really must introduce you, I suppose.”
Dr. Krokowski was sitting in the light, close to the fireplace, just inside the sliding door opening onto one of the social rooms. He was reading a newspaper, but stood up as the young men approached. Joachim, striking a military pose, said, “Might I introduce you, doctor, to my cousin Castorp? He’s just arrived from Hamburg.”
Dr. Krokowski greeted the new resident with a kind of jovial, rugged, and reassuring heartiness, as if to imply that in his presence any diffidence was quite superfluous and cheerful mutual trust the only appropriate response. He was about thirty-five years old, broad-shouldered, stout, considerably shorter than the two men across from him, so that he had to tip his head back to look them in the eye, and extraordinarily pale—there was almost a translucence, even phosphorescence, to his pallor, and it was enhanced by dark, glowing eyes, black eyebrows, and a rather long beard that already showed a few gray strands and ended in two diverging points. He wore a black, rather worn, double-breasted business suit and black open-worked shoes, almost sandals really, over gray woolen socks; Hans Castorp had seen a soft, floppy collar like that only once before—sported by a photographer in Danzig—and indeed it did lend something of the artist’s studio to Dr. Krokowski’s general appearance. As he shook the young man’s hand, an effusive smile revealed yellowish teeth under his beard, and in a baritone voice betraying the drawl of a foreign accent, he said, “We bid you welcome, Herr Castorp. I do hope that you’ll make yourself comfortable and soon feel right at home here with us. You have come as a patient, have you not—if you’ll pardon the question?”
It was touching to see how Hans Castorp struggled to be polite and master his drowsiness. He was annoyed with himself for being in such bad shape, and with the leery self-consciousness of youth he detected traces of an indulgent smirk in the assistant director’s reassuring smile. In answering, he said something about three weeks, mentioned his exams, and added that, thank God, he was perfectly healthy.
“You don’t say!” Dr. Krokowski replied, thrusting his head forward at a derisive slant and smiling more broadly. “In that case you are a phenomenon of greatest medical interest. You see, I’ve never met a perfectly healthy person before. And what kind of exams were those, if you’ll pardon the question?”
“I’m an engineer, doctor,” Hans Castorp answered with modest dignity.
“Ah, an engineer.” And Dr. Krokowski’s smile receded, as it were, losing something of both its energy and warmth for a moment. “Bravo, my congratulations. And so you’ll not be availing yourself here of any sort of medical attention, either physical or psychological?”
“No, no, thanks just the same,” Hans Castorp said, almost stepping back. With that, Dr. Krokowski broke into his triumphant smile again, and shaking the young man’s hand once more, he exclaimed in a loud voice, “In that case, sleep well, Herr Castorp—in full enjoyment of your impeccable health. Sleep well, and I’m sure we’ll see more of one another.” And then he dismissed the young men and sat back down to his newspaper.
The elevator was no longer running, and so they used the stairs, climbing in silence, slightly bewildered by their meeting with Dr. Krokowski. Joachim accompanied Hans Castorp to room 34, where they found that the limping concierge had properly delivered the new guest’s luggage; and they chatted for another fifteen minutes while Hans Castorp unpacked his nightclothes and toiletries after first lighting a thick, mild cigarette. He never had got around to a last cigar—which struck him as odd, quite unusual, really.
“He does have a distinguished look about him,” he said, and the inhaled smoke tumbled out with the words. “He’s pale as chalk. But as for his choice of footwear, it’s really
Dr. Krokowski was sitting in the light, close to the fireplace, just inside the sliding door opening onto one of the social rooms. He was reading a newspaper, but stood up as the young men approached. Joachim, striking a military pose, said, “Might I introduce you, doctor, to my cousin Castorp? He’s just arrived from Hamburg.”
Dr. Krokowski greeted the new resident with a kind of jovial, rugged, and reassuring heartiness, as if to imply that in his presence any diffidence was quite superfluous and cheerful mutual trust the only appropriate response. He was about thirty-five years old, broad-shouldered, stout, considerably shorter than the two men across from him, so that he had to tip his head back to look them in the eye, and extraordinarily pale—there was almost a translucence, even phosphorescence, to his pallor, and it was enhanced by dark, glowing eyes, black eyebrows, and a rather long beard that already showed a few gray strands and ended in two diverging points. He wore a black, rather worn, double-breasted business suit and black open-worked shoes, almost sandals really, over gray woolen socks; Hans Castorp had seen a soft, floppy collar like that only once before—sported by a photographer in Danzig—and indeed it did lend something of the artist’s studio to Dr. Krokowski’s general appearance. As he shook the young man’s hand, an effusive smile revealed yellowish teeth under his beard, and in a baritone voice betraying the drawl of a foreign accent, he said, “We bid you welcome, Herr Castorp. I do hope that you’ll make yourself comfortable and soon feel right at home here with us. You have come as a patient, have you not—if you’ll pardon the question?”
It was touching to see how Hans Castorp struggled to be polite and master his drowsiness. He was annoyed with himself for being in such bad shape, and with the leery self-consciousness of youth he detected traces of an indulgent smirk in the assistant director’s reassuring smile. In answering, he said something about three weeks, mentioned his exams, and added that, thank God, he was perfectly healthy.
“You don’t say!” Dr. Krokowski replied, thrusting his head forward at a derisive slant and smiling more broadly. “In that case you are a phenomenon of greatest medical interest. You see, I’ve never met a perfectly healthy person before. And what kind of exams were those, if you’ll pardon the question?”
“I’m an engineer, doctor,” Hans Castorp answered with modest dignity.
“Ah, an engineer.” And Dr. Krokowski’s smile receded, as it were, losing something of both its energy and warmth for a moment. “Bravo, my congratulations. And so you’ll not be availing yourself here of any sort of medical attention, either physical or psychological?”
“No, no, thanks just the same,” Hans Castorp said, almost stepping back. With that, Dr. Krokowski broke into his triumphant smile again, and shaking the young man’s hand once more, he exclaimed in a loud voice, “In that case, sleep well, Herr Castorp—in full enjoyment of your impeccable health. Sleep well, and I’m sure we’ll see more of one another.” And then he dismissed the young men and sat back down to his newspaper.
The elevator was no longer running, and so they used the stairs, climbing in silence, slightly bewildered by their meeting with Dr. Krokowski. Joachim accompanied Hans Castorp to room 34, where they found that the limping concierge had properly delivered the new guest’s luggage; and they chatted for another fifteen minutes while Hans Castorp unpacked his nightclothes and toiletries after first lighting a thick, mild cigarette. He never had got around to a last cigar—which struck him as odd, quite unusual, really.
“He does have a distinguished look about him,” he said, and the inhaled smoke tumbled out with the words. “He’s pale as chalk. But as for his choice of footwear, it’s really
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