He was often forced to feel events, people, things, even himself, in such a way that he had a sense both of some mystery that could not be solved, and of some inexplicable affinity that could never quite be justified. They seemed palpably within reach of his understanding, and yet could never entirely be broken down into words and thoughts. Between events and himself, indeed, between his own emotions and some innermost self which craved that they be understood, there always remained a dividing line which retreated like a horizon from his yearning the closer he came to it. Indeed, the more precisely he circumscribed his sensations with his thoughts, the more familiar they became to him, the stranger and more incomprehensible he felt them to be, so that it no longer even seemed as though they were retreating from him and more as though he himself was moving away from them, while remaining unable to shake off the notion that he was coming closer to them.

That curious contradiction, so difficult to penetrate, later occupied a considerable phase of his mental development; it seemed to want to tear his soul apart, and for a long time it continued to threaten it, remaining its chief problem.

For the time being, however, the gravity of these struggles was manifest only as a frequent and sudden fatigue, which frightened Törless from a distance as soon as he sensed it - as he had done just now — through some strange, dubious mood. Then he felt himself to be as powerless as an abandoned prisoner, someone closed off equally from himself and from others. He could have screamed with emptiness and despair, but instead he turned away from the serious and expectant, tormented and exhausted person within himself and listened - still frightened by that sudden renunciation and already delighted by its warm, sinful breath - to the whispering voices of his loneliness.

Törless suddenly suggested they pay the bill. There was a flash of understanding in Beineberg’s eyes; he knew that mood. Törless was not pleased by this agreement between them; his dislike of Beineberg sprang to life again, and he felt ashamed at what he had in common with him.

But that was almost part of it. Shame is yet another loneliness, a new dark wall.

And without exchanging a word they set off on a particular path.

 

There must have been a shower of rain a few minutes earlier — the air was moist and heavy, a bright mist trembled around the streetlights, and here and there the pavements glistened.

Törless’s sword was striking the cobbles, so he drew it close to his side, but even the sound of his clattering heels made him shiver strangely.

After a while they had soft ground beneath their feet. They left the centre of the town and walked along wide village streets towards the river.

Black and sluggish, the river surged beneath the wooden bridge, making deep gurgling sounds. A single streetlight stood by it, with dusty and broken panes. Its beam, cowering nervously from the gusts of wind, occasionally fell upon a surging wave and flowed away on its back. The rounded planks of the bridge yielded beneath each step ... rolled forward and back again.

Beineberg stopped. The opposite bank was densely planted with trees which, since the road turned off at right angles and led along the water, looked like a menacing, black, impenetrable wall. Only after careful searching did one find a narrow, hidden path leading straight into the wood. With each step they took, a shower of droplets fell from the dense, lush undergrowth as their clothes brushed past. After a while they had to stop again and light a match. It was quite still, and even the gurgling of the river could no longer be heard. Suddenly, from far away, an indistinct, broken sound reached them. It sounded like a cry or a warning. Or like the call of some incomprehensible creature crashing through the bushes like themselves. They walked towards the sound, stopped, walked on again. It was perhaps a quarter of an hour altogether before they were relieved to make out loud voices and the sounds of an accordion.

The wood became sparser, and a few paces further on they were standing at the edge of a clearing, with a massive square, two-storey building set in the middle of it.

It was the old bath-house. Used in its day by the citizens of the little town and the peasants of the surrounding area as a spa, it had been almost empty for years. Only in its ground floor there was a disreputable inn.

The two boys stood still for a moment, listening.

Törless was about to step forward out of the bushes, when heavy boots clattered on the steps of the hall and a drunk man tottered uncertainly into the open. Behind him, in the shadow of the hallway, stood a woman, who could be heard whispering something in a hurried, angry voice as though demanding something from him. The man laughed and swayed on his feet. Then they heard what sounded like pleading, but they couldn’t make that out either. They could only discern the wheedling, cajoling tone of her voice.