The Unhappiness of Being a Single Man

by Franz Kafka

  They’ve taken many a good piece from my stores as well. But I can’t complain when I see, for example, how bad it is for the butcher across from me. As soon as he brings in any supplies, it’s all torn away from him and guzzled by the nomads. Even their horses eat meat; you’ll often see a rider lying next to his horse with both of them tucking into the same piece of meat, one from each end. The butcher is too afraid to stop bringing in the deliveries. We understand why, so we’ve scraped together some money to support him. If the nomads stopped getting their meat, who knows what they’d think of doing; that said, who knows how they’ll act even if they do get their meat every day.

  The other morning, the butcher thought he could at least save himself the work of chopping up the meat and just had a live ox brought in. He can never do that again. I had to go and lie on the floor at the very back of the workshop for more than an hour, with all my clothes, sheets and pillows piled on top of myself, just so as not to hear the ox’s screaming; the nomads jumped on it from all sides and tore out chunks of warm meat with their teeth. It was quiet for a long time before I dared go outside again; they were sprawled around the ox’s carcass like drinkers around a barrel of wine.

  It was then that I think I saw the king himself at one of the palace windows; he never usually comes to these outer buildings, he lives in the innermost of the palace gardens; but this time—at least this is what I thought I saw—he was standing at one of the windows and looking down, his head bowed, at the commotion in front of his palace.

  “How’s this going to turn out?” we all ask each other. “How long will we need to endure these burdens and ordeals? The royal palace is what attracted the nomads, but it doesn’t know how to drive them away again. The gate stays locked; the guards, who used to have a ceremony of marching in and out, now stay behind barred windows. The job of saving the country has been left to us artisans and business people, but we aren’t up to it; we’ve never claimed to be capable of something like that. It’s a misunderstanding, and we’re all going to go under because of it.”

  IN THE PENAL COLONY

  “IT’S A UNIQUE PIECE of equipment,” said the officer to the travelling researcher, looking over the familiar machinery with an air of admiration. The researcher seemed to have taken up the commandant’s invitation only out of politeness; he’d been asked whether he’d like to witness the execution of a soldier who’d been sentenced to death for disobeying and insulting a superior officer. Even in the penal colony there didn’t seem to be much interest in this execution. At least, there was no one else here with the officer and the researcher in this steep, sandy little valley enclosed by bare cliffs, apart from the condemned man himself, a stupid-looking, slack-jawed individual with scruffy hair and a dirty face, and a soldier who was holding a heavy chain attached to smaller chains that restrained the condemned man at his wrists, ankles and neck, and that were also connected to one another with an even smaller set of chains. The condemned man looked as submissive as a dog, as if they could have let him wander around the slopes on his own, and would have only needed to whistle for him when they wanted to start the execution.

  The researcher wasn’t especially interested in this machine and paced up and down behind the condemned man, almost visibly indifferent, while the officer made the final preparations, first creeping under the machine’s foundations, which were dug deep into the earth, then climbing a ladder to inspect its uppermost parts. These jobs could have been left to a mechanic, but the officer performed them with great zeal, whether because he was a particular fan of the machine, or because there was some other reason why the work couldn’t be entrusted to anyone else. “All right, it’s all ready to go,” he finally called out, and climbed down off the ladder. He was very out of breath, with his mouth hanging open, and he’d stuffed two ladies’ handkerchiefs into the collar of his uniform.

  “These uniforms are really too heavy for the tropics,” said the researcher, rather than asking about the machine as the officer had expected.

  “True,” said the officer, washing his oily, grease-covered hands in a bucket of water, “but they’re a symbol of home; we don’t want to lose our connection to it. — Now have a look at this machine,” he added immediately, and dried his hands with a cloth while he pointed at it. “Up to this point, I’ve had to do some of the work by hand, but from now it’ll run automatically.” The researcher nodded and followed the officer, who tried to cover himself for all eventualities by saying: “Of course, problems can come up. I hope there won’t be any today, but you can never say for certain that they won’t. After all, the machine has to operate non-stop for twelve hours. But if problems do come up, they’re always very small things that you can easily fix.

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit down?” he asked in the end, then reached into a jumble of wicker chairs, pulled one out and offered it to the researcher, who felt he couldn’t say no. He found himself sitting at the edge of a pit and threw a quick glance into it. The pit wasn’t very deep. On one side, the earth that had been dug out was banked up into a rough wall; on the other side stood the machine. “I don’t know,” said the officer, “whether the commandant has already explained the machine to you?” The researcher made an ambiguous gesture; that was all the officer wanted, because now he could explain the machine himself. “This machine,” he said, taking hold of a crank handle and leaning on it, “was invented by our old commandant. I worked with him on the very first trials and was involved in everything until it was completed. But the credit for inventing it is all his. Have you heard much about our old commandant? No? Well, it’s not an exaggeration if I tell you that the whole way the colony is organized is his work. When he was on his deathbed, we, his friends, already knew that he’d made the colony’s structure so self-enclosed that his successor, even if he arrived with thousands of plans of his own, wouldn’t be able to change anything of the old man’s, at least not for many years. And our prediction has been borne out; the new commandant has had to recognize that fact. It’s a shame you never met the old commandant! — But,” the officer interrupted himself, “I’m rambling while the machine stands here waiting in front of us. It consists, as you can see, of three parts. The lower part is called the bed, the upper part is called the engraver and this part suspended in the middle is called the harrow.”

  “The harrow?” asked the researcher. He hadn’t been listening closely; the sun was far too strong in this unshaded valley and he found it difficult to gather his thoughts. It made the officer seem more impressive for carrying on in his tight parade uniform, weighed down with epaulettes and strung with braid, eagerly explaining his work while still making small adjustments here and there with a screwdriver. The soldier on guard looked to be in a similar condition to the researcher. He’d wrapped the chain holding the condemned man around his wrists and was leaning on his rifle, letting his head slump down on his neck and paying no attention to anything. The researcher wasn’t surprised; the officer was speaking French and he was certain that neither the soldier nor the condemned man could understand what he was saying. So it was all the more striking that the condemned man was nevertheless trying hard to follow the officer’s explanation. With a kind of sleepy tenacity, he looked wherever the officer was pointing; when the researcher interrupted with a question, both he and the officer turned to look at him.

  “Yes, the harrow,” said the officer. “It’s a fitting name. The needles are arranged like the spikes on a harrow and that’s how the whole thing operates, albeit just in one spot and with a much higher degree of sophistication. You’ll see what I mean in a moment. The condemned man is laid down here on the bed. — I want to describe the machine before I start the process. Then you’ll have a better sense of what’s going on. Also, one of the cogs in the engraver is badly worn; it screeches very loudly when it’s moving and you can hardly hear yourself think over the noise; unfortunately, it’s very difficult to get replacement parts out here. — So, this is the bed, as I was saying. It’s completely covered
in a layer of cotton wool; you’ll soon see why that’s needed. The condemned man lies face down on this layer of cotton wool, naked of course; there are restraints for the hands, the feet and the neck—here, here and here—to keep him in place. Here, at the top end of the bed, where the man, as I mentioned, lies face down, there’s a block of felt that can be easily adjusted to slip into the man’s mouth. It’s there to stop him screaming or biting through his tongue. You see, the man has no choice but to take the block into his mouth, because otherwise his neck would be broken by the restraints.”

  “This is cotton wool?” asked the researcher, and leant forward.

  “Yes, absolutely,” the officer said with a smile, “feel it for yourself.” He took the researcher’s hand and moved it across the bed. “It’s been specially prepared, that’s why it looks a little different than usual; I’ll come on to what that’s for later on.” The researcher had been slightly won over by the machine; shielding his eyes against the sun, he looked up at the top of the apparatus. It was a big construction. The bed and the engraver were the same size and looked like two dark troughs. The engraver was about two metres above the bed; the two parts were connected at the corners by brass poles that shone in the sunshine. Between the two troughs, the harrow was suspended from a steel chain.

  The officer had hardly noticed the researcher’s previous indifference, but he certainly picked up on his growing interest and paused his explanation to give the researcher more time to examine the machine. The condemned man copied the researcher; since he couldn’t put his hand over his eyes, he squinted up at the top of the machine.

  “So the man lies there,” said the researcher, then leant back in his chair and folded one leg over the other.

  “Yes,” said the officer, pushing his cap back on his head and wiping his hand down his overheated face. “Now, listen carefully. Both the bed and the engraver are equipped with their own electric battery; the bed needs one for itself, the engraver’s is for the harrow. As soon as the man is tightly fastened, the bed starts to move. It vibrates by making tiny, rapid movements from side to side, and up and down. You’ll have seen similar equipment in mental hospitals; the difference is that with this machine, every movement has been precisely calculated; each one has to correspond precisely to the movement of the harrow. And it’s the harrow that actually carries out the sentence.”

  “What is the sentence?” asked the researcher.

  “You don’t know that either?” said the officer in astonishment, and bit his lip. “Excuse me, please, if I’ve been getting ahead of myself in the explanation; I’m very sorry about that. You see, the commandant used to give the explanation himself; the new commandant has given up that honourable duty; but the idea that he would fail to explain sentencing to such an eminent visitor”—the researcher tried to fend off this compliment with both hands, but the officer insisted on using that phrase—“that he wouldn’t even tell such an eminent visitor, that’s something new, and it”—he had a curse on the tip of his tongue, but he pulled himself together and just said: “I wasn’t told, the fault isn’t mine. And as it happens, I’m the person best placed to explain our sentencing because, right here,”—he patted his breast pocket—“I’ve still got the old commandant’s original sketches.”

  “Sketches by the old commandant himself?” asked the researcher. “Was there anything he couldn’t do? Was he really a soldier, a judge, a builder, a chemist and a draughtsman?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the officer, nodding with a fixed, pensive expression. He inspected his hands; they didn’t strike him as clean enough to touch the sketches, so he went to the bucket and washed them again. Then he pulled out a small leather portfolio and said: “Our sentence doesn’t sound particularly severe. The condemned man has the law he has broken written onto his skin with the harrow. This man, for example”—the officer gestured towards him—“will have inscribed onto his skin: Respect your superior officers!”

  The researcher glanced across at the condemned man when the officer pointed at him; his head was lowered and he seemed to be straining his ears to try and understand at least some of what was going on. But the shapes he formed with his rubbery lips made clear that he hadn’t understood anything at all. The researcher had wanted to put several questions to the officer, but looking at the man, he just asked, “Does he know his sentence?”

  “No,” said the officer, and was about to carry on with his explanation when the researcher interrupted him: “He doesn’t know his own sentence?”

  “No,” the officer said again, paused for a moment as if to let the researcher clarify his reasons for asking that, then added: “It would be pointless to tell him. He’s going to get it written on his own skin.”

  The researcher would have let it go, but he felt the condemned man look across at him; he seemed to be asking whether the researcher could condone the procedure he’d just had explained. So the researcher, who’d already leant back in his chair, shifted forward again and asked, “But that he’s been sentenced for something, surely he knows that?”

  “Not that either,” said the officer, and smiled at the researcher as if starting to expect peculiar comments from him.

  “No,” said the researcher, wiping his hand across his forehead. “So this man also doesn’t know whether his defence was successful?”

  “He hasn’t been given an opportunity to defend himself,” said the officer, glancing off to the side as if he were speaking to himself and didn’t want to embarrass the researcher by telling him such obvious things.

  “But he must have had some opportunity to defend himself,” said the researcher, and stood up from his chair.

  The officer saw the danger that his explanation of the machine’s workings would be considerably delayed; he went over to the researcher, took him by the arm and pointed at the condemned man, who, now that he was plainly being discussed, stood to attention while the soldier pulled his chains taut. The officer said, “The way it works is this. I’ve been appointed judge here in the penal colony. Despite my youth. Because I helped the old commandant on all punishment-related matters and also because I know the machine better than anyone else. The principle on which I make my decisions is this: the defendant’s guilt is never in doubt. Other courts can’t follow that principle because they have more than one member and they also have higher courts above them. It’s not like that here, or at least it wasn’t under the old commandant. The new one, admittedly, has shown some signs of wanting to interfere in my court, but I’ve managed to hold him off so far, and I should be able to keep that up. — You wanted to have this case explained; it’s as simple as they all are. This morning, a captain reported that this man, who’s assigned to him as a steward and sleeps in front of his door, slept straight through one of his duties. You see, he’s supposed to get up on the hour and salute in front of the captain’s door. Hardly an onerous duty and certainly a necessary one, because it keeps him fresh both for his guard duty and as a steward. Last night, the captain wanted to check whether this man was discharging his duty properly and found him crouched down, fast asleep. He fetched his riding crop and hit him across the face. Instead of getting up and begging for forgiveness, this man grabbed his superior officer by the legs and shouted: ‘Throw away the whip or I’ll eat you.’ — Those are the facts. The captain came to me an hour ago, I took down his statement and wrote out the judgment. Then I had the man put in chains. It was all very straightforward. If I’d first made the man appear in front of me and questioned him, it would only have created confusion. He would have lied, and if I’d managed to catch him lying, he would have told different lies, and so on. This way I’ve got him and won’t let him go again. — Does that answer your questions? We’re running a bit behind, the execution should have begun already, and I haven’t finished explaining how the machine works.” He urged the researcher to sit back down in the chair, and continued: “As you can see, the harrow matches the shape of a person; this is the harrow for the upper body; these are
the harrows for the legs. For the head, there’s only this little spike. Is that all clear?” He bent down to the researcher and smiled encouragingly, ready to explain in any amount of detail.

  The researcher looked at the harrow with a wrinkled brow. The description of the judicial process hadn’t satisfied him. But he said to himself that, after all, this was a penal colony, that special measures were necessary here and that everything had to be handled in a rigorously military fashion. He also placed some hope in the new commandant, who was obviously trying, albeit slowly, to introduce a new system that went beyond the limited thinking of this officer. From out of this train of thought he asked, “Will the commandant attend the execution?”

  “It’s not certain either way,” said the officer, who seemed to find this unexpected question painful, and his friendly expression turned into a grimace. “That’s another reason why we’ve got to get on with it. I’m sorry to say I’ll even have to cut short some of the explanation. But tomorrow, once the machine has been cleaned—the fact that it gets so dirty is its only failing—I could fill you in on the details later. But just the essentials for now.—When the man lies on the bed and it has started to shake, the harrow is lowered down to his body. It automatically positions itself so that the tips of the needles are only just touching him; once the set-up is complete, this steel chain locks to become a rod. And then the performance begins. Someone without the necessary background wouldn’t notice any difference between different punishments. It looks like the harrow is doing the same job each time. As it shakes, it jabs the tips of the needles into the body, which is also being shaken by the bed. And so you can view the sentence as it’s being inscribed, the harrow itself is made of glass. That caused us several technical problems, especially when it came to attaching the needles, but after many attempts we finally managed it. We left no stone unturned. And now anyone can look through the glass to see the sentence being written on the skin. Wouldn’t you like to come closer and see the needles for yourself?”