Young Torless by Robert Musil Read Free Book Online Page B

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. T ö rless 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?” Bei neberg whispered. “I t 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