The Magic Mountain

the most charming females. At least, some of them are very picturesque on the outside. But you ought to have better colour yourself, you know, if you want to please the sex. ‘The golden tree of life is green,’ as the poet says⁠—but it’s a poor colour for the complexion, all the same. Totally anaemic, of course,” he broke off, and without more ado put up his index and middle fingers and drew down Hans Castorp’s eyelid. “Precisely! Totally anaemic, as I was saying. You know it wasn’t such a bad idea of yours to let your native Hamburg shift for itself awhile. Great institution, Hamburg⁠—simply revels in humidity⁠—sends us a tidy contingent every year. But if I may take the occasion to give you the benefit of my poor opinion⁠—sine pecunia, you understand, quite sine pecunia⁠—I would suggest that you do just as your cousin does, while you are up here. You couldn’t turn a better trick than to behave for the time as though you had a slight tuberculosis pulmonum, and put on a little flesh. It’s curious about the metabolism of protein with us up here. Although the process of combustion is heightened, yet the body at the same time puts on flesh.⁠—Well, Ziemssen, slept pretty well, what?⁠ ⁠… Splendid! Then get on with the out-of-doors exercise⁠—but not more than half an hour, you hear? And afterwards stick the quicksilver cigar in your face, eh? And be good and write it down, Ziemssen! That’s a conscientious lad! Saturday I’ll look at the curve. Your cousin better measure too. Measuring can’t hurt anybody. Morning, gentlemen. Have a good time⁠—morning⁠—morning⁠—” Krokowski joined him as he sailed off down the hall, swinging his arms palms backward, directing to right and left the question about sleeping well, which was answered on all sides in the affirmative.

Banter. Viaticum. Interrupted Mirth

“Very nice man,” Hans Castorp said, as after a friendly nod to the lame concierge, who was sorting letters in his lodge, they passed out into the open air. The main entrance was on the southwest side of the white building, the central portion of which was a storey higher than the wings, and crowned by a turret with a roof of slate-coloured tin. You did not issue from this side into the hedged-in garden, but were immediately in the open, in sight of the steep mountain meadows, dotted with single fir-trees of moderate size, and writhen, stunted pines. The way they took⁠—it was the only one they could take, outside the drive going down to the valley⁠—rose by a gentle ascent to the left, behind the sanatorium, past the kitchen and domestic offices, where huge dustbins stood at the area rails. Thence it led in the same direction for a goodish piece, then made a sharp bend to the right and mounted more rapidly along the thinly wooded slopes. It was a reddish path, firm and yet rather moist underfoot, with boulders here and there along the edge. The cousins were by no means alone upon it: guests who had finished breakfast not long after them followed hard upon their steps, and groups of others, already returning, approached with the stalking gait of people descending a steep incline.

“Very nice man,” repeated Hans Castorp. “He has such a flow of words I enjoyed listening to him. ‘Quicksilver cigar’ was capital, I got it at once.⁠—But I’ll just light up a real one,” he said, pausing, “I can’t hold out any longer. I haven’t had a proper smoke since yesterday after luncheon. Excuse me a minute.” He opened his automobile-leather case, with its silver monogram, and drew out a Maria Mancini, a beautiful specimen of the first layer, flattened on one side as he particularly liked it; he cut off the tip slantingly with a sharp little tool he wore on his watch-chain, then, striking a tiny flame with his pocket apparatus, puffed with concentration at the long, blunt-ended cigar until it was alight. “There!” he said. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, we can get on with the exercise. You don’t smoke⁠—out of sheer doggedness, of course.”

“I never do smoke,” answered Joachim; “why should I begin up here?”

“I don’t understand it,” Hans Castorp said. “I never can understand how anybody can not smoke⁠—it deprives a man of the best part of life, so to speak⁠—or at least of a first-class pleasure. When I wake in the morning, I feel glad at the thought of being able to smoke all day, and when I eat, I look forward to smoking afterwards; I might almost say I only eat for the sake of being able to smoke⁠—though of course that is more or less of an exaggeration. But a day without tobacco would be flat, stale, and unprofitable, as far as I am concerned. If I had to say to myself tomorrow: ‘No smoke today’⁠—I believe I shouldn’t find the courage to get up⁠—on my honour, I’d stop in bed. But when a man has a good cigar in his mouth⁠—of course it mustn’t have a side draught or not draw well, that is extremely irritating⁠—but with a good cigar in his mouth a man is perfectly safe, nothing can touch him⁠—literally. It’s just like lying on the beach: when you lie on the beach, why, you lie on the beach, don’t you?⁠—you don’t require anything else, in the line of work or amusement either.⁠—People smoke all over the world, thank goodness; there is nowhere one could get to, so far as I know, where the habit hasn’t penetrated. Even polar expeditions fit themselves out with supplies of tobacco to help them carry on. I’ve always felt a thrill of sympathy when I read that. You can be very miserable: I might be feeling perfectly wretched, for instance; but I could always stand it if I had my smoke.”

“But after all,” Joachim said, “it is rather flabby-minded of you to be so dependent on it. Behrens is