The Magic Mountain

that of a profound silence. They let it slip past, perhaps they actually managed to forget it, and they might be confident that no one else would remember. They set store by a proper articulation of the time, they gave heed to the calendar, observed the turning-points of the year, its recurrent limits. But to measure one’s own private time, that time which for the individual in these parts was so closely bound up with space⁠—that was held to be an occupation only fit for new arrivals and short-termers. The settled citizens preferred the unmeasured, the eternal, the day that was forever the same; and delicately each respected in others the sentiment he so warmly cherished himself. To say to anybody that this day three years ago was the day of his arrival, that would have been considered brutal, in consummately bad taste⁠—it simply never happened. Even Frau Stöhr, whatever her lacks in other respects, was far too tactful and well disciplined to let it slip out. Certainly she united great ignorance with her infected and feverish physical state. Recently at table she had alluded to the “affectation” of the tip of her lung; and the conversation having taken a historical turn, she explained that dates were her “ring of Polycrates”⁠—a remark which made her hearers stare. But it was unthinkable that she should remind young Ziemssen his year would be up in February⁠—though she had very likely thought of it. For the unhappy creature’s head was full of useless baggage, and she loved to keep track of other people’s affairs. But the tradition of the place held her in check.

Thus also on Hans Castorp’s anniversary. She may have even tried to nod at him meaningfully, at table; but encountering a vacant stare dexterously withdrew. Joachim too had kept silence, though he probably had clearly in mind the date on which he had fetched the guest from the Dorf station. Joachim was ever by nature taciturn; had always talked less than his cousin, even before they came up here⁠—there had never been any comparison between him and the humanists and controversialists of their acquaintance⁠—and in these days his silence had assumed heroic proportions, only monosyllables passed his lips. His manner, however, spoke volumes. It was plain that in his mind the Dorf station was associated with another order of ideas than those of arrival or meeting people. He was conducting a lively correspondence with the flat-land; his resolve was ripening, his preparations drawing to a head.

July had been warm and bright. But with August bad weather set in, cloudy and damp; with first a sleety drizzle and then actual snow. And it lasted⁠—with interludes of single resplendent days⁠—all through the month, and on into September. At first the rooms held the warmth of the summery period just past: they stood at fifty degrees, which passed for comfortable. But it grew rapidly colder; there were rejoicings when the snowfall whitened the valley, for the sight of it⁠—the sight alone, for the mere drop of the temperature would not have sufficed⁠—compelled the management to heat, first the dining-room, then the chambers as well; so that when one rolled out of the rugs, at the end of a rest period, and reentered one’s chamber, one might warm one’s stiffened fingers against the hot pipes, though the dry air these gave out did accentuate the burning in the cheeks.

Was it winter again? Almost the senses thought so. On every hand were loud complaints, that they had been cheated out of their summer; though they had really cheated themselves, abetted by conditions both natural and artificial, and by a consumption of time-units reckless alike within and without. Reason was aware that fine autumnal weather was certain to follow, there would be a succession of brilliant days each outvying the other, and so fine that one might still honour them with the name of summer, save for the flatter arc the sun made in its course, and its earlier setting. But the effect of the winter landscape on the spirit was stronger than the power of such consolatory thoughts. The cousins would stand at the closed door into the balcony, and look out with loathing into the whirl of flakes⁠—it was Joachim who stood thus, and in a suppressed voice he said: “So that’s to begin all over again, is it?”

From behind him in the room Hans Castorp responded: “That would be rather early⁠—surely it can’t be settling down to winter already⁠—but it has a terribly final look. If winter consists in darkness and cold, snow and hot pipes, then there’s no denying it’s winter again. And when you think we’d just finished with it and that the snow only just melted⁠—at least, it seems that way, doesn’t it, as though spring were only just over⁠—well, it gives one a turn, I will say. It is actually a blow to one’s love of life⁠—let me explain to you how I mean. I mean the world as normally arranged is conducive to man’s needs and his pleasure in life⁠—isn’t that so? I won’t go so far as to say that the whole natural order of things, for instance the size of the earth, the time it takes to revolve on its axis and about the sun, the division between day and night, summer and winter⁠—in short, the whole cosmic rhythm, if you like to call it that⁠—was especially arranged for our use and behoof; that would be cheek, I suppose, and simple-minded into the bargain. It would be teleological reasoning, as the philosophers express it. No, it would be truer to say that our needs are⁠—thank God that it should be so⁠—in harmony with the larger, the fundamental facts of nature. I say thank God, for it is really ground for praising Him. Now, when summer or winter comes along down below, the past summer or winter is far enough in the past to make one glad to see it again⁠—and therein lies some of the joy