This oft-repeated phrase set the key for all the running comment with which he accompanied his production of gesture—gesture that by now, in all conscience, had grown more than a little burlesque. He had a way of lifting that little circlet formed by thumb and forefinger to a poise above his ear, and coyly twisting his head away from it—one watched him as one might an elderly priest of some oriental cult, with the skirts of his robe snatched up, doing a dance before the sacrificial altar. Again, flung back in Olympian repose, with one arm stretched out on the back of his neighbour’s chair, he beguiled them all to their confusion, by painting a vivid and irresistible scene of a dark, frosty winter morning, when the yellow gleam of the night-lamp reveals the network of bare boughs outside the pane, rigid in the harsh and penetrating mist of early dawn. So telling was the picture, so universal its appeal—actually, they all shivered; particularly when he went on to speak of rising in such a dawn, and squeezing a great sponge filled with ice-cold water over neck and shoulders. The effective sensation he characterized as “holy.” But all this was a digression, an aside thrown out to illustrate receptivity for life; a fantastic impromptu, let fall merely to renew and reassert the whole irresistible compulsion of his presence and his sensations upon the scene of abandoned night-revelry. He made love to every female creature within reach, without discrimination or respect of person; tendering such offers to the dwarf that the crippled creature’s large old face was wreathed in smiles. He paid Frau Stöhr compliments that made the vulgar creature bridle more extravagantly than ever, and become almost senseless with affectation. He supplicated—and received—a kiss from Fräulein Kleefeld, upon his thick, chapped lips. He even coquetted with the forlorn Frau Magnus—and all this without detriment to the delicate homage he paid his companion, whose hand he would every now and then carry gallantly to his lips. “Wine—” he said, “women; they are—that is—pardon me—Gethsemane—Day of Judgment …”
Toward two o’clock word flew about that “the old man”—in other words, Hofrat Behrens—was approaching by forced marches. Panic reigned among the nerveless company. Chairs and ice-pails were upset. They fled through the library. Peeperkorn raged at the precipitate breaking-up of the festivities, in kingly choler struck the table with his fist and called after the retreating “cowardly slaves”—but allowed Frau Chauchat and Hans Castorp to calm him with the consideration that the banquet had already lasted some six hours, and must in any case some time come to an end. He lent an ear when they murmured something about the “holy” boon of sleep, and yielded to their efforts to lead him away to bed.
“Let me lean upon you, my child! And you, young man, on my other side,” he said. They helped him lift his unwieldy body from table, gave him the support of their arms, and he walked with wide steps between them bedwards, his mighty head sunk on his lifted shoulder. First one and then the other of his aides was carried to one side by his staggering pace. It is probable that he was merely indulging himself in the regal luxury of being thus supported and piloted; presumably he could have gone by himself. But he scorned the effort. If made it would have been solely for the unworthy purpose of disguising his state, and of this he was royally unashamed, revelling in the fun of making his companions stagger with him from side to side. He even said, on the way: “Children—nonsense. Of course I’m not—at this moment. You ought to see—ridiculous—”
“Ridiculous, of course,” Hans Castorp agreed. “It certainly is. We are giving the classical gifts of life their due, staggering in their honour. Seriously, on the other hand: I’ve had my share too; but any so-called drunkenness to the contrary, I fully recognize the honour of helping such a tremendous personality to bed; I am not so drunk I don’t know that in the matter of size I don’t hold a candle—”
“Come, come, chatterbox,” Peeperkorn said, and they moved rhythmically on toward the stairs, drawing Frau Chauchat with them.
The report of the Hofrat’s approach had been a bogey. Perhaps the weary little waitress was responsible, thinking thereby to break up the party. Peeperkorn scented the false alarm, and would have turned back for another drink. But they both set to work to talk him out of the idea, and he let himself be moved on.
The Malayan valet, in white cravat and black silk slippers, awaited his master in the corridor before their apartments. He bowed low, laying his hand upon his breast.
“Kiss each other,” commanded Peeperkorn. “Young man, kiss this lovely woman good night, upon her brow,” said he to Hans Castorp. “She will have no objection to receiving and responding to—do it to my health, with my blessing.” But Hans Castorp declined.
“No, Your Majesty,” he said. “I beg your pardon. It would not do.”
Peeperkorn, in the arms of his valet, drew up his arabesques and demanded to know why.
“Because your companion and I can exchange no kisses on the brow,” Hans Castorp responded. “I hope you sleep well. No, no, that is the sheerest nonsense, however you look at it.”
Frau Chauchat, for her part, was moving toward her door; Peeperkorn gave way, and let the unwilling suitor go, though looking at him awhile over his and the Malay’s shoulders, his wrinkled brows drawn high in astonishment at an insubordination his kingly temper was seldom called upon to brook.
Mynheer Peeperkorn (Continued)
Mynheer Peeperkorn remained in House Berghof the whole winter—what there was left of it—and on into the spring; and there took place, among others, a memorable excursion (in which Settembrini
