He paused, and in this pause you could, if you wanted, look at the grand piano that stood silently on the stage, black, shiny, as if it were an animal that was sleeping. You could also look outside, where the landscape acted as if it knew no projects.
“Since about eleven o’clock,” Dr. AuDHS continued, “the picture has been getting even more exciting – because what we call ‘human’ becomes more clearly visible.”
He spoke the word “human” with a caution, as if it were a concept that is too easily misused in a pathetic way.
“Upright walking becomes normal – and with that the hands become free,” he said. “That changes hunting, food, tools, everyday life. Free hands mean: more possibilities. More shaping. More culture.”
Hans looked at his hands. He saw how they lay calmly on the table, as if they did not belong to him, but to a picture.
“Politics arises,” said Dr. AuDHS. “And by politics I do not mean parties here. I mean the ability to consciously ensure good coexistence: through visibly obliging behavior, through alliances, through social cleverness. That is useful to this day – and for many people even a life goal: to get along well with people.”
He looked into the room, and his gaze brushed, just a hint too long, Morgenstern, as if he knew that this man was currently working on such a life goal, not out of ideology, but out of necessity.
“Grief becomes conscious,” said Dr. AuDHS. “We learn to bear loss. Rituals help to accept, to let go. Grief is an enormous form of stress – and at the same time profoundly human. Even today, the ability to allow grief and at some point transform it is a protective factor for the soul.”
Hans thought of the war, of the noise, of the fireworks, of the twitching of his body. He thought: Grief is perhaps also what you do not feel because you cannot afford to.
“Intoxication appears,” Dr. AuDHS continued, “occasionally. As an exception. As a stress valve. And this is important: Occasional intoxication is something different from the constant availability that comes later. ‘Sometimes’ can become ‘always’ – and then benefit tips into harm.”
He said it as if it were self-evident; and yet in the sentence there was a warning that did not sound like morality, but like biology.
“Cooperation and hierarchy,” he said. “We create things together that are impossible alone. And we organize ourselves. Good cooperation works best when responsibility is linked to suitability – not to ego.”
Hans thought of Settembrini and Naphta, of responsibilities and egos; but he thought it only fleetingly, because these names no longer counted in this world, or only as literary shadows.
“And then,” said Dr. AuDHS, “the awareness of death. The knowledge: I am finite.”
He left the sentence standing. It was the moment when the music room, warm as it was, acquired a hint of cold.
“And precisely from that something decisive arises,” he continued, more quietly: “The present becomes valuable. The here and now becomes the center.”
Hans felt something answer inside him – not as a thought, but as a body: a small, heavy yes.
“The human being can plan the future, remember the past,” said Dr. AuDHS, “but he lives only in the present. And whoever loses this present loses a part of life.”
Outside, the present stood in green; inside it stood in words.
“Since about eight o’clock,” said Dr. AuDHS, “many things have been emerging that we take for granted today – and that nevertheless have a deep effect within us.”
