In the evening, a figure appeared who could be called Tonio.<\/p>\n
She was not called Tonio, or she was called Tonio, and it did not matter; for Tonio, esteemed female reader, esteemed male reader, is less a name than a position: the position between worlds, between languages, between longing and mockery. Tonio is the person who would like to be bourgeois and cannot, because he sees too much; and who is artistic without wanting to be, because he cannot help but see.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp sat again in the salon, because Gustav von A. wanted to be in the salon, as one wants to be in a temple when one cannot pray. The piano was opened. A person \u2013 young, but not childlike, slender, but not thin \u2013 sat down at it. The hands were beautiful, that is something one can hardly describe without becoming ridiculous; and yet hands are often the most honest thing about a person, because they cannot lie as well as the face.<\/p>\n
The person at the piano played.<\/p>\n
Not loudly.<\/p>\n
Not virtuosic in the sense of demonstration.<\/p>\n
She played in such a way that one noticed: Here one does not play in order to please; here one plays because otherwise it would be unbearable.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp listened.<\/p>\n
He listened, and in doing so he felt something that he had only rarely felt in the Sonnenalp: that his inner self did not break down into values, but into mood. Music is, if you will, the opposite of bestforming; it is not measurable, and yet it is effect.<\/p>\n
After the piece the person stood up.<\/p>\n
She did not bow.<\/p>\n
She only nodded, as if to say: Yes, I know that it was there.<\/p>\n
And then she walked past Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at her.<\/p>\n
The person looked at him.<\/p>\n
And said, in a German that smelled a little of the North, a little of the South:<\/p>\n
\u201cYou are\u2026 not from here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can see it?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can hear it,\u201d said the person. \u201cAnd one sees\u2026 something else.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d asked Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
The person hesitated.<\/p>\n
Then she said, softly, as if it were a confession:<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look as if you were afraid that beauty might do something to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp felt a small stab.<\/p>\n
He thought of Dr. AuDHS, of his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cPerhaps it does,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
The person nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d she said. \u201cIt does.\u201d<\/p>\n
And then, as if she wanted to save herself from sentimentality, she added, ironically, almost mockingly:<\/p>\n
\u201cBut one keeps coming back because of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d asked Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
The person shrugged her shoulders.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause we are bourgeois,\u201d she said. \u201cWe love order. And beauty is the order that does not have to explain itself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp looked at her.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you practice music\u2026 professionally?\u201d he asked, and it was, for him, an unusual word in his mouth, because in his old life he had loved categories that are simpler.<\/p>\n
The person smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am\u2026 employed,\u201d she said. \u201cThat is an art too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp laughed briefly.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you?\u201d asked the person. \u201cWhat are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp thought of the Sonnenalp, of the ring, of the blood pressure, of the diastole, of the expression \u201cnormally high\u201d, of the yellow and green powders, of the words \u201cGuest Relations\u201d, of Morgenstern\u2019s resolutions, of Gustav von A. and his notebook, of the word \u201cSouth\u201d.<\/p>\n
He could have said: I am a deserter.<\/p>\n
He could have said: I am a guest.<\/p>\n
He could have said: I am a project.<\/p>\n
Instead he said, and this was perhaps the first time that he said a sentence that did not consist of measurement:<\/p>\n
\u201cI am\u2026 on the way.\u201d<\/p>\n
The person nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is dangerous,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBeautiful and unedifying,\u201d murmured Hans Castorp.<\/p>\n
The person laughed softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cExactly,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
And left.<\/p>\n
Hans Castorp remained seated.<\/p>\n
He looked at his hands.<\/p>\n
He thought, very slowly: That was Tonio.<\/p>\n
And he felt, without understanding it, that in this city he would not only travel, but learn.<\/p>\n