Young Torless

by Robert Musil

  With the breaking of the silence the spell that had bound Törless was also broken. Casual words began to flow over the awkward moment, blotting it out. There had been a momentary alertness, but now the old indifference was there again. .

  “How long have we still got?” Törless asked.

  “Two and a half hours.”

  Suddenly shivering, Törless hunched up his shoulders. Once again he felt the paralysing weight of the constriction he was about to re-enter, the school time-table, the daily companionship of his friend. Even that dislike of Beineberg would cease which seemed, for an instant, to have created a new situation.

  What's for supper tonight?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What have we got tomorrow?”

  “Mathematics.”

  “Oh. Was there something to prepare?”

  “Yes. A few new trigonometry theorems. But you needn't worry about them, they're not difficult.”

  “And what else?”

  “Divinity.”

  “Divinity.... Oh, well. That's something to look forward to... .I think when I really get going I could just as easily prove that twice two is five as that there can be only one God. . .

  Beineberg glanced up at Törless mockingly. “It's quite funny how you go on about that. It strikes me almost as if you really enjoyed it. Anyway, there's a positive glare of enthusiasm in your eyes. . .

  “And why not? Don't you think it's fun? There's always a point you get to where you stop knowing whether you're just making it all up or if what you've made up is truer than you are yourself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I don't mean literally, of course. Naturally, you always know you are making it up. But all the same, every now and then the whole thing strikes you as being so credible that you're brought up standing, in a way, in the grip of your own ideas.”

  “Well, but what is it about it you enjoy, then?”

  “Just that: you get a sort of jerk in your head, a sort of dizziness, a shock...”

  “Oh, I say, shut up! That's all foolery.”

  “Well, I didn't say it wasn't. But still, so far as I'm concerned, it's more interesting than anything else at school.”

  “It's just a way of doing gymnastics with your brain. But it doesn't get you anywhere, all the same.”

  “No,” Törless said, looking out into the garden again. Behind his back-as though from a long way off-he heard the buzzing of the gas-lights. He was preoccupied by an emotion rising up in him, mournfully and like a mist.

  “It doesn't get you anywhere. You're right about that. But it doesn't do to tell yourself that. How much of all the things we spend our whole time in school doing is really going to get anyone anywhere? What do we get anything out of? I mean for ourselves-you see what I mean? In the evening you know you've lived another day, you've learnt this and that, you've kept up with the time-table, hut still, you're empty-inwardly, I mean. Right inside, you're still hungry, so to speak. .

  Beineberg muttered something about exercising the mind by way of preparation-not yet being able to start on anything-later on...

  “Preparation? Exercise? What for? Have you got any definite idea of it? I dare say you're hoping for something, but it's just as vague to you as it is to me. It's like this: everlastingly waiting for something you don't know anything about except that you're waiting for it. . . . It's so boring.

  “Boring. . .” Beineberg drawled in mimicry, wagging his head.

  Törless was still gazing out into the garden. He thought he could hear the rustling of the withered leaves being blown into drifts by the wind. Then came that moment of utter stillness which always

  occurs a little while before the descent of complete darkness. The shapes of things, which had been sinking ever more deeply into the dusk, and the blurring, dissolving colours of things-for an instant it all seemed to pause, to hover, as it were with a holding of the breath ...

  “You know, Beineberg,” Törless said, without turning round, '~when it's getting dark there always seem to be a few moments that are sort of different. Every time I watch it happening I remember the same thing: once when I was quite small I was playing in the woods at this time of evening. My nursemaid had wandered off somewhere. I didn't know she had, and so I still felt as if she were nearby. Suddenly something made me look up. I could feel I was alone. It was suddenly all so quiet. And when I looked around it was as though the trees were standing in a circle round me, all silent, and looking at me. I began to cry. I felt the grownups had deserted me and abandoned me to inanimate beings.... What is it? I still often get it. What's this sudden silence that's like a language we can't hear?”

  “I don't know the thing you mean. But why shouldn't things have a language of their own? After all, there are no definite grounds for asserting that they haven't a soul!”

  Törless did not answer. He did not care for Beineberg's speculative view of the matter.

  But after a while Beineberg went on: “Why do you keep on staring out of the window? What is there to be seen?”

  “I'm still wondering what it can be.” But actually he had gone on to thinking about something else, which he did not want to speak of. That high tension, that harkening as if some solemn mystery might become audible, and the burden of gazing right into the midst of the still undefined relationships of things-all this was something he had been able to endure only for a moment. Then lie had once again been overcome by the sense of solitude and forlornness which always followed this excessive demand upon his resources. He felt: there's something in this that's still too difficult for me. And his thoughts took refuge in something else, which was also implicit in it all, but which, as it were, lay only in the background and biding its time: loneliness.

  From the deserted garden a leaf now and then fluttered up against the lit window, tearing a streak of brightness into the darkness great future ahead of them usually go through a period abounding in humiliations.

  Törless's taste for certain moods was the first hint of a psychological development that was later to manifest itself as a strong sense of wonder. The fact was that later he was to have-and indeed to be dominated by-a peculiar ability: he could not help frequently experiencing events, people, things, and even himself, in such a way as to feel that in it all there was at once some insoluble enigma and some inexplicable kinship for which he could never quite produce any evidence. Then these things would seem tangibly comprehensible, and yet he could never entirely resolve them into words and ideas. Between events and himself, indeed between his own feelings and some inmost self that craved understanding of them, there always remained a dividing-line, which receded before his desire, like a horizon, the closer he tried to come to it. Indeed, the more accurately he circumscribed his feelings with thoughts, and the more familiar they became to him, the stranger and more incomprehensible did they seem to become, in equal measure; so that it no longer even seemed as though they were retreating before him, but as though he himself were withdrawing from them, and yet without being able to shake off the illusion of coming closer to them.

  This queer antithesis, which was so difficult for him to grasp, later occupied an important phase of his spiritual development; it was something that tore at his soul, as though to rend it apart, and for a long time it was his soul's chief problem and the chief threat to it.

  For the present, however, the severity of these struggles was indicated only by a frequent sudden lassitude, alarming him, as it were, from a long way off, when ever some ambiguous, odd mood such as this just now-brought him a foreboding of it. Then he would seem to himself as powerless as a captive, as one who had been abandoned and shut away as much from himself as from others. At such times he could have screamed with desperation and the horror of emptiness; but instead of doing anything of the kind he would avert himself from this solemn and expectant, tormented, wearied being within himself and-still aghast at his abrupt renunciation-would begin to listen, more and more enchanted by their warm, sin
ful breath, to the whispering voices of his solitude.

  behind it. Then the darkness seemed to shrink and withdraw, only in the next instant to advance again and stand motionless as a wall outside the window. This darkness was a world apart. It had descended upon the earth like a horde of black enemies, slaughtering or banishing human beings, or, whatever it did, blotting out all trace of them.

  And it seemed to Törless that he was glad of this. At this moment he had no liking for human beings-for all who were adults. He never liked them when it was dark. He was in the habit then of cancelling them out of his thoughts. After that the world seemed to him like a sombre, empty house, and in his breast there was a sense of awe and horror, as though he must now search room after room-dark rooms where he did not know what the corners might conceal-groping his way across thresholds that no human foot would ever step on again, until-until in one room the doors would suddenly slam behind him and before him and he would stand confronting the mistress of the black hordes herself. And at the same instant the locks would snap shut in all the doors through which he had come; and only far beyond, outside the walls, would the shades of darkness stand on guard like black eunuchs, warding off any human approach.

  This was his kind of loneliness since he had been left in the lurch that time-in the woods, where he had wept so bitterly. It held for him the lure of woman and of something monstrous. He felt it as a woman, but its breath was only a gasping in his chest, its face a whirling forgetfulness of all human faces, and the movements of its hands a shuddering all through his body....

  He feared this fantasy, for he was aware of the perverted lust in the secrecy of it, and he was disturbed by the thought that such imaginings might gain more and more power over him. But they would overwhelm him just when he believed himself to be most serious and most pure. It happened, perhaps, as a reaction to those moments when he had an inkling of another emotional awareness, which, though it was already implicit in him, was as yet beyond his years. For there is, in the development of every fine moral energy, such an early point where it weakens the soul whose most daring experience it will perhaps be some day-just as if it had first to send down its roots, gropingly, to disturb the ground that they will afterwards hold together; and it is for this reason that boys with a

  * * *

  Törless suddenly proposed that they should pay and go. A look of understanding gleamed in Beineberg's eyes: he knew and shared the mood. Törless was revolted by this concord, and his dislike of Beineberg quickened again; he felt himself degraded by their having anything in common.

  But that had by now practically become part of it all. Degradation is but one solitude more and yet another dark wall.

  And so, without speaking to each other, they set out on a certain road.

  There must have been a light shower of rain a few minutes earlier-the air was moist and heavy, a misty halo trembled round the street-lamps, and here and there the pavement glimmered.

  Törless's sword clattered on the stones, and he drew it closer to his side. But there was still the sound of his heels on the pavement, and even that sent a queer shiver through him. After a while, leaving the pavements of the town behind them, they had soft ground underfoot and were walking along wide village streets towards the river. The water rolled along, black and sluggish, and with deep gurgling sounds under the wooden bridge. There was a single lamp there, with broken, dusty glass. Now and then the gleam of the light, which was blown uneasily hither and thither by the gusts of wind, would fall on a rippling wave below and dissolve on its crept. The rounded foot-planks of the bridge yielded under every step . . . revolving forward, then back again. .

  Beineberg stopped. The farther bank was thickly wooded, and along the road, which turned at a right-angle on the other side and continued along the river, the trees had the menacing look of a black, impenetrable wall. Only if one looked carefully did one discover a narrow, hidden path leading straight on and into it. As they went on their way through the thick, rank undergrowth, which brushed against their clothes, they were continually showered with drops. After a while they had to stop again and strike a match. It was very quiet now; even the gurgling of the river could not be heard. Suddenly from the distance there came a vague, broken sound. It was like a cry or a warning. Or perhaps it was merely like a call from some inarticulate creature that, somewhere ahead, was breaking its way through the bushes, like themselves. They walked on towards this sound, stopped again, and again walked on. All in all it was perhaps a quarter of an hour before, with a long breath of relief, they recognized loud voices and the notes of a concertina.

  Now the trees grew more sparsely, and a few paces further they found themselves standing on the edge of a clearing, in the midst of which there was a squat, square building, two storeys high.

  It was the old pump-room. In former times it had been used by the people of the little town and peasants from the neighbouring countryside for taking the waters; but for years now it had been almost empty. Only the ground floor was still used, as a tavern, and one that was of ill repute.

  The two boys stopped for a moment, listening.

  Törless was just taking a step forward, about to issue forth from the thicket, when there was a sound of heavy boots tramping on the floor-boards inside the house and a drunken man came staggering out of the door. Behind him, in the shadow of the doorway, stood a woman, and they could hear her whispering hurriedly and angrily, as though demanding something from the man. He merely laughed, swaying on his feet. Then it seemed that the woman was pleading, but again the words were indistinguishable; all that could be made out was the coaxing, cajoling tone of the voice. Now she advanced further and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. The moon shone upon her, lighting up her petticoat, her jacket, her pleading smile. The man stared straight ahead of him, shook his head, and kept his hands firmly in his pockets. Then he spat and pushed the woman away, perhaps because of something she had said. Now their voices were raised and what they said could be understood.

  “-so you won't pay up, eh? You-!”

  “You just take yourself off upstairs, you dirty slut!”

  “The cheek! You peasant clod, you!”

  By way of answer the drunken man bent down, with a clumsy movement, and picked up a stone. “If you don't clear off, you silly bitch, I'll knock your block off!”, and he raised his arm, preparing to throw the stone at her. Törless heard the woman running up the steps with a last cry of abuse.

  The man stood still for a moment, irresolutely holding the stone in his hand. He laughed, glanced up at the sky, where the moon floated, wine-yellow, among black clouds, and then stared at the dark mass of the thicket, as though he were wondering whether to go that way. Warily Törless drew his foot back; he could feel his heart hammering in his throat. Finally, however, the drunken man seemed to reach a decision. The stone dropped from his hand. With a raucous, triumphant laugh he shouted an obscenity up at the window; then he disappeared round the corner.

  The two boys stood motionless a while longer. “Did you recognise her?” Beineberg whispered. “It was Bozena.” Törless did not answer; he was listening, trying to make sure that the drunken man was not coming back again. Then Beineberg gave him a push forward. In swift, wary dashes-avoiding the wedge of light from the ground-floor window-they crossed the clearing and entered the dark house. A wooden staircase, narrow and twisting, led up to the first floor. Here their footsteps must have been heard, or perhaps the clatter of their swords against the woodwork, for the door of the tavern room opened and someone came out to see who was in the house; at the same time the concertina ceased playing, and there was a momentary hush in the talk, a pause of suspense.

  Startled, Törless pressed close to the staircase wall. But in spite of the darkness it seemed he had been seen, for he heard the barmaid's jeering voice as the door was shut again, and whatever she said was followed by guffaws of laughter.

  On the first-floor landing it was pitch-dark. They hardly dared to take another step
for fear of knocking something over and making a noise. Fumbling excitedly, they felt their way along towards the door-handle.

  * * *

  As a peasant girl Bozena had gone to the capital, where she went into service and in time became a lady's maid.

  At first she did quite well. Her peasant ways, which she never entirely lost any more than her plodding, firm-footed walk, inspired confidence in her mistresses, who liked the whiff of the cow-shed about her and the simplicity they associated with it; it also inspired amorous desires in her masters, who liked the whiff of the cowshed for other reasons. Perhaps from caprice, and perhaps too from discontent and a vague yearning for passion, she gave up this quiet, orderly life. She took a job as a waitress, fell ill, found employment in a house of public resort, one of the smarter kind, and in the course of time, in the same measure as her debauched life wore her down, drifted further and further out into the provinces again.

  And finally here, where she had now been living for several years, not far from her native village, she helped in the tavern during the day and spent the evenings reading cheap novels, smoking cigarettes, and occasionally having a man in her room.

  She had not yet become actually ugly, but her face was strikingly lacking in any sort of charm, and she evidently went to some trouble to emphasise this by her general air and behaviour. She liked to convey that she was well acquainted with the smartness and the manners of the stylish world, but that she had got beyond all that sort of thing. She was fond of declaring that she did not care a snap of the fingers for that, or for herself, or indeed for anything whatsoever. On this account, and in spite of her blowsiness, she enjoyed a certain degree of respect among the peasant lads of the neighbourhood. True, they spat when they spoke of her, and felt obliged to treat her with even more coarseness than other girls, but at bottom they were really mightily proud of this 'damned slut' who had issued from their own midst and who had so thoroughly seen through the veneer of the world. Singly and furtively, it is true, but ever and again they came to see her. Thus Bozena found a residue of pride and self-justification in her life. But what gave her perhaps even greater satisfaction was the young gentlemen from 'the college'. For their benefit she deliberately displayed her crudest and most repellent qualities, because-as she was in the habit of putting it-in spite of that they still came creeping along to her just the same.