Hans Castorp looked at the sentence on the wall.<\/p>\n
Joy to him who comes. Joy to him who goes.<\/p>\n
He thought of Kautsonik\u2019s small addition in the back office: And duty to him who stays.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are right,\u201d said Hans Castorp suddenly. \u201cThe sentence leaves something out.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his brows.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich sentence?\u201d, he asked, as if he were a man who presupposes nothing.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp pointed upwards.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat one,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked. His gaze was tired, but clear.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh that one,\u201d he said. \u201cYes. It is beautiful. Beautiful is always suspicious.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled. It was a smile without joy.<\/p>\n
\u201cJoy to him who comes,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d said Kautsonik.<\/p>\n
\u201cJoy to him who goes,\u201d said Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cBut most people don\u2019t want to go. Most people want to stay. And those who have to go\u2026\u201d He paused briefly and looked at the lilies. \u201cThey don\u2019t go voluntarily.\u201d<\/p>\n
He said the sentence the way he had said it on New Year\u2019s Day, as if it were a refrain you never get rid of. And Hans Castorp felt that this sentence, in the night, was even heavier.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you?\u201d, asked Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cI,\u201d he said, \u201cwant to go. But I want to\u2026 here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp understood. He understood with a kind of physical clarity: The man who registers all departures wants to have his own departure registered, as if it were a proper procedure.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy here?\u201d, he asked.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik looked into the hall, as if he did not see wood and light, but decades.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I was needed here,\u201d he said. \u201cThat is my bourgeois warmth. Others have families. I have guests. That is cheerless, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, but it is true. And if you don\u2019t have lilies, then you are glad if at least you are\u2026\u201d He again searched for a word. \u201c\u2026useful.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt the Tonio-stab. Warm and sad at the same time.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is\u2026\u201d, he began.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik raised his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cYou don\u2019t need to pity me. Pity is a bad currency. You know that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp nodded. He thought of the woman from Walpurgis Night, of her eyes, of her mocking smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd,\u201d said Kautsonik, and his voice grew quieter, \u201cit is also not just pathos. It is\u2026 practical. I know every shadow here. I know every door. I know every step. I know the rhythm. If I am to die somewhere, then where I know the rhythm.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rhythm. Time. Magic Mountain. Hans Castorp felt how things contracted within him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou sell longevity here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik smiled crookedly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I sell farewell.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp was silent.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik stood there, under the sentence on the wall, under the chandelier, under the warm staging; and Hans Castorp suddenly saw how absurd it was, how comical and how abysmal: that in a house that has made a program out of the fear of death, the most faithful person is the one who chooses death as his final service.<\/p>\n
Kautsonik lifted his hand from the counter, very slowly, as if it were an exercise. He straightened up, a little too straight.<\/p>\n
\u201cSir,\u201d he said, and the old politeness returned like a uniform button, \u201cshould sleep. Sleep is\u2026\u201d He paused briefly, as if he had paid attention in the house\u2019s lectures. \u201c\u2026hygiene.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cI have heard that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kautsonik nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen,\u201d he said, \u201cgo.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp remained standing for a moment longer. He looked at the sentence on the wall. He looked at the lilies. He looked at Kautsonik, who stood as if standing were his last resistance against disappearing.<\/p>\n
Then he turned around.<\/p>\n
He went.<\/p>\n
And as he walked, he thought \u2013 slowly, deliberately, system two \u2013 that perhaps what is a lily in him does not lie in the house, not in the program, not in the ring, not in the powder, not in the logbook.<\/p>\n
Perhaps it lies in the going.<\/p>\n
The next morning the logbook was still there.<\/p>\n
The heading: The five resolutions.<\/p>\n
Underneath: White.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp took the little wooden stick.<\/p>\n
He did not write.<\/p>\n
He put it down.<\/p>\n
And for the first time he felt that not writing was not only escape, but decision.<\/p>\n
For that too, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, is a resolution:<\/p>\n
Not to have everything entered.<\/p>\n