The boy that Hans Castorp was talking to was named Hippe, Pribislav Hippe—and the remarkable thing was the r in his first name was pronounced like an sh: he called himself "Pshibislav." And that outlandish name did not fit badly with his looks, which were not ordinary at all, indeed were decidedly foreign.
"Why, how disgusting! A wraith with beautiful hair. You simply can't stomach things like that, can you? And so here you come and turn the lights back on, so to speak, so you can set young men back on the right path—isn't that what you're up to, Lodovico?" Hans Castorp said giddily. He had drunk quite a bit of burgundy and champagne.
"Now listen—that's enough of that, my good engineer!" Settembrini commanded with a scowl. "You will please use forms of address appropriate to the educated West. No first names. Formal pronouns, if you please. What you are trying to do there doesn't suit you at all."
"But why not? It's Mardi Gras! It's common practice on an evening like this."
"Yes, just to add a little uncivil excitement to things. For people to use informal pronouns or first names when they have no real reason to do is a repulsively barbaric practice, a slovenly game, a way of playing with the givens of civilization and human progress, against both of which it is directed—shamelessly, insolently directed."
While Melville was getting better physically and looking around for a new literary inspiration, he attended what the Berkshire County Eagle called "a startling novelty in this region"—a "fancy dress picnic" at which Lizzie carried off the honors in the character of "Cypherina Donothing" dressed in a costume of cyphers.
