“And after all, this isn’t a Siberian penal settlement.”

“No. Ah, you have a fancy for oriental simile. Natural enough. Asia surrounds us—wherever one’s glance rests, a Tartar physiognomy.” Herr Settembrini gave a discreet glance over his shoulder. “Genghis Khan,” he said. “Wolves of the steppes, snow, vodka, the knout, Schlüsselburg, Holy Russia. They ought to set up an altar to Pallas Athene, here in the vestibule⁠—to ward off the evil spell. Look yonder⁠—there is a species of Ivan Ivanovitch without a shirtfront, having a disagreement with Lawyer Paravant. Both of them want to be in the front rank to receive their letters. I can’t tell which of them is in the right, but, for my part, Lawyer Paravant fights under the aegis of the goddess. He is an ass, of course; but at least he knows some Latin.”

Hans Castorp laughed⁠—a thing Herr Settembrini never did. One could not imagine him laughing heartily; he never got further than the fine, dry crisping of the corner of his mouth. He looked at the laughing young man, and presently asked: “Have you received your diapositive?”