The Confusions of Young Master Törless (Alma Classics)

by Robert Musil

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s first period tomorrow?”

  “Maths.”

  “Hm. Is there any prep to do?”

  “A couple of new theorems in trigonometry; but you won’t have any trouble, there’s not much to them.”

  “And after that?”

  “Divinity.”

  “Divinity? Oh yes, that’s right. No doubt that’ll be fun again! When I’m on form I think I could just as easily prove that two and two make five as I can that there’s only One True God…”

  Beineberg gave Törless a mocking look. “You amuse me when you say things like that; anyone would think it’s a game for you; in fact I just saw a glint of enthusiasm in your eye…”

  “And why not? Isn’t it just glorious? There comes a point with all that business when you can’t tell if people are lying, or if what they’ve made up is more real than the person who invented it.”

  “How so?”

  “Obviously I don’t mean it literally. Of course, we always know when someone is spinning a yarn; but there are times when it actually seems credible, and we stop dead in our tracks, as if mesmerized by our thoughts.”

  “Fine, but what do you find so amusing?”

  “Just that. It’s like a blow to the head, a fit of dizziness, a panic attack…”

  “Come off it, that’s nonsense.”

  “I wouldn’t claim otherwise. But whatever the case, it’s what I find most interesting about this school.”

  “So it’s a form of mental gymnastics, but it doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  “No,” replied Törless, and turned and looked out at the garden again. Behind him – far, far behind – he could hear the hiss of the gas lamp. He was in pursuit of a feeling that had suddenly risen up in him like mournful mist.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t lead anywhere. But we mustn’t let ourselves believe that. Of all the things we do here every day, do any of them lead anywhere? What do we get out of it? I’m talking about something worth having, if you see what I mean. In the evening you know you’ve got through another day, that you’ve learnt this and that, kept to the timetable, but you still feel empty – inwardly, I mean: you have what might be described as an inner hunger…”

  Beineberg muttered something about intellectual preparation, spiritual exercises, that they weren’t ready to start yet, that that came later…

  “Exercises? Preparation? For what? Do you know anything for certain? Perhaps you hope for something, but even that’s vague. That’s all it is: waiting eternally for something you know nothing about, except that you’re waiting for it… It’s so boring…”

  “Boring…” Beineberg dragged out the word and shook his head.

  Törless continued staring out at the garden. He thought he could hear dead leaves rustling in the wind. Then came that moment of utter silence which descends just before nightfall. For a few seconds the shapes that had been nestling deeper and deeper into the half-light, the colours that were dissolving, seemed to stand perfectly still, holding their breath…

  “Have you ever noticed, Beineberg,” said Törless, without turning round, “that at twilight there are moments quite unlike any other. Whenever I see them it brings back the same memory. Of when I was very young, and I was playing in the woods. My nursemaid had wandered off; I didn’t notice and thought I could still feel her nearby. Then all of a sudden something made me look up. I sensed that I was alone. It had gone terribly quiet. And as I looked round I got the impression that the trees were standing in a circle round me, silently watching me. I began to cry; I felt that the grown-ups had abandoned me, left me to the mercy of inanimate creatures… What is that feeling? I often have it even now. That sudden silence, like a language that we can’t quite understand?”

  “I don’t know what you mean; but why shouldn’t things have a language of their own? We can’t even say with certainty that they don’t have a soul!”

  Törless didn’t answer. He didn’t think much of Beineberg’s theories.

  After a while his friend added: “Why do you keep looking out of the window? What’s there to see?”

  “I’m still wondering what it might be.”

  The fact was that his thoughts had moved on much further than he cared to admit. The state of extreme tension, of constantly keeping his ear to the ground to hear some vital secret, the effort of trying to discover an as yet uncharted aspect of life was something he had only been able to endure for a few minutes. And then he was engulfed by the feeling of isolation and abandonment that always followed whenever he demanded too much of himself. He sensed that there was something about this experience that was still too difficult for him, so his thoughts sought sanctuary in another part of it which in a sense hovered in the background, lying in wait: solitude.

  Out in the deserted garden, a leaf sometimes danced in the light from the window, and a pale streak on the underside would glint as it tumbled back into the darkness, which seemed to give way, retreat, and then advance again until it stood motionless outside the window like a wall. This darkness was a world within a world. Like a black-clad enemy horde it swept across the earth, killing human beings or driving them away, obliterating all trace of their existence.

  Törless got a sense of enjoyment from this idea. At this particular moment he didn’t like human beings, grown-ups, adults. He never liked them at night. It was a time of day when he preferred to put them out of his mind. The world took on the appearance of a dark, empty house, and his heart contracted at the thought that he might have to search the rooms one by one – rooms full of shadows, where he didn’t know what the corners concealed – tiptoeing through doorways that human feet would never pass through again, until he reached a room where the doors suddenly closed behind and in front of him, and he was face to face with the queen of the black-clad host. And then all the other doors slammed shut as well and, stretching into the distance beyond the walls, there was only darkness and its shadows, standing guard like black-robed eunuchs to keep everyone at bay.

  Ever since the day he had been abandoned in the woods to cry, this had been his own particular solitude. For him it had all the attractions of a woman, and also something terrible and inhuman. He could sense the female presence, but her breath made him feel as if he were being strangled, her face was a swirling eddy into which all other human faces disappeared, while the movements of her hands were shudders running through his body.

  He was afraid of these imaginings, because he was conscious of the secret depravity they concealed, and the thought that such images might gain control over him was extremely unsettling. But just when he felt that he was at his most serious and pure, they chose that moment to assail him. It may have been a reaction to the times when he sensed he was about to make some highly sensitive discoveries, which, even if they were already fermenting inside him were quite advanced for someone his age. Early in the development of any finely tuned moral powers there comes a point where the soul is weakened by something that might one day become its most audacious experience, as if its roots need to find their way down and churn up the ground that they will later hold together – which is why young people with a promising future generally have a past filled with humiliations.

  Törless’s preference for certain moods was the first sign of a psychological development that would later manifest itself as a gift for amazement. It was a curious ability that in time would come to rule his life. He would often be unable to prevent himself from experiencing events, people, things and even himself in a way that he felt was both incomprehensible and yet evidence of an affinity which could neither be explained nor wholly justified. They seemed to have palpable meaning, and yet they couldn’t be fully translated into words and thoughts. Between events and his actual self, even between his emotions and a deeper, inner self about which he longed to know more lay a dividing line which, like the horizon, retreated from his desires the more he approached it. The closer his thoughts came to grasping his feelings, the mo
re familiar and at the same time more bizarre and impenetrable they became, so that it no longer seemed as if they were moving away from him, but that it was he who was drifting away from them, although he could never quite dispel the illusion that he was getting closer.

  Later on this extraordinary, almost unfathomable contradiction would account for a lengthy phase in his intellectual development, and seemed as if it would almost tear his soul apart, threatening to become his most serious problem.

  For the time being, however, the intensity of the struggle was only apparent in the sudden but not infrequent bouts of listlessness that preceded it, frightening him from a distance, so to speak, whenever a strange, ambiguous mood gave him prior warning, as had happened a few moments ago. At times like this he would feel as powerless as a convict or a prisoner of war, as isolated from himself as he was from everyone else; he would have liked to cry out in despair at this emptiness, but instead he turned away from the solemn, ever-hopeful, tormented and lethargic human being inside him and – still terrified by this sudden renouncement but in raptures at its warm, guilty breath – listened for the whispering voice of solitude.

  Suddenly he suggested they pay the bill. Beineberg’s eyes gave a flicker of comprehension – it was a mood he knew of old. Törless loathed this complicity; it rekindled his aversion for Beineberg, and he felt defiled by the mere fact of associating with him.

  But the two things went almost hand in hand. Defilement is just another form of solitude, one more wall of darkness.

  Without saying a word they set off in a familiar direction.

  3

  IT MUST HAVE BEEN raining slightly, because the air was still damp and heavy. An opalescent mist quivered round the streetlamps, while here and there the paving stones shimmered.

  Törless’s sword kept catching on the cobbles, and he held it close to his side, but the sound of his heels clacking was enough to send a shudder down his spine.

  It wasn’t long before the ground under their feet became softer, they left the town centre behind and made their way along wide village streets towards the river.

  The black water wound idly by, making hollow lapping noises as it flowed under the wooden bridge. Beside it stood a lone streetlamp, its glass smashed and dusty. Buffeted by gusts of wind, the beam of light lit up the occasional swirling wave before melting away on the crest. As they walked across, the round poles shifted beneath them, rolled back and forth…

  Beineberg stopped. The opposite bank was lined with bushy trees, and like the road that ran at right angles to the bridge, it followed beside the river like a dark, threatening, impenetrable wall. Only after a search did they find the narrow, hidden path that led straight on. Whenever their uniforms brushed the dense undergrowth they were showered with raindrops. After a while they stopped and lit a match. It was now totally silent, they couldn’t even hear the babble of the river. Then from somewhere in the distance came a confused, muffled noise. It might have been a scream or a warning; or just the call of some unintelligible creature that was finding its way through the bushes, much the same as they were. They strode in the direction of the sound, paused, and then carried on. After a quarter of an hour at most, with sighs of relief they made out raucous voices and the sound of an accordion.

  The trees were sparser now, and they soon came to the edge of a clearing in the centre of which stood a substantial, two-storeyed square building.

  It was the old public baths. There was a time when the local farmers and people from the town had made use of it, but it had stood virtually empty for years. Now a bar of ill repute had taken over the ground floor.

  For a moment they stood quietly, listening.

  Just as Törless was about to step out of the bushes, the sound of heavy boots rasped on the floorboards in the hall, and a drunk came lurching into view. Behind him in the half-darkened corridor was a woman; they could hear her muttering in a sharp, angry voice, as if demanding something. The man just laughed and swayed back and forth. Then there was what sounded like pleading, but it wasn’t any more intelligible. The only thing that was unmistakable was her cajoling tone. Then the woman came outside and put her hand on the man’s shoulder. Immediately she was lit up by the moonlight – her petticoat, her jacket, her imploring smile. The man stared straight ahead, shook his head and kept his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Then he spat and pushed the woman away. She had probably said something. The voices were louder now, and they could understand what was being said.

  “So you aren’t going to pay? Now listen here…”

  “Why don’t you go back upstairs, slut!”

  “What! You peasant lout!”

  By way of answer the drunk crouched down awkwardly and picked up a stone. “If you don’t clear off sharpish I’ll beat your brains out, you idiot!” Törless heard the woman rush up the stairs with a parting curse.

  For a moment the man stood deliberating, the stone still in his hand. He laughed and looked up at the sky, where a yellow moon scudded between dark clouds; then he turned and stared at the undergrowth, as if trying to decide which way to go. His heart in his mouth, Törless gingerly moved his foot back. Eventually the drunk seemed to make up his mind. He dropped the stone and, with a coarse, triumphant laugh, hurled an obscenity up at the window and disappeared round the corner.

  The two of them didn’t move.

  “Did you see who it was?” whispered Beineberg. “It was Božena.”

  Törless didn’t reply; he was listening in case the drunk came back. Then suddenly Beineberg pushed him from behind. With a few swift, cautious strides, skirting round the wedge-shaped shafts of light from the ground-floor windows, they were in the dark hallway. A narrow wooden staircase wound sharply up to the floor above. Their footsteps must have made the stairs creak, or a sword clattered against the banisters, because the door of the bar opened and someone came to see who was there, while the accordion stopped playing and the babble of voices died away for a second or two.

  Alarmed, Törless shrunk back against the wall. Despite the darkness they seemed to have seen him, because as the door closed he heard the barmaid’s sarcastic voice, followed by roars of laughter.

  On the upstairs landing it was pitch black. They hardly dared put one foot in front of the other for fear of knocking something over and making a noise. Eagerly, excitedly, they groped for the door handle.

  Božena was a country girl who had moved to the city, where she went into service and eventually became a chambermaid.

  At first everything went well. Her simple, peasant manner and firm, lumbering gait earned the trust of her mistresses, who appreciated her unspoilt nature with its whiff of the cowshed, as well as the love of her masters, who had a taste for its bouquet. Then, possibly on a whim, perhaps out of dissatisfaction and an unspoken yearning to live life to the full, she gave up this comfortable existence. She became a barmaid, was taken ill, found work in a high-class brothel, and gradually, increasingly eaten up by her dissolute way of life, she was washed up in a series of provincial backwaters, each more isolated than the last.

  And it was here, not far from the village where she was born, that she had ended up living for the last few years, helping out in the bar during the day and spending her evenings smoking, reading cheap novels and entertaining the occasional man.

  She hadn’t quite become ugly yet, although her features were conspicuously lacking in charm, something she seemed to go out of her way to draw attention to with her behaviour. She was fond of letting it be known that she was conversant with the life of refinement and the ways of high society, but that she was now above such things. Rarely did she miss an opportunity to tell people that she couldn’t give a damn about herself or anything else. Despite her fall from grace this earned her a certain esteem among the local peasant lads. Even if they spat at the mention of her name, and felt obliged to behave more uncouthly to her than to other young women, deep down they were enormously proud of this “lost soul” who was one of their own, and who had
caught a glimpse of the world beneath the varnish. Alone and no doubt surreptitiously they always came back to have a good time with her. In this way she enjoyed a few last crumbs of pride and self-worth. Yet she derived what was perhaps even greater satisfaction from her dealings with the young gentlemen from the military boarding school. For them she made a point of displaying her coarsest, most unattractive qualities, because – as she was in the habit of saying – it didn’t stop them from coming crawling back to her when they felt the need.

  When the two friends walked in she was lying on the bed, smoking and reading as usual.

  Standing in the doorway, Törless took in the sight with greedy eyes.

  “My God, what a pair of nice boys!” she exclaimed sarcastically, looking them up and down disparagingly as they came in. “Really, Herr Baron! What would Mama say?”

  This was her usual opening gambit.

  “Give it a rest!…” muttered Beineberg, sitting down on the bed beside her. Törless sat farther away; he was piqued that she hadn’t taken any notice of him and was behaving as if she didn’t recognize him.

  Of late his visits to this woman had become his sole, secret delight. By the end of the week he was becoming restless and could hardly wait for Sunday, when he would slip out to see her. More than anything else it was this need for clandestine behaviour that constantly preoccupied him. But what if a group of drunks, such as the ones in the bar a few minutes ago, took it into their heads to come after him – just for the pleasure of giving the depraved young toff a thrashing? He was no coward, but he knew he was totally defenceless here. Compared with their big rough fists, his dainty little sword was ridiculous. And then there was the disgrace and punishment that would follow! He would have little choice but to run away or resort to begging. Or get Božena to protect him. He shuddered at the very thought. But that was all it was, nothing else! It was this same fear that always attracted him, the surrender of self. Giving up his privileged position, mixing with the common people; being below them – less than them!