to speak, of the best part of life and in any case of a very eminent pleasure! When I wake up I’m happy that I’ll be allowed to smoke during the day, and when I eat I’m looking forward to it again, yes I can say that I actually only eat in order to be able to smoke, although of course I do something with it exaggerate. But a day without tobacco would be the height of staleness for me, a completely dull and unattractive day, and if I had to say to myself in the morning: There’s nothing to smoke today – I don’t think I would find the courage to get up at all, really , I would lie down. You see: if you have a well-burning cigar – of course it must not have secondary air or draw poorly,Very annoying – I mean: if you have a good cigar, then you are actually safe, literally nothing can happen to you. It’s just like when you’re by the sea, you’re by the sea, aren’t you, and you don’t need anything else, neither work nor entertainment… Thank God it’s smoked all over the world, it’s not unknown anywhere , as far as I know, where one should end up. Even the polar explorers equip themselves with plenty of smoke supplies for their hardships, and that always touched me sympathetically when I read it. Because it can be very bad for one – let’s say I’m miserable; but as long as I still had my cigar I could stand it, I know it would get me over it.”

“Anyway, it’s a bit limp,” said Joachim, “that you’re so attached to it. Behrens is quite right: you’re a civilian – he probably meant it more than praise, but you’re a hopeless civilian, that’s the thing. By the way, you’re healthy and can do whatever you want,” he said, and his eyes grew tired.

“Yes, healthy except for the anemia,” said Hans Castorp. “It was really rich, as he told me, that I look green. But it’s true, I’ve noticed myself that I’m green compared to you guys up here, I didn’t notice it that much at home. And then again, it’s nice of him to give me advice without further ado, quite sine pecunia , as he puts it. I’d like to resolve to do as he says and follow your way of life – what else should I be doing up here with you, and it can’t do any harm,if in God’s name I put on protein, even though it sounds a bit disgusting, you have to admit that to me.”

Joachim coughed a couple of times as he walked – the incline seemed to strain him. When he started for the third time, he stopped, brow furrowed. “Go ahead,” he said. Hans Castorp hurried to walk on and didn’t look back. Then he slowed his pace and finally almost stopped, feeling as if he must have gained a significant lead over Joachim. But he didn’t look around.

A troop of guests of both sexes met him–he had seen them coming up the level path halfway up the slope, now they trudged down straight towards him, raising their various voices. There were six or seven people of mixed ages, some very young, a few older. He looked at her with his head tilted sideways while he thought of Joachim. They were bareheaded and brown, the women in colored sweaters, the men mostly without overcoats and even without walking sticks, like people who take a few steps in front of the house without any fuss and with their hands in their pockets. As they were going downhill, which requires no serious sustaining effort, just a jolly brake and knee brace to keep from running and stumbling,

Now they were with him, Hans Castorp saw their faces clearly. They weren’t all tanned, two ladies stabbedby pallor: one thin as a stick and ivory-faced, the other smaller and fat, marred with moles. They all looked at him with a shared cheeky smile. A tall young girl in a green sweater, with badly coiffed hair and stupid, only half-open eyes, brushed past Hans Castorp, almost touching him with her arm. And she was whistling… No, that was crazy! She whistled at him, but not with her mouth, she didn’t purse it at all, on the contrary she kept it tightly shut. It whistled out of her as she looked at him, stupidly and with half-closed eyes–an exceedingly disagreeable whistling, rough, sharp, and yet hollow, drawn out and falling in tone towards the end, so that it recalled the music of those rubber fairground pigs,

Hans Castorp stood rigid and looked into the distance. Then he turned around hastily and understood at least that much that the abominable thing must have been a joke, a set-up trick, for he saw on the shoulders of those who were leaving that they were laughing, and a stocky youth with bulging lips, who, with both hands in in his trouser pockets, holding his jacket up in a rather unseemly way, even turned his head openly towards him and laughed… Joachim had come over. He saluted the group, almost fronting and bowing with his heels together, in the manner of his chivalry, and then went to his cousin, looking softly.

“What’s that face you’re doing?” he asked.

“She whistled!” answered Hans Castorp. “She whistled as she passed me, do you want to explain that to me?”

“Oh,” said Joachim and laughed dismissively. “Not from the gut, nonsense. That was Kleefeld, Hermine Kleefeld, whistling with the pneumothorax.”

“With what?” asked Hans Castorp. He was extraordinarily agitated and was not quite sure in what sense. He vacillated between laughing and crying as he added, “You can’t ask me to understand your rascal.”

“Come on then!” said Joachim. “I can explain it to you while walking. You’re rooted to the spot! It’s something surgical, as you can imagine, an operation that’s done a lot up here. Behrens has a lot of experience with it… If one lung is badly affected, you understand, but the other is healthy or comparatively healthy, the sick one is relieved from its activity for a while in order to spare it… That means: you become cut open here, somewhere sideways here – I don’t know the spot exactly, but Behrens has a great deal going on. And then gas is let into you, nitrogen, you know, and it shuts down the cased lung. The gas doesn’t last long, of course, it has to be renewed about every six months – you have to imagine it being filled up, so to speak. And if this goes on for a year or more, and all goes well, rest can heal the lungs. Not always, of course, it’s probably even a risky thing. But nice successes are said to have been achieved with the pneumothorax. Everyone you saw there has it. Mrs Polecat wasalso there–the one with the moles–and Miss Levi, the skinny one, you remember–she’s been in bed so long. They got together, because something like the pneumothorax naturally connects people, and they call themselves the ‘Half Lung Association’, by which name they are known. But the pride of the club is Hermine Kleefeld, because she can whistle with the pneumothorax – that’s a gift of hers, not everyone can do it. I can’t tell you how she manages it either, she herself can’t describe it clearly. But when she’s gone quickly, she can whistle from within, and of course she uses that to frighten people, especially the newly arrived sick. By the way, I think it wastes nitrogen because it has to be refilled every eight days.”

Now Hans Castorp laughed; his excitement had decided to be cheerful at Joachim’s words, and as he covered his eyes with his hand and leaned forward as he walked, his shoulders were shaken by a quick, soft giggle.

“Are they also registered?” he asked, and speaking was not easy for him; it sounded whiny and softly wailing from suppressed laughter. “Do they have statutes? It’s a pity you’re not a member, you, then they could admit me as a guest of honor or as a … companion … You should ask Behrens to put you partially out of commission. Maybe you’d be able to whistle too, if you put your mind to it, after all it has to be learned… That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” he said with a deep sigh. “Yes, forgive me for talking about it like that, but they themselves are in the best of moods, your pneumatic onesFriends! How they came along… And to think that it was the ‘Verein Halbe Lunge’! ‘Tiuu’ she whistles at me – a great person! But that’s sheer arrogance! Why are they so cocky, you, do you want to tell me that?”

Joachim searched for an answer. ‘God,’ he said, ‘they’re so free … I mean, they’re young people and time doesn’t matter to them, and then they might die. Why should they make serious faces? I sometimes think: sickness and dying aren’t actually serious, they’re more like a kind of loitering, strictly speaking, there’s only seriousness in life down there. I think you’ll understand that in time, once you’ve been up here a little longer.”

“Sure,” said Hans Castorp. “I think so for sure. I’ve already taken a lot of interest in you guys up here, and if you’re interested, isn’t it, then understanding comes naturally… But how do I feel – it doesn’t taste good!” he said and looked at his cigar. “I keep asking myself what’s wrong with me, and now I realize it’s Maria that I don’t like. It tastes like paper mache, I assure you, it’s just like having a completely upset stomach. That’s incomprehensible! I ate an unusually large amount for breakfast, but that can’t be the reason, because if you’ve eaten too much, it actually tastes particularly good at first. Do you think it could be because I slept so restlessly? Maybe that’s what messed me up. No, I’ll have to throw them away!’ he said after trying again. “Every move is a disappointment; there’s no point in my forcing it.” And after he stillhesitating for a moment, he threw the cigar down the slope among the damp pinewood. “Do you know what I believe it has to do with?” he asked… “I firmly believe it has something to do with this damn heat in my face that I’ve been suffering from since I got up. Hell knows I always feel ashamed… Did you feel that way when you arrived?”

“Yes,” said Joachim. “I felt a bit strange at first too. Don’t worry! I told you that it’s not that easy to settle in here. But you’ll be fine. You see, the bench is pretty. We want to sit down a bit and then go home, I have to go on a rest cure.”

The path had become level. He now ran in the direction of Platz Davos, about a third of the way uphillside, and afforded a view of the place, which lay whitish in a brighter light, between tall, narrow and crooked pines. The plain wooden bench on which they sat leaned against the steep mountain face. Beside them, water fell gurgling and splashing down the valley in an open wooden channel.

Joachim wanted to tell his cousin the names of the cloudy Alpine peaks that seemed to close the valley to the south by pointing at them with the tip of his mountain stick. But Hans Castorp only glanced at it briefly, he sat bent over, drawing figures in the sand with the ferrule of his silver-tipped cane and demanding to know something else.

“What I wanted to ask you -” he began… “So the case in my room had just started when I arrived.Have there been many other deaths since you’ve been up here?”

“Several for sure,” answered Joachim. “But they are treated discreetly, you understand, you don’t learn anything about it or only occasionally, later, it’s done in the strictest secret when someone dies, out of consideration for the patients and especially for the ladies, who would otherwise easily have coincidences. If someone dies next to you, you don’t even notice. And the coffin is brought early in the morning while you are still asleep, and the person in question is only picked up at such times, for example during the meal.”

“Hm,” said Hans Castorp and continued to draw. “So there’s something going on behind the scenes.”

“Yes, you can say that. But the other day, it’s been, wait a minute, maybe eight weeks—”

“Then you can’t say the other day,” remarked Hans Castorp dryly and warily.

“How? So not recently. But you are accurate. I just guessed the number. Well, some time ago I took a look behind the scenes, purely by chance, I know it like I do today. That’s when they brought little Hujus, a Catholic, Barbara Hujus, the Viatikum, the last sacrament, you know, last rites. She was still up when I got here, and she could be wildly merry, as foolish, right as a fried fish. But then things happened quickly with her, she didn’t get up anymore, she was three rooms from mine, and her parents came, and then the priest came. He came in the afternoon while everyone was having tea, there wasn’t anyone in the corridors. But imagine, I had overslept, I had fallen asleep in the main rest period andmissed the gong and was fifteen minutes late. At the crucial moment I wasn’t where everyone was, but had gotten behind the scenes, as you say, and as I walk down the corridor, they come towards me, in lace shirts and a cross, a golden cross with lanterns , one of them carried it forward like the bell tree before the music of the Janissaries.”

“There’s no comparison,” said Hans Castorp, not without severity.

“It felt like that to me. I was involuntarily reminded of it. But just keep listening. So they’re coming at me, march, march, walking at a rapid pace, the three of them, if I’m not mistaken, first the man with the cross, then the minister, glasses on his nose, and then another boy with an incense burner. The priest held the Viatikum to his chest, it was covered, and he humbly tilted his head, it is their holy of holies.”

“That’s why,” said Hans Castorp. “Just for this reason I am surprised that you should like to speak of Schellenbaum.”

“Yes / Yes. But just wait, if you were there you wouldn’t know what kind of face to make in memory either. It was one could dream of—”

“In what way?”

“Like this. So I ask myself how I should behave under these circumstances. I didn’t wear a removable hat-“

“You see!” Hans Castorp quickly interrupted him again. “You see, you should wear a hat! Of course I noticed that you’re not wearing one up here.But you should put one on so that you can take it off on occasions where it is appropriate. But what now?

“I stood against the wall,” said Joachim, “in a decent posture, and bowed a little when they came to me – it was just in front of little Hujus’ room, number twenty-eight. I think the minister was pleased that I greeted him; he thanked me very politely and took off his cap. But at the same time they stop, and the altar boy with the censer knocks, and then he unlatches and lets his boss go first into the room. And now imagine and imagine my horror and my feelings! The moment the priest puts his foot over the threshold, there’s a bang, a screeching, you’ve never heard anything like it, three or four times in a row, and then a scream without a break, without a break, apparently from a wide open mouth , ahhh,

Hans Castorp had turned violently to his cousin. “Was that the Hujus?” he asked angrily. “And why: ‘from the basement’?”

“She crawled under the covers!” said Joachim. “Imagine my feelings! The priest stood close to the threshold and said soothing words, I can still see him, he kept putting his head out and then pulling it back. The cross bearer and the altar boystood between the door and hinge and could not enter. And I could see between them into the room. It’s a room like yours and mine, the bed is on the left of the door on the side wall, and people were standing at the head end, the relatives of course, the parents, and they were also talking soothingly down to the bed, you saw nothing but a shapeless mass in it begging and protesting horribly and kicking her legs.”

“Did you say she kicked her legs?”

“With all my might! But it was of no use to her, she had to have the last sacrament. The priest went up to them and the other two entered and the door was pulled shut. But before that I saw: the head of the Hujus comes out for a second, with messy light blond hair, and stares at the priest with wide-open eyes, so pale eyes, without any color and goes back under the sheet with ah and huh.”

“And you’re only now telling me that?” said Hans Castorp after a pause. “I don’t understand why you didn’t mention it last night. But, my God, she must still have a lot of strength, the way she was fighting back. That includes powers. One should not send for the priest until one is very weak.”

“She was weak too,” Joachim replied. “… Oh, there would be a lot to tell; it’s hard to make the first choice… She was weak, it was only fear that gave her so much strength. She was terribly frightened because she realized that she was about to die. After all, she was a young girl, so one has to excuse it. But men sometimes behave like that, which of course is an unforgivable thingslackness is. By the way, Behrens knows how to deal with them, he has the right tone in such cases.”

“What tone?” asked Hans Castorp with knitted brows.

“‘Don’t be like that!’ he says,” answered Joachim. “At least that’s what he said to one the other day – we know from the matron who was there helping to hold the dying down. It was one of those guys who ended up making a horrible scene and absolutely didn’t want to die. Then Behrens snapped at him: ‘Please don’t be like that!’ he said, and the patient immediately fell silent and died very calmly.”

Hans Castorp slapped his thigh and threw himself against the back of the bench, looking up at the sky.

“Well, listen, that’s strong!” he exclaimed. “Runs on him and just says to him, ‘Don’t be such a fool!’ To a dying man! That’s strong! A dying man is, in a way, venerable. You can’t do it like that… A dying person is holy, so to speak, I should think!”

“I don’t want to deny that,” said Joachim. “But if he’s acting so limp…”

“No!” Hans Castorp insisted with a vehemence that was disproportionate to the resistance that was offered to him. “I won’t let that dissuade me that a dying man is something better than some lout that goes around and laughs and earns money and fills his stomach! That won’t work -‘ and his voice shook in the most odd way. “It’s not okay that you don’t do anything to me, younothing—” and his words were choked by the laughter that gripped and overwhelmed him, the laughter of yesterday, a welling, body-shattering, boundless laughter that closed his eyes and pressed tears from between his lids.

“Hush!” Joachim made suddenly. “Shut up!” he whispered and secretly nudged the unstoppable laugher in the side. Hans Castorp looked up in tears.

On the path from the left came a stranger, a petite dark-haired gentleman with a beautifully twisted black mustache and in light checked trousers, who approached and exchanged a morning greeting with Joachim – his was precise and euphonious – and with crossed feet, leaning on his cane , stood gracefully in front of him.