Settembrini compressed his lips, and Hans Castorp hastened to say that, as for his own attitude, it was of course entirely nonpartisan; he only meant that he had enjoyed hearing what Naphta had to say about the deepest desire of youth. “But do explain this one thing to me,” he went on. “This person—I call him that by way of showing my detachment, and that I don’t by any means altogether agree with all he says, but am inclined to make important reservations—”
“And very rightly so,” cried Settembrini gratefully.
“—He had a great deal to say against money, the soul of the State, as he expressed himself, and against property-holding, which he considers thievery; in short, against the capitalistic system, which he called, if I remember rightly, fuel for the fires of hell, or something like that. He sang the praises of the Middle Ages for forbidding the taking of interest. And all the time the man himself must have, if I may say so—you get such a surprise when you first enter his room and see all that silk—”
“Ah, yes,” smiled Settembrini, “the taste is very characteristic of him.”
“—the beautiful old furniture,” Hans Castorp went on, “the pietà out of the fourteenth century, the Venetian lustre, the little page in livery—and such a lot of chocolate layer cake, too—he must personally be pretty well off, I should think—”
“Herr Naphta,” Settembrini answered, “is, personally, as little of a capitalist as I am.”
“But?” queried Hans Castorp. “There is a but in your tone, Herr Settembrini.”
“Well, those people never let anyone lack who belongs to them.”
“Those people?”
“The Fathers.”
“Fathers? What Fathers?”
“Why, Engineer, I mean the Jesuits.”
A pause ensued. The cousins displayed the greatest astonishment. Hans Castorp cried out: “What! Good Lord!—you can’t mean it! You don’t mean to say the man is a Jesuit!”
“You have guessed aright,” Herr Settembrini said with punctilio.
“I never in all my life—who would ever think of such a thing? So that is why you called him ‘padre’!”
“That was a polite exaggeration,” Settembrini answered. “Herr Naphta is not a Father. His illness is to blame for his not having got that far. But he has finished his noviciate and taken his first vows. The state of his health obliged him to give up his theological studies, after which he spent some years in a school belonging to the Society, where he acted as prefect and preceptor of the younger pupils. That was in sympathy with his pedagogic leanings, and he continues in the same line up here, by teaching Latin at the Fridericianum. He has been here five years. When, or if, he can leave this place, remains in doubt. But he belongs to the Society, and even if the bond were a looser one than it is, he would never want for anything. As I told you, he is personally poor; that is to say, without possessions. That is the rule of the Society; which, however, commands immense riches, and, as you saw, looks well after its own.”
“Thunder and lightning!” Hans Castorp said. “And I never even knew that such things existed any more! A Jesuit! Well, well! But do tell me—if he is so well looked after by those people, why in the world does he live—I don’t mean to say a word about your lodgings, Herr Settembrini, and you are certainly charmingly fixed, at Lukaçek’s, it is so retired and cosy there; but I mean, if Naphta really has such a pile as that, to speak vulgarly, why doesn’t he take another apartment, in a better house, more stately, with a proper entrance and large rooms? There is something secret and suspicious-looking about him, there in that hole, with all that silk—”
Settembrini shrugged his shoulders.
“He is probably guided by considerations of taste and tact,” he said. “I imagine he salves his anti-capitalistic conscience by living in a poor house, and indemnifies himself by living in the style he keeps. And I should say that discretion plays some role in the affair too. No use advertising to all the world how well the Devil takes care of his own. He shows an unpretentious façade, and behind it gives free rein to tastes—such as a prince of the Church—”
“Extraordinary!” Hans Castorp said. “It is all perfectly new and astonishing to me—I am free to confess. Why, Herr Settembrini we are really very much indebted to you for this new acquaintance. Many a time and oft we shall be going down to pay him a visit—I am sure of that. Such discourse does wonders in the way of enlarging the horizon—it gives one glimpses into a world the existence of which one never dreamed. A proper Jesuit! When I say ‘proper’ the adjective stands for all that passes through my mind as I say it. I mean, is he a real, actual Jesuit? I know you mean a person can’t be proper with the Devil supporting him from behind—but what I mean is, is he proper as a Jesuit? That is what I am thinking. He said certain things—you know the ones I mean—about modern communism, and the religious zeal of the proletariat, and not withholding its hand from bloodshed—I won’t discuss them further, but surely your grandfather, with his citizen’s pike, was a perfect ewe lamb by comparison—please forgive my language. Is that allowed? Do his authorities stand for it? Is that the doctrine of the Roman Church, which all the religious societies all over the world propagate by means of intrigue, or so they say? Isn’t it—what is the word?—heretical, abnormal, incorrect? Those are the things I am thinking about Herr Naphta—and I should be pleased to have your opinion on them.”
Settembrini smiled.
“Very simple. Herr Naphta is, of course, first of all a Jesuit. He is that always, and
