The Magic Mountain (94 page)

Hans Castorp expressed respect, but no surprise. It was much the same with university fraternities, he suggested. Their members stuck together their whole lives and knew how to take care of their own, so that it was difficult for anyone to get very far in the hierarchy of civil service without having been a member of a fraternity. It was, therefore, perhaps counterproductive for Herr Settembrini to present the membership of such prominent men as an argument in favor of the lodges, since one might turn it around and assume that if so many of his brothers occupied important posts, that only proved the power of the society, which surely was much more deeply involved in the affairs of the world than Herr Settembrini was willing to admit.

Settembrini smiled. He even fanned himself with the issue of
Massoneria
he was holding in his hand. Was that intended as a trap? Was he now supposed to make imprudent statements about the lodge’s political nature, its fundamentally political character? “Cunning, but pointless, my good engineer! We admit we are political, admit it frankly, openly. We discount the odium that a few fools—most of them residing in your native land, my good engineer, hardly any elsewhere—attach to that word. For the man who loves his fellow man, there can be no distinction between what is political and what is not. The apolitical does not exist—everything is politics.”

“Without exception?”

“I am well aware that there are those who enjoy pointing to the apolitical origins of Masonic thought. But those people are merely playing with words, drawing distinctions that it is high time we recognize to be imaginary and absurd. Firstly, the Spanish lodges, at least, took on a political tone from the very beginning.”

“I can well conceive of that.”

“You can conceive of very little, my good engineer. Do not presume that you can conceive of much of anything on your own, but rather attempt to receive and ponder. And therefore I beg you—in your own best interest, as well as in the interest of your own country and of Europe itself—to imprint on your mind the ‘secondly’ that I am about to offer. Secondly, you see, Masonic thought was never apolitical, not at any time—it could not be, and if it ever believed itself to be, then it was denying its true nature. What are we? Masons and hodmen who build, all with but one purpose. The good of all is the fundamental principle of our brotherhood. And what is this good, this building we build? The well-crafted social edifice, the perfection of humanity, the new Jerusalem. And what in the world does that have to do with politics or the lack thereof? The social problem, the problem of human coexistence is politics, is politics through and through, nothing but politics. And the man who consecrates himself to it—and he who withdraws from that sacred task does not deserve the name of man—belongs to politics, foreign and domestic. He understands that the craft of the Freemason is the art of governance.”

“Governance?”

“He knows that among those Illuminati who were Masons there was a regent degree.”

“Very nice, Herr Settembrini. The art of governance—and I like your regent degree, too. But I need to know one thing: are you Christians, all you fellows there in your lodge?”

“
Perchè?
”

“Forgive me, I shall put it another way, more generally, more simply. Do you believe in God?”

“And I shall give you an answer—but why do you ask?”

“I wasn’t trying to trap you just now. But there is a biblical story, where someone tries to trap the Lord with a Roman coin, and the answer he receives is that one should render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s. It seems to me this method of differentiating establishes the difference between what is political and what is not. If there is a God, then the difference exists. Do Freemasons believe in God?”

“I pledged I would give you an answer. You are speaking of a unity that we are working to achieve, but which, to the great sorrow of all good men, does not yet exist. An international union of Freemasons does not exist. It shall be established—and I repeat, we are very quietly, very diligently working to achieve it. And then, without a doubt, we shall likewise be united in our religious confession—and it will be: ‘
Écrasez l’infâme.
’ ”

“Will it be compulsory? That would hardly be tolerant.”

“You are hardly up to dealing with the problem of tolerance, my good engineer. But imprint this on your mind: tolerance becomes a crime when applied to evil.”

“So, then, God would be evil?”

“Metaphysics is evil. For it serves no purpose except to lull us to sleep, to sap us of the energy we should bring to building the temple of society.

Only a generation ago, the Grand Orient of France provided us a fine model by erasing the name of God from all his works. We Italians followed his example.”

“How Catholic of you!”

“By which you mean?”

“I find it terribly Catholic—erasing God.”

“What you are trying to say is—”

“Nothing worth hearing, Herr Settembrini. You should not pay any real attention to my babblings. It just seemed to me at the moment as if atheism were something dreadfully Catholic, as if one erased the name of God so that one could be that much better a Catholic.”

And if Herr Settembrini followed this with a pause, it was clear that he did so solely out of pedagogic circumspection. After a proper period of silence, he replied, “My good engineer, I have not the remotest desire to disconcert or offend you in your Protestantism. We were speaking of tolerance. It is superfluous for me to emphasize that I feel more than tolerance for Protestantism, that I have the deepest admiration for it as the historical opponent of forces that enslave the conscience. The invention of the printing press and the Reformation are and shall remain Central Europe’s two most sublime contributions to humanity. Without question. But, considering what you have just said, I do not doubt you will understand me implicitly when I point out that this is only one side of the matter, that there is a second. Protestantism harbors within it certain elements—just as the Great Reformer himself harbored such elements within his personality. I am thinking here of a sentimentality, a trancelike self-hypnosis that is not European, that is foreign and hostile to our active hemisphere’s law of life. Just look at him, this Luther. Look at the portraits, both as a young man and later. What a skull, what cheekbones, what a strange set to the eyes. My friend, that is Asia. I would be surprised, would be astonished, if Wendish-Slavic-Sarmatian blood was not at work there, and if it was not this massive phenomenon of a man—and who would deny him that—who proved to be a fatal weight placed on one of the two precariously balanced scales of your nation, on the Eastern scale, which caused—and still causes—the Western scale to fly heavenward.” Herr Settembrini had moved now from his humanist’s folding lectern to the round table with its water carafe, closer to his pupil, who was sitting on the backless divan pushed up against one wall, his elbows on his knees and his chin propped in one hand.

“
Caro!
” Herr Settembrini said, “
Caro amico!
Decisions must be made—decisions of incalculable significance for the future happiness of Europe, and your country will have to make them, they must come to fruition within its soul. Positioned between East and West, it will have to choose, will have consciously to decide, once and for all, between the two spheres vying for its heart. You are young, you will take part in this decision, you have been called to exercise an influence upon it. And so let us bless the fates that have thrown you upon these dreadful shores, giving me the opportunity to influence your educable youth with my not unskilled, not yet totally enfeebled words, and to make you aware of the responsibility that you and your country bear, while the civilized world looks on.”

Hans Castorp sat there, chin in hand. He stared out the dormer window; a certain obstinacy could be read in his ordinary, blue eyes. He said nothing.

“You are silent,” Herr Settembrini said, deeply moved. “You and your country allow unconditional silence to reign, a silence so opaque that no one can judge its depths. You do not love the Word, or do not possess it, or sanctify it only in a sullen way—the articulate world does not and cannot learn where it stands with you. My friend, that is dangerous. Language is civilization itself. The Word, even the most contradictory word, binds us together. Wordlessness isolates. One presumes that you will seek to break out of your isolation with deeds. You will ask your cousin Giacomo”—Herr Settembrini had fallen into the habit of calling Joachim “Giacomo”—“you will ask your cousin Giacomo to step out in front of your silence. ‘And two he has slain all unaided, the others his sword have evaded.’ ”

And because Hans Castorp had begun to laugh, Herr Settembrini smiled, too, likewise pleased for the moment with the effect of his graphic words.

“Fine, let us have a laugh,” he said. “You’ll always find me ready for mirth. ‘Laughter is the sparkle of the soul,’ as an ancient once said. And we have strayed to other matters that, I admit, are laden with difficulties, to problems we have encountered in our preparations for an international union of Masons, questions posed in particular by Protestant Europe. . . .” And warming to his topic, Herr Settembrini continued speaking of this international union, which had been born in Hungary and whose longed-for realization would surely confer upon Freemasonry the power to change the world. He casually showed Hans Castorp correspondence he had received from foreign Masonic dignitaries concerning this matter, a handwritten letter from the Swiss Grand Master, Brother Quartier la Tente of the Thirty-third Degree; and he discussed the plan to declare Esperanto the official world language of Freemasonry. His zeal lifted him to the world of high politics; his eye sweeping here and there, he appraised the chances revolutionary republican ideas might have in his own land, in Spain, in Portugal—and claimed to be in contact with persons who stood at the top of the Grand Lodge in that last-named monarchy. Affairs were most assuredly ripening toward decision. Hans Castorp should think of him when, in the very near future, events unfolded rapidly there. Hans Castorp promised he would.

It should be noted that these Masonic colloquies—held separately between the apprentice and each of his mentors—had taken place during the period before Joachim’s return home to the people up here. The discussion to which we now turn, however, occurred during his second stay and in his presence, at the beginning of October, nine weeks after his return; and Hans Castorp always remembered this particular gathering under an autumn sun on the terrace of the Kurhaus in Platz, where they sipped refreshing drinks, because his secret worries about Joachim had begun that day, worries aroused by statements and symptoms that would normally not arouse concern, a sore throat and hoarseness in particular, harmless irritations, which nevertheless Hans Castorp saw in a peculiar light somehow, the light, one might say, that he believed he saw shining deep in Joachim’s eyes, those eyes that had always been so gentle and large, but which that day, for the very first time, had grown indescribably larger and deeper, and along with their usual calm, inner light had taken on a meditative and—one has no choice but to use the word—
ominous
expression, which it would be quite wrong to say Hans Castorp had not liked, he had in fact liked it, except that it had also given rise to his worries. In short, one cannot help speaking about it in confusion commensurate with his confused impressions.

As for the conversation, the controversy—a controversy between Settembrini and Naphta, of course—it was about something entirely different, only loosely connected with their special discussions about Freemasonry. Besides the cousins, Ferge and Wehsal were also present, and everyone joined in eagerly, although not everyone was up to the subject. Herr Ferge, for example, expressly said he was not. But an argument carried on as if it were a matter of life and death, and with such wit and polish as if it were
not
, but merely an elegant competition—and that was how all disputes were carried on between Settembrini and Naphta—such an argument is, in and of itself, quite naturally entertaining to listen to, even for someone who understands little of it and only vaguely comprehends its significance. Raising their eyebrows, total strangers sitting nearby eavesdropped on the altercation, captivated by the passion and finesse of the interchange.

This took place, as we said, in front of the Kurhaus, one afternoon after tea. The four guests from the Berghof had run into Settembrini there, and then quite by chance Naphta had joined them. They were sitting around a little metal table, drinking various alcoholic beverages diluted with soda—anisette, vermouth. Naphta, who had taken his tea here, had ordered wine and cake, apparently a reminiscence of his student days; Joachim frequently moistened his sore throat with real lemonade, which he drank very strong and sour, for its astringent, soothing effect; and Settembrini was enjoying simple sugared water, but drank it through a straw in a very charming, appetizing way, as if sipping the most costly of beverages.

“What is this I hear, my good engineer? What rumor has come to my ears? Your Beatrice is returning? Your guide through all nine rotating spheres of paradise? Well, I can only hope that you will not totally disdain the friendly guiding hand of your Virgil as well. Our ecclesiastic here can confirm for you that the world of the
medio evo
is not complete if Franciscan mysticism lacks the opposing pole of Thomistic insight.”

Everyone laughed at all this facetious erudition and looked now at Hans Castorp, who was also laughing and lifted his glass of vermouth to toast his “Virgil.” And it may be hard to believe, but the next hour was consumed by the inexhaustible intellectual fracas that grew out of Herr Settembrini’s harmless, though flamboyant remarks. For Naphta, in response to what had admittedly been something of a challenge, immediately went on the attack, impugning the Latin poet whom Settembrini, as they all knew, idolized, indeed ranked above Homer; whereas on more than one occasion Naphta had shown a caustic disregard of Virgil and of the Latin poets in general—and promptly and maliciously used this opportunity to do so again. It was solely because he shared the all too charitable biases of his age, he said, that the great Dante had taken that mediocre scribbler seriously and had assigned him such an important role in his own epic, a role to which Herr Lodovico probably assigned far too much Masonic significance. When, in fact, there was nothing to that fawning poet laureate and flunky of the Julians, that oh-so-urbane inkslinger and rhetorical show-off without a spark of creativity, whose soul, if he had one, was secondhand at best, who was not a poet at all, but a Frenchman togged out in a full Augustan wig of flowing curls.