The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann

Hans Castorp's week here ran from Tuesday to Tuesday, for on a Tuesday he had arrived. Two or three days before, he had gone down to the office and paid his second weekly bill, a modest account of a round one hundred and sixty francs, modest and cheap enough, even without taking into consideration the nature of some of the advantages of a stay up here -- advantages priceless in themselves, though for that very reason they could not be included in the bill -- and even without counting extras like the fortnightly concert and Dr. Krokowski's lectures, which might conceivably have been included. The sum of one hundred and sixty francs represented simply and solely the actual hospitality extended by the Berghof to Hans Castorp: his comfortable lodgment and his five stupendous meals.

"It isn't much, it is rather cheap than otherwise," remarked the guest to the old inhabitant. "You cannot complain of being overcharged up here. You need around six hundred and fifty francs a month for board and lodging, treatment included. Let us assume that you spend another thirty francs for tips, if you are decent and like to have friendly faces about you. That makes six hundred and eighty. Good. Of course I know there are fixed fees and other sorts of small expenses: toilet articles, tobacco, drives, and excursions, now and then a bill for shoes or clothing. Very good. But all that won't bring it up to a thousand francs, say what you like. Not eight hundred even. That isn't ten thousand francs a year. Certainly not more. That is what it costs you."