And precisely that seemed, in a strange way, like a new mask.
“Yes?” said Hans Castorp.
The man cleared his throat. Then he smiled briefly, as if he wanted to put the matter into a light form that it does not have.
“We… saw each other yesterday,” he said.
Hans Castorp nodded. It was a neutral nod that says: I remember, but I confirm nothing.
“I am Philipp Morgenstern,” said the man. “And…” He paused, as if he had to endure himself. “…yesterday I was the donkey.”
He said the word “donkey” without bitterness, but also without pride. It had the quality of a confession. And Hans Castorp felt that the word, comical as it was, struck him – not because he felt pity, but because confessions in such houses, at such heights, always have something contagious: you listen and do not know whether you yourself are next.
“Herr Morgenstern,” said Hans Castorp politely.
Morgenstern looked at him as if searching for a hold.
“May I…” he began. “May I tell you something? It is… it is unedifying to say this here at the edge of the pool, between chlorine and lemon water, but perhaps this is exactly the right place, because here one pretends anyway to be pure.”
Hans Castorp said nothing. The silence was his form of permission.
Morgenstern took a deep breath.
“I never want to be the donkey again,” he said. “The donkey who claims that the grass is blue.”
Hans Castorp looked, almost involuntarily, out through the glass front of the hall. Outside lay snow. No grass was to be seen. And inside there was water, blue, clearly blue.
“Everything is blue here,” said Hans Castorp, more to himself than to Morgenstern. “Even that which would not have to be blue.”
Morgenstern followed his gaze and laughed briefly – a dry laugh that came more from exhaustion than from humor.
“Yes,” he said. “But you know… I did not say that in jest. I have… I have twisted things. I have…” He faltered. “I have twisted my wife.”
