The path led out of the complex, past well-tended hedges that looked as if they had been trimmed by someone who was thinking about morality while doing it; past a small stream that was so clean that one did not trust it; out into the meadows, where the grass actually grew and was not called “lawn”.
Here it was, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, green.
The green was not the deep, heavy green of the forest, not the artificial green of the golf courses, not the decorative green of houseplants. It was the young, bright green of the meadows, which smells of growth and of transience at the same time, because it knows: it will be mowed.
Hans Castorp saw it, and involuntarily – involuntarily! – he thought of Morgenstern’s sentence from that night: “The blue grass.” Back then it had snowed, and everything had been white, correct; the blue had only been on the display. Today the display was there again, of course: his ring was not blinking, but he felt it like a presence. And the green outside was so unambiguous that it almost seemed like an argument.
They walked in a triangle: Morgenstern in front, as if he were in a hurry; Dr. AuDHS beside him, at that distance which allows closeness but does not force familiarity; Hans Castorp a little behind, as always, as if he were the pupil who does not want to disturb.
“I have an association,” Morgenstern finally said, and one could hear that this word – association – was not merely a thought, but a request.
Dr. AuDHS slightly raised his eyebrows.
“That is your profession,” he said.
“My profession?” asked Morgenstern.
“You associate in order to avoid having to act,” said Dr. AuDHS mildly. “But go ahead and tell it.”
Morgenstern exhaled, as if this was exactly what he had not wished for, and began:
“Do you know this fable? With the donkey, the tiger and the lion?”
Hans Castorp nodded hesitantly. He did not know it. But he nodded – that was, after all, his talent.
Dr. AuDHS said nothing. He let Morgenstern tell the story, and that was, with this man, already a gesture of respect.
Morgenstern told the story, not verbatim, but the way people tell stories when they have read them on the internet and now want to use them as truth: with small omissions, with emphases, with a moral goal.
“The donkey says: the grass is blue,” said Morgenstern. “The tiger says: no, it is green. They argue. They go to the lion. The lion says to the donkey: if you believe it is blue, then it is blue. And then he has the tiger punished – because the tiger has wasted time at all by arguing with a donkey.”
He paused briefly, looked at the grass as if he wanted to use it as evidence.
“And I,” he said, and now the fable was no longer fable, but confession, “I know such donkeys. And I…” He hesitated. “Sometimes I am the tiger. I argue. I explain. I want it to be correct. And in the end…”
“…you are silent for five years,” added Dr. AuDHS.
Morgenstern laughed briefly, but it was not a cheerful laugh.
“Yes,” he said. “And I don’t want that anymore. I no longer want to be the donkey who claims the grass is blue. I have…” He made a small movement with his hand, as if stroking something invisible. “…addressed that in myself. With my resolutions. Respect. Compassion. Responsibility. Safety. Partnership. That is…” He swallowed. “That is my attempt not to be a donkey.”
Hans Castorp looked at him, and he felt – and this is important – sympathy. Sympathy, because Morgenstern, for all the comedy of his masked night, had something serious: the will not only to become better, but more dignified.
“But,” Morgenstern continued, and now his voice became harder, “there are donkeys outside. People who…” He searched for a word that does not insult. “…who use my good nature. Who use my time. Who regard my yes as a matter of course. And when I then say no once, then…” He paused briefly. “…then suddenly I am the tiger who disturbs. Who contradicts. Who annoys.”
Dr. AuDHS nodded slowly.
“So,” he said, “we are with the lion.”
“Yes,” said Morgenstern. “And I want to know: what does one do?”
Hans Castorp felt how the question also concerned him, although it was not addressed to him. For Hans Castorp had lived for years in a world of not-saying, of not-no, of polite evasion. That too is a form of being a tiger: you know that something is green and do not say it, because otherwise you attract attention.
Dr. AuDHS stopped.
