The night after the tendryaks were released. Literature lesson

Magic Mountain

Introduction

The story of Hans Castorp, which we want to tell here - not at all for his sake (since the reader in his person will become acquainted only with the most ordinary, albeit pleasant, young man) - is told for the sake of this story itself, for it seems to us high degree worthy of description (and, to the credit of Hans Castorp, it should be noted that this is precisely his history, but history cannot happen to any and every person). So: this story happened a long time ago, it has, so to speak, already been covered with the noble rust of antiquity, and the story about it should, of course, be told in the forms of the long past.

For history this is not such a big disadvantage, rather even an advantage, for any story must be the past, and the more it is the past, the better both for its characteristics as history and for the storyteller who mutters his spells over past times; however, we have to admit that she, just like in our era people themselves, especially storytellers, is much older than her years, her age is not measured by the days that have passed, and the burden of her years is not measured by the number of revolutions of the Earth around the Sun; in a word, it owes its degree of prescription not to time; Let us note that in these words we give a passing hint and indication of the doubtfulness and peculiar duality of that mysterious element called time.

However, without wishing to artificially obscure a question that is essentially completely clear, let’s say the following: the special age of our history also depends on the fact that it occurs at a certain point and before a turn that has deeply split our life and consciousness... It is happening, or, to avoid all forms of the present, let’s say, it happened, happened once upon a time, once upon a time, in ancient times, in the days before the great war, with the beginning of which so much began that later it never stopped starting. So, it happens before that turn, though not long before it; But doesn’t the character of the antiquity of any story become deeper, more perfect and more fabulous the closer it is to this “before”? In addition, our history, perhaps, by its internal nature, is not without some connection with a fairy tale.

We will describe it in every detail; accurately and thoroughly - for when has time, when telling a story, flown or dragged along at the prompting of space and time, which are needed for its unfolding? Without fear of being accused of pedantry, we are rather inclined to assert that only thoroughness can be entertaining.

Consequently, the narrator cannot cope with Hans’ story in one fell swoop. Seven days of the week are not enough for her, and even seven months are not enough. The best thing is not to try to figure out in advance exactly how much will pass earthly for as long as she will keep him in her snares. Seven years, God willing, won't be necessary.

So here we go.

Chapter first

At the height of summer, an unremarkable young man set out from Hamburg, his hometown, in Davos, in the canton of Grisons. He was going there for three weeks to stay.

From Hamburg to Davos is not a close journey, and not even very close, if you travel such a distance short term. This path leads through several independent lands, then up and then down. From the southern German plateau you need to go down to the shores of the Swabian Sea, then sail by steamer along its heaving waves, over abysses that have long been considered unexplored.

However, then the journey, which began on a grand scale and went along straight lines, becomes intermittent, with frequent stops and all sorts of difficulties: in the town of Rorschach, already on Swiss territory, you take the train again, but you only get to Landquart, a small Alpine station, where I need to change seats again. After quite a long wait in an unattractive, windy area, the narrow-gauge railway carriages are finally delivered to you, and only from the moment when the small, but apparently extremely powerful engine starts moving, does the exciting part of the trip begin, a persistent and steep climb, which seems to have no end, for the Landquart station is at a relatively low altitude, but beyond it the ascent follows a soaring, wild, rocky road into the harsh high mountain regions.

Hans Castorp is his name young man- with his hand-made suitcase made of crocodile skin, a gift from his uncle and teacher - Consul Tinapel, whom we will immediately call - Hans Castorp, with his suitcase and winter coat, dangling on a hook, was alone in a small compartment upholstered in gray cloth; he was sitting by the window, and since the air was becoming fresher in the evening, and the young man was the darling of the family and a sissy, he raised his wide collar fashionable coat made of silky fabric. Next to him on the sofa lay a paperback book - “Ocean steamships”, which he studied from time to time at the beginning of the trip; but now she lay forgotten, and the locomotive, whose heavy, hoarse breathing rushed in through the window, showered his coat with coal dust.

Two days of travel had already managed to alienate this man, a young man at that—and the young man is not yet firmly rooted in life—from the familiar world, from everything that he considered his responsibilities, interests, concerns, hopes—to alienate him much more than he probably could have imagined when he rode in a hackney carriage to the station. The space that shifted from side to side between him and his home, swirled and ran away, harbored forces usually attributed to time; every hour it caused more and more new internal changes, extremely similar to those created by time, but in some ways more significant. Like time, space gives birth to oblivion; it achieves this by freeing a person from his usual connections with everyday life, transferring him to a certain original, free state, and can suddenly turn even a pedant and a layman into a vagabond. They say that time is Summer; but they also gave air - the same drink of oblivion, and even if it acts less thoroughly, but faster.

Hans Castorp experienced something similar. He had no intention of making his trip special meaning, internally expect something from her. On the contrary, he believed that he needed to get rid of her as quickly as possible, since it was impossible otherwise, and, returning exactly the same as he had left, continue ordinary life from where he had momentarily interrupted her. Just yesterday he was absorbed in the usual circle of thoughts - about the exams that had just become a thing of the past, about the upcoming in the near future admission as a trainee to Tunder and Wilms (shipyards, machine-building plant, boiler workshops) and wished for one thing - for these three weeks to pass as smoothly as possible. as soon as possible,” he wished with all the impatience of which, given his balanced nature, he was capable. But now it began to seem to him that circumstances required his full attention and that perhaps he should not take them so lightly. This exaltation in an area whose air he had never breathed before and where, as he knew, the living conditions were unusually harsh and meager, began to excite him, even causing him some fear. The homeland and the usual way of life were not only left far behind, the main thing is that they lay somewhere deep below him, and he continued to ascend. And so, hovering between them and the unknown, he asked himself what awaited him up there. Perhaps it would be unreasonable and would even harm him if he, born and accustomed to breathing at an altitude of only a few meters above sea level, immediately ascends to areas completely alien to him, without first having lived at least a few days somewhere not so high? He already wanted to get to the place as quickly as possible: after all, when you find yourself there, you will begin to live as you live everywhere, and this climbing upward will not remind you every minute into what unusual spheres you have wormed your way into. He looked out the window: the train was crawling, twisting along a narrow crevice; the front carriages and the locomotive were visible, which, working hard, continually threw out clouds of green, brown and black smoke, and they then melted into the air. To the right, below, the waters rustled; on the left, dark firs growing between blocks of rocks stretched towards the stone-gray sky. From time to time there were black tunnels, and when the train jumped out into the light again, huge abysses opened up below, in the depths of which lay villages. Then they disappeared again, and again there were gorges with remnants of snow in the folds and crevices. The train stopped in front of wretched railway stations and at terminal stations, from which it then departed in the opposite direction; then everything was confused, and it was difficult to understand which direction you were going and which country was which. Majestic high-mountain landscapes unfolded with their sacred phantasmagoria of peaks piled on top of each other, and you were carried towards them, between them, they either opened up to a respectful gaze, then disappeared again around the bend. Hans Castorp remembered that the area of deciduous forests had already been left behind, and with it, probably, the area of songbirds, and the thought of this fading and impoverishment of life suddenly made him dizzy and uneasy; he even covered his eyes with his hand. But the faintness immediately passed. He saw that the ascent was over - the pass had been overcome. And the more calmly the train ran along the mountain valley.

Thomas Mann

MAGIC MOUNTAIN

Introduction

The story of Hans Castorp, which we want to tell here - not at all for his sake (since the reader in his person will become acquainted only with the most ordinary, albeit pleasant, young man) - is told for the sake of this story itself, for it seems to us highly worthy of telling (and, to the credit of Hans Castorp, it should be noted that this is precisely his story, and not everyone’s story can happen to everyone). So: this story happened a long time ago, it has, so to speak, already been covered with the noble rust of antiquity, and the story about it should, of course, be told in the forms of the long past.

For history this is not such a big disadvantage, rather even an advantage, for any story must be the past, and the more it is the past, the better both for its characteristics as history and for the storyteller who mutters his spells over past times; however, we have to admit that she, just like in our era people themselves, especially storytellers, is much older than her years, her age is not measured by the days that have passed, and the burden of her years is not measured by the number of revolutions of the earth around the sun; in a word, it does not owe the degree of its prescription to time itself; Let us note that in these words we give a passing hint and indication of the doubtfulness and peculiar duality of that mysterious element called time.

However, without wishing to artificially obscure a question that is essentially completely clear, let’s say the following: the special duration of our history also depends on the fact that it occurs at a certain turn and before a turn that deeply split our life and consciousness... It occurs, or, to avoid of all forms of the present, let’s say, happened, happened once upon a time, once upon a time, in ancient times, in the days before the great war, with the beginning of which so many things began that then they never stopped starting. So, it happens before that turn, though not long before it; But doesn’t the character of the antiquity of any story become deeper, more perfect and more fabulous the closer it is to this “before”? In addition, our history, perhaps, by its internal nature, is not without some connection with a fairy tale.

We will describe it in every detail, accurately and thoroughly - for when has time, in the telling of any story, flown or dragged along at the prompting of space and time, which are needed for its unfolding? Without fear of being accused of pedantry, we are rather inclined to assert that only thoroughness can be entertaining.

Consequently, the narrator cannot cope with Hans’ story in one fell swoop. Seven days of the week are not enough for her, and even seven months are not enough. The best thing is not to try to figure out in advance exactly how much earthly time will pass while she keeps him in her snares. Seven years, God willing, won’t be needed after all.

So here we go.

CHAPTER FIRST

At the height of summer, an unremarkable young man traveled from Hamburg, his hometown, to Davos, in the canton of Graubünden. He was going there for three weeks to stay.

From Hamburg to Davos the journey is not close, and not even very close, if you are going for such a short period of time. This path leads through several independent lands, then up and then down. From the southern German plateau you need to go down to the shores of the Swabian Sea, then sail by steamer along its heaving waves, over abysses that have long been considered unexplored.

Hans Castorp, - that is the name of the young man, - with his hand-made suitcase made of crocodile skin, a gift from his uncle and teacher - the consul of Tinapel, whom we will immediately name - Hans Castorp, with his briefcase and winter coat dangling on a hook, was alone in a small compartment upholstered in gray cloth; he sat by the window, and since the air was becoming fresher in the evening, and the young man was the darling of the family and a sissy, he raised the collar of a wide, fashionable coat made of silky fabric. Next to him on the sofa lay a paperback book - “Ocean Steamships”, which he studied from time to time at the beginning of the trip; but now she lay forgotten, and the locomotive, whose heavy, hoarse breathing rushed in through the window, showered his coat with coal dust.

Two days of travel have already managed to alienate this man, a young man at that—and the young man is still not firmly rooted in life—from the familiar world, from everything that he considered his responsibilities, interests, concerns, hopes—to alienate him much more, than he probably could have imagined when he rode in a hackney carriage to the station. The space that shifted from side to side between him and his home, swirled and ran away, harbored forces usually attributed to time; with every hour it caused more and more new internal changes, extremely similar to those that time creates, but in some ways more significant. Like time, space gives birth to oblivion; it achieves this by freeing a person from his usual connections with everyday life, transferring him to a certain original, free state, and can suddenly turn even a pedant and a layman into a vagabond. They say that time is Summer; but they also gave air - the same drink of oblivion, and even if it acts less thoroughly, but faster.

Hans Castorp experienced something similar. He had no intention of attaching special significance to his trip or internally expecting anything from it. On the contrary, he believed that he needed to get rid of her as quickly as possible, since it was impossible otherwise, and, returning exactly the same as he had left, continue ordinary life from the place where he had momentarily interrupted it. Just yesterday he was absorbed in the usual circle of thoughts - about the exams that had just become a thing of the past, about the upcoming in the near future admission as a trainee to Tunder and Wilms (shipyards, machine-building plant, boiler workshops) and wished for one thing - for these three weeks to pass as smoothly as possible. as soon as possible,” he wished with all the impatience of which, given his balanced nature, he was capable. But now it began to seem to him that circumstances required his full attention and that perhaps he should not take them so lightly. This exaltation in an area whose air he had never breathed before and where, as he knew, the living conditions were unusually harsh and meager, began to excite him, even causing him some fear. The homeland and the usual way of life were not only left far behind, the main thing is that they lay somewhere deep below him, and he continued to ascend. And so, hovering between them and the unknown, he asked himself what awaited him up there. Perhaps it would be unreasonable and would even harm him if he, born and accustomed to breathing at an altitude of only a few meters above sea level, immediately ascends to areas completely alien to him, without first having lived at least a few days somewhere not so high? He already wanted to get to the place as quickly as possible: after all, when you find yourself there, you will begin to live as you live everywhere, and this climbing upward will not remind you every minute into what unusual spheres you have wormed your way into. He looked out the window: the train was crawling, twisting along a narrow crevice; the front carriages and the locomotive were visible, which, working hard, continually threw out clouds of green, brown and black smoke, and they then melted into the air. To the right, below, the waters rustled; on the left, dark firs growing between blocks of rocks stretched towards the stone-gray sky. From time to time there were black tunnels, and when the train jumped out into the light again, huge abysses opened up below, in the depths of which lay villages. Then they disappeared again, and again there were gorges with remnants of snow in the folds and crevices. The train stopped in front of wretched railway stations and at terminal stations, from which it then departed in the opposite direction; then everything was confused, and it was difficult to understand which direction you were going and which country was which. Majestic high-mountain landscapes unfolded with their sacred phantasmagoria of peaks piled on top of each other, and you were carried towards them, between them, they either opened up to a respectful gaze, then disappeared again around the bend. Hans Castorp remembered that the area of deciduous forests had already been left behind, and with it, probably, the area of songbirds, and the thought of this fading and impoverishment of life suddenly made him dizzy and uneasy; he even covered his eyes with his hand. But the faintness immediately passed. He saw that the ascent was over - the pass had been overcome. And the more calmly the train ran along the mountain valley.

Thomas Mann

MAGIC MOUNTAIN

Introduction

The story of Hans Castorp, which we want to tell here - not at all for his sake (since the reader in his person will become acquainted only with the most ordinary, albeit pleasant, young man) - is told for the sake of this story itself, for it seems to us highly worthy of description (and, to the credit of Hans Castorp, it should be noted that this is precisely his story, and not everyone’s story can happen to everyone). So: this story happened a long time ago, it has, so to speak, already been covered with the noble rust of antiquity, and the story about it should, of course, be told in the forms of the long past.

For history this is not such a big disadvantage, rather even an advantage, for any story must be the past, and the more it is the past, the better both for its characteristics as history and for the storyteller who mutters his spells over past times; however, we have to admit that she, just like in our era people themselves, especially storytellers, is much older than her years, her age is not measured by the days that have passed, and the burden of her years is not measured by the number of revolutions of the earth around the sun; in a word, it does not owe the degree of its prescription to time itself; Let us note that in these words we give a passing hint and indication of the doubtfulness and peculiar duality of that mysterious element called time.

Consequently, the narrator cannot cope with Hans’ story in one fell swoop. Seven days of the week are not enough for her, and even seven months are not enough. The best thing is not to try to figure out in advance exactly how much earthly time will pass while she keeps him in her snares. Seven years, God willing, won’t be needed after all.

So here we go.

CHAPTER FIRST

At the height of summer, an unremarkable young man traveled from Hamburg, his hometown, to Davos, in the canton of Graubünden. He was going there for three weeks to stay.

Hans Castorp, - that is the name of the young man, - with his hand-made suitcase made of crocodile skin, a gift from his uncle and teacher - the consul of Tinapel, whom we will immediately name - Hans Castorp, with his briefcase and winter coat dangling on a hook, was alone in a small compartment upholstered in gray cloth; he sat by the window, and since the air was becoming fresher in the evening, and the young man was the darling of the family and a sissy, he raised the collar of a wide, fashionable coat made of silky fabric. Next to him on the sofa lay a paperback book - “Ocean steamships”, which he studied from time to time at the beginning of the trip; but now she lay forgotten, and the locomotive, whose heavy, hoarse breathing rushed in through the window, showered his coat with coal dust.

Two days of travel had already managed to alienate this man, a young man at that—and the young man is still not firmly rooted in life—from the familiar world, from everything that he considered his responsibilities, interests, concerns, hopes—to alienate him much more, than he probably could have imagined when he rode in a hackney carriage to the station. The space that shifted from side to side between him and his home, swirled and ran away, harbored forces usually attributed to time; with every hour it caused more and more new internal changes, extremely similar to those that time creates, but in some ways more significant. Like time, space gives birth to oblivion; it achieves this by freeing a person from his usual connections with everyday life, transferring him to a certain original, free state, and can suddenly turn even a pedant and a layman into a vagabond. They say that the time is Summer; but they also gave air - the same drink of oblivion, and even if it acts less thoroughly, but faster.