,” Settembrini said, rolling his native syllables with the utmost relish on his tongue and turning his head from side to side. “He laid out his little garden after Virgil’s own plan⁠—and all that he said was sane and beautiful. But warm, warm he must have it in his little room; otherwise he would tremble with cold, and he could weep with anger if they let him freeze. And now imagine, Engineer, and you, Lieutenant, what I, the son of my father, must suffer in this accursed and barbarous land, where even at summer’s height the body shakes with cold, and the spirit is tortured and debased by the sights it sees.⁠—Oh, it is hard! What types about us! This frantic devil of a Hofrat, Krokowski”⁠—Settembrini pretended to trip over the name⁠—“Krokowski, the father-confessor, who hates me because I’ve too much human dignity to lend myself to his papish practices.⁠—And at my table⁠—what sort of society is that in which I am forced to take my food? At my right sits a brewer from Halle⁠—Magnus by name⁠—with a moustache like a bundle of hay. ‘Don’t talk to me about literature,’ says he. ‘What has it to offer? Anything but beautiful characters? What have I to do with beautiful characters?