by Robert Musil
There were similarities and irreconcilable differences at one and the same time. And this game, this secret, totally personal perspective had excited him.
And now a person was attracting all this towards himself. It all took human form, became real and alive, and all its strangeness was transferred onto that person. In doing so it left the imaginary world and entered that of the living, became a threat.
But this state of agitation wearied him, and he lost the train of his thoughts. All that remained was the idea that he mustn’t let go of this person Basini, that he was sure to play an important, but as yet undecided part in his life.
When he remembered what Beineberg had said, he shook his head in amazement. So was he… as well?…
He can’t possibly be looking for the same thing as I am, and yet he’s found exactly the right words to describe it…
Törless was not so much thinking as dreaming. He was no longer able to distinguish between his own psychological problems and Beineberg’s delusions. All he was left with was the feeling that the gigantic noose was getting tighter and tighter.
The conversation went no further. They put out the lamp and crept back to the dormitory.
7
THE NEXT FEW DAYS brought no decision. They had too much work to do, Reiting went out of his way to avoid being alone with either of them, and even Beineberg appeared to rule out any further discussion.
During this time, recent events etched themselves even deeper into Törless’s soul, like a stream diverted from its natural course, channelling his thoughts in a direction from which there was no turning back.
Any idea of having Basini expelled was abandoned once and for all. For the first time Törless felt totally concentrated on himself, and was incapable of thinking about anything else. Božena too had become a matter of indifference to him; what he had once felt for her was now no more than a fanciful memory, replaced by utter seriousness.
Admittedly this seriousness didn’t seem to be any less fanciful.
Deep in thought, he went for a walk in the grounds. It was the middle of the day, and a late-autumn sun cast faint memories of summer over the lawns and pathways. In his restless mood he felt no desire to go very far, so he just walked round the corner of the building and threw himself down on the faded, rustling grass at the foot of the almost windowless lateral wall. The sky stretched out above him, that washed-out, sorrowful shade of blue that autumn makes its own, with small, white, crumpled clouds scurrying across it.
He lay on his back, blinking, his vague, dreamy gaze drifting between the tops of two almost leafless trees nearby.
His thoughts turned to Beineberg; what a peculiar person he was! His words belonged in some crumbling Hindu temple, along with sinister idols and sorcerer snakes in the depths of dark caves; but not in broad daylight in a school in modern-day Europe! And yet, having found their way along a series of endless, tortuously winding paths, his words seemed to have come to a sudden and concrete conclusion…
Then suddenly, as if for the first time, he noticed how high the sky was.
It was almost frightening. Between the clouds immediately above him there glowed a small, blue, unimaginably deep hole.
He was sure it would be possible to reach it using a long, long ladder. But the farther he travelled into the heights, the higher his eyes carried him, the more the bright-blue depths retreated. And yet one must have been able to climb up there at least once and fix one’s gaze on it. And this desire began to torment him.
It was as if his vision, stretched to its very limits, was shooting dart-like glances through the clouds, and yet however far they reached they always fell short.
He began to reflect on this, while trying to remain as calm and rational as possible. “It really does seem to go on for ever,” he thought. “It stretches on and on without stopping, all the way to infinity.” As he said this he kept his gaze fixed on the sky, as if he were testing the power of a magic charm. But to no avail: the words meant nothing, or rather they meant something different, as if they were talking about the same object from an unfamiliar and unimportant angle.
“Infinity!” He remembered the word from maths lessons. He had never imagined it as anything special. It was always coming up; ever since it was invented people had been able to use it in calculations the same as any other tangible object. It was worth whatever it was worth in the relevant calculation; he had never attempted to discover any more about it than that.
And then it struck him that there was something alarming associated with this word. It gave the impression of being a tame concept that he could use in everyday sleights of hand, but which had now been unleashed. Something wild, irrational and destructive that seemed to have been lulled to sleep by the machinations of an inventor had suddenly woken and reassumed its former terrifying aspect. It was up there in the sky, very much alive, threatening and mocking him.
In the end he had to close his eyes because he couldn’t bear to look at it.
Shortly afterwards, when he was woken by a gust of wind rustling through the dry grass, he could hardly feel his body, and a pleasant coolness wafted up from around his feet, filling him with a soft, mellow lethargy. The fear that he had felt was joined by a sensation of gentle weariness. He could still feel the sky gazing down at him in all its silence and vastness, but now remembered that it had often had this effect on him in the past and, as if drifting between waking and dreaming, he went back over his memories, sensing that he was caught in their web.
The first of these was from childhood, in which trees stood around him in grave-faced silence, like people under a spell. Even at the time he must have already experienced this sensation, which would later keep coming back to him. Even the ideas he had when he was with Božena contained an element of this, something particular and prescient, and more significant than it at first seemed. The moment of utter silence in the garden outside the patisserie window had been the same, before the dark veil of sensuality descended. And often, for a split second, Beineberg and Reiting would also be transformed into something strange, unreal – and Basini? The mental picture of what had happened with him had left Törless deeply divided; one minute it was perfectly rational and mundane, the next it was infiltrated by the image-laden silence that all these impressions shared, and which gradually permeated his consciousness until it was demanding to be treated as something real and alive; exactly as he had imagined the concept of infinity.
He sensed that it was closing in on him from all sides. It had probably been there all the time, like a dark, distant, menacing power, but he had instinctively shied away and only given it the odd fearful glance. Yet a chance event had made him pay attention to it and, as if at a signal, it now burst in on him from every direction, dragging in its wake a terrible confusion that kept growing and growing.
He was seized by a madness to experience things, events and people as something ambiguous; something that the power of an inventor had linked to an innocent explanatory term yet which threatened to become something unfamiliar that might burst forth at any second.
Of course, he was aware that there was a simple explanation for everything, but to his horrified amazement it seemed as if it were only an outer layer that had been torn away without exposing what lay within, which, with a gaze that had become almost unnatural, he could see glimmering in the depths.
So he just lay there, wrapped up in memories, out of which strange ideas grew like unfamiliar flowers. All those moments that no one can ever forget, situations that have lost the coherence that allows our life to be a mirror image of our reason, as if the two things run in parallel and at the same speed, now became completely entangled.
The memory of the terrifying, motionless silence, the mournful colours of certain evenings alternated seamlessly with the hot, feverish agitation of a noonday in summer that had passed glowingly over his soul like a swarm of scurrying, iridescent lizards.
Suddenly he remembered the way the young prince had once smiled at him,
a certain look, a gesture he had made around the time that their friendship was coming to an end, and which with a single – gentle – stroke cut through the feelings of affinity that Törless had woven around him, after which he entered a new, unfamiliar world which – as if concentrated into an intense, single moment of existence – suddenly opened up in front of him. Then came more memories of the forest, along with those of the open countryside. And then the still, silent image of a darkened room at home that had later reminded him of the friend he had lost. The words of a poem echoed in his mind…
And there are many other things in which this same sense of the immeasurable also prevails, between experience and understanding. Yet it is always the case that whatever we experience fleetingly and unthinkingly as universal becomes incomprehensible and bewildering the moment we try to shackle it with the chain of our thoughts and take possession of it. And what appears vast and unfathomable as long as our words reach out to grasp it from a distance becomes simple and loses its ability to unsettle us once it enters the domain of everyday life.
And all these memories suddenly shared the same mystery. They were standing right in front of him, as if they belonged together, so close that he could reach out and touch them.
Whenever they had come to him in the past they had been accompanied by an obscure feeling to which he had paid little attention.
That feeling was what he was now endeavouring to recapture. He remembered a day when he and his father were looking at a landscape, and he had suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, it’s so beautiful!” and was embarrassed when this had pleased his father. Because he might as well have said, “It’s terribly sad.” It was this failure of words which tormented him, a vague awareness that they were only incidental, a pale imitation of emotions.
And now he remembered the images, the words and, most vividly of all, the feeling that he was lying, without knowing why. Again his gaze travelled back through his memories; and again it came back without any solutions. The smile of delight that still hovered distractedly over his lips at this abundance of ideas began to take on a barely perceptible air of suffering.
He felt a constant need to find a bridge, a connection, some form of comparison between himself and whatever was standing silently in the way of his mind.
Yet each time he had a comforting thought, the same incomprehensible objection was still there: “You are lying.” It was as if he had to go through a continual process of long division out of which a stubborn remainder always appeared to prevent him from finishing the calculation, or he had cut his finger by feverishly struggling with a knot that resisted every attempt to untie it.
Eventually he gave up. Everything closed in around him, his memories grew until they were abnormally distorted.
He looked up at the sky again, as if by chance he might be able to snatch its secret away from it, as well as the answer to everything that was confusing him. But he soon grew weary, and a profound feeling of solitude closed in around him. The sky fell silent, and he sensed that he was completely alone beneath this mute, impassive vault, a tiny speck of life beneath an enormous transparent corpse.
But this no longer really frightened him. It was as if an old, familiar pain had now spread to the last of his healthy limbs.
The light seemed to have taken on an opaque, milky glow, and a cold, pale mist hovered in front of his eyes.
Slowly and carefully he turned his head, and looked round to see if anything had changed. His gaze travelled across the surface of the grey, windowless wall behind him. It seemed to be leaning forward and silently watching him. Every now and then something like a murmur ran down it from top to bottom, as if a sinister life form was beginning to stir.
He had often listened for this sound in the attic hideout whenever Beineberg or Reiting were parading their imaginary worlds, and had enjoyed it as if it were the incidental music for an outlandish theatrical performance.
But now even the bright sunlight seemed to have become an inaccessible hiding place, while the living silence encircled him from every direction.
He didn’t have the strength to turn his gaze away. Coltsfoot was growing nearby in a damp, dark corner, its large, abundant leaves providing the perfect hiding place for worms and snails.
Törless could hear his heart beating. Then there was another faint murmuring, almost a trickling sound… These were the last signs of life in a silent world where time stood still…
8
THE NEXT DAY HE SAW Beineberg and Reiting together, and went over to them.
“I’ve already spoken to Reiting,” said Beineberg, “and we’ve arranged everything. Although these things aren’t of much interest to you, are they?”
Faced with this sudden turn of events, Törless felt something like rage and jealousy welling up inside him, although he wasn’t sure if he should mention the previous night’s conversation to Reiting. “You might at least have consulted me, seeing that I’m as involved as you are,” he retorted.
“We would have done, my dear Törless,” Reiting hurriedly replied, clearly keen to avoid any unnecessary difficulties, “but we couldn’t find you anywhere, and we knew we could count on your agreement. So what do you think of Basini now?” (There was no hint of an apology, as if his own behaviour were a matter of course.)
“What do I think of him? He’s a contemptible individual,” Törless replied rather awkwardly.
“Quite. Most contemptible.”
“But what you’re doing isn’t exactly delightful either!” And Törless gave him a slightly forced smile, because he was ashamed at not being angrier with Reiting.
“Me?” Reiting just shrugged. “What’s wrong with that? One has to experience everything in life, and since he’s so worthless and stupid…”
“Have you spoken to him since?” put in Beineberg.
“Yes. He came to see me yesterday evening and asked for money. He’s got more debts that he can’t pay.”
“Did you give him any?”
“No, not yet.”
“Excellent,” said Beineberg. “It’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. Tell him to meet you somewhere tonight.”
“Where? In the room upstairs?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea: it’s best if he doesn’t know it exists for the time being. Tell him to come to the main attic, the place where you were before.”
“What time?”
“Let’s say… eleven.”
“Fine. Shall we carry on with our walk?”
“All right. Törless has probably got a lot to do – haven’t you?”
Törless didn’t have any work to do, but he sensed that the other two were keeping something to themselves and didn’t wish to share it with him. He was annoyed with himself for his standoffishness, which prevented him from forcing himself on them.
So as they walked off he just looked on in envy, wracking his brains to try to imagine what they might be secretly arranging.
At the same time he was struck by the innocent charm in Reiting’s lithe yet upright way of walking – just as there was in the way he spoke. And he tried to picture him on the night in question – what had happened deep inside him. It must have been like two souls gripping each other tightly and sinking slowly down, down, into the depths of a subterranean kingdom; a brief moment when the sounds of the world far above faded away then died out completely.
Was it possible for someone to be so cheerful and light-hearted after doing something like that? It certainly didn’t seem to mean much to Reiting. Törless would have very much liked to ask him! But because of his childish inhibitions he had abandoned him to the spidery Beineberg!
At a quarter to eleven that night, Törless saw Beineberg and Reiting slip out of bed, and immediately began to get dressed.
“Ssh!” whispered one of them. “Wait a minute. Someone will notice if all three of us go out at the same time.”
Törless hid under the covers again.
They met in the corridor, and made their way up
the stairs to the attic, taking the usual precautions.
“Where’s Basini?” asked Törless.
“He’s coming the other way; Reiting gave him the key.”
They climbed all the way up in darkness. Only when they reached the great iron door at the top did Beineberg light his little signal lamp.
The lock refused to turn. It hadn’t been opened for years, and the spare key couldn’t get it to work. Eventually it gave way with a sharp clunk, and the heavy door creaked on its rusty hinges and swung open reluctantly.
From the attic came a breath of warm, stale air, like the atmosphere in a small hothouse.
Beineberg closed the door behind them.
They walked down the short flight of wooden stairs and crouched beside a massive crossbeam.
Nearby were several enormous vats of water, which were used in the event of a fire. The water obviously hadn’t been changed for a long time, as it gave off a slightly sweet, sickly smell.
The whole atmosphere of the place was oppressive: the intense heat under the roof, the stifling air and the maze of huge beams, some of which disappeared into the darkness above, while others seemed to creep towards the floor in a tangle of eerie shapes.
Beineberg shaded the lamp, and for several long minutes they sat in the darkness, not moving or saying a word.
Then in the shadows at the far end the door creaked quietly and hesitantly. It was the sort of noise that makes the heart beat wildly, like the sound of approaching prey.
Next came hesitant footsteps, someone stumbling over an echoing floorboard; a dull thud like a body falling to the ground… silence… and then more uncertain footsteps… a pause… a voice calling out softly… “Reiting?”
Beineberg took the shade off the lamp and projected a broad shaft of light in the direction of the voice. One or two massive beams surged up, throwing austere, sharp-edged shadows, but apart from that all that could be seen was a cone of swirling dust.