The Magic Mountain was macabre. Its hero, Hans Castorp as the translator regularly called him (never Hans or Herr Castorp), was a loathsome specimen. Although the author evinced a certain sympathy for him, Gray couldn’t bear the man’s dilettante passivity, his hypochondria, the way he let life blow him about. Gray longed to tell Hans Castorp to pull himself together. If he felt odd and tired upon arrival at the sanatorium, it was likely the altitude, something Uncle Peter had described at length—light-headedness, nausea, breathlessness, from flying in the war. His father, too, once told how he awoke in the night suffocating in the highlands of India. And if Hans Castorp felt heat in his cheeks and chill in his body, it was sunburn, surely, not fever. Yet, Hans Castorp, the ninny, seemed determined to waste his young life (not that his career as engineer sounded like much) at that mountaintop retreat, courting illness and occupying himself with what was morbid. Gray wasn’t sure what analysis entailed, but he inferred a treatment at once risqué, shameful, and dangerous, likely to drive one mad if mismanaged. Yes, he loathed Hans Castorp, the self-indulgent nothing. The book was as heavy as the mood that overtook him when he thought of it, as if the figures carved in the choir stalls were shaking their heads at him, murmuring beware.
By the time John came through the other side of the headache, Jamie had departed on a fund-raising tour. John felt only relief at his absence, a lungful reprieve. He didn’t trust his memory of their journey; at least he decided that he shouldn’t trust it. If he’d had to face Jamie at breakfast, lunch, and tea, the shame might have been paralyzing; as it was, it only burned like low-grade fever and a comfortable reproach. Turn thou us, O good Lord, and so shall we be turned. He always felt safer in Lent, contained by its disciplines. It wasn’t Lent now, but wasn’t it always the season to turn back? Back to his lessons, to marking done on time. Back to his correspondence. He resumed writing to Meg, determined to overcome her silence. When she began to send replies through her amanuensis, he persisted as charmingly as possible—I fancy you’ll tell me, when you can, what they’re saying there about MacDonald’s cabinet. She could never resist politics, and her daughter hadn’t the first idea of them. He persevered, and by grace she replied:
We aren’t supposed to take notice of the world, of course, but I’ve cultivated one or two of the servants. The stories they tell would dry out your ears.
Her hand was weak, but he’d know it anywhere; he knew it in his dreams, where letter upon letter came to him. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel: for he hath visited, and redeemed his people. He opened the cupboard and hauled out his manuscript. That we, being delivered out of the hands of our enemies, might serve him without fear. It wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined, some passages actually good. Who had written them? He dashed off an update to Nurse Riding, and she returned encouragement.
It’s always darkest before the dawn, they say (though presumably they speak of a night with no moon). Now, in answer to your question about “Patron’s Day,” I’m afraid I must send regrets.
He had the impression, from her inverted commas, that she’d never before heard of Patron’s Day, and her curt refusal brought him up short. It was not his place to invite her when her son had plainly neglected the duty. Did the boy not want her, or did he consider the day frivolous? John had a mind to ask him, but before he could work out an angle, the boy waylaid him in the corridor, bearing the book John had loaned him.
—So soon? John said. Did you finish?
The boy scowled:
—I’ve read all I mean to read. Sir.
John was left feeling he’d trafficked pornography.
—And what did you think?
Riding clearly wanted to leave, but John stood his ground. The boy could learn to converse, as a sign of good manners if he couldn’t manage gratitude.
—I think, sir …
He looked as in the classroom when put on the spot and resenting it.
—that sanatoriums are a rum business. Ordinary people go there to get ill, and ill people go there to die. They’re run by charlatans and are full of chocolate soldiers.
John had never felt so told off in his life. He suppressed the urge to hide the book behind his back.
—Oh, don’t hold back, Riding. What did you really think?
Riding recoiled, and a spike went through John’s head.
—Cut along, he said. And I’d better see proper spelling in that prep of yours. You can jolly well make an effort for once.
TG, Something terrible has happened. Zoltan Zarday the wunderkind writes that vagovegenative dystonia is what they call a verlegenheitsdiagnose, a polite diagnosis for people who have nothing wrong with them. When I think of the time we’ve wasted Kneipping, and we’re back where we started only Mum is weaker! We must leave Bad Wörishofen, that much is clear, but it might mean taking Murgie into my confidence.
The drops were bitter and Kardleigh wasn’t liberal with them, but the spike eased, the lights stopped flashing, and John’s temper cooled. He was just drifting down the Tower stairs when Jamie burst from the porter’s room.
—What are you doing here? I thought you were away.
—Good to see you, too, Jamie said.
That smile should have stabbed, but the drops had enrobed him in calm.
—Don’t look like that, Jamie said. I hope you aren’t going to insult me by trying to apologize or some such nonsense.
—I …
—Just do me a favor and go easy on the Pims.
Pims?
—Need you in good nick Wednesday. That man Arents is coming.
Was he speaking of Patron’s Day? John was failing to follow.
—Arents, organ, I told you. No? Got to take his wicket.
Jamie was rushing off. Was wicket metaphor?
—Big day! he called. Counting on you!
John resolved to leave Jamie for the morrow. His study was peaceful, and Mrs. Firth had left him tea. Was that a wire beside—he tore the envelope, fearful, though it didn’t look foreign.
Corpus Christi Oxford—GRIEVES SAHIB GOT LETTER STOP ARRIVE 24TH 1002 STOP BUNK IN DORM QUERY DEPART 25TH 0718 STOP WILBERFORCE M
Not blow, but reprieve, one he’d never expected. Morgan Wilberforce after three long years. Not only coming to Patron’s Day, but asking to stay the night. They could sit as they used to, in John’s study after lights out. They could speak of books, boys, everything, and put the world to rights.