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.

And still there was torture mingled with the delight. Face to face
with this great storm, that became an event in his life as it were,
everything else seemed so pitifully small to him, and he too. There