Between the conversation and the evening lay a day which, like all days in such establishments, was more schedule than time. Hans Castorp ate, he walked, he drank water that tasted of lemon leaves, he read a little, without reading, he observed the people who moved up here in their wellness uniforms as if in a morally purified world.
And in the afternoon, when he – more out of habit than inclination – went up to the library, that gallery above the chandelier where the silence always pretends a little to be real, it happened that he saw him.
Not “him” as a person, not “Gustav von A.” as a name – names are dangerous, and Hans Castorp has learned to be cautious – but a figure.
He stood between the shelves, half in light, half in shadow, and he possessed that correctness which does not seem dapper, but necessary. The man wore a dark jacket, not conspicuous, not expensive in a loud way; and in his hand he held a small notebook that was not decorative but used. His head was slightly bowed, as if he were listening, but he was not listening for sounds; he was listening for sentences.
Hans Castorp remained standing at the railing, looked down into the reception hall where people held glasses and laughed, and then back over to this figure.
He was writing.
Not hectically. Not romantically. He wrote in that calm, precise manner that says: Here there is no feeling, here there is shaping. And Hans Castorp felt a sentence from Zieser’s mouth enter his head, completely inappropriate and for that very reason cutting:
Who writes, remains.
Hans Castorp thought, with a Tonio-like stab: Whoever does not write – what remains of him?
He saw that on the man’s coat, very small, almost ridiculously discreet, there was a pin: a tiny golden symbol that briefly flashed in the light. It was impossible to make out exactly what it represented. It could have been a little crown. It could have been a coat of arms. It could have been a joke.
Hans Castorp saw it only for a moment.
Then the man raised his head. Not toward Hans, not as if he recognized him, but simply as if he were taking in his surroundings. His gaze brushed the gallery, the books, the chandelier, the hall – and for a moment Hans Castorp had the feeling that he too was only an object in this perception: a figure that one registers without looking at it.
The gaze slid on.
And the man was back in his notebook.
Hans Castorp stood there for another moment and wondered whether he had just seen someone or only an idea: the idea of the creator, the idea of one who justifies his existence through form. He thought of Tonio, without knowing Tonio, and he thought: There are people who sleep badly because they feel too much. And there are people who sleep badly because they write too much.
He went downstairs.
