The string had got stuck at the top or else had broken and hung down in ugly twists, while its shadow on the floor crept through the bright rectangle like a worm.

It all had a worrying, grotesque ugliness.

Törless tried to think of something pleasant. Beineberg occurred to him. Hadn’t he trumped him today? Given his superiority a knock? Hadn’t he, for the first time today, managed to preserve his unusual quality in the face of Beineberg? Emphasize it in such a way that Beineberg could feel the infinite difference in the delicacy of their sensibilities, which divided their two perceptions from one another? Did he have a ready reply? Yes or no? ...

But that ‘yes or no?’ swelled in his head like rising bubbles and burst, and ‘yes or no? ... yes or no?’ continued to swell repeatedly, unstoppably, in a stamping rhythm like the rolling of a railway train, like the nodding of flowers on stems too high for them, like the knocking of a hammer heard through many thin walls in a quiet house ... That insistent, complacent ‘yes or no?’ offended Törless. His joy was inauthentic, it hopped about so ridiculously.

And finally, when he started awake, it seemed to be his own head nodding there, lolling on his shoulders, or bouncing up and down to the beat ...

Finally everything within Törless fell silent. Before his eyes there was nothing but a broad, black patch that extended in a circle in all directions.

Then ... from far away at the rim ... two small, unsteady figures ... came diagonally across the table. They were obviously his parents. But so small that he could feel nothing for them.

They disappeared again on the other side.

Then came two more; — but look, there was one walking backwards past them - taking steps twice the length of his body, - and already he had disappeared behind the rim; hadn’t that been Beineberg? - Now those two: hadn’t one of them been the maths master? Törless recognized him by the handkerchief sticking coquettishly out of his pocket. But who was the other one? The one with the very, very fat book under his arm, which was half as tall as he was himself? Who could barely stand up, it was so heavy? ... With each step they stopped and put the book on the ground. And Törless heard the squeaky voice of his teacher saying: ‘If that’s how he thinks it is, the correct answer is to be found on page twelve, page twelve refers us on to page fifty-two, but then what we find on page thirty-one is also true, with this precondition ...’ And they bent over the book and reached into it with their hands, sending the pages flying. After a while they stood up again, and the other man stroked the teacher’s cheeks five or six times. Then they stepped forwards a few paces, and once again Törless heard the voice, as though it was counting off an endless mathematical proof Until the other man stroked the maths master again.

That other man ... ? Törless frowned to see better. Wasn’t he wearing a periwig? And rather old-fashioned clothes? Very old-fashioned indeed? Even silk knee breeches? Wasn’t it ... ? Oh! And Törless awoke with a cry: Kant!

The next moment he smiled; the room around him was very peaceful, the breathing of the sleeping boys had grown quiet. He had been asleep, too. And by now his bed was warm again. He stretched himself comfortably out under the covers.

‘So I’ve been dreaming about Kant,’ he thought. ‘Why didn’t it last longer? He might have had a chat with me.’ And he did remember how once, when he had been unprepared for history class, he had spent all night dreaming so vividly about the people and events concerned that the next day he was able to talk about them as though he had been there, and got an excellent mark in the exam. And now, once again, he thought of Beineberg, Beineberg and Kant - the conversation he had had the previous day.

Slowly the dream retreated from Törless — as slowly as a silk sheet endlessly sliding down the skin of a naked body.

But his smile soon made way for a strange unease. Had his thoughts advanced by one single step? Could he glean anything from this book which would contain the solution to all mysteries? And his victory? Certainly, it had been only his unexpected animation that had made Beineberg fall silent ...

Again he was overwhelmed by a profound feeling of listlessness and physical disgust. He lay there for several minutes, hollowed out with nausea.

But then, all of a sudden, he became aware of the sensation that his body was touched at every point by the mild, lukewarm canvas of the bed. Cautiously, very slowly and cautiously, Törless turned his head. That’s right, there was the pale rectangle still on the stone floor — its sides slightly distorted, sure enough, but with that twisting shadow still creeping through it. He felt as though some danger lay in chains there, one that he could watch from his bed with a calm feeling of safety, as though protected by the bars of a cage.

In his skin, all over his body, a feeling awoke that suddenly turned into a remembered image.