Christmas at the Berghof

Christmas Day was damp and foggy. They were stuck in the clouds, Behrens said; there was no fog up here. Whether it was clouds or fog, the moisture was palpable. The fallen snow was melting on the surface and becoming porous and sticky. Their face and hands were subject to far more painful chills during the outdoor cure now than when there was frost and sunshine.
The day was singled out by a musical event in the evening—a proper concert with rows of chairs and printed programmes, organised by the Berghof for the folk up here. It was an evening of lieder performed by a professional singer who lived and taught locally and had two medals pinned to her chest on one side below the neckline of her ballgown, stick-like arms, and a voice whose peculiar lack of musicality spoke volumes about her reasons for moving up here. She sang:

‘I bear my love
About with me.’

The pianist who accompanied her was also local . . . Madame Chauchat sat in the front row but took advantage of the interval to slip away, allowing Hans Castorp to listen to the music (it was music, after all) in peace and read the lyrics printed in the programme as they were sung. Settembrini sat beside him for a while, but he too disappeared after firing off a few graphic comments about the flatness of the bel canto and expressing his sarcastic pleasure at how intimate and innocent this evening’s private gathering was too. To tell the truth, Hans Castorp was relieved when both the narrow-eyed woman and the pedagogue were gone and he was able to pay attention to the music without distraction. He liked the fact that music was played the world over and in the most exceptional circumstances, probably even on polar expeditions.

The only thing that distinguished Boxing Day from an ordinary Sunday or even a weekday was the vague awareness of its existence, and when it was over, Christmas was behind them, or, just as accurately, it lay once more in the distant future, a year away. Once more, there were twelve months until the cycle brought it around again—only seven months more than Hans Castorp had already spent here.

Immediately after this Christmas, however, and before the New Year, as we have said, the squire died.

(Original German: GKFA pp. 440-1)