...of self-destruction?

Herr Giebenrath had cursed loudly when his son failed to return for supper. When it got to be nine o'clock and Hans was still not there, he put out a stout cane which had long lain idle. The lad thought he had outgrown the paternal rod, did he? Well, he would have a nice surprise when he got home! At ten o'clock he locked the door. If his son wanted to indulge in night revels, he would soon see where he got off.
Nevertheless Herr Giebenrath did not sleep; he waited with an anger that mounted every hour to hear a hand touch the door knob and timidly pull the bell. He pictured the scene - the gadabout could learn his lesson! Probably he would be drunk but he would soon sober him down, the blackguard, the sly-boots, the miserable wretch! If he had to break every bone in his body.
Finally sleep got the better of him and his rage.
At that same moment the object of all these threats was already slowly drifting, cold and silent down the dark waters of the river. He had shed all the revulsion, shame and sorrow; the blue, chilly, autumn night looked down on his dark, slender body; the black water played over his hands and hair and bloodless lips. No one had seen him except possibly some sly otter just before dawn, eyeing him cautiously as it slid silently past. Nobody knew how he came to be in the water. Perhaps he had strayed from the path and slipped down at some steep spot on the slope; perhaps he had been drinking and had lost his balance. Perhaps the water had exercised a fatal fascination for him as he bent over it, and night and the pale moon looked so full of peace and deep rest that weariness and fear had driven him with gentle relentlessness into the shadow of death.
They found him when it was day and took his body home. His father, horror-stricken, had to lay his rod aside and relinquish his accumulated anger. It was true he shed no tears and displayed little emotion, but the following night he stayed awake again and now and then looked through the door-opening towards his silent child who lay on the clean bed as still as ever and who, with his refined brow and pale intelligent face, looked like a creature who had an innate right to enjoy a different fate from the common run. On his brow and hands the skin rubbed and slightly livid in hue, the handsome features were in repose, the white lids were closed over his eyes and the slightly parted lips had a contented, almost gay expression. It was as if the boy had suddenly blossomed forth and had been snatched up on his cheerful course; even his father in his weariness and solitary grief was a victim of that happy illusion.

[The Prodigy, Hesse, H.]