They fell asleep thus.
Wolfgang stood at the window of his room, looking out into the obscurity that hid all the stars and listening to the roar of the distant wind. Was the night so sultry, or was it only he who was so unbearably hot? A thunder-storm seemed to be coming on. Or was it only an inward restlessness that weighed him down? What was it that tortured him?
He thought he had hardly ever felt so uncomfortable before. He was vexed with his father, vexed with his mother--if they had been different from what they were, if everything had been different from what it was, he would not have been obliged to tell lies, to dissemble. He was vexed with himself. Oh, then he would have felt easier now, much freer. He knit his brows angrily; a sudden longing for something he could not name made him tremble. What did he want, what was he longing for? If he only knew!
He gave a loud sigh, and stretched his arms with the strong hands out into the night. Everything was so narrow, so narrow. If he only were the boy again who had once climbed out of this window, yes, this window--he leant out and measured the height--who had run away, hurrah! without asking himself where he was going, simply on and on. That had been magnificent! A splendid run!
And he leant further and further out of the window. The night wind was whispering, it was like an alluring melody. He trembled with eagerness. He could not tear himself away, he had to remain there listening. The wind was rising, there was a rustling in the trees, it rose and rose, grew and grew. The rustling turned into a blustering.
He forgot he was in a room in a house, and that he had parents there who wanted to sleep. He gave a shout, a loud cry, half of triumph. How beautiful it was out there, ah!
A storm. The snorting wind, that had risen so suddenly, blew his hair about and ruffled it at the temples. Ah, how beautifully that cooled. It was unbearable in the house, so gloomy, so close. He felt so scared, so terrified. How his heart thumped. And he felt so out of temper: how unpleasant it had been that evening again. His father had said he ought to have confessed it to him--of course, it would have been better--but if he threatened him in that way after the thing was over in a manner, what would he have said before? This everlasting keeping him in leading strings was not to be borne. Was he still a child? Was he a grown-up man or was he not? Was he the son of rich parents or was he not? No, he was not. That was just what he was not.
The thunder rumbled afar in the dark night. Suddenly there was a brilliant flash--that was just what he was not, not the son, not the son of this house. Otherwise everything would have been different. He did not know in what way--but different, oh, quite different.
Wolfgang had not thought of these things for a long time--the days were so full of distractions but now in this dark stormy night, in which he would not be able to sleep, he had to think. What he had always driven back because it was not pleasant, what he thought he had quite forgotten--perhaps because he wished to forget it--he would have to consider now. What had been repressed for so long broke out forcibly now, like the stormy wind that suddenly came rushing along, bending the tops of the pines so that they cowered with terror. Wolfgang would have liked to have made his voice heard above the roar of the storm.
He was furious, quite absurdly furious, quite thoughtlessly furious. Oh, how it lightened, crashed, rumbled, roared and snorted. What a conflict--but it was beautiful nevertheless. He raised himself up on his toes and exposed his hammering breast to the strong wind. He had hardly ever felt such delight as when those gusts of wind struck his chest like blows from a fist. He flung himself against them, he regularly caught them on his broad chest.